Page 139 of Blood Fist

It was a cacophony of pain. Bones snapped and skin torn. Screams reverberated through the trees, only to be suddenly cut off with a wet gurgle, leaving nothing but the rasp of fading breath.

Corric ducked under a chipped sword blade, driving the hilt of his right sword into the chest of his attacker. The soldier grunted, falling to one knee where another’s blade took his head. Somewhere to his right, Jonen was trading blows with a stout soldier wearing a dented helmet. The alpha was on the balls of his feet, leaning just outside his opponent's arm length. Whenthe blade swung a little too far, he stepped in, cracking a fist into the mans unprotected neck. While he gasped for breath, Jonen finished him, stepping over his body to throw himself back into battle.

A lifetime of fighting opponents with a height advantage had taught Jonen to be analytical. He rarely engaged right off, choosing to use his smaller size to move efficiently. Ducking under blows and dancing outside of their range until an opening presented itself. Here, among the trees and undulating ground, he pushed and pulled his enemy until they were tangled in roots or below him on the incline. Then he struck quick and clean, having no taste for lingering deaths.

Across the field, between two large slabs of granite, Areine and Sevrin fought side by side. Blood soaked through Areine’s hair and smeared across her face. It flaked as she grinned, eyes wild. She grabbed a soldier by the scruff, tossing him against the edge of a granite slab before kicking the back of his skull. Teeth skittered to the ground as his jaw cracked.

With his gauntlets, Sevrin was throwing punches that snapped heads back and cracked ribs. His people fought fiercely, keeping up with their new leader. Bellowing, he grabbed one Kaldonean by the shoulders to throw him into two more. They fell back, landing on their backs. Sevrin dropped to a knee to bury his fingers into the closest soldier’s hair, battering the other two with his skull.

The Kaldonean soldiers were plentiful, but they lost some of their bravado at the Clansmen’s ruthlessness. Most wielded flimsy swords—their edges delaminated and chipping after only a few blows. They had to fight for every drop of blood spilled. Just when the battle seemed to tip, a cry would rise from the scattered trees, “For Artrax!” and the Clansmen would fight back harder, their spirits bolstered as their boots dug into sacred ground.

Where petty fights and irreconcilable differences had followed them in the days prior, today the clans fought together. Kills were shared and glory was doubled as they pushed back against the soldiers of the Walled City.

Henroen was in the thick of it, his prodigious size making him a target. Soldiers flocked to him, expecting a slow and lumbering opponent. What they found was a vicious axe, blade sharp enough to split hair and powerful enough to shatter bone.

If they could get close enough.

Fighting with Henroen was a whirling dervish of a man. Grey hair streaked with mud and leather pauldrons wrapped around his arms from shoulder to wrist, stiffened with white vertebrae. Osmond had fastened the hilts of his long daggers together, wielding them like a dual bladed scimitar. His cuts were quick and lethal, the blades long gone before his enemy even realized they were bleeding out.

Henroen’s axe cleaved through the shoulder of a soldier. Osmond used his falling body as a shield, pushing it into an incoming blade as he slashed up with his own. Both soldiers fell as Osmond dashed forward.

Arrows rained down on them, guided by magic. They were indiscriminate, piercing Kaldonean soldiers and Clansmen alike. Henroen roared as he was struck in the gut. Doubling over, he nearly dropped his axe. Osmond didn’t have time to call to him as three soldiers rushed him.

With a meaty fist, Henroen ripped the arrow from his gut. Blood poured from the wound. His hand wassoaked, smacking wetly as he clutched his axe. Henroen slammed the butt into the nose of one of the oncoming soldiers, using his axe like a spear.

From across the field, perched behind the spindly branches of a tree, Niklas pulled back on his bow. He let it loose, not bothering to watch it fly. He knew it would find its target. The arrow sliced through the arm of one of Henroen’s attackers, causing the woman to drop her blade. Osmond took care of the rest.

Pivoting on the balls of his feet, he drew another arrow. His movements were concise, but not quick. Rushing would cause him to make a mistake. With even breaths, he sighted down the next arrow.Sight, breathe, pull, breathe, release.It twanged by his ear as it released.

Hidden under a thick black cloak, he scurried through the trees to a new position, bow in hand, as he found his new target.

Below, he watched Areine snapped off her blade in the spine of a soldier. Swearing, she took a strike on the leg. Dropping, she grabbed a discarded helmet. One side was caved in, but Areine wasn’t going to wear it. Swinging it, she hit a soldier upside the chin with the edge. It knocked them back long enough she could steal his sword.

With the pilfered blade in one hand, and the helmet in the other, she was back to wreak damage with every step.

Giant boulders were thrown across the field, held aloft by unseen forces. Kaledonea’s magicians were hiding on the edges of the fighting, coming out to throw a boulder or rip the earth out from under the fighters. Their attempts were crude, and predominantly element based. They were sporadic, but their attacks were vicious, taking out multiple Clansmen at once.

Auhert of the Windy Cliff was holding court at the ridgeline. He fought with a heavy mace. The impeccable metal work of the Windy Cliff was apparent as chunks of skin and hair dripped from its sharpened spikes. He was laughing as he cut down soldiers, seemingly ignorant of the broken arrows trapped in his chest armor.

“Niklas!”

His attention jerked to the tree line. Brune’s shield was up, blood and bits of arrow and sword stuck between the impenetrable scales. He swung up, hammer knocking back the soldier advancing on him.

“Take out the magicians!” he cried, just before the ground beside him imploded. A soldier came from the side, striking Brune and knocking them both into the new crater and out of sight.

Hands clenching on his bow, Niklas dragged his attention from his downed friend and sighted across the field. There, in the tree line, he could see a queasy looking woman with her arms outstretched.

They dropped when his arrow buried itself in her chest.

He sent another two arrows into the gloom around her, hoping he either struck another magician or frightened them into falling back.

Turning his attention back to the battle, he instinctually sought that familiar flash. Osmond wasn’t with Henroen any longer. He had fallen back, fighting beside warriors Niklas didn’t recognize. He rotated his weapon over his shoulder, spinning as he cut through another solider, only to falter.

Osmond staggered back, his hand finding a blade stuck beneath his ribs. Niklas watched as two Kaldonean soldiers advanced on him. Osmond swung one handed, unable to raise his injured sides arm. Facetwisted in pain, he desperately tried to keep his attackers at a distance.

Without hesitation, Niklas jumped. He landed with a thud, rolling to his feet. Bow in hand, he nocked it while running. His aim was a little off, but he was frantic. The arrows scattered Osmond’s pursuers.

Niklas was about to level another volley when he was knocked aside. Hit so hard the air whooshed from his lungs. He lost his bow. It dropped to the ground somewhere behind a sea of bloodied boots. Lungs screaming, and smoke making his eyes water, Niklas struggled to his feet. Just as he got to his knees, he was struck on the back of the head. Falling forward, he barely had time to cover his head before another blow rained down on him.