Pyotr dodged the blade by an inch, his own sword whipping forward across the Burndan knight’s throat. He twirled around him and smacked down a spear that was about to strike a Cantalian soldier before sending a powerful kick at a Burndan soldier’s chest, causing him to fly with tremendous force toward his allies. He began to mutter under his breath, picturing the coals in his wood stove, the heat of stage lights, the warmth of a woman’s leg as he lifted her into the air. He ducked beneath a wild strike and raised his hand toward the group of men in front of him.

  “Ogon!” he roared, the Russian word feeling strange on his tongue after speaking only Hume for so long.

  Fire burst from his fingertips and covered the men in front of him in a wide arc. He felt his magicka come near bottoming out and stumbled a bit, but turned that stumble into a backstep as another speartip nearly skewered him. He jumped, picturing himself as kicking the ground, and between the titled boots and his own strength he was able to launch himself high into the air.

  There was a moment he could see the shock of the men below him and he savored it. This was a dance. As much as anything he’d ever done on stage. His arms and legs were on fire, his every move needed to be precise, perfect, and beautiful. In some ways it was even more thrilling, as death was the price of a missed step.

  He smashed his foot into a knight’s helmet causing it to cave in before using the last of his magicka to create a sharp and rapid burst of light that blinded the men nearby so that he could skewer one with his sword before dancing away to take advantage of the rapidly diminishing room he had available.

  In a pitched battle it was a foolish thing to allow yourself to get surrounded. Pyotr had thought he could do his dance behind the enemy’s lines without consequence, but he’d taken too many risks. One of the men closing in on him dropped suddenly as a bullet whizzed through his skull.

  Pyotr smiled at that; it seemed that Marcus was still doing his best to back him up. He took a breath and launched himself backward, surprising the men that were moving to close in on him as he smashed his foot into them and his blade danced at the narrow gaps in their armor. He managed to bring down three more before the circle began to enclose him again. He realized that the few men and women that had been cut off along with him had already gone down. He envied Michael’s healing power at that moment.

  He launched himself into the air again, and took a quick glance at the battlefield. It was bad. The Cantalian forces along with mercenaries like himself were either in retreat or had been completely surrounded as he had. They should have had the upper hand. That’s what the twins had said, and Cantalians had agreed, but when one of the knights at the front of the Burndan lines had launched himself forward and killed four men with a single swordsweep the dynamic of the battle very suddenly shifted. They’d gone from outnumbering the Burndan force they’d attacked to being overwhelmed.

  Pyotr landed, driving his sword into the faceplate of a man and rolling as he fell, using the momentum to drive his shoulder into a regular soldier to crush his ribs and drop him. If Michael and Ollie had been there this would’ve gone differently. Ollie could’ve compensated for their losses with his rapidfire magic or at least covered their retreat. Michael could’ve kept them standing and fighting through all of it and given them the time to rally and perhaps even win. Davi… well Davi would’ve been right there in the thick of it with him, helping him to carve his way out just like he had when they’d fought in that melee together back in Stent.

  He aimed a grief- and rage-powered strike at the nearest soldier and his sword carved through his shoulder and deep into his body where it became stuck and Pyotr found himself unable to retrieve it. He stepped back, exhausted, but not letting it show in any of his movements, and drew the dagger at his waist spinning in a circle and smiling with a bit of satisfaction as the soldiers and knights that surrounded him backed away in fear.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  There was a high and clear whistle that was loud enough to carry through the sounds of battle around them and very quickly all of the men around him backed up even further. He looked around in confusion when very suddenly a Burndan longsword landed on the ground in front of him.

  He looked at it and then up where he saw that at the edge of the ring was a knight. He was absolutely coated in blood and viscera and as he stepped toward Pyotr he held out a hand and one of the knights next to him handed him his sword which he used to gesture at the one he’d thrown toward Pyotr.

  Pyotr picked it up, testing the weight and taking a series of deep breaths.

  “I dedicate this performance to Nykas, Bruntus, and all the rest of the divine,” he said with a smile as he twirled the sword dramatically. He could feel a bit of strength return to him as he said the words and the blade felt just a bit lighter in his hand.

  The knight stepped forward and actually bowed for a moment.

  Pyotr considered a lunge, but instead returned the gesture. If they wanted a performance he was happy to oblige. After that he held his sword ready and began to circle around the knight, looking for an opening. The knight himself stayed perfectly still, seeming almost relaxed despite the blood and viscera on his armor indicating he’d been in the thick of battle.

  Pyotr realized that the man had many openings. His body seemed almost completely relaxed. That scared him. Still, he couldn’t simply circle around the knight forever. Once he was behind him he lunged forward with all of his speed, the point of his sword aimed dead center.

  The knight stepped exactly as far as he needed to for Pyotr’s sword to miss him and then he spun with a gauntleted fist that Pyotr was forced to spin with so that he could take only a glancing blow. In spite of that his helmet dented and he stumbled backward with ringing in his ears and static at the edge of his vision.

  He gritted his teeth and launched himself at the knight again, this time with a slash. The knight parried it. Pyotr followed up with another slash, then a stab, a kick, an elbow, a small blast of fire, and everything else he could come up with. The knight calmly blocked, parried, or dodged each strike, only occasionally sending out his own.

  When the knight swung, every instinct in Pyotr’s body screamed at him to move away from it as quickly as possible and he heeded his body’s request. Every strike was a near miss, a close thing. The knight’s strikes were simple, basic. They weren’t unskilled by any means, but there was no deceit to them. Normally Pyotr would be able to dance around an opponent like that, but the simple blows were delivered with such power and speed that every one came near to killing him, and he was only getting slower. His vision clouded for a moment and he could swear he was sparring Michael.

  Eventually Pyotr was off balance, and the knight’s blade was coming for his head when very suddenly a bullet struck the knight in the helmet, knocking him off balance and halting his blade.

  Pyotr took that moment to attack. He put everything into launching himself forward, the tip of his blade aimed perfectly at the knight’s throat. In spite of how tired he was, how hard his limbs were raging against him, it was a perfect strike.

  Unfortunately it didn’t matter. The knight caught the tip of his blade between two fingers. Pyotr struggled to push it forward, but couldn’t.

  The Knight kicked Pyotr, caving in his chestplate and launching him into the men behind him that had been observing the fight. He struggled to move, but he could barely breathe.

  The knight removed his helmet, showing a head of thick black hair, eyes a pale green, and a wide smile on a well chiseled jaw. Within that thick black hair sat a simple iron circlet.

  “A good fight,” he said as he walked toward Pyotr, “you did quite well.”

  Pyotr continued to struggle to breathe. There was another crack of a bullet, but this one seemed to hit an invisible field in front of the man’s face and he just smiled in response to it. He took a few more steps toward Pyotr, and knelt down next to him. He looked closely at his armor and frowned. “Stent make…” he looked at the soldiers around him. “Take this one back to camp for interrogation. Make sure he doesn’t die.”

  There was a salute by all the men in the circle, and the king looked around at them. “Good work everyone. Just flawlessly done.”

  Pyotr’s vision slowly went black.