A clash of blades. And another. Every time it met the enemy’s steel, the battery sword screeched furiously and its song was echoed by the flute that the orcs could not hear.
Sing, flute! Sing!
The orc moved into the attack, the yataghan came sweeping down, encountered a “window” and tried to avoid the unexpected obstacle, and at that moment Alistan Markauz spun his enemy’s blade, threw it off to the right and “entered,” striking the orc a mighty blow on the chin with the pommel of his sword.
Sing, flute! Sing!
The heavy ball set on the hilt of the sword crushed the bone, and the orc collapsed limply to the ground. Alistan Markauz had no intention of sparing his opponent’s life. This was no time for noble acts of chivalry; he had only one goal now—to take as many Firstborn with him as he could. The heavy battery sword twirled round the count’s right wrist as lightly as if it was a feather. He shifted his grip to hold it like a staff and thrust the blade into his prone enemy with all his strength.
Sing, flute! Sing!
Not time to die yet! A little more dancing and singing!
His left cheek was damp for some reason, and something was dripping off his chin. He brought his eyes together in a squint—the entire front of his jacket was soaked in blood. Ah, darkness! That orc had been quick with the dagger. The count had not even noticed when his opponent managed to reach him. It was strange, but he did not feel any pain at all now. Even though the left side of his face was quite definitely sliced open. Sagra be praised that the blow had caught him below the eye, or the blood gushing from his forehead would have hindered him in the fight.
Sing, flute! Sing!
The flute sang, and the sword sang in harmony with it. The yataghan sliced through the air; the shield took the mighty vertical blows. When the battery sword came down again, the orc didn’t stand there stupidly, he drew the shield back toward himself, taking the sting out of the blow. The sword stuck in the shield and the Firstborn drew his yataghan back triumphantly, opening himself up. The dagger that suddenly appeared in Alistan Markauz’s left hand struck into the open gap, easily pierced the orc’s jacket, and stuck in the place known to warriors as the “bloody apple.” The count jumped back, freeing his sword with a sharp twist.
Sing, flute! Sing!
His cheek was burning, as if torturers had sewn a handful of blazing coals into it, but he had no time for pain now—two opponents flung themselves at him at once. The first one, with a spear, came charging at him like a wild boar. The second, with an ax, jumped up agilely onto the left shoulder of the bridge, and made to strike at him from above. Alistan Markauz skipped under the descending ax and struck the orc standing on the narrow border between his legs with all his might. The Firstborn lost his balance and tumbled into the ravine.
Sing, flute! Sing!
Holding his weapon above his head in both hands, as if it wasn’t a spear, but some kind of battle gaff, the orc struck in rapid jabbing thrusts at Alistan Markauz’s neck and chest. The count managed to parry the blows, but with great difficulty.
The sweat streamed off his face, mingling with the blood flowing from his wound. His ears were ringing, his legs were filled with lead, there was no air to breathe. He could not tell how long he had been backing away. The count’s attention was completely focused on his opponent’s golden eyes. The sharp sting of the spear described circles in the air, then came hurtling at his shoulder, changed direction to aim at his knee, darted up toward his chin. It was becoming harder and harder for him to parry the blows. All he could do was knock the spear away to his right or his left. And slicing through the orc’s weapon was out of the question—the shaft of the spear was clad in iron for almost a quarter of its length.
Each of them waited for his opponent to make a mistake, to open himself up a little, lose his focus, stumble unexpectedly, or simply fail to cover himself against a blow. The sword in Alistan Markauz’s hands grew heavier and heavier with every second that passed. He barely managed to push the thrusting sting of the spear away to the right, then carried through the movement of his blade into a hacking blow, trying to reach the Firstborn.…
The orc was quicker. He almost lay down on the ground and thrust his short spear forward with both hands. The narrow four-sided point pierced Alistan Markauz’s chain mail and struck the count in his right side. And again he felt no pain.
He grabbed the spear sticking in his side with his left hand, pushed it hard away from him, and was delighted to see the sharp butt end of the spear strike the orc in the chest, taking him by surprise. Then he shifted the spear to the right, giving himself the opportunity to move close to his dumbfounded opponent.
Sing, flute! Sing!
The Firstborn parted with his head, and the count pressed his left hand to his right side. It was bad. The count knew what happens when steel pierces the liver. It is the end.
Demanding hands with slim elegant fingers were laid on his shoulders. He roared furiously and jerked his shoulders to throw them off, forcing Death to step back.
“It’s not time! I can still take another one!”
The bridge came to an end. He had to hold his sword in one hand and squeeze his wounded side with the other. At least that would stop the bleeding and give him one more minute.
Sing, flute! Sing!
Make Death laugh! Gladden her with his song, so that she would remember this battle forever. How annoying that apart from her and these yellow-eyed reptiles, no one would see his finest fight of all! And the flute sang, and the Singing Steel of the sword sang its fierce and furious harmony. Step back, strike, catch on the counterstrike, step to the side. Another strike. And another. Press his back against the gates. Strike. Cover himself.
He threw his left hand out in front of himself, and the blood from his glove flew into the orc’s eyes. The orc lost momentum for an instant and the count, grasping his sword with both hands and ignoring the bleeding, chopped at the orc’s leg and charged him.
Sing, flute! Sing!
The song of the flute rang out over Zagraba and spread out across the world. He wondered if the group could hear it. Probably not, they were far away now. Very far away. The count smiled triumphantly.
Everything went dark. There was a roaring in his ears and for some reason he felt dizzy. He swung out blindly, acting intuitively, anticipating the next blow every time. Oh, just a little bit longer.
The blade of his sword struck something hard and halted for an instant, and the hilt was almost torn out of his hands, then he heard someone’s short gurgling shriek.
Sing, flute! Sing!
Well, Death, do you see? This is much better than arrows. He was going to fight a little longer. The orcs would remember this battle, and they would tell their grandchildren about him.
Why is it so dark? Why do I feel so bad? Are those your hands again, Death? It’s not time yet! It’s not time! Can you hear the flute singing? Can you hear the music?
Sing, flute! Si—
17
Out Of The Forest
The next morning Sunpatch didn’t say a word about what I’d seen the night before, and I didn’t ask her any more questions. Kli-Kli obviously suspected something, because she kept giving me suspicious glances all morning, but—Sagot be praised—she didn’t try to pick my brain. The mist that had lingered in Zagraba for the last two days had disappeared overnight. Hallas was a lot better; at least he wasn’t as pale as the day before and his breathing was stable. Sunpatch whispered spells over the gnome, while Fluffy Cloud handed out fresh bread, meat, and cheese (goodness only knows where all that came from!) to our somber little band. But just as we were about to start eating, the elk came back and we were forced to eat our rations on the move—Runner in the Moonlight wasn’t going to wait while we satisfied our hunger sitting on the grass.
The four elk ran all day long, stopping only twice at the dryads’ request. Even after all that crashing through the densest thickets in the depths of the forest, the massive beasts didn’t seem to tire at all, which is more than
