Then, suddenly, Subikahn gasped.
The sound proved so compelling, Saviar could not help glancing toward his twin, even though it opened his defenses. Luckily, no one gaffed him through the hole. Subikahn remained standing, his motions as swift and graceful as ever, at least to Saviar's exhausted eye. Whatever had happened was not a deathblow. Subikahn stared out over the enemies to the newcomers; and something there held his gaze as much as any one thing could keep the focus of a man engaged in battle, hemmed in by enemies.
Though concentrating on his opponents, Saviar dared to look.The man at the head of the Eastern cavalry caught his eye like a golden beacon. Tall and blond, unarmored and unhelmeted, he stood out magnificently among the swarthy Easterners, which also made him an obvious target. Saviar's own resistance decreased noticeably as the pirates turned some of their attention to this new threat.
"It's Talamir," Subikahn said. Though he spoke barely above a whisper, Saviar heard him. "Talamir's… alive. He's alive."
For the moment. Hard-pressed to his own defense, Saviar did not speak aloud, even had he had something useful to say. The sight clearly galvanized Subikahn, whose strokes became as swift and vigorous as if he had newly joined the fight. Saviar did not try to match him. The sharp sting of small cuts and injuries seemed the only thing keeping him awake. He plunged back into a battle that, at least now, seemed to have a positive end.
It took General Valr Magnus longer to clear a path along the beach, and he arrived just in time to see Calistin tumble down a pile of the dead and dying. Without a thought, he dove for Firuz, only to find himself unexpectedly jerked backward by his sword arm. He whirled, catching his balance, but unable to stop the movement from appearing awkward. He slashed blindly at the person or object that had stopped him, but his sword cut through empty air.
Magnus found himself staring at a warrior he had never seen before, clearly of the continental forces by his dress and a Northman by coloring. He wore no armor, jewelry, or adornments. His tunic and breeks, though simple, looked richly tailored; and he wore a sword at either hip. "Sheathe your weapon, Valr," the man commanded.
Affronted, Valr Magnus ignored the demand. "I'm not letting Calistin fight that abomination alone."
"Nor should you." With a movement so quick Magnus could not follow it, the stranger drew and flipped his own right-hand weapon so that the hilt faced the general. "But your blade can't hit him. Mine can."
Magnus blinked, uncertain. From the corner of his eye, he saw Calistin spin to his feet and fling himself at the monster again. There was no time for questioning. The offered weapon appeared finely polished, oiled and cared for. Dutifully, he slammed his sword into its sheath and closed his fingers around the other's hilt. For an instant, his touch met resistance, and the stranger looked distressed. Then, it came free in Valr Magnus' hand, and the extent of its fineness became abundantly clear. The balance awed him, a perfection he would not have believed any blacksmith could achieve. The blade glimmered, just heavy enough for solid momentum and steel integrity, yet light for speed. The split-leather haft fit his hand as if crafted especially for it. Whirling, he breathed out a grateful "Thank you," as he charged Firuz.
Calistin became a golden blur of motion, his sword slicing nicks into flesh that felt as thick and solid as wood. Firuz' attacks still came as swiftly and with the force of a galloping steed, but Calistin never held still long enough for the massive sword to touch him. A couple of times, it came dangerously close, rocking him in the wave of air that accompanied its passing. Always, that proved enough to dislodge Calistin and to steal any opening he might have for a dangerous riposte. His left arm ached excruciatingly, and his right felt heavy with exhaustion.
They both knew time favored the Kjempemagiska. Calistin's constant need for motion would become his undoing. Fatigue took even the gods, eventually; and both attack and defense required Calistin to make ten or twenty movements for every one of the giant's. It would only take one miscalculation, a single lucky swing, to remove Calistin permanently from the battle.
But Calistin refused to consider the odds. He defied them daily. Three to one, a hundred to one, a million to one; all that mattered was the one. He drove in again and again, hoping fortune would favor him with just enough time to jab in a lethal blow. All he needed was an opening. He would handle the rest.
And that opening did finally come, after what seemed like grim hours of dodge and slash, whirlwind grace and steel lethality. Calistin managed to stab his blade deeply into the giant's left leg.
Firuz let out a bellow of outrage and pain, stock-still for a moment in deadly stalemate. If he moved too quickly, he might dislodge the sword causing dangerous tearing or bleeding. But, if he remained still too long, he gave Calistin the opportunity to shove it deeper or jerk it loose with the same horrible consequences.
The moment lasted less than a small, grim fraction of a second. As Calistin wrestled to wrench the gouge into a tear, Firuz kicked him with his unharmed leg. Calistin sprang, but his hold on his own hilt limited his movement.The giant's shin caught him an off-balance blow with enough force to free sword and Renshai, sending them spinning in an awkward arch.
Then, another blade joined the battle, in the grip of Valr Magnus.
Twisting, trying to keep his steadying movements unpredictable, Calistin shouted a warning. "No, Valr! Your sword can't-"
But, miraculously, it did. The blade carved a line of leather from Firuz' sandal ties and kissed open a spot of blood just below his knee.
Calistin charged in again, with renewed vigor. The two men fell into a cooperative rhythm, as they had on the shore, two insidious mosquitoes assaulting their massive foe. Magnus had the great advantage of height and reach, but Calistin moved more quickly and with a fluid grace that seemed more liquid than human. Magnus demonstrated a great skill and quickness of his own, and his strength made Calistin's seem paltry.
Then, suddenly, laughter filled Calistin's head.*She's wavering.*
Calistin had no idea what Firuz meant, nor did he care. He knew better than to converse during a battle of this magnitude. A truly competent torke would sprawl him the moment he opened his mouth, a well-taught lesson. Yet, even without question, the answer came. With an abruptness Calistin had to attribute to magic, Firuz' movements accelerated. The change caught both men off guard, but Valr Magnus took the first blow. It caught him hard in the side, hurling him into the air. Blood splashed Calistin, then he found himself too hard-pressed to his own defense to worry about his companion. *Stand still, you gnat!*
In comparison to Firuz' newfound speed, Calistin felt as if he might have obeyed the command. He found himself pushed beyond the limit to dodge the giant's wild blows, more by anticipation than skill. Things made sudden sense. Whatever had curtailed the Kjempemagiska 's magic had started to fail. Calistin had no idea of the full range of Firuz' abilities, but he knew he had better act swiftly. The sooner he took the giant down, the less chance Firuz would have to regather his power, to demonstrate the supernatural talents he was gradually regaining.
Calistin bore in, sacrificing agility for speed. The best defense is a dead enemy. He sprang for Firuz' thigh.
But the giant's superhuman speed defied even Calistin. Another kick sent him sprawling, then the giant's sword screamed down on the Renshai.
Battle-trained eyes knew death when they saw it, and Calistin could not move quickly enough. I'm dead. Nevertheless, he flung himself sideways, attempting to roll.
"No!" someone screamed. A small figure flew over Calistin. In the instant it took the sword to skewer this new body, Calistin's roll carried him free. His rescuer collapsed, run through by Firuz' blade, flopping onto Calistin's trailing and injured left arm.