Ironhelm - Douglas Niles [55]
"Helm's curses on that scoundrel!" snarled the cleric, looking after Halloran. "Of all the impudent-"
"Now look, my friend." The captain-general silently cursed the Bishou, but his voice remained soothing. "They will be back soon. Alvarro is busy on the right flank, seeking grazing for the horses." Cordell gestured up the coast, to the north. He knew that the bad will between Alvarro and Halloran remained far from settled, and he could think of nothing more disastrous to Hal's confidence than to send his rival to look after him.
"In a few minutes, they'll be back, and I'll have a talk with the lad. He's a good soldier."
Martine, Cordell knew, was deeply cherished by the Bishou, as a father cherishes his daughter. But her importance to the cleric went even deeper, in some way that the commander couldn't entirely understand-perhaps because she was Domincus's one remaining link with younger, more peaceful times. He had not always been a martial cleric.
The Bishou glared up the bluff. "If he allows any harm to befall her…" He did not finish the thought, nor did he have to.
The maniacal battle cry jerked Halloran's attention to the wall of jungle. He sensed the import of the sound even before he saw the knife-waving native burst into sight, followed a second later by the rank of warriors. Their orange headdresses waved in synchronization as the line paused, and the legionnaire saw them placing javelins into the notches of hand-held spear casters.
Halloran leaped in front of Martine as he saw the javelins soar into the air, raising his shield to protect her head and torso. He grunted in pain as one of the missiles grazed the fleshy part of his thigh. Another cracked against his steel breastplate, while a third stuck in his shield.
One of the swordsmen was slow to react, and a stone-tipped javelin knifed through his throat. The others raised their shields, deflecting most of the missiles, though one man took a wound in his forearm. The banded leather armor of the footmen, Hal knew, would not be as effective against these weapons as his own breastplate.
"Shields out!" he called, and the three joined him in an arc facing the native warriors, sheltering Martine behind them, their swords arrayed outward. They watched helplessly as the fourth swordsman, mortally wounded, gasped out his life from the gaping neck wound.
"Go back… quickly!" Hal commanded Martine, not turning to look at her. "Down the stairs! Get Daggrande!"
He glanced over his shoulder and saw the woman staring in shock at the whooping, rushing band of spear-wielding natives. Their plumed heads bobbed and their bronzed faces grimaced, twisting the sticks they wore through their noses. They whistled and shrieked, and the din they raised seemed enough to blast the leaves from the trees.
The warriors charged through the brushy clearing, stopping suddenly about halfway to their quarry. They cast back their arms to hurl another volley.
"Go, by Helm!" He turned to face Martine, grabbing her shoulder with his shield hand. She finally turned and started to run, but immediately her foot caught among the tangled brush. She sprawled headlong as Hal's heart pounded in fear. He must get her to safety! Nothing else mattered.
"Captain!" shouted one of the swordsmen.
Halloran instantly raised his shield and crouched over Martine, huddling with the other three men. The second volley of javelins, though delivered from a shorter range,found no targets among the well-shielded fighters of the Golden Legion.
The attackers renewed their rush, following the fanatical leader. Shocked by the man's blood-caked, filthy visage, Halloran stared as his attackers closed. He saw the dagger of dark obsidian, the black emblem on its hilt.
The man tried to dart around Hal, and the captain slammed his shield into the fellow's face. Immediately the black-clad figure dropped to the