others. He charged at them.
The pair had a moment to be shaken, glancing at one another. Ursians did not fight this way, with wrathful howlings. Only Dartague and other northern peoples used such a tactic. It confused them.
Which was all Guthrie needed to lash out with his stolen sword, cutting through the other swordsman’s stomach, intestines spilling out steaming into the snow. Before the fellow with the club could react, the Ursian spun completely around, his sword laying a deadly swath in a circle about him. The steel edge bit deep, chopping into the Dartague’s neck, nearly severing the head.
His motion halted by the strike, Guthrie stared into a pair of pale blue eyes belonging to a youth with hair the color of summer grain. The lad’s eyes were broad, staring into the dark gaze of his slayer. Then the youth’s orbs rolled back in his head and the corpse slid away from the sword to flop back into the creek bed.
But the fight was still not finished.
Another pair of Dartague grunted as they climbed from the creek bed, stepping over their downed kin to swing a mace and a sword at the Ursian gone mad.
Guthrie feinted right, drawing a stroke from the swordsman there, but he stepped away from his enemy’s blade and ducked low to kick out to his left where his boot connected with a Dartague knee. The man with the club screamed as his knee was crushed, his weapon falling from his hand. The sergeant slammed the hilt of his sword into the man’s face, crashing in the front of the skull as Guthrie was hit from behind.
Guthrie allowed himself to roll with the punch that had hit him. He wheeled further to his left away from the dying man. He had but a moment to glance over a shoulder and see the other Dartague stepping back after having struck the sergeant on the back. Feeling nothing broken and no blood spilling down his mail, Guthrie offered a quick prayer of thanks to Ashal for the armor that had saved him from a worse blow. He might be bruised if he survived, but better that than a crushed spine.
As the faceless barbarian who had wielded a club dropped to his knees and plummeted into the snow, Guthrie paused for a moment to catch his breath. It was nearly a mistake.
The other swordsman was younger and still had plenty of reserves. He jumped over his dead comrade and slashed out with a wide stroke.
On the edge of the creek bed, Guthrie nearly fell back into the remaining fray, but he managed to twist an ankle around and dropped on his hands and knees a few feet away from the short drop off. His enemy’s sword sailed over his head and the sergeant rolled again, taking himself further away from the gulley.
When he came to his feet, Guthrie found his opponent nearly on top of him. The Dartague was bringing down his sword in a huge two-handed swing. The problem with such an attack is all one’s strength is behind it and little agility. All Guthrie had to do was step to one side, the heavy blade slapping into the ground next to his left boot.
The sergeant took the moment of surprise that was apparent on his enemy’s face and stabbed out with his own sword, the end of his weapon sinking several inches into the other man’s stomach. Still, the barbarian did not go down. He grunted and shrugged off the strike, hammering forward with the handle of his weapon as if to punch Guthrie in the face.
This time it was his helmet which saved the sergeant. The rounded brass end of the Dartague sword pounded against the face of his helm, bringing a dull ringing to Guthrie’s ears and shaking him but otherwise doing no immediate harm. In close with his opponent now, Guthrie dropped his longer weapon and tugged free his dagger once more with his left hand while his right clawed out and grabbed the barbarian by the front of his furry coat.
Sensing the change in the fight, the Dartague tried to shove forward, to push his opponent away, but Guthrie’s footing was better and his hold on the other fellow strong. The sergeant’s
The pair had a moment to be shaken, glancing at one another. Ursians did not fight this way, with wrathful howlings. Only Dartague and other northern peoples used such a tactic. It confused them.
Which was all Guthrie needed to lash out with his stolen sword, cutting through the other swordsman’s stomach, intestines spilling out steaming into the snow. Before the fellow with the club could react, the Ursian spun completely around, his sword laying a deadly swath in a circle about him. The steel edge bit deep, chopping into the Dartague’s neck, nearly severing the head.
His motion halted by the strike, Guthrie stared into a pair of pale blue eyes belonging to a youth with hair the color of summer grain. The lad’s eyes were broad, staring into the dark gaze of his slayer. Then the youth’s orbs rolled back in his head and the corpse slid away from the sword to flop back into the creek bed.
But the fight was still not finished.
Another pair of Dartague grunted as they climbed from the creek bed, stepping over their downed kin to swing a mace and a sword at the Ursian gone mad.
Guthrie feinted right, drawing a stroke from the swordsman there, but he stepped away from his enemy’s blade and ducked low to kick out to his left where his boot connected with a Dartague knee. The man with the club screamed as his knee was crushed, his weapon falling from his hand. The sergeant slammed the hilt of his sword into the man’s face, crashing in the front of the skull as Guthrie was hit from behind.
Guthrie allowed himself to roll with the punch that had hit him. He wheeled further to his left away from the dying man. He had but a moment to glance over a shoulder and see the other Dartague stepping back after having struck the sergeant on the back. Feeling nothing broken and no blood spilling down his mail, Guthrie offered a quick prayer of thanks to Ashal for the armor that had saved him from a worse blow. He might be bruised if he survived, but better that than a crushed spine.
As the faceless barbarian who had wielded a club dropped to his knees and plummeted into the snow, Guthrie paused for a moment to catch his breath. It was nearly a mistake.
The other swordsman was younger and still had plenty of reserves. He jumped over his dead comrade and slashed out with a wide stroke.
On the edge of the creek bed, Guthrie nearly fell back into the remaining fray, but he managed to twist an ankle around and dropped on his hands and knees a few feet away from the short drop off. His enemy’s sword sailed over his head and the sergeant rolled again, taking himself further away from the gulley.
When he came to his feet, Guthrie found his opponent nearly on top of him. The Dartague was bringing down his sword in a huge two-handed swing. The problem with such an attack is all one’s strength is behind it and little agility. All Guthrie had to do was step to one side, the heavy blade slapping into the ground next to his left boot.
The sergeant took the moment of surprise that was apparent on his enemy’s face and stabbed out with his own sword, the end of his weapon sinking several inches into the other man’s stomach. Still, the barbarian did not go down. He grunted and shrugged off the strike, hammering forward with the handle of his weapon as if to punch Guthrie in the face.
This time it was his helmet which saved the sergeant. The rounded brass end of the Dartague sword pounded against the face of his helm, bringing a dull ringing to Guthrie’s ears and shaking him but otherwise doing no immediate harm. In close with his opponent now, Guthrie dropped his longer weapon and tugged free his dagger once more with his left hand while his right clawed out and grabbed the barbarian by the front of his furry coat.
Sensing the change in the fight, the Dartague tried to shove forward, to push his opponent away, but Guthrie’s footing was better and his hold on the other fellow strong. The sergeant’s
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