Many of the townsfolk spent that night at the inn, with weapons sharpened and ready. Brianna spent the evening inspecting her arrows, ensuring the shafts were true, the heads sharpened, and the feathers securely glued.
Ellie was busy serving a full house, which made Zollin and her parents happy. She didn’t have time to flirt with him and he could relax, as much as that was possible seeing Brianna and Mansel sitting close and talking in hushed tones. He knew his part in the defensive plan, so he sat back in the shadows and nursed a mug of mulled wine.
The night passed slowly, but uneventfully. After a hearty breakfast, Quinn, Zollin, Mansel, and Brianna made their way to the river. There was a large snow bank just outside of town that had been built up for the women who had been practicing archery. The river was about two hundred yards away, and the trail through the waist-deep snow was wide enough for only one man to walk at a time. It was a bottleneck that would give the defenders a great advantage. If the miners broke through the defensive force at the river, they would have to come down the trail single file or struggle through the snow. Either way, they would be easy targets for the women positioned on the snow banks.
Although Brianna had trained with the women, she followed Quinn and the others to the riverbank. The river had cut a channel through the valley so that the surface of the water ran about six feet below the top of the bank. The river’s frozen surface was covered with snow that was compacted at one place into a circle. The village side of the river had been cleared of snow so that a man with a sword had plenty of room to fight against an invader trying to make his way up the riverbank. Several yards back from the riverbank was a long line of compacted snow for more archers. This would allow the archers to shoot over the heads of the swordsmen without being exposed on the front line.
It was a good place to fight—the snow was working for the villagers. If it had been summer when the miners came, the city would have been much more exposed. They were inspecting everything again with the city elders when a scout came running up the path toward the river bridge. The bridge was a permanent structure, unlike those further downriver that could be raised to allow trade boats to travel up and down the river. The Gateway Bridge was an ancient stone and wood structure that had been built ages before, when the mountain pass was first discovered and Brighton’s Gate first settled. It was wide enough for two fully loaded wagons to pass side by side. All the snow had been cleared from the bridge and the wooden walkway was being soaked in lamp oil now. If the miners tried to cross the bridge in force, it would be set on fire.
The scout was breathing hard in the cold air, his breath puffing in little clouds around his head. He ran straight for the group of Eeders.
“Are they coming?” asked one of the elders.
“The Skellmarians!” said the boy as he gasped for breath. “The biggest... raiding party... I’ve ever seen.”
“Skellmarians!” exclaimed another elder. “We’re not ready!”
“No,” said Quinn in a firm voice. “We are ready. The plan stays the same, only we’ll need the miners to help us.”
“The miners?” said the first elder, a tall man with gray hair and stooped shoulders.
“That’s right,” said Quinn. “In fact, I’ll bet they’re fleeing from the Skellmarians, and that’s why they’re headed here.”
“So what do we do?” asked Mansel.
“First we need someone to warn the town of what’s happening,” said the stooped elder.
“I can do that,” said Brianna, and she jogged back down the path toward the town.
“We’ll need to burn the bridge,” said one of the other elders, a short, fat man with a jolly face.
“We need to let the miners cross first,” said Quinn.
“What if the Skellmarians overtake them? We won’t have time to destroy the bridge.”
“I will,” Zollin said. That didn’t earn him any looks of admiration. Fear was running through the elders at the thought of the barbaric Skellmarians. Their eyes darted about nervously, and they looked as though a strong wind would knock them over.
“We can’t take that chance,” said the stooped elder.
“We won’t leave the miners stranded on the other side of the river,” said Quinn.
“Why not? They would do it to us,” said one of the townsmen who had joined the group near the river bridge.
“Perhaps,” said Quinn. “But we are still men of honor. We will still be standing tall when all this is over. Don’t you want to be able to look your wives in the eye, to tell your children the story without feeling the shame and guilt of innocent lives that were lost because of your fear?”
“You brought this on us,” said the stooped elder. “How do you dare call us cowards?”
“I brought the Skellmarians from the mountains, did I?”
“You’ve done nothing but trouble us since you arrived,” the elder snarled. “You and your demon-spawn son.”
Zollin’s anger erupted inside of him. The city elder was saying his mother was a devil, and it took all his strength to control the power raging inside of him. He wanted to blast the man into a smoking heap of dust. Blue energy crackled up and down his staff, but Quinn stepped in front of his son.
“Calm yourself, Zollin,” Quinn said. “His insult comes from fear. He doesn’t mean it.”
“He is a coward!” Zollin said through clenched teeth.
“The Skellmarians have taken note of the miners,” Quinn said. “They feel that mining weakens the mountains, and since their religion ties them to the mountains, allowing the miners to burrow into their sacred hills weakens them. Once they found out the King’s Army isn’t guarding Brighton’s Gate, they were tempted to take the city. If they control the pass, then they can raid into Yelsia, perhaps even destroy every settlement in the Great Valley. They’ll be like rats in the storehouse—you’ll never get rid of them. But seeing us ready and waiting for them here will make them pause, make them think we aren’t the ripe plums waiting to be picked that they’ve observed these last few months.”
“You think they’ve been spying on us?” asked the fat elder.
“Absolutely,” Quinn said. “They may look like savages, but they’re men, and they’re intelligent.”
“Do you plan to challenge them?” asked another elder.
“Yes, if I can. If I defeat their chieftain they might return to the mountains without a fight.”
“And the miners?” asked the stooped-shouldered elder.
“We’ll deal with them afterward,” Quinn said, with a knowing look.
***
The miners arrived at the river a short time later. They were moving as fast as their weary feet would carry them. Trollic and his assassin rode horses. The rest of the miners, about twenty-five men all told, followed behind. They were exhausted, their eyes wide with fear. They seemed relieved to have reached the river, but stopped just short of the bridge.
Quinn stepped up on the bridge and stood waiting. Zollin was well back from the front lines, waiting and watching with the archers. He saw the assassin, tall and thin, his wispy hair covered with a thick, fur-lined hat. The man pointed at Quinn and leaned close to speak to his master. Then Trollic nudged his horse forward and began to cross the bridge alone.
Quinn walked forward and met the man on the center of the bridge. They talked for a moment, and then Quinn turned and started back toward the village. Trollic waved to his men and followed Quinn across. There was murmuring and even a few shouts, but Quinn waved his hands for everyone to be quiet.
“Trollic has given me his word that his men will be no trouble,” shouted Quinn. “They’ll fight alongside us against the Skellmarians if it comes to that. For now, they need food and rest.”
A young boy was sent to the Valley Inn to gather food. Soon the miners were sprawled on the ground, resting along the river. They had weapons, mostly long, heavy knives, but they were so tired that they wouldn’t last long if the Skellmarians attacked.
Zoll
in could see movement inside the treeline on the far side of the river. The Skellmarians were taking stock of the town’s new defenses. Quinn walked back across the bridge and waited. Before long, a man in heavy armor came out of the trees. He was a big man, with what looked like a hat made from bone and fur. He carried a long-handled axe and a curved knife. There were ribbons and threaded beads tied around his arms and neck. Zollin could see long hair, smeared with thick, brown grease, hanging like oily ropes from the helmet he wore.
They spoke for a moment, and then Quinn turned back toward the town while the Skellmarian turned back toward the trees. When Quinn was safely back across the bridge, Zollin joined the group clustered around his father.
“His name is Borrak,” Quinn said. “He’s offered us terms of surrender, claiming they’ll let everyone but the city elders leave the city safely.”
“The city elders?” said the stooped-shouldered man. “What does he want with us?”
“He says that the elders are responsible for sending the miners into the mountains.”
“That’s nonsense,” said the stooped elder in a shaky voice. “We had nothing to do with it.”
“In their culture, the elders are responsible for everything that goes on in their villages. Because the miners got their supplies from here and fled here, they assume they’re from here. He proposes to sacrifice the elders to strengthen the mountain god they worship and take over the town.”
“That’s insane,” said the stooped elder. “They don’t even live in houses. They’re animals.”
“Should we take their offer?” said one of the men from the town. He was young, and Zollin seemed to remember he had a new baby back in the village. He didn’t blame the man for thinking of the safety of his wife and child.
“You should consider it,” said Trollic.
“Consider it?” said the stooped elder. “It’s your fault they’re here in the first place.”
Trollic’s hand fell to the heavy knife in his belt, but Quinn raised his hand and spoke.
“Let’s all calm down. We’ll stick to the plan. Trollic, make sure your men are ready to fight. I’m going to challenge their chieftain.”
“What plan is he talking about?” Trollic snarled. “Why should we stay here to be slaughtered? I’m taking my men and leaving this pathetic little mud hole of a village.”
Quinn turned back to the miner. “You’ll stay here and fight, or you’ll find yourself on the other side of the river with the Skellmarians.”
“I doubt that,” Trollic smirked.
He was in the middle of an arrogant smile when Quinn’s hand shot out and slammed into the miner’s jaw. Trollic fell to the ground, his arms and legs stiff, his eyes rolling back in the sockets. The assassin was instantly standing over his boss with a knife in each hand. Quinn’s hands were empty, but he looked into the tall assassin’s eyes. “I’ll deal with you when this is over,” he said.
“I look forward to it,” said the pale-skinned assassin.
Quinn walked back to the bridge and called out to the Skellmarians.
“My name is Quinn, son of Delmar, son of Salick. I challenge Borrak to single combat for the right to Brighton’s Gate.”
The voice that replied from the trees was heavily accented but plain enough to be understood.
“When I kill you, Quinn Delmarson, I will burn the village and kill everyone who does not flee before me.”
Quinn took a torch and threw it onto the bridge. The fire spread rapidly and soon the entire bridge was in flames. Steam from melting snow rose up and joined the black smoke of the fire. A group of warriors, about fifty in all, moved as a group from the trees. Zollin could see Borrak in the middle of them. They walked to the river’s edge. Quinn had already moved down to the space Zollin had created for the duel. He had a short, two-edged sword and a wooden shield reinforced with bands of steel. In his belt at the small of his back he had the two throwing knives Trollic’s assassin had left behind, one of which he had stabbed Zollin with. Quinn’s own knife was inside his right boot.
The group of Skellmarians parted, and Borrak made his way down onto the frozen river. He was still wearing his armor and strange helmet, but he had traded his battle axe for a curved sword and small hand shield that looked about as big as a large pie. He also had a curved knife in his belt, and on a thin belt which was slung over his head and one shoulder was a small climbing axe or pick.
The two men circled each other on the hard-packed snow. Because Zollin had used magic to pack the snow down, it hadn’t melted and become slick, but the longer the fight progressed, the more treacherous the snow would become. As if on cue, snow began to fall. It was a soft snowfall, the big flakes seeming to float down, and to Zollin it made the fight about to take place seem like a dream. His father was risking his life for the village of Brighton’s Gate. Perhaps he should have been used to the grip of fear on his heart as he watched his father face an opponent intent on killing him, but it was like being on a wild horse. He felt totally out of control, and even though he knew his father was a skilled warrior, it still made him uneasy to see the only family he had ever known within reach of an enemy blade.
The Skellmarian attacked first, slashing his curved sword at Quinn’s head. It was easily evaded, and the two men continued circling. Borrak continued to test Quinn with feints and looping attacks that were just barely within range of the barbarian’s longer sword. Quinn was content to bide his time. In fact, even though he could feel the cold air and the snow melting into his clothes, he knew his opponent’s heavy armor would be wearing on him. So the duel continued, around and around in the circle of hardened snow. The villagers watched in silence, and Zollin knew that if his father was slain, the townsfolk would break and run. They would flee into the winter mountains and probably die there.
Finally the Skellmarian swung his sword in an overhead strike that would have split Quinn’s skull, but the carpenter raised his shield over his head and blocked the blow. Then, with the speed of a much younger man, he thrust his sword at the Skellmarian’s chest. Borrak swung his small shield down to deflect the blow, but the sword found the barbarian’s thigh. It wasn’t a deep gash, certainly not life threatening, but Quinn had drawn first blood and it infuriated the Skellmarian. His warriors on the far riverbank roared in protest, shouting at their chief in their native tongue. It sounded like gibberish to Zollin.
Quinn had been waiting for just such an opportunity. The curved swords of the Skellmarians were perfect for hacking and slashing, but a straight thrust was foreign to them. Quinn had proven he was more than just an average warrior. Now the Skellmarian rushed forward, his sword swinging in a horizontal slash aimed for Quinn’s shield. Quinn braced for the impact, but the larger man’s power rocked him. Just as quickly, Borrak spun around and put his full weight into an arcing slash toward Quinn’s exposed side. Quinn raised his sword to deflect the blow but the force of the impact sent the carpenter sprawling. The Skellmarians cheered wildly and Borrak rushed forward, his sword swinging down like a man chopping wood. Quinn rolled to the side and Borrak’s sword plunged into the snow. Quinn scrambled to one knee and slammed the edge of his shield into Borrak’s leg. The Skellmarian howled in pain and hopped away.
Quinn quickly regained his feet and charged forward. He swung his sword first at Borrak’s shoulder, but the big man caught that thrust on his shield. Then Quinn batted away a feeble counter by the Skellmarian and thrust his sword at the man’s chest again. This time the sword was deflected up, and it caught the warrior chief’s helm. Borrak’s head was thrown back as his helmet was knocked away. Borrak snarled in rage and dropped the long sword to grab the climbing axe from the belt around his shoulder. He pulled it free and blocked Quinn’s next cut on his shield, then swung the small axe at Quinn’s face. Quinn raised his shield, but the pointed steel tip cut through the wood and gouged deeply into his arm. Now it was Quinn’s turn to stagger back. The axe was stuck fast into the shield and the Skellmarian let it go, but Quinn c
ouldn’t pull his arm out of the shield’s leather thongs while the axe point was piercing his arm. He slid his sword under the axe head, but Borrak was charging forward with the curved knife. Quinn swung his sword out to keep the barbarian at bay, but it was only a matter of time before Borrak broke through the feeble defense and ended the fight.
The Skellmarians were screaming in a blood frenzy now, but Borrak was the first to slip on the hardening snow. Quinn dropped to his knee and used his sword as a lever to loosen the climbing axe from his shield. The carpenter wailed in pain as the serrated edge of the pick sawed loose from his forearm, but he was able to pull his hand from the shield just as the Skellmarian slashed at his face with the knife. Quinn threw himself back, but not quickly enough. The blade sliced into his cheek and scraped against the bone. Quinn could feel the snow beneath him, could feel the cold seeping into his body. His left arm was numb and useless even though it was free of the shield. He struggled to rise to his feet before his enemy was on top of him, but then he, too, slipped and fell onto his wounded arm. Pain throbbed though him and his vision dimmed, but he stayed conscious.
Borrak flung himself on top of Quinn, knocking the breath from the smaller man’s lungs. He raised the knife for the killing stroke, but Quinn grabbed the barbarian’s wrist and held fast. Borrak raised his upper body to punch down at the Carpenter’s head, but at that same moment Quinn bucked, arching his back and throwing the Skellmarian forward. It was a desperate move, but Borrak hadn’t expected it. He lost his balance and Quinn swung the bigger man around. Now Quinn was on top, but he couldn’t let go of the Skellmarian’s wrist for fear that he would be killed by the wicked knife. Instead, Quinn slammed his forehead into the bigger man’s face. The Skellmarian’s nose shattered in a sickening crunch of cartilage and bone. Blood sprayed out and the barbarian screamed in pain.
Wizard Rising Page 24
