Thrain - Part 12
Chapter 4 - Njalor and the tribal heads have been betrayed...again. How do they escape?
Chapter summaries if you need them :)
Thwingg
Herriken deflected a crossbow bolt as it hissed past his cheek, redirecting it with the haft of his axe.
“Around the cart.” The enemy was still silent, and Njalor’s voice carried well over the other six. “Turn it to the archers, face the armored men.” All odds were against them, and the Haelstrans clearly meant to kill them, but war was in his blood. He fell into it like his lungs took breath.
The meaty arms and legs of the Urheim made quick work of the order, and soon it was just thirty-some men in plate with swords, slowly advancing. But they halted.
Njalor eyed them, and glanced at Erik who shared his thought. There was no need for an attack, Haelstra would just wait for the archers to circle around.
“Njalor!” Fyellukiskrin shouted in a whisper. “Give me Sklal’s Rage.”
“Fyell…”
“He will bless it!” A bolt struck the wood near them; some of the archers had made it around the wood. The Haelstran troops continued to stand, waiting.
“And if he does not?”
Then from behind, men that had come from the wall or elsewhere lept both over the cart and came from around the edges. A number no greater than five or so, but unexpected and ferocious fell upon them.
Two of the small group devoted themselves to his demise, and he dropped to the ground to avoid their initial swings. Erik engaged one, but the other swung again, his sword descending in deadly arc towards Njalor’s face. He blocked with his axe, then kicked out and crushed the man’s knee. He cried out, but stopped when Njalor’s axe bludgeoned him into the cart, the flat side caving his face in.
He gained his feet, and by some instinct ducked. Another bolt zipped above his head and struck the cart. The archers had grown. Now, it was the ambush that was saving them, as the archers hesitated to fire where they might hit their own men. Even so, two of the others they brought had fallen, one to arrow and the other to sword.
“Njalor,” Fyellukiskrin said again, wild light in his eyes.
He gritted his teeth. “Sklal bless you. Rage take you. Death follow you.” He knelt, and placed his hand on Fyellukiskrin, skin to skin.
“All of you!” Fyell shouted, this time loud and with frenzied edge to his voice. They looked to Njalor, and he nodded.
Herriken, Erik, and Njalor then knelt, alone given of the Elders to impart Sklal’s power, yet still it was Sklal who would decide the warrior’s merit. A bolt pierced Fyellukiskrin’s side, sinking a hand’s width into him. He grunted, but the grin on his face only widened.
By some mercy, the Haelstran soldiers paused. It made for a grim joke, for who would kneel and pray in the midst of battle? Yet they did, and each bowed their heads, and fastened their hands upon the crazed warrior, who already leaked blood from the arrow wound well fast enough any man knew his end.
But then, a shout came, from near the tower. A hooded man, running through the ranks, yelling for action. He was too late, however. From Njalor’s hand flowed a glowing bright blue power, and it sank into Fyellukiskrin’s skin like teeth into soft chicken. From Erik, who had thrice-blessed the Thar before, a violet hue surged into the ruddy flesh and colored it a different tone. Last and from Herriken’s hand, green light bit into the back of the warrior, who now buckled under it.
His skin began to roil and move, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. The axe fell from his grasp, and his clothes smouldered from the heat. Njalor intensified his prayers, and they each held to him as if their hands could withhold Sklal from judgement. Then, they each felt it. The resistance faded. The power flowed easily out of them, and a balance came. His heart stopped, but his blood ran hot and his eyes glowed many colors.
He grinned, and picked up his fallen axe.
The hooded Runecaster reached the half-circle front of the shining spears and platemail, already above him Runes began to glow blue.
“Attack them you bloody fools!” From his hands Weave seared across the space and sped towards Njalor.
Fyellukiskrin stepped in front, and his legs blurred from the speed at which he moved them. His axe went through the air so fast it whined. The protruding bolt at his waist snapped off as his arm sliced through it, and then he released the axe.
The Runecaster’s magic crashed into Fyellukiskrin, but his skin already boiled from the Weave within it, and met the attack like an ocean swallowing a lake. His eyes vibrated like an overcharged Runelight about to explode. With a harsh dissonance, the flung axe shattered through the barrier the caster had tried to erect, and battering his bones aside, still carried him several feet up and backwards.
Far too late, the soldiers then found their agency. Arrows loosed in droves, swords, pikes, spears and shield were drawn. From the wall came as many as saw their Runecaster fall, and from the tower even more. Njalor and his men knew their place now, though, and dove beneath the cart. Bolts thudded into the wheels and wood, but not one found Fyellukiskrin; he was beyond even the furthest place any bowman had thought to target, and then he was among the soldiers.
Sklal had not abandoned them. Njalor clasped Erik’s shoulder. A dark day was this, but there was light, and some reason for it. He would find it, he would seek out what it was Sklal desired of them. He met Erik’s gaze, and nodded. Fyellukiskrin would be remembered, for mighty and blessed was he in his sacrifice.
He needed to retreat the men and go to the gate, but for a moment was transfixed by the blessed of Sklal as he fought. No blade could touch his skin, they were turned away and ripped from the soldier’s hands. No bolt or bow kept men safe for his arm threw spears many yards and so fast they could not be dodged. Even their second mage, in white garment and odd markings fell as the broken hilt of a sword impaled itself through the man’s temple.
Njalor knew it would not last.
“Urheim, with me.”
As one, they got out from under the cart, on the other side to avoid drawing eyes from the soldiers. Even there, some men and crossbowmen remained, as well as some on the wall. He squared his shoulders and held his axe ready.
“To the gate. We will smash it through with our axes if we must.”
Erik drew his knife. “To the gate.”
Large men running over open ground made unfortunately good targets for the men upon the walls. As much as they tried, they could not stop or avoid each arrow. First, one of the warriors who went with them sprouted a shaft from his thigh. Unable to move with speed after that, another found his neck when his axe went to deflect one at his legs. Second was Herriken, who yelled when a bolt sank into his shoulder. Still able to run, he avoided another that followed, and Erik distracted further shots by throwing his knife at the group which stood on the wall firing on them.
At the wall, men on foot attacked them, but finally in this one thing the barbarians found themselves with the upper hand. The reach of the swords, and the size of the Haelstran men were puny and not a match for the northerners who wielded large axes with ease.
The wall, while sturdy and well-suited for its purpose, was not built to resist concentrated attack, nor was it designed with the strength of the Urheim in mind. Njalor and Erik threw themselves against the black wood, and shook the doors until they could place their axes behind it. Then they pried it open, and a wrenching snap echoed over the walls as the rope which fought them broke, and the doors came open.
As they hurried through, Njalor glanced behind one last time. Erik looked with him, the sadness weighing on them.
Fyellukiskrin still fought, but his glow had faded, and his eyes waned. No man could yet stand before him, but the many surrounded him and were emboldened by his movements as they slowed. His axe had splintered to pieces some time ago, and he twisted and battled with any weapon, shield, or body that came within his grasp. Falling to his knees, the soldiers swarmed him. Even then, they were rebuffed, those closest bowled over as Fyellukiskrin swung an armored body overhead like a wet towel. At last, a large man drove a spear into his back, until it protruded out his chest. He turned, but weakly, and as the gate closed the light faded from the eyes of Fyellukiskrin of the Uheim, blessed of Sklal and mighty in battle.
Next
Oh no....
I am a little late to the party (blame the turkeys, I do), but I loved this chapter. I am so excited to see how everything weaves together.