Episode Eleven
991 Words
Part 22: The Price of Victory
The club fell, a black shadow blotting out the sky, aimed to turn my skull into pulp.
There was no time for fear. There was only time for a rogue's calculation: kill or live.
I chose to live.
As the brute's weight shifted for the killing blow, I abandoned my pin on Silas. But I didn't leave him a gift. With a snarl, I yanked my long blade from his throat and simultaneously drove my boot knife, an inch-deep, vicious stab, into the meat of his uninjured thigh.
He screamed, a high, thin sound of agony, his muscles spasming.
I used that scream as my sound cover. I didn't roll. I exploded backward, a coiled spring of pure survival, pushing off Silas's body.
The club crashed into the ground where I had been a millisecond before. The impact was so violent it shook the earth. A spray of dirt and rock fragments stung my cheek. If I had hesitated, I would be a red smear.
I landed in a low crouch, my long blade in my hand, breathing hard. The camp was a triangle of death. Me. The brute, Torg, roaring in fury as he tried to heave his massive club up for another swing. And Silas, on the ground, screaming and trying to pull the knife from his leg.
"KILL HER!" Silas shrieked, his cultured voice gone, replaced by a raw, animal panic. "TORG, YOU i***t, BREAK HER!"
Torg bellowed and charged. He was a mountain in motion. I was a leaf. I couldn't block. I couldn't parry. I could only move.
He swung the club in a wide, horizontal arc, aiming to cut me in half.
I dropped, falling flat to the ground. The wind of the club's passage stirred my hair, the whoosh of it terrifyingly close. I rolled, coming up on my feet right next to the central campfire.
Torg, blinded by rage, didn't stop. He charged straight through the fire pit, his fur-wrapped boots plunging into the bed of red-hot coals.
He roared—a new sound, a shriek of agony mixed with his bloodlust. He stumbled, kicking and stomping, trying to put out the embers that were now climbing his legs, his momentum completely broken.
"FOOL!" Silas screamed from the ground, his face pale with hate.
Torg, in his blind, fiery panic, was wide open.
I didn't hesitate. I didn't aim to kill. I aimed to cripple.
I surged forward, a gray blur. He was still stomping, his club held uselessly as he looked at his burning feet. I dropped low again, my long blade a silver arc. I swept it with all my strength against the back of his knees.
I was aiming for the tendons.
My blade met sinew and bone. Torg's roar cut off into a wet, gurgling shock. His legs gave out. He didn't fall; he collapsed, a two-ton sack of meat, his knees folding the wrong way. He crashed to the ground, his massive club skittering away. He was immobile.
The canyon, which moments before had been filled with the thunder of hooves and the screams of men, fell into a sudden, ringing silence.
There was only the sound of the wind, the crackle of Torg's burning boots, and his low, agonized moans.
I stood over him, my chest heaving, my body thrumming with an adrenaline so potent it made me dizzy. My blade dripped. I turned, slowly, to the last enemy.
Silas had managed to pull himself into a sitting position, his back against the weapons rack. He had my boot knife in his good hand, his leg bleeding profusely. He was watching me. The fury was gone. The panic was gone. His cold, ice-blue eyes were filled with a bright, terrifying, and utterly inappropriate admiration.
"My god," he whispered, a strange, bloody smile twisting his lips. He looked at Torg, crippled. He looked at the pass, now silent. "You... you are not a wolf. You are a viper."
I stalked toward him, my blade held low. I was done. I was done with the fight, with the chase. I was the predator, and he was the prey. I raised the blade, ready to end it.
THWIP.
An arrow, black-fletched, embedded itself in the wooden weapons rack, a single inch from Silas's head. It was a perfect, impossible shot. A warning.
Silas and I both looked.
Valerius and the two other Shadow Guards emerged from the mouth of the pass. They were not running. They walked, their bows half-drawn, their faces smeared with black grease and grim satisfaction. They moved as one, fanning out, their arrows trained on Silas.
Valerius stepped forward, his one good eye taking in the scene. He looked at Torg, moaning and crippled. He looked at Silas, disarmed and bleeding. And he looked at me—covered in dirt, blood-splattered, but standing, the victor.
His face, which I had only ever seen as a grim, emotionless mask, was now filled with a raw, profound awe.
"Luna," he said, his voice rough. "We are clear. The rest have fled. Nine are down. The herd... the herd is gone. Scattered to the four winds."
I didn't take my eyes off Silas. I kicked his fallen sword far out of his reach.
"Get him on his feet," I commanded. My voice was not my own. It was a cold, flat rasp, filled with the authority of the mountain stronghold, of the Alpha who had sent me. "He's coming back with us."
Silas didn't fight. He didn't even look at Valerius. His icy, intelligent eyes stayed locked on my face. He began to laugh. It was not a sound of humor. It was a dry, rasping sound, torn from his chest.
"Oh, yes," he hissed, as Valerius grabbed him, hauling him up. "Take me. By all means. This," he said, his smile widening, "is going to be far more interesting than I thought."
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