“Any time, monster.”
The beast who had been Balif sat on his haunches. And sat. At length it yawned, its black tongue curling at the tip.
Feeling mocked, Bulnac slapped his sword against the boss on his shield. Everyone but Lofotan flinched, but the creature eyed the big warrior with quiet intensity.
“Enough stupidity!” Bulnac advanced with a roar. He swung his blade with enough force to chop down a sizable tree. Trouble was, the beast was not a tree. It sprang full length from its crouch and hit Bulnac dead center in the chest before he could complete his swing. He staggered back but did not go down. The beast’s front legs were around Bulnac’s neck. The cheek pieces on Bulnac’s helmet saved his face. He tried to bring his blade back against the creature, but it released its hold and dropped to the ground, sinking its fangs into Bulnac’s thigh. No armor there.
Striking out in pain, he rapped the bronze hilt of his blade against the beast’s skull. Stunned, the bearcat fell away and circled, shaking off the blow. A dozen yards back Bulnac’s retinue shouted encouragement and praise at their leader. Blood ran down his face from some minor cuts, and dark blood welled from his thigh wound.
If he pierced the artery, Mathi thought furiously. If … The smell of freshly spilled blood made her dizzy.
Bulnac advanced, swinging his blade in wide arcs. The nomad chief did not appreciate that he was dealing with an animal with the strength and reflexes of a great predator but with the mind of a very intelligent elf. He was fighting Balif as if he were a mad dog or raging wolf.
Watching the bright blade cut the air, the beast timed his lunge for when the sword just passed his nose. He leaped, clamping his powerful jaws on Bulnac’s wrist. Leather gauntlets blunted Balif’s fangs but his full weight dragged the nomad’s arm down. Bellowing defiance, Bulnac actually lifted the creature off the ground with his teeth still gripping his arm. He punched repeatedly with the hilt of his sword until the beast fell to the ground. Mathi reckoned every blow Bulnac landed broke a rib.
He raised one great leg, meaning to drive his spiked spur into the creature. Blood loss or the pain of his leg wound slowed him enough for Balif to roll aside. He raked his claws across Bulnac’s back, shredding his leather jerkin and scoring the skin beneath.
Uneasy, the Bulnac’s followers edged closer. A few pulled spears from sleeves hanging from their saddles. Seeing that, Lofotan loudly called for Zakki and his centaurs to raise their bows.
“First man to throw a spear dies!”
Bulnac lost his buckler when the beast tore it off his arm. Balif went for his throat. The chief got his sword up in time, and the creature was cut deeply across the chest.
The beast leaped away, turned and gazed at his foe with his fiery eyes. Panting, Bulnac threw down his unwieldy sword and drew instead a heavy dagger with a blade just ten inches long.
“Come, monster. Let us get closer.” His words were little more than a whisper.
The sun was settling below the trees. Bulnac’s original ultimatum had expired. Large numbers of warriors filtered through the trees, ready to join the promised attack. When their comrades on the spot told them what was going on, they joined the silent throng at the forest edge, watching their chief do battle with the monster that killed his son.
Then the beast astounded them all.
It leaned back, raising its front legs off the ground. As everyone looked on, the bearcat straightened its back and staggered upright. When it stood erect, it bared its teeth and snarled.
The hair on Mathi’s neck prickled. The snarl sounded just like Balif saying “Ha!”
He lumbered forward, forelegs outstretched. Bulnac spat blood and waited, dagger drawn. Mathi expected the beast to go right at him and try to slash him with his claws. Balif closed to little more than arm’s length. He twisted, dropped to the ground, and picked up Bulnac’s discarded sword. He couldn’t grip it properly, but he held it tightly between his paws. The nomad chief drew back, startled. Rearing his arms up, Balif flung the sword. It whirled point over pommel at its owner. Bulnac tried to parry the flying blade with his dagger. It whirled past his outthrust arm. The point hit him below the breastbone and sank in.
Color fled the nomad’s face. The dagger fell from his fingers. Bulnac gripped the sword with both hands and tried to pull it out. He never got the chance. The beast hurled himself at the pommel, driving the blade through the chief’s gut. Two feet of bloody bronze burst from Bulnac’s back. He toppled backward with the beast embracing him.
For a moment silence reigned. Zakki raised his bow over his head and screeched in triumph. His comrades echoed his cry. Mathi was surprised to hear herself shouting too. The thrill of victory quickly paled when she wondered what the multitude of nomad warriors would do now that their leader was dead.
Battered and bleeding, the beast stalked slowly back through the sharpened stakes. When he was well out of reach, Bulnac’s retainers rode silently forward. They surrounded their fallen chief and lifted his body onto the back of his enormous steed. Without a word or second glance, they went down the hill where they were swallowed by a throng of quiet warriors.
The defenders braced for an attack. Night fell, and the nomads did not come. Through the darkness Mathi and the others watched the glow of a large bonfire, burning on a hilltop less than a mile away. It blazed most of the night, fading into the dark an hour or two before dawn.
CHAPTER 19
When the funeral pyre of their chief burned out, the nomads took up their arms and prepared to avenge his death by destroying the stubborn defenders of Balif’s bluff.
Three times they came before sun-up. Their first thrust was mounted. The nomads formed at the foot of the hill and slowly ascended without battle cries. They came to grief when their horses stepped on the flimsy lids of the kender’s tunnels. Many riders were overthrown, and the rest stopped in confusion, certain the land was pocked with pits deliberately designed to trap their horses. The first attack was called off. Back down the hill went the nomads, to reform for another assault, this time on foot.
Inside the tunnels, the kender took the sudden breakthrough of horse hooves as an indication they were the target of the attack. Faster than you could say ‘Rufus Wrinklecap,’ they abandoned their holes, pouring out on the dewy turf at the top of the hill. Lofotan hurriedly tried to work them into companies of a hundred each, but he could never get an accurate count. As soon as one company was mustered, the elf moved on to the next, only to find many of the same kender lining up. They denied it, of course, but Lofotan gave up. He told the Longwalker to keep his people behind the stakes and have at any humans who came their way.
Mathi brought water and food-what little there was-to the supply tent after dark. Balif huddled inside, nursing his wounds. Any attempt by Mathi to enter the tent was met with snarls and swipes of his formidable claws. Thereafter she kept a vigil outside, ready to respond to any need the general might express. From time to time she was spelled by Treskan, who had acquired an ugly cut on his face and assorted bruises.
He was joined outside the tent by Rufe, who appeared out of nowhere and sat cross-legged on the ground next to Treskan. He nodded to Rufe. Rufe nodded back. Neither spoke for a long time.
“Looks like you won’t be getting the horse we owed you,” Treskan said.
“Eh? Why not?”
He smiled ruefully. “Always stout-hearted, aren’t you?”
Morning peepers sang to them. Out of nowhere Rufe asked the scribe where he came from.
“Woodbec,” he said
“Is that on the south coast?” asked Rufe.
“No, inland.”
Rufe gave a him probing glance. “Will you be going back there?”
“Yes, sooner than I thought.”
“Tell them my name,” said Rufe. Treskan didn’t understand, so Rufe repeated, “Tell the people of your home my name. That way when I come to visit, they’ll know who I am.”
