"The spear is not about strength, boy. It's about timing. Wait for the moment when your enemy thinks they've won. Then take it from them."
***
The wounded hobgoblin chose that moment to attack.
Rhys threw himself sideways.
The massive blade whistled past his ear. Close enough that he could smell the rancid oil coating its edge. Close enough that he felt individual hairs on his head shift from the passage of steel.
That sound. That whooshing split of air.
His father had taught him to listen for it when he was barely tall enough to hold a spear properly. "Hear that whistle, boy? That's the song the reaper sings before he takes you. Learn it well, so you know when to duck."
Good advice.
The kind that kept you breathing in Blackwood Glade.
He thrust with the spear before his feet had even settled. Acting on instinct more than thought. The bloodied point found the same gap in the creature's ribs he'd exploited before.
