Grog II: Book 2 of the Ebon Blades

by RW Krpoun

  “And what do you mean by these have learned caution?”

  “I left a couple of their scouts nailed to trees. Several trees each, in fact.”

  Provine Sael and Hunter came over from my left, Provine Sael’s hair glowing in the weak starlight. “The Shaman has opted to hang back,” Hunter whispered. “But the war band’s blood is up.”

  “And the Shaman could return,” Provine Sael noted. “Torl?”

  “Unless they catch the last of the escapees soon, we’re in for a fight. I give even odds on that happening.”

  I could hear her sigh. “We shall move forward, then, and perhaps save one or more of the poor souls fleeing captivity.”

  “That’s not a good idea,” Torl noted, but I could tell he didn’t expect her to change her mind. “Grog and Burk lead, Hatcher trails them, then me, and lastly Hunter. Provine Sael, you remain with Pieter and the cart.”

  “I will not avoid danger while others fight,” she snapped.

  “Once again, if one of us catches a blade, our only hope of survival are your Arts,” Hunter drawled. “So you must stay safe.”

  I heard her stamp her foot. “I will stay at the rear of the formation with Pieter, then.”

  “Probably best,” Hatcher agreed. “Just our luck, the Tulg will flank us. We’re safer as a group.”

  “Squint, lads and lasses, and get ready,” Hunter advised in a normal voice. “We shall soon have company.”

  Chapter Five

  Whatever Hunter did created two balls of light, each about a foot across, to rise from the ground and hover over our group.

  “Well, here we are,” Hatcher observed from behind me.

  “Burk, Grog, straight ahead at a trot,” Torl advised moving up between us, and as we started forward the light kept pace with us.

  “Oh, blast,” Hatcher wailed. “Torl, you bastard, it’s too early to make me run!”

  The greenish lights swam towards us fast, some swinging out to either flank as we moved. “This may not be a great plan,” Burk observed as we advanced.

  “I already pointed that out,” Torl observed. “Orders are orders. Alright, slow to a walk.”

  “About time,” Hatcher gasped.

  “What are we looking for?” I asked as I peered into the darkness beyond.

  “They’ll be coming to us,” Torl advised. “We’ll stop here; if any are still uncaught this will have to do for them.”

  The greenish witch-lights closed and defined into tufts of something that glowed, tied to helms and spears, and then someone screamed their final breath away not twenty yards in front of us, and the sounds of brush being trampled spread across our front.

  “This is not good,” Burk snarled. “The Ebon Blades cannot lose an escort to a bunch of runts.”

  “You’re right.” I checked the sides. “Drop back to the mistress and keep her safe; I’ll draw attention to the fore.”

  “On it.”

  As he trotted back I took a half-dozen strides forward. “Here I am!” I bellowed from deep down in my chest. “Grog of the Ebon Blades!”

  Someone or something crashed through the brush and ran past me, passing close enough to touch, but it wasn’t a Tulg so it wasn’t my concern; all I got was a glimpse of filthy cloth pierced by several short javelins, a whiff of sour unwashed body, and then it was gone.

  Tulg crashed through the low brush in hot pursuit: wiry humanoids a bit shy of five feet, hairless and ruddy colored, with faces like a bat’s, tall forward-facing ears, and mouths full of needle-like teeth. They screeched in their chirping language as they came, clad in leathers decorated with bones, trinkets, feathers, and the like.

  A flint-tipped javelin struck my breastplate, the head exploding into a spray of stone splinters that struck tiny sparks of pain across my underjaw, but I was moving and paid it no mind as the edge of my sword separated a scarred Tulg’s head from its shoulders; on my back-stroke I knocked a spear spinning from the grip of a scabrous hand and a suddenly-spouting stump. Backing up a step as I parried two spear-thrusts and twisted to take a third on my armor, I flinched as an arrow passed me, its passage sounding like cloth tearing. A few feet away the long shaft ripped a screech from a suddenly-dying Tulg who had been hale a heartbeat before.

  I backed up two more steps, parrying and evading, a stone spear-point punching through my left bracer to draw blood; I split a Tulg’s skull and cut another’s arm to the bone, my height and the length of my blade neutralizing the length of their spears; if anything, I had a slight edge in reach, and as Master Horne always says, fights can be won on small things.

  The Tulg were frantic with activity, hopping, darting, always in motion and constantly screeching their high-pitched cries, but if you kept your wits about you, you could see that there were fewer than there appeared: all the motion was noise was just to make it appear that you were about to be swarmed and brought down by their sheer weight of numbers.

  But I had faced Tulg before, and Master Horne had taught us to hold our focus close no matter what the odds, pain, or noise; we had sweated away countless days on the old parade field at the barracks learning, practicing, preparing, all for the day we would walk through the short passage and out onto the sand of the pit. Sixty times I made that walk, and sixty times I had returned.

  It didn’t help the Tulg that Torl was somewhere behind me with his bow, the long hissing shafts reaching out to take life after life; it can be hard to focus when death comes at you from a distance

  A spear shaft parried my short swing and I instinctively twisted the hilt so the edge slid down the shaft, trying for the Tulg’s hands; I drew some blood, but the little beast was fast enough or lucky enough that it kept its fingers.

  Side-stepping a too-slow thrust I grabbed the spear shaft with my left hand and jerked the Tulg forward as I flipped my sword hilt in my right hand and punched the steel disk pommel into its forehead, sending it sprawling, dead or unconscious. Master Horne had always hammered into us that no one could claim to be proficient with a weapon until he could move it in any way possible with either hand. We had worn our hands bloody practicing until each weapon was just an extension of our own bodies.

  With every exchange I fell back a step or two; I had no ground to hold, and while I wasn’t nearly as quick as the Tulg, they weren’t the only ones who knew how to fight on the move. More importantly, I could play a waiting game, killing where I could, but my main job was to keep as many warriors focused upon me while Hunter, Torl, and Hatcher thinned their numbers.

  My lungs were aflame and my muscles were burning because there is never enough air in a fight, and air is essential to hard work, although I don’t know why. But this was my world, and I moved through it with all the skill I could muster, fighting as one continuous action, and ignoring the pain from successful hits. The Tulg were at a disadvantage in that their flint weapons often simply broke against my steel breast and back, but flint is terribly sharp, and most of my body wasn’t covered by steel.

  Splitting a spear-shaft, I parried twice and had a third attack grate across my breastplate as my back-slash severed an arm just above the elbow. My sword was fast, faster than any blade of its length that I had ever handled, but the Tulg would have overwhelmed me had had they managed to surround me, but the others were covering my back.

  I leaned in order to side-kick a Tulg in the chest, sending it flying, a risky move in a wild melee, but one I took in order to remind the Tulg who was the bull in this particular pen. Stars were starting to swim before my eyes, a warning that I was running out of air; no matter how much you trained, you can only fight for a matter of minutes, not really all that many, before you need a rest or at least a slowing of pace.

  But I am of the Ebon Blades, a proper barracks of the old school, and I will fight to the bitter end if called to; I was slowing, but there were fewer Tulg coming at me so I was doing more than just holding my own.

  Three more parries, and then the Tulg were backing off into the underbrush, dragging t
heir wounded and most of their dead with them, shrieking and showing their needle-teeth as if to indicate that they were choosing to withdraw, not defeated. Personally, I didn’t care what they thought; if I was alive it meant that I had won, because only winners walked away. To stop an Ebon Blade, you must kill him, and we die hard.

  The bards I have heard always have heroes making pronouncements in these situations, but I was no hero so I just focused on breathing and keeping an eye out in case the Tulg withdrawal was a deception. As the flashing stars faded away and my breathing steadied a bit, I checked behind me.

  Hunter was sitting on a rock taking a pull from his pocket flask; a couple Tulg corpses lay nearby, their clothing charred and smoking; Hatcher stood at his elbow, her last throwing axe in hand. When he finished he passed her the flask and she threw back a gulp with a practiced flip of her wrist.

  Burk was limping towards me with a bucket of water, the handles of a pair of ox-horn ladles poking above the rim. He was just passing the body of the man who had rushed past me at the start of the fight, but it was obvious from the blood that had soaked his filthy, ragged smock that his running days were over. No less than four javelins stood out from his back, and I was impressed that he had still been able to run; every step must have set the flint edges to sawing away inside him.

  Just beyond Burk, Provine Sael and Pieter were kneeling over a prone person; I couldn’t see who it was, but only Torl was not present, and the dirty bare legs I could see were certainly not his.

  “Thanks,” I gasped as Burk reached me. I poured a dipperful of water inside my breastplate, discarded my kettle hat and poured another over my scalp.

  “You move around too much,” Burk took a long drink from his ladle. “That’s the advantage of a shield: you set yourself and let them come at you.”

  “Footwork,” I gasped before gulping down a ladle of water. “Is important.”

  “True, but you put too much emphasis on it.”

  “I like to keep them at a distance.” I poured water onto a kerchief and rubbed at the blood on my person, partially to clean and partially to see how bad I was bleeding.

  “I don’t mind up close,” Burk scrubbed at the blood and brain matter that dotted his armor. “One solid hit is all I need.”

  “I like the point and edge.”

  “Me, I’ll take crushing bones any day.”

  “Hatcher, come here,” Provine Sael called.

  “Who’s hurt?” Burk asked Hunter, who was watching one ball of light circle the camp while the other hovered low over Provine Sael.

  “An escapee,” the ‘slinger answered lazily, and the circling light darted under the cart. “The dead one was carrying the other. Tough bastard.”

  “Where’s Torl?” I asked, using my work knife to cut open my trouser leg so I could bandage the worst of my wounds; the rest hurt, but weren’t anything too bad.

  “Slithering around in the dark making the Tulgs’ nightmares come true, I expect.” Hunter took a swig and stowed his flask. “He set off after them like a terrier. I expect they won’t be trying their luck again tonight; likely not ever.”

  “What if they come back with their shaman?”

  Hunter grinned and jerked his chin to his right. “Walk in that direction for about twenty yards, then follow the smell of roasted meat, and you’ll find their shaman.”

  “Huh.” I wanted to ask a lot of questions about that, but I didn’t really know how to say them out loud.

  Having cleaned myself as best I could and bound the worst of my wounds, I drank another ladle-full of water and moved over to where the three were huddled, Burk on my heels. I carefully slid my sword under my belt, wishing I had had the time to don my baldric.

  Provine Sael, her sleeves pushed up and her hands bloody, was doing something to the bloody abdomen of a skinny, dirty woman lying on the ground, while Pieter, his sleeves also pushed up, knelt at the woman’s head holding a cloth device over her face. Hatcher stood to the side watching intently, and the area reeked of blood and citrus.

  “Hatcher, I need your hand just so,” Provine Sael pointed with her chin as she took a pointy little tool from the case beside her.

  “Here,” Hatcher thrust the bundle she was holding into my hands and knelt opposite Provine Sael, pausing to pour liquid over her hands that increased the citrus smell.

  I was distracted by the sight of the thick layer of scars that coated Pieter’s arms, and it wasn’t until the bundle moved within my hands that I looked at what Hatcher had handed me.

  Its face red and puffy, a moon-faced Human baby stared at me from within a thin loose-weave blanket.

  “That’s a baby!” Burk hissed as I instinctively tried to back away from the thing, which accomplished nothing because I was still holding it.

  “It is. What do I do?” Nothing in my life had prepared me for the unexpected possession of a tiny Human being, and I was completely at a loss.

  “Um. Well…don’t drop it,” Burk noted unhelpfully.

  “Here,” I held it towards him, but he backed away.

  “No! She gave it to you.”

  “Look, I’m ordering you to take it.”

  “No.”

  “I am going to knock the blazes out of you if you don’t take this right now.”

  “Not while having to hold it, you can’t,” he said as he backed up another step, nodding to himself. “Definitely not.”

  “Just hold the baby, Grog,” Provine Sael snapped. “And both of you move away. Hatcher, press here.”

  I went over to Hunter. “Here.”

  “No, thank you,” he tucked his hands into his armpits. “Babies extrude noxious substances frequently and without warning. You keep it.”

  “I can’t hold a baby!”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, you currently are.”

  Burk snickered from a safe distance.

  I looked at the baby, who I was still holding at arm’s length; I had it around the torso so that its limbs hung free, and it was absently working its legs a bit jerkily as it stared at me with dark eyes. It didn’t seem to weigh anything at all, and I could feel it breathing within my grasp. The top of its head was covered in fine dark hair, uneven and thin, and its features were ill-defined.

  “You cradle it,” Burk said helpfully without coming any closer. “In your arms, like. I’ve seen women do that. Or they carry them in a basket.”

  “Where’s that bucket?” I was looking around as Hatcher came over, wiping her hands with a cloth that reeked of citrus.

  “Grog, don’t hold her like that,” the Nisker chided me. “Give her here. Don’t you know how to hold a baby?”

  “No.” I handed it over with indescribable relief.

  “Here we go,” Hatcher effortlessly held the baby so its head rested against her shoulder. It looked at her and gurgled, exposing toothless gums. “Isn’t that better? Isn’t it? Isn’t Grog silly, being scared of little bitty you? Igga-bigga-boo.” The baby squirmed and wrinkled its nose, its face becoming less red. Hatcher giggled and gave it a loud kiss on the forehead.

  “Two huge bloody Red Guardsmen afraid of a baby,” she grinned at us, turning her torso in a sort of rocking motion as she spoke.

  “This is definitely not covered in the Guardsman manual,” Burk pointed out.

  “I think it has scurvy: it has lost all its teeth,” I pointed out.

  “Grog, babies aren’t born with teeth, are they,” Hatcher addressed this to the baby. “Isn’t he silly? Yes, he is. Burk is silly, too, yes he is. Yes he is.” She kissed the baby again. “I’m going to call you Rose for now. Do widdums like Rose? Do you? Do you? Igga-bigga-boo.”

  “Any claim that women are a sane breed can be disproved by handing one of them an infant,” Hunter observed.

  “Oh, pish,” Hatcher said to Rose. “If men were in charge of babies every race would have lasted one generation. He is silly, isn’t he? Igga-bigga-boo.”

  Provine Sael joined us, looking tired. “How is she holding
up?”

  “Pretty well,” Hatcher said. “What are her mother’s chances?”

  “If she lasts to dawn, well, then maybe.” The Dellian stroked the baby’s cheek.

  “Which begs the question: how are we going to feed her?”

  “If she fusses before I wake, give her a piece of hardtack to gum; crafting baby food is one of the first things a Provine of the Blue learns.” She licked a thumb and smoothed Rose’s hair. “Pieter is cutting up part of that bolt of cloth into nappies.” Straightening, she turned to us. “All right, let’s get your wounds dealt with, and then I’m to bed. Is Torl not back?”

  “No,” Hunter noted. “He’s still doing what he loves.”

  “I suppose. How long can you keep the lights?”

  “I can keep one circling until dawn.”

  “Fine, do so. Everyone stays in war gear until Torl returns. Half may sleep.” She started to work on Burk’s wounds.

  “I’ll stay up and tend my wards,” Hunter offered. “The rest can sleep. Personally, with Torl on the prowl I expect the Tulg have more to fear in this dark than we do.”

  “Fine.”

  Hatcher made sort of a nest on the end of her cot for Rose, since she had plenty of room. “I take it you never held a baby before?” she whispered.

  “Never been close to one that I can think of.”

  “I thought they got regular drafts of kids at your barracks?”

  “They did, but the real little ones were kept apart. Once we started training we never saw any who weren’t in training.”

  “Huh. You want to hold her again?”

  “No.”

  “C’mon, there’s nothing so sweet as a little baby.”

  “No.”

  “He’s just a grumpy-umpty,” Hatcher whispered into the nest. “Oh, she’s yawning!”

  I wanted to point out that even mules yawn, but I didn’t.

  Sunrise woke me; Hatcher was asleep with one arm curled around Rose’s nest; the baby was hidden beneath a layer of covers. I rose, wincing at a couple cuts which Provine Sael hadn’t had the power to heal yet. Burk was up as well, and Torl was sitting by the fire pit grilling half a rabbit over the coals. Everyone else was still asleep.