Tangled webs - Elaine Cunningham [53]
All of the Ruathen were doughty fighters, but Rethnor saw no sign of the expected berserker. With mixed disappointment and reliet; he picked his first victim: a darkhaired youth who stood out among the fairer Ruathen. An easy kill-the lad could hardly lift the black sword he held. Rethnor stalked in, intending to gut the young fighter before he could parry the first blow. The Captain hauled back his blade in preparation for a backhanded slash.
But he did not swing, for astonishment knotted his arm muscles in place. Suddenly his sword was no longer aimed at the young man's torso; it was more on a level with his opponent's thigh.
Rethnor looked up. The young fighter appeared to be at least seven feet tall, with shoulders as wide as the toolarge sword he now held with frightening ease. "Berserker," breathed Rethnor. His moment of fear passed, and the anticipation of battle swept through him like a fever. He raised his sword to his forehead in a gesture of challenge.
in a movement almost too fast for the eye to register, the black sword mirrored his salute. Then it cut downward with an audible swish. Rethnor blocked, ignored the surge of bone-numbing pain that leaped up his arm and into his shoulder from the force of the impact. He spun, gripping his sword with both hands and lifting it high overhead to parry the next slashing blow. The swords met with a shriek of metal. Rethnor continued the turn, coming around to face the berserker and using all his strength and weight to press the black sword down toward the deck. He lifted a heavy-booted foot above the joined blades and kicked out. The Northman's foot connected hard-a gutter fighter's move that should have doubled his opponent over in deeply masculine agony. The berserker did not so much as blink. His black sword whistled up, throwing Rethno~s sword arm out and wide. Faster than the High Captain would have believed possible, the berserker changed direction to slash straight down.
So fast did the blade descend that Rethnor heard the clatter of his falling sword before he realized what had happened. Pain as pure and bright as molten steel exploded in his mind and his arm. He looked in horror at the dripping stump at the end of his sword arm. With one stroke the berserker had cut through gauntlet, bracer, flesh, and bone. Rethnor's severed hand lay on the deck in a spreading pool of blood.
Several of Rethnor's men ran to their captain's aid, and the berserker turned to answer the new threat. Dimly Rethnor was aware of the skinny young pirate who scuttled in to claim the grim trophy, only to hurl it into the sea. He felt a belated surge of loss as his hand splashed into the waves; then he turned and stumbled toward the hold of the ship. There, in the galley, was a circular stone firepit. A large kettle was wedged into the pit, embers from the evening meal still bright beneath it. With a kick, Rethnor sent the kettle flying. His remaining hand shook as he pulled a broad dagger from his belt and thrust it into the hot coals. The High Captain waited until the metal glowed red; then he set his jaw against the pain to come. He fully intended to live, but to do so he had to stop the flow of blood. He took up the dagger and pressed the hot metal against his bleeding stump. A brutal hiss and the stench of seared meat filled the room.
Rethnor fought back the waves of agony and nausea and struggled to remain conscious. Again he heated the dagger and cauterized the wound, and then once again. Finally he slumped to the floor to await the battle's end. He knew that, for him, the fight was over, but there was no thought of defeat in his mind.
His war chief was a capable