Terry Brooks - Bloodfire Quest

He was swinging back around for a fresh attack when the second mutant materialized out of the misted tangle of trees, a juggernaut bearing down on him. He threw himself aside as the creature’s arms sought to entangle him, slipping clear just as a flash of steel flew by his head, out of nowhere.

The mutant roared and twisted violently as a blade buried itself deep in its neck, sending it to its knees as if it were a puppet whose strings had been severed.

A second later Cymrian, still confused about what was happening, felt a blow to his back, about shoulder-high, followed by excruciating pain, and he fell to his knees.

Stoon had come out of hiding the moment he heard the struggle begin, charging into the fog without hesitating, seeing a chance to put an end to the hunt. He could hear the sounds of weapons clashing, of grunts and gasps, of bodies thrashing in the woods. It would be the Elf and one or both of the mutants, tearing at each other.

If he moved quickly enough, he realized, he would have an opportunity to see them all dispatched.

The mist had grown thicker and was shifting in a slow clockwise motion, giving the impression that the whole world was fluid and unsteady, but the assassin never slowed, homing in on the struggle. He came on it quickly enough, finding the Elf facing off against one of the mutants, blades in both hands, sidestepping the other’s ax with a combination of speed and agility that spoke of skill and experience Stoon didn’t care to test.

Instead he unsheathed a throwing knife. Weaken the Elf and the mutant would finish him quickly enough. Then he could decide what to do about the mutant. He waited only a moment, searching for an opening, the throwing knife balanced between his fingers. Then the second mutant appeared, rushing in to join the fray. The Elf spun clear as it reached for him—a clear opening for Stoon—and without hesitation the assassin hurled his blade.

But the combatants shifted unexpectedly at the last moment, and his knife struck the mutant instead.

He did not pause. A mistake was a mistake. There was no fixing it now. A second knife was in his hand instantly. This time he was more successful. The blade buried itself in the Elf’s back, causing him to stagger and drop to his knees. When he tried to rise, Stoon sent a second blade to join the first, and the Elf collapsed in a heap.

Stoon moved forward, wanting to get close enough to finish the job. But the mutant he had mistakenly struck with his first blade was back on its feet and lumbering toward him, its huge body jerking and twisting as it sought to regain control of muscles that no longer worked properly. Its eyes were bright with hatred as they fastened on Stoon, and there was no mistaking what it intended. Whatever control he had enjoyed over this monster before, whatever loyalty Edinja had instilled in it, was gone.

He glanced quickly at the Elf. He was back on his knees, he saw, and the second mutant was closing. It was over.

He shifted his attention to the mutant coming for him, drew out a heavy hunting knife, and held his ground. When the mutant was close enough, Stoon feinted and darted inside the creature’s arms and thrust the hunting knife up through the beast’s jaw and into its skull. The mutant collapsed, dead before it struck the ground.

But by taking time to dispatch the creature, he had been forced to shift his attention away from the Elf. Somehow he had risen to his feet. He was every bit as proficient as Stoon with a knife, and his arm was a blur of motion as he flung his blade at the assassin and caught him in the chest. The force of the blow knocked Stoon backward, and he tumbled to the ground.

He had just enough time to realize that the final mutant had shifted its attention back to him—either because of what it had seen him do to its companion or because the blood pouring from its wounds had disoriented it—before it was on him.

Cymrian watched as the man tumbled backward, the blade buried in his chest, his eyes wide with shock and pain. The Elven Hunter was on his feet again, fighting to remain conscious, to stave off the effects of his own injuries, knowing he needed to ignore the pain and the ebbing of his strength if he was to have any chance at all. He saw the remaining mutant close on the man, take him by the neck, and shake him. He had a fresh blade out by then, aware that he was down to his last few, and he flung the knife at the mutant with as much force as he could muster. His aim was true, and the blade caught the beast in the neck, severing vital arteries and cords. The beast hunched over and released its grip on the man, who flopped backward like a rag doll.

Cymrian was already attacking, short sword in hand, swinging for the creature’s head. But he was unsteady on his feet, and the mutant blocked his effort and backhanded the Elf with such force that it knocked Cymrian all the way across the little clearing and left him lying dazed and helpless. He watched as the creature tried to rise and then fell back, jerked once, and lay still.

Everything had gone quiet. No one was moving. The clearing was stained with blood and littered with bodies. In the trees, the heavy mists continued to swirl and the shadows to glide.

Then Cymrian saw the man across the clearing roll onto his side, his eyes finding the Elf and fixing on him. A knife appeared in one hand, drawn out from beneath his dark clothing. Cymrian tried to move, but his body would no longer obey him. Whatever damage he had sustained, it had left him helpless.

He watched with grim acceptance as the man began to drag his broken body across the clearing to reach him, the knife gleaming.

Aphenglow raced through the forest toward the sounds of the battle, knowing that she would never forgive herself if Cymrian’s efforts on her behalf cost him his life. She shouldn’t have let him go. She should have made him wait until she was finished working on Arling. There would have been time enough then. Their enemies wouldn’t have reached them that quickly.

But he had felt otherwise, and his judgment in such matters was final. His experience was deeper, and the decision had not been hers to make.

She ran faster, the sounds ahead all gasps and grunts and cries of pain and rage. She was doing nothing to hide her coming, unwilling to slow down to mask her approach, certain that time was not something she could afford to waste—not even a second of it. Mist and shadows swirled about her, creating a confusing miasma that threatened to lead her astray. But the sounds were close now, and she could track her destination by that alone.

Abruptly she burst into a clearing in which bodies lay everywhere and blood soaked the greenery in bright patches.

Movement caught her eye, and that was when she saw the man who had tried to kill her during the battle for Paranor, the assassin who had thought to catch her unawares and strike her down from behind. She would never forget his face, and on seeing it now she bared her teeth and rushed at him. He was dragging himself toward Cymrian, a knife gripped in his hand. Even now, as she raced to stop him, he tried to use it, stretching out his arm toward her protector, slashing and stabbing wildly in an effort to finish the job.

But Cymrian was just out of reach, and Aphen was on top of the assassin before he could crawl closer. She stripped him of his weapon and pinned his arms against the earth so that he could not reach for another. She could feel him struggling beneath her, could hear the harsh labor of his breathing.

“You’re … crushing me!” he gasped.

She stayed where she was. “Who are you?”

“No … one.”

He could barely speak now, his strength ebbing. His wounds were terrible, and she could tell at a glance he would not survive them. “Why are you trying to kill us? You don’t even know us!”