"A Blackwood does not surrender. Not while there is breath in his lungs. Not while someone is waiting for him to come home."
***
The shaman wasn't expecting it.
Creatures that had been beaten, broken, and stripped of their weapons were supposed to cower. Not attack. They were supposed to weep and plead and offer anything for a few more moments of life.
Rhys covered the distance between them in three quick strides.
The broken spear shaft raised above his head like a war club. His boots found purchase on the slick stone floor through sheer stubbornness. His body screamed in protest against the demand.
But his body had been screaming for days now.
He had learned to stop listening.
The shaman tried to bring its staff around to block.
But Rhys was already inside its guard.
The creature was fast, yes. But it had grown complacent in its certainty of victory. It had expected the prey to die quietly.
