Highcliff Pt. 10

Vanmorten gripped the boy’s head in a clawed hand, knotting his black knuckles into his hair. Drew winced as the beast lowered his lips to his ear. “Now die, last Wolf,” he spat in his ear, breath hot and foul. “Die like a dog.” He loosed his grip and Drew heard the tip of his father’s Wolfshead blade scrape along the floor as Vanmorten prepared to use it against him. In the midst of the raging fire Drew’s gaze settled on a familiarlooking clay flask that lay in the jumble of broken goods. He recognized it from his time in the belly of the Maelstrom. Drew tore free, leaving clumps of his hair in the monster’s clawed hand, snatching at the flask as he collapsed onto his back, hurling it up into the air at the Ratlord.
With unerring accuracy the clay jar hit the Wererat clean on the jaw, exploding and sending Spyr Oil showering over Vanmorten’s face and torso. It was the lord chancellor’s turn to be temporarily blinded as the thick, spiced oil stung his red eyes. Drew brought his good leg back, knee up to his chest, and with all the strength he could muster kicked up and out. His foot connected with the Wererat in the pit of his groin, sending him wheeling backward, snatching at thin air along the top of the wall as he reeled back into the fire.

B1 P6 C8