Read Online Jane Carver of Waar by Nathan Long - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nathan Long
Ads: Link
the camp, swiping at anything that moved, kicking over cooking tripods, and starting fires in a dozen places. And as if that wasn’t enough chaos, maimed, terrified krae were running around like panicked, half-ton chickens, crashing into tents and clawing good guys, bad guys, everybody.
Snatching up a spear somebody had left behind, Queenie led her flock through the camp and into a narrow arroyo in the ravine wall. It was a tight squeeze at the mouth; we had to go in single file, but further in it opened up like a wine bottle. There was hardly any room for us. The place was already sardine tight with Hirrarah gals and kids. This was a planned safe hole for the women-folk, the most easily defended place in the ravine. Only problem was, it wasn’t defended. Whatever males were supposed to hold the entrance weren’t there. It was pretty obvious they were either dead or real busy right about now.
Queenie grunted, then whistled up a few of the heftiest gals to back her up. She planted herself dead center in the arroyo’s tiny opening, spear at parade rest.
I was ready to help out. My blood was up. I generally try to avoid fights, not because I don’t like them, more because I find it kind of hard to stop once I get going. Queenie had other ideas. She nodded up to the peak of a nearby teepee, and mimed me jumping up there for a look around. “Up.”
I tried to look like I didn’t know what she meant, but it was no good. She’d seen me brain Two-Swords at the end of a fifteen-foot jump. The cat was out of the bag. She smirked and raised a sly eyebrow at me.
I shrugged, sheepish, and leaped to the top of the tent like a cat jumping onto a fence post. Queenie was right. It was a good vantage point. I had a clear view of almost the whole camp.
Man, what a mess.
There was one good thing. Our guys had finally gotten themselves together. It wasn’t looking like quite the massacre it had when it started, but even now it wasn’t pretty. The damn krae were still running around, some on fire, and the tent fires were spreading. The fighting was all over the camp. There was no front anymore, just a bunch of isolated ass-kickings and bloodlettings wherever there was room to swing a sword.
Recon training took over. I was assessing threats and preparing contingencies just like Captain MacPherson had taught me. The nearest fight was four tents away, a swirling mosh pit of snarling, slashing Aarurrh and flashing steel. It took me a second to sort out the two sides, and another to recognize One-Eye and Handsome in the thick of the scrum. It was One-Eye’s squad, fighting a gang of Barahir and separated from any other action by at least fifty yards and any number of tents. It looked like they’d stopped to rescue a downed Hirrarah gal from some Barahir and got caught up in a scrape they couldn’t disengage from.
One-Eye, like the coward I’d always figured him to be, was leading from the rear, shouting insults and encouragement from behind his men and waving his sword around a lot, while Handsome was fighting like a demon at the front. As I watched, he ran through two all by himself with a desperate double-sword lunge, and he paid for it. He’d left himself wide open. He parried a slash at his gut, but took a slobberknocker crack on the temple from the butt of a spear. He screamed and wheeled, doing the boxers’ rubber-leg dance on his hind legs, then fell back, crashing heavily on his flank.
His pals closed up the gap like good soldiers, and pressed the advantage he’d created. The bad guys were starting to retreat. One-Eye cheered his men on, but I saw him shoot a glance down at Handsome, still in dreamland beside him, then look over his shoulder. I got a sinking feeling in my stomach. Something was brewing behind One-Eye’s one eye and he didn’t wait long to act on it. He bent his middle arms/legs to kneel by Handsome like he was going to check his wounds. It was perfect. Nobody around, all his men looking the other
Snatching up a spear somebody had left behind, Queenie led her flock through the camp and into a narrow arroyo in the ravine wall. It was a tight squeeze at the mouth; we had to go in single file, but further in it opened up like a wine bottle. There was hardly any room for us. The place was already sardine tight with Hirrarah gals and kids. This was a planned safe hole for the women-folk, the most easily defended place in the ravine. Only problem was, it wasn’t defended. Whatever males were supposed to hold the entrance weren’t there. It was pretty obvious they were either dead or real busy right about now.
Queenie grunted, then whistled up a few of the heftiest gals to back her up. She planted herself dead center in the arroyo’s tiny opening, spear at parade rest.
I was ready to help out. My blood was up. I generally try to avoid fights, not because I don’t like them, more because I find it kind of hard to stop once I get going. Queenie had other ideas. She nodded up to the peak of a nearby teepee, and mimed me jumping up there for a look around. “Up.”
I tried to look like I didn’t know what she meant, but it was no good. She’d seen me brain Two-Swords at the end of a fifteen-foot jump. The cat was out of the bag. She smirked and raised a sly eyebrow at me.
I shrugged, sheepish, and leaped to the top of the tent like a cat jumping onto a fence post. Queenie was right. It was a good vantage point. I had a clear view of almost the whole camp.
Man, what a mess.
There was one good thing. Our guys had finally gotten themselves together. It wasn’t looking like quite the massacre it had when it started, but even now it wasn’t pretty. The damn krae were still running around, some on fire, and the tent fires were spreading. The fighting was all over the camp. There was no front anymore, just a bunch of isolated ass-kickings and bloodlettings wherever there was room to swing a sword.
Recon training took over. I was assessing threats and preparing contingencies just like Captain MacPherson had taught me. The nearest fight was four tents away, a swirling mosh pit of snarling, slashing Aarurrh and flashing steel. It took me a second to sort out the two sides, and another to recognize One-Eye and Handsome in the thick of the scrum. It was One-Eye’s squad, fighting a gang of Barahir and separated from any other action by at least fifty yards and any number of tents. It looked like they’d stopped to rescue a downed Hirrarah gal from some Barahir and got caught up in a scrape they couldn’t disengage from.
One-Eye, like the coward I’d always figured him to be, was leading from the rear, shouting insults and encouragement from behind his men and waving his sword around a lot, while Handsome was fighting like a demon at the front. As I watched, he ran through two all by himself with a desperate double-sword lunge, and he paid for it. He’d left himself wide open. He parried a slash at his gut, but took a slobberknocker crack on the temple from the butt of a spear. He screamed and wheeled, doing the boxers’ rubber-leg dance on his hind legs, then fell back, crashing heavily on his flank.
His pals closed up the gap like good soldiers, and pressed the advantage he’d created. The bad guys were starting to retreat. One-Eye cheered his men on, but I saw him shoot a glance down at Handsome, still in dreamland beside him, then look over his shoulder. I got a sinking feeling in my stomach. Something was brewing behind One-Eye’s one eye and he didn’t wait long to act on it. He bent his middle arms/legs to kneel by Handsome like he was going to check his wounds. It was perfect. Nobody around, all his men looking the other
Similar Books
