Master of Iron (Bladesmith #2)(103)

But Izan spins away with more agility than I would have thought possible of a man his size. I’m so stunned, in fact, that he gets the best of me. The shaft of his hammer finds the edge of my shield, and he flings it out of my hands, sending Echo skittering out of the way. Before I can react, he shoves a shoulder into me, sprawls me flat on my back on the dirt.

And then he raises his hammer high, preparing to crush me into the earth.

“Ziva!” A horrified scream comes from somewhere out of sight. I think, distantly, that the voice belongs to Kellyn, but I have no time to respond to it.

I roll as fast as I can, out of the reach of that hammer. It sinks deep into the earth where my head was just a second ago. I feel the thump of it, somehow still painful on the back of my head. The reaction of the earth to the blow. Clods of dirt fly upward, rain down on me, pelting my face with exploded bits.

Undaunted by his miss, Izan raises his hammer again, a maniacal grin on his face. He swings again.

I keep rolling, slightly slowed by the unfamiliar armor I wear, trying to stay out of reach of that hammer. Agony feels insignificant in comparison. I pull my own hammer tight to my body as I move, keeping a fierce grip. I don’t have time to raise it, to send up a strike of my own.

All I can do is move and move. I’m getting dizzy.

Izan grunts something low that sounds like “Hold still.”

As if.

I keep rolling, realizing how foolish I was, thinking to take him on. So what if I made the weapon he carries? It’s capable of killing me just as much as anyone else. I’m not invincible. I’m not even that talented of a fighter. I just got so angry. But that fury seems to have fled as I now fight for my life.

I roll once more, my body smashing into a hard surface.

A boulder—impeding me from moving any farther.

I look up in horror at the next swing. He knows he has me now. He raises his hammer higher; it disappears from view behind his head.

I don’t have time to think. I act.

My boot swings up, catching him in the crotch.

He chokes, drops his hammer behind him, his hands going to the wounded area.

With a scream, I rise up onto my knees and send my hammer smashing into whatever part of him I can reach.

I hear a thundering crack. A sound I cannot describe comes out of the brute, and he staggers to the side.

I think I hit his pelvis.

But I don’t stop to examine. I swing again.

And again.

This time higher and higher. Smashing ribs. Breaking his sternum.

And then a final crunch at his nose.

I’m screaming. I’m growling. I’m something completely unrecognizable to myself. But reason fled long ago.

“Ziva,” the voice calls again. Arms come around me, hauling me up to my feet. I don’t attack on instinct, because I recognize that voice.

“Kellyn?” I try to remember there is more in the world than just me and the dead brute. There’s an entire battle. More foes to fell. More blood to spill.

My breathing is coming fast, the starting of a potential panic attack, but I don’t have time for that now.

My body doesn’t care.

The feeling of impending doom settles deep in my head, reclines lazily, like it has all the time in the world. I grip Kellyn tightly, my hands slicking against the blood on his armor.

He holds me to him with his left arm, and I try to slow my breathing. Meanwhile, I think he must be holding Lady Killer in his right hand, one handed, and he begins defending me while I disappear into hysterics.

Sacred Sisters, now is really not the time.

I try to focus on the smell of Kellyn, but it’s mixed in with blood and dirt and other foul things. He spins me this way and that with his one arm, trying to keep me safe while he battles foes I cannot see. My head is still pressed between his neck and shoulder. I’m quivering. I’m falling. I surely must be dying. How can this be anything else?

And then all at once, I can breathe again. My hand clenches around my hammer, feeling the weight of it. The texture of the handle. The comforting sturdiness of it. I spin out of Kellyn’s arm and help him fight off the man trying to take advantage of his distraction.

Kellyn’s blade slices into his neck, stopping against the bone, taking the head halfway off.

I scramble to find my fallen shield hammer.

“I thought he had you,” Kellyn says in a panicked voice.

“Me too.”

“Next time, go for the crotch sooner and save me the near-death experience, please.”

I think my hammer flew this way. I stumble around fallen bodies, duck away from fighters. Kellyn is right at my back.

“I’ll do my best,” I say. Come on. Where are you?

It’s pandemonium all around us. I can’t tell if we’re winning or losing. Fighters have extended beyond the length of the road. Marossa and her archers pick off the lone enemies, but they can’t risk hitting their own men in the thick of it.

I finally catch sight of my hammer.

But there’s a boot right next to it. I look up, prepared to take on the enemy with Kellyn.

And then I see that it’s Kymora.

Only, it’s not just Kymora. There in a row, in a neat line, are five Kymoras. They wear identical tunics, hair pulled up into a neat bun, buckled boots with the same amount of shine. Beside the last one is a girl I recognized instantly.

The cotton spinner, Elany, looking pleased at all the carnage around her.