Just beyond Verdant, Blackthorn managed to achieve the same. Hers was not a clattering blow of overwhelm, so much as a carefully poised strike, her thin rapier slipping through the tiniest cracks, with a speed and accuracy that even Oliver would have struggled to rival. She found a soft spot beneath the man's armpit, and ran her sword through the back of his lung. Such accuracy she achieved on her galloping black horse – and she made it look easy.
Between the three of them, a hole was secured. Then Firyr was there – the recently ascended Firyr – creating even more havoc. He was the chisel into an already cracked rock, and the Blackthorn men speeding up behind him were the hammer.
