Page 15 of The Last Hope

He should be able to overpower this wart.

But he’s spent thirty-one days confined, starved, and weakened.

I’ve come to know that Mykal hates when he lets bigger men make him feel small, and he growls curses from his homeland.Clawing and beating at a person in armor. He can’t seem to grab hold of Bludrader for long.

He loses his grip.

Court looks grave at the scene, and he turns to me with urgency. “Give it to me, please.”

I hand him the rod.

He searches the weapon for the trigger, and then Bludrader pins Mykal to the floor. His metal armor crushes against Mykal’s bare chest, the weight unbearable.

Court chokes next to me, his eyes flaring, the link between him and Mykal too heightened. He pushes the rod to me about the same time I steal it back.

Feverishly, I hunt for the trigger.

Mykal elbows Bludrader in the jaw, the impact throbbing my bone. And then the weight releases off Mykal’s chest.

I look up and see Bludrader straddling him.

Mykal breathes in a lungful of air and launches another fist—Bludrader socks him back in the face. I hear and feel and see thecrack.Blood gushes out of his nostrils. Pain stabs our noses.

Mykal groans.

“Stop!” Court yells between his teeth, his distress spiking his pulse. He runs to Mykal, wincing through both of their pain, and I whack Bludrader on the back of the head with the rod. Over and over and—

He blocks my attack with his forearm, sheathed in the same bronze metal as his broad chest. The rod breaks cleanly in half.

“Mayday,” I mutter and watch Bludrader stand.

Mykal rolls out underneath him, and Court helps Mykal to his feet and tries to quickly set the bone straight on his nose. His hands move with such familiarity that I guess they’ve done this before.

Bludrader spins around on me. “Franny.”

He knows my name.

Sickness rises and burns my throat. Wordless, though I crave to question why and how. As Court would say,there’s no time.

I aim half a rod at him.

No fear wells in his icy blues, despite redness blooming around his eye, blood drizzling out of his lip, and his blond hair knotted and stained crimson.

He’s not afraid of us.

As though he already knows that he can’t die today.

“You’re Saltarian,” I say.

He presses his thumb to his cut lip, wincing slightly, and then he stalks forward. “And what would you do if I said that I am what you think I am?”

I walk backward. “Saltarians are natural-born enemies to humans.” It’s what I’ve learned, and he has to know I’m human. “So I’d have no choice…” I let my voice die out, not about to tell our foe the plan.

We’ll have to fight him until he passes out, and then we’ll run.

We’ll run.

We’ll run.