David Cook - Beyong the Moons

“There he is!” Teldin heard Vandoorm shout again. With his eyes now adjusted to the lights, the farmer saw Vandoorm pointing at him. Even as he did, the bearded captain shifted slightly and slashed at a baaz impeding his way.

“Fight, stupid baaz!” Trammaz snarled at Teldin. The aurak stood next to the horse he had brought down. The mare was still jerking, futilely trying to stand as the blood ran out of its chest. “Your fault-riders want you. Now fight or I kill you!”

Teldin was caught between the savage aurak and murderous captain. Teldin whirled about with the cutlass in his hand and looked for any immediate threats. Most of the draconians had already fallen or fled. The few that remained were already hard pressed by the riders. Only the aurak, holding off two of the riders, seemed to be getting the upper hand. “Fight here, baaz!” Trammaz ordered, indicating that Teldin was to come to his side.

“The beast is mad,” Vandoorm shouted in amazement. “He wants the farmer to help him!”

Teldin, even while he knew that all around him were enemies, could not bring himself to fight on the draconian s side. Instead, he carefully began backing up, working toward the bushes, where he hoped Gomja still lurked. Teldin held the sword awkwardly, the hilt high near his head.

Trammaz, seeing that Teldin was not coming to its aid, howled in frustration. “Coward baaz!” it shrieked. Catlike eyes gleamed with berserk rage as the aurak hurled itself forward with no care for its own safety, slashing its way toward Vandoorm. Several riders fell before the mercenaries finally brought the raging draconian down.

Teldin was thankful for the aurak’s death fury, for it looked as if he might escape Vandoorm’s men unnoticed. But, just as he was nearing the edge of the bushes, a lance dug into his back. He could feel the hot breath of a horse over his shoulder. “Forward, mule skinner, not back,” the rider instructed, prodding the lance gently to spur Teldin along. With great reluctance, Teldin started back toward Vandoorm.

In the center of the road, the battle was over. The draconians had been defeated, though at a cost to Vandoorm’s men. The captain and two others were off their horses, seeing to their companions. Two men were clearly dead: the rider hacked to death when he fell and the other slain by Trammaz in the aurak’s final attack. Another man sat on the ground, clutching his side. His face was pale blue and his eyes were glazed. Blood seeped through his fingers and he mumbled in a low moan. Vandoorm looked at him, then turned to one of the other survivors. “We have no healers. Othork is a dead man. Offer him the blade or let him sit there until he dies.” The man nodded, then knelt to whisper in the dying man’s ear.

Several other men sported wounds-bloody gashes and punctures-but seemed fit enough to ride. All told, there were perhaps five fit men left. One man bled heavily from a large gash in his leg. Vandoorm came over and looked at the injury. “Can you ride?” he demanded.

The soldier looked toward Othork, dying in the road. “Yes, sir,” insisted the soldier through gritted teeth.

“Good. Fix him up,” Vandoorm ordered. “We leave soon. Vandoorm turned to Teldin. “So, you have cloak, Tel, and a most interesting one, I am sure. You know, someone wants this cloak very much. They offer a fine price for a farmer with a strange cloak-just the cloak, that is. I even heard news of it in Kalaman.” Vandoorm took the edge of the cloak and rubbed it between his fingers. “I wonder why this is so valuable?” The mercenary grabbed the chains that fastened the garment in place.

Teldin felt a tingle up his back, then there was a sharp crack and a burned smell. “Ahhh!” screamed Vandoorm as he snatched his hand back from the chains. The mercenary shook his arm, trying to drive the pain from his nerves. “It sparks at me!”

Suspecting treachery from the farmer, there was a waver of swords as the men closed their ranks behind their captain. The faces were grim and hostile. The spear point dug once more into Teldin’s back, this time drawing blood.

“What happened to friendship, Vandoorrn?” Teldin hotly demanded. “I was like your son, you said. What about the war?” Vandoorm was his friend-not this, the man who stood before him. Teldin clenched his fists in rage. There was little else lie could do, ringed by men with swords.

“Steel. Lots of steel pieces, Tel,” the captain answered curtly, still massaging his numb arm. “But, because you are a friend-take off the cloak and I will let you live.”

Teldin stiffened. “1 can’t,” he futilely tried to explain. ‘‘It’s-’’

“Too bad. That’s just too bad,” Vandoorm interrupted the farmer. “I am sad you say this. I think I cannot take the cloak off you-alive.” He turned and walked back toward his injured men, only to stop halfway and look back. “Kill him, then I’ll take cloak,” he ordered the rider at Teldin’s back.

Teldin sucked in his breath, braced for the thrust.

There was a loud crack, followed instantly by a scream. The lance jabbed forward in the final thrust, only to drop suddenly from Teldin’s back and clatter to the ground. The cloak must have done something, like the shock before, was Teldin’s amazed thought. At the same time, the farmer could see Vandoorm and the others turning in surprise when, all at once, the man’s heavy body crashed across Teldin’s shoulder, smearing blood and knocking the farmer to the ground. The horse, panicking, reared with a snort and galloped away.

“Stand back or I’ll fire again,” boomed Gomja’s bass voice. Vandoorm and the others froze, uncertain of just what had happened. The giff stood at the edge of the road. In each hand he held a pistol, carefully leveled at the mercenaries. Smoke trickled from the barrel of one. “Come over here, sir,” Gomja said.

On the ground, Teldin reached to roll the body off his legs. The rider flopped over, a gaping wound in the back of his head. Scrambling up, Teldin carefully edged his way toward Gomja.

Vandoorm made a slight move forward. “No, sir. I would not do that,” Gomja ordered. The captain stopped, looking at the awful wound in the man on the ground. When Teldin got alongside, the giff, without taking his eyes off the mercenaries, softly asked, “What do I do now, sir? Should I shoot their leader?

Teldin was tempted for a moment, feeling pure hatred for his treacherous ex-friend, then had what seemed a better idea. “Vandoorm,” he called out, “my friend here is a wizard of the Red Robes. You’ve seen what he’s done already with his magic-and he’s only using his wands. Move away from your horses.

Vandoorm remained unmoving in the lantern light, uncertain of what to do. “Gomja, can you give them another demonstration?” Teldin whispered.

“I have one shot left, sir. Do you want mc to kill another?” Gomja offered. Vandoorm and the others glanced at each other, trying to deduce what was happening.

“No, don’t kill anyone,” Teldin answered slowly. “Just a demonstration.”

“Yes, sir. A demonstration.” Taking careful aim, the giff gently squeezed the trigger of his second pistol. There was another loud bang and a burned metallic smell as a spout of flame and smoke leaped from Gomja’s pistol. Teldin jumped, surprised, even though he almost expected the result. For a moment a thick cloud of smoke obscured things. There was a scream of pain from one of Vandoorm’s men, followed by a string of moans.

"Damn you to Takhisis’s Abyss, farmer!” shouted Vandoorm. “No more-we’re moving!” As the smoke from the powder cleared, Teldin could see Vandoorm and his men moving to the side of the road. One of the previously unwounded men was now being dragged by the captain and another. The fallen trooper’s face was in agony as he clutched at a bloody knee.