Chapter 8-3

Anjanette was shrieking for him, but Denall had her by the arm and wasn’t letting go. He bowed his head, all of a sudden a religious man. And then... nothing. He looked up, realizing he was alive. The pain in his arm rushed back anew, and he realized that he was bleeding, his new shirt painted red. Strangely, he found that more important than the wound.

“Draw your weapon,” said Lloyd. “I will not kill a man when he is helpless.”

“Your loss,” Leonas hacked before surging up and raking the knight’s eyes. As Lloyd fell back he ran into the forest, arm swinging every which was, sending explosions of pain through his mind.

Milly had turned to look at Leonas’s injury, and in the meantime Temac had kicked her in the face. The kick felt like a mountain falling in on her, her senses jumping around as her head spun. He moved in to finish her, but Milly frantically blocked, combat trainng taking over. She saw his face briefly, in the eye of the storm of fists, and he was calm, relaxed even. That comforted her as Temac hit her in the face, the arms, the stomach. Her body jerked and spasmed, not entirely in her control.

Denall had drawn a sword. A big sword. It was as big as the fake sword Anjanette liked to use as a fakeout, but she had a feeling this one wasn’t hollow. He charged with a deafening roar and hurled the blade at her. She ducked under it. It was less easy than before. Anjanette was starting to pant, her limbs were becoming heavy with exertion. She turned and ran.

“Come back!” Denall said. He charged her like a bull. She heard the sound of his heavyfeet crushing stone underneath, getting quicker behind her. How was he of all people catching up to her. Oh well.

Anjanette slowed, tiring. She closed her eyes, focusing on the crunch of cobblestone. Timing would be everything. Denall reached her, kept running, rushing her like he had Leonas... and she jumped, flipping off his back and landing behind him. Denall kept running, out of control, charging into the stone statue of the Tiger. His head impacted against the toe of the hero and he collapsed, falling on his greatsword. The huge blade skewered Denall sideways and propped him up like a grim marionette. Anjanette grimaced and turned her attention to the battle between Milly and Temac.

They were moving almost too fast for the eye to follow, but even so it was obvious who was winning. Milly was backed up against the base of the statue and even then was accumulating bruises and cuts at a rapid rate. One of her knives had been knocked away, the other could only be used to block, and it never pierced flesh. Anjanette could read a desperate, sad look on her face.

Sighing and resigning herself to a sore head in the morning, Anjanette leaped into the fray.

Barely looking away, Temac’s hand withdrew and snapped forward like a viper, smashing into Anjanette’s face and knocking her flat onto her back. But barely looking away was enough. Milly’s knife flashed in the sun and lodged itself into Temac’s throat. He looked up, smiling, before a gurgling wave of blood spilled onto the cobblestone ground.

“Well that was unpleasant,” Anjanette said, rubbing her eye.

Milly was just panting, holding her chest half to keep her up and half to count how many ribs were broken. (The answer was two.) “You don’t have to tell me.”

“So what do you say we go find Redshirt and make sure he’s not dead yet.”

Milly just nodded and started limping towards the forest.

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