The Jewel of Turmish - Mel Odom [26]
The owl cut the air and glided over a small wagon that sat at a tree on the other side of the camp. A pair of horses neighed loudly and fought against the ropes and hobbles that held them. The owl dropped from treetop level and plummeted with folded wings. The druid touched the ground again in human form.
Haarn raced to the small wagon and went through one of the chests in the back. He located his scimitar and a small kit that Druz assumed he'd worn under his blouse because she hadn't seen it earlier. He also took out her sword belt. Firelight danced across his features and the wild black hair that brushed his shoulders. His face was cold and impassive, and the absence of emotion-fear or anger-made him appear like an alien thing.
The bear roared and growled deep in its huge chest as a crossbow quarrel took it high in one shoulder. The offending sliver of wood and fletching looked incredibly small against the bulk of the ursine. Turning its broad head, the bear snapped at the quarrel and bit part of it off, leaving only a few inches embedded in its flesh.
Haarn threw himself into the attack. Firelight glinted along the scimitar's length as the druid engaged one of the slavers. The fight lasted only a moment. Perhaps the druid had never been to a city to accept proper tutelage, but his bladework was some of the best Druz had ever seen.
Fiery red lightning strobed across the night sky like a hag's withered claws. Druz smelled the change in the weather as the humid heat that had plagued the day suddenly chilled. For a moment she believed the druid might have summoned the weather change, and she knew the slavers probably believed that as well.
Out of over twenty men that Druz had counted, a dozen lay stretched out on the ground. Many of them never moved, and the others wouldn't be getting to their feet soon, nor were they in any kind of shape to resume the fight.
Twisting viciously, the druid avoided a desperate sword cut from his opponent. Still carrying Druz's sword in his other hand, the druid whirled and brought his scimitar around in a flash that was almost too fast for even Druz's eyes to follow in the uncertain light. The scimitar's last few inches slashed through the slaver's throat.
Crimson bubbled down the man's shirtfront as he dropped his blade and reached for his throat. Druz knew from experience that the slaver wasn't going to survive the cut.
Coldly, the druid stepped forward as the dying man dropped to his knees. Haarn's attention was already focused on his next opponent. He stepped forward and took his place at the bear's side with a graceful ease that showed years of experience.
The remaining slavers broke and pulled back.
The slaver leader, Brugar, called the surviving men to him, holding his battle-axe in two hands before him.
"Form up a damn line!" he called. "Do it now or the damned forest elf is gonna gut you all!"
The men scrambled, pulling into a loose formation behind their leader.
Haarn threw Druz's sword belt over to her. Kneeling, the druid plucked a throwing knife from a dead man left stretched out by one of the bear's blows. His eyes never left the slavers as he tore away a piece of the dead man's red shirt.
Standing with the piece of red cloth trapped between his fingers, the druid spoke words in a guttural tongue. The red cloth frayed in the whipping winds that preceded the cannonade of thunder that shook the earth. Lightning threaded across the wine-dark sky again, briefly illuminating the camp and the horror it had become as if in the brightest day.
One of the men tied to the chain darted forward, intent on daiming Druz's sword belt. She turned on the man, catching his eyes with hers.
"No," she commanded.