Sarina's Barbarians

by E M White

  Zacharius’ heart swelled to see her form up so valiantly. To face such an overwhelming foe. Then his heart plunged at the reality of it.

  Magnus and his doomark continued to circle. Forty paces away. Magnus raised one spear and shouted something in his strange tongue. He was yelling directly at Sarina. Spitting his hatred. There was no Akimi to translate what he was bellowing. It was probably for the best.

  He switched direction once. To test her.

  That’s when the goblins rushed Zacharius. Out of nowhere. Twenty of them. Thirty. They swamped him in a wave of high-pitched squeals and green skin. He went down to a knee and lost sight of everything around him. Lost sight of Sarina. Felt the punctures of claws and teeth to his shoulders and back before he could even begin fighting back.

  From the corner of his eye, through the scrambling thin green limbs about his head, he saw the tiny form of Akimi far out by the edge of the plateau, alone, waving the red flag high over her head, waving the flag-sign no one wanted to see: commander in peril.

  20

  Onäs Does His Job

  Onäs Grimblade was one of the first to see the red flag up there. To see Akimi barely standing.

  But the cry of alarm spread among the warriors of the Fourth Army, those still in the valley, those who’d not followed Vadric to challenge the main line of the enemy, with amazing speed.

  Onäs seized a riderless horse, shrunken human heads dangling from its belt, and threw himself upon it. Markus was immediately at his side. His horse was limping. Its breath was haggard. Together they charged up the ridge of a gulley to the top of the plateau. When they crested the rock line, they both cried out in disbelief, in anger, in determination.

  Behind them swarmed seventy friendly riders, more than a hundred warriors on foot. Now they were the ones charging without formation.

  They thundered past Akimi, who, her task complete, dropped to her knees and then collapsed. The side of her face hit the trampled grass as she lost consciousness.

  “Get to Sarina!” Markus shouted as Onäs began to gallop out front. “Go, you bastard!”

  Bodies were strewn everywhere. Some were flying through the air that very moment.

  Twenty doomarks lay about too. More than a dozen karnogs were dead or writhing on their backs, their four arms grasping their wounds, paying the price for rushing a spearline.

  Gnolls were barking and yipping, forming tights circles to further advance.

  Only a hundred of Sarina’s reserve warriors remained. But they were clumping up. Their discipline was failing. Or it had failed already. The karnogs, the gnolls, and their braying, bellowing doomarks were picking them off. Almost one by one.

  How could it have gone so badly? So quickly?

  Then again, no one had been expecting doomarks. Four-legged siege engines, that’s what they were.

  Onäs saw the Sarina. She was off her horse. Her back was to him. Her silver helmet with its two black wings was easy to pick out even among all this.

  Something like ten warriors were gathering at her side. Their eyes were wide and desperate for any advantage. They must have been completely surprised when Onäs thundered past them, five paces away from Sarina herself.

  He didn’t deviate from his purpose for even a split-second to see her face. For if he failed, there would never again be a face to see.

  Onäs went straight for the biggest, scariest karnog riding on the biggest, most frightening doomark. He went straight for Magnus Sinn.

  Magnus must’ve seen the new threat, the surge of Sarina’s warriors coming up and over the cliffs, over Onäs shoulder. But he wasn’t changing course either. He knew whose head he needed to take. He must’ve known since before arriving in the countryside around Tias. He’d kept to his winding path, toward Sarina. And her very small cluster of warriors. The entire time.

  Onäs intuited instantly as the gap swiftly shrunk, as he saw the brute’s eyes, souls like Magnus Sinn don’t admit weakness.

  And that can always be used against them.

  Sometimes you just need to remind these hard-headed, intimidating types of their weakness. Or maybe, like right now, you die trying.

  Onäs shouted as he leaped from his horse. His blade was out before he hit the dirt.

  His borrowed horse tried to turn away from the wall of doomarks. The karnog on Magnus’ left swung his massive hammer and crushed the horse’s skull before it could swerve.

  Onäs knew better. He didn’t stop at all. He hit the ground running. He leaped high over the swinging, deadly tusk of Magnus’ doomark. He kept running through the beasts. And within a second, he was at their rear, just as the beasts smashed together, closing the gap.

  He saw Magnus trying to turn around. To turn his beast around. To turn around in his saddle. His spear-wielding arms flailed backward.

  Onäs didn’t slow a for a heartbeat. He’d attained the advantage, but it wouldn’t last. His long orange, rune-etched sword dug for muscle along the back thighs of two doomarks, including the one under Magnus.

  Their hind legs buckled as they bayed murderously in pain.

  Magnus roared and shook his arms. His spears waved wildly. He leaped from his crippled beast. Onäs thought he could feel the impact through his boots.

  Except he couldn’t see Sarina anymore, which was deeply troubling. He couldn’t see through the wall of armored beasts, their huge curled tusks, and the several karnogs who were now coming to kill him. Magnus was right in the middle.

  Onäs begged the elven gods to get Markus to Sarina during this briefly borrowed time.

  The big karnog next to Magnus stepped toward Onäs. He had four spears, one for each hand. He began to run, roaring with every monstrous stride.

  Onäs ran too. His only advantage was to close the space faster than his opponent could foresee. It was kind of his thing. It was the same thing Sarina had ordered her captains to do at the beginning of this day.

  Before the karnog could begin thrusting his primary spear forward, Onäs crossed his center. He stayed low, as low as his legs could support him. He turned behind the towering beast—which blocked out the sky above him—swinging his sword into the meat below its calf. Its spears still raised, it lost balance and went down with a bitter cry, crippled and out of the fight.

  Onäs stumbled a moment.

  He’d crouched so low, with such momentum, that his legs failed him. He went to a knee.

  A deadly mistake.

  He had to put a hand down to regain his balance or he’d have to roll out of it. Precious split-seconds. Magnus was too close for either.

  He looked up to see the huge commander roaring at him. His spears already on the backswing.

  Onäs chose not to look away.

  A flash of green smashed Magnus in the beard. Then another. Magnus looked positively astonished. Both Magnus and Onäs glimpsed to the dead, bloody goblins at his feet.

  “Get up, damn you!” Zacharius hurled another dead goblin from afar—Onäs didn’t even look his direction—and hit Magnus in the middle of his chest plate, leaving a bloody print upon the bronze before it fell.

  As Onäs got to his fighting base, he saw the giant karnog actually frown in disbelief. He was being assailed by his own horde. Dead ones at that.

  Then Magnus looked at Onäs, an actual elf, so unheard of in these parts, as if it were all his fault.

  His eyes widened with even greater rage. He was used to dominating battlefields. Dominating everything. Onäs could see beyond the layers of Magnus’ outward fury—to the desperate beast within.

  For an uncomfortably long moment, Onäs wasn’t entirely so sure how to contemplate this creature. It was a bad time to begin overthinking things. But, there he was.

  He saw a handful of Sarina’s original reserve swordsmen running to him. Others were running behind Magnus, piling on the rally point Sarina was now ordering.

  By the gods, he could hear her now. Above it all.

  Magnus turned to see the change of fortune that had occu
rred in the three minutes since Onäs had created this diversion.

  He waved his spears angrily at the solidifying positions of Sarina’s warriors. At the howling piles of doomarks and karnogs. At the whimpering scatter of gnolls, some of which had even taken to all fours to run for their lives.

  The big karnog behind Magnus was still mounted, perhaps a lieutenant if these savages had such things. He shouted something at the huge commander. Then he turned and shouted at his other comrades. Only ten of the big ones remained. A spear struck the side of his throat, and a stream of blood shot from his gaping mouth. As he crumpled, Magnus seized his doomark by the snout and climbed up. Another spear stuck into Magnus’ own chest plate, as if the splatter of goblin blood had been a target. He yanked it free. A line of his own blood streaked out from the rent in the bronze.

  He yanked violently upon the reins of his new mount. He turned toward Sarina, who was now at the front of her newly formed unit, herself slashing at the legs of several ogres who’d come up the side of the cliff to join the raid on Sarina’s position.

  Magnus drew back the spear, taking aim at the princess, thirty paces away.

  And experienced warrior like Magnus—he could do it. Easily. Onäs could sense it all in him, in that single backswing of his spear. The aggressive will. The validation of strength. The need for total dominance.

  Onäs was already mid-air, leaping upon Magnus’ doomark.

  He crashed awkwardly onto the thing’s back. He tried to get some desperate leverage behind his sword. But failed.

  Magnus got to him first, grabbing him with two hands. He hurled Onäs far and hard onto the ground halfway to Sarina. He hastily hurled the spear. But anger and his wound fouled his aim. The iron spearhead shattered at Sarina’s feet.

  Magnus roared and cranked the neck of his mount. He turned away.

  Now there were only six karnogs and seven doomarks left. The riderless doomark was trampling dead warriors in a wild frenzy.

  It took six spearmen to bring it down.

  Magnus whipped his doomark toward the edge of the plateau, toward the way he’d come. A single chittering goblin leaped up the doomark’s leg and back, ascending to Magnus’ shoulder, screeching angrily at Sarina’s half-broken—barely victorious—warriors.

  Onäs barely got to his feet. His sword was gone. Something in his hip was not right.

  Sarina grabbed him under his arm. She began yanking him upright. She was shouting something in his ear. But none of it was making sense. She didn’t like her people falling down on the job, that was for sure.

  Onäs’ eyes were quite blurry now.

  But he saw the last fuzzy karnog ride off, drop away from the plateau. He saw the fuzzy shapes of warriors coming together. More shouting.

  Swords?

  They’re raising their swords and spears to the sky.

  Huh. Usually a good sign.

  He knew from plenty of brawls that he had about five seconds left of consciousness. A terrible ringing in his ears was about to knock him out.

  He was trying to remember something. It seemed very important at the time.

  He grabbed Sarina’s gloved hand and tried raising his voice over the cacophony in his own head. He shouted, “Who the hell was throwing dead goblins?”

  Sarina held him tight, the elf who’d flung his own body between her and who knows how many tons of beast, muscle, and bronze. She shouted, “Onäs! What goblins?”

  Onäs’ eyes rolled back. Then his head. He’d passed out before she even replied.

  Princess Sarina of the Allied Tribes, Commander of The Fourth Army

  21

  Sarina Confesses To Big Markus

  They were in Sarina’s tent when Onäs awoke. No sooner than the following afternoon.

  Onäs said, “Where am I?”

  “In my bed, champion. You earned it.”

  “Your bed?” He tried smiling and tried sitting up, but a wince dashed both attempts. “Anything happen in here I missed?”

  She kissed his forehead. “Mm. You haven’t earned everything, Onäs Grimblade,” she said, lying. She tried beaming.

  “The smile betrays you, Highness. You’re not doing so good either.”

  Sarina sat back on the edge of her own bed. She took his hand. “I don’t feel well after battles. It happens. Don’t know why.”

  Onäs tried again to sit up. It took no effort for Sarina to keep him down.

  He said, “Should be up. With you.”

  “You already saved my life. You should be resting.”

  He frowned. She did too. There was thick sadness in the air. He said, “I don’t rest well, Highness.”

  She smiled again. Not fooling anyone. “None of us do.”

  Onäs startled himself with a thought. “Vadric? His assault on Magnus’ vanguard?”

  The question brought a little life to Sarina’s face. “Crushed them. Never let them form up. He’s told the story a hundred time already.”

  “Really?” Onäs sucked a shallow breathe. “It worked?”

  “Half of Magnus’ army is regrouping to the west.”

  “Half?”

  She almost smiled. “Half.”

  “Good work, Highness.”

  She put a hand to his chest, which was bare save the geometric tattoos of his heritage. She could feel the thumping through his skin. “You’re all heart, Onäs.”

  He cleared his throat. She handed him a flagon of water. He said after sipping, “That I am.”

  She put the flagon on the ground. She focused on him completely. “Right now,” she tilted her head ever so slightly to him, “I need a little more brain in my life. And a little less heart.”

  His pinched his brow severely. He turned away. He made a show of inspecting the tent fabric next to her bed.

  It was plain to Sarina that Onäs loathed his helpless state. It was painful for him. She understood that.

  She said, “Stay in my bed. Who knows what should happen when you’re better.” She kissed his forehead. “Rest now, champion. I owe you my life. I’ll check on you soon.”

  She kissed his forehead again. She kissed his lips. Then, she rose to her feet and slid silently through the tent flap.

  In her command tent next door, Markus was waiting for her, running his fingers across a map on the central table. She embraced him. Grateful he’d been spared.

  “I hear him. Is he awake or still talking in his sleep?”

  Sarina put her head on Markus’ chest. “Barely. I doubt he’ll remember any of it.”

  She leaned into the big man. Leaned her sorrowful heart on him. As if his incorruptible soul could do away with it for the time being. Better to be rid of it than feel its sorrow.

  He rubbed her bare shoulders. He knew her better than any other person in all of Auzurix. He said, “The hole in your chest. It’s back.”

  “Yes,” she said. “My strength and the will. It’s all missing again. I’ll never get used to it.” She sighed deeply and gripped the powerful muscles of his back, under his pelt. She nuzzled his wide beard. “Legs feel ten times their weight. Bones feel like iron.”

  “You’ll be better soon.”

  “I know. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  He stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. “They said, ‘Beware Attalia the Red’ more after her battles than during. It happens.”

  She said, “It was a bad plan, Markus.”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “You all knew it. I could see the distrust in your eyes. Here in this tent, the night before.”

  “We chose to support you, Sarina.”

  “But your minds, there was something else in all your minds.”

  “And yet we chose to support you.”

  “You didn’t think I could get us through yesterday.”

  “I didn’t think even your father could have. How’s that?”

  “A third of my army is dead, Markus. My father’s men. Son’s of his allies.”

  “Th
ese are dark times, Sarina. I don’t have to tell you that.”

  “Nor do you need to console me, Markus.”

  “We had no idea what we were facing. Gracus and Quintus lied to you. To us. What you did, even your father would have done it. Fight the fight. Fulfill the commission. It was too late to back out.”

  “I feel so very low, Markus.”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “So I hear. You keep bringing it up.”

  She shook her head. She stepped back from him and sat on a trestle chair. Then, she sat up as straight as she could and looked him in the eye. “I was too vulnerable up on the plateau. That vulnerability brought all of you back when you should have been pressing Magnus farther out from Tias.”

  “Vadric still accomplished that, Sarina. Despite facing such a vastly larger force. Magnus swerved. Tias is safe. For now.”

  “I knew it, Markus.”

  “Knew what?”

  “How big Magnus Sinn’s army was. I knew the day after we arrived at Tias.”

  He stared down at her. Toying with his lip a moment. Trying to put it together.

  The command tent stood ten yards per side. There were trunks and places enough to seat the entire leadership cadre, often her two captains and their assortment of higher sergeants. The table in the center had been a gift from her father, King Athrid, the day of her appointment to the Fourth Army. It was a symbolic gift, from one commander to another. In the corner, Akimi’s low bed still lay vacant, for a command tent was no place for the injured.

  “Sarina, why didn’t we pull back? His army was three times the size of ours. Why were we digging in for that fight?”

  “We didn’t dig in, Markus. We took the fight to Magnus. It was our only possible advantage. We chose the terrain. We had the maps. Magnus didn’t.”