An arrow splintered harmlessly off the creature’s back. Taren saw an older man smoothly nocking another arrow to a longbow, but the fiend ignored him.
“Ferret, lead them to safety—this foe is beyond any of you.” Creel stepped before Bliezahr, swinging his sword in lazy loops, limbering up to face the fiend.
The demon regarded him curiously a moment before issuing a great shrieking roar that made the blood run cold. Its eyes blazed, and its pincers struck with impressive speed for a thing that size, snapping at Creel.
The warrior ducked the first strike, lunging in to attack its leg. His sword sliced into the thick chitin plate, carving into it, yet not deeply enough to disable the limb. The second pincer swung down, and Creel was forced to dodge aside.
Another arrow struck the fiend, this one lodging into a huge batlike ear. Bliezahr screeched in irritation but otherwise ignored the wound. Instead, the fiend charged toward Taren’s group, sending them all scrambling away.
The woman with the staff launched herself at Bliezahr again. Her foot struck its flank, and she seemed to bounce off it like a pebble against a boulder. It idly swung a pincered arm at her as if swatting aside a gnat.
Taren was forced to dodge aside when it waded into their midst. A sweep of a pincer clipped him, sending him sprawling into the mud. Ferret tumbled away in a somersault. Enna wasn’t so fortunate. As she stood paralyzed with terror, one of the pincers snapped around her waist.
Bliezahr lifted Enna into the air with a wide toothy grin. The barmaid’s face was twisted in pain, and blood leaked over the great pincer where it gripped her. After an agonizing moment, the pincer closed all the way with a wet snap. Enna fell free of its grasp, cut in twain.
Creel roared in fury. He plunged his sword into the demon’s back. It staggered forward a step then shrieked in rage. It spun and backhanded Creel with its massive pincer, hurling him into the air. The warrior flew into the thatch roof of a nearby building. The roof gave way, and he disappeared inside with the clamor of snapping wood and breaking glass within the home.
The sight of Enna’s death sent a hot wave of fury through Taren. The magic was suddenly there for the taking—he had but to wield it.
He would be too late, though. A pincer was raised, about to come down and bludgeon him to the ground.
The young woman interjected herself once more. A look of intense concentration on her face, she pivoted on one foot and launched a sideways kick into the fiend’s foreleg, drawing all the power of her hips behind it. Something cracked, and Bliezahr lurched sideways when its injured leg gave out.
The fiend had three other limbs to support its bulk, though. It quickly recovered its balance, roaring its fury, eyes blazing, and raised its pincer to crush the slender woman to pulp.
Taren drew on the earth magic, visualizing acid washing over the monster. The magic felt sluggish, resistant, but he pulled harder, barely noticing as the muddy grass withered and died in a circle around him. His hand cast a spray of acid into the beast’s face. It shrieked as its eyes bubbled and melted away.
A wave of blackness swept across Taren’s vision, and he nearly swooned, the magic gone. A strong arm slid around his waist and steadied him. He tried to blink away the darkness and focused on a splash of red. At first, he thought it was blood, but the color was a couple shades brighter.
The young woman was supporting him, and she had a bright-red sash tied around her slim waist. He supposed that meant something, but he couldn’t ponder that. His thoughts were as sluggish as his limbs, and staying on his feet took every ounce of his willpower. The volume of Bliezahr’s enraged cries nearly deafened him, the ground shaking as the fiend staggered around, lashing out blindly. He heard snapping wood and crumbling stone, but everything was too blurry to make out what was occurring.
“We must run now. There are too many foes here.” The strange woman’s voice was quiet yet insistent. She started leading Taren away, and he was happy to go anywhere away from the horror that had slain Enna. The woman bore his weight well, without complaint, and he noticed her body was lean and strong against his own.
Ferret’s voice came from nearby. “Go that way. You can hide in the ruins. Just follow that street, and head up the hill. You’ll see the ruins from there.”
Taren focused with an effort and saw Ferret pointing off to their right. She started running in the opposite direction.
“Ferret, where are you going?” he called.
“I can’t leave Dak behind,” she replied.
Someone else took his left arm and supported him. He saw the older man was also helping him along.
“Who are you people?” Taren asked.
“I’m Miralei, and this is Kennitt. We’ve been searching for you for a very long time.”
“Oh, I see.” He didn’t, however. In fact, he lost his battle with consciousness and saw no more.
***
Ferret’s gut was knotted with fear as she made a wide berth around the raging demon. It lumbered off toward the east, bashing in buildings at random. Nobody was fool enough to go anywhere near it.
She tried the door of the home where Creel had fallen through the roof. It was unlocked, and she went inside, quickly closing it behind her. Groans of pain quickly led her to Creel.
Ferret gasped when she saw him. He lay awkwardly on a pile of collapsed thatching and broken beams. A bloody shard of wood a few inches thick jutted out from his gut.
Creel’s eyes were filled with pain, but he regarded her with concern. “What has happened out there? Where’s that fiend? I heard it move away.”
“The mage, Taren. He cast a spell and melted its face off. It’s still alive—blinded, but pissed off.” She still couldn’t believe her own good fortune of being alive. She had needed all her courage to keep from fleeing at the sight of the horrendous beast. And poor Enna… Oh gods…
“Huh. Good on him. Help me up, lass.” Creel held out his hand.
Ferret focused on their current predicament. She gripped Creel’s wrist with both hands and pulled. Her own guts squirmed as she watched the wooden beam slide back through Creel’s belly with a wet sound. He hissed but made no complaint as he came to his feet, hands pressed to the hole in his gut, front and back. He was able to staunch the flow somewhat, but blood still leaked around his hands. In fact, a tremendous amount of blood was everywhere. Ferret swallowed hard, suddenly queasy and fearing she’d retch at the sight.
“I need cloth… bandages,” he croaked, leaning his shoulder against the wall. “Help me get this cuirass off.”
“Aye.” She spotted a pallet in a corner and yanked a blanket off. She reached for her knife, but it was lost—in the lieutenant’s neck still, most likely. Then she remembered she still had the short sword she’d claimed earlier. The blade was sharp, and she quickly cut strips off the blanket.
“Here.” Creel grabbed a strip, wadded it up, and stuffed it in the wound.
Ferret unbuckled the cuirass and lifted it over Creel’s head. The bottom edge of the armor was deformed where the splintered beam had forced it aside. He raised his tunic and, with her help, wound the other strips as bandages around his midsection.
He grunted in approval when they were tied off. “Good work, lass. Where’s the lad now?” He slipped his cuirass back on but didn’t buckle it tight, leaving it to hang loosely, and walked gingerly toward the door, holding a hand to his belly, face twisted in pain.
“The other two took him—I sent them up toward the ruins,” she replied, walking beside him, hands fluttering nervously. She wanted to help him somehow after such a gruesome injury, but he seemed to not need it, swaying like a drunkard but still making his way to the door.
He looked at her sharply. “The ruins? Why there?”
She shrugged. “That damned fog didn’t reach that far when I awoke earlier. Everyone is afraid to go in there, so I thought it would be a good place to hide.”
Creel grunted but made no other reply. He opened the door, glanced briefly aroun
d, then staggered down the street. The way was mercifully clear for the time being—the rampaging demon had apparently chased everyone away from the area.
Ferret could still hear Bliezahr’s cries of rage from a couple blocks away. She stepped on something that squished underfoot, nearly slipping in a mass of gore, then was looking into Enna’s wide, staring eyes, her mouth opened in a soundless scream. Ferret cried out then turned and dropped to her knees, retching violently on the ground. Her stomach knotted, again and again, until she spewed nothing but bile out. She forced herself to look away from Enna’s remains, but tears filled her eyes at the memory of the kindly barmaid’s grisly death. She wiped her lips on her sleeve and tried to get a grip so she wouldn’t break down sobbing.
Creel’s hand patted her back awkwardly. “Come on, lass. There’s naught we can do for her now.” He gripped her arm and helped her back to her feet. His expression remained hard, but he wiped awkwardly at one eye, which surprised her.
They crossed the street. The Nebaran lieutenant was lying on the ground with Ferret’s knife in his neck, and she recovered the small blade, wiping it clean on the corpse’s surcoat. As they walked toward the ruins, she wondered what would happen once they met up with the others.
We can go anywhere in Ketania now—plenty of adventure to be found. Dak owes me for saving him from that cage… and for helping him out back there.
Ferret frowned, realizing how foolish she sounded. She’d always wanted to leave Ammon Nor on some grand adventure, but her girlish dreams had never included watching her friends cut in half by terrifying fiends or having to bandage them up when they got impaled on fist-sized wooden beams. With those gruesome images in her head, she thought she might retch again and was steeling herself against it when Creel let out a loud groan.
He lurched over, falling against a row of barrels lined up in front of a store. He would’ve gone down then, had she not grabbed his arm and steadied him.
“Just need a moment, lass.” His skin felt clammy, face pale and slick with a sheen of sweat. He leaned heavily against a barrel.
“You’ll be able to heal up from that, won’t you?” With concern, she eyed his bandages, already soaked through.
“Reckon so. It’ll take a bit… Might need a shoulder to lean on.” The last sounded as if it pained him to say.
“Well, I’ve got two of them. Come on.”
Creel grunted in discomfort as she helped him get moving again. He leaned heavily on the shoulder she offered, and they started toward the ruins.
She was glad to make herself useful and to get away from the horrors lurking in the fog… along with the memory of Enna’s staring face.
Chapter 35
The Nebaran sneak attack proved devastating to the Ketanian forces.
Elyas was awakened in the night by the city’s alarm bell tolling desperately. He scrambled from his bedroll, frantically trying to clear the cobwebs of sleep from his mind. He was surprised to discover a thick mist covering the camp, and from within, he heard screams and the clash of steel.
“’Ware! Assassins in the camp!”
The cold grip of panic threatened to overcome Elyas momentarily at the cried warning, and he strove to get his bearings. To either side of him, men struggled to their feet, many half dressed but with steel in hand, all seeking out the source of the alarm. The quartermaster had run out of tents some weeks past, so the newest recruits were left to sleep in groups out under the open sky, farthest from Ammon Nor and, fortunately, from the approach of the assassins.
“Awaken! We are under attack. Rally to me, men!” Lieutenant Mons held a torch aloft, the dancing flame glowing eerily in the fog, moving among the men and gathering a group of fighters around him, seeking to muster a defense.
Elyas had decided earlier he liked the young officer, but his steadiness now only reinforced his opinion. Lieutenant Mons clearly had more courage and good sense than the other sacks of dung dressed in fancy uniforms whom he’d encountered thus far.
He buckled on his father’s sword and ran to Mons’s side, following the voice and the eerie orange glow of torchlight. The chain-mail shirt he’d been issued jingled as he ran, and he set his helm atop his head. He’d been on guard rotation until what felt like barely an hour past, and he was so exhausted after the long day that he hadn’t even taken off his mail or boots, collapsing exhausted in his bedroll. He now counted that a blessing as he was more prepared than the majority of the men around him.
They had no time for drawing up plans, for the enemy was already upon them. How many Nebaran cutthroats were in camp Elyas had no clue, but from the sounds of panic, they were numerous.
Before he knew it, he was charging ahead, sword in hand, following Mons’s lead, as they fought to rebuff the assassins. Somewhere nearby, a horn blasted repeatedly, and Elyas was relieved to see a steady stream of men struggling from their bedrolls to join them, many barefoot and shirtless. One man wore only his smallclothes, but he didn’t hesitate to fall in with the others, wielding a battle-axe in hand.
The small two-man tents were pale ghosts in the fog to either side as they moved down an open lane toward the western half of camp, where the attackers were originating from. A group of the enemy materialized from the fog. Elyas charged them with Mons and two other men. He cleaved one Nebaran’s head open then spilled another’s guts. The chaos of battle swirled around him as black-clad assassins attacked, and his heart quickened at the thrill and adrenaline rush, for this was what he’d been born to do. He’d dreamed his whole life of being a great warrior as his father had.
“Every journey begins with but a single step,” Wyat had said on more than one occasion. Being roused in the night under assault on his first full day as a new recruit was a bastard of a first step in his journey, yet it was his alone, and he meant to face it head-on.
Elyas spotted three more Nebarans, one of them just exiting a tent, blade still dripping blood from the slit throats of his fellow Ketanian soldiers.
“Bloody cowards! Fight me like a man!” he bellowed and charged.
The nearest man raised his sword to defend himself. Elyas’s powerful slash blasted through his guard, his keen blade tearing off half the man’s face. The next thrust of his sword had so much force behind it that the blade’s tip burst through the back of his foe’s mail shirt. Elyas withdrew his sword and whirled just in time to hack off the next foe’s raised sword arm at the elbow. The arm and sword tumbled away, an instant later followed by the Nebaran’s head.
The third Nebaran turned tail and fled through the lanes between tents, disappearing back into the damnable fog.
Elyas cried out taunts and pursued, the fog growing denser as he went. He tripped over a tent line and fell to his hands and knees. The stumble saved his life. As he rose up to one knee, an arrowhead pinged, ricocheting off his helm rather than burying itself in his chest. Elyas grunted a curse then regained his feet and raced toward the source of the arrow. The archer’s mouth opened in a startled O as Elyas rushed him like a madman. With a mighty sword stroke, he split the bowman from neck to abdomen then felled the coward beside him next. He paused to catch his breath a moment, eyes warily trying to probe the mist. Silent tents stood all around him. The nearest had a dark splatter on the roof where an unfortunate’s lifeblood had pumped out of him. Goose bumps rose on his arms from the eerie stillness. He knew hundreds of tents were out there, yet he sensed no signs of life. Somewhere off to his right, the fog glowed orange, and he heard crackling flames.
Some of the tents are on fire.
The mist swirled with dark figures advancing toward him from several directions, first a handful, then a dozen or more. Glancing around, he realized his mistake. He was alone out there at the fringes of the camp among slaughtered Ketanians, and a number of enemy troops were yet pouring from the fog. Shouts and sounds of fighting came from somewhere behind him.
Realizing he wouldn’t live to see another day if he acted like a fool, Elyas fell back to regroup with the oth
ers. Shouts of the Ketanian resistance grew louder as he backtracked to where he’d last seen Lieutenant Mons and the others. Soon, the fog thinned a bit, and he neared a bonfire that a pair of soldiers was building up. An organized rank of several score defenders had formed up on Mons, and they were preparing to systematically sweep through the camp and flush the Nebarans out. Elyas quickly fell in with them as the remainder of the camp was still being mobilized to arms, the sergeants trying to establish some semblance of order.
He couldn’t help but wonder how the enemy had made it into their camp from across the river. From what he’d glimpsed out there at the fringes of the camp, the slaughter was devastating. What of Ammon Nor? Has it fallen? I sure hope Taren is safe somewhere. Anhur, please spare him from this massacre.
The sound of drumming hooves drew Elyas’s attention. He glanced over to see three riders galloping out of the darkness and reigning in before the command pavilion.
“What is the situation here?” a gravelly voice barked. “Report!”
The commander of the king’s vanguard, Colonel Krige, leapt from the back of his horse to confront Captain Palam, the dandy prick in command of the local garrison, just as he was stepping outside of his command pavilion. Krige and his vanguard had made their own camp about a quarter mile east of the local forces, awaiting the arrival of the rest of the king’s army.
Elyas couldn’t hear what Palam reported, but Krige clearly wasn’t happy. “Courier!” he snapped.
His two retainers nudged their horses forward to attend him. One of the men suddenly jerked before slumping forward in his saddle, an arrow through his chest. The other’s horse reared and threw the man, an arrow protruding from the mount’s neck. The rider landed badly on the ground, groaning as he clutched his leg.
With a cry, a knot of Nebarans appeared from the fog and charged the command pavilion.
Scions of Nexus Page 39
