Shadow of Hope XXVI
Without missing a step, Marcus smashed his shield into the face of the would be robber as he turned to flee, dropping him like a sack of potatoes.
Katarina lead the animals away via the path of least resistance, as she didn’t want to attract any undue interest to herself while getting the supplies back to camp. She realized with a grim thought that many will be needing the healing touch of Trymeya as well as her own skills.
A deep sigh escaped Daroun as cursed his inopportune luck. He had just released his hold on several spells to make room for the elemental magics they would need against the Trolls. Now he had not the time to study them, caught more unprepared than ever. He cursed his weaknesses under his breath as he pulled out a dull silvery discus emblazoned with a stylized nine point star etched in rich hues. He strapped the buckler to his arm and waved a few gestures with a muttered incantation. Tapping his shoulder, a ghostly chain shirt enveloped him before fading into the unseen ether. Tucking the last leather strap of his buckler into place, he turned to Haron, “Quickly move the horses behind the canopy, keep it quiet, and pray to the gods they will be occupied elsewhere.”
The mage moved to his horse and withdrew a light crossbow with fluid ease, slinging the weapon over his shoulder, then grabbed a pack of bolts from the saddlebags. He proceeded to stand guard by the horses and Haron, reduced to little more than an impotent militiaman. Some great wizard he was, he taunted himself.
The battle raged just short of Cheskith’s vantage. The lizardman continued his whispery stream of unsettling-but-inspiring syllables, shield half-raised before him and sword ready at his side. There was no intent on his part to engage the riders or the enemy footmen; better to remain in a secure spot and focus on channelling the power of those whispered-yet-shouted monosyllabic words into his allies of the moment.
Closer to the action, Marcus saw that the main part of the charge was disrupted by someone resembling Kurn and that Cheskith was bolstering the defenders with an unusual magic. The militia was spaced well, the townsfolk forming a single line for the most part, readying themselves to receive the brunt of the remaining horsemen who were approaching fast.
Hurrying so that his timing was right, Marcus moved to the east end of the line and extended his hand at a diagonal, muttering words of power that are heard, but never remembered. A fiery blast erupted from his palm, slashing across horses and bandits alike, turning the scene into roasting chaos.
The rushing mass bent on mayhem surged around Kurn, the point men who had faltered driven on by the sheer momentum of the overall group behind them. Kurn noted with brief satisfaction that the charge had been broken; the surge roiled and splintered around the tangle of horses and riders, momentarily losing sight of its objective as the rider made it to the lines of defense. For the enemy immediately around him, Kurn suddenly became the objective. Four footmen quickly closed around him and brought steel to bear, promising Kurn’s imminent death.
Still dazed from the fall it was all Kurn could do to defend himself. Swords rang off shield and whistle past as he twisted and ducked like a madman, trying to absorb the brunt of the assault and stay on his feet. The pain of a sword lancing past his flank guard and biting into his thigh brought everything back into sharp, desperate focus.
Kurn’s chest heaved with a huge intake of breath and his massive strength was summoned to deadly purpose. Kurn’s longsword lashed out in a brutal slash, cutting a deep crimson rift across the chest of the footman unfortunate enough to be first in reach. Before the man even realized he was dead Kurn’s body rippled beneath his armor, forcing the blade to adjust its flight but not permitting it to halt. The path snapped sharply upward and took the next man across the head, blinding the soldier a moment before his sundered brain could no longer feel pain. Kurn’s feet shifted, throwing all his strength behind the sword, keeping his legs driving behind the strike and pivoting with it. The tip of Kurn’s longsword took a third man’s arm deep and clean, the limb falling to the ground still clutching the footman’s mace even as the man crumpled to the darkened mud with his lifeblood coursing free from the severed artery.
Kurn’s course turned him to face the attacker that had been at his flank, and there he saw a match of grim determination; the face that moments ago had held shock and surprise at the insane rider that had charged and denied him the easy victory he had sought. Now the mercenary horseman was on foot and nearly as bad off for the sudden dismount as Kurn.
Grim certainty renewed the speed of Kurn’s sword arm and an ugly spray of blood hung in the air in its wake as he drove it towards this fourth man. Down the sword cut, promising to slash the now-footman’s leg apart at the knee. The mercenary’s guard went low and a flicker of a smile crossed Kurn’s face at the ploy’s success — or a wry, detached amusement at the pointlessness of it all. Kurn’s longsword turned a near-square arc in the air; the slash that had promised low suddenly flew high. Unable to recover in time, the footman took the hit squarely across his chest, twisting just enough to keep the cut from reaching critically deep.
Kurn offered the fellow mercenary a respectful nod of mutual recognition, in profession and skill if not in personal name. He doubted either man — whomever survived — would ever know the name of the other.
Honed battlefield awareness allowed Kurn’s gaze to find an unusual sight amidst the bloodshed and chaos. Over the mercenary’s right shoulder, perhaps six riders sat near the tree line from whence the brigand charge originated.
These mounted soldiers were of an all together different breed than the rabble which clashed around Kurn now. No insignia or identifying markings could be seen from this distance, but the condition of their arms and armor, the bearing with which they sat their warhorses and the practiced way they peeled back into the forest, vanishing into the cover, were clear indicators of their experience and training.
It was evident that they were watching the engagement, but whatever the motivation, their departure indicated that they had clearly seen enough.
Swords rushed in to clash as the moment passed.
Kurn lifted his shield high and deflected an arrow that otherwise would’ve punched into his collarbone at the same time he blocked with his longsword the low-high-low combination his opponent offered.
“Who are the six riders who just left?” Kurn asked of his opponent. He was forced to yell the question over the thunder of battle, and he nodded toward the tree line without breaking his gaze. These were mercenaries; abandonment by their employers, if that was what was occurring, could end this fight without covering the field in bodies.
Screams of surprise and anguish erupted from one attacking flank as Marcus charred flesh and cloth alike. The other flank showed signs of weakening as Rôhn cut a swath toward the center of the line. Kurn faced off with the field commander of the raiding force, each fierce exchange of blows bringing reinforcements closer to his side, and over the entire scene of mayhem, the invigorating and unnerving whisperchant of Cheskith thrummed.
A figure emerged within the heart of the milita line, a scale mail clad warrior with a great yard of steel in his hands and a distinctive limp to his gait.
“Ha, ha! Drive them back my brethren!” he shouted above the din with zeal, surging forward into the battle, “Push them back into the river!”
The shouts of enthusiasm were met with similar raucous cheers and, after only a few short minutes, the ensuing surge of the militia breaks what was left of the attacker’s feeble charge and sinking morale. Many of the raiders simply turned and fled toward the woods beyond, with the exception of about two dozen men near the center of the fray that were withdrawing with a much more tactical edge. It was clear that they were yielding the field of battle, but also that they would not simply be cut down from behind.