The apocalypse resounded with the thunder of hooves and the scent of iron. Under his legs Ezekiel felt the muscles of his horse pulse and round with each turn. He felt the earth below this, shaking. There was not much room for thought—he managed to fire only one more arrow, driving it deep into an opening of the wolf’s armor. It was a move that cost him, for the sword swung high and cut through the string, severing it, driving hard and deep into the de le Poer’s arm. Viggo reared suddenly and Ezekiel, in a panic, grabbed a fistful of mane. The massive horse kicked out at the other stallion, who responded in kind, but even that did not slow the swinging sword, the resounding cries of anger from the wolf.
He heard words, but they were somehow muted, somehow meaningless. He heard ‘your father’, and ‘God’, and ‘damnation’. He saw hate. The bow was shoved against his side, pinned by the weight of the bag there, and then he had only the sword. What Halo had taught him was not enough, and it showed. His motions were harsh and savage, hacking rather than practiced. It didn’t matter. The world was falling apart around him, and all Ezekiel saw was the path before him.
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