Chapter 18
Mikela was kneeling down behind the pile of lumber when the rear door of the inn swung open violently. It had been opened so forcefully that it slammed into the wall and bounced back.
Three men emerged and began to quickly cross the yard toward the open door of the stables.
Mikela’s eyes were drawn to the mage and it was a moment before she observed the other two. One was tall and thin, while the other was a bit shorter and broader. That was about the limit that she could see of the two men with the mage; they were both wearing long cloaks and the hoods were pulled up, covering their heads. After a moment she noticed something else; both men walked with an unnatural stiffness.
Mikela was still puzzling over the way the two men were walking when the mage tripped and fell to his knees; his hands splayed out in front of him to keep his head from hitting the dirt.
It was surprising, not that the mage had tripped and fallen, but how the two men had responded. They had both immediately stopped walking and stood there. Their arms rested by their sides and they faced the stables. They were breathing hard, but that was the only indication that they were alive.
Captives? she thought. It was the only thing that made any sense. The mage had two men captive, and he was using his magic to control them. But who?
The mage pushed himself back to his feet, and the trio took several more steps toward the stables. They halted as the door to the inn flew open again.
The swordsman sprinted out into the yard, and he stopped just short of the other three men. His sword was in his hand and turned to face the door. He glanced over his shoulder at the mage, “Can you cast that spell again?”
The mage shook his head and Mikela noticed how pale and sweaty he looked. “No, I’m too tired, and controlling these two is all I can manage.”
The swordsman nodded and turned back toward the door.
After only a moment or two, the door opened again and another man entered the yard. Mikela’s mouth dropped open at the sight of her fellow Guardian, Derek.
She watched dumbfounded as he stepped from the doorway. He was moving slower, more cautiously than the swordsman had.
Fantin smiled as the door closed behind Derek. “Those cowards in there won’t be coming out to help you now.”
Derek didn’t reply, but he knew that Fantin was correct. Most of the guests at this inn were merchants and they were almost useless in a fight. The merchants did have bodyguards, like Phelp, but they wouldn’t be coming out either. The best he could hope for would be to delay Fantin long enough for the city guard to arrive, and that wasn’t all that good. The city guard would undoubtedly recognize him and the other Guardians. His choices did not look favorable either way. They could be prisoners of Golteranth or they could be prisoners of Telur; neither option really appealed to him.
Fantin started toward Derek, his smile growing. “I had hoped to take all of you prisoner as my Lord Zalustus would have been pleased. But I think he will appreciate knowing that you are dead, and besides, I still have two Guardians to take to him.”
It took a moment for Mikela to decipher the meaning of the swordsman’s words, I still have two Guardians to take to him. A cold tingling spread across her body and her eyes automatically swung back to the two cloaked men, the very two men that she had assumed were prisoners. The first one was tall and thin. Enstorion? she wondered. She glanced at the second man; his size and shape were a perfect match for Trestus.
She swallowed hard, as the fear tried to overtake her. She had survived worse situations than this, although at the moment none of them came to mind. She took a deep breath and forced herself to stay calm. It wasn’t easy. She had seen the swordsman fight at Mul-Dune, and she knew that Derek was almost certainly overmatched. She began to frantically whisper words as her hands sought the satchel that was always at her waist.
Fantin approached Derek slowly. He knew he should hurry, but he chose not to. It wasn’t everyday that he got to kill someone like Derek Aldanon, one of the Guardians who had dared to stand against Zalustus; he meant to savor this.
Fantin pointed his sword at Derek. “The gods favored you once, at Mul-Dune, but I do not think you will be so lucky today.” He waved his hands around the small stable yard. “You’re going to die in the mud and horse droppings of this miserable, little inn, and what’s worse, you’ll die all alone.”
Derek didn’t answer the taunts. He had seen fighters make their opponents angry, and thereby bait them into foolish moves, but he didn’t think that was Fantin’s goal. He got the unmistakable impression that Fantin was toying with him like a cat playing with a mouse before he kills it.
Derek took a deep breath and a calmness settled down through him. He knew that Fantin was probably right and he would die, but he wouldn’t go easily. He tightened his grip on the little short sword and took another calming breath. If a person had to die, what better reason than trying to protect one’s friends? Perhaps if Fantin took too much time then maybe he could land a lucky blow?
Fantin jumped forward and swung his sword right to left. Derek deflected the blow, then blocked a second and third.
Derek fell back at the Fantin’s onslaught. The man rained blow after blow, and it seemed that Derek was able to block them because Fantin was still toying with him.
Derek took another step back, but Fantin followed right after him. Fantin swung two more blows horizontally, then he tried the same trick he had used in the foyer. After Derek blocked one blow, Fantin started another swing, but changed it suddenly and jumped forward like he was trying to skewer Derek.
At the last moment, Derek realized what was about to happen and brought his sword straight downwards to block Fantin’s. The swords met, and both were driven points downward toward the ground. Their arms were interlocked and Derek tried to hit Fantin with an elbow, but he danced out of the way. Fantin then kicked out and caught Derek in the side.
The wind seemed to explode out of Derek as his sword dropped from his hand. He fell to the ground, and Fantin casually flicked his sword, the blade catching Derek across his left arm and leaving a deep and nasty cut.
Fantin used his sword to knock Derek’s sword out of his reach and then leaned over, grinning. “I told you were going to die here, all alone.”
Derek gritted his teeth against the pain and held his right hand over the wound. The cut was deep, but not fatal.
Fantin raised his sword for the killing blow but paused, as if sensing something. He looked back toward the inn and then dove backwards toward the ground.
Something passed over Derek then; something hot. The heat was nearly suffocating, and he thought that his clothes and hair might have been singed. His first thought was that it was lightning, but then two more of the somethings flew over him. This time he got a better look and the things looked like liquid fire. He rolled over onto his right arm and looked to see where the fire was coming from. He lay there for several moments, blinking and trying to verify what he was seeing.
If he didn’t any know better, he would have sworn it was Mikela.
Mikela climbed to her feet and hurled the first orb of magical fire at the fighter, but he seemed to sense it and dove behind a watering trough. The fire slammed into the near side of the trough and exploded, causing steam to rise from the water. She quickly hurled two more fireballs, and they, too, slammed into the trough, causing it to burst into fire.
She glanced over toward where the mage stood and she wasn’t the least bit surprised to see him cowering behind the two captives. The captives stood stock-still and hadn’t even reacted to the inferno that she was tossing around.
She glanced back at the trough and the fighter’s head was poking around the edge; he ducked back as she cast two more orbs of fire his way.
For a moment, she paused as her eyes met Derek’s. He lay on the ground looking at her through wide eyes, like he didn’t believe it was her. That was probably understandable.
She glanced from the mage to the fighter,
but they were both out of sight.
“She can’t do that for much longer,” the mage called out. His words were hard to hear over the crackling of the burning wood and the water sizzling where the magical flame turned it to steam.
Mikela’s snarled and would have gladly killed the man, if she only could have done it without killing her fellow Guardians.
“Stop it now!” the mage called out, “or I’ll kill these two!”
She hesitated now, unsure of what to do. She glanced to the right, where Derek was climbing unsteadily to his feet.
Derek watched her carefully, like he thought he was hallucinating. As he got to his feet, he continued to hold his left arm; it was bleeding but not bad. He took a couple of unbalanced steps toward her and asked, “Is it really you?”
“Yes,” Mikela answered but the mage hollered over her words.
“Stop it now or they both die!”
Derek shook his head and spoke quietly as he moved even closer to her, “We can’t stop.”
“I don’t see any options,” Mikela replied. “He’ll kill Trestus and Enstorion.”
“Better that than let them go back to the torture rooms,” Derek said quietly. It was so soft, that Mikela almost missed it.
Torture rooms!? Mikela thought, Good Gods, what have they been through? Still she hesitated. It was one thing to know you couldn’t let your friends be taken prisoner, but it was another thing to know the only way to save them was to kill them, or allow them to be killed.
She continued to stand there, undecided on how to proceed. She might have kept standing there if the choice hadn’t been taken from her.
The ground shook, and there was a sound similar to a building collapsing. Mikela and Derek stared as both Trestus and Enstorion collapsed to the ground. The first thought that occurred to them was that the mage had carried through on his threat and killed the two prisoners, but both Guardians were coughing and writhing on the ground. Also, the magician had also collapsed to the ground, and he curled up in a ball.
“What is that?” Derek asked, and pointed to a yellowish-white goo that covered the ground and all three prone figures.
Mikela studied the disgusting mess and shrugged her shoulders. “I’m not sure. Maybe it’s part of the magic spell.” She glanced over to the watering trough, but the fighter had enough sense to stay out of sight. “Perhaps the magician lost control of the magic spell. That would explain his being hurt as well.” She was still watching the trough when Derek spoke again.
“Is that who I think it is?”
She glanced at him, but he wasn’t watching her. He was staring at the open stable doors, or more correctly, the person who strode into the light from the stables.
Flare entered the stable yard through the stables, little Ziteul bouncing along behind.
The little imp stared around with glee at the mayhem occurring in the yard. He stared at the three figures still lying on the ground. “What did you do to them, master?”
Flare didn’t bother responding, but strode directly to the nearest of the three prone figures; it was the magician. The mage had groggily pushed himself to a sitting position and was trying to clear his head. Flare put an end to that by slamming Ossendar’s pommel hard down onto the man’s head. There was a loud crack, and the man’s eyes rolled up as he collapsed back to the ground.
Flare glanced at Mikela and Derek, puzzlement plain on his face from the unexpected arrival of the other Guardians. For his part, Derek still stood there with his mouth open staring wide-eyed at Flare.
Fantin chose that moment to give up his hiding spot and stepped out from behind the ruined watering trough. “Flaranthlas, I challenge you to a fight.” He held his sword at the ready, but his blade was unlike Ossendar. While Ossendar was straight and had two sharpened sides, Fantin’s blade was slightly curved and sharp only on one side.
Flare regarded the man for a moment, and he felt the swelling of magical energy coming from Mikela. He swiveled his head in her direction and waved his hand. “No!” Mikela looked disappointed, but after a moment she agreed and let the magical fire spell dissipate.
“Flare,” Mikela called out, “the city guard will be here shortly. We must go!”
Flare nodded, but continued to watch Fantin.
Fantin half-bowed. “Fantin Asrimah at your service, and I challenge you to a duel. Unless, that is, you are too cowardly for a fair fight.”
Flare smiled at the poor attempt to shame him into a fight. He had no false bravado, but neither was he afraid of the swordsman. He returned the half-bow. “As you wish.”
Mikela gasped as Flare accepted the challenge, but it was Derek who spoke. “Flare, he’s a master.”
Flare regarded Derek again, that look of puzzlement and confusion playing across his features. After a moment, he nodded. “I remember him from Mul-Dune.” In a somewhat quieter voice he added, “He killed too many of the soldiers that followed me.”
Fantin grin grew even bigger. “If I win, I want the promise that I can go free.”
“As you wish,” Flare agreed.
Once again, Mikela gasped, but this time she was joined by Derek. “What?” they said in unison.
Flare didn’t get the chance to respond, because Fantin raised his sword and jumped forward. There was a clang as their swords met, but Flare kept his balance and deflected Fantin’s thrust. Byron had stressed the importance of two main points — balance and not underestimating your opponents.
Fantin tried a horizontal swing aimed at Flare’s mid-section, but Flare blocked the blow with Ossendar. Flare really wasn’t in a position where he could try a counter-blow, so he stepped back to give himself more space.
Fantin seemed to think he had the advantage because he too moved forward and he continued to rain blows down on Ossendar — horizontal swings, overhand swings, and even a few thrusts. Flare blocked and deflected them all. After a moment, Fantin stepped back and regarded Flare. His eyes narrowed a bit, and Flare got the feeling that Fantin was revising his opinion of Flare’s skill.
“I’m surprised,” Fantin said after a moment. “I thought you’d be dead by now.”
Flare didn’t reply except to grin. He had never liked it when fighters bantered during a fight, and Byron had agreed with him on that topic. As if he had summoned them, Byron’s words floated up through his memory. “Never trade insults with a man you want to kill; just kill him and let that be insult enough.”
Fantin whipped his blade up and thrust it hard at Flare’s mid-section. Flare brought Ossendar down hard and deflected the blow down and to his left. This time, instead of stepping back, Flare stepped closer inside the reach of Fantin’s blade, and he drove his shoulder hard into Fantin’s chest. The man stumbled backwards and Flare tried to swing his sword back upwards in time to slash his opponent, but he was too slow. Fantin continued backing away from Flare, using the very momentum that Flare had provided to escape the blow. He brought his sword back up and pointed it at Flare again. The two men each took a deep breath and regarded their opponent.
Fantin was staring hard at Flare. “You are a better swordsman than I remember.”
Flare’s only answer was to raise Ossendar and step closer. He now knew that Fantin’s blade was much lighter than Ossendar, which helped the other fighter make lightning-quick strikes. He wasn’t concerned, however. Byron had drilled into him not to worry about his opponents’ advantages — defend against them, yes, but don’t fret over them. Instead, press the advantages that your weapon has over your opponents. There was one advantage that Ossendar had; his blade was sharp on two sides.
Taking a calming breath, Flare stepped closer. He still held Ossendar out in front of him, but he had tilted it slightly off to the right, leaving his left side slightly exposed. It was an invitation that Fantin could not refuse.
Fantin swung at Flare’s right side, and the two blades clanked as they bounced off of each other. Then, fast as lightning, Fantin swung his blade in a short, but blindingly-fast arc d
irectly at Flare’s exposed left side.
Flare took a step to his right and swung Ossendar to the left. Fantin’s blade was faster, but Ossendar, coupled with Flare’s moving to the right, was fast enough. The blades came together in another thunderous clang, the left side of Ossendar crashing into Fantin’s blade, deflecting the blow away from Flare and before the sound had stopped ringing, Flare stepped closer to Fantin. The affect of this move was that Ossendar was between Fantin and his own blade. Flare quickly reversed his swing and slashed Fantin across the shoulder and chest with the right side of Ossendar. Ossendar was keenly sharp, and the blade sliced through Fantin’s shirt and into his skin while barely slowing down.
Fantin gasped and stumbled back away from the blade. He continued to hold his blade pointed at Flare, but he glanced down at his chest, trying to gauge the damage. The pieces of his shirt were becoming soaked in blood, and while the blow itself was not fatal, the cut through his shoulder and chest could severely affect his fighting ability.
Fantin blinked at the blood spreading across his chest. The cut was painful, and his sword wavered just a bit. He swallowed hard, trying to resist the panic that was now forcing its way to the surface. It had been a long time since anyone had taken first blood on him. He regarded Flare, wondering now if perhaps it was a mistake to challenge the half-elf. He had seen Flare fight at Mul-Dune, and while the bastard had been good, he hadn’t been this good. He swallowed hard again. He had to change tactics, or he was dead.
It had been a long time since anyone had managed to cut him in a fight, and longer still since anyone had come close to killing him. In the far distant past when he had been less proficient with the sword, he had used other tactics to best superior swordsmen.
There was another tremble in Fantin’s sword arm, and Flare could tell that the cut across the man’s shoulder was weakening him. The top half of Fantin’s shirt was soaked in blood.
Victory and Defeat: Book Five of the Restoration Series Page 18
