by Damien Lake
:Against…:
Yes. I will go against this vile man. Watch, and take pleasure at his demise.
Smiling heartily, Colbey slipped through the crevice to run, run, run with all the stamina only a true Guardian could summon.
* * * * *
Marik stood with Dietrik after the sergeants left, watching his friend prepare for the coming candlemarks. It always fascinated him to see Dietrik cast away hesitations or worries. He breathed deeply, eyes closed, one hand on his rapier’s swept hilt and the other on the matching main-gauche. His body almost stiffened as he prepared for battle. Even his aura shifted slightly. Any faint swirls, so like a wind passing through morning mist, slowed until they were as sedate as deep water.
It only took a brief moment. Marik knew he saw how he himself must look when he heightened his battle instincts to their full. He enjoyed it especially today since it meant Dietrik had finally gotten over his doubts. When he’d woken that morning, complaining of a stiff back from sleeping curled around a boulder, he’d been the same old Dietrik Marik knew and loved as a brother.
He could never say that aloud. Still, it was an unspoken truth most in the band recognized, he believed. The bond between shieldmates could run deep, connections sacred in their intensity, and it would be a blasphemy to either acknowledge them or take them for granted. Dietrik’s returned self-assurance since fighting the black soldier lightened a burden Marik had only been half aware of.
Dietrik smiled, that half-cocked grin Marik knew, and they both swiveled for the boulder where their packs still rested. The odd utterance from Colbey made Marik turn back.
“Against…”
Marik waited, wondering what Colbey wanted. His voice had sounded most peculiar, both strained and empty. He noticed the scout staring blankly at the stone wall a dozen feet away.
In fact, he looked asleep where he stood, with his mouth slightly parted and that idiot’s gaze at nothing. Marik nearly stepped back to shake the man. The scout abruptly jerked and glanced sharply around. No enemies were anywhere near the hollow, Marik knew. Perhaps Colbey sought after an insect that persisted in annoying him.
Colbey had been acting strange enough that Marik wanted to avoid any arguments. Leave well enough alone, as his mother had been wont to say whenever she caught him poking at a crate stack or tugging on a log set low in the woodpile.
And yet he watched the scout for another long moment until the man grinned. He looked like a hangman who loved his work and had a full roster lined up for a busy day. “Against…” he muttered a second time, the moment disjointed because of the despairing tone whispering through that scythe-smile.
“What do you suppose he’s about this time?” Dietrik asked at his shoulder when the scout jumped through the narrow crevice.
Marik shrugged. “I don’t have the faintest.”
“At least he’s cleared off for awhile. He’s been making my skin prick lately.”
“He’s off to scout, and that’s what he’s best at.” Marik gave Dietrik a head-to-toe appraisal. “You all set for an interesting day?”
Dietrik laughed. “I could have done with a bit of a lie-in this morning. It was hardly a restful night, what with freezing to death on a rock pile and wondering if the bleeding tommyknockers would crawl out of the deep forest to butcher us where we lay.”
“Now you can wonder if we’ll have to fend off the hell-beasts before you can find an empty patch in an army tent tonight.”
He instantly wished he could erase what he had said when Dietrik grimaced, the dark cloud returning to his face. “Those bloody monsters are the real tommies,” Dietrik muttered.
“Don’t worry about them,” Marik announced with confident assurance. He wanted to keep Dietrik from sinking back into a black mood. “I’ve been going over everything I know about them since dawn, and everything I’ve done against them. I think I can handle them, but if we’re going to fight anyone, it will be those soldiers! They’ll fall under my blade like wheat before a sickle.”
“It’s too bad you have no penchant for hats, mate. I’d like to see if any that might have fit you before still do.” Dietrik seized Marik’s half-helm. He twisted it where it sat on his head. “Has this become too tight on that swollen head of yours?”
Marik jerked away from Dietrik’s grip. “My head’s the same size it ever was. There’ nothing wrong with taking pride in your hard-won abilities.”
“I don’t think that—” Dietrik started, but Kineta drowned his words under a shouted command to follow her through the crevice.
She returned from the deeper hollow, her unit following on her heels as they scrambled over the scattered boulders. Arvallar lead the Fourth behind the last First Unit mercenary, looking ridiculous at the group’s head in his rumpled finery and wielding only his dagger.
Kineta shouted for everyone to be silent before taking her own advice to heart. She quickly vanished in the crack’s shadows.
Dietrik waited with him to join the tail end with Sloan. Neither spoke, each considering the immediate future. Marik spared only a single thought that Dietrik had started turning into an old woman worrier before concentrating on his magesight. Both sergeants wanted him to keep a constant watch for enemies. Since he could not drift the etheric plane while walking under normal circumstances, his vision would be restricted to its normal field. He could distinguish the brilliant auras through the concealing trees only at the distance any other unit member could see.
It would be an interesting day. That much he knew for certain.
* * * * *
Colonel Mendell’s forces fought hard, using the Taurs as a wall to prevent the local militia from overrunning them entirely. Steel clashed on steel as often as off the curving Taur claws. Black-armored soldiers fell, though by far the majority of the screams were ripped from Galemaran fighters while they were brutally torn apart. Arrow storms had been quickly halted when Taur forces stormed the assembled archers, breaking through the defensive line with terrifying ease.
Mendell stood well back beside his tents and issued orders to be carried to his officers. He grimaced at this battle’s prospects.
This sudden attack should not have been possible. These Galemarans had kept a close watch on their neighbor’s affairs, true enough, but his advance’s speed and devastation, like a relentless tidal wave, should have left them unable to coherently organize for a week! How could these locals have found him and organized a major assault in only two days?
He had nearly eighty Taurs at his command. Five had been killed by crossbow men before he directed the Taurs to take them out of the battle. The number of men fighting against his would have caused serious trouble back home. These fools knew nothing of the Taurs, nor effective tactics to use. They kept lining up to die.
“Colonel!” shouted a man in his guard force. His gaze jerked to his rear.
What his guard wanted to draw his attention to was plainly obvious. A hundred yards distant, one of his men lay on the ground, an arrow protruding from his belly. He twisted and dug at the light snow with his heels while clutching the shaft.
Beyond, almost too distant to make out, stood a figure who fired a second arrow. Mendell squinted to make out the man who nearly blended with the winter terrain. His hair was white, as was his garb, but enough green and brown dotted his clothing to make him visible on the barren hill where he stood.
So one of those annoying archers had escaped, then circled in an attempt to back-shoot him. He had only gotten one of his guards because he must know that coming any closer would have instantly revealed his presence.
“Take some men and go deal with that pest!” he ordered the man who had shouted before returning his attention to the battle.
* * * * *
The black soldiers ran across the hill, following his track, Colbey saw from his perch in a different tree. Such gullible outlanders, following the tracks he had made approaching the hill. He scorned them, though they acted according to his intentions.
&n
bsp; Colbey shaded his eyes from the morning sun reflecting off the snow. Three soldiers ran, swords drawn, until they crossed the hill and could see into the slight depression where the land dipped as it met the Stoneseams.
Yes, his timing had been perfect. The Dead Man’s guards topped the rise at the same moment the mercenaries crossed from one concealing fold in the mountains to the next. They were exposed against a white background.
Caught as they were in that instant, it was hard to discern whether they were sneaking away or advancing stealthily. The three guardsmen spent only a moment watching before retreating at a run for their camp.
Whichever sergeant led the two units had failed to notice the three black figures atop the hill. All to the good then. They wouldn’t hurry to escape. These invaders could split their forces nicely and create the looser formations he needed to slip through.
He leaned back in his tree, relaxing for the first time in months, watching the guardsmen report to their leader, and waiting to see how they would react.
* * * * *
Let your attention wander for just one minute, and see what it gets you!
Marik fought between Dietrik and Chiksan while black soldiers ran down into the shallow depression they had hoped would cover them until they found the next hidden hollow. The brief glimpse he’d taken before the fighting embroiled them had shown as many soldiers on the way as they already fought.
It looked unorganized, with the amount of space Chiksan and Marik left between them and the others for their long weapons. As a result, a knot of black soldiers attacked them, thinking the thinness in the line meant a weakness in their defense.
Chiksan’s impressive spear work felled three before they realized he was to be approached with caution. Marik killed his first after setting his strength working in place. His blade nearly cut through the ‘cure belly’ leather. While the non-metallic armor held up under his enhanced strength, the soldier’s body bent under the pressure before being thrown back into his compatriots.
Marik brought his sword back to his ready position, eager to show these bastards what sort of fighter they faced. He waited, then realized the nearest soldiers were all waiting as well. They had seen what happened to their shieldmate and taken defensive stances beyond his sword range.
The fight raged on around him, and these dirty cowards were only staring at him! Well, if they refused to face him like men, then he would take the fight to them.
His step forward brought not only a grim determination to the soldiers’ faces but also a brightening of the air all around. The last morning cloud passed from between the battle and the sun. White snow that already brought a tear to many eyes dazzled in a sparkling field of diamond dust. Everyone lacking thin veils instantly squinted, forcing their eyes to remain cracked open, backing away from the enemies opposite until they could block the light.
Marik’s veil remained folded in his pack. His forward step had placed him with three enemies in a loose half-circle around him. They would surely attack should he let his guard slip.
Indeed, the left soldier crouched slightly and started for Marik, anticipating easy pray. I don’t think so!
Easy as taking his next breath, Marik slipped into magesight, the constant lighting in the etheric as painful as a spring afternoon. His broad swing surprised the lunging solider.
The other two leapt as one while his sword was hampered by the dying man’s armor. He yanked forcefully, the hard leather fighting him for his blade. Under normal circumstance he would not have retrieved his sword in time to defend against the twin attacks. These two obviously knew it.
They closed to within fighting distance when he swept his sword up, deflecting the right blade while twisting to dodge the left. He brought his sword around on the follow-through to smash the blade sideways. Both men stepped back. Marik refused to allow them a retreat and launched a flurry all the more fearsome for his liquid movements with so large a weapon.
He intended to take these two down before working his way along the line, felling soldiers while they were occupied by his fellow mercenaries. Their counterattack nearly cost him his head.
With his enhanced strength and skill, they should have crumpled within the first few strokes. But they refused to do so. They must be elite fighters in their army. Their skill was honed and adept.
The right soldier decoyed, feinting to draw Marik’s strike. Meanwhile the left man prodded with alternating blows designed to reveal any holes in Marik’s defense. Whenever he attacked, they either dodged the fast strike or else redirected his larger sword’s momentum with their own. He could scarcely credit their ability to do so despite the sixth time his blade was edged aside.
As incredible as it seemed, they were forcing him back! Marik realized it after his third step, which replaced him between Dietrik and Chiksan. Despite his advantages, these two petty soldiers had beaten all odds to out-maneuver him.
He snarled with teeth gritted and switched to wide sweeps that took full advantage of his strength. A muscle-bound oaf like Beld would have made a serious tactical mistake in using moves that would leave him defenseless in the moments following the hefty swings. With his strength working in play, the sword’s weight felt closer to a dagger’s. Marik stopped his larger blade in midair and reversed direction in less than an instant.
The left man had lunged into the gap left behind the trailing sword. Marik’s sudden backswing caught him unprepared…except the man had reflexes to rival a cat on the hunt.
He knew he could not avoid Marik’s blade or block with his own. In a split instant he raised his elbow, bending his arm to extend the defensive plate to its fullest.
Marik’s sword struck the plate. He hoped the force might shatter the man’s arm. Instead, with the arm raised and the man ducking, the plate snapped back hard against his upper arm.
It caught Marik by surprise. The soldier had blocked with his sword arm. When the plate snapped back, the arm shot forward as it straightened. Marik felt his foe’s blade whip into his side and strike his lowest rib.
His mail stopped the lethal damage. The blade smashed hard on the bone. Pain shot through his ribs worse than any stitch from a long run. He thought he felt the bone crack.
Hopefully the swollen channels throughout his body had strengthened the bones enough that it prevented them from fracturing completely.
He and the soldier were entangled in each other. His friend searched for an opening to attack without harming his shieldmate. Marik listed, the pain upsetting his balance despite his efforts. The soldier, with his shorter sword, freed his blade first and raised it deliver a finishing stroke. That thing’s going to kill me if I don’t get hold of myself!
Marik fought for balance. Fought to reposition his sword. Or, if nothing else, to leap away before he died! When the black soldier’s sword started descending, he knew he was dead.
Neither saw the spearhead darting like a snake until it had already penetrated the soldier’s exposed armpit. The soldier grimaced. He managed a single glance at the shaft held in Chiksan’s leathered hands before collapsing. While the man fell, Chiksan retrieved his spear by combining an odd twist with a sharp tug.
The second black soldier hesitated. Marik used the moment to shift his weight to his left foot. His right side felt as though a glass shard were sawing back and forth through his skin. He forced his body past the pain and charged before this other black bastard could escape.
They had gotten lucky for a moment. He would teach them what it meant to face a warrior of his stature!
This time he swung with caution, keeping aware of the elbow plates. Twice they blocked his blade from cutting through the man’s neck, steel collar or no. The man fended off Marik’s pounding attacks without sacrificing ground.
It made him angry. As a B Class warrior he should be able to cut his way through a horde of common soldiers like these! How could one simple fighter not only cause him so much trouble, but also meet him in battle as an equal?
The fu
ry gnawed at his control, causing him to make small errors. One such error was enough for the soldier to take advantage of. His sword slid under Marik’s guard to strike a second blow against his wounded ribs.
Marik shrieked when the pain ripped his flesh from his bones. It was the worst agony he could consciously remember. He started to reel before realizing it would be his death.
The pain intensified when he forced his body to move. Pain was only pain after all. It hurt, but his body would still be able to function if he ignored it. Marik’s eyes were wide in agony, sweat beading on his face when he lunged forward.
His foe had thought him neutralized. He’d pulled back for a final strike to kill the mercenary. Marik’s blade struck his chest. The sword tip punctured the leather vest and the flesh beneath.
Marik’s working shattered under the horrible pain. Only the lingering energy pumping through his channels endowed him with strength enough to finish the thrust. The sword cut halfway through the soldier before meat and body suction halted its progress.
When the soldier fell to twitch in the snow, he took Marik’s blade with him. The hilt slipped from Marik’s fingers. His hand spasmed from the relentless stiletto stabbing into his ribs. He dropped to his knees clutching at his side.
Chiksan stooped to check his condition. Once satisfied Marik’s wound was not crippling, he searched for other black-armored figures nearby. The few remaining were engaged by multiple Kings.
Marik’s pain faded when he pressed hard against his flesh. He felt no blood or torn skin. What his rib might look like he cared not to contemplate. Later, when they had the time, he would need to examine it through his magesight to see if bone fragments had splintered off to cause damage to surrounding tissue.
His thoughts were a turmoil while he caught his breath. Anger, fury, indignation and outrage seethed within him. He ranted silently and demanded answers from Ercsilon, who offered no reply through any venue Marik could understand.
