Page 121 of Highland Ruse
She’d battled men many times, but usually she had a pill to slip them once they were unconscious, to keep them sleeping for a while. But none of the women had any this time.
This was no mission of discretion—this was battle. There would be death.
It was information they all knew going into it, and yet now Delilah’s conviction faltered.
“I don’t want to kill you,” Delilah said. “If you leave now, you can do so with your life.”
The man smirked. “And what if I want to kill ye?”
He didn’t give her a chance to reply, but swung out at her with the huge war axe he clutched between his meaty fists.
Delilah ducked and lunged toward him. Not only did she fail to knock him down, but running into him was like hitting a solid tree trunk. The breath whooshed out of her, and she was knocked backward, momentarily stunned. He swiped at her, but she dropped into a ball and rolled between his spread legs.
Before he could lumber around, she shoved her sword forward with a grunt of exertion. It pushed through his body with far more ease than she could ever have imagined.
He roared, and the axe slipped from his grip, landing with a metallic clunk before he sagged to his knees and pitched forward.
All the strength sapped suddenly from Delilah’s body. She stared down at the large man who had meant to kill her.
The man she had killed.
Footsteps sounded behind her, and her body launched into action before her mind could catch up with what she was doing. She pulled at her sword to free it, but found the blade stuck.
The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and she turned quickly to face her new opponent. A fist punched the side of her arm with enough force to leave it numb for a brief moment.
The man was dark-haired and short, his face set in a grimace of concentration. Energy roared through Delilah and her blade pulled free with a sickening wet sound. She did not hesitate this time.
The man swept his dagger at her, the blade still red with the blood of his previous victim. Delilah bent low to evade the hit and came up with her sword aimed at his heart. Which was exactly where the blade pierced.
Everything went still save the frenzied hammering of her heart. She pulled her blade free, this time with learned strength, and sagged against the stone wall. It was cold against the heat of her back. Her hard breathing filled the narrow hall, panting and wild.
She was wasting time.
She knelt at the door once more and squeezed her fingers around the pick where it still jutted from the lock. This time she could not still her fingers from shaking.
Her arm was tired where it’d been hit. It was an exhausted, bone-deep ache, and the limb didn’t seem to work properly as a result. The man had punched her harder than she thought.
The lock popped free, and she pushed the door open. The wet, dank air slammed into her, bringing back memories of fear and uncertainty.
It was dark below. Too dark to see.
Her skin prickled, and she rubbed the sore spot on her arm. Something wet met her fingertips.
She pulled her hand back in horror and stared down at the brilliant smear of blood on her fingers. Confusion rocked her brain. Had the men bled on her? When had they had a chance to?
Pain penetrated her muddled thoughts, a deep, burning hurt spiraling out from her arm where she’d been hit and out through her whole body. With great trepidation she looked down at her arm and found a gaping slash there.
Her sword arm.
Damn.
Keeping her ears pricked for the sound of any more men heading toward her, she ripped free a section of her shirt and tied it over the wound, as she’d seen Percy do. It was an awkward bandage, and she had to use her teeth to secure the binding, but it was done.
Fortunately, Sylvi had insisted they all learn to train with both arms. While Delilah’s left had never been as strong as her right, she was at least still capable.
She lifted the weight of her sword into her left hand and tried to ignore how unwieldy and foreign it seemed. Then she plunged into the uncertain darkness in search of Claire.
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