Roland Green - Knights of the Crown

Which made matters no easier for Gerik. He no longer cared much what he learned about anything here on the Crater Gulf. He wanted to flee with what he had already learned, and a dragon turning rogue, uncontrolled even by an evil mage, was a potent barrier to flight.

It was then that the minotaurlike bellow of the guard creature echoed around the walls, bringing everyone to his feet, most weapons to the ready.

* * * * *

Haimya was as surprised as Pirvan to see the stairs up into the tower apparently unguarded. Nor did they encounter any magical protections as they approached the base of the eighty feet of ancient stone. The shadows hid them from casual glances, and almost from each other.

The guard-maid now felt as if a hot stone were lodged in her throat. She could breathe well enough, but swallow only with difficulty. Also, the aches were growing; joints muttered dark protests with each step. Much worse, and she would be more hindrance than help to Pirvan, and she would have to trust him to deal fairly with Gerik-

No, she did trust him. Pirvan was not the problem. Her own doubts and Gerik’s were the problem. So she had to go on, and if it was her last breath that she used to settle matters with her betrothed, then so be it. Her spirit would rest in peace, and his conscience would be clear, and Pirvan-

It was then that the man-shape stepped out from under the stairs, rising to its full height. Seven feet or more, with the stature and shape of an ogre, but a beard more like a dwarf’s, clothing that was of all races and none, and in its hands-

Haimya swallowed. She had never seen one, but no sellsword of her experience failed to study tales of every weapon she might face. Sellsword work sometimes lay far to the south, so there was no dearth of accounts of Frostreavers.

The head was smaller than she had expected, but the bluish sheen was precisely right, and the handle was longer than she was tall. In the hands of that-of Fustiar’s creation, or else of some god so mad that his or her name was never spoken, even by the servants of the Dark Queen-in those vast four-fingered hands, it would be a terrible weapon.

Which made it all the more important to deal with this guard, apparently the only one on the tower, before he could alert the camp. That might bring Gerik; it would certainly bring armed men of whose allegiance there could be no doubt.

“One of us up the stairs, the other wait until our friend follows?” Pirvan suggested. “If the one on top doesn’t go too high, jumping’s safe. Our friend doesn’t look like he can stand much of a fall.”

That meant putting the creature between them, but unless he had eyes in the back of his head or a second weapon, such a situation had its advantages. She prayed briefly that whoever had contrived this being had left out intelligence, then drew her sword.

“Chance for who goes up?” She put her hand around the blade halfway up, Pirvan put his hand above hers, and so they continued. It was Pirvan whose hand ended up, waving in the air.

“Sorry. Always use your own sword for this.”

The bow they’d captured from the first sentry post had an almost dry string and six arrows that probably would fly true, at least to a target the size of the axe wielder. Haimya took those as well as her sword, and whispered a final suggestion to Pirvan.

“If Gerik comes out before me, don’t wait. From on top, I can discourage pursuers with the last arrows, then get out of the tower on the other side.”

This made a number of assumptions that Pirvan did not share, about the likely quality of their opposition. However, this was the wrong time to argue the philosophy of combat.

Haimya slung the bow, crouched like a runner, then sprinted for the stairs. Pirvan was only two paces behind her at first, then let the distance open.

As Haimya’s boots struck the stairs, the creature threw back its head and cried out. The sound seemed flung toward the moons themselves, and echoed around the courtyard and from the stones like the cry of a minotaur impaled or burned alive.

Then Pirvan fell back, drawing his dagger as the creature lumbered around to the base of the stairs. The Frostreaver shimmered-or was it glowing with a light of its own? — then the creature raised it over its head and charged at Pirvan.

Haimya ran up the stairs as fast as Pirvan ran on level ground. This was not quite as remarkable a feat as it might seem, as Pirvan was not running as fast as he could. A few steps were enough to tell him that the axe wielder was somewhat ponderous in its movements. If Pirvan ran full out, he would quickly leave the creature so far behind that it might give up chasing him and follow Haimya up the stairs.

The plan of catching it between the two of them would then become precarious. Their best chance of eliminating it before the rest of the guards rallied to the tower or Fustiar awoke from besotted slumber to blast them with magic depended on that plan; its going awry would be no small matter.

Pirvan ran around under the stairs and ducked through the uprights. He hoped the creature would run full-tilt into the uprights, which were roughly dressed tree trunks, hard enough to knock itself senseless, without knocking down the stairs.

The creature was neither that swift nor that witless. It stopped well short of the collision, turned back to the stairs, and began to climb.

Fortunately the risers of the stairs left plenty of gaps for a shrewd dagger thrust. Pirvan did not even have to stretch far to thrust his steel into the creature’s foot.

His problem lay in doing enough damage to draw its attention. He had to strike three times before the creature even broke stride. Only the fourth thrust, which nearly cut off a toe, inflicted a noticeable injury. The creature leaped off the stairs, brandishing the Frostreaver. It went to its knees, nearly dropping its weapon. It tightened its grip before Pirvan could close and try to snatch up the Frostreaver, however, then lurched to its feet, spun ponderously about, and struck wildly at the thief.

The blow missed Pirvan by the width of a fingernail; he felt the puff of air on his cheek. He leaped aside and backward in one movement, slashing hard at the nearer arm. Only the tip connected, but the creature halted for a moment to shift its grip.

In that moment an arrow sliced down from above and struck the creature in the neck. The arrow hit harder than Pirvan’s dagger, against thinner skin than the creature’s leather-tough soles. It pierced the hairy hide, to reach important blood.

The creature waved the Frostreaver wildly with one hand and clutched at its neck with the other. It weaved and lurched, but did not fall. Instead it flung itself once again at the stairs, taking them two at a time. Now it climbed too fast for Pirvan to run under the stairs and discourage it. After letting it get a few steps ahead of him, beyond the swing of the great axe, he followed it.

He tried to keep that safe distance and at the same time be close enough to strike if the creature faltered. It had to be in pain and weakening, but it showed no signs of faltering or even slowing. Nor did it seem to remember that there might be something dangerous behind it. All its bloodlust was turned entirely on Haimya, who had wounded it. It would let the rest of the world go by until it had settled with her.

Pirvan’s experience was that fighters who forgot to watch their backs frequently did not last very long against skilled opponents. However, there was always such a thing as brute strength and speed doing the work of shrewdness and vigilance. This guard creature with the Frostreaver was one such.

Pirvan had wondered why Fustiar had put the Frostreaver in the hands of such a powerful but unskilled fighter. He now understood that the creature had perhaps been bred with some inborn skills.