The muscular monster recovered his swing and drew back in time to parry her sword cut with the stout handle of his axe. She cut again, aiming for his fingers. Her bronze blade bit deeply into the thong-wrapped handle held by Ungrah. He threw the axe over in a wide arc, forcing Karada’s hand to follow or lose her sword. The upper edge of the axe sliced into her horse’s neck. The wheat-colored stallion reared, lashing out with its front hooves. One dealt Ungrah a fierce blow to the forehead. The ogre stumbled back, recovered, and laid about on either side with his axe, hacking empty air.
A nomad on Karada’s right pushed in and tried to spear Ungrah. The ogre chief snatched the head of the spear in his bare hands and snapped the shaft. An ogre beside him thrust with the spiked tip of his axe handle and caught the nomad in the ribs. The nomad dropped his spear and reeled away, clutching his bleeding side. With another sweep the ogre lopped the man’s head off. His triumph was short-lived. A brace of spears hit
Ungrah’s comrade, one finding the gap between his tunic and his breechcloth. Dark blood fountained. The second spear buried itself in the fleshy junction of his neck and shoulder.
Ungrah turned to the wounded ogre and plucked both spears out. The bleeding ogre staggered backward and sat down. He was immediately trampled by five eager nomads, who used the weight of their horses to hold him down while they speared him to death.
All along the line the struggle continued, drenched with rain and blood. Grips grew slick. Horses slipped. Ogres fumbled. Though the fighting pressure was not too great, Karada stuck to her strategy and slowly withdrew up the hill. Ungrah followed, still trying to connect his jagged axe with the nomad woman’s neck. She eluded his blows and teased him on.
Hoten’s small force of veterans was on the scene at last. The ogres, fighting as individuals, were engulfed by the nomad horde. Zannian had ordered Hoten to exploit any gaps the ogres made, but he couldn’t even see all of Ungrah’s warriors, much less any gaps.
The raiders with Hoten shifted restlessly in the pouring rain, watching the bloody fracas occurring just in front of them.
“Are we going to fight or sit and soak up rain?” one asked Hoten.
Hoten looked up and down the enemy line. Attacking now would be futile, like flinging grapes against a stone. He wrapped the reins around his hands. He thought of Nacris and of the dreams he had, which she would never share.
“At them, men!”
They galloped up the hill, shouting the way they had in the good old days out on the plains. Hoten aimed himself at the only landmark he could see: the back of Ungrah-de’s head.
The center of the nomads’ line fell back. Karada let them come, luring ogres and raiders over the crest of the knoll. The press was so great that she lost contact with Ungrah. Off to her right another ogre had cut a clean circle around himself, slaying any nomad who came within reach of his axe. She crouched low over her horse’s neck and rode at him. He heard the fast rattle of hooves and whirled in time to receive Karada’s sword in his eye. Transfixed, he nonetheless seized her sword arm in both his broad hands and tore her from her horse. She hit the muddy ground the same time as the dead ogre.
The legs of horses and ogres churned around her. She leaped up, planted a foot on the dead ogre’s chest, and recovered her sword. Her favorite horse had disappeared. Buffeted on all sides, she found herself propelled through the crowd until her back bumped into something large and solid.
Karada looked up into the face of Ungrah-de.
He was bleeding from sword and spear cuts on his face and shoulders. Seeing Karada, he bared the yellow tusks in his protruding lower jaw. Up went the chipped axe. Her blade could not deflect such a massive weapon. With no other choice, she whirled away from the downward swipe, spinning on one heel like a dancer. Completing the circle, she brought her blade down on his axe arm, only to watch the bronze blade skid off the polished chunks of lapis attached to the ogre’s sleeve.
Ungrah backhanded his axe, narrowly missing Karada’s chin. She ducked, rolled, and came up standing. She felt something snag her back and jumped aside. The ogre’s axe head came away with a triangle of buckskin on its tip.
The fight had shifted so that Karada had to run uphill to battle Ungrah-de. Behind him, raiders with painted faces traded cuts and thrusts with her warriors. She saw friends and foes fall, horses floundering in the mud or lying still in death.
A nomad with room to maneuver bolted in front of his chief and shoved a stone-tipped spear into Ungrah’s chest. The flint head shattered on the ogre’s breastplate. With a roar, Ungrah impaled the brave fellow on his axe tip, hoisting him off his horse and into the air. Lightning played on his face as Ungrah lifted the slain foe over his head. He roared back at the following thunder and hurled the nomad’s body into the battling swarm.
The nomad’s sacrifice was not without benefit, however. Karada sprang onto the dead man’s sorrel mare and shouted for Pakito and Bahco. Her warriors took up the cry, transmitting it through the din of battle and thunderstorm. Word reached both men, and they spurred their forces to action.
Hoten’s small band had disintegrated within moments of colliding with the nomads. He found himself alone, dueling with capable foes on all sides. A spear butt struck him in the mouth. He spat blood and teeth and fought on. A bronze sword chopped the head off his flint spear, leaving him with only a knife. Hoten put the stone blade in his teeth and jumped from his horse onto the back of a nearby nomad. One stroke of the knife, and the woman’s horse was his.
He had no idea where he was or where his men were. He had no idea where he was going. Rain came in waves, drenching him to the skin and making his oxhide garments stiff. He drove his horse through the crowd, and many nomads let him pass, thinking from his mount he was one of them. Emerging at the base of the stony knoll, Hoten spied a large body of enemy horsemen sweeping around, closing in behind his little band and the ogres. They were solidly trapped.
Despairing, he briefly considered falling on his own knife, but thought better of it. Why throw his wretched life away when he could still sell it dearly?
He yanked a lost spear out of the mud and rode hard to the head of the nomad column. Leading them was a giant warrior, Hoten’s old comrade Pakito. When he drew near enough, he shouted to the big man. Pakito turned his horse and received a spear jab in the face.
Pakito was quick as well as big, however, and the tip only tore a gash through his left earlobe. He countered with a stone-headed mace, caught Hoten’s spear, and sent it spinning away.
“Yield!” Pakito said.
Hoten spat. He held out his too-short knife. “Do your worst!”
Gripping the club in both hands, Pakito easily parried Hoten’s slashes. Then came the opening he needed. He let go with his right hand of his two-handed grip and punched Hoten hard in the ribs. Then Pakito slammed the flat stone head of his mace into the raider’s chin. Hoten’s vision exploded in a haze of red. He fell from his horse.
Pakito had no time to make sure of the death of his former comrade. The chaos was shifting again. After losing several warriors to overwhelming numbers, the ogres belatedly had closed together and formed a tight ring, back to back. From there, the seventeen survivors were fighting off every attempt by the nomads to ride them down. Hoten’s men were not so lucky. Isolated and outnumbered, they succumbed like their leader until none were left standing.
Karada caught sight of Pakito and worked her way to him. They clasped arms.
“No raiders remain!” Pakito cried. “We’ve won!”
“Not yet! The ogres!”
“If only we had our bows!”
Karada lifted her eyes to the sky. The storm showed no signs of abating. Indeed, the clouds fast approaching from the south were even lower and blacker than the ones currently dumping heavy rain over the entire valley.
At this point, a nomad named Patan, who rode in Bahco’s band, galloped to Karada.
“What news?” she demanded.
“Bad! The raiders hit us b
efore we reached the top of the knoll,” said Patan, breathing hard. “Bahco is down, maybe dead! Kepra now commands, and he sent me with word!”
“Pakito, ride to Kepra’s relief!” Karada said quickly. “You’ll have to swing ’round and take the raiders in the back.”
“How many are there?” Pakito shouted above the din.
“Two hundred, seems like,” said Patan.
While Pakito’s band worked free of the ogres and made its way south to help their embattled comrades, Karada urged her mount back into the melee. She found Beramun, on foot, handing spears to nomads in front of her to throw at the ogres. The girl’s face was covered with blood.
“You’re hurt!” Karada yelled.
“It’s not my blood.” Beramun handed two recovered spears to the nomad ahead of her. These were passed forward until they reached the fierce struggle surrounding Ungrah.
“Give me those,” said Karada when the girl was handed two more spears. Beramun did so.
Karada dismounted and tied a rag around her forehead, under the visor of her dented elven helmet. Hefting the spears to her shoulders, she started toward the ogres.
“Wait! Your horse!” Beramun cried, catching the reins of the sorrel mare.
“No room.” Karada cracked a smile and disappeared, shouldering her way through the crowd.
Panic shot through Beramun. Lifting her face skyward, the rain mingling with her tears, she froze in fresh surprise. Something huge and dark wrestled with the heavy clouds. Thick, serpentine coils appeared and disappeared in the lowering storm. As she looked on, spellbound, the pain in her shoulder flared to life, lancing her sharply.
Jolted from her daze by the sensation, Beramun put a hand under her buckskin shirt, expecting to find blood or broken skin. Instead her skin was smooth and cold to the touch. She knew then what it was: the green mark. It had never given her any twinge before, but now...
Her gaze lifted skyward once more. Though she’d seen the strange aerial vision for only a moment, she knew now what it was. Despair welled up in her heart like a great dark wave.
Sthenn had returned.
Chapter 13
The raiders streamed by, a wall of men and horses. Amero and his small band waited to see if any turned back to deal with them, but none did. If Zannian saw them, he discounted any threat from a handful of villagers on foot.
Balif and the elves came out from behind the ramp. The villagers who’d run up the ramp hastened down again, and the mixed band of elves and humans slogged after the raiders. It was hard going. The rainfall was heavy, and the terrain itself obstructed progress. Beneath the walls the ground was broken by ditches and pits intended to hamper raider attacks. The pits now brimmed with muddy water, and ditches had collapsed in the downpour. All semblance of order was lost as the humans and elves were forced to pick their way through the morass.
By the time they got to higher ground, Zannian’s men had reached the stony knoll and attacked. The momentum of the column punched through the thin line of riders screening the hill and carried down the other side into Bahco’s waiting force. The raiders drove deep into the waiting nomads, their long spears giving them an advantage over the nomads’ shorter weapons.
The fighters on foot ran up the gentle slope to the top of the knoll. A fantastic sight greeted them: Spread out across the valley northward was a sprawling battle, with waves of nomad riders charging a ring of stoutly fighting ogres. Scarcely more than a dozen ogres were holding off two-thirds of Karada’s band, some four hundred seasoned fighters. Behind Ungrah-de, a small band of raiders was thoroughly tom to pieces, their riderless horses galloping from the scene.
Amero waited until his people and the elves were together atop the knoll. “Let’s attack!” the Arkuden shouted to Balif over the rain.
“Not wise,” the elf lord countered. “We may slay a few, but when they realize how few we are, we’ll be swallowed up like those raiders behind Ungrah-de!”
Lyopi shouldered by the elf to stand beside Amero. “You need not come!” she said to Balif.
The villagers ran down the back slope, aiming at the end of the raiders’ column. Balif watched them slip and skid on the wet gravel. His soldiers bunched around, waiting for the word to follow.
Ten steps from the raiders, Amero raised his spear and let out a yell. The little band of villagers echoed his cry, then fell upon the enemy. The nearest raiders were speared in the back before they could face about. Behind them, the rest of Zannian’s men had time to turn and meet the new threat. Amero’s people quickly found themselves in desperate straits, dueling with a ruthless mounted foe that was better armed. Surrounded, the villagers coalesced into a circle.
When Balif saw the raiders encircle Amero, he finally gave the order to advance. Twenty paces from the enemy, the elves paused and lobbed their metal-tipped javelins. These emptied many horses. Then the Silvanesti resumed their advance.
To the raiders, it seemed as if waves of enemies were materializing out of the rain, and their exact numbers were impossible to judge. They had developed a grudging respect for the tenacious fighting abilities of the people of Arku-peli, so some of the raiders tried to pull away, seeking room to maneuver. However, they were hemmed in by all the disparate forces.
Zannian trotted in front of his men. “What’s this?” he demanded. “Why are you bunching together like a herd of frightened elk?” His horse reared, as the villagers advanced. Hoarsely he yelled, “Mud-toes? You gave way to mud-toes? At them, you gutless dogs! Trample them into the mud they live in!”
Driven by his exhortations, several dozen raiders charged toward the two leaders, Amero and Balif. The elves locked their shields together and crouched low, spears bristling in front of them. Seeing the hedge of bronze points, the raiders angled toward the less-threatening villagers.
Lightning flashed overhead. Amero knelt, presenting his spear to the enemy. Lyopi and Hekani followed suit, as did the rest of the villagers, making a formidable thorny square.
Amero swiped a hand across his face, slinging rainwater from his eyes. The raiders’ horses seemed to slow as he watched, each hoof rising and falling in strangely languid fashion. Small sounds rang loudly in Amero’s ears, while great noises faded. The sound of the storm diminished, and he heard every breath Lyopi took. Hekani, nearby, muttered, “I think I like fighting from the wall better.”
Lightning crackled across the sky again. The charging raiders were closer now, looming hugely in the downpour. This is it, Amero thought. Here is where I die.
After all this time? You’d better wait just a bit longer!
The voice filling his head was unmistakable, but for a few heartbeats, Amero did not believe it. It was a dream, the waking dream of a doomed man. It couldn’t be Duranix!
The raiders’ were closing in. The voice spoke again.
I’m a little busy at the moment, but I’m not far away. Try to stay alive, will you?
Amero jumped to his feet and shouted. “Duranix!”
A spear plunged toward his chest. Feeling as though he was swimming in honey, Amero brought his own weapon over to deflect the thrust. Wood met wood for an instant, then Amero’s feet suddenly slipped out from under him. He fell flat on his back in the mud.
Surprised by his victim’s tumble, the raider failed to adjust and blundered past, narrowly missing tripping over Amero. Hekani brought his spear around in a wild, wide swing, striking the raider across the shoulders. Down he went. Then many other riders crashed into the villagers’ square. One by one the villagers went down, knocked off their feet by colliding horses.
Amero regained breath enough to roll over, and he found Lyopi beside him. She’d knocked him down to save him from being impaled. Bruised and caked with mud, he nonetheless grinned at her.
“What’s so funny?” she demanded, dodging the hooves of a runaway horse.
“Duranix! Duranix is coming! He spoke to me!”
Word spread among the villagers. Some had been lost in the first rush, but
the rest joined together again, buoyed by the news their Great Protector was near. Still trapped in a ring of determined raiders, Amero’s people fought furiously, fending off solo forays and small group attacks. A few paces away, the Silvanesti repulsed two heavy attacks with no loss, causing the raiders to turn away from them. Free to move, Balif formed his men and marched to Amero’s relief.
Once the Silvanesti joined with them, Amero climbed onto a nearby boulder and gazed skyward. The clouds over Yala-tene were a mix of black and gray, swirled together by winds. With increasing frequency, bolts of lightning lanced from cloud to cloud to mountaintop. Amero took this as a sign the bronze dragon was indeed near, drawing lightning to him out of the clouds.
Duranix! he shouted with his mind. I’d almost given up hope you’d ever return!
Don’t celebrate just yet, the dragon’s mental voice replied. Sthenn is here, too.
To illustrate the point, a serpentine tail, covered in dark green scales, whipped through the clouds, followed by a flurry of leathery wings. Thunder boomed and rolled, and the green dragon writhed amidst the boiling clouds. Rain flew in Amero’s face, and when he could see again, Sthenn was no longer visible above. His heart hammered at the sight of the green dragon. Were Lyopi’s fears coming true? Had Sthenn come to steal victory from them at the last moment?
On the ground, the outcome was still in doubt. Zannian organized another attack. The spear throwers tried to shake the elves’ line, but the deluge of rain felled the missiles short of their targets. Regardless, Zannian drove home his charge. This time there was no swerving or stopping short. Horses and men piled on the flimsy line of spears, trapping humans and elves under them.
Amero saw Balif lose his spear, draw his sword, and trade cuts with the raider chief. His rapid thrusts forced Zannian back. The raider chiefs horse became entangled with another, already flailing in the mud, and the horse toppled, throwing Zannian to the ground.
Amero jumped off the boulder and ran to where Zannian had fallen. Balif beat him there. With a single backhand slash the elf tore the sword from Zannian’s grasp. It spun away into the melee. Before the raider chief could stand, he found the tip of the elf lord’s blade pressed hard against his neck.
Sister of the Sword Page 16
