Tangled webs - Elaine Cunningham [166]
ogres swept down the hillside toward nearby Ruathym village, where no warriors awaited them. The drow had seen the destruction ogres could accomplish, had heard stories of how they treated the women and young ones who fell into their taloned hands. To prevent such a thing, she would do whatever needed to be done.
Liriel's shaking fingers fumbled for her obsidian pendant, and she steeled her will and numbed her soul to accept what she must once again become.
Fyodor swung out. high, his sword blocking the downward sweep of a Luskar battle-axe. With his free hand he punched forward and spattered the warrior's nose across his bearded face. The enormous man let out an incongruous whimper and then fell face first to the deck.
The young berserker stepped over the fallen man and looked around for his next fight. Beneath his tunic the Windwalker amulet seemed to burn with cold fire against his skin-painful, yes, but the drow's magic held true. For the first time in many months, Fyodor was in full control ofhis fighting power. Yet he took no joy in battle, nor did he exult in the deaths of those who fell before his black sword. It was a necessary thing, to protect the land that had sheltered him and Liriel and to lead the berserker brothers who trusted in his strong arm and quick wits.
The young man nimbly sidestepped an onrushing warrior. The Northman's enormous broadsword plunged deep into the ship's mast and stayed there, quivering slightly. Fyodor backhanded the weaponless warrior and sent him sprawling. The man spit teeth, lurched to his feet, and came in again. Suppressing a sigh, Fyodor seized the hilt of the impaled sword and pulled it back toward him in a curving arc. With a swordsmith's sure instincts, he released the weapon a moment before it would have shattered. The sword sprang back into place with an audible twang-at the precise moment that its owner stepped into its path. The flat of the sword caught the man at waist level. His feet flew up, his arms went wide, and his head hit hard as he measured his length on the ship's deck. This time, he stayed down.
Next Fyodor ran to the aid of a Holgerstead berserker whose axe was hard pressed by four Luskar swordsmen. He fell in at his brother's back, parrying a sword strike as he tapped the man's hip in a prearranged signal. Once, twice more Fyodor parried the Northman who engaged his blade, taking care that the strikes were loud enough to ring above the clamor of battle. Then he lunged, running the Northman through and heaving him off the blade with one quick movement. In the next breath, Fyodor spun, swinging his black sword with all the force of his Rashemi might and magic.
As he did, the Holgersteader went down on one knee. Fyodor's blade whistled over his brother's head-and through the necks of all three men who had faced him. There was no time for any of the Northmen to raise a parrying sword, no arm with the strength to stop such a blow. Three heads tumbled to the deck, still wearing the triumphant leers of men who had been sure of their prey. The Holgersteader lunged upward, arms spread wide, catching the headless bodies as they fell and then hurling them into the paths of two approaching fighters. The Luskar warriors instinctively veered away from the horror; the berserker coolly advanced upon the unnerved men, his dripping axe held high.
Seeing that matters here were well in hand, Fyodor turned his attention to the battle beyond the Holgerstead ship. Another warship approached them at ramming speed. Standing in the bow, his black-bearded face suffused with an unholy glee, was someone Fyodor knew. The faces of the slain had fled from his dreams, but for good or ill, the memory of each of his battles was his again. He remembered fighting this man, remembered severing the man's sword hand. Yet the man gripped his sword with obvious anticipation, and his eyes burned into Fyodor's as the warship closed the distance between them.
The young First Axe shouted an alarm, sending Holgerstead archers to the port