Alara Unbroken - Doug Beyer [22]
Before Rafiq had a chance to hail for an inspection, the Jhessian champions burst forth in a flurry of attacks. They broke their formation oddly, one of them going to Rafiq’s left flank while another retreated several paces, while the third plunged straight into Rafiq’s sword range. Rafiq gave ground, parrying and defending with his shield while preventing the flank attack. He tried a counterattack at the Jhessian who had charged him, but his opponent’s sword was already back to defend, an almost instantaneous parry. The Jhessian swiveled his wrist in a bold attempt to disarm Rafiq while the one to his left lunged strongly. Rafiq dealt with both by rotating his body, bringing his shield up to deflect the blow and to bash the other in the chin, sending them both reeling back.
That just left an opening for the third champion, whose blade slashed directly at Rafiq’s eyes. Instinctively Rafiq ducked, and the attack just missed. The audience gasped.
Was this Jhessian crazy? Helmets hadn’t been worn in combat for hundreds of years; everybody knew that an attack with a blade to the head was strictly illegal. Rafiq recovered and stood, looking sternly at the judge. The judge did nothing, signifying no breach. Impossible.
The three Jhessians circled around him, looking much more lithe in their heavy armor than Rafiq had made them out to be. Their swords struck toward him like needles, more accurate than they should have been and far more damaging, cutting actual scars in his armor. He deflected all he could, relying on years of ritual combat as Bant’s foremost Champion of Sigils, but the illegal moves were overwhelming him. The judge was motionless, leaving Rafiq to his own devices.
Then Rafiq felt it. The blow came from behind him, where his armor didn’t cover, and had cut into his skin, a razor-thin line through his actual tissue. It was far from fatal, but that didn’t matter. He turned in shock, and the Jhessians spread out and broke off their attacks. There before him stood the champion who had struck him, a tiny spot of red liquid glimmering on the point of his sword.
Rafiq watched his blood trace its way down the champion’s blade, transfixed. He had never seen blood on a blade before.
JUND
Sarkhan saw the surge of hot air blast out from Rakka’s hands, catching the warriors full in the back and accelerating their flight, turning each of them into flailing comets. The spell was messy—it didn’t create a choreographed air attack, but an explosion of human bodies sailing across the cavern. Would it save them from gravity, only to kill them with velocity?
No time to criticize. As Sarkhan prepared another spell, he saw Kresh grasp his sword with both hands and raise it over his head in midair, preparing for impact as he fell toward the beast. The dragon reared up to meet him. Kresh sliced downward at its face and struck home, his sword burying itself in the top of the dragon’s snout, before falling past the beast and leaving his sword behind. He slammed into its wing pinion, knocking the breath from his lungs, and tumbled to the cavern floor, gasping.
Around him, the other warriors fell against the dragon in impact after violent impact to form rough piles around the creature’s feet. Some of them got back up immediately and gathered their weapons and wits; many did not.
Rakka’s spell was a mistake. The attack had been a disaster.
The dragon unleashed a torrent of fire on the warriors around it, and simultaneously flapped its wings, sending up a massive whoosh of air. Most of the clan were sent reeling. The burning bodies of several warriors, already dead, slid and flipped across the rough cavern floor.
Sarkhan and Rakka dived to the ground to survive the heat blast. Pebbles and debris rained down on them, and Sarkhan felt the heat roast his back and the hair on his head.