“Yes. We spotted them on the horizon.” Freck swallowed and staggered toward him, grabbing at his aching side. His breathing was ragged.
“Okay.” Fenner patted Freck on the shoulder. “Good work, boy,” he said quietly. “You make me proud. Your efforts are saving us.” All at once he forgave, forgot that Freck had made him go into the cage at Trayvor’s charge.
Freck, however, had not forgotten. A stone grew in his throat as he remembered that crime.
Fenner smiled briefly and glanced up at the surrounding organized chaos. He was pleased that Freck had the warriors on the move, grabbing their swords and staffs. Hunters had all readied their bows and arrows.
The old Soldier, the Chief grimaced at Freck. “Go to your post, boy.” Those might be the last words spoken between them. His experience and wisdom told him that not all would make it through this alive. He pursed his thin lips and pressed on to gather his own weapons. He had promised to protect. He would honor his word, his promise.
The brown plumes of traveling dust swirled high, feathering into the blue noon atmosphere. The large Mysra army traveled hard against the land, kicking-up a dirty curtain that rose many feet. It was a signal, a beacon for searching WynSprign eyes, and it extended for miles. For this reason, it was a blessing that rain hadn’t come upon the land in days.
✽✽✽
The air was cooler the instant Neen crossed the tree line. The feeling was familiar. “Leave the supply wagons here with the horses!” he belted in a booming voice, the dark shade within almost hiding his gray face. “We will carry the cages into the woods. It’ll be easier to throw the captured ones in there, closer to the village—less struggling over the walk if they’re caged at the go.”
He sneered at their prospects. He’d made it. Horse’s Clearing was aching to be breached and the hidden village . . . easy.
The Mysra warriors on horseback dismounted, and the unfortunate low-ranking grunts slowed their march to a stop just behind them, slumping in exhaustion. Horses were tied to trees before the Mysra entered the mysterious shade of the forest, and they unpacked their knives, strapped on their belts and sheaths, and packed their pouches. In a jagged unison, a tradition kept without command, they tilted back their heads to ingest the purple crystals. The charge of it immediately tingled in their fingertips and send an itching crawl up their limbs as the trillium coursed through their blood. Sweet grit lingered and abraded the tips of their tongues. They couldn’t wait to ingest more later.
Feeling the glorious surge, Neen blasted, “We ready?” Thick purple-tinged saliva bubbled at the corners of his mouth, his red-rimmed eyes glaring savagely. “Ready to claim our slaves?”
His troops shouted their own rallying cries and bang their fists against their chests. He began to pace among his troops. He looked at them, eye-to-eye, glaring wildly, and he breathed hard. “Remember! We are to deny ourselves the pleasure of kills!” Heads nodded and stances steadied. We bring them all back! Then, the trillium will be ours forever!”
More shouts erupted. The invigorated Mysra warriors, fiendish, raised their large fists and knives. Their thick shouts were engulfed in the nearby trees, and perched birds flew up and away.
“Ready?!”
“Yeah!” Shouts and fisted knives thrust upward, clouded in unison, the quick-pulsing trillium fueling them all.
“Let’s go!” Neen raised his jagged knife, turning on one foot, and pointed his weapon forward, aiming it toward the Great Mist.
The warriors cried out war shouts as the cages they bore rattled. They stomped into the dense growth, trampling, following Neen’s lead. The hunters’ abandoned items made it obvious this area had been recently occupied, and the Mysra trampled over the team’s bundles and blankets with as much worry as if they were just grasses, they crunched through in the Yellow Vast. It was just as easy as Neen had promised as they followed the tracks to their destination.
Neen continued his trillium-heighted blusters throughout their heavy march, scaring birds from perched trees.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Battle ignited
As the Mysra approached, the WynSprign warriors could hear, at first, faint sounds of shouts. Drawing ever near, every step, every beat, their footsteps sounded, breaking twigs and thudding with intensity. The fast flight of birds above stilled their resolve. The WynSprigns’ hearts became thundering war drums, captive in their chests. Sweat glistened on their brows as they swallowed with dry, nervous gulps. Waiting. Their fingers tingled as they grasped weapons and balanced themselves. Their eyes were fixed on the village ground, following Fenner’s silent command to remain steady.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting . . .
Suddenly, the first towering Mysra emerged from the dense foliage. Then others quickly followed. The WynSprigns’ breath stopped and their hearts skipped at the beings’ immense size. The muscled, boulder-like bodies at every movement demonstrated sheer power that quaked the WynSprigns’ nimble frames. The large cages they effortlessly carried could easily hold seven to ten WynSprigns each!
More and more of the massive enemy forces piled into the clearing, and more cages appeared. Within moments they had filled up almost the entire open area of the village. They were waiting, panting as they gathered, knives and glares ready to strike fear. Cage doors rattled at their rallying cries, and their eyes darted for any sign of movement from their prey.
But there was none. No movement.
Then one Mysra came walking through the crowd from the rear, others parting to let him through. He had led them here, but once at the edge of the village had stayed behind to ensure all his warriors were gathered for this mission. He then strode into the village, coldly assessing the surroundings and his troops. He eyed the houses and the empty walkways around them.
“Where are they?” a suspicious Mysra asked, eyes narrowed on him, their leader.
“I don’t see any WynSprigns,” another piped out, a hint of worry in his otherwise, graveled voice.
Neen stomped his way to the front of the group. He didn’t bother looking at the Mysra who had asked the questions when he replied, “They must be hiding in their cozy little homes!” He gave a roaring laugh. Others jeered and laughed, joining him. He circled the clearing, taunting, “Come out little Sprigns! Come out and face us!”
At the dimming of their raucous voices and chants, silence responded.
Many sets of glowing eyes watched them from within the thick foliage, hidden. The WynSprign leader was skilled, tactical, his warriors waiting for the right time, for his command. For there were many, so many of the Mysra. The timing had to be perfect.
“Well, let’s get them to come out,” Neen finally said, his smile darkened. “They won’t want to roast themselves, will they?” He looked at his troops.
Anxious, the Mysra enemies ventured from the tight group and ran to yell, banging on house doors, trying to flush out the WynSprigns. In the waiting group of Mysra, a single torch was lit.
The WynSprigns warriors quieted their fear, their anger. They remained hiding, waiting. Torch fire, now dancing in their eyes.
Neen grinned at his warriors. “No answer?”
Mysra smiled, shaking their heads, swaying in their wide stances, waiting to be unleashed under his command.
“Go ahead! Torch ‘em.”
Without further word, the torch-bearer tossed his torch onto the nearest wooden tree home, Fenner’s. Several other Mysra approached the growing flame and ignited their own torches. They wanted to turn this place into a glowing reflection of their own fury. They’d get the WynSprigns even if this whole forest scorched. They couldn’t give a shit of the damage.
Quickly other homes were ignited, and the air grew thick with eye-burning smoke, and the bright glow painted all the dark forest surrounding the village.
Fire flickered in Fenner’s narrowed eyes. It was hard for him to watch his house below engulfed in raging flames, but he pursed his lips tighter and inhal
ed deeply. He was a warrior. Let them burn our homes. He made himself shrug at the thought, conveying his bravado to his fellow WynSprigns around him.
“Perhaps they ran off further into the woods!” Gax offered. He wiped away sooty sweat with his purple rag.
“Yes! Highly possible!” Neen turned to face his troop and said, “We’ll have to follow them in whatever direction they went!” He then waved for them to gather closer in around him.
Watching his every move, they obediently came closer to surround him and he turned in a circle to address them: “Listen up! Expand out, track them! As we’ve learned, they take no steps to cover their tracks. They probably ran off and left the village, and went further into the wood.” He continued to circle. “Look out for tracks, prints, broken limbs and twigs!”
The Mysra nodded. They would.
“Dismissed!” he yelled. The troops broke from him and began to dash out to the surrounding woods.
Fenner did not like this. This was the very thing they’d tried to avoid by choosing the front lines. Now the Mysra would find the WynSprigns who were unable to fight, for such a large group would leave unmistakable tracks. He gulped, his heart knocking in his throat.
Fenner quickly met gazes with Freck, positioned near him. That moment they made a connection, sharing the same thought. Freck nodded slowly. Fenner looked down and with a grim face, he erupted: “Now!”
In a flash, WynSprign warriors leapt from the high treetops, landing to surround the group, these ‘ground warriors’ already swinging swords and staffs. There was no time for the Mysra to react, and they hadn’t considered a surprise attack at all. The WynSprigns had seconds to make the battle theirs, seconds to kill as many of them as possible. Everything relied on these precious seconds-corralling the Mysra into a tighter group.
Then, a shower of death rained from above as the remaining perched WynSprigns loosed their arrows onto the gathered Mysra targets below. They fell, towering forms swiftly hitting the ground.
From behind the Mysra, guttural shrieks erupted. There was a split-second of confusion for Fenner, for the WynSprign warriors hadn’t been positioned there.
In a blinding motion, Treva and Lanico had begun their own assault. They leapt from behind the stunned Mysra and started their own wave of terror. Treva cried out a hoarse yell, swiping her blade across a thick Mysra neck. His neighboring fighters began to turn toward her, and fast as lightning, Lanico swung his sword low, taking out their legs.
“I had them”—she breathed—"they had barely turned toward me.”
“I know,” he responded. “I was only testing my sword’s sharpness.” He was already moving toward the next Mysra victims.
She rolled her eyes and scoffed before thrusting into another Mysra. Yeah, right. “Taking my kills from me,” she muttered with annoyance.
Several Mysra fell to unsuspected death in that instant. The onslaught of attack—from the air, from behind them, from all around—was quick. Before they understood what was going on, their warriors went down by the dozens. Ill prepared.
Staggered shouts arose from various WynSprigns: “It’s Lanico!”
“Hail, Prince Lanico!” someone cried out from somewhere. Winning energy spread amongst them. There was a chance. A chance that perhaps they could win this! The favor was already, quickly, with them.
Lanico didn’t stop his pursuit to greet them but stayed focused, a signal for all of them to do the same. This wasn’t one of their damned garden parties after all.
Treva leapt onto a Mysra warrior’s shoulders and jammed her sword down, thrusting the blade through his skull. Thick black Mysra blood splattered her face. In a deft whirl, she leapt onto another Mysra. His slow swings at her caused her to dance, balancing on top of him. He jumped and bent low—anything to get her off.
She jumped off her Mysra perch and engaged him. He fought with only a feeble knife, and she almost felt sorry for him, almost. But, after moments of useless redundant swings, she finally charged, giving a throaty roar. Her white teeth were splashed with inky black. This Mysra ducked and dodged her swings until she became tired of this boring dance. She held her sword like a dagger and thrust it into him, a silver lightning bolt through his chest. Easy. She was glad Lanico had given her that idea previously. She quirked a wicked smile until the taste of blood turned it to a frown. Ew.
The Reluctant Leader sang its metallic song at Lanico’s power. Clashes and clangs came from a more-skilled, mature Mysra who’d stolen a sword from a dead WynSprign and moved swiftly, trying to keep up. The Mysra gaped with a pointed-tooth grin, his mouth so wide Lanico’s whole head could fit inside. Lanico sniffed hard and wiped his face with the back of his arm. He could take this one. Another swing was countered by the Mysra’s sword. Lanico stepped quickly, and it didn’t take long to know that even though this Mysra had some sword skill, he was slow. He might be stronger, larger, but he was much slower.
Rumbling thunder echoed in the distance. The sky grayed as Lanico felt Reluctant Leader’s energy singing into his bones. It had been enchantingly forged for him. He watched with a keen eye after a failed attempt from the Mysra to take his arm. The Mysra lunged again, but Lanico swung, taking him off his center. A repost from the Mysra. Lanico jolted to the side and forcefully pushed him toward where his sword had been headed. Off balance, the Mysra fell but turned over quickly to meet the sharp end of Reluctant Leader, right in his throat. Lanico looked into the Mysra’s panicked eyes and made it quick. He thrust the sword in and allowed his massive body to rest on the ground. The Mysra’s dead eyes looked up into the eternity of the sky. So far, the General Prince hadn’t noticed Grude amongst the enemy horde. No. In great disappointment he realized he wouldn’t – not yet. Not today.
WynSprign air warriors stayed perched in the trees, aiming and loosing their arrows effortlessly into more unsuspecting Mysra below. Jain and Tarn kept steady in the high trees, quickly firing their arrows to take down one Mysra at a time. Arrows whizzed by in a flash, piercing thick gray Mysra flesh and muscle. Roars of pain and agony rose into the air.
It was not easy to do all this killing, for, aside from animals, the WynSprign never killed, but they pressed on relentlessly shooting, the command obeyed. They would have to contemplate the killing later, a thought for another day. Today they needed to wipe them out, to ensure their own survival.
Tarn’s eyes teared up as he shot, swallowing against a lump, quickly wiping the tears away with his shoulders. Accuracy. No suffering—only lethal hits. He was steeled at the thought of his latest nightmare turning into reality . . . these monsters taking his beloved family and turning them into slaves—he wouldn’t let that happen. His wife was expecting another—the Mysra wouldn’t have her.
Never.
He loosed another arrow. Another arrow, and another. One. After. Another.
Unwavering arrows hit their mark as his tears streamed. Another. Another . . . down.
Much damage had been inflicted when the Mysra spotted the archers, hidden high in the trees. But they couldn’t reach them. There’d be no climbing. They moved to set trees ablaze. It was only now that the WynSprigns sorely missed the rain, but their mark on the Mysra had been made.
Just as the Mysra had hoped, the WynSprign archers leapt quickly from their branches to avoid being taken by the blazes. The fire, though destructive, wasn’t enough to kill the fast-jumping WynSprigns. They had practiced well and jumped with ease from limb to limb, tree to tree. What was unaccounted for was the towering burning trees that soon tumbled, swiftly taking out warriors on both sides like a mighty, burning hand smashing scrambling ants. The crashing trees and their own leaps quaked their bones and rattled chests.
The air warriors now had to begin their next level of fighting, sword and staff sighting. A tree Freck had been perched on was set ablaze, and he had been so focused that it wasn’t until heat reached his legs that he realized he needed to leap—now. He jumped sideways from the burning branch, thrusting his bow aside to nowhere
and landing on his haunches on the ground, shaken but all right. He stood, to fight, for he was skilled at the sword as well as the bow.
A Mysra beckoned him closer with a snarl, a purple rag dangled from his side. Freck drew his sword slowly, the metallic whisper sounding against his thigh. He lost himself in the moment, and he was another person. He answered the invitation and paced to the Mysra, swinging with passion and fury at the other looming Mysra warriors in his path, slicing their legs and arms, making deep cuts to the bone. He had to move fast. One mighty swipe from them, and he’d be done. They fell to the ground at their sudden injuries, grabbing at their disabling wounds. Thick blood painted their hands. The other WynSprigns will claim them, Freck thought, and smiled.
Freck knew somehow that this Mysra, the one beckoning him with the purple rag, was his target. He continued to walk; eyes locked on his foe. Freck quickly swung and the Mysra, his Mysra, tried dodging the sword. It sliced air as, turning and ducking, the Mysra deflected several crashing blows with his comparatively feeble knife.
This Mysra could move.
Though he had shown his own skill with the sword, Freck knew that he had to fight smarter with this one. Only one wrong move, just one, and the Mysra would end it all with little effort. The small WynSprign frames were no match for the muscled trunks of Mysra bodies.
The Mysra circled the WynSprign slowly as he held his large jagged knife. He smiled a large, open smile, exposing his sharp white teeth and purple-stained tongue. The Mysra was only waiting for his chance to either injure and capture the WynSprign . . . or kill him. No. Freck knew the Mysra meant to take them alive, that they weren’t supposed to kill the WynSprigns. But, with bloodlust, this one licked his lips.
The clang and clash of swords all around pierced Freck’s ears. Glowing embers and fiery ash drifted through the air, filled with frantic shouts of both WynSprigns and Mysra alike. He shook off the din, holding his sword steady. He couldn’t identify who was screaming, injured, or dead in those desperate moments of horror and raw survival. He panted, blinking, finding focus. As he stood still, keeping the Myrsa at bay with his extended sword, he realized his efforts to swing the sword would only be hindered by the Mysra’s dodging. The swinging just moments before had taken up energy. Feeling the weight in his arms, he realized he needed to adapt his skill. He wouldn’t be able to keep up against the hefty Mysra strikes.
The Legacy of Lanico: Reclaiming Odana Page 30
