DragonKnight - Donita K. Paul [63]
He soon saw the effectiveness of this odd weaponry. Two or three men would surround a beast, well beyond reach of the dangerous tentacles. They then twirled their chains or bludgeons. Bardon watched the man with a teakettle. He held the end of the rope above his head and swung the pot around and around, gaining momentum with each circle. He edged closer, and the kettle smashed into the creature’s head. The head exploded much like a large, soft gourd hit with a sledgehammer. Messy, but effective.
Bardon remained on the street and watched the men slay the beasts. The slosh of a foot dragged through a puddle, the slurred breathing, and the heavy smell of seawater warned him. He whirled to find a giant quiss a few feet behind him. This creature stood at least seven feet tall. He had never seen nor heard of a quiss this size.
The beast reached for him, and Bardon swung his sword. The arm fell to the ground between them. Without so much as a flinch or a grunt, the animal extended another tentacle. Bardon lopped it off, this time backing away. The creature followed. It became a rhythm of sorts. The quiss reached, Bardon cut off the arm, he stepped back, and the animal followed. They repeated the macabre dance several times until Bardon realized he’d allowed himself to be pushed against a building wall. The arms threatened at a faster rate, and Bardon concentrated to keep up the pace.
The lack of room to swing the sword presented another problem. It took a great deal of skill to produce a short swing, draw back, aim, and swing again. Bardon realized his reflexes were slowing and that each successive arm was thicker and harder to slice through. The writhing arms at his feet whipped his boots. He thought perhaps he would chance dodging to one side or the other, hoping he could spring far enough away to miss getting caught by one of the remaining appendages. He gathered his strength.
The monster before him burst and fell. Bardon looked at the heap of mangled flesh at his feet and then to beyond where the beast had stood.
Holt smiled at him as he wound up the rope of his weapon. “Thought you might appreciate a helping hand.”
“Yes,” said Bardon. “Thank you.”
“That was a big one.”
“Yes, it was.”
“I think that’s the last of them.”
Bardon looked over the scene. “Yes, it would seem so.”
The rain had completely stopped. N’Rae came running down the steps of the harbormaster’s office, the ever-present basket bouncing on her arm. The slight girl zigged and zagged to get through the increasing crowd. She reached Bardon, threw her arms around his waist, and hugged.
“We could see from the building. Master Mayfil organized the men and helped them find weapons and showed them how to use them. It all took so long!” She sobbed, let go of him, and wiped her eyes. An uncertain smile quivered on her lips. “I thought you would die.”
She looked up at him, and suddenly her eyes widened, and her lips parted with a little gasp. With both hands she grabbed his head by the ears and forced his face down toward hers. She kissed him soundly on the cheek and then allowed his head to bob back up, but her hands still cupped his ears. Slowly, her fingers moved away, but Bardon felt her placing his long, wet hair over his ears as she released him.
He heard Holt’s short bark of laughter.
“Trying to hide the halfling’s pointed ears? Too late, N’Rae. They’ve been seen.”
22
PROBLEMS MULTIPLY
Holt glanced over his shoulder. Mayfil stood among his men, shouting cleanup instructions.
“We must dispose of the bodies immediately,” barked the harbormaster. “They will putrefy within the hour.” He wrinkled his nose. “Already the stench is formidable. The fumes are poisonous. Take precautions against lengthy exposure. Shovel up the remains and transport them by wagon to an open space. Burn them, cart and all.”
The marione farmer’s son looked from the decaying quiss to the men who would have