5. Wrong Place, Wrong Time #3
His knee smashed against a protruding cobble as he dropped to the ground, sweeping below the Veyak as it lunged from the sky.
He twisted, wrapped a thread of Air around the creature, and launched it like a sack of stones towards the charging Karvosi.
Just as the creature smashed into the two Matarr at the front of the group, he pushed threads of Air and Spirit into the Veyak’s body and in one smooth motion ripped it in half.
The two halves of the Veyak’s body tumbled and smashed against the ground, blood spraying in all directions. The twenty Karvosi were now six, the rest writhing in agony as their flesh burned, and the acid blood pooled in the cobbles, grey smoke sizzling into the air.
Six was a much more manageable number. Two humans, four Matarr wielding curved, sickle-shaped blades in each hand.
Fane closed the distance in a heartbeat.
He pushed threads of Earth and Spirit into his arm, ducked below the swipe of a sickle set for his neck, and rammed his fist into the breastplate of the wielder’s chest. The force of the strike collapsed the breastplate inwards and sent the Matarr careening backwards, pale purple blood spraying from its mouth.
Whatever gave the blood its colour was much more weakly concentrated in the Matarr, for the stone where it landed didn’t sizzle, emitting only a tiny puff of smoke.
He turned the next strike away with his steel vambrace, twisting and grabbing his attacker’s forearm at the same time.
Using his momentum, he carried forwards and smashed his forehead into the bridge of a Karvosi’s nose, almost finding comfort in the crimson of the blood that sprayed.
As the man reeled backwards, Fane snatched the blade from his hand and spun it into his grip, the leather hilt feeling at home in his grasp.
One quick swing and he opened the man’s throat. A second and he severed a Matarr’s arm. Within moments all around him lay dead or dying, threads of Fire, Spirit, and Air shimmering.
Fane leaned over and snatched one of the sickle blades from the grasp of a dead Matarr.
The hilt was wrought from some kind of bone or horn, embellished with silver and gold, the blade polished to a mirror finish.
He proceeded to use that polished blade to slit the throats of every Karvosi who lay groaning and maimed by the Veyak’s acid blood.
It was such a waste of life, such a pointless action.
But he would not risk them giving chase, even if they somehow managed to overcome their injuries.
When he was done, he looked back at the elves he had been escorting. Six were dead, ripped apart by the Veyaks. And the elf who had been their leader lay injured, both his feet a mess of flesh and bone, the Veyak acid still sizzling.
He looked to the nearest elf. “We need to leave now. More will not be long in giving chase. And I cannot fight every soul in the Karvosi army.”
“What of Laraith?” the elf said, gesturing down to the leader who looked close to losing consciousness, three others huddled about him.
“He will not make the journey. His time is done.”
“His time is not done!” One of three elves tending Laraith’s wounds snapped to her feet, glaring at Fane as though he were Karvosi himself. He could only admire her fury.
“Will you carry him? From here to the gates?”
“If I must.” She did not back down.
“He will slow you down too much. You’ll die with him.”
“Then so be it.”
Fane stared into those raging eyes for just a moment longer, then turned and walked away.
Only his footsteps sounded, his boots clipping the cobbles.
He stopped where his satchel lay against the wall, snatched it up, then slung it over his shoulder.
When he turned back the elf had Laraith in her arms, cradled like a babe.
She was already straining, arms shaking, face tense.
He walked back, looking into her eyes. “What is he to you?”
“My son. I will not leave him.”
Fane drew a long, pensive breath, then slid the sickle into his belt and tucked his arms beneath Laraith’s back and legs. “Give him to me.”
“What will you—”
“Don’t let me think twice, I won’t make the same choice a second time.
Give him to me.” Fane took the elf’s weight and hauled him over his shoulder, ignoring the grunts and groans of pain.
He looked back to the elf’s mother. “If we do not find a healer in time – which it is likely we will not – he will lose his legs or die.”
She stared back at him but said nothing.
Fane nodded, shifting the elf’s weight. As he made to turn, she touched his arm.
“Thank you. You could have left.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I could not. Keep with me. I won’t stop again.”
Fane turned and set off towards the bazaar.
Above him, a roar sounded, rippling across the sky.
He looked up to see an enormous shape falling, wings folded towards the moon, two score of smaller shadows fluttering around it.
Within seconds, it fell from view, and a violent crash soon shook the ground beneath Fane’s feet, nearly sending him stumbling.
He moved faster. Arathín would burn, and he would not lie beneath the ashes.