Dai San Eric van Lustbader

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linked in some unfathomable way still he hoped
for the body which had caused the suffering and
death.
His great sword whispered in the air and the
head snapped back, the beak opening soundlessly.
It batted at the sword, then howled in pain and
rage. It had never before been afraid of metal.
But this was Aka-i-tsuchi and immediately it grew
wary, dodging the swift strikes, attempting to
move in for the deadly blows of its talon-tipped
claws. Its thick tail whipped back and forth.
It lunged at him abruptly in an effort to get
within his defense but the Sunset Warrior
reversed the sword in his twohanded gnp, using
Aka-i-tsuchi as if it were an enormous dagger.
With explosive force, the blue-green blade
penetrated the Makkon's chest and he drove it
swiftly downward into the creature's bowels.
Then he was spun off his feet by a tremendous
blow. He saw the Makkon staggering, its heavy
legs trembling, its claws scrabbling to pull the
sword from its imnards, howling as its hide burned
from the contact. It sank to its knees, began to
topple over and for the first time he saw a
Makkon bleed, a sticky black viscous fluid flowing
over the ragged wound.
Darkness fell over him.
A third Makkon.
The creature smiled a secret smile as it bent
over him. It reached down, its talons outstretched.
He rolled but the straddle of its legs prevented his
escape.
DAI-SAN 215
Then he became aware that he did not feel the
numbing cold which Ronin had struggled against in
his two battles with the Makkon. He recalled
Bonneduce the Last's words to Ronin in Khiyan
just before he set sail in the Kiaku in search for
Ama-no-mori: You cannot yet defeat the Makhon.
But Ronin was no more. His Hart cried out again,
bellowing, and with this came the knowledge that
at last he was on equal terms with the Makkon.
He yelled, batting away the reaching talons,
stiffening his fingers inside his Makkon-hide
gauntlets, and slammed them into the creature's
unprotected throat.
The Makkon howled, an ululation, and he
ducked a powerful strike from its talons.
With an enormous blow, he smashed the
Makkon to the earth beside him.
He pounded at its face, the memory of Matsu
filling him like a perfume, a mist in his eyes. He
paid not the slightest attention to the snaking of its
arms as the powerful claws reached up and closed
about his throat.
He continued to pummel the Makkon, staring
into the wicked eyes with their slit pupils of ebon
and with great satisfaction heard the sharp crack as
its beak spht.
He smashed his gauntleted fists down again and
the beak shattered, splintering fragments of keratin
into his face. Matsu's hot blood and flesh in a
nauseating spatter across Ronin's eyes. The
hideous head whipped from side to side.
But now the thing's talons had gripped his
throat, gaining control, squeezing all at once. His
lungs were filled with air and he lifted his fists
again, smashing them into the pulpy wound. He
ripped off the last remaining shard of beak, the
black blood flying, cold and wet, and drew its
jagged edge across the Makkon's eyes. The
serrations ripped into the eyeballs.
BrieRy, he felt the sting of the points of the
talons as they sank into his flesh, trying to rip out
his throat, but he bent his body lower, bringing
pressure to bear, maintaining his leverage.
He dug in deeper with the beak, slashing
through hide and viscera. Flesh came away in long,
raw strips. The talons were digging deeper and the
Makkon began a series of jerking motions with its
arms.
With one last titanic effort, even as he felt the
fierce pull at the flesh of his throat, he rammed
the jagged shard deep be
216 Eric ~ I`ustbader
hind the Makkon's right eye up into the brain,
pounding it home as if it were a spike.
The huge body jerked under him and blood
and bits of pink and dusky yellow spurted upward.
He choked and wiped at his face with his corded
arms, leaning the weight of his whole frame
behind the strike.
Beneath him, the Makkon shuddered, a brown
liquid gurgled from the thing's mouth and the
talons fell away from him.
On his knees, straddling the Makkon's corpse,
he slammed his fist one more time into the ruined
face of the Makkon. Then he stood, strode to
where his sword rose like a grave marker above
the body of the second Makkon. He ripped it
from its flesh, sheathed it, turned away, loping to
the river, feeling the chill water cleansing him of
the caked filth which covered him. He ducked his
head, came up snorting.
On the point of returning to the far bank, he
heard, over the din of battle, screaming from
upriver. The sleet had lessened momentarily and
the sounds came to him clearly, funneled along
the acoustic channel of the river.
Across the water, the enemy had broken
through the lines of defence. He squinted into the
afternoon gloom, saw the whipping banners as the
forefront of the enormous wedge of warriors
breaking out from their foothold on the bank,
sweeping upward onto the field before Kamado's
towering walls.
Crimson lizard on an ebon field and, his heart
pounding, he struck out across the river with long,
powerful strokes.
Whatever is happening downriver where the
Bujun fight, we are losing the battle here, thought
Rikkagin Aerent. He wheeled his horse about.
The glistening hide was flecked with foam, blood,
and gore. It trampled several wounded men as he
drove it up a short rise.
He surveyed the scene, sickened by the
monumental devastation. So many deaths and the
day is but half gone.
The plain was a vast noisome sea of flailing
flesh and ground bone, "outing grey dust and
spurting blood. The field itself seemed to have
undergone basic geological changes since the
morning. Where once it had been a softly
undulating expanse, it had now metamorphosed
into a series of humpbacked hillocks by the
carnage of the day's fighting. Immense mounds of
the dead and wounded rolled away from him for
as far as he could see. The constant sleet, pouring
down from the angry skies, melting in the
bloodheat, turned the whole into a
DAI-SAN 217
grisly morass as it mingled with the spilled fluids of
the fallen combatants.
He hacked at a squat warrior who ran at him,
taking off the weapon arm at its socket. He pulled
on the reins of his mount and it stamped on the
falling body, its hard hoofs cracking the skull
above the eyes.
Not for the first time, he thought about sending
one of his men back up the field for the Bujun. He
had witnessed their brilliant, fierce pincer attack,
saw how it had wiped out the attacking deathshead
warriors. Now they fought downriver and he
turned to take in the extent of his remaining
forces. They were so depleted that he could not
afford to send a courier. Besides, the chances of
one man surviving the long passage across the field
were quite slim. He would just have to hold on
here until help arrived.
Curse that rikkagin, whoever he was! thought
Rikkagin Aerent. The lizard banners had haunted
his cavalry all the day, matching him strategy for
strategy, and all the while the sheer force of the
enemy's numbers was slowly overpowering his line
of defence.
He felt angry and helpless, as if caught in an
immense and unmoving vise from which he seemed
unable to extricate himself and his men.
Rikkagin Aerent knew his duty and now he felt
that he was failing to perform it. He had had but
one thought as he rode out onto the plain at the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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