Knight's Struggle: Age Of Magic - A Kurtherian Gambit Series (Tales of the Wellspring Knight Book 2)

by P. J. Cherubino

  Astrid took a breath. She felt like reaming him a new one. “Woody, I need you to be my backup. If shit goes bad, you’ll know what to do.” She turned to her commander. “No offense, but Woody has experience that you don’t. If shit goes sour up ahead, we’ll need you to come save our asses.”

  “Understood,” the commander said.

  “If we fall back, you hold. If we call for you, you come running. Got that?”

  Both Woody and the commander shouted “Yes!”

  Astrid took off with the squad. It didn’t take long to find the front. At first, she didn’t know what the enemy was waiting for, but when she got there, she found out they were waiting for her.

  “There she is!” somebody shouted. “Fire!”

  The sound of many crossbows firing at once sounded like a drum. Two of her squad were hit, even though everyone dove for cover as soon as the enemy shouted.

  “Set and hold!” Astrid yelled, then charged forward. Half the squad took positions to provide cover fire while Astrid charged the line with the other half.

  Enemy sword fighters had taken the opportunity to run forward after their comrades fired. There were a lot more than Astrid first thought. Twenty fighters rushed in against Astrid and her six.

  But she smiled when the THOOM-HISS of friendly crossbows kept the enemy’s heads down and took out four sword fighters.

  Her eyes turned shiny black as she took a breath and pulled energy from the Well. The strength flowed through her, adding power to every running footstep.

  Blades lashed out at her as she planted her feet and threw her rope dart. The first strike caved in the skull. One down. She pulled back the dart, changing to an overhead swing as she turned to the right.

  The dart shattered another skull. She let the rope play out as she continued the swing, letting it wrap once around the neck of the man she’d just killed.

  Astrid reversed the motion with a powerful pull. The silksteel line bit into the enemy’s flesh, nearly pulling his head from his shoulders. A geyser of blood sprayed the men next to him, who recoiled in horror.

  The shock of that kill made them sloppy. Astrid pulled back, letting the rope wrap around her waist again. She tore into the blood-soaked men before they could recover, finishing them with fists and feet.

  She and her squad had opened a hole in the attacking enemy line.

  “Advance!” Astrid yelled above the din.

  The defenders became attackers. Half ran forward, swords drawn, while the others formed another line with crossbows at the ready.

  “Mover!” someone shouted.

  The sickening sound of cracking bones accompanied a scream as a man beside Astrid folded in half and flew back from a forceful touchless strike. Astrid charged forward looking for the Mover.

  Four fighters came at her. She brought her arm up to block a sword strike, then countered with a spinning side kick that snapped the woman’s neck. Planting her foot again, she squared off against two more. She was a bit slow.

  A sword caught her in the shoulder armor, bounced upward, and sliced the side of her head. She spun with the force, bringing the rope weapon into play again. The line wrapped once around her attacker. She pulled to cinch the rope and dragged him into the other attacker, knocking him down.

  That bought her some time. Part of her was grateful that those under her command obeyed her orders by dropping back. Another part didn’t look forward to the work ahead. Astrid was surrounded by more than ten men, and she still had not found the Mover.

  She turned to the fourth attacker, who made the mistake of thrusting with his sword. The tip caught her in the silksteel mesh at her abdomen. The strike would leave a bruise, but that was all.

  She smiled at the look of surprise on the man’s face as he drew back the sword and lifted it again to strike. To the untrained eye, the silksteel cloth looked like ordinary material.

  Astrid took full advantage of his surprise by smashing his face in with her fist.

  But now, the rest of the men closed in. The two she had knocked down were once again on their feet, but not for long. A barrage of crossbow bolts took them both down as the rest of their comrades rushed in.

  Astrid almost laughed at the sight. She wanted to shout out her thanks, but she also didn’t want to waste her breath. She let the rope dart do the talking.

  Jumping high, she swung with one of the darts, letting the force spin her around like a top. She landed right in the middle of the rushing mob.

  The dart splattered one skull, then wrapped around two necks as it came around. The other end of the dart caught a man in the ribs, not killing him, but taking him out of the game. Astrid pulled again, snapping both necks with the other end of the rope.

  But now, both darts were played out and no longer moving. That was not a good situation to be in with a soft weapon. Too late, she began to rethink her choice of attack.

  A sword caught her in the left arm when she tried to get the rope moving again. The strike caught her in the fabric between her bracer and the small plate that covered her bicep.

  She brought her right leg around for a sidekick that someone countered with a sword.

  Nice move, she thought. Gotta respect that. She planted her foot again, then drew from the Well for a fatal back-fist to the side of the man’s head.

  With that, the dart in her right hand came up off the bloody, slushy ground. She twirled the weapon over her head. Someone took the opportunity to rush in when Astrid lifted her arm. He didn’t live long. The egg-shaped dart turned his head into red-gray pulp and splintered bone.

  She lost track of the kills as the other side of the rope got moving again. All she had to do was get a bit of distance, and the weapon seemed to work all by itself.

  But where was the Mover? Whoever it was had attacked, killing one person, then disappeared.

  The squad commander rushed up. She’d taken a slash across the chest, but her light armor blocked most of the impact across her arm.

  “Looks like we took them out,” the commander said.

  “Looks that way,” Astrid said, surveying the scene. She felt something wasn’t right. “Let’s get you and the wounded back to Argan.”

  “It looks like we ran them off,” the commander replied.

  Astrid froze to the spot, but it wasn’t because of the cold. The Mover attacked, then disappeared. She counted more than twenty attackers, but around her were nearly a dozen bodies. This wasn’t the full force.

  She ran a few paces into the woods, and that’s where she saw the tracks. They led away from the battle, then turned to the right, where they doubled back.

  “Everyone! Get back to Argan now!” Astrid yelled.

  She drew deeply from the Well, her eyes turning black as polished onyx. She had fallen for the deception. Later, she told herself. Kick yourself later.

  They wanted her to rush to the scene of trouble. They had counted on it while the main force made its way to Argan.

  Astrid tore through the forest, running faster than she ever had. Her feet merely skimmed across the forest floor. A rooster tail of snow shot up behind her, creating a storm of ice and slush.

  She heard the screams before she came out of the forest and into the field. Buildings were on fire. There was blood in the snow. She launched herself at the first group of black-clad soldiers.

  The rope weapons shattered heads, caved in chests, and pulled off an arm or two. But her strength was fading and still, there were more. They hadn’t made it to the center of the village, but they were close.

  Suddenly, the ground rumbled. It exploded upwards in a mushroom cloud of soil and snow. Enemy bodies flew up high, then smashed back down to the ground where they writhed, broken and dying.

  Vinnie jumped up from the hole, landing atop two enemy soldiers, crushing them with his mass. Crossbow bolts and arrows shattered against his hardened flesh. He would only have several minutes of invulnerability, then he’d be killable, just like everyone else.

  The big man
used the advantage of his stone flesh to full effect. He picked up a man by the neck and crotch, then brought him down over his knee, breaking him like dry kindling. From the hole Vinnie left behind, friendly fighters streamed out, crossbows loaded and ready. Tarkon climbed out of the pit, calmly striding into battle.

  He simply ignored the arrows fired at him and blasted back with his pistols, pulverizing two enemy soldiers.

  Astrid rushed in to help, but something struck her hard on her left side. She slammed into the icy ground and slid. With the wind knocked out of her, it was hard to rise. When she finally got to her feet, she saw the world through dancing stars.

  The Mover came towards her with a longsword in each hand, spinning them as he walked forward.

  “Fancy sword-work won’t save you, you bloated goat scrotum,” Astrid said.

  She took both ends of the rope dart and twirled them in either hand, matching the motion of the enemy swords. She saw his lunge begin with a twitch of his chest. She darted in to meet him.

  A sword came up, nearly cutting Astrid between the legs. That move was meant to gut her. Had she been an instant slower, it would have—at the very least—taken her to the ground even with the armor.

  The Mover overcommitted. Astrid then came forward a half-step, bringing both darts forward and across her body in an X pattern. The rope hummed through the air like the wings of a giant bee.

  A sword flashed out. He had tried to cut the rope. Instead, the line wrapped around the blade and pulled it from his hand. Astrid spun as she came forward, bringing both darts around with her. One made solid contact, breaking ribs.

  But when she came around again, the Mover countered with a touchless strike to the center of her chest.

  OOOF! Astrid flew back. She curled up just before she landed. The backplate of her armor became a sled. She found herself tobogganing away from the fight.

  She was thirty feet away and dazed before she regained control. She jumped to her feet just in time to watch the new arrivals form three staggered lines with Vinnie’s new crossbows.

  They drove the enemy back with a wall of crossbow bolts fired every second. They fired, took a knee to reload while the next line walked forward and repeated. They, in turn, took a knee while those at the rear took their turn to advance.

  Astrid ran up to find Moxy standing up from the corpse of the Mover, blood on her ivory finger claws.

  “You set ‘em up,” Moxy said. “I’ll knock ‘em down.”

  “I got careless,” Astrid said. “Thanks for finishing him.”

  “No,” Tarkon said. “That man got lucky.”

  They had driven back the attack, but Astrid saw the bodies of fighters she knew. “Tarkon,” Astrid said. “Take Moxy. Go make sure the perimeter is secure.”

  Astrid looked around the village at the chaos all around. Villagers ran between prone figures, looking for survivors.

  “Hey!” Astrid shouted. She grabbed a Dreg running by. “Organize those people. They might come across live enemy. If they do, you be there to give them the mercy stroke. Understood?”

  She hated to give that order, but it had to be done.

  “Yes!” the Dreg said. He grabbed three more fighters, who got together with groups of villagers to find the wounded.

  “Vinnie!” Astrid called. She looked where she’d seen him last. At first, she thought there was a pile of bodies near the hole. Then, she saw the round shape of Vinnie’s great, big gut.

  She almost laughed until she saw crossbow bolts sticking out. “Oh no,” she said, her heart sinking.

  She kneeled down beside him, and he looked up at her with glassy eyes and a smile. He said something in his ancient language, then touched her cheek with his bloody hand. “Don’t worry,” he said, voice strained from the pain. “I’m a polymage, remember? I can heal.”

  “He’s too big to drag to the longhouse,” an exasperated villager said.

  “Just get me some ale,” Vinnie said. “I take power from food and drink. I’m so damn thirsty…”

  “Vinnie,” Astrid said. “Is that true, or is this like the bear?”

  When they first met, Vinnie claimed to be a polymage who could talk to animals. He had tried to communicate with a bear that was chasing a villager down the Toll Road. The attempt failed. To save them from the raging bear, Vinnie had used his tunneling ability. The only other power she’d seen him use was the projection of light from his hand.

  “No,” Vinnie replied, slurring and delirious. “Not like the bear communication experiment. I’m still working on that, though. I think if I spend more time—"

  “Vinnie!” Astrid said. “Tell us how to help you, you idiot!”

  The big man laughed and coughed up some blood. “Oh, sorry,” he said. “I told you. Ale. Lots of it.”

  One of the villagers returned with a jug of stolen ale. Astrid had to draw on the Well to pull Vinnie up to a seated position. She uncorked the jug and helped lift it to his lips. After the third gulp, crossbow bolts popped out of his gut and fell to the ground.

  He took a deep breath, then took the jug away from them. He drained the whole thing in three more rounds. When he jumped to his feet from a seated position, the ground shook beneath them.

  “Gaaaaaaahh!” Vinnie bellowed, then smashed the jug across his forehead. “I feel wonderful!”

  “That was a perfectly good jug,” one of the villagers said.

  “Sorry,” Vinnie replied, then ambled off towards the longhouse. “I’ll be tending to the wounded.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  In the nearly two weeks that Gormer and Pleth spent in Ward 52, they’d been to every inn, tavern, and food shop in town. They’d sold their contraband cheese to everyone with enough coin. They gave Mina a cut of all their action. Gormer didn’t want to, but Pleth knew the score. Keeping Mina happy made things go smoother for them.

  Gormer wanted to skim from Mina’s cut. They found out how quickly word flowed on the avenue and how deeply Mina was tapped into that flow. She knew everyone they sold to. She didn’t even need to have them followed. All she had to do was serve drinks and the barflies told her everything she needed to know. Apparently, with nothing to do in the winter, the boot maker buying some cheese was a hot topic.

  It was the gossip network that Pleth and Gormer refashioned into their spy ring. They started by taking the temperature of the gossip. It started out as moderately annoyed. They heard grumbled criticism of the changes at first. But as the days went on, those grumblings turned into outright complaints. Then, people got angry.

  One such angry barfly was ranting away at the bar when Gormer walked in. Pleth was already there.

  “I’ve always supported the Protectorate,” the man grumbled. “Lungu has a strong hand, which is what you need in this world. But hanging a nineteen-year-old bandit girl from a lamp post with no trial? I mean, sure, bandits are scummy people, but they’re people. She shoulda been in jail, not dead.”

  “And firing all the commissioners? Now the damn military is running the whole Protectorate. I heard they’ve already eaten half the winter surplus in Keep 11. How much do you think that Balan’s men ate in our keep? Janks’ men were here for months. I bet there’s not a damn bit of barley left.”

  “Well,” Gormer said, sidling up to the barfly, “I bet they ate all the cheese, too. Lucky for you, I have some of the stuff right here.”

  “Not likely they ate the cheese,” the barfly, whose name happened to be Barney, said. “They get a deal on Petran cheese and trade it up north to Ungur. I bet Protector Ungur doesn’t know about the toll’s kickback, either.”

  Pleth raised his eyebrows. “Toll kickback?” he asked. “What toll kickback?”

  Pleth shot Gormer a look. It was such a specific, obscure remark to make about the inner workings of the toll system. It didn’t seem like a simple brag.

  The barfly tapped the side of his bulbous nose, purple with burst blood vessels. “I was an Assessor once,” he confessed. “But now I trade in f
uture contracts. It’s my business to know which palm greases which.”

  “A speculator,” Gormer said with a smile.

  At that, Barney’s face darkened. Pleth deflated. It was a bad move. The word speculator had a negative connotation in the Protectorates. Technically, selling contracts for future production wasn’t legal. But that was how some struggling villages and merchants survived when they didn’t have money on hand.

  “I am a businessman,” Barney said. His fat, rosy cheeks glowed redder.

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Gormer said. He waved Mina over and motioned for another glass of sugar beet mead. The stuff was more liquor than mead, as it was made from sugar rather than honey. The sugar, of course, came from beets, hence the name. “We’re also businessmen.”

  The appearance of wine made Barney forget about his umbrage. Pleth caught on immediately.

  “We’ve been known to trade futures on occasion,” Pleth said.

  “Don’t be cagey,” Gormer pretended to scold Pleth. “Barney here sees through that. He can tell just by the way you talk how much we’re into futures.”

  Barney pulled from his cup of mead and wiped his lips with the crusty cuff of his wool coat. Pleth imagined wheels turning behind those bloodshot eyes. He continued working their mark by saying, “With all this unrest, I bet you could find a great many cheese makers who would want to hedge against troubles on the Toll Road.”

  “Yeah,” Gormer said. “You’d just need to know what was going on in the Fortress Wards.”

  “Well,” Barney said, pinching his stubbly chin between thumb and forefinger, “I do know at least six dairy farmers in the wards that are licensed to produce cheese. The small, single-product dairy farms usually are the most sensitive to market changes…”

  “If we knew what was going on down there, we could make a killing,” Pleth said with a wry smile.

  Gormer cocked his head. Too much, he thought, but Pleth got lucky.

  “I’ve always said,” Barney replied, puffing out his chest. “That I don’t trade cheese contracts. I trade information. My deals are only as good as the information I get.”