Treasures of Fantasy - Margaret Weis [47]
A desperate plan formed in Skylan’s mind. His only concern was how he was going to rescue Aylaen. He looked at her. Their eyes met. He knew that outthrust jaw, the quivering lips, the green fire in her eyes. Aylaen wasn’t afraid. She was angry. She dropped her gaze. Her hand stole to her belt. She made the motion of fingers closing over a hilt.
She was telling him she had a weapon. She could take care of herself.
Skylan picked up his sword. Sigurd held his shield, yelling and jeering at Skylan, urging him on. As Skylan took a step, he saw Aylaen’s hand dart to her belt. A flash of metal, and the soldier holding Aylaen gave a horrible cry and dropped his knife to grab hold of himself. Blood poured from a wound in his groin. Moaning, he fell to the deck and lay rolling about in agony. Aylaen dragged the man’s sword from its sheath.
Skylan ran for Zahakis and barreled headlong into the man, taking him down onto the deck before he could draw his sword. He could hear behind him the battle howls of the Torgun warriors as they threw off their chains and came thundering across the deck.
Skylan slugged Zahakis across the jaw twice, saw him go limp, and was on his feet, running toward Acronis with Sigurd on one side and Aylaen on the other.
“Capture the Legate!” Skylan yelled at Aylaen. “Take him alive! Don’t kill him!”
Aylaen looked astonished, but she gave a brief nod. The Legate’s bodyguards had their swords drawn and were standing in front of him. Skylan took one guard and Sigurd took the other. Sigurd was used to fighting with spears and axes. He was clumsy with a sword, and ended up using it like a battle-axe, chopping and bashing at his opponent’s head and shoulders. The guard sliced open Sigurd’s chest, but Sigurd never seemed to notice. His blood was up, the madness of Torval had seized him, and his foe withered under Sigurd’s brutal assault.
The madness of Torval seemed to have claimed all the Torgun. Either that or the madness of freedom. Using the manacles and chains that had bound them as weapons, the Torgun knocked swords out of hands, struck men across the face, tangled their legs. When a soldier fell, one of the Torgun was on him, seizing his sword and turning to fight the next.
Skylan, trying to watch his foe and keep an eye on Aylaen, who was circling around Acronis from behind, made a mistake that was nearly his last. Thinking to end the fight quickly, he feinted and then drove home his blade, only to realize at the last moment that the soldier was waiting for him. A frantic sideways leap saved Skylan, but just barely. The blade scraped along his ribs.
Skylan drove his sword into the soldier’s hairy armpit, left unprotected by the segmented armor, severing tendons and breaking bones. Skylan yanked his sword free and jumped over the soldier as he was falling.
“I have him!” Aylaen cried.
She stood behind Acronis, smiling in triumph, her sword at his throat.
Acronis did not appear unduly alarmed. He seemed detached, as though all of this was happening to someone else. His scribe was on his knees on the blood-covered deck, his hands in the air, shaking and pleading for his life.
Skylan looked around the ship and found, to his amazement, that they had won. Some of the soldiers had jumped overboard. Others were being tossed over the rail by the Torgun who first stripped them of their armor and weapons. Only one person was missing.
“Where’s that bastard, Raegar?” Sigurd shouted.
The last Skylan had seen Raegar, he was standing by the stern. Skylan whipped around, but they were too late. Both men turned in time to see Raegar leap into the water. Treia was screaming. He was calling to her. Treia hesitated a moment, then climbed over the rail and dropped into the sea.
Aylaen cried out and dropped her sword to run to the rail. Leaning over, she called to her sister. Raegar had hold of Treia and was half swimming, half dragging