Cyrus flipped the grip of his off-hand blade again, then shoved it sideways to parry a downward thrust aimed at his collarbone… only to discover he could barely adjust Gordian’s aim. The man’s strength was incredible. He’d have a better chance pushing aside the path of a carriage. Cyrus buckled his left knee, dropping low and awkwardly curling so that his lower back ached in protest. The stab cut a thin hole across his shirt but failed to draw blood. Spinning on his knees, Cyrus cut twice along his foe’s naked thigh and leg. Yet again, the cuts made a sound like metal on stone, and if they did any damage to the newly birthed paragon, it did not show on his bemused face.

Refusing to be deterred, Cyrus danced about his foe, cutting flesh and dodging stabs with the dagger. No more parrying. Instead he read the naked man’s movements, watching the shift of muscles and change in footing to predict the next attack. Despite their pitiful impact, he cut and stabbed whenever able. Paragons could heal quickly, but they were still mortal. They could bleed, and they could die. Cyrus knew, for he had killed one himself. He need only convince both Gordian and uncaring reality of that fact.

“Wall off the ropes!” Magus shouted to the soldiers. “Leave them no escape but to drown!”

The rest of his friends battled the soldiers, but their foe’s numbers were thankfully split. Half formed a line of battle against Thorda’s elite, steadily pressing them toward the beach, while the other half guarded Sinshei and the remaining priests and magistrates at the cliff wall. True to Magus’s orders, they blocked the rope ladders leading back up the cliff. There was no way out but the sea.

Only training kept Cyrus’s panic in check. His skills outmatched Gordian’s. Let his faith reside in that. He scored blow after blow, and though it felt like hacking away at a pillar of marble, he could tell by the flinch on his foe’s face and the sweat collecting across his naked body that the onslaught was starting to break through. Gordian’s faith in his own invulnerability was wavering. The cuts had begun to bleed. The golden aura about his bare skin had faded like a summer tan into winter. As his strength faltered, so, too, did his confidence tumble into doubt. Again swords crossed against dagger, but this time it was the dagger that trembled.