Curses streamed from the new captain’s lips. Both men rolled about and tried to get to their feet. Eventually, Petrow just tried to use his leg and kick at the redhead. The attacker got to his knees and turned the table on the young man. Orthymbar punched Petrow time and again, with the young man unable to defend himself. Their unarmed captor hit the young man several times as he squirmed to avoid punishment.
Petrow nearly swooned. He tasted blood. His breathing became difficult with the pain in his sides. The beating stopped. During that whole time the noble cowered in the back of the tent, missing her chance to run for freedom. As Petrow struggled to breathe, Orthymbar retrieved his saber. The man paid little attention to the bound prisoner writhing on the floor; he turned his eyes on the noble and went to make his kill.
* * * * *
Trestan remembered his mock fights against the three trees outside of his home village. While the tactics were helpful, those trees had never actually tried to kill him.
The big man with the mallet swore, “Damn it, Julel, get around him. Why can’t you all surround him like I asked? We….err…argh! Darrek you let him slip away again!”
Trestan wasn’t fighting as much as he was avoiding the three men trying to surround him. Weapons slashed and thrust as the young man parried several attempts to lame him. He kept the sword spinning in a defensive circle, changing it every now and then to force a man back or slip through an opening. It was a mode of fighting he had practiced against several imaginary attackers in those quiet woods. The young man moved and dodged so that not all three could get around him at any time. Many times one enemy couldn’t attack due to Trestan dodging behind another man. When that happened the young smith only had to worry about one or two blades, while the other men were forced to chase. They turned and bolted in such crazy circles that they inadvertently moved close to a steep edge of the bluff. A steep drop fell away twice a man’s height to the shoreline.
Trestan stumbled behind a tree even as the big mallet connected with it. More curses from the big man followed as one of the other men blocked his attack angle. The elvish sword parried the short sword of this new attacker and spun in an offensive arc. The man referred to as “Darrek” stumbled back away from it even as “Julel” ran around the other side of the tree. The young smith from Troutbrook switched direction so fast that he and Julel crashed into each other. The men went sprawling in the dirt.
Trestan rolled away and got to his knees moments before a mallet smacked the ground where he had been. Julel tried avoiding the bigger man, but rolled into his legs instead. The big man stopped to kick the prone sailor out of anger.
Trestan was really hoping a bolt from Cat and Mel would help him out, but he didn’t know they were trading shots with other men closer to their position. The area where Cat and Mel hid had bolts and arrows sticking out of the nearby trees. Meanwhile, they were trying to load fast and have every shot count. Mel worried that if he and Cat were unloaded at the same time, the other men would rush forward.
A number of sailors were running up from the shoreline to join in the battle. They had been loading a rowboat on the shore when the excitement erupted up top. Most of the friends didn’t know it, but several reinforcements had just arrived to fight them.
With the other two attackers momentarily distracted, Trestan just had to try dealing with Darrek while trying to get some distance between himself and the others. Both men whirled their swords at each other without injury, and Trestan took the opening to turn and run a few steps. The young man hadn’t gone far when he realized he was making a bigger mistake. Trestan’s foot was about to land on nothing but open air as the steep edge of the slope opened ahead of him. He caught a tree branch and swung around the trunk, narrowly avoiding a fall to the shoreline below.
Darrek, a step behind Trestan, had been focused only on the young man. The mercenary also saw the edge of the bluff rather late and tried to stop his momentum. He stood for a moment teetering on the edge. The elvish sword slapped the mercenary hard on the back. It wasn’t a very clean swing, hitting the target with mostly the flat part of the blade. It was enough that Darrek lost his balance and fell down the steep slope.
Trestan had little time to gain a good stance. The warrior with the mallet and the other swordsman had him trapped against the edge. The young smith was cornered, breathing heavily from running around in the metal armor. He had nowhere to go where he could avoid dealing with two attackers at once.
* * * * *
Salgor cleaved one man. From out to the side a chain whipped into his face and stung him. The dwarf used his shield to knock down another man, and a kick from somewhere hammered his abdomen. No more missiles from Mel arrived to take out any more of his attackers. Salgor was truly alone and could not seem to move through the waves of men. For every one he dropped, Loung Chao stepped in to deliver a hit from another direction. The dwarf head-butted a mercenary with a spear, only to feel a fist hit him in the back.
Enraged, Salgor spun around in a swipe that cut low another man. But Loung was in the air, hitting the dwarf with a jumping kick. The dwarf thrust his shield out to shove back another attacker, only to see the length of chain from Loung’s weapon whip around his shield arm. A jerk of the chain stripped the crested shield from the dwarf’s grip.
Of those humans still near the dwarf, most viewed the damage he had caused to their fellows and stayed back. Dead men and their body parts ringed the worshipper of Daerkfyre. The blessed axe dripped red, and he had already shrugged off several hits that would have downed most men regardless of armor. Only Loung stood within an unhealthy distance from the dwarf.
Salgor fixed his stare on the Tariykan. “Time for you to go down.”
Salgor raced at the martial artist and launched several swings. His axe cut the air around the man, but Loung moved with grace unlike any other. A punch and a kick hit the dwarf and went unanswered. The sickle blade of Loung’s weapon stung the dwarf’s side, but didn’t penetrate too deeply past the armor. Salgor finally hit the human with a fist, though it wasn’t a very solid connection. Blow for blow, Salgor slowed.
A kick from the Tariykan knocked the helmet off Salgor’s head. The blade of the dwarf’s axe lowered until it touched the dirt. The strong bouncer sagged heavily from the punishment of the Tariykan’s hits. The dwarven muscles had lost their steam.
Loung and the other men closed in around Salgor. The martial artist stopped to bow to the dwarf before resuming a fighting stance again. He spoke to the men, “When I say, move as one. Impale him from everywhere at once.”
* * * * *
Orthymbar stepped over Petrow to murder Lady Shauntay. Petrow was hurting and having a hard time getting breath. The young man’s arms were still tied and trapped underneath his body. He looked down at his legs and saw the redheaded man stepping between them to get to the noble. Out of desperation, Petrow brought up his legs and kicked at the man’s knee. The handyman’s legs and ankle rope trapped Orthymbar’s one leg. The knee buckled a bit, but Orthymbar barely managed to keep his balance amidst the thrashing. He raised the saber to slice Petrow’s legs off.
Petrow fought dirty. He kicked out with one leg and nailed the redhead right in the fatherly jewels. A whoosh of air went out of their attacker as he dropped. Petrow scrambled to his knees, then hopped back up to a standing position. In that time the saber wielder slowly regained his feet, one hand covering the tender area.
Petrow had nothing to gain by standing still or trying to retreat deeper into the tent. The handyman hobbled forward and used his body to push Orthymbar. The new captain hit Petrow with the hilt of the saber. Petrow almost had him cornered, but the handyman felt the tip of the saber poke against his upper abdomen. Orthymbar was ready to push the blade through some very vital organs.
Unable to punch, Petrow used his head…literally. His forehead shot forward and shattered Orthymbar’s nose. The saber still thrust forward, sliding across the skin of Petrow’s chest in a shallow cut instead of a deadly t
hrust. It stung, but Petrow continued with desperate abandon. More head butts followed, and blood ran from Orthymbar’s nose.
The redhead finally got a hand on Petrow’s shirt and shoved. A moment later, the hilt of the saber rushed up and slammed against the young man’s face. He fought a wave of dizziness, only to realize he was lying on his back with his arms trapped underneath him again. The saber was poised to deliver the fatal blow. Petrow closed his eyes to avoid seeing his own death.
CLANG!
The young man was puzzled at the sound, but even more so by the sound of splashing water accompanying it. Petrow popped one eye open. Lady Shauntay stood scared at the edge of his vision, holding a slightly dented chamber pot. She had finally moved to action.
Orthymbar stood with a shocked but conscious visage. The man was bruised and bleeding, and having a chamber pot and its contents collide with his head hadn’t been in his plans for that day. The captain’s coat was going to need a good wash.
His eyes pierced Lady Shauntay with a deadly glare. She dropped the pot and started to back up. His fist launched out and hit the noble hard. Right hand still poised with the saber, his left hand grabbed the noble roughly by part of her low-cut bodice. He threw her down, her landing slightly softened by the fact that he aimed her at Petrow. Petrow was trapped under her as she pleaded for her life. She made no move to defend herself, and the saber slashed down for the kill.
* * * * *
Trestan didn’t have much fight left in him. The constant running battle, in armor, had drained the young man’s energy. As he faced the two men, he honestly considered the idea of simply leaping over the bluff and taking his chances in the fall. His friends were in trouble though, and he would give them every chance. In his worship of Abriana, he believed that giving his life for someone he loved was very noble.
The two opponents moved in, but it was the man with the mallet that showed the most initiative. Trestan assumed he was a man of rank or simply a reputable fighter. The other man followed his every command. Trestan had an enchanted weapon with a powerful edge. It was time to try another tactic and hope out of desperation that it would work.
The mallet whirled around at the young man, and the elvish blade swept up to meet it. Instead of a parry, the young smith attacked with all his strength. The mallet came close to the young man’s head when the elvish blade collided with it. The metal head of the mallet swished past Trestan’s head and over the edge of the bluff to the beach below.
The big man stared blankly at the useless handle of his severed weapon. A relatively clean cut marked where the magical blade sheared off the head.
Hand over hand the young man spun the elvish blade in an arc to finish the move. The swordsman Julel watched as the sword beheaded the big man in his moment of stunned stupor. Trestan watched the body fall with an amazed look on his own face. The young smith from Troutbrook stared at the headless corpse. He wouldn’t have killed the man if he had been given a choice, but this was the only way he could save his friends.
Trestan looked up at Julel and tried his best threatening face. The intimidating look benefited by the blood on Trestan’s brow and nose. Trestan even took a few steps, scaring Julel into running for his life. For a moment, no other enemies were close enough to threaten the young man.
A breathless Trestan turned and the color drained from his face. A figure rode upon the winds from the sea. Cloth flapped in the morning air as the wing-like cloak provided flight to its owner. Yellow eyes looked over the camp battle from above, fixing on the lone attacker closest to him.
Revwar had joined the battle, and the elvish wizard was flying well out of range of Trestan’s sword.
* * * * *
Cat and Mel ducked several bolts that flew through the air. Mel lamented the loss of his water sack, which lay pierced by a shot from the camp. Cat had used up all the ammunition in one quiver.
As she reloaded, she glanced at the danger facing the rest of the companions. She saw Salgor in a losing battle against the Tariykan and several armed men. No screams were heard from the prisoner tent. The redheaded man had been given plenty of time to finish his task, though he had not exited. Trestan stood staring up at the wizard Revwar. The elf certainly had a host of deadly spells to command, and Trestan couldn’t threaten him. The companions’ situation seemed hopeless.
Mel shouted, “Cat! I think they are getting ready for something!”
Cat finished loading and took a shot at their enemies. The bolt dropped another attacker, but his friends were all holding loaded crossbows or readied bows aimed at her and Mel.
A voice was heard from the edge of camp. “Fire!”
Cat and Mel dropped low as a host of deadly missiles descended. One skidded off Cat’s helm, while another impaled her crossbow and rendered it useless. The half-elf did not know if anything hit Mel, but she heard him whispering in his small voice. Mel prayed to Daerkfyre for strength and courage. At least the gnome hadn’t been hurt badly, if at all.
When Cat looked up, war cries told her what was happening even had her eyesight failed her. Around eight or more mercenaries, melee weapons in hand, charged in for the kill. Even if she had a working crossbow, she would not be given the time to reload it. Mel also looked at the rushing men and dropped his mouth open in surprise.
Cat jumped in front of Mel and drew her rapier. Silver gleamed from blade to cat’s head pommel. The half-elf brought it level with the heart of the closest warrior. As the morning breeze fluttered her long, raven hair, her emerald green eyes fixed on their enemies. She uttered a plea, “I hope you have a good spell ready. I’d rather not die today and have it all be for nothing.”
CHAPTER 12
Cat stared down her charging attackers as she stood her ground. The last thing she expected was a small hand to reach up and pull her back. Mel tugged at her belt and put himself in front, directly in the path of harm. She started to argue, but noticed he was pointing his wand at the gathered horde of men. Mel spoke a single word. Suddenly, Cat’s eyes flinched against a bright flash. A resounding boom, like the roll of thunder, assailed her ears.
The first magical bolt crackled like lightening but surged forward in a straight line. The closest men were blackened as the energy burned them. The beam of magical destruction didn’t stop there. It continued in a straight line through a tent, over the bluff, and finally fading into a harmless tendril of smoke over the sea. The wave of attackers stumbled about in shocked confusion. Some held their ears from the roar of noise; others stared dumbly at their stricken companions.
Mel fired the wand again.
Cat stood back and squinted through the bright flashes in awe. She covered her sensitive elvish ears from the thunderous booms. A vibration shook the air with each bolt of lethal energy. The mass of men that had threatened them became separated and shattered in successive blasts from the powerful wand. Battle cries turned to screams of pain and terror. Wherever men stood together in a clump, the gnomish sorcerer would send one of his burning bolts. Living men were instantly charred or thrown to the ground. Some men threw down their weapons to turn and run for their lives. Cat stood in silent, open-mouthed surprise as she watched the carnage erupting from the small wand. Through it all one horrifying sight frightened the half elf more than anything else.
Mel’s first blast leveled the prisoners’ tent.
* * * * *
Petrow saw the saber coming down out of the corner of his eye. Suddenly the world was gone from him in a flash of light and a roar of noise.
The young man felt he was floating soundlessly in space. Dark and light colors danced before his vision. He did feel trapped, unable to move. Petrow could remember who he was, but he had no idea where he had gone. Was this the afterlife?
The lights and sounds seemed to come back slowly. He heard a mix of shouts and screams, though the noises sounded muffled. His vision fixed on a light in front of him. The handyman saw a blue sky, through the blackened outlines of a torn tent that partially covered hi
m.
If he was dead, why were his arms still tied behind his back? For that matter, why was Lady Shauntay still on top of him?
Looking around, the young man came to see that he was far from dead. Lady Shauntay was lying on him with her eyes closed. She sobbed and cried; therefore she was also very much alive. The tent supports were burned short, and burning scraps littered the ground. There was the smell of smoke. Whatever hit them had reduced the tent to a smoldering pile of rubble.
Then Petrow saw the blackened saber lying next to him. Beyond the weapon was a charred figure missing his right arm. From what Petrow could make out, the person near him wore the remains of a captain’s coat. Moans arose from the individual as the man struggled to move. Orthymbar had been burned and lost an arm, but he wasn’t dead yet.
Petrow wasn’t about to see how his attacker would recover. He was upset that Lady Shauntay had him pinned down by her helplessness. The sounds of fighting became clearer. The handyman tried to shake the noble off of his body. “Get off! Get off! We have to get up!”
* * * * *
Salgor stood worn and beaten. He was surrounded and knew they would charge in to finish him in moments. Loung stared at the bearded warrior with malice and the dwarf found himself looking away to see if he had any other options.
The worshipper of Daerkfyre then saw a familiar broken axe, lying in a discarded pile next to the cook fire. Salgor remembered teaching Petrow how to use it and fight with it. The young man had shown some talent; Salgor had been pleased to pass on some of his knowledge. One thing that had been pleasurable about the whole trip was helping the young lad to become a better warrior. Despite his best effort that morning, Salgor couldn’t get to the prisoner tent in time to prevent the screams of terror. That same youthful lad who had been willing to learn the axe was likely dead only a few feet away. Salgor felt a deep anger welling up from inside his heart. From childhood every dwarf learns stories about the strong heroes that carved out their nations. Tales pictured dwarves that could sunder pillars of old stone, or lay low the mightiest giants with one punch. One particular line from those stories came to mind: “The strongest muscle any dwarf warrior has, is his heart.”
The Earthrin Stones 1 of 3: Inheritance of a Sword and a Path Page 26