Questing Sucks (Book 1) (67 page)

Sehn was forced to go on the defensive, and he tired as the man refused to let up. The Champion unleashed a variety of deadly combinations that threatened to break through Sehn’s guard, and if things didn’t change soon, then his knees were likely to give.

The Champion attacked high, and Sehn ducked under the swing and jumped to the side, gaining distance and allowing him a moment to catch his breath. His muscles ached and exhaustion threatened to cripple him. Sehn’s blade lowered and his arms fell to his sides. His body was failing him, and horrified, he realized he could no longer raise his weapon. Was he going to die for real this time?

“Sehn!” Patrick cried. “This entire war has been for you! Move, dammit!”

Sehn’s legs locked up and his knees finally gave out. He fell to a crawling position, and the Champion, with a disgusting sneer painting his face, kicked Sehn squarely in the jaw. Sehn rolled on the ground twice before lying still, staring up dazed at the cloudless sky.

The man with the catlike eyes looked down his nose at Sehn. “I do not know why my master fears you so much.” Sehn felt the man’s boots as they slammed into his ribs. He tried to grab at the feet, but his body refused to obey him.

Patrick and Saerith drew their swords and rushed towards the Champion, but the man shifted his right eye and glared, and the two stopped in their tracks. He looked back down at Sehn.

“You are weak, stupid, and about as threatening as a butterfly.”

Sehn, confused and shocked, craned his neck and glanced around. Who was the man talking to? He coughed out between gasps for air, “P-Patrick. Is he speaking about you, or is he speaking about Saerith?”

Patrick and Saerith gave each other a questioning look and then Saerith said, “I think he’s talking about you, Sehn.”

There was a splitting pain in the side of his head as the Champion kicked him. The world seemed to blur and go in and out of focus. Sehn slowly moved his right hand to shield his face, but the Champion stepped on it with one foot while continuing to kick his face with the other.

“Did you not hear me?” Saerith shouted. “Sehn! That man just called you weak!”

He called me . . . weak?
Sehn thought.

For some reason, the word didn’t bother Sehn. Nothing seemed to. The pain from the man’s kicks lessened, and Sehn wondered if he was dying. The pressure faded on his head and returned to his stomach, which meant the Champion must’ve switched to Sehn’s abdomen. Oddly, it hurt less than it should have. Sehn felt a weight set upon his eyelids—he wanted to close them.

In the dimming light, he saw Patrick and Saerith intervene. They charged at the Champion and swung their blades frantically. But the Champion parried with ease while still slamming his foot into Sehn’s midsection. Somehow, the Champion disarmed the two, and they were left weaponless. They jumped on the Champion’s back and tried to pull him off of Sehn, but it was useless. The Champion gripped at the hands around his neck and threw the both of them to the ground.

“Please,” Patrick begged, slowly standing to his feet, “Sehn, get up.”

The Champion sheathed his blade and laughed at the two princes. “Help him if you can. If not, sit back and enjoy the show.” He lifted his foot and stomped it down on Sehn’s chest. The air left Sehn’s lungs and he choked on his own blood. But why didn’t it hurt?

“Damn you, Sehn.” Patrick shouted. “You need to fight back!”

“
I need to rest here for a moment,” Sehn whispered. “Patrick, just a moment, and I—”

“Sehn,” Patrick said. His voice turned grim. “Daniel is dead.”

Sehn filtered out everything but the sound of Patrick’s voice. He felt the pressure on his body as the Champion assaulted him, but he felt it distantly, as if it were happening to someone else. Leaning his head back, Sehn could spot the tears in Patrick’s eyes. Why was he crying?

What did Patrick say?
Sehn wondered.
Did he . . .?

“I only just realized it myself. Alan sent him on a mission with Calen, and he hasn’t returned. That . . . that can only mean one thing.”

It was hard to hear Patrick’s words with the ringing sound filling his ears. Did Patrick just say that Daniel had died? But that was impossible. Sehn had not granted the fool permission. He was not yet excused, he . . .

Sehn shook his head and cleared his mind. There was blood on the grass, and Sehn knew it was from his nose and mouth. He saw the Champion’s boot coming towards his face. Sehn threw out his arms and caught the man’s foot. Struggling against it, he tilted his neck to look at Patrick.

“What did you just say to me? Hey! Patrick!”

“I said the truth, Sehn. Daniel is dead.”

Sehn regained his breath, and with a tremendous exertion of will, he forced his protesting arms to move. He pushed the Champion away and rolled over on his stomach.

“What the hell do you mean, ‘he’s dead’?”

The Champion closed his catlike eyes for a moment and sighed. “What do you think he means? My master’s army has killed him. Surely even you are intelligent enough to understand that.” The Champion spat on the ground. “You call yourself the ‘Great Sehn’? Elf . . . you are the ‘great nothing’. Look at you. You are pathetic beyond the ability for words to describe. You are a waste of flesh and a waste of life.”

All thoughts of exhaustion, pain, and even death left Sehn, replaced entirely by a thirst for blood so powerful that Sehn’s body shook with it. Every part of him bubbled over with anger. Even his toes curled inside of his shoes, and his teeth clenched together with such a force that any harder would force them to crack.

Sehn, bloodied and beaten, commanded his legs to move by will alone. He stumbled at first, but clawing at the ground, he brought himself to a crouch. Next, he retrieved his blade. And with a cry of agony, he was back on his feet, his clothing covered in grass and his vision obscured by the blood dripping from shallow cuts above his eyes.

“He isn’t dead.”

“He is, Sehn,” Patrick whispered.

“No, he cannot be dead.”

“He is. And that man is the reason why.”

Sehn acted without thinking. For the first time since the start of the fight, he went on the offensive. He was a wild animal. Form, grace, precision, timing, these words lost all meaning to Sehn. This man, this . . . Item. Sehn wanted, no, he needed to destroy this fool.

“Who the FUCK do you think you’re calling a butterfly! Tremble and bow before your God, mortal!”

Sehn threw everything he had at the Champion. His combinations were a chaotic mix of high, mid, and low range attacks, but they were random and based off nothing more than impulse. At first, the Champion stood his ground, effortlessly deflecting anything Sehn used against him, but spurred on with energy to rival that of an exploding star, Sehn was now the one hammering him, and before long, the Champion took his first step back. Flaming rocks soared in every conceivable direction, wrapping the two in a cocoon of heat and fire.

The Champion took another step back, and then another. Meteorites wreaked havoc on the surrounding land, causing grass to be set aflame and trees to fall. Before long, the Champion’s occasional step turned into an outright walk, and Sehn continued to back him up, all while the ball of fire and rock enclosed them.

Sehn had an idea. Even through his beastly rage, he saw his path to victory. He waited for the right moment, timing the Champion’s steps. He tracked the movements of his feet from the corner of his eyes. Then, spotting his one and only chance, Sehn shouted, “
Rallos
MAHR!”

The man with the catlike eyes placed a boot down where land used to be. Only now, there was a hole in the ground several feet deep. He lost his balance and struggled to regain his footing, momentarily lowering his blade. Sehn grinned. This was his chance.

Sehn sliced the man across the stomach then rejoiced at the shower of blood that splattered his face. He snapped his foot up for a kick to the man’s jaw, sending him sprawling on his back. His rocky blade left his hands, and Sehn jumped on top of him like an animal, no, like a tiger. Now it was his turn to be the feline predator.

He sat atop the man’s chest and threw his own blade off to the side, watching as it extinguished. Sehn didn’t need a weapon for this—he wanted to do this himself. He balled his hands into fists, tightly, feeling his anger focus on the points between his fingers. And with that, he laid into the man, pummeling the Champion with everything he had—everything he was made of.

Sehn was delighted to see the first trickle of blood part the man’s lips. Yes, this moron was not invincible after all. He was nothing when compared to the likes of the Great Sehn!

Sehn pulled his forearm back then slammed it down over those wretched, catlike eyes, hopefully shutting them for good. “This!”

He hit the left side of the man’s face, snapping it to the right. “Mother!”

He hit the right side of the man’s face, snapping it to the left. “Fucker!”

Sehn used his fist as a hammer, breaking the Champion’s nose, feeling the bones crack. “Has!”

With his left hand, Sehn grabbed the man’s right as he attempted to use it to protect himself. “Just!”

Sehn used the power in his back and flung himself forward, crashing his forehead into the of the man’s battered face. “Been!”

“Sehn’d!”

The anger and blurriness faded—the world returned with startling awareness. Sehn looked down at the man under him. He had done it. He had won. The Champion’s face was bruised beyond recognition, and his weapon lay far enough away to no longer be a threat. Sehn moaned as he stood back to his feet. Everything hurt him.

Looking over his shoulder, Sehn could see the battle dying down. Kingdom men tied and secured sleeping black-armored invaders while gryphons that had been circling the sky came down for a landing. Men were rushing over to Patrick and Saerith—they would arrive in moments.

Both Patrick and Saerith’s faces drained of color. Patrick limped over, partially supported by Saerith. “Did you just win?”

It was difficult to breathe. Sehn ran a hand along his clothing—it was torn in several places. He felt along his face and flinched at the stinging pain along his nose and mouth. He wasn’t positive, but there was a chance a few of his ribs might’ve been broken. The dimmed light meant that the rings of his eyes were definitely bruised, and the infrequent blurriness was probably the result of a concussion.

“Hahahahaha!”

Sehn snorted. “You call that a fight? Hah! That was by far the easiest fight I have ever been in . . . in my entire life! Oh, what’s the matter, ‘Champion?’ You were all like, ‘Look at me, I have an army and shit, I can beat Sehn.’ And I was all like. ‘Kaboom,
motha
fucka
!’ Patrick, Saerith, did you two see me? I am the super immortal God-King, Sehn! I am so disappointed by how easy this battle was.”

Sehn danced in place, clapping his hands and shaking his hips. “YES! I am so fucking awesome. Patrick! Quickly! I demand you fetch me an artist at once!”

Sehn clumsily walked over to the Champion and knelt before him, flexing his arms and posing. “I want a picture drawn of me in this position. Make sure the artist includes my heroic bicep. Also, I . . . hey, what are you two fools doing?”

Patrick’s blade was unsheathed, and he hovered over the Champion with Saerith. Patrick lifted the sword above his head. “Finally,” he said, “we can put an end to this.”

Sehn filled with alarm and jumped at Patrick, tackling him to the ground moments before he killed the unconscious champion. With the rage of battle past him, Sehn released a small whimper from the impact with the ground.

“What the Gods are you doing, Sehn?” Patrick shouted. “Now is our chance to kill the bastard!”