Beside Malcius, Brandt blocked a swipe of claws with a buckler he must have claimed from one of the drauglics. He slammed the buckler into the creature’s protruding snout and then sliced his sword across the abdomen exposed below the fragmented wooden armor. The creature doubled over as its entrails spilled over its talonned feet, and Brandt kicked it in the head. As it toppled, Brandt spun to attack one of the creatures assaulting Malcius. He sliced the artery of the inner thigh, grabbed the fiend by the tail, and plunged his blade up through the soft tissue into the creature’s torso.
Wesson forced his eyes away from the liquid red curtain to survey the field beyond his protective circle. The mercenaries were enduring the brunt of it. Only one of the horses besides Pride still stood, and the beast that had been pulling the wagon was long since gutted. He could not see Rezkin, but he could still hear the furious shrieks of the battle charger, which he hoped was a sign that the elite warrior was also still alive. Kai and Farson fought between them and the swarm of drauglics that had gotten past the mercenaries, and Jimson and Millins were battling the creatures that flanked them through the tall grass. It was obvious that he and his circle were enduring barely a trickle of the overall assault, and he was frustrated he was the weakest among them without use of the power he so often scorned.
Wesson was about to turn when he saw a drauglic leap at Millins who was manning the rear. The soldier was already engaged with two of the fiends, and his back was left exposed. The lizard man’s talons dug into Millins’s lower back, and it wrapped its muscular arms around his head. Without a second thought, Wesson released a stream of raw power, a graceless spell lacking substantial form. The three drauglics and two more beyond simultaneously exploded. Loose flesh, shards of bone, heads, and limbs were ejected several paces in every direction. Those pieces that had sailed upward came raining down with satisfying thuds, and the prostrate Millins was buried under the shower of bodily debris.
Rezkin felt the shock of the spell just as it was released. He had but to wait a breath before it activated. From where he was, he could not see the effect, but he knew that if Wesson had taken the chance on using his power, his friends had to have been in grave danger. He was sure that Wesson would protect them if the situation became dire, but he hoped the mercenaries had not seen the action. The fact that they might have born witness to an act that in any other kingdom would have been respectable did not seem like a satisfactory reason for killing men who had martial value.
It had been some time since he had been in a battle this brutal. These drauglics had little or no concern for their own lives, and they attacked with ferocity. Although drauglics had always been fierce foes, they tended to retreat when it appeared they might lose too many. Rezkin had not yet found the ukwa, the leader or chief of the drauglic clan who would sound the call for retreat. While their language was primitive and seemed to have few words, the ukwa held a position of such importance as to be graced with a drauglic title.
Rezkin finished off the five closest drauglics with a flurry of Sheyalin slashes and thrusts and then rushed into the tall grass from which the creatures were attacking. Several of the lizard men scattered upon his approach, startled into running rather than fighting. He hacked through a number of others, leaving a bloody trail in his wake until he finally fell upon his prey. The ukwa was standing on a crudely constructed mound of dirt, stones, and hay so that it could see over the swaying grasses to the battlefield. It appeared to be caked in dried green mud that Rezkin knew to be the dried feces of its followers. The scholars and mages who studied such things posited that doing so allowed the drauglics to scent their leader. Luckily for Rezkin, it was also easy for anyone else to scent the ukwa, particularly if the ordure was fresh.
The ukwa saw Rezkin approaching before he could reach the creature. It screamed a senseless cadence, and the half dozen lizard men who surrounded him echoed his call. The dwindling horde of creatures that were engaged in battle shrieked in unison and then began to retreat. Many flew past Rezkin without even attempting to strike at him, although that did not stop him from hewing down those within his reach. Within minutes, the entire clan had retreated into the grass, and the tousle of stalks continued beyond his view of the horizon.
After searching the immediate area for any stragglers, Rezkin strode down the path of detrital gore that he had paved through the pasture. When he arrived at its end, the remaining men and one woman were gathered at the epicenter of the battle where Rezkin had made his stand. Everyone was keeping a safe distance from the battle charger whose eyes were still rolling as he snorted and stomped on the bodies of dead lizard men. The mercenaries and his friends were covered in blood, much of it their own. Of everyone, Wesson was the cleanest, and he stood pensively hiding in the rear. Farson and Kai were speaking quietly several paces from the others. Their injuries appeared to be minor, but it was always difficult to tell with strikers. Like Rezkin, they were trained to hide their weaknesses. Malcius, Brandt, Yserria, and Minder Finwy all had deep cuts on their limbs and torsos, Millins was laid out on the ground, his shoulders propped against the wagon, and Jimson gripped a dislocated arm, seemingly unconcerned with the seeping gashes across his cheek and jaw.
The mercenaries had fared far worse. Of the twenty-seven from the previous day, only twelve remained, and all their horses were lost. Orin stood in the center of the mounded ring of drauglic bodies. He was slathered in gore, his left hand wrapped in a blood-sodden rag. Rezkin guessed the man had lost a few fingers.
The mercenary leader spit a glob of bloody phlegm and said, “Ya see that line over there by the wagon?”
Rezkin surveyed the area. A number of drauglic and mercenary bodies were concentrated in the location. Rezkin nodded.
“My men and yours fought over there—on the other side.” His gaze roved over the surrounding mounds. “I’d say more than half of the dead lizard demons are on this side. On this side of the line was you. You and that beast you call a horse.” He glanced past Rezkin down the bloody path. “Who knows what ya left out there?”
Rezkin adopted a feral grin. With a sloppy Gendishen drawl, he said, “Whether you run cryin’ or bear the torch, I’m there. I am the darkness.” Orin looked at him like he was mad. Satisfied, Rezkin lightened his tone. “I didn’t kill them all, if that’s what yer askin’. They run off into the grass. Thing about drauglics is, if ya sneak up on them, they’ll run. But, if they get all hyped up to fight, they don’t stop—not ’till the ukwa calls them off.”
Blood dripped from Orin’s braided, black beard, but he did not seem to notice or care. “The ukwa?”
“Their chief,” Rezkin said as he stepped over bodies to reach Pride.
Orin never took his eyes off Rezkin. “Couldn’t help but notice over half my men are dead and all yers are still standin’. Well, save that one”—he nodded toward Millins who appeared pained but awake—“but he don’t look to be checkin’ out.”
Rezkin said nothing as he examined a few of the drauglic bodies on the ground.
“I guess I’m startin’ to believe yer fish tale,” said Orin. When Rezkin neglected to answer, the man said, “What’s yer plan now?”
Orin’s face was pale, and Rezkin realized the mercenary was probably in shock or he would have been seeing to his wounds instead of asking questions. Rezkin muttered softly to the horse and stroked and petted his neck and sides as he examined Pride’s injures. Once the stallion was calm enough to be led, Rezkin took the reins and started toward the rear of the convoy where he had left his packs.
“Hey!” Orin said as Rezkin made to pass. “I asked what yer plannin’.”
Rezkin shrugged. With a nod, he said, “Ask the boss.”
Orin glanced toward Kai who was watching the exchange with a sharp gaze while maintaining quiet conversation with Farson.
“You still expect me to believe he’s in charge?”
“Don’t matter who’s in charge. He’s the one ya gotta speak to. I’m busy.”