The scythe opened up Tanith’s arm and China had to cover her as she stumbled away from the return swipe. Blood ran freely down to her hand, turning her grip on her sword slick. Another cut to add to her growing collection. Her left leg and her back shared similar wounds.

The Cleaver’s boot heel smacked against China’s jaw. She spun, her legs folding beneath her. Tanith charged, gritting her teeth as she pressed the attack. The Cleaver met her coolly and then, almost like he was proving that he could, he caught Tanith with the exact same kick that had felled China.

She hit the ground. She’d lost her sword.

Running footsteps. Someone had called for help. Finally. The Cleavers closed in, grey surrounding black. No time was spent on questions, and no breath wasted on negotiations. The greys had their enemy, and they attacked. They worked as a team, feinting when another slashed, moving forward when another dropped back. Their scythes went high and low and the Black Cleaver spun and dodged and parried and blocked. The sharp clang of blade upon blade and the dull whack of snaith upon snaith filled the corridor in a rapid rhythm, never slowing. Few openings appeared during the furious exchange, but when they did, scythe blades slid uselessly across armoured uniforms. Unless someone took the initiative, they’d fight themselves to a standstill.

The Black Cleaver dropped his scythe.

He moved between two swipes and grabbed the head of the nearest Cleaver, twisting it as he spun behind him. He shoved the dead man into the path of his comrades and lunged at the one who darted clear. They traded elbows and knees while they grappled for the scythe, and then the Black Cleaver whirled with a kick that snapped his opponent’s head round so fast that Tanith heard the vertebrae pop.

But the two remaining Cleavers were already too close to avoid. One of them kicked the fallen scythe out of the Black Cleaver’s reach while the other swung his own scythe down. With frightening accuracy, the blade slid between the Black Cleaver’s helmet and collar, pierced his neck and buried itself deep within his torso.

The Black Cleaver dropped to his knees.

“His head!” Tanith shouted. “Take his head!”

The grey kept both hands on his scythe, pinning the Black Cleaver down, while his partner took an executioner’s stance in front. The executioner swung without ceremony, without wasting a moment to gloat or ponder, but he was still too slow. The Black Cleaver ducked and the scythe cut through the snaith holding him down. Still with a blade lodged within him, the Black Cleaver sprang at the executioner, got his hands on that helmet and wrenched it to one side.

Three Cleavers. Three broken necks.