Page 275 of Scorching the Alien Empire
Krogoth lowers his stance, spear forward, shield steady, closing inch by inch.
Now.
I lunge—Stormcleaverscreaming down in a blow to split mountains. But Krogoth rolls beneath the blast, debris exploding in his wake. He springs forward with a blur of motion that defies nature. My shield rises—too slow.
A shriek. Metal on metal.
One prong slices into my shoulder. Not deep—but long. The pain flares white, then vanishes beneath molten rage.
He presses the attack—foot lashing out in a sweeping kick. I lift my leg just in time, narrowly avoiding the trip.
My axe slashes down in a savage counter, but he surges forward, stepping inside my guard, twisting to gut me with his spear.
I slam my shield down—too slow.
A shriek of metal. A cry of agony. White-hot pain explodes through my leg as the spear deflects downward. Two prongs puncture deep.
I roar and lash out with shield and axe. He dashes back. My blood spills, fanning the flames of his wrath.
A breath. A heartbeat. He pounces.
Relentless. Unyielding. A blinding storm of strikes rains down like the burning ash. My shield moves with a desperate speed I’ve never needed before. Sparks fly. My arm jolts with every brutal thrust—each one flawlessly executed, perfectly timed.
I’m forced backward, step by step, each movement fresh agony. He circles toward my wounded leg. Brutal. Precise. Effective. Speed, strength, and skill—he wields them all as deadly as any weapon.
An opponent like no other.
Stormcleaversings in tight, shallow arcs—buying me precious seconds. But Krogoth springs back and forward again in a blurring instant, launching another vicious flurry of stabbing arcweave.
Strikes come from every angle—high, low, left, right. Each one different. Each one testing. All share that same whistling drop, like death on the wind.
Most screech off my shield. Some I dodge by inches. Others bite flesh. A dozen wounds now mark my flesh—a patchwork of pain, painted in blood. I barely register them anymore.
This axe... it cannot cleave the light. Not like this. I choke up my grip—fingers sliding closer to the crescent edge.
Krogoth comes again. But this time, I’m ready.
His powerful thrusts batter my shield, but I surge forward, hammering down with quick, brutal chops. He pivots back—fast—but I give chase, driving off my good leg.
Some blows force him to block. I see the wince with each one. Wood splinters like shrapnel. My strength—beyond anythinghe’s felt—drives his arm down, drives him back like a nail pounded into a mountain.
He retreats, scrambling. His arm trembles. His shield—a shattered ruin hanging by a strap. Exhaustion claws at me. Fire burns through my limbs. The blistering pace. The searing pain. They demand its due.
But I bury it—fury becoming fuel. Every strike a scream of defiance, smashing his defenses to shattered pieces.
Ahead, the mote of lava looms. Krogoth stumbles on broken rock. His shield hand breaks his fall. My axe rises—his head mine to claim.
But he springs—suddenly, impossibly fast—spear aimed to skewer my gut.
I drop my shield, deflecting. Not enough.
The tip grazes my belt—my Hemo-Tok. I feel it tear. The brothers in bone jiggle in pain as they’re ripped from my waist, tangling among the spear’s prongs, trapping his thrust.
“Sacrilege!” I bellow, twisting with fury, yanking the spear from his grip.
Through blurred vision, I see the bones—spines of the fallen, offerings to Arawnoth—slip from snapped leather and tumble to the blackened earth like a destiny cast.
A violation. A blasphemy.
