By Murry J.

Men rushed to meet this new force. A group of archers ran past, nocking arrows to their bows. Alarios was already in the midst of the fray, stabbing and slashing relentlessly. Two men were cut down nearly instantly. Women screamed and clutched their children as the sound of clashing arms filled Lexos’s ears. 

A man ran up to him and handed him a belt. Strapped to it were four bronze knives. “A gift from Alarios. Use them well.” He then drew a sword and ran towards the battle. Lexos drew one of the knives, running his finger along the edge to test its sharpness. He ran towards the battle. Men were climbing the cliff from five different ropes. A thin line of swordsmen blocked their way, with a row of archers behind. 

Lexos saw Alarios charge towards a rope, spinning with his blade outstretched, his sword slicing through armor and flesh. He slashed at the rope, cutting halfway through the thick cord. He raised his sword for another cut, but a man tackled him from behind, sending them both flying off the cliff. 

Lexos paused, stunned, then launched himself at the nearest opponent with a flying leap. He flung himself over the defensive line and stabbed the blade into a man’s throat. The soldier opened his mouth, then fell to the ground with a gurgle. He dove forward, slicing the head off another, then threw his knife. It spun towards a knot of fighting swordsmen, blade gleaming with the reddish light of the setting sun. The blade pierced the leather jerkin of one soldier, embedding itself deep into the man’s stomach. He cried in pain, and the distraction allowed a defender to behead him and stab the man next to him. 

Lexos drew the next knife from the belt around his waist. It was slightly rusted, but still sharp. He swung it at a man rushing at him, but the man parried the blow with his sword, sending the knife flying. Lexos grabbed another knife from his belt, just as an arrow felled his enemy. As he paused to look for the knife that he had dropped, he surveyed the battlefield. The defenders were falling back, and, as he watched, a breach opened in the line, letting half a dozen men charge through. The archers directed their fire at them, killing three, but the others charged towards the tents, swords at the ready. 

Lexos saw the knife lying about twenty feet away from him, behind a tangle of swordsmen. He ran and picked it up, then flung it at the men who were attacking the tents. The blade sang as it whirled, then sank into the back of one man’s neck, killing him instantly. A second volley of arrows arced towards the men, felling the last two just a few feet from the camp. 

Lexos drew the third knife, which had numerous small notches in its edge from use. He spun and came at the enemies again, cutting through flesh and bone, a whirlwind of death and blood. Four more fell beneath his blade, just as the sun sank below the horizon. Only one rope remained, and the ranks of both forces were greatly diminished. 

He ran to a small group of swordsmen, who were defending a breach in the line against a score of opponents. He charged at a man, his knife at the ready. 

When the man saw Lexos, he shouted “Varathragnapoora!” and turned to flee. The other attackers stopped, and many fled also. Taking advantage of the distraction, the defenders struck, killing those who remained. Soon, there were no enemies left on the field. 

The sun had set half an hour before, and Lexos was weary. He started to walk back towards the tents. He stepped around a corpse that lay on the ground, sheathing his bloody blade.

Suddenly, searing pain stabbed through his back. He screamed, turning to see what had struck him. He caught a glimpse of a snarling face, and then the world dissolved into black.