Return of the Damned

8

The soldiers filled the room, forming ranks behind the defensive line. They stood for a moment, completely still. Only the sound of Tasca's arrows clanking off splint mail or sinking into flesh broke the silence.

As a group, the soldiers raised their swords.

Regdar stepped up beside Clemf. Tasca and Whitman did the same, forming a short line of their own.

The big fighter took a deep breath. He'd faced a lot of men in battle. Some were scared, some cool and confident. Then there were those who didn't care whether they lived to fight another day. It was those sorts who were the most dangerous.

Regdar looked at the eyes of the men standing before him-cultists of the god Hextor. They glared back, hard and cold. These men had no fear of death. They would come and come and come until they either won or all were dead. Regdar was sure of that.

They came.

Metal clanged on metal. Feet shuffled, and in the first few seconds, as soldiers clashed, men died.

Regdar and Clemf killed the first two, each with one swing.

Whitman slew two more on his own, and Tasca dropped one to his knees with an arrow to the gut. But for every one they removed from the line, another took his place. Rank upon rank moved forward. They filled the whole room, pushing away the light as a storm cloud blots out the sun. Regdar and his men were surrounded, fighting back to back.

Tasca dropped his bow and whipped out his rapier. He stood back to back with Whitman, slapping away blades with a zigzagging pattern. Whitman twirled his hammer, doing the same from the front.

Clemf spun around to protect Regdar's flank. Regdar smiled to himself at the thought of Clemf being stabbed twice in the ass in the same combat. There was no time for amusement, though. Swords flashed so quickly Redgar could barely track them. The attackers were so numerous that they interfered with each other. He and his companions, on the other hand, could attack almost anything that moved. Ferocity was their best protection, and they used it to its fullest advantage. They slashed and stabbed in all directions, heedless of the risks, trusting in raw aggression and each other to protect their backs.

As he bashed a blade into the air, stars burst across Regdar's field of vision, and he fell to one knee. A soldier stood over him with a mace raised for another shot at his head.

The mace swept down just as Regdar twisted his head away. It connected with the side of the helmet. The impact and the ringing clatter rattled the fighter. Pain shot through his skull, as if his brain were swelling and pressing on the back of his eyeballs, forcing them out of his head.

Focusing his eyes as best he could, Regdar tried to get back on his feet. The soldier hovering over him wound up for another blow. Regdar pulled back and tried to dodge. Silver flashed in front of his face, and the mace, still gripped by the man's gauntleted hand, dropped to the ground.

Behind the stunned, maimed cultist stood Clemf. Another quick stab with his sword killed the soldier whose fist he'd just amputated. Clemf then grabbed Regdar by the scruff of his neck and lifted him to his feet.

Desperate for anything that could buy them time, Regdar shouted at the top of his lungs, "Surrender! Surrender!"

The fighting ceased almost immediately. All of the attackers took a step back, but they didn't reform ranks. They just stood silently, surrounding Regdar and his men.

Regdar stood up tall, breathing hard, and adjusted his armor.

Whitman had a cut along his forehead. Clemf had dozens of small wounds across his arms and chest. None of them appeared serious, but he was covered in blood. Tasca, on the other hand, was completely untouched. It's good to be quick, Regdar thought.

Over the noise of shuffling soldiers and creaking armor came the sound of a set of heavy boots. The soldiers parted, creating a pathway from the far wall all the way to Regdar and his men. A single figure approached out of the darkness.

Tall, thick, and heavily armored, whoever it was obviously wore full plate mail. Black spikes jutted from the figure's shoulders, knees, and forearms. The mysterious person stepped out of the shadows into the light.

"We meet again," said a deep, gravelly voice.

Regdar narrowed his eyes. There before him, whole and unscathed, stood the blackguard whom he had battled in the City of Fire-the last person he'd seen standing beside NaulL

The big fighter snapped. Roaring his pain and fury, he charged at the blackguard, arms pumping, legs straining with every ounce of strength he had.

The soldiers moved to intercept him. Regdar cut them down. His blade carved a path through the wall of bodies before him. He was two steps beyond the slain before their bodies hit the floor.

Black-clad warriors converged on the enraged fighter, packing themselves against him so tightly that he couldn't move. His forward momentum came to a lurching stop, and Regdar could only push against the surging mass. The soldiers held their ground.

"It's nice to see you again, too," said the blackguard. She laughed. "It's almost flattering. He shows so much rage, yet he doesn't even know my name."

"No," replied Regdar, "but I know how long you have left to live."

The blackguard lifted her hands in the air to indicate the darkened chamber where they stood. "We're in the grand entrance hall." She smiled. "This is the perfect place for introductions." She bowed. "I am Lindroos, Blackguard of Hextor."

Regdar leaned back, then lunged forward. The press of bodies was so tight he couldn't swing his sword, but he could jab with it like a spear. He used the weapon to fell several more soldiers between himself and Lindroos before she halted him with her voice.

"Regdar," she said, "stop killing for a moment and hear me."

Regdar stepped back, glaring at the woman. "How do you know my name?"

The blackguard smiled. "There's someone I'd like you to meet." She spun sideways and lifted her arm in the air, revealing the dark passageway behind her.

Naull stepped quietly out of the gloom.

Regdar's knees went momentarily weak, but then his blood boiled. "Let her go," he bellowed.

Naull walked slowly across the tiles, stopping beside the blackguard. She placed her slender hand on Lindroos's shoulder, then wrapped her arms around the woman completely.

Lindroos put her hand on the back of Naull's head, leaned down, and pressed her hps to the wizard's in a passionate kiss. When they finished, the blackguard ran her finger across Naull's cheek. Both women smiled.

"To answer your question, Regdar-" Lindroos squeezed Naull closer to her with one arm-"I know your name because we have a mutual friend."

The two women smiled at each other, then turned and walked together back down the darkened corridor.

An arrow clanged from the pauldron of the blackguard's armor as she and Naull disappeared into the shadows, then they were gone.

Regdar's heart was gripped by a terrible, icy hand. His skin tingled, and a shiver ran up his spine. He rotated his wrists, feeling the finely wrapped hilt of his enchanted blade.

It felt good.

Dropping his shoulder, Regdar crashed headlong into the line of black-clad warriors. Three of them flew backward, tumbling others to the floor with them. Blades glanced off Regdar's armor, but he ignored them. Only moving forward mattered.

Tasca's arrows sailed overhead, striking sparks from metal armor and spurts of blood from exposed flesh. Regdar grabbed the shaft of an arrow that was stuck in a man's throat and yanked. The barbed arrowhead came out with a huge chunk of flesh attached. The man's eye's rolled back in his head, and he tried to staunch the rush of blood with his hands as he slid to the ground.

A cacophony rose through the room, rebounding from the black stones and doubling over on itself, gaining volume as it did. Metal clanged on metal. Boots trooped across stone, and the involuntary groans of men fighting and dying filled the air.

Clemf fought with both hands, cutting down soldiers with his blade and punching with his fist. Surrounded, he cut and slashed with the blinding speed of a hungry jungle cat, astoundingly fast for such a big man.

Whitman had tumbled backward, knocking the men flanking him to the ground. With a shout to activate his magical boots of speed, the stout dwarf got to his feet and finished the job, denting helms and pounding skulls into pulp. He'd been wounded severely across the face and chest. His breathing was labored and his fighting seemed to slow. Still, he fought on with ferocious might.

Tasca finally had to relinquish his bow when the soldiers pressed in too close. He switched to his rapier, dancing and weaving with what little space he had. Though he was quick, the limited room hindered him, and now he too was bleeding from many small cuts.

Bodies littered the floor. Regdar found himself balancing atop a dead man. Though the soldier's body provided little stability, the extra few inches of height were an advantage. Bashing aside one blade after another, Regdar leaped from the dead man and brought his sword down in a heavy chop. Two swords hit the floor in a tangle, their wielders' hands still gripping the hilts.

The soldiers stepped back, gripping the bleeding stumps where their wrists used to be. Regdar kicked out to his right and lunged forward with his greatsword to the left, like a dancer performing for the duke. Both men fell to the floor, where Regdar quickly finished them off.

At that moment, the room fell silent.

Breathing hard, Regdar looked up toward the far wall of the chamber. Not a single black-clad soldier remained in his way. He glanced back at the closed portcullis. Clemf was pulling his longsword from the body of a fallen soldier, Whitman was down on one knee, having a hard time breathing, and Tasca was seated on top of a bleeding but still-living soldier.

"Where have they gone?" quizzed the elf. He held the tip of a dagger at the soldier's throat.

The man shook his head.

"I said," repeated the elf, pushing his blade deeper into the warrior's skin, "where have they gone?"

The man reached up, obviously in pain, and grabbed Tasca's wrist. The elf realized the man's intent too late. Before he could wrest the dagger away, the soldier plunged it into his own neck up to its hilt. Blood frothed out of the wound and the man's mouth, then the soldier's head slumped to the side.

Whitman had watched the suicide with calm exhaustion. "It's all your fault, elf," he said, almost coughing on the words. "If you'd been a better shot, she wouldn't have gotten away."