Storm Rider Lasniniar Collection

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Worst-Case Scenario

Barlo cracked an eye open. It felt horribly dry and scratchy. His tongue felt as if it were glued to the roof of his mouth.

Had the wind finally stopped? All he could hear was his own harsh breathing. Sinstari looked at him, blinking. Barlo bent his arm to brush the grit from his face and almost yelped in pain. After being tensed in the same position for so long, it had gone numb.

Despite his efforts, some of the sand had gotten into his makeshift shelter. His hair, his beard, his clothes—the stuff had gotten into everything. He had never felt so itchy.

He moved his limbs a bit to get his blood circulating before rising to his feet. Iarion’s cloak slithered from his shoulders, along with a large pile of sand that had been blown on top of it. The sand swirled around him in a cloud before settling, making him cough and sneeze. Sinstari rose and performed a long stretch before settling down to groom himself.

Barlo looked at the sky around them, taking a small sip from his waterskin to moisten his parched mouth. There was no sign of the storm. The air was completely still. The afternoon sun had turned the desert back into a hot furnace. His back ached. It felt like it was covered in bruises from the buffeting winds of the storm.

I’m not a young dwarf anymore.

He sighed and bent to rouse the others. Both Iarion and Silvaranwyn looked haggard. They spent several moments walking about to loosen their muscles while trying to get some of the sand from their hair and clothes.

“Well,” Barlo said as he followed their example. “We survived.”

“Thanks to you,” Silvaranwyn said.

Barlo blushed. “It was only dwarven practicality.”

“It saved our lives,” she said, laying a hand on his shoulder.

“It was moderately clever, I suppose,” Iarion said in an offhand tone. Barlo glared at him.

“What?” Iarion said in mock confusion. “I just don’t want you to get a big head. It’s my duty as your best friend, after all.”

Barlo snorted. “Very supportive of you.”

Silvaranwyn squinted at the sky. “We should keep going,” she said. “There are still a few hours before sunset. Perhaps we can find the edge of the desert.”

“I hope so,” Barlo said with a frown. “I’m not sure about the rest of you, but my waterskin is getting light.”

“I guess we just have to get to the end of the desert before we get to the end of our water,” Iarion said. He didn’t mention the alternative.

Barlo shuddered. He had no desire to die out here, in the middle of nowhere, from a simple lack of water. He suspected it wouldn’t be quick.

“Let’s get moving then,” he said.

Hours later, the sun was sinking below the western horizon, painting the sand a deep crimson. Barlo dragged one foot in front of the other, following in Iarion and Silvaranwyn’s wake. Sinstari plodded beside him. Their elongated shadows gave the illusion of being escorted by a group of dark giants, whose shapes rippled as they crossed the sand.

There was still no end in sight. The desert seemed to go on forever. A heavy depression weighed down Barlo’s spirits. He had drunk most of his water hours ago. Only a small mouthful remained in his waterskin.

Just drink it. What does it matter?

He brushed the whispering thought aside and moistened his cracked lips with his tongue, tasting blood. His eyes felt red and scratchy. His sunburned skin was hot and raw. He felt as if he might simply disintegrate into a pile of dust. He couldn’t seem to remember a time when a vicious headache hadn’t been pounding at his skull.

The others were in similar shape, although Iarion’s and Silvaranwyn’s skin did not appear to be burnt. No one spoke as they lumbered forward. Even the elves and wildcat moved without their usual grace. Their heads sagged, staring down at their feet.

A hint of movement behind a dune to the east caught Barlo’s eye. He stopped and turned to look. A few moments passed before the others noticed he was no longer walking behind them. They looked back at him with numb confusion. He raised his arm and pointed.

Another flicker of movement verified Barlo’s suspicions. A group of men poured out from behind the dune, running across the sand toward them. They wore ragged, ill-fitting armor that had been painted black. Barlo hadn’t seen its like since the war with Saviadro. He felt as if he had been punched in the gut.

Darkling Men! How is this possible?

He had no time for further questions as the men rushed toward them, their spears lowered and ready. Barlo suppressed a groan. There had to be close to thirty of them!

Silvaranwyn paled, but dropped her pack and nocked an arrow. The feathered shaft flew through the air. One of the men halted midstride, his hand reaching for his throat. He crumpled to the ground.

Iarion joined her with arrows of his own, and four more of the men fell. Barlo pulled his throwing ax from his belt. His exhausted muscles cried out in protest as he coiled his arm. He ignored his discomfort, waiting for the right moment. One of the Darkling Men came within range. Barlo snapped his arm forward. The ax landed with a satisfying thunk in the man’s chest.

The other men ignored their fallen comrades and charged within melee range. Iarion put his bow away and drew his knife. Silvaranwyn reluctantly followed his example. Barlo readied his war ax as Sinstari crouched beside him. The weapon already seemed heavy in his callused hands.

Sinstari lunged at the first man who came close enough. The man tried to ward himself with his spear, but he was too slow. The wildcat slammed into him, pinning him to the ground with a snarl. Barlo was forced to look away as a cluster of opponents closed in on him, their spears lowered and ready.

Barlo eyed the thicket of spearheads pointed at him and smiled. Uttering a Dwarvish battle cry, he spun, wielding his ax in a wide arc. The blade of his weapon was sharp and his aim was true. By the time he had completed the movement, the men were looking down in surprise at their headless spears.

Barlo kept moving, knocking the length of wood from the hands of the man closest to him and burying his ax in his chest. His target toppled to the ground with a wordless gurgle. Barlo pulled his ax free.

The other startled men sprang into action, swinging at him with their blunted spears. Barlo managed to dodge most of them, but one of the Darkling Men was able to land a lucky hit on Barlo’s side. The dwarf grunted from the impact, his breath whooshing from his lungs.

Suddenly, Sinstari was there, ripping out the offender’s throat. Barlo caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye and turned just in time to deflect an incoming blow. Even without their spearheads, the wooden staffs were still bothersome. A current of air behind him warned him of another attack. He spun toward it, ax swinging.

His attacker’s eyes widened as Barlo’s ax landed. A horrified scream burst from his lips. Startled, Barlo felt his eyes drawn to where his weapon had landed. He cringed. The blade of his ax was buried in the man’s groin.

“Galrin’s beard!” Barlo gasped, unable to look away. “I’m terribly sorry about that. That’s never happened before, but I suppose it was inevitable with me being so much shorter. Here, let me get that out for you.”

Barlo wrenched his ax free and the man screamed some more, clutching at the area between his legs. Blood trickled from between his fingers. The other men looked on in shock.

“Now, you needn’t look at me like that,” Barlo said, slowly backing away. “I didn’t do it on purpose. You just can’t sneak up on a dwarf like that.”

Their eyes turned hard. They closed in on him, clutching at their headless spears with white knuckles.

Barlo sighed. “I can see you’re not going to be reasonable about this...”

At the last moment, he dropped to his knees and rolled, bowling the men over. Barlo sprang to his feet, using his sudden height advantage to strike one man in the head and another in the throat. Their blood was quickly soaked up by the sand, creating patches of dark red mud. Barlo managed to kick some of the dry sand into the eyes of a third man before he stumbled to his feet. The man swayed, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand. Barlo cut him down before he could recover.

He hated to use such dirty tactics, but there were still several men remaining. He was going to do whatever it took to stay alive. He panted with exertion, feeling dizzy from the heat. He wondered how Iarion and Silvaranwyn were faring. He didn’t feel like he could keep this up for much longer.

“Back to back!” Iarion’s voice called out in Elvish over the clamor.

Barlo knew enough of the language to understand. He forced his heavy feet through the sand and bulled his way through the knot of men standing a few feet away. The two elves were on the other side, trying to keep the men at bay with their knives. Both were spattered with blood. Iarion moved with fluid grace, dodging spear blows and striking with deadly accuracy. Anyone other than Barlo would not have noticed the blank look of exhaustion in his eyes and the slight tremble in his limbs.

Silvaranwyn was more cautious. She focused almost purely on defense and her expression was bleak. Barlo wedged himself beside her and Iarion, and they fought the remaining men standing back to back. Sinstari was somewhere on the outside, harrying their attackers.

It was all Barlo could do to keep a grip on his ax. His entire body felt like lead. He wanted nothing more than to sink down into the sand and rest. His head pounded and his breathing came in short gasps. Still, the men continued their attack.

Finally, when it seemed like he could do no more, the man facing him left him an opening. Barlo slipped inside the man’s guard and cut him down. Barlo looked up, blinking. The sky had gone dark. Corpses of Darkling Men lay strewn in the sand around them. It was over.

Barlo was just about to collapse to the ground, when he heard a ragged cry. He turned to see one of the men rushing toward him, clutching a fresh spear. His eyes were wild and the area between his legs was bloody.

“Seriously?” Barlo shook his head in disbelief, feeling beyond exhausted. “I feel bad enough already for obliterating your manhood. Can’t you just stay down?”

The man continued his charge. Barlo tried to steady his shaking legs, bracing for impact.

Just before the man got within range, Sinstari struck, knocking him to the ground. The man’s cry was cut off abruptly as the cat landed. Barlo heard a snap. As Sinstari stood, Barlo could see the man’s neck lay at a wrong angle. He met the cat’s blinking, green eyes.

“Thank you,” he said before his legs gave way.

“Barlo,” Iarion said in a strangled voice from where he had collapsed a few feet away. “What did you do to that man?”

“It was an accident!” Barlo protested, feeling guilty. “I said I was sorry, but he wouldn’t accept my apology.”

“I see.”

Barlo remained still for a moment. He had never felt so tired in his life. Sinstari lay beside him, his tongue lolling from his mouth and his sides heaving. After a moment, Barlo dug his waterskin out from his pack. He poured his last mouthful of water into his cupped hand and held it out to the wildcat. Sinstari gave him a long look before lowering his head to lap up the precious water. His whiskers tickled Barlo’s hand. He eventually stopped drinking, leaving about half of what Barlo had poured. Barlo thrust his cupped hand toward the cat, but Sinstari turned his head away.

“You’re sure?” Barlo asked him. Sinstari lowered his head onto his large paws, looking up at him. “All right then.” Barlo tilted his hand to his lips, letting the trickle of water slide down his parched throat.

Several moments passed in silence. Silvaranwyn remained motionless. If not for the rise and fall of her chest, and the glimmer of her eyes in the growing darkness, Barlo would not have thought she was alive. Now that he wasn’t moving, he suddenly noticed how much the temperature had dropped since sundown. He shivered.

“Iarion?” he said. The elf grunted in response. “What do we do now? We’ve run out of water, and we’re in no shape to move.”

Iarion sighed. “I don’t know. I was so certain my visions were telling me to go south. I must have been wrong. I never should have let the rest of you come with me. I’m sorry.”

“It was our choice,” Barlo said. “And who knows? Maybe something will happen and turn this around. We’re not dead yet.” Iarion flashed him a grateful smile.

Silvaranwyn’s head rose from the sand. “Do you hear that?”

Barlo frowned, straining his ears. He thought he heard a rapid, dull thumping and the hissing of sand. The sound was rhythmic and getting closer. It reminded him of...

“Horses!” Iarion said, snatching up his knife and stumbling to his feet.

Barlo, Silvaranwyn, and Sinstari scrambled to stand with him. A line of horses emerged from behind a large dune to the south. They were short and sturdy looking, with short-cropped manes and tails. The figures who rode them used only woven blankets for saddles and seemed to control the beasts mostly with their knees and heels. The one riding in the lead spotted Barlo and his companions. Using only a gesture of command, he led the other riders toward them, drawing a short, curved sword from a scabbard at his hip.

As the riders closed in, Barlo tried to get a better look at them, but without much success. Each one wore a loose robe and a length of cloth wrapped around his head, covering the lower half of his face. Their eyes were outlined with some kind of dark cosmetic that only made them look more mysterious.

Barlo gripped his ax, standing back to back with his friends. The line of riders had circled around them. Barlo counted at least forty. His eyes swept the sand for his throwing ax, but it was too far away. He could sense Iarion and Silvaranwyn trembling with exhaustion. They hadn’t even bothered to draw their bows. They were simply too tired.

The leader pointed his sword toward them. The circle tightened in silence as each rider drew a similar weapon. Barlo suppressed a moan of despair.

They were surrounded.