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(Page 2 of 2) The Paragon Series, Part III by Matthew Terry Ried was rocked back as I was blinded by impetuous, tearing numbness that accompanies an arm being jolted from its shoulder harness of bone.
The Siren had gone mad. Her last concoction made from strawberries and three types of poison. It was served at the grand feast she held for each solstice. She had been found, her own fingers rigidly clawed into her own throat, lovingly in the arms of her eunuchs. A pile of stiff flesh and mistakes.
Mistakes so easily taken for granted.
My vision flared into the sun and my nostrils engulfed the sky and Ried and I flew apart, stumbling. He spun to find me, his world reduced to a finger wide slit of fear, which gave me enough time to howl in exasperation as I pulled my arm down in a furious wrenching twitch. My left knee buckled as my shoulder slammed into place.
Why had I been so petty, why had I always run?
Because I had always been afraid.
Impetuous fury welled from my soul and flowed into every muscle, boiling with every breath. Ried and I clashed, blades barely touching as they flurried about, faster and fiercer, an extension of our hatred. Then, our blades caressed for a moment too long. The automatic years of practice carried the mating blades half circle, inches in front of each of us. The blades were now each a tenuous explosive force tempered by resistance and fear.
I realized as it happened, Ried's blade slid along mine towards my throat. My body knew what to do. Years of practice have allowed success when the mind would only court indecision and failure. I braced right, reaching over his blade with my left hand, grabbing his arm, and reaching for his head with my other arm.
Swords struck the earth, a little girl screamed, and I let my training take over. Push the elbow in, lock the shoulder, and bend back.
I felt the shuddering crack of elbow being ripped from sinew and muscle and bone ring through Ried's plate. Then I heard his roar ride his visor-covered head into my face with a force borne of miserable pain and hatred.
The back of my skull struck the ground. I coughed on my teeth and rolled over to my side. I could barely make out the form of my demon reaching for one of the blades.
My left eye was ruined.
The dust blew up in clouds from my heavy breaths, a pool of ichors and teeth and mud below my face. I heard her crying then.
What did Alyiss sound like when she died?
I lurched to my feet and grabbed a sword, hilt up, in my right hand, and I faced Ried. He had only one arm, and had grabbed the sword by the blade. The hilt came down towards my good eye, and I moved.
In beneath the club, raising my own spear and forcing my weight and my anguish into the mail between Ried's plates; I felt the warm opening of stiff steel raping iron and consecrating flesh. The pleasure of forcing will on someone else.
I stumbled away from his crumpling body, hearing his plated form hitting the ground as I marched slowly towards the wagon.
These few daughters of Acron would sing, and the stars would listen.
I saw the reverence in her eyes, reverence due a savior.
The sun was setting in front of me and I reached for the latch on the cage as her eyes glassed from worship to dread.
Those young eyes transfixed me. Eyes that now seemed to hate me for all I was.
We carry the burden of trespass for all our mistakes. Is atonement only a shadow of a dream?
Then I realized she was not afraid of me, as the dusty blade split my ribs apart and tore my breath out of me and I coiled on the ground like a loose rope.
The dust swirled in the air with each quick shallow breath I took in the dust, playing shape in the setting sun. I heard Ried move toward the cage, but my vision was closing around the last few motes.
Sweat and dust, some things never change.
Defeat is a draught for the weak, and it is the last taste I have known.
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