Page 1 of The Brute and the Blade

1

Lily

The sun's first rays paint the battle-scarred Borderlands in a grim, russet light as I finish strapping on my armor. My fingers fly through the familiar motions, tightening buckles and adjusting my sword belt with practiced ease, even as my heart pounds a war drum in my chest. Around me, my fellow soldiers ready themselves in grim silence, our shared tension palpable in the chill morning air.

I draw my sword and test its weight and balance with a few swift swings, the whisper of the blade slicing through air an ominous prelude to the violence to come. Satisfied, I sheath it and turn to face my troops.

"This is it," I say, my voice steady and strong, belying the nerves thrumming through my veins. "Today, we hold the line against the ogre horde. We fight for our homes, for our kingdom. For Thornhall!"

A resounding cheer echoes back to me, a defiant roar in the face of the oncoming storm. With a final nod, I turn and lead the charge across the blood-soaked earth, toward the line of monstrous figures that materialize from the early morning mist.

The ogres thunder forward to meet us, shaking the ground with each massive stride. At their head, I catch sight of a towering figure, his stony grey skin marked with whorls of red war paint.

Warlord Grok.

Our eyes lock across the narrowing gap between our forces, a searing, electric connection that sends a shiver down my spine even as my grip tightens on my sword hilt.

And then, with a bone-shaking crash, our armies collide.

The world dissolves into the chaos of battle, a whirlwind of clashing steel, war cries and the coppery scent of spilled blood. I weave through the fray, my blade a silver blur as I parry and slash, dancing the deadly steps of a dance I've trained for all my life. Ogres fall before me, felled by precise strikes to unguarded throats and pierced hearts, but always there are more to take their place, an unending tide of brutal strength.

I lose myself to the familiar, furious rhythm of combat, trusting my instincts and training to guide me. Time seems to slow and stretch, each heartbeat an eternity as I fight for my life, for my people.

A warning shout from behind snaps me back to the present just in time to whirl and deflect a vicious overhead strike that would have cleaved me in two. I stagger back, arms vibrating from the force of the blow, and find myself staring up into a pair of blazing amber eyes.

Grok.

The warlord looms over me, his massive war axe gripped in hands the size of dinner plates. This close, I can see the brutal topography of scars etched into his stony skin, the powerful cords of muscle rippling beneath. He regards me with a mixture of surprise and something else, something heated and assessing that sends an entirely different kind of shiver through me.

"The Red Blade of Thornhall," he rumbles, his voice a deep, grating baritone that resonates in my bones. "I've heard of you."

"I'll take that as a compliment," I manage through gritted teeth, adjusting my grip on my sword. "Though I'm afraid the pleasure is all yours."

A flicker of what might almost be amusement sparks in those striking eyes. "We shall see."

And with that, he lunges, axe whistling through the air with terrifying speed. I dart aside just in time, the displaced air from the passing blade ruffling my hair. I counter with a swift thrust toward his exposed side, but he spins away with a grace that belies his size, my sword glancing off his hardened skin with a spray of sparks.

Back and forth we dance, trading blows in a furious, intimate duel even as the battle rages on around us. Grok is immensely strong, each strike shuddering through my body like a thunderclap, but he's fast too, far faster than any ogre I've faced before. It takes all my skill and focus to match him, to stay one step ahead of the whirling axe blade that seems to be everywhere at once.

We lock blades, the screech of metal on metal ringing in my ears as we strain against each other. This close, I can feel the heat radiating off his massive form, smell the musk of his sweat mingled with the iron tang of blood. His gaze bores into mine, fierce and intense, and for a fleeting, insane moment, I feel a sudden urge to lean into him, to press myself against the hard planes of his chest.

I wrench myself back, breaking the deadlock with a gasp. What is wrong with me? I shouldn't be feeling this strange, electric pull toward an enemy, let alone an ogre. I need to focus, to end this before?—

My foot catches on a loose stone, sending me stumbling. It's a tiny misstep, a split second of lost balance, but it's enough. Grok seizes the opening, his axe whipping around in a blinding arc that knocks my sword from my hand and sends it spinning away across the churned earth.

I lunge for it desperately, but a massive hand locks around my arm, wrenching me back. I cry out as pain lances through my shoulder, my feet leaving the ground as Grok hauls me up like a ragdoll, slamming me back against his chest. His other arm comes around, pinning me in place with irresistible strength.

"Yield," he growls, his breath hot against my ear. "Or I'll rip your arms off."

My heart hammers against my ribs, fear and adrenaline and something far more treacherous pulsing through my veins. I should keep fighting, should struggle and kick and bite until my last breath. But something in his voice, in the iron band of his arm around me, tells me it would be futile. Slowly, agonizingly, I go limp, the fight draining out of me.

"I yield," I spit, hating the taste of the words, the admission of defeat.

Grok grunts, a sound that might be satisfaction or approval. "Smart choice, little blade."

The world spins dizzyingly as he slings me over his shoulder like a sack of grain, the coiled strength in his body keeping me pinned. Nausea swirls in my gut at the abrupt motion and the dawning realization of what's happening.

I'm being taken. Captured by the enemy.

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