Hurl stood transfixed. She imagined that if this were a troubadour's song at this time Liss would somehow be transformed into her younger lithe self by the magic of the dance. Her beauty would enchant the monster. But this was no courtly romance. Liss still held her familiar ungainly shape. Her arms were still thick, her waist heavy. Yet the dance itself was beautiful, its movements mesmerizing. From where did the woman draw such grace? And it drew the man-eater. This must be old magic. A ritual of some kind – an ancient calling.
So fascinated was Hurl that she'd forgotten the battle. Six men now closed upon the beast. Roaring his outrage, Ryllandaras swept his long muscled arms to throw them aside. But none fell. His blows slid from firm broad shields, met sharp iron. Rearing once again, he hammered Temp down with a swipe of one long arm. He bent down to snatch the stunned man in his maw, larger than a horse's head, but Braven Tooth was there to cover Temp. He wielded a great two-handed blade with which he deflected raking swings from Ryllandaras. Incredibly, Temp stood once more, shook the shattered ruins of the shield from his arm, drawing a second weapon. The Seti warrior, Sweetgrass, charged in next, slicing savagely, bellowing his own challenge. He leapt in against Ryllandaras's leading leg – a hamstring! But the monster kicked him away; Hurl could almost hear the ribs breaking from where she stood.
Remembering herself, Hurl looked down to the sharper in her hand. She almost laughed at its puniness. No! This won't do at all… she started down the gentle slope while fishing for a cussor.
Behind Ryllandaras, surrounding the fire, a rippling in the night now grew where Liss danced. Hurl squinted. What was this? The ritual? For what? But her thoughts flew at the sight of Ryllandaras suddenly straightening with Urko on his back. She almost dropped the cussor to leap her triumph – who would have thought it possible, but who else could have achieved such a thing? The old commander had slid one cabled arm under the beast's jaws. The monster bellowed hoarsely, clawed at the man. The others charged in swinging, thrusting. And Ryllandaras gagged. His blazing carmine eyes rolled. He fell to his knees, then one taloned, misshapen hand. Urko's face was contorted black in effort, one fist closed at his opposite elbow, yanking, crushing. Ryllandaras was gasping for breath. Hurl could not believe what she was seeing; was this possible? The man-jackal, Quon's curse, brother to Treach, strangled by a mere man? She'd heard stories of Urko, of course – the man's feats were legendary, yet Ryllandaras seemed a force of nature.
A wide rake from the man-jackal sent the rest of the men staggering backwards. He reached up behind his head, talons tearing, grasped hold and yanked. Urko was thrown flying overhead, spinning, to disappear into the dark. Hurl heard the crunch of his fall.
Howling his own rage, Amaron charged. A massive blow gouged the man-jackal's side, sending him backwards one step, but the beast captured the weapon and slashed talons in a backhanded swipe across the big man's front that threw him spinning in a dance of torn mail and sheeting blood that stained the trampled grass wet.
Hurl continued to close. Now she could hear their laboured gasping breaths, grunts of pain. Though it appeared to her that Ryllandaras would slaughter them all, the beast tried to dash away then, only to meet Rell who fended him back into the circle, blades rippling and flashing in the firelight. Braven Tooth completed the encirclement, aiding Rell. Ryllandaras whirled with his astonishing speed: his jaws slashed the man's shoulder as he ducked, sending him stumbling backwards, bellowing his agony. Sweetgrass was up again; the man limped, hugged his chest, and his chin was dark with coughed-up blood but he closed, a long-knife in each hand.
And Liss emerged from behind the fire, beckoned to Ryllandaras's back. The beast spun – alarmed, it seemed to Hurl. It slashed at Liss but she wavered away, teasing, just beyond reach. She seemed to ripple as if a heat mirage. The glimmering band of light encircling the bonfire now glowed a gold and crimson brighter than the flames. Ryllandaras flinched from the radiance, turned away to face the remaining men. Temp, a longsword in one hand and heavy parrying gauche in the other, held each out wide, hunching low. Rell stretched his arms as well, one of the twin longswords almost touching Temp's blade. Sweetgrass also held his arms out, shuffling side to side.
Rearing back to his full massive height the monster opened its black-lipped jaws and loosed an infuriated eruption of frustrated blood-lust that stunned Hurl where she stood. It leapt upon Sweetgrass, hammering him to the ground, but Temp was there to bull him back like a man holding up a falling tower. A slash from Ryllandaras's black talons raked the mail and banded armour from the man's front and he fell to his knees. Rell lunged in, jabbing, thrusting, and the man-jackal yielded a step howling his agony. Its eyes rolled now, seeking escape, it seemed to Hurl. Rell pressed on, feet shuffling forward, blades dancing like liquid flame in the brilliance now bathing Ryllandaras's back.
The beast glanced behind, its eyes widened white all round. Rell lunged, one blade thrusting deep within the monster's furred stomach. Shrieking, it tottered backwards, sent one last swipe across Rell, ripping the helm from his head and spinning him from his feet. The effort threw the beast back as well and it fell into the circle of rippling light to disappear.
Hurl stared, cussor heavy in her sweaty hand. Not one remained standing. Only Temp on his knees, reeling side to side, head sunk forward. The spinning coruscating ring, or gate, or whatever it was that Liss had invoked, snapped away in an eruption of air that blew a storm of sparks from the low embers of the bonfire.
Hurl staggered forward. ‘Liss? Rell? Liss?’ Of the shamaness there was no sign in the dim glow of the fire. A figure came lurching out of the dark: Urko, holding himself tightly. Hurl ran to support him. He grasped her shoulder in a grip that shot lances of pain up and down her side. He peered blearily at her from a face gleaming with blood. The face turned to examine the battle. He blinked. ‘Coulda used a few more men, hey? Like maybe the Fifth Army.’
‘Take it easy now.’
He frowned at her, tilting his head down. ‘You take it easy.’
She saw that she carried the cussor tucked under her an arm like a helmet. ‘Sorry.’ She gently eased the man to the ground and just as gently slipped away the munition. ‘Are you OK?’ Gods, what a stupid question!
But he waved her off. ‘Go see to the others.’
The nearest man was Amaron. Dead, torn open across his vitals. Reports of hooves hammering the ground pulled Hurl to her feet. A column of cavalry closing at a frantic pace. Well, nothing she could do about that. Braven Tooth was closest then: he lay with a hand pressed to his wound, blood soaking the ground beneath his shoulder and lacerated arm. Though ghostly pale, his face glistening with sweat, he motioned her on with a curt jerk of his head.
She came to Temp; the man was struggling drunkenly to stand. She helped him up, groaned beneath his solid weight. He still held his weapons but his armour hung from him in lacerated tatters, clattering and swinging loose. ‘Gods damn him,’ he kept repeating. ‘Gods damn that thing’ His wild gaze found her and he grinned his pain. ‘If you don't mind, lass, I'll have me a sit down. I think I'm gonna retire.’
‘Yes, go ahead.’ She eased him down.
Next was the Seti, Sweetgrass. He was breathing but shallowly, wetly. His eyes tracked her when she moved. He mouthed something to her. She bent her head close. ‘… She did it…’ came the faintest whisper.
Hurl nodded, ‘Yes. Yes, she did.’