by Jason Jones
“Thank you, father!”
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“Master Kalzarius, they are not going to make it! What should we do?” Cilano turned to the old wizard, having seen enough of the massive ship driving the smaller galleon toward the coast and waging war upon her with such numbers.
“Patience my student, patience. Did you see the rock?” Kalzarius was smiling, yet he knew they were still over half a mile out and turning west and away from them.
“Yes, but what does a simple jagged rock have to do with the fact that they are outmatched so?” The younger wizard seemed frustrated.
“I have been in this city for eighty one years, my friend, and there is no jagged outcropping that far out in the bay. Never has been, until just now.” Kalzarius smiled wider, watching Gwenneth from afar, throwing spell after arcane energy back and forth with her adversary high in the air, still far out of his reach in any event.
“I do not sense any arcane magic coming from the rock, so what is it?” Cilano concentrated his arcane senses out far into the waters, finding the rock was natural.
The master wizard turned to his pupil of many years, “I do not know, and that is why I have hope and patience. There is something else helping them, or someone.”
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His horns buried deep in a chest, snorting as he felt another sword blade cut his back, the minotaur whipped his neck around, hurling his dying enemy's body across several others, all scattering from the raging beast. Yet another steel slash from a brave northern soldier cut his gray flesh from the rear. He turned, greataxe dripping from both edges, and the elegant shamshir had bits of dark hair stuck to the crimson coated blade. The two fearless Altestani men marched in, having cut him twice, and their confidence was high. Saberrak stared, unnerving one of the five remaining men of the original twenty or more. The lunges began, and he stood still, waiting till they were within reach.
They circled him, poking with the tips of their curved weapons, feigning to slash, but stepping back. They were close now, his back and arms bleeding from many cuts, only fueling his focus and anger. Saberrak the gray looked at the chest of each one, the white loose shirts over chain armor, the white turbans, and the black flying three eyed designs on their strange wrapped uniforms. Three eyes in a triangle pattern, they were slave owners, and he knew it. His hate brewed, his knuckles tightened, and he smelled the blood on the deck, and all over himself, wanting more.
In their native tongue, they yelled to each other, waving and teasing with swords, then Saberrak noticed their feet, the boots pointing in and pivoting slightly, giving away their timing. He pulled his weapons in close to his chest, then flung them as hard as he could throw, end over end to his sides. The greataxe buried in the chest of the soldier on his right, sending him back, hitting the rail of the ship as he landed dead. The curved sword hit low, piercing through a cracking of pelvic bone, and protruding all the way to the crosspiece, the scream in any language would have sent chills to anyone but Saberrak.
He lowered his horns as if to charge the one in front, then turned as the sword came at his head, parrying the attack with his horns and lifting the Altestani man by the throat. The gray gladiator squeezed as he turned to face the two behind him, squeezed until blood ran from every hole above the neck, and then the sound of flesh and bone crushing ended the struggle. The nostrils poured, his ears ran red, his gargled mouth open and crimson drained onto his chest, blood even dripped from his bulging eyes. The soldiers stood, not ten feet away, horrified, and ran to the lower deck, screaming something that Saberrak assumed were cries for reinforcements.
Dropping the corpse, he gathered his weapons and took a low stance atop the stairs. He eyed the main mast, men scattering about, seeing his approach. He charged, bounding down another flight of stairs, nearly five hundred pounds of muscle and blood, his horns lowered and shoulders tight. He chopped his greataxe and sword as he ran, cutting down two northern swordsmen with his long reach, and pumped his legs faster still. The mast closed, coming up fast as he charged, charged like he would run right through the great wooden beam as thick as himself.
A crossbow fired, then another, and Saberrak did not flinch as two bolts hit his hide on the left shoulder and calf. He hit the mast, horns, head, and shoulders at the same instant, knocking the air from his chest in a mighty roar. It swayed hard forward, the wood making noises of popping and pain. He rounded the other side, avoiding more crossbow fire, and as the beam swayed back, the gray minotaur chopped with the axe, then pushed with his legs and upper body, causing a strong momentum, splintering the mast near the base.
It began to fall, under too much pressure from Saberrak, and its own leaning weight. Mast and sails toppled, splinters of polished wood shot all around, falling into more sails and smaller masts, then crashing with the Altestani flags into the helm of the great warship. Numb from the impact and his wounds, the horned warrior ran to the bow of the upper deck, plowing his way through the mass of confused soldiers, and made for the edge. Fifty feet above the waters of the Carisian with a score of soldiers chasing after him, Saberrak dove. He hoped to make it back to the Harpy and find his allies still breathing.
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The shield tossed to the small bridge of the enemy ship, Sir James honored the challenge he issued, and fought sword to sword with the Altestani officer that had been leading the siege on the Bronze Harpy. The knight of Chazzrynn raised his broadsword, placing his left hand on his right, holding the blade in high guard. He stared at his enemy, the blue eyes, dark skin with the dots and markings of his race, the trimmed and curling black beard and white turban. He stepped forward.
The officer had finely crafted chainmail under his white loose tabard, flowing with the black dragons crest on the chest. The officer’s scimitar was engraved, bejeweled, with a pommel of gold at the other end of the curved steel edge. James only saw an enemy, a driver and whipper of slaves, and he fearlessly marched forward, cutting down at the blade of his opponent.
The scimitar parried, riposting with a low horizontal cut that backed the knight up a step as he deflected the attack. James countered, a wide sweeping slash to the left side of the officer, who turned and parried with a reverse block, the tip pointed down. The Altestani man returned the attack with a fast twirl of the curved weapon, taking a piece of the knight's hair as he ducked under the whooshing blade of James Andellis.
The broadsword cut low in a quick counter, then turned and slashed across the upper abdomen of the enemy officer, spilling his blood down his white uniform. Cheers went into the air from the Harpy, his men fighting, yet watching their leader take on the noble officer aboard the enemy vessel high above them.
Still fighting, the northern swordsman cut across at the southern knight, his scimitar blocked by the broadsword, then his hand was cut, and the blade fell into the sea. The bleeding Altestani officer, holding the gaping wound that poured blood across his fingers, hit his knees on the lower deck of his own ship, feeling dizzy and weak. He looked up to the knight who had defeated him, and nodded, his eyes closing.
“Mercy, I am defeated and…”
The knight saw his free hand trembling, yet reaching for the hilt of a dagger beneath his robes. Sir James gave him a blade salute, ran his broadsword through the man's chest, and pulled it back quickly. An honorable death. His men cheered, still fighting, but yelling his name as the enemy officer fell from the deck into the Carisian Sea.
“James! James! James!” They chanted loudly.
The Knight of Chazzrynn backed up three steps, seeing no plank or rope to get him back across now, and ran to the edge of the enemy bridge. Altestani men and slaves rushed toward him, dozens, weapons drawn. James leapt to the main deck, fifteen feet below, across rushing waters between the ships, and landed hard. He rolled forward, sprawling out but not breaking anything, and ended up on his back, sword in hand, but without his shield.
Someone stepped over him amid the still bloody struggle aboard the Bronze Harpy, and that someone stood there. Muscular, bearded, with blue glowing eyes, it was Him. Annar was deflecting blows meant for the vulnerable knight, he stood silent in the midst of the chaos. James blinked, rubbed his eyes as he smiled, then Annar was gone.
Shield in hand, defending James from anyone that came near, Azenairk roared. “Good to have you back aboard, Sir James! Mind putting that sword to use here?”
Azenairk swung his warhammer hard into the skull of a charging slave with a scimitar. The dwarf looked down to the brave knight, smiling, shaking his head, and helped the man to his feet.
“Courageous fool, if ever I seen one.” Zen pulled James to his feet, both of them surrounded now by twenty enemies.
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Seeing the riggings and trappings that held the ships together had been mostly cut somehow, Shinayne leapt up the stairs to the helm. The sailor she had left there lay dead from crossbow bolts in his chest, too many to count. She saw Altestani warriors coming on her trail, following through the battle on the aft deck. The elven noble looked to the Headhunter, seeing the masts falling, and she knew it was time to veer to portside and try to get around the deadly bow of the warship and make for port.
She began to sheath her blades and move toward the wheel, then something stopped her, her senses telling her something was not safe. The invaders climbed over the rails to the helm, on either side of her, climbed it like they were lizards or spiders, without a sound. Her blades were out again, as four sets of black eyes stared from behind the guises of northern human soldiers.
The first two doppelgangers hissed and smiled as they dove in, swords slashing from either side, her parries too quick for the creatures to match. Shinayne felt trapped, especially knowing what they really were, and in tight quarters and flanked. One turned his form to look like a sailor from the Bronze Harpy, and the other to look like a white garbed knight of Chazzrynn, while the other two continued their attack on the elf in their naked form.
She ducked and parried to her left and right, seeing the other shapeshifters take the wheel at the helm, keeping it guided close to the Headhunter warship. Her curved longblade took the hand off the beast to her right, the shamshir dropping to the ground with it. Another curved blade of bone spouted from the purple blooded stump in but a moment. Her shortblade dove through the eye on the approaching foe to her left, sending it back toward the steps, screaming through fanged teeth. The back edge of the elven longsword sliced up through the belly of the same doppelganger, then down again in one fluid motion, spilling strange insides to the outside and onto the deck. The doppelganger turned into some form of crocodile, and began to squirm away in a trail of purple liquid.
Disguised as a Bronze Harpy sailor, the third creature came from behind the first, leaping easily over its ally holding the stump as it grew the bone weapon. The fiendish one disguised as a knight remained at the wheel, steering the ship closer to the enemy vessel, compensating for the cut ropes. He was crashing it back into the larger ship. The elven swordswoman kept her guard up, blades crossed in front of her, feeling the sting of the wound in her side. She feigned weakness, backing up, luring them to the more open area around the rail of the aft of the Harpy.
Two followed, bone blades protruding from the fingers of their off hands as well. Shinayne backed to the rail, drawing the two out from the helm. They remained spread apart, keeping to each side of her. Her mind went to the planning of strikes, seeing that they wished to keep her occupied and were not taking any chances. She thought of leading with the left, following to the right, but leaping off the rail to get behind the other, then…Smack!
The creature in the guise of a Harpy sailor twisted, its head smashing into the rail, blood shooting from the fanged mouth, then was lifted by the head and thrown into the sea off the rear of the galleon. A pair of horns, followed by a wet and cut up gray minotaur, emerged from the climb up the back of the ship.
“Miss me?” Saberrak snorted, axe in hand.
“I had them both, thank you!” Shinayne leapt onto the rail, balance perfect, and spun as she stepped, cutting three times through the doppelganger's neck and upper chest. She flipped off of the rail, through the air, landing in front of it, just as it spun to where she had been to cut her down. The elf slashed deep with the edge of the longblade through the back of its knees, then kicked it between the shoulders as it fell forward. The splash into the trailing waters assured her of its demise.
The gray minotaur, greataxe in hand, side by side with the elven woman, strode up the steps to the helm. Surprisingly, the creature looked at them, smiled, and dove off the back of the ship, leaving control of the galleon. It shifted into a small shark before reaching water, and swam hard and deep down into the dark waters. Shinayne grabbed the wheel after sheathing her blades, pulling hard to port, to see if she could get them away from the Altestani Headhunter. Saberrak collapsed next to her, his body bleeding and weak.
“Get up, Saberrak the Gray, get up.” Shinayne pulled the wheel, trying to get the ship off the warbarge. “You do not have permission to die yet.”
Saberrak stood, with much effort, and turned to the battle. He saw twenty Altestani soldiers cutting toward the helm. He growled low and walked toward them, axe and shamshir twirling in his hands.
“Almost there.” Shinayne struggled with the wheel, trying to keep steady from the slamming of the larger ship into their hull. She looked to the minotaur, and he nodded.
“I was not dying, elf, I was resting.” He snorted and charged the mass of enemies before him.
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The doppelganger focused all his energy into the flames of orange lines that spewed from both its palms. Hissing and staring with black eyes at the woman, it circled in the air, far above the ships, diving and climbing through the sky like a demon without wings. Dozens of spells had it unleashed upon this woman, and still she lived.
Gwenneth’s blue shield of light and cold arcane power was fading, the heat beginning to warm her body as she hovered in midair. She raised her staff, and focused on the arms of her opponent, spreading them apart with arcane might. It resisted with a force she had never set against. Her brow was sweating, her arm trembling from the force of telekinetic energy rippling through her while maintaining flight and the failing shield of inhuman cold used to stop the flames.
Slowly, Gregore’s arms widened, his flames firing out wide of her shield, which disappeared at her will now that his searing magicks were no threat. The doppelganger tried to close its arms, pulling against her powers, feeling the shoulders pop, sensing pain as it struggled from the pressure on its form from the intense energies at work. Astonished, yelling curses through fanged teeth, Gregore tried to muster the power to stop her force on its body.
Gwenneth slowly rose, higher above the creature, seeing that its motion had stopped due to the need to concentrate so hard to keep its arms intact. Gwenne ached from her fingers to her unbreathing chest, feeling as if she too, may burst from pressure. Higher she went, further above her enemy. Her staff turned slightly, moving the hovering shapeshifter closer to the Headhunter. Its arms were out behind its back now, flames shooting into the air, both wizards trembling from the resonating hums of arcane energy. She whispered an incantation, felt it build, yet she was not strong enough to release it. Gwenne was far above the creature now, and she smiled. And then she dropped.
On purpose, Gwenne let go of her telekinetic hold, her levitation, all of her arcane protections, and fell from above the staring creature, hundreds of feet above the ships. Gregore’s flames shot out and up where she had been, just as he heard the last words of a powerful arcane incantation fall from the sky toward him.
Gwenneth stopped her free fall, hovering on the air, her fingers pointed straight at the doppelganger still spraying magical fire above her. Her brief half second of fall and breathe summoned an intense energy into her, an
d allowed her to unleash what she had been holding. Silent white and blue lightning appeared in a line from her, through the creature’s chest, and then she turned it into the side of the trireme warship. Over a hundred feet of pure raw force and electricity ripped through flesh and wood, man and beast, flashing for miles from above the battling ships.
Gregore howled in pain as a hole burned through his chest, blackening and utterly destroying his flesh and organs. Barely audible, flashing and burning everything it touched, one second, then two, as her body was weakening.
Hold on Gwenneth, hold on.
Real lightning arced through her, and manifested where she directed it. The thunder came, real thunder, echoing down from the stormless skies. The third second, ripping through the Altestani decks of the ship and down through to the water, cutting down a score of slaves and soldiers aboard the trireme.
Hold, keep your eyes open, breathe, breathe, breathe damn it…
Four seconds, the spread of destruction audible now and burning her hand at the fingertips. She stopped, holding her staff tight to maintain her levitation, and hearing more crackling thunder all around her, the flash still visible only as remnants in the eyes of those who had looked directly at it. With what Gwenne Lazlette had left, she focused on the falling charred corpse of the doppelganger, and hurled it with arcane force to the top deck of the smoldering Altestani vessel. Fading screams of many a terrified Altestani, slave and noble alike echoed in her numbed hearing as she tried to remain conscious.
“See mother, I told you….I told you….” Her whispers only heard by her own ears as smoke and electric sparks riddled her vision.
Shinayne yelled over the still fighting crew, “Cut us loose! Cut those remaining hooks, we make for Harlaheim!”
Cheers and howls of injured and inspired men filled the decks of the Bronze Harpy. The men did as their captain ordered, quickly, but not quietly, shouting cheers of victory as they dashed over the bodies of friend and foe on the deck soaked with blood.
