by Damien Lake
“It’s cool and relaxing,” Marik irritably retorted. “I think it’s worthy enough to support my backside for a short while.”
“It is also a good way to die.”
Before Marik could work that comment out, Colbey threw a stone which Marik had not seen the scout lift from the ground. It missed his waist by less than its own width. Marik leapt backward as the rock smashed into the water with a splash.
At the same moment he opened his mouth to demand an explanation, additional splashing met his ear. A long, black whip undulated through the water away from where the root emerged. In horror, Marik recognized the triangular shape broaching the surface as a snake’s head.
“Water snakes possess potent venom,” Colbey delivered as calmly as an observation on the differences between wagons. “You would be dead within minutes of a bite.”
“H-how did you know that was there?”
“Are you not using your ears?” For an instant, Colbey sounded like his old vitriolic self.
Marik listened, and realized for the first time how loud the birds around them were. A veritable avian cacophony rang through the trees.
“Birds?”
“Woodlarks,” Colbey growled through clenched teeth. “And any child could tell you that woodlarks despise water snakes. They make tremendous noise anytime they see one.”
“One of your village children, by the by,” Dietrik called from above. “Living in these parts makes a lad learn about that sort of tidbit fairly quick like, I expect.”
An angry expression illuminated the scout’s features before melting away, leaving only the sadness Marik had glimpsed across the campfire. Colbey pulled himself far enough from its depths in order to flatly state, “Do not sit there either, mage. Use your eyes if you truly intend to stay alive.”
Marik awkwardly jumped away from the other seat-sized root several yards back from the water’s edge. Rather than ask what might be wrong with it, he looked hard until he noticed movement along the point where it vanished into the earth. Fat red ants large as his thumbnail moved in a line. He followed their column by eye until he located a squirrel carcass within smelling distance. Half its meat had been stripped away. While he watched, the ants tore fresh chunks from the protruding bones. Bright, wet blood trickled from the ghastly wounds. This squirrel must have died less than a quarter candlemark gone.
Or been overwhelmed.
“This forest is definitely unnatural,” he whispered.
“These are the common hazards,” Colbey disagreed. “Water snakes and fire ants can be found in any similar environment. Only the creatures within the seals are unique to the Rovasii.”
“You mean these little savages could have crawled into my bedroll last winter?”
“Yes.” Colbey seemed amused at Marik’s revulsion. “Except I made a thorough check of our surroundings before we—”
He cut his words off abruptly.
“What is it?” Marik stared at Colbey, then up at Dietrik, who had stood to peer into the forest. “Anything?”
“If it is, it is staying low.”
“Silence,” Colbey hissed. He took four steps, stopped, closed his eyes and listened intently.
“How can he hear a blasted thing over those bloody birds?” Dietrik whispered after he climbed down to stand next to Marik.
“He just can.” Marik said nothing else, yet thoughts of Colbey’s uncanny abilities floated through his mind. The entire time Colbey had taught him the stamina boosting technique, Marik had sensed the scout possessed other tricks. What they might be, he only guessed at the time. Watching him move easily through the dark and listen to sounds neither mercenary could hear shed light on what a few of those tricks must be.
Colbey’s eyes snapped open. “Quickly! We go!”
He dashed away at top speed. Dietrik cursed vehemently and ran after with Marik on his heels.
The scout seemed to scale the roots as easily as touching them. No sooner would his fingertips brush the bark than he would be flying upward. Marik could scarcely believe it. He stared, searching for evidence that Colbey’s boots touched the root, yet for all appearances Colbey catapulted over each by the simple act of yanking his body into the air one-handed. Dietrik and Marik were quickly left behind.
They panted and wheezed, strained and used their full strength. After they leapt to the ground from one root, they climbed over the next in line. With no Colbey to lead they way they were forced to assume a straight-line course.
Worry began to set in Marik’s mind when Colbey’s hand shot up from behind the current root, grabbed his tunic and pulled the mercenary down. A startled grunt was cut off before it could escape by Colbey’s other hand.
“They are close, mage. Be silent and listen.”
Dietrik landed quiet as he could while Colbey released Marik. None spoke. They honed their ears, listening for the noises Colbey had discerned.
“They must have pushed harder than we thought yesterday,” Dietrik said shortly. “Or else moved in the darkness after all.”
“It sounds as if they are coming back this way though,” Marik observed. “Why are they making so much racket? Anyone could find them like this!”
“Let us find out,” Colbey tersely stated. “I would know what they do before making my strike.”
The roots grew away from each other at the point where they had climbed over the last. A long clearing had formed with brush scattered in random clumps. They put their backs to the Euvea tree from which these roots grew, using the brush as cover to wait and see what would emerge from the distance. Marik could hear the brook babbling out of sight to his right.
“They will come from there,” Colbey softly imparted, pointing along the easterly roots that formed a twelve-foot, gnarled wall. He gestured to the western counterparts and said, “Over those roots is the stream, which runs along the base of Sealed Area Forty-One.”
“Definitely won’t be coming from that direction then,” Dietrik breathed.
“Not unless they emerge through the entrance there. But they will not.”
The patter of running feet approached beneath the distant sounds. All three crouched, tense, waiting to see who would appear. From the sounds these runners must be attempting to escape from a fight. Marik assumed the distant group had to be the Arronaths, for who would the black-armored soldiers be running from in this forest? On the other hand, who else was there in the Rovasii to run from the invaders? Other survivors from Colbey’s secluded village?
Out of the gloom dashed a grizzled warrior, a long-time veteran, Marik instantly recognized. The posture, the bearing…he exuded the old salt professionalism so many strived for, yet few attained. He ran with sword bared, his free hand gripping his sheath to prevent it from tangling in his legs. With his one eye he raked the clearing thoroughly.
Behind him jogged a second man, older to judge by the crow’s-feet around his eyes and his graying hair. They both studied the gnarled walls in search of the best scalable surface.
Marik believed they must be free-swords in search of valuable forest treasures. Men who had dared the haunted trees…until the man with the eye patch barked in strange syllables.
The Nolier language flowed, while Tullainian contained the jagged edges of basalt rock. What little Olandish he’d heard struck his ear as musically exotic, likened to water in a babbling brook, and Trader’s Tongue was nothing short of a lumpish mess.
There was no mistaking the language spoken by these two men. Arronathian. His prolonged association with the war prisoners had left the linguistic traces burned into his memory.
If the Arronaths were fleeing, then friendly forces must have attacked the larger group. The battle they could hear was between the friendlies and whatever guard forces had purchased the escape these two utilized. They must be important figures if their protection was a priority.
The thoughts flashed across Marik’s mind faster than an eye blink. No time to stop. No time to consider. Surprise was never as effective as when it was fresh.
Marik surged forward over the brush. His right shoulder jarred off Dietrik. His friend’s exclamation went unheeded by Marik. All his concentration bent on getting the first strike against the enemy.
In his peripheral vision he caught sight of a shadow matching his movements, lunging into the fray no less ferociously than he. A shadow of flesh and blood. Colbey unsheathed his blade in a single motion that seemingly left the air behind it sliced in twain.
Both Arronaths reacted fast as rabbits. In the split second before he and Colbey closed the gap, they spun to face the unexpected adversaries. The one-eyed man sidestepped, directing his blade in a flawless arc to meet Colbey’s. His older partner held his ground, sword at the ready, until it clanged off Marik’s deadly steel.
Marik forced his feet to stop his momentum. Feet braced to lunge in any of four directions, he swung in a brutal side-slash. It was deflected, as Marik had expected, but then, when he began the next planned strike using the previous blow’s force, the older Arronath lashed back.
His sword struck Marik’s T-hilt. Marik shifted his weight instinctively, except the shock diverted his new strike. The sword slashed down beside the Arronath.
He foresaw the next attack by reading the roll to the Arronath’s shoulders. Marik jerked backward. His knees buckled until he managed to force his weight to the proper counterbalances. Wildly he tottered while the enemy’s sword tip sliced across a horizontal plane half an inch away from his eyes.
Marik still struggled to regain his balance when the Arronath leapt, left leg bent severely until his knee nearly pressed his chest, right leg extended behind from pushing off against the ground. The form lowered his entire body into a panther lunge. Never before had Marik seen a move to match it, yet he instantly recognized its purpose.
He plunged his sword into the earth less than a quarter-second before the Arronath’s blade whipped across in an arc to match skeletal Death’s best scythe-work. The attack that had been intended to cut away Marik’s legs instead forced the buried sword to carve a groove through the forest floor. When at last the blow’s force was spent, the Arronath blade pressed uncomfortably against Marik’s breeches.
It was a chance. The low attack was a power strike; extremely deadly if it lands, yet fatally flawed if it misses. His enemy crouched in an awkward position, unable to fight effectively. Marik wrenched his sword up to deliver a smashing blow from above.
He barely blocked the Arronath’s blade. Faster than he could see, moving in a way Marik failed to understand, the man corkscrewed up in a whirling motion starting from his bent left leg. It brought him back to his feet and also slashed at his foe twice. The sword slid off Marik’s, spinning around in a full circle to nearly catch him off guard with the second strike.
Marik backed off a pace to face the cunning old warrior. He used the moment to collect his battle senses. This opponent was good, crafty…capable. It would take every inch of the sensory awareness Colbey had trained into him to avoid the Arronath’s attacks and find openings for his own.
The Arronath, too, waited. He held his sword in his style’s ready position, which, as Marik had noticed when fighting the black soldiers before, would naturally lead into a horizontal attack. By far, the greater majority of attacks in the Arronathian sword style used flat, side-to-side strikes. It was a trait that would help him anticipate this older fighter’s moves. Yet the few vertical and thrusting attacks that would come without warning might be his end if he relied on anticipation too much.
They took each other’s measure. With his ears sifting every available sound, foregoing their usual filtration of noise, he could tell what transpired with the others without breaking eye contact with his opponent. Colbey fought the one-eyed man in a battle of speed, neither letting up against his foe.
Dietrik struggled behind his back, swearing colorfully. Marik reviewed the instant of his leap and realized that the exclamation from his friend must have owed to the impact his shoulder made. It had knocked him off balance into the thorny shrubs, ensnaring his clothing.
Marik waited, intending to use the instant the enemy moved forward to strike an exposed area. That brief transition from being stationary to moving left a fighter vulnerable. Making an attack that could take advantage of that instant would require Marik’s total speed.
Except the Arronath clearly had the same intention. They glared across the space between them, daring each other to be the first to move.
An explosion rocked the forest from where the two Arronaths had escaped. Against their will, the four combatants looked in its direction. The trees were illuminated by the orange glows of a setting sun.
Yet no fiery daytime star had descended into the Rovasii. Blossoming mushrooms of flame expanded from a central core, enveloping distant branches, casting several figures between the mercenaries and the inferno into stark relief.
The bright firelight vanished quickly. Marik blinked rapidly. Everything around him had gone dark. His vision had been so badly flooded with light he could see nothing beyond a blur.
He scuttled back to avoid the Arronath while he fought to see. No attack came, which must mean his opponent had been struck equally blind. Marik felt tears overflowing. They seeped down his face while his eyelids beat in avalanche rhythms.
Sounds ricocheted around the clearing. He could hear screams. Distant shouts which were coming uncomfortably closer. Dietrik howled in confusion, followed by a ripping sound that could only mean his clothing had torn violently. Despite the noise it seemed far too quiet following the roaring explosion.
The blurs in his vision sharpened. He searched frantically for the Arronaths, for Colbey, desperate to understand the current situation. Several feet away he located the older man he had fought. When he cast his gaze sideways to find the scout, he saw half a man streak through the air as if fired from a bow.
It was a torso, complete with arms, from the chest up. The steel-like leather vest the Arronath fighters wore had been excised cleanly. This gristly apparition struck the eastern root wall headfirst.
With sickening wetness and incredible force, the meat smashed into the bark. The arms flapped forward to strike the root. Marik watched in fascination as the torso collapsed like a Captain’s Glass from the sheer power. Heart and lungs and gory offal were forced from their lodgings to topple groundward.
The terrible scene captivated him until a figure leapt a low forest shrub. Even to Marik, the sight of the massive sword held casually in one hand looked unnatural and disturbing. Rail paid no attention to the people ahead, only to the Arronaths charging in his wake.
Marik stared. All thoughts of his own fight and peril were forgotten. His father! Here? In a bizarre fashion it made perfect sense while being utterly impossible.
Two Arronaths ran hard at Rail around the shrub. Marik watched, understanding what he saw despite not having the first idea how Rail could accomplish the feats.
A bluish-white glow ran from sword tip to hilt along the wedge that formed the custom blade’s edge. Rail swung solidly and caught the enemy to his right squarely. It should have delivered a smashing blow. Instead, whatever power infused the blade transformed the dull wedge into a razor. He severed the Arronath cleanly. Head and shoulders, two arms, and the remaining body spun away through the air like a shattered wineglass, bloody streamers unwinding behind each piece.
Rail swung the sword around in a reverse stroke. The glowing edge faded as it moved. Its power was too much to sustain longer than a moment. Instead, the blade’s flat struck the Arronath’s sword.
The black-soldier’s feeble defense offered no resistance. Rail smashed the smaller sword backward against the leather vest. His attack continued, delivering the full force to the man’s chest.
Under the terrific force, the ribcage caved in. The man was lifted from his feet. He was hurled as if from a catapult, sailing under the leafy sky, over the Euvea root and away.
Marik could scarcely credit that. At its most powerful, his own strength working co
uld never toss a man that far.
Rail paused to catch his breath. A moment later he shouted a quick phrase in…Arronathian? Marik stared. What was going on? Before his horrified eyes, Rail sank to one knee. His sword fell to the ground though he maintained his grip on it. Bellowing gasps escaped him, his body heaving, sweat pouring from his brow.
Without knowing he did so, he stepped toward his father. A cry already rose to his throat, his hand reaching for him. The second explosion stopped him cold.
This one erupted on the far end of their clearing. Blistering wind struck Marik. He tottered on his heels, his hair swept back in the hurricane gale that threatened to cook his eyeballs. Marik clenched his eyelids shut tightly until the incandescence faded. The blur was less detrimental than it had been the first time.
Or perhaps that stemmed from the additional light in the clearing. Roots had become glowing embers in several places, patches of burning arboreal flesh standing out like wounds. Numerous spots along the ground maintained a volcanic glow from loose stones melted to slag.
Rail rose shakily to his feet. He staggered for balance until the one-eyed Arronath steadied him with a hand under one elbow. Phrases in the Arronath tongue were exchanged until Rail suddenly froze. From shifting his head to meet the grizzled fighter’s lone eye, his peripheral vision had brought Marik into view.
Before they could react, the Red Man appeared at Rail’s side as if stepping from his shadow. The leathery red patch on his face appalled Marik. How could any man continue to fight while suffering such a ghastly wound?
With great effort, he forced his eyes from the mutilated flesh to follow the Red Man’s gaze. Among the smoldering lava puddles, Xenos stood like a demon born.
“You exist only to be a perpetual thorn,” he snarled at the Red Man. “There seems little other purpose to your entire race!”
For reply, the Red Man fell to one knee. Into the dirt he stabbed his fingers, crooked like talons, palm facing Xenos.
Power coursed through him. He rose in a sweeping motion to his feet, his rigid fingers describing a crescent through the air. Dirt exploded away from the hole he had dug. Along the lines his fingers carved, Marik watched four furrows race toward Xenos. Earth was hurled sideways as the force digging its way through the ground grew thicker. The four lines expanded until they were each a roiling underground tempest, flinging dirt twenty feet away.