The Death of a Swordsman 10

10

From the shadows of the dark mountains a horde of night-gaunts was rising. They rose like the boiling sulfur that poured from the dragon's mouth. With them came fury.

Al'Varad had lost. There was no equivocation possible. Morryin had beaten him in a sword fight on dragonback, and now he was falling to his death from an island on the far side of the sun. No one would know the situation or conditions of Varad's defeat and now it didn't matter. The Swordsmaster of the Red Guard had not trained hard enough, nor practiced enough, and for that he had been defeated. He did not deserve to be called Al.

A seizure hit Varad. He twitched violently, erratically, and spasms of tension shot through his arms, twisting his muscles about the bone until his joints ached. His stomach felt ill and boiled. Even vision seemed to escape him, and the whistling roar of air that flew by his ears sounded far away, like wind outside a tunnel. His pulse was a thunderous drumbeat at his temples. It was beyond the simple nausea of falling, and the old fear of heights couldn't touch this horror at being defeated. He was going to fall to his death and there was nothing he could do about it, but he had lost first.

Varad was sailing slowly away from the dragon that was even now rolling backwards through the air. the casket tumbled off the other way. That did not matter now. They were on the backside of the sky, and the drake had miles of open air to catch up with it in.

Turning his attention to the shadowy night-guants, the falling swordsman noticed they were they similar to the emaciated forms who had waylaid him earlier. Their faceless heads didn't reveal anything, but the cluster of them moved in silence like the others had. There were perhaps twenty of them, carrying no weapon but their unnaturally long, thin fingers that tore flesh like razors and the barbed tips of their tails. Varad vomited slightly, and it tasted like pure spite in his mouth. Spreading out to stop his tumbling, he set himself to meet them in mid-air and plunged into their midst.

His first swing set him spinning. Uncoiling behind the slash flipped him about head over feet, and he shot through the cloud of viscous black goo the leader had for blood. Behind it two flying beasts reached for him and couldn't get a grip with his erratic motion, but a third caught him about the waist. Dizzy and operating on blind reflex, Varad flipped his grip and smashed more than stabbed his blade through the roof of its skull. That didn't stop it, and bladed fingers went for his back. He shoved hard to create space between him and it, and the open wings resisted until the Song of Winter dragged itself out the beast's back, ruptured tendons caught in the hilt. Then the grasping hands went limp.

Yet this time he did not twist. The corpse's wings stabilized him amidst the surging wind of freefall. Varad flipped his grip again and returned to a one-handed hold, snagging the eviscerated corpse by the gaping hole in its head. Now he could lay about him, hacking through the vile beasts that swarmed close as they fell, chopping them apart. Simple decapitations weren't enough to stop them, forcing him to hack away at arms and wings until they fell, remaining limbs spasming wildly. The Horned Lords were like that, Varad mused as he dismembered in midair. Killing one required damaging the body until its mobility failed or fire. He wondered if there was a connection.

More came until they clouded out the sky. No sound ever passed their lipless heads, but the roar of the wind made up for it. It was a battle roar, and the scream of furious lions. Combined with the sick feeling of falling, it affected Varad's head. The horde grew so thick that Varad finally released the stabilizing corpse and threw himself from enemy to enemy without restraint. Everyone that died lost control of its dive, and the wind sucked them upwards and away. New guants always replaced the dead.

Suddenly one tumbling lunge kicked him out of the pack, and spinning about he saw the world. Spectacular scenes of all the world laid out below, wreathed by low lying clouds luminescent in sunshine, passed by him like the air. Varad saw Morryin atop the dragon, diving towards the earth. Not far away was the discarded corsair, tumbling end over end with broken spars stung together by the lines. Morryin didn't have the casket. Its fall was too erratic, and the huge drake was having difficulty getting close enough to it to catch hold.

Glorious victory and the chance of spiting Morryin suddenly appeared. The drake was vast, and surely its wings would blot out the sun over an army. Yet any twitch sent it shooting sideways while plunging as fast as it now fell. Even the changes in shape from moving a claw to catch the sarcophagus would move the great beast, to say nothing of the quick motions necessary to catch the small, dense object. The casket was still partially enmeshed in a net of lines and nets, and they caught and dumped air.

The pack moved to recapture Varad, and instead of killing them, he simply chopped fingers from hands and tails from bodies. When he could slit the batlike membranous wings, he did. Now there was a pack of them, partially out of control, driven to catch him but lacking the body parts to press the advantage in the air. In the process they cut his flesh and tore his limbs, until he had his own comet's tail of blood shooting up behind him. Intermingled in it were bits of his enemies. Finally he cut a way to the outskirts and straightened his body to a spear.

Those night-guants who were uninjured had to scramble around their hurt comrades to get after him. From thence they could dive, but he had a lead. Morryin, focusing on catching the coffin, didn't look back, and his lone pursuer and the horde that pursued him in turn slowly overtook them.

Having ever so slightly unfurled its wings to match the casket's speed, the drake was moving slower than Varad. He came upon it suddenly, snagged one of the wide, soft scales on the tail used for inflight stability, and ran two feet of steel through it. Biting shock hit the shadow-green drake, and the huge beast spasmed. Unconsciously it flicked its tail forward, away from the source of pain, and threw Varad past its head. It also spread its wings more, and the sudden resistance yanked it backwards. Night-guant's like falling darts smashed into the broad dragonback. Varad shot ahead, spun, and snagged a bit of netting. While the infuriated drake massacred the night-guants, thinking they'd attacked it, Varad sheathed the long katana and clambered to the coffin itself.

With the distraction annihilated, Morryin turned the drake back to resume trying to snag his prize. His eyes found it against a backdrop of distant clouds and saw Varad holding it tightly between his knees. The lacerated swordsman was smirking, a vicious grin of arrogance, spite, and insufferable self-satisfaction. Morryinwent as purple with fury as Varad had.

Then he realized he had the thing with wings, and they were falling from hundreds of miles up. He waved at the dragon, and then sent a cocky glance at Varad, asking him what he expected to happen. The other replied with a shrug, waved at the coffin, and put his hands behind his head, interlacing his fingers. If anything he looked even more smug.

Varad guessed Morryin didn't want the coffin destroyed. If he had, the drake's fiery breath would have done that quickly. He also could have simply set fire to it in the Old City instead of attempting to open it. Which meant Morryin wanted to catch it before it hit the ground, and Varad was perfectly prepared to make sure he couldn't do that. Catching the small, tumbling coffin was difficult enough for the man and his mount. With active resistance, Varad aimed to make it nigh impossible.

He could see the wheels turning in Morryin's head. Morryin, he guessed, was wondering if Varad was spiteful enough to insure Morryin failed even at the cost of his own life. He also saw Morryin realize beyond a shadow of a doubt he was. Speaking was impossible with the wind, but Varad's smirk and Morryin's scowl communicated like drums. The look of anguish on Morryin's face as all his advantages and plans came to naught was worth the price of the world.

Yet Morryin was not stymied forever. As they began to draw nigh the sun, the immense fell beast banked off and shot wide. It went wide and latched hold of the ruined corsair, discarded far above. Then the beast banked back. As the shadows moved, the creature and rider had to search for Varad and casket, small against the vastness of space, but that only took time. Then they were past the sun, and the flickering light across the buckles lit up the swordsman's location like a beacon. Morryin angled back in.

They cut below Varad, and moved so they were falling more or less underneath him. In the void of displaced air, the coffin tumbled suddenly faster, and very nearly hit the man and dragon when the beast breathed on the boat and set it at once aflame. Even at a distance, the dragon's fire was tangibly vile. It smelled of evil, and the radiant heat was filled with malice. But it burned in spite of the wind, and fueled a commensurate blaze within the wooden hulk. That sizzled and spat, sending up smoke and ash-filled steam that infected Varad's eyes with fury and pain. He pulled hard on the reaching sails, and tried to drift away.

It was too late. With the dragon and corsair stealing his air, the casket fell directly onto the burning deck. The impact hurt, and the former Red Guard tumbled across the flaming timbers. The burning was worse, and when he arose, sword in hand, he saw that the deck was now below the nearby sun. It had come up, vast and hellacious, over the ship's burning rail. Despite the wind Varad couldn't breathe for the air was thick with smoke. He whirled, looking for the coffin, and saw Morryin emerge through the flames.

“Didn't I just beat you?” Morryin asked, yelling his words through the hot air. Varad saw mania in his eyes, inspired by the dragon's proximity, but didn't realize the same madness had him.

“Then tits to you,” Varad retorted and advanced.

They couldn't run. The upwards suction of the wind continuously tried to yank them upwards from the smoldering deck, yet neither could they walk. Every port poured fire into the air, and the wooden ship was blistering hot. It would have been engulfed had there been enough air to sustain it. Breathing deeply and more of malice then oxygen, the two swordsmen from the Palm slunk at each other and engaged with blades.

Varad tried to fight with caution, but each pass banked his smoldering fury. He stayed on his toes to let Morryin's initial thrust miss, then came in fast for the other's knees. Morryin twisted, hopping on the hot floor, and riposted for the head. He missed and beat the slicing counterstroke away from his throat.

Part of the hull broke loose, tumbling sideways and up, briefly throwing the two into shade. Morryin lost track of Varad amidst the fire and shadow, and the other took advantage of it to circle and come from above. Luck and an instinct for treachery let the rider block, but he took the impact hard. The weakened deck buckled underneath his feet, and Varad started wailing away with fast, overhand blows. Then the sun cleared the obstruction, and hit Morryin full in the face. For a moment he was blinded, and Varad smote him so heavily that he was driven through the planking to the knees. At once the full heat of the hold burned his feet, and that set him screaming.

“Finally!” yelled Varad, going for the coup d'etat. It was not to be. A single immense swipe of the dragon's claw shattered the prow of the craft and spun it aft over bow. Now it tumbled as it fell. Varad's swing went wild, and Morryin ripped his legs free. Briefly they stood upright, with their heads pointed at the world far below and now the wind pressing them to the boat. In another instant that changed. The stern sank, and they shot across the decking for the nose in the grip of the great wind.

Varad caught a railing, but Morryin chopped it out of his hand. They both shot upwards until the spinning ship blocked the air below them once more, and they came crashing back down. Varad hit first, and sprinted along the rotating hull. Morryin hit further above, and bounced down to meet him. They darted over the edge, rolling as the corsair did to stay facing down. There the air was breathable, and the pressure kept them to the boards. They fenced over the spinning side and down the rudder, to chase each other across the keel and leap upwards from shattered beam to crumpled timber over the ruined front end. When they hit the deck again Morryin was leading, trying go get away far enough to use his reach advantage, while Varad harried him endlessly.

While they ran, burning bodies of the original crew tumbled from the hold below. Corpses burn poorly, but the wrath of the dragon fire was in them. Lit up garishly, spewing ghastly fumes, and erupting from holes in the deck, they crowded around the ship like a horrid fog. Varad and Morryin hacked their way through them as necessary, otherwise ignoring the distraction. Of knives there were a plenty, and the former Red Guard snagged one as he went. It burned until he shoved it through his belt, and then he had more important things to worry about.

Suddenly Morryin had stopped and held his ground. The other came sliding into him, and they bounced apart. Varad arrested his fall at the very lip of the railing and looked up to see a grin of demonic triumph.

Morryin was standing next to the casket, which had broken half-way through the deck and become lodged. Now he yelled again, and the dragon smote the ship a second time, shattering it completely. The casket tumbled free while Morryin lunged for the claw. He caught it and was yanked away. Varad looked up, and saw then that the ground was so close it looked touchable. The ancient mahogany of Hysterai construction hadn't caught fire, and nor did it have the partial shrouds attached to make its flight erratic. The dragon went for it and snatched the tumbling wooden box from free air.

Varad realized he had lost again.

Now fully mad, he hurled himself away from the single spinning fragment of ship he had clung too, and reached across space. Going for either the casket, he reached out as if by sheer desire he could grab hold of it again. He almost did.

The black dragon banked off only moments before the broken corsair hit the ground. At once it imploded in flames on wide, flat plain lands, filled with browning grass in the autumn. The weather had been hot to begin with, reducing the scrub grass to tinder. When burning embers splashed outwards from the main point of impact and pieces torn free during the fall fell around the main site, brown plains instantly exploded into a blaze. The grass fire reached up to the dragon.

Fire was raining down around Morryin as well. Astride his dragon and not intending to leave anything to chance, he guided the beast on a long, low lap, outside the epicenter of the burn. By the time the last bit of debris crashed into the flat earth, circles of flame were expanding outwards from impact points. They merged until it was only a single, vast prairie fire that suddenly died and went out as the dragon lapped it. The smaller blazes flickered and died in its wingbeats like the torches had on the corsair, leaving the circling drake with an idly pleased expression.

Eventually Morryin settled at the center of the ash circle and surveyed the area carefully. Fearing an ambush he didn't dismount, but there seemed to be little worry of that. Of Varad or his body there was nothing to be found. Finally, in aggravation, the mounted man took to the air once more and had the dragon release another burst of its own maleficent fire. This seared the earth, turning dirt to ash, and burned a crater into the ground. Reveling in the destruction, the dragon banked several times pouring out plumes of its fire in ropes of red, green, and yellow. The colors were off, vivid but diseased, and when they had ravaged the ground, the motes of fine ash blew away in its wing beat. Only then did Morryin guide it away, though he looked worried as he flew. His enemy's body was nowhere to be found.