Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [145]
“We must attack,” gasped the prince, raising the Sword of Cymrych Hugh, though the effort shot burning pain through his arm.
“Hi-eeee!” With a screech, Pawldo bounded forward, striking deeply into the calf of a startled Firbolg.
Before his companions could build on his initiative, however, the flat of a Firbolg cutlass crashed heavily into the halfling’s little body, sending him flying into the stone wall. Then Pawldo dropped senseless to the floor.
“All right, you stinking bastard,” growled Daryth, in a low voice than somehow carried clearly through the din of battle. The Calishite advanced in a low crouch, and the Firbolg that had struck Pawldo recoiled instinctively from the sight of coming death.
Daryth sprang forward, and Tristan stepped quickly beside him. As the prince fended off a series of attacks against the Calishite’s back, Daryth forced the offending Firbolg backward.
With an inarticulate gurgle of terror, the monster stepped into the ram that still lay in the middle of the gatehouse and tumbled over backward to the floor with a mighty crash. As his face twisted into a mask of hatred, Daryth drove forward and sank his shortsword to the hilt in the Firbolg’s belly.
Darting back with lightning speed, Daryth avoided a blizzard of blows aimed in vain by the other Firbolgs. Tristan took advantage of the enemy’s singlehanded pursuit of the Calishite. The Sword of Cymrych Hugh seemed to relish each hissing touch of Firbolg flesh, and the prince carved several deep wounds before he, too, fell back against the wall.
But this ebb and flow of combat could not continue for more than a few minutes more, Tristan realized. Even as he looked for a solution, a wicked swing cut the head from the one remaining man-at-arms standing with them. Now Daryth and Tristan stood alone before the wide wooden door leading to the upper level of the gatehouse.
“When the Firbolgs came to Corwell… ”
The strong voice, lifted in song, emerged from the hall behind them. Like magic, the prince felt renewed strength flow through his sword arm. The song, accompanied by aggressive yet melodic harp chords, seemed to have the same effect upon Daryth.
The Calishite wiped the sweat from his eyes, and the weariness distorting his face gave way to a look of deadly determination.
And then Keren stood between them.
The bard quickly slung his harp behind his back and brandished his silver longsword. Even without his instrument, however, the bard sang out a lusty song of battle, turning between verses to wink at the prince and say, “A few minutes, my prince. That’s all the longer we have to hold!”
“The ram!” cried Daryth, pointing with his bloodstained blade.
Tristan realized then that, with an unusual show of intelligence, some Firbolgs had been keeping them busy while others had cleared and hoisted the heavy ram for a final assault.
“Let’s go!” the prince called, and immediately the three men dove between the slower giants and threw themselves into action.
Tristan struck quickly at a Firbolg holding one end of the ram. Daryth whirled past him, spinning and dodging as he struck the other confused giants. Keren, too, pressed in, striking more slowly, but coolly keeping the enemy from the backs of his two companions.
The entire squirming mass of Firbolgs slipped and cursed as the ram once again tumbled to the floor. From somewhere, however, a Firbolg’s club spun sideways and crashed heavily, into Keren’s ribs. The bard stumbled back to the door, his face ashen with pain.
Trying to protect their companion, Tristan and Daryth fell back again as the Firbolgs once more forced them to the wall. As before, the press of heavy bodies actually restricted the actions of those engaged in the fight, and several more of the monsters added their blood to the crimson surface of the floor, victims of their own side.
“We… can’t hold out… for long,” gasped Daryth,