Jean Rabe - The Day of the Tempest

Ulin added to the threat. The younger sorcerer was directing all of his waning energy at the embers in the campfire. The pieces of wood, hot as coals, rose under his command and streaked toward the men. His fingers pointed out targets, and the coals unerringly obeyed. Ulin could barely maintain consciousness. He knew he was losing a considerable amount of blood.

Feril crouched as two arrows cut through the air only a few inches above her head. She reached into the pouch at her side, dropped to all fours, then rolled as another barrage of arrows shot by. She sprang to her feet and stumbled toward Dhamon in time to see him carve through another knight and take a step closer to the subcommander.

“We can end this!” Dhamon called. “You’ve six men left. Six—and you! With one word you can end this. Let them live.”

“Surrender?” Gistere asked. He raised his buckler and again felt the presence of Malystryx’s mind. The dragon hissed that giving up was not an option. She did not want her knights caught and questioned within another dragon’s realm—better that they die if necessary—even Gistere. The subcommander waved to four of his surviving knights, ordering them to charge. “I want them alive!” Gistere bellowed.

One knight continued sparring with Gilthanas as the other dashed toward Palin. Feril glanced around, concerned about Dhamon, but more worried about Palin, who was weaponless and too spent to cast another spell. She rushed toward the sorcerer.

In that instant, a howl cut through the clearing. Fury raced down the road and into the campsite, a mass of flying red fur that slammed into the knight attacking Palin. Palin grabbed up his son’s staff, and the wolf fell to tearing out the throat of the fallen knight.

A few feet away, Dhamon drew his lips into a snarl and gripped the glaive tighter, swinging it in a tight arc to keep four knights at bay. One tried to leap past the weapon, but Dhamon kicked forward, his foot landing hard against the knight’s mailed abdomen. The glowing blue edge of the glaive sang through the air as he raised the weapon and brought it down on the man’s shoulder, slicing halfway into the knight’s chest. The glaive came effortlessly free, and Dhamon swung at a second knight who had dared to inch closer. The edge cut through the man’s sword and continued its deadly path, quickly dispatching him.

Dhamon faced only two knights now, and both gave him an increasingly respectful distance. They circled him, looking for an opening. They were constantly stymied as he continued to pace them and use his glaive to keep them at bay.

When the knight fighting Gilthanas risked a glance toward the others, the Qualinesti swept in, striking the knight’s gloved hand with his cutlass. The long sword flew free, and the knight was forced to retreat a step. Gilthanas motioned with his head, nodding toward the trail that continued on the opposite side of the clearing. “I’d get out of here if I were you ” he whispered.

The knight glanced at his subcommander.

“I won’t offer again,” the Qualinesti said.

The knight backed up another few steps, keeping a wary eye on Gilthanas. Then he spun on his heels and dashed away. Gilthanas saw Palin kneeling by his son. The Kagonesti was speaking to the Majeres, hovering over them, but her words were too soft for Gilthanas to hear.

The elf turned his attention to Dhamon. He had cleaved through another knight, and the remaining one had dropped his sword and was begging for mercy. The subcommander snarled “coward” at his man as he brushed by, extended his weapon, and offered a mock salute to Dhamon. “Barbarian, I will take you alive. Although you may lose a few limbs in the process.”

“I’ll not be bested by the likes of you,” Dhamon returned, as he stepped forward to meet the man.

Gistere was nimble, despite his heavy mail, and he effortlessly dodged Dhamon’s first several swings. He darted in close, inside the blade of the glaive, and thrust at Dhamon’s already wounded leg. Gistere’s sword managed to graze the leg, and swinging again and again he forced Dhamon to retreat.

“You’re good ” Dhamon observed, as he took a defensive stance, “but I have the better weapon.”

“But I am the better weaponmaster,” Gistere sneered. The subcommander sprang forward, leaping over the path of the glaive as Dhamon swung it too low. Gistere landed next to the man and raised his sword high, bringing it down, pommel first, on Dhamon’s shoulder.

Dhamon fell to his knees. The blow was almost impossibly strong and was followed by another of equal force. The air rushed from Dhamon’s lungs and he scuttled away, gripping his weapon. “No!” he shouted to Gilthanas, who was coming forward to help him. “This fight’s mine.”

Gistere smiled, stepping closer. The strength in his arms and legs were a gift from Malystryx. He hadn’t yet worked up a sweat, though his opponent had. His body was soaked with sweat—wherever it wasn’t soaked with blood. “It will be a short fight, I think,” he said as he stroked down with his blade.

But Dhamon leapt to his feet at the last moment, spun his weapon, and brought the glaive’s edge up. It cut through the subcommander’s sword and continued toward the man’s mailed chest. The glaive’s keen edge parted the black links as if they were cloth, then struck the red breastplate beneath. It sank no deeper, but bounced off.

Gistere pushed off against the ground, vaulted over Dhamon and rushed toward the body of one of his men. There the subcommander snatched up a fallen sword, and turned just in time to see a flash of silver descend toward him.

Dhamon had spun as fast as the knight, wielding his weapon in the widest arc he could swing. Now the edge of the blade cut into Gistere’s stomach, just below the red breastplate.

The subcommander’s fingers released their grip on his sword and flew to his wound. Blood flowed over his hand, as he dropped to His knees. You have failed me, Subcommander Rurak Gistere, Malys hissed inside his head.

“Not yet!” he shouted. Then he felt a rush of dizziness, and his legs began to tremble. Gistere fell to his back, felt his throat filling with blood.

Dhamon was at the subcommander’s side. He knelt, trying to listen to something the man was trying to say.

“My mail” Gistere breathed, “please, off” He coughed and blood ran over his lower lip. Dhamon pulled the man to a sitting position and tugged the shredded chain shirt free. Gleaming on his muscular chest was a red scale.

Gilthanas had come over, curious at what was transpiring. “What is this?” the elf asked, pointing at the scale.

Feril joined them, and her breath caught at the sight of Dhamon. He looked like an animal, practically naked, his hair a snarled mass. Singlehandedly he had slaughtered more than half of the knights. Fury, his muzzle dripping with blood, padded to her side and sniffed at Dhamon.

As the subcommander’s lips moved, Dhamon bent closer, putting his ear next to the dying man’s mouth. Gistere’s fingers found the edges of the scale, dug in, and with the last bit of strength he could summon, he dug it loose.

Gistere screamed as he tore it free. His fingers burned like his chest had stung when Malystryx placed it on him. Dhamon cradled the man and stared at his chest, at the bloody indentation that remained, and at the scale he clutched.

“You can’t hope to win,” the subcommander gasped. He felt Malystryx’s mind drift from his, and he suddenly felt very cold. He shivered and gazed into Dhamon’s eyes. “You don’t know what you’re up against.” A smile formed on his lips, and he slapped the scale against Dhamon’s bare thigh. “Take it off, and die like me.”

The scale instantly adhered to Dhamon’s flesh, wrapping around his leg like a second skin and searing the former knight as if he’d been branded. Dhamon moaned as a jolt of heat shot from the scale and through his entire body, making his throat tight and dry. He fell back, releasing the knight and clawing at the dirt. The pain continued to race through him, waves of agony that surged in time with his heart. He writhed on the ground.