“Voltaire of the Achylles, you just wait until we stop this thing! You are getting more than a stern talking to, young man. Oh, to get my feet back on the ground once more, that is all that I ask! Gods, whatever did I do to deserve the company of one so unfit to handle the controls of a cycle? I will fast. I will not drink. Whatever it takes! Aye Dios Mio!” She continued with much more diverse and elaborate curses under his laughter. Voltaire could only imagine the face of Westor or the grief he was receiving from Muray.
The path descended before them straight and steady. To Voltaire the wind tasted sweeter somehow. He knew Muray currently yelled at Westor. It was almost like Esmie yelling at him. Different reasons of course, but the issue could not be helped. As she would admit herself, she was loquacious by nature. Nothing could dampen his spirits or the rush in his veins now.
Or so he thought.
Esmie continued her rant. “And then someone should take that axe of yours and split your skull clean in two. Then perhaps we will see what I’ve always suspected, that there’s nothing in there. Aye, I swear to all my days I will-” She stopped as abruptly as she started, and this brought Voltaire serious with great haste. Voltaire looked over his shoulder to a young face in reflection. He noticed Esmie’s jaw set as she concentrated intensely. Suddenly, her eyes grew wide as she clipped his sides with her hands. “Voltaire, hard left!”
Instincts prevailed, and Voltaire did as he was instructed. His hands thought for him, thrusting the controls in the desired direction. The cycle pulled forcefully, tearing a new path left as Voltaire tried to brake sufficiently for such a maneuver. The cycle almost rolled as Voltaire fought the controls with all his strength. Esmie held on for her life as her warning rang true.
Suddenly, the ground near them was torn asunder with laser fire. Hot debris splashed up, spitting on the backs of both Ro’Nihn and pinging off the undercarriage of the bike. Seeing them swerve, Westor turned in the opposite direction with a similar outcome. Whatever gift Esmie had for such things, Voltaire presently thanked the gods for it.
Voltaire grabbed at his axe before jumping off the side of his bike. Esmie too acquired her weapons before hopping up and then off the bike in a roll. As they did, the cycle was torn to bits by a barrage of lasers. The assault had come from the trees north of the road, some 50 yards from them. Voltaire followed Esmie to the cover of a heap of rocks, staying low and swift. He felt blue warmth close to his arm as he finally reached safety, grateful to still be alive.
In a few moments, Westor and Muray joined them. Muray was unscathed but Westor had received shrapnel cuts on his face from the destruction of his cycle only moments before. Blood drizzled where Westor’s mask did not absorb the debris. Esmie tried to look at the wounds but Westor had taken her hand from his head. “I’ll be fine. You can treat it later if there is a later,” he said.
Voltaire chanced a glance over the swell of rocks. A shot came inches from hitting him as he ducked back down, shaking his head. “I’d say we are in a bit of a spot here.” He looked down at the axe in his hand. He and his father had created it together. The blade was metal, but the three-and-a-half-foot handle was tempered wood. It had taken months of planning and precision to finish the weapon. It would never require sharpening and was as formidable as any hand weapon could be.
And suddenly it felt too heavy in Voltaire’s hands.
Esmie scowled at him. “Why thank you for the update, but I think we are up to speed on the matter,” she offered sarcastically. Esmie checked their surroundings with haste. Voltaire watched worry come to her face, and it was enough to add a few more pounds to the axe in his hands. “Well boys and girls, I don’t think we have a sufficient cover to outrun them. Any thoughts?”
Westor of the Brytesky used a hand to wipe blood and sweat from his face. Some searing was easy to see on his head, for he had always kept his dirty blonde hair extremely short. The hues of dark gray remained littered with bits of red and debris as he replied. “Not much choice here I think,” he offered dryly as he thought on their situation. “We will have to fight our way out of this one. If they wanted to talk then our cycles wouldn’t be heaping piles of scrap right now.”
Muray of the Grandstaff was kneeling next to him. She swayed back and forth nervously, her hands crossed over her body below her chest. Voltaire watched her swing thick clusters of blonde hair from her mask as she chewed on the end of a finger for a second. Muray looked at the other three with pained, bright blue eyes. Her voice was as subdued as any of them had ever heard it, miles from the exuberance of moments ago. “So how do we want to do this?”
Esmie allowed her own gaze to go down to her forearm guards. Strapped at the wrist and at an inch from the elbow, reinforced to be as hard as steel, they could block an array of attacks, including laser fire. Their training would have to do the rest. “Well I guess we are going to have to encourage them to take this fight a little closer.”
Voltaire let out a slow, pained sigh. “Thought you might say that,” he offered painfully.
Esmie gave him a fake exhuberant smile. “And this is why we’ll always put you in the back.” She then looked at Westor and Muray. “Ready yourselves. This is what we train for. We can do this.”
Voltaire watched the three of them, hoping his face did not reveal his true feelings. He knew that sweat was seeping out of his mask while his heart threatened to pound out of his chest. Try as he may, Voltaire could not get that little voice from betraying his thoughts. You are not ready for this. You are scared. Voltaire of the Achylles, you are going to die and take your friends with you.
“Shut up,” he whispered softly, grudgingly. He thanked everything that those two words went unheard. The guards on his own arms felt alien to him. The axe in his grip was now a stranger. Voltaire thought of his training and the years that brought him here. He felt that it all had left him alone now in an instant, bitter as a scorned lover. I can’t do this. I can’t. And then entered another thought. You are afraid. He knew that voice was going to cost him his life and possibly the lives of his friends.
Voltaire watched the veins protrude from his hands as he gripped his weapon tightly. His friends were readying themselves for death, and he was afraid. At almost seven feet tall, it seemed ridiculous to him. Then again, so did the notion of killing. But now was not the time for philosophy. Voltaire had to try to put aside his gripping fear. He adjusted his mask, still cursing the doubts that plagued him and refused to relinquish their hold on his spirit.
“You ready over there, Voltaire?” Esmie had pulled him back into reality. Caught in the throes of self-doubt. Not good, not good at all. He nodded quickly, fearing his voice would betray him too in that moment. Voltaire didn’t think he had fooled her. He was right. Esmie looked at him a moment, evaluating her comrade. The fact that this was his first real fight outside of Axiter had not eluded her. “Well just cover our backs and be ready for anything. We still don’t know what their numbers are, but I am sure we will find out soon enough. Are we ready?” She received nods from her fellow Ro’Nihn. “Then let us make Axiter proud. Go!”
At that, the four of them came around the mound of rock to face the enemy hidden in the forest. Immediately, laser fire poured from a concentrated location, due north. Forming a loose wall in front of Voltaire, his three friends began deflecting blue energy with their forearm guards. Voltaire found himself humbled by the display, as the amount of incoming fire was severe. He prayed that their skill held up.
Voltaire ducked as a stray bolt shot past his ear, close enough to warm it. Again, he cursed his inability to contribute and longed for his friend’s ability to just rely on their training. He felt ever the burden, still hoping he would find his wits before he found his end. Voltaire wanted nothing more than a break in the onslaught and luckily did not have to wait long.
It was apparent that their attackers finally decided in the futility of their actions. The Ro’Nihn of Axiter could hear their enemy’s commander barking orders in the distance. T
here was then a distinct sound of weapons readied in unison followed by the rising howls of bloodlust. Voltaire gripped more tightly at his axe as the hair on his neck stood on end. He could only faintly hear Esmie ordering them at the ready as he continued his own internal conflict. This is where I screw up. This is where I die. Shut up, shut up shut up.
Their enemies poured from the dense forest trees like locusts, 20 strong at least. In Voltaire’s mind, they were too intent to be grunts. Their gear rested easily upon them like a second skin. No, these were veteran specialist, trained hard and trained well. Their numbers were light to keep their presence undetected in the lands of Vallance. Just how many were roaming the countryside would be impossible to tell. But each looked intently at the Ro’Nihn with the same, unmistakable look.
And that look was death.
These were indeed new adversaries for the Ro’Nihn. Obviously, a Thorne Special Forces squad, they stormed toward Voltaire and his friends with fearless fervor. Encased over a dull gray uniform was armor and padding covering the torso, knees and elbows. The ground gave way to thundering combat boots. Some wore camouflage ponchos over their gear and all of them bore sleek deadly rifles and modified, protective helmets.
Ah, crap. This is it. Voltaire took in the moment as the fast-approaching opposition charged with a hunger bordering on savagery. The ever-dwindling distance that separated himself from the group from Thorne made him increasingly uncomfortable. As slim seconds passed, the details meant less and less to him. Voltaire could give a damn how their gear looked now. Their weapons at present received his undivided attention.
Voltaire fixedly stared a polished, silver rifles perched in ready hands, poised to strike. As the Thorne soldiers loomed closer, two fierce bayonets protruded from each rifle muzzle. For a moment, Voltaire could not help but envision himself run clean through by those blades. He shivered fiercely in the last few moments before the opposing sides made contact.
With what courage he still held, Voltaire moved up to the front with his comrades. He chanced a quick look at his friends. All three appeared relaxed and serene. Voltaire was bolstered by their posture, but envious of what he lacked of it. Voltaire worried his thoughts would overwhelm him more easily than his enemy. They were outnumbered five to one and those were long odds in any struggle.
Esmie held tightly to the triple pronged sais in her hands. The center blade was the longest, stretching almost twice as far as the outside two. A weapon formidable for very close combat, the place Esmie wished to take a fight should she have to be in one. She bent her knees slightly, holding her weapons relaxed in front of her. She glanced to her right at Westor and Muray. Each was readying long wooden staffs. “Now, you two!” she commanded.
Over the years, Ro’Nihn gradually became renowned for many things. One was their hand-to-hand combat abilities and the weapons they employed. Another was the ingenuity that many used in creating those weapons. As Esmie hit her third and final word, Westor and Muray each slammed one end of their staffs onto the ground. As the staffs connected, Muray and Westor aimed the opposite ends toward the charging attackers. Triggering something from within the staffs, a heavy, noxious smoke poured out rapidly, spraying the incoming charge. Moving the weapons in an arc, both warriors were able to engulf large pockets of the Thorne opposition. The ones they hit immediately clutched at their eyes, temporarily blinded. The rest had moved out of the arc of fire, buying the Ro’Nihn precious seconds to act upon.
Though a healer by nature, Esmie of the Ryndragus quickly shot forward then, free of distracting thoughts of protest. Now her sais spoke for her as one found the weak point in a Thorne warrior’s armor. Her weapon bit deep, taking her enemy hastily to the ground. Another soldier lunged from the right meaning to run her completely through with his bayonets. The sai in her left hand caught and occupied his rifle as the one in her right dug into his thigh. As he stumbled, she twisted her left wrist, disarming the rifle in her attacker’s hands. Thus freed, her left sai shot up toward his face. With a backhanded motion she drove the handle into his mouth, knocking him and several teeth out completely.
Westor and Muray were quick to follow Esmie. Darting forward, they attacked a soldier in unison; the way only veterans and friends did together. Holding her staff in both hands, Muray snapped the end of it into the hand that held a rifle. Her opponent’s hand opened immediately, dropping his weapon, combining with a crunching sound and a howl of pain. Before he could react, Westor took his feet from him, sweeping the man’s legs with his own staff. Both Ro'Nihn continued their staff’s momentum in a circular motion, bringing them into the chest of the Thorne native.
Voltaire stood frozen for a lingering moment before four soldiers set their sights on him. He struggled to get his body to move in the name of self-preservation. Emitting a thunderous scream, Voltaire swung the axe over his head with both hands. He took a fierce step in his assailants’ direction, hoping that the feint would make them apprehensive about their next move. Yet in his mind he knew they were pros and would not be afraid of such an action. Nevertheless, a second or two of hesitation could prove useful.
A soldier advanced from Voltaire’s left, his rifle attacking in a slashing fashion. Voltaire brought his axe up with both hands to block it successfully. As he did, his opponent brought a kick to his stomach. Voltaire stumbled back, going with the momentum of the kick. He doubled over, but thankfully, his training kept him from losing his breath. He caught a scream from behind him and knew his seconds were numbered. Rolling forward, he eluded a bayonet strike meant to run him through.
The roll brought him back into the drange of the man who kicked him. The soldier was advancing on Voltaire, and Voltaire’s maneuver took him by surprise. For a blissful second Voltaire did not think his haunting thoughts and just swung his axe into the abdomen before him and was true. The axe ate easily through armor and flesh. The dying man screamed at Voltaire but had the strength for little else. Voltaire now faced his first kill with a startling revelation.
His axe was stuck.
In administering a death blow, Voltaire had given up precision for pure, raw strength. In doing so he had sent over half of his axe blade into the man’s stomach. The dying soldier had doubled over, grabbing at the axe, further compounding the situation. Voltaire tugged hard as he watched three furious killers rush him. Nope. Not good at all. Time to die. In a fleeting moment, he wondered how such voices could be left at home.
Around him the battle raged. His friends were doing well, considering the circumstances. It was his own situation that unnerved him. The axe wasn’t going anywhere in the time he had to reclaim it. Releasing the axe, he spun on his heels. The motion put him behind the man he’d just fatally wounded. Giving a push, he sent the fading ember into his three comrades. Clumsily Voltaire charged them, jumping into the back of the dying man, hoping to drive them all to the ground.
Voltaire was mostly successful. Two of the three had fallen and Voltaire had only taken a small gash in his arm for the attempt. Unfortunately, Voltaire did not notice the man still standing as he lunged for the first fallen soldier he could get his hands on. Placing one hand on the throat beneath him, he sent his other fist into his face once, twice. He almost had a third before the still standing man placed a well-timed kick to his face.
A ferocious boot covering a large foot collided with Voltaire’s jaw. Rolling with the attack helped him little, for he had not seen it coming. Voltaire was instantly off the downed soldier as he collapsed, dazed. He shook the cobwebs out to see a slash intending to kill him come down toward his head. He barely rolled out of the way. Desperately, he clamored to get to his feet. Again, the Achylles clansman took his mind from his surroundings.
Voltaire never saw the second soldier that had stumbled over his friend wearing the axe. He tackled Voltaire in a fury, bracing on top of the Axiter native to rain down hammering punches. Voltaire tried desperately to protect himself. In his mind, he was failing miserably. The soldier who had just tried to remo
ve his head closed the gap that hovered between them.
An accent littered voice spat over the storm of battle. “Hold him still, Van! I’ll take this bastard once and for all!” Voltaire could feel him getting closer, could taste the soldier’s obsession to remove his head. What a trophy I will be, he thought between punches. Just a big and clumsy coward that posed as a warrior.
Voltaire did not get the chance to finish the thought, for Westor collided into Voltaire’s would-be executioner. The sword flew free as the two entangled on the ground. The man above him was momentarily distracted by his friend’s situation and Voltaire acted. Using his powerful legs, Voltaire bucked the man off. Pulling to his feet, he kicked at the Thorne warrior, able to get enough of the strike to send him to the ground fully. Voltaire suddenly longed for his axe.
Looking around frantically, he saw the tide of battle changing. Esmie and Muray were still facing overwhelming odds. As he watched, a Thorne soldier got a glancing cut to Esmie’s upper leg. She returned the favor by driving both sais into his neck just above his chest protector. As he rasped a fatal yelp, she kicked him off her weapons only to have to face two more in his place. And now there were more emerging from their hiding places. Voltaire counted at least ten.
Placing his foot on the chest of the dead soldier, Voltaire finally wrenched his axe free. As he removed it, he ducked his body and sent a charging Thorne soldier stumbling over him. He was ready to finish him when his ears filled with a familiar voice. He turned quickly to see Westor, kneeling over the man who had just tried to kill him. Behind Westor was another soldier. That soldier had just driven a knife into Westor’s back. Westor’s face bled surprise as his back spilt warm blood.
Ashener's Calling Page 15
