He slid under the lowest rail of the fence that separated his property from the road, slowly wiggling his back against the ground, and then turned onto his front and squinted. If these men were as trained as he expected them to be, they would see any sudden movements and had no idea if Bryon was ready to attack yet. In their haste, they failed to discuss a cue.
As if his mind was being read, Erik heard the hoot of an owl but the feigned sound didn’t fool the attackers and, in the moonlight, he could see eyes darting around in the darkness. He heard another quick gust of wind, and something thudded into the ground several paces away; another arrow from Bryon. A miss. Was it on purpose? It didn’t matter, because as the three figures stood, he saw a purple glow. The shadows shouted and the glint of steel flashed in the space between the three men and Bryon. The glow grew closer, weaving back and forth, bobbing up and down, trying to confuse. Erik unsheathed Dragon Tooth.
He didn’t understand Durathnan, but when Dragon Tooth flared with its green flame, the men became excited. They knew about the sword, or perhaps it was because they were trapped between two magical blades. Whatever the case, their words were angry and hateful, regardless of the language. As he now rushed towards them, Erik saw one had turned towards him. The other two concentrated on Bryon.
The man’s clothing was black and he seemed to be wearing a dark cloth mask as well as having smothered some blackening agent on the blades of his two short swords; Erik could only see their sharp-looking edges. The man moved quickly and precisely, but as Erik closed in on him, he could the assassin blinking wildly in the green light of his sword.
Erik rolled underneath the swipes from the short swords. He came up, blocking two more overhead strikes and kicked out, the heel of his boot crashing against the man’s shin. The assassin gave a short cry and attacked again. He was fast and strong and stealthy. He said something, directly to Erik, but he didn’t understand the words.
“I don’t know what you’re saying,” Erik said, swatting one short sword away and then swing down hard, knocking the other one out of the assassin’s hand.
The sound of metal scraping against leather told Erik that the assassin had drawn another blade. From the corner of his eye, Erik could see flashes of purple. He felt a fist in his ribs and an elbow to the side of his head. It wasn’t enough to knock him unconscious, even daze him, really, but it did push him back. This assassin knew how to fight, with both weapons and hand, but it was a style Erik was familiar with. Wrothgard had taught him, but he also shown Erik to improvise.
He heard cloth flutter and sensed another fist, this one clutching a blade, flying towards his face again. He ducked, stomped his boot heel on the man’s toe and brought his knee up into the man’s crotch. He felt balls crush under his knee and the unmistakable sound of air leaving a man’s lungs. He expected the assassin to fall into him, but rather, despite his obvious pain, he rolled backwards, coming up into a crouched position before lunging at Erik again. This one was rather persistent.
Erik felt the air move again as he ducked once more, a blade passing over his head. He leapt backwards when another blade tried to slash at his throat and then chanced a kick, connecting with a leather greave with enough force to send his attacker to one knee. He swung downward, his blade catching in the middle of the assassin’s two crossed weapons. Erik pulled his sword through and then swiped up, knocking the dagger and short sword out to the side. He saw the flick of the man’s wrist and instinctively jerked to one side, a knife barely missing his cheek. It probably wouldn’t have caused much damage, if these men were truly assassins, it was likely to have been poisoned.
Erik kicked up again. The assassin blocked his foot with a hand, but at the same time, he brought Dragon Tooth down; and hard. The green flame around the sword flared and the assassin screamed as the blade cleaved through his shoulder and into his ribs, and some of his black clothing caught fire as Erik retrieved his weapon.
The Durathnan fell forward, dead, his burning clothes lighting up the scene of the fight. As much as Bryon’s handling of a sword might not have been as good as Erik’s, he was holding his own against the other two men and the smell of burning flesh—together with the green of Erik’s sword—told them they were now on their own.
Erik faced Bryon and gave his cousin a quick nod, just enough of a sign that he was all right and Erik was there for him. The other Durathnans split their attention between their two opponents. The flames of burning cloth began to die, but in the dim light, Erik could see they were slight men, short and thin, wearing black clothing that hugged their bodies. Half masks covered everything but their eyes and they wore hoods.
The Durathnan assassin facing Erik squinted, his black eyes hateful. He flicked a wrist and a small, double bladed knife twirled at Erik, both sides undoubtedly coated with some sort of poison. He didn’t know if the man meant for the attack to cause injury, or if he meant for it to simply distract Erik, but it did neither. Gripping Dragon Tooth with both hands, Erik swung down hard, but the lithe attacker rolled out of the way, flicking his wrists two more times.
One of the two-sided knives caught Erik on his left hand as he brought it up to shield his face. The weapon bounced away, drawing a small trail of blood, but the wound burned. Erik hoped it wasn’t a deadly poison. The assassin did a back flip, kicking up at Erik at the same time, before landing in a crouch. He wheeled his foot around, trying to trip Erik, but he jumped high over the assassin’s leg. The moment he landed, Erik slashed at the man’s leg, cutting flesh and causing the black pants to catch fire.
The Durathnan stood quickly as he let out an involuntary yelp and slapped at his leg, trying to extinguish the fire. Erik took advantage of the distraction, and rushed in, ramming the assassin with his shoulder, grabbing his throat with his left hand, and thrusting upward with Dragon Tooth. The hateful eyes went wide and Erik could smell the sickening combination of bile and blood, trapped between the mask covering the man’s mouth and his lips.
Erik felt a knee in his side as he pressed into the dead man and saw a flash of black run past him. He looked to Bryon, pushing himself up quickly from his knees.
“Are you all right?” Erik asked.
“Never better,” Bryon replied, breathing heavy. “Don’t let him get away.”
They both gave chase, but the assassin was fast, and the road was dark, causing Erik to stumble over a rock or a small ditch several times.
“We’re going to lose him,” Bryon said.
“Here,” Erik said, stopping and reaching into his boot, grasping the small handle of a small knife he always kept in his boot.
It was hardly a weapon, something meant as a tool around the farm, but it might be enough, if well aimed, to slow the assassin. Erik tossed the knife to Bryon who caught and in one motion, threw it. Despite the darkness of the night—the moon only rising a bit more and casting its white light on the farmsteads—Bryon had impeccable aim and the small tool flew blade over handle, into the center of the Durathnan’s back. The yelped and stumbled forward, now tripping on the even ground until he was sliding along, face first. In moments, Bryon and Erik were on the man, kicking away his weapons and Erik dropped on their target, holding him down.
The man struggled, but Erik drove his knee into the assassin’s neck as Bryon pointed his elvish blade at the man’s face, the tip sizzling as it touched his flesh. The man fell still, but groaned loudly underneath his half mask.
“What do you want?” Erik asked.
The man replied in his native tongue, but with clear hatred in his voice.
“We don’t speak your language, Durathnan,” Bryon said, bringing the tip of his elvish blade closer to the assassin’s eye.
“You,” the assassin said, his accent rolling and fluid. “I want you.”
“Me?” Erik asked.
“Both of you,” the assassin added. “And the Dragon Sword.”
“Why?” Erik asked.
He felt the man shrug under his weight.
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��I do as I’m told,” he said.
“It’ll be to your death,” Bryon said.
“Then I die fighting an enemy of the north,” the man replied.
“An enemy of the…” Erik began to say.
He grabbed the Durathnan’s shoulder and pulled the man up, so that he was kneeling. Erik tore away the mask, revealing a young man, clean shaven with a strong jaw. His hair was short and either black or brown, but he couldn’t tell in the moonlight.
“Gol-Durathna?” Erik asked. “I don’t know why Amentus hates me. I am no enemy of the north.”
“Don’t banter with him Erik,” Bryon said, “He’s not worth it.”
Erik ignored his cousin.
“Speak,” Erik said. He shook the man.
“You serve the Lord of the East,” the assassin accused.
“I serve the Creator,” Erik retorted, “and my family and friends. I have never served the Lord of the East.”
The assassin shrugged again.
“The Dragon Sword is gone,” Erik said, lifting up Dragon Tooth. “This is Dragon Tooth, and it is mine, no one else’s.”
“More will come,” the assassin said. “The Atrimus never sleep. Whether you serve the Lord of the East or not, it doesn’t matter. Alive, you are still a danger to my people.”
“You can fight me all you wish, but leave my family alone. Take back that message, and I will let you live.” Erik said.
The man looked up at Erik, the green light from Dragon Tooth reflecting across his face. He smiled.
“Never,” he said.
As Erik lifted Dragon Tooth, the man threw his head back.
“Atrimus!” he shouted and Erik brought his blade down hard.
About the Author
Christopher Patterson lives in Tucson, Arizona with his wife and three children. Christopher has a Masters in Education and is a teacher of many subjects, including English, History, Government, Economics, and Health. He is also a football and wrestling coach. Christopher fostered a love of the arts at a very young age, picking up the guitar at 7, the bass at 10, and dabbling in drawing and writing around the same time. His first major at the University of Arizona was, in fact, a BFA in Classical Guitar Performance, although he would eventually earn a BA in Literature and a BFA in Creative Writing.
Christopher Patterson grew up watching Star Wars, Dragon Slayer, and a cartoon version of The Hobbit. He started reading fantasy novels from a young age, took an early interest in early, Medieval Europe, and played Dungeons and Dragons. He has read The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, and the Wizard of Earthsea many times and heralds Tolkien, Jordan, and Martin, among others, as major influences in his own writing.
Christopher is also very involved in church, especially music and youth ministries, and is very active, having been a competitive power lifter since high school.
He thanks his grandmother for letting him waste paper on her typewriter while trying to write the "Next Great American Novel" and his parents for always supporting his dreams.
Also by Christopher Patterson
The Shadow’s Fire Series
A Chance Beginning
Dark Winds
Breaking the Flame
The Demon’s Fire Series
Dragon Sword
Stone of Chaos
Demon Rising
Holy Warriors
To Kill A Witch
Dragon Sword: Demon's Fire Book 1 Page 45