Blayde ran a hand across her face, wiping away blood and sweat. She looked wildly around, searching for Rayzer. He had been fighting at her side only moments ago, but now he was nowhere to be seen.
“We have to hold them back!” Sir Ducar growled, close to her ear. The knights spread out to either side of her, along with what remained of Nachtwald’s soldiers, forming a wedge at the base of the stairs. Blayde knew she should stand and fight, but she wanted to kill Durog so badly she could taste it. If she could only reach him. If Durog died would it make any difference? And how was she to get past the wyvern’s slavering jaws? Blayde shook her head. What did it matter? She prepared herself for the charge, her legs bent, sword clenched in her fist. None of them was likely to survive anyway. Better to go down fighting and take the ugly bastard with her.
“Get out of my city!” boomed a voice behind her. Blayde, startled, turned to see a pair of figures emerge from the great hall. “Begone! And take these wretches with you.”
One of the two men was obviously Father Moram, but the other man, the one who spoke so boldly to Durog, was unfamiliar at first. His armor was finely wrought, with gold inlay and a griffin emblazoned across the breastplate, polished and gleaming in the scarlet light of the burning city. In his hand was a magnificent long sword, the honed edge cold and deadly. Baron Cedric an Nachtwald. The name came unbidden into her mind. Somehow the lord of the city had risen from his deathbed and come to join them in the fight.
The sound of the baron’s voice cheered the townsfolk and men-at-arms. All eyes turned to look at him. No doubt the people of Nachtwald had thought their lord perished and the sight of him was a revelation, a balm that renewed their spirit and brought hope back into their eyes. The crowd stilled. Even the orcs and goblins grew quiet, sensing some change on the wind.
Baron Cedric came down the stairs, moving past his men-at-arms, past the Briar Knights, past Blayde, taking his time, his stride measured and unhurried. He stood at the front of the wedge of desperate men and lifted his sword toward Durog. “Remove this host from my city or you will feel the bite of my steel.”
Durog threw back his head and laughed uproariously. “Old man,” he cried, urging his mount forward so that the monster’s head was within striking distance of the baron. The beast flared its nostrils and flicked out its tongue, anticipating the carnage that was to come. “Aren’t you dead yet? Go back to your bed and perhaps you will live a little longer.”
“I’m done with sleep. Unless it be the long rest of the grave. Go back to whatever foul pit spawned you, orc, and perhaps you might live a little longer. If you stay here, I swear by the blood you have spilled that I will end your foul existence.”
The two warriors faced each other—Durog, in his black armor with his great two-handed sword in hand, tall and menacing on the back of the winged horror that dwarfed everyone and everything around it, and the baron looking small and frail but bright as a dagger in his gleaming armor. Durog leaned forward in his saddle and the wyvern’s eyes narrowed, muscles quivering in anticipation. Its jaws gaped, spittle dripping from the rows of knife-like teeth. But before it could strike, Rayzer appeared.
* * *
Unnoticed at first, Rayzer lunged, moving with a swiftness that only a Yattiar of the Rowanin could achieve. He closed the distance between himself and the wyvern in an instant and sprang, spinning through the air, a kaleidoscope of leather, muscle, and steel, to land for a second time that night on the wyvern’s back. Durog barely had time to register his appearance before Rayzer’s hand darted forward, his long fingers closing on the talisman. Rayzer jerked back his arm, snapping the leather thong that held the talisman in place. In the same moment one of his twin swords flashed across the wyvern’s shoulder, severing the leather straps that secured the saddle to the monster’s back. Durog howled in rage, the two-handed sword coming around, but Rayzer, anticipating the blow, rolled backward, narrowly avoiding the sweeping length of steel. He toppled, rolled, and slid to the ground, the talisman still clutched in his fingers and a maniacal howl of glee spilling from his lips.
The effect on the wyvern was sudden and terrible. The monster’s head snapped back and it bellowed in rage and confusion, a thunderous roar that shook the castle walls and sent humans, goblins, and orcs alike, scurrying for cover. The wyvern reared up, flapping its wings, and it shook itself like a wet dog. Durog was flung in one direction and then another. He flew sideways, roaring in fury as the saddle came loose, and cursing the unfaithful beast. He toppled unceremoniously from the monster’s back and crashed into a pool of mud and viscera, his sword slipping from his fingers.
The wyvern pawed at the earth. It raised one massive leg and slammed its clawed foot down, intent on wreaking revenge on its former master, but Durog rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the crushing blow. The wyvern’s great head darted forward and it snatched an orc warrior off his feet, snapping the bewildered creature in two. The lower half went down the wyvern’s gullet, but the upper half fell to the ground with a sloppy, wet sound, the frightened orc’s jaws still working as if trying to scream. The wyvern swung around again and its lamp-like eyes settled on Baron Cedric who was moving toward the place where Durog had fallen, ignoring the beast entirely.
There was a crack of thunder and a blinding flash as lightning arced from Father Moram’s hammer, striking the wyvern on its snout. The beast roared and shook its head, retreating back a step, and crushing a pair of frightened goblins under its heel.
Rayzer raised his hand, letting the small bit of soap stone fall to the ground, and then crushed it under his heel. The wyvern shook its head as if it had been struck. It let out a high-pitched shriek that brought many of the combatants to their knees, and shook itself again. Rayzer danced around it, his swords flashing as he whirled them in his hands. He struck out at the beast, scoring minor wounds to its wings and torso. The wyvern’s massive head darted forward, like a striking serpent, jaws snapping, but too slowly to catch the wood elf who whirled out of its path.
Father Moram, his war hammer lifted high, called down another lightning bolt, but it did little harm and seemed only to enrage the beast, which turned, lunging at the priest. Rayzer leapt in front of the wyvern, slashing at its brutish face. The great head swung around and it snapped at him again, intent on crushing the wood elf in its powerful maw. Rayzer darted beneath the gruesome head, turned on his heel and slashed the beast across its long neck, twice in quick repetition, his arms a blur of motion. The wyvern roared in pain, trying to pull away, beating at the ground with its enormous wings, as if it might take flight. Rayzer pursued it, mirroring its movements, but somehow managing to avoid the beast’s slashing talons and slavering jaws. Rayzer clenched his teeth in a savage grin and swung both swords in tandem, bringing them down on the wyvern’s neck. Blood sprayed as the twin blades cut through flesh and bone, half severing the tree trunk neck. The beast made a strangled, terrified sound, its massive body trembling, as Rayzer raised his swords again and, with another powerful blow, severed the long neck entirely.
The wyvern’s untethered head fell to the ground, its jaws clenched and eyes rolling, but the massive body, bereft of any sort of guiding mind, went mad, lashing out in every direction at once. Blood showered the courtyard as the leathery wings snapped and cracked. Rayzer was struck across the midsection by a bone-like appendage, and thrown to the ground. The wyvern’s body pivoted on its hind legs, spinning and knocking over a handful of goblins and orcs, too slow or too frightened to get out of its way. It crushed a wagon behind which a dozen townsfolk were hiding, and then crashed into the outer curtain wall, knocking loose the stones and causing a portion of the wall to collapse onto it. The wings quivered and the legs twitched and then it lay still, returning to the darkness of death from which it had come. Almost immediately the body began to decay, skin and muscle turning gray and collapsing, leaving behind an oily mass of refuse and bone.
* * *
Baron Cedric moved to engage Durog. The orc warlord wa
s just climbing to his feet, angry, bruised, and spitting insults. Cedric lifted his long sword, gripping it with both hands as Durog snatched up his two-handed sword and turned, still cursing the wyvern’s betrayal, and saw him coming.
“Out of my way, old man, before I—” Cedric’s long sword crashed into Durog’s side, screeching across metal and biting into chainmail and flesh. Durog staggered back, pressing a hand to his side. His fingers came away bloody.
“You’ll pay for that, old fool!” The big orc lunged, bringing his two-handed sword up and then down again, moving with surprising speed for a creature his size.
Cedric parried the blow, but too slow by far. The sword struck sparks off his helm and he reeled back a step, dark spots dancing before his eyes. Durog pressed his advantage, driving forward, hewing at Cedric with a relentless series of strokes, any one of which, had it connected, would have crushed the baron’s armor. Cedric parried desperately, giving ground and narrowly avoiding death again and again, more by luck than skill. He was not a young man anymore and still weak from days of lying in his bed like a dead man. He was not ready for this, not ready for such a contest. Ren had given him his life back, if only for a little while. The boy had given him this one chance to fight for his city, but it was looking very much like he was going to die for it.
Durog lunged again, thrusting with his sword. Cedric knocked it away, but Durog pivoted, swinging the sword in a whistling arc that struck Cedric across the thigh, the blade biting into his armor. Pain blossomed in a crimson wave down the baron’s leg and he crumpled to one knee. The orc warlord rose above him, huge and menacing, an armor-clad nightmare of unspeakable power and hatred. Durog grinned like a fiend as he raised the dark sword, clenching the leather-bound grip in both hands, and roared as he brought it down.
* * *
Blayde cut down a pair of orcs who tried bar her way. She was shouting, the words unintelligible even to her own ears. Sir Veryan’s sword burned in her hands, an emerald brand, as she sprang forward, leaping past Cedric and catching the edge of Durog’s sword on her own. There was a flash of green fire and a metallic screech as the two swords met. Durog staggered back, surprise and fury warring on his savage face.
Blayde wrenched the two-handed sword to one side and threw her shoulder against the orc’s broad chest, driving him back. She was smaller than Durog, but far stronger than any human woman her size. The orc roared like a gelded ceratu and brought the pommel of his sword down on Blayde’s helm, the blow driving her to her knees and setting her ears to ringing. Blayde aimed a savage cut at the orc’s legs, a clumsy slash, but it was enough to force Durog back a step while she regained her footing.
The two stood, facing each other, both of them breathing hard. They crouched with swords extended measuring each other, looking for weakness or vulnerability and finding none.
“I’ve had just about enough of you,” Durog snarled, his lips peeling back in a rictus grin. “You should have given me the phial while you had the chance, elf. You and that wretched brother of yours have been a pain in my guts all night. Now I’m going to take that pretty sword of yours and bugger you with it!”
“You like to give speeches.” Blayde grinned back at the orc warlord as she tightened her grip on her sword. “Let’s see how much talking you do once I remove that ugly head of yours.”
“Come on then,” Durog growled. “You want to play? Let’s play!” He lunged, driving the point of his sword at Blayde’s throat. She knocked it aside, but the orc barreled into her, knocking her to the ground and reaching for her throat. Blayde twisted away from Durog’s grasp and rolled to her feet just in time to block a hammering blow from the heavy black sword.
Several orcs rushed to join the fight, but Durog wheeled on them, his eyes blazing. “Get back, you dogs! Find some other quarry—this one’s mine!”
The orcs turned away, but the momentary distraction gave Blayde an opening. She lunged at the orc warlord, hewing at Durog’s head and shoulders, the sword humming in her hand, steel ringing as the warlord fell back, cursing and snarling, blocking her attacks with desperate speed and strength.
Durog countered, taking the massive sword in one hand and aiming a scything sweep at Blayde’s head. She dodged to one side and the stroke missed her by a hair’s breadth. Durog growled, a bestial sound deep in his throat, as he moved in closer, taking full advantage of his superior size and longer reach. Now it was Blayde’s turn to retreat, parrying the orc’s vicious cuts, one after the other. Her heel caught a rut in the uneven ground and she stumbled, nearly falling.
Durog drove his fist into the side of Blayde’s head and the world exploded around her. She reeled, gasping, and tasting blood. She stabbed wildly at her opponent, but was momentarily blinded by the dizzying array of stars that swam before her vision.
Durog swung the two-handed sword, catching Blayde beneath the arm. Her armor saved her, but the force of the blow sent a lancing pain down her side. Durog laughed, a mirthless sound full of hatred and menace, as he swung the sword again. Blayde leaned sideways, moving by instinct more than thought, and narrowly avoided the scything blow. She shook her head, trying to clear the fog from her eyes as she sprang forward, rolled, and came to her feet, turning just in time to catch Durog’s next stroke on the edge of her sword. She twisted and brought her elbow up hard against Durog’s chin. The orc grunted, his head snapping back.
Blayde ignored the pain in her side, pressing her attack and snarling her anger, slashing and cutting, hammering at the orc with a series of deafening blows. She poured all of her frustration and fury into every stroke. Durog fell back, roaring and cursing, spittle flying from his dark lips. He countered, knocking her sword aside, then bringing his own blade up and down again in a whistling arc. Blayde sprang back, narrowly avoiding the flashing steel that nearly cut her in two. So powerful was Durog’s stroke that the sword sank several inches into the ground, and the orc was forced to pause in order to wrench it free.
It was enough. Blayde shook off the shadows that pressed in at the corners of her eyes. Blood oozed from a split lip and her side throbbed, but the pain brought the scene into focus for her, anchoring her in the moment and washing away all fear and doubt. Blayde lunged, driving the point of her sword between the orc’s breastplate and shoulder pauldron. Blood spilled from the wound, sliding down the side of Durog’s armor and spattering the ground.
“You’re dead!” Durog howled, clenching his fanged teeth. “You think you’re some great warrior? You’re nothing but meat! When you fall, I’ll piss on your corpse and on the corpse of that wretched brother of yours too. This is my time. My time!” He lunged forward, swinging his sword in a deadly arc that Blayde only just managed to avoid. The pain and blood drove the orc mad. He abandoned all form, all reason, slashing and hacking at her like a wild beast.
Durog raised the black sword and brought it down in a crushing blow, but Blayde once again darted out of the way, avoiding death by the barest instant. Her blade caught Durog on the hip. The orc howled in pain, froth flying from his lips. He lashed out with a fist, catching Blayde on the jaw and staggering her. He brought a knee up into her stomach and she staggered back, falling, but catching herself on one hand.
“I’ve had enough of you!” Durog snarled. “This is my time. My victory!” He gripped his two-handed sword in both hands and raised it for a killing blow, but Blayde lashed out with a foot, catching Durog’s heel and throwing him off balance. The point of the two-handed sword skidded off her breastplate and bit into the dirt. Blayde sprang up, lunged, and drove her sword straight through Durog’s breastplate. The sword blazed with emerald heat as it sheared through steel, chain, and muscle, piercing Durog’s black heart and erupting between his shoulder blades. Durog’s arms quivered and the great two-handed sword slipped from his numb fingers to fall with a splash into the mud. The orc’s mouth worked soundlessly, his eyes full of confusion and pain. He glanced down, seeming to have just noticed the length of faintly glowing steel that transfixe
d his body. “Look what you’ve done—” Durog managed, but then the light went out of his eyes and he toppled, falling backward to strike the ground like a felled tree.
Blayde shook her head, kneeling as she wrenched her sword free of Durog’s still corpse. She should have felt something, some kind of elation or satisfaction, but all she felt was weariness and pain. She tried to stand again, but her sense of balance had left her. She reached out, grasping for some purchase, and found a gauntleted hand extended to her. She looked up to see Sir Jon standing over her. She frowned, but took his hand and allowed the knight to pull her roughly to her feet.
“You may be a useless woman,” Sir Jon said, “but that was well fought.” Blayde was surprised to see the barest hint of a smile on the knight’s lips. The world really was descending into chaos.
“You might have helped.”
“And deprived you of your victory over that foul spawn of Urnin. Not for all the gold in the Elathian treasuries. Besides, I had business of my own to attend to.” Blayde glanced down at the sword in Sir Jon’s hand. It was red to the hilt and thick with gore.
“Where’s Rayzer?” Blayde looked around for her brother.
“Alive. He killed the bloody wyvern—single-handedly I might add—and was spoiling to leap back into the fight the instant it fell. I have to admit, you wood elves are damn single-minded.”
“What about the baron?” Blayde asked.
“Here,” said a voice close at hand. Blayde turned to see Baron Cedric hobbling toward her, his hand on Father Moram’s shoulder.
“My lord. It’s good to see you on your feet again.”
“Just barely.” Baron Cedric’s breathing was ragged and his face twisted with pain. There was a great rent in the cuisses covering his left thigh and his lower leg was red with blood.
A Way with Magic (The Draakonor Chronicles Book 1) Page 37