The attacked arrived. Led by the fox Windclaw, six of Jald's
swordsbeasts charged up the dunes, blades out, scorning safety and throwing
cautions to the winds, each hungered for battle and anticipation of
spilling the blood of their enemies.
Their joy was short lived.
A group of witless scouts were seen first, around ten in all, ragged and garbed in tattered uniforms, upon seeing Jald's forces despair dawned upon their features and the patrol turned to run back to their camp.
Windclaw's amber eyes were alight with the flames of battle, his gaze as cold as the steel in one paw. "We aren't taking prisoners!" He called to his troops. "Kill them all!"
Let the cowardly archers and slingers worry about prisoners and their precious interrogations, Windclaw wanted combat, as did those with him.
A ferret, more nimble then the rest was upon a straggling rat, blade flashing, ready to cleave through the foe's neck.
Steel met steel with a rush and showering of sparks as the rat whirled around, drawing a sword from his belt in a single, expert flourish.
The ferret's features were filled with confusion, barely able to parry a slash from the rat's blade that would have opened his stomach.
The fleeing scouts turned, each drawing a weapon from their belt and spring forward to meet the swordsbeasts.
A single slash from one fox hit the ferret in the leg, a strangled gasp emerging in a rush of air as he fell to one knee. The rat and the fox stabbed together and the ferret fell, pierced through his chest and stomach.
The swords beasts stumbled back, Windclaw barely avoiding a scything blow from a mace that would have cut his mercenary career rather short. These were NOT scouts.these were expert fighters!
The stoat wielding the morning star moved forward, Windclaw allowed his instincts to direct his movements, dropping to a crouch and thrusting up, taking the stoat through the middle.
Yanking his blade free, not minding the body hitting the sand, Windclaw raised his sword to block a saber thrust. He did not succeed, the blade stuck him in the side, red staining on his blue cloak, he stepped back, gasping until he found his voice. Windclaw the fox called out a word that had never before been heard among the swordsbeasts of the Calpathions: "Retreat!"
Retreat the swordsbeasts did, some were wounded, though-besides their unfortunate ferret confederate.- they had sustained no casualties, their opponents outnumbered them and had had the advantage of surprise.
The swordsbeasts obeyed with alarming readiness, each whirling around and running from the battle. The same eagerness that had catapulted them into the trap now served to free them from it.
The soldiers under Cirath's command had taken two casualties but few were injured and the survivors were in high spirits. They had just driven the fabled swordsbeasts of the Calapthions: The prize fighters in the mercenary world, whose strength kings had paid fortunes to wield, had been defeated.
They did not pursue, the swordsbeasts were faster then them, more fleet of foot. They retreated back to their own camp while Cirath's soldiers, faces flushed with triumph returned to their commander and the Death Watch camps, not bothering to replace their armor.
Windclaw nearly collapsed when he and his troops arrived back at the Calpathion camp, one paw clutched his injury where blood ran freely. He did not know of Cirath or Jethorin's arrival, all he knew was he and his men had lost.he would have to tell Jald this. The camp seemed so far away though.and he felt so tired.
The ground seemed to rush up to him, a sword falling from his grasp. His amber eyes closed and the dark realm of unconsciousness took him.
It did not occur to Windclaw before that he and his troops could have been struck down by cunning. Even for a fox, Windclaw's strength lay in his mind.
And besides, Windclaw was young and the young know they will live forever.
Their joy was short lived.
A group of witless scouts were seen first, around ten in all, ragged and garbed in tattered uniforms, upon seeing Jald's forces despair dawned upon their features and the patrol turned to run back to their camp.
Windclaw's amber eyes were alight with the flames of battle, his gaze as cold as the steel in one paw. "We aren't taking prisoners!" He called to his troops. "Kill them all!"
Let the cowardly archers and slingers worry about prisoners and their precious interrogations, Windclaw wanted combat, as did those with him.
A ferret, more nimble then the rest was upon a straggling rat, blade flashing, ready to cleave through the foe's neck.
Steel met steel with a rush and showering of sparks as the rat whirled around, drawing a sword from his belt in a single, expert flourish.
The ferret's features were filled with confusion, barely able to parry a slash from the rat's blade that would have opened his stomach.
The fleeing scouts turned, each drawing a weapon from their belt and spring forward to meet the swordsbeasts.
A single slash from one fox hit the ferret in the leg, a strangled gasp emerging in a rush of air as he fell to one knee. The rat and the fox stabbed together and the ferret fell, pierced through his chest and stomach.
The swords beasts stumbled back, Windclaw barely avoiding a scything blow from a mace that would have cut his mercenary career rather short. These were NOT scouts.these were expert fighters!
The stoat wielding the morning star moved forward, Windclaw allowed his instincts to direct his movements, dropping to a crouch and thrusting up, taking the stoat through the middle.
Yanking his blade free, not minding the body hitting the sand, Windclaw raised his sword to block a saber thrust. He did not succeed, the blade stuck him in the side, red staining on his blue cloak, he stepped back, gasping until he found his voice. Windclaw the fox called out a word that had never before been heard among the swordsbeasts of the Calpathions: "Retreat!"
Retreat the swordsbeasts did, some were wounded, though-besides their unfortunate ferret confederate.- they had sustained no casualties, their opponents outnumbered them and had had the advantage of surprise.
The swordsbeasts obeyed with alarming readiness, each whirling around and running from the battle. The same eagerness that had catapulted them into the trap now served to free them from it.
The soldiers under Cirath's command had taken two casualties but few were injured and the survivors were in high spirits. They had just driven the fabled swordsbeasts of the Calapthions: The prize fighters in the mercenary world, whose strength kings had paid fortunes to wield, had been defeated.
They did not pursue, the swordsbeasts were faster then them, more fleet of foot. They retreated back to their own camp while Cirath's soldiers, faces flushed with triumph returned to their commander and the Death Watch camps, not bothering to replace their armor.
Windclaw nearly collapsed when he and his troops arrived back at the Calpathion camp, one paw clutched his injury where blood ran freely. He did not know of Cirath or Jethorin's arrival, all he knew was he and his men had lost.he would have to tell Jald this. The camp seemed so far away though.and he felt so tired.
The ground seemed to rush up to him, a sword falling from his grasp. His amber eyes closed and the dark realm of unconsciousness took him.
It did not occur to Windclaw before that he and his troops could have been struck down by cunning. Even for a fox, Windclaw's strength lay in his mind.
And besides, Windclaw was young and the young know they will live forever.