[Rimbaud]

The grim scene was lit by fallen brands of the enemy; their own lantern lay smashed and useless upon the ground. The flames sputtered and danced.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Each breath hurt his ribs; he felt bruised from scalp to toe. His sword hand and arm were numb from the repeated shocks on shield and sword. He felt revolted and disgusted and his stomach churned. He could barely bear to face his companion; he felt tainted by the sheer death around him, some ten broken and twisted forms that had once held life.

“You sent evil to be judged,” panted Estelyn, her breathing harsh and irregular. She knew him well. “We have to move.”

Yet he moved not, head bowed, as before in the passage. Flashes of the fight were smashing through his mind, splinters of violence that threatened to topple his sanity. His blade flicking, flickering, parrying, twisting. A snake in his hand, and at times he wasn’t sure if it was fighting him or the twisted ones that snarled at him. The sword so swift as to be a shield, protecting the both of them, and when it was breached, the remarkable Princess stepping up to him and dealing death with her curious efficiency. The smell and the noise.

He had rid himself of his cloak in the first seconds, and now it was ruined, spoiled, rent on the ground and sodden with the blood of their enemies. His own too, as he noted further cuts upon his arms and hands. His tunic was sliced open in several places, rimmed in a familiar crimson. He barely felt the pain of the wounds or her ministrations as she tugged at his sleeve, trying to separate the soiled material and the cuts. He could taste a foul tang on his tongue and knew, with another turn of his stomach, what it was, what had spattered upon his face.

“Innkeeper, this was an advance party only!” she hissed, her hand cupping his chin. He had a day’s growth of stubble and looked thoroughly disreputable; she turned his head to face hers with her hand. “The main body approaches. We must flee! We have made a grievous error coming this way alone. Come!” She pulled on his arm. When he came only slowly, she lost patience and slapped him, hard, the flat of her palm against his cheek.

That woke him up. His eyes flashed fire at her and she nearly took a step back, but he controlled himself quickly. “Good Eru, my Lady, this is some adventure,” he muttered. She lifted the corner of her robe and wiped his face with it. “Now, master Innkeeper..” she began.

She cut off abruptly with the brutal hiss of an arrow. She gasped and clutched at him, and would have fallen to her knees had he not held her under the arms. An evil, black fletched arrow protruded from beneath her ribs. Her eyes flickered in agony and she gasped for words.

“No,” said Rimbaud fiercely. He swung her to the side of the tunnel, her back to the rough, earthy surface and she slumped to the wall. He took up from the ground a rough, wooden, round shield of a fallen orc; just in time, for as he lifted it, a second arrow thudded into it, the head just protruding through the near-side, inches from the flesh of his arm.

He was sure this time they were both doomed. Yet he knew not how to stop. Estelyn’s eyes were rolling in her head. He had no time to look up for the enemy, but he heard them coming towards them, as they huddled by the side, shielded somewhat by the bodies of the fallen. He covered both of them with the shield as best he could as he worked on his friend. Using her dagger, fallen from her grip, he cut the arrow shaft, leaving half an inch protruding from her tunics. From the length he had cut off, he saw that it could not be too deep inside her – her clothes were well made, thick and tightly woven. That may have saved her life. He hoisted her to his arm. She moaned and her eyes snapped open again. He began to run, supporting her, she half running, half being dragged.

Rimbaud dared a look behind. Barely twenty paces away, the orc archer was taking aim again. Behind him, a squad marched steadily towards them, keeping order, not bothering to run them down. A hundred or more. Other archers ran forwards from the group to join the first one. Arrows whistled by them, two deflected in the shield, a third slicing open his shoulder. He gasped in pain. They staggered a few more paces, out of the widened area of the fight, the area supported by the tall wooden poles. He half threw, half lowered her to the ground. He wasn’t sure if she was still alive as he whirled.

A flurry of arrows streaked for him as he ran at them, the shield torn apart by their force as he held it before him. He threw it from his arm; he stumbled as it caught on his tunic nearly dragging him down. He did not fall, and instead dragged his left hand on the ground as he stooped. Finding a wickedly curved dagger he threw it blind, hearing a scream as it hit a mark. He straightened, running to the tunnel wall on his left, weaving and ducking so that they could not aim their bows at him. Soon, he was too close for arrows and among them. He moved through them, lithe, desperately agile, fuelled by strange adrenalin. He hardly bothered to strike at them as he pushed and dodged his way, half stooped, constantly stumbling. A fierce blow found its way to his side, but rebounded, striking the scabbard on his sword belt. A great bruise on his leg weakened him and nearly finished his progress right there, but he scrambled for footing and continued, past the small group of orcs with bows.

The main body marched towards him, screeching as they saw him. The confused orcs he had darted through milled after him. He slashed at two support beams on the left before diving for the ground, two orcish blades streaking over his head as he rolled, making for the right hand side. The beams splintered and snapped, the ceiling rumbling and earth falling. The orcs screamed in dismay. A panicked melee ensued, as they scrambled to get at Rimbaud. The numbers of the orcs worked against them, they struck at each other, pushed and scratched, enraged by their inability to get to their human tormentor and fear of the tunnel collapsing.

Rimbaud removed another column with a great slash of his sword and now the earth was shaking around them. He rose fully and streaked back towards the Princess. He pushed through two orcs, who screamed as they scrabbled for purchase on his clothing, ripping and tearing at him. He stumbled to his knees and then was up again, as rocks began to fall about them. The noises, rumbling and crashing and screaming were deafening.

The orcs started to flee, the other way from Rimbaud and Estelyn, trampling over each other in their eagerness to escape. Rimbaud fell to his knees as he reached the Princess, crying out in despair. She lay still, doubled over and her back to him. He had not the will nor the energy to keep going. Scant feet behind him, the roof caved in, dust and rocks collapsing to the floor, striking shrieking orcs, drowning out their sounds. A cacophony of terror and a rush of air swelled out towards where the Innkeeper knelt by his prostrate companion, nearly knocking him over.

Something struck him hard on the back of his head and everything went black and silent.

[ January 07, 2003: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]