Hope Sundered

Sollin led the allied militias into the heart of the Azrahteran’s western flank, roaring and swinging his axe with equal ferocity. Much to his delight he found he’d grown accustomed to the weapon during the last few battles, and now wielded it with relative ease. He was far from a seasoned warrior, but with the axe he just had to connect with his target.

And there was no shortage of targets.

He ripped through the first line of defense, creating a swath of destruction in his wake. Bayse and Riak were close on his heels, finishing off anyone who managed to duck his vicious swings. Swords and spears swung and stabbed at Sollin from every direction, but his axe proved just as useful in blocking. His limbs burned with fatigue, but he refused to slow.

After what felt like hours he punched through a wall of soldiers into a clearing where the largest man he’d ever seen was shouting orders in every direction. The man stopped to regard Sollin and noticed his weapon. “So, you’re the one. You don't look formidable.”

Sollin grinned. “It’s funny how everyone says that—right before I chop ’em down.”

Zordecai smirked and hefted his broadsword. With his free hand he beckoned Sollin to attack. “Time to die, little man!”

Sollin began to circle instead of charging in, hoping to coax his opponent to attack first. The strategy worked, but he was unprepared for the large man’s improbable speed. He barely blocked each powerful swing, until he didn’t get his axe up in time.

He twisted and dove out of the way, his back missing the keen edge of Zordecai’s blade by a hair’s width. Sprawled out in the mud, he knew he'd be killed if he didn’t get to his feet. He scrambled and clawed his way back to his knees after avoiding two more fatal strikes.

He managed to plant one foot beneath himself and turned to face his attacker. With both hands he held the axe up sideways, just in time to block Zordecai’s vicious downward chop that was sure to cleave his skull in half. In that instant, both men knew the broadsword would split the axe’s handle like a dry twig.

And yet somehow it didn’t.

Both combatants were shocked to see the steel handle stop the blow, though Sollin’s hands, arms, and shoulders went numb from the jarring impact. Sheer force of will kept him upright as he resisted Zordecai’s immense weight bearing down on him.

Zordecai’s face contorted into a mask of rage. Exasperated, he lunged forward with his free hand and punched Sollin’s face. Sollin’s head snapped to the side and his eyes rolled back. His whole body went limp as darkness enveloped him. He fell to his back, axe still clutched in his hand.

⸞ ⸎ ⸟

With a grunt of marginal satisfaction, Zordecai stepped in to seize the weapon, desiring it more than ever after witnessing its remarkable resilience. He’d heard rumors about Florian steel and the weapons of unparalleled quality forged from it.

This had to be one of them, which meant the rumors were true. He couldn’t fathom how Morlo had acquired it, but that no longer mattered. The axe was his now.

Zordecai’s hand was mere inches from his prize when a battle cry drew his attention to his right. Three of Iraden’s men had broken through the line and were heading straight for him. He turned to face them with a defiant bellow. The axe could wait; it wasn’t going anywhere.

His heart raced as anodyne coursed through his veins. Aveliria could throw every last man at him and it wouldn’t matter. The Butcher of Azrahtera would kill them all.

⸞ ⸎ ⸟

Lark scanned the eastern field for Zordecai, finding the general easily among an ocean of combatants. Zordecai was almost out of range, but Lark was still confident he could make the shot. He had to make it.

He notched an arrow and pulled back, holding his bow taut while he focused his sights on his target. He waited patiently for an opening, not wanting to hit his allies. He held that pose without wavering as no one else could, drawing strength from the single-minded determination to succeed.

Lark’s arms burned but he ignored the sensation, focusing on his prey in the distance. He’d hold his pose for as long as it took.