DeBoors head-butted the giant, producing a sound akin to a hammer slamming a stone. The giant reeled and for a moment, his eyes went unfocused. That moment was all DeBoors needed to pull his other hand free and thrust the giant off.
Both men scrambled, rolled, and made their feet in an instant — the giant, nearly a head taller than DeBoors, who himself towered well above men called tall.
The giant was fast, far faster than any man near his size should be. His massive fist appeared from nowhere and pummeled DeBoors' jaw, smashing his head to the side, a crushing blow.
But DeBoors remained solidly planted, his eyes clear and bright. He snapped his head back toward the giant and saw his eyes go wide with surprise. No doubt, he'd expected DeBoors to go down with a broken jaw, and all his fight spent. Instead, DeBoors returned the blow and sent the giant reeling — a hammer blow to the head that would've dropped a horse. The giant staggered back, but did not go down.
The giant charged, fire in his eyes, long dagger in hand. DeBoors grabbed his tunic as he came in, dropped to the ground, rolled back, kicked the giant's midsection, and sent his massive bulk flying. He crashed to the ground yards away.
DeBoors rolled over, snatched his sword from the ground, and leaped to his feet in a single motion. Pain seared through his arm. The giant's blade had found some hole in his bracer and pierced his forearm. He ignored it. A moment later, sword again in hand, he glanced toward the mouth of the alley in time to see an arrow streaking for his throat.
DeBoors flicked his blade to the side, perfectly timed, and deflected the arrow away; a metallic pinging sound marked its demise. Another arrow came on just as quickly, and then a third — launched by a slim archer who stood amidst the roaring battle in the avenue. DeBoors’ blade knocked each shaft aside — a feat few men were fast or fortunate enough to do once, but three times in as many seconds bespoke of martial skills untold.
With a glance, he found his shield and plucked it from the ground. Looking up, he expected more arrows, but instead saw a swarm of fiery blue orbs rocketing towards him. Wizard’s work.
“Zounds!” No time to dive for cover, he dodged to the side and ducked down behind his shield. The heater shield, his long companion, iron and oak, forged in dwarven fire in ages past, was blasted from his grip and exploded into sorry fragments. Another bolt slammed into his shoulder plate and blasted the steel away. Spheres of fiery death streamed just over his head and to either side as he dodged and spun with preternatural speed. Each bolt detonated nearby, on ground or masonry walls, raining dust, sparks, and shrapnel everywhere.
Then the giant was there again. Battered and bloody, he barreled toward DeBoors, his huge war hammer slicing through the air with enough power and speed to fell a tree. DeBoors sidestepped the blow and with a lightning flick and twist of his sword took the hammer from the giant's grasp.
Before DeBoors could finish him, and without an instant of hesitation, the giant pulled a sword from his belt and stood at the ready, glaring at DeBoors, nostrils flaring.
They moved together and traded blow for blow with dizzying speed and unrelenting resolve. The giant's slashes and thrusts came in with thunderous power and precision, not born of desperation or anger, but founded in skill, and steeped in mastery of the blade; its wielder, a veritable harbinger of destruction and death.
DeBoors' strikes were no less powerful and even quicker; his sword a blur of movement; its ancient metal hummed a dull tone as it cleaved through the air, a somber song that promised only death.
Each man was nigh unbeatable. Neither had ever tasted defeat. Together, two gods of the sword, two giants among men; though in such contests no impasse could long stand. One always proved the greater, but for the whim of chance or the whisper of fate or the right hand of doom. Such was the way of things.
And when fate decreed it, the whirling blades at last proclaimed their master. One of DeBoors' strikes slipped under the giant's guard and slashed his breastplate; a skirling rending of metal filled the air as the tempered steel gave way.
DeBoors' spinning hammer-blow thundered down at the giant's head. But the giant was not done yet. He raised his mighty blade and caught the deathblow, though his sword shattered with the titanic impact. Bits of screaming metal flew into the giant's face and he fell back, bloodied.
As DeBoors plowed forward to finish him, an arrow slammed into his back, then another, though they bounced ineffectually from his steel-wrought armor.
DeBoors' senses, born and honed of olden days, alerted him to movement close behind. He spun in time to see a wide, curved sword slicing towards him. It took all his speed and reflex to snap his blade up and parry the blow in time to preserve his life. Even then, his sword was nearly wrenched from his grasp.
A hail of sword strikes rained down on him — faster and faster. Through the blur of motion, DeBoors glimpsed a gleaming knight in midnight-blue armor and massive shield; tall, broad, and powerful, with an aura of death hung around him like an old, beloved cloak.
Each time DeBoors maneuvered to attack rather than parry, the blows rained in faster.
A high strike came in and when DeBoors parried it, a kick struck him in the midsection — a monstrous blow that flung him backward several feet to slam into a wall. He dropped to the ground on his rump. The wind knocked out of him; his strength sapped. In all his days, no one had ever hit him that hard.
Eotrus, the giant, and now this one. Dead gods, how many champions did House Eotrus have? He'd underestimated this one. He would not do that again. DeBoors bounced up, sword at the ready, death flaring in his eyes. All his will and power bent on destroying his opponent. DeBoors' eyes locked on the knight's to take his measure and read his soul before taking his life.
With a sharp intake of breath and widened eyes, DeBoors, undefeated sword-master of Dyvers, froze, at once deflated and diminished, ego, body, and soul. His blood ran cold and all color fled his face, for before him stood Lord Thetan, and Thetan's falchion was poised at his throat. A trickle of blood ran down DeBoors' neck, courtesy of a prick from the sword's tip.
The sight of Thetan’s face dredged a memory from the depths of DeBoors’ mind. He stood on the bridge deck of a great sailing vessel — a vast fleet arrayed behind it. Lord Thetan stood at the prow. He wore that same blue armor and that same falchion hung at his side. Surrounded by his lieutenants, Thetan’s eyes were locked on R’lyeh as they approached that dread isle for the long war’s final battle. Gabriel was there, the Horn of Valhalla at his hip. Mithron the wise stood at Thetan’s right hand. There too was Raphael the healer, and Azrael the alchemist. Modi and Magni were there too, along with the other great captains of the host. The great lord turned towards DeBoors. Thetan’s steel-blue eyes locked on him and DeBoors shuddered.
“Lord Thetan,” said DeBoors, his voice unsteady.
“No other, though they call me Theta now.”
“I knew not it was you,” he said, his composure regained, his voice strong once again.
“No matter, DeBoors. Stand down and call off your men. The Eotrus are under my protection.”
DeBoors pushed Theta's sword away and took a step to the side, his shock fading and with it, his confidence returned. “You're Eotrus's mercenary?”
“I'm on a mission, like those of old, when we fought side by side in common cause.
DeBoors’ brow furrowed. “That business ended at R'lyeh. It's long past and best forgotten.” DeBoors moved to where Kaledon lay. Whistles sounded from all about, near and far. “The monks will come in force,” said DeBoors. “We should sort this out another time.”
DeBoors squatted, scooped Kaledon up, and hefted him over his shoulder even as Artol, ignoring the blood that streamed down his own face from his shattered sword, knelt beside Claradon and bound a cloth about his bleeding chest.
Theta made no move to stop DeBoors. “The Eotrus are under my protection,” said Theta in a tone that defied opposition.
DeBoors paused and looked back at Theta before turn
ing the corner at the end of the alley. “And I must honor my contract.”
II
THE RETURN OF PRIOR FINCH
The top four feet of The Black Falcon's gangway was a no-man's land, empty, save for blood spatters on plank and rail. Two Thothian monks who dared enter were carried away by their comrades bloodied and battered. Their assailant, The Falcon’s chief roughneck, a bristling, seven-foot-tall, hirsute giant called Little Tug.
Tug guarded the top of the gangway brandishing a wicked hammer; a huge tower shield rooted before him. The shield and Tug’s vast bulk choked the ramp’s entire width. Crowded behind him were two dozen of The Falcon's seamen, cutthroats and reavers all, cutlasses, axes, and dirks in hand. Beside them, several knights and soldiers of House Eotrus and a score of Lomerian soldiers, sharp, young, and clean-shaven, their arms and armor gleaming, almost new. More soldiers and crewmen lined the deck-rail, longbow, sword, and mace.
Scores of Thothian monks, bald, bronzed, and bare-chested, crowded the gangway and the pier alongside The Falcon. The two scrawny monks at the head of the contingent, just out of Tug's range, were pale; their faces and brows dripped with sweat; their terror, plain to all. Each gripped the gangway's rail with one hand and desperately pressed back against their fellows who threatened to surge forward and push them into Tug's unforgiving embrace. They knew well the fate of their predecessors and wanted no part of it.
Sergeant Vid of House Eotrus stood just behind Tug, though Tug’s bulk blocked his view almost entirely. Vid was armored in chainmail and gripped a weathered poleaxe of hardened wood and forged steel that he would make good use of if Tug went down. As it was, there was little Vid could do save guard Tug’s flank if arrows or bolts began to fly. Crowded beside Vid was a lanky young seaman called Chert. Pale and sweating in shirtsleeves and breeches, Chert brandished a wide saber that looked all too heavy in one hand, and a big shield that was even heavier in the other.
“You think we'll get into it with them?” said Chert to Tug's back.
Vid glanced at the frightened youth who stared straight ahead.
“Depends how that monk gets on with the Captain,” said Tug, his voice a deep baritone, though he never took his eyes off the monks amassed before him.
“So you think we might have to fight?” said Chert, forgetting that Tug had bashed most of the life from two monks already.
“If we do, we do. If we don't, we don't. No sense worrying on it. Saw you through the last few scrapes, didn't I? This'll be none different. Just keep your shield up, your eyes open, and stay well clear of me if things get going. I need room to swing Old Fogey.”
“Right,” said Chert.
“That goes for you too, tin-can.”
“I'm no knight,” said Vid, “I'm just an old soldier.”
“All the same to me,” said Tug. “Just keep that pigsticker out of my back and I'll keep you clear of the business end of Old Fogey.”
“Fair enough,” said Vid.
The Black Falcon’s sail fluttered in the light breeze that washed in from the south. The briny ocean air cooled the afternoon sun, and blessedly freshened the dock ward’s foul and fishy stench. Captain Dylan Slaayde stood on the bridge deck with Bertha Smallbutt, the ship's quartermaster, arguing with a group of Thothian monks led by one Prior Finch. Sir Glimador Malvegil stood by with Sir Kelbor of Dor Eotrus. They studied both the debate and the standoff at the gangway, concern on their faces over each.
Slaayde's well-coifed appearance, black patent leathers, white shirt, and crisp jacket held him in sharp contrast to his crusty crew. He stood an extra step away to avoid the Prior’s foul, oniony breath. “Prior, be reasonable,” said Slaayde, his ready smile absent, his cheeks flushed. I've given you and your aides the grand tour, from stem to stern, including the hold. I've been more than cooperative and patient—”
“—For the last time, Captain, order that overstuffed barbarian of yours to stand down and give himself up,” gesturing down toward Tug, “and the rest of your men to stand aside so I can have this ship properly searched.”
“Properly?” said Bertha. “You've seen everything already. The whole ship — every hold, locker, and bunk. We've wasted the best part of the day with you.”
“I haven't seen the bulk of your cargo. You know full well that you only opened a handful of crates. You will open the rest or—”
“—You want to see more?” said Bertha. Her voice grew shriller with each word. “Fine. We'll open another handful. We'll open a dozen.”
Slaayde put his hand on Bertha's shoulder. “I'm a simple merchant, Prior,” said Slaayde. “Here to engage in honest trade. Nothing more. I want no trouble with you Thothians. You can search a score or more crates if it'll keep your troops off my ship and prevent this matter from escalating.”
“You will open every single box, barrel, and crate on this ship for inspection. Every one.”
“Ridiculous!” said Bertha as she shook her head.
“One score, no more,” said Slaayde. “You can select them yourself. Let's head back down to the hold and get this over and done.”
“Do you think me a fool?” said Finch. “Do you think this is a negotiation? I know you've got contraband aboard. One way or another I'll find it and you will taste almighty Thoth's justice. If you cooperate, Thoth may show you mercy, if not . . .”
“You've no right or cause to threaten the Captain like that,” said Bertha.
Finch glared at her. “Captain, in the name of the Thothian Theocracy of Tragoss Mor, I order you to direct your men to stand down. Now, Captain. And direct your cow,” he said as he scowled at Bertha, “to open and empty every crate on this ship or I will take you into custody and—”
“—Who the heck do you think you are?” screeched Bertha. “You can't speak of me like that.”
The Prior's arm shot out and slammed openhanded into Bertha's cheek. She fell backward, such was the force of the blow, and cracked her head into the deck-rail, which knocked her senseless. The big monk beside Finch, his bodyguard, chuckled. The third monk, a bespeckled, elderly fellow, looked up from his ledger for the first time, concern on his face.
Prior Finch loomed over Bertha. “I'm a Prior of almighty Thoth, you disgusting cow, and I'll speak to you any way I see fit.” Finch raised his leg and prepared to stomp on Bertha as she laid dazed, blood dripping down her brow. “If you had—” The Prior's words ended abruptly in a gurgling sound when the tip of Slaayde's saber burst through his chest.
The Prior coughed and a glob of blood poured from his mouth. He stared in disbelief at the steel that protruded from his chest. The saber’s crossguard pressed against Finch’s back, its steel-forged blade having passed clear through him.
Slaayde pulled his blade free, his face grim, as blood spurted from the mortal wound. Finch staggered wide-eyed and openmouthed for a few steps, pitched over the rail, and crashed to the main deck below, his fall in full view of the troop of monks amassed on the pier.
For a moment, no one moved, and everyone that saw went silent; shock and disbelief filled their faces.
Glimador shook his head. “Fool,” he spat.
“Treachery,” yelled one monk on the pier. Others yelled the same.
“Attack,” yelled others.
“Kill them,” yelled still more. “Praise Thoth! Kill them! Kill them all!”
The monks on the gangway charged Tug. Finch's bodyguard roared and pulled his scimitar. Before he could bring it to bear, Slaayde's saber bit deep into his throat; a mortal wound that instantly sapped his strength and dropped him to his knees.
The bodyguard’s sword clanked and rattled when it struck the deck. He desperately pressed his hands to his throat to stem the gush of blood, but it spurted from between his fingers and sprayed over Slaayde's boots and pantaloons. Fear etched the man's face. His eyes darted from Slaayde, to Glimador, to Kelbor, and back again — a pleading look; a silent cry for help, for mercy.
Slaayde stared down at him for a moment, then thrus
t his blade into the man's chest. The sharpened steel sliced through muscle and sternum and plunged deep into his beating heart. Slaayde pulled the blade clear and the monk collapsed face first to the deck.
The elderly monk dropped his ledger and backed away, but stumbled on a coiled rope and fell to his backside. He stared at the dark pool of blood that expanded around his fallen comrade. His eyes searched for some escape or solace. His gaze lingered on the ship’s ladder that led down to the main deck. Slaayde would be on him before he even made his feet; he would never reach the ladder. He was doomed. He looked up at Slaayde but betrayed no emotion, no fear. He simply adjusted his spectacles and sat there waiting, stoically resolved to his fate.
Slaayde stalked toward him, the same grim expression on his face as when he killed the other two.
Glimador grabbed Slaayde's sword arm and stepped before him. “You fool. There must be a hundred of them over there. How's Claradon supposed to get aboard now? And how will we get away?”
Slaayde's eyes were hard; his voice harsh. “We'll fight our way out. My crew's seen worse.” Slaayde glanced at Bertha. She stirred, only now coming around.
“We're not leaving without Claradon and the others.”
Two crossbow bolts flew past and narrowly missed Slaayde’s shoulder.
“They'd better show up fast, because we can't stay here. Stand aside. I've business to finish,” said Slaayde, gesturing toward the old monk.
“He's no threat. You will not butcher him.”
Slaayde stood eye to eye with the young nobleman, their faces inches apart. Slaayde's face and eyes were emotionless, resolved, dead. The dead eyes of a stone-cold killer. The gaze of a man who didn't care; all pretense to the jolly rogue long gone. He started to push past Glimador, but the young knight clamped down on his arm, all his muscle brought to bear to hold the captain back.
Dwellers of the Deep (Harbinger of Doom Volume 4) Page 3
