David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

It was all very frustrating-never mind frightening-for Ceredon. His family had been guests of Lord Thyne, but they’d betrayed their hosts during the celebration of their son’s betrothal.

“Dark times are upon us,” had been his father’s only explanation. “And we must choose sides wisely.”

It was a justification Ceredon did not accept.

One of the defenders tripped, and when he slowed to regain his balance, his pursuer caught him from behind. The elf howled in pain as a wicked blade pierced his chest. The stabber was a ranger of the Quellan Ekreissar-his hair was knotted atop his head in the Ekreissarian tradition, and he was wearing the green- and brown-dyed attire of that order. The bloody khandar withdrew with a wet slop , and when the elf fell, the ranger stomped on his head, bringing an end to his pleas by crushing his skull. The ranger’s head came up as he scanned the forest in the direction where the others had escaped.

Ceredon snuck toward him, nearly soundless as his feet skated over the bed of nettles and fallen leaves that coated the forest floor. The ranger, whose ears were as highly attuned as his own, spun around upon hearing his approach, khandar held high. The elf’s eyes narrowed when he saw who approached, and he visibly relaxed.

“Master Ceredon, I thought you were ahead of us,” he said. He bowed his head in respect.

In one swift motion Ceredon snatched the ranger by the front of his leather tunic and drove upward with his own sword. The blade pierced the elf’s belly, and Ceredon shoved it in beneath his ribcage. The ranger’s eyes bulged from his sockets as Ceredon pushed up, up, up, until the hilt touched his flesh and blood spilled over his lips. Ceredon spun him around, avoiding the cutting edge of the khandar that protruded from his back, and clamped his hand over his mouth. He then guided the convulsing elf to the ground. In a matter of moments, the ranger stopped moving altogether.

Tearing his sword from the dead elf’s flesh, Ceredon ran after the remaining four combatants. The clang of swordplay echoed throughout the darkened forest.

The two pairs battled it out on either side of a wide maple tree. The one on the left seemed to be faltering faster, so Ceredon ran in that direction. The ranger hacked down with his khandar, driving the rebel to his knees and shattering his sword. Just as the ranger lifted his sword to land the finishing blow, Ceredon took a deep breath and swung. An audible swish sounded just before his khandar pierced the back of the ranger’s neck. The blade sunk in until it hit the elf’s spine. The vibration shook Ceredon’s hand from the hilt. He splayed out his fingers as he pitched forward, leaping over the prone rebel.

The ranger gurgled blood, his body going limp. The rebel scooted out of the way, and then his eyes turned to Ceredon. They shimmered, even in the sparse moonlight. Before he could say a word, Ceredon put a finger to his lips and shushed him. Grabbing the dead ranger’s khandar, Ceredon slipped around the maple to where the final two elves battled.

The last rebel was in horrible shape, bleeding all over, half of his left forearm dangling by a thread. Yet he fought on, parrying each block he could, going so far as to slam his attacker on the side of the head with his flopping, half-severed arm. The blood loss had obviously made him weak, and one solid strike sent the khandar tumbling from his hand. The final ranger, Teradon, the biggest of the three and the only one Ceredon knew by name, grunted in anger and reared back, preparing to drive his sword into the haggard elf’s belly.

“Stop!” Ceredon shouted.

Teradon, taken off guard by the sudden cry, stumbled as he thrust forward. He collided with the maimed elf, and they both careened to the ground and rolled around, arms flailing. Ceredon ran up to them and tried to grab the ranger by his tunic and pull him off, but at the last moment Teradon flipped onto his back and threw out his sword arm. He missed slicing Ceredon’s throat by mere inches.

The bloody ranger rose slowly to his feet, twirling his khandar to keep Ceredon at bay.

“Traitor,” he spat through blood-dripping lips. The rebel elf lay dead on the ground, the hilt of a dagger protruding from his mouth. Ceredon grimaced and bounced on his feet, ready for the much bigger Teradon to make the first move. He remembered his fight with the human Joseph Crestwell at the Tournament of Betrothal, which felt like ages ago. If not for the human purposefully throwing the match, Ceredon would have been bested. He’d taken Joseph lightly, allowing carelessness and impatience to override his speed and skill.

He would not make that mistake again.

Dancing to the side, he jabbed with short, quick thrusts, pushing Teradon into a constant defense. The ranger grunted, his breathing labored, as his huge khandar struggled to match Ceredon’s much faster strikes. Ceredon was a blur in the forest’s near darkness, landing tiny cut after tiny cut on his opponent’s wrists, forearms, and sides. If he kept this up, Teradon would eventually bleed out.

The ranger had a different idea. He made a massive head swipe with his sword, forcing Ceredon to duck beneath the swing, and then rushed headlong into him, accepting Ceredon’s khandar as it pierced his side. They plunged to the ground, the larger elf on top, landing blow after blow with his meaty fists. Ceredon, the wind knocked from his lungs, did all he could to avoid being struck with the full brunt of the blows. Yet even glancing strikes took their toll, and his vision began to spin. Teradon’s bloody spittle bathed his face, the raging elf muttering curses beneath his breath.

Teradon leaned back, straddling Ceredon’s chest, his hands clasped together over his head to deliver the final deathblow. It was then that his left eye exploded, splattering clear liquid all over Ceredon. The shaft that had obliterated his eye protruded from the socket like a post in a lake of red, the arrowhead dripping gore. Teradon’s expression was one of dumb shock as his fingers clutched the shaft, and then he collapsed.

Ceredon helped his descent, shoving the large elf off him. He lay there panting for a moment, relieved to be free of the oppressive weight on his chest. When he finally gathered the strength to sit up, he found the lone surviving rebel kneeling by the base of a maple tree, an arrow nocked and pointed at him.

“I won’t hurt you,” Ceredon said, struggling to his feet.

“Of course you won’t,” said the rebel. “I could pierce your heart in a second if I so wished. Now stay still.”

There was confidence in the elf’s voice, but Ceredon also heard fear there. He ignored the rebel and bent over, picking up his sword.

“Nice shot,” he said, kicking Teradon’s corpse. “You saved my life, and for that I thank you.” He turned to the rebel and glared. “Should you not be saying the same to me?”

The rebel’s mouth opened, then closed. His steady aim wavered ever so slightly.

Ceredon shook his head, sheathed his khandar, and walked toward the rebel that had been killed by Teradon. He knew without looking that the survivor watched his every movement, but he didn’t acknowledge him. Instead, he knelt beside the body, ripped the dagger from its mouth with a spray of red spittle, and proceeded to saw away at the dead rebel’s neck.

“What are you doing?” asked the elf, keeping his voice a harsh whisper. “Leave him alone.”

“Shut your mouth,” Ceredon retorted, casting a glance over his shoulder, the gravity of which stopped the rebel cold. “I do what I must.”

“But-”

“But nothing. Had I not stumbled upon you, you would have shared your friend’s fate.” The dagger finally did its job, and the head of the dead elf tore away from its body. When Ceredon gripped it by the hair and lifted it, a small bit of spine dangled from the severed flesh of the neck.