bludgeon.
“Then stop being lazy.” With that, the bard launched himself at the people in the robes.
* * *
Robin’s sword sang off the steel of the soldiers, slashing tabards into shreds and cleaving deep into the rough iron mail beneath. The rings held, too tough and too flexible for him to shear through, but he creased them, plowing them deep into muscles like a saw.
Two fell to his blows, then two more. He struck hard enough to feel each impact in his own chest, the thud of steel against bodies.
He cursed himself for leaving his bow and quiver with the horses, over the ridge and inside the forest. If he had his bow he could have made short shrift of these soldiers, even in such tight quarters. Instead he bashed and hacked until, one by one, each of them lay still on the ship’s deck.
Sucking air into burning lungs, he looked to find Marian and the others. They fought the cadre of robed people, swinging their weapons, which appeared to
clang
off empty air before striking. He took a step toward them when the sound of cracking wood made him turn back toward the hold.
Wooden planks that formed the deck, timber that had been cut and planed and slotted together, all of it now buckled, pulling apart and slapping back together into a haphazard pile. On the other side of the disruption stood a tall man in a monk’s robe with dark eyes full of insanity. He gestured with the over-knuckled hands of an arthritic, and shouted words in a language Robin didn’t recognize. Even so, they made his ears burn deep inside.
Witchcraft.
* * *
Agrona moved nearer the Mad Monk. The clash of battle around her was lovely—chaotic and exciting. She felt it between her thighs, warming her from the cold.
The clang of swordplay drew her attention and she turned. A slim, hooded figure parried with a soldier twice their size, yet their skill and determination set the soldier retreating. The hooded figure attacked with the ferocity of a starving wolf, swinging his heavy saber in sharp, chopping arcs.
Agrona murmured a spell, rolling it off her tongue and into her hand before slinging it toward the brave fighter. It was a minor magic, barely anything at all. Agrona was a priestess of the dead, though barely an acolyte when casting against the living, yet the spell struck true and the hooded figure faltered, just for a second.
Just long enough for a soldier to dart in and swipe the edge of his blade across the shoulder, black wool parting to flesh, pale in the moonlight for a split second before blossoming red.
The figure growled in pain, a hard animal sound, and lunged, his attack spinning the two off into the chaos and out of Agrona’s sight.
She turned back toward the Mad Monk.
His magic rolled against her as he gestured wildly and yelled in Northern Enochian, a language dead for centuries. The decking had ruptured, making a pyramid of splintered wood.
She moved closer as he changed his gestures and his voice dropped into an octave too low for a human throat.
Her skin flushed hot even in the cold winter air, and her mind processed the spell he now cast. It rolled through the gray folds of her mind like lamp oil, and lit hot and bright behind her eyeballs.
The gods-damned fool is going to set the whole ship on fire.
* * *
Robin took a step forward, dropping his shoulders, preparing to leap over the hole in the deck, to drive his sword into the sorcerer on the other side. Smoke began to curl from under the kindled wood and flame licked from the edges of it, catching as if the wood had been soaked in pitch.
The smoke burned his eyes, blurring his sight as he moved.
He tensed, body low and ready to spring, when a dark shape knocked the sorcerer aside and out of his sight.
With the smoke, he couldn’t tell who it was that took the man down. Another movement made him turn, and he found Marian fiercely fighting a soldier. She and Will were of similar size, and the cloaks they all wore were fashioned to make them indistinguishable
“Then stop being lazy.” With that, the bard launched himself at the people in the robes.
* * *
Robin’s sword sang off the steel of the soldiers, slashing tabards into shreds and cleaving deep into the rough iron mail beneath. The rings held, too tough and too flexible for him to shear through, but he creased them, plowing them deep into muscles like a saw.
Two fell to his blows, then two more. He struck hard enough to feel each impact in his own chest, the thud of steel against bodies.
He cursed himself for leaving his bow and quiver with the horses, over the ridge and inside the forest. If he had his bow he could have made short shrift of these soldiers, even in such tight quarters. Instead he bashed and hacked until, one by one, each of them lay still on the ship’s deck.
Sucking air into burning lungs, he looked to find Marian and the others. They fought the cadre of robed people, swinging their weapons, which appeared to
clang
off empty air before striking. He took a step toward them when the sound of cracking wood made him turn back toward the hold.
Wooden planks that formed the deck, timber that had been cut and planed and slotted together, all of it now buckled, pulling apart and slapping back together into a haphazard pile. On the other side of the disruption stood a tall man in a monk’s robe with dark eyes full of insanity. He gestured with the over-knuckled hands of an arthritic, and shouted words in a language Robin didn’t recognize. Even so, they made his ears burn deep inside.
Witchcraft.
* * *
Agrona moved nearer the Mad Monk. The clash of battle around her was lovely—chaotic and exciting. She felt it between her thighs, warming her from the cold.
The clang of swordplay drew her attention and she turned. A slim, hooded figure parried with a soldier twice their size, yet their skill and determination set the soldier retreating. The hooded figure attacked with the ferocity of a starving wolf, swinging his heavy saber in sharp, chopping arcs.
Agrona murmured a spell, rolling it off her tongue and into her hand before slinging it toward the brave fighter. It was a minor magic, barely anything at all. Agrona was a priestess of the dead, though barely an acolyte when casting against the living, yet the spell struck true and the hooded figure faltered, just for a second.
Just long enough for a soldier to dart in and swipe the edge of his blade across the shoulder, black wool parting to flesh, pale in the moonlight for a split second before blossoming red.
The figure growled in pain, a hard animal sound, and lunged, his attack spinning the two off into the chaos and out of Agrona’s sight.
She turned back toward the Mad Monk.
His magic rolled against her as he gestured wildly and yelled in Northern Enochian, a language dead for centuries. The decking had ruptured, making a pyramid of splintered wood.
She moved closer as he changed his gestures and his voice dropped into an octave too low for a human throat.
Her skin flushed hot even in the cold winter air, and her mind processed the spell he now cast. It rolled through the gray folds of her mind like lamp oil, and lit hot and bright behind her eyeballs.
The gods-damned fool is going to set the whole ship on fire.
* * *
Robin took a step forward, dropping his shoulders, preparing to leap over the hole in the deck, to drive his sword into the sorcerer on the other side. Smoke began to curl from under the kindled wood and flame licked from the edges of it, catching as if the wood had been soaked in pitch.
The smoke burned his eyes, blurring his sight as he moved.
He tensed, body low and ready to spring, when a dark shape knocked the sorcerer aside and out of his sight.
With the smoke, he couldn’t tell who it was that took the man down. Another movement made him turn, and he found Marian fiercely fighting a soldier. She and Will were of similar size, and the cloaks they all wore were fashioned to make them indistinguishable
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