Amoni looked like she was going to say something. Instead, she shot a look over her left shoulder, snatched up her cahulaks, and sprang to her feet. The motion tipped over her mug, and precious ale soaked the ground.
“What is it?” Ruhm asked.
She stared intently into the darkness beyond the fire’s glow. “Probably nothing,” she said. “I’m just a nervous type, right?”
Aric combed through his memory of the seconds before Amoni rose. Damaric had been saying something. Had there been a sound from out in the wastes? The scrape of bare feet on sand?
The mekillots grumbled and snorted, making Aric nervous. A couple of other soldiers emerged from wagons. They stood close to Amoni, joining her in scanning the night. “You heard it too?” one asked.
“I heard something. So do the beasts.”
The other soldier took a step away from the fire, toward the pitch-black desert.
It was his last step.
A chatkcha arced out of the night.
It caught the unsuspecting soldier at the top of his nose, cutting across both eyes. The man had started to move his head, hearing the whistling sound as it approached, but he didn’t move it enough. The weapon made a slicing sound as it hit him, then kept going, spinning back to its thrower’s hand.
Up and down the caravan, soldiers spilled from the argosies or lurched up from around the fires. Some were half-dressed, others fully armored with weapons at the ready. They all dashed to the caravan’s east side, where the first attack had come from.
The next assault was a hail of stones, as big as a goliath’s fist. A soldier near Ruhm went down with a gash in his scalp and blood pouring into his eyes. Cries of “Raiders!” rang out.
Aric drew his wooden sword. Ruhm, his greatclub gripped in both hands, looked for someone to use it on. Damaric spun a singing stick, his hands at its middle, its distinctive whistling tones providing a musical counterpoint to the shouts of warriors seeking an enemy.
“What kind of raiders?” Aric asked.
“Dead kind, soon,” Ruhm replied.
“Face us!” Damaric called, impatient to start the fighting. “Don’t hide in the dark like old women!”
As if in response, the attackers showed themselves.
Aric wished they hadn’t.
“Halflings!” went the shouts of the soldiers. “It’s halflings!”
Faces painted with what must have been the dried blood of the caravan’s dead, the halflings charged out of the desert screeching incomprehensible words from voracious mouths. They carried every kind of weapon imaginable; ivory swords and obsidian-tipped spears, gouges and gythkas—some wielded the horns of of exotic animals, filed to dagger-sharp points. Most were naked, or nearly so, though a few wore pieces of chitin armor no doubt stolen from previous victims of their raids. Halflings, Aric had heard, bore no trace of humanity. They were savages with only bloodthirstiness and cruelty in their feral little hearts.
It seemed there were hundreds of them.
They swarmed into the Nibenese soldiers, cutting and stabbing as they came.
Damaric stepped to meet the onrush. His rod spun so fast it seemed to be a solid shield, the wider ends batting away halfling weapons and crushing skulls at the same time. Amoni gripped the handle of her cahulaks and swirled them about, four-bladed heads at the rope’s ends slicing through flesh and sending halfling blood spraying into the air. Ruhm seemed pleased to have an enemy he could see, and he waded into their midst, his club flying this way and that in a killing flurry.
For a few moments, Aric thought none of the halflings would reach him. After all, Kadya said he was to be protected. Surely soldiers would surround him any moment, keeping him safe from the raiders.
But Ruhm, Amoni and Damaric were all engaged with multiple opponents, as were the few other soldiers nearby. The halflings kept coming, and when Aric saw the glint in the horrible yellow eyes of one staring right at him, he knew he had met his first foe.
The halfling bore a short spear with an obsidian tip. Ducking around the swarm trying to get at Ruhm, he came straight for Aric. Aric raised his sword. The halfling thrust his spear forward, and Aric parried the attack, wooden blade clacking against the spear’s shaft. But Aric didn’t recover from the parry fast enough to make an attack of his own, and the spear came at him again. Aric stepped back and to the side, bringing the blade around in a down-sweeping motion, left to right. It stopped the spear from stabbing him, but the stone tip sliced across his belly, opening a thin cut.
Sweat was running down Aric’s face, stinging his eyes. He stabbed at the halfling, who beat the blade away. The spear streaked toward Aric again. He lurched backward and caught the shaft in his left hand. With a mighty heave he yanked the halfling toward him and brought his blade up for the killing thrust.
The halfling’s eyes were full of hate, and his scent was rank. He snarled at Aric, then tugged back on the spear. The shaft dragged through Aric’s fist and the obsidian head sliced his palm and fingers. Second blood, and still all that had spilled belonged to the half-elf, none to his savage foe.
He had to do something fast. His comrades battled half a dozen halflings at once, and here he was being sliced to ribbons by a single one. He remembered his battle against four elves, how he had woven a web of shining steel—
But that was the difference, wasn’t it? With steel in his hands, he was a different person. This wooden sword had an edge to it, but it felt like he was fighting with a tree branch.
The halfling nicked his right arm with the spear’s edge. Concentrate, fool! Aric told himself. Ragged gasps of breath tore at his throat.
Aric launched himself forward. The halfling threw his weight to his rear foot, but that didn’t give him enough distance, and Aric landed too close for the spear to come into play. The half-elf’s sword was almost useless at this range, too, but he held it low, point up, and grabbed the halfling’s shoulder in his left hand. He pulled the halfling to him and pushed the blade at the same time. It met resistance, but cut through the halfling’s flesh, glanced off bone, tore at his innards. An expression of dismay and then agony twisted the halfling’s horrible face. His spear fell to the ground and the halfling went limp in Aric’s hands.
Aric shoved him backward, drawing his sword out at the same time. More halflings converged on him, two of them, a female armed with a wrist razor, the other a male with a crude club. Bolstered by his victory, Aric engaged them both at once.
If the halflings had a strategy beyond overwhelming their foes through sheer numbers, none could see it. They had, it was true, picked off soldiers here and there over the last few days, putting the entire expeditionary force on edge. But that slow attrition was forgotten as the halflings surged toward the light, breaking on the Nibenese defenses like a muddy red wave.
The Nibenese goliaths stood more than twice as tall as the halflings, with correspondingly greater reach. Most of the soldiers were armored, and even those who were laborers instead of soldiers had access to shields, and armored wagons to hide behind when the halflings launched aerial bombardments of rocks and chatkchas.
All of which meant the battle was closer than it might have been, had Nibenay’s army been less well trained, disciplined, and equipped, or the halflings less numerous. Aric dispatched his two newest foes with a lucky slash that split one open from his collarbone to the center of his chest, and a precise thrust that pierced the other’s heart. But for every halfling who fell, it seemed two or three more took his place. When he found himself facing three at once, his newfound confidence faltered.