Age of War

Chapter 51

“ALBRIHN!” he roared over the tumult. All heard him, but none came forward. Was he a coward? He was their chieftain. He should be leading them. Perhaps he feared him. Perhaps…

Hooves thundered to his right. He turned. Through the smoke and dust that hung across the street, he saw a rider gallop towards him. He grinned gruesomely and hefted his sword. At last! But it was not Albrihn: this warrior was dressed differently, in a style he found more familiar. He carried a round shield and didn’t ride as well as his fellows. His skin was pale too. Strange, though he had seen men of many kinds in his time on this island. The newcomer shouted something to him, but his tongue was as alien to Jatharik as the Atlantians’. He leapt from the saddle of his horse and the beast reared and bolted. He drew a sword, a short, stabbing blade. He’d seen weapons like it in the Northlands, and this warrior reminded him of those barbarians. And yet he moved with more subtlety than they were wont to use; with measured, guarded steps. Jatharik studied him, and knew he was being studied in turn. A lot could be discerned from how the enemy held himself, how comfortable he was with his weapons. He knew instantly, just from circling this foe, that this was a formidable adversary. Perhaps the most formidable he’d met in this war.

“You are not Albrihn,” he said. They were maybe ten strides apart, the cacophony of battle was all around them and the man did not speak his language, but he seemed to understand. He said something back. It may have been his name. “Your head will hang from my belt before this day is done,” he vowed.

Huldane watched the enormous mainlander. He moved like a cat. He’d seen a mountain lion once, in the north of Talos. Every muscle in the creature’s body had been attuned to one purpose – it was the perfect hunter, a mere vessel for an atavistic instinct to kill. This barbarian was the same. He knew this was the one who had killed Hasprit too. He smiled. To avenge a fallen brother…there was no better way to win the favour of the One-eyed God. “I will send you screaming to Hel,” he told the Ankhari, “and you will never forget the man who killed you.” He charged.

Sword met sword. No one interfered as the battle raged around them. The initial clash was indecisive. Jatharik was the stronger, but Huldane was only feeling him out. He danced backwards, sword held low, shield raised. Jatharik struck, his blade coming down in a wide arc. Huldane deflected it with his shield, absorbing the blow and stepping aside again. They resumed circling. Huldane attacked now, chancing a flurry of slashes that his foe was hard-pressed to parry. He was gratified to see the giant’s face contort with effort as he met each swing, but he wasn’t prepared for the counterattack, which seemingly came from nowhere. The curved sword struck him on the side of the helmet, sending him staggering to one side with a ringing in his ears and then, lighting quick, the blade darted inside his guard and he only just managed to jump backwards. Had it struck, it would have pierced his abdomen, and been the end of this duel. Huldane breathed hard. He wore full mail, where the Ankhari was stripped to the waist. The armour gave him an advantage in terms of protection, but it weighed him down. Speed, as Albrihn would have told him, was the most important thing. He moved his feet quickly in the mud, easily ducking another swing aimed at his head, then surged forward, attempting to batter his way past Jatharik’s guard with his shield. He smashed aside his sword and then the pale warrior was vulnerable for just a moment, one wide swathe of his white skin exposed. He stabbed with his sword, but his enemy moved too quickly. Nonetheless, he left a bloody gash across his back, and the mainlander stumbled away with a roar.

Jatharik backed away. He’d taken a few wounds already, but nothing that had yet slowed him down. This one stung though, and it had scored a muscle in such a way that when he rolled his shoulder it tugged uncomfortably. It would impair him. He needed to finish this quickly. He unleashed the feared warcry of the Fired Bones and brought his sword down in a mighty two-handed blow. It hit the Atlantian’s shield, denting the metal rim and jarring him with the impact. He threw his elbow into his face, catching him across the cheek. The man staggered, and he could see his gaze become momentarily unfocused. Now was his opportunity. Even before he had formulated the idea, his weapon was moving, snaking in between shield and shoulder, finding a gap in the warrior’s mail. His strike was true, and blood flowed from the wound instantly. The man cried out, moved backwards, shield raised protectively. This was when he was most vulnerable: perhaps this wouldn’t be such a difficult fight after all. Jatharik rushed him, moving with all the force an avalanche, intending to use his superior strength to shoulder him to the ground so he could finish him off. His sword was levelled, aimed at head height. If his opponent didn’t go down, he’d have three feet of steel shoved through his skull. He did go down, but it wasn’t Jatharik’s doing. He dropped low, and his shield came up before the Ankhari knew what was happening. The metal rim slammed into his jaw; he bit his tongue and his mouth filled with blood. He was stunned and tried to turn around.