Leira smiled as she caught up to Cort. He was on the ground scuffling with Legs and Claws, whacking them with his hammer. Easy.

  Then Claws twisted free and raked Cort down his back, leaving three glistening tracts. Cort curled up at the pain and caught a metal shoe to the face. Leira heard the cartilage crunch.

  “Even with one shoe, demon!” Legs shouted.

  As blood gushed from Cort’s scrunched-up face, Quez pushed past Leira.

  “Oh, good. Sworn Guardian,” Claws said. “Help us with—”

  Quez clubbed him across the face and then slammed the weapon down on top of Legs’s head.

  Claws dove at Quez, aiming to eviscerate him. From beneath, Cort wrapped his arms around Claws’s torso and dragged him down.

  “Fu-” Leira’s scream cut off as she was thrown to the ground and stomped on. She covered her head with her arms and peeked through a crack. A bunch of the surrounding warriors had caught on to what was happening and were piling onto the fight.

  Well, if that’s how it’s gonna be… She angled her face upward and dumped a billowing cloud of pink spores. The assholes who’d stopped to kick her while she was on the ground dropped first. That gave her the chance to get up on her knees and warp the cloud into thin, curling wisps. She did what she could to waft it upward—though gravity worked against her—concentrating the miasma on the warriors.

  They fell away, revealing the tangle that was Cort and Quez and the two Jaguars. One of them knocked a wall-mounted torch from its sconce, sprinkling them all with charred bits.

  Leira bit at her lip. The Hallows would just burn away the effects of her spores with their Nirva, and she didn’t want to inebriate Cort and Quez—though a little bit wouldn’t hurt.

  Beside her, a warrior went blue in the face, sputtering as she choked to death on her own vomit. Leira winced. That was why she would’ve preferred not to resort to this. But these poor people just couldn’t help themselves.

  Leira crawled toward the fight while getting to her feet. She grabbed Cort’s hammer by the handle and—fucking hell, it’s heavy!—spun it toward him as she passed.

  Cort was on his back, pinning Claws down against his chest. Knowing that it wouldn’t hurt a Hallow but not knowing what else to do, Leira aimed a kick at the man’s face and earned herself a deep gash on the ankle. Stupid.

  She jumped back and nudged Cort’s hammer as close as she could without getting cut again by the flailing claws.

  Legs had Quez in the fetal position, laughing as he stomped the shit out of him. “The Sworn Guardian,” he said, punctuating his words with kicks, “a worthless, evil traitor. Malikau is ruined.”

  Leira her hair at the roots, spinning in place. More and more warriors were becoming aware of the situation and rushing over. They were being hounded by a handful of the friendly zealots, so that was good, but… Fuck!

  She took a deep breath. Everything would be fine. If they really needed it, she would use the Erithist Spike. But she didn’t want to risk that—it was too precious.

  One group of warriors ran in from the far side, a closely packed group of five. They appeared to be defending the one in the middle, as if he were someone important. Leira glimpsed something silvery in that man’s hands.

  Leira wanted to stop him, but another wave came up from behind her. She saw it, though. That warrior delivered something to Legs—a metal shoe. Legs squealed with delight and then gave the warrior a big kiss on the mouth before putting on the shoe.

  ***

  Cort’s back seared with pain that would’ve made Tartarus himself whimper.

  He clenched his teeth against it. Cort hated complaining. He did his fair share of it, yeah, but only about little things, the annoying day-to-day bullshit.

  But the big stuff? Nah. It was shameful to do anything besides grin and bear it. The World doesn’t give a single fuck about anything, so whining just makes you look like a sniveling coward. And whatever powers-that-be? Seemed like when they spotted weakness, they’d gleefully pile on the shit. Out of nothing but spite, probably.

  Cort did have one exception to his ‘no complaining’ rule, though. He despised fighting Hallows.

  The healing was the worst part, of course. But the fuckers were stronger, faster, more durable. Getting hit by one made it feel like your insides were getting ripped apart, like the Nirva was made of microscopic razorblades. And that was to say nothing of whatever batshit Invoke they might possess. All that because of a random goddamned gift for getting themselves killed. Bull. Shit.

  The problem, though, was he loved fighting Hallows even more than he hated it. Because killing an unstoppable monstrosity like that? As a mortal? Best feeling in the World.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  Soon as he got a hold of Claws, Cort knew he’d killed stronger Hallows—albeit not with injuries like these. When he was fighting with a Hallow, something about their Nirva made his skin crawl and it gave him a taste for their strength. This guy didn’t have much.

  But there were two of them. And these warriors, swarming like mosquitoes. And he wanted to try to keep Quez alive—he figured Leira could fend for herself.

  She’d kicked his hammer within reach, but he hadn’t gone for it yet. He had a good hold on Claws, barring his arms so he couldn’t do anything with his blades.

  Cort was stronger physically, even when the guy ramped his Nirva, but he couldn’t match him in endurance. Keeping Claws held down was like pressing his maximum weight and holding it while it squirmed in his arms. Cort’s shoulder muscles were screaming in agony. He was gonna have to let go soon. If his grip slackened at all, Claws would rip through.

  He lifted his head and saw that Leira and Quez seemed to have things under control with Legs.

  Wait. Claws was flailing with all his strength, swinging wildly. Cort could time it…

  Unexpected freedom caused Claws to swing both hands upward at nothing—he even slashed off his own pinky finger. At the same time, Cort brought his hands together and smashed his clasped fist into Claws’s face.

  Cort threw Claws off of him and rolled himself over to pick up his hammer and get on his feet. His instinct would’ve been to put Claws in a one-armed chokehold and bash him, but that’d only get his arm carved up.

  They stood facing each other, and Cort pushed forward to put himself between Claws and Leira and Quez. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed the weird turn that their fight had taken.

  The floor was covered with Leira’s brown acid, and Legs was standing on one hand, hopping around in the puddle. With one of his metal-clad feet, he was fending off Quez’s club strikes. He’d bent his other leg to place his foot in front of his face, and he was wiping the acid off the shoe with a handkerchief.

  Cort risked a backhanded swing into that fight and his hammer was deflected by a kick. What a ridicu—

  Claws rushed him on all fours, skimming over the ground. Cort didn’t know which of these two guys was more bizarre; this bastard was crawling around like an animal. Heh. Like a Jaguar, I guess.

  But he was closing fast. Cort threw his hammer along the ground, forcing Claws to jump up, where Cort met him with a knee to the face. The blades grazed Cort’s shoulder as he spun past, making to retrieve his hammer.

  Claws took advantage of the opening and went for Quez. Cort grabbed his hammer and swung it overhead at his full reach. He caught Claws’s foot and crushed it, stunting his lunge, but the blades still nicked Quez good on his thigh.

  Cort’s breath caught as the blood blossomed. But it wasn’t gushing—the artery hadn’t been cut.

  Leira yanked Quez away as Cort charged in, knocking over the handstanding dipshit with a hip check before smashing Claws on the spine with his hammer as the man tried to stand.

  Cort’s momentum carried him forward, and he stomped on Claws’s head and then dashed back from the follow-up slash.

  Legs came spinning in like a damned propellor. Cort had to block the erratic kicks—both high and low—with his hammer head. The clattering was like a jackhammer.

  Claws rolled on the ground, snarling and slobbering, clutching his crushed foot, but Cort could see it regrowing itself within the straps of his sandal. Leira and Quez stood just behind him. White spores fell from Leira’s eyeflower like snow, webbing over Quez’s wound.

  Cort blocked a kick aimed at his face and then rammed the bottom of the hammer’s handle into Legs’s face, causing the man to spin back to his companion.

  That gave Cort a chance to swing his backpack around to wear it on his front. It’d provide some good padding against the claws. Cort laughed as Leira promptly slipped her own bag onto his back after putting some spores on his re-opened wound.

  A moment to breathe and… holy shit. They were surrounded by a ring of slumbering bodies. Cort hadn’t realized until now how many Malikauans Leira had brought down.

  The flickering torchlight cast erratic shadows as they all circled each other, with Legs and Claws both feinting at attacking. Cort postured against their movements with his hammer. Quez looked something fierce, his face bloody, his teeth bared as he limped on his wounded leg. Maybe he was more of a warrior than Cort had thought.

  Legs cartwheeled forward. Cort made as if to counter but pivoted away, predicting—correctly—that Claws would strike at the same time. The man scampered toward Leira, who leapt back while spraying a stream of acidic spores.

  Cort swung his hammer in a downswing, catching Claws exactly where he meant to—in the claws. The man’s hand was crushed against the floor, but more importantly, his weapon was mangled as Cort ground the hammer down. He went for too much though, and Claws sliced him on the wrist, forcing him to pull back.

  But two of the blades were bent out of shape and one had snapped off. He couldn’t regrow that.

  “You demonic trashfucker!” Claws screeched. “Do you have any idea how expensive these were? They’re custom-made. The swordsmith’s waiting list is over a decade long!”

  Cort had already swung around to help Quez, who was holding his shield against a relentless battering from Leg’s metal shoes. Cort was just in time to see Quez’s shield crumple, leading to him eating a metal clog right to the jaw.

  He hoisted his hammer overhead and swung straight down, aiming for Legs’s vulnerable groin. Somehow, somefuckinghow, the bastard hooked both legs around the hammer head and, with a Nirva-enhanced twirl of his body, ripped the weapon out of Cort’s hands.

  Cort used the momentum to slam into Legs and tackle him, but they wound up twisted in a sort of sixty-nine position, leaving Cort’s head vulnerable to the thrashing feet. Legs held Cort’s hands down and repeatedly bashed him atop the head with his metal shoes.

  His vision was going fuzzy. Blinking in and out.

  “Cort!” Leira shrieked.

  And then Quez was there, attacking like a feral animal. He did enough damage with his club that Cort was able to free his hands.

  Before Cort could make a move, Claws appeared above him, his face stained brown, the skin bubbly, his eyes bloodshot. Leira had her arms around Claws’s neck, clinging to his back as she sprayed him in the face with acid and scratched at his face with her fingers.

  Cort avoided the blades as they struck for his neck only to plunge into his backpack. Ketchup spurted out as dozens of tubes of ztuff were punctured.

  He and Claws both screamed as the flaming hot substance splattered into their eyes. Leira dropped to the floor.

  Blinded, Cort wrestled Claws into a bearhug, keeping the blades stuck within the backpack, though the tips were gouging his stomach.

  Cort clenched his teeth, straining to keep Claws pinned and listening to Quez suffer a brutal beating. Hold on, Quez. Just gimme a few seconds…

  Fire. I need fire.