Word of Traitors_ Legacy of Dhakaan - Don Bassingthwaite [91]
Sound burst outward in a wave of dissonance. Leaves stiffened and fluttered as if struck by a strong wind, some of them tearing free to dance on the air. For an instant, she caught a glimpse of two elves still clutching short bows as hands covered ears, dark red leggings and short, close-fitting robes worn over light armor fluttering as the leaves fluttered.
Only two. Where was the third?
A figure leaped out of the trees to her left. Somewhat shorter than a hobgoblin but far more slender, the elf moved with a grace that made Ekhaas feel heavy and slow. Violet eyes blazed beneath a cloth-swaddled, cap-like helm and above a concealing veil. It was difficult to tell if the elf was male or female beneath the veil and the wrapped robes, but there was a delicacy to the brow above the fierce eyes that made Ekhaas guess female.
She held a curved scimitar, broad, but elegant as a hawk’s wing, already raised.
Ekhaas dragged at her own sword, trying to free the blade and knowing she was already too late.
Then Chetiin leaped out of the shadows, launching himself at the elf’s shoulders and head. He tackled her from the left, where she could not easily bring her scimitar around, and swung across to her back. The dagger he carried flashed—and screeched across a metal gorget hidden beneath the veil. The elf ducked and whirled like a dancer. Chetiin’s legs swung free. He jerked his dagger up. Flesh and fabric tore, then Chetiin leaped clear to land in a cat’s crouch.
The elf straightened. Her veil hung askew and blood ran from a wound that sliced across jaw and cheek to a pointed ear. She swung her curved sword at Chetiin and missed but continued around in a scything strike at Ekhaas.
But the shaarat’khesh’s attack had given Ekhaas the moment she needed to draw her own sword. The elven blade met the deep-toothed edge of the heavy hobgoblin blade with a crash that jolted Ekhaas’s arm. She wouldn’t last long in a fight against this warrior! Twisting her sword, she locked the two weapons for an instant and kicked out under them desperately. Her boot sank into the elf’s stomach. The elf staggered back. Chetiin leaped again, this time catching the elf around her neck from behind and using his weight to drag her off balance and backward.
Ekhaas stepped back, turned her sword, and swung the weapon in a flat arc. She felt the sharp edge of the blade shear through mail, into the flesh underneath, and back out through mail again. The elf wailed—the first sound she had made—then fell back, letting her scimitar drop and groping feebly for the terrible wound in her torso before sliding to the ground, eyes wide in death. Ekhaas spun to face the remaining elves.
The powerful burst of song had shaken them, but they were pressing in now, bows abandoned for scimitars in the close fight. Lacking the shield he usually carried in combat, Dagii had drawn his sword and waited for their attack. Marrow snarled and circled to their side, limping on three legs, but still moving like a deadly shadow. One of the elves turned to face her.
Dagii roared and charged, sweeping his sword out and driving the two elves apart. Marrow darted in at one, teeth snapping, to force him back. Chetiin jumped atop the fallen tree and ran along its mossy trunk, joining Marrow. Ekhaas moved to fight at Dagii’s side. The warlord’s sword was swinging and hacking in deadly blows, but the elf managed to parry each one, his curved sword a blur of bright metal. He’d learned from the dead elf’s mistake and was careful not to put his blade in a position where Dagii could bind it. Dagii, however, gave him no room to return his blows. They turned around and around each other, locked in a deadly dance.
As Ekhaas joined in, however, the elf’s eyes darted at her, then his free hand dipped into his close-fitting robes and emerged holding a rough ceramic flask no bigger than her fist. Ekhaas’s ears rose sharply and Chetiin’s