The oak-and-brass tally slate in Osen Tal’s hands was built to survive being dropped off a supply wagon onto mountain gravel, not to stop a six-foot iron axe-spear driven by a peak-foundation Court warden standing on an active amplification rune.
Corvek’s slanted strike crashed into the slate. Then, the heavy brass corner-binding caught the main crescent axe-blade just enough to keep the iron from cleaving straight into Osen’s heart and lungs. The oak board split in half with a sharp crack, showering brass rivets and splintered wood across the flat stone slabs.
Diverted three inches downward by the sacrificed ledger slate, the axe-spear’s lower Crescent edge sliced through the heavy grey wool of Osen’s service coat along his right flank, slicing deep through the external oblique muscle just above his hip bone and scoring the outer bone of his tenth rib.
A raw, reflex cry tore from Osen’s throat as the cold iron bit through his side. The impact lifted him off his heels and slammed his left shoulder hard against the jagged edge of the granite screen. Meanwhile, a dark, heavy wave of blood soaked instantly through the right side of his grey coat and spilled down over his belt.
