Carapace

Perhaps mistaking the Hunter’s muttering as a plea for his life, one of the
Barbarois leapt into the air with a cry like a savage roc. When he
straightened up, his body was round overall, yet his stomach was flat as a
board, a shape that was reminiscent of a tortoise. The beast stretched his
arms toward D’s face. The fingertips fused with the nails and became like
the horns of a bull. If they but touched him, they’d gouge away a chunk of
flesh and bone.

The two figures passed each other—one in the air and one on the ground—
and the rotund man landed lightly as he came back to earth.

Maybe it was the stirring of the villagers that called forth the bloody mist. A
number of them had caught the silvery flash that shot out faster than the eye
could follow in the instant the man had passed D. But, no—they’d certainly
seen the man’s head pull into his clothing just as D’s blade was about to
strike. Like a tortoise, the man’s body was covered by a carapace that was
impervious to even bullets, and his hands and feet could stretch like springs.

But his carapace cracked down the middle just as he landed. The face of the
man that appeared from the bottom, the serpentine neck, the tangle of
intestines—all of them had been split in two right down to the crotch, and
the man sent up a spray of blood as he toppled.

For the first time, the others saw the blade shining in D’s right hand. There
was no one foolish enough among them to press the Hunter a second time,
despite the gut-deep rage they felt at the death of their comrade and friend.
The realization that this youth possessed an unholy prowess with the sword
seeped into the marrow of their bones.

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