none of it. “Your pack must despise you to have sent you against me.” He brushed the hair from his neck to expose his collar. He willed it to shine. “Your bracers are but morsels to the meal I wear about my neck.” He saw them hesitate, their advance slowing, and twisted the blade of his words harder. “For fifteen years I’ve worn my relic and battled from the Funeral Sands to the Stone Hills, my sword stained in the graveled blood of the Hull and all manner of the twisted beasts that lurk in the Dead Lands. Do you think the pittance of power your master lent you an equal to mine?”
Confusion and uncertainty in equal measure painted the faces of the Grol, save for one; a mottled gray and black with patches of white decorating its stubby snout.
“You fight well with your tongue, wall-dweller,” the brave Grol said in the Lathahn tongue, the words thick and coated with phlegm, “but I scent a braggart, nothing more. The Hull cannot be brought down, neither with steel nor magic. You speak false for the sake of the cats that cower behind you.”
Arrin shrugged and smiled, knowing the truth of his boast. “Then let us see.”
He leapt toward the Grol who’d called him out, then changed direction at the last moment to barrel toward the one beside him. Speeded by the bracers, both reacted quickly, the other Grol moving off in an effort to surround him.
Arrin feinted with a thrust to the Grol’s face, the beast pulling away without problem. He launched two more attacks, his blade snapping serpent-like as the beast dodged both. He smiled as the Grol moved to return to its defensive posture, Arrin’s kick catching its knee the moment it touched the ground.
Giving way like a wintered bough, the knee snapped with a sharp crack. The Grol’s howls had only just begun to well up in its mouth when Arrin drew his blade across its throat, cutting so deep his blade grated against the bone of its spine.
Warm blood struck his shoulder and splattered wet as he shifted around the dead Grol. He grasped a handful of fur and heaved the beast at its companions that closed behind him. They stumbled to a halt and shoved the Grol aside, taking an instant to look for him. Arrin smiled at their reaction, his confidence growing.
“Spears,” he called out to the Pathra, who responded without hesitation.
Javelins hissed through the air toward the stalled Grol. Arrin knew they would do the beasts no harm, the bracers enhancing their perception along with their physical reactions, but he hadn’t expected the Pathra to bring the Grol down. He hoped only for a distraction.
The Grol nearest Arrin, batted the spears aside with a growled laugh, baring its teeth at the Pathra. Its grin fell from its wolfish face as Arrin came at it low beneath the second volley. It lashed out at him only to be struck by one of the spears, the tip sinking into the meat of its shoulder. It flinched, its claws swiping past Arrin as he closed.
Arrin thrust his sword upward as he drew in close. The blade slid into the Grol’s torso, just beneath the ribcage, the tip coming to a stop as it broke through the beast’s jaw and cut its tongue in twain. It opened its mouth to cry out and Arrin could see the shimmering steel of his sword between its jagged teeth before he yanked it free, the Grol’s mouth exploding in a geyser of blood.
At his back he heard another Grol and spun to meet it. He was too slow. Strips of fire seared to life at his lower back, claws tearing clean through the leather of his cuirass. He was knocked forward, crashing into the Grol he’d just killed. Entangled in a mass of twitching limbs slick with fluids, Arrin went down in a twisted heap.
The mottled Grol hovered over him as its companions raced to his side. “Kill the cats,” it shouted to one of its men, the red glare of its eyes never leaving Arrin. “This one is ours.”
The brave Grol sunk its claws in Arrin’s leg as he squirmed to be loose of the corpse that slowed him. Arrin bit back a scream as he felt the sharpened tips sink into his flesh and settle against the bone of his shin.
The Grol yanked hard and spun him over, the beast’s fingers digging into his other leg to hold him still with fierce strength. Both he and the corpse were flipped sideways to slam into the ground with a wet thud. Arrin groaned and went to lash out, but his sword arm was pinned immediately by the second Grol, the claws of both its hands sunk deep into the meat of his forearm, up to the first knuckle. Arrin felt the muscles of his arm spasm and the joint of his elbow strain, but he held onto his sword with sheer desperation. He felt the power of the bracers as they overwhelmed his own considerable strength and his face flushed with the heat of despair.
Arrin caught a quick glimpse of the Pathra through blurry eyes as he was rolled over once more, back onto his stomach, the empowered Grol making quick work of the feline warriors. He saw two taken down in the space of a heartbeat. They wouldn’t last long, he knew. He didn’t suspect he would either.
He felt the sting of claws once more, their sharpness ripping through the back of his leg, and clenched his teeth to keep from letting the Grol hear his screams. They might take his life, but he wouldn’t give them the pleasure of his pain.
His sword arm immobilized, Arrin’s free hand grasped for something he could use as a weapon. His fingers felt only the dead flesh of the Grol beneath him, grasping reflexively around the beast’s wrist as more flesh was torn from his leg.
His pain-addled gaze drifted to the Pathra as he struggled and he saw another die, a handful of them already crumpled at the feet of the Grol warrior. Another scrape of claws across his shoulder blades drew his focus back to his own troubles, the two Grol above him tearing him apart in slow slashes, his cuirass shredded and useless.
He struggled against their hold, but was held fast, unable to break loose, his left arm pinned beneath him, clasped tight to the corpse in impotence. He heard Kirah cry out in fury, her voice cut short mid-shout. He heard the dull slap of a body hitting the ground. Arrin’s stomach lurched at the sound.
He’d led Warlord Quaii’s children to their deaths. The thought soured in his gut as yet another trailing of claws set his leg on fire. He bit back his pain and loosed a furious howl as he willed his collar to draw power beyond any he’d ever dared. He felt it respond, bolts of lightning storming through his veins.
His mind cleared in an instant, his thoughts crystalline. He glanced over to see another Pathra die, nearly a dozen since he’d been pinned, and yet he still lived. He suddenly understood why.
Able to rationalize his position more clearly, Arrin knew he couldn’t fight the strength of the Grol, their bracers empowered of a more singular purpose than his collar. He could outwit them though.
Arrin thrashed and fought against the Grol that held his arm, pushing his elbow upward until he felt the beast fight back to hold him still. The instant it did, Arrin changed directions and pulled his arm forward with all of his might.
Its weight positioned to keep Arrin down, the Grol was yanked forward without resistance. It tumbled over and tore its hands loose from Arrin’s arms in an effort to keep from falling. Its effort failed, the Grol crashing face first into the ground.
The second its claws ripped free of his flesh, Arrin reversed his direction and swung his sword at the Grol at his feet. The blade caught the mottled beast at the wrist, its bite viciously enhanced by the power of his collar. The Grol’s bracer gave way with a crunch of metal. Though it held against the cutting edge of Arrin’s blade, the bracer collapsed beneath the force of the blow, crushing the Grol’s bones within. Its hand sprung open, blood bubbling from the wounds left behind.
To its howled shriek of pain, Arrin again reversed his momentum and drove the point of his sword into the spine of the Grol beside him as it moved to rise. Silenced instantly, the Grol was slammed to the ground by the impact, the blade cutting clean through the bone of its spine and sinking cross-guard deep into the oozing flesh and the stiff ground.
Before he could free it, he was yanked backward, the blood-slick hilt slipping free of his hand as he was dragged away. The mottled Grol spun him about and released Arrin’s leg. Arrin rolled to the side and felt the Grol at his back. The bitter scent of its breath warmed his ear as it sunk its claws into his armpit.
“Vorrul will have to settle for your corpse, Lathahn,” the Grol growled as its fingers dug at his flesh, seeking a way to his heart. Frothy spittle showered warm across Arrin’s face, its smell that of rancid meat.
Arrin felt the collar tremble, its power fading in his burning veins. His arms and legs began to shake with weakness as he barely held the Grol back from digging any deeper inside his armor. His vision began to blur, the edges darkening as the magic retreated. He felt the beast gaining ground.
A shadow flickered over Arrin’s face, lit by firelight. The mottled Grol suddenly released its hold and stumbled away. Arrin watched the beast as it fell to its knees, the sharp point of a javelin protruding from its eye socket. The ruined eye had burst like a rotten egg and dribbled in wet pieces down the Grol’s cheek. A river of scarlet gave chase behind.
The beast loosed one last grunted bark, its good eye locked malicious on Arrin, and tore the spear free. A
