A Dark Tide (Book of One) (25 page)

"Draxis is powerful leader," one of the Darga said as he pulled his sword, a normal blade, from the chest of his fallen opponent.

"If you fight hard, you will become more powerful," Draxis told him and the others.

"We must have the shining blades," commented another one. "It is the Darga with shining blades that get strong. It is magic, yes?"

"Such blades are given to brave Darga who have shown their loyalty to me and to the queen," Draxis said.

"The humans with shining blades have come," the Darga said, pointing to the group of warriors that had won their blades in the tournament at Maramyr, who had just arrived at the front. "They are weak. They do not deserve such weapons."

"Then why not kill them and take their weapons," Draxis suggested.

"Lord Draxis would order this?" one of the other Darga asked.

Draxis shook his head and turned away, looking in the opposite direction from where the warriors were gathered.

"I would not, but if I am looking at the forest over here, and those warriors are over there, then who is to say that those warriors were not killed by the elves?"

"No one will say," one of the other Darga replied and Draxis heard the group of them turn around and take off in the direction of the warriors, calling out to the other Darga among the trees to join them.

Draxis leaned on his axe and watched as the Darga struck the warriors, catching them unaware, and while a few of them held out, they did not last. It was not long before the Darga returned, along with the others who had joined them, all of them carrying jeweled blades, and they knelt before him.

"Lord Draxis," said one of the Darga. "The elves killed all the warriors, so we took their swords."

"That was very smart thinking," Draxis replied. "Now you can take the magic of any elf you kill."

"Draxis is wise," said the first Darga.

"That is why I am your leader," Draxis said. "Without wisdom, the strong may fall to the traps and trickery of cowards."

"The weak play tricks," another Darga said, nodding.

"Yes, they do," Draxis replied. "That is why we kill these elves, for they use the trees to trick the Darga. They are cowards and deserve to die for their insult to our strength."

"Yes," the Darga said, grinning as he kicked an elf, who lay dying on the ground. "Kill the elves."

"Very good, my warriors," Draxis said. "Kill as many as you can, and become powerful. When the battle is done, you can tell me how many have died by your hand."

"Yes, Lord Draxis," the Darga said, echoed by his companions, and Draxis nodded and leapt from the thick branch, spreading the wings that were folded behind his shoulders and he flew up among the trees, looking for more enemies to fight.

One of the Darga looked down at the fallen elves that lay dead or dying on the thick tree branch and he saw a long dagger with an ornate handle in the belt of one of them. He pulled it free and smiled at how the blade glistened in the fading light of the day, then he knelt down and cut away the elf's armor, exposing her chest, then he plunged the blade into her and cut out her heart. The other Darga did the same with the other elves and, with bloody mouths and armed with the weapons they had taken, they continued forward through the forest, looking for more elves to kill, even more eager now that they were armed with the much coveted jeweled swords.

*****

"Lord Quenta!" called a breathless elven scout as she leapt to the branch where Quenta and several elven war leaders had gathered. "The Maramyrian soldiers have broken through the undergrowth. Their army advances once again."

"They are certainly persistent," Quenta commented as the scout bent over and caught her breath, looking as though she might have been exposed to the poison smoke that still lingered in places among the trees. The majority of the elven forces was concentrated on battling the Darga, who were more mobile and far more deadly than the other soldiers, but Quenta knew from having faced the dead eyed soldiers before that they could pose a serious problem, especially in great numbers.  "We will send a force to meet them a short distance to the north, where the easier terrain allows for the passage of a sizeable force."

The scout steadied her breathing and looked up at him and the others.

"That may not be necessary," she said. "It appears that they intend to move directly through the cuts and draws rather than finding another route."

"It must be arrogance or stupidity," Quenta said, but he was not going to argue when the enemy was committing such a terrible mistake. "If we can catch the soldiers while they are still hemmed in, then we may be able to take out a good number of them all at once."

"The enemy soldiers are weak," one of the elven war leaders commented. "We can deal with them once we have successfully countered the Darga."

"Those soldiers, the ones with the grey faces, they do not die," Quenta told him. "They proved a hindrance during the battle at Kandara, and if we are to focus on fighting these lizards, it would not do to have thousands of half dead soldiers nipping at our heels or worse, roaming free in our forest." He turned to the scout once more. "Is there any indication that this might be a trap to lure us into that particular area?"

"No, my lord," she said. "There are several dozen human archers that have taken up position on the high ground to protect the movement of the main force, but that is all."

"Then it is a gift of foolishness on the part of the enemy," Quenta said. "Let us hope it is not a trick." He looked at two of the war leaders whose elves were known for their speed of movement, and he nodded to them both. "Move your forces into that area and take out as many of the enemy as possible. Have your archers aim for the head, and try to trap the soldiers among the rocks, then use the trees against them."

"As you command, Lord Quenta," one of them replied, then the two of them turned and leapt from the branch.

"What about the Darga?" asked one of the remaining war leaders, the green painted markings on her arms and legs showing her to be of the southern clans. "They are proving far more tenacious than we anticipated. I am concerned that some of them may breach our defenses. If the winged ones break away from the battle, we would be hard pressed to stop them."

"Return to the city with your warriors and inform the queen and the council of this," Quenta said. "They must be told the truth of things."

"As you command, Lord Quenta," she said, sliding her mask over her face. She leapt from the branch and a dozen elves, painted with similar markings appeared from the trees and followed her.

Quenta cursed the Darga for the loss of so many elves, who had died valiantly against their treacherous foes. While most of the lizard men were simple, brutish creatures, similar to those he had faced at Kandara, there were many of them that were very different. They were more powerful and they fought with weapons, and some of them even wore armor. The winged ones were the greatest threat, for their strength outstripped that of the others by far and they were able to attack from above without warning. It was curious, he thought, that they also looked different from the others, more serpent like in their physical shape, some of them almost resembling dragons. Quenta had learned the story of the Darga, and what had happened to their kind, ages ago, but it did not make sense that they should be so powerful and seeming to become more so as the battle progressed, and he wondered if some magic was at work among them.

He saw a group of three elves appear from behind a thick tree trunk, retreating along a nearby branch, just below where he stood. They were being attacked by six Darga and it appeared that the elves were outmatched by the much larger creatures, several of which were armed with weapons. Quenta cursed the fact that his people were having such trouble with the lizard creatures and he slid his mask over his face as he gathered energy from the tree and drew his sword, then he set off at a run, leaping across the open gap between the branches. One of the Darga turned and saw him flying through the air toward him, but Quenta was already upon him with his blade, cutting deep gash in the creature's neck.

Dark, acidic blood sizzled upon his clothing and began to mark his sword, and Quenta quickly wiped the blade on the creature's rough cloth loincloth, then turned to face the others, drawing two of them away from the three elves, who were finally able to fight back now that the odds were no longer tilted so far against them. From his previous battles, Quenta was far more aware of the tricks of the flying Darga and he managed to dodge a bolt from a crossbow that was fired from above. Luckily, the tree upon which they were fighting still lived, though Quenta could feel it weakening, and he felt a pang of regret as he gathered some of its energy and used it to leap up toward the flying Darga.

Steel clashed upon wood as the creature blocked his sword with its crossbow, the impact splintering the weapon. Quenta allowed his momentum to carry him up and over the Darga and he grabbed hold of its wing, then he fell over its other side, forcing the creature into a spiraling dive. The Darga was much larger than he had thought, and the powerful muscles that supported its wings flexed against his weight, tossing him around as it tried to maintain loft. Quenta twisted in the air and landed on the creature's back as it snarled at him and drew a jeweled sword that hung from a rude, leather belt at its waist. He slashed at the Darga's shoulders, where the thick scales blended into reptilian skin and the creature bellowed in pain, tucking its wings against its side and rolling over as it dove fast toward the ground. Quenta leapt free at the last second and rolled across the forest floor, skidding to his feet as he turned around. The Darga managed to land, using its wings to slow its descent, and the creature growled as it flexed its wings, obviously angered from the cuts it had received.

"Now, you die, elf," the winged Darga snarled and it ran toward him, with its sword raised.

Quenta dodged the blade as it swung down toward him, and he moved to counterattack, but a powerful, clawed hand slammed into him, knocking him to the ground. He rolled as the tip of the sword stabbed the ground, and he spun around, slashing at the inside of creature's sword arm, cutting a deep gash in its leathery skin. Dark blood gushed from an open vein, and the Darga roared, infuriated as it yanked the sword free from the ground and grasped its arm with its other hand. Quenta stepped in for another attack and noticed that his sword was smoking and steaming as the Darga blood ate away at the steel. The edge of the blade, now dull from the acid blood, glanced off the Darga's scaled shoulder and the creature leapt toward him, throwing its entire weight into him. Quenta tumbled backwards and barely scrambled out of the way as the Darga hacked at him roughly with its sword, still holding its other hand on the inside of its arm.

Quenta pulled a dagger from his belt and used his sword to block the next attack, and he slashed at the creature's neck. It snarled as he danced back, out of its reach, and acid spit from the Darga's mouth, burning his leather armor and splashing across his mask. Quenta had instinctively turned aside at the last moment and luckily the acid did not splash into his eyes, but that moment and the opening he left was all the Darga needed, and it attacked him again. Quenta barely blocked the creature's blade, then he ducked low as it tried to swipe at him again with its free hand, and he saw that the deep cut on its inner arm had stopped bleeding. He cursed the Darga ability to heal, and redoubled his attacks, knowing that he would have to kill the creature soon.

Quenta gathered what energy he could from the roots of the trees beneath his feet and his sword rang out as the hammered at the Darga, which clumsily blocked his attacks instead of parrying or dodging. Quenta's sword was already ruined by the creature's acid, so he was not concerned about the blade, but the jeweled sword did not appear to take any damage from his powerful swings. Finally, with the Darga on the defensive, Quenta saw an opportunity and he held back for a moment, feinting with his sword as though he would attack from a different angle. The creature took the bait and stepped to the side, raising its sword and Quenta slid back and stabbed with the point of his blade, driving his sword hard, up under the Darga's chin and through its skull. The creature froze, its reptilian eyes blinking twice, then the jeweled sword fell from its clawed grip. Quenta yanked his sword free and the Darga fell to the ground in a pool of dark, acid blood.

As the forest around him began to fill with Darga, and with his sword now useless, Quenta dropped the ruined blade on the dead creature and picked up the sword it had dropped. The blade was well balanced, its edge surprisingly sharp after the abuse it had taken and now that he took a closer look at it, he saw that the sword was beautifully crafted, with simple yet subtle engravings upon its hilt and crosspiece, which was encrusted with jewels of a milky blue grey color, and a much larger one embedded in its pommel. Quenta swung the sword, getting a feel for it and he noticed a strange sensation, as though it had a kind of sound to it, almost like music, when it cut through the air. He wondered where such a creature would have acquired such a fine blade, and surmised that it was likely stolen, or spoils from another battle.

Whatever the case, it would cut and stab well enough, and he ran toward the nearest tree and leapt up onto a thick branch and raced after the Darga that had broken through the first line of defenders, hoping to cut down as many as he could before they reached the next line of defense, which consisted of far fewer numbers than were fighting at the front. He was just about to attack one of the Darga that was running across a thick branch, when a long, thick arrow shot through the air, punching a hole through its neck. The rest of the Darga turned in the direction from which it had come as another arrow hit one of them under the shoulder. Quenta scanned the trees and saw two figures standing on a thick branch, in the distance, pointing at the Darga, and he cursed when he realized who they were, though a part of him was actually glad to see them.