Guild Wars_ Edge of Destiny - J. Robert King [17]
Rytlock grasped Sohothin and rolled over.
Ygor lunged atop Rytlock, trapping him beneath his crushing weight.
Rytlock gasped, the air driven from him. He bashed the chiefling’s shoulder, but only managed to get him to roll to one side.
Logan meanwhile brought his hammer down on Ygor’s temple. The chiefling hissed, slumping to the ground beside the charr.
“Wow, do you owe me,” Logan said.
A second later, a huge claw latched around him. The old ogre, eyes cracked with rage, hoisted Logan into the air.
Rytlock scrambled to his feet, grasped the ogre’s belt, and launched himself up to bury Sohothin in the creature’s heart. The blazing blade pierced the great muscle and boiled the ogre’s blood. His eyes went black; his claws opened.
Logan tumbled to the ground.
Rytlock landed beside him. “Now you owe me.”
“We’re even,” Logan replied, steadying himself on the dead ogre. “I saved you, and you saved me.”
“We aren’t even,” Rytlock snorted. “The life of a charr’s worth more than the life of a human.”
Logan laughed. “Then by that logic, you owe me.”
Rytlock spat a gobbet of blood, which spattered the ground. “Once I get my breath back, I’ll kill you.”
“Yeah, me, too.” Logan spat a glob that sailed just past Rytlock’s mark.
The charr glared at him.
Logan said flatly, “I have to check on my troops.”
“I as well!” Rytlock grumbled. “But I’ll still kill you afterward.”
“Course.”
They staggered out into the darkness of the canyon and checked for signs of life, but there were none.
“We need more light,” Logan said.
Rytlock rumbled, “We need pyres.”
“Which means we need wood.”
“Which means you gather wood.” Rytlock looked at the sword that flamed in his hand. “I’m the one who has the light.”
Nodding wearily, Logan strode to the woods and gathered deadfall. He hoisted it and dumped it in a pile, his forehead dappled with sweat.
“One more pyre,” Rytlock said. “Can’t burn charr with humans.”
“True,” Logan replied. “That’d be disgusting.”
“Hey!”
Logan returned to the forest, gathered another armful of wood, and dumped it on the other side of the canyon. Rytlock stepped up to him, thrusting his sword into the pyre and igniting it. Then he went to the other pyre and did the same.
“All right, then,” the charr said. “Let’s get to work.” He sheathed the blade.
The two foes turned their backs on each other and went to gather their dead. Logan knelt above each of his fallen friends, speaking a prayer to Grenth and kissing their foreheads. Rytlock meanwhile knelt above his comrades and sang an ancient war song of the Blood Legion. He cradled the head of each warrior just as the primus of their fahrar had first cradled them—“First breath to last . . .”
The man and the charr hoisted the fallen and carried them to the pyres and bedded them in flame.
Soon, twin fires sent twin columns of soot into the sky.
It was hard work—kneeling and whispering and lifting and hauling and burning—eleven humans and ten charr. And when the work was done, Logan and Rytlock staggered, bloodied and soot-blackened.
“I suppose we have to kill each other now,” Logan said.
“Yeah,” Rytlock replied dully.
“You’re going to die like a dog.”
“I’m more like a cat,” Rytlock pointed out.
Logan shook his head. “You can’t die like a cat. They have nine lives.”
Rytlock spread clawed arms. “That’s what it’s going to take!”
A new voice—a woman’s voice—broke in and said, “You two have the strangest conversations.”
GOLEMANCY
Garm yelped—a strange sound from a dire wolf—and his claws skittered on the stone floor as he ducked back from the huge golem.
Eir also leaped back, her mallet before her.
“Oh, nothing to fear,” Snaff assured. He patted the golem’s metalwork ankle. The leg was articulated with arrays of aura pumps and servos. “She’s harmless.” Snaff frowned. “Well, not exactly harmless. She could kill us with one swat if she wanted to . . . but she doesn’t want to.”
“How do you know?” Eir asked.
“Because she doesn’t want anything,” Snaff explained. “Oh, let me show you!”
He scrambled up onto the stone