Саймон Хоук - The Broken Blade

The ferry captain was screaming, too. He was shouting himself hoarse as he urged on the rowers, who needed no urging, with death so close at hand. A giant loomed up just off the starboard bow, almost close enough to seize the prow of the boat. Sorak raised the crossbow and took careful aim. The bolt whizzed through the air and struck the giant right between the eyes, penetrating his skull and killing him instantly. He immediately sank beneath the surface, and the swell of the silt raised the prow of the boat high as he went down with a hideous sound. The other passengers cheered as the giant fell, but the rowers were oblivious to everything except the frantic drumbeat as they pulled for their lives.

One of the mercenaries was struck squarely in the chest by a spear the size of a small tree trunk. It pierced his upper body completely and carried him over the side, dead before he struck the silt.

The flaming missiles continued to fall, lighting up the night sky. The giant whose hair had caught fire had managed to put out the flames at last, but he had given up pursuit and was staggering back toward Ledo Island, holding his head in his hands and moaning with pain. The giant they had first encountered had also given up pursuit and was wading unsteadily back toward the island, crying out his defiance as he stumbled toward the shore. One giant was dead, but that still left one more, and that last one was a bit more canny than his comrades. As the missiles from the catapults fell all around him, he ducked beneath the silt and disappeared from view.

“Row, curse you, row!” the captain screamed at the top of his lungs. The passengers waited tensely, their eyes scanning the surface of the estuary.

For a moment, the only sounds were the steady, rapid beating of the drum, the creaking of the oarlocks as the rowers pulled with all their might, and the hissing of the flaming missiles falling into the silt.

Then the giant broke the surface, right beside the boat, and Sorak found himself staring into a monstrous, silt-encrusted face with red-rimmed eyes that burned with hatred. One powerful blow, and the ferry would be smashed to kindling.

Sorak did not hesitate. He jumped between two of the oarsmen and leapt onto the gunwale, launching himself off the side and directly onto the giant’s head. In one motion, he unsheathed his sword and grabbed a fistful of the giant’s hair in his other hand, twisting it around his wrist.

“Sorak!” Ryana screamed.

Sorak leaned over and swung his sword, slashing into the giant’s neck and severing the large jugular vein. The giant roared as blood fountained from his neck, gushing powerfully out for a dozen yards. The giant clapped one hand to his neck to stop the massive flow of blood and, with his other hand, tried to sweep Sorak from his head, but Sorak anticipated the move and swung down from the giant’s head, holding onto his hair.

He dangled at the nape of the creature’s neck, bracing his feet against the giant’s spine, and with a powerful blow, chopped into the vertebra where the spinal column met the skull. The giant grunted and died, falling forward and barely missing the boat, which pulled past him.

As the giant sank beneath the silt, Sorak found himself struggling to stay up. It was like trying to swim through quicksand.

“Sorak! Catch the rope!” Ryana shouted.

A line arced out from the ship and struck the surface of the silt about a foot from Sorak. He grabbed it at, still holding onto his sword with one hand, and twisted it around his wrist.

“I have it!” he shouted.

“Hold on, stranger!” he heard the captain cry. The rope went taut, and Sorak felt himself pulled through the silt. He swallowed hard. Another second and the boat would have been out of reach. Several of the passengers, including the captain, pulled hard on the rope, drawing him in. Moments later, they were leaning down and lifting him over the side. He collapsed, coughing, onto the deck and felt several hands on him, raising him to his feet. His body was encrusted with silt and caked with giant’s blood. His hair was thick with it, matted down and plastered to his face and skull.

The passengers gathered around him, patting him on the back and congratulating him. The oarsmen cheered, though without pausing in their rowing. They would not be completely out of danger until they were well past Ledo Island.

Ryana put her arms around him and crushed her lips to his, heedless of the crusty silt covering him from head to toe. “If you ever do anything like that again, I’ll kill you,” she said.

He grinned. “I’d sooner face a dozen giants than a scornful Ryana.”

The passengers around them, both dwarves and mercenaries, laughed. With the danger past, they were all giddy with relief.

The captain stood before him. “That was the most foolhardy thing I’ve ever seen,” the powerfully built dwarf said, “and the bravest. You saved all our lives. What is your name, stranger?”

“Sorak. And thank you for throwing me the rope.”

The captain nodded. “I feared you were lost. We could not have turned around in time, and in truth, I must confess I would not have risked it.”

Sorak nodded. “I understand.”

The captain frowned. “Sorak. Are you by any chance the one they call the Nomad?”

“That is the elvish meaning of my name,” said Sorak.

“Then I have heard of you,” the captain said. I “And I would be pleased if you and your companion would dine with me tonight.”

“The pleasure would be ours,” said Sorak. “But I shall have to find a place to bathe first, and make myself presentable.”

“Then allow me to extend to you the hospitality of my humble home,” the dwarf replied. “Then I’ll treat you to the finest night of entertainment my village has to offer. Now please, sit down and rest. Give him room, the rest of you!”

Sorak gratefully sank to the deck and stretched out.

“Here, rest your head in my lap,” Ryana said, sitting down beside him.

“No,” said Sorak, shaking his head. “I am filthy, and I stink with giant’s blood.”

“Here, take this,” one of the mercenaries said, offering him a waterskin. “You can at least rinse off your hair and face.”

“My thanks,” said Sorak. He leaned over the side while the mercenary poured the water over his head and Ryana helped him scrub the filth off. A few moments later, he was relatively clean from the neck up.

“Are you injured?” the mercenary asked, looking him over.

“No, just a little tired,” Sorak said.

“You were lucky,” said the mercenary. “Either that or very skilled.” He smiled. “Which was it?”

“A bit of both, I think,” Sorak replied with a slight smile.

The mercenary grinned. He had perfect teeth, unusual for a man in his midthirties. The usual remedy for a toothache was to pull out the offending tooth and, if the patient could afford it—which most could not—replace it with an artificial one made of obsidian or silver. Most people took poor care of their teeth and suffered the consequences.

This man was an exception. His teeth and well-muscled physique showed he took good care of himself, and kept well groomed. His skin was clear and tanned, his shoulder-length blond hair clean and glossy, his face clean shaven. Few mercenaries bothered to take such scrupulous care of their appearance. He was a handsome man, and he knew it and took pride in his good looks.

Out of habit, Sorak glanced toward the man’s weapons. Two long, stiletto daggers were tucked into his belt, and he wore a heavy sword in an elegantly crafted and embossed leather scabbard. The crossguards were simple, straight, functional, and made of iron, as were the daggers. The hilts of all three weapons were wrapped with silver wire. Weapons made of iron were uncommon and expensive. This mercenary had not stinted on his equipment.