Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [144]
With the main gates smashed, the gatehouse gave the Firbolgs two routes into the castle. If they could also crash through the portcullis with their ram, they could charge directly into the courtyard. If they could overcome Tristan and his companions, the monsters could climb through the trapdoor onto the roof of the gatehouse, and from there reach all of the defenders on top of the wooden palisade.
Tristan hurled himself and his sword at the nearest Firbolg, spilling the creature’s guts onto the stone floor. Before his first victim had fallen, the prince struck another, and then a third. In seconds, the bellows of the wounded Firbolgs reverberated through the hollow stone structure. The rest of the monsters dropped the ram, pulling their crude stone daggers or heavy wooden clubs from beneath their leather cloaks.
The prince was vaguely aware of Daryth at his side, and he saw a silvery flash dart suddenly from between them, low to the ground. He knew the valiant halfling stood with them.
“Look out!” The cry from Daryth alerted Tristan to a blow from a Firbolg to his left, and he barely ducked the murderous cut of a heavy blade. Before the Firbolg recovered, however, the Sword of Cymrych Hugh visited his heart, hissing eagerly, and the creature fell heavily to the flagstones, which were quickly dyed red by the blood from his death wound.
More Firbolgs crowded into the gatehouse, as the flagstones grew slick with blood. As Tristan lunged toward one giant, his boots slipped and he fell, knocking the wind from his lungs. The giant kicked him in the ribs with a hobnailed boot, and he curled involuntarily from the pain, waiting for a final blow from above.
Through the red haze of his vision, the prince saw Daryth leap, driving his blade deep into the Firbolg that had kicked him.
“Come here!” Pawldo grabbed the prince’s arm and pulled with surprising strength for one of his size.
Another fighter helped, and they yanked him from the thick of the melee and got him to his feet. Ducking a pair of huge clubs, Daryth sprang away from the Firbolgs and landed by his companions, checking to see that Tristan was all right.
“I’m fine. Thanks,” gasped the prince.
Without waiting to acknowledge him, Daryth again leaped into the fray as a Firbolg came close. The slender Calishite gave the mountain of a creature a swift cut to the neck.
For a few seconds, Tristan rested and regained his breath, looking at the progress of the battle within the tight confines of the gatehouse. Several dozen Firbolgs still raged against the few humans. Fortunately for the humans, the close quarters and their own lack of imagination played against the Firbolgs.
A half dozen or so of their numbers lay on the flagstones, dead, and near those bodies lay at least three men-at-arms, skulls crushed.
Once more, Tristan pushed forward into the fight, selecting a stupidly grinning Firbolg as his next target. The monster’s foul breath nearly made the prince gag. Ignoring the prince’s first blow, the perspiration-covered Firbolg drove his heavy club downward, but with a clear anticipation of the blow, Tristan stepped quickly to the side, and then disemboweled the creature with a slashing cut of his sword.
Bellowing in pain, the monster slumped to the ground, trying in vain to hold its intestines. In moments, the Firbolg died, and the gore on the flagstones grew thicker and more slippery than ever.
The stench of blood and death filled the gatehouse, and weariness began to drag at defenders and attackers alike. Tristan looked quickly around, and saw that only himself, Daryth, Pawldo, and a single man-at-arms stood between the Firbolgs and the door giving access to the castle.
Breathing deeply, the prince realized that the Firbolgs, too, had stepped back from the pace of battle for a brief rest. As sweat poured