The Death of a Swordsman 11

11

Varad was several dozen feet away. He hadn't reached the casket, but he had caught a cluster of spikes by the beast's ankles and hung on. Now, watching Morryin's attempts to make sure, Varad seriously considered scaling th beast and trying to hack its rider apart from behind. The madness of the beast's wingbeat was on him, and his blood was thundering in his ears.

The beast was climbing in a long sinusoidal ascent, and between flaps its body settled towards the earth. At each ascent, though it gained little actual elevation, the sudden upwards pull took all Varad's strength to resist. Thus he waited for one of the gentle dips where in the beast lost most of the alititude it just gained. In the brief moment of weightlessness, he released his hold and threw himself upwards, closer to killing Morryin. From the heal spikes he caught a scale about the ridge and held firm.

The dragon absently noticed this new irritation, and on the next beat of tremendous wings, scratched one hind leg with another, not bothering to look. The back of a claw caught the climbing swordsman in the side, and cast him free.

Varad fell, suddenly numb from the shock of his incidental defeat. Reflexively he landed and rolled, and succeeded in breaking both his legs for his trouble. He came to a halt, sitting with the Song of Winter in his lap, staring up at the retreating shadow of his enemy.

He watched it climb upwards in a great spiral, seeming to circle the sun. Someone had once told him hawk's vision was based on movement, and it seemed possible the dragon's was as well. Morryin's would not be, but at that altitude he doubted Morryin would be able to spot details on the ground. He was still there when hoofbeats sounded across the plains and riders appeared.

Since there was no place to run to, nor a defensible position to take up, he just waited, sitting still. His legs wouldn't hold him, nor was there any crutch for him to brace himself upright on. In fact, his skin felt burned and crispy, and breathing was difficult from smoke inhalation. When the riders found him and formed a wide ring, there looked to be about fifty of them dressed in leather and wool.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I am Fradick. This is the Consequence of the Noonday Sun,” one responded. That one came forward and removed his headpiece, revealing half a dozen short bone spurs that jutted up around his head like a crown. More of them stabbed out of the skin on his hands and forearms. His wide, flat eyes were darkly bloodshot.

'A horned lord. Joy,' Varad thought to himself.

“I saw the descending fire from the sky land here,” the horned lord continued. “And so too find you. Did you come down with it?”

“Yes,” Varad replied. “It was my chariot, for I am an angel of the sun.”

“Excellent. You will be delicious.”

Varad swore quietly but without vehemence. This outcome was foreordained. The lord ordered several men to come forward and bind Varad. They dropped from their horses to do so, and as soon as they came within reach found themselves delegged followed by dismembered and decapitated. That was somewhat harder to do while sitting, so it took a dozen odd seconds. By the time the screaming had stopped, the other riders had pulled back a score of yards, save the horned one.

“That is a weapon of fine steel,” Fradick observed while his pack drew back on their steeds. They were whispering between them in surprise.

“Come and take it,” Varad urged him.

“I will,” the horned one snapped, annoyed to be agreeing with his intended prey. He threw himself to the dirt and landed heavily. Now the mounted pack formed a circle, some distance from the blood splattered grass and making no motion to retrieve their fallen comrades. Their leader took his bow from a leather case on his saddle and strung it fluidly. It was made of an odd, black bone of abnormally twisted shape, and the string was braided.

Quickly he took an arrow, set it to the string, and drew, and just quickly quickly recoiled, for Varad had flicked his knife through the string just above the arrow. The bow cracked and straightened, whipping the string to cut deeply into the horned one's face and throwing the arrow downwards. Vibrations shook the bow, and beat the holder's ugly head twice more before he threw it from him.

“Vermin!” he snapped.

Varad smiled. Behind the demi-human the large warhorse suddenly keeled over dead, the handle of a knife jutting from the base of its skull.

The riders drew back, faces white and eyes wide. Their master took this in with a flat glance, and all traces of his previous irritation vanished. He judged their waning loyalty before replying.

“Now you have no knife,” he said quietly.

“I still have one, and you have no horse or bow,” the man with two broken legs replied, tapping the Song of Winter as he mentioned it.

“But I'll soon have that sword. Can you not stand?”

“Come find out,” Varad urged him again.

The consequence's loyalty to their master was ebbing fast, and dismounted he would not be able to chase them down if they bolted. Now the horned one didn't bother with more words, but suddenly strode directly forward.

Varad flung himself upwards and landed upright. Almost instantly his legs buckled and failed, but first he wrenched the Song of Winter backwards, up, and down in a vast motion, trying to compensate for the lack of footing. He was fast enough to catch the horned one on the shoulder, and dragged his blade across his chest to the hip. The blade barely bit and instead short showers of sparks from each interstitial space. The air suddenly stank of burned fat, and Varad crashed face first to the ground.

The horned one ignored it, stomped hard on Varad's wrist, and smashed his spiked fist into the back of the other's skull. For a moment the prone swordsman saw nothing and knew none of what transpired. Instantly the other ripped his sword away and stepped back out of reach. Now the lips of his chest wound were spread wide, and all could see that he was laid open to his ebon ribcage. That was deeply scored but intact. The bones very closely resembled those of his bow and were swirled in much the same manner.

The maimed lord stared hard at his men with a brutal challenge in his eyes. They retreated and did not meet his gaze. Several looked hard at the open plains behind them, and their master's dead steed. Yet they also shot suspicious glances at their fellows. At the center of the ring, the horned one spun slowly, giving each man the challenge of his eyes. All retreated before his gaze, but none fled.

Finally satisfied, he turned back to Varad, whom was slowly returning to his senses.

“Bind him,” he ordered.

His command was not instantly obeyed, but obeyed it was. Several other men dismounted and approached Varad warily. Their master, power renewed but still questionable, suddenly returned to the fallen man and took the Song of Winter's sheath as well. He slid the blade home and tucked it into his belt, before kicking its prior owner hard in the gut. Varad gurgled and coughed, and then the riders of the consequence bound him hand and foot.

“Since he cannot run, he will be dragged,” Fradick declared. He stopped at his dead horse to wrench the knife from its skull. He also picked up his unstrung bow before taking one of the fallen's mount and swinging himself into the saddle. The beast grunted and sidestepped under the sudden weight.

One of those on foot offered him the rope that ran to Varad's hands. The master waved him off, and another rider was picked at random. They tied the tail to his saddlebow, leaving some slack. Then the corpses were bagged and packed on the unoccupied horses before all finally mounted.

“Angel of the Sun, presently you will eat dirt of the earth,” the horned one told Varad. He sounded pleased with himself and ignored the gaping slash across his chest.

“You take much of someone who would have beaten you otherwise,” Varad muttered but loud enough to be heard.

“You are not weak yet, for I shall beat the weakness into you. I prefer my meat tenderized and violated.”

Varad decided no part of that sounded pleasant. With a barking yell the horned lord bellowed at his men, and the consequence thundered away. The slack whipped taught as the tethered horse picked up speed, and the bound man watched the rope disappear as if every moment was forever. Then he threw himself forward that the shock might not rip his arms from their sockets and skidded across the grass.