dagger struck forward, punching into the barbarian’s stomach where the Ursian’s sword had stabbed but a moment earlier.
Still the Dartague did not go down. He dropped his sword and his hands went to work trying to free his own knife from its sheath on his belt. Unfortunately for him, the shagginess of his garb kept his fingers from finding purchase on the smaller weapon, and Guthrie used this delay to his advantage. The Ursian stabbed again with the dagger, this time slightly higher. The blade sank to the hilt.
Yet the Dartague struggled on.
Guthrie stabbed again. And again. And again. His enemy still on his feet and trying to grasp at his belt, the sergeant brought up a knee into the man’s groin.
There was a gasp and the Dartague finally dropped to his knees, his hands cupped around his stomach as blood flowed forth.
Not giving his opponent a moment, Guthrie sliced out with his dagger, the thin blade raking across the barbarian’s throat.
Then Guthrie stepped back.
For a moment the Dartague remained upright on his knees. His eyes blinked at his killer standing before him. He seemed surprised that he had been bested in combat. Then the fellow crumbled in upon himself, falling backward into the snow atop one of his dead companions.
Then there was silence, quiet.
Detecting a lack of action around him, Guthrie took a further step back and scooped up his sword from the ground.
What he found left him in utter amazement.
His friends were dead, all of them. Or at least none were standing. More than two dozen of the Dartague still stood, the big burly fellows spread out along the ravine with the few archers back by the horses. None of them moved. None came forward to attack. They stood watching, their eyes locked on their lone foe still standing, nary a serious wound upon the Ursian sergeant.
Guthrie breathed in heavily, his exhale shooting out wisps of smokey air into the environment. He lowered his sword arm, giving himself a momentary rest. At any moment he expected the barbarians to charge in a mass at him, to end his life where he stood. A sense of wrath had taken hold of him for a few minutes there, but now it was being replaced by a weakness of the body and soul. He was tired, so tired. He would fight in a moment when the time came, but for now he would allow himself to wallow in his weakness, to rest for the coming fray. Perhaps he could take one or two more with him before he fell.
But the fight did not come. At least not yet.
It was as if the Dartague stood in awe of the Ursian who had screamed his way through melee, hacking away and slaying at least a half dozen men while receiving no serious wounds himself.
Guthrie glanced about himself at the carnage he had wrought. His mind and body filled with a growing tiredness, he could not remember exactly how many he had killed nor how he had done so. At least six lay dead in his general vicinity, broken bodies and blood spread out around him, his boots planted up to the ankles in crimson snow as he stood facing the ravine and his enemies.
He leaned back his head, sucking in air and breathing out mist while sheathing his dagger. Giving himself precious moments of rest for the onrushing assault, which he was sure to come.
But only one man stepped forward.
The fellow came from far to Guthrie’s right, down where the copse of trees ended and white ground rested beyond. This barbarian was tall and well built, much like many of the Dartague, but about him was a princely aura, his chin back and his head held high as if he knew himself to be better, stronger, more powerful and of more import than other men. Yet there was nothing snobbish in the fellow’s affectations. He had a role to perform and would fill it. Guthrie had to admit the Dartague did a solid job at this, presenting a haughty but excellent opponent in his almost regal, flowing robe of wolf furs hanging beneath his jutting chin covered with dark hair hanging to his chest. The sword the fellow held
Still the Dartague did not go down. He dropped his sword and his hands went to work trying to free his own knife from its sheath on his belt. Unfortunately for him, the shagginess of his garb kept his fingers from finding purchase on the smaller weapon, and Guthrie used this delay to his advantage. The Ursian stabbed again with the dagger, this time slightly higher. The blade sank to the hilt.
Yet the Dartague struggled on.
Guthrie stabbed again. And again. And again. His enemy still on his feet and trying to grasp at his belt, the sergeant brought up a knee into the man’s groin.
There was a gasp and the Dartague finally dropped to his knees, his hands cupped around his stomach as blood flowed forth.
Not giving his opponent a moment, Guthrie sliced out with his dagger, the thin blade raking across the barbarian’s throat.
Then Guthrie stepped back.
For a moment the Dartague remained upright on his knees. His eyes blinked at his killer standing before him. He seemed surprised that he had been bested in combat. Then the fellow crumbled in upon himself, falling backward into the snow atop one of his dead companions.
Then there was silence, quiet.
Detecting a lack of action around him, Guthrie took a further step back and scooped up his sword from the ground.
What he found left him in utter amazement.
His friends were dead, all of them. Or at least none were standing. More than two dozen of the Dartague still stood, the big burly fellows spread out along the ravine with the few archers back by the horses. None of them moved. None came forward to attack. They stood watching, their eyes locked on their lone foe still standing, nary a serious wound upon the Ursian sergeant.
Guthrie breathed in heavily, his exhale shooting out wisps of smokey air into the environment. He lowered his sword arm, giving himself a momentary rest. At any moment he expected the barbarians to charge in a mass at him, to end his life where he stood. A sense of wrath had taken hold of him for a few minutes there, but now it was being replaced by a weakness of the body and soul. He was tired, so tired. He would fight in a moment when the time came, but for now he would allow himself to wallow in his weakness, to rest for the coming fray. Perhaps he could take one or two more with him before he fell.
But the fight did not come. At least not yet.
It was as if the Dartague stood in awe of the Ursian who had screamed his way through melee, hacking away and slaying at least a half dozen men while receiving no serious wounds himself.
Guthrie glanced about himself at the carnage he had wrought. His mind and body filled with a growing tiredness, he could not remember exactly how many he had killed nor how he had done so. At least six lay dead in his general vicinity, broken bodies and blood spread out around him, his boots planted up to the ankles in crimson snow as he stood facing the ravine and his enemies.
He leaned back his head, sucking in air and breathing out mist while sheathing his dagger. Giving himself precious moments of rest for the onrushing assault, which he was sure to come.
But only one man stepped forward.
The fellow came from far to Guthrie’s right, down where the copse of trees ended and white ground rested beyond. This barbarian was tall and well built, much like many of the Dartague, but about him was a princely aura, his chin back and his head held high as if he knew himself to be better, stronger, more powerful and of more import than other men. Yet there was nothing snobbish in the fellow’s affectations. He had a role to perform and would fill it. Guthrie had to admit the Dartague did a solid job at this, presenting a haughty but excellent opponent in his almost regal, flowing robe of wolf furs hanging beneath his jutting chin covered with dark hair hanging to his chest. The sword the fellow held
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