Seeking the Veil, Part 2

This is War

Heart pounding in his ears, Hestea turned the sword, threw a wad of icy mud in the enemy's face and rolled to the side. "Agh!" he swore, unable to shake the man. Fire lanced through his shoulder, blade of the enemy running red as his mail shirt peeled away.

The fighting covered the slopes, a quick glance couldn't tell Hestea who was winning, but at long last he had found some of Orangebeard's men.

"Help!" It wasn't his finest moment. But Hestea wrinkled his nose and called it again as he hobbled, raising the hammer to block a swing that shook his arm. The black one wasn't big, but he was tough.

Hestea sucked breath as he fended off another blow, wondering if this was the end. "What would bloody father say now?" he grumbled as he gasped for breath and swung his hammer. A speech came to mind, long and critical.

Perhaps death would be better.

Then a blur passed to his right. The Saeordin swat the arrow from the air, ducked low and moved in. Here it comes. Hestea tensed, ready to fight to the last, exhaustion pulling at his arms; legs heavy, each movement clumsy. I'm sorry, Mother.

Then a giant leapt over Hestea, swords swinging, his head a small stone lodged between mountainous shoulders and massive arms.

"Smallhands!" Hestea cried, smile cutting his face in two.

The Saeordin drew back, catching the blows; mud dripping from his brow as he turned to the left, the right, sword flashing, metal ringing. Smallhands grunted, teeth pulled back on his small mouth, ducking his shoulder as he swung, lunged forward and crashed into the enemy like a boulder. They slid in the mud, Smallhands rising up, knee pressing into the Saeordin's chin, then he shoved as he howled. Hestea heard bone snap, and then Smallhands rose.

"Are ya ok?" the giant mercenary asked with a smile, his voice smooth and quiet. Hestea stared past at the soldier. He wasn't sure if he replied.

"You are in shock?" Smallhands bobbed his little head as he shifted his grip on his swords, eyes scanning.

Hestea shook his head. "Yes." How could he deny it?

"Ya will get used to it."

Or die... There wasn't much choice.

Smallhands tensed, then from the right, Rufus Stormbow came charging. Dark eyes, dark hair, his flanged mace roared through the air as he took the legs out from under some Saeordin bastard sneaking up on them; planted a dagger with a blossom of red, then barked a laugh as he caught sight of Smallhands and Hestea. "Fight's near done! Come on," he called as he turned, treading over a black soldier, boot crushing a limp arm.

Hestea breathed and swallowed as he looked around at the scored hillside. Snow and ice had been turned to mud, boulders had been toppled, trees had been rent. Smoke still trailed into the sky from some stray burning tents up the slope, and lifeless figures lay strewn about. Many wore black, some did not. "Too many."

But the fighting had shifted. A clump of activity was up the hill, it looked fierce, it looked terrible, but it looked like they were winning.

A flash of light, a roar of fire and part of the hill crumbled away, taking a score of black figures down it like some dread slide.

"Hurry!" shouted Rufus, worry in his voice. "Dietra won't wait for us!"

Smallhands jogged forward, massive swords held in each hand, his elk skin rippling from his broad shoulders as they trudged up. "Let us go me friend," he called over his shoulder, smile strange and out of place.

Hestea shuffled forward, hammer in his hand, fingers feeling numb, mouth dry. "So this is war."