The Bonding (The Song and the Rhythm) (38 page)

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The only warning Drath had of the attackers was Vaun spinning to deflect the sword that nearly took the youth’s head. After that, three men charged him and Thorne, who stood close by. He forgot his fear in the rush of combat and reveled in this chance to prove his worth. Only he wasn’t sure just whom he had to prove himself to.

Thorne turned when Drath did and immediately pulled free his hammer. He didn’t wait until the men reached him, but instead charged directly at them, bellowing a fierce dwarven battle cry. It served to push down the fear that had clogged his throat only moments before.

Dart was too busy wondering why he hadn’t heard the men approach to bother with saving his own life. Rush was forced to save it for him as he dove at the man trying to skewer his gaping cousin. His elven shortsword slapped his opponent’s short-handled pike aside, though not enough for it to avoid gashing his left thigh. Dart recovered his surprise as his cousin’s blood splattered his face, and he drew his sword and leapt into the fray.

Merdel began calling forth his power as soon as he heard the first ring of steel on steel. He didn’t need to see his enemies to strike at them; his spell would find its mark. Anger surged up from underneath the fear implanted by Lymon’s death, and two men died before coming within ten paces of the bearded mage.

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The Song drowned out the sound of the evil voices laughing at Vaun and his abilities, and the Swordsman lost himself in the embrace of combat. He flowed from strike to block to counterattack and felt satisfaction as his woven blade sliced through bone. The scream of the big man as he clutched the stump of his right arm changed the tempo of the Song, providing a nice transition as the Swordsman engaged the other men attacking his friends.

Two men with longswords pushed Drath back several steps. They struck at him from both sides, their swords hunting for an opening in the tall man’s defense. Thorne’s charge was cut short by a battle axe taller than he was. The double-edged weapon would have cut him in two, had it not been for the dwarf’s quick reflexes. He knew he could never halt the weapon’s course—the man wielding it was far too strong—so he flattened himself to the ground instead.

He heard the angry hum of the steel as it swept over him and felt the blade slice through a goodly portion of his curly hair. That angered him even more, and he hurled himself at the man standing over him, his hammer striking for his attacker’s groin.

Rush stumbled as he dodged another slash at his midsection, the cut on his leg hindering his usual agility. The point of his opponent’s pike missed him by mere inches, and to halt the return strike, which would surely kill him, he flung a dagger into the man’s scarred face.

Having no chance to deflect or dodge the weapon, the man screamed as the elf’s dagger embedded itself in his left cheek. Dart cut his cries short by stabbing him through the heart but saved his satisfaction for later as the remaining bandit launched himself toward the elven tracker.

Merdel mourned the loss of his staff, which he’d foolishly discarded some weeks ago, as the shield protecting him weakened. He’d tried unsuccessfully to step inside one or the other of his opponents’ reach to knock his weapon away, but he’d been shoved back by hand or steel each time. The last time he’d tried, one of his opponent’s swords had penetrated his shield and sliced his right side, telling him just how weak he was becoming. If this went on much longer, he would never find out if what Lymon had told him was true.

Drath yanked his sword out of one attacker’s chest only to find the sword of another bearing down toward his head. The wound in his leg, given him moments ago by the man he’d just killed, prevented him from leaping aside, so he could only watch the steel descend.

Just before the edge claimed his life, however, a blur of movement passed in front of him. As it passed, his would-be killer gurgled in agony and fell dead to the ground, his throat slashed all the way across his neck. Drath didn’t need to look to know who it was that saved him.

After eliminating the threat to Drath, the Song transitioned into the next movement, the axe-wielding giant trying to chop Thorne like a block of wood. The Rhythm guided the Swordsman’s dance into the conflict, and lifted the Vaulka up to knock the strike askew.

Splinters flew from the haft of the big man’s axe as it scraped along the length of Vaun’s sword, and nearly interrupted the flow of the Song with its power. Pushing down his shock, Vaun spun past his new opponent’s return slash, his sword licking out toward the man’s leg.

Cloth parted under the razor edge of the woven blade, and the skin of the axeman’s hairy leg peeled back all the way to the bone. The man grunted in pain, his attack interrupted, which gave Thorne time to step in and smash his skull. The dwarf cursed the hairy fellow as he fell, then turned to thank Vaun for his assistance. But the Swordsman had already moved on to the next verse of the fight.

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Merdel sensed what could only be the power of a Swordsman as one of his two remaining attackers fell dead without a sound. He felt blood spray his face and clothes but was too glad to be alive to be disgusted.

He never saw what Vaun did to the other man; he only knew by the second spray of blood that he could safely lower his magical shield. He had to swallow nausea for the second time and blink away the stars that threatened to steal consciousness. He should’ve never used so strong a spell at the beginning of the combat, and the wound in his side didn’t help matters at all.

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The Song trilled victoriously as another opponent fell, and the Swordsman looked around hastily for someone else to fight. He saw one bandit still alive and started towards him but stopped when Rush jumped on the man’s back and planted a dagger so deep into his skull that Thorne had to come pull it out. Almost disappointed, Vaun relaxed after checking for any more assassins and seeing none.

The Song slowly receded to the back of his mind, and the Rhythm returned his heart to its normal pace. He suddenly felt the slick feel of blood and immediately began cleaning his drenched sword blade. He knew some of his friends were injured, but they would have to wait until his Vaulka had been cared for. The itching in his side at last ceased.

In all, ten attackers lay dead, two so far away from the others it took some searching to verify they were part of the assault. All of them carried a black handkerchief, though none of the party members doubted whose men they were. Looking up, Drath noticed a crowd of village folk huddled nearby, watching the tall man and his companions study the bodies of the men they had just killed. He sighed at the thought of trying to explain what had just occurred. Although Elak’s men were disliked in almost every land, it was generally considered bad etiquette to kill people in someone else’s home. Fortunately, Merdel stepped in front of the crowd and addressed them, giving Thorne time to tend to Drath’s wounds after he had taken care of the elves.

The gash in Rush’s thigh was rather deep, but out amongst all these people and the dead was not the ideal place for Thorne to stitch it closed. Instead he bound it tightly with strips of cloth torn from the dead men’s cloaks, telling the elf to have patience until they reached an inn. Drath had a number of small cuts and one across his chest that would need partial stitching.

Thorne himself had a nasty slice across the back of his left hand that should’ve rendered him unable to use his hammer, but he couldn’t remember feeling pain at any point during the fight. He shrugged it off, knowing combat tended to take all of his attention.

Vaun was unscathed as usual, without even so much as a bruise. He claimed his arms were sore and his wrists hurt from deflecting such powerful attacks, but the way he tended his sword belied his statement. Thorne tried to convince Drath that he wasn’t jealous of the seemingly untouchable Swordsman, and the tall man reminded him that both the Chattul and the Jaga had sunk their claws into him. Still, the young man hadn’t been touched by a sword yet.

For his part, Vaun went about the business of caring for his Vaulka until satisfied it could return to its scabbard. He then helped Dart, who had the most minor injuries of the group besides Merdel, search the bodies of their attackers. Though he expected it, his skin tingled nevertheless at sight of the black handkerchiefs. He could hear several villagers gasp in shock when they saw them, and Merdel was quick to distract them with further talk of what they had come here to do.

As the youth moved over to help Rush stand, the people closest to him backed away and eyed him nervously. He heard whispers that compared his fighting to a dance and the astonished remarks at the absence of any injuries marking his body. He felt compelled to tear open his shirt and show them the three deeps scars embedded in his abdomen but figured it wouldn’t do any good. That, and it was simply too cold.

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After satisfying the townspeople’s curiosity and giving a cursory explanation of the cause of the blaze, Merdel joined his companions in carting off the dead bodies. Daggery’s mayor, a scrawny, shifty-eyed fellow named Lucien, directed them to the village dump. As they labored under the weight of the mercenaries, most of whom were rather large men, Lucien remarked to Merdel that it was a shame old Lymon had been killed. Still, he said, it was almost expected, what with all those lanterns scattered about his books and his leg. Merdel commented it was indeed a sad day for them all, saying that they would have saved Lymon if he hadn’t been buried under falling debris.

Lucien glanced sidelong at Vaun, struggling alongside Drath and Thorne under the weight of the largest attacker. “What ’bout that youth? I ne’er seen anyone fight like ’im. ’Twas almost…beautiful to watch ’im kill. He made it seem so…simple. Know what I mean?”

Merdel nodded, forming his reply carefully. “Aye, I know exactly what you mean. He’s a Ramener, and you know how they are with swords.” Lucien nodded emphatically. “In his village, he’s considered a master.”

Lucien gaped. “But he’s so young. How can that be?”

“With Rameners, who can say?” Merdel shrugged. “He was probably trained as soon as he could walk. He won’t say for sure, not even in all the time I’ve known him. One thing’s for certain, though—I wouldn’t want to anger him.”

“Ice ’n’ wind, you’re not kiddin’.” The mayor glanced one more time at the dark-haired young man. “You tell ’im we here in Daggery are good people, every one of us. And we’ll do what we can to make his stay, and yours too, as comfortable as possible.” Lucien’s dark eyes slithered side to side, as if hunting for eavesdroppers. “You just make sure his stay isn’t longer’n necessary. I don’ wanna chase you off, but it’s bad luck to have such a slayer in my town.”

Merdel nodded. “I understand. We’re planning to leave at first light.”

The mayor returned the nod, and both men remained silent during the rest of their labor.

As soon as the last body was disposed of, the six adventurers took themselves to the town’s only inn, cheerfully called The Sleepy Sword. Ipeks had a great love for weapons. It was close to midnight, and they were all ready to fall down with weariness.

Thorne asked for hot water to be brought to their rooms, and as soon as it arrived, he immediately began the gruesome task of stitching up the holes in himself and his friends. Rush passed out from the pain, and Drath nearly cracked his teeth from clenching his jaw so tight to keep himself from screaming. The dwarf had to wipe away tears of pain several times while closing the wound in his hand, though he did little more than groan deeply.

Vaun had to go throw up while Thorne tended to Rush, and after that the Swordsman refused to watch and took himself to bed. The others were glad he did, for they, too, had grown uneasy around their Swordsman companion.

“Did you see what he did to those men, Drath?” Merdel raised his head from reading the parchment Lymon had given him and eyed Drath thoughtfully while Thorne dressed his newly stitched wound.

Drath flinched. “Not really. I was too busy trying to stay alive myself. I do know that without his help I might not have lived.”

“Same here. But it’s very unnerving to be close to someone when he fights like Vaun does. He was so quick I never clearly saw anything he did, but I knew from the screams and the blood that he’d saved my life. I don’t truly mind, I guess. It’s just wind-blasted frightening to know he’s so deadly.”

Drath nodded. “I agree. But I don’t see a reason to dwell on it. He’s a Swordsman, so the things he does are going to seem rather odd and a bit scary. As long as we remain his friends, I think we’re safe. He came within a pace or two of me when he killed that one man, and I swear that Vaulka passed only an inch or two in front of my face. But he never so much as scratched me and never came close when we used to spar.”

Merdel sighed. “I see your point, but I’m not sure he’s completely forgiven me for what I did to him. We talked about it in Bordell, and I think we came to accept each other. But I still wonder sometimes if he still doesn’t hold a grudge against me.”

Drath groaned as he struggled into his shirt. “Vaun doesn’t seem the type to hold grudges, Merdel, so I wouldn’t worry too much. I think he’s taken a kind of protective attitude with us, since he has the ability to do so, and I think he plans to help us with his tremendous skill, much like he did for Tara and King Dobry.”

The wizard nodded. “One thing, though, my friend. How come you haven’t sparred him since he Bonded?”

Drath grinned. “Would you want to trade spells with your apprentice, who suddenly developed a fire-burned lot of skill in one day?”

Merdel shook his head wryly, knowing what bothered the tall man about Vaun’s abilities.

“He seems to have turned into a rather accomplished slayer.” Dart looked up at the others from beside the bed. He’d been tucking the blankets around his unconscious cousin and had been silently following the conversation. “He’s swift, graceful, and above all, ruthless. I know killing bothers him, but he does it so well he sometimes looks like he enjoys it. If I didn’t know him, I’d have a hard time trusting him.”