Kurt sliced in with his blade on the supporting arm, the one that was holding the mace, the left. The blade sliced in again, chopping down to the bone. The mace fell from lifeless fingers as the creature roared and tried to regain its feet. A slice at the right knee hurt that leg even more, and Kurt backed away, looking for the killing stroke.
He knew his blade wouldn’t cut through the thick, steel hard bones, so there was no way he was going to cut through a limb or sever the head. But he might still bleed the creature out with enough deep wounds, or cut off its air supply by cutting its throat. As he thought about his strategy he continued to monitor the creature. He was very surprised when it reached over with the hand he had crippled with his first stroke and picked up its mace. He looked closely at the arm while the monster pushed the mace his way, trying to keep him back. He saw that where the cut had been was now a thick scar. A scar that was diminishing and fading as he watched. Looking at the legs he saw that those wounds had also closed or were closing. Then the creature lurched to his feet and steadied himself.
Damned thing regenerates, he thought, wondering again how he would kill it. The ground rumbled underneath his feet at that moment and a shadow passed over his vision. Startled, the German looked up to his right in time to see a mace descending. He quickly brought his sword up to block the weapon, diverting most of the impact along the blade. One of the Troll’s fingers was caught up by the blade and fell to the ground. The finger continued to wriggle along the ground as if a sentient creature, while the Troll, missing a finger, flung his arm up high with the mace and swung it down once again. Kurt dodged away, coming within reach of the first Troll, who staggered forward and swiped at him with its mace. Now he was in a fight with two difficult to kill behemoths, and all he could consider at the moment was keeping life in his own body.
I know that bastard was blind, he thought, looking at the second Troll that still had blood dripping from his face, but with two perfectly good angry red orbs glaring from it. So they regenerate eyes too. Then the creature swung at him again and he was forced to dodge.
As he was dodging, striking back when he could and leaving what always would be superficial wounds on these creatures, he heard another roar. He glanced to his right, up the road, and saw the third creature coming at a shuffling run toward him. And to his horror he saw the fourth, which had appeared to be dead, raise its head and look around for a second, then push itself up and come his way.
“Ishmael,” he called out, looking for his friend, while backpedaling quickly. At that moment his legs hit something and he fell over onto his back, rolling on the ground with the woman he had thought was dead, who was groaning and pulling the arrow from her own body.
* * *
Levine finished off another of the Elves, pulling his blade across the throat of the man and half severing his head. The Elves were worthy opponents, he had to admit. They outclassed him in grace and agility. But he was faster, quicker and much stronger than they were. And he was the complete dirty fighter, with tricks they had never seen. Add to that their magic appeared to have no effect on him, and he was their worst nightmare moving through their last waking moments.
Another Elf gestured at him, murmuring some words under his breath. Levine felt the energy wash over him, and a nearby German soldier fell to his knees, his eyes unfocused for a moment. The Elf frowned, then eyes widened in alarm as the immortal headed for him at a run, putting his sword through the man’s ribs and leaving him coughing out his life on the ground.
Damned sleep spell, thought the immortal, shaking his head, catching a glimpse of the German soldier staggering back to his feet. Many of the Elves seemed to have that spell, and they had knocked out more of the soldiers than they had killed in combat. Of course that was as good a way of putting them out of action, as they were almost impossible to awaken. And the enemy was willing, almost eager, to take prisoners. Levine was not sure why, but was sure it was not because of any altruistic feelings on the part of the Elves. At least when I kill the attacker their magic seems to fade with them, he thought, picking out another target, a small group of Orcs, and heading for them.
“Ishmael,” yelled a loud voice from some distance.
Levine turned, his eyes immediately focusing on a large man in armor, about a hundred meters away, who was battling against a trio of very large opponents. As he watched the human stumbled backwards and fell over, a large mace missing him as he toppled.
“You,” yelled Levine to a soldier who was reloading his rifle, his eyes searching for targets. “Do you have any flamethrowers with your unit?”
“I don’t think so,” said the Sergeant, looking confused for a moment, then glancing over at the Trolls. Recognition of the problem registered on his face and he nodded. “I’ll see what I can find.”
Levine waved a hand and ran toward his friend, reveling in the speed of his rush. I could have shown up Hitler in that damned Olympics of his, thought the Jew as he ran lightly over the ground. He would have loved to have his resident supermen outdone by a member of an inferior race. But I guess it was enough that the black man humbled him.
Levine knew that he was not like other men, besides his long life and seemingly eternal youth. He was faster, quicker and stronger than other men. His abilities had increased as he got older. But they had also increased when he had arrived on this new world, as if something here resonated with his abilities. He knew that Kurt had felt it as well, though the other immortal was much younger, just into the beginning of his second century. He could also feel the heat building up in his body. The damnable heat that caused nerve damage and loss of memory.
Then the time for thought was past, as the back of a Troll loomed up before him and he went in for the strike.
* * *
One of the Trolls stepped forward, brought his legs apart in a wide stance, and swung his mace down at the big German. Kurt brought his two handed sword up, one hand on the grip in the middle of the blade, and locked his arms. The head of the mace hit the blade with the clang of metal, and Kurt felt his arms pushed down by the massive strength of the creature. Gritting his teeth, feeling the weight of the monster behind the weapon that threatened to push him down into the ground, the German pushed back with all of his might. Pushed back, and felt his arms straighten as he pushed the mace up and the Troll backwards. The creature stared down at him in disbelief, clearly surprised that such a small being had such strength.
Kurt shoved hard, unbalancing the Troll, then pulled the sword back down and rolled to the side, just as another of the monsters swung his mace to connect with the ground where Kurt’s head had been. The mace dug into the ground and Kurt rolled up to his feet, sword coming to the guard position. He swung a hard strike into the leg of the Troll who was still trying to gain his balance, cutting into the flesh and dropping the creature into a kneel. He dodged back as the second Troll swung a waist high strike at him, then did a roll over the sweep, landing on his feet and bringing his blade around to knock the mace of the third Troll out wide before it could come down on the helpless woman who was trying to sit up, the bloody shaft of an arrow in her hands.
The farthest Troll, the one he had leapt over, came back in with its mace raised overhead, trying to come down with the weapon on Kurt’s head and smash the human into the dirt. The monster roared as blood spurted from its neck, then its left arm. The creature turned into the flurry of a sword as Levine came into the fight.
“Get her back up,” said Levine, pointing with his chin at the woman. “I’ll keep them busy for a moment.”
Kurt nodded as the Jew went into a frenzy of movement, shield seemingly everywhere at once as his sword danced around the three Trolls, drawing blood with every dart. He reached down and grabbed the woman by the shoulder of her jacket and pulled her back, dragging her along the ground, backing clear of the fight.
“You wait here,” he said to the woman as he gently lowered her shoulder. He could see that the front of her jacket was covered in blood, bu
t the eyes that looked back into his were free of pain and seemed very clear. She nodded and he looked back to the fray, where his friend was keeping the Trolls busy with his swordsmanship, moving like a ghost among them. He swung his own sword once and yelled out a battle cry, moving in as he saw a fourth Troll coming in a shambling trot to join the battle.
* * *
Sergeant Mier knew that there were some flame rockets somewhere in the battalion. But damned if he could remember where they were at the moment.
“I need fire,” he yelled to the people milling around the road. A number of civilian men had come out of the woods, and were picking up weapons from dead soldiers and those who appeared to be knocked out for some reason. One civilian was picking up a rifle and handling it with seeming ease, and the Sergeant wondered about his background for just a moment. Not that it was unusual, as Germany had been a total mobilization nation, and most of the men in their twenties to forties had served a stint in the Army, and put in some periodic training time in the reserves. But this man looked like he was an expert.
“Do you know where I can get some fire?” he asked the man, running up to him. The man looked at him for a moment with cold eyes, the wind rustling his short blond hair, then nodded and walked over to a Volkswagen that was sitting on the side of the path.
“I meant to use them on the Bolsheviks if they came to town,” said the middle aged man, putting a key in the lock and opening the trunk. Inside were a number of long guns with scopes, a couple of pistols, and a plastic case with a dozen metal capped wine bottles sitting in it.
“Shake the bottle to get everything wet,” said the man, turning the bottle over and shaking it. “Then twist off the cap, pull the wick out a bit, light it, and throw.”
“Molotov cocktails,” exclaimed the Sergeant, looking up and into the cold blue eyes that could have come from an SS recruiting poster seventy years ago.
“Like I said, I was preparing for the Ivans if they came calling.”
More likely a communist or terrorist cell member, thought Mier. He would have arrested the man on the spot and turned him over to the police, on Earth. But here the man was in the same boat as the rest of them. Here he will be a hero, if we live through this day.
The Sergeant grabbed a couple of the impromptu fire bombs and slid them into the large side pockets of his pants, then hefted another couple into his hands.
“You grab some more and come with me,” he ordered the civilian. The man nodded with a smile and placed four more of the bottles in a haversack, putting the bag over his shoulders.
“Lead on, Sergeant,” said the man, his cold eyes lighting up.
Sergeant Mier nodded his head and turned away, running toward the small battle of humans against Trolls. He heard the clinking of bottles behind him and knew the man was following. Behind he could hear the fire of weapons and the cries of men. The firing increased in intensity, a crackling storm of small arms. But he couldn’t worry about behind now, as his mission lay to the front.
I must be insane, he thought as he ran toward the monsters, feeling the fatigue of the last couple of days catching up with him. He was running to fight some monsters out of a nightmare, on a strange world, with a probable terrorist as his partner. He wondered if he would wake up in an asylum tomorrow, this a psychotic fantasy of a broken mind. Don’t think like that. If nothing else down that road lay inaction, with him curled up on the floor of some room. Not what was needed at this time.
* * *
Jackie stood up, throwing the arrow to the ground. She couldn’t believe that she felt so fit. She tested the hip that she was sure had been shattered by the hit of the mace. It seemed just a little tight, but the joint seemed to be functioning perfectly. And though she felt just a little lightheaded, it was not the feeling of someone who had lost a shitload of blood, and who should be feeling a great deal of pain in her chest after being shot through a lung. And her two rescuers were fighting the monsters that had come to crush her into the ground after she was hit by the arrow and swatted away by one of the Trolls.
She shook her head, clearing it, and she watched the two men dance and weave among the four monsters, their swords scoring hit after hit on the seemingly unstoppable creatures. Black blood was flying, but the creatures were not stopping.
The U S Army Lieutenant looked around for anything to use as a weapon. She needed a weapon, if she were to get back into the fight. And a rifle or pistol was not going to do anything to the Trolls that she wanted to get at.
What about that, she thought, spying one of the giant maces lying on the ground about twenty meters away. One of the creatures must have dropped it during the fight. She had seen that they each carried two of the weapons, but only a couple were wielding double. It looked very large, and probably too heavy for her. But she needed something, and she had already surprised herself several times today with her abilities.
A clanging smack brought her around to look up at the fight. The larger man was falling backwards, while a Troll was following through on a hit. The man hit the ground, stunned for a moment, while the smaller quicker man thrust his sword into the arm of a Troll and then spun away, bringing his shield into the path of the mace as it came back in at his friend. Mace hit shield and the smaller man leaned into the blow, his feet skidding a moment on the grass but keeping his balance and blocking the massive weapon.
Jackie made up her mind and ran for the mace, her hands reaching down to grasp the handle. Picking it up she spun around to face the Trolls. The mace felt like a much smaller hammer as it came up from the ground in her hands, and she marveled for a moment at its lightness. She swung it through the air as she advanced on one of the Trolls from its flank, while the two men, the big one once again on his feet, battled them from the front.
Jackie put all of her power into the hit, swinging the mace into the right arm of the outermost creature. The weapon hit just above the elbow, one spike sinking deep into the biceps muscle while two more scored shallow cuts. The creature roared, turning away from the man it had been confronting, and pulled its arm away, almost jerking the mace out of her two handed grip. She held on and the mace came out, and the monster raised its right arm and the mace it held over its head. It stepped forward and swung the mace down. She dodged the blow of the clumsy creature, then stepped back with a two handed backhand swing that connected with the monster’s face and drove it back. It roared through broken teeth and stepped away, swinging its mace back and forth to keep her at bay. She dodged and swung, missing. The creature looked at her for a moment, then flashed its sharp teeth at her. Teeth that showed no signs of the mace smashing them just moments before.
* * *
Kurt grunted in surprise as the woman he had first seen lying on the ground with an arrow through her lung hit the Troll on his far left with a mace that looked much too big for her to handle. Not only hit the monster, but hurt it. Then his attention was brought back to the Troll to his right, as that creature hit him on the shoulder with its mace and drove him to his knees. The blow hurt, and he lost the use of his left arm, swinging the sword with his remaining arm to cut at the Troll’s legs. The monster moved back, and Kurt was back on his feet, the pain in his left shoulder bringing tears to his eyes as he back swung the two handed sword in front of him to keep the Troll back.
I’m getting damned tired of this, he thought, coming back with an overhand swing. His left shoulder was already feeling slightly better, and he felt he could move that arm just a little. But he was wearing down, and could feel the heat buildup in his body that was sure to cause some damage. It was only a matter of time before these invulnerable fighting machines got in a debilitating blow, then proceeded to grind him to pulp.
The Troll backed up for a moment, as if it needed to catch its breath too. It gave the big man an exasperated looking stare, probably wondering why this smaller creature was refusing to be beaten down by it, so it and its kin could go and slaughter more of them. The creature squared its jaw, raised its mace, a
nd took a step forward, every muscle taunt as it prepared for the kill.
A flare of fire caught his eye, and Kurt swiveled his head in time to see the bottle come flying at the Troll he was fighting, flame and smoke streaming from the wick at the end. The bottle hit the Troll on the helmet, bursting, sending flames over the head and shoulders of the creature. Some of the fire flew off, almost hitting the woman who was aiding them in the fight. But most of it stuck to the creature and burned into its flesh. The Troll let out a piercing scream. The fire flowed into the open mouth as the creature writhed and jumped. A second bottle hit it on the lower back, and the creature dropped its mace and tried to reach back to put out the fire. Unable to, it fell to a knee, then forward on its face while the fire spread across its body.
Kurt backed away when a bottle came in to hit another Troll, this one on the chest while it was turning. The fire again stuck to the creature, jellied gasoline prepared by someone who knew what they were doing. Two more bottles hit the creature and it too went to the ground, its body burning away in oily smoke.
The remaining two Trolls backed away, then turned to run. Kurt came after one, taking the back of a knee out with his sword. Levine did the same to the other, and both creatures were on their hands and knees, trying to crawl away. A soldier ran up and threw a bottle hard onto the upper back of one creature, while a hard eyed civilian did the same to the other. They threw their remaining bottles on the creatures as well, turning them into torches that burned on the ground.
“Sergeant,” yelled Levine, walking over to one of the two men and clapping him on the shoulder. “You found fire. They won’t be getting up from that.”
“How did you know?” asked the soldier, looking wide eyed at the crackling behemoths burning on the ground.
“They were Trolls,” said Levine, shrugging his shoulders. “Everything I’ve ever read about Trolls said that they were allergic to fire. And so these turned out to be. And who is your friend?”
Refuge: The Arrival: Book 1 Page 30