The sweeping motion had been so smooth and almost elegant, covering the creature as it shifted its stance. It stood taller now, with both weapons raised on either side of its body.
Elise had never seen a fighting style like this. She wished she could study it, to help her own two-handed fighting. But it wasn’t exactly like she could tutor under the creature that threatened to kill them.
Beside her, Ermolt too was observing the Champion’s changed stance. The barbarian adjusted his own, bending at the knees and holding his hammer above his head. Both Champion and barbarian stared at one another. Very slowly, and almost in jest, the Champion changed its stance again, raising its sword arm slightly and shifting its feet out a little wider than shoulder width.
Ermolt laughed through his nose.
Elise didn’t understand the joke. Was the creature adjusting itself in response to Ermolt’s style of fighting? But once more, it wasn’t like she could ask, especially since the creature was lunging at them. Survival was more important.
The creature’s lunge brought the sword down on Ermolt, and the baton-sheath down on Elise. Ermolt handled himself with the calm and discipline that Elise knew he was capable of, as a dedicated weaponsmaster from Celnaer Hold. Seeing him focus, keeping his true rage at bay, was almost more frightening than seeing him cut loose. It meant that the threat was more real, and that he believed it deserved his full attention.
If that was the case for him, the best fighter in a generation—as he liked to call himself—what chance did Elise have?
Ermolt’s hammer swept in smooth, clean arcs as he deflected the thin blade that lanced and cut him like a slashing serpent. The economy of his movement made the heavy weapon look like it weighed nothing.
For her part, Elise focused on keeping her shield between her and the corpse. When the baton finally landed, it cracked against the surface of her shield three times before she could even register that it was paying attention to her, instead of Ermolt. Each strike came from the left side, and threatened to yank her guard away.
But she was prepared, and kept the shield in place.
Elise lashed out with her sword, trying to draw enough attention to give Ermolt an opening. The baton-like sheath swept around smoothly, parrying her strike downward. It forced her away from striking its armor a second time.
But apparently whatever minor distraction the parry provided was sufficient for Ermolt to close the distance. He bellowed and surged forward, his hammer raised. Instead of attacking with the head of the hammer, he struck with the haft, catching the undead across the shoulder unexpectedly. The creature seemed not to react to the strike, its unnatural strength stopping it from being thrown aside by the powerful hit.
That only meant that as the head of Ermolt’s hammer came down, the Champion was still in the weapon’s path. As before, the lanky corpse had to bring both arms up together to meet Ermolt’s deadly strike, leaving an opening for Elise.
She rushed in, blade ready to strike. Her arm tensed and she aimed to drive the top of her weapon into the unprotected spot where the creature’s armor had already been damaged. For a moment, she believed that their goal might not just be survival. Perhaps they would win. The Champion would be defeated.
It was in that moment that it struck.
One of the undead’s lanky legs came up. It was unnaturally fast, and it caught Elise in the gut. Her own momentum added to its strike.
While her armor absorbed some of the impact, a wave of nausea and disorientation flooded her immediately. Elise staggered back from the strike, but not far enough.
The Champion stepped with her, out from under Ermolt’s hammer, bringing both weapons to bear on her at once.
She tried to raise her shield to protect herself, but the first strike of the baton came in low towards her gut, and her shield dropped just a few rhen to catch the blow.
In that instant, she knew her mistake. The lowered shield exposed her face, and the undead’s thin blade lashed forward. With its strength, it would be a killing blow.
She realized that her last thought was about to be that she thought victory was possible.
Ermolt’s bellow cut through the fear as he lunged at the corpse’s exposed back. His hammer swept across and the Champion was forced to abandon its attack, sparing Elise’s life. It dropped straight to the ground and Ermolt snarled in frustration as his weapon sailed through empty space.
For a moment, Elise and Ermolt’s eyes met, and she hoped he could see the relief and thanks on her face.
Ermolt looked down at the Champion just in time to see both of the creature’s feet shoot up. It arched its body with the kick, putting its entire strength into it as both feet planted directly into Ermolt’s chest.
Elise cried out, but she expected the blow to send the barbarian stumbling back. It didn’t. She had underestimated the Champion once again. Ermolt went flying. He hit the ground around ten fen away, and continued to roll after impact.
There was a ringing sound as his hammer tumbled away from his hands, hitting the stone once before it sailed through the hole in the wall, plummeting into the darkness in the interior pit of the Temple.
Ermolt was luckier. His back slammed into the ragged edge of the wall to the left of the opening, sparing him the deadly fall. He groaned and rolled away from the wall, clutching his ribs with one arm. The other was bent at an awkward angle. Not broken, from what Elise could tell, but likely dislocated.
The undead rolled to its feet again and turned slowly, facing Elise. She stood her ground, unable to get to Ermolt to help him, as they would both be placed in danger. It stood stock still, the white-painted half of its face reflecting light in a way that made it seem like the undead was laughing.
If the Champion wanted to see her run away in fear, it had the wrong target.
She would stand and fight, even if it was her last.
It moved in, and Elise barely had time to react. The first strike was from the baton. She raised her shield, trying to not make the same mistake as before. But the attack hooked over the top of her shield, and she had to duck her head to one side to avoid the blunt end of the weapon from knocking against the side of her head. The tip of the blade came in next, arching around the left side of her shield and scratching against her armor before she could react.
Elise snarled in frustration. It was toying with her. Her shield provided no obstacle to its attacks. But yet it refused to go for the killing blow.
It struck again. The tip of the wooden sheath squeezed between her arm and her shield, and inhuman strength wrenched her arm aside. She fought it, but this was the strength that had sent Ermolt hurling across the room like a discarded potato. There was nothing she could do. She was caught, and the leverage it had over her arm meant that it would be a struggle for her to unfasten the shield from her arm and discard it. Not that she’d get the chance. Its blade was coming down at her, and she didn’t have the time to spare for that struggle.
Elise thought that she would have the advantage in such close quarters, since the Champion’s weapon was longer and it was the one holding her in close. But it handled the long blade with dexterity and skill that put her at a disadvantage immediately. Even as she parried the first strike, she felt a pressure against her armor as the tip of its blade scraped against it.
The second strike seemed to come impossibly fast, as if the blade were not a stiff piece of metal, but a live serpent, writhing around her parry to strike again. She felt a cut open across her cheek before she even registered that the attack landed. The next attack landed across her armor, and caught for a moment in a weak spot between the metal splints. She feared it would plunge the blade into her insides.
But the Champion abandoned the strike instead of thrusting in. It offered no relief, as it meant that another attack was coming.
Panic was taking hold in Elise’s heart. She didn’t know how long she could hold out. Each attack came in too quickly for her to do anything. She couldn’t even gather her wits and
try to force her fear away. There was no room to contemplate her situation. To assess her own mortality.
She didn’t even have time to pray, as if she would have believed any God would listen. Or to observe the fact that her true last thoughts would be about missing a parry, and not about Athala, or Ermolt, or Merylle, or even her father, wherever he was.
Death was coming, and it was coming too quickly for her to prepare.
She was aware of a wrenching sensation, but she couldn’t process from where. Her shoulder screamed at her. The Temple spun around her wildly. Elise was thrown to the ground, hard, stunning her for a moment. The pain in her arm was great, but it wasn’t dislocated. Just wrenched.
As her vision swam, she realized the Champion was standing over her. For one terrifying moment, she replayed in her head how it must have wrenched her arm between a parry and the grip it had on her shield arm to flip her to the ground.
She knew she should be moving. Rolling away. Trying to get some distance to recover. Even if just for a moment.
But nothing wanted to move.
The blade came down slowly, and not at anything vital. She felt the tip slide over the armor on her hip, before it settled into a space between the bands of metal. Elise stayed perfectly still, just as it wanted. If she moved, the blade would slam through her armor completely and pierce her flesh. With the undead’s strength, it was likely that the stab would go straight through to the bone of her pelvis. It would send her into shock.
The blow wouldn’t kill her, of course, but it would render her incapable of fighting back. She felt helpless. The Champion looked down at her, its expression almost disinterested.
She’d been so distracted by the blade at her hip that she hadn’t seen the baton. It came down with a suddenness that belied the strength behind the blow. There was such power behind it that Elise, for a moment, thought the cracking sound she heard was from the stone tiles of the floor breaking.
The nerve endings in her thigh were very quick to correct her.
It was her femur.
Elise screamed a scream she had never heard from herself. It was pain and anguish and fear and surprise. She felt the world spinning, but her vision was just black and white spots dancing before her. Her whole body felt like a flash of cold had erupted over her skin.
For a very long moment, she was sure she was dead. The pain had somehow drowned itself out. Her body felt far away.
She knew she was still alive. And that she was spiraling into shock. But it didn’t seem important. What seemed important, instead, was to pass out. At least that would give her some distance from the experience. It was the only way to escape.
And escaping was what they wanted, right?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Snow swirled in an endless fury, bringing with it the chill Ermolt craved.
This was his rage.
And it was distracting.
Ermolt knew he couldn’t give in to the northern snows. He needed to handle himself with restraint and awareness, and his rage would bury his control. It would mean death. For him, and for Elise.
The Champion was too good. Too skilled.
So he erected walls in his mind, giant creations that mimicked the ice walls of Klav. They held the raging blizzard at bay. He would keep his mind as his own, and he would find a way to overcome this threat.
It worked well, through trial and tribulation against this unstoppable foe, until Elise screamed. He had never heard her scream like that, even when she’d taken a near-fatal wound to the head.
Immediately one of the walls cracked. Just a small sliver of release. And from that small gap, an avalanche poured through.
Icy fury filled Ermolt’s body, forcing down the pain of his bruised ribs and injured shoulder. His restraint was buried by the snow. And once the cold had taken his mind, Ermolt found himself wondering why he had bid it away. It was better to go out in a glorious fight, against a formidable opponent, just as he had always wanted.
Sure, no story would be told, for no one would observe this clash of titans, but it was enough to him that Dasis would know of it.
The northern winds screamed through his veins, running down his arms and filling his hands with the desire to feel flesh beneath them. To crush and bruise and squeeze and break. To kill, or at least, to injure his opponent enough to make him rue harming Elise.
He wasn’t aware of crossing the room until the Champion’s blade lashed against the chest of his hide armor. The strike was quick, intended to ward him away rather than do any damage. It failed to penetrate the cured hide that protected him, anyway. But the fact that he accepted the blow, without any care for himself, seemed to surprise the lanky undead. Its eyes widened ever so slightly, and Ermolt was sure it hadn’t expected him to cast caution aside so easily.
With a wide grin, Ermolt punched at the undead. His fist moved quickly, given speed by his fury. The undead raise its baton to deflect the strike, but the movement was wrong. It would have parried a blade, had Ermolt held one. But instead, Ermolt hooked his fist around the baton and caught the side of the Champion’s head.
It was like punching a rock. Unyielding flesh met his fingers, but Ermolt was hardened by years of practice. He could break rock.
The impact didn’t knock the creature away, but the surprise of being actually harmed, even in a small way, sent the lanky corpse stumbling away in retreat.
Ermolt stepped forward, putting himself between the creature and Elise.
The Champion recovered quickly. It lunged back in. But if it thought that putting such strength into a strike would leave Ermolt vulnerable, it was underestimating his rage.
He saw the feint, even through the snow. The sheath came in first, a wild strike at his head. But the real strike would come from the blade that trailed behind. And it would not be wild. It would be smooth and calculated—a strike to kill rather than play.
Ermolt reached up and caught the baton-like sheath in his hand. The impact stung, but he closed his hand around it anyway. The icy wind coursing through his fingers froze his grip solid, locking the baton in his grasp.
As predicted, the sword came next, but Ermolt wrenched the baton out of the Champion’s grip, and the reinforced wood deflected the strike.
Ermolt expected the creature to whirl away again to reevaluate Ermolt, now that he was armed with its own weapon. But the blade swept around again to come in from another side. Ermolt deflected it once more. The wooden baton was heavier than he anticipated, and the weight gave his parry some force. He directed the strike around him, and then lashed out once again with a fist, catching the Champion in the ribs.
Once more, the flesh was unyielding. But the strike landed squarely, and the lanky corpse staggered back a step.
Before Ermolt could blink—or yank a sense of accomplishment or victory out of the raging blizzard—the Champion was attacking again. The blade swept high, and Ermolt barely batted it away with the stolen baton before it could cut his face. A follow-up slice on the backswing came so quickly that Ermolt couldn’t block again. He had to duck under instead.
Ermolt was ready for the third strike, but the blade didn’t return. The Champion’s foot snapped up instead, and Ermolt took the kick to the chest. He stumbled away. Before he could recover, the blade came at him at last, and while Ermolt stopped it from taking out his throat, he felt a stinging flash across his jawline.
The pain only fueled the roaring blizzard within.
He bellowed, lunging at the Champion. Ermolt swept his baton back and forth wildly, but with all of his might. The undead was forced to duck and dodge, easily avoiding his blows but unable to retaliate without accepting a bone-cracking strike in response.
Ermolt drove the Champion away from Elise, towards the far side of the room. His single-minded objective was to keep her safe, forcing him into recklessness.
There was a crackling, snapping sound. Faint, but clear. Ermolt didn’t turn. He knew the portal had finally finished charging. His first thought
was to yell for Elise to run, but he knew she couldn’t. He needed to think—to have a plan.
But there was no room for thinking in this avalanche of fury.
He had to stop it.
Ermolt forced himself to abandon his attack against the Champion, stopping abruptly and letting the undead establish a little distance. He took an aggressive stance, with the baton held up above his head, and his feet barely more than shoulder width apart.
The stance gave the Champion pause, and it adjusted its own stance downwards, into a low defense.
It was in this briefest of moments that Ermolt set about fighting off his rage. With mental effort, he forced himself to patch the cracked wall of his discipline. He pulled the howling winds from his limbs, containing them in his heart. It was hard work. But in the end, he shrugged snow from his shoulders, and no more came to replace it. Instead, the snow was replaced by weariness that threatened to slow him down. But Ermolt had enough will to marshal against exhaustion and the storm.
As his wits returned, the room around him came into focus. The portal was to his right. That was why the Champion had stopped. It was trying to determine how it could stop him if he tried to flee.
Elise was almost fifteen fen away, on her back. She was unconscious, but Ermolt could see her chest rising and falling too quickly. He couldn’t hope for her to recover and drag herself to the portal. The only way they were getting through was if he carried her. And he just couldn’t make that much space. He could drive the Champion back, sure, but picking up Elise would take time.
He missed his hammer. With it, he could keep swinging and hope for a lucky strike that would harm the Champion enough to hobble it. But the hammer was gone now. He hoped he would be able to recover it when they were back at the entrance, if they could run a rope or something down into the bottom of the pit. But he couldn’t help but feel a profound sense of loss at the memory of it sailing out of the room.
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