David Farland - Sons of the Oak

Water lapped softly at the sides of the boat, but the river here was swift; it burbled among the rocks and hissed through the canyon. Perhaps the small sounds of their passage were masked by the larger waves lapping the shore.

Rhianna’s gut ached from her wound. As they neared the strengi-saat, the terror that she felt of the monster, the fear that it would violate her again and try to fill her with its children, was overwhelming. She bit down, clenching her jaw, afraid that if she did not, the beast would hear her teeth chatter, or that she would let out a scream, and she realized that her hand was clenching her dirk so hard that it ached.

And suddenly, there was a movement from the boat. Hadissa, the dark-skinned little man from Indhopal, silently rose to his feet, cocked an arm, and let something fly. A dagger flashed end over end, and lodged into the head of the monster, striking deep into its tympanum with a solid thunk.

The strengi-saat gave a startled cry, almost a whine, and leapt forward, lunging into water up to its chest. There its head sank beneath the waves, and it thrashed about, kicking with its back legs.

Without warning, a second shadow dropped from the woods, arced toward the spot, and landed without a sound on the riverbank.

It cocked its head, then lunged out over the water, not a dozen feet in the air.

As it neared the boat, Hadissa made a fantastic leap, launching himself at the monster. He had numerous endowments of brawn and grace, and he seemed almost to fly up into the air to meet the beast.

His scimitar sang from its sheath, and the strengi-saat gave a bark of astonishment.

At the last instant, it must have seen its foe. It raised a claw.

With a vicious swipe of the sword, Hadissa struck. There was a crack of metal as his sword shattered against the strengi-saat’s bony claw.

The strengi-saat dropped, crashing onto the boat, which rocked wildly. The children cried out in terror, fearing that they would capsize. The beast raised its head and snarled, a deep roar, as Myrrima spun and swung a pole, cracking it over the monster’s head.

Rhianna heard a thump and a splash as Hadissa hit first the side of the boat, then water.

There were thuds on the boat planks as Borenson rushed to attack, but in that instant, the strengi-saat’s nostrils flared and it lunged toward the opening in the boxes, its mouth wide, as if to take Rhianna in its teeth.

But Rhianna had a secret of her own. When she was a child of five, her father’s men had been sent to hunt her. In an effort to disguise her, Rhianna’s mother had given her a single endowment of metabolism, taken from a whippet.

Thus, over the years, Rhianna had aged at double speed. Though she had only been born nine years ago, she looked like a girl of thirteen-and she could move with blinding speed.

In stark terror, Rhianna twisted away from the strengi-saat, and the pain of the stitches in her belly flared as she swung her dirk, burying it up to the finger guard into the monster’s tympanum.

Rhianna’s mother had once told her that if you ever needed to stab something, that you should never settle for one blow, but to keep striking again and again.

So her hand blurred as she buried the dagger into the monster again, again, again. And suddenly she realized that Fallion had lunged forward and was plunging his own long knife into the tympanum on the strengi-saat’s other side. The strengi-saat was lunging toward her, trying to take her in its mouth, and distantly she became aware of Fallion shouting, “Get away from her! Get away!”

Fallion edged his body between Rhianna and the monster. He was simultaneously trying to drive it off and to defend her, as he’d sworn.

So few people had ever kept their word to Rhianna that she stopped to stare at Fallion, her mouth falling open with a little startled “Oh!”

The creature cried out, appearing astonished at Fallion’s ferocious assault, wrenched back, and then Borenson was on it, burying his warhammer into its back.

The beast sprung into the air, flung itself backward over the boat, and then lay splashing in the water.

Rhianna crouched, hot blood dripping onto her hand, her heart pounding so hard that she was afraid that she would die. She gaped at Fallion, who grinned wickedly and wiped his blade clean on his tunic.

Mist came to Rhianna’s eyes as she peered at him.

Here is someone I can trust, she told herself.

Hadissa suddenly pulled himself over the gunwales, and plopped in a sopping heap in the bottom of the boat. The boat rocked just a little. Then he stood, crouching like a dancer, waiting to see if more of the monsters would come.

Myrrima took an oar and righted the boat. There was a roar of rapids ahead, and she aimed the boat toward a dark V of water. No one spoke. Everyone listened. Only the wind hissed through the branches of the pines.

Rhianna reached down, felt her stomach to make sure that she hadn’t ripped her stitches open. When she found a warm dot of blood, she pushed herself to the back of the shelter and tried to hold still.

Don’t sleep, she told herself. Don’t let yourself sleep. Sleeping is stupid. People die when they let themselves get caught asleep.

But she dared to close her eyes.

Fallion is watching for me, she told herself.

Asgaroth had hardly escaped into the woods when Chancellor Waggit brought his mounted troops onto the commons, just inside Castle Coorm. He knew that he would have to break the siege and send men into the woods to hunt Asgaroth’s troops. But he dared not have his men charge into the darkness, and so he waited for dawn, a dawn that refused to come.

Instead, thick clouds drew across the heavens, like a slab of gray slate, blotting out the light. Sodden curtains of rain began to fall, adding to the gloom.

When dawn came, it seemed almost as dark as midnight, and the field was too muddy for the horses to make a safe charge.

But Waggit had no choice. He had to act soon. So he left three hundred men to guard the castle walls, and let the drawbridge fall amid the rattle of chains and the groaning of hinges.

Then a thousand lancers rode out in an ordered line, the horses walking slowly, followed by two thousand archers with their steel bows.

The air was thick with water. It caught in the lungs and ran down the back of one’s throat.

Sounds became elusive. The creaking of leather, the plod of horses’ hooves, muffled coughs, the soft clanking of oiled armor beneath surcoats- all such sounds seemed to become elusive, like rabbits leaping through the brush from the beagles, their white tails flashing as they dodged through tufts of gorse.

And so the lancers took to the gray field, and the archers marched out behind them.

Off in the distance, up the gentle rolling hills of the village, warhorns blew, and through a curtain of rain Waggit could make out the shadows of men flitting away from stone cottages, racing behind high hedges toward the woods.

Waggit chuckled. Asgaroth’s men had no stomach for a fight, he could see. They would make a hunt of it, their men fading into the trees and sniping with arrows from thickets where the horses could not charge.

There would be no easy way to get to them. The sodden weather wouldn’t allow him to put fire to the woods.

So, he told himself, we’ll hunt them, man to man.

Waggit suspected that his men outnumbered Asgaroth’s, but he couldn’t be certain.

He’d see their number soon enough.

He raised his horn to his lips. It was an ancient thing; the ebony mouthpiece smelled of lacquer, sour ale, and the previous owner’s rotting teeth. He blew with his might, a long wailing burst that made the horn tremble beneath his palm.