An iron broadsword sheared through the oiled-canvas parasol with a vicious, tearing rip.
Torn green canvas fluttered down like broken wings as Derrick Vance planted his iron boots on the wagon tailboard. The deposed patriarch stood over the hammock, his chest heaving, his sunken eyes bloodshot with manic glee.
He rested the flat of his blood-stained blade against the cedar sideboard.
“I have you now, Kaelen!” Derrick yelled, his voice echoing shrilly against the high limestone cliffs. “I sold your secret to Orson and Patriarch Vulture five days ago!”
He threw his head back and laughed, spraying spit across the floorboards.
“One supreme strike, and then your dantian freezes for three whole days!” Derrick gloated, his fingernails digging into the leather-wrapped hilt. “Orson watched you at the guild tower! I watched you through my brass looking-glass at midnight!”
He stepped closer, shaking the heavy sword blade in Kaelen’s face.
“You burned your master card on foot soldiers!” Derrick sneered, his chest swelling with savage pride. “Twelve scouts surprised you in the dark, and you panicked! You threw away your only weapon! Now you are nothing but a crippled third son in a hammock!”
