THE FINAL THROWDOWN: EVERYONE
As their group renewed their efforts to get past the dragoon and towards his prize, the man seemed to grow even more desperate. In the act of keeping them away from the mage, he started taking more injuries—but he was like an indomitable tank, not stopping for anything, no matter the blood that coursed down his arm or slipped into his eyes, his grip turning slippery on the lance.
The enemy was succeeding in holding the line, however: Rictor was unable to get past him, instead devoting all of his time and energy to keeping the bodyguard occupied. He caught glimpses of Violet in the distance, her face settled into the stern, almost beatific look of concentration that accompanied her samurai fighting – he had no idea how she managed to look so relaxed even in the midst of battle.
“Vannes,” the mage shouted from afar, and Ric thought he must have heard him incorrectly. Any relation to Tristan Vannes? Couldn’t be.
Rictor’s mind was detached, catching on the most inconsequential details, when all that mattered was the familiar howling of Hallowed Bolt as it tore through his gunblade, a white-hot electric wave mixed with Holy that thundered into the nearest set of cultists, knocking them aside. The dragoon was still there, however, and Rictor’s leg was weakening, he could tell – he’d taken an awful gash to it at some point, the meat cleaved open. He tried not to limp, but shifted into a stance that carried more of his weight on the other foot. More Holy magic ripped through him: he would be a conduit, a source for Faram’s anger against these heresies.
Skeletons were rising up from the ground, the cultists summoning them in a frenzy even as their own number fell.
Fuck.
Amos. Raol. Even in this chaos, Rictor instinctively made his way towards those two, as if a tether had been tied between all the Silver Blades.