Jobb didn't dare look back to see how far Boyd had run. All he could think about was delaying the Magebane, no matter if death awaits in the end.
He swung his mighty two handed sword wildly, putting everything into offence, hoping to overwhelm the Magebane.
And for a second it worked.
But then Magebane's surprise passed. He dug his feet and held his ground. In one swift motion, he whacked an overhead blow away and followed with a one handed thrust that sent his spear far, almost taking Jobb's head.
Jobb stepped back, but Magebane gave no respite. He charged forward, making use of his range advantage to keep Jobb always at the retreat.
Jobb tried to counter in vain. His sword barely reached the spear wielder.
Jobb shifted into the defensive. He stopped trying to hurt the Magebane. He puts all his mind and body into staying alive.
Stay alive. Stay a bother. Keep him occupied.
Jobb backed and backed, almost stumbling, almost failing to smack away an incoming spear. And still Magebane gave no respite, sending a flurry of expertly aimed thrusts. His spear grazed Jobb's shoulder, his shin, and his side, tearing the Gambeson open, nicking Jobb's skin bit by bit.
But Jobb's not dead. He's injured, but he's not dead. Not yet. And that's all he needed.
Magebane realized this. His face grew dark with fury. He grew impatient. He grew aggressive. He abandoned all thought and put all his strength in his thrusts and swings. He was overextending himself, thrusting too far or swinging too widely.
For an inexperienced fighter, such impatience might spell their demise. But for Magebane, it transformed him into a force of nature. His swings slammed at Jobb's blade like the crash of a rock. His thrusts came fast like the spring of a viper, and hurt like a charging bull. He was snarling and frothing at the mouth like a vicious animal. Jobb even thought he'd lunge at his neck and bite his head off with his own jaws.
Jobb was scared shitless. It was a miracle he was able to stave off the onslaught.
Magebane swung his spear in a wide arc, slamming into Jobb's raised sword. The blow sent him stumbling back. But he stood on his feet still, and he shakily returned to his stance, chest raising and falling, eyes full of fear, sweat thick on his face.
"Enough!" screamed the Magebane.
He took his spear in one hand and reared it over his head.
Aiming.
A throw.
He put his entire weight in his spear and threw it with shattering might. The wyrmmetal spear split through the air at breakneck speed, sailing right at Jobb's head.
Jobb dropped to the floor hard, and the spear flew just over the skin of his head.
His heart was thrashing against the floor. He couldn't believe he dodged that. He nearly—
Something hard fell to the ground far behind Jobb. It was like a heavy sack dropped, and it was followed by the all familiar ring of a sword clattering into the ground.
Jobb snapped his head over his shoulder. There, just before the door, Boyd fell face first on the ground, the wyrmmetal spear sticking out of his back like a flag
Jobb's mind vanished.
The Magebane loomed over Jobb, a tall, formless shadow. There was rage in his eyes. "I offered you mercy, and you spat in my face—"
Jobb roared and barrelled into him, his sword forgotten. He knocked the Magebane off his feet, knocked the wind out of his lungs, and slammed him to the hard stone floor
Jobb pinned him to the ground with his massive body and punched Magebane's face over and over again with his thick meaty fists.
His hand hurt like hell, but he didn't feel it. He couldn't feel it. He was numb all over.
"You. Son. Of. A. Bitch!"
He pummeled Magebane again and again, until he finally felt a sharp pain erupting on his side. He looked down, and saw that Magebane had stabbed him with a knife. He didn't even realise it.
And he didn't realise the Magebane's boot was flying at him.
Magebane kicked Jobb clean clean on his broad chest, sending him skittering on the floor gasping for air.
Jobb checked his wound and found little blood. It was no wyrmmetal knife. The gambeson stopped the blade from going too deep, nicking only small flesh past the armour. But it didn't tickle either.
The Magebane slowly rose to his feet. Blood, snot and spit dripped down his chin onto the cold stone floors. It worsened his already infernal, baleful visage.
Jobb climbed to his feet, just in time to catch Magebane's knife from gorging his eyes.
Jobb's muscles screamed as he held against the Magebane's strength. The knife's edge was trembling, creeping ever closer to his eye until it was a hair's breadth away.
Jobb roared and sacrificed one hand to punch Magebane's side, right in his reopened wound.
Magebane screamed, spittle flying at Jobb's face, and cracked him cleanly across the jaw with his fist.
Unthinkable, crackling pain shot through his skull and down his spine. Jobb's jaw almost went free from his skull.
He stumbled backwards, his entire body swaying, and fell hard on the cold stone floor.
Everything hurt. He was drooling hard. He can't shut his mouth to stop it. His jaw hung loose.
It hurt so bad. The world was spinning in his eyes. He could barely see as it is, and sweat was pouring down his brows, and his hair was in his eyes.
He crawled away from Magebane. Away from death. Towards safety. Towards his sword. It lay forgotten on the floor, glinting in a chink of moonlight.
Why did he leave it on the floor? Why did he use his fists?
He reached for the sword with bloodied, trembling fingers. But the Magebane caught him by the foot and dragged him across the floor, away from his sword, away from the light and into the darkness, into his domain, into death.
Jobb screamed. He dug his nails deep into the cold stone floor, desperately holding on. It made an ear-grating whine.
Jobb twisted his body and kicked Magebane square on the mouth, knocking his head back.
But he didn't let go.
He turned his face back to Jobb with a baleful glare, blood running down his nose and torn lip. Jobb kicked again and again, bloodying his face more and more, but the Magebane barely blinked, his infernal amber eyes fixed on Jobb.
He took his knife and drove it deep into Jobb's leg.
Jobb slapped his hand against the floor screaming and crying, tears running down his cheeks. He was crying like an infant.
Pain was wrecking his mind. He couldn't think.
The Magebane climbed on Jobb's back, pinning him down with his knee. Jobb's chest felt tight, crushed by the weight and the stone. He couldn't breathe. He was running out of ideas. He was running out of breath. He was running out of life.
He could feel it. He could feel Magebane rearing his hand, knife in hand, and aiming for his heart.
He brought it down.
But the door slammed open, thunderous in the echoing silence, and moonlight spilled into the house.
Magebane froze, the blade just nicking Jobb's back.
They turned and saw Boyd standing hunched, hanging onto the doorway for support, dragged down by the wyrmmetal spear still sticking out of his back. His chest rose and deflated quickly, and he was sweating as terribly as he bled.
He dragged himself out into the open, into the moonlight, into help.
"Help. Help. He's here," was what he tried to say, but the only thing coming out of his mouth was a wet, guttural groan.
He fell to the ground coughing, hacking blood. Blood, sweat, and spittle mixed on the dead rock.
He wheezed long through his teeth, until he finally crumpled, and all movement ceased.
Jobb stared at him, his own pain forgotten.
He's dead.
He's really dead.
But Boyd suddenly threw his head back and screamed. A feral, ear-grating scream that shook Jobb to the bone. It was the only thing he could've said—a dead man's last cry for help.
Blood choked Boyd's throat. He coughed one last time before he fell face first into the dirt, spear on his back.
Boyd was dead.
But all of Shepeste heard.