Page 64 of Of Sword & Silver

The Sword glances up at me, time still strangely slow, muddy even, as he swings his broadsword into the beast’s face.

A glimmering wind pushes at me, blowing more hair from my braid.

From behind Morrow, Lara’s gaze is glassy, her lips still moving soundlessly, purple glittering smoke pushing from her.

“Focus,” the Sword roars at me. “Damn it, Kyrie, focus.”

My teeth rattle as the beast lunges towards him, shaking the ground. A stone dislodges from the top of the building, and I manage to dive into a roll and avoid it at the last minute.

“Fucking shit,” I curse.

Slick with sweat, my daggers are slippery in my hands and I tighten my grip on them. My senses are overloaded with the sick smell of the manticore mingling with brimstone and fire, the sounds of terrified people in the village, the tingle of Lara’s magic pressing against my skin, and my own terror.

I don’t want to die. I’m not ready to die.

Everything becomes crystal clear as I chant those words under my breath, and I ignore the burning pain in my shoulder where something’s grazed it, sprinting back towards the body of the beast.

The tail’s not the only place the manticore is weak. It’s moving so quickly though, even with the odd sensation that time itself has slowed, which is impossible.

The only type of magic that could slow time is that of Hrakan himself, and I highly doubt the death god gives two shits about whether any of us live or die.

“Fuck the gods,” I say, slicing my dagger across the manticore’s legs.

I bound away, mud and muck coating every inch of me. The green cloak’s getting in my way, and a quick cut to the neck has it floating away from me. The burning pain’s dulled, though the ache spreads down my arm and into my fingers, turning my hand numb.

The injury must be worse than I thought.

I grit my teeth against it.

I’m not going to let this motherfucking manticore get the best of me. Or the curse, or any fucking thing else.

Because I might be an asshole, I might be a liar, and selfish—but more than any of those traits, I am stubborn to a fault.

My blood throbs in my hurt side and I cough once, spitting out something dark and wiping my mouth with my wrist, tasting blood.

The manticore’s tail whips towards me again and the Sword roars my name, the sound echoing off the building, loud enough to cause the beast to shriek with rage.

Well, that makes two of us that are thoroughly pissed off.

I’m tired. So tired, and that’s not like me. It’s rare I pick a fight that I can’t win, though, and even rarer that I give up.

With that thought held tight, I race back towards the manticore, sliding on my thigh and hip as I meet it. One foot steps on my bad arm and I stab up, up, with my daggers into the thick furred hide and its tender stomach.

The thing screams again and this time, it’s not fury, it’s pain.

Magic builds inside me, filling me up tight.

“Die already,” I shriek right back, pissed off and hurt myself.

A half-second later, steaming entrails drop onto my legs, followed by the weight of the massive beast.

Darkness and exhaustion and pain compete, the sudden silence and pressure of its body blocking out nearly all coherent thought.

All I can think is that I hope the asshole Sword saw what I did because I just know it’s going to piss him off that I got the killing blow.

21

THE SWORD

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