Arm Of Galemar (Book 2) (91 page)

Despite the onward rush, no beast strayed within ten
feet of each other.  He had dimly recognized that on the slope, assuming deep
in his mind that they needed space to swing those obscenely muscled arms. 
Having witnessed their territorial nature though, their extended proximity must
be caused by that instead.

Not all wore simple loincloths.  Others wore wraps
covering the torsos.  These were all darker colored and smaller than the
simpler clothed beasts, without any horns at all.  Females, perhaps?

Most importantly, he knew to look for humans
interspersed throughout.  He identified many white-robed figures.  All were
carried in a beast’s arms, heads bared, at least one monster back from the
frontline.  The details were fuzzy from this distance, yet he believed they
must be using some sort of spells after all.

His spine shivered from their sheer ferocious
monstrosity, not from any reaction to active magic.  He had come to recognize
the minute differences.  Perhaps the spells were beyond his sensing because
they were not personally threatening him…but the bracelet had meant to
assassinate Hilliard.  That had been neither offense magic nor directed at
him.  There were still far too many mysteries about magic for him to tell for
sure.  The most important knowledge always proved to have nothing at all to do
with the lessons Tollaf subjected him to, and he never knew beforehand what he
might need to know since he only knew what that might be when he needed to know
it.

Did these white-robes cast spells from a different
branch of magic?  One so completely alien that his mage talent failed to
naturally detect it without specific workings set in place?  Such questions
would need to wait for a different time, if he survived long enough to ask
Tollaf.

Soldiers were beginning to panic.  Many fled before
the nightmares could descend on them.  Fighters in the monsters’ path were
resisting as best they could.  The first three rows were already shredded and
Marik had yet to see a single monster fall.

Sloan shouted for everyone to prepare, withdrawing his
single-edged sword as he did so.  Marik set his strength working into place
while his sergeant took a ready stance, knees slightly bent, the sword angled
low and ready to flick upward either left or right.

Churt held his crossbow pointing over Wyman’s
shoulder.  Marik had to admire the boy.  His hands were steady while his eyes
were wide knotholes, sweat dripping from his lashes.  The young archer’s gaze
flicked across the advancing horde, searching for the only targets he knew
mattered.

Edwin knocked an arrow to his string but kept from
drawing it back.  His string would remain slack until a clear target entered
his range.

The sounds were horrible.  Marik had long become used
to the cacophony unique to battle.  As chilling as the sounds of steel striking
steel or men screaming or a hundred arrows loosed as one could be, this din
sang a different hymn.

Flesh ripping as monsters tore men apart with raw
strength echoed in wet, sickening pops.  Every few moments he could hear the
sharp crack of bones snapping.  Men were bent at unnatural angles whenever
caught up by a hell-beast.

Twining throughout reverberated the deafening howls. 
No longer a unified voice rising from a pack on the hunt, these were individual
cries of predatory victory.  Whenever a monster dismembered a soldier, with the
hot blood still flooding over its massive hands it would lift its head to roar
the snarling bellow that made the largest bear sound meek.

The beasts trampled through the tents, making their
way along the row’s northern edge.  Sloan held his stance to meet them while
Sergeant Giles shouted his defiance.  Kineta’s scimitar rested on her shoulder
to dart at her command and Bindrift simply stared.  Soldiers hacked at the
furry bodies when beasts flowed through the open corridor between the
mercenaries and the second rectangular soldier formation.

Then the Kings joined the battle.

Sloan attacked first of the Fourth Unit’s fighters,
his sword arcing up in a silver flash that scored a deep furrow in the gnarled
arm reaching for him.  That beast screamed in pain and snatched its arm back. 
A second monster came at the sergeant from around the first to find Sloan ready
with all the lethal skill he commanded.

Other beasts loped through the narrow space.  Many
turned to their right to attack the soldiers, others choosing instead to
assault the mercenaries.  Floroes, Wyman and Marik formed the line left of
Sloan, each man keeping enough free space between them to leave their movements
unhampered.  A small black beast lashed at Floroes with a cudgel bearing closer
resemblance to a small log.  Wyman received a larger brown opponent that swung
its bare hand before the swordsman could unleash the first strike.

Marik attacked before his own monster could lift the
large club higher than its waist, equal to Marik’s shoulders.  Speed or power
were the two key elements when fighting, one usually of greater importance
depending on the opponent.  These creatures required fantastic power to wound,
but if speed were sacrificed, he could be ten times as strong to no avail.

He had decided to forgo most defensive considerations
in favor of a furious assault.  The first strike mattered most against these
enemies.  His slash connected with the beast’s wrist.

It screamed as Sloan’s had, but did not step back. 
The club slipped from its grasp to the ground.

Marik swung for a second attack.  As he moved, he saw
that his blow had done little beyond cutting through the hide.  Blood welled,
dripping rather than spurting from a deep gash.

It snarled and leaned back.  Marik’s sword tip cut
through empty air where he had meant it to rip open the furry chest.  He swung
the blow around, his vast strength easily redirecting the sword momentum.  This
time he would cut lower to keep the beast from simply leaning away.

Except as the monster reared from its evasion, it
swiped with a balled fist.  The blow came down from above, meaning to crush
Marik’s head.

His swing left him at an awkward position to dodge,
and his weight was not distributed for easy movement.  Marik watched the
oncoming fist as his waist bent backward.  His feet slid sideways.

It altered his position enough that the blow missed
his nose by only three inches.  The beast’s fist flew down his body’s length to
impact against the ground between his feet.

Marik felt the blow’s force through the ground.  He
thought it a marvel that the entire outpost did not shake.

The monster’s sheer power defied his ability to
imagine, despite witnessing it.  It pulled its fist back as he caught his
balance, wasting a precious moment in examining its knuckles.

Marik took advantage of its distraction to renew his
attack.  His sword swung far lower, striking its leg above the knee.  It howled
in pain and fury, stumbling back this time, its leg threatening to buckle.

How could that be?  All his enhanced strength had been
behind that strike.  By rights, its leg should have been severed.

No second monster advanced to challenge Marik so he
glanced around quickly, studying their situation.  Floroes made little headway,
dodging without finding opportunity to cause any damage in return.  Wyman had
also avoided injury but Churt’s support had inflicted enough wounds to slow his
hell-beast down.  Whether the swordsman would be able to add to the damage
remained to be seen.

Sloan proved surprisingly effective, and it baffled
Marik.  The sergeant possessed no enhanced strength, nor a massive sword.  Yet
the two beasts fighting him nurtured numerous deep slices, blood staining their
pelts.

Whatever Sloan did, he accomplished it without his
usual seemingly effortless grace.  Concentration twisted his features, his
movements more sudden and less flowing than Marik had ever seen them.

He watched closely as Sloan lashed at a beast
attempting to claw him, both his hands on the squared hilt.  Nothing out of the
ordinary appeared to make the strike different than his own.  Sloan spun
sideways faster than a startled fish to deliver a matching slash to the other
monster’s forearm.

Marik nearly missed it.  The difference was so
subtle!  Sloan struck from below with his sword in a simple arc while his hands
moved it in a slight motion.  During the whole swing, the blade also cut either
forward or back, his hands drawing the sword closer to his body or pushing it
away.  It moved the sword in a true slicing motion rather than a normal slash.

So simple.  Like a man cutting the meat on his plate
with a knife.  Simple, yet completely overlooked by him.  Technique over
strength.  Skill over raw power.  Marik cursed himself for a fool.

His monster steadied before letting loose a furious
roar.  It leapt, intending to rip Marik to shreds.

Marik met it with a swing that would only connect if
it continued closing the distance.  He swung the blade in an arc parallel to
the ground and also thrust forward, crouching to avoid those reaching hands.

His sword struck the same leg below the knee.  He kept
pushing forward as the blade hit, quickly discovering this was not so simple
after all.  If he kept thrusting beyond three or four inches he would shift off
balance.

He felt the blade biting deeper than before.  The
monster’s momentum still carried it while it started screaming anew.  One arm
dropped hard against his back as he sawed, keeping as much pressure against the
raw wound as he could until its knee struck his chest.

It knocked Marik aside as its leg collapsed, falling
the opposite direction.  Marik sucked air as he fought for wind.  He forced his
legs to support him.

The beast crouched to the side.  A strange,
high-pitched whine keened from its craning neck, dexterous enough to lick at
the wound on its lower appendage.  Marik dashed toward it while still fighting
to breathe properly.

He focused all his might into a blow against the
beast’s neck.  The quick sawing motion helped the blade cut deep.

It snapped its head in a pained howl and lashed out. 
The blow missed Marik.  He jumped back to ready his next attack.  It twisted in
a shuddering seizure.

The beast writhed, clawed toes digging furrows through
the cold dirt as it attempted to rise, arms flailing drumbeats on the frozen
ground.  Blood streamed from the neck wound.

After its jerking death throws slowed, Marik focused
on the larger battle.  The outpost had become a storm-tossed sea.  Monsters loomed
over the Galemaran soldiers, scattered in a bizarre forest of slashing limbs. 
Several had fought their way deep into the soldier ranks and stood surrounded,
apparently unconcerned as they dipped to pluck a thrashing figure from the
turbulent ocean.

A new beast leapt from behind Wyman’s at Marik.  It
was smaller and barehanded…and far quicker.  It dodged his blows easily to
return them in kind.  Marik quickly abandoned the all-out assault.  This one
forced him to a defensive strategy.

He traded blows until Wyman’s beast suddenly reared
back, clutching its head as it howled.  It stumbled sideways into Marik’s
opponent.  His beast quickly clawed at the intruder with a vicious snarl, which
snapped the howling monster to attention.  They engaged each other and ignored
the warriors they had been battling.

“A white-robe got killed,” Marik shouted at Wyman, who
returned no response.  Marik peered around to see how many beasts had turned
wild.  Before he could count, he became aware of the First Unit.

Kineta was shouting furiously, her words muffled by
the combat din.  She clearly wanted her unit to move south.  Sloan concentrated
too deeply on his own fighting to pass any orders so the First swept the Fourth
along with them.

When Kineta neared, Marik could make out what
direction she wanted the men to aim for.  He followed the sergeant’s gestures
and saw that three white-robes had entered the narrow corridor with their
beasts.  They had continued to the southern tent row and taken a position
watching the battle.

Three white-robes would be a prize, and would probably
unsettle most of the beasts the Kings fought.  Wyman remained without a new
opponent so Marik shouted at Churt as the First Unit’s push forced them to
move.

Though embroiled in a hell-battle, Churt found the
energy to cast Marik a sour glance before aiming his crossbow southward.  Marik
might have found it amusing if both their skins were not in mortal peril.

Edwin noticed the white robes before Marik could
direct his attention.  Both units were in a charge.  Arrows flew while men ran
through the press at a pace barely faster than a walk.  The kills would have
been quick and sure under ordinary circumstances.

Before the arrows could strike, three new beasts
stepped before the three cradling the white-robes in their arms.  Wyman had
fallen behind.  Colbey stepped forward, sword out, lips pulled back.  He and
Marik each struck at a separate beast.  Chiksan dodged past Floroes to stab at
the third with his spear.

Marik’s blow missed, Chiksan’s scraped along one
tree-trunk arm, and Colbey followed his strike by leaping with a wolverine’s
ferocity.  He slashed and snarled with a wild fervor that impressed Marik even
as he found it disturbing.  Watching from his eye’s corner, he half expected
the scout to start biting and scratching in animal bloodlust.