The Flames Of The Phoenix

Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

Brian watched as the men searched. Most of the men wore royal blue uniforms with a wide black trim down the center of each sleeve. Two men stood apart from the others. One wore yellow trim, the other red. They spoke briefly, and then the man with the red trim looked directly at him. “There he is!” he heard the man shout. As the man began to bring up his long-blaster, Brian spun and hurled himself down the other side of the hill.

“What a fool!” he cursed himself. “You should know better than to stand on top of a hill. Next time just light a signal fire!”

The sound of the men yelling and crashing through the brush behind him spurred him on. Brian had kept in fairly good shape, so he made good time.

The weapons carried by those following him only served to weigh them down and hamper their movements. Aware that he had this edge, Brian paced himself so that he would not tire too quickly.

Suddenly, Brian burst through the trees into a clearing. A large group of men were encamped around a cook-fire. All heads turned toward him, gaping. One of the men quickly regained his composure and laid his hand on a crossbow.

“Step forth, fellow,” the man spoke, evidently the leader, “and pray that you have a good explanation for coming so to our camp.”

Brian stepped forward, making a quick count. He estimated thirty men in the group. Several men got to their feet to stand in support of their leader. All the men seemed to be armed in some fashion. The weapons evident were swords and bows.

“Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you. I didn't know you were here. I'd love to chat, but I've got some soldiers hot on my trail. I'd best be on my way.” Brian turned to make a quick exit.

“Hold!” The man's voice was firm. “The only soldiers within fifty leagues are those of my cousin, Baron Huxley, and us. I am afraid I must hold you for him.” The crossbow pointed conspicuously at Brian's chest. “We also are the Baron's men.”

“Look,” Brian said, carefully not moving, “I don't know who your cousin is, and these guys are a bunch of mercenaries that have come a lot further than fifty leagues.”

Some of the soldiers began to peer into the woods around them. Off to one side, Brian could see a lean-to type of structure that had evidently been there for quite some time. In it he could see a pile of old weapons—swords, lances, pieces of armor—that for the most part appeared to suffer from years of exposure and lack of care. In the center of this pile sat a large stone. Brian jolted and rubbed his eyes. He must be hallucinating… or finally gone beyond the edge of reality. There was no possible way that he was seeing what he believed he was seeing. A sword could not be stuck into that stone.

“What's all this?” Brian began, visions of Mark Twain’s “Connecticut Yankee” going through his mind. His question remained unanswered as Astral-One’s mercenaries burst through the brush and into the clearing.

Reacting to what appeared to be a hostile force; the Baron's men went for their weapons and attacked. The mercenaries were outnumbered, but better outfitted.

The smell of brimstone was thick as the mercenaries responded with their blasters, cutting a deep swath of death among the soldiers from the camp. Once the soldiers were among them however, the blasters were difficult to use effectively, and in such jumbled close quarters they were as likely to hit each other as the bladed soldiers.

Brian stood back watching the battle, wanting nothing to do with the fighting. The mercenaries, armed only with blasters, were hard hit. Then one—the man with the red trim—grabbed a sword from the body of a fallen attacker. Calling for the others to do the same, he launched himself at a soldier pressing hard on another of the mercenaries.

The mercenary looked up as his assailant fell under the sword stroke. “Thanks, Stuart.”

“Fight!” Stuart yelled back, pointing at the sword of the fallen man.

This seemed to catch on and many mercenaries were attempting to obtain swords. More mercenaries fell under the blades of the soldiers before they were able to make an effective rally.

Of the fifteen mercenaries who had first appeared in the clearing, only four remained. Of the thirty-odd soldiers that had sat about the fire, eight stood against the mercenaries from Astral-One.

Stuart finished off the man facing him. He turned and attacked a man who was withdrawing his sword from a falling mercenary almost in time to parry the thrust that took his life. Stuart then singled out another man. A mercenary went down and only two men from Astral-One remained against four soldiers from the camp.

One of the men, the Baron's cousin, stepped back. “You are done. Do you yield?”

Stuart laughed. “The field is clearly ours. You may concede if you wish.”

“You are a fool!” the man answered, resuming the fight.

Stuart slew one of his antagonists and parried a blow from the other. Brian watched as the other mercenary, the one with the yellow trim, slew one of his attackers and turned to the other in much the same way. Then the two mercenaries stood alone.

“Well, Captain Stuart. It seems you and I are the only survivors of this debacle.”

“So it would seem, Major.”

“I think,” the major continued, “that only one man shall live to report back to Astral-One.”

Stuart gave no answer. He stood waiting.

“You were lucky on the practice floor, using toy blades against me. Let's see how well you do with a real blade, against a real blade!”

Brian watched as the two men went to guard position and began their dance of death. They circled, their movements a blur as their clashing blades wove a net of gleaming steel in the air between them. Brian could only stare with awe at the level of skill being demonstrated, not understanding how anyone could respond so quickly and yet so precisely.

Stuart's eyes remained cold and calculating, the major's burned with hatred and fury. It appeared to Brian that neither man would get through the other’s guard. Suddenly, Stuart feinted low. When the major responded, Stuart put his blade three inches into the man's sword arm at the shoulder.

The major screamed and jumped back. Before he could attack, Stuart also stepped back. “Yield,” he said. “This contest is over. Lose your pride and save your life.”

The major launched himself at Stuart and the clashing of steel resumed. Stuart parried easily and pressed to attack, his skill even more apparent than before. With grace and precision, Stuart drew an intricate pattern in the air, moving at almost twice his previous speed.

Brian felt as if he were witnessing a complicated dance that had been so rehearsed for millennia that each move was instinctive and perfect.

Again and again, Stuart slashed at the same wound. As the major's movements slowed due to loss of blood and a stiffening shoulder, his fighting became more frenzied.

Stuart feinted to the same shoulder. When the major attempted wildly to parry, Stuart thrust his blade almost to the hilt into the major's side under his sword arm, piercing both lungs.

“No!” the major screamed. He looked, uncomprehending, into the steel-gray eyes of Riley Stuart.

Stuart pulled his blade free as the dying man fell to the ground. The major's eyes focused on nothing as he tried to form words with his bloody lips. “I…” Then his eyes glazed, and he spoke no more.

Brian watched as Stuart tossed the sword aside with obvious distaste. Then he noticed something the other had missed. Behind Stuart, one of the Baron's men still lived. Eyeing Stuart, the man pulled himself erect and brought a loaded crossbow to bear on his back.

“Behind you!” Brian yelled without thinking.