“That’s it, Argaf!” Ireth said as they each paused to watch the Duran arrows go. “Hit them for us!”
“Praise Telion,” Keltos muttered. Then they were climbing again, their legs burning now with the intense and frenzied exertion. His arms strained at every rock and root that could keep him from sliding back down.
They were near the top now, having taken no more than three minutes to get from the stream to the bluff’s peak. Ireth’s soft leather boot scraped on a bare patch of rock and she tumbled sideways, arresting her fall just in time to avoid going over into some bushes and down an even steeper embankment to the side. Cormoran reached over and helped her toward the path again, but now Keltos was in the lead and he pressed toward the part of the trail that leveled out just above.
So far, Felevus had answered their prayers; the rain had not begun yet, and the path was still traversable. In a few minutes’ time it would be a slippery mess of clay and rainwater, suicide for any that attempted the climb afterward. This meant they were even less likely to receive aid from below once the small rescue team had ascended to the camp.
Keltos held his saber before him, ready for anything when he lunged into view at the top.
On the south, Black Tur arrived at his barricade and looked over. The last hoplite had finally cleared the trench and formed up, with only a few taking arrows from the haphazard defense mounted from the camp so far. He swore roundly.
Now the phalanx stretched almost the full width of the hill, a double line, and they marched like gods of war. The ground shook beneath their measured tread. The sergeants kept the lines straight, angled down and back slightly on either side, and a captain marched in the center.
“Telion!” came the cry.
Tur’s eyes narrowed as he observed the oncoming ranks, and he mentally cursed the worthless sentries who’d let such a force approach without an earlier warning. Yulik Clem lay dead nearby; who was the other man he’d assigned to the barricade this night?
There he was, Shiza the Hog, crouching by the big log to one side. Tur nearly put a dagger in the man’s ribs from behind, just to vent his frustration, but he knew he needed every man available now. This had suddenly turned from a cautiously restful evening to a desperate battle for survival.
He calculated his chances, teetering on the brink of panic for a moment. Should he run for it while his men slowed the soldiers’ advance into the camp?
No. He steadied his nerve with an arrogant sneer, which had always worked for him in the past. There weren’t that many of the Kerathis, and the camp he’d built was a strong position to defend from. And in any event, the option of flight was all but gone now; the hoplites were too close. If he ran it would start an immediate rout. The best bet was to stand his ground and drive back the armored men.
“Pick them off, archers. The rest of you, prepare with javelins, axes, swords and knives!” he shouted. “They can’t get past this barricade in a solid line, so we’ll cut them down as they come over one by one!”
The lighter sounds of the bandits’ arrows splintering on bronze shields was interspersed with the deeper thock of a few javelins. A few of his men were also slingers, and now these began to launch heavy river pebbles, which rattled loudly off the bronze wall. Here and there a lucky cast hit a helmet, but for the most part the missiles were wasted against the tightly interlocking shields of the phalanx.
Below, the hoplites’ legs were protected by bronze greaves. Only their feet were vulnerable, and after seeing the futility of the first few volleys, Black Tur directed his men’s aim toward their opponents’ feet. One hoplite went down with a shout of pain, making a gap in the thin phalanx. But before this could be exploited, men from the line behind stepped forward and filled the gap again, preserving the line.
Black Tur ranted and swore. He was sure his force outnumbered these spearmen, but their armor was a terrible problem. The hoplites had but a few paces to go before they hit the barricade, and then it would be hand to hand combat—not the outlaws’ forte. If the fight broke into the open where the Kerathi soldiers could get their long spears into effective play, it would all be over.
At least the enemy had no archers, Black Tur thought. Thanks the gods for that.
Then he remembered Yulik’s corpse, and flinched as a man next to him suddenly lurched backward with an arrow in his eye. Tur crouched down, blaspheming the very gods he’d just been thanking.
Keltos cut left of the main path as he came up, leaping across a small bramble to get into position on the top of the bluff. As he glanced everywhere at once, seeking threats and targets, he caught a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye and ducked. A man with a bow had swiveled slightly to aim at him from his concealed position only a few yards away.
A colossal bolt of lightning riveted the sky, dazzling every person on the bluff. It showed the arrow in midflight, coming at Keltos as if in a frozen moment of time. Then it sailed past his shoulder, and he darted right, spinning toward the sentry archer with sword ready.
The clap of thunder which followed directly overhead was so unbelievably loud that it shook the ground under Keltos’ feet, and both he and his enemy flinched. Then he staggered forward and swung, more at the afterimage of the outlaw still glowing in his dazzled eyes than at any real target.
The bandit sentry had dropped his bow to take up a short, wide-bladed spear that took the brunt of the swing. Keltos’ eyes recovered enough for him to avoid a cursory thrust and to parry the weapon aside. The effort cost him his balance, however, and he lurched sideways, feet slipping on suddenly wet ground. Rain was now hissing in a sheet from the clouds overhead, and in seconds his hair was dripping across his face.
The spear went back for another stab, but a lithe figure bolted past Keltos from behind and took the bandit from the side. It was Ireth, and Keltos stared as the hill-woman moved so quickly he could hardly register her ferocious movements. The bandit fell back, knife wounds blossoming red in his chest and stomach, and then Ireth shoved him aside to run onward.
She raced into the camp, heedless of caution, calling for her sister. “Rafe! Rafe!”
Makos came alongside Keltos then, sword out, eyes swiveling to take in the setting atop the ridge.
“Keep moving! Stay together.”
They dashed past another figure stretched out on the ground, another sentry who’d turned to go and raise the alarm in the camp. His back was a pincushion of hunting arrows, the result of Argaf’s earlier volley.
The hoplites reached the log barricade and stopped, using their long spears for the first close-contact fighting of the battle for the bluff. The hefty pole weapons darted out, punctured and bit, then whipped back again. Black Tur’s men backed away, frightened of the jabbing spears and unable to effectively fight back over the massive log with their smaller weapons.
The phalanx was stalled again, though; they couldn’t advance further without climbing over the barricade, and to do so would disrupt their line and expose them to the outlaws’ blades. They held there, stabbing at targets of opportunity, their interlocking shields deflecting most of the bandits’ missiles.
Black Tur took a javelin from a man behind him and heaved it past the wall. Laughing to see the hoplite he’d aimed for stagger backwards under the impact, he cried out to his men. “Keep them back, keep them down! Hold them here!”
He stepped back, assessing his own line. Some outlaws were crouching low along the log, ducking under the stabbing spears, now and then standing up to cast or loose before crouching down again. A tangle of fallen bodies showed which outlaws had chosen to stand at the wrong instant, but for the most part the barricade was still holding. There were enough outlaws and few enough soldiers for the contest to be roughly equal as long as the logs held.
But where to go from here? Tur knew he couldn’t order his men over the wall to drive the enemy back, even with the uphill advantage. They weren’t equipped for it. He needed an alternative way to attack, and wished fiercely that he’d thought
to prepare a vat of burning oil or some such weapon to tumble down the hill at the hoplites.
What were the legionaries doing here, anyway? A free company, his roving cutthroats had reported upon returning from Belsoria. But the Durans couldn’t have paid for such a force up front, that much he knew well. He should have guessed that the loyal villagers would do anything, promise anything, to get the hostages back.
He started, eyes wild. The hostages!
The outlaw chief turned and scanned the camp. Torches guttered in the wind near the tents, and the campfires had burned low. In the dim light he could see the guards he’d left outside the prisoner tent, Nolus Hykios and the two other Kerathi deserters his men had picked up coming out of Belsoria. They stood tensely in their places with bronze swords glinting yellow in their hands.
What of the sentries on the north, though, guarding the back of the camp? He squinted, then made out a couple of shapes sprawled on the ground. And several figures were rushing into the camp toward the tents.
Rukhal’s beard!
Lighting arced across the sky again, illuminating the hilltop. Thunder rumbled in answer. Black Tur raced down the barricade, grabbing men and shouting for them to follow. He charged into the camp, leaping cook-fires and dodging tents, and reached the main open area between tents just as a pair of young Kerathis with bronze swords in hand came into the circle of flickering firelight and shadow.
The Kerathis didn’t hesitate, throwing themselves forward with wild saber swings that drove the outlaw back momentarily. The other bandits fanned out to give their chief room, and some circled around to block the path to the ravine.
Black Tur was an experienced combatant, skilled with sword and dagger. Single combat with an unarmored foe was his game, and he had enough men at his back that the lives of these two were undoubtedly measured in seconds. His eyes gleamed in the torchlight as he crouched, circling opposite one of the young horse troopers while the other fought desperately against three of his men.
Tur’s opponent was young and strong, but had likely trained little in this sort of dismounted duel. His cavalry saber, ideal for chopping heads from the back of a horse, was ill-suited for fencing. But none of this deterred the young soldier, who approached the outlaw chief with eagerness. “Don’t let them get around behind you, Kel!” the fellow cried to his companion.
The outlaw chief grinned as he placed his feet for a lunge. But a burly older warrior charged into the ring at that moment, bursting onto the scene with a roar. This man moved with the efficient and confident step of an infantry veteran, and he carried a full-sized spear. He smashed aside one of Tur’s men, then forked another in the gut with the glinting bronze head of his weapon.
Two men down, in the space of an instant. And now Black Tur had but a moment more to get around the fearsome weapon or his short sword would do nothing for him and he’d find himself skewered. The hoplite screamed his battle cry and plied his spear like a master, ripping and stabbing every bandit that came close enough. So sudden and furious was the onslaught that the outlaws shouted and backed away, only regaining their courage when Black Tur shrieked at them.
“Kill him, you fools. Flank him and cut him down!”
But then another spearman gained the summit, puffing after the uphill charge. With a shout this younger one plunged in next to the first. They worked together, plying their long spears in rhythm, and the cavalryman’s saber swung with deadly precision to keep their flanks clear. Bandits began to die.
Tur kept his eyes on the invaders as his men fought back. None of them had full armor like those on the south slope, and no more were coming up after them. It was a limited infiltration attempt, he realized, probably aimed at the hostages. He grinned wolfishly.
“Slaughter the prisoners!” he shouted over his shoulder at the guards by the center tent. “Now! Kill them all!”
CHAPTER 15: BLOOD IS SPILT
The wind whipped across the bluff, weaving among the tangle of surging bodies and flashing blades. Keltos chopped viciously sideways at an outlaw attacking Fieron, and it was the respite the young spearman needed. The bandit grunted as the heavy bronze plowed through his ribs, and then he took Fieron’s spear in the chest. Staggering into his mate, the bandit tripped and went down. Fieron tore his spear free and leaped to help Cormoran.
Keltos swung at another man, blade whistling in the night air as another lightning flash lit the scene. The fellow backed away several yards, deciding the fight had turned too far against him.
Keltos glanced sideways to see how Makos was faring, and his heart leapt into his throat: the black-clad outlaw his friend was fighting had just expertly disarmed Makos with a nick from the tip of his blade on the cavalryman’s wrist. Makos was backing away, but all it would take was a lunge and a thrust from the tall bandit and Keltos’ friend might take a mortal wound. This was certainly the leader, Black Tur, and he held his weapon with the deadly stance of a trained swordsman.
Keltos dove, blade stretched out. The bandit chief danced back, easily keeping out of range, but it saved Makos for the moment. Keltos picked up the other horseman’s sword and tossed it toward his friend. Then he faced Black Tur with gritted teeth and blazing eyes.
The outlaw eyed the spears that were now threatening him from one side, and the two cavalry sabers on the other. He risked a glance back toward the main fight at the barricade, where spearmen could be seen standing atop the stacked logs now, stabbing down at men inside the camp.
The bandit chief cursed. “Where are you, Loku, you rabid wolf?” he muttered, looking to the distant hilltops. Keltos didn’t know who he was talking about, but the man seemed to have realized he was no longer in control of the situation. There was anger mingled with fear in his eyes.
And suddenly Black Tur turned and ran away from the duel that had turned against him, back toward the battle where his men struggled to keep the phalanx out of the camp.
Keltos took one step after him, certain he could overtake the chief, but Makos called him off.
“No, Kel! To the tents. The hostages!”
Keltos remembered the bandit’s shouted command to his guards, and sprinted after Makos to see if they could reach the hostages in time. Behind them the two spearmen dispatched the dying outlaws on the ground and then charged after the outlaw leader.
Makos and Keltos ran between the tents, searching desperately. It was hard to see now, with the dark clouds overhead shutting off the last glimmers of a weak sunset, and only a few torches and the intermittent bolts of lightning showed them the way.
Then Makos stopped in his tracks, and leaned precariously backward to avoid a blade that chopped straight through the air where his head would have been. Keltos braced himself on a leaning tent pole to slow his mad dash, and brought around his sword arm to guard against the threat.
They had found the hostage tent. On the ground lay a dead guard with two of Ireth’s knives sticking out of him. But the Duran woman was stretched out nearby as well, unmoving. And standing over her, with a Kerathi cavalry saber in hand, was Nolus Hykios. Keltos recognized his scarred face from the fateful day at the beach. The traitor sneered as he barred the way.
Ica, the scout, had apparently also gotten there ahead of them, but with no more luck than Ireth in the swift combat against the guards. He was slumped against a barrel, clutching at a deep wound in his stomach. And the third guard, another Kerathi deserter, was entering the tent with his bloody sword tip leading the way.
There were only seconds to act, but Hykios’ blade waved dangerously in the air, seeking another chance to strike. Then Keltos saw Ireth’s arm moving as she lay on the ground, bleeding, and her knife came up toward the traitor’s legs. Nolus shouted as the knife bit into the back of his knee, causing him to step away and crouch to clutch at the wound.
“Finish it quickly,” he called to the man in the tent. “And get back out here!” Raising his sword again, he forced Makos to stay back.
But Keltos saw an opportunity and ducked
forward, taking up the javelin Ireth had dropped. Aiming at the spot where the other guard had entered the tent, and adjusting low for the man’s stooping posture, he threw. It was a gamble, and could easily go horrible wrong if he misjudged by a hair’s breadth. But if he hesitated even for a moment, a hostage would certainly die.
The blind throw was rewarded by a hideous shriek from inside the tent—that of a dying man, not a girl. The tent canvas shook as it was kicked repeatedly, then it stilled again.
Hykios slowly stood, listening to his dying companion’s moans. He was alone now. And there were two very, very dangerous cavalrymen facing him.
Makos’ eyes blazed as he brought up his sword. “You! Traitor—dog!”
Hykios shook his head, failing to recognize the two Cold Spears as he himself had been recognized. He swung his saber without a word, forcing Makos back a step.
The swing was too hard, and Keltos’ feet were already braced for a lunge. As Hykios’ sword was still on the backswing, Keltos leaped forward and took the man to the ground in a full-weight tackle. He tried to get his sword into the man’s ribs, but Hykios slithered one leg away and rolled to throw the other cavalryman aside.
Then Makos stomped hard on the man’s arm, breaking the bone under his sandaled foot. Ignoring the deserter’s anguished cry, the muscular horseman raised his sword high against the night sky, flashing in the torchlight.
“For my captain. And for my general!”
Makos brought the blade down at Hykios’ neck without hesitating, and there was an end of the wretch.
Keltos got to his feet, breathing heavily, and checked Ireth for any sign of life. Her neck was sword-cut too deeply to survive, and the woman’s eyes were glazed, but her lips moved faintly.
“My sister, Rafe. Get them out. Please.”
Keltos nodded, and while Makos did what he could for the wounded scout-archer leaning against the barrel, he stepped into the ten-foot-high campaign tent.
Tooth and Blade Page 16
