Feathered Dragon - Douglas Niles [52]
“There!” cried Cordell, sensing the faltering courage of the men at the appearance of the looming monster. Indeed, Hoxitl towered more than twice as high as a man on horseback.
Nevertheless the captain-general spurred his stallion forward, and the steed raced past the beastlord, Cordell’s sword cut a deep wound in Hoxitl’s thigh, and then the horse danced away, just beyond the monster’s near-deadly
return blow.
Tokol and Chical, too, saw the menace of the monster’s attack and rushed forward to the aid of their ally. The Eagle Knight hurled his lance, and the weapon drove deep into Hoxitl’s flank. With a howl, the monster tore the weapon free and hurled it to the ground, but at the same time Tokol stabbed him in the back of his knee. Before he could face this new threat, Cordell’s stallion sprang forward, and the captain-general’s sword struck a new gash across the beast’s
belly.
Howling madly, beset by painful wounds, the cleric’s nature took over the monster’s body. Fighting was a thing left to men of war, not their religious leaders. Still shrieking, Hoxitl stumbled away, driven by the painful blows of the
human leaders.
Without the savage exhortations of Hoxitl, the ores lost heart as more and more of their number fell before the arrows, swords, and horses of the humans.
“Charge them!” urged Cordell. “Attack!”
His words were heard only along a short portion of the line, but here the legionnaires and Kultakans surged forward. The sudden shock of the advance broke the stalemate of the battle, and sent several hundred ores streaming away from the fight in panic. The ores’ retreat, sensed along the line, provided the weight to break the fighting morale of the rest of the monsters, at least temporarily.
Finally the wave fell back to the protection of the battle line, battered and eroded but still firm. Yet the beasts did not rout in terror, but rather withdrew in surly admission of their temporary failure.
Even as they slowly backed away, into the dusty v where they had made their previous camp, the humans the ridge sensed that their enemies would return.
Black shapes pressed forward, darker shadows among the impenetrable black of the ruin. They seethed and danced among the rubble, pressing like smoke against the circle of light formed by the companions.
“It’s a tomb,” hissed Daggrande. “These are the ghosts!” The dwarf’s voice carried an uncharacteristic tremor.
“They are indeed the spirits of the dead,” said Lotil. The blind man seemed to sniff the air, as aware of the presence! as any of them. “But they are not ghosts-not in the way that you think.”
The shades did indeed appear vaguely manlike, for they raised shadowy arms and extended black, smoking fingers toward the companions. Jhatli shivered, backing away from an apparition that reared up beside him, while Daggrande whirled this way and that, his axe held ready-for what, he didn’t know.
Halloran swallowed hard. He couldn’t fathom the raging horror evoked within him by these shapeless denizens. He only knew that they twisted his stomach with fear and almost compelled his steps to turn back toward the monsters that pursued them,
He saw a black, sack-like form rise up before him, and net lifted Helmstooth high. Something held his hand from striking-perhaps the fear that his steel could not affect anything so intangible-but in the face of the gleaming blade, the shade did not waver.
“Flee! They come to us!” Jhatli’s panic rang shrill in the cry of his voice as the youth turned and sprinted, piling into Erixitl and nearly knocking her off her feet. Beside Hal,
Storm reared back, neighing, her eyes rolled high into their
sockets.
“Wait!” said the woman quickly, steadying Jhatli with a hand on his arm. “See? They do not attack.”
Indeed the shades seemed to linger at the very fringe of their vision, dancing in a somber cadence as they slowly circled