twine from
his pocket and leapt to the rumbling stove. He tossed in what was
left of the meager pile of stools and crates, slamming its door
shut.
The elven girl stirred from her sleep.
“Mama?” Her pale face shone from beneath the hood of Amaeya’s
cloak.
Merrick strode over to Amaeya and pulled her
to her feet. She fought against his grasp. “Amaeya! You need to
stay with the girl! Whatever happens, keep her safe. Do you
understand?” She sobbed and turned her face away from him. “ Do
you understand?” He shook her. She continued her defiant sobs,
weakly struggled in his arms. She felt him stroke her face with his
rough leather gloves. He curled his fingers underneath her chin and
pulling her face to his. He pressed his lips onto hers, filling her
with warmth. She melted further into his arms, hungry for his
touch. He tasted of sand and sweat, of sadness and hope. He pulled
away, leaving her empty and longing for the warmth of his lips. “Do
you understand?”
“Yes,” she said, sounding small and distant
like a shadow cast by star light. He slid his arms from around her
waist and disappeared through the door.
Amaeya stood swaying on the open floor,
feeling more alone than ever before.
***
Merrick pulled himself to the top of the war
machine, wondering if his luck had finally run out. Well, it
hasn’t been a good life. An interesting life, perhaps…
His thoughts were interrupted by a great
crash and shower of splinters. Chief Al’Rul met his gaze, his teeth
gnashing and mace brandished high over his head. Skeleton steeds
pounded their hooves at a hastened rhythm, trying to keep pace with
the speeding war machine. Six other riders were spread out all
around the hulking craft. Merrick felt an arrow buzz past his head
as he stood gazing at the attacking Phooka. More soon followed. He
could hear them ricocheting off the bent metal smokestack. He
crouched down near the slender neck of the trebuchet, his mind
straining to think of an idea.
While thinking, his eyes wandered to the
trebuchet above him. Though most of the machine was covered in
thick canvas, it was still partially assembled. It was similar to
the ones perched atop the walls of Limra, the only city foolish
enough to border the Great Desert.
He may not have had anything to load the
trebuchet with, but he was still left with plenty of debris to
knock the beasts from their horses.
He pulled the wicked Phookan blade from his
belt and cut off the canvas. He peeked over the edge of the war
machine, searching for the archer of the party. The Phooka had
ridden closer, his bow outstretched and waiting for Merrick to
reappear.
Merrick tossed the outstretched canvas at the
Phooka, tangling him in the weighty material. That should take
care of the furry bastard.
Al’Rul swung his mace at the elf’s feet.
Merrick jumped back, a spray of wooden shards stinging his skin.
The Chief growled, readying his mace for another swing.
Another Phooka had leapt onto the opposite
side of the war machine. He crawled his way up to the top and stood
gripping a bloodstained war axe. Only one yellow eye shone from his
black furry face, a gleaming scar staring out from where the other
eye had once been.
Merrick scrambled to his feet, ready to rid
himself of yet another Phooka.
The beast hurled himself at the elf, war axe
raised above his twisted horns. Merrick slid to the right, nudging
the Phooka slightly with his shoulder, knocking him off balance.
The mercenary stumbled, driving the weighty war axe deep into the
wood. He tugged at it with a mighty roar, but the weapon refused to
loosen. Merrick pushed himself up from where he was crouched and
whirled around, driving his blade into the Phooka’s back and up
into his ribcage. He twisted the blade deeper, feeling the beast’s
life seep away with every turn. Feeling no more struggle against
his sword, he pulled it free and let the Phooka tumble off the war
machine to the blurred terrain below.
Merrick
his pocket and leapt to the rumbling stove. He tossed in what was
left of the meager pile of stools and crates, slamming its door
shut.
The elven girl stirred from her sleep.
“Mama?” Her pale face shone from beneath the hood of Amaeya’s
cloak.
Merrick strode over to Amaeya and pulled her
to her feet. She fought against his grasp. “Amaeya! You need to
stay with the girl! Whatever happens, keep her safe. Do you
understand?” She sobbed and turned her face away from him. “ Do
you understand?” He shook her. She continued her defiant sobs,
weakly struggled in his arms. She felt him stroke her face with his
rough leather gloves. He curled his fingers underneath her chin and
pulling her face to his. He pressed his lips onto hers, filling her
with warmth. She melted further into his arms, hungry for his
touch. He tasted of sand and sweat, of sadness and hope. He pulled
away, leaving her empty and longing for the warmth of his lips. “Do
you understand?”
“Yes,” she said, sounding small and distant
like a shadow cast by star light. He slid his arms from around her
waist and disappeared through the door.
Amaeya stood swaying on the open floor,
feeling more alone than ever before.
***
Merrick pulled himself to the top of the war
machine, wondering if his luck had finally run out. Well, it
hasn’t been a good life. An interesting life, perhaps…
His thoughts were interrupted by a great
crash and shower of splinters. Chief Al’Rul met his gaze, his teeth
gnashing and mace brandished high over his head. Skeleton steeds
pounded their hooves at a hastened rhythm, trying to keep pace with
the speeding war machine. Six other riders were spread out all
around the hulking craft. Merrick felt an arrow buzz past his head
as he stood gazing at the attacking Phooka. More soon followed. He
could hear them ricocheting off the bent metal smokestack. He
crouched down near the slender neck of the trebuchet, his mind
straining to think of an idea.
While thinking, his eyes wandered to the
trebuchet above him. Though most of the machine was covered in
thick canvas, it was still partially assembled. It was similar to
the ones perched atop the walls of Limra, the only city foolish
enough to border the Great Desert.
He may not have had anything to load the
trebuchet with, but he was still left with plenty of debris to
knock the beasts from their horses.
He pulled the wicked Phookan blade from his
belt and cut off the canvas. He peeked over the edge of the war
machine, searching for the archer of the party. The Phooka had
ridden closer, his bow outstretched and waiting for Merrick to
reappear.
Merrick tossed the outstretched canvas at the
Phooka, tangling him in the weighty material. That should take
care of the furry bastard.
Al’Rul swung his mace at the elf’s feet.
Merrick jumped back, a spray of wooden shards stinging his skin.
The Chief growled, readying his mace for another swing.
Another Phooka had leapt onto the opposite
side of the war machine. He crawled his way up to the top and stood
gripping a bloodstained war axe. Only one yellow eye shone from his
black furry face, a gleaming scar staring out from where the other
eye had once been.
Merrick scrambled to his feet, ready to rid
himself of yet another Phooka.
The beast hurled himself at the elf, war axe
raised above his twisted horns. Merrick slid to the right, nudging
the Phooka slightly with his shoulder, knocking him off balance.
The mercenary stumbled, driving the weighty war axe deep into the
wood. He tugged at it with a mighty roar, but the weapon refused to
loosen. Merrick pushed himself up from where he was crouched and
whirled around, driving his blade into the Phooka’s back and up
into his ribcage. He twisted the blade deeper, feeling the beast’s
life seep away with every turn. Feeling no more struggle against
his sword, he pulled it free and let the Phooka tumble off the war
machine to the blurred terrain below.
Merrick
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