Last God Standing by Michael Boatman

was invincible again, immortal, the vassal and the vessel of something far greater.
    “Fight, my champion. Defend my honor.”
    I turned back just in time to see Hannibal’s sword whistling toward my head. I reached up with both hands and stopped the blade between my palms.
    Wow. She’s good.
    “You can thank me later, Lando Cooper,” the Morrigan replied. “Kick his Carthaginian ass!”
    The Goddess had just inducted me into the ranks of the Filail, the superhuman warrior clan that fought alongside the Irish pantheon in that country’s antiquity. They were strong, fast, supremely skilled, and utterly merciless. I shrugged, and ghostly armor, sky blue and gold, coalesced around me.
    Hannibal yanked at his blade. I allowed the momentum of his tug to pull me into a forward lunge, dived over his left hip, hit the ground behind him and rolled into a defensive crouch. Hannibal whirled to face me, his arm steady, the blade’s point unwavering. Even considering the Morrigan’s gifts, I had no illusions about who was the more experienced fighter.
    Hannibal swept in, swinging his sword in slicing figure eights. I backflipped away as he came on, once, twice, three times, kicking up dust and burning debris, my final leap carrying me over the giant sword still embedded in the dirt. I reached down, pulled it easily from the ruined earth and landed just in time to block Hannibal’s blade with it. The clash of steel struck sparks, and rang loudly enough to shatter all the unshattered windows in what was left of Rome.
    The Morrigan’s blessing filled my body with certainty. I pushed Hannibal back, swept in with a flourish and brought the Nubian blade down toward his head. Hannibal parried easily, sliding my blade along the length of his own, only to spin around at the last moment, stepping past my thrust even as a vicious-looking curved knife appeared in his left fist. I barely got my sword up in time to block a left handed jab that would have opened my belly, and twisted around and under the backhanded return slash from the big scimitar.
    Hannibal lunged forward again, his right fist slicing the air with the knife, followed by a left handed sweeping cut with the sword, a parry, a thrust, his blades whirling as he came for me. Then his right elbow connected with a solid blow to my forehead and I saw stars. Dodging, shielded from the worst of the attack by the Morrigan’s blessing, I countered him move for move, planted a shimmering spectral boot in his chest and pushed him back. Then I pressed my attack. I became a whirlwind of motion and magic, thrusting and hacking until Hannibal backed away, unable to break past the wall of coolness that surrounded me.
    “You’re not the fighter I’ve read about, Hannibal. I think maybe Hades got the best of you.”
    Hannibal roared, countered my strike, lunged, thrust and missed.
    “Think about it, HannaBell,” I said, circling him now. “The warrior who fought the Holy Roman Empire to a draw. Then you take poison and Bam! You spend the next two thousand years climbing out of the Roman version of Hell. Even you gotta admit: that’s funny.”
    And that’s when the Morrigan’s blazing strength flickered and went out.
     

CHAPTER VI
HANNIBAL TIME
    “Morrigan! What are you doing?”
    I ducked, barely avoiding Hannibal’s crosscut with the short sword. The Lion of Carthage gritted his teeth in his lupine grin and came ahead, swinging.
    “Morrigan!”
    I leaped backward as Hannibal moved in for the kill, risking a glance toward where the Morrigan should have been hovering. But another woman lay sprawled on the ground. Her gorgeous face and figure had been replaced by those of Megan McCool, the Morrigan’s human host. McCool was snoring. I could make out the trail of drool sliding down her chins. Apart from being schizophrenic, McCool was also a narcoleptic: the strain of godly combat had triggered a seizure.
    A sizzling band of agony wrapped itself around my neck and yanked me off my