Kai interrupted his thoughts when he blurted, “Is that your cat?”
Rezkin looked down to see the small tortie sitting in the middle of the road staring at him. It flicked its tail and then ran into the grass on the west side of the road. Rezkin’s gaze flicked to the sky, and he followed the kite as it swept around again.
“Raise the alarm. Prepare for battle. Kai, check the rear—Farson, the sides.”
Rezkin yanked the packs from Pride’s back and then threw himself into the saddle. Heavy footfalls tore up dirt and rocks as the horse pounded down the road toward the front of the procession. Men scattered amongst angry shouts but not fast enough. In his urgency, Rezkin was forced to direct Pride into the grass where the chance of a misstep was greater. He had to stop the convoy before they waded into the trap. He was too late.
Rezkin’s furious arrival at the front inspired the drauglics to attack early. Their company had not yet been surrounded, but the horde emerging from the grass was so great it would make no difference. The White Crescents would be overrun.
A horn blared just as the first of the drauglics jumped for Rezkin. Although they were the size of an adolescent child, the creatures were capable of jumping half again their own height. The drauglic crashed into Rezkin’s side, its scaly arms wrapping around him as it gnashed at his throat with its sharp teeth. Rezkin held tight to the saddle as he thrust a dagger into the soft tissue beneath his attacker’s arm. Another drauglic jumped at the stallion’s head, and Pride reared, crushing the creature beneath his massive hooves. Rezkin held tight as the drauglic that had attacked him lost its grip, giving him enough time to draw his sword. The injured drauglic leapt at him again, its perseverance rewarded with a blade through the throat.
Pride gnashed his teeth at another of the creatures and broke through the purple scales on its shoulder. The drauglic shrieked and swung a sharpened stone hatchet at the horse’s neck. Kingslayer took the creature’s arm off as Rezkin drew Bladesunder. He gripped the saddle with his legs as the blades flashed through the air at his sides, scoring scaled flesh and rending armor. One drauglic latched onto Pride’s hindquarters, and Rezkin was glad they had been traveling as mercenaries. The creature’s talons tore through the shabby caparison that hid the quality mail cruppers beneath. Rezkin twisted in his saddle and slashed at the drauglic’s worn armor. As he drew back his blade again, Pride unexpectedly bucked, tossing the drauglic into Rezkin’s back. The creature wrapped its arms, taut with wiry muscle, around Rezkin’s chest, its claws digging into his brigandine.
Rezkin’s muscles clenched as the horse trampled another drauglic, but the thrashing and the weight of the drauglic on his back eventually forced Rezkin from the saddle. Pride kicked out at exactly the wrong time, smacking Bladesunder from his grip in midair. Rezkin landed atop the drauglic, the air knocked from his lungs. He inhaled sharply and then swept Kingslayer across his own chest, amputating one of the creature’s hands. The creature screamed in his ear as Rezkin drew his serrated belt knife. He threw his feet over his head and rolled backward to crouch above the drauglic’s head. He plunged the dagger into the lizard man’s throat, and blood and ragged flesh spewed across his face as he withdrew the wicked weapon.
Rezkin looked up to see a gangly drauglic in patchwork leather armor grinning at him as it collected Bladesunder from the bloodied dirt at his feet. The drauglic’s yellowed, pointed teeth dripped with saliva, and it hissed. With the hilt gripped in both hands, it raised the sword over its head and then shrieked in pained horror. Its hands came down, but it seemed unable to release its grip. The air filled with the scent of charred meat as the flesh beneath the creature’s scales began to glow red and smoke erupted from its hands, which crumbled like blackened soot. Bladesunder toppled to the ground as the drauglic’s scream was silenced by the blue-swirled steel of the sword’s kin.
Rezkin could hear the discordant crescendo of battle, but he had no time to check on his friends. They were at the rear of the convoy, while he was in the thick of the enemy. Pride stomped and thrashed as drauglics jumped at him, slashing with stolen blades and stabbing with primitive spears. Some of the creatures threw stones, and Rezkin was grateful they had no arrows and crossbows. The battle was fierce, and it did not sound like the other horses were faring as well as Pride.
Wesson stood in the center of the circle with Minder Finwy, his sword wielding companions fending off the enemies advancing on them. From where he was standing, he felt as though the enemies were targeting him, but he knew that was absurd. Everyone was fighting except him and the minder, and the minder, at least, gripped a dagger. Wesson had never acquired any skills with mundane weapons, believing the curse of his destructive power was terror enough. He knew that using that power could expose him and potentially attract the attention of the Purifiers. A part of him, the part that dwelled deep within, the part he kept locked behind a fortress of mental barriers, was fighting for release. It wanted out. It wanted to spew flame and render flesh from bones. It wanted to burst the bodies of his enemies in a bloody rain, a glorious red swath painted across everything in sight. And he wanted to let it.
No, he reminded himself. Beauty before bane, his personal mantra. Quell the storm.
A drauglic lunged at Yserria with a stone club while another raked her across the back with vicious claws that scored so deeply into her armor that a trickle of blood seeped from the wound. She ducked as the club sailed toward her head, and the creature smacked his own comrade in the jaw. The injured drauglic screamed, his jaw hanging limp, and then leapt at the one that had struck him. While the first drauglic was distracted, Yserria threw her weight into a mighty upswing that cleaved the stone-wielding drauglic from the groin, upward through his buttock, to finally lop off the tail. The creature fell writhing to the ground, and the other landed atop him shortly after with a gushing jugular.
Wesson suddenly stumbled as he was shoved from behind. He turned to see Malcius fighting off a drauglic bearing a rusted, broken sword. The creature, which wore an ill-fitted metal helm and chain mail over its torso, was a few inches shorter than Wesson. Although it was strong, it seemed to be having difficulty under the weight of its stolen armor. Its movements were sluggish, but between the metal armor and its natural scales, it was difficult for Malcius to score a fatal blow. Wesson itched to heat the armor until it glowed yellow and burned through the creature. A moment later, Malcius finally prevailed with a jab straight through the drauglic’s mouth into its brain. Wesson’s mind cleared long enough for him to be sickened by the bloodthirsty thoughts. Malcius immediately turned to engage two more of the creatures who were less armored but equally less encumbered.