The Earthrin Stones 1 of 3: Inheritance of a Sword and a Path

by Douglas Van Dyke

  The bolts flew from their hiding spot. Both guards in front of the prisoner tent reeled as shafts of wood sprung from their chests. They went down quickly, bleeding their life away on the ground.

  In the bushes, the half-elf started to reload even as Mel hesitated. “Shouldn’t I ready a spell?”

  Cat replied, “Have that crossbow ready. We may need to pick some specific targets, and they might not line up nicely for a big explosion.”

  Mel reloaded his small crossbow.

  * * * * *

  CRACK!

  Salgor already felt wound up as tight as he could bear waiting for any kind of action to start. He had almost charged when he heard Cat whistle, but the sound of the blow across the camp made him jump up at a run. He charged right towards the prisoner tent, wielding axe in one hand and holding up his shield with another. One guard stood near the woods, but the man’s gaze was distracted towards the sound of the breaking staff. Salgor didn’t waste time trying to kill the man. A shield punch knocked the human to the ground.

  “Daerkfyre sends his messenger!” Salgor yelled, despite the small voice in his head that warned him it was better to get to the tent without drawing attention. The dwarf’s rage ran through his blood, and his axe would only be satisfied with direct and open violence.

  Two men rose from the fire Petrow had attacked the previous night. They grabbed petty blades in a quick attempt to defend themselves from the squat figure running at them. Salgor slowed and spun his axe in anger. Battle cries and screams rang out as the dwarf dove into the attack. The volume of noise from the dwarf overshadowed any distraction Trestan had attained.

  * * * * *

  Trestan and the scimitar wielder moved cautiously, testing each other. A few tentative swings brought forth the ring of steel but never got close to hurting either man.

  The young smith looked at his opponent carefully, looking for a weakness, limp, or any shortcomings aside from the obvious eye injury. The man had the patch covering his left eye, leaving him limited ability to see anything that Trestan swung from the right side. Trestan observed fear in the other man’s eye as much as anything he felt. This helped him to see the man on more even ground, and alleviated some of the young man’s fear.

  Weapons clashed again as they moved closer to each other. While both felt each other out, it was apparent that time favored the older mercenary. Other men in the camp were screaming and taking up arms, so Trestan had to risk a determined attack or face numerous blades at once. The tempo of blades stepped up as each man made vicious swings.

  The young devotee of Abriana attempted a trick. The elvish blade rose high and dropped towards the mercenary’s head. Scimitar rose quick enough to block the overhead attack. Then Trestan spun the sword fast, wrist-over-wrist, even as he dropped to one knee. The low cut connected with something soft and the other man dropped to the ground. Still on one knee, Trestan brought the sword back into a guard position and prepared to parry any response.

  The sight before him stunned him about as much as it stunned his opponent. The one-eyed man sat on the ground, a dazed look upon his face. One leg ended in a bloody stump. The magic of the keen elvish blade severed the man’s calf as easily as if Trestan had been cutting through a fruit. The young man recalled the sword’s cutting edge during Jareth’s fight with the minotaur. The elvish magic had made the blade a truly deadly weapon.

  Trestan’s hesitation became deadly. As the young man stared at the stump, the wounded man tried a desperate swing. The scimitar arced overhead and came down at the young man’s temple. Trestan raised the elvish blade but was too late to block. Scimitar came down and struck Trestan on the head, though the helmet worn by the young man deflected most of the blow. He felt the sting as the tip of the blade flashed by his face. The low visor covering his chin deflected part of the blade from slicing through the young man’s jaw.

  Trestan wasn’t sure if he even had both eyes left, but he reacted. He turned the elvish blade straight out and thrust it into the torso of the other man. A scream erupted from the lips of the mercenary, then died into a cough. Scimitar fell against the ground as the other man ceased to fight.

  Trestan scrambled to his feet and looked down at the dying man. The young smith raised his left hand to feel his face. It seemed he was very lucky. The young man found the first cut above his eye, grazing one eyebrow. He felt a second cut around one nostril, with only a small amount of blood staining the area. The scimitar fell short of giving Trestan a reason to wear an eye patch.

  His ears picked up a noise from behind. A guttural voice spewed forth something unintelligible, and the rustle of leaves indicated movement. Trestan spun to deal with the forgotten abbess.

  * * * * *

  The newly designated Captain Orthymbar of the Silver Trident stood and looked around at the confusion in the camp. The redheaded saber-wielder also shouted in alarm and called for his men to grab weapons. He drew forth his own stolen saber, shaking it in the air to accentuate every command. The two men closest to him he kept by his side as bodyguards.

  So far he could only see two attackers: the young man with the exceptionally nice sword, and the tough dwarf who was currently hacking a couple of his men apart with an axe. He recalled hearing the sound of a bolt or arrow whizzing through the air, and it didn’t take long before he spotted the fallen guards by the prisoner tent. It wasn’t hard to guess where the dwarf was headed at that moment. Orthymbar wasn’t about to let the prisoners get away. Revwar had said if the camp was attacked then the pair would have to be executed. Aside from the orders given by the elf wizard, the new captain wasn’t about to let the young man get away after the axe attack the previous night.

  “They’re trying to free the prisoners! Execute them! We can’t let them talk! You two come with me.”

  Orthymbar motioned to the closest two men and they fell in by his side. Together they started to head to the prisoner tent. Just then, Cat’s bolt sailed from the trees directly at the red-haired man. One of the others inadvertently stepped in the way. Orthymbar jumped in surprise as the man next to him lurched from the hit meant for him. The barbed point of the crossbow peeked out at its intended target before the stricken bodyguard dropped dead.

  In the bushes, Cat’s pulse raced as she saw the redhead and the other man run for the prisoner tent. She pointed at Red-hair and practically shouted at Mel. “Kill that one now! He’s going to murder Petrow.”

  Mel had his smaller crossbow ready. He sighted carefully and let fly the deadly missile. The bolt sailed and landed in a vital part of the back. Mel shouted, “I got him!”

  Cat tried to reload, though her eyes were on the man that was still up and running. “I meant the redhead Mel, you hit the wrong guy.”

  Orthymbar didn’t care that his other bodyguard was dead. He would charge in and finish the prisoners before dealing with the rescuers. Now the only one that could get between him and the prisoner tent was Salgor.

  * * * * *

  The dwarven waraxe, blessed by a cleric of Daerkfyre, dripped blood as the dwarf left the corpses of the two men by the fire. Behind him, the sentry he had shield punched staggered after the dwarf, huffing from a lack of breath. Salgor wasn’t far from the prisoner tent, and he pumped his short legs to get there before Red-hair could. There were other men standing around, though none desired to be the first to intercept the maddened dwarf. Salgor was within a few steps of the tent flap when a figure flew out towards him.

  Loung Chao had been waiting in the tent across from the prisoner tent for an enemy to show himself. Although Loung could catch bolts and arrows, he wasn’t about to stick his head out into the open earlier than needed. When the dwarf ran up, he had prepared his mind and body for a very powerful kick. If done right, it was a kick that could break the thick wood of a barred door. Salgor had run close without noticing the figure lurking in the tent.

  The Tariykan marshaled all his will and surged forward. He took two quick steps away from the tent and then sprang into the
air. One foot folded under him while the other thrust out. Salgor ran right into it. The Tariykan warrior’s lead foot smacked hard against the dwarf’s temple, between the eyes. Loung landed gracefully in a fighting stance. His foot stung from the hit.

  From Salgor’s perspective, the world disintegrated into a pattern of different lights and colors. He felt like he was floating, and tried to keep some kind of balance. His vision cleared to where he could see shapes, and he focused on the human standing in front of him. Loung was looking at him through wide eyes. The dwarf suspected that most targets couldn’t stay on their feet when a martial artist hit them like that. Even Salgor had to admit there weren’t too many enemies that had similarly shaken his senses. His head was still swimming and throbbing.

  Salgor Bandago put on his usual bravado smile, narrowed his eyes at Loung, and spoke, “That was almost nice enough to tickle me. Got anything tougher than that?”

  Loung didn’t answer; instead the man drew out his sickle bladed weapon. Other men were crowding around Salgor now that the Tariykan had slowed him down. Salgor looked to both sides as a crowd of angry and armed men surrounded him. His most worrisome sight was the redheaded saber-wielder running into the prisoner tent with his drawn weapon. Petrow and Lady Shauntay would be dead in seconds if no one stopped him, and no one was left close by who could unless a miracle happened. Salgor bellowed a war cry and charged. Loung whipped the chain end towards the dwarf but stepped back to let the other mercenaries pile on to the short warrior. Over all the noise of battle, a scream from inside the prisoner tent rose above all else.

  * * * * *

  When the strange sounds first erupted from outside, Lady Shauntay was struggling to untie Petrow from his ropes. The young man lost patience with his fellow captive. Petrow had sat back to back with her, and gotten her free of her bonds during the night. All night she either complained or refused to try freeing him, and as the sides of the tent reflected morning light he knew their time had run short. It was frustrating that this nobly bred girl couldn’t give for others as much as they gave for her. His elbows had been loosened, and he was getting close to having his arms free. His legs were still joined by a foot and a half length of rope. Lady Shauntay had been totally free of her bonds for a couple hours, yet she had done little to really help Petrow.

  She stopped again as she heard the cracking sound, and then they both paused to listen. The noble’s daughter said, “Listen. Something is happening!”

  Petrow heard the noise, and guessed it was his friends. He could hear the ring of steel on steel and the grunts of pain from right outside the tent. He was standing upright, but he stepped closer to Lady Shauntay and turned to keep his bonds facing her. He thought his angry glare would finally force her to act with more haste as he spoke firmly, “We have nay time, get me loose now.”

  The noble turned to him, talking to him but not listening to what he was saying, “My guards are here! My father himself must have ridden out to rescue me! He’ll step in here any moment and take me home.”

  Petrow shook his head, “Your guards rode away to the south of Barkan’s. My friends are probably out there now trying to buy us time to flee. You have to untie me now so we can run!”

  Lady Shauntay looked to him in puzzlement. Surely the man could see they were being rescued? He should be as relieved as she was that this was all over. She had dreamed of this moment every painful step taken since that fateful night of her capture.

  Petrow saw her confused expression, even finding it pitiful that she was actually smiling and convinced of a storybook rescue. “Get me loose now! Look through this junk in here. I hope we can find something sharp.”

  Suddenly a brighter light reflected in the tent from the opening, and the cool morning air wafted in. Lady Shauntay looked to the entrance, and her expression changed from relief to horror. She shrank away then, and Petrow knew their time was up. The young handyman turned to the front of the tent and saw the red-haired man he had wounded the evening before last. He had learned the man’s name was Orthymbar, and right now he held the naked steel blade of the captain’s saber.

  Orthymbar waved the point of the deadly blade casually between Petrow and Lady Shauntay. The man had murder in his eyes. “I wish I could have had the lady, but at least I’ll have the blood of both of you. Now, who do I kill first?”

  Petrow acted the most responsible way he could, despite his distaste for the woman they had come to rescue. He elbowed her towards the back of the tent. The young handyman traded stare for stare with his would-be murderer.

  Orthymbar found the gesture amusing, chuckling over it. “You first then. I’m going to enjoy this.”

  Petrow stood steady, as scared as he had ever been in his life. He stood in the best clothes he had ever worn, with the comforting thought that his friends outside had tried to save him. His hands were still bound and his feet tied a short distance apart. There was little he could do to stop the saber as it moved to strike him.

  Lady Shauntay screamed.

  * * * * *

  Trestan held his sword out to block any attack from the abbess of the Death Goddess. He turned to discover she wasn’t a threat. The twitching of some limbs had been part of the noises he heard. Savannah’s voice let loose a gurgling noise as she tried to breathe. Her nose and mouth were bloody and broken. The cleric’s jaw was set at an odd angle from the rest of her face. As she lay there with closed eyes, she seemed oblivious to anything going on around her. The blonde woman was unable to threaten anyone, much less even speak.

  Trestan felt a small urge at that moment borne out of fear. He could end the cleric’s life easily, thus ridding himself of a very powerful enemy. It was a small thought, and he dismissed it, scared that he had even considered the notion. As he looked upon her helpless figure, he reflected how ironic it would be to take her life when she had spared his. Trestan honored a goddess devoted to love and healing, while the cleric represented the deity that claimed control over death. Trestan could not bring himself to end her life and yet retain his faith of heart.

  The young man turned to face the camp. There was fighting on the other side of camp, as well as shouts to honor a dwarven god. Trestan ran forward a bit but slowed when he saw several men approaching. Four armed men charged his direction. A big one with a mallet was yelling curses at the other three to attack. Trestan watched them approach with the set determination that he might die. He was not about to back down, and the memory of his brave mentor stirred him on.

  “Abriana!”

  Trestan did not charge, anticipating that he would have to somehow try to single each man out if he was to stretch the fight as long as possible. The first one ran up to him with a short sword ready to strike. A bolt from the trees zipped in and punched out the man’s throat despite the fast run. The sailor dropped and rolled to stare lifelessly at the sky.

  Three armed men were better odds than four. Trestan put his sword into motion as the others charged in. He told himself to remember the three trees by Abriana’s shrine. He had to remember his training, and keep moving. The first weapon arced in and was deflected by the elvish blade.

  * * * * *

  Cat pulled back the string on her crossbow with her belt claw. Her shot had taken out one of Trestan’s attackers, but the rest would still be more than the young man could handle. She spoke to Mel as she tried to reload. “Trestan is in trouble.”

  Mel aimed his crossbow. He spoke out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated on his target. “I think Salgor is in worse trouble. He’s surrounded!”

  Cat looked towards the other side of camp. Salgor was trying to hold off a crowd of men. The mercenaries and sailors were surging forth from all sides, as Loung stood safely back. The Tariykan whipped his chain at the dwarf from a distance as the others closed in. Mel’s shot took out one of the men in that group. Cat looked towards the prisoner tent and cursed at the sounds of screaming from within. Even worse, she saw several men with their own crossbows getting ready to fire a
t her and Mel.

  * * * * *

  Salgor swept his axe in a circle. Men jumped back to avoid it, though some weren’t fast enough.

  “All of you, tackle him now! Hold him down!” Loung yelled.

  The dwarf warrior threw his shield over his head as bodies surged at him from all directions. The middle of the pile became a flurry of punching and biting. It was so chaotic and dark under the pile that mercenaries injured each other thinking they were hitting the dwarf. Salgor got in his own fair share of biting and head-butts. Eventually, the dwarf pulled a flask from his belt to his lips using his right arm. He took big swig of it into his mouth, and then worked his thumb and forefinger to use a small gadget on the lip of the bottle. The tiny flint gadget sparked a flame on a soaked piece of cloth. Salgor turned his head from under his shield and belched fluid through the flame to create a small fireball.

  A puff of flames and smoke came from the pile of men. They scrambled to get away, several screaming from small burns. Salgor thrust his shield upwards and threw off the remaining men. He turned and shook the bottle out across a wide arc. The rest of the fluid ignited as it emptied and spread more flames. Most men scrambled to get away, others actually took swings at the dwarf. Salgor used his left hand to shield-punch one that got too close. He slammed Loung to the ground.

  The short warrior yelled his triumph, “Dwarven whiskey! Puts a fire in your belly!”

  Salgor discarded the bottle and picked up his battleaxe. He attacked viciously to gain some ground on the prisoners’ tent, but there were still too many armed men blocking his way.

  * * * * *

  Orthymbar’s saber sliced at Petrow. The young man stepped to one side, just enough that the saber was blocked by a support pole in the center of the tent. The redhead growled and pulled his saber free. Petrow tensed his body and sprang. The handyman couldn’t do much, but he used his whole body and launched his shoulder into his attacker. Both men tumbled in a tangled heap.