Iron Elf - A Race Reborn (Book 2) (28 page)

CHAPTER 23:
MEERWEN

We weren’t halfway to the pit when an arrow lodged in Borlog’s chest. He looked at it. “So it’s one of those battles.”

We scattered. The wolfdogs burst out of the snow.

“It’s a trap!” Mina raised her axe and buckler. There was a snap as she activated them, a sudden drain on the magic field. She roared as rage ran up her weapon-arm and into her head, and that’s when the world turned silent. I blinked. She roared again but I heard nothing. I brought my hands to my ears and snapped my fingers—nothing! Damn it, I was deaf! It must have been the head trauma.

The moon was full. Snow was falling and the rocks wore it on their shoulders. The wolfdog bared its teeth and leaped. I brought up my left arm and it clamped on the bracer so hard I felt it. It was as heavy as a man and it drove me back. I kicked at its forelegs but it lunged, going for the upper arm. It bit through the leather and I punched it in the neck. It snapped and snarled. I heard nothing. It leaped again, stronger than any man. It knocked me off my feet and piled on top of me.

This was bad. It had the advantage on the ground. I tried wrapping my legs around it but it was too fast. It nipped at my belly and went for my neck. I covered up but it was everywhere. I was dizzy and it was everywhere. There was nothing I could do.

Except gouge its eyes out.

It must have screamed as I worked my thumbs. For sure it lost interest in savaging me. I rolled on top of it and choked it out. I was counting the seconds when I looked up and made eye contact with the second wolfdog. It lunged. I moved faster. I jammed my right bracer all the way to the back of its throat. My other hand grabbed its leg and broke it. It backed away on three legs but came back for more.

I kicked it in square in the chest. I picked it up and broke its back over a rock. “Down, boy.”

I looked around. Mina must have led the charge, her buckler and her armour letting her shrug off arrows. She’d smashed the archer’s face in, but it took more than that to bring down a human—the archer had pulled a knife. Borlog still had an arrow in his chest but he traded blows with Brooda, the twin with the mohawk. Conrad was busy with a cleaver-wielding woman and Yang and Zukaldi struggled with a woman and her hatchets.

Sandy got in front of me. She’d known better than to tap me on the shoulder. Are you okay, she mouthed.

I’m fine, I told her. Gone a little deaf. Where’s Olympia.

Went ahead to stop the crane. I was— She turned away.

Sandy, I need to see your face.

Sorry. I said I was helping you.

She reloaded as she spoke. She must’ve been firing at the dogs. I was bleeding in the arm and shoulder but that wasn’t important. Come with me, I told her. We need to help them.

Borlog, she asked. I nodded.

Borlog was breathing hard. His iron-shod club moved lightly in his hands. But try as he might, he couldn’t bring his opponent down —she was younger, faster, and nearly as broad-shouldered. She, too, was an expert with a bludgeon.

Blunt weapons were especially dangerous to Northlanders. Scrapes and cuts were no problem. Even deep incisions would heal in seconds. But their bones would break like any other, and took as long to heal.

Brooda brought the table leg down like an axe. Borlog parried and jabbed. She swung upward to pulp his ribs. He swung for her shoulder and she ducked. If he let his guard down for a moment he’d be out of the fight. I signalled to him and he manoeuvred her so she showed us her back. I ran, leaped off a rock—

—hung in their air for one long moment while the world turned under me—

—and smashed an elbow into the mohawk. Pieces of her skull shot into her brain. She dropped, head crushed flat.

Help Yang and Zukaldi, I said. Sandy and I moved on to Conrad.

Conrad’s opponent was fast. The cleaver chopped at his guard and the chef’s knife made ribbons of his flesh. She was a shield maiden. She’d fight till she ran out of blood. Problem was, Conrad would run out of blood first. He was good, for a halfling, but his lack of a healing factor was starting to tell. His left hand hung limp and there were bloody bootprints in the snow. There was a pistol nearby, unfired. He’d tried to shoot her but she’d cut his wrist. He was weakening. He fought on. His swordsmanship was solid but rough. He’d never met a proper fencing master, but then this wasn’t a proper fight. He backhanded her with his left and cut across her lead foot. She opened her mouth in a scream. Berserk, she slashed the moonlight and drove him back. He stumbled.

Sandy charged, holding her rifle like a spear. The Northlander chopped down on the barrel and the rifle discharged in the snow. She followed up and almost took Sandy’s head off. Conrad rallied. I saw an opening. Something hit me in the back of the leg and I fell to one knee.

It was one of the hatchets, I later learned. Three against one had been too much for the woman, but before she fell she’d thrown an axe at Zukaldi. He dodged it but it hit me. Back then all I knew was that Conrad and Sandy needed me. I grabbed the pistol, took hurried aimed, and fired. I thought the gun had exploded in my hand, the pain was so bad. But that was just the feedback. The shot was true and slammed into the woman’s guts.

She was still standing. She made to cleave Sandy’s head but Conrad slashed and her hand fell off. Sandy clubbed her in the head but she punched her with the stump. The Northlander’s knife wove patterns in the air. Sandy stepped back and drew pistols from Conrad’s holsters. She fired into the woman’s chest, hammering her back. The Northlander coughed blood and snarled. Tried to lunge but Conrad stepped in. With his messer in both hands he cut deeply into her neck. She staggered and fell into the snow. She was still trying to get up when Sandy emptied the last pistol in her face.

The two halflings leaned on each a moment. Humans take a lot of killing. I remember thinking how thick and lustrous the woman’s hair was, spread out on the snow. She must have been beautiful when her face wasn’t twisted in range. And, of course, when she wasn’t dead.

Mina arrived painted in blood. It had been necessary to hack the archer to pieces. Zukaldi began checking my wounds but I shrugged it off. It wasn’t over yet.

It was a wretched group that made it to the pit. Yang and Zukaldi had gained injuries like the rest of us. Almost everyone was limping. Almost everyone was bleeding. Even Borlog was in pain. Conrad needed Sandy’s help to walk and I’d vomited along the way.

Elsa and Olympia had torn up the ground fighting. They were still throwing blow and counterblow. I paused to admire Olympia’s style. There was nothing wasteful or artificial about it. Every kick was well-timed, every punch well-aimed. She ducked a sword swipe and went for a body blow. Her opponent brought her shield close and took it. Elsa was a gifted swordswoman but she’d never fought anyone of the Abbess’s level. As much as she tried to deflect Olympia with her shield the punches still kept coming. Her nose was broken and re-broken. But she had moves too—she leaped into the air and broke Olympia’s guard on the way down. She threw the shield, caught it on the bounce, and spun into another throw, driving Olympia back.

Breeda operated a treadwheel crane behind them. She ran in the giant hamster wheel that drove the winch, which was steadily taking up rope. Something was coming up the well, and it wasn’t a drink of water.

Mina turned to me. What’s the plan.

I shook my head. The mountain started to spin. Most of us didn’t look much better—we’d be a liability in the fight. I said, Sandy, just shoot Breeda. The rest of you hang back while I help Olympia.

I stepped forward but Mina stopped me. Maybe I should do that, she told me. Unlike the rest of us, she was unhurt. And no wonder—she was loaded with priceless artefacts. She had a buckler that did her blocking, a helmet that guarded against concussion, and a shirt of mail that could become hard as armour plate. She also had a ring that allowed her to heal half as fast as a Northlander. Any of those things would have been a boon to a warrior. Together they had allowed a sheltered princess to get into a knife fight without suffering a scratch. So I nodded. Mina activated the rest of her gear and charged.

Sandy had gotten down on one knee. She fired, hitting Breeda in the shoulder. I thought it was a good shot, but she later said she’d been aiming for the human’s head. Regardless, it was enough to stagger Breeda. She slowed but kept running. Sandy began to reload.

Mina arrived as Elsa threw her again. It hit Olympia in the throat and rebounded. Elsa caught it and threw it at Mina, who lifted her buckler. The shield glanced off. Olympia fell on her back. Mina crouched, guard up. It was a basic guard and her feet were too far apart, but the axe was spinning in her hand. Elsa sneered. She raised her hand and caught her shield. Yang and Zukaldi dragged Olympia to safety.

The two women rushed each other and met in a fury of steel. Mina fought without discipline or skill. Her stance was too low, her blows too powerful. She flailed with the buckler and skidded on the snow. The axe swung in arcs like she was trying to swat a fly. But she was winning.

It wasn’t that she was unpredictable. She was an awkward mess of a fighter, but this was no child’s game. This was a mortal game, a dance to the death, and all her moves were overplayed. Her defence was full of holes and her offense was so limited she might as well have drawn a diagram. Beginners always made the same mistakes. In a fair match Elsa could have won by waiting for an opening. But things were not fair. The murderous munchkin had boots that doubled her explosive strength, a belt that did the same for her endurance, and a ring that everything seem to move slowly. She fought like an insane midget demon. And she didn’t even exercise!

The dwarves make the best stuff. And they keep the very best for themselves.

Elsa brought her sword and shield down but Mina stood and took it. She dealt a blow that hammered Elsa’s shield-arm into her ribs. The dwarf reversed her axe and tried to punch holes in Elsa’s helmet. The human deflected with her shield and cut low but Mina whirled and chopped at her elbow. The blow cut through the mail and Elsa dropped the machete. She tried for a shield bash but Mina wrested it away.

Sandy fired again. The bullet exploded, this time in the gearworks. Chunks of metal flew. The crane ground and stopped. Breeda picked up her club and ran toward us, screaming, but she didn’t see Borlog club her in the right shin. She fell and he broke her legs in three more places. He was working on her arms when the Northlanders came up the shaft.

They climbed up the rope. Half a dozen huge, scarred, heavily-armed men. They clambered off the crane and faced us. Their scars were terrifying—it took a lot to mark on a human. One had a ragged cut across his face. Another, from the knotty scars around his neck, had been unsuccessfully hanged. Looking around, I saw none of us was eager for another brawl. I stepped forward anyway. So did the others.

Czeleborn strode past us with a smile. He wore his black frock coat with white lace at the front and sleeves. His sword was at his side. Ever the diplomat, he addressed the barbarians with what was surely a salesman’s pitch. He was probably offering free rooms at his casino.

I motioned the others to stay put. Conrad got in my face. Why are you holding us back, he asked. You think we can’t handle them?

He doesn’t need you, I said. You’ll get in the way.

A Northlander went for his sword and Czeleborn cut his hand off. Then he cut off the man’s head. We hadn’t seen him draw. The head spun all the way around, then dropped off the man’s neck.

Czeleborn was everywhere. His sword was a relic but in one stroke it beat aside two attacks and wounded a man. Wielding it in one hand and sometimes two, my ex-lover drove them back. The one with the scarred face swung an axe but Czeleborn slipped away. The Northlander tried again but the elf grabbed him with one hand and sent him sprawling into Elsa.

Three humans came at Czeleborn at once. He ducked a flail, sidestepped a falchion, and leaped over a sword swipe. The last was from the man who’d been hanged—he carried a shield as well. Czeleborn kicked the painted wood, parried behind himself, then hopped onto the shield and kicked the man in the face. The axeman came at Czeleborn again. Czeleborn deflected the two-handed weapon and punched the man in the throat. The sword and shield came again and Czeleborn ducked.

The Northlander with the flails walked in, filling the air with iron. The spiked balls swung in complex arcs and the chains could curve around a guard. Closer and closer they came, closer and closer swung at Czeleborn’s skull. So he tripped the axeman and sent him face-first into a spiked ball. Czeleborn cut off the flail-man’s head before he could recover and both men were dead before their bodies hit the ground. The others redoubled their efforts. Czeleborn fended off a trident thrust and slipped a sword stroke. The swordsman rammed him with his shield and tried to muscle him back but the elf slipped away and cut at his neck. A man swung a falchion with both hands and Czeleborn did a hard block, catching it on his crossguard. The human shoved him and Czeleborn leaped onto a flat rock.