The blade of the massive axe was buried in the hard earth in front of him as Zesh missed, snarling up at him as he wrenched it free.
“You’re a fucking traitor,” Zesh growled, lifting the axe above his head again. “You killed my father, you bastard!”
He couldn’t let himself be distracted by his words, much as they stung. Zorvut grit his teeth, pulling threads of fire to his sword, and charged at Zesh before he could bring his axe down as his own blade erupted back into flame.
The element of surprise that had given him the upper hand against Hrul was gone now, but it was still a tool that he had that Zesh did not. Even though he was expecting the fiery sword, it still extended his reach and made Zesh more cautious about getting too close to him. And he had the lightning javelin—though that was slower to summon, if he could get some decent distance between them, that might be a weapon Zesh wasn’t expecting.
His blade was knocked away by Zesh’s axe, but he used the momentum to swing it in a wide arc and bring it back up. It scraped against Zesh’s metal armor with a terrible screeching sound, and the orc let out a hiss of pain as a line of red heat smoldered in its path for an instant before fading and cooling.
“Dammit,” Zesh hissed, wincing as he took a stumbling step back. Zorvut swung again, taking advantage of his brief distraction. He aimed for the hand that was holding the greataxe, catching him in the wrist. Zesh howled as he stumbled backward; he kept his grip on the axe, but blood was pouring from his hand.
Zorvut took a few quick steps back, putting more distance between them as Zesh struggled with his wounded wrist. He couldn’t let up, not for a second—he drew back his free hand as if about to throw a spear, twisting threads of fire into lightning in his hand. Zesh’s head snapped up to look at him as thunder began to crackle audibly, but it was already too late as he hurled the handful of lightning at his brother. It flashed through the air for a brief instant before crashing into his chest, sending the orc falling back with a resounding thud. The wind had clearly been knocked out of him as he gasped and quivered on the floor.
A faint tendril of hope rose up in him, but he didn’t let himself feel it for too long, pushing it away before it might reach Taegan. It wasn’t over until it was over.
He took a few slow steps toward Zesh as he lay groaning on the ground, and as he stood over him with his sword pointing at his chest, he growled, “Yield.”
Zesh’s eyes snapped open to glare at him.
“Fuck you,” he spat, and before Zorvut could react the orc swung up one of his legs and kicked him squarely in the groin. Pain exploded through him as he stumbled back, biting back a cry—even from the distance between them he heard Taegan yelp as the terrible sensation must have burst through the bond to him as well. The sickening pain radiating all the way up his belly into his throat made him gag, but he could hear Zesh struggling to stand. Zorvut pulled the pain away from the bond in the back of his head as much as he could and staggered to his feet. Across from him Zesh had stood too, though he was still struggling to lift his axe with the deep gash in his wrist gushing blood onto the handle. With a muttered curse Zesh grabbed the axe with his other hand, lifting it with a wobbling grip.
Zesh was still quick even though his aim was worse, and he charged Zorvut before he could catch his breath. He lifted his sword to parry but Zesh was already too close, and the axe came down on his shoulder and pushed him back to the ground. With his weakened grip in his non-dominant hand, it was painful and would certainly bruise terribly, but it didn’t feel as if anything was broken or bleeding as he rolled away and struggled to get back onto his feet. He had to ignore it. He had to keep fighting.
But Zesh had not let up at all and was already lifting his axe for another swing while Zorvut was still crouched on the ground—he raised his sword to protect himself instinctually, but the flames left in its path remained in place, creating a column of fire between him and Zesh. It blocked his vision, but he could hear Zesh stumble back in surprise. If it had not come from his own sword, Zorvut might have leapt back in surprise too, unsure of how he had created a shield of flame—not that he could complain about it. If Zesh had landed another hit while he was already down…
He couldn’t let himself think about that, and Zorvut scrambled to his feet as the flames dissipated, before Zesh could take advantage of his surprise. The flames around his sword had flickered out when the shield of flame died, and he re-ignited them with a growl. He could feel the exhaustion creeping into the edges of his thoughts—a solid lightning bolt or a flurry of ice could be enough to incapacitate Zesh more effectively, but the fire shield seemed to have taken more out of him than just igniting the sword, and he doubted he had the energy to summon something of that magnitude.
Zesh was still maintaining a cautious distance from him, and they circled each other for a moment, neither moving as quickly as they had been moments before. Every step sent pain radiating anew up into his stomach and down his legs but he forced himself to keep walking, and raised his sword once more.
“Come on, then,” he goaded, but Zesh only glared at him, holding his axe at the ready. Neither moved for a moment, so Zorvut lunged at him with a heavy swing of his sword.
Embers scattered to the ground as Zesh blocked with his axe, though it wavered in his non-dominant hand. They slashed at each other, parrying and blocking and dodging, each trying to be the one to land a solid hit first. But neither could get a hit on the other, and after a shower of embers sprayed back nearly into his face, Zorvut leapt back before Zesh could try and hit him again.
“Come on!” the orc growled at him, baring his tusks with a frenzied snarl. “Coward!”
Zorvut bit his lip. As it was, they were essentially at a stalemate. Even with his flaming sword and Zesh at a disadvantage with his wounded wrist, the orc was just that much bigger than him—and he did not want the battle to last long enough to see whose endurance would win out. He had to end things.
Fight!The thought came through the bond as clearly as if Taegan was shouting it, though he wouldn’t risk looking up toward the hill to see him.You have to fight!
He grabbed onto the thought instinctually, holding the words, Taegan’s voice, in his mind—and, somehow, pulled threads of fire from the magic of the bond, twisting them into lightning in his hands. He had no idea how he’d done it, but he did. For all the magic he had been taught, it still seemed there was so much more he had no idea how to do. He stepped back, pulled his arm back in the same throwing motion—
Zesh recognized the move now, and a hateful glare crossed his face as he seemed to weigh his options, hesitating for the split second it took for the lighting bolt to crackle to life before lunging at Zorvut again. But the lightning was already leaving Zorvut’s fingertips, though he was too close now; it exploded with a thunderclap into Zesh’s chest but the force of it knocked Zorvut backward, too.
For an instant, he was blind, and all he could feel was the pounding in his head, a ringing in his ears.
Get up!He could hear Taegan’s voice in his head just barely breaking through, though his vision was still swimming.Please get up!
With a groan, he pushed himself back up to his feet, blinking a few times until his blurry vision crept back into focus. Zesh had fallen no more than twenty feet from him, his metal breastplate steaming with heat from the thunderbolt.
“Yield,” Zorvut said again, a ragged gasp as he stumbled toward his brother. “Just yield.”
But Zesh would not yield—he could see it in his eyes even through the dazed, wounded expression on his face. There was no mistaking the rage, the fury, behind those eyes even before his face twisted into a snarl when he caught sight of Zorvut, shaking his head in proud refusal.
He had to end it. Zorvut kicked the axe away before Zesh could tighten his grip on it, and standing over the orc he drew in every last ounce of energy he had left, reaching in his mind toward the spot in the back of his head where the bond sat to pull everything he could from it, and formed a whirling globe of ice and snow between his hands. Letting out a wordless roar of exertion, he pushed it down, aiming not for Zesh’s chest but his arm, the one he had slashed at the wrist.
Zesh shouted in startled pain as ice splintered up the limb, leaving it heavy and frozen to the ground. He was stuck, and he realized it as he struggled to stand or roll or do anything to get further away from Zorvut—but could not.
“Do you yield?” Zorvut asked again, pressing his boot to Zesh’s chest. This time, the words sounded like a plea even to his own ears.
