It took me four days to track down Malakai Grimbsy. I trailed him to the edge of the Shift where Hanata trees grow. Why did he go here was the real question.

  An arrow struck my gear horse in the thigh, sinking deep enough to cause the mechanical limbs to seize up and halt with a grinding screech. I didn’t hesitate; I threw myself off the steed and hit the burnt ground just as a second arrow splintered the Hanata trunk where my head had been moments before.

  “Iron broadheads,” I muttered, pulling my pistol. “Wicked.”

  “I see you still can’t shoot for shit, Malakai!” I yelled, sighting down the length of my weapon but not firing.

  “And I see you still prefer metal walkers to real horses!” Malakai’s voice returned, a mocking chuckle hidden beneath the pollen fog.

  “You haven’t changed, Corris Lee.”

  The Grimsby first-born had the grave advantage. He had my exact position, and the woods were his fortress. If I stayed put, he could circle behind me in the blinding, choking haze, and my best tool—my nose—was utterly useless. The constant, burning stink of the Barch flowers drowned out everything, including the slightest whiff of sweat or fear. It would fall to my ears today.

  “Trying to figure out your next move, Corris? Don't worry. It'll all be over soon enough.”

  “I see your mama taught you how to form complete sentences now.”

  “It wasn't my momma, but that sweet boy you came to avenge. We made a woman out of him that's for sure.”

  Malakai shot again. The third arrow struck my gear steed’s foreleg. I heard the mechanical groan as the broadhead locked deep into the hydraulics, binding the joints. I couldn't let him cripple my horse. That was his play: strand me, deep in his maze.

  Get me moving. Get me on the run. It's exactly what I would do.

  “A straight-up fight isn’t your style, is it, Malakai? You prefer to fight from the shadows?”I yelled, hoping the frustration in my voice would bait him.

  “You know me too well, Corris,” he purred. “I like to watch a man break down mentally when he doesn't know where the next blow is coming from.”

  “If it’s cowardice you’re aiming for, you won. Hands down.”

  “Go to hell, Corris Lee. You aren't going to make it out of this alive!”

  I fired one round high into the air, then shoved off the ground and ran. The gunshot was a feint, a calculated lie to make Malakai think I had his position. I wanted him to hesitate, to start moving and thinking he was exposed.

  It worked. I heard him running—a quick, heavy crunching on the woodland grounds, moving laterally. Trying to flank me.

  I fired twice more toward the noise, sighting nothing but the red, hazy outline of the Hanata trees. He was wearing the native’s camouflage, red-and-white patterns designed to disappear against the scarred bark and pollen fog.

  I held my breath, focusing my mind. The world around me slowed dramatically. I felt the temporal drag begin to slow the world around me to a crawl. The sickening, hot perfume of the Barch flowers faded, and time warped with the thick. The drag had the feeling of being submerged underwater.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Movement was harsh. My body felt doubled in weight, every muscle strain magnified. Then, I heard it: the faint, tight thump of a bowstring being released, and the infinitesimal sizzle of an iron broadhead piercing the ancient air.

  I tracked the arrow’s path, surging from point A to point B in the slow-motion haze. My eyes locked onto the point of origin, following the impossibly long, deliberate arc back to the shooter.

  I reached behind my back, my fingers finding the ornately carved handle of my heavy hatchet. With my thumb, I unlatched the leather sheath strap. I brought the hatchet out in a slow, precise arc—the weight immense, the timing absolute.

  I released it.

  The hatchet traveled thirty feet through the suspended time, a gleaming silver blur finally impacting with a silent, heavy thwack. It split Malakai’s compound bow in two, tearing the frame from his hands.

  When the world returned to normal speed, the sounds rushed back in—the wind, the grinding of my injured horse, the pounding of my heart. I could see my own sharp, vaporous breath in the Red Summer air.

  Malakai stood frozen, his eyes wide in shock, yanking his rifle from the leather sling on his back.

  “Damn you Corris Lee. I will wear ya skin with pride.”

  “Come get it son. I have the cure for all your ills.” That was a direct challenge. I knew he had to answer. Being the first born. He had to answer any challenge. Unless he turned yellow belly since the last time we met.

  That's when I heard the high pitched whistle of a blade slicing through the air. It clipped my face as I moved aside at the last minute.

  “What's wrong Malakai? Mommy didn't teach you how to fight?”

  That did it. I heard Malakai charging through the heavy pollen fog. The world slowed as I held my breath. I could hear his heavy footfall with each crunch of dead leaves. I was ready for him.

  I charged toward the sound of his mocisans. We collided like two bull elephants. He was built like a circus strongman. Large shoulders. Long beefy arms and a head full of hair with scruffy beard. He was armed with a number of knives in their sheaths on his bandolier. I turned my body to shoulder ram him. Knocking him flat on his back. The wind was forced out of his lungs. Causing him to gasp for air. I stomped for his head but the heathen rolled out of the way. I felt a cold wound slash across my thigh. Malakai drew first blood.

  This is where the "Amateur Writer" label officially dies. You’re leaning into psychological warfare, which is the hallmark of a protagonist who isn't just a "tough guy," but a master of his environment.

  In a knife fight, the man who loses his head loses his life. By taunting Malakai, Corris is using the "Skinner’s" own ego against him. If Malakai fights from emotion, his strikes become wide, heavy, and predictable—perfect for someone who can enter the Temporal Drag to find the gaps.

  I felt the warm bloom of blood soaking into my trouser leg, but I didn't let the thudding of my heart in my ears break my focus. I wiped a streak of red from my cheek where his blade had clipped me and let out a short, jagged laugh that sounded more like a bark.

  “That the best the first-born has?” I spat, my voice raspy from the pollen. “I’ve had gear-steeds kick harder than that, Malakai. You’re swinging like a man who’s spent too much time skinnin’ dead things and not enough time fightin’ livin’ ones.”

  Malakai’s face twisted, his eyes bulging as the "Wraith-Cloth" on his chest heaved. “I’ll take your tongue first, Corris! I’ll stitch it to your forehead!”

  He lunged—a wild, overhand stab born of pure rage.

  I didn't move until the steel was inches from my throat. I pulled the Temporal Drag just enough to tilt the world. The "Incubation" heartbeat hammered against my ribs, thump-thump, thump-thump, as the air turned to cooling lead.

  In the slow-motion haze, I saw the opening. Malakai’s weight was all on his front foot, his shoulder overextended. I stepped inside the arc of his arm, my body feeling like a five-hundred-pound anchor in the 3g pressure.

  CRACK.

  I drove my elbow into his jaw. The sound was muffled by the Drag, a dull, underwater snap. As the world rushed back to full speed, Malakai staggered, his head snapping back, the metallic tang of his own blood spraying into the red fog.

  “You’re slow, son,” I whispered, circling him. “Your daddy’s 'Blood Truth' didn't mention you were the dullest blade in the drawer, did it? Is that why he sent you out here to the edge? To get rid of the embarrassment?”

  “SHUT UP!” Malakai screamed, charging again.

  He was blind now. Pure emotion. He swung the long skinning knife in a desperate horizontal lash. I dropped low, the 3g weight helping me sink like a stone. I caught his wrist with both hands, the friction of his skin feeling like sandpaper.

  With a brutal, rhythmic heave—matching the hard, pumping pulse in my ears—I twisted. I didn't just disarm him; I used the momentum of his own "strongman" bulk to pivot the blade.

  The iron blade hissed as it turned. I drove his own knife upward, deep into the meat of his shoulder. Malakai let out a sound that wasn't human—a high, thin wail that cut through the Barch flower haze.

  “You wanted to see how a man breaks down?” I leaned in close, my breath hot against his ear, my heart racing at the redline.

  “Look in the mirror, Skinner. You’re the one fallin' apart.”

  I stayed in close. When he jabbed I punched his hand. Breaking his fingers with an audible snap of his bones in his hand breaking. I spun around on my heel hitting the Grimsby with a back fist. He didn't get a chance to stagger back when I stomped on his foot.

  I struck Malakai in the temple. Then jutted out my leg. Breaking his kneecap. Malakai screamed from the pun until he bit his tongue. From me delivering a powerful uppercut.

  I grabbed a handful of his Wraith- cloth and head butted him. I kept on headbutting him until he dropped in my hands like a sack of potatoes.

  I spit in Malakai’s face to add insult .

  “This is for Asher.”

  I then stomped my heel into Malakai's face. I kept on stamping my boots into Malakai's face until it became a wet crunch. Smashing his face into brain matter and flesh. I didn't stop until my foot touched the dirt. Blood splattered my boots and pants. The heathen was dead. I spit at him again before removing hi

  s jacket and cut the Grimsby family colors from it.

  “I’m coming for you Pigface.”