Another. Another. When no more appeared, Huma risked a peek around the tree trunk. It proved to be a mistake, for the first of the riders appeared at that point and he spotted Huma all too easily.
Huma had chosen this particular tree because of the massive root system that partially extended above-ground. It was a fortunate choice, for the rider, intent on being the first to claim the prize, forced his horse just too close. The left forehoof of the dark steed caught on one of the roots. With a sharp cry, the animal fell forward and the rider was thrown far into the air, finally landing in a contorted heap. Huma assured himself that the rider was dead, and he turned to face the others.
The rest of the riders materialized in a group. The gaps between the trees were so small that the riders were forced to slow down and navigate through the forest one at a time, breaking their loose formation. Huma gave a cry of challenge and charged.
He caught the first of the Black Guard as the rider attempted to bring up an ax for a strike, only to find it had snagged in the branches of the tree. Huma made his attack count, and the man toppled off his mount.
Inspiration came then, and the knight leaped onto the abandoned horse. The animal fought him. Struck by a skull-crushing hoof, one opponent went down as Huma mastered the steed. Fending off the other attacker, Huma urged the animal forward, this time heading south. As he had hoped, the four riders followed.
Something lunged at him. A white blur. Only luck enabled him to catch it on his sword, although the dreadwolf did succeed in tearing apart some of the chain mail on his leg. The knight found himself riding with a still-squirming dreadwolf impaled on his sword. The creature’s weight forced him to virtually drag it along in order to keep his sword. Huma’s arm felt as if it were about to be wrenched off.
The horrific jaws snapped at him, and the sightless eyes rolled in the skull until the dreadwolf finally slid off the sword and tumbled behind Huma. Huma glanced back and saw with horror that the creature was rising as if unharmed. The dreadwolf turned its head just in time to see the front hooves of the first horse of the pursuers come down on it.
The ghoulish creature was trampled without notice and destroyed.
Both his own animal and those of his remaining pursuers were near their limits. Froth spewed from the horse’s mouth. The steed began to stumble as it ran. The knight heard a crash behind him and dared a quick glance. One of the other horses had collapsed, causing another to spill.
Huma brought his mount to a halt, then turned it. The two guardsmen still riding charged him from two sides, their intent to cross him up. The rider to Huma’s right swung a mean blow with his sword, and the rider to the left followed with another an eyeblink later. Huma’s timing was perfect. He blocked the first with his shield and deflected the second with such accuracy that he provided himself with an opening. The tip of his blade caught the rider on the left between the breastplate and helmet. The rider collapsed backward and was dragged on by his unknowing horse.
Unwilling to fight one-to-one, the remaining rider turned back toward his two other comrades, who were extricating themselves from their injured horses. Huma struck wildly and missed a killing blow, but the Guardsman fell off his horse and did not rise from the ground.
By now, the other dreadwolves had returned. Huma’s horse wobbled and fell to its knees; the knight jumped off and away before the beast collapsed on him. He then stood, shield and sword in hand, and faced the five creatures and the two riders who had regrouped. A stark realization that he would die clouded his mind. When the first of the dreadwolves lunged for his throat, he met it with the overwhelming thrust of one whose sole remaining goal is to take as many of the enemy with him as possible. Thus, he cut, chopped, and thrust almost blindly, seeing little clearly any more. Even the shield became a weapon as he brought it down on at least one white form, hard enough to crush a skull. Yellowed fangs dripping ichor flashed by his face. Steel threatened to divide his throat in two. Huma met each attack and then counterattacked. He eventually realized that he was striking at air. The knowledge brought his senses back. He blinked the film from his eyes and stared at the tableau before him.
The last two guardsmen were dead, their weapons scattered far away. Blood oozed on the ground. The five dreadwolves lay strewn in pieces around the area.
Exhaustion took him suddenly. He went to his knees and, for a long time afterward, simply stared at what he had done.
Chapter 11
How long it was before he felt the pain, Huma could only guess. He had eventually wandered away from the terrible scene, as much to ease his growing distaste with himself as to escape from any other pursuers. Vaguely, he knew that there would be others, for, if nothing else, both Dracos and the warlord Crynus were determined to the point of fanaticism. And Huma calculated that Crynus, at least, would be interested in his whereabouts.
The pain increased. Huma numbly stared down at the multiple wounds he had received from his opponents. His armor was battered and torn; the mail was almost useless. A part of his mind wondered when this damage had been done. He could remember nothing of the fight save the thrusting of his sword at whatever moved.
Huma found a stream and washed his wounds as best he could. The cool water soothed not only his body but his mind.
After finishing at the stream, he decided to follow its path. It ran southwest, more or less, and he recalled that Magius had recommended that route. That thought brought Kaz to mind, and the knight felt guilty that he had abandoned his one true friend. Was the minotaur safe somewhere?
A huge shape sent tree limbs swaying as it raised a tremendous wind. Huma instinctively flattened against a tree and stared upward. He caught a glimpse of a wide, leathery wing, but it was gone almost immediately and he could not even be sure of its color. Whatever type of dragon it was, it did not return.
The day passed before Huma even realized it. Hunger demanded his attention, and he burrowed through the saddle bag he had taken from one of the horses. The Black Guard, it seemed, had little in the way of personal effects. At the bottom, he found what he had been looking for—three days’ worth of rations.
A moment later, he was spitting them out, despite his hunger. Another lesson about his adversaries—their taste in food, even the generally bland iron rations, was abysmal. Huma knew he would cause himself more damage than good by eating these things; in its present condition, his stomach would never be able to hold them.
Eventually, he was able to secure food in the form of birds’ eggs and berries. It was not very filling, but it eased the hunger. His search for food told him something else as well; most of the bushes had been stripped of edible berries. Recently, too. It was too thorough to have been the work of animals. Besides, Huma had spotted no forest life other than birds. If he stayed too long in this area, he could starve. The stream, too, seemed depleted.
For three days, he wandered along the stream. The face he saw staring back at him from the water on that third day made him smile in self-mockery. The reflected knight was unkempt, his mustache spreading in a hundred different directions, his armor dented or torn and covered with blood and dirt. Self-consciously, he tried to wipe some of the grime from the symbol of the Order of the Crown. He saw his own face vanish and one like Bennett’s appear. Trake’s son was, of course, immaculate. The breastplate ever gleamed. His proud mustache was thick and neatly trimmed. He was a true knight.
Another face joined Bennett’s. This one was no Knight of Solamnia, but a foreign-armored, heavily bearded bear of a face. It was sneering.
Had he not seen it there and then, the bearlike man would never have believed that a man could move so swiftly. Somehow, the battleworn figure leaning over the stream produced a broadsword seemingly out of nowhere, and the hapless stranger barely managed to avoid the swing—and that because of the other’s awkward angle more than anything else.