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Westvane calculated the odds and angles. Attacking from above would be more effective. Faster. Cleaner. A greater challenge for the Wendigo to defend. If his wings cooperated. A bigifthat involved a lot of guesswork. Not the best assumption to hang his hat on, given his current struggle to stay airborne.
Which meant he needed to be on the ground. In a familiar tactical setting, using his usual techniques. Otherwise, he’d lose Truly and never make it back to Azlandia, never mind complete the rest of his mission.
Tucking his wings, Westvane dropped from ninety feet up. His feet slammed into the floor. He moved right, dragging his swords across marble. Black flame-tipped blades bit into tile. Smoke drew a line, curling up from the cut. The scent of acrid air burned through the train station. Under normal circumstance, he wouldn’t have done it. Making noise never made for a good strategy when on the hunt, but…
Stealth wasn’t part of the plan.
Turning the beast’s attention, forcing it to focus on him instead of Truly, was all that mattered now.
With a snarl, he raked one of his swords along the top of a bench. Varnished wood caught fire. More smoke rose.
The Wendigo swung in his direction, but didn’t take the bait. Half of its six eyes on him, the other three on Truly, the Wendigo adjusted its grip on the bench. The shattered end circled over its horns. The viper reared to avoid being impaled on nasty-looking spikes, shifting to its other shoulder.
Truly slammed into the solid wall opposite him.
He heard her muffled yelp. Watched her bang around inside the sphere, then cursed as the revolving ball of slime rebounded, rocketing straight toward him.
The Wendigo laughed again.
Clenching his teeth, Westvane dodged. Blue liquid splashed into his face. The sphere clipped his wing-tip. Pain clawed over his shoulder. Momentum spun him around. He collided with a column, smashing through stone. The pillar crumbled. Part of the coffered ceiling gave way. Light fixtures and cables smashed into the floor.
A death grip on his weapons, Westvane leapt away from falling debris, fighting to recover as the beast swung at Truly again. The make-shift bat clipped the ball. She sailed wide, slamming into a statue.
Ripped from its pedestal, the angel fell. As the bronze idol hit the floor, the ball skipped sideways. Spun three-hundred-and-sixty degrees, she cursed as huge fangs bared, the snake attacked. One strike, then another, followed by more. The clang of striking teeth echoed. His gut clenched as wings bent at odd angles, Westvane struggled to get up.
Blood dripped into his eye.
With a vicious swipe, he wiped it away and reacquired the target. Hooves planted, standing ten feet to his left, the Wendigo turned on him. The club arched toward his head.
Punching his feet into the floor, he vaulted into a somersault. Spiked wood whiffed over his head. Halfway through the rotation, he angled one of his wings. The underside caught air, setting him on his feet as he unleashed his swords.
Pivot. Sight the target. Strike without mercy.
The three-pronged attack drove Wendigo backward across the station. Gaining speed and strength, Westvane avoided horns, hooves, and claws, dipping beneath the club again and again. Dodge. Parry. Stab. Footwork in perfect balance, he advanced, eluded, and perused, slicing at vulnerable areas. His blades bit, hacking at armored skin, cutting into flesh.
Orange blood ran down the Wendigo’s arm. With a hiss, the beast heaved the club. The bench slammed into the floor beside him. Westvane spun into another assault, and using every tactic he knew, battered the Wendigo, forcing it to retreat.
Between one strike and the next, his gaze tracked to Truly.
She was holding her own.
Not elegantly, or even very well, given the snake was trying to swallow her — and the ball — whole. Jaw clamped down on the sphere, its fangs clanked against the hard exterior. Her own mouth working, Truly yelled at it.
Ducking beneath the Wendigo’s guard, Westvane carved into its side. The beast hissed. The viper released the sphere and wheeled around. Green eyes with vertical pupils narrowed on Westvane. Spinning right, he struck the Wendigo again. His blades sliced deep. Clutching its side, it fell to one knee.
He stabbed it again.
The Wendigo listed to one side, then collapsed into a heap on the floor. Leaving the Door Master, the massive snake moved to protect its master, scaled body rising, venom dripping from its fangs.
Truly shouted his name.
Westvane ignored the warning. He had one chance. With a single sword stroke, he must behead the viper. Before it got too close. Before it managed to strike. Before it sank its fangs in and sent its venom deep. Westvane didn’t know if the poison would kill him. Nor did he wish to find out. Not tonight. Not when he stood so close to achieving his goal. His strategy wasn’t complicated — return the Wendigo, use the beast as bait to draw Lyonesse into his kill box.
Swords raised, Westvane unfurled his wings.
The snake lunged, but —
Blue shimmer slashed in to surround it before its fangs reached him. Surprise struck. Feet rooted to the floor, Westvane watched the magic-driven ribbons tighten around the viper’s neck. The snake writhed against the bonds. The ribbons turned to razor blades. Sharp edges sliced through hard scales. Blood splattered, arcing up, spilling over as the snake’s head landed at Westvane’s feet.
