Questing Sucks (Book 1) (62 page)

He had little time to reflect on his kill. A second horseman was quick to replace the first. This time, Patrick was dealing with a much older, stronger man. Patrick traded blows with him, trying to find an opening. A deafening clang came from the blades each time they crossed, and one after the other, the man beat back each of Patrick’s attacks, sending pain shimmering down Patrick’s arms. The man was strong.

Strength means nothing,
Patrick thought.

He waited for the man to attack, and rather than parry, Patrick leaned backward in the saddle, coming to a lying position on his back. He let the man’s blade pass frighteningly close to his stomach, not an inch above it. Patrick wrapped his legs around the soldier’s arms and then twisted, and in an incredibly risky maneuver, Patrick pushed himself off his own mount with his legs still wrapped around the soldier’s arms. As he fell, he dragged the soldier to the ground with him. The impact with the ground caused Patrick to bite down on his tongue, and he was sure there’d be some damage to repair later—if there was a later.

Patrick jumped back to his feet. The man would have problems standing back up while wearing such heavy armor, so Patrick knew the fight was his. Before the man could even get to his knees, Patrick’s blade was already through his throat.

The soldier clutched at his neck and choked, gasping for air that wouldn’t find its way into his lungs. Patrick slashed down with his blade and put the man out of his misery, a luxury he was certain the enemy wouldn’t afford the Kingdom Soldiers.

With a sigh, Patrick took a moment to catch his breath and survey the battle. The Pillar’s men performed admirably despite being outnumbered. They refused to yield an inch, and from the looks of things, they were clearly the superior fighters. Patrick wanted to weep at the sight of his men holding back such a massive invading force.

A rumbling sound, just out of sight and behind him, told Patrick that the ground soldiers were catching up, which meant that the enemy’s wouldn’t be long in the coming, either. Because of their bulkier armor, they would be slower to arrive. If the Kingdom was to have any chance of inflecting real damage, they needed to take advantage of having temporarily higher numbers. The sound of screaming men from Patrick’s left caused him to turn and stare in awe.

Gods
, he thought.
What a frightening Elf.

Saerith was going wild—there was no other way to explain the Elf’s absurd combat frenzy. Patrick had never seen anything like it. The Elf didn’t spar horseback like the rest of the men. No, he jumped from enemy horse to enemy horse, using both magic and might to sever heads and cripple horses. At one point, when Rillith seemed on the verge of being disemboweled by a gargantuan, behemoth of a man, Saerith leapt off of an enemy horse, flipping once in the air before bringing his sword down on top of the man’s head. The sword cracked through the black-armored helmet and ripped through the soldier’s thick skull.

“For Prince Patrick! For the Kingdom!” came shouts from behind. Patrick turned and saw the entirety of his ground forces rushing with weapons drawn. The lancers came in first, using their long spears to force the enemy’s mounted units to dismount and engage with blade in hand.

Good,
Patrick thought.
Teach them fear. Teach them respect!

Patrick wasn’t able to watch the battle for long. Three of the black-armored soldiers surrounded him. The first one tried to sever his limbs while the other two attempted to skewer him. Patrick struggled to fend off all three at once, doing little but holding each at bay. He ducked under one while parrying another and kicking a third in the ribs, sending the soldier back a few paces. It didn’t deter the black-armored man for long. He rejoined his two comrades within seconds.

Patrick used the opportunity to back away and position them to the front of him. Anything was better than being attacked from all sides. Again, they assaulted him. Years of training and fast reflexes were the only things keeping Patrick alive. Duck. Parry. Step. Duck. Parry. Patrick chanted the words in his mind, detaching himself from his fear and desperately maneuvering his sword fast enough to stop each strike from an enemy blade. Things weren’t looking good. He wouldn’t be able to stop them for long.

Please, Helena, at least let me take one of them with me,
he thought.

“
Gnyaaaah
!” a shrill voice cried. Patrick wondered who died, because the voice was loud enough to shatter an eardrum.

For a moment, one of the three men paused in his attacks. A second later, he fell to his knees, and only then did Patrick see the tip of a sword running through the front of his chest. But who killed him?

The other two men turned on whoever had killed the third. Patrick couldn’t see beyond their bulky bodies. There was a pause, and then both of the black-armored soldiers grunted in unison and fell to the floor, dead, with a pool of blood emptying from their stomachs. Patrick squinted. Which of his fine warriors had saved his life?

Patrick tried to get a closer look, but another two men approached with swords raised to kill. They met the same fate. Whoever had saved his life made quick work of the two invaders. Patrick could just see the corner of a man’s body obscured behind two black-armored men. Whoever this person who saved his life was, his swordsmanship went far beyond what Patrick was capable of. The person spun as he swung his blade, killing both of the enemy soldiers with one circular swing.

The man turned to face Patrick at the same moment the two men hit the ground. When the man spoke, his voice was deep, gruff, and oddly forced, as if he was intentionally making himself sound mysterious and complex. “Let this be a lesson,” the voice said. “That those who clash with Mayor Rumpus are those who are not long for this world.”

Patrick didn’t care that he was in the middle of a battle—he didn’t care that the fate of the kingdom, if not the world, rested on his shoulders. All he cared in that moment was to confirm what his ears told him. There was no way. There was simply no way.

And yet, stepping carefully over the five fresh corpses still bleeding out of recent wounds, Patrick looked down on the short, chubby man in a suit of armor that barely fit him.

“Ah, Prince Patrick,” Rumpus growled intentionally. “Shall
weeee
continue the
fighhhht
?”

“Are you...is this a joke?”

“Joke?” Rumpus asked. “I should think not. All
Pumplesteins
dating back as
farrrrr
as kingdom history
goessss
have been
trainned
in the
artsss
of
swordsssmanship
. You
seeeee
—”

“Speak in your normal voice!” Patrick snapped. Rumpus’s growl was unbearable.

Rumpus bowed his head—fortunately for him, because a crossbow bolt passed just above his scalp—and returned to his normal, squeaky voice. “Ah…sorry, I thought it would be more dramatic that way. So, where was I? Ah, yes. Dating back since the beginning of kingdom history, my eldest greatest grandfather, Mayor
Rupis
Pupis
Pumplewibble
, had invented a form of—”

“Watch out!” Patrick warned. A scarred, bald-headed soldier with a tremendous axe approached from behind Rumpus. He held the large weapon above his head in trembling hands, and from the looks of things, he was ready to split Rumpus in two with it.

Rumpus, without even glancing behind him, reversed his grip on his own weapon and struck backward blindly, piercing the man’s stomach while keeping his eyes focused on Patrick. The bald-headed soldier crumpled to the floor and bled out on the grass. All this, while Rumpus continued to speak.

“…and that was when my great uncle, Reginald
Pumplestein
…”

Patrick decided the ridiculous mayor would do just fine without his direction. He left him there, alone and still babbling to no one in particular. Several more men tried to claim his life, but they were just as easily slain as the last few. Every time someone approached the mayor, he’d dish out death while continuing his story.

What kind of world do I live in?
Patrick wondered.

The ground forces joined with the mounted units, and together, the entirety of Patrick’s force—aside from the archers still on Hahl’s walls—fought back against the invaders. At least three black-armored men died for every two of Patrick’s men killed. Women with crossbows poured bolts into the eyes of the enemy while black-armored men clashed steel with swordsmen.

Eventually, Patrick once again found himself side-by-side with Saerith and Rillith. And the three of them, spurred on by Saerith’s chaotic battle frenzy, slaughtered the enemy left and right. Saerith jumped into the air, leaping over the head of one soldier and landing next to another. He chanted a word that Patrick couldn’t make out, and with the swing of his blade, he beheaded one soldier while lightning shot from his free hand and torched the other.

Rillith held his own against three larger men. The veteran warrior danced around their clumsy attacks and capitalized on their wasted movements. Patrick needed to look away to focus on his own fight, but he did catch a glimpse of Rillith’s blade lodged into a man’s throat before losing sight of him.

Seconds felt like minutes, and minutes felt like hours. Patrick had no idea how long he’d fought for, or how long he’d continue to fight. But eventually, his arms tired and his body ached. Dead bodies piled up along the battlefield, and despite the superiority of his men, the enemy’s overwhelming numbers proved too much to handle. Every time one of the black-armored men died, instantly another took his place.

Patrick’s breathing became more frantic. His arms trembled and his body shook. How many men had he killed? Ten? Twenty? A hundred? Even Saerith seemed on the verge of collapse, but no matter how many men they dispatched, more kept on coming.

Patrick knew that logically, now was the time to retreat back to the walls of Hahl. Except, thanks to Alan’s foolish command, the moment his forces gained the slightest distance from the enemy soldiers, the enemy’s archers—now safely behind the ground forces—would tear through them with arrows, perhaps even a round of catapult fire or two.

It’s a fight to the death,
Patrick thought.
And we’re starting to lose.

Patrick fought against his oxygen starved lungs. The air couldn’t get into it fast enough. He finished off another soldier, only to be met with yet another. Again and again, Patrick swung his blade and dealt death. But it was too much. He wanted to lie down. He wanted to sleep.

“I can’t go on much longer,” Patrick said. “Saerith, I think…I think I’m ready to die.”

Saerith’s hair stood on end and his face looked haggard. “I know what you mean,” he said.

“Aye,” Rillith agreed. “I’ve had about enough. I think we’ve shown this lot what we’re made of. What say we do something foolish, eh? How about a dash for that
lith
-loving commander of theirs?”

Patrick tried to laugh, but it came out as a wheeze. “We’ll never make it to Ghell. We’ll be cut down before we can get close.”

Saerith, in a clumsy and almost fatal display of fatigue, carelessly beat against a black-armored soldier, almost tripping over his own feet in the process. Luckily, he managed to slit the man’s neck.

“I think it’s too late to be worrying about that,” he said with a snort. “Death would probably be a relief at this point.”

“Imagine if one of us actually makes it to the ugly twit?” Saerith asked. “I’d make sure to cut his liver out, no matter to how tired I am.”