Hansen moved sideways to keep Taddeusz in view. A crevice in the face of the bluff blocked him.
He cursed. It was three meters across. There was crumbling soil on the opposite side, but also saplings that’d provide handholds if he needed them.
A rocky, 70deg. slope jolted down to the embattled floodplain if he missed his hold.
Hansen jumped, knocking the saplings away with his chest as he landed a safe meter beyond them. A twig cut his cheek. He was beginning to feel the cold.
Lopez’ men were closing on Taddeusz from all sides. A dozen or so of Golsingh’s men still followed their warchief. They closed up and formed a circle as Lopez’ resistance stiffened. Smoldering armor lay along the course they’d cut into the enemy, the detritus of their success.
You could get more organization by rolling two handsful of marbles together.
“Damned fools!” Hansen snarled. “If that’s all they know about war, they oughta stick to knitting.”
He wasn’t aware that he’d spoken aloud until a red squirrel balanced on a branch above him took the half-gnawed hickory nut from its jaws and said, “They know that they are warriors and heroes, Hansen. Since you know nothing of Northworld, you must give your life into my keeping.”
“Go away,” Hansen said, restraining an urge to sweep Walker over the bluff edge.
He concentrated on the fight instead. He’d felt a fierce rush of anger—but he knew his emotion was directed at the butchery, the stupidity going on below.
Hansen was a craftsman, and controlled violence was his trade. The armies below were composed of murderous buffoons.
Two of Lopez’ men moved against Taddeusz simultaneously. Taddeusz cut at the one on his right; the warrior tried to block the warchief’s arc with his own. There was a moment of explosive dazzle and a shriek like that of bearings freezing up. The warrior attacking Taddeusz from the left slashed at the warchief’s helmet.
Taddeusz stumbled. The opponent to his right staggered away. The man’s red-striped armor had lost the sheen of electronic polish, but the fellow managed to run three steps before he fell. A pair of fur-clad freemen leaped from their ponies and started dragging the warrior to a safer distance.
One of Taddeusz’ party leaped between the warchief and his opponent’s descending stroke. Both warriors froze as their arcs crossed. Another of Lopez’ men punched Taddeusz’ defender in the side with an arc which blazed on entry and was still spluttering when a finger’s breadth of it poked through the opposite side of the armor.
Taddeusz got to his feet. Only two of his men were still standing; both of them promptly fell under multiple attacks. The warchief cut low, severing the thigh of the nearest opponent.
Two of Lopez’ men struck at Taddeusz from behind and the side. He spun, sparkling like a thermite fire but still moving with deadly precision. His short-curving arc carved through a helmet and the arm a desperate warrior had raised for protection.
Taddeusz extended his arc into a blue dazzle ripping a full three meters from his hand. He slashed it through the air as he turned and turned again, clearing the area around him. He was ringed by at least twenty of Lopez’ warriors, but each time some of them moved to attack, the warchief’s sudden movements sent them scampering away.
The remainder of Golsingh’s army had begun to catch up with their warchief. Several of Lopez’ warriors turned to meet the new threat. Hansen’s nostrils wrinkled with the sharp bite of ozone, even at his distance above the fight.
There was something else. Something quivered on the verge of visibility across the battlefield. Black shutters opening, or a great crow splaying its wingfeathers between the sun and death below. . . .
But not quite.
A warrior in silver armor raised his right gauntlet toward Taddeusz, palm outward.
The warchief’s arc lashed toward the man. Before the cut could land, an unconfined discharge leaped from the silver gauntlet to Taddeusz’ chest.
The thunderous report sounded like a transformer exploding. Both suits of armor lost their luster. Taddeusz’ arc-weapon shrank to an afterimage on Hansen’s retinas. Lopez’ men moved in for the kill.