Out in the open with a clear field of fire, he’d have been killed before he’d taken five steps, but in the woods with trees between him and her, he’d had a chance. Her fluid grace and bone structure would have made her deadly in hand to hand, but she’d poured all she had into learning the bow.

You had a choice, to play to your strengths or make up for weakness. She’d chosen what she liked, not what suited her. Give credit where credit was due, she was damn good at it, but she’d have made one hell of a fighter. But she hadn’t, and she’d been stupid enough to enter an area where her bow skill was all but useless.

The next Scythian loped through the forest to the right. No bigger than a human, it was still nothing like them. A short ruff of kinky hair formed a mohawk running from its forehead down its back and into leather armor. Harshly calloused brown skin framed black, glaring eyes, under thick brows of bone. Wide shoulders and an overdeveloped chest pushed the leather to the ripping point. Long arms stretched out to grasp trees or dig into the ground, propelling the creature along, while spindly short legs shuffled under the creature. For all the strangeness, she possessed a fey grace both inhuman and captivating.

Pressing against a tree, Cesare wrapped the night around him, pulling the stillness of the void into a cloak. The serpent girl had seen him before he could attack. Maybe he’d have better luck with a tree as cover.

Following her with his mind, he watched her flow past him. Lashing out, his kick snapped its leg out from under it. Rolling easily with the sudden attack, the monster tumbled across the ground, readying a javelin while its hands were hidden from sight. As its feet came under her, the javelin pieced the air as fast as the snake things arrows. But Cesare wasn’t there.

He’d sensed the deft movements the thing had thought hidden from sight, knew what it was doing even as it covered them with its body. While it was readying the throw, Cesare had shifted, moving at an angle just out of the things range of sight. Even as it got up and threw with one fluid motion, Cesare was coming in from outside its tunneled vision.

His kick snapped out, catching the thing in the back of the leg, sweeping its feet out from under it before it had registered Cesare wasn’t where it thought he was. Falling back, the monster gave a hooting cry of surprise. Hitting the ground, it surged up, being on the ground was sure death. As fast as it was, it wasn’t fast enough. Coming down with bone breaking force, the ax kick hit with the power of Cesare’s body, ribs breaking, soft tissue rupturing. Its cry of agony pierced the still night.

Folding up over broken ribs, it curled into a tight, twisting roll as it spun away from him. Stopping himself on the edge of following, Cesare let it go. In that wild flailing, it would be easy to miscalculate and lose the advantage he’d bought. Instead, he followed up slowly, keeping within a few feet so she didn’t have space to recover but far enough to be outside the mad roll.

Stopping, she looked up from the ground, a low hoot sounding the air with a strange questioning trill. Nodding at the thing, he shuffled a half step back. Cautiously getting up, her short, spindly legs grasped the ground with long toes more hand than foot. She pulled two javelins out of her quiver. Three feet of hardened wood, the weapons were carved with strange whirls and starbursts, topped with barbed steel. The way she held them was dangerously like eskrima fighting sticks.

Cesare grimaced as her long hands manipulated the sticks through a whistling routine with a simian grin. Whether she’d grown up using two weapons, or she was imitating her leader didn’t matter, only that she'd ported over the weakness of the two-weapon style.

Two weapon styles were never meant to give two attacks. They allowed you to use diversions and blocks to open windows of opportunity. It was hard enough to keep track of one attack, but two flying at the same time was impossible for all but the greatest of masters. You didn’t see a bare-knuckle fighter striking with both hands.

The ape thing was used to fighting other weapon users where she could use her other weapon to block edges. But against him, there wasn’t a weapon to block, she wouldn’t, couldn’t, react to his punches and kicks the same way she would a sword. Swords don’t grab, they don’t entangle or change direction, they can’t gather bone breaking power with only an inch of movement.

Gliding to her, he watched those long arms that gave her such awesome reach. They were the most dangerous advantage she owned. But once he was inside them, they’d cripple her. It wasn’t something she’d ever had to deal with against other weapon users.

The stick sliced through the air, slipping to the side, air rushed over him. Ducking down, he moved under the follow up blow from the other stick, twisting, he flowed into the gap in the pattern. Turning into her strike, he moved with the girl, matching her frantic movements as she tried to pin him down.

Snatching her hand as it passed, he moved with her momentum, wrenching the wrist out of alignment, bones popping and snapping under his fingers. Her muffled whine sounded quick and sharp as the stick hit the ground.

The other javelin arched through air in a desperate move to get him to back off. With a quick step, he took the blow on the meaty part of his thigh, muscles screamed in spasms of pained contraction. Ghosting forward, her frantic gasping breaths ran over his face. Trying to break for space, she shuffled back.

He stayed as close as a lover, as determined as a lost child who’d found its mother, and as vicious as a wolverine that had sunk its teeth into anything stupid enough to get close. Coiling back, his body snapped forward, fist sinking into her already broken ribs, grounding broken splinters into meaty flesh. Gasping at the piercing agony, her body clenched down. Beyond her sight, his elbow raced on a horizontal plane, smashing her face to the side, cutting an edge across her pointed features, breaking her nose in passing.

Staying with her wild struggle to recover, Cesare’s heel rammed down on her foot. Feet composed of delicate finger bones, shattered under the gruesome impact. Falling back and down, she dropped her other stick, a low, pained hoot sounded long and lonely in the dark. Curling up around her wounds, her dark eyes looked up at him in agonized realization.

He’d crippled her, if she recovered, it wouldn’t be soon. She was out of the fight for tonight and the foreseeable future. But was it enough? She’d hunted him like a dog to feed to her hounds, was it justice to let her go? No, she should pay for what she'd done, should face the consequences for what she was going to do.

She knew she was dead, a solitary tear leaked from her face, but she never opened her mouth to plead for her life. A warrior cast the dice and let them fall where they may, but didn’t cry when they came up snake eyes, not when they’d come to kill.

“Second chances are rare, but I'm handing them out like candy tonight,” Cesare said, noting the flare of hope in the girl’s eyes. “You came for me and I broke you for it. Stand against me again, in word or deed, and I’ll finish what I started.” The kick hit the things chin, sending her into the blackness of her mind, hope burning her way into the dark.

Just because he was letting her go, didn’t mean he wanted her thinking she could get off a parting shot with a javelin. Besides, Atalanta was coming at a ground destroying run and he needed to focus on the big bitch, not worry about the small fry behind him. Looking around, he realized he didn’t want to deal with the woman here. Too open, not enough trees to put between him and the creature coming.

Cesare's mind flashed over the forest, finding a spot that would work. It wasn’t perfect, but when your life was on the line, any odds you could stack in your favor was worth doing. His steps flew over the uneven ground with supernatural grace. Knowing beyond guessing were every branch, hole, plant, and root was made the forest his playground. Cesare reached the spot just as Atalanta burst through the forest.

Bony plates of black hid obsidian dark skin. Contoured bone flowed over the face in a skintight Oni mask. Gleaming serrated, sharks teeth, shone pearly in the stray beams of moonlight. Segmented pieces of bone flowed over her skull, separated by membranes of stretchy flesh. Grown into place, the plates of armor allowed the skin to move with the body. She was enormous at over nine feet, a dense mass of steel hard muscle armored in sheets of black bone. Shoulders bulged grotesquely wide, arms running thick with the power to tear steel. She'd spent years laying offerings at the altar of pain and flesh, here were their blessings.

Knights were the tanks of the ancient world, unstoppable, unkillable, brutal engines of slaughter. There was no way Cesare could match her strength, not when she'd dedicated her life pushing the limits of her races unfathomable reach.

The machetes she usually carried were shrunk down to the size of kitchen knives in her hands, long blades already showing smears of black and green from cutting through the forest. Now he understood them. She'd chosen a blade that had enough steel to endure the force of her strikes. A machete was tough, but couldn't hold the razor edge of fancier blades. Chopping wood or flesh, a machete was a work mans tool for butchery. Rolling her shoulders, black plates flowed across its body, clacking as edges hit. A toothy smile of white serrated teeth broke the ebony form.

“I was wondering if you’d be stupid enough to come for me,” she said, feet twisting into the dirt, grounding her stance. “I gave fair odds you weren’t that stupid.”

Walking around her, Cesare studied her stance and the way she held her machete’s. “Figured it was easier to fuck you up now.”

Atalanta tracked his steps by sound, slowly moving to keep herself facing him. “You mean you knew we’d catch you before you could get away.”

“You can’t win this.” His words birthed a new darkness, a wave of malignant threads wove through the air, stitching a midnight tapestry. “If you kill me, they’ll find you tomorrow and tear you apart.”

“They’ll never know. Dog shit tells no tales. No proof, no crime. They won't push, not when they have everything to lose.” There was a sick confidence to the words, of deeds done through the ages and lessons learned.

Shaking his head, he continued circling the horror. She wasn’t big enough to make it an advantage for him, she was in that middle ground where it was still a strength. Stronger, armored, with weapons that would react more like knives than swords. That was a lot of shit on her side without anything for him. But she was blind, and trained to fight dark wasn’t the same as seeing.

He'd counted on her being slower with the blades, now if he tried to get close, she'd gut him. He could dart in and out, keep his distance from the blades, but he’d be slamming his head into her defense every time. Getting her to come to him was a lost cause, that stung a little because it was the whole reason he’d picked this place to fight.

Every option looked like he’d be crawling away from this fight. Striding forward, his bag hit the ground with a dull thud behind him. The moment bloomed in all its crystalline glory, cold and patient, woven through with predatory power. With a slither of quicksilver, the Enochian Blade slid into his hand. Dark as his void eyes and the threads of black threaded his flesh, it was invisible under the forest’s shadows. She’d come for him, now, she’d get him.

The machete came fast as a flicker of silver, if he’d been relying on his eyes, it would have split his face open. But he wasn’t, his eyes were nothing more than blind sockets of fluid and meat, turned stygian black under the brutal hand of Aleph. Feeling the blade, knowing the muscles that bunched under her skin, Cesare side stepped, putting him in line for the slash across his middle. Coiling back, his stomach wrapped around his spine, the second blade sliced through his sweater, creasing his side, drawing a line of blood as Beth absorbed the rest.

Snaking out, the Enochian Blade stabbed into Atalanta's meaty forearm. Slipping in like it was water, the blade pierced bone armor and hardened muscle, nothing could resist gods razor. Her scream pierced the air, machete hitting the ground, muscles sliced to ribbons by the Enochian Blade. Falling into a squat, Cesare felt the desperate slash flow over his head. Quick as night, the Enochian Blade slid along her inner thigh, parting armor like air, skin flaying open at its touch, muscle slicing apart with supernatural ease.

Atalanta stepped back on wobbly legs, a chopping cut coming down between them. Cesare darted to the side, steel carved through thigh, blood gushing down his leg, turning his pants black. Too powerful for Beth to shrug off, the letter stopped it from taking his leg.

Without thought, he moved with her as she stumbled back. It didn’t matter she’d hurt him, all that mattered was that he’d hurt her. Once you hurt them, you stay with them. Never give up what you'd paid for in blood.

He’d screwed up by taking her weapon away. Now she only had one to worry about. Focused and intent, she was taking him seriously now. Flickering silver in the night, her blade arched up through the darkness, the razor edge parting his sweater and shirt, slicing flesh open from mid forearm, cutting free at his shoulder. Clean as Sunday clothes, the cut tingled as cold invaded split meat.

He collapsed down into a crouch, steel toed boot streaking out across the ground in a long sweep. Gathering power from his coiled body and core. Ankles were wonderful things, but like any joint, they were the weakest part of the structure. With a meaty crack the bone broke, Atalanta falling with a scream of rage when her ankle betrayed her.

Down on one knee and off balance, her swing her blade with anger, technique lost in agony and hatred. Moving into it, her arm slammed into his shoulder, jarring him, her blade too far away to save her. The spicy scent she emitted engulphed him, sulfur and cinnamon, it rasped the throat and stung the nose. She was down at his level now, wounded and hurt.

He worked her face like a piece of meat. Coming up with his body behind it, the elbow hit her armored jaw, force translated to bone in a blast of broken sharks teeth and blood. Swinging around in a follow up, his core twisted as power ran hot and vicious through muscles. Cheek bones broke with the sound of wet branches under unbreakable armor plates. Before she could recover, he smashed into her skull from the other side, Atalanta’s eyes rolling as the concussion set in.

Holding herself up through sheer habit, dizzy, disoriented, and stupid with pain, she made a great target. Elbows rained down in a barrage of ruthlessly placed blows that ruptured her face, blood seeping out from the cracks between armor plates. Punches darting into exposed flesh with the compassion of a starving child, eyes swelled shut and blood leaked from them like the tears from some nameless god of agony. Fleeing from the relentless punishment, she fell backward onto the ground, whimpering her agony to an uncaring world, arms coming up to cover her head.

His shirt was molded to his chest by flowing blood from the arrow head embedded into his chest. Pants stuck to his legs from the slice along his thigh, the arrow sunk into his hip ripping deeper with every shift of his body. His arm was a thing of agony, the slash sending a steady stream of blood dripping off his elbow. But he still swept the clearing with a lethal look as the Scythians surrounded him and Atalanta. The Enochian Blade had slithered up his arm, a warm presence insuring the gods of slaughter were ready to come to his call.

Locked with Atalanta, he’d had no choice but to keep fighting. A low growl thrummed through the air, saturating the clearing with cruel, enduring hate. The girls backed away from the feral thing that stood bloody, scarred, and unbroken before them. Exchanging uneasy looks, they fingered their weapons.

“You wanted me,” Cesare snarled into the still air, spite spider webbing along the nights grace. “Come and get it.” His laughter resounded in the clearing, reality jittering in the wake of its insanity. “The nights early, and there's blood to spill!”

Four girls supported the two he'd downed in the forest. The others stood, caught in a maelstrom's of reality. They'd come hunting a damnati, useless, weak, a strutting cock without home or friend. In the dark beauty of midnight, they'd met a crippling force of unfettered insanity, eager for flesh. Softly sibilant, the snake's words filled the clearing. “I'm done.” Hefting her bow, shame flickered over her serpentine face. “My honor is worth more than this. This bow has guarded my family since before we felt the call of Artemis. My dishonor almost saw it lost, I will follow Artemis’s omen, and walk away with what honor I still own.”

The others nodded slowly, flowing around him, they surrounded their wounded leader. The Scythians lifted Atalanta's maimed body, her whispered whimpers of agony filling the air. Without a backward look, the girls faded into the midnight forest with their maimed.

Yanking his duffel bag open, he pulled out the things he'd need for a field dressing. Stopping the bleeding so he could get his ass to the infirmary was about the best he could do. Even if he’d wanted to stitch himself, he’d need a good mirror for the upper part of his arm and that wasn't even talking about the barbed arrowhead.

Unwinding the compression bandages, his hands stilled when it hit him. He didn’t need to see the wound or the barbs on the arrow heads. With an act of will, he could zero in on the arrow and see the damage down to the internal structure. The real option of taking care of it himself without the doctor stopped him.

The doctor could clean the wound and sew him up with a professional touch. The doctor might get him off without a permanent reminder of the scarlet night. Drugs to dull the pain would turn torture into pain.

If he did it himself, there would be no anesthetic, the stitches wouldn't be neat, and he’d have to watch closely for any signs of infection. Looking at it in that light, the infirmary seemed the way to go. But what he'd gain might outweigh the cost, fear. They’d seen him fight and he’d won, but not without taking a beating. If he went to the infirmary, they’d know how much they’d hurt him. If he did it here and now, he’d be able to hide the wounds, adding a layer of mystique to the image he was birthing.

This hunt was bound to make the rounds, that he didn’t go to the infirmary would add a buffer between him and the jackals. The weak were preyed on because they were weak, the strong were left alone because the price of fucking with them was too high to pay.

Tactical advantage won over scars and pain. Sighing, he stripped off the rags of his shirt and sweater. It wouldn't be pretty or fast.