The Sorcerer's Vengeance: Book 4 of the Sorcerer's Path (6 page)

Experience won out over youthful reflexes as Farley let fly the broad-headed quarrel from his heavy crossbow, striking the bear in its huge, white side just behind the shoulder. It was an amazing shot, or just extremely lucky, given the animal’s incredible speed and the way it bounded through the thick snow in its effort to reach the men near the sled.

Derran’s shot struck just a foot behind and slightly lower than the hunter’s own. Still a good shot but nowhere near lethal for a creature this big and so outraged at the intrusion of the soft-skinned humans that dared to hunt a hunter.

Zeb let his own quarrel fly but it sailed harmlessly past, just over the ice bear’s back. The old captain dropped the crossbow with a curse and ran for the sled not more than fifteen yards behind him. Farley and Derran were also slogging towards the sled, knowing that they had nowhere near enough time to crank the windlass on the heavy crossbow before the bear ripped Toron and Ruben to shreds. It took less than a second for the three men to realize that they would not reach the sled and the spears it carried until after the bear had gotten to their comrades.

Toron had been pulling the sled by a ten-foot length of rope attached to its front end when the massive white creature burst over the top the rise to their left. Knowing he had no time to grab one of the pikes from the sled, get in front of the bear, and set himself before it was on top of Ruben, he swung his trusty battle axe off his broad back and charged at the ice bear’s flank with a mighty roar of his own. The minotaur and the bear’s charge intersected at a point less than ten feet from where Ruben was fumbling at one of pikes that lay atop the sledge.

The gleaming head of the double-bladed axe hissed as it cut through the air and raised a spray bright red blood, made even more pronounced by the infinite whiteness of the bear’s hide and the surrounding countryside, as Toron’s axe cut deeply into the bear’s muscled chest and shoulder.

Despite the grievous wound and the powerful intensity of the minotaur’s strike, the mighty ice bear managed to swing a paw bigger than a man’s head at the creature that interfered with its kill. The huge mitt with its five dagger-like claws raked Toron across his shoulder, gouging deep furrows through the thick jacket and his own tough hide without breaking its stride towards the human that was desperately trying to bring his own weapon to the ready.

Less than a couple of yards and two seconds separated Ruben and the charging ice bear. He turned towards the massive animal in time to see the big minotaur cut deeply into the bear’s chest before the massive animal spun him to the ground with powerful blow from its paw that likely would have killed or at least crippled a human.

Death flashed before his eyes in the form of a huge mouth that opened far enough to swallow his head and part of his shoulders whole. Ruben barely got the butt of the pike set onto the flat, wooden square of his snowshoe when all fifteen hundred pounds of the bear slammed into him and bore him to the ground. Fire erupted across his chest as the lethal claws tore through his thick fur coat and several layers of sturdy clothing, slicing through his flesh and muscle as if it were paper.

Blood sprayed his face as the bear roared its defiance and snapped at his head, its fangs protruding from black gums a full two inches. The only thing that saved his skull from being crushed like an eggshell and his brain pierced by the ivory daggers was that the awesome weight of the bear had shoved his entire torso two or three feet under the loose snow. Despite his gruesome wound, fear and the instinct for survival made him lash out, shoving the big head to the side, gouging at its eyes with his thumbs, and using his strong arms to keep the bear’s fangs from getting a grip on his head or throat.

The fetid stench of carrion on the ice bear’s breath was enough to choke him, but the oarsman hardly noticed, so involved was he in keeping himself alive long enough for one of his mates to kill the creature. He just prayed it would be within the next two to three seconds, figuring that was about how long he had before the bear tired of the game and tore his head from his shoulders like a child popping the head off an immature dandelion.

Ruben could see nothing beyond the flashing ivory fangs and huge gaping maw of the ice bear, but he heard Toron’s roar of rage even over the behemoth’s guttural growls of fury just before it crashed down on top of him, the snow bank supporting enough of its dead weight to keep from crushing what little life he had left in him.

Toron rolled with the mighty slap of the ice bear’s huge paw, felt his flesh part beneath the sharp claws, and saw his own blood paint the trodden snow red. He leapt to his feet with his axe still in hand. A minotaur warrior never dropped his weapon unless his arm had been detached from his body along with it. That was a painful lesson taught very early on by the weapon masters of his homeland when a boy entered the mandatory warrior training school at age six.

His eyes instantly took in the scene of the battle. Zeb, Derran, and the foul-smelling hunter were still several paces from the sled. Ruben was fighting with all his might to keep the massive animal from getting in a killing strike. A decisive blow was needed within the next few seconds or Ruben was not going to make it back alive, assuming his wounds were not already fatal. All this flashed through the experienced warrior’s mind in less than a second.

His body was already in motion as his brain decided on the best tactic for the situation. With a roar of challenge and defiance, Toron sprinted the several steps to the sled, pushed himself high into the air as he leapt from its railing, and brought his axe crashing down with a mighty two-handed blow, cutting through the back of the ice bear’s neck, severing its spinal cord, and nearly decapitating it.

Toron tossed his axe to the side as Zeb and the others ran up next to him and began trying to roll the ponderous beast off their fallen comrade, but the animal was wedged into the crevice it had creating when it had shoved Ruben beneath the snow and would not budge. Toron began tearing at the snow beside the dead bear with his large hands as Zeb shouted at the others to grab shoves to dig the oarsman out from beneath it.

In less than a minute, their furious digging uncovered Ruben’s grinning face. “I always wanted me a nice fur coat, but I’d rather the original owner took it off first.”

“Just hold on, Ruben, we almost got you out. Are you injured?” Zeb asked with concern.

The flashes of pain crossed Ruben’s face. “Oh yeah, he got me real good. Don’t know if he got to any of my innards, but he raked my chest real deep and bit the hell outta my arms. My skull probably looks akin to scrimshaw carving too.”

They finally cleared enough snow away beside the wounded sailor to pull him out from under the ice bear’s dead weight and examine his wounds more closely. Freed from the surrounding snow, several deep lacerations on his skull bled profusely, his forearms were riddled with deep puncture wounds, but the most serious was the ragged slashes across his chest.

They lifted him up onto the sled and when Zeb stripped off the man’s tattered jacket and shirts he winced at the severity of Ruben’s wounds. He could see his lungs inflate between a couple of ribs that had been parted by the bear’s powerful claws. At least three of them were fractured and the ends of one no longer aligned, one splintered end protruding above the other. Fortunately, the captain did not detect any frothing or signs that the lungs had been punctured.

Being of no further use, Toron and Farley went to go dress and skin the massive bear that had lured them into a cunning trap and nearly killed one of them, possibly all of them if they had not reacted with the quick-thinking and level-headedness of professional men. The two men were able to roll the partially excavated bear onto its side where Farley sliced the bear from groin to throat with a well-practiced hand. The offal dropped out, carried by its own weight into the shallow depression Toron dug just beneath and beside the enormous creature.

The huge head was easily removed, Toron having done most of the work already with his axe, then began jerking and slicing the tissues away that kept the skin stubbornly attached to the animal. Optimally, they would have hung the bear upside down from a tree or rigged up a large tripod with a hoist and let gravity do some of the work for them, but all the trees within several miles were considerably smaller than the bear and they had not brought timbers to erect a trivet.

In the meantime, Zeb and Derran cleaned and dressed Ruben’s wounds as best they could. Zeb blessed Azerick under his breath for insisting that each ship carry a supply of healing draughts that he cooked up from time to time and used one on his wounded man after setting the broken rib back in place and wrapping them tightly with strips of clean cloth. The potion closed most of the wounds, but it would be some time before Ruben would be back on his feet and hunting with them again. His hunting season was most assuredly over, but Zeb would find him some light camp duties to attend to. Men like Ruben needed to be kept employed to keep their spirits up.

The men all kept glancing at the rapidly setting sun as they each tended to their business. Derran began helping Toron and Farley cut huge slabs of meat from the bear as Zeb made Ruben as comfortable on the sled as he could. Ruben was doing his part by complaining that he did not need such attentions, that he could probably walk. The bear had shredded his arms after all, not his legs. Both men knew his protests were groundless, but bravado in the face of horrible injury was simply an accepted part of being a rough and tough sailor.

Bear meat, particularly ice bears that lacked the more omnivorous plant diet of their southern cousins, tended to be a bit gamey and far from the most sought after food in the kingdom but it was perfectly edible, particularly in well-seasoned stews, and a majestic animal like the mighty ice bear deserved to be utilized to its fullest and not wasted. Even the strong sinew that attached muscle to bone would be used for crossbow strings and such.

“Gentlemen, I hate to rush you, but that sun is not going to wait for us or any other mortal men,” Zeb said as he eyed the glowing orange disc nearly touching the horizon.

The crew was unable to clean the carcass as well as they would have liked, but the arctic scavengers would ensure that not even the bones would go to waste. Even so, they had the sled loaded with several hundred pounds of meat, not counting Ruben whom they covered with the huge bearskin, folded several times to keep it from dragging in the snow.

With the exception of Ruben and Farley, who as a hunter was adept at finding his way in the wilderness, they were experienced sailors and knew how to navigate by the stars. This skill was put to use shortly after the sun disappeared while barely halfway back to the camp, but the fog rolled in and quickly made that skill useless. Their only hope of reaching the camp now lay in navigating a straight line, hoping they could stay on course while blinded by the thick vapors and get close enough to be heard.

The eight men back at the camp were eyeing the increasing thickness of the fog with growing concern. A fire burned in one of the small iron stoves, its top removed to allow the flames to leap out and provide a weak beacon for the absent hunting party.

“Bah, it’s no use. I lose sight of that fire no more than a hundred feet out. They’ll burn themselves on the side before they see the blasted thing.”

“They planned for the event of not being able to make it back, Matt. I wouldn’t worry too much.”

“Then why do you look like someone just pinched your last copper, Rick?”

“It ain’t the cold I’m worried about,” Rick replied with a sigh.

“The Eislanders,” Matt said, both of the same mind.

“We ain’t seen em, they ain’t tried nothin’, but I know they’re there watching us, just waiting to slit our throats in our sleep.”

“So what are they waitin’ for? We’re five shorter than we were last night. Why not attack us now if it were numbers they was worried about? And they know we ain’t got that big minotaur with us. That’s like being short three men just by hisself.”

“Maybe they followed the cap’n. Maybe that’s why they ain’t made it back yet,” Matt said, voicing his greatest fears.

“I doubt it. Eislanders may be big brutes but they ain’t stupid, especially when it comes to fightin’. They’d take on us eight and know it’s gonna be an easier fight than takin’ on the cap’n with Toron by his side. I got as much pride in my strength and fightin’ skill as any man alive, but I wouldn’t provoke that big bull-headed beast for all the gold in the kingdom.”

“Aye, I’ll be glad to have him back too. Hey, I got an idea. Get a couple men to set up one of the scorpios, in fact, set em both up.”

“What’cha got in mind, Matt?”

“You’ll see.”

The men set the scorpios up; one atop a high mound for defense, the other on the side of another mound, pointed up at a sharp angle in the direction Zeb and the others had traveled.

“All right,” Matt was saying to the assembled sailors, “we take this strip of cloth and tie it to the end of the picket. We wrap another around the tip, roll it in animal fat, and set her aflame. Set it in the scorpio, and—viola!” Matt cried as he triggered the big mounted crossbow.

The flaming brand streaked out high over the low-lying fog over a hundred feet in the air and more than three hundred yards distant into the night.

“We launch one every fifteen minutes until we run out of stakes. That should last us until a bit after midnight. If Zeb and them don’t catch sight of one by then, they won’t be comin’ back tonight.”

“Pretty clever for landlubbing desert rat,” Rick ribbed his friend.

“Hey, the desert eats them that ain’t clever enough to avoid its traps or move away. I was smart enough to do both.”

Matt continued firing his improvised flares into the sky while Rick rhythmically banged the back of his cutlass against the side of the iron stove. Matt was halfway through his brands when a shout overrode Rick’s thrumming on the stove side.

“Knock off all that racket before you wake the dead,” Zeb’s gravelly voice broke through the stillness of the night and oppressive fog.