Page 130 of Warlord's Plaything

I can’t.

I see Dagen and Sella holding the line near the collapsed barricades, surrounded, fighting like hell but—fuck, there are too many.

Too many bodies. Too many weapons.

We are drowning in this battle.

And Kaelith knew we would.

"Warlord, behind you!"

Varian’s voice. Too late.

I spin, but not fast enough.

The hilt of a sword slams into my gut, stealing my breath, driving me to one knee.

A boot collides with my ribs next, hard, brutal—then another, and another.

I taste iron.

I see the sky spinning above me.

My limbs feel heavier, my body too slow, too weak, too fucking drained.

I’ve fought through worse.

But not like this.

Not with my power still suppressed by whatever sorcery Kaelith used against me.

Not with my body barely holding together from days in chains and dungeons.

I am Xyron, warlord of Herox.

I am not supposed to fucking fall like this.

But right now, on this battlefield, I am not enough.

The enemy moves in.

I see the blade before I feel it.

The executioner’s sword—long, curved, glistening in the torchlight.

A weapon meant to sever a warlord’s head from his shoulders.

And I am kneeling.

Defenseless.

Bleeding.

I see the swing begin.

I brace.

But instead, a blast of energy rips through the battlefield.

---