David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

“Well, now,” said Candry. “Looks like the hunchback done got mad. He’s turnin’ red like a beet!”

The men laughed again. Patrick smiled back, letting his blood boil, his anger giving him newfound courage. Diving to the side, he let the tall grass swallow him and cushion his fall. Swiping his hands from side to side, he searched for what he knew had to be there. When his fingers touched the leather he let out a gasp of relief. It was the saddle, and Winterbone was still secured to it.

“He’s gettin’ away!” one of the men yelled.

No I’m not , thought Patrick as he grabbed Winterbone’s handle, undid the clasp, and slid the blade from its scabbard. The sound it made, the unnatural hiss that had fascinated him for so long, seemed to silence the bandits. Rising to his feet, a smile still on his face, he let them see the death in his eyes. His voice filled the sudden quiet, a beastly cry fueled by his pounding heart. He churned his short legs, emerging from the grass like a sea beast leaping from the ocean to nab its prey, the heavy broadsword raised high above his head.

The men were wide-eyed, stunned, but when Patrick swung the blade, Candry raised his own sword. The two met with a loud clang . A vibration shot up Patrick’s forearms, numbing his fingers, jarring his elbows, and making his shoulders strain. Candry used that opening to shove him away. Patrick stumbled, his uneven legs wobbly on the dirt-strewn road.

“Hunchy’s got a big sword,” one of the other men said. Candry didn’t answer. Nessa watched in quiet horror as the lead brigand narrowed his eyes and brought his sword to bear.

Patrick knew it was hopeless. He had no business taking on seven challengers. Though he’d owned Winterbone for years, he had never swung the sword in battle-not even the practice kind. Who in the west would he have practiced with? The most he had ever done was rehearse his balancing act and occasionally hack at a few dying trees in the garden behind the Homestead as a way of letting off steam. However strong he might be-and Patrick was indeed strong-he was comically overmatched in a swordfight. Hand to hand, sans weapons, he might have stood a chance. But with blades? He didn’t have the speed to block and counter, didn’t have a feel for the blade like the nasty ruffian before him did.

But none of that would stop him. Hopeless or not, that was Nessa they held captive. He’d often pined for death. At least now he’d have a chance to take it with some measure of dignity.

Candry grunted and rushed forward, holding his sword in one hand. The sword itself, with its pale blade and gnarled wooden pommel, was nothing compared to Winterbone, but its cutting edge was no less dangerous. Candry brought it down in a sideways arc, his feet balanced evenly, his opposite arm serving as a counterbalance. In a surprising feat of strength, Patrick hefted Winterbone with a single sore arm. The blades met, stopping the swipe before it beheaded him. Patrick ground his misshapen teeth and fought through the pain. Candry staggered back from the recoil, staring at his sword, which now had a rather large chip where the two blades had clashed.

A combined roar sounded as the rest of Candry’s men rushed Patrick, leaving Nessa where she lay. Patrick panicked, about to be overwhelmed with their killing blades and murderous eyes. His mind spun in confusion. He didn’t know what to do, how to defend himself. He acted on pure instinct, whipping Winterbone at the first attacker, then driving his stunted leg at the second. The sound of clashing steel rang through the air as his boot connected with the soft flesh of someone’s groin. Two screams filled his ears, screams he echoed when he felt a great white heat invade his body.

Patrick glanced down to see the tip of a sword protruding from the fleshy part of his side. The tip withdrew, and a shower of crimson squirted from the wound. Blood began drenching his tunic, and he heard someone exclaim, “I got ’im!”

Patrick whirled around, gripping Winterbone tightly with both hands, swinging it as he would a heavy sack of meal in with the childhood games he had played with Bardiya. Patrick had always won then, anyway. The tip of the blade clipped the man behind him, sending him backpedaling. Patrick kept up his spin, the long sword creating a wide, lethal circle around him. One of the men got too close, and Winterbone sheared through his belly. Patrick kept right on spinning, thinking maybe this method-crazy though it was-could work. The bandits still continued to rush him, and he heard another cry of pain as one of the men fell to his knees, his intestines spilling across the dusty road. Patrick was so dizzy he could barely register what he was seeing, nevermind understand the man’s dying moans.

Suddenly someone slipped beneath the circle of razing steel, taking out Patrick’s legs. He continued to twirl even as he fell, and panic took him completely as Winterbone flew from his grasp and disappeared into the grass once more. Patrick hit the ground hard, and he heard what sounded like cracking bone. He teetered on his side, his vision swimming, his legs in agony.

The one who’d tripped him jumped atop him, and before he could react, blows began to land hard on his face, without rest. There was another piercing stab, this time on his massive forearm, and he snapped his arm up and away from the sensation, clobbering his attacker on the side of the head in the process. For a moment he could breath again. Salty liquid dripped over his distended brow, down his cheeks, and into his mouth. He sucked on it while he rolled over and tried to stand.

While braced on one knee, his knuckles plunged into the ground for balance, Patrick’s vision finally stopped swirling. Six men were standing now. Many of them were bleeding. The one he’d killed lay atop his bloody heap of insides a few feet away. They were furious now, shouting at one another. Patrick frantically scanned left and right, but found no trace of Nessa.

Thank Ashhur , he thought. Let her get away from here; let her escape back home. I don’t care if I die, as long as she remains safe.…

One man went to charge, but Candry held him back, obviously wanting to finish Patrick off himself. When Candry snarled and reared back with his sword arm, Patrick closed his eyes, prepared for the strike to come, prepared for an end to his never-ending life. It never came. Instead, several people screamed at once, followed by a strange sluicing sound and the ringing of steel on steel.

Patrick opened his eyes to see three human shadows bouncing around the group of bandits, moving so quickly their bodies were mere blurs beneath the afternoon sun. One bandit after another was taken down, their bodies geysers of blood. Candry hopped around in a circle as his men fell around him, thrusting and hacking with his sword, never able to make contact. When all his men were dead, he flung his sword aside and tried to flee. He received two sabers through the chest for his troubles. He collapsed to the road and bled out, a pathetic moan piercing his lips.

Patrick gawked at the scene in wonder, incapable of understanding what was happening.

“All is fine, you can come out now,” said an unfamiliar feminine voice. Patrick watched as Nessa emerged from the grass on the other side of the road, dirty and frightened, but very much alive. Her eyes met his, and she gasped. Tears filled his eyes, and he wished he could tell her how happy he was that she was safe.

One of the shadows approached Nessa, wrapping an arm around her and leading her away, while the other two cautiously approached him. They held out their hands as if he were a wild beast they should be wary of, which he found amusing. The throbbing behind his temples, mixed with his body’s violent aches and various stab wounds, left him equipped for little more than lying on the ground and bleeding. He couldn’t have hurt anyone if he wanted to.