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Chapter 17: The Seedwind
Part 3
“We cycle together,” said Turner, clutching Atrocity at the elbow.
“It’ll be easier, smoother, for us this way. It’s okay Frix,” she said.
He decided not to argue, and found his own trunk to press against. There were maybe five or six chasers, their small dark forms flitting between the sea of straight lines. He scanned around, looking for a flanking group—nothing so far.
“Float, don’t deflect,” Turner repeated.
When they got close enough, three of them stopped while three advanced. Melee and range. Frix hooted his hornrat cry out, three times. Nothing came back, except for some hushed conversation. He hoped they weren’t true Seedwind.
When three in front began to rush, Frix broke cover and cut right. There was a twang and two snaps as the ranged units fired. He felt a tingle at the same time, and kept running as the shots whizzed overhead.
He gripped a passing trunk and swung around it, and was on the first rusher, just a kid. Frix faked a low swing and hopped to the side as they shifted their weight to block. His next blow shattered an elbow and his backswing caught the skull, hard enough that he didn’t bother to switch to defense. He sprinted at the second rusher.
This guy had a few extra seconds to prepare, and was dug in. Twang, snap-ap! There were two pocking noises as stones careened off tree trunks, and the second rusher collapsed. Frix froze for a moment, seeing—but not fully processing—the ugly crossdart bolt sticking out of the guy’s ear.
Then the third rusher was on him, swinging a pair of rockhammers.
He parried high, then low, but a third swing hooked his cudgel and pulled him forward. He jumped into the yank, trying to get inside the kill swing. Twisting, Frix jammed his elbow out, catching the attacker in the sternum as they collided and fell. He rolled, letting his cudgel go and snicking out the shortsharp. He got his knee onto his opponent’s neck, fitted the end of the dagger flat and firm against the underside of his jaw,.
“Hold it, or he’s dead!” Frix said. The man’s eyes bulged and he struggled. Frix looked behind him to make sure the first rusher was indeed unconscious—yup. The ranged units circled, closing in.
“Shoot him!” said one.
“But—” protested another.
“I said fire!”
Frix curled over and pressed his knee deeper into the guy’s neck, cutting off blood flow. The shots never came though—instead frustrated yelps. He looked up, keeping the pressure on. Three fuzzy red lights had grown around the heads of the ranged units. They swatted at them.
“Frix, hurry!” said Atrocity.
Turner and his sister were still linked by the arm, their eyes and chests aglow. Frix leapt up off the rusher, who wasn’t fully out, and gathered up his cudgel. He sheathed his sharp, took one hammer, and tossed the other towards the witches. It landed near Turner.
Frix ran to the nearest ranged attacker, a slinger-wielder. He had stopped trying to swat, and had switched to his longsharp, holding it out in front of him, jabbing it aimlessly. When Frix got close, the guy charged in his general direction, blade slashing. Frix sidestepped and clocked him firmly in the back of the head. He went down hard.
“There!” cried an attacker.
The crossdart-wielder’s light had faded to pink, and the crossdart was pointing at Frix. He ducked as it fired. The dart ripped through his hair.
“Witches man! Witches!” The other slinger had spotted the siblings through his fading light, and turned to shoot at them. Frix had a feeling they were running out of bloodlight. The crossdart guy back-pedaled and started to reload. Frix heaved the hammer at the slinger, catching him in the shoulder. His stone fired wide as he shrieked and fell.
Frix rushed at the crossdarter, putting on his best berserker face, raising his cudgel. The guy fumbled with his reload, still reversing. He got the dart into place, heaved back the mechanism, but then Frix brought his weapon down and knocked the crossdart askew. The attacker moved with the blow, spinning. Frix recovered from his swing, braced against one leg and stabbed out at the guy’s ribs. But he was good, and managed to turn fast enough to get the crossdart in the way of the cudgel. Frix succeeded only in poking him backwards, and the guy hopped on one foot.
There was enough room for him to raise the crossdart.
The only thing to do was to put the cudgel in the path of the bolt. It fired, shattering the cudgel and ripping it from Frix’s grip. He felt a stabbing ache in his chest and flailed backwards, spitting splinters.
But he didn’t fall. That was good. He looked down for a split second, trying to assess the damage, but then the guy was at him again, crossdart thrown aside, shortsharp flashing. Frix dodged away, grateful for the clean, rootless ground. He got his own sharp out and squared off with his opponent. Only then did he recognize him.
“You’re that sentry,” Frix breathed, relieved he could still talk. The stinging in his chest had become a little worse, and in his peripheral vision he could see part of the bolt. It was definitely in him, but seemingly not in a fatal way.
“Frix of Bit.” The guy said. “I’m not leaving without your head.”
“What’s your name?”
“To the dirt with you.”
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