hit with Sanya

Ethniu swept her stolen spear from left to right like a windshield wiper, and she was fast, way faster than she’d looked when I hadn’t been within stab range. I tried to slip the parry but was just too slow, and she batted the Spear aside, seized Sanya by a handful of his mail shirt, and threw him at me with about as much energy as a runaway golf cart.
We both went down in a heap, hard enough to take breath and cause stars and comets to whirl in front of us.
Esperacchius spun out of Sanya’s hands.
There was blood on it.
The Titan’s blood.
Ethniu glanced at a smoldering pile of what was mostly corpses, their body fat blazing in flames where one of the bolts of lightning or flying shards of Power had struck incidental targets. With the head of the spear, she flicked the Sword of Hope, smeared with blood too red to be real, into the fire.
And then she thrust her wounded arm into it, her expression twisting with pain as the fire scorched and boiled the wound.
The light of the Sword died.
Hundreds screamed with the Titan’s pain.
And the world suddenly got a whole hell of a lot darker.
“Trinkets of the Redeemer,” she snarled, her voice absolutely bubbling with hatred. She rose, whipping her burned arm out of the fire. The wound hadn’t been a very big one, even struck with Esperacchius, and she had cauterized it closed, apparently. Though the surface of her bronze skin was untouched, the flesh inside the wound had been charred like meat on a grill. “Maggots crawling on our beautiful world. Infesting it. Humans.”
Hate seethed through her, vibrated off her like heat from a fire. The Titan twisted her face in a rictus of concentration.
And the Eye kindled to scarlet life and began to brighten.
“Damn,” Sanya muttered, as the Titan turned toward us. The scarlet warlight of the Eye let me at least see Sanya. The big man was lying on his back. Something in the area of his collarbone was . . . just wrong, under the skin. It wasn’t shaped like humans were supposed to be shaped. His voice was thready, and he panted as though each inhalation was of pure fire. “Was pretty sure that would work.”
“Get her,” I said. “Not much of a plan.”
“No. For next time, need better plan.”
I blinked and looked at the Russian as the red glare brightened.
“Next time?”
He grinned at me, though he couldn’t move, in sheer mad defiance.
Supercool magical pokey stick or not, I didn’t have what it took to stand up to power on the order of magnitude of the Eye of Balor. My heaviest magical punch was nowhere close to what my grandfather could throw, and that hadn’t gotten through her armor, either. Even if I was a lot better, even if I threw it out as a death curse, the best spell I had wouldn’t surpass what the old man could do.
And I still hadn’t gotten to her blood.
If I was going to bind the Titan, I needed that. And I needed her closer to the water.
The Spear quivered with power, and I could feel the sheer metaphysical mass of the thing, its utter reality. It was, in many ways, just a spear. But it was a spear to everything. If I could stick it in the Titan, she would bleed.
But she was twenty rough feet away. And I’d have to get close enough to even have a shot at hitting her. And she’d have to be so slow that merely human reflexes could manage the task.
None of which was going to happen before she unleashed the Eye.
But I shoved myself to my feet, Spear in hand, brought forth my shield, and stepped forward, in front of the fallen Knight of Hope. No particular reason to do it. Not a lot of hope to be had.

Battle Ground Chapter 33, Page 320-321