Page 37 of Burned Alive to Be His
The world is fire and blood and the piercing sound of my own heart roaring in my ears. Grakar’s warriors charge, a wave of snarling fury and sharpened steel, and I meet them on the narrow obsidian bridge. There is no room for strategy here. No room for tactics. There is only the brutal, bloody calculus of survival.
My blade, slick with the blood of the razor birds, becomes an extension of my will. The first warrior comes at me, his sword a silver arc aimed at my head. I parry with a jarring clash of steel that sends a fresh, white-hot spike of agony up my broken arm. I ignore it. I pivot, using his own momentum against him, and drive the tip of my obsidian blade through the soft spot where his neck meets his shoulder.
The feeling is a sickening, wet crunch. His eyes go wide with shock, a gurgle of blood escaping his lips. I rip my blade free and shove his dying body off the bridge. He falls, a silent, tumbling shape, and is consumed by the roiling lake of fire below. There is no scream. Only the hungry roar of the magma.
One down. Three to go.
They do not falter. They are Grakar’s chosen, fanatics fueled by his mad ambition. They come at me together, a coordinated assault designed to overwhelm my defenses. A blade darts in low, aimed at my legs. I leap, the steel hissing through the air where I stood a moment before. I land and spin, my good arm a blur, my blade deflecting another strike aimed at my throat.
But they are flanking me. I am a wounded beast caught between three wolves. I can protect my front, but not my back. I feel a searing, white-hot pain as a blade slices deep into the muscle of my thigh.
A roar of pure, animalistic fury tears from my throat. The pain is a clarifying fire. It burns away the last vestiges of the warrior, of the clan leader, and leaves only the predator. The male.
I turn on the one who cut me, my eyes blazing with a killing intent so absolute he actually hesitates, his eyes widening in fear. It is all the opening I need. I lunge, not with my blade, but with my body. I slam into him, my shoulder connecting with his chest with the force of a battering ram. We go down together on the narrow bridge, a tangle of limbs and snarled curses.
He is strong, but I am fueled by a desperation he cannot comprehend. I get my hand to his throat, my claws digging into the soft flesh. He struggles, his blade forgotten, his hands clawing at my arm. I squeeze, my vision tunneling, the world narrowing to the sight of his bulging, terrified eyes. There is a wet, snapping sound, and he goes limp beneath me.
I shove his corpse aside and scramble back to my feet, my wounded leg screaming in protest. The remaining two warriors are on me in an instant. There is no time to think, no time to breathe. Only to kill.
And through it all, through the clash of steel, the screams of the dying, the roar of the volcano, my senses are stretched thin, focused on one thing.
Her.
Judith.
She stands by the altar, a small, still point in the swirling chaos. Her face is pale, her eyes wide with terror, but she is not cowering. She is watching me. And the sight of her, so fragile and yet so unbroken, is a fire in my blood, a reason in the madness.
I fight with a savagery that surprises even myself. I am not just fighting for my life. I am a living shield. My body is a wall of flesh and scale and will between her and them. Every parry, every blow, every drop of my own blood that spills onto the black obsidian is a sacrifice to keep her safe.
The mountain itself seems to be at war. The bridge shudders violently beneath my feet, and I have to brace myself to keep from being thrown into the fire below. The air grows thick, heavy with a pressure that promises an imminent, cataclysmic release. Grakar and his followers are still chanting at the altar, their voices a low, guttural drone that is a counterpoint to the mountain’s rising roar. Their blood, dark and thick, flows into the glowing symbol of the Hearthkeeper, and the goddess, our mother, is waking in a rage.
I cut down the third warrior with a lucky thrust, my blade sliding between his ribs and into his heart. He collapses with a sigh, his lifeblood pooling on the hot obsidian.
One left.
He is the largest of them, a brutish male with a scarred face and dead, empty eyes. He looks at his fallen comrades, then at me, and a slow, cruel smile spreads across his face. He is not afraid. He is enjoying this.
We circle each other on the narrow, shuddering bridge, the lake of fire spitting and roaring below us. He is fresh. I am wounded, bleeding from a dozen different cuts, my broken arm a useless, throbbing weight at my side.
He lunges, his attack a powerful, straightforward thrust. I meet it, our blades locking with a scream of protesting steel. We are locked in a brutal contest of strength, our muscles straining, our teeth gritted. He is stronger. I feel my good arm begin to tremble, the muscles screaming in protest. My wounded leg threatens to buckle.
“She has made you weak, Xvitar,” he grunts, putting all his weight behind his blade, forcing me back, step by agonizing step. “She is a poison in your blood.”
“She is my strength,” I roar, and with a final, desperate surge of adrenaline, I twist my blade, breaking the lock, and shove him back.
He stumbles, surprised by my sudden burst of power. But I have overextended. My wounded leg gives way, and I go down to one knee.
He sees his chance. He does not hesitate. He lunges, not with his blade, but with his body. He tackles me, his massive weight slamming into me, and we go down together. My head cracks against the hard obsidian, and the world explodes in a flash of white-hot stars. My blade skitters from my grasp, spinning over the edge of the bridge and disappearing into the fire below.
I am disarmed. I am wounded. And he is on top of me, his knees pinning my shoulders, his massive hands closing around my throat.
“It is over,” he snarls, his face a violent mask of triumphant hatred, his spit hitting my cheek. “Grakar will lead us now. And I will have the pleasure of gutting your human pet and throwing her into the fire after you.”
A rage so absolute, so pure, it is almost a religious experience, floods my veins. I roar, a sound of pure, animalistic fury, and I thrash beneath him, but it is useless. He is too strong, too heavy. My vision begins to tunnel, black spots dancing at the edges. The air is being squeezed from my lungs.
I am going to die.
And my last sight will be of him turning his blade on her.
