A sword thrust greeted her, but she parried it aside. Her elbow struck the scarred man’s neck. He gagged, punched her stomach, and tried to step away. She gave him no reprieve. Her ax came up and around, and when he blocked, his legs quivered from the impact. Stasia brought a second blow down upon him, then a third. Her muscles strained with every swing, but he suffered worse. On the fourth blow his sword snapped in half, and her ax smashed his collarbone. It didn’t break through his armor, but it didn’t need to. The ax crunched the man’s own pauldron into a jagged weapon, and it pierced his gambeson to tear at the skin beneath.

The scarred man’s scream was a song to her ears. The bones of his shoulder and arm broke like twigs. It wasn’t enough. She swung again, easily batting aside his parry attempt. Her ax tore a gap in his chest plate and sank a full foot into his rib cage. Another scream, weaker. He doubled over, blood splashing across the snow. Hatred seethed in his dying eyes. Did he recognize her despite her mask? She hoped so. She needed it so. She almost ripped off the cloth to show him the welt upon her cheek, but she heard worried cries before she could.

Three more soldiers sprinted down the street, attracted by the sounds of violence and the cries of the dead. Stasia lifted her ax and steadied her breathing.

“More!” she screamed at them. “Bring me more!”

Her father would insist she plan her attack, but Stasia had drifted away from his teachings over the years. Instinct ruled now. She dashed directly into the center of all three, her legs twisting, her ax spinning, its gore-soaked edges the leader of the macabre dance. She blocked one swing, a second, then caught a thrust with a twist of her ax head. She leaped over another swing, using the force of their interlocked weaponry to propel herself farther. Her metal shin guards struck the side of the soldier’s head. His eyes crossed. Upon landing, she yanked her weapon free, the force staggering the soldier.

Except he wasn’t a soldier anymore. To her, he wasn’t even human. Her ax cut him in half, not a living foe, but the personification of the scarred man’s leering stare at her and Clarissa’s intertwined fingers.

The final soldier’s retreat was doomed before she took a single step. Stasia bore down upon her with the long reach of her ax. Off went the woman’s ankle above the heel. Off went her shins at the knee. Off went her leg at the hip. Again and again Stasia lifted her ax and then brought it crashing back down. Gore warmed her body. The furious scream bellowing from her throat gave her strength. The tears pouring down her face gave her life.