Love and Bounty

Chapter Twenty-Five: Cat Out the Bag

Hrolf watched as purple lights burst from Sharai's fingertips. Each thread wrapped around Staada's form like puppet strings, forcing the foul daedra to her knees—but the Saint opened her eyes in defiance. Her eyes flashed with a golden hue, and the threads fizzled away into nothing.

"Pathetic mortal," she seethed. "I'll kill you for that."

Sharai's eyes widened, sand-brown eyes almost yellow in the dim light, and Staada rushed forth with inhuman fury.

Her golden boots stomped through the mud with each stride, warhammer raised. She was going right for Sharai—it was time to act.

Hrolf gripped his blades tighter and chased the Saint without fear. It was then that the others sprang into action, and battle raged between the five of them: four against one.

Hrolf reached Staada first, and he swung for her head in a powerful arc. With a flash of the daedra's golden eyes, sparks flew as she deflected the blow with her gauntlet. Her furious gaze turned to Hrolf, and his blood ran cold. The look in her eyes, and those pupils... Something in them invoked the hunger of Vicaimo. Or the madness.

Before the Nord knew what was coming, a golden-plated fist was headed for his jaw. He weaved away from the blow and plunged his dagger into her flank. Where he expected a cry or a scream from her, there was none—only a blow to the side of his head that made him stagger backward.

She raised her warhammer to capitalize, but an arrow sank into her exposed back with a thunk. She turned just in time to greet Deeja's boot to her chest, which sent the daedra stumbling back into Hrolf. The furious Nord caught the Saint and carved his dagger across her belly, but another elbow to the skull took him to the ground. His ear rang and his eyes swam in his head, but the kick from the Saint that followed was the worst. It must have broken a few ribs.

Thankfully, Deeja carving her blades across the daedra's back spared Hrolf from her warhammer. Kotag was enough for him... he didn't want to know what Staada could do with a weapon like that.

The pain settled hard and fast, kicking like a drum in his ribs as he clutched his side and watched the others fight a losing battle. Iscraah's arrow was still there, but even as Sharai doused the Saint with frost magic and Deeja tore at every flank imaginable, the wounds didn't stick. Either that or the daedra just didn't care.

Mara's mercy, the sharp ache in his chest wouldn't stop throbbing like a migraine across his chest. Just as he was almost through with recovery, too. Next chance he got, he was going to finish this.

Hrolf forced himself to rise to his knees, and then to his feet. All the while, his ribs screamed in hot agony with even the slightest movement. The battlefield became clear to his senses—the struggle that Sharai was putting up against Staada's onslaught. The Saint was peppered with arrows in exposed skin, and Deeja was practically running circles around her, but the daedra's march wouldn't stop. Not even the wispy threads of magic from Sharai could stave off that demon...

Deeja slipped in the mud, and Staada nearly crushed her leg with the golden warhammer. Now was the time.

Using the last of his strength, Hrolf made silent strides to close the distance with the dark war axe in hand. The others kept her distracted as Hrolf tensed his good side, arm raised to deliver a devastating blow. With his feet apart to put as much weight into the blow as he could, he gritted his teeth and the axe came down on the daedra's shoulder, sinking into muscle and carving into bone. The demon cried out and dropped her warhammer. When she flashed a glare at him over her shoulder, he pushed the axe deeper.

"Victory or Sovngarde," Hrolf growled.

Staada scowled. "Try the latter, filth."

Her iron grip twisted one of Hrolf's wrists away from the axe, and she grabbed its handle. She pulled the weapon free and turned it on him, nicking him once and missing with the next swipe as he collapsed. His foot was stuck in the mud and his eyes stung from the gods-awful pain in his ribs. He yanked himself free just in time to avoid another downward blow—just as the daedra fell to one knee with a cry.