Chris Pierson - Spirit of the Wind

“You have both fought well,” he said. “But there can be only one victor, and so I say-”

“It seems an awful waste,” said a mocking voice from beyond the fire. “To kill one of our best for sport, when he could be fighting the kender instead.”

At once the crowd’s attention left Lord Ruog, shifting to the one who had spoken. Ruog glowered as an ogre wearing a homed helm stepped around the fire, striding forward to stand beside Grul.

“Kurthak,” Ruog spat. “So you’ve returned to us, have you, coward?”

The circle of warlords tightened around the fire, muttering darkly.

“I am no coward, my lord,” Kurthak said confidently. “But you are a considerable fool.”

The hetman’s scarred face grew very dark. His hand went to the haft of the great axe he wore on his belt, but he did not draw it yet. The warlords hung back, watching this surprising new confrontation as intently as they had watched the wrestlers.

“I don’t think I heard you,” Ruog growled. “It sounded as if you just insulted me-and without your dog of a champion beside you, even.”

Kurthak smiled unpleasantly. “Tragor,” he said.

Holding his great sword ready, Tragor strode into the circle of firelight. Seeing the cruel glint in his eyes, the warlords parted to let him through. Kurthak’s champion strode forward to stand beside his master. His blade flashed red in the firelight.

“Good dog,” Kurthak said. Tragor grinned.

Ruog grew even more livid than before. “I should have the both of you drawn and quartered. First you show mercy to your officers, then you abandon your war band to flee back into our homeland.”

“We didn’t flee,” Tragor snarled. His sword quivered in his hands, but Kurthak, who held no weapon, laid a steadying hand on his arm.

“My champion speaks truly,” Kurthak said, his good eye still on the hetman. “We went east, yes, but at the behest of one who would be our ally. I have made a pact with Malystryx the Red.”

The warlords all started shouting at once-some in rage, others in excitement.

“Silence!” Ruog bellowed, spittle flying from his lips. Reluctantly, the warlords fell still. “You cannot make pacts for this horde, Black-Gazer! Only the hetman may do so!” He thumped his chest soundly.

“Yes,” Kurthak agreed. “That is so. And that is why I intend to replace you as hetman.”

The stillness that settled over the crowd was almost eerie, disturbed only by the crackling of the fire. Kurthak looked up at Ruog, his face maddeningly calm. The warlords glanced at each other, not knowing what to do.

Ruog seethed for a moment, then looked toward Grul and nodded once. With a howl, the wrestler spun and swung his firebrand at Kurthak’s head.

Kurthak moved so swiftly that to many of the watching warlords it seemed his spiked club appeared in his hand by magic. He brought the weapon up to block Grul’s attack. Wood cracked against wood, loud as a thunderclap, and the firebrand shattered in a burst of flaming splinters.

Baloth stirred as Grul stared stupidly at the stump of charred, broken wood in his injured hand. Still dazed from his beating, he lurched up and struck Grul from behind. Before Grul knew what hit him, Baloth seized his shaggy head and twisted, breaking his neck.

Most of the warlords hung back, unwilling to enter the fray. Still, half a dozen of Ruog’s staunchest followers surged toward the melee by the fire, screaming of treason. Tragor fell upon these attackers, his sword flashing. Blood washed the dusty ground as he cut the first two down with a single stroke, then charged the others with berserk fury.

Ruog bellowed for his guards. No one answered his call. “You great idiot,” Kurthak sneered, striding toward the dais. “Do you think I would challenge you without dealing with your guards first? Most were easy to bribe. Tragor took care of the rest.”

His temper finally snapping, Ruog yanked the war axe from his belt. He leapt down from the dais, swinging a mighty two-handed blow. Kurthak blocked it, the head of the axe notching the thick wood of his club. He shoved Ruog back, then lashed out himself. Ruog batted the attack aside with his own weapon.

Behind them, Tragor cut down a third warlord, then drove his sword through the belly of a fourth. He dodged a spear thrust, then yanked his blade free and stood ready, facing his last two opponents.

“I’ll tear out your heart!” Ruog bellowed at Kurthak as axe met club again and again. “I’ll rip it from your chest and eat it while it still beats in my hand!”

One of Tragor ‘s foes swung a wicked, sickle-bladed sword, scoring a cut across the champion’s chest. Dark blood welled from the gash as Tragor returned the blow, slicing off the top of his assailant’s head. The warlord stubbornly remained on his feet for a moments, blinking stupidly, before he toppled over sideways into the fire. A blossom of cinders erupted from the blaze.

By the dais, Kurthak ducked a clumsy swing, then lashed out at Ruog’s legs. The hetman’s iron greaves turned the blow aside, however, and Ruog’s next attack nicked Kurthak’s shoulder.

Tragor’s last opponent swung a knobbed mace in both hands. Wounded, Tragor backed away from the whistling weapon, parrying only the blows he couldn’t dodge. Laughing, the warlord drove him away from Kurthak and Ruog, so when Kurthak stumbled at last beneath the hetman’s whirling axe, Tragor was too far away to help.

At that moment, Kurthak did something very strange. Reaching to his belt, he drew out a dagger as long as his arm and threw it behind him. It landed next to Grul’s limp body.

As Kurthak tossed the knife, Ruog kicked him solidly in the belly. A great whoosh of air escaped the Black-Gazer’s lungs, and he dropped his club as he fell. Roaring with triumphant laughter, Ruog loomed above his writhing, winded foe, and brought up his axe.

A shriek tore the air. Baloth, who had been watching the fight from beside Grul’s corpse, scooped up the dagger Kurthak had thrown. Then he hurled himself at Ruog, who had been a heartbeat away from ordering his death only a minute before.

Ruog could only gape in bewilderment as the hairless ogre leapt upon him and drove the knife into his throat. They fell in a tangle, the axe forgotten, and Baloth stabbed Ruog again and again, until his arms were black with blood.

The warlords watched in mute shock. On the other side of the fire, Tragor’s opponent glanced at the dais in astonishment. Tragor put five feet of steel through his chest.

By the time Kurthak and Tragor dragged Baloth off him, Lord Ruog was unrecognizable. Baloth stared at Kurthak a moment, his eyes wild, then came to himself, dropping to one knee. He extended the gore-caked dagger, hilt-first, toward the Black-Gazer.

“My lord,” he said.

Kurthak took the knife, grinned quickly at Tragor, then strode to the dais and sat upon the crude throne that had, until now, belonged to Lord Ruog.

“Hail the new hetman!” Tragor bellowed, kneeling beside Baloth.

One by one, the gathered warlords followed his example, until every ogre around the great, roaring fire knelt before Lord Kurthak the Black-Gazer.

Brightdawn stumbled sideways, grabbing the railing before her to keep from losing her footing on the ship’s pitching deck. Salt spray, surprisingly cold, splashed her as Brinestrider descended into a trough between waves. By the time it started to climb the next swell, Swiftraven was at her side, touching her arm with a steadying hand. With an embarrassed smile, she let him help her regain her balance.

“Lean on me, if you will,” he offered.

She did, clutching his arm as the ship rolled under their feet.