The Staff and the Sword 01 A Cast of Stones by Patrick W. Carr

Author:Patrick W. Carr [Carr, Patrick W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC042080, FIC042000, FIC026000, Christian fiction, Fantasy Fiction
ISBN: 9781441261021
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

17

Naaman’s Tale

ROKHA SLIPPED BEHIND HIM and drew her sword. Errol ducked his head and tensed, waiting for the blow against his neck. Instead a soft tug pulled at his wrists and his hands came free. Rokha darted to the front of the tent and in one smooth motion tossed him his staff before she rushed out into the night.

Errol found Ru looking at him with his sword drawn. He clenched the wood in his fists.

“Move, boy. What do you think I pay my guards for?”

The night air cooled the sweat on his face as he lunged from the tent. His palms caressed the ash grain. Outside Ru’s tent chaos ruled. Two of the fifteen, Norad and Jesper, were down, arrows jutting from their chests. Every other guard fought, pressed by one or more attackers.

Sven swung a massive sword, keeping two men at bay despite the shaft sticking from his thigh.

Errol watched as the massive Soede clubbed one man in the head. The man collapsed to lay in the dirt and shadows. Sven parried the frantic rush of the remaining attacker as he stepped on the fallen man’s neck.

A sharp crack of breaking bone rose above the din.

Without warning a man leapt at Errol out of the darkness.

Eck.

The whine of steel cutting the air sounded. Eck’s punja sticks ended in four-pronged blades.

“Miss me, boy? I said I’d be back.”

Errol moved left and parried, lashing out with one foot as Jhade had taught him. His heel caught Eck’s kneecap with a crunch. He ignored the cry of pain, turned off the parry to strike Eck in the head and kicked the other kneecap.

Eck fell face-forward, thrashing against the ground, screaming.

Errol struck him behind the ear for good measure.

He wheeled, searching for his next opponent.

There were none.

The fight had ended as quickly as it began. Silence covered the camp, as if the attack had never happened. Except for Norad and Jesper. Rokha knelt by each man, feeling at the throat. She gave a shake of the head and aimed a savage kick at an attacker who lay facedown in front of the two dead guards.

Sven sat on a crate, his hand pressed against the flesh around the arrow embedded in his thigh. “Grub! Get your lazy bones over here.”

The cook came running. Blood traced a rivulet down one side of his forehead, across his eyebrow, and down his jawline. “You want me to pull that arrow, Sven?”

The Soede put his hand on his sword. “I wouldn’t trust you to lance a boil. Rokha will pull it. Bring me something to eat. I’m starving.”

The cook laughed and turned for the supply wagon.

“And don’t forget the ale,” Sven yelled after him. “I’m thirsty.”

Errol moved around the camp. Most of the guards bore only minor injuries, but a few were major. On the far side of the wagons, a line of bodies gave mute testimony to the path Skorik had taken during the fight.

Errol counted them. Six. The first had killed six men in the space of a minute.

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