The War Born, page 8
He looked to Drask and nodded silently, as close to a conversation as the two men had managed. In the screaming winds of the storm, it was the best they would manage without bellowing to be heard.
What a strange world they lived in. What a gloriously unusual time they were a part of. Drask found he was smiling now, as they closed in on their destination. He touched the short spear at his side, and then his silver hand drifted over to the heavy sword he so often used when fighting, He remained uncertain which weapon he would use, knowing that his mind would sort out the final choice as soon as he saw his enemy.
The War-Born. In the old tales the gods had shared with him, they were enemies worthy of respect, nightmares that killed and often ate their enemies. How could he not find them fascinating?
He had missed the last war, caught as he was in the designs of the Daxar Taalor. He hoped to earn new scars and kill endless foes in the glory of the gods. He was so very glad that they had called him home. Several of the people he’d met in Fellein would have been horrified by that notion, but they could not understand the concept of enjoying war, of savoring the chaos and the carnage.
The war horns of the King in Iron sounded, barely audible over the screams of the Blasted Lands. Drask’s pulse increased, and his hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword.
Beside him Tuskandru leaned forward on his mount, and on his other side Tarag Paedori lowered the visor of his helmet into place, hiding his features behind the likeness of Truska-Pren’s iron face.
And a moment later they were out of the raging winds and moving across the land at the edge of Paedle, the land where the enemy was supposed to soon show itself. They moved forward, granting more room to the additional riders, and the horn blowers sounded their presence for all to hear. Almost immediately more horns blasted a reciprocal call from higher up the mountain’s slope. The forces waiting on Paedle would be joining them. War was coming and they were as ready as they could be, prepared to fight an enemy they had never seen, regardless of the shape it might take.
The War-Born did not sound horns.
They gave no warning of their presence.
They simply attacked.
Kallir Lundt
The area was very nearly lost in a thick fog. There were shadows of trees nearby, but they were only ghostly images half-obscured by the thick mists. Snow drifted lazily down from above, tainted and gray. Kallir Lundt found himself lost in that fog and simultaneously surrounded by some of the most capable fighters he had met in his entire life. Tarag Paedori was his friend and mentor, and a terror to watch on the battlefield. Tuskandru was a man that Tarag spoke of with near reverence as a warrior. He had, on several occasions, taken down a Pra-Moresh with one blow.
Now he saw Drask Silver Hand riding on his mount, and couldn’t help but stare. The man had bested Tarag Paedori in single combat, had taken down the King in Iron and made it look surprisingly easy. He was also the only man Kallir had ever seen with seven Great Scars, lined up and running in a neat row down his face.
Each god offered a Great Scar to their chosen, those who embodied their beliefs and goals the best. There were only a few people he’d ever seen with more than three of the markings. To have seven was to truly be honored by the gods.
Drask Silver Hand moved differently from others. He had a presence that seemed nearly impossible to define. He was intimidating merely because he had the markings of all the Daxar Taalor. Seven gods favored him, recognized his skills not only as a warrior, but also as someone who understood their ways.
“Can you hear them?” Drask spoke softly, but as he spoke the others quieted down, some obviously listening to his words and others listening for something else.
At first Kallir heard nothing out of the ordinary. The winds blew softly and the few trees that still had foliage sighed in the fog. And then the sounds came, soft clacking noises, like two tree branches bumping each other in the breeze, but there were more of them than should have been possible. Tiny clicks and clacks added up. They grew louder and rose as a wave rises in the ocean.
And then the sound seemed to be everywhere at once, coming from all around them. Shapes danced at the edge of the fog, almost visible and then gone when he tried to spot them properly. Whatever was out there moved in furtive motions and seemed to be the same color as the fog itself.
“They are here!” Drask dropped from his mount’s back and held his sword at the ready. The blade was heavy, but he carried it as if it weighed nothing. The others followed suit. The warriors needed to be free to move, to attack without the limitation of riding – and the mounts were more than capable of inflicting damage themselves.
Kallir dismounted, his heart beating faster. He saw nothing.
And then they came from the shroud of mists, great shapes that charged forward, moving in rapid strides even as they attacked. They were not human. They did not ride horses or mounts, but seemed instead to be demons. They had too many legs, bodies that were misshapen. Not as tall as the Sa’ba Taalor, the pale things scuttled forward and raised the great blades of their arms into the air before striking as fast as anything he had ever seen.
Kallir heard himself scream in shock. They were not what he expected. The name War-Born had him thinking of men, of soldiers as well trained as the Sa’ba Taalor. He anticipated a foe of that nature, to have a chance to defend himself from something that made sense – but the War-Born were offensive to his senses.
He had seen spiders before, had watched them with fascination as a child, but had never given them much thought beyond wondering why they had so many limbs. Now these things came for him, moving in ways that defied his senses.
The thing that came his way hacked downward with its arms, and Kallir managed to dance out of the way of those great scythes, avoiding getting cut in two, though it seemed a close thing to him. Now it was closer – too close – Kallir could make out more details. The body of the beast was a bloated mass, two thick segments that swayed over eight long limbs. The legs moved up and down in a sequence that seemed to make no sense to his eyes, and he found himself wanting to stare until he could understand how it moved, the better to predict its next attack. The body rose up in the front, a human torso attached to that bloated form. Where the arms of a man should have been there were instead the two great blades that turned even now to strike at him again. Two natural weapons that seemed as long as his spear. Rather than waiting to see where those blades would strike, Kallir stepped closer, striking with his shield, bashing himself against that obscene body mass, thrusting his spear at the misshapen head of the thing, howling his outrage at the creature as he drove the spearhead into the features.
The tip of the spear slid across the face until it struck one of the oversized eyes, where it dug into the head at last.
The creature let out an obscene shriek and Kallir felt the closest of the sword-like blades clatter down the length of his shield, narrowly missing cutting into his arm as it fell. It might have been injured, but the great thing was not dead and didn’t seem much weakened by his attack.
All around him the Sa’ba Taalor were engaging their enemies, fighting forward or in some cases retreating, maneuvering to find better positions to fight. Kallir had no time to consider any of them aside from knowing they were there. The demonic monster was coming for him again, pushing back against his shield, throwing itself toward him with feverish strength that had him sliding across the ground even as he tried to brace himself.
He stabbed forward and into the face of the thing three more times, the spear scraping against hard, armorlike flesh before puncturing the shell. Its arms rose up and came down, pulling his shield away from his body in one sudden move that left Kallir exposed on his left side. Before he could adjust, one of the organic blades slammed along his breastplate and knocked him backward, scrabbling to keep his balance. Without a doubt, they were stronger than he was, and damned fast.
Rather than risk another direct assault from the thing, Kallir twisted and drove his spear into the chest of the creature, knocking aside the arm that tried to block him and driving the point of his spear deep into the upper belly of the enemy. Once again, the tip skittered across hard armor-like flesh before finding a spot where the armor had a natural fold. Once there his strength was enough to push the tip into the flesh.
There was no chance to celebrate. Even as his spear drove deeper into the beast, one of those insane arms came down, hacking through his breast plate to the meat underneath. Kallir grunted as the serrated edge of the thing sliced into him. It was not a killing blow, but it was painful and messy. His spear struck something vital, yes, but he was deeply wounded in the process.
The spider-thing retreated, screeching, and pulled free of him, leaving a thick trail of Kallir’s blood. His own spear seemed to find only clear fluids, which made no sense to him. Was it the beast’s blood or something else? He did not know and had no time to consider the mystery before the wounded thing came for him again.
Kallir kicked the thing in the closest leg, driving his heel into the joint of the limb and hearing something crack and splinter under the impact, but the spider-thing had eight legs and the loss of one barely seemed to slow it down. It pushed closer to him and Kallir blocked the next strike with the haft of his spear before turning his body and driving the blade deep into the monster again.
From the corner of his eye, he saw that beside him one of the beasts fell and Tuskandru let out a cry of triumph, his weapon cutting the humanoid torso away from the rest of the creature. It was dead, but the body parts kept spasming even as it collapsed. Tusk stepped in closer and cut one of the arms away from Kallir’s enemy even as he continued on to find his own new opponent. Kallir had no idea if the attack was deliberate on Tusk’s part or merely an accident as he passed but he was grateful in any event.
The creature teetered as it tried to regain its balance. Kallir drove it backward with his whole body, using the spear as a battering ram of sorts, impaling the hellish thing and shoving it to the ground, his shield already forgotten in the heat of combat.
It went down and Kallir stepped past it, his eyes seeking the next enemy.
They were everywhere, moving over everything, it seemed. One of the Sa’ba Taalor took a double strike to the chest and the scythes of his enemy ran through his body, cutting clear through the man. He did not so much as scream before he fell back, dead.
Kallir took advantage of the moment and rammed the tip of his spear through the neck of the thing with enough force to nearly behead it. He yanked his spear back and spun to the left in time to avoid the next of the beasts as it charged for him.
A woman he did not recognize struck one of the things in the head and caved in its skull even as the beast was moving toward Kallir. He didn’t have time to acknowledge her help before the next was on him, hammering down with those double blades that passed for hands, making him dance backward to avoid being cut wide open. The spear jabbed forward but skittered off the natural armor.
To his right, Tarag Paedori hacked through both arms of one of the things that tried to stop his great sword. He slammed his armored form into the monster and sent it backward even as he swept his sword around for another strike. The blade was a terrifying weapon in the giant’s hands, and he knew how to use it. He was not as fast as some of the others, but the weapon cleaved his enemies in twain when it landed and the King in Iron knew exactly how to wield his weapon of choice.
Kallir registered more Sa’ba Taalor coming down from the mountainside, riding into the melee with battle cries and horns adding to the sounds of combat. He had to hope that, although the spider-things were everywhere, they didn’t outnumber the gray-skins.
Great mounts and their riders descended, the mounts leaping and taking advantage of the height to let them land on the War-Born nightmares, claws rending, teeth biting down even as their riders used spears and lances to further the attacks on the spider-things. The War-Born did not retreat but, when they saw the enemy coming, they chose instead to rear up, lifting half of those oddly bloated bodies into the air and using their forelegs to push back against the descending enemies before striking with their scythe-arms. Some went down in a crash of fury and others struck true, cutting into the sides or bellies of the mounts, wounding in some cases, killing in others.
It was not an easy fight and there was no way to know who might be winning when Kallir was desperate to stay alive himself. They seemed to attack from every direction at once, the legs of the things clattering and clicking as they approached and then crawled over whatever got in their way.
Kallir had trouble catching his breath, keeping his calm as the things continued to press in on him and the surrounding Sa’ba Taalor.
Not far from him, Drask Silver Hand calmly, efficiently, beheaded one of the War-Born. His sword took the thing’s head as he slid past, then the weapon arced forward and dug into the chest of the next in line as the man breathed smoothly and struck again.
Tuskandru hopped down on another of the nightmares, his blade carving into the lower part of the humanoid form perched above that bloated spider-like lower body. He ripped the weapon free and struck again in almost the same spot, like a woodsman taking down a tree. He also moved back as the very same creature tried to impale him.
Desta let out a scream as one of the damned things cut along her left arm. Her right hand held a war hammer that pounded through the thing’s natural armor and pulped the face of the monster.
Tarag Paedori took longer to strike, but, again, cleanly cut the nightmare he was fighting into two parts.
All this continued around Kallir as he fought his own desperate battles. He rammed his spear into the chest of the beast in front of him, and let out a scream as the staff of his weapon splintered. Enough! He would use his axe; he would kill until all of the damned things were dead and twitching in the dirt.
Four mounts jumped over him, one after the other, leaping high enough to clear even Tarag’s great sword before they landed on their enemies, smashing them down with their weight, roaring out battle cries even as their riders did the same. Claws crashed down, teeth slammed around limbs, and weapons drew harsh lines across natural armor.
One of the things struck first, opening a mount from sternum to crotch and was nearly drowned in the viscera that spilled from the wound. The mount let out a small sound and died, collapsing on its enemy, half crushing the thing in its death throes.
Slash, slash, slash. Parry, block, dodge. Kallir ceased any attempts at seeing his surroundings as more of the damnable things came at him in a concentrated attack. There was no time to think, only to react.
His arms were shaking from exertion, but he forced himself to continue, because to do otherwise was a death sentence.
Someone smashed into him from the left and he staggered, confused by the sudden collision. Tarag Paedori moved in close to him, one thick arm reaching past him to grab at something, and then the man was swinging his preposterously large sword, narrowly missing Kallir and hacking into one of the things. The creature shrieked as the sword did its damage; Kallir’s axe completed the job.
Another of the Sa’ba Taalor moved past him. At first Kallir thought he was looking at Drask – the man had the same line of Great Scars across his mouth, lined up the same way. Another of the people who followed all seven of the Daxar Taalor.
This one used his hands to pummel one of the War-Born, driving his left fist through the hard carapace of the thing, pounding the creature hard enough to break that natural armor and then grabbing a handful of whatever was inside of it and ripping back, taking meat and entrails with him when he pulled. The creature never even screamed. Before it could, the other hand was driving down, carving a trench through the thing’s head.
And then something hit Kallir in the back of his head and he fell, his face slamming into the rocks and soil, a great weight pressing him mercilessly to the ground.
Drask Silver Hand
More war horns, more of the Sa’ba Taalor arriving to fight the War-Born.
Drask welcomed them. There were plenty of the enemy for everyone to fight, and even with his abilities they were a brilliant, beautiful threat. His body ached, his pulse raced, his eyes tried to look everywhere at once, and he was aware in ways that would have baffled most of his people. Whatever the gods had done to him, it let him sense so much more than most did. He could have ended the entire conflict easily, but that was not what the gods wanted. They wanted war. They wanted bloodshed, and so he honored that wish as best he could and fought a mundane battle.
The sword in his left hand cut deep, and his right hand blocked another slicing attack from one of the bladed limbs of the War-Born in front of him. The thing had just landed on Kallir Lundt, slammed him to the ground with ease and one of the creature’s arms slashed down at the fallen man even as the other came for Drask himself.
He knocked the blade aside with his silver hand and then stepped in closer to the thing. It focused on him, which was what he wanted. The man on the ground was on his own and looked to be useless for the moment. Perhaps he would recover, perhaps not, but in either event, Drask wanted his enemy’s attention.
The fresh wave of Sa’ba Taalor pushed against the constant flow of creatures on the battlefield, driving them back a few paces at a time. Drask grinned and ground his teeth together as the thing fighting against him scuttled in closer and raised both of its blades high into the air.
The sword drove up and into the lower half of the alien face, then into the creature’s skull, bringing a quick death before those arms could descend.
