She’s able to draw blood before Laython takes the mace at both ends and brings its haft against the small of her back, crushing her between the weapon and his armor. The air is forced from her lungs, and her spine and ribs feel as though they’re about to shatter. Her grip on his neck goes slack as her feet are lifted from the ground. Evie’s eyes close and she gasps for breath, wriggling in vain. Laython’s grip is like steel jaws being wound closed by sky carriage pullers.

His laughter is the sound of many hells reaching up to swallow her whole. “You made an adorable little plan, but it’s not enough. You’ll never cross the border. You die here, all of you.”

Evie can’t wriggle herself free, but she can snake a hand between their tightly clenched bodies. Despite a numbness spreading through her lower half, Evie forces her knee to bend, raising her right boot. Her trembling fingers close around a familiar handle there.

“You’re no general,” Laython whispers, hot spittle hitting her cheek. “You’re not even a Savage.”

“You’re half right,” Evie manages through painfully clenched teeth.

The blade of her push dagger, that first reluctant gift ever given to her by Sirach, pierces the flesh of his chin beneath the leather helm. It lances Laython’s soft palate and tongue before entering the roof of his mouth. For one terrible moment his body tenses against her, squeezing the breath out of Evie with even more intensity, then his grip on her begins to loosen. With his head tilted back by the force of the push dagger, Evie leans in and sinks her teeth into his neck, ignoring the alien sensation of that flesh filling her mouth as she clamps her jaws together, and ripping out a large chunk of his throat and painting her face with his blood.

Evie spits in disgust, feeling her feet touch the ground as Laython’s body begins slouching toward the earth. She yanks her push dagger free of his skull and thrusts her hip against the mace still pulled across her back, knocking it free of Laython’s hands, and allowing her to back away from him.

The fire in his eyes that burned as bright as volcanic tears just moments ago have turned to cold stone. Blood continues to bathe the finely oiled pieces of his leather armor, spilling down his torso until it begins falling in thick hot drops upon the grass. Finally, he slumps forward, remaining on his knees as his face hits the soft ground. It’s a wholly undignified death pose.

Evie couldn’t approve any more than she does.