Revolutions

25 - Teqosa

"Who are you?" Upachu shrieks, stirred awake by the commotion.

Before the man in the slate gray robe can respond, I leap to my feet and swing my sword, slashing at the unmasked, assumed leader. I'm really wishing I possessed my glaive, my weapon of choice, to keep some distance from my target, but there's no time for that just yet. I'll have to be alert for those with torches and avoid–

Before I can formulate a plan, the robed men chant something in a language I've never heard, something menacing with hissing and hard consonants. I'm left to gawk when they finish their incantation, watching those with swords hold their blades, then swipe their hands away from the hilt, a trail of fire following behind and setting their weapons alight. Flaming swords? What kind of witchcraft is this?

Two of the men bring their swords down in a wide swoop. I hop back to avoid the flames, feeling the heat lick my cheeks as it brushes by me. While they're off-balanced, I charge in, spearing one in his stomach, then swing at the other as I remove my sword, its metallic blade now slick with blood. He manages to narrowly avoid getting sliced, contorting his shoulder just enough to be out of reach. Taking two hurried steps toward him, I thrust my sword at his torso before he has a chance to parry, piercing his ribs.

Another two men rush toward Upachu, his panicked cries alerting my attention to his direction. I take off, leaving a few of the red-clothed men standing bewilderedly behind me. With my shoulder, I charge into the nearest man knock him hard enough that we both crash into his accomplice. The three of us tumble onto the ground, shouting incomprehensibly at one another.

Thwack! Thwack!

Looking behind me, Upachu has grabbed a long branch, at one point used to aid in stoking the flames of our campfire, and beats his assailant, swinging the tree limb as violently as an elderly man can. The man on the ground covers his head with both arms, desperately trying to protect himself from the assault.

Crouched on the ground, I swing my sword at the other, distracted member of the group, gashing his leg. He clutches his wounded limb and howls in agony, giving me a brief moment to pull myself off the dirt and stand above him. Spinning the sword around in my hand, I bring the blade down into his chest, a stream of crimson shoots from his mouth in a choking cough. The fire on his sword extinguishes as he collapses to the ground.

Upachu continues beating back his attacker, wildly swinging the branch back and forth. The assailant reaches for his flaming sword and slashes up toward Upachu, narrowly missing with his blade, but catching the branch on fire. Reacting as though bitten by a snake, Upachu drops the thin bough, then looks wide-eyed and panicked at the face cloaked in red cloth.

I dart over, my arm arching wide with sword in hand. The attacker attempts to parry my blade, shielding his body with the sword engulfed in flames. How are his hands not burning at the intensity of the heat? Metal strikes metal with a loud clatter. I bring the sword around and slash diagonally downward, barely catching my foe on his hands as he tries to block. He shouts in pain, loosening his grip on his weapon and staggers back. I strike again and again, hacking at him as he holds his sword horizontally in a desperate effort to protect himself. It's no use: I overwhelm him enough that his guard drops, giving me an opening to chop down, partly splitting his head open and causing him to drop to the ground.

Upachu stares dumbstruck, back to the cart and switching his attention between me and the now-deceased assailant. He pants out a "thank you", lips barely able to form the words. I take the opportunity to switch weapons, walking over to the cart and clutching the glaive in my hands. There's a heft to the weapon, and taking some practice swings to adjust to its balance has an indescribable level of comfort. If these men are going to set fire to their weapons, I want as much distance as possible between me and their attacks.