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THIS IS WHAT I WANT. This is what I live for.
I can see the fear on the faces around me but I don’t feel it, not at all.
I feel a rush inside me, a squirm of excitement, a pulse of adrenalin and a lust for violence. It might not be healthy or a good thing to admit, but I feel it, a thirst for murder. I am ready for this. Ready to kill any of them. All of them.
And Millard. Especially Millard.
If he comes close enough, he’s dead.
Let him come close enough.
My body changes when I’m getting ready to fight. I feel lighter; already I’m bouncing on the balls of my feet. I shake out my hands before I grab my sword and dagger, making sure my fingers aren’t stiff, but supple and fluid.
All my senses heighten as well. I can smell the honk of the man standing next to me, betting he hasn’t washed for a month or more. I breathe through my mouth, deep breaths, feeling my skin tingle.
I am ready for this.
The shout goes out that they are getting closer. It’s definitely them. Millard. Wolf. Millard’s men.
I head to the front of our pack. Me in the middle, Weaver one side, Archer the other.
The three of us.
Best friends. Comrades. Brothers.
I nod at them and I can see from the looks on their faces that they are as ready for this as I am.
Millard stops in front of his men. They are lined up in rows like our men and we outnumber them easily.
There is too much distance between us for me to hear anything, not even a murmur of voices. I cannot see his face clearly, either, though I know it’s him. I know how angry he will be that Ginata and me got away.
Good.
If he loses his temper, if he’s angry, he’ll be less careful. Make stupid mistakes.
Millard’s men move forwards, letting Wolf and Millard take up the rear. I get that. They want to protect him the same as we want to protect Everleigh.
At the end of this, it will all come down to the two of them.
One of them will live, triumphant and the other will die, defeated.
It has to be Everleigh. I feel my toes curl with the anticipation of this fight.
We outnumber them, but I know they’ll fight dirty.
But so can I.
I tune out everyone and everything except for me and my weapons. I am the only person who can keep me alive.
And I don’t plan to die today.
The silence gives way to the roar of battle as we rush forwards, all of our men following us, weapons and voices raised.
I lock eyes with a man, and I can tell that he thinks I’m easy prey. Cockiness makes him clumsy and as he lifts his sword, I dart forward and split his belly open.
I jump backwards so I don’t get dirty shoes so early on, and one by one, I stab, slice and split, man after man after man.
My arm is hurting from the weight of my sword, but I don’t get lazy. One look at the blood and death around me and I know I can’t allow myself to; the smell of guts, and worse, is sickening and I will not allow my innards to join the mush of mess that covers the floor.
I assess and attack quickly and constantly.
In battle you can’t stop, or look to see what anyone else is doing. A split second where you’re not concentrating means death.
I have come out of the fog of a fight before covered in scratches and cuts, bruises and blood and been oblivious to any injury. In the heat of the battle, the rush of bloodshed, you become so involved in the moment. I reckon I could lose an arm and just keep on fighting. Not even notice.
I’m not going to let one of these men slice me open like a dead fish.
I attack, low, high, fast, fast, fast, leaving bodies in my wake. Same as I know my boys are. I can hear them both – I am silent when I fight, but they like to talk, to goad, to shout, swear.
I hear them, but don’t let them distract me.
My goal is to get to Millard. If he is lucky I will take hold of him and take him to Everleigh, unlucky he’ll be dead within the hour. As I slash my way through the crowd of his men, that’s my aim, but if he tries anything I’ll gut him.
I have no clue how many people are dead, how many have got past us, if any have got close to Everleigh and I can’t worry.
These men are all nameless and faceless so as I butcher them, I am only looking for Wolf and Millard.
I see Millard. He’s not even fighting, just hunkering behind Wolf. Wolf’s not even fighting, just holding his sword out.
I’m the first of our lot to reach them.
I keep my eyes on them, sword out. “Archer. Weaver.”
“Here.”
They’ve made their way through the throng and are at my side. The battle goes on behind us, and while Archer and me face our enemy, Weaver’s got our backs.
“Question,” I yell over the noise of the fighting. “Do you want to die right here, or would you rather tell your last words to your sister?”
Millard steps in front of Wolf, hands up, but I don’t let my guard slip for a second.
“Take me to my sister.”
I glance quickly at Archer, and Wolf, taking advantage of my split-second distraction, darts forward. Archer slips past him and holds his sword to Millard’s neck, but Wolf gets past me, spins Weaver around and plunges his sword right into his heart.
The scream doesn’t sound like me but I know it is. My scream, my pain, my friend dead. If I don’t scream, I will be sick. I can hear Archer cursing, but he knows what to do. He doesn’t let go of Millard. Not now that we have him again.
I don’t hesitate.
I slam into Wolf, who’s distracted, shaking drops of Weaver’s blood off his sword. Despite the size of him I manage to knock him off kilter. Maybe he thought I’d run away from him not towards him, be broken hearted, unable to move.
I hit him again, and then I bring my sword around and manage to cut his arm. Quickly, I attack again and this time my sword slashes his cheek. I cannot back down. My final blow stabs him in the stomach and in a mist of fury I raise my sword and plunge it into his belly again and again and again until I hear Archer’s voice. I stop.
I can feel his blood dripping down my face and all I feel is a swell of deep satisfaction.
That was for Weaver.