"Incoming," Thomas muttered. The whisper came like a frost-thread on the ear; Ludwig didn't need eyes to feel the pressure thicken, as if the sky decided to lean.
"I know," Ludwig said without even looking up, his hand flicked up with Durandal this time, the sound of impact was enough to blast snow and ice apart as the Undead Ludwig was capable of contending strength with the two arms holding the mace that could tear down mountains. Durandal rang like struck wire, a clean, taut note buried in thunder. The shock tore a clean tunnel through the drifting flakes, a white cylinder punched open by force alone. Cold rushed in and the smell of iron surged up, a foundry in the clouds.
The two weapons, one that looks like a needle, and the other that was the size of a building clashed but neither gave way. The absurdity of it would have been funny if not for the stakes: a pin against a cathedral, a sewing awl against a siege engine.
