Venir had witnessed Mikkel’s long bolts impaling two underlings at a time. The problem was that once they were fired, there was no time to reload. Mikkel would charge like a bull into the fray with the massive studded club he called Skull Basher. Mikkel was the only man with less patience than him when it came to fighting.
The archer cracked his knuckles and chuckled, always calm amid chaos. Indeed, the only one cooler was Melegal, but the thief cared little for venturing in the Outlands too long. That man was more disposed to the comforts of the city.
Smaller than his comrades, but hardy and weathered, Billip twisted his goatee with calloused fingers.
“You can’t hit one to my five, Mikkel—you know that.”“I don’t need to!” the man jumped in his face, club high. “I fight like a man. Skull Basher will take ten to your five any day—you know it!”
“Yer an idiot,” Billip retorted.
Venir stepped between them.
“Do we have to do this every time?”
“Yes!” they both insisted.
Venir shook his head.
“Mikkel, you know the drill. Billip sets them up, we flank them.”
“And if he misses? I get hit with one of his arrows!”
“That’s never happened,” Billip replied in irritation.
“It almost did.”
Billip jumped in his face.
“It almost didn’t! It wasn’t my arrow, and you didn’t get hit! That was three years ago! Let it go!”
Mikkel kissed his club and pointed his sausage-sized finger at the much smaller man.“It better not happen. If it does, you better hope it kills us … or Skull Basher and me are gonna smash you.”
Billip rolled his eyes and walked away.
Their bickering was part of the preparation for combat. The competition between them kept them focused. It was what Venir wanted. The two racked up body counts faster as a team than alone, though neither would ever admit it. He loved their spirit and looked to them as older brothers, but they were comfortable with his lead because he had instincts they lacked. The fearsome threesome had become a force to reckon with over the years, but their notoriety was not always well received. They were sometimes considered common bandits as each had his own needs to satisfy.
The men had exited the storm drain, and were once again headed down into the plunging gulch. They navigated the rugged terrain like mountain cats. No leaf rustled in the inert heat. Sweat stinging their eyes, they tried to suppress the sound of their own breathing. Even the panting of Venir's little dog Chongo was undetectable.
Venir watched Billip and Chongo break off toward the far side of the ravine, communicating with hand signals and soft tapping on leather chest plates. The dog’s ears perked up at the sound of those signals, and he responded in accord. They took their positions, waiting minute after minute in the thickets. Venir would glance back from time to time, only to see heavy sweat dripping from Mikkel’s silent face. He contacted Billip.
Nothing, the archer's white hands signaled back.
Venir’s gut told him they needed another accurate volley tonight. Things were just too quiet this time out. His mind began to wander as he wiped the sweat from his brow.
He felt an urgent tap on his shoulder. He looked forward. In the dimness he almost didn’t notice the bowman’s urgent signaling. Underlings were coming. Billip was trying to make out how many.
“What’s up, Vee?” a deep voice asked behind his ear.
“We have company.”
A white grin flashed in the darkness.
“How many?”
Venir shrugged his heavy shoulders. The blood of battle began to pump through his veins. His stomach started to knot, and his mouth became dry. He clutched Brool, his war axe, and waited.
Five, was signaled.
He acknowledged and readied himself. Mikkel leaned his club against a tree, taking up position with his heavy crossbow. Venir checked the buckles on his chainmail shirt and lifted his newly acquired shield. He was amazed at its lightness, despite the heavy metal banding and engraving. He studied his great axe and smiled. Its oak shaft was warm in his hand, almost living.
Only a few days ago he had wrangled the magic weapon. He had given little thought to how it now came to be in his hands. The large leather sack it came in was a mystery. When Jarla reached into the sack it contained two smaller axes, a lighter helmet, and metal arm bracers. Yet, for him it had yielded the large helm, shield, and a war axe unlike anything he ever imagined. He remembered the moment she was about to kill him. He smiled a tad. The shock and fury he saw on her face when the mystic arsenal came to his aid had been glorious. Grasping the weapon and feeling the power surge through his hands almost made him laugh, it was so delightful.
Someone tapped him again, snapping him out of his thoughts. The count was now ten.
“Better put on your helmet,” Mikkel said, putting on his own metal skullcap that sloped down the back of his neck.
The warriors didn’t like to wear armor unless they anticipated a skirmish—or full battle, as in this case—and even then they still opted for lighter armor than most of the Royals around the fort. Venir hadn’t yet bothered to extract his helm from the sack. He felt no need for it and feared it would obstruct his vision. And so far the situation hadn’t been too risky.
Twenty underlings!
The archer’s fingers and elbows were frantic.
Fifty paces. Moving fast. Now what?
The sudden change of circumstances demanded a decision. Venir had been setting up ambushes by letting small underling squads move between them, but this was no small group. It seemed that the underlings had become privy to their tricks and that larger numbers now made those impossible. That tactic would cut Billip off, leaving the archer overwhelmed without an escape route. Indecision began to churn in Venir’s belly. He had to decide whether they should retreat while there was time. They could make time to alert the rest of the fort as well, or fight. He wanted to fight, but wisdom prevailed.
Run, Venir signaled Billip.
Hit and run? Billip returned.
When facing a larger force, scouts needing to buy time would drop the point men of the enemy’s front line with bolts or arrows. This slowed the enemy and made them more cautious until they could ascertain the strength of their assailants. It also provided critical extra time for a hasty retreat. But twenty was a large group of underlings. Venir didn’t want to alert them to their presence. There could be still more underlings as well.
His keen eyes detected several dark silhouettes in the distance. Billip was signaling again for a reply. The underlings were armed with small round shields and curved swords, similar to the bulkier tulwar swords of men. It was a heavier force, and judging by their additional weapons and armor, a full-scale assault was underway. The axe burned in his grasp as the underlings approached, but he made his decision and signaled back.
Run!
Venir could make out the shape of Billip and the smaller shape of Chongo creeping back up the ravine. The archer’s arrow was nocked along the shaft of his new bow.
Clatch—Zoop—Thunk!
Mikkel’s heavy bolt ripped through the air, clean through the neck of an underling and imbedding into the chest of another. “What are you doing?” Venir said, shoving Mikkel's crossbow down. “I said run!”
“Sorry, Vee. I must have missed that,” Mikkel shrugged. “I thought it was hit and run.”
Venir knew better. Mikkel wanted the first kill, and Billip was moments from releasing a few arrows as well. The pair couldn’t have cared less about the risk. Their passion to kill underlings took over reason. All three were guilty of this affliction.
Billip began his own onslaught. Two more underlings found their throats punctured with feathered shafts, their warnings gurgling in dark blood. He watched as their hit proved to be a mistake. The underlings scrambled up the ravine like hungry wolves, and thick webs began to form, spreading over the trees, surrounding them from behind and cutting
off their escape. In an instant they were trapped.
“Helmet on,” Mikkel reminded Venir, picking up his studded club.
Venir felt foolish for a moment. The webs had grown further up the edges of the ravine, trapping the archer and his dog below. He groaned. The underlings had the jump on them.
Venir opened the leather sack and pulled out his helm. Its eyelets had an eerie glow that unsettled his stomach. How would they make it out of this jam? The odds were against them. A superior force approached, and they had nowhere to run or hide. He had a single burning thought: kill all you can before they kill you. Oddly, when he pulled the spiked helm over his blue eyes for the second time in days the odds of survival seemed to shift back in his favor.
As he strapped the thick leather chin strap under his grizzled jaw, he felt a heightened sense of awareness he hadn’t noticed before. His mind became razor sharp, intent on the task at hand: to find and decimate the underlings. He felt he could handle the score of them alone. Excitement rushed through his body, tingling from fingertip to toenail. Better yet, his vision, far from being obstructed as he had feared, was enhanced. Not only could he see the underlings, he could feel their presence … it was awesome.
Dusk had passed, and the thick forest was almost pitch black, which made battling the creeping underling warriors more difficult. The cave-dwelling creatures could see as well at night as in daylight, an advantage shared by only a few other races. But the men on Bish had no such ability, except now for one man.
Venir’s head peered around, and he could make out the details of the landscape before him. This is good! He noticed the warmth of the bodies of Billip and Chongo not too far in the distance, and then he saw Mikkel’s worried look.
“Vee,” the man whispered, “what are we gonna do now? I hate this dark. Can you see them?”
“Yes,” he said in an unfamiliar voice.
Mikkel fell silent for a moment.
”You better be able to see them, cause I’m following you.”
Venir tapped his helm.
“Trust me, then. It’s time to take them head on, no choice.”
“Sounds good.”
“Stay close, and watch out for those webs.”
Quiet as shadows, the two slipped deeper into the ravine. In his hunger for battle, he moved faster than normal, and a big hand had to nudge him back. The underlings were holding their positions less than thirty paces away, but the thick vegetation kept the pair out of sight. Concealed on the ridge of the ravine, Billip waited, not moving a muscle, his bow aimed on his next approaching target, his brow and hands slick with sweat. Venir knew the archer’s fire would offer them scant protection once combat began. It would have to be enough.
He motioned for Mikkel to stay put, then crept alone toward the underlings. He heard the man mumble in protest, clutching his club from behind. Like an iron panther, he crossed the forest floor. He came within ten paces of the oncoming underlings. He squatted before them like a tree trunk as they came, slow and quiet. Hadn’t they seen him? His blood rushed in his ears. He could see, hear and smell every sickening aspect of them. Now they were five paces away. He didn’t budge, legs tense, ready to spring. He almost gasped as the underlings passed by. They hadn’t even noticed him. The underlings' colorful eyes were dim sparkles in the dark as they glanced back at him and moved on. He couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t resist their exposed backs, either. His hatred overcame all reason.
There was a flash and a whistle in the air as Brool ripped out the backs of two underlings in one swipe. They dropped lifeless to the ground as the third underling whirled to attack. A whizzing arrow struck the back of the underling’s head, pitching it forward. He could see Mikkel’s white teeth coming his way as the battler charged along his side.
“Let’s do it, Vee!”
He felt the underlings swarming from all directions, chittering loudly, shields low and curved blades high. It raised his fervor more. Underlings surrounded him and Mikkel; their slashing blades were quick and deadly. He parried in broad sweeps, holding the smaller race at bay. The underling blades slashed and licked at his skin like razors.
“Hit ’em Mikk!”
“Bashing time!”
Mikkel burst into assault, his first overhead blow smashing an underling’s shield and arm. As the fiend howled in pain, Skull Basher’s studs caught another’s nose with a sickening smack. Mikkel whirled to block the third one’s slash, but too late. The underling punched a hole deep in his thigh, sending him down with a groan. The black warrior’s blood flowed, but the man responded by bringing his club down hard and fast, pulverizing the underling’s skull like a ceramic vase.
Venir heard his friend scream. He dodged as he jabbed his spike deep into the leg of a charging underling, ripping muscle from bone. He eyed the two other underlings that flanked him, and slammed his shield edge into one’s chittering mouth, slicing through the neck of the other. Venir charged the other two hobbled underlings and hacked them down like saplings. As he turned, he saw Mikkel break the other arm of his first victim, then bust its ribcage like a crate of melons. Six underlings were dead now, but more were coming. Let them come, he thought.
“You all right?”
Mikkel grimaced as he tied a cloth around his bloody wound.
“Leg’s bad, but I can fight fine. No running away from this.”
“Stay low while I check what’s coming. We need to get out of here,” Venir said.
“Don’t go far,” the bleeding man said, but he didn’t even hear it.
***
Billip had his hands full. Several underlings were closing in on his superior position. He pressed back into the brush. The high ground was an advantage, but the thick vegetation made it hard to track their small, dark bodies. If not for the occasional glint of their colorful eyes he would have lost them. He relied on his excellent hearing to help pinpoint their whereabouts. He fired away. Their howls of pain and anger gave him relief.
Focus. That ain’t all.
His eyes strained in the darkness.
Three maybe?
He had killed one, maybe two, but more still bore down on his position. He heard a painful bellow from Mikkel, but the sounds became muted. Would he have to start swinging steel soon as well? He edged farther up the bank. Dreading the thought of melee, despair crept over him. He knew he was trapped. With nowhere to go, he dug in.
He watched the dark figures continue to press upward through the brush.
One more shot.
He had to make it count. He nocked two arrows this time and drew them back. It was a trick shot he often used to infuriate Mikkel and gamble against Melegal. He had never before considered using it in combat, but now it seemed his life might depend on it.
He took a quick breath and held it, watching two underlings, side by side, moving fast up the hill, shields raised for cover.
Bish! Too far apart!
The shot was difficult. The underlings were tacticians of terror in confined spaces, and darkness was their forte. He knew they thrived in it. Just twenty paces were left between him and his assailants. He had to fire. Sweat dripped from his nose. At least one of them had to go, so he let loose into the nearest one.
His arrows whizzed through the air. One imbedded itself in the raised wooden shield, the other streaked straight and low into the underling’s exposed belly, knocking it down the hill.
Yes!
The second underling warrior was closing in fast. He nocked another arrow. The wicked face was upon him and shrieking. Billip raised his bow, blocking the underling’s slashing sword, jolting his arms and driving him into the ground.
At close quarters now, the ferocious underling warrior had the advantage, and he had no means to defend himself. He tried to draw his sword as the underling lunged at him. The pommel of the underling’s short sword caught him on the head, stunning him, bringing a sharp pain as blood trickled in his eyes.
The underling launched a chop at his head. He ducked just eno
ugh to avoid a split skull, but it took a slice off his right shoulder. Gasping in pain, he managed to plunge an arrow into the underling’s thigh. It staggered back. Dropping its sword with a hiss, it didn’t back down, but beckoned the man for closer combat. He had no desire to wrestle the creature, knowing full well it could tear him to shreds. He’d seen that happen before. Underling fingernails were like steel files. His right shoulder drooped, forcing him to draw his broadsword with his left hand. Billip jabbed at the wounded creature, each futile blow glancing off of its shield. Its leg stopped his upward press as it chattered back in mockery. More must be coming. He pressed hard, growling in return, shoving the creature downhill. Chunks of the wooden shield were chipping away, but the skill of the underling was too swift. It taunted and clawed at him in anger.
Reaching the bottom of the ravine, Billip disengaged the creature. His arm felt like lead, and his shoulder burned. He sucked in a deep breath. Exhaustion and frustration beset him as the emerald-eyed underling raised its shield in triumph. A shadow raised behind the unsuspecting creature, drawing a grin on his face. A studded club smashed down on its skull, erasing its wicked grin, shattering all of its teeth. It fell over dead in a pile of its own ooze.
Mikkel was almost laughing as he wiped the gore on the grass.
“It’s about time you started fighting like a man, Billip! I didn’t even know you had a sword, let alone the strength to use it.”
Billip struggled to spit out his words but said, “They’re everywhere, and regrouping for another attack. We have to get away. Where’s Vee?”
The big man shrugged. Billip could make out the bloody bandage on the man’s leg. Their bleeding would hobble them in a further fight.
“Come on,” Billip said with a groan, heading back up the hill.
Mikkel grunted and followed.
“If I can get to my bow we can hold them off for a while.”
Billip trudged up the bank as fast as he could, pulling Mikkel over the slippery spots. He could hear more chittering nearby. Wherever Venir was, he was on his own now. He wouldn’t wait around like a crippled calf to see when he might return. He recovered his bow as they reached a small outcropping of mossy boulders, where they hid.
The Darkslayer: Book 04 - Danger and the Druid Page 4