He slid his right hand further up the hilt of his sword, making room for his left. This was no time for fancy sword-play; it would be hack and stand, two-handed. Once again he felt a strange sense of departure that heralded the baresark rage. This time he welcomed it.
With an ear-piercing scream he attacked them all, slashing through the throat of the first man as his mouth opened in astonishment. Then he was among them, his blade a whistling arc of bright light and crimson death. Momentarily stunned by his assault they fell back, then leapt forward again screaming their own war cries. More tribesmen burst from the undergrowth behind him as the thunder of hooves was heard.
Rek was not aware of the arrival of The Thirty. He parried a blow and back-handed his blade across the face of his assailant, stepping over the corpse to engage yet another tribesman.
Serbitar fought in vain to establish a defensive ring that could include Rek. His slender blade swept out, kissing and killing with surgical precision. Even Vintar, the oldest and least capable swordsman, found little difficulty in slaying the Sathuli warriors. Savage as they were, they were untutored in fencing skills, relying on ferocity, fearlessness and weight of numbers to wear down a foe. And this tactic would work again, Vintar knew, for they were outnumbered perhaps four to one with no avenue of retreat open to them.
The clash of steel on steel and the cries of the wounded echoed in the small clearing. Virae, cut across the upper arm, disembowelled one man and ducked beneath a slashing tulwar as a new attacker stormed in. Tall Antaheim stepped forward to block a second slash. Arbedark moved through the battle like a dancer; a short sword in each hand, he choreographed death and destruction like a silver ghost of elder legends.
Rek’s anger grew. Was it all for this? Meeting Virae, coming to terms with his fears, taking the mantle of Earl? All so that he could die on a tribesman’s tulwar in an unnamed wood? He hammered his blade through the clumsy guard of the Sathuli before him, then kicked the falling corpse into the path of a new attacker.
‘Enough!’ he yelled suddenly, his voice ringing through the trees. ‘Put up your swords, all of you!’ The Thirty obeyed instantly, stepping back and forming a ring of steel about the fallen Menahem, leaving Rek standing alone. The Sathuli slowly lowered their swords, glancing nervously one to another.
All battles, as they knew, followed the same pattern: fight and win, fight and die or fight and run. There was no other way. But the tall one’s words were spoken with power and his voice held them momentarily.
‘Let your leader step forth,’ ordered Rek, plunging his sword blade into the ground at his feet and folding his arms, though the Sathuli blades still ringed him.
The men before him stepped aside as a tall broad-shouldered man in robes of blue and white moved forward. He was as tall as Rek, though hawk-nosed and swarthy. A trident beard gave him a sardonic look and the sabre scar from brow to chin completed the impression.
‘I am Regnak, Earl of Dros Delnoch,’ said Rek.
‘I am Sathuli – Joachim Sathuli – and I shall kill you,’ replied the man grimly.
‘Matters like this should be settled by men such as you and I,’ said Rek. ‘Look about you – everywhere are Sathuli corpses. How many of my men are among them?’
‘They will join them soon,’ said Joachim.
‘Why do we not settle this like princes?’ said Rek. ‘You and I alone.’
The man’s scarred eyebrow lifted. ‘That would only equal the odds against you. You have no bargaining power, wherefore should I grant you this?’
‘Because it will save Sathuli lives. Oh, I know they give their lives gladly, but for what? We carry no provisions, no gold. We have only horses and the Delnoch ranges are full of them. This is now a matter of pride, not of booty. Such matters are for you and I to decide.’
‘Like all Drenai, you talk a good fight,” said the Sathuli, turning away.