The Rise and Fall of a Dragonking - By Lynn Abbey Page 0,50
sword Bashing a bloody red as my veterans held fast around me and my enemies fell at my feet. But, what I saw in my mind wasn’t enough: I watched One-Eye closely for his reaction.
His lips tightened, and his lumpy nose wrinkled. “Might do.” His chin rose and fell. “Worth a try. Better to die fighting in front than get cut down from behind.”
My fist struck the air above my head—the one and only time that I, Hamanu, saluted another man’s wisdom. The orders to stand fast, then charge as a tight-formed group, radiated around the hilltop. Not everyone greeted them with enthusiasm or obedience, but I ran down the first veteran who bolted, hamstringing him before I slashed his throat. After that, they realized it was better to be behind me than to have me behind them.
I held my veterans on the hilltop until the encroaching circle was complete. Grim bravado replaced any lingering thoughts of panic or fear once the circle began to shrink: either we would win through and roll up our enemies’ line, or we’d all be dead. At least we hoped we’d be dead. That’s what gave my veterans their courage as we started down the hill. Any battlefield death was preferable to the eyes of fire.
How can I describe the exhilaration of that moment? Sixty shrieking humans raced behind me, and the faces of men and women before us turned as pale as the silver Ral when he was alone in the nighttime sky. I’d never led a charge before, never imagined the awesome energy of humanity intent on death.
Every aspect of battle was new to me, and dazzling. We ran so fast; I remember the wind against my face. Yet I also remember realizing that if I continued to hold my sword level in front of me, I’d skewer my first enemy and be helpless before the second, with a man’s full weight wedged against the hilt.
There was time to change my grip, to raise my weapon arm high across my off-weapon shoulder, and deliver a sweeping sword stroke as we met their line. A man went down, his head severed. Beside me, One-Eye swung a stone-headed mallet at a woman. I’ll never forget the sound of her ribs shattering, or the sight of blood spurting an arm’s full length from her open mouth.
A glorious rout had begun. Destiny had pointed our spear at the handful of humanity who could have opposed us: the life-sucking mages who marched with Yoram’s army. Their spells were their own, independent of the Troll-Scorcher. But spellcasting requires calm and concentration, neither of which existed for long on that battlefield.
The enemy had expected an easy victory over ragtag renegades. They expected magic to do the hard work of slaying me and my veterans. They weren’t prepared for hand-to-hand bloody combat. We took the fighting to them, and they crumpled before us—fleeing, surrendering, dying. At last, we stood before fine-dressed officers with metal weapons, mekillot shields, and boiled-leather armor.
The battle paused while they took my measure and I took theirs. My veterans were ready, and they were prepared to die defending themselves.
But they preferred not to—
“Peace, Manu!” Their spokesman hailed me by my name. “For love of human men and women, stand down!”
“Never!” I snarled back, thinking they’d asked me to surrender, knowing I had the strength around me to slay them all.
To a man, they retreated.
“You’ve made your point, Manu,” the spokesman shouted from behind his shield. “There’s no honor in killing a man when there’re trolls for the taking not two day’s march from here.”
I raised my sword. “You lie,” I said, not bothering to be more specific.
The officers halted and stood firm. There were five of them. An honor guard stood with them, armed with metal swords and armored in leather, though they lacked the mekillot shields. I judged the guard the tougher fight. We’d already lost at least ten veterans from our sixty, and the pause was giving the enemy the opportunity to regroup.
I took my swing—and reeled into my left-side man as a better swordsman beat my untutored attack aside.
“Don’t be a fool, Manu,” another officer said. I recognized her from earlier times and wondered which of the coded parchments had been written by her hand. “We know where the trolls are. We’ll lead you to their lairs. Remember Deche, Manu. Which do you want more, us or trolls?”
One-Eye and six other voices counseled me against the officer’s offer, but she knew me, knew