Tarthur curved his right hand and shot it up above his head. He held it there for a spit second, gathering the power surrounding him. He brought his arm down in a swoop, pushing the wind with him. A huge blast of air shot out from his body, blowing the skull knights back and sending Tarthur flying back towards Addyean. Dust kicked up, obscuring the field. They stood no chance fighting five skull knights at such a short distance. Tarthur landed in a crouch, thirty meters away from the skull knights, but much closer to the elf.
Addyean rushed forward to handle her, drawing his sword. Tarthur was sure that the spy was no match for her, but he didn’t have time to worry about that. He had to handle the skull knights, who were closing fast. They had spread out, and were coming at them from several directions.
Tarthur didn’t even have to think of what to do next. Multiple enemies coming from multiple directions, little chance that he would hit a friend—he knew the perfect spell. Tarthur spun his hands around an imaginary ball, and then whirling, he spread his hands outwards, spinning each as he coaxed the disks into existence. He dropped to one knee, and shot his spell out towards the nearest knights.
Dozens of white disks of light shot out from his person, randomly hurling into the knights. The disks flew through the undead, ripping them to ribbons. They changed direction unpredictably, slicing through several knights before returning to the fray. Whenever a knight would begin to reattach itself, a disk was ready to undo the connection. They would hold the knights apart for a few minutes, but with each cut, the disks lost a little bit of their energy.
Tarthur turned to where Addyean was in battle with the elf. He was doing all he could to stay alive. He had a bad gash in his right arm, and was now trying to fight with his left. Tarthur mumbled the words to send out an invisible net of energy, which closed around her blade and pulled it back from where it had been about to strike Addyean. He thought he had her for a second, but as soon as he had relaxed slightly, she pulled him forward with his own magic net. Addyean spun out of the way as Tarthur rolled. He hurriedly released the spell and came up shouting “Derse, Yreds, Fewtersd!” to blast a column of fire straight at her. She flattened her body and hit the ground, singed but not terribly injured.
Tarthur pushed his palm forward, sending a tremor through the earth that shot her prone body five feet in the air. The elf didn’t seem the least bit surprised, and she reached inside her belt to pull out a folded blowgun, which she snapped out to full size with one flick of the wrist.
Before she had reached her maximum height, she had fired five needles at Tarthur.
He brought his left hand hurriedly up, sending a crosswise wind to knock the needles off course. He almost made it. Four needles dropped harmlessly over his right shoulder, but one nicked his neck.
Tarthur felt only the briefest prick, and for a second thought that he had escaped injury. Still almost floating in the air, the dark elf kicked her feet out behind her. Her feet spread and she whipped them around, causing her to spin half a turn and land in a crouch facing Tarthur.
He brought up his right hand to send a ball of fire at her, but at that point, he felt a stinging numbness in his neck. The numbness was rapidly spreading, at its edge there was a burning sensation, first at his forearm and the right side of his chest, and then spreading to his fingers and the left side of his chest and down to his stomach. The burning sensation was quickly replaced with a complete lack of feeling. He called out to his arm, but it just hung there, motionless.
Tarthur started to panic. He felt his chest constricting, cutting off his breathing. Everything moved in slow motion. He saw an eerie smile slowly spreading over the dark elf’s lips and she crouched hungrily, watching him with eager anticipation.
He had no choice left. Withdrawing into himself, Tarthur hurriedly mumbled “Protige, Yildre, Savaigta” and sent his essence safe into his chest. He erected a barrier about his internal organs and his lungs, and sent his soul inwards, pushing out against the numbness. Tarthur’s body slumped to the ground, only his eyes betraying the life within. Helpless, he watched the skull knights reassemble themselves and start towards him. Addyean ran at the elf, but she whirled and sent a dart into his neck as well. He struggled onwards, trying to reach the elf with one last blow of his sword, but she easily sidestepped his attempt with a mocking laugh.
The skull knights were almost upon Tarthur. He felt their cold hands reaching out to touch him, but before their fingers could clutch him in their icy grip, the elf waived them off.
“Leave him for me.”
She came forward. Pulling out a length of rope, she started to bind Tarthur. Burning with shame and anger, Tarthur could not resist. He wondered what fate awaited him. Perhaps he was to become like the skull knights…doomed forever to wander the land visiting pain on the innocent people of Daranor. The thought of Yvonne and Alahim, alone now and defenseless, brought tears to his eyes.
“NO!”
Tarthur wasn’t sure where the scream came from. He wondered if he had cried out himself. But the sound was a woman’s voice, oddly familiar even in his numbed state.
The elf fell back as a crossbow bolt hit her shoulder. She suppressed a mild yelp of something that was either pain or surprise, and then bent her head backwards and arched her back to avoid the next shot. Before the third shot could come, she pulled Tarthur close and forced his back in the direction of the assailant.
She didn’t fire again, but instead Yvonne dove into the dark elf, knocking her off Tarthur and launching a furious set of blows at the elf’s face.
Tarthur could only watch as the two grappled on the ground. Where had Yvonne come from? Had he caused her to appear simply by concentrating on her enough?
Tarthur had no answer to his first question, but his second was answered quickly enough. The skull knights were suddenly set upon by nearly a dozen dwarves. Even in his wildest fantasies, he would never have imagined a horde of dwarves coming to his rescue.
Yvonne was punching with her left, bringing her fist down to the dark elf’s face in a succession of rapid blows. Numbed though he was, Tarthur forced a smile. Yvonne knew the elf’s right arm was injured, and now she had to block Yvonne’s attacks across her body. Yvonne was furious, smart, and strong for a woman. Yet, she was not a fighter, and Tarthur knew that she was no match for this assailant. The dark elf was so calm, so professional, so detached.
The dark elf swung her left hand down on Yvonne’s shoulder and, keeping her arm straight she pushed upwards, sent her legs out behind her and landed in a crouch a few meters away from Yvonne. Furious, Yvonne started forward to engage her again, but she wasn’t fast enough. The dark elf pulled out her blowgun and brought it to her lips….
Out of the corner of his eye, Tarthur saw a black-cloaked soldier do the same, an instant before the elf. As she drew in a sharp breath and prepared to fire, the stranger’s dart hit her on her hand, exploding and burning it. She hardly seemed to notice, but the stranger’s next dart exploded on the tip of her blowgun, rendering the weapon useless.
She gave out a cry of frustration, and dove again towards Yvonne to draw off the dart fire. The man had already fired darts that whistled harmlessly in the air, striking where her body had been. He couldn’t get another shot, so he turned to help the dwarves with the skull knights.
Yvonne carefully backed up, always keeping herself between the elf and Tarthur. The dark elf raised her sword above her head, bringing it down on Yvonne, who brought up her sword to counter the blow. Instead of striking, though, the elf bent her elbows to shorten her stroke, turned the blade upwards and hit Yvonne’s sword strongly, knocking it from her grasp. The sword spiraled upwards and landed point down, a little too close to Tarthur for comfort.
Tarthur was beginning to feel the burning sensation return to his toes and fingertips. Apparently, the toxins on the dart were only temporary. He relaxed the magical shield that he had constructed inside his body. He hoped that Addyean would be alright. Tarthur could still see his chest rising
and falling, but only barely.
Yvonne hastily drew her dagger, as the dark elf came forward once more. The elf was using her sword in her left hand. Although, if the power of the last blow was any indication, she was either left-handed to begin with or very strong on both sides.
The elf feinted again, this time actually striking at Yvonne’s head with a falling cut. She figured Yvonne would think that the second identical strike was a fake as well. Yvonne hurriedly flung up her dagger. Tarthur cringed and heard a clang, but it was not from Yvonne’s blade. Startled, she looked upwards where the dwarf leader’s blade was locked with that of the dark elf. The dwarf was standing right behind her, and if he wasn’t saving his wife’s life, Tarthur would have preferred that the dwarf not stand so close. The dwarf gently pushed Yvonne out of the way, “Stand aside, m’lady!” and he faced the elf alone.
Yvonne stumbled, coming face to face with Tarthur. She grabbed him and held him tight. Oddly, the sounds of the battle, the clang of steel on steel and the shouts of the furious combatants all died out around him. His world consisted of nothing but her, their sweaty, damaged bodies holding fast to each other, standing defiant in the eye of the storm amidst the maelstrom of life.
All too soon that instant was over and she tore herself away, afraid, perhaps, that caught in that moment they would never return to the real world. Tarthur made a faint motion of his head in the direction of Addyean, who was already beginning to turn blue.
She took his meaning immediately, but a dwarf had gotten the idea first. He saw one of the younger ones bend over Addyean and start breathing into his mouth. Despite the seriousness of the situation, Tarthur almost had to stifle a chuckle. A dwarf’s kiss was not one of the more pleasant things in the Lands of Daranor. In fact, given the choice between that and a slow, painful death by asphyxiation, the people were evenly split over which was worse. Although Addyean didn’t seem to be enjoying the experience, it certainly looked like he was in the camp that favored the former over the latter.
Fientien and the elf were fiercely engaged. Although she had a superior hand at the sword and a deceptive weapon, she was injured and tired while he was fresh. He was no novice at the sword, either. His blows were clean and efficient, striking without the slightest hint of wasted motion. He fought patiently, letting the elf tire with her rapid and fancy attacks.
“Kneecaps! Now!” The idea that this might all be a dream began to take hold again in Tarthur’s mind as he heard the frantic and bewildering cry come up from the dwarves. By this time, he was able to turn his head to look in the direction of their battle with the skull knights. They had the knights outnumbered three to one, but the skull knights were on horseback and could ride through the dwarves and rain down blows on their heads.
The dwarves dove, slicing the horses’ legs. They got most of them, and the knights fell and reassembled as they rolled clear. The black clad man was helping, slapping small balls of explosive powder to whatever part of the creatures presented itself. Tarthur attempted a chuckle as he understood their plan. Several of the dwarves rushed forward and scooped up all of the kneecaps that they could find in their cloaks. They sprinted away, kneecaps jerking wildly as they struggled to hop back to their bodies. The dwarves tossed some of them down a hole and stood guard.
The legs of the undead horses wiggled around aimlessly on the ground, unable to reattach to the rest of the body. Their mouths screamed wild soundless cries of frustration.
Soon the plan was carried out on the rest of the undead knights as well. In direct hand-to-hand combat, the knights couldn’t match the dwarves and the man. They carried hammers and double-pronged pickaxes whose curved blades were sharpened on both sides. The weapons worked equally well for stabbing, slicing, or crushing. One dwarf would engage a knight from the front—suddenly, another would sneak up from behind and send his hammer smashing into the creature’s legs. Falling, it would turn around to strike this new attacker. While the attacker stepped backward out of the way, the first dwarf would steal the skull knight’s kneecaps and run away from the fray. Helpless, the top part of the knight would drag itself in search of its missing body parts, but it was far too slow.
The dark elf saw that she was finally trapped. It was obvious that she could not defeat so many alone. Breaking off from her confrontation with the dwarf, she blew a soundless whistle and the last undead horse came speeding towards her. Still facing the battle, she jumped on the horse, stretching out her body horizontally and pushing off the horse’s rump with her straightened left arm. The horse sped away with the elf firing a few last darts at the remaining dwarves and humans. She slumped into the saddle, spun to face the front of the horse, and did not look back.
Tarthur was now able to sit up, but they were far from safe. The skull knights were rather pathetic without legs, but still dangerous as they pulled themselves about with one arm while slashing their swords with the other arm. Besides, even if they were rendered completely harmless, they were still very unpleasant to be around. They stank of death, of wasted lives and forgotten valor, ancient blood still crusted on their mismatched armor.
“The rock!” the dwarf leader called out to his companions. The dwarves united to push a teetering boulder over the edge of the kneecap-filled hole. That would buy them time, maybe even a few days. Then, without warning or invitation from Tarthur, he turned and lifted the man up on his shoulders. “Don’t worry now, I’ll keep you safe.”
For some reason, Tarthur didn’t particularly feel very grateful.
Alahim came up on Wendimede. He had been watching the fray from a safe distance away, and he was terrified. It was the worst battle he had ever seen. He had also witnessed his father, the one whom he had always relied on as a pillar of strength, lying prone and needing others to carry him away. If this woman could almost kill his mother and father, Alahim was sure that he was not safe either.
Over the next few hours, Tarthur regained his power of movement back. He and Yvonne were grateful to see each other, and the entire family embraced. Addyean healed as well, although Tarthur could have sworn that the man spat much more than usual and brushed his teeth at least four times that night.
Momentarily safe from the skull knights, they traveled for the rest of the day and then made camp out in the open grasslands. Rejoined again, Tarthur and Yvonne slept deeply. They rested that night and soon were on their way. Two days later, they arrived at Deguz.
***********************
Their trail was not hard to follow. He did not have magic to aid him, but he did have a keen attention to detail. There were broken twigs and bent grasses everywhere, but he could tell the difference between those that were bent by the normal meanderings of a traveler and those that were crushed by the frantic rush of the horses of the undead.
The reeds were crushed physically, but it was more than that. Their spirits were crushed as well. A blade of grass didn’t have a soul as a person did, but it had a basic essence—a primitive life-force that combined with that of the other plants around it to create the soul of the grassland.
He had been traveling mostly north, heading to the east every once in a while. They were staying close to the left bank on the Aspenflow, passing through Saddle Pass and northwards onto the Savannah Plain. He had almost lost the trail once as they forded the river, but soon picked it up again. The creatures were single-minded. They rode right past small farming communities, riding through crops but not stopping to destroy the houses that were in their way.
He supposed that his attention to detail had come from his time as an artist. He amended his thought. The fact was that he had never really become an artist, at least, he had never made any money through his art work. No matter how many times he thought back on it, he still wanted to consider himself as such. He sighed. He always believed that he could have been so good….
For the thousandth time he relived the moment from his youth in Tealsburg. He was standing on the corner with his father and mother, both artists. They worked on
the street, but they had a sturdy house in the outskirts of the city. His father had even done a portrait of General Cilio that was hanging in the king’s own dining room. It was quite a story in his house growing up. Of all the powerful men surrounding the king, Cilio was perhaps the least vain. Still, the king insisted on commissioning the portrait to mark their victory in the War of the Orb. The old general complained loudly about the portrait being an unnecessary waste of time and paint, and refused to sit still in one place for the many hours required to complete it. His father had been forced to imagine how the general looked, and all agreed that he had done an excellent job of it.
It was odd, he realized, how he could remember every detail of that day so clearly. He could remember that day fifteen years ago better than he could remember any day within the last year. He supposed it was because the events were so tragic, they had been burned into his consciousness.
The sun had been shining, a cold bright light that nipped at the edges of the chill winter air, giving warmth to the land and slowly melting the snow that had fallen the day before. His mother was hawking their wares in the streets of Tealsburg, when suddenly a man ran up behind them and grabbed his mother’s moneybag, knocking her to the ground. She slipped on the damp streets and hit her head, drawing blood and knocking herself unconscious.
His father immediately tore after the thief, chasing him down into an abandoned alley, Latson not far behind. As his father cornered the thief, however, two more thieves sealed off the exit. They battered and pummeled his father to a bloody pulp, hitting blow after blow and not looking up.
He didn’t remember the rest well. He only knew that a rage had swelled up within him, busting over the surface. Latson was only fourteen at the time, but already strong and agile. A lone witness later said that he had struck the three men repeatedly in the back while they were beating his father. All he knew was that when he came to, he was staring around to see three dead bodies. His father was still alive, but never spoke another word. Staring into his eyes, Latson saw surprise, hatred for the thieves, concern over his wife, and fear. Yes, there was no mistaking that there was fear there. His father thought he went alone into the unknown.
Lands of Daranor: Book 02 - ProphecyQuest Page 9
