Mickey Reichert: Flight of the Renshai

Calistin dodged easily, closing under the sword and delivering a slash that cut a bloody line through Firuz' leggings and across his shin.

The Kjempemagiska roared, leaping back in surprise. His sword whipped down with shocking speed for one so large, and Calistin found himself hard-pressed to avoid it. He threw himself sideways, keeping his feet but missing his opening for another attack. The sword sped past him with such size and force that it overbalanced him. Even a few of the men standing back staggered in the gust of its passing.

A voice entered Calistin's head.*So you have a weapon imbued with magic, little man. Now that I know it, you will not touch me again.*

Calistin drove in, slashing with his mother's sword in his right fist, raising the left in defense. This time, he went for the knee, hoping to incapacitate. The giant moved with impressive speed. Calistin's blade barely skimmed his clothing, and the massive, curved sword slammed down hard on Calistin's left-hand blade. The attempt at a parry nearly proved Calistin's downfall. His blade shattered beneath the mighty blow; and, though the breaking steel absorbed most of the force, Calistin felt something snap in his forearm. Agony shot through his arm.

"Modi!" Calistin shouted, as much cursing his own incompetence as channeling the god of wrath. With no sword to honor, he dropped the useless hilt and forced himself to the attack. He threaded through a wild sweep of defense to bury the sword given to his mother by Colbey into the meaty part of Firuz' lower leg.

The giant roared and jerked. Sword trapped deeply in flesh, Calistin grasped the hilt like a lifeline. Firuz ripped the blade free, leaving Calistin staggering but armed. He managed to dodge the Kjempemagiska's riposte, though it moved with impossible speed for one so massive. Whatever magic he had lost, the giant could still clearly keep his own movements stronger than humanity and quicker than liquid.

I need to get higher, Calistin realized; but the possibilities defeated him. They fought on flat shore, and the surrounding men made it impossible to lead the giant to the dunes, even if he bothered to follow. Calistin knew better than to jump, which would fully commit his momentum and rob him of the dexterity that was his only hope against the giant. He could not win this contest strength to strength. He reassessed his targets. Only two lethal areas seemed accessible: the massive arteries in the back of the thighs and the groin. Anything else was out of reach.

Calistin bore in, slashing, dancing, always moving. His sword scored several nicks against various parts of the giant's hands and legs. Firuz' own brutal attacks fell on empty air as Calistin remained in perpetual motion, anticipating the strikes and gliding through them. Then, abruptly, the side of Firuz' blade slammed across Calistin's cheek and neck with bruising force. The impact sent him airborne, crashing into the piled corpses, where he rolled down the opposite side, entangled with floppy arms and twitching legs. Bruised and aching, he rolled swiftly to his feet, but the giant had not followed. Firuz stood back, watching, a lopsided grin wreathing his massive face.

Theworld disappeared into a red fog of battle, and Saviar saw nothing but targets and weapons. His arms and legs kept moving long after exhaustion overtook understanding, emotion, and most of his awareness. Hearing and smell, feeling and taste all lost meaning. Nothing remained but the sole concern of his current universe: anticipate, dodge or parry, and slash. Even the slam of his sword into flesh lost significance, except to create a hole where more enemies could flood in to meet him.

Saviar knew he had given up ground. He could sense Chymmerlee directly at his back, felt the swish of Silver Warrior and Ra-khir's sword at his left and the cut of Subikahn's to his right. They formed an unwavering triangle that seemed to remain in place more from habit and raw necessity than the skill and talent it once represented. They continued to fight because to do otherwise might mean the end of their world. They could not afford to collapse, to die, though Saviar secretly wished he dared. The promised rewards of Valhalla had never beckoned so strongly.Yet he kept fighting, kept hacking at his fresher, eager foes; and they continued to tumble back from his assault. Only to be replaced by more.

Saviar's arms had gone beyond aching to numbness. His thoughts wallowed through inertia as thick as pudding. His legs felt detached, though they continued to work in concert with his body. Eternally, his Renshai instincts, his constant and obsessive practices, came through; he chopped down enemies in singlets and pairs. Quitting was not an option, so onward Saviar went, buoyed beyond fatigue, beyond strained agony, nearly beyond consciousness itself by forces he could not name.

The triumphant blare of a horn managed to penetrate Saviar's thoughts, although its meaning eluded him.

Subikahn shouted breathlessly, "It's the East!"

The East. The words were insignificant sounds in Saviar's ears. The. He had to define it. East. Understanding seeped slowly through his brain. Then the sound of clamoring steel chimed across the beach and joined the echoes from the great mountains and buildings of Bearn. The East! It came to him like lightning through a crackling wall of dancing spots. The armies of the East had arrived, abandoning their previous station on the Western Plains. Strong, untired reinforcements. If he could have dredged up the energy, Saviar might have cheered.

Then, suddenly, Subikahn gasped.

The sound proved so compelling, Saviar could not help glancing toward his twin, even though it opened his defenses. Luckily, no one gaffed him through the hole. Subikahn remained standing, his motions as swift and graceful as ever, at least to Saviar's exhausted eye. Whatever had happened was not a deathblow. Subikahn stared out over the enemies to the newcomers; and something there held his gaze as much as any one thing could keep the focus of a man engaged in battle, hemmed in by enemies.

Though concentrating on his opponents, Saviar dared to look.The man at the head of the Eastern cavalry caught his eye like a golden beacon. Tall and blond, unarmored and unhelmeted, he stood out magnificently among the swarthy Easterners, which also made him an obvious target. Saviar's own resistance decreased noticeably as the pirates turned some of their attention to this new threat.

"It's Talamir," Subikahn said. Though he spoke barely above a whisper, Saviar heard him. "Talamir's… alive. He's alive."

For the moment. Hard-pressed to his own defense, Saviar did not speak aloud, even had he had something useful to say. The sight clearly galvanized Subikahn, whose strokes became as swift and vigorous as if he had newly joined the fight. Saviar did not try to match him. The sharp sting of small cuts and injuries seemed the only thing keeping him awake. He plunged back into a battle that, at least now, seemed to have a positive end.

It took General Valr Magnus longer to clear a path along the beach, and he arrived just in time to see Calistin tumble down a pile of the dead and dying. Without a thought, he dove for Firuz, only to find himself unexpectedly jerked backward by his sword arm. He whirled, catching his balance, but unable to stop the movement from appearing awkward. He slashed blindly at the person or object that had stopped him, but his sword cut through empty air.

Magnus found himself staring at a warrior he had never seen before, clearly of the continental forces by his dress and a Northman by coloring. He wore no armor, jewelry, or adornments. His tunic and breeks, though simple, looked richly tailored; and he wore a sword at either hip. "Sheathe your weapon, Valr," the man commanded.