The Exodus Sagas: Book I - Of Spiders And Falcons (66 page)

“That was not nice. No, no. Not nice little girl. No, no.” it waved its finger at her, eyes full of hate and menace. Gregore’ levitated off the deck of the ship he had assumed command of, in case any men should feel brave enough to confront him.

“I like to see who I am about to kill,
doppelganger.
” Gwenne Lazlette raised her hand, sending shimmering light around her body, protecting her. She flew forward, as did her enemy, charging each other in mid air a hundred feet above the sea.

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Saberrak jumped aboard the upper deck of the trireme, seeing only five Altestani men there now at the wheel. He threw the shortsword end over end, plunging deep into the back of the man at the steering. They turned, just in time to see their navigator lose his head from a vicious greataxe, the blood splattering across the deck as the body fell, while the head rolled past them. A secondary backswing chopped through the chain armor and through bone and flesh, blood running like water from the axeblade. The remaining Altestani men yelled in some foreign tongue the minotaur did not understand, and drew curved shamshir blades. They dove at him with fear and fury mixed, slashing at the horned warrior. His axe deflected one cut, another barely slicing his bicep, a small thin trickle of blood ran down. He lowered his head, and charged through the bearded northern warrior, trampling him. The gray gladiator grabbed him by the throat, lifted and turned, hurling him at the one that had cut him. The neck snapped during the throw, sending a scream that many likely heard. The Altestani swordsman ducked his comrade and attacked again, parried by the handle of the greataxe. Saberrak grabbed the man’s swordhand, and then dove his axe into the flank of his enemy. He heard men coming up the stairs to the aid of their masters as he pulled the curved blade from the hand of the dying soldier. With one brutal spin, he cut the man in two with his axe and his own curved sword. Four men stopped at the top stair, facing the bloody helm and seeing the carnage spread all over. Eyes from under horns, a face with horn tattoos splattered with blood, atop a seven and a half foot tall beast, the men yelled “
ech Midroon
!” over and over, backing down the way they came. Saberrak assumed they meant minotaur, hoped they meant something worse, and dropped his weapons to his feet. He crouched below the wheel, grabbed with both hands, and lifted. He roared and snarled, his massive muscles bulging, wood splintering as his rage took over. The column snapped, the wheel still attached, and the horned warrior lifted it overhead and threw it at his four admirers. Down the stairs they went, crushed by two hundred pounds of flying wood. Saberrak saw more attention directed his way, more Altestani warriors. He picked up the greataxe and the curved sword and marched toward the masts. Twenty men stood in his way at the lower stairs, armed with curved swords and small round shields, trained soldiers. The minotaur did not blink, feeling nothing, seeing only dead men ahead of him.

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The griffon pommeled blade cut through another slave with a crosscut to the chest. James parried a spear thrust, spun with his shield, and knocked the slave into the sea. His weapon chopped down through the face of another man with a scimitar, then the knight kicked him off the rail to follow his ally. The men fought hard, holding the foredeck, but the numbers around them were growing, being rallied by an Altestani officer of some high rank on the deck across from him on the enemy vessel. James leapt onto the plank, one of still dozens in place allowing the mass of soldiers onto the Bronze Harpy. The veteran soldier walked carefully across the wooden platform, the motion of the ships rubbing made it unstable. Three slaves charged him to protect their commander. The first lunged with his saber, and James pinned it down with his shield to the wooden plank, and then cut across the man’s throat with his broadsword. The second weaved two long daggers, running forward, his arms out ready to thrust at any open vital spot on the knight. Sir Andellis stepped ahead, letting the edges hit his shield, swung high at the warriors head, then spun on his right heel I full circle, crouched low. The edge of the sword took the foot off right above the ankle, then the follow through pierced his chest as James walked over the screaming body. The third slave, larger and muscular, obviously an oarman, held a great scimitar in two hands, standing halfway across the platform over the turbulent waters. The knight of Chazzrynn marched forward, seeing the curved blade come up and across at his head, raising his shield, but he advanced. It sparked off the angled protection, just as James lowered his head and let a vicious sideswing from the broadsword. The cut sliced under the slave’s armpit, splitting him wide open. He turned halfway behind the crouching warrior, and cleaved the back of his neck with a clean slash of the edge, cutting the head form the body. The knight turned toward the Headhunter, and raised a bloodsoaked blade to the Altestani officer, challenging him. The two stood in that moment of matched stares for a short eternity. The dark skinned noble accepted, drawing his scimitar and bowing his adorned headdress in return.

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Shinayne parried with her elven longblade, and thrust forward into half lunge with the curved shortblade, diving the point into the slave warrior that faced her, his handaxe dropping to the deck, his body following. Surrounded, unable to see James or Azenairk, the elven swordswoman surveyed quickly. She saw Saberrak on the enemy ship, and witnessed his greataxe cutting through an enemy soldier. She glanced at the sky, Gwenneth and some robed creature hurling deadly fantastic magicks at each other, encircling one another in rapid flight. The foredeck was holding, the main deck was swarmed along with the aft of the ship where she stood. The Harpy was holding, but locked against the larger ship, helpless to its will and size. She did not see James anywhere.

The elven noble went into action, the edges of her swords cutting into enemy men as she dodged, sidestepped, and weaved her way through the plague of human slave warriors. First, the curved blades cut from behind, through the hamstrings of a tall warrior that had just cleaved one of her men down with an axe. Stepping quickly, her left weapon pierced the chest of a young slave soldier trying to flank her, just as her right cut twice across the abdomen and throat of an Altestani soldier who turned to grab her. Shinayne rolled forward under several blades meant for her head, springing up and diving both points through the body of another slave. The elf captain spun, dropping low and cutting through the calves of two different human slaves that had been charging from behind and had lost her. Blood ran down her matching elven swords and she plunged them into their hearts as they hit the deck screaming and holding their legs. She crossed her longblade overhead, stopping a scimitar from another dark skinned northern soldier behind, rising up, splitting him from groin to chin with a dragging backcut from the edge of the shortsword. Her elbow crushed his temple, sending him down to deck.

Three men surrounded her as she came close to the main deck, a trail of dead behind her. Two with scimitars and one with a spear, all signaling to each other to take her together. She crouched low, facing the spearman, then sprung out, sidestepping his thrusting point and dove both blades high into his chest near the shoulders. Shinayne crouched and sprung, kicking herself into the air, somersaulting over the soldier, using the lodged weapons as leverage and balance. Two sword cuts slashed through his body, from his own men, and the elf landed behind him, her swords ripping through his shoulders as she held on to her grip. She pulled them free as the spearman dropped, turning from behind him and cleaving the throat of the darker swordsman as she danced through the battle. As he fell, she felt the cut to her side hit flesh and armor from the third warrior’s scimitar. Her shirt was moist and hot with blood, but she did not hesitate. The Lady Captain stabbed her shortblade through his forearm that held the scimitar, then crosscut him twice across the torso, then kicked him back off the rail and into the sea. Her men were thinning, but the enemy slaves fell into the waters as their planks and bridges were thrown off the Harpy. Many of the crew rallied behind her after the dazzling display of swordsmanship they had just witnessed. Shinayne made her way back to the upper deck of the rear of the ship, leaving drops of blood behind her as she watched more men board the Harpy. She needed to see if there was any hope left as the never ending supply of slaves continued to flood her ship. Now high up at the helm, she realized they had barely made a dent in the Altestani forces.

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Seeing his men dying, unsure of what more he could do besides fight, Azenairk concentrated on his men, their wounds, their weapons, and their enemies. He hit his hammer hard on the deck, breathing deep and humming as he closed his eyes in the middle of the siege. He felt the hopelessness of fighting these odds much longer, and the need for something. He had faith beyond faith, and he let his mind and heart reach outside himself, asking for Gods help, his mercy, and strength. His mind dove into deep focus for but a moment, feeling Vundren, the father of his fathers. Zen spoke his name under his breath, and touched his Hammerpiece symbol, then picked up his warhammer as he opened his eyes. Making his peace, he was ready to fight to the death with his friends.

He looked at his men, some dying, but then they stood up next to him, wounds healing, and stared in astonishment. The same look that the dwarf gave them, as six, then eight, then twenty men stood from the bloody deck. Their cuts gone, like they never were, and they picked up their swords and charged back into battle with their leader on the main deck of the ship. Eyes of the slaves agaze at the small wonder, seeing the near dead and dying stand anew to fight once more. Azenairk looked at the blades of his men, seeing a slight metallic sheen and sparkle to them, something not there before. Maybe thirty of his men, over half that still lived, had an unexplained glow about their weapons if one were to look. And the priest looked hard, seeing the parries cut the enemy blades clean through. Their attacks sliced through any armor or shield, the weapons of his men moved a little faster, struck surer, and seemed sharper than possible. Many dead sailors remained still, yet the ones who seemed healed had an inspired look to their eyes that Zen could not deny, it was not there before.

The first plank collapsed, split in half by a jagged rock that passed by in the few feet between the ships. Its jagged spike of rough brown stone jutting out of the sea some twenty feet high. The rock split every rope, every hooked ladder, and almost every plank that connected the ships together. More than forty slaves fell into the Carisian and many Altestani soldiers as well. Azenairk’s men let out a battle cry, diving into the fray again, with healed wounds, new life, and glistening blades. The dwarf lowered his head, and charged in with them, smiling for small miracles. “
Thank you father
!”

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“Master Kalzarius, they are
not
going to make it! What should we do?” Cilano turned to the old wizard, having seen enough of the massive ship driving the smaller galleon toward the coast and waging war upon her with such numbers.

“Patience my student, patience. Did you see the rock?” Kalzarius was smiling, yet knew they were still over half a mile out and turning west and away from them.

“Yes, but what does a
simple jagged rock
have to do with the fact they are outmatched?” the younger wizard seemed frustrated.

“I have been in this city for eighty one years my friend, and there is no jagged outcropping in the bay. Never has been,
until just now
.” Kalzarius smiled wider, watching Gwenneth from afar, throwing spell after arcane energy back and forth with her adversary high in the air, still far out of his reach in any event.

“I do not sense any arcane magic coming from the rock,
so what is it
?” Cilano concentrated his arcane senses out far into the waters, the rock was natural.

The master wizard turned to his pupil of many years, “I do not know, and that is why I have hope and patience. There is something else helping them, or
someone
.”

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His horns buried deep in the chest, snorting as he felt another sword blade cut his back. The minotaur whipped his neck around, hurling his dying enemy’s body across several others, all scattering from the raging beast. Yet another steel slash from a brave northern soldier cut his gray flesh from the rear. He turned, greataxe dripping from both edges, and the elegant shamshir had bits of dark hair with the crimson coated blade. The two fearless Altestani men marched in, having cut him twice, their confidence was high. Saberrak stared, unnerving one of the five remaining men of the original twenty or more. The lunges began, and he stood still, waiting till they were within reach. They circled him, poking with the tips of their curved weapons, feigning to slash, but stepping back. They were close now, his back and arms bleeding from many cuts, only fueling his focus and anger. He looked at the chest of each one, the white loose shirts over chain armor, the white turbans, and the black flying dragon design on their strange uniforms. His hate brewed, his knuckles tightened, and he smelled the blood on the deck, and all over himself, wanting more.

In their native tongue, they yelled to each other, waving and teasing with swords, then Saberrak noticed their feet, the boots pointing in and pivoting slightly, giving away their timing. He pulled his weapons in close to his chest, then flung the as hard as he could throw, end over end to his sides. The greataxe buried in the chest of the soldier on his right, sending him back, hitting the rail of the ship as he landed dead. The curved sword hit low, piercing through a cracking of pelvic bone, and protruding all the way to the crosspiece, the scream in any language would have sent chills to anyone but Saberrak. He lowered his horns as if to charge the one in front, then turned as the sword came at his head, parrying the attack with his horns and lifting the Altestani man by the throat. The gray gladiator squeezed as he turned to face the two behind him, squeezed until blood ran from every hole above the neck, and then the sound of flesh and bone crushing. The nostrils poured, his ears ran red, his gargled mouth open and crimson drained onto his chest, blood even dripped from his bulging eyes. The soldiers stood, not ten feet away, horrified, and ran to the lower deck, screaming something that the horned warrior assumed were cries for reinforcements.