Bladesinger - Keith Francis Strohm [77]
"My thanks," Roberc said as he finished unstrapping his ruined shield and jumped once more into the fray.
Taen had no time to acknowledge the halfling. Three crossbow bolts hissed past his head, and a fourth would have pierced his leg if he hadn't seen it hurtling out of the shadow at the last moment. He flung himself sideways, twisting his hips so that his legs spun over the missile in mid air. It was a defensive move he hadn't used in quite some time, and the half-elf's body protested as it landed back on the ground. There was no time to falter, however, as Taen's ogre opponent reached out a meaty hand grab him. Long fingers latched on to his shoulder with the strength of steel; he could feel his bone quiver beneath the excruciating pressure of the beast's grip.
Unable to bring his sword to bear, Taen beat his fist against the ogre's arm, trying to break the hold. It didn't work. Slowly, inexorably, the half-elf felt himself being drawn toward the ogre's chest. Once there, the beast would envelop him in a crushing hug that would grind his bones to dust.
The words to a spell fluttered in his mind. Taen shouted them out loud, but the pain of the ogre's grapple distracted him, and the spell's energy dissipated harmlessly into the air. The half-elf knew that he had only moments in which to free himself.
Suddenly the ogre pitched sideways, releasing his iron grip. Taen fell backward, his left shoulder nearly numb. Marissa stood beside him, the tip of her staff glowing faintly. The monster roared at the sight of the staff and dived forward, trying to rip the artifact from her hands. Taen called out a warning, but he soon saw that it wasn't necessary. Marissa quickly retracted the staff. Overbalanced, the ogre tripped and stumbled forward. The druid stepped to the side deftly, planted the staff against the ogre, and pushed.
The beast tumbled sideways, rolling over the lip of the bridge and plunging into the darkness below.
Taen rolled to his feet and returned to the battle, relief at Marissa's safety flooding through his body, combating some of the fatigue that threatened to slow down each parry and swing of his sword. The soaring melody of the Song accompanied him into the fray with a strength that he had not experienced since his days as a tael. He settled into the Song, wanting to abandon himself to it completely, but he kept waiting for that dreadful moment when it would drag at the core of his being like a blood-hungry vampire, so he fought his enemies under an uneasy truce with the Song building within him.
Behind him he could hear the druid shouting words to another spell.
* * * * *
Marissa watched the intricate dance of Taenaran's swordplay and marveled, not for the first time, at the half-elf's fluid style, the lithe interplay of body and steel, moving and weaving with an almost unearthly grace. Where Borovazk and Roberc met the ogres' powerful attacks with an almost equal ferocity, the half-elf seemed to flow with his opponent's energy, blending with it instead of meeting it head-on.
To an unschooled observer, it would look like nothing more than a playful dance, a choreographed piece of theater with no application to the real world, but Marissa saw within Taenaran's flowing movements the deadly art of the bladesinger. She'd seen the half-elf use his training in battle before but never like this. Marissa knew the shame that he carried within him, knew that such a burden often caused the young half-elf to fight his trained battle instincts. The result was usually a stilted attack, something that resembled the art she had seen a few times before in her life-like a pseudo-dragon resembles a full-grown wyvern-but never quite matched its purity.
Something had clearly changed for the half-elf-had been changing ever since they started off on this journey, if Marissa was honest. In combat, at least, he seemed no longer to be two persons-a gifted acolyte of an