Five Kingdoms: Book 07 - Wizard Falling

by Toby Neighbors

  Bloc dashed to the side to avoid the sword and caught another strike on his hammer from an enemy closing in from that side. Bloc tried to skirt around the feet of one of the fallen fighters, but the wretch kicked out and caught Bloc on the side of his head. He stumbled and caught himself with his hands, but dropped his hammer. He looked up just as a cruel looking black sword fell toward him. Bloc tried to roll away, but the sword caught his shoulder.

  He screamed in pain, but when the mutated soldier wrenched the sword from the bone it had lodged in, Bloc crawled toward the tunnel. It was an angled hole in the ground and while none of the enemy soldiers tried to climb down the tunnel, two stood between Bloc and the tunnel entrance.

  He saw Hammert’s head poke up, the headsman’s eyes growing round with surprise and rage. Bloc saw Hammert coming to his aid, but instinctively Bloc knew it was too late. He shook his head and a sword blow crashed into his lower back, the blade biting deep. Bloc fell to the floor, his lower body completely numb. He was thankful he couldn’t feel the pain. He lifted his head and cried out to Hammert.

  “Live!” he shouted.

  Then a blade split his skull.

  Chapter 29

  The benefit to fighting on the hillside was that the enemy came in waves. At first Quinn and Mansel fought side by side. The mutated fighters were strong, but Quinn used his speed and the terrain to his advantage. The enemy was slow, both in moving up the hill and in mounting their attacks. Quinn moved around a thick pine tree, striking before the mindless fighters had a chance to attack him. He had discarded his shield once he learned the fastest way to bring down the larger enemy. He used his short, double edged sword and thrust it up, under their oversized ribcage. One quick thrust and the mutated fighters would fall dead at Quinn’s feet. The only problem was darting in and out quick enough to keep the fighters from hacking at him with their oversized swords. The witch’s soldiers usually preferred an overhead strike, bringing their weapons up high and then smashing them down. The tree offered Quinn some protection. The enemy’s long swords would get caught on the tree’s branches and while they were busy wrenching their blades free, Quinn darted in and out, slaying so many the ground was littered with the big, grotesque bodies.

  Mansel preferred to stay in the clearing where he could wield the two handed broadsword Zollin had fashioned for him. Mansel had taken to calling the sword Death’s Eye, because of the glossy black stone in its hilt. He was almost jovial in the middle of the fight, shouting “Come look in Death’s Eye!” over and over to the mindless enemy soldiers. There was no indication they understood what he was saying, but Mansel didn’t care. He fought with a ferocity that even the wretched soldiers held captive by the witch’s dark magic could not match. Blood flew in crimson arcs around Mansel as he batted down his adversaries’ weapons and severed their arms, legs, or heads.

  The bodies of the dead piled up so that the witch’s soldiers had to walk over their own dead to reach Mansel and Quinn, making their difficult climb even more arduous. But as night began to fall, it became clear the enemy would not stop coming. Quinn pulled back behind Mansel and stood on a rock outcropping. The village was still ablaze and in the failing light, the fire showed thousands more of the ambling giant fighters swarming up the mountain.

  “We won’t be able to see soon,” Quinn shouted.

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “We need a torch or something.”

  “So make one,” Mansel shouted as he kicked the headless body of his latest victim back into the wretched looking creature struggling up behind the first.

  Quinn pulled off the torn sleeve of his shirt and wrapped it around the end of a tall branch. He hacked away the smaller limbs so the crooked branch could be driven into the ground. Then he cut away the fatter end of the limb with long angled strokes of his sword so the bottom end of the branch came to a point. He was just about to slam it down into the wet, muddy soil at his feet when a huge warrior appeared out of the darkness. Most of their adversaries looked misshapen, their heads pushed over by the outlandish size of their shoulders, the features of their face either too large or in the wrong places. But the brute standing over Quinn looked like a monster of a different sort. It occurred to Quinn that perhaps not all of the warriors Gwendolyn had mutated were first farmers or fishermen or shopkeepers. Some might have been soldiers or fighters before she enchanted them with supernatural size and strength.

  Quinn staggered back from the huge behemoth’s strike. The monstrous fighter swung the thick blade in a horizontal slash that would have taken Quinn’s head off his shoulders. Quinn felt like a child fighting a large adult, but he didn’t have the time to worry about his disadvantage. He dodged back, swaying out of reach of the rusty sword his adversary swung at him, and was just about to dash forward to mount his own attack, when his foot slipped on the body of one of the many fallen around them. Quinn fell flat on his back, his sword skittering away from his hand. The huge monster stepped forward, raising his massive sword for the killing blow, his grotesque face split with an evil grin. Quinn raised the only weapon still at hand. The crooked tree branch that he had fashioned into a torch was as tall as Quinn. It was heavy too, but fear gave Quinn the strength he needed to lift the long wooden stake and thrust it at his opponent. Quinn’s thrust came at the same moment the behemoth was leaning forward. The sharped end of the torch stabbed into the mutated warrior’s stomach. The fighter screamed in pain and dropped his weapon, his knees giving out beneath him and his massive body weight dragging him down and consequently thrusting the stake farther into his body.

  Quinn didn’t know if the scream from his opponent had been from pain or surprise, but either way the grotesque warrior was no longer a threat. Quinn had to lean his torch over, to topple his opponent. He then pulled the torch free and slammed it into the ground near Mansel. The gloom was thickening so fast that all they could see were shadows.

  “Any chance you want to try and hide in the darkness?” Quinn asked.

  “And miss all the fun?”

  Quinn couldn’t help but laugh. They could both be killed at any moment, it was getting dark and there was no end to the thousands of enemies trying to kill them, yet Mansel was having fun.

  Quinn pulled a piece of flint from the pocket of his wool trousers. He scraped the sword along the narrow stone and sparks shot in every direction. A few hit the ruined shirt sleeve Quinn had wrapped around the end of the makeshift torch. Normally the fabric would need more than sparks to set it ablaze, and as it was the shirt was wet with rainfall and blood. But the cuffs of his sleeves were also covered in the oil they had spread throughout the village earlier in the day. The sparks hit the oil soaked cloth and burst into flame. The torch smoked and sputtered but it caught fire and illuminated the area around them.

  “That’s better,” Mansel shouted. “Who wants to look into Death’s Eye?”

  Quinn took up a position behind Mansel. They were almost back to back, with the torch between them. Quinn preferred being able to move around while he fought, but he only needed to keep the occasional fighter from stumbling into Mansel from behind; the young warrior fought with such efficiency. It didn't hurt that their opponents, for all their strength and superior size, seemed to have no sword craft at all. They hacked, which for most people was enough to slay a man, but Mansel had an instinct for angles and leverage with a blade. He could defect the strength of the mightiest blow without hardly moving at all, leaving his opponent off balance and often vulnerable to a quick stab or stroke of Mansel’s sword. And Mansel was an efficient fighter, each thrust and swipe was a killing stroke.

  Eventually, the enemy either went around the pile of bodies that had built up around Quinn and Mansel, or they had to take time to move the corpses out of their way. As the torch burnt down, shrinking their ring of light, they had a short pause in the fighting. Mansel looked as fresh as when the day began, but Quinn was utterly exhausted. He pulled off his other sleeve and wrapped it around the torch.

>   Mansel knew Quinn, knew the older man would never complain and never quit. He felt sorry for his mentor and tried to get him to take the sword that Zollin had fashioned. Mansel knew the stone in the hilt gave him supernatural stamina and that if Quinn would just wield the sword he would feel immediately better. But of course, Quinn knew that too and he refused to rob Mansel of the strength that had kept them alive for so long.

  “You should take the sword,” Mansel said. “I’ll be fine without it.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Quinn said. “Zollin gave that sword to you and you fight like a beast with it. Why do you think we’re still alive.”

  “I know you’re tired,” Mansel argued.

  “I’ve been tired before.”

  “You can’t do this all night.”

  “We don’t have a choice,” Quinn said. “Besides we aren’t the only ones fighting.”

  “How do you think the others are doing?”

  “I have no idea,” Quinn said, stepping up onto the rocky outcropping.

  The fire in Walheta’s gate was nothing but embers now. They could still smell the smoke, but there was no light from the fires to help them see the enemy.

  “Surely we’ve fought most of them by now,” Mansel said.

  “I don’t think so,” Quinn said, turning and looking the other direction, into the valley path that led into the mountains.

  There were torches there as well, but after studying them for a moment Quinn felt his stomach tightening. He wasn’t sure what to tell his young friend. He knew if they left the small clearing they would be in even more danger, and yet if they stayed, the western pass might be overrun. If that happened, Nycoll would be in danger.

  “Look,” he said at last, pointing down at the valley.

  “What is it?” Mansel asked.

  “The King’s Army is retreating in the pass.”

  “Nycoll’s down there,” Mansel said.

  “I think maybe it’s time we find her,” Quinn said. “We won’t do anyone much good if we’re the only ones left fighting up here.”

  “Alright,” Mansel said, sounding relieved. “But you stay close to me.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Quinn said.

  He pulled up the torch, holding it under his left arm and carrying his short sword in his right. Mansel slung their pack of supplies over his shoulder and they started toward the valley. At first the fighting was sporadic. The enemy fighters moved slowly across the rough landscape and since Mansel and Quinn were moving downhill, they had momentum on their side. The light from the torch wavered as the flame was blown by their movement. It was much harder to see and they had to divide their focus from the enemy to finding footing on the steep hillside.

  They caught glimpses of the army’s torches, always moving farther away from their position. Quinn guessed that if they could get to the pass, they could cut their way through the enemy much faster, the way they fought their way back when the army was called to retreat up the mountains. The mindless army was unarmored and they didn’t put up much resistance to anyone attacking from the rear.

  It took them longer to reach the pass than Quinn thought, but they were soon fighting a much larger group of monstrous soldiers. Once again the size of the brutish fighters and their need to wield their heavy, oversized swords, worked against them. The witch’s soldiers crowded into the pass until they were almost shoulder to shoulder. When one stopped marching to engage Quinn and Mansel the others behind pushed into the brute and it was only Quinn and Mansel’s agile footwork that kept them on their feet and moving through the crowd.

  Quinn carried his sword in a back handed grip so that he could slice his opponents more easily. He no longer cared about killing the mutated soldiers, instead focusing on crippling those who were in his way. He also used the torch to frighten the beastly fighters, fire seemed to be the one thing they reacted to and Quinn thrust the torch at anyone who came too close. Mansel on the other hand was like a child cutting wheat with his father’s sickle. His broad strokes with the magically enhanced broadsword dropped even the biggest of the witch’s horde. Quinn and Mansel scurried over the bodies of their victims, pressing the bodies down into the mud as they hurried through.

  They stayed alive by moving, knowing instinctively that stoping would mean their death. They were moving faster than the horde and in the same direction, so each mutated soldier they felled gave them just enough space to maneuver. At one point Quinn was forced to raise the tree limb torch to block a well aimed sword blade. The rusty iron weapon splintered the torch, leaving Quinn only a small length of the wood just under the flame, but that only made Quinn’s mad dash through the soldiers a little easier.

  Eventually they could hear the shouts of the king’s army and the clash of arms that meant they were nearing the front line of the battle.

  “How do we get through the shield wall?” Mansel shouted.

  “I don’t know,” Quinn called back. “I hadn’t considered that.”

  “Well you better come up with something fast.”

  “Maybe you could have an idea for a change,” Quinn shouted.

  “Hey, you’re the brains of this team.”

  “Don’t I know-“

  The words were suddenly cut off as Quinn stumbled. With his sword in one hand and the torch in the other, Quinn had now way to brace himself. He landed hard on his face and the torch fell, hissing beside him. Quinn’s sword was kicked away and Mansel saw a massive boot raised to smash his mentor’s skull. He lashed out with Death’s Eye and the lower portion of the leg flew away.

  “Get up, Quinn!” Mansel shouted.

  But Quinn didn’t get up. He lay exhausted in the bloody mud, his body aching, his lungs screaming for breath but each inhalation was painful.

  Mansel grabbed Quinn’s arm and pulled his mentor forward, but it was no use. Mansel couldn’t fight through the crowd and drag Quinn with him. He knew he had two choices. He could stay and protect Quinn, but if he did that Nycoll might be overtaken and killed. He hoped Nycoll and the other non-combatants were well away from the front lines, but he couldn’t be sure of that. And the witch’s beastly soldiers didn’t discriminate between soldier and civilian. They killed anyone who got in their way.

  His other option was to leave Quinn and continue his search for Nycoll. He knew Quinn wouldn’t fault him for leaving, his mentor wasn’t the kind of man to hold a grudge. But he knew leaving Quinn meant death for the man who had been more of a father to Mansel that his actual father had ever been. Mansel thought of Zollin as a brother and Brianna as a sister. How would they take his actions if he just left Quinn to die. He didn’t know what to do, but he knew he had to make a decision fast, one that might haunt him for the rest of his life.

  Chapter 30

  Normal creatures fear fire, but Zollin soon realized the giant eels were being controlled by Offendorl or the sorceress Gwendolyn and had no fear or concerns for their own safety. Zollin used his magic to levitate just above the writhing mass of eels that now covered the cavern floor. At the same time he twirled a magical whip of fire over his head. He had expected the giant eels to pull away from the fire, but instead they rushed forward.

  Zollin cracked the whip, sending a fist sized clump of magical fire flying toward the nearest eel. The fireball hit and burned, the rubbery flesh of the eel sizzled and smoked. The eel made a keening sound but didn’t pull back. Instead it struck like a viper, it’s narrow mouth filled with rows of small teeth which looked like huge needles the size of a man’s fingers.

  Zollin’s magical shield was up and the creature slammed into the invisible barrier. The blow knocked Zollin across the chamber and before he could regain control of himself another of the giant eels hit him. The magical barrier kept him safe from the eel, but the sudden change of direction whipped his head around and he felt a stabbing pain shoot through his neck and down his back. It was all Zollin could do to keep the magical barrier up. His fiery whip winked out, like a candle that has burned down to t
he end of the wick. He fell onto the mass of eels and actually rolled across the surface of the writhing creatures. He had expected to sink into their midst, but their thick bodies were so tightly packed into the cavern, that even though he could feel them wriggling and snapping at him, he wasn’t covered with them.

  Zollin tried to look up, but the muscles in his shoulders and neck were in spasm, pulling his left shoulder up toward his chin and sending lightning like pain shooting all the way from his neck to his feet.

  He was just within reach of the first giant eel again, and the beast tried once more to bite him. Zollin was pushed several feet toward the center of the cavern. He had to ignore the danger from the eels to relieve the pain in his neck. He let his magic delve into the injured muscles and tendons, relaxing them and doing what he could to adjust the bulging disks of tissue that were swelling out from between the bones in his spine. He didn’t have the luxury of taking his time and couldn’t heal himself completely. There was still pain in his neck, his head throbbed and his back felt stiff, but he’d fed enough magic into the healing that he was able to look around. He was resting almost in the center of the cavern. The giant eels raged as they tried to reach him, their high pitched wails echoed off the stone walls and seemed to reverberate straight through his body.

  Then a plan occurred to him. The crack in the floor was still there, although now it was covered with the writhing eels. It only took a little push from Zollin to send the eels covering the gap falling down into the dark craggy hole. Then he dove forward. He sensed the giant eels swinging their massive, serpentine bodies toward him. But he was moving too fast, dashing across the writhing mass of packed eels. He didn’t try to levitate completely, instead just used his magic to keep himself from slipping on the wriggling bodies. Then he jumped, like a diver, falling headfirst into the dark crevasse. He levitated himself, just below the surface. It was dark in the hole and above him the eels wiggled until they fell into the hole in the floor of the cavern around him.