I guess it was no surprise that Lucian had a weapon prepared against Amaya, given he was well aware I never went anywhere without her.
I pivoted and lashed out with a booted foot, hitting him square in the chest and forcing him backward. He laughed—laughed!—then brought the long knife down. I jumped back but not fast enough, and the knife slashed through my boot and into flesh. The warmth of blood began to flood my boot, but I ignored it, ducked under another blow, then thrust upward with Amaya. He twisted out of her way, but not fast enough, and her sharp steel skated along his ribs, instantly drawing blood.
More, she screamed, her noise within my head and without.
Lucian's eyebrows rose. "It talks?"
"Yeah," I bit back, "and she's eager to drink in your death."
He avoided another blow, then lashed out with a clenched fist. I ducked but not fast enough. It skimmed my chin and rattled teeth, and I almost missed his follow-up. I jumped over the sweep of his legs, then raised my sword and brought her down hard. He twisted, so rather than splitting his head open as I'd intended, it hit his shoulder. A shudder ran through her steel; then blood sprayed and his arm was swinging uselessly from the few remaining bits of flesh and tendons that Amaya hadn't severed.
And just like that, all his amusement was gone.
What remained was anger. Anger that was deep and dark and utterly, utterly inhuman.
"For that, you will wish you were dead."
"You can't kill me," I retorted. "You can't find the fucking keys without me, remember."
"I never said I would kill you," he replied softly. "I merely said you will wish for it."
And with that, he attacked, a whirlwind of power and speed and sheer, bloody force. I weaved and dodged and blocked, using every skill, every instinct. Amaya was a blur in my hands, her flames sparking off every stone and her fury stinging the air itself.
But as fast as I was, as fast as she was, he was faster. He was also bigger and heavier, and his reach was twice that of mine.
It was inevitable that some of his blows would get through my defenses; one slashed my hip, another my thigh, but I was still upright, still mobile, after several minutes of heavy fighting. And he was hampered by his useless left arm and was now bleeding from wounds on his chest and legs. It enraged him further, as I'd hoped it would. I needed him reacting, not thinking. It was only through blind rage—his, not mine—that I truly had any hope of winning.
He came at me again, a blurring mass of muscle and sheer bloody anger. I spun and kicked. Lucian sucked in his gut, and my blow missed. Not so his knife. It sliced across my foot and sheared the end off my boot. Only quick reactions on my part stopped my toes from joining it on the stone. But it was the same foot that had previously encountered his blade, and without the boot to restrict it, blood began to flow more readily and pain surged.