The Thrice Named Man XIV: Imperator by Miller Hector

Author:Miller, Hector
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-12-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 20 – Little Wolf

I harboured no illusions about what the guards would believe when they saw my iron buried to the hilt in the chest of Tharuarus. I placed my boot on the dead war chief’s torso and retrieved the weapon in a spray of red, just as the two axemen stormed into the pavilion.

The Goth nearest to me swung his war axe like a farmer wielding a scythe, intent on chopping me in half. I lunged to get inside the arc of the blade, the haft of his weapon striking the boiled leather strips of my skirt at the same instant that I rammed my dagger into the unprotected base of his neck.

From the corner of my eye, I noticed Little Wolf cutting with his longsword, the edge flashing from high to low. I was left with no option but to turn my back to the second guard and deflect the power of Ulfilas’s strike. The ringman’s blade ripped scales from my armour, and I felt the familiar sting as the iron drew blood.

I steeled myself for the impact of the second guard’s axe, but instead I heard a gasp followed by a scream in the tongue of the Goths as Gordas’s battle-axe crushed the skull of the man intent on striking me from behind.

Suddenly outnumbered, Ulfilas used the brief respite to sweep his blade across the leather at the far side of the tent and ducked through the slit.

I thought on Segelinde’s words and made to follow the Goth, but Gordas grabbed my arm in a grip of iron. “They come, Eochar”, he said. “There are too many, you cannot kill them all.”

Gordas pushed the flap aside and we peeked at the camp that, in the space of fifty heartbeats, had fallen into chaos. Warriors were shouting warnings of treachery, reaching for their blades. Others were fitting armour or calling their fellows to arms.

“It is now or never”, I said.

Gordas led the way, sprinting to where our horses were tethered. In one motion, he slashed both reins free with his dagger and vaulted onto the back of his mare. I gained the saddle in a manoeuvre that would have brought a smile to the Hun’s lips had he seen it.

Gordas dug his heels into the flanks of his mount. Before the horse could react, a burly warrior burst from between two tents and rammed his spear into the mare’s neck. The horse whinnied in pain, stumbled, and went to ground. My friend somehow avoided being crushed by his mount, but his attacker was not as fortunate. In a last act of defiance, the horse fell on top of the Goth.

Gordas landed on his feet like a feline, crouching beside the mare. Without concern for his own wellbeing, he removed his helmet and reached out to gently stroke the neck of the dying animal while he whispered words in the tongue of the Huns. Seemingly in a trance, Gordas paid no heed to the Goth warriors who came rushing through the gaps between the tents and wagons.

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