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CHAPTER 5

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Horns blared forth from below. They'd been spotted, the horns screamed. Warriors piled out of tents, weapons already drawn. They hastily threw on armor while those more prepared began their own charge.

A second horn sounded, more insistent than the first. Any body in forward motion came to a screaming halt. All heads turned back to the command tent. They paid no mind to the approaching warriors or to the short, round man in the middle of them.

A form emerged from the large black tent in the center of the encampment. It was tall and skeletal thin, sinewy…willowy almost. It moved around the other warriors as if gliding over the ground.

Donjonik's fighters stopped and waited on terrain slightly higher than that of their enemies. No one spoke, no one moved although Artie would have sworn later that he was shivering so bad, his mail had to have been clanking from it. Before them, the black-clad, hunchbacked being strode in their direction. About twenty men fell into step behind it, fanning out to form a well ordered line.

"Insults," Brogan grumbled under his breath. "They send so few, as if we were but children to be easily slaughtered."

"No, Brogan, they send so few because they believe Gerza-Set's magic will defeat us without need for a fight. Be vigilant. If he starts hurling fire, scatter and get as far from him as you can. Regroup as soon as it is prudent to do so. Above all else, keep Artie Nielsen safe." He turned to look down at the reluctant warrior. "Brogan, Sturl, Collis and I will make sure you are where you need to be. Our hopes go with you so be strong. You don't just help us, you help everyone who will be killed or enslaved should you fail."

"No pressure there," he muttered so softly no one could hear it. To them he said, with a confidence he certainly didn't feel, the words they wanted to hear. "I promise you, I'll do my best. Dying isn't on my agenda for today."

While Donjonik didn't understand the last reference fully, he accepted the bravado for what it was, a pledge to either get the job done or die trying. The leader could ask no more than that.

By that time, Gerza-Set was clearly visible. In a strange way he did match the painting, but only vaguely. Artie, glasses pushed up to the bridge of his nose, had a good view of his opponent. The evil demon Gerza-Set was no demon at all but a skeletally thin man, loose limbed and sinuously lithe, giving the appearance of serpentine movement. His face was covered by a mask that resembled the one Michael Myers wore in the movies except it was ebony colored like the rest of his armament. The throat below was protected by segmented chitinous bands so that it was almost impossible to see any of the pallid skin beneath.

On his back was the expected hump, large and deforming, extending from the back of his neck to midway down his back. It was covered by a flowing black cloak. The gloves on his hands were supple, covered with dark plates. Without saying a word, he advanced on them until he and his party were within spitting distance.

Both sides glared at each other, sizing up their opponent's strengths and weaknesses before the battle was engaged. Gerza-Set stepped forward. From his hip, he drew out a long wand which appeared to be attached to his hip by a flexible tube of some kind.

"A hose?" Artie wondered. "A nozzle and a hose? Oh my God, oh my God!" he hollered. "Everyone get back, now! Back!"

No one moved. On either side. Except for the boney black figure. Artie could almost feel the smile emanating from behind the mask. He backed up into several broad bodies. They wouldn't let him pass. With what little time left him, he ran to Donjonik.

"We have to retreat. This isn't magic. It's death in a can!" he yelled at this stalwart fighter. Even as he was speaking, a tongue of flame shot out from the device in Gerza-Set's hands. Artie froze, paralyzed with indecision as several of Donjonik's crew screamed and fled with their clothing ablaze.

Once more Artie rounded on the leader, hands raised, palms up, fingers curled. "It's not magic I tell you. That hump, it's really cylinders filled with a type of petrol mixed with fuel thickeners and propelled by nitrogen gas." He thumped the man hard in the chest with a gloved fist to capture his full attention. "That's not some strange power he has, it's a flame thrower, crude but effective. Don't you get it? He's using technology. Technology," Artie repeated for emphasis, "Not mysterious forces."

"I care not the source of his power, Artie Nielsen," the warrior replied. "I only care about you stopping him. If he is defeated, the others will lose heart and turn tail."

"You hope," murmured Artie doubtfully. But what did he know. This was primitive fighting mixed with primitive superstitions and perhaps the defeat of the snakelike man would cause panic in their opponents.

"He's clearly overconfident," Artie observed. "He thinks his little gizmo is equal to all your men. He kills as many of us as he can and then have his men destroy the rest of you as you flee."

"We will not run," Brogan assured him.

"Then he will decimate your numbers by fire, and once seriously outnumbered, his twenty men will be able to handle the rest."

"You have no faith in us," the warrior observed dryly.

Artie snorted and the sound surprised him. "The odds were the same as yesterday, and you ended up in the forest to save your lives."

Every muscle in Donjonik's body tensed. Clearly, he didn't like having that fact pointed out to him.

Sarcasm crept into the huge fighter's voice. "So what do you suggest, oh most brilliant and fiercest of warriors?"

"Cut it out!" Artie griped. "I'm serious. Can't you see what's going on here? We're fighting flesh and blood helped along by science. We just have to damage the fuel pack he wears on his back and the flame thrower will cease to function."

"Which means getting behind him."

"Precisely. Or slashing the hose. Whichever is easiest."

Donjonik bellowed out several names and ordered them to circle and attack from the left. At the same time, he ordered another group to circle around to the right. He and Artie's personal guard stayed in the center. Shields were deployed by all who had them. They all charged at once.

Gerza-Set hesitated for a second. He wasn't sure what direction to spray first. He chose the closest warriors on his right. A few were near enough to feel the flames bite at the skin. Several went down with their furs on fire. Their screams tore through the air. He swung the nozzle around, released a blast at the group in front of him, and kept swinging toward the opposite side.

Shield held high, Brogan raced in. Artie felt Donjonik's meaty hand snag his fur to propel him forward but he was now fighting an enemy and an object he understood and he went willingly. Adrenalin surged through his veins, heat flooded his body, his pulse pounded with an unfamiliar lust to kill the man opposite him. Part of him wondered how much the sword and helmet were manipulating his emotions but he was beyond caring about getting an answer.

A battle cry, every bit as wild as Donjonik's, exploded from his throat and, in the wake of the powerful warrior, he hurtled toward the tall black-clad figure. A blast of orange flame sliced through the air toward them. Donjonik's shield deflected some of it, but not all and the leader's yell of challenge changed to one of pain as the skin on his thigh was seared. He stumbled only a few feet from Gerza-Set. The nozzle swept up again as Artie advanced but before those boney fingers could pull the trigger, Nielsen went airborne. He scaled the back of Donjonik like a quarterback running over the top of his center into the end zone. Only this wasn't for a six lousy points. This was for the entire game.

When Artie's feet hit ground again, he was behind the man with the flame-thrower. Those charged with protecting Gerza-Set were startled to see this short man in their midst but they were trained and possessed years of experience.

The two men nearest Artie slashed out with their weapons. Artie's artifact-influenced mind and body hacked at them. He whirled and pivoted, danced and parried. His blade moved in wide arcs one second and short thrusts the next. The two men nearest him went down. Somehow, the sword darted up again to block something coming at him from just within his peripheral vision. A man screamed, his hand still holding the blade, flying off to the right. Blood splattered everything. Artie tried to turn, to do what he'd been sent to do in the first place but others pressed in on him. There was no way he could keep this up, guided by a magical sword or not.

His mind was flooded with plans and imagery of what to do and how best to do it. Like a chess game, he saw their moves in advance and was there to block most of them. If their blows were hitting him, he was too pumped up to notice.

More screams sounded to his left along with grunts and groans and the pounding of metal on metal. Dust and shredded grasses flew up from beneath their feet. The coppery smell of blood tainted the air. Their armor grew heavier. The heat of battle increased the heat of their bodies. Sweat flew everywhere.

The muscles in Artie's arms and shoulders were soon screaming in agony. His body ached all over but still he swung that sword with every ounce of strength he had. He heard Brogan's deep voice calling him. He ignored it, too afraid to take his eyes off the glinting and flashing blades near him.

A fist curled into the furs on his shoulder. "If you do not do it now, you never will," Donjonik told him. "I will keep them busy."

Spinning around on unsteady feet, Artie saw his quarry a few feet ahead of him, back turned. Clearly the man trusted his fighters to guard his back. What he didn't know is that only one remained. That man slashed at Artie, who blocked it and swung low, taking the man's leg out below the knee. Screaming, he fell.

Flipping the blade in his sweaty hands, Artie stabbed down between the cylinders containing flammable liquid and propellant, driving it in so hard that it pierced right through diamond-hard armor, and straight into Gerza-Set's heart.

With a hiss and a surprised grunt, the skeletal leader of these fighters fell to his knees. A second later he was face down in the dirt and blood, motionless, the victim of two conjoined artifacts that had wanted his life for reasons of their own.

As Donjonik had predicted, the other fighters broke ranks when their leader fell. Their shouts warned everyone else that defeat was at hand. Mass panic caused everyone else in Gerza-Set's small army to flee as fast as their feet could carry them.

The blood boiling in Artie's veins told him to keep after them, to take down each and every one until no one was left but he fought the feeling. It was the combination of the artifacts affecting him. He knew it despite the bloodthirsty fog clouding his thoughts. And so, reluctantly, he let the crimson-stained sword drop to the ground at his feet.