Authors: Brian Fuller
“Keep running and turn to cover me if you can,” Gen yelled in Elvish.
Maewen nodded. He waited until a Hunter was nearly on him and then spun around with a hard slash from right to left. It was the first time Gen had swung the sword Mirelle had given him against an enemy, and after the stroke, he thought he had missed—the blade met no resistance. Gen nearly lost his balance, but he sprang back defensively, awaiting a strike from the enemy he thought he had failed to mark. As he did, the Uyumaak fell neatly in half at the midsection where he had slashed.
Gen had little time to think about it as two Uyumaak bowled over their dead companion and came for him. Two others came behind those, and the remaining three streaked after Maewen. Gen knew he had to be quick. Lanky arms with claws groped for him, and he whirled the blade about him furiously, and wherever the blade struck, whether thick hide or soft underbelly, it went through just as easily as if cutting through a thin fog.
Limbs fell about him, and black blood stained the blond grass as each Uyumaak fell in rapid succession. As he killed the last, he saw the archers and warriors crest the hill, churning toward them, skin matching the color of the grass.
Gen turned and ran. Maewen had taken down two Hunters with her bow before the last reached her, and she was trying to fend it off with a long knife that was ill-suited for battling with the long-limbed monster. Fortunately, Maewen was close and Gen was quick. With a vicious downward slice from behind, Gen bisected the Uyumaak cleanly. Maewen gathered her bow and sprang away as arrows began to whistle down on them.
Gen ran behind Maewen to protect her. The Hunter had clawed her arms in several places, blood drenching her sleeves. Time seemed to slow as they fled, as in dreams where the goal waits just out of reach and every step forward takes you no closer. An arrow nicked his upper arm, and with the quick reflexes imbued by the Training Stones, he batted away another aimed at his head, though he got a nasty cut across his right hand for the effort. In dismay he realized he couldn’t move his fingers, though the pain didn’t bother him.
With one last sprint, they passed the effective range of the archers and arrived at the spot where they had left their gear. Maewen grabbed it quickly, shouldering it and bounding away.
“Are you hurt?” she asked, gasping for air.
“I can’t shoot the bow, but I can still run and use the sword.”
“Let’s see if we can outpace the Warriors!”
Gen glanced west to see all eleven running in a line behind their leader. They carried great clubs and large shields that seemed to float in the air beside vague shapes in the distance. While the Warriors could not run as quickly, the delay caused by the Hunters’ assault proved just enough for the beasts to get directly in Gen and Maewen’s westward path of retreat—their enemies knew which way the caravan lay.
“We cannot turn west,” Maewen shouted. “They can outlast us, and they run well in the dark, but they cannot outrun us with that heavy gear. We must keep running south as fast as we can until we can get around them!”
Gen grunted in understanding and ran on behind her, her blood and his dotting the ground as they ran. After several minutes and a small separation from their foes, Maewen halted. They drank hastily, and Maewen discarded all the food to lighten the pack. Behind them, the Uyumaak persistently advanced. They had thrown aside their shields, lightening their load so they could run more quickly. Exhausted, Maewen led Gen farther south. The yellow grass diminished as they came upon harder and flatter ground, making for good running. Sweat stung Gen’s wounds, and he felt his legs weakening from a week’s worth of exertion churned out in a few hours time.
“Let’s make our break!” Maewen yelled, turning abruptly west.
Gen came to her right so as to be the first in the melee should they fail, and fail they did. The Uyumaak put on a sudden burst of speed upon seeing their quarry change direction. The Uyumaak line was strung out over the space of a hundred yards, the quickest and hardiest pressing forward swiftly. Again Gen told Maewen to run on, and he saw fear in her eyes for the first time.
Gen drew his sword with his left hand and stopped in the path. This sudden defense brought the first Uyumaak to a halt as Gen leapt forward and decapitated it. Before the corpse could hit the ground, he sliced off the leg of the second one in the line. The third raised his club and arced it over its head with a heavy overhand stroke. Gen met the blow with his sword, splitting the club down the middle and chopping the Uyumaak down in one movement.
The fourth and fifth thumped furiously on their chests, beating out some plan in their percussive language. Two Uyumaak barreled toward Maewen who had stopped and knocked her bow. The rest did not press the attack until their companions arrived, and then they came with fury.
Gen struggled, falling backward to keep them from encircling him. He was dimly aware of the thuds of arrow impacts as Maewen finished the two other Uyumaak off, and he hoped she would have time to turn her bow to his defense as an Uyumaak rushed him. Unexpectedly, one of his enemies threw its club. Gen went to block it with his sword, but the blade cut through it without throwing it off course and the club head hammered him square in the chest, knocking the wind from him.
In his effort to stay standing, he wrenched his ankle, recovering in time to impale the first Uyumaak as it attacked him. The others weren’t far behind, but quick, painful cuts that severed away pieces of club and flesh demoralized them and they backed away.
Then all five bull rushed him at once.
An arrow took one down, and as the wall was about to crash into him, Gen dove at them, body low, slashing at their legs. Writhing Uyumaak fell atop him, and he tried to roll away. Sticky Uyumaak blood poured over him as he struggled like a fish caught in a scaly net. With a yell he pulled himself free, wiping his eyes clear and trying to get his sword up, but there were no more attackers. Feathered arrows protruded from the pile before him.
“Gen!” Maewen said, running forward. “You live! Are you hurt?”
“I’ve sprained my ankle and I’m having a hard time breathing.” Maewen ripped open his shirt with her knife, revealing a dark bruise. She frowned.
“Can you move?”
“I think so,” he said, “just slowly.”
“Then let’s go. I doubt they would have the Bashers pursue us, but they could catch us if we are forced to walk.”
Gen nodded and limped westward as Maewen collected the Uyumaak leader’s head and stuffed it in a leather sack from her backpack.
“If we are not evidence enough,” she said, explaining herself.
“Next time,” Gen suggested, “perhaps we shouldn’t throw rocks at the hornets’ nest.”
“My father used to say that,” she replied with a weak smile. “I suspect, Gen, that there will not be a next time for you. We will both be in plenty of trouble when we return, though for me it matters little. For your sake, I could change the story to where they ambushed us. It’s mostly true.”
“With the Pontiff and Ethris in camp, I think our best defense lies in the truth. Let’s just stick to looking as pathetic as possible and hope that sympathy carries the day.”
Maewen grinned and drank deeply from a waterskin before handing it to Gen. “I’m sorry to have gotten you into this mess. My hatred for Uyumaak sometimes gets the better of me. One thing we can be sure of, though. No one will call us unskilled or cowardly. Killing one Chukka and twenty-three Uyumaak. . .”
“Twenty-two. I think the Shaman survived.”
“A pity, but twenty-two between the two of us is nothing to scoff at, even with Aldradan Mikmir’s sword.” Gen’s eyes widened in surprise. She furrowed her brow. “Didn’t you know? They never told you?”
“No!” Gen was shocked. Aldradan’s sword was legendary, having many magical properties in the tales. Uyumaak had come to fear Aldradan and his sword in the days when he aided those fleeing Lal’Manar. Gen wondered how many of the fantastic tales of the blade were true.
“Ethris told me many would object to me carrying it and wouldn’t tell me more of it.”
“Indeed they would,” said Maewen. “It is not to be touched by any until Aldradan comes again, though I assure you he is quite dead, as I helped bury him. This is the second time that sword has come to my aid. There will be time for the story later, if we hurry. The secret of your blade is safe with me, but I think it will not be a secret for long.”
They arrived in camp well after dark. His ability to ignore pain didn’t make his ankle or his lungs work any better, and even with Maewen shouldering the pack and letting him lean on her as needed, they made slow progress. By the time they passed the first outlying patrols, Gen’s entire body ached, his ankle was uncomfortably tight against his boot, and he felt sick. Maewen was pale and exhausted, and they both stank of Uyumaak blood and their own sweat.
Gen could hear Geoff’s clear voice a mile away, and as they finally strode into the circle of clapping, festive nobles and soldiers, the celebration came to an abrupt halt. With what Gen thought was excellent dramatic timing, Maewen let the bloody, scowling Uyumaak head roll out of her bag and into the middle of the crowd just as they all went silent. Firelight glinted off its row of tiny eyes, the sharp teeth of the round mouth open wide in its rictus.
Geoff’s eyes shot open and he covered his mouth. Mirelle and Fenna came running forward from the direction of the Chalaine’s wagon, and Gen watched as their faces went from horror, to anger, and then back to sympathy and concern when they noticed his injuries.
Regent Ogbith stood. “Boil some water to clean and heal them, then the fire goes out. There will be no more fires on this trip! I want Gen and Maewen and all leaders in my tent immediately. Fetch the Chalaine as well. I suppose the bard will want to write all this down, too.”
“Gen’s wounds need attention!” Maewen objected.
“He’s made it this far; he’ll last another hour,” Regent Ogbith grunted before stalking off. Mirelle followed him, but Fenna ran to Gen’s side, face full of concern.
“Are you all right?” she asked, staring uncomfortably at the bruise on his chest.
“I’ll live, Fenna. Don’t worry.”
“All I’ve done all day is worry! When nightfall came and you hadn’t returned, just like those other scouts, well. . .”
“I am here. We survived.”
Fenna humphed, hands on her hips. “Well, I’ll have more words for you later. I think the First Mother will, too.”
Gen stumbled a bit on his bad ankle, and Maewen was there putting his arm around her shoulder and helping him along.
“This is poor reward,” she said in Elvish. “They should see to our wounds before making us talk.”
“I’ll help him,” Fenna offered.
“Let her do it, Fenna,” Gen replied. “We are both a bloody, foul mess.” Fenna frowned darkly at Maewen and walked off in the direction of the Chalaine’s wagon.
“She’s too soft for someone like you, Gen,” Maewen commented.
Gen grunted as his foot hit uneven ground. He said, “It’s nice to have something soft around when everything else is so hard.”
They reached the tent after a painful walk, exciting all kinds of comments from the people they passed. Regent Ogbith and Mirelle were there, along with Captain Tolbrook and Warlord Maelsworth from Aughmere. Mirelle stood by Regent Ogbith, arms crossed, and Gen felt her stern gaze upon him. Geoff, face a bit piqued, was fumbling with parchment and ink. The Pontiff and Ethris arrived, talking rapidly to each other. The Pontiff examined them, face showing alarm.
“Why was the cleaning and healing of these people not seen to?” he asked pointedly.
Regent Ogbith answered, “We need to know what they found as soon as possible to assess the threat. Neither is mortally wounded.”
The Pontiff frowned, displeased. “I shall fetch the Puremen. They can at least start the work of cleaning them up. He stepped outside briefly and then returned. Two camp chairs were forthcoming, and Gen sat down heavily. The Chalaine and the Ha’Ulrich entered last, the Dark Guard surrounding the tent. She immediately came to examine their wounds.
“Don’t touch them, Chalaine!” the Ponitff warned. “Remember last time.”
“These wounds are from Uyumaak, not demons, your Grace,” she replied.
“Even so, you should save your strength. My Puremen will care for them.”
“Save my strength for what?” she complained. “To lie in a rolling fort for days on end? Let me help them!”
“Chalaine!” Mirelle interjected sharply. “You should not talk to the Pontiff in that manner. Obey the Pontiff.”
The Chalaine acquiesced, moving to stand behind Gen.
“Where is Shadan Khairn?” Regent Ogbith asked, voice impatient.
“Here, my good Regent.” Torbrand entered, face amused. “Well, Gen,” he said, inspecting his former student, “didn’t I teach you any better than that? I hope there were at least a hundred of them, or I will be very disappointed. You could have at least invited me along.” The Shadan looked around, and upon finding a room full of frowns, feigned innocence. “Merely a jest between warriors, my good people!”
“Let’s get this going, Regent Ogbith,” Mirelle prompted coldly.
“Very well. Gen, Maewen, which of you would like to tell us what happened?”
“I will,” Maewen volunteered. “It was my expedition.”