Alara Unbroken - Doug Beyer [25]
Ajani sprang down into the fray, landing full on the back of another of the creatures. Its flesh broke, sloughing off like wet cloth under Ajani’s claws. One after the other Ajani felled them, his axe and claws driven by protective instincts, his senses sharpened by the cries of his pride-mates. After what felt like only a dozen heartbeats, few of the fiends remained, their shredded remains littering the grounds around the bonfire.
Then Ajani heard the words he had hoped he wouldn’t.
“The kha!” shouted a voice. It was Tenoch, who had been in charge of the watch that night. “Jazal is in trouble!”
Ajani looked back up the slopes of the hill. The remaining death-creatures had fought their way all the way up the zigzagging trails to the lair at the top—his brother’s cave. He bounded up ledge after ledge, slowing only to cut through every one of the creatures he encountered.
When he reached the entrance to Jazal’s lair, Zaliki stood there. Her eyes brimmed with tears, but her posture was defiant, blocking Ajani from entering.
“Move aside,” Ajani said.
“Don’t go in there, Ajani,” said Zaliki. “I mean it.”
“Move out of my way, or I will move you.”
She put a hand on his chest. “Ajani, listen to me.”
But of course, that was the last thing she could say to make him listen. He knew her purpose was kindness, but he tore through her arms and ran into the lair.
His foot touched something sticky on the cave floor. Unidentified cruor stuck to the fur on his foot. Behind him, he thought Zaliki said something, but he didn’t hear her words over the blood thumping in his ears.
Ajani’s pupils dilated, taking in the dim details of the lair. The first thing he saw was the wooden handle of the axe, positioned vertically over the bed. He followed its line down to where he saw his brother Jazal lying on his back. The handle belonged to Jazal’s axe, the one that matched Ajani’s own; the blade was obscured, sunk somewhere deep within Jazal’s chest.
BANT
The Jhessians’ ceremonial plates lay strewn across the dirt of the arena, abandoned as if they were meaningless hunks of scrap metal. The three youths slashed at Rafiq with magically-augmented precision, landing scratch after scratch on Rafiq’s armor and shield. Rafiq retreated step by step, parrying and defending, resisting the urge to strike back. But he was losing. One blow found a chink near his shoulder and sliced through the leather strap, causing his steel pauldron to hang uselessly to one side. Another nicked a flesh wound in Rafiq’s forehead that began to ooze blood down his cheek.
The crowd was in an uproar, but Rafiq didn’t hear them. He had made his choice.
“Asha forgive me,” he muttered.
Rafiq lunged into one of them, driving his sword high, toward the shoulder blades. As he expected, that Jhessian’s sword came up to meet his own in a parry, and another attacked Rafiq’s exposed flank. Rafiq brought his sword down in a flash, catching the attacker’s blade with the full weight of his own, cleaving the weapon in two. The point went flying away, and the broken sword’s wielder backed off in fear.
Rafiq pressed the attack. He traded attacks with the two remaining warriors as if he were two men, letting his steel move fluidly between them. He learned the reaction time of the youths and their enchantments, and when he had the rhythm of them, he leaped between the two and spun, presenting a flash of his exposed back to each of them. As they both lunged, Rafiq pivoted sideways, and the youths sank their swords into one another.
They fell to the ground, gravely wounded but healable. The remaining Jhessian dropped the hilt of his broken sword, and fell to his knees.
The judge finally spoke. “Victory goes to the defendant.”
The crowd leaped to their feet,