Chapter 82: [82]:Xenovia
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The halberds burned demon flesh. He learned that the hard way. A particularly accurate blow had threatened to amputate his left arm at the shoulder. He had thrown the limb away from the falling blade's path at the last second, and instead of biting deep into flesh, the polearm merely grazed his arm. It had still been enough to fuse the fabric of his shirt with his skin. Pain had lanced into his mind, made all the more acute due to the presence that resided in his head. Belial's rage was a physical thing, and it translated into a gout of flame he had flung in the offending Templar's way. Not enough to kill but enough to make them hesitate.
At least he could do that. All around him his allies fought the same foes and suffered far worse.
Irina exchanged blows with a squad of knights, her sword of light dancing in elegant patterns. They might as well been pinpricks against her foes' enchanted warplate. In return, halberds cleaved down at her in every direction and forced her to constantly retreat. Freed had long since joined the fighting and had chosen Xenovia as his opponent. It had been clear from the first clash that the wielder of Durandal was the superior swordsman, but Xenovia had no bodyguard of Templars to call her own, and that made all the difference. The enemy exorcist would constantly withdraw behind the wall of halberd points when his opponent gained the upper hand and dart out again when his minions had worn Xenovia down for another try. For all its simplicity, the tactic was working. The girl was visibly tiring, and the immaculate form she had displayed when the battle began had been reduced to the most basic blocks and parries. Durandal, a sword worthy of kings, became nothing more than a piece of metal draped in lethal energy in her hands.
Here was a lesson that both he and the other members of SEES had learned when exploring the depths of Tartarus. A weapon was only as strong as its wielder. No matter how fabled the weapon was, it was still dependent on its user's skill. And once exhaustion set in, once weariness bit into bone, the prominence of a weapon mattered little. The same applied here, but instead of Shadows they were fighting humans, who were much more capable when it came to tactics.
That much had been apparent when he had tried to link up with his allies on three separate occasions, and been rebuffed each time. His enemies gave him no time to rest, no time to recover, constantly attacking, constantly probing at his flanks, threatening to overwhelm him at the slightest hesitation he showed. He couldn't even summon Belial if he wanted to, such was the nature of this combat, where a moment of indecision could invite the fall of a blade onto his unprotected body.