Deadly Intentions (Blood Feud - Volume 2) (13 page)

“I will feast on your bones human!” He
shouted launching another powerful series of strikes.

Tristan did his best to dodge under and
around the blows, but was forced to parry his first strike as he
found himself dangerously over-extended. The shock of the blow
traveled up his arm and he felt knots forming at the base of his
neck. The orc then stepped forward and used his shield to push the
Prince backwards. Off balance and his right arm still throbbing he
tried desperately to keep his balance.

The orc stepped forward and drove his head
into Tristan’s, snapping the Princes head back and breaking his
nose. His vision swam and he dropped to one knee. Red blurred his
vision as the Prince tried to shake his head clear it and prepare
for the next series of strikes. More out of instinct than anything
else, Tristan dropped his shoulder to the ground and rolled off to
his left. Out of his right ear he heard the mace connect with the
wet earth he’d just vacated.

The Prince could hear the orc struggling to
get his mace out of the mud and took the opportunity to wipe his
eyes out with the back of his hand. He blinked, trying to get the
tears running so he could wash out the blood. It only served to
blur his vision further though as he cursed under his breath.

Tristan heard a squelching sound followed by
a grunt as he assumed the orc liberated his mace from its sticky
trap. The Prince forced himself to calm down; he closed his eyes as
he tried to focus on his undiminished senses. His right arm still
tingled from the blocked blow, and yet he could smell the orcs
rancid breath as he growled at him. The Prince rose to his feet,
reaching out with his hearing and smell, trying to get an idea of
where the orc was.

Around them both sides cheered for their
respective commander. The inhuman howls of the orcs behind him, and
the cheering of his own troops were in front of him, slightly to
the right. Tristan tuned out the cheering, trying to focus on the
steady growling breaths that the orc was drawing in. He heard a
foot clear the mud, then another; the pace was quickening. Tristan
waited until the wet footfalls were uncomfortably close, then he
dropped his shoulder and rolled off to his right. As he rolled by
the orcs large leg, he drove his dagger backwards. He could feel it
break the skin and rip into muscle and slam up against rock hard
bone.

The orc howled in anger and yanked the blade
free. Tristan could hear his grunt of pain as it was pulled from
his flesh. Another grunt followed and the Prince instinctively
raised his left arm. His own dagger slammed into his forearm
between the protection of his bracer where it laced up. The Prince
inhaled sharply from the wound and his arm shot back, dislodging
the blade from the wound as it clanged into one of his soldier’s
shields behind him.

Tristan tried to blink again, hoping that his
tears had at least cleared his vision somewhat. He cradled his arm,
feeling the wetness of his own blood. He forced open his eyes using
his cloak to wipe them out; finally he was rewarded with at least
some sight. The orc was growling, advancing slowly on the
Prince.

He was amazed; this orc was nothing like the
mindless ones he’d faced before. He learnt and adapted, changing
tactics in the middle of battle. Where speed and strength had
failed him, he now tried to use cunning and silence. The Prince
thanked the fates that he could see again, because the orc made
little to no noise as he stalked closer.

The orc raised his mace and brought it
crashing down with both hands. Tristan barely moved to the side in
time as he felt air rush past his face. He wasn’t sure where the
orcs shield had gone, but his mace was now burned into Tristan’s
memory as it flew past his eyes. It was roughly smithed, a jagged
sphere with crooked spikes coming out at strange angles, at its tip
was a longer spike used for thrusting. It reeked of blood and small
fragments of skull, sinew and bone littered its surface.

Risking injury Tristan stepped down on the
mace as it made contact with the wet ground, pushing it deeply into
the mud. The orc reacted faster than Tristan thought possible,
bringing his left hand up as the back of his immense fist connected
with the Prince’s nose. Tristan flinched as he felt his nose shift
again under the force of the blow and he flew off his feet and
landed hard on his back.

Again the Prince’s vision was blurred beyond
use, and he heard a sword clear a scabbard. He could hear the orc
closing in on him, all pretenses of stealth totally forgotten as he
closed in on his prey. Tristan tried to use his cloak to clear his
vision, however, when he tapped his nose a fresh wave of pain
washed over him. The Prince let go of his sword, leaving it lying
across his chest as he raised both of his hands to his nose.

Tristan had seen both Captain Robertson and
Sergeant Frose reset noses before, and if he could manage to jam
the pieces back into place his vision might just clear enough to
continue the battle. He took two steadying breaths and then jammed
his fingers together. The pain that shot through his body was like
nothing he’d experienced before, even his toe nails throbbed in
protest. Suddenly the pain dissipated as his vision coalesced.

The Prince looked up as the orc raised a
large sword above his head with both hands. Time seemed to slow to
a crawl as Tristan’s hand fell to the handle of his sword. With the
orcs arms raised it lifted his breastplate up just enough to reveal
his muscular stomach. It was covered in the same coarse hair as his
head and arms were, though it possessed no navel. Tristan thrust
with his sword, jabbing it deep inside the monsters stomach and up
inside his rib cage.

He felt bones snap and organs burst, as his
blade traveled up to what he hoped was the beasts’ heart. The orcs
eyes opened in shock as he looked down at the Prince’s face
contorted in rage and effort. He grunted, a small trail of bloody
drool came from its nose and the side of its mouth as it mumbled
feebly. Tristan raised his foot and kicked backwards, pulling his
blade out as the orc fell backwards. Its breath exploded from it as
it hit the ground with a wet thud.

Tristan turned his back to his men as the
orcs arrayed in front of him howled and ground their teeth. He
backed up, his soldiers parting so he could stand among them again.
He held up his hand, shouting loud enough for his army to hear his
command.

“Hold.” He ordered. Turning to his left he
saw the blurred familiar outline of Sergeant-Major Frose, he
whispered. “Reserves are to flank either side and we’ll strike up
the middle. I want us to be the anvil and the reserves become the
hammer. Let’s finish this.” He hissed.

The Sergeant Major reached into his pack and
pulled out a pair of orange flags, he turned and relayed the orders
to the rest of the army. Moments passed as both sides watched each
other with bloody murder in their eyes. Tristan continued to relay
the hold as loudly as he could, but his injuries were beginning to
eat away at what energy he had left. Finally Frose was back at his
elbow, whispering the orders had been relayed and accepted.

“Kill them all!” Tristan shouted as he took
his shield back from the soldier who passed it along the line.

As one the army rushed forward, easily
passing him as they sought to move him out of harm’s way. Tristan
couldn’t decide if he was thankful for the thought or irritated.
All such thoughts drifted away as orcs made it past the forward
lines and he was in the thick of battle again. Despite his
injuries, these orcs were the mindless killing machines he
remembered. When the reserves came crashing into view the orcs
tried to flee, but it was too late. They were surrounded and
slaughtered down to the last creature. Frose stepped forward and
drove his spear deep into the last orcs chest, as he yanked it free
the soldiers around him began to step forward to engage the
mercenaries who held back; content to watch the orcs sacrifice
themselves.

“HOLD!” Tristan shouted as loudly as he
could. “Return to formation!”

The army stopped it forward pressure and
gathered in a ragged line on either side of him. More than one
soldier breathed deeply, trying to catch his breath. In the course
of the battle an axe had grazed Tristan’s thigh and he was aware of
the blood flowing from the open wound. He limped forward slightly,
separating himself from his army as King Boris stepped forward.

The King removed his ridiculous crown and
handed it off to a porter. Boris smiled widely as he walked
forward. Out of the corner of his mouth he ordered Frose to call up
the last two legions and the 2
^nd
mounted unit, and then
he walked forward as well. He did his best to hide his limp and
bloody arm, but he could see by the self-satisfied smirk on the
bandit King’s face that his efforts were for naught.

He stopped mere feet from the King. Leaning
on his shield his mind was filled with anger and grief, the loss of
Pava still burned like a hot branding iron in the back of his mind.
The dull throb of his nose and cuts cast away the final feeling of
immortality so often found in the young. With grim determination he
promised himself that if he was about to fall, he would make it a
fight worthy of story and song.

“Young Prince Tristan if I’m not mistaken.”
He asked with a wry grin.

Tristan nodded his head once, not trusting
his voice to hide the rage that seethed just below the surface.

“You cause me irritation without end young
man.” Boris said lightly. “As you can see, I have thousands of
fresh men, ready to overrun what remains of your pathetic army.
Stand down and I’ll see that you’re delivered safely to Kenting
before I retake control of my country.”

The Prince snorted, trying not to laugh out
loud. He was trying to give the legions time to prepare themselves
for attack and needed to draw this out as long as possible.

“I don’t think you stand much of a chance
without your witch.” Tristan shot.

Boris’ eyes widened briefly in anger before
he yelled; “You’re nothing! I could beat you with one arm tied
behind my back!”

“Then do it.” Tristan replied in anger. “Or
do you leave the honorable fighting to your orc servants?”

Boris stared hard at the Prince, anger rose
off of him in waves that Tristan could feel like steam from a hot
bath. He continued to press the duel by untying his cloak and
tossing it aside with his shield. Tristan spat on the ground
between them for dramatic effect, knowing that it would anger to
pompous would be ruler.

“Coward.” The Prince accused with
disgust.

Tristan tried not to smile too widely as the
King removed his cloak and handed it off to a porter. If he had
been at full strength he could have made quick work of this idiot,
but as it was Tristan wasn’t sure if he would survive the battle.
Still, he had to allow his men time to assemble for the attack.

The King kicked up loose stones from the road
they were standing on, which Tristan simply sidestepped. He heard
the former mercenary gathering a small pile under his boot while
they had been exchanging insults. Tristan smiled demonically as he
laughed out loud.

“Surely you can do better than that?” Tristan
antagonized.

Boris growled as he drew his bastard sword
clear of its scabbard. It was straight with an indent that ran down
the middle and it gleamed in the afternoon sun. The edges looked
razor sharp and the pommel was wide and blunt, obviously used to
block powerful blows, and strike opponents with. It whistled
slightly as the King swung it through the air, finally pointing it
at Tristan’s face.

“This is G’Tik.” He instructed, referring to
the blade. “It means ‘blood-drinker’ in an ancient language.” He
looked from the blade to Tristan, scowling. “I will bathe it in
your blood, child, and you will know fear before I take your life
from you.”

Tristan rolled his eyes heavenward. “Why do
all you nefarious types talk so damned much?” He asked, showing his
irritation. “Just fight man.” He urged.

The King sneered, bringing the blade back for
his first strike. Tristan stepped in and drove his forehead into
Boris’ face. He missed the King’s nose, but succeeded in knocking
some teeth loose as he reeled backwards, dropping the tip of his
sword down. Tristan used his chance to knock the blade up, exposing
Boris’ entire torso. With quick swipes he sliced through the King’s
tabard and laid bare his chain mail shirt.

As the pieces of his tabard floated to the
ground the King’s eyes narrowed in anger and he yelled, cocking his
sword back and striking powerful blows. Tristan parried and turned
away most of the blows, but one of them got through and cut into
his left bicep. The Prince drew his breath in with a hiss as he
felt the blade break the surface of his skin. Victory flashed in
the King’s eyes as he backed away.

“That’s one.” He said with malice.

Tristan focused his rage, trying to turn it
into cold calculating strikes as he backed the King three paces. He
made himself another opening where he made several small slices to
the King’s forearms and shoulder. He kicked the King in the chest,
sending the former mercenary crashing to the dirt road.

“Fight damn you.” Tristan yelled. “Stop
talking and fight!” He shouted coming forward and kicking the King
painfully in the stomach as he attempted to rise to his feet. The
wind was knocked out of him as he rolled over on his back. One of
his mercenary captains stepped forward between Tristan and the
King, leveling his blade in a thrust designed to skewer the
Prince.

Tristan spun to his right, using his sword to
parry the blow and then bringing it in a high swipe, decapitating
the mercenary captain. Boris used Tristan’s distraction to drive
his sword point into the Prince’s side. Tristan yelled out in pain
and he leaped backwards, leaning over where the King had stabbed
into his ribs.