Page 102 of Kissed By the Gods
Elowen—I’m agiftedhealer.
Ryot—Avoid Tyrston. He’sgifted.
Nyrica—Ryot will be fine. He’sgifted.
They didn’t mean gifted, as in very talented or as in gifted with Altor abilities. They meant gifted, as in endowed with something else. Something magical.
I inhale deeply, trying to maintain my calm. There are rules about this in the Synod. We’re not allowed to randomly attack one another. We’re too valuable, each one of us is too instrumental in this war with the Kher’zenn. There’s a method to dealing with disputes, and this is not it.
By the Veil, this is not good.
Tyrston takes another step toward me. He’s at the base of the steps in the sand pit, and my scythe is within reach. “Leif, you can join us,” he calls back.
Leif pales. He keeps one eye on Varek, but steps into the sandpit with Tyrston.
“Fuck. Off,” Leif growls.
“Nah,” Tyrston says. “She wants this. Clearly.”
“No.” For some reason it sounds weak coming out of my mouth. “No!” I try again, and I’m relieved at the rage and venom that laces the word this time. “Let me be perfectly clear—no woman wants this. Wants you. Not. One.”
He growlsat me.
“Tyrston, we’ll all be punished if something happens here. Let’s all take a step back and—” Leif tries to reason with him, but Tyrston is beyond hearing. Or beyond caring.
His eyes roll back in his head and then he’s letting that fury swallow him up. When his eyes focus on me again, they’re crazed. He’s gleeful with rage, drunk with it. Fenrir and Varekboth look less certain now that this is actually happening, but they take their cue from Tyrston and edge in closer to me.
I swing out again in a wide arc, trying to get them all to back off. But Tyrston lunges forward and blocks the swing with his hammer. The force of it rattles my scythe and sets my teeth chattering, sending me slamming back into the stone wall.
The movement lights a match in the room, and Leif is on top of Tyrston with a roar. I block a strike from Fenrir and swing the scythe around like a staff to ward off Varek, who’s run at me, too. I keep my back pressed against the stone wall.
Ryot’s lessons spring forward.You can’t depend on raw force. Your strength lies in your speed and your control. Focus on precision.
I stay back, letting them come to me, and wait for an opening in their wild, aggressive thrusts with their spears. It doesn’t take long—only enough time for them to strike four or five times each—before I find an opening. Fenrir goes in for a wild jab, and I use the curved blade of the scythe to hook his weapon, yanking it from his hands. I then drop to the ground, swiping my hook under Varek’s feet. With a shriek, he collides with Fenrir, and the two of them topple into the pit. Varek is screaming wildly but I don’t stop to see how injured he is.
It’s probably only been seconds, but it still took too long. Tyrston is steadily driving Leif back with that hammer. Leif is kneeling on the ground, his sword raised as a shield, as Tyrston drives the hammer down again and again. Finally, the force of it sends Leif crashing into the stone steps, and his body collapses when his head strikes the stone.
“Leif!” I scream, jumping into the blood-streaked pit. My voice is enough to pull Tyrston back, and he abandons his assault on Leif, turning for me with a twisted smirk.
“Leina,” he purrs as he stalks toward me. “You saymyname.”
“Whatwasyour name again?” I manage to gasp out. “I’m afraid I don’t recall.” Leif is prone at the base of the steps. Unconscious. Oh gods. I refuse to let someone else die while I watch.
Tyrston’s face twists, and he swings out with the hammer, just as I shove my scythe up in the air horizontally, holding on with both hands. The hammer connects with my scythe, and the force of it shakes down my arms and all through my body. In the last few months, I’ve had countless hours of weapons training. Broadsword with Ryot, shredwhip with Caius, axes with Nyrica, spear with Thalric, a bow and arrows with Faelon. Lances, daggers, even a battering ram. But nothing … nothing has felt like this.
Tyrston swings his hammer in an upward motion, knocking the scythe from my hands.
Thayana, help me.
Tyrston rears back, bringing that hammer down with otherworldlystrength. It’s not even the strength of an Altor, it’s something else. A jagged, skull-splitting pain crashes through my body when the hammer hits Thayana’s mark on my temple and I go limp, weaving in and out of conscious thought. I can’t think anymore. I can barely open my eyes. But somehow, I do. I pull my face out of the sand to see Tyrston has been shoved backward to the other side of the pit—the scar repelling him. He looks dazed, but he’s still coming to his feet. I manage to roll, and slip one of my daggers out of the holster at my thigh and fling it into the shoulder of his hammer-wielding arm.
He screams, dropping the hammer, but he almost immediately calls it back up with his left. He’s more awkward with his non-dominant hand, noticeably so. My eyes snap back to Leif—still unconscious, still vulnerable. I struggle to my knees, sliding my other dagger free.
I willendTyrston. Or I will die trying.
Everything feels dreamlike as he swings the hammer over his head, and I struggle to convince myself this is real. Finally, I grip my dagger with the tips of my fingers, prepared to hurl it at his throat—the most vulnerable spot for an Altor. A mortal wound, not covered by chainmail.
I throw the dagger.
