Chapter Thirty

Careful to avoid gazing into the fire, Ludvic and Tarn walked nonchalantly around the camp, clandestinely informing all to covertly ready themselves. Ludvic sent a fellow veteran to tell the perimeter sentries to be alert, and to check if they lived. The sentries would be the first targets. Other guards loitered near the wagons closest to the posted sentries, ready to reinforce their comrades when the attack came.

At Ludvic's seasoned suggestion, the bulk of the caravan guards took to their bedrolls near the fire, feigning sleep, weapons close at hand. Others pretended to sleep beneath the heavy wagons that blocked the forest from sight. The oxen picket line was moved on the pretence of providing better pasture, but with the purpose of removing them from the foreground. When the guard Ludvic sent to warn the sentries returned, he reported no one missing. None of the sentries had noticed anything out of the ordinary. The night was still. Too still, said one sentry, who reported the normal forest sounds were absent. Torrocka and Yakuth quietly retreated to the meal-wagon, while Tarn and Ludvic stood at the end of the enclosure, listening. Tarn resisted the impulse to loosen his sword in its scabbard.

Before the partial moon rose, but well after full darkness, the brief sound of clashing steel preceded two sentries running for camp shouting warnings as they ran. A large, disorganized band of screaming bandits burst out of the forest brandishing swords and axes, hot in pursuit of the two sentries. The wild and bloodthirsty charge the attackers hoped did not have the desired effect. Instead of panic and disorganization, caravan guards rolled out of blankets fully dressed, awake, weapons in hand, ready to take up positions. Without the element of surprise, the charging bandit's superior numbers instilled determination, not fear.

"Form a skirmish line," shouted Ludvic. "Form up on me. Keep it tight! Spears at the ready. Wait for my order." Half a dozen caravan guards had previous soldering service. They steadied the nerves of the less experienced. Ludvic had interspersed the veterans for that reason. No two caravan guards had the same equipment. Weapons were a personal choice. All had swords or axes, but spears and shields were sparse and few. Lacking military precision, Tarn and four others took a step forward and raised spears to their shoulders. One other had a bow that he used for hunting small game as they followed the caravan routes. "Wait for it lads," said Ludvic, sword in the air. "Now!" and brought his arm down quickly.

Taking one step forward, Tarn released the first spear from his left hand, another step and he threw the second while the first was still in the air. Both spears flew true and struck two men to the ground. His spear companions did equally well, but too few spears did nothing more than briefly turn bandit heads as their comrades fell. Drawing Kalen's sword, Tarn charged the main group of bandits howling his northern battle cry.

Ludvic's mouth fell open. The small hairs on the back of his neck rose when Tarn charged the bandits, screaming his barbarous challenge. He recovered quickly from his initial shock, muttering, "Of all the dim-witted, foolhardy—Mithras save me from fools, and whores with the drip!" To the remainder of the men, Ludvic ordered, "Hold the line here at the top of the wagons. They can't surround ye if ye keep the wagons on either side," then more loudly he yelled, "Slow down lad. Do ye think to claim all the glory for thyself?"

By the time Tarn and the bandits collided midfield, Ludvic was still fifteen steps behind him. The sound of fugitive, clashing steel interrupted the stillness of the cool spring night, replacing the usual assortment of forest noises with battle din. Out in front of the rest, Tarn cut the first, fleet-footed bandit down ere the rogue swung his short sword. Lacking discipline, the attackers had spread out, weakening their charge, rather than staying in a compact bunch. A savage, two-handed stroke, swung across his middle, sliced open the belly of an attacker who skidded across the damp grass too late trying to avoid the big barbarian who hurtled through their ranks, long sword sweeping side to side like a scythe in a wheat field. The raider fell to the ground, clutching his stomach, where twisted coils of ruptured intestines rolled out to mingle with the tall grass and thistles.

Two caravan raiders converged on Tarn from either side. Taking the closest, he swept a descending sword wide, allowing his momentum to carry him past and spun around quickly to thrust his sword through the man's lower abdomen as he turned to keep facing his opponent. He caught movement in his peripheral vision and dropped to one knee. The second raider's swift steel sliced the air that his had head occupied a brief heartbeat earlier.

Tarn withdrew his blood-smeared blade from the bandit's stomach and swung it at the knee level. The hardened God-steel severed his attacker's leg, biting into the femur bone of the second. As the yowling man crumpled in furious agony, Tarn served up a heart thrust, ending his assailant's pain and sprang to his feet. Spinning to his left, the agile youth parried a high stroke. Ere his assailant brought his blade down to protect his exposed chest, Tarn sliced him open from shoulder to waist.

To his right and immediately behind him, a violent clash of steel rang out. He ducked instinctively and glanced over his shoulder to find Ludvic holding a sword locked in his own, having saved him from a fatal blow. The wily veteran spun unexpectedly into the bandit, delivering an elbow smash, reversed his sword hilt grip and plunged his sword-point through the light chainmail and into his opponent's abdomen. Ludvic withdrew his sword and prepared to meet his next foe, briefly catching Tarn's eye and nodding once briskly.

"Have at em' lad!"

Two greasy-haired attackers rushed Tarn before he could reply. It was everything he could do to block their flashing steel. Twice he retreated, leading them away from Ludvic who had his hands full. Circling to his right and backward, Tarn endeavoured to cause one to step into the other's path, to foul their swords. Well-versed with this ploy, they kept wide apart. The lout on Tarn's left thrust at his middle while the other came at him with an overhand swing. Tarn leaped sideways, avoiding the slashing blade, and beat the thrusting sword to the ground with his sword. He stepped down hard on the flat side of the blade.

The slashing attacker circled to his unprotected side, slipping into position.

When Tarn applied his full weight to the sword trapped beneath his foot, it forced the man to let go of the hilt, but not soon enough. As the man attempted to hang onto the pommel and yank his blade free, Tarn cleaved through the exposed neck. The second assailant moved in, taking advantage of Tarn's preoccupation. Fast death swooped down. Tarn crouched low, buying a precious heartbeat of distance. Silver swung up, halting the descending sword mere inches from his face. A primal, throaty snarl, which revealed his teeth, rumbled out of Tarn's throat. The bandit leaned into the blade, attempting to use his superior height and leverage to force Tarn's blade into his face.

Mountain forged legs powered Tarn to his feet so that he faced his adversary behind locked swords, forcing the attacker to step backward. A fur-clad boot kicked out, catching his foe between the legs. Testicles turned to a pulpy mash. The bandit doubled over in a whirlpool of pain. Bloodstained steel chopped through hardened-leather armour, severing the spinal cord. The man crumpled to the ground.

At the sound of metal scraping on metal, Tarn side-stepped right, but not before the halberd opened a wound along his side, skating across three ribs. The young Atlantean pivoted backward on his right leg and blocked a thrust from the five-foot-long combination spear and battle-axe. Tarn feinted to his left, trying to draw the halberdier into a false move, and retreated quickly, ere he committed himself to the right. Only his tigerish speed saved him from being impaled as the bandit anticipated his ploy. The next time the halberdier thrust at his middle, Tarn dove underneath the long blade, somersaulting inside the halberdier's guard. He rose half a pace from his surprised adversary and plunged his sword through the studded armour.

After dispatching two more bandits in as many strokes—bandits that he only now realized were fleeing back the way they had come—he found himself standing alone, staring at the backs of those who fled to the safety of the forest. A handful of paces to his right, Ludvic dealt a deathblow, and looked around for another target, blowing from the short and intense fight. Ludvic bled from an assortment of small cuts and scratches, and his shoulder felt bruised where he had turned to block a spear swung like a staff. Tarn found two minor lacerations on his arm, and the cut on his side from the halberd required a score of stitches.

Meeting Tarn's gaze, Ludvic displayed his ivories and remarked, "My leg was beginning to limber when the cowardly dogs bolted."

"Aye Ludvic, 'twas hardly a full practise session," Tarn nodded, echoing Ludvic's easy acceptance of the life and death struggle they had triumphed over.

"Mitra! But this blade work has built a thirst. What do ye say we sharpen our swords over a mug, lad?" Ludvic suggested, slapping Tarn on the shoulder.

"Afore or after Yakuth departs the ale wagon?"

Ludvic followed Tarn's gaze to see two guards lifting the caravan master's large body out of the safety of the food- and ale wagon. The inglorious scene, enhanced by the euphoria that rides victory, prompted them to bellow in mirth. All heads turned to behold the blood-spattered pair who belly-laughed amidst the sylvan abattoir of bandits strewn at their feet. Hooking their arms jovially around each other's shoulders, they walked to the ale keg laughing as hard as when they started. The look Yakuth gave them as they filled their mugs ignited another bout that lasted halfway through their first ale.

As a group, the other caravan guards came forward to cheerfully congratulate and convey hearty appreciation. Every man in the camp held a healthy measure of respect for the fur-clad youth and the crippled veteran who recklessly charged the main force of bandits by themselves. Unbeknownst to the pair, their rash charge had split the bandits' formation, allowing the caravan guards to easily repel the more numerous, but scattered numbers.

Porters brought buckets of water and rags for them to wipe the blood from their clothes and blades. Each wiped their steel, before attending to themselves. Once they were cleaned up, Torrocka sewed Tarn's cut shut, all the while elaborating on the wisdom of keeping the wound clean until it had closed. Trying not to flinch, Tarn endured Torrocka's words and needle while downing another mug of ale. Much to Tarn's surprise, Yakuth congratulated each with a small bag of gold.

"We lost three good men. Four others are wounded and will not fight again for the remainder of the trip," began Yakuth, speaking to Tarn. "I will pay ye half that amount again if ye hire on until we reach Galpernia?"

Tarn looked at Ludvic, who nodded and said, "That be a more than fair wage lad. The other a battle bonus."

At Tarn's agreement, Yakuth smiled happily and parted their company for Torrocka's silky words. After Yakuth ambled away, Tarn brought out his whetstone. And though no one expected another attack that night, adrenaline and excitement were slow to leave. Ludvic disappeared to attend to camp duties. He ordered shortened watches, two guards per post, and returned to find Tarn finishing touching up his blade. Barely scratched, Kalen's sword remained razor-sharp despite the studded leather and chainmail it had sliced through and punctured. Ludvic appraised the quality of the blade for the first time.

"That be a fine sword, lad. I've ogled many blades���none finer. Why it hardly be nicked or dulled at all," he finished, glancing at Tarn.

Just as Tarn knew Ludvic would not ask him outright, he also understood the old warrior would not take offence if he declined to answer. He remembered Ludvic's charge after him and the sword he had blocked. The likeable old-timer deserved his trust. More than that, he had earned it.

"'Tis a long tale. Much of which I have yet to fathom," Tarn admitted. "Torrocka and I hail from Atlantis. I grew up in the mountains of Asgard after I watched her golden towers topple, and the western ocean swallow her whole. I was but five at the time. After she sank, while journeying to my father's village, he recounted a legend about a sword. This sword belonged to Atlantis. My father always said their steel was stronger and lighter than any other. Upon his deathbed, he tasked me to unearth it. 'Tis all that remains of my mother's people, and now, of him."

Ludvic scrutinized Tarn closely as if he struggled to believe him. After a long pause, he said, "Life and death be linked, lad. Atlantis was a fine city, and ye possess a fine blade to remember her by. Now, let me regale ye with tales from a fearsome war I fought for the King of Nemedia over a fresh mug of ale."