Forest For The Trees (Book 3) (68 page)

Marik forced his feet to stop his momentum.  Feet
braced to lunge in any of four directions, he swung in a brutal side-slash.  It
was deflected, as Marik had expected, but then, when he began the next planned
strike using the previous blow’s force, the older Arronath lashed back.

His sword struck Marik’s T-hilt.  Marik shifted his
weight instinctively, except the shock diverted his new strike.  The sword
slashed down beside the Arronath.

He foresaw the next attack by reading the roll to the
Arronath’s shoulders.  Marik jerked backward.  His knees buckled until he
managed to force his weight to the proper counterbalances.  Wildly he tottered
while the enemy’s sword tip sliced across a horizontal plane half an inch away
from his eyes.

Marik still struggled to regain his balance when the
Arronath leapt, left leg bent severely until his knee nearly pressed his chest,
right leg extended behind from pushing off against the ground.  The form
lowered his entire body into a panther lunge.  Never before had Marik seen a
move to match it, yet he instantly recognized its purpose.

He plunged his sword into the earth less than a
quarter-second before the Arronath’s blade whipped across in an arc to match
skeletal Death’s best scythe-work.  The attack that had been intended to cut
away Marik’s legs instead forced the buried sword to carve a groove through the
forest floor.  When at last the blow’s force was spent, the Arronath blade
pressed uncomfortably against Marik’s breeches.

It was a chance.  The low attack was a power strike;
extremely deadly if it lands, yet fatally flawed if it misses.  His enemy
crouched in an awkward position, unable to fight effectively.  Marik wrenched
his sword up to deliver a smashing blow from above.

He barely blocked the Arronath’s blade.  Faster than
he could see, moving in a way Marik failed to understand, the man corkscrewed
up in a whirling motion starting from his bent left leg.  It brought him back
to his feet and also slashed at his foe twice.  The sword slid off Marik’s,
spinning around in a full circle to nearly catch him off guard with the second
strike.

Marik backed off a pace to face the cunning old
warrior.  He used the moment to collect his battle senses.  This opponent was
good, crafty…capable.  It would take every inch of the sensory awareness Colbey
had trained into him to avoid the Arronath’s attacks and find openings for his
own.

The Arronath, too, waited.  He held his sword in his
style’s ready position, which, as Marik had noticed when fighting the black
soldiers before, would naturally lead into a horizontal attack.  By far, the
greater majority of attacks in the Arronathian sword style used flat,
side-to-side strikes.  It was a trait that would help him anticipate this older
fighter’s moves.  Yet the few vertical and thrusting attacks that would come
without warning might be his end if he relied on anticipation too much.

They took each other’s measure.  With his ears sifting
every available sound, foregoing their usual filtration of noise, he could tell
what transpired with the others without breaking eye contact with his
opponent.  Colbey fought the one-eyed man in a battle of speed, neither letting
up against his foe.

Dietrik struggled behind his back, swearing
colorfully.  Marik reviewed the instant of his leap and realized that the
exclamation from his friend must have owed to the impact his shoulder made.  It
had knocked him off balance into the thorny shrubs, ensnaring his clothing.

Marik waited, intending to use the instant the enemy
moved forward to strike an exposed area.  That brief transition from being
stationary to moving left a fighter vulnerable.  Making an attack that could
take advantage of that instant would require Marik’s total speed.

Except the Arronath clearly had the same intention. 
They glared across the space between them, daring each other to be the first to
move.

An explosion rocked the forest from where the two
Arronaths had escaped.  Against their will, the four combatants looked in its
direction.  The trees were illuminated by the orange glows of a setting sun.

Yet no fiery daytime star had descended into the
Rovasii.  Blossoming mushrooms of flame expanded from a central core,
enveloping distant branches, casting several figures between the mercenaries
and the inferno into stark relief.

The bright firelight vanished quickly.  Marik blinked
rapidly.  Everything around him had gone dark.  His vision had been so badly
flooded with light he could see nothing beyond a blur.

He scuttled back to avoid the Arronath while he fought
to see.  No attack came, which must mean his opponent had been struck equally
blind.  Marik felt tears overflowing.  They seeped down his face while his
eyelids beat in avalanche rhythms.

Sounds ricocheted around the clearing.  He could hear
screams.  Distant shouts which were coming uncomfortably closer.  Dietrik
howled in confusion, followed by a ripping sound that could only mean his
clothing had torn violently.  Despite the noise it seemed far too quiet
following the roaring explosion.

The blurs in his vision sharpened.  He searched
frantically for the Arronaths, for Colbey, desperate to understand the current
situation.  Several feet away he located the older man he had fought.  When he
cast his gaze sideways to find the scout, he saw half a man streak through the
air as if fired from a bow.

It was a torso, complete with arms, from the chest
up.  The steel-like leather vest the Arronath fighters wore had been excised
cleanly.  This gristly apparition struck the eastern root wall headfirst.

With sickening wetness and incredible force, the meat
smashed into the bark.  The arms flapped forward to strike the root.  Marik
watched in fascination as the torso collapsed like a Captain’s Glass from the
sheer power.  Heart and lungs and gory offal were forced from their lodgings to
topple groundward.

The terrible scene captivated him until a figure leapt
a low forest shrub.  Even to Marik, the sight of the massive sword held
casually in one hand looked unnatural and disturbing.  Rail paid no attention
to the people ahead, only to the Arronaths charging in his wake.

Marik stared.  All thoughts of his own fight and peril
were forgotten.  His
father
!  Here?  In a bizarre fashion it made
perfect sense while being utterly impossible.

Two Arronaths ran hard at Rail around the shrub. 
Marik watched, understanding what he saw despite not having the first idea how
Rail could accomplish the feats.

A bluish-white glow ran from sword tip to hilt along
the wedge that formed the custom blade’s edge.  Rail swung solidly and caught
the enemy to his right squarely.  It should have delivered a smashing blow. 
Instead, whatever power infused the blade transformed the dull wedge into a
razor.  He severed the Arronath cleanly.  Head and shoulders, two arms, and the
remaining body spun away through the air like a shattered wineglass, bloody
streamers unwinding behind each piece.

Rail swung the sword around in a reverse stroke.  The
glowing edge faded as it moved.  Its power was too much to sustain longer than
a moment.  Instead, the blade’s flat struck the Arronath’s sword.

The black-soldier’s feeble defense offered no
resistance.  Rail smashed the smaller sword backward against the leather vest. 
His attack continued, delivering the full force to the man’s chest.

Under the terrific force, the ribcage caved in.  The
man was lifted from his feet.  He was hurled as if from a catapult, sailing
under the leafy sky, over the Euvea root and away.

Marik could scarcely credit that.  At its most
powerful, his own strength working could never toss a man that far.

Rail paused to catch his breath.  A moment later he
shouted a quick phrase in…Arronathian?  Marik stared.  What was going on? 
Before his horrified eyes, Rail sank to one knee.  His sword fell to the ground
though he maintained his grip on it.  Bellowing gasps escaped him, his body
heaving, sweat pouring from his brow.

Without knowing he did so, he stepped toward his
father.  A cry already rose to his throat, his hand reaching for him.  The
second explosion stopped him cold.

This one erupted on the far end of their clearing. 
Blistering wind struck Marik.  He tottered on his heels, his hair swept back in
the hurricane gale that threatened to cook his eyeballs.  Marik clenched his
eyelids shut tightly until the incandescence faded.  The blur was less
detrimental than it had been the first time.

Or perhaps that stemmed from the additional light in
the clearing.  Roots had become glowing embers in several places, patches of
burning arboreal flesh standing out like wounds.  Numerous spots along the
ground maintained a volcanic glow from loose stones melted to slag.

 Rail rose shakily to his feet.  He staggered for
balance until the one-eyed Arronath steadied him with a hand under one elbow. 
Phrases in the Arronath tongue were exchanged until Rail suddenly froze.  From
shifting his head to meet the grizzled fighter’s lone eye, his peripheral
vision had brought Marik into view.

Before they could react, the Red Man appeared at
Rail’s side as if stepping from his shadow.  The leathery red patch on his face
appalled Marik.  How could any man continue to fight while suffering such a
ghastly wound?

With great effort, he forced his eyes from the
mutilated flesh to follow the Red Man’s gaze.  Among the smoldering lava
puddles, Xenos stood like a demon born.

“You exist only to be a perpetual thorn,” he snarled
at the Red Man.  “There seems little other purpose to your entire race!”

For reply, the Red Man fell to one knee.  Into the
dirt he stabbed his fingers, crooked like talons, palm facing Xenos.

Power coursed through him.  He rose in a sweeping
motion to his feet, his rigid fingers describing a crescent through the air. 
Dirt exploded away from the hole he had dug.  Along the lines his fingers
carved, Marik watched four furrows race toward Xenos.  Earth was hurled
sideways as the force digging its way through the ground grew thicker.  The
four lines expanded until they were each a roiling underground tempest,
flinging dirt twenty feet away.

A livid expression twisted Xenos’ already angry
features.  He dropped to a crouch and caught the lancing furrows in his bare
palms.  His sleeves flapped as if caught in a whirlwind.  An instant later the
power disappeared.  It vanished so completely he might have swallowed it.

The life harvester stood slowly, glaring at the Red
Man.  “You dare…
dare
use the forces of
earth
against me?”

Stoically, the Red Man stared back.  “It is no less
the foolhardy than your efforts toward my destruction through fire.”

Xenos paused.  He noticed the eclectic group arrayed
before him for the first time.  “It seems our misguided enemies are better
organized than suspected,” he announced.  A frown creased his features.

Mendell stepped to Xenos’ side from the rear, sword
drawn.  Several other black-armored soldiers crowded around them.  The colonel
spoke an Arronathian phrase that deepened Xenos’ displeasure.

In a cold, calm voice, the older Arronath Marik had
battled delivered several lines in response.  Marik kept darting his gaze
between them.  Nothing about the way these two viewed each other seemed right
considering they were allies.  To his left, he noticed Colbey inching sideways,
trying to get behind the one-eyed fighter who still supported Rail.

“I will end it finally, tonight,” Xenos declared in
response to a second statement from Mendell.  “I consider this a blessing.  In
one action, those who struggle to deny the penultimate god will cease to be.”

The Red Man raised both hands until they were inches
apart.  His gloves glowed with power as crimson as his attire.  Rail and the
two Arronaths crouched, swords ready, prepared for combat.

Marik whirled.  “Dietrik, where—”

A furious, high-pitched buzz split the morning gloom. 
His spine erupted in a hundred grass itches.  Without thinking, he dove to the
dirt.

An etheric orb like his own blurred past where he had
been.  It struck the Euvea tree.  Unexpectedly, it did not burst, as it should
have.  Instead the buzzing switched to the sound of a watermill’s enormous saw
blade chewing at intense speed through a stripped tree trunk.

Clouds of sawdust billowed over Marik and Dietrik, who
were both flat on the forest floor.  Tears flooded his eyes anew from the fog
of wood particles.  He caught glimpse of a perfect, round hole bored through
the Euvea.  A black hole, flawless in its circularity, gaping in the root.

Marik scrambled across the dirt.  Before he leapt to
his feet, he searched wildly for Xenos.  He found the man exactly where he had
been before.  Rail and the two Arronaths were rolling on the ground to avoid
the orbs.  The Red Man had caught the one aimed at him with the scarlet energy
encasing his gloves.  With a motion, he tore the energy composing the orb to
fragments.

But Xenos already had a dozen new orbs prepared, and
created three more in the space of a single heartbeat.  Where they hovered
ominously in a line before him, Marik could see they were different than his
own simple orb after all.