Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [112]
Groth desperately rose and slashed out with his club, crushing the dwarf’s skull. Yet that was only one. The dwarves, blood enemies of the Firbolgs, attacked with cruel efficiency, hamstringing many of their giant opponents with the first attack. Now they swarmed over the rest, hacking with those murderous axes, or scuttling and ducking away from the Firbolgs’ return blows.
Panic clutched at Groth. He fought off another dwarf, climbing to one knee. More of the Firbolgs fell as the dwarves – merciless and cunning – closed in for the slaughter. In moments, the Firbolgs who had not fallen beneath the weapons of the dwarves lost heart – their fallen leader, and the surprise of the attack by the wily dwarves, had quickly shattered what remained of their morale.
“Help me!” groaned Groth, as the fleeing Firbolgs trundled past. He finally persuaded a pair to support him. Thus, ignominously carried, the mighty Groth left the field of battle.
*****
Laric rode through the tumult, constantly seeking the knight he had struck. He drooled at the thought of finishing the job. Should she already be dead, he did not want her body to escape him.
His charcoal eyes sought eagerly, peering closely at each of the sisters he saw. The dried, rotted flesh of his nose crinkled and dropped away as he sniffed her delicious scent.
And then he found it.
The wounded knight slouched motionless in her saddle, closely protected by a comrade to either side. Her silver armor, from left shoulder to left foot, was tarnished by bright blood. The slender body, even concealed by metal plate, seemed to call Laric with undeniable force.
Spurring his black stallion, Laric drove toward the motionless sister. A Bloodrider charged close at each side, skillfully distracting the two knights guarding their wounded sister. Reaching forward, his clawlike hand concealed by a heavy gauntlet, he seized the reins of his victim’s horse and pulled.
Startled, Osprey lurched ahead. A moment later, Laric’s captive knight and her horse vanished into a group of Bloodriders.
Avalon carried the prince into the fray with thundering speed. Tristan slashed the Sword of Cymrych Hugh, and struck a Bloodrider from the saddle with his first blow. The sword surged through the corrupt body, eagerly. A hot wave of pleasure tingled in the prince’s hand, as if the sword itself had enjoyed the killing.
A vicious cut assailed the prince from the right, and suddenly Tristan was fighting for his life amid a circling cluster of skull-faced Riders. Desperately, the prince sought Canthus.
The great hound had stayed with his master in the long charge across the field, and now fought with him among the pounding hooves and clashing steel. A Rider lunged at him, and the prince got his first good look at one of the hideous faces. He saw the bones of the skull showing through cracked and rotted flesh, sickening him. He nonetheless parried the creature’s wild swing, and thrust sharply with his own weapon, grazing his opponent’s side.
The Rider leered at him from those glowing, hot eyes. The prince could see no white, nor pupil – just a liquid pool of red heat, and lust for killing. The Rider’s face, so pasty white that it might have been the bone of his skull, remained frozen in a hideous grin. His lips were bright red strips of skin stretched taut and cracking around his mouth.
A spittle of drool, pale pink in color, trickled from the Rider’s grotesque mouth to run, unnoticed, across his chin. As the creature struck again, the prince saw the hellish eyes glow with increased intensity. This time Tristan’s response proved more effective, as he dodged the blow and then struck his attacker’s sword arm off at the elbow. The Rider displayed no pain, but continued to lunge and strike at the