Poltarc smiled smugly, watching the dock coming closer instead of retreating. The captain knew what he was doing, alright. They tacked slightly away from the dock and warehouses until they were leaving them behind. Then Poltarc watched with sudden interest as the steerage wheel began spinning hard counter clockwise. The bow of the boat swung to the left, and the boat stood upright for a moment, only to list to the left from the force of the wind.
Now they were heading toward the southern limit of the city, and the mouth of the river. Poltarc thought the captain was going to sail the boat into the river when he heard the man yelling orders to the crew.
“Drop the canvas, and ready the Starboard anchor. And blast you men to kingdom come if you drop the anchor before I say. Climb, you sea monkeys, and furl the blasted sails.”
Men filled the rigging like ants fighting an enemy. The canvas disappeared and the Barque lost headway. The tide commenced to pull the vessel back along the coast; nearly dragging bottom in the shallows. Captain Turgis ran to the larboard railing, and watched the wet rock appearing as the water was sucked from the harbor. He gauged the distance to the dock at 200 fathoms. The hull bumped against a submerged something, “Damn these rocks.” Turgis ran to the forward steerage railing, “Blast it Bobby, make way to the bilge and see if we are taking on water.”
Poltarc watched a small man race to the forward cabin and down a stairway. Below the hatches, 200 men were crammed into the hold, but he didn’t care if they drowned. He watched the approaching dock with excitement building in his mind. He was barely able to contain the eagerness he was feeling flooding his body, it nearly vibrated with desire of the killing he intended. And then he could see the man awaiting him in the doorway to his warehouse. This was going to be a pleasurable experience. He could already taste the man’s blood on his tongue. Poltarc heard Turgis shouting once more.
“Drop the anchor, damn ye. Let it run to 40 fathoms and chock the damn chain.”
Poltarc heard the chain once more being drug across the decking. The boat was not moving as quickly as it had near the mouth of the bay. The chain was stopped, and soon after the boat started slowing as the anchor dug into the sand and rocks at the harbor floor. When the anchor finally held, the tide swung the vessel to the left and banged softly into the dock.
Turgis commanded the crew to tie off to the pilling below the level of the dock. The gangplank was drawn up to the dock, and Poltarc was climbing before it even was secured by line.
When Poltarc reached the heavy planking of the dock, he looked at the man filling the doorway and smiled, “I’ll be with you in just a moment.” Poltarc looked down at the new captain and waved, “The boat is yours, Captain Turgis.” As Poltarc approached the doorway, the unknown man smiled and moved with balanced grace back into the interior of the warehouse. Poltarc was almost to the doorway when he heard Sadon’s voice behind him.
Prince Sadon stepped back in haste and fear when he saw Poltarc’s face: he had learned a long time ago to quickly adjust to the man’s rages and demands. What he saw now did not bode well for his health.
Poltarc was finding it difficult to contain his temper, but this man had served him most willingly, “What . . . what is it you need, Sadon? I have a man to kill, and Raeah to greet, and yet you keep me from my enjoyment. Tell me why you have stopped me.”
Sadon bowed low before responding, “How many men do you wish me to bring into the warehouse, Poltarc?”
Sadon’s words filled him with anger, but he spoke quietly enough, “There is only one man, Sadon. Do you think one man will do me damage? Let no man neither enter behind me, nor even peek into the building. When I want something, I’ll call for you. Enter yourself uninvited, Sadon, and die.” Poltarc smiled congenially at the man, and turned to walk into the building.
Poltarc strode into the warehouse as if he were going to relax into a chair and relax away the afternoon with a good book. He looked for Raeah, but did not see her. This man standing in the middle of the warehouse floor, so relaxed, must have hidden her away. He walked to within several feet of the big man before speaking, “So, you have managed to capture my beauty, have you? You know you cannot keep her. She is special to me . . . don’t you see? I’ve invested much effort, and a fair amount of my resources, in the wench and would pay you handsomely for her return.”
Mordon watched Poltarc step into the building; so this was Poltarc. Poltarc, in this form, was of the same height as Raeah, maybe even slightly shorter. Her description of him fit perfectly to what he was seeing. His bright armor covered all but his hands, neck and head; just as Raeah’s. Poltarc’s smug attitude and arrogant bearing would have made the man insufferable to be around any length of time. Looking at him made Mordon feel as if he wanted to smash the man’s face with his fists, rather than sully the Wilson blade with his blood. “You may take her, Sir . . . only when you have crossed swords and defeated me in a gentlemen’s sport.” Mordon smiled as he continued, “Your speech is arrogant, and your bearing is a sham. Pray tell why so many men follow you so blindly? Any decent soldier of the realms of the island would laugh at the airs you display. You are like a spoiled nephew of a king, always jealous and incapable of being anything on their own.”
Poltarc could feel his face blanch, no one had dared speaking to him in such a manner. The man’s words spoke with innuendo, as if he knew more than he was telling. So what, if his nanites gave him sway over his men by sapping their will. They did his behest as they should. “I think I will take considerable effort in bringing you pain until you cry and beg for my mercy, but it will not come. You will die with your guts spread out on your legs, with your still beating heart in my hands. Your eyes will follow my every movement until I grow tired of hearing you scream and decide to let you die. I’ll find Raeah, and we will both lick your life’s blood from your organs as we pull them from your steaming body.”
Mordon wanted to get this man mad, but maybe he had gone too far. Mordon stood as balanced and relaxed as he could bring himself to be. Poltarc’s face twisted itself into a mask of hatred. With intentional slowness, he gripped the handle of the Wilson blade and drew it from the sheath he held in his left hand. Without taking his eyes from Poltarc’s, Mordon threw the sheath away from him. He heard it hit the floor and bang into the far wall.
Poltarc drew and leaped in a single motion, almost a blur. The man’s speed Mordon had expected, and he reacted with a parry and a leap of his own that made Poltarc step back and inspect the armor of his upper right arm. They both watched the armor seal the shallow cut.
Poltarc stared at the man across from him in disbelief. The fellow had cut him within seconds. “What is your name?”
“I am Sir Mordon of Widley.”
Poltarc laughed, “Widley, ha! I left that stinking city in rubble and all within dead, you lie.”
“Oh no, Poltarc . . . you left behind quite a few men, and women with children still at suckle. We all share the bounty of food and ale you left every day, and laugh with stories of your incompetence. Scatley helps in the changing of diapers. His men have helped replace the castle’s doors.” Mordon watched Poltarc turn red from anger.
That was when the fight began. They circled, closed, and withdrew repeatedly. Neither was at disadvantage for longer than it took to engage and withdraw.
Many times over, Mordon thanked Raeah for her instruction. He had not only been able to withstand Poltarc’s powerful advances, but could make Poltarc retreat just as effectively. Mordon drew upon his lessons, and began inflicting minor wounds on Poltarc’s sword hand. He felt, rather than witnessed, Poltarc’s hesitancy. Mordon began feigning his attack on Poltarc’s hand, only to deftly move the tip of his sword to cut the man’s face. He did not have enough time to stay closed and bring any serious wound to Poltarc’s face without being skewered himself.
Mordon began to see real frustration in Poltarc’s face, so the time was ripe for him to act.
Mordon retreated to the center of the floor, and then stood his ground. Poltarc followed him, trying to force the tip of his sword through Mordon’s defenses, but was unable to inflict a single wound.
Poltarc disengaged, turning his back on Mordon. He strode three steps and turned to look upon the man causing him difficulty. Where had, this man learned to counter his advances? The answer came suddenly, just as quickly as he dealt death to his victims once he tired of playing with them. Raeah was behind this. Wherever the wench was hiding, she had schooled him quite thoroughly. But now it was his turn to frustrate. This man would be on his torture table before dinner.
Poltarc circled the man, and then attacked at a much slower speed than was his norm. Without retreating, he advanced until it was clear this man was thrown off balance. But instead of trying to skewer his opponent, Poltarc began inflicting minor cuts to the man’s torso. The sight of blood thrilled his very soul, but he concentrated on the man’s eyes, constantly adjusting his movements to the opposite of what the man expected. He would cut this man to shreds. The more wounds and blood he could exact from this big man would bring even more pleasure. Poltarc had to admit the man was exceedingly quick to counter and was no ordinary swordsman. His unbalanced style was causing the man trouble. Poltarc let a smile come to his lips. He knew he was the better swordsman.
Mordon knew immediately when Poltarc discovered Raeah’s treachery. Fighting him now was no different than crossing swords with a master swordsman. Poltarc was a better fighter using this style than his own discordant style. Poltarc was clearly the superior swordsman. His reflexes were now the only thing keeping him alive. The fighting had gone on long enough and he had received several minor wounds—none deep, but all bleeding. Mordon knew he would have to find a way to take back his earlier advantage or die. The last thrust Mordon parried left a shallow cut along his jaw. The man had to make a mistake soon, or their plans would die along with him.
Mordon waited for the moment he prayed would come. When Poltarc dropped his over-confident eyes from his for an instant, he summoned all his remaining strength and leaped forward, pushing the man’s sword aside with his bare left hand, driving the Wilson blade through Poltarc’s chest. Mordon leaped back and stood balanced, ready to fight with his fists or run. He did not notice until then how heavy was his breathing. Poltarc’s mistake came at the last of his strength.
Poltarc stumbled back and stared at the sword in shocked disbelief.
Mordon watched Poltarc try to pull the sword from his chest without success. “Need help pulling the sword out, Poltarc?”
Mordon watched with his own stunned astonishment as Poltarc begin to expand and grow. The creature Poltarc became pulled the sword from his chest as the armor disappeared. Poltarc continued to grow until he towered over Mordon. With a heave, the towering monster threw the Wilson blade at Mordon. He hardly had time to side step as the blade swept past him and stuck in the floor at his side. He pulled the sword free of the floor, and had to roll away to his right as Poltarc’s gigantic right foot smashed down where he had strained to free his sword.
Bounding to his feet, Mordon kept his attention on the monster trying to crush him. He hoped they were ready. Poltarc was slower in his movements, but they were powerful. If he didn’t keep his attention on the creature, he would be crushed beyond recognition. Mordon circled, trying to draw the thing Poltarc now was to the center of the warehouse floor. When Poltarc followed, and raised his foot to smash downward, Mordon yelled, “Stop!” The creature was surprised enough to set his foot on the floor and stand up straight. It spoke something unintelligible, and Mordon shrugged in response.
Raeah had waited for just that moment. She did not expect to survive this conflict. Either Poltarc’s death, or hers, would end what she had become. From up high next to the ceiling, she leaped from the wide cross beam where she stood next to Simper. As she landed on Poltarc’s shoulders, the thick hawser rope she held settled around the creature’s neck. With the help of Simper from above, they heaved on the thick rope; pulling the noose tight about the surprised Poltarc’s neck. Balancing on his moving shoulders was impossible without holding onto the taunt rope.
Simper pulled the heavy rope along with Raeah. Within three seconds, he had wound the line around the beam twice. He had to concentrate on holding the rope tight and tying the best knot he could. Any slack would give the creature below more advantage to free itself. The knot was tied. Simper clung to the hefty beam and watched with horror as the creature snatched Raeah from its shoulder.
Poltarc tried to grab her with both his hands. She mustered what strength she had, and cleaved his left hand from the rising arm. Before she could recover from her swing of the sword, Poltarc pulled her from his shoulder with his right hand and squeezed until her ribs crack beneath the pressure. She screamed as her ribs begin piercing her lungs. The last thing she remembered was flying through the air, seeing the warehouse ceiling slip by.
The sound of breaking bones almost caused Simper to jump onto the enraged beast. Simper’s heart sank as he watched Raeah being flung across the warehouse. Numbness grabbed his body and mind as he watched her falling toward the floor.
Mordon couldn’t help watching Raeah’s crushed body being thrown high over his head. She crashed into another high cross beam and pin wheeled around the wood. Raeah fell to the floor, landing on her neck and shoulders and did not move.
Mordon cried out in his anguish, she was supposed to jump free, not fight. Mordon’s mind went as flame. As he attacked the struggling behemoth, he nearly forgot what Raeah had instructed him to do; nearly, but not completely. He disregarded the ponderous movements of Poltarc’s feet, and attacked his left leg at the knee. His first mighty sweep severed the hamstring. His second swing severed the muscle at the front of the leg.
Poltarc slumped down on the wreckage of his left leg. Choking sounds and spittle came from above, but Mordon did not look up. The handless arm tried to club him from above but the rope around Poltarc’s neck wouldn’t allow the creature to reach him. He rammed the point of his sword into the knee joint, and wrenched his blade sideways. Poltarc’s lower leg fell free and thudded to the floor with a loud meaty thud.
There was no bleeding. Poltarc’s system stemmed its escape before he even lost a drop.
Mordon continued his crazed slashing until the hamstring of the creature’s right leg was severed. Tendrils reached across the gap in Poltarc’s leg and began to mend the severed tissue. When the choking, slobbering Poltarc struggled to regain its balance on its one leg, Mordon clamored up Poltarc’s back and straddled his neck.
Watching from above, Simper groaned in terror as he watched what Mordon was doing. The monster had already crushed and discarded Raeah. His nerves were stretched taunt seeing Poltarc reach for Mordon as he had done for the girl. His stricken heart felt as if the creature was squeezing the life from his prone body. If Mordon was lost, what chance did he have against this creature? The monster’s hand was descending on Mordon. There was a blur of motion from Mordon’s sword. Poltarc’s arm collapsed away from the man upon its shoulders. Simper witnessed Cutter racing from the dockside open door in a rush. The dog fell upon the creature’s one good leg with fangs tearing at its calf muscle.
As the creature reached for him, Mordon sliced into Poltarc’s right shoulder; nearly severing the arm. More tendrils slithered out to begin pulling the arm back into position.
Twisting his body, Mordon placed the tip of his Wilson blade at the back of Poltarc’s neck and heaved with all his strength. The blade came out the front. Mordon twisted his body and sword once more, nearly decapitating the creature.
The weight of the body falling toward the floor, pulling against the noose, caused the head to tear itself completely free. Mordon fell with the body to land with a crash on the creature’s back. The entire building shuddered from the weight hitting the planking. Mordon’s breath was knocked from his chest in a whoos
h of air. He rolled off the creature’s back, struggling to stand. He could hear Simper yelling above him. Air painfully seeped back into his starved lungs.
“He’s putting himself back together!”
Mordon looked back to Poltarc. The arm he had nearly cut free was healed enough to reach out for the leg he had first cut from Poltarc’s body. He watched with incredulity and disbelief as the two pieces were drawn together and began mending. Cutter had come from somewhere and was biting the creature’s torso at its waist. Then he remembered what Raeah had told him. Mordon looked to Poltarc’s head and could see the creature’s eyes following every move its severed body made. He stepped to the side of the head, raised his blade as far above his own head as he could reach, and drove its point into the creature’s temple with as much force as he could muster. He whipped the sword hilt about until the creature’s eyes glazed over, and its body stopped moving. Raeah had been smart enough to explain this might happen. It was a guess on her part but she had been proven right.
As he ran to Raeah’s still form, Mordon called to Simper, “Get down here, Simp.” Mordon kneeled by her crushed body and wept. He wanted to scream his pain and frustration but he saw her move and hope filled his heart. Her eyes moved and then a finger. He leaned down and put his ear next to her lips. He listened with rapt attention, but could not stop his weak sobbing. He did not hear Simper stop beside him, nor did he feel the hand he placed on his back. He was unaware Cutter had come and lay its head upon Raeah’s thigh. She spoke to him in the barest whisper, but he heard her clearly. She told him many things he did not understand, and a few he did. Her last request made him rock back on his heels and cry out in pure anguish. “Kill you . . . kill you . . . I want you to live Raeah, not die. We can rebuild Duratia and Widley. I can’t do it without you.” Then he heard Simper speak at his shoulder.
Mordon of Widley Page 33