Wyrd: Book One of the Witch War Trilogy - WATTYS 2018 WINNER!

Chapter 19: In Which Will Draws First Blood

The sounds of the voices above board were feral and aggressive, laced with violent undertones. Will and Sky stood by, tense as taut wires, waiting. Adrenaline and fear surged through Will's veins, the wood trapdoor to the hull and a deceptive Joel, all that stood between them and nine well-trained kinetic soldiers — and as many wyverns.

"Hide!" Joel had ordered Laina and the Winnifreds. But he'd looked at Sky and Will and said, "If it escalates, be ready to ..." They'd nodded before Joel had run back out to prepare.

"I can't use my magic to kill them," Sky said, "but I'll fight with you." She hadn't explained and Will hadn't asked. Instead, she'd rushed to grab a longbow and a fletch of arrows from the wall where Joel kept his weapons. And a sword, too, which she'd passed to Will.

The minutes stretched into what felt like hours as Will held his breath, afraid to make a noise, awaiting some indication of his need to intervene.

The floorboards creaked above them as someone marched towards the hull. Then the distinct clash of metal against metal rang out. Joel yelled. Will reacted instinctively, driving his shoulder up and into the hatch before he could think. He slammed it open and surged up the stairs, charging onto the deck.

Chaos erupted around him. Yelling men and roaring beasts; panic, violence. Will surveyed the battlefield: three soldiers on the boat, six still in the air, and Joel engaged with two. Sky blew past him taking an aerial position, now invisible, raining arrows from the heavens as she shot at soldiers and mounts alike.

Will heard the white noise fade into silence, his body moving as if in slow motion, the blood pounding in his ears. Each action was gruelingly lengthened, and nothing existed but the tip of Will's sword and the man in front of him. He rushed up towards the soldier and stabbed in a deep lunge, clacking against solid plate armor. The soldier retaliated, and Will batted the swing away, blocking successfully. Then Will executed a volley of blows. A mixture of raw excitement and terror sung in his very bones as he channeled it into his sword, moving quicker than the armored soldier, spinning and thrusting until he chopped at the man's unguarded neck. Blood gushed out of the narrow opening below his ear, seeping through fingers clasped tightly to the injury. Will rushed towards the man, sending him toppling over the gunnels and backwards to the sea below.

The man is dying. The man IS dead — by my hand, thought Will. But another soldier dropped from his mount to the space beside Will instantly, as if simply filling a vacancy.

This warrior was grizzled and wore a grim leer, even as he slashed at Will. The soldier swiped and caught Will's left arm, slicing a thin gash that left a line of beading red along Will's bicep. The combatant blocked Will's offensive with a buckler on his forearm, bringing his sword up and under to trap Will's blade against the small shield.

For a moment all was still.

"Say your prayers, boy," he spat in Will's face. But as he was saying it, an arrow arched from the heavens, impaling him through the temple. Bright blood laced his spit and Will's shaking hand wiped it off his cheek. The absurdity of the moment, of Will's shock, was amplified when he heard Olleander's voice as clear as a bell, "He should have worn a helmet. Always, always wear your helmet, Will." But he wasn't on Earth learning to ride a bike, Will was on a boat in a bloody battle. He wasn't wearing a helmet either, or any armor for that matter, but this time he knew a helmet wouldn't save him.

What would Olleander say if he knew Will had just killed a man? But he was fighting for his life. For a cause bigger than himself.  That had to be enough.