The Windrider, Episode 12:
Outmatched
Becky Minor

 

I barreled through

the wilderness, leapt streams, tore through brambles, and forced my muscles to the brink of overexertion as I pursued the retreating Mithveranon. I had chased down many opponents in my time, and it grew clear to me that something lent this one speed beyond any mortal fleetness of foot. Fast or not, as long as I could catch him, I could dispatch him, I was confident. Now, to slow him down.

As I ran, I felt on my belt for one of my daggers, weapons I seldom used, but that might provide my only alternative. I caught hold of a hilt. With a grunt, I heaved the blade toward Mithveranon. The blade spun end-over-end, then connected with the back of the elf’s knee. He staggered. 

The dagger performed the task I required; Mithveranon’s limping gate slowed him enough for me to close the gap between us. As I descended upon him, he wheeled clumsily to catch the arc of my longsword upon his rapier. A tar-black liquid ran down his calf. He groped with his off hand to pull my weapon from his flesh, but where I expected to see panic, instead in his eyes flared unbridled hatred and fury. He flung my dagger into the dirt. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the black, slimy blade smoked.

He circled his rapier and thrust at me; our blades ground against one another until my blade met his basket hilt. With surprising strength, my opponent thrust me back. We circled. We wheeled. Every charge I made at him, he met with gritted teeth and a steady hand. I concentrated upon deflecting the small, flicking motions of his narrow blade, as he sought an opening to sink its point into my flesh. He found no such opening. 

I abandoned typical, refined tactics for hacking at his weapon. Perhaps I could sunder the thin strip of steel, or at least jar it out of his hand.

“What’s the matter, Vinny?” Mithveranon said with a sneer. “Afraid if I have a weapon in hand that I might put a dent in your girlish face?” 

Vinny? Oh, he might have to pay for that.

All thoughts of mercy or discourse set aside, I bellowed a wordless battle cry and sprang at Mithveranon. To my chagrin, neither my wrath hew nor my signature redoubling availed me in this battle, and yet, neither did my enemy find his way past any guard I threw in his path. I could add no more substantial wound than I had already dealt with my dagger. 

The melee dragged on. Sweat soaked my back and brow. Never in my sixty years as a soldier had it taken so long to prevail. My only comfort—my opponent was flagging. I could see it in his eyes. A vague look of desperation grew in his features, even if the pace of his sword strokes never slackened.

I drove him back a few paces, where a protruding tree root snagged his boot. He threw his arms up to save his balance, which gave me just the opening I sought. My sword whistled in a devastating under-hew, and its edge caught Mithveranon beneath his arm, right at the shoulder joint. I felt the familiar drag as my blade severed muscle, tendon, and bone. Both my opponent’s weapon as well as his weapon arm flew away from his body. Black ichor spattered my breastplate. 

Mithveranon sunk to his knees. He panted, but did not crash to the ground like an ordinary subject of dismemberment might. I lifted my sword to finish what I had begun.

My stroke crept to a halt before I could deliver the death blow, however, for not far ahead I saw the ponderous approach of a tall, opulently garbed dragon-kin. His tarnished scales, his smug composure I could never mistake. 

Lord Scitherias.

Secrecy was a joke in poor taste now. I snatched my signal horn from over my shoulder and blew a shrill blast upon it. 

The note cut short as Scitherias waved his hand and the horn launched from my grip to land somewhere in the underbrush.

“You must be very fond of me, Captain Ecleriast, to pay me visits thrice in a matter of weeks,” Scitherias said with an unamused smile. “Or else, you are one who craves death and simply cannot manage to apprehend it.” 

I allowed a long pause to hang between us while I mastered my labored breathing. “Indeed, I sought you for the first of our encounters, but you have now invited my harassment, tarrying here on the land of my people.” I threw my shoulders back. “Render unto me all that belongs to the Delsin, as well as the Chalice of Gherag-tal, which no mortal should possess. Take your ragtag collection of demon worshippers over the border, and perhaps the elves shall stay their hands in bringing the full force of our army upon you. Defy these demands, and not even the rumor of your force shall return to the Isle of Desolation.”

Scitherias guffawed. “So, you come to deliver terms, do you? Your pathetic people will learn the meaning of humbleness forthwith.” He turned to Mithveranon, who sat against a tree with a bleary look on his face. “Be as you are, my servant, and make an end of this mosquito of a warrior, Ecleriast.” 

He pointed to the one-armed elf, and instantly, the pale face, the flaxen hair, and the livery of King Saransaeloth crumbled like dry sand and was borne away on the wind, leaving behind an ebony-skinned apparition so dreadful to behold that I felt my stomach churn. His face was no more than leathery hide stretched over a bony skull, with eyes of flame flickering in deep sockets. A hundred needle-pointed teeth protruded from his mouth, a tangled thicket of pain. He rose, whole as can be, with two long arms and spindly, sinewy legs that trembled only a moment before he sprang at me.

Scitherias stood back like a gambler at a cockfight as I blocked the demon’s first assault with my shield. We circled, gauging one another, feinting but withholding attack until I could stand it no more and lunged. The thrust would have skewered any earthly opponent. My sword skittered across his flesh, making only a scratch. The droplets of demon’s blood that ran down the blade and onto the crosspiece chattered as water does upon a hot pan. 

The demon swung his clawed hand at me, raking my face and awakening a fire across my cheek. A roar of pain burst from my lungs. I shook my head in an effort to keep my wits. The fight would end quickly, and not in my favor, if I let the augmented pain distract me.

We dealt each other continued blows until my armor was rent, my shield riven, and my flesh torn, though I drew some satisfaction that in many places, the demon’s otherworldly hide roiled and bubbled in an effort to knit itself back together. The black mist of tunnel vision crept around the edges of my awareness. The metallic smell of my own blood filled my nostrils. Every wound the demon had dealt me flamed with searing pain. A wave of nausea crashed over me. 

With a ferocious swipe, the demon raked his claw across my forearm, and to my horror, my blade slipped from my sweaty, bloody, weakened grasp, to land several yards to the left. It stabbed into the earth to stand in full view, but mockingly out of reach.

Somewhere in the mist of my ever-darkening vision, Scitherias laughed. “Finish it, slave,” he said. “Really, Ecleriast…I thought you would offer better sport than this.” 

If the draconic lord had hoped to demoralize me with his mockery, he failed. Feral anger boiled up from my inmost being. I would destroy Scitherias’ slave with my bare hands, if need be.

The demon did not intend to give me the chance, or so it seemed. It lunged, mouth gaping. I felt its hot breath on my jaw as it sought my throat. Again, we crashed to the ground. We rolled. Kicked. Punched. A trail of mingled black ichor and red blood stained the clearing. 

Through it all, however, my sword remained ever in my hazy peripheral vision. With every roll, I sought to bring us closer to the weapon.

The creature scrambled and clutched. It drove bony fingers under my helm and grabbed a tangle of my hair. I thought we had drawn close enough. With all the strength that remained in my shield arm, I drove my shield at the creature. The bash knocked my enemy back, though the ripping pain in my scalp told me a chunk of my hair went with him. 

I rolled to my knees, reached out, and caught hold of my hilt once again. I forced my blurring vision to focus on the demon as it swayed where it sat. Stunned. My bicep screamed in protest as I lifted the weight of the sword once again.

“In Creo’s mighty name, I banish you to the abyss, servant of darkness!” 

I plunged my weapon between the eyes of the demon, just as he lifted a horrified glance to me. My sword shuddered so violently that it shook from my hand before the creature exploded into a shower of ash and was no more.

I panted, my muscles feeling slack. I turned a sluggish gaze to Scitherias, who stood with arms folded and a deadly scowl pulling at his mouth. 

“A perfect example of what happens when you delegate to the chattel of a fake,” he muttered to himself. “Very well, Ecleriast. If you are so determined to die at my hand alone, I shan’t deny you such a privilege.”

I heaved myself to my feet, using my sword as a crutch. I swung the tatters of my shield in front of me, while Scitherias wove his hands in an intricate pattern before him. I got the distinct impression, no matter what the condition of my shield, it would be little help. 

~~~~~

Majestrin squinted after Vinyanel and Mithveranon as the two elves vanished under the cover of foliage. 

“Creo, protect him, even in his foolhardiness,” the dragon whispered. His long neck drooped as he turned back to watch for the Blackwatch’s signal. Surely Vinyanel saw Mithveranon’s presence could be nothing better than a trap. He had the wits to outsmart the slippery fellow, if only he would remember to use them. More likely, he would try brawn first. Majestrin sighed, a silver cloud of cold mist curling from his nostrils.

The morning sun rode higher, and the lands around Majestrin shed their vermillion mantle to exchange them for the clinging mists that lingered in low places during early morning. Could one of those banks of fog obscure the flash for which he waited? No. The major would know better. He hoped. 

“I spend too much time with that high-strung elf!” Majestrin chuckled to himself. “When was the last time I worried, before I met him? He is rubbing off on me.”

A wink of white light flashed in the distant northwest. Two more flashes, in rapid succession. Vinyanel had not returned. The elf instructed Majestrin should go without him, if need be. To follow that instruction seemed more dubious now that the signal insisted. After two more flashes, Majestrin took another deep, preparatory breath then launched from his hilltop perch. 

The dragon stretched long and flat, skimming the treetops as he shot like a ballista bolt for the signal. Only moments after the takeoff, a shrill note, short but not distant, cut through the sounds of morning.

Majestrin faltered. The horn call came from the direction Vinyanel and Mithveranon had gone, and the note seemed shorter than any player might have intended. His focus flicked between his destination and his distraction. Whose peril would Vinyanel place foremost? With a grim tightening of his jaw, the dragon pressed for greater speed toward the Blackwatch rendezvous point. 

The pressure in his chest grew with every wing beat. How uncomfortable it was to hold the cold blast like this, but not knowing what he would confront when he reached the rendezvous point, he did not dare arrive unprepared. The distance whizzed by in mere moments, until Majestrin folded his wings closed to dive.

Five figures were on the run. Galdurith led a taller elf, who by his dress the dragon could only assume was the king. Three more of the major’s soldiers kept a frantic rearguard, the whites of their eyes visible even from a distance. As one, they looked up, and Majestrin could not tell if their fear grew or lessened. 

Chaos and crashing followed the elves as Majestrin landed in the clearing. Yes, they had gotten their king this far, but not without notice.

“Help His Majesty astride!” the major bellowed as he set his crossbow. He turned a vexed glare to the dragon. “Where is Vinyanel?” 

“You do not have time to concern yourself with that right now.” The dragon shot out his long neck and snatched King Saransaeloth in his mouth.

One of the Blackwatch soldiers uttered a strangled scream. Majestrin shot the soldier a weary look, then placed the king astride his back. 

“Get him home!” the major said. He glared down the length of his crossbow. The bolt flew from his weapon, followed shortly by a yelp from somewhere within the ranks of the dragon-kin.

“One moment. No need to sacrifice the rest of you. Behind me, if you will.” 

It took little encouragement for the soldiers to take the dragon’s suggestion. Majestrin paused as the clatter in the woods to the east erupted into the clearing as well. Finally. From the constricted chamber in his chest, Majestrin heaved a great gust, and the detachment of dragon-kin that had barely cleared the underbrush faced the horror of an inescapable cloud of freezing death. The only dragon-kin soldier that survived was frozen on one side. To die as the others would have felt like mercy.

Galdurith bowed to Majestrin. “Well done. We thank you. Now if you would, His Majesty ought to get clear of any more trouble.” 

“I understand, Major. I have one more passenger to pick up, then we will be on our way to Delsinon.”

“You need to stop somewhere for Ecleriast.” The major did a poor job of concealing his disgust. He turned to his soldiers. “Regroup with the others and begin stage C. I think I had better stay with our liege.” 

The major hauled himself astride Majestrin, and the dragon felt the undeniable tremble in both passengers.

Hopefully, Vinyanel had not gotten himself in too hot a stew that he and two terrified riders might not have means to intervene. Majestrin thrust his wings and sped back to the south.

      }
~~~~~ <~
      }

 

Becky Minor has always been a storyteller, whether in the retelling of epic conflicts to friends on the school bus, drawing character sketches in her sketchbook or scribbling down anecdotes about those characters. She graduated from the University of the Arts in Philadelphia, PA in 1997 with a bachelor's degree in animation, proceeding to tell more stories through impossibly cute talking animals and their comrades.

Soon after graduation, she married her husband of nearly 11 years and started a family, which now includes three little boys. Life as a homeschooling mother has squeezed creative endeavors into fewer hours of the day, but she still finds time to pursue visual art in various forms, to dabble in music, and to write whenever she can get her fingers on the keyboard.

She is an enthusiast of all things fantasy, and hopes to have her novel, The Sword of the Patron, published in the near future. The book is the first in a trilogy, which follows the adventures of a young alchemist's daughter as she flees the wrath of the forces of Darkness, as well as seeks liberation for her beleaguered people. You can read more about Becky's thoughts on fantasy fiction at her blog: www.callofthecreator.blogspot.com.