DAWN OF THE PHOENIX Page 13

Kian shook his head.

  Cromwell always had the same solution for every problem. Kill it. Kian just could not see the need to kill a man because they didn’t like him.

  No, he would show the captain and the rest of the men his worth tonight when they attacked the rebel village. The Trimenian baron who had hired them said he wanted an example made of this village. Kian was not sure what that meant, but this village had started the revolt that now swept through his barony, and he wanted the Birds of Prey to make them answer for it.

  Barbeau said that Baron Serban had told him the villagers would be armed and to expect resistance, that’s why the captain had decided to attack at night to catch them off guard. Kian didn’t like the idea of fighting people who had done nothing to him and Baron Serban was the noble that Julian said had taken his mother. Helping the noble did not sit well with the half-elf, either.

  He didn’t like the idea of fighting for a man who had stolen a woman, but he had little choice but to go through with it. K’xarr and Cromwell had both spoken for him and assured Barbeau he would do his part, and he had no intention of letting his friends down. Besides, even if this Baron Serban was not a good man, stopping the rebels might bring peace to the barony. At least that’s how he tried to justify his actions to himself. It had been easy to tell right from wrong in the valley with Gildor. It was hard to understand things now that he was outside the Blue Dagger Mountains. Now some decisions were much more complicated to make than any he had faced there.

  The order was given and the mercenaries began to advance. They moved slowly at first. The hill had little cover and the ground was rocky, a man could twist his ankle easily in the dark. That danger was why the captain had decided not to use horses in the attack.

  At fifty yards, the men let out a great shout and charged. The buildings of the village were just shadows in the gloom. A man on Kian’s left went down with an arrow in his throat. The villagers had been ready. He could hear arrows as they streaked by in the dark.

  “Archers,” he heard Cromwell shout.

  The warrior’s shout was little help; no one could see the barrage of arrows in the night.

  The mercenaries hit the town at a full run. The village didn’t have enough bowmen to stop the advance. It was hard to see the enemy. Kian drew his sword, but was having a hard time telling who was who in the dark. It was chaos, with the screams of dying men and angry shouts filling the air.

  Kian looked left and right, not knowing what to do. This was not like the battles Gildor had told him about. He was sweating. He knew that indecision would get him killed. He had to do something. As he moved to his right, someone jumped on his back. He saw a hand come around with a knife. Kian bent at the waist and flipped the attacker to the ground before the knife could strike home. He saw the outline of the attacker in the dark and plunged his sword through his opponent before the man could rise off the ground.

  As Kian pulled the blade free, fire lit up the village. A small home nearby had been set ablaze. He looked down to find he had killed a young man no more than twenty. His sightless eyes stared up into Kian’s. There was no time for remorse, no time to think. He stuck to his right and a head flew through the air. An older man in chainmail charged him with a battle ax. He blocked the blow and countered, taking the man under the arm. The elven blade didn’t stop until it hit the villager’s sternum. Time seemed to slow for Kian as man after man went down before his cunning blade. Blood covered his black leather armor, making it shine in the glow of the fire light. It had been hundreds of years since any human had faced an elven warrior with Kian’s ability.

  He caught sight of Cromwell a few yards ahead, fighting near one of the burning buildings. Bodies littered the ground all around the massive warrior. The Toran was so focused on the enemy in front of him that he did not see the man running up from behind with a spear held low.

  Kian covered the ground quickly. He reached out as far as he could and brought his sword down with all the force he could. He cut the shaft of the man’s spear in two just before it could plunge into Cromwell’s back.

  Kian’s momentum carried him past the spearman. Cromwell turned in time to see Kian go past, and the villager holding nothing but a spear shaft in his hands. The Toran smiled, realizing what had happened, then swung his two-handed sword over his head. There was a look of surprise on the villager’s face as the sword came down and split his skull down to the teeth.

  The big man grabbed Kian by the arm and pulled him next to him.

  “Stay behind me.”

  The two men stood back to back, looking for the next attack, but none of the villagers would dare approach them. The bodies lying at their feet dissuaded them from testing the skill of the two warriors.

  “You might be worth something after all,” Cromwell said.

  Kian could not help but grin. “It seems we have scared the fight out of them.”

  “You might be right. Come, Kian, we will take the fight to the bastards. See if we can find out how K’xarr is faring.” Kian’s blood was up as he followed the Toran into the village at full speed.

  The two men ran into the center of the village where what was left of the rebels were still fighting. More than half the village was ablaze now. The battle would soon be over.

  Cromwell and Kian crashed into the rear of what looked like the last pocket of the village’s defense. Kian caught sight of K’xarr fighting alongside the captain. He tapped Cromwell and pointed. The big man nodded, and they started to cut their way over to their companion.

  Kian felt a stabbing pain in his lower back. He spun around and saw the shaft of a small javelin sticking out of his back. A boy no more than thirteen stared wide-eyed, amazed his throw had hit its mark. Kian went to his knees. Cromwell, seeing his friend wounded, looked at the boy and gauged the distance. He swung the two-handed sword over his head and threw it with all his great strength. The heavy blade hit the child point first, bursting through his chest and carrying the boy several feet in the air to land on his back, stone dead.

  Cromwell scooped Kian up and carried him away from the fighting. He laid him down by an old shed, one of the few buildings that wasn’t on fire. The Toran gripped the shaft of the javelin and pulled it out of Kian’s back. It took all the half-elf's willpower not to scream. He was light-headed and everything was blurry. He heard Cromwell’s voice.

  “You’re bleeding badly. I’ll get the surgeon. Try to stay still until I get back.”

  Kian gazed into the dark sky, gritted his teeth, and waited.

  Kian thought he must have passed out. When he awoke, Siro, the new battle surgeon for the Birds of Prey, was finishing binding his wound.

  “The wound was deep, but I stitched it up. He’s young for a half-elf, he should recover quickly.” The homely healer stood up and brushed the dirt from his knees.

  Siro was the only man as short as Kian in the whole company. Kian rolled to his side to see the Toran grinning down at him.

  “I have seen Toran children with worse wounds than that out playing with their war dogs.”

  “Help me up, would you?” Kian said, trying to get off the ground.

  Cromwell reached down and hauled the swordsman to his feet, all but carrying him to the old shed. The big man propped Kian against it.

  “Watch what you’re doing, you big oaf, you’ll pull his stitches out,” Siro said, frowning.

  Cromwell gave the healer a nod of thanks as the little man packed up his instruments and walked away.

  “You fought well. Stay here and rest. I will come back and get you.”

  Cromwell clapped him on the shoulder and walked toward where Kian saw the remains of the company gathering.

  The battle looked to be over. He could hear the wails of widows and fatherless children echoing through the night. The fire still burned bright enough so he could see the mercenaries rounding up what was left of the villagers. Most of what remained seemed to be the women, children, and the old. Guilt flooded his mind as he watched the mercen
aries pushing and shoving the survivors into an old barn. Many of the women were being dragged away from the bodies of their fallen husbands and fathers. Some of the mercenaries were beating the helpless villagers to get them to abandon their dead loved ones.

  Captain Barbeau stood near the doorway to the barn as the people were forced inside. He was picking out the prettiest of the young women from the survivors, having his men hold them back from going into the barn. Kian figured he planned to sell them as slaves, or he had decided to keep them for himself and his men.

  He realized tears were running down his face. Minutes ago he had been so proud of how well he had fought, now all he felt was shame. Defend others and yourself, that was what Gildor had taught him. He knew his master would be appalled by the mercenaries’ treatment of the defeated villagers. The old man would never stand for it.

  Kian wiped his eyes and used the shed wall to push himself up. The wound shot lances of pain through the small of his back. He clenched his fists and started limping towards the captain. He knew Siro’s stitches were starting to tear as he hobbled along, he could feel the blood starting to trickle down his leg and into his boot. It didn’t matter, he had to do something even if it meant his life.

  Cromwell turned in time to see Kian before he got to where the ring of sell-swords stood. The Toran reached out and stopped him. “What the hell are you doing? You’re going to start bleeding again, you fool.”

  Kian looked up at Cromwell, the firelight casting shadows on both men’s faces. “This is wrong, someone has to stop it.”

  Cromwell grabbed Kian by the arm. He could see the half-elf was having trouble staying on his feet.

  “I know, my friend, Barbeau should have mercy and just kill them, not burn them up in that barn. There is no need to be cruel.”

  Kian pushed Cromwell’s arm away. “He’s going to burn them? I have to stop this. I won’t let it happen.”

  Cromwell shook his head. “You can’t stop it, you can barely walk. Besides, you know they won’t listen to you and the captain won’t hesitate to use your protest as an excuse to kill you.” The Toran took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “The villagers lost, this is their fate.”

  Kian ignored Cromwell’s logic and looked the crowd over for K’xarr. He could see him standing with his arms folded on his chest. He was looking right at them from across the circle of mercenaries, his face unreadable. There would be no help there.

  “You and K’xarr can watch this evil, if you want. I won’t stand by and let them die. I will pay whatever price I have to.” Kian drew his blade.

  “Then go to your death an Arradar if you must.” Cromwell pulled his Voltakar out and sliced his forearm. “With this blood, I honor you with the scar. I will remember you. Die with honor, Kian Cardan.”

  Cromwell stepped back, and Kian just nodded to his friend, not understanding the Toran rite. Then he limped into the circle of mercenaries.

  Sweat ran down the captain’s face from the heat of the fire. He had stripped down to his knee breeches and expensive shirt, both of its ruffled cuffs stained with wine. He was laughing with his lieutenants as they looked over a girl no more than twelve years old. Rapier in one hand, a bottle of wine in the other, the captain seemed to be enjoying his victory.

  “Barbeau, hear me, Barbeau,” Kian shouted.

  The circle of men went quiet as all eyes went to the half-elven swordsman. The captain raised his arms. “What do you want, half-breed? None of these fine young girls want a tumble with a freak of nature like you. Be off, find a nice sheep to love.”

  The men roared with laughter.

  Kian seethed with anger, never had he been this full of rage. All the mistreatment the captain had heaped on him over the last two weeks, along with the anger over the atrocities he was witnessing, boiled to the surface. “I will not allow you to burn these people or rape their women.”

  The captain walked over to where Kian stood. “What did you say, you little bastard?”

  Kian met the captain’s gaze. “I said, I will not allow you to burn these people.”

  The captain smiled and stabbed his rapier into the ground. He leaned on the blade as he took a big swallow of wine. “You’re wounded and can hardly hold that sword up, how would you stop us? Besides, you would have to kill me, you son of a whore, and that you couldn’t do on your best day.”

  Kian spun, his blade flashing in the firelight. The captain’s head rolled across the ground and came to rest at the feet of his lieutenants. The captain’s rapier snapped in half and his body fell to the ground. No one was laughing now.

  Kian knew he had ripped his wound wide open. His legs began to shake. The pain was agonizing, and he went down to one knee. They would kill him now, but he was strangely content.

  One of Barbeau’s seconds named Ospree drew his sword. “You are dead, half-breed scum.”

  His legs were shaking and his strength was gone. The half-elven swordsman knew that he had lost a great deal of blood, his boot was full of it, but Kian gritted his teeth and stood back up. “I won’t be the only one.” He was having a hard time seeing. He came to guard as best he could and waited for them to come.

  “You kill him, you will have to kill me too, and you may find that a little harder task, Ospree,” Cromwell barked.

  Cromwell came to stand beside him, two-handed sword resting on his shoulder.

  “Damn you to Hell, Cromwell.” K’xarr drew his sword and stomped over to stand with them. “You’re both damn fools.”

  There was starting to be a bit of doubt in the eyes of the mercenaries. Many looked at one another, unsure of what to do.

  “We’re with you, K’xarr.”

  Two more men came out of the circle to stand with them: a young man with uncut blonde hair, the other slightly older in a horse-hair crested helmet and the breast plate of a Dragitan cavalry officer.

  K’xarr walked over to Ospree and pointed his sword at the lieutenant. “Your choice, Ospree. You can let the villagers go and get your pay from the baron or you can face the five of us. Choose.”

  Ospree gave a confident smile, showing his rotten teeth. “I have seventy men or better, you can’t kill us all, K’xarr. You’re as mad as that half-breed if you think the five of you can take us. Your odds are not too good, Camiran.”

  K’xarr looked around at the mercenaries, then back at the other four men standing inside the circle of brigands. “You’re right, Ospree, you might take us in a rush, but not with seventy men. You know not all of them will fight. There’s no coin in it and the ones that do back you won’t have their hearts in it.”

  K’xarr looked at his sword and then at the mercenary lieutenant. “I swear by all the gods, Ospree, I will see to it you are the first to die. How are those odds sounding now? Not so good, eh? Besides, you’re the captain now, the half-breed did you a favor.”

  The lieutenant looked at his men and sighed. He knew K’xarr was most likely right. More than half of the greedy bastards would not join in the fight and no one wanted to face the Toran and that two-handed sword of his.

  “One condition: the five of you give up your pay for the villagers and you leave.”

  “Done.” K’xarr sheathed his sword and walked back over to where his comrades stood and lowered his voice.

  “You half-elven idiot, you almost got us all killed and you owe me the coin I just lost. What in the hell were you thinking pulling a foolish stunt like that? If most of these curs weren’t cowards, we would all be dead.”

  Kian smiled at K’xarr and put his hand on the Camiran’s shoulder, then he fell backwards. Cromwell caught him before he hit the ground.

  Cromwell was glad to be leaving the Birds of Prey. They were poor warriors. K’xarr thought so too, but he hadn’t wanted to leave. He said they needed to build a reputation. Cromwell didn’t care, he was just happy to be rid of the sorry band.

  Siro had worked on Kian through the night. The half-elf had lost a lot of blood, but the little healer was good and the
swordsman yet lived. They took some of the Birds' horses and loaded Kian into a small wagon and headed east. Siro had asked if it was possible that he could travel with them when they left. The Toran thought Siro must not have liked the mercenaries either.

  The little healer was hard to look at but he seemed to know what he was doing, and a good healer was very hard to come by, so they had agreed to bring him along.

  K’xarr’s new friends Rufio and Vandarus were coming along as well, they had worn out their welcome with the mercenaries the night before when they had joined K’xarr and Cromwell in Kian’s defense. A Dragitan and a Bandaran, they weren’t from the Harsh Coast but Cromwell could overlook that since K’xarr had said they were good men.

  He knew that Dragita was one of the most powerful nations in the world. He had heard their armies were vast and their leaders cunning. Rufio claimed to have once been a cavalry officer for them. The Dragitan had short, dark, curly hair and was built like a block of stone. He didn’t talk a lot and Cromwell liked that about him.

  Vandarus, the Bandaran, seemed a fine warrior. He was as tall as K’xarr and strong. Cromwell didn’t like the fact he came from a country that worshiped the One God, but aside from that, he found no fault with the young warrior.

  He knew K’xarr was angry with him and Kian. The Camiran didn’t like anything interfering with his plans. If Kian hadn’t decided to take on the mercenaries single-handedly, they would still be with the band and K’xarr would be happy. The truth was neither he nor K’xarr would have troubled themselves to help the villagers. They both saw it as how the world worked: the victorious survive and the defeated die.

  It was Kian’s courage that had made him step forward, and the fact that the half-elf had saved him from a spear in the back. Cromwell knew he was no thinker. The whole incident confused him. He had never thought about helping anyone weaker than he was. It was not the Toran way. In Tora, the weak and helpless were left to die. It made the clan stronger.

  The wounded half-elf was prepared to die for villagers who wouldn’t trouble themselves to spit on him. Kian’s act of valor had shamed the barbarian.