Fletcher dove forward and felt the macana graze past his head as the orc slashed down at him. Then he was rolling across the stone floor, and the falx sword was in his grasp.
He jerked it from the Dragon’s eye with a sickening squelch and held it in front of him.
Khan laughed.
“So, the puppy wants to play,” he mocked, twirling the macana in his hand. “I like that.”
The long-handled blade was heavy and unfamiliar in Fletcher’s hands. He had never held a falx before.
“Come, let us begin,” Khan said, swiping the macana at Fletcher.
Their swords met, and Fletcher’s arms shuddered at the power behind the orc’s blow, nearly jarring the weapon from his hands. He leaped back, slipping on the smooth marble.
“That was but a touch,” Khan sneered.
The blow had shaven away a piece of obsidian from the long, black-edged club; the chip skittered along the ground and into the shadows. Fletcher knew the volcanic glass was brittle, but still sharper than the most fine-edged scalpel, and could quarter flesh with far more ease. He could not meet the orc head on. It would be suicide.
Khan sliced the macana again, his blow whistling over Fletcher’s head as he ducked. A back slash followed blazingly fast, and Fletcher had to roll to avoid the crushing blow. If he had tried to parry, the macana would have blown right through his guard.
“Dance, little boy.” Khan laughed.
Rotherham had taught him to go for the knees.
Fletcher lashed out with his blade as he got to his feet, an awkward thrust that Khan slapped down with the flat of the wooden club. A foot swung forward and took Fletcher in the ribs, knocking him spinning across the atrium. The sword nearly flew from his grip, the blade clanging on the stone floor. Agony flared along his side.
“Enough games,” Khan snarled as Fletcher lurched to his feet. “I have an empire to burn.”
“You’ve … already … lost,” Fletcher gasped.
He could barely lift the falx—something was broken inside. It hurt to breathe.
Athena could sense his pain. She crouched above the orc, her eyes boring into the white orc’s exposed back. It was now or never. Now.
Fletcher sprinted toward the orc with a primal yell, fighting against the pain that tore through him. Athena dove, her claws outstretched. Khan swung his blade as the Gryphowl struck, clawing deep into his eyes. Blinded, his blow missed Fletcher’s face by a hairsbreadth, slicing his ear instead.
Fletcher cut with all the force he could muster. Felt the sword bite into Khan’s leg, jarring against bone. Heard the clatter of the macana falling to the ground.
But his attack had lacked force, his broken ribs hampering his swing. Athena screeched as a huge hand swatted her away. Fletcher felt fingers encircle his neck and lift him off the ground.
Khan roared into his face, bringing him as close as a lover.
“Die!” the orc snarled through his tusks.
Fletcher kicked out at his stomach. It was like hitting rock. The grip tightened as Khan brought him closer still.
“Look me in the eyes,” the orc hissed, the red orbs of his own narrowing as he squeezed. “I want to see the light go out of you.”
The world swam in and out of focus. Darkness pressed in at the edges of his vision. He could see Athena dragging herself along the ground, felt the pain of her broken bones mirror his own. Ignatius. He could barely feel Ignatius.
He was dying. Fletcher closed his eyes and waited for the end.
And then the pressure released. He fell to the ground, gasping for air. Blood puddled on the floor beside him, trickling down the white trunks of the orc’s legs.
He looked up and saw the blade of his khopesh buried in Khan’s side. Saw the giant spin, slamming his attacker to the ground with an outstretched fist.
Sylva.
“Elf filth,” Khan snarled, kicking her body over the floor and pressing a foot against her neck. She lay there, struggling weakly as he leaned forward. Her hands clutched at her throat.
“No,” Fletcher gasped. Her mana. She had to use her mana.
But she was oblivious, her hands clawing at the foot on her neck.
A wave of nausea overtook him as he grasped for the falx. His hand met a handle. The macana.
He could hear Sylva’s gurgles, and the throaty laughter of the albino orc as he choked the life from her.
Then he felt it. A slim trickle of mana, coming from the twin consciousness within him. Athena and Ignatius. They were giving him everything they had, even when they needed it most. Enough for one last, desperate bid.
He raised a hand, pain tearing through his side. Lifted a finger, pointed it at the inside of Khan’s knee. And pulsed out the last of his mana in a kinetic blast.
The orc’s leg jerked forward, and Khan fell to his knee, bellowing with anger. And, with the final vestiges of his strength, Fletcher reared up, swinging and yelling with all his might.
Time seemed to slow as the great club slewed through the air. A moment of doubt as the obsidian blade met pale flesh. Then it was through the orc’s neck, sending the great head tumbling to the ground. Khan’s body keeled over, slapping the ground like a haunch of meat.
But there was no time for relief, even in victory. He had to heal Ignatius.
Sylva turned her head, gasping like a beached fish.
“I came as soon as I could,” she whispered.
Her eyes were unfocused, and the bruise on her head had spread in an ugly stain across her temple.
Fletcher felt a wave of dizziness grip him as he struggled to his feet. With every breath, his strength was returning. Enough to stumble to Sylva and drag her along the marble floor, even as the pain of his ribs flared like red-hot pokers, skewering his chest. He heaved and slipped on Khan’s blood, cursing his weakness.
The Drake’s eyes were closed; blood pooled around him in a halo of red. Fletcher searched his consciousness. There was still the faintest glimmer of life. Fading fast.
Sylva’s head lolled, her eyes flickering on the edge of unconsciousness.
“Wake up,” Fletcher yelled, shaking Sylva. “You need to heal Ignatius.”
She opened her eyes and stretched out a limp hand. A finger swirled in the air, the heart symbol sketched in blue thread. White light pulsed out, flowing over the shards of glass.
Slowly, the wounds sealed, long crystal fragments pushed out and tinkling on the floor. The spark of consciousness burned again, at first a small light in Fletcher’s mind, then flared fierce as the demon stood and gasped in a deep breath.
Fletcher sobbed and threw himself around the demon’s neck. He felt relief flooding through him like a drug, softening the pain in his side.
He felt a downy body slip beneath his arm, nuzzling his injury—Athena had returned to him. She was battered and bruised, but alive as well. He broke from his embrace and clutched the Gryphowl to his chest.
“Thank you,” he whispered, kissing the demon on her forehead.
And then he noticed. The silence. No gunfire. No screams, or clash of weapons.