Wings Over Talera - Charles Allen Gramlich [38]
The greater demon squatted on all fours, with charcoal skin that had erupted with blisters. Tusks thrust up from the low slung muzzle, their lengths stained with crimson. Above that muzzle the face was bestial, savage, frighteningly intelligent. The eyes were stone black, without pupils.
Yet, I noted the monstrous chimeras only in passing. My gaze was locked to the being who sat so casually upon the squatting demon’s back: the rider in yellow silk...except for black boots. He—it?—seemed...familiar, though I could not make out any features. The shape was human; the gloved right hand held an exquisite rapier. And as the being leaned forward I glimpsed again the glow of its incarnadine eyes behind the mask.
I was reminded of how Diken Graye had described my brother Bryce’s eyes—as bloody pearls. Frowning with a quick thought, I spared a glance toward the winged fiends. They had the same eyes, and I recalled, also, the odd scarlet tinge to the blue orbs of the Nokarran assassin I had killed in Trazull. Only the squatting demon had eyes of a different hue, of dead black, and a tiny spurt of excitement ripped through me to mingle with fear. I sensed mysteries unraveling.
Then I jolted as a wild hope suddenly burst in me that the rider was Bryce. An instant later that hope was dashed. This man was shorter than my brother. Even if Bryce had changed his eyes and hair, he could not have changed his height.
I snarled and started forward then. Behind me I smelled the smoke of torches as the villagers arrived at the temple. I heard their muttered anger die away to awed murmurs as they saw the tableau spread before them. But I did not care that the odds were overwhelming against us now, and that surely we would die here. Someone would tell me of my brother.
The squatting demon spoke. Everything stilled.
“Kill him,” it said. I did not realize who it was talking to or who it meant to die until the rider in yellow dismounted and strode toward me.
Valyan took a step forward and I held out a hand to stop him.
“Mine,” I said. “See to Kreeg. Carry him if you have to.”
The green Llurn glanced at me, his eyes hot. Then he nodded and stepped aside. But his offer of sacrifice cooled my own rage for the moment. It was all right to risk myself but I had no right to risk my friends if there were any hope of escape.
I raised my curved blade, readied myself. The yellow-clad swordsman kept coming. No one else moved, and even the winged devils settled to watch. If they awaited the outcome of this fight I might have long moments to think and plan an escape. Then the swordsman lunged and I found I had no time to think at all.
The man’s rapier made a blazing streak of light coming in and I parried desperately. Still I took a wound, a shallow cut across the left thigh that stung like scorpion venom. The man gave me no time to riposte. He whipped his blade up, toward my face. I blocked in a shower of sparks, and he spun, coming fully around, blade level. I threw myself aside, hammering the curved length of my yataghan down. Half an inch from my rib cage, the two sword edges caught and shrieked together.
I lashed out, clumsy against the swordsman’s swift grace. He ducked under that stroke, smooth as a cobra coiling, then lunged as if pointing a finger, his rapier stabbing at my throat. I leaped backward. His stroke missed. The rider straightened, held his position for a moment, the tip of his blade quivering as if in eagerness.
I took the chance to whip off my rawhide coat and whirl it about my left arm as a makeshift guard, then crouched, my own blade weaving. The swordsman’s rapier was of the double-edged type, for cutting and thrusting both. It was several inches longer than my own blade, and just as strong without being as thick or heavy. I had to make adjustments; I thought I knew how.
“Come on,” I growled at him.
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