Page 64 of Veinblood
“Veth nalar more.”Shadows coalesce into a spear of darkness. It slides through his armor like it’s butter, tearing a hole through his chest. He staggers, staring down at the wound, before collapsing face-first onto stone.
“Second patrol coming from the south,” one of my men shouts.
More soldiers pour through the southern approach. Twenty of them. Five of our fighters meet them at the narrowest point, steel ringing against steel. One of my archers puts an arrow through a soldier’s eye. The man spins and drops. Another arrow takes the next soldier in the throat. But there are too many, and they’re closing in fast.
Then I see Nyassa rise from concealment, arms raised. Water from the mountain streams respond, rising like serpents. She sends them crashing into the patrol with crushing force. Two soldiers go down, skulls cracking against rocks. A thirdtries to swim against the current and disappears beneath the surface, armor dragging him down.
The flood she creates turns the narrow pass into a killing ground. Soldiers scream as the torrent takes them, those who try to fight the current find themselves smashed against rocks. Armor becomes a death sentence, weighing them down until they disappear beneath the churning water.
I turn back as more soldiers advance. An officer points at me.
“Take the Shadowvein Lord alive. The High Commander wants him breathing.”
Three crossbow bolts whistle toward me. I call shadows to deflect them, darkness wrapping around the arrows like grasping fingers. They fall harmlessly to the ground.
The officer charges. His blade work is professional. He knows what he’s doing. I parry his first thrust. He follows with a series of quick cuts, designed to open my guard.
I give ground, letting him think he’s pressing an advantage. When he commits to a killing thrust, I step aside and grab his extended arm. My knee comes up, meeting his elbow with a wet crunch. The joint bends backward. He screams.
My blade slides between his ribs, finding the gaps in his armor. I twist, shredding his heart. He gurgles blood and goes limp.
“They’re coming from the west!” someone yells.
The third patrol. I count at least fifteen soldiers moving along the western ridge, trying to get above our position. If they succeed, we’re going to be caught in a killing field not of our making.
A young soldier, barely old enough to shave, raises a spearand thrusts it toward my chest. I wrap shadows around the shaft and yank him forward. The motion pulls him off balance. The hilt of my sword strikes his temple with a meaty thud. His eyes roll back and he drops, unconscious but not dead.
I step back, turning just as five soldiers move to surround me.
“Korvain thek nul,” Voidcraft responds, shadows exploding outward and swallowing them. The darkness fills their mouths, their lungs, their eyes. They collapse like puppets with cut strings.
Behind me, water rises from every crack and crevice, forming a new torrent that sweeps through the southern approach. Soldiers scream as the flood takes them.
“They’re drowning!” an officer shouts. “Get out of the water!”
But there’s no escaping it. The narrow defile forces them through Nyassa’s domain, and she controls every drop of water.
A crossbow bolt takes one of our fighters in the left shoulder, spinning him around. Blood streams down his arm, but he keeps fighting. His sword opens a soldier’s stomach, spilling intestines onto the rocks.
Another fighter drives his blade through a soldier’s chest, the point emerging between shoulder blades. The man tries to speak, blood frothing from his mouth, before he slides off the steel and falls.
The western patrol finally reaches their position and begins raining crossbow bolts down on us. Three of our men die instantly, arrows hitting heads and hearts. One is lucky and takes an arrow to the thigh, and he roars in pain and fury, but he’s still alive.
I dodge between the rocks, avoiding the arrows, and comeout behind three soldiers who think they have me trapped. My blade takes the first man’s head clean off. Blood sprays across his companions. The second turns just in time to catch my sword in his chest. I drive it deep, feeling it scrape against his spine.
The third soldier drops his weapon and raises his hands. “I surrender! Please!”
“Mor veth shalein,” I whisper, and shadows wrap around his throat like a garrote. His pleas become wet gurgles as they crush his windpipe. He claws at his neck, trying to tear away shadows that exist between spaces, before dropping to the ground.
“The third patrol is breaking,” an archer calls out, loosing another arrow. It takes a fleeing soldier between the shoulder blades, sending him tumbling down the slope.
But they’re not all fleeing. The western patrols’ commander rallies his remaining men.
“Regroup! Form up. We can still take them!”
His confidence is almost admirable, if misguided. I flow between the rocks, appearing behind their hastily formed line. My blade opens the first soldier’s back in a spray of blood. He arches in agony before collapsing. The second spins to face me. I grab his helmet and twist sharply. His neck breaks with a snap.
The commander sees his men dying and makes a desperate charge. His sword swings with a force born from fear, forcing me to give ground as he presses his attack.
