Page 103 of Unbinding the Demon
“Yes, well, if this had been an actual fight, that accident would have gotten you killed.” I flashed her a perverted smirk. “And the only sword I want you getting stabbed with is mine.”
She struggled to ignore me, her fluster evident as she continued practicing fighting. Valarendrik’s effortless, swift, and agile movements were a stark contrast to her strenuous, clumsy ones. The bones glided through the air, colliding as they spun and swiveled around each other. He was barely even fighting while she was huffing and puffing to keep up. She stabbed at him with both bones at an even length.
“Remind her to always hold one blade further back, so they do not get tangled,” Valarendrik said as he blocked and countered her attack with ease.
“Remember to hold one blade further back so they don’t get tangled... But don’t worry, you can get tangled in the sheets with me later!”
“Shut up!”
As I continued to watch and translate, it was hard to overlook her rapid progress. Despite her petite, fragile frame facing Valarendrik’s imposing strength, she was surprisingly holding her own. Each technique he imparted seemed to ignite her determination, transforming her awkwardness into a budding sense of skill. A crooked smile stretched across my face, and pride glimmered in my eyes.
They both stopped and discarded the bones on the ground. Gwendolyn was completely breathless as she moseyed on over to me, then flopped against my side. My arm and a wing wrapped around her, pulling her limp, sweaty body against mine. I already had her water bottle ready for her.
“I hope you’re not expecting me to magically transform into an expert swordswoman within a few hours.” She puffed out a breath, then grabbed the bottle and gulped down a large swig, her hand unsteady.
I glanced over at Valarendrik, who was pulling a couple of small unenchanted blades from Sagacor’s saddlebags beside us. “No, I’m not. The deal was you could keep the swords if it seemed like you could use them without killing yourself.”
“Gwendolyn.” Valarendrik’s tall frame loomed before us, offering her the mundane but very sharp swords. His shadows swirled like wispy tendrils throughout his tangled hair, showing his excitement.
Fear and anxiety constricted my chest, and my grip on her tightened. I wanted to throw her over my shoulder and fly off while yelling,“Sayonara, you senseless sap!”Then I’d take her to some remote cave embedded in a seaside cliff, from which she could never escape, and keep her there for all eternity like an overly protective, foaming-at-the-mouth Neanderthal.
“Whoa, we’re going to use real swords now!?” Gwendolyn’s sweet little voice pulled me out of my possessive fantasy as she popped her head back up.
“Don’t you dare let her hurt herself with those,” my booming demonic voice growled, much more vicious-sounding than I had intended.
He held up a defensive hand. “She’s doing very well for someone so callow. I think she can handle these.” A mischievous smile flitted over his lips, amused by my overprotective behavior.
My grip on her hesitantly loosened, then she leaned over to take the blades with enthusiasm. “What did he say?”
I gritted my teeth. “He said that he thinks you’re doing well and can handle those.” I then spoke to Valarendrik. “Keep in mind that humans don’t have endless stamina like the undead. She’s already weakening from fatigue.”
“I have not forgotten.” He smiled, then his gray corpsen hand took hers, and he helped her up. I had to suppress a possessive growl and the urge to yank her back down next to me.
I craned my head forward and watched with trepidation as they began to duel. To my dismay, Valarendrik used his blades, which were quite possibly the most lethal things in The Abyss. My heart pounded furiously in my chest with every swoosh of their swords, and I was regretting agreeing to this. They performed a deadly dance with the sanguine caedis sap squishing out of the moss beneath their feet, parrying and swinging their blades, forcefully clashing metal against metal.
What was surprising, however, was that using the real swords seemed to enhance Gwendolyn’s concentration and equanimity.And possibly the fact that I had stopped with all my sexy comments. She was still by no means a skilled swordswoman, but she was keen on what she was doing. They fought for about twenty more anxiety-racked minutes, then ended with polite bows. Gwendolyn’s squelchy footsteps pattered back over to me. Behind her, Valarendrik silently glided like a specter, with his black, wispy shadows swirling out around him. I pushed myself up to stand and meet them.
“Well, what do you think? Can I keep the blades now?” She gazed up at me with those wide, pleading eyes once again.
I wanted to scowl like a disgruntled curmudgeon, but I beamed with pride and smiled down at her with admiration instead. Her efforts were truly commendable, and she showed she had gained some comprehension of basic technique and form. I sucked in a breath. “Alright, you’ve earned them.” I held out theextremely lethalblades for her to take.
“Woo-hoo!”She jumped up with a thrilled smile and threw both her hands high above her head in victory. “Oh, holy fuck, I’m sore.” Her victory jump ended as she hunched over with a pained expression. I laughed at her as she snatched the swords out of my hand.
“So, you’re letting her keep the blades, after all?” Valarendrik asked with a raised brow and a boastful smile.
“Yeah, yeah, you did a good job teaching her the basics.” I smiled at him while rolling my eyes.
“I am very pleased, then.” Satisfaction beamed in his abyssal black and red eyes. “I do not wish for her to ever need them, but I hope they are useful if she ever does.”
“Maybe now I can even help you guys slay the vovin!” she exclaimed vaingloriously, while admiring one of her new blades.
“Don’t even think about it...”
43. The Decrescent Pantheon
Little droplets of dew dripped from the twisted boughs looming overhead, like the grievous tears of the trees' unsung bereavements. Sorrow itself seemed to whisper upon the abyssal winds, through the clanking trees, and across the cold ground. Pale, brittle blooms adorned the rocky soil like shallow blankets of dolor, cheerlessly shivering in the breeze. Each purple petal was enwreathed in death and frail, as if even the gentlest of caresses could reduce them to nothing more than dust.
My pale hand stroked the side of Sagacor’s soft neck, avoiding the more undead areas. Each short strand of ebony hair bent beneath my gentle touch as I lounged, peaceful yet weary, upon his broad, swaying back. Azathoth and Valarendrik strolled and engaged in conversation side by side at the front. Valarendrik was looking over the abyssal book and copying down some notes for himself.
