Page 132 of Blood Fist

It was hard to believe that the sun had barely risen. Already Brune felt as if he’d been awake for days. They hadn’t intended to come upon Kaldonean soldiers while they were hunting, but Krait had somehow maneuvered a middling sized force of his men without their knowledge. It was a good move. Krait he had a decent pincer movement, blocking the Clansmen on two sides while the mountain blocked a third. Retreat was impossible.

An arrow flew past Brune, thudding into something with a wet smack. Somewhere a horse screamed, its panicked cry cutting through the blood rushing in his ears.

Hefting his shield and hammer, he blinked the sweat out of his eye. Ridan was to his left, fighting side by side with Jonen. They were opposites—Ridan quick, fast, and wild with his strikes while Jonen kept low, hitting hard and precise. Fighting with the ease of two people who knew each other, it was almost like a dance. When Ridan went left, Jonen was already going right. When one left a flank open, the other closed it.

Corric and Osmond were just beyond his sight. He caught glimpses of them through the press of bodies. Niklas was on the fringes, arrows finding their mark even when he was out of sight. Areine was among them,her curved blade and strong close combat skills felling enemies before they could even set their sights on her.

Even so, they were losing.

They were slipping on Clansmen blood, falling into lifeless bodies as they struggled against a force with greater numbers. For every Kaldonean soldier that fell, two more seemed to take their place. They were well rested, too, and seemed to be better trained than anyone Brune had ever fought beside.

Anxiety bubbled in his gut as he watched Ridan take a punch to the gut. He nearly fell, Jonen swooping in at the last second to take the arm of the soldier who had hit him. Brune’s hackles rose, hand tightening on his hammer.

It was moving before he was. He stepped into the hit, throwing every bit of strength as he curved it up into the jaw of the closest enemy. Teeth splintered, dripping on the ground like rain as the hammer bit through the soft pallet of the soldier’s jaw.

Brune’s hammer was moving before the body hit the ground.

Blood splattered against him as he spun his hammer, moving into another hit that fractured a poorly made brass helmet. Areine was in front of him, dagger flying from her fingertips. It hadn’t even found its mark before she was leaping between two soldiers, using their own body weight against them, thighs snapping one’s neck. She landed in a roll, ripping the blade from the abdomen of a soldier and continuing without pause.

Suddenly, there was a cry. Different from the rest, it caught Brune’s attention as he looked up to see a man he didn’t recognize. His chestnut hair was shaved on the sides, the center long enough to be pulled back in a seriesof thick braids. He bore no weapon, only thick leather and metal gauntlets with matching greaves. With sheer strength, he blocked a blow from a broadsword with his forearms, ducking under where he was locked with the blade to slam an uppercut into the soldier’s face.

With the stranger came more warriors. Brune was sure he didn’t recognize any of them, but they were Clansmen. Their presence seemed to turn the tide, the Kaldonean soldiers pausing as they suddenly evaluated their chances against greater Clansmen numbers. That pause was all they needed.

Ridan’s cry shattered whatever hesitation that lingered. As he charged back into the battle, the rest followed. It wasn’t long before the Clansmen decimated the remained Kaldonea soldiers.

When the last soldier’s blood was seeping into the browned winter grass, Brune dropped his hammer. His body ached and his lungs were screaming. Every breath was agony. Legs shaking, he fought not to drop to the ground.

“Sevrin,” Ridan called, weaving through the remaining warriors as they plundered the dead and tended to their own wounded.

The stranger turned to meet Ridan. He was heavyset, but his face lit up in a smile when he dipped his head to the omegan chief.

“Your timing couldn’t have been better,” Ridan mused, crossing his arms over his chest. His tanned skin was covered in blood and dirt.

“We received your call for aid.” Sevrin cracked his knuckles. Brune could hear his fingers cracking from under his thick gauntlets. For all his size looking a little unsure of himself. “I’m only sorry it took us so long to arrive.”

Ridan’s eyes narrowed. “I’m surprised you’re here at all. Where is Thewn?”

Sevrin seemed to deflate a little. “His battle has ended. He stands under Artrax’s wings.”

Shock rippled across Ridan’s face. He blinked at the big alpha for a moment before sucking his teeth. “You challenged him.” It wasn’t a question, but Sevrin took it as one.

“Yes,” Sevrin answered. “His leadership was no longer welcome.”

Brune recognized the name. Thewn had been the Chief of the Steel Jaw. Jonen told him he was a threat to Ridan, but that he was strong. A well-established chief, secure in his position.

Or so they thought.

Sevrin looked around them, meeting several of his warrior’s eyes. “Artrax’s sacrifice isn’t important to just the Stone Blade. We would all lose our lives before seeing it fall to Kaldonea.”

Whatever happened between Thewn and his clan, it seemed he had lost their trust. Sevrin might have been young, but it was clear he commanded respect. In Ridan’s eyes, too.

“Your strength is not only appreciated, but welcomed.” Ridan fell beside Sevrin, beginning to make plans for his warriors. The alpha was leaning over, listening intently to everything Ridan had to say.

Sighing, Brune bent to pick up his shield and hammer. It was going to be a long day.

Brune never had the displeasure of meeting the previous chief of the Steel Jaw clan, but if he was anything like many of his people, that was a good thing.

It was obvious Sevrin was doing his best as chief. He was new. And while he won the challenge fair, he wasn’t wholly supported by theentireclan. Since arriving, he’d had two challenges from alphas among his clan. The big man dealt with them tidily—the fights were hardly even worth watching—it was still exhausting. Could his people not see that there was more at stake than a simple chiefdom?