Rise and Fall by Joshua P. Simon Page A

several minutes waiting for something to come into his line of sight, but nothing happened.
    He muttered a curse. He would have to work his way over to that hill and see what was on the other side. The barren land between the two points lacked cover. He’d have to chance a sprint—something he dreaded with his ankle.
    No use in thinking about it.
    He leaped to his feet and raced across the clearing, hasty in ascending the next hill. He stumbled but once, a third of the way up as his ankle buckled. Recovering quickly, he paid little attention to the noise he created while cresting the hill, confident the commotion near him would drown out any extra sound he made.
    He inched along on his stomach, working toward the ridge above, arm over arm, dagger in hand. Stealing a look over the rise’s peak, a set of dark eyes encircled in black cloth met his at the same moment, widening, as a howl started from the man’s mouth. Tobin’s hand snapped forward like a viper. His dagger stabbed into one of the desert warrior’s eyes. Pushing hard, until the blade struck bone and jarred his hand to a stop.
    The cry, although brief, alerted three others nearby. Each pulled a large scimitar from leather scabbards, dyed orange and striped black. They took up the howl started by the other man as they closed in on Tobin.
    They swung their swords down in unison. Tobin half-rolled, half-stumbled to his feet, narrowly avoiding their reach as he unsheathed his short sword. They gave him little time to slide the blade free and he narrowly avoided the flashes of whirling steel around him.
    Tobin kicked sand into the face of the man to his right. He continued to move that way and dodged dual strokes attacking from the other two. Loose gravel fell away beneath him. He gasped and tumbled down the hill.
    He stood just as the first warrior reached him and Tobin’s sword swept out to deflect a slash meant to disembowel him. Tobin stepped back as the other warriors joined the first in forming a circle around him. Their eyes glinted with violence.
    In the space between the warriors’ attacks, Tobin noticed the furious clamor rising in volume behind the hill.
    I need to get to the horses. Tobin sheathed his sword and in its place withdrew his throwing axes, weapons he felt more comfortable with. He rushed the nearest clansmen.
    The man let out a yell and raised his scimitar overhead, gripped in both hands. Tobin deflected the man’s swing with one axe, stepping into his opponent’s exposed side and drove his second weapon into the warrior’s skull.
    Without pause, Tobin spun and let fly his second axe as the other two warriors charged him. The man deflected the throw with a flick of his sword but unknowingly diverted its path into the trailing warrior’s. Embedding itself in the trailing warrior’s leg, he crashed face first into the ground. The warrior’s scimitar came loose and tangled itself in the feet of the warrior in front. I couldn’t have planned that better if I tried.
    After two quick stabs Tobin hurried away in the direction of the two horses. He ran no more than twenty yards before a wall of orange and black cut off his path. With weapons drawn, several dozen riders approached. Tobin spun around and saw another group coming in from the rear. He instead ran to a small opposing hill where the riders had yet to form. He drew his short sword. He eyed the riders’ short bows nervously, eyes darting. Gaining higher ground remained his only option.
    One rider separated himself from the others and advanced. The man’s dress stood out from the others. More ornate, pieces of fire opal, orange coral, onyx, and obsidian decorated into his armor and scabbard. A Warchief. “You are alone and far enough away from Munai that no one will come to your aid, warrior.”
    Tobin said nothing, standing ready in a crouched position. If I die, I’m taking this one with me.
    Frustrated by the Kifzo’s silence, the Warchief continued with an edge to his voice.