Den of thieves

Chapter Eighty-Five

Drops of acid hit Croy’s arm and seared right through his leather jerkin. He shouted as the acid burned through his skin as well. Pain lanced up to his spine, while his lungs heaved against the stink of sulfur in the air. Croy couldn’t help but cough as the fumes seared his throat and eyes.

It was the sign of weakness he had put off as long as he could. He’d finally broken. Bikker took it for exactly what it was-a call to attack, which he executed with a flurry of devastating blows, one after another. Croy managed to parry them, but not without cost. He had to stagger backward, away from the fight, and wince as the pain threatened to overcome him. He forced his eyes to stay open, to keep watching, to keep assessing the situation.

His shield was reduced to a few sticks of sizzling oak held together by a melting boss. Far worse, the shortsword was etched and notched each time it parried Acidtongue’s attacks. Croy could feel his sword growing weaker and less stable with each passing moment.

The weapon was still in better shape than the man, though, and that was the real problem. Already weakened by multiple wounds and loss of blood, Croy’s endurance was reaching its end very quickly. Just lifting his sword arm took a great effort and he was gasping for breath. Sweat rolled down into his eyes and he could taste the salt when it trickled across his lips. Proper swordsmanship was as much about the legs as the arms-he could hear Bikker’s voice in his head from back when the bigger swordsman had taught him how to fight. You need to move when a sword comes at your face, boy, lunge forward with your knee when you riposte, dance if you want to stay alive. His legs felt like they were made of solid wood. He could barely get his feet off the ground without falling over.

A sweeping blow came at his injured side, Acidtongue spitting as it burned through the air. Croy barely brought the shortsword down to counter. Acidtongue flew back to recover from the parry and then whistled over Bikker’s head as he brought his corroded sword up for a high slice. Croy shoved the fuming remnants of his shield up into the blow but lacked the strength to hold it back completely. Using Acidtongue like a club, Bikker knocked the shield into Croy’s teeth. Croy’s entire skull rattled and he felt his brains slosh back and forth.

So tired.

Parry. He tried a riposte but found the shortsword tangled in Acidtongue’s withdrawal.

His body was failing him.

Parry. Step back, away from the lunge, one foot behind the other to make his body a narrower target. Acidtongue jabbed past his face, and he batted it away like a cat batting at a piece of string-and just as effectually.

He was going to collapse.

Yielding parry-catching Acidtongue just before it cut his throat, taking Acidtongue’s foible with the shortsword’s forte. A classic parry perfectly executed, which should have given him an ideal chance to counterattack. By the time he saw the opportunity, however, Bikker was dancing away.

Croy knew he was doomed.

Acidtongue came rushing toward his shield. It might be a feint, which he should ignore. He lacked the strength to turn into the rush. Acidtongue picked apart the shield, scattering its pieces. Croy’s left was suddenly exposed and undefended. Bikker howled in joy and twisted around, whipping Acidtongue about and building to a slash that would cut open Croy’s belly and spill his guts on the ground.

One last shred of strength remained in Croy’s body. He used it up stabbing downward with the shortsword, driving its point into the ground to make a wall against Acidtongue’s slash. The shortsword wobbled, good dwarven steel pushed past its limits of flexibility. Acidtongue cut through it like a ribbon. Fragments of steel flew everywhere, one of them cutting through the skin of Croy’s cheek. The sword that remained was nothing but a hilt with a jagged inch or two of blade sticking out of it. He dropped the hilt, then closed his eyes and sank down on one knee.

He couldn’t lift his head. His neck was perfectly exposed. Acidtongue could cut through flesh without resistance when it was hot and singing with battlelust. One cut and Bikker could take his head off.

Croy couldn’t lift it. He was just too tired.

Cythera, he thought, I love you. I am so sorry.

The blow didn’t come.

Croy opened his eyes but still couldn’t move. He looked down at the grass beneath him. It looked very soft, and he thought it would be nice to fall, face forward, into its green embrace. One shard of his broken sword lay on the ground there, etched but still shining with polish.

Bikker still hadn’t killed him. What was he waiting for?

“Look at me, Croy.”

Slowly, painfully, Croy lifted his head and met his foe’s eyes. Bikker’s face was wild, his eyes mad. Froth flecked his lips.

“Good,” Bikker said. “That’s taken care of. Draw Ghostcutter. Playtime is over. Now we’ll fight like men.”