Darkness, I had to get back and pick up my crossbow.
“Die, little monkey!” Two orcs in helmets had noticed the solitary, innocuous man with a knife. I despairingly flung the knife at one of them, but he playfully knocked it aside with his shield.
“Harold, behind you!” called Honeycomb, leaping over to me. “Pick up the ax!”
I sprang back to make way for his ogre-hammer. The battle-flail swung low. Honeycomb was aiming for the legs. The Firstborn jumped up smartly, trying to avoid the heavy studded club. The Wild Heart changed the angle of his blow and the flail flew upward, putting an end to the less agile of the two orcs. The second orc tried to attack, but I was already there with the dead orc’s ax. I struck out clumsily, but put everything I could into it.
The ax sliced into his shield and stuck there.
“Get out of there!”
The orc took a step back, taking my weapon away with him. I took the Wild Heart’s advice just in time and jumped aside. In desperation the Firstborn held his yataghan out in front of him in an attempt to fend off Honeycomb’s blow. The striking head of the ogre-hammer flew higher this time, wound its chain round the orc’s yataghan, and stopped, tying the two weapons together.
Honeycomb tugged, but the orc kept his nerve and started tugging, too. Honeycomb let go of the handle of his ogre-hammer, stepped forward, and stabbed his dumbfounded opponent with his dagger just below the helmet, in his chin.
“Harold, what did I tell you? Clear out, go back to your horse!” Honeycomb had already picked up someone else’s sword and was fighting the next Firstborn. The entire cabbage field was seething with clashing weapons, shouts and screams, and blood. The battle had only been going on for a minute, or maybe two, but it seemed to me like an eternity since the start of the attack.
I picked my knife up off the ground, looked round, spotted Little Bee, and made a dash for her. One of the orcs flung a spear that pierced the links of Sergeant Mouth’s chain mail and stuck in his back. Another two orcs finished off Servin, who was desperately trying to hold them off. One distracted his attention and the other chopped off his arm with an ax.
I was overwhelmed by fury.
May the darkness take me, I swear by Sagot that I am a calm man, not given to suicidal acts, but this really got to my liver! Our men were being killed, and I was just rushing round the field, dodging the Firstborn’s yataghans.
I jumped up on the back of the one with the ax and literally drove the knife into the back of his head. He shuddered, went limp, and started to fall.
His comrade howled in fury and rushed at me. I was saved by the shield that had fallen from the hands of the orc I’d killed. I held it up in front of me, using both hands. The Firstborn struck once, twice, three times. His yellow eyes were blazing with fury.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I realized there was plaintive singing in a language I didn’t know weaving itself into the noise of the battle. With every blow that descended on the shield I took several steps back. The orc was beginning to enjoy it, and I could barely manage to raise the shield fast enough against his yataghan. Chips of wood were flying everywhere—this lad ought to have been a woodcutter, not a soldier. I trod on a cabbage, slipped, and almost fell.
After the tenth clang-bash, when the accursed shield started pulling my arms out of their sockets and the orc had just swung back for another blow, I resorted to cunning: I didn’t defend myself against the blow, but simply stepped aside when the next attack came.
The orc put all his strength into the blow, and when he didn’t encounter the usual resistance, he went flying forward, growling viciously. To avoid falling to the ground, the Firstborn took a few more steps, and I smashed the shield against his back. The blow distracted him and then Hallas turned up to help me out.
The back section of his battle-mattock, the part that looked so much like a punch for working metal, pierced the Firstborn’s armor with a resounding
“Harold, what would I do without your help?” Hallas laughed into his blood stained beard.
“Behind you!” I shouted to warn him of danger approaching.
The short little gnome jumped smartly to one side, spun round, and attacked the new enemy.
Little Bee was still standing where I had left her. I hadn’t even noticed when the fever of battle had carried me so far away from my horse. The crossbow was lying in the dirt, close to her hooves.
Kli-Kli appeared in front of me.
The goblin lowered his hands to his belt in a fluent movement, pulled off two heavy throwing knives, which performed glittering somersaults in his fingers, so that he was holding them by the blades, and then he flung them at me.
I didn’t duck, I didn’t move, and basically I didn’t even have time to feel scared, it all happened so fast.
One of the knives whistled past my right ear and the other past my left ear, almost slicing it off.
Amazingly enough, I was still alive.
I had enough wits to look round. The enemy standing behind me had already raised his ax. The goblin’s throwing knives were sticking out of his eye sockets. The orc stood there for a moment, swaying on his heels, and fell facedown, almost flattening me.
“You’ll never get even for me saving your skin.” The jester already had a second pair of knives in his hands.
I couldn’t think of anything to say. I felt too ashamed, remembering how we had all laughed at the goblin’s skill with throwing knives.
I picked up the crossbow and loaded it hastily.
“We’re losing, we only have eight against twelve!” the goblin declared.
Where does he find the time to count?
“I know!”
“Then keep your wits about you. Can you hear the shaman singing? When he finishes casting his spell, things will get really bad.”
A shaman! I turned cold, finally realizing the disaster that song could bring.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Find him and kill him! He’s hiding somewhere!”
Easily said—kill a shaman!
Little Bee suddenly lashed out at an orc who was being pressed hard by a Border Kingdom soldier. Her hoof caught him in his unprotected back and the soldier finished off the job.
“I told you she was a battle horse!” Even in this situation the jester could find the strength to smile. “I know the right gifts to give my friends!”
Suddenly horns sounded and the second detachment, under Fer’s command, struck the enemy in the rear like an iron fist. Alistan went sweeping past me and sliced the head off one of four orcs who were closing in on Eel.
I wouldn’t say the Garrakian was exactly having a hard time against four adversaries, but the unexpected help certainly did no harm. In his hands the “brother” and “sister” were fluttering about like butterflies, fusing into a single glittering blur. The “sister” thrust and the “brother” slashed. The “sister” struck from above, aiming at the head; the orc covered himself with his shield and the “brother” immediately slashed open his exposed belly.
I calmly fired a crossbow bolt into the third orc, hitting him just below the right shoulder blade. Kli-Kli ducked down and slashed the fourth one’s tendons, then Eel finished the job by killing the fallen orc.
“Miralissa!” I yelled when I saw the elfess, armed with a s’kash. Her ash-gray hair was covered by a hood of chain mail. “There’s a shaman here!”
She shouted something in orcic to Egrassa and pronounced a spell, flinging out her hands. Ice appeared under the feet of the orc running toward her and her enemy slipped and skidded forward across it, waving his arms in surprise. He was greeted eagerly by Fer, who brought down his mace on the Firstborn’s helmet. Blood spurted in all directions.
Suddenly semitransparent, poisonous-green bubbles appeared in the air.
“Keep away from them!” shouted Miralissa, forcing her Doralissian horse to turn aside sharply.
