The Golden Shield of IBF (43 page)

The Horde of Koth soldier to Garrison’s right—shorter and wiry seeming—lunged with his sword.

Despite the fact that Garrison had little experience with a blade actually in his hand, he had a considerable reading knowledge of swords, sufficient for him to realize that the Horde of Koth issue sword was not designed for cut and thrust, but for cutting alone. The curve of the blade made accurate thrusting difficult for all but the most gifted of swordsmen, and only as a setup where the opponent was enticed into an open position. Garrison’s sword, on the other hand, was made for both cutting and thrusting.

Alan Garrison thrust with his sword as he dodged the thrust aimed against him. The tip of Garrison’s blade glanced off a link of mail.

“Try again,” Garrison encouraged himself. Sidestepping along the stair tread, Garrison thrust for his opponent’s hip, where there was no armor. Garrison missed the hip, but stabbed through the left cheek of his opponent’s rear end.

There was a terrible cry of pain. The shorter Horde of Koth trooper fell forward and slid down the stairs, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.

The other of the two, the tall one who had first attacked him, came at Garrison again. With his sword in both hands, the enemy soldier ran down the stairs at a diagonal, blade smashing downward as he charged.

Garrison remembered something that Gar’Ath had taught him. Hilt clenched in both hands, Garrison brought his sword back over his left shoulder, stepping rearward with his right foot and flexing his outstretched left leg at the precise moment that his opponent’s blade crashed downward. Parrying the edge of the tall soldier’s blade with the flat of his own, Garrison took another step forward, letting his opponent overextend his balance as their blades slipped apart. It wasn’t the right procedure, Garrison knew, but as he moved he pulled his blade across his opponent’s right thigh in a deep drawcut.

The tall soldier staggered. Garrison flicked his blade up, cleaving counterclockwise with it toward the man’s neck, drawing back on the blade as it struck flesh. Garrison opened the Horde of Koth trooper’s throat from earlobe to adam’s apple. Blood sprayed everywhere.

Bre’Gaa was hurriedly scrounging arrows and crossbow bolts from the dead on the stairs. Mitan was firing her longbow, Erg’Ran his crossbow. Their arrows and bolts only ephemerally stemmed the tide of Horde of Koth troops surging in the passageway. But Alan Garrison allowed himself one instant.

He looked at his sword.

Garrison took no pride in the blood which stained its blade, but rather in its strength and that he had used it to fight for his convictions against that which he perceived as evil. What Garrison felt was that link between a man or woman and a weapon, so often misconstrued by the misinformed as bloodlust, which was, in reality, a part of the very essence of being human, inextricably interwoven with honor, pride and the will to persevere.

Swan, her sword bloodied as well, leaned against the staircase wall. “We’ll need to hold them back while Erg’Ran and one or two others with a bow reach the height of the staircase.”

“I know,” Garrison agreed.

“We have to get the Enchantress out of reach of the Horde if she’s to have any hope of finding out whether her father lives or not,” Gar’Ath announced, his breathing still coming hard.

Garrison suggested, “Why don’t you and Erg’Ran take the stairs along with Swan, Gar’Ath. We can alternate fire and maneuver elements.” He’d originally heard the terms in a war movie, then looked them up. “You guys go up and cover us as we move to your position. We leapfrog it.”

Swan asked, “What about frogs?”

“It means when one group moves, the other stays put, and so on. That way, we’ve always got some protection with your bows, Erg’Ran won’t have to run for it any faster than he can manage, and Bre’Gaa and Mitan can cover you with their bows while you guys move up. If you bump into troops as you progress along the stairs, Gar’Ath, then you and Swan can brace them with your swords while Erg’Ran can still provide some cover for us. Sounds like a plan, huh?”

“Aye, Champion. It does, indeed.”

“These arrows are shorter than my own,” Mitan said, having just reached the stairs and taking well over a dozen arrows from Bre’Gaa’s hands. “They’ll be a little less powerful on target.”

“Like .38s out of a .357 Mag,” Garrison observed. When Bre’Gaa, Swan, and Mitan all looked at him oddly, Garrison just said, “Never mind, guys. I’ll explain it to you later.”

“Good fletching,” Mitan said to no one in particular.

Garrison asked, “Good what-ing?”

“Never mind,” Mitan smiled wickedly. “I’ll explain it to you later.”

Bre’Gaa launched an arrow, then another and still another toward the mouth of the passageway. “We should be on our way,” he announced.

“Bre’Gaa. Mitan. You guys are with me,” Garrison informed them. “We hold back the bad guys.”

“Come, Erg’Ran,” Swan urged. Gar’Ath was already taking the stairs three at a time in a run. “Be careful, Al’An—all of you!” Swan called after her.

Bre’Gaa handed out more arrows to Mitan, both of them nocking arrows to their bows and waiting for the next Horde of Koth target to show itself coming out of the passageway. Garrison picked up one of the swords lying on the stairs. The Horde of Koth swords were heavy, almost the heft of a Civil War cavalry saber. “Do these guys fight a lot from horseback, Mitan?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“Their tactics, hanging back like that, waiting to charge in a group. And the heavy swords they carry. It all smacks of cavalry.”

Garrison looked up the stairs, actually taking note of them for the first time. The staircase extended straight upward to an almost dizzying height, matching the elevation of the chamber. There was, presumably, a landing or some corridor or another, leading to more stairs. Swan, Erg’Ran and Gar’Ath were almost in position to provide covering fire for Garrison, Mitan and Bre’Gaa.

“Mitan?”

“Yes, Champion?”

“Why don’t you run up about halfway along the height of the staircase and you can help to keep us covered. As soon as you’re in position, give us a shout and Bre’Gaa and I’ll start up.”

“I will, Champion, but first a short volley, I think.”

“Good idea.” Garrison, a sword in each hand, waited while Bre’Gaa and Mitan each fired two arrows, just as reminders to the Horde troopers in the passageway that if they stuck out a head, they’d wind up dead.

As the second arrow left Mitan’s bow, she turned and raced up the stairs. “A pretty one, that,” Bre’Gaa offered.

“She is indeed,” Garrison answered. “Nice girl, too.”

“Your Enchantress. She is exquisite. You must meet my wife, sometime, Al’An. There is nothing like a Gle’Ur’Gya female. Her fur is soft. When we are in each other’s arms, and her mane falls over my face, the feeling is indescribable.”

“You sound like a happy man,” Garrison said honestly, his eyes on the mouth of the passageway.

“I’d be the happier if I saw her the more, truth to tell. A mariner’s life is wearisome at times. When these Horde of Koth emerge,” Bre’Gaa said, changing the subject without missing a beat, “I say let them come. We kill a few here on the stairs, then run while Mitan covers us and the others cover us from the top of the stairs. If we can get the enemy into the open, our arrows and bolts should slay many of them.”

Garrison couldn’t truthfully say, “I like it,” but he could say, “That’s a sound idea, Bre’Gaa.”

As of yet, there’d been no evidence that the Horde troopers who would be charging toward them at any moment had longbows or crossbows available to them. Had there been enemy archers in any number, the situation would have been radically altered for the worse.

“By the way, Al’An?” Bre’Gaa unstrung his bow, slipped it under a pair of slots built into his quiver, and he drew his sword.

“Yes, Bre’Gaa?”

“In the event that I should die—”

“Hey, man! Don’t talk like that!” Garrison interrupted.

“In the event that I die in combat against our foemen, or some other fatal event should befall me, I would crave two boons from you.”

“Boons? Oh! Boons. Yeah. What?”

“I would ask that, as is the custom of the Gle’Ur’Gya, I should be buried with a sword, and a good one. After all, a dead Gle doesn’t really need that much of a sword, so certainly no noble gesture such as placing your sword or Gar’Ath’s with me. An enemy sword, even one of these disappointing things the Horde uses, will suffice. But see to it that it’s sharp and of decent steel. Among the Gle’Ur’Gya, a warrior is only buried with his personal sword should he have no warrior son or warrior daughter to whom the blade can be passed. I have both, and my son and my daughter can fight over who gets the blade.

“Which leads me to the second boon I would seek.”

“Which is?”

‘Well, someone needs to return the sword to my family. I think that it should be you. And at the same time, you can relate in exacting detail how I perished so valiantly.”

“Don’t die, okay?” Garrison requested.

“I will endeavor to honor your wish to the best of my ability, Al’An—trust to that!” And Bre’Gaa laughed.

Garrison’s eyes narrowed. The Horde of Koth unit which had been bottled up in the passage was, hesitantly, venturing into the chamber. In the next eyeblink, the inevitable happened.

The Horde of Koth, swords raised, bloody curses on their lips, charged. Garrison’s stomach suddenly felt like he’d eaten spoiled chili and his palms sweated and he was exhaling more than he inhaled, or so it seemed to him.

“There’s a trick, Al’An. Make the enemy think that you are insane for combat and desire their blood on your sword with every fiber of your being! The more you make them fear you, the less time you’ll have to fear them.”

“Thanks for the advice, pal.”

“Take it for what it’s worth,” Bre’Gaa told him.

The Horde unit came in a dead run. Garrison counted thirty soldiers before he stopped counting and started shouting, “Come on, you chickenshits! Let’s see how tough you really are! Your mothers sew dirty socks! Your sisters wear men’s underwear and have to shave their upper lips! Come on, you wimps!” Garrison looked at Bre’Gaa. “That’s the kind of thing I should be saying?”

“The very words I would have used, Al’An. Yes! Such epithets will strike terror into their hearts and fine hone the steel of your resolve.”

Garrison didn’t waste his energy waving his sword. There’d be plenty of opportunity for exercise in another moment or so...

Swan wished that she had studied archery, but she had not. She wished that her magical energy would return more quickly, but it would not. Midway along the staircase, Mitan readied her bow. Flanking Swan, Erg’Ran’s crossbow was cocked, a bolt readied to fly from the slot. Gar’Ath’s longbow was drawn, an arrow nocked, two more arrows clenched in his teeth.

“You should not fire until Al’An and Captain Bre’Gaa run up the stairs. There would be danger to them if you fire prematurely. They are drawing the Horde out, toward them, so that there will be nothing behind which the Horde can hide and thus evade your missiles. Be patient.”

“It was Mir who said that one should not loose one’s bolt prior to confirming that the whites of the enemies’ eyes were readily visible,” Erg’Ran reminded them.

“The wisdom and courage of Mir will inspire us,” Gar’Ath agreed.

Swan’s eyes gazed at her heroic Al’An. His courage—standing there, fearlessly, a sword in each hand, hurling curses at vastly superior numbers of the enemy—filled her soul with love and pride beyond any measure, flushed her cheeks with desire. “My Champion,” Swan sighed, and she sniffed back a tear of happiness.

An eyeblink later, she sucked in her breath from fear. The Horde was upon Al’An and Captain Bre’Gaa. Al’An hacked and stabbed with his sword, parrying enemy swords with the flat of his own, making a fine account of himself. Under the pressure from Al’An and Bre’Gaa, the first rank of the Horde fell back. From beside her, Swan heard Gar’Ath remark, “He learned well, your Champion, for true he did, Enchantress!”

She glanced at Gar’Ath, smiled her thanks, then looked back down the length of the staircase. Al’An and Bre’Gaa feigned another onslaught against the Horde’s front rank. Al’An flung the enemy sword from his left hand, impaling one of the Horde through the throat. Then Al’An and Captain Bre’Gaa turned and vaulted up the stairs, taking the treads three at a time.

“Now! Open fire!” Swan commanded.

Gar’Ath and Erg’Ran let fly. Mitan launched her first arrow, then a second and a third; arrows from both positions filled the air over the staircase.

As Al’An and Captain Bre’Gaa reached Mitan’s position, Bre’Gaa handed his sword to Al’An, shouted something Swan could not hear. In the next eyeblink, Bre’Gaa had his bow strung and an arrow nocked. He fired.

Bodies of dead Horde of Koth littered the stairs. Those few who managed to escape the rain of arrows and crossbow bolts charged Mitan, Al’An and Bre’Gaa. Al’An stepped down a few treads, met the first foeman and ran him through. One of the Horde soldiers cleaved downward with his wickedly curving blade, Al’An intercepting his foeman’s steel by crossing the flats of his sword and that of Captain Bre’Gaa.

Bre’Gaa shouted something and Al’An sidestepped, drawing his foeman off balance. Captain Bre’Gaa fired an arrow, impaling Al’An’s foeman through the left eye.

Those few men of the Horde who had ventured past the hail of arrows and bolts now fell back, escaping down the staircase. In the same eyeblink, Al’An, Captain Bre’Gaa and Mitan began to run up the staircase as rapidly as they could.

“Hold fire!” Swan ordered.

Swan looked away from the stairwell and second-sighted along the wide hallway and to the staircase beyond. She needed to see beyond the confines of line of sight, and she could not employ a guarding spell because Barad’Il’Koth might already be under a guarding spell of her mother’s making. She could not see through walls, but there was the spell which she had used to enhance the second-sight, and thus see around corners. It was the means by which she had enabled herself to search the passages and halls of the magnificent place in Atlanta for the evildoer whom Al’An had sought to foil.