Thorvald’s Wyrd 115
Icewind’s hands blurred, appearing between his stomach and the sword’s tip. Air hardened in front of his open palms, spinning a shield that did more than merely block Thorvald’s last weapon. Steel splintered against the frozen air. The force behind the thrust should have sent the blade deep into vital organs, but instead bits of brittle metal rained on the soft carpet beneath.
Despair flooded his heart as the hilt fell from Thorvald’s fingers, bouncing to rest among the shards. Weaponless, he stood slump-shouldered as the sorcerer raised both fists and roared his triumph, cold eyes ablaze with cobalt fire.