Beyond the Shadows - Brent Weeks [234]
Stryke’s weapon was better suited to fencing. The size and weight of the creature’s broadsword made it awkward to use in close combat. Designed for hacking, it needed to be swung in a wider arc. After several passes the creature strained with effort, huffing clouds of icy breath. Stryke kept harrying from a distance, awaiting his chance.
In desperation, the creature lurched toward him, its sword slashing at his face. It missed, but came close enough for him to feel the displaced air. Momentum carried the stroke on, lifting the creature’s arms high and leaving its chest unprotected. Stryke’s blade found its heart, triggering a scarlet eruption. The creature spiralled into the trampling mêlée.
Glancing down the hill, Stryke could make out the Wolverines, embroiled in the greater battle on the plain below.
He returned to the slaughter.
Coilla looked up and saw Stryke on the hill above, not far from the walls of the settlement, savagely laying into a group of defenders.
She cursed his damned impatience.
But for the moment their leader would have to look after himself. The warband had some serious resistance to overcome before they could get to him.
Here in the boiling cauldron of the main battlefield, bloody conflict stretched out on every side. A crushing mob of fighting troops and shying mounts churned to pulp what had been fields of crops just hours before. The cacophonous, roaring din was endless, the tart aroma of death soured the back of her throat.
A thirty-strong flying wedge bristling with steel, the Wolverines kept in tight formation, powering through the struggling mass like some giant multi-stinged insect. Near the wedge’s spearhead, Coilla helped clear their path, lashing out with her sword at enemy flesh obstructing the way.
Too fast to properly digest, a succession of hellish tableaux vivants flashed past her. A defender with a hatchet buried in its shoulder; one of her own side, gore-encrusted hands covering his eyes; another silently shrieking, a red stump in lieu of an arm; one of theirs staring down at a hole the size of a fist in its chest; a headless body, gushing crimson as it staggered. A face cut to ribbons by the slashing of her blade.
An infinity later the Wolverines arrived at the foot of the hill and began to climb as they fought.
A brief hiatus in the butchery allowed Stryke to check again the progress of his band. They were cleaving through knots of defenders about halfway up the hill.
He turned back and surveyed the massive wooden-walled stronghold topping the rise. There was a way to go before they reached its gates, and several score more of the enemy to overcome. But it seemed to Stryke that their ranks were thinning.
Filling his lungs with frigid air, he felt again the intensity of life that came when death was this close.
Coilla arrived, panting, the rest of the troop close behind.
“Took your time,” he commented drily. “Thought I’d have to storm the place alone.”
She jabbed a thumb at the milling chaos below. “Weren’t keen on letting us through.”
They exchanged smiles that were almost crazed.
Bloodlust’s on her too, he thought. Good.
Alfray, custodian of the Wolverines’ banner, joined them and drove the flag’s spar into the semi-frozen earth. The warband’s two dozen common soldiers formed a defensive ring around the officers. Noticing one of the grunts had taken a pernicious-looking head wound, Alfray pulled a field dressing from his hip bag and went to staunch the blood.
Sergeants Haskeer and Jup pushed through the troopers. As usual, the former was sullen, the latter unreadable.
“Enjoy your stroll?” Stryke jibed, his tone sarcastic.
Jup ignored it. “What now, Captain?