EndEro: Lightning Strike

Muscles burning with the exertion of extended battle, Nemo twisted his body to the side and down as the massive cleaver-like blade swept inches from his ear in a lateral slice that would have left him in two neat pieces, top and bottom. Recovering, he lunged with his short stabbing sword, feinting for his opponents groin even as he threw himself into a roll to one side. Turning to follow, the foeman snarled in pain and rage as the edge of Nemo’s weapon bit the outside of his knee where there were no chain links or steel plates to protect the joint. As horribly overgrown as all Moln were, its voice seemed impossibly deep and loud as it roared at him, like rolling thunder over a rockslide.

“Seshgad tlamh, gelta rhab!” More annoyed than hindered, the giant windmilled his two-hander, a straight and single-edged sword that stood taller than Nemo himself when resting point down, in a complex defensive pattern. In the Moln’s hands, driven by the strength contained in eight feet of trained warrior muscles, it moved as fast as Nemo’s much smaller weapon. Bloody unfair, is what it was.

“Eat horseshit and die,” Nemo panted back in the same language, retreating from the blurring black steel. That sword had already shattered his shield and probably fractured the arm holding it, going by the ache coming through over adrenaline and fear. All he could do was avoid it, and if he failed, the next strike which landed on him would be the last he ever saw. What he needed was time, or even better, three or four more swords to help him bring this big bastard down.

As it was in the old stories, the Moln attack had been lightning quick. One moment it was business as usual in Irontown, and the next there was blood running in streets down which giant figures out of legend strode with impunity. Nemo had been at home taking his noon meal when the alarm was raised and the screams fist reached his ears. Arming quickly, he had joined twenty other men with swords and shields and half-armor, forming up to defend their homes from the invaders. They had thought that the tight streets between the houses, nothing like the broad thoroughfares running as regular as rails through the market, would be a great advantage.

It had taken five giants and about as many seconds for their formation to be shattered once contact was made. Men were thrown aside by looping swings of a Moln warhammer, swords broken, shields splintered. It had turned into the worst kind of intermingled butchery, with the giants distancing themselves from their companions so they could wield their great weapons to the best effect. They had no need to fight with science or skill, they could just strike in wide arcs at the level of a man’s chest. In truth, all things considered, the fight had gone in favor of the Ironborn. In amidst the piled corpses of Nemo’s neighbors, there were four Moln bodies brought low by the courage and self sacrifice of good soldiers.

Leaving Nemo and his opponent in single combat.

Slowing the movements of his sword, the Moln advanced on Nemo cautiously, each step on his wounded leg eliciting a grimace. “You are big for fair-kin. Strong, fast,” the giant said, speaking Silvertongue now, the common language of trade. “I take your head back to Kargoth Huln, put it on hearthstone for Bright Father.”

“Take my foot too,” Nemo said, edging away down the street, carefully placing his boots amidst the tangled bodies in the street. His words brought a frown of confusion to the giant’s face.

“You… A chos?” he inquired, taking one hand from his sword to point downwards.

“Yeah. I’m going to break it off in your ass, you big freak.” Nemo could not really summon the strength he wanted into the words, but there was certainly enough venom. At least enough to get a laugh from the giant, who threw his head back in an involuntary guffaw, even more surprised than amused.

“Very goo- hakh!”

Much as his shield-arm was hurting, there was nothing wrong with Nemo’s legs. While he had not been expecting such a clear opening, the moment the Moln took his eyes away the Ironborn sprang forward in a wild, lunging leap, stabbing forward with every ounce of power he could muster. At full extension, the first two inches of his sword punched through the giant’s coat of mail and into his shoulder. Convulsively, the giant delivered a backhand that loosened Nemo’s grip on his weapon and send him tumbling roughly on the cobbles. Rolling back to his feet, he threw himself to once side, hearing the greatsword split a fallen man in have and clang jarringly into the stones beneath.

“You are funny,” the Moln gasped, scooping up a shield and pitching it off-hand after Nemo, though it went wide enough that he never felt threatened by it. “Very funny little man… Seshgad tlam!”

Not at all interested in doing as he was bid and staying still for the killing blow, Nemo kept on backing away. Relatively unhurt, he now saw that his best chance of staying alive was to stay well away from that big bloody sword until that big bloody bastard ran out of blood. Once he was down, finishing him off would be simple. Right, simple.

Matters were simplified to a much greater degree when, with the wet noise of a cleaver striking beef, a short javelin sailed in over Nemo’s head and lodged itself into the giant’s right shoulder. When the Moln’s howl trailed off into a snarl of pain, Nemo’s ears were left ringing at the sheer enormity of the sound. Not so much so that he could not hear the rhythmic crash of swords against shields and hobnailed boots against stone, as a full sentry of Firewatch Main Forcers advanced down the street. Eighty or so men in full armor, overlapping steel plates polished to a gleam, woolen red cloaks signifying their willingness to bleed for the people. Their sentry guide was struggling to keep the guidon, a long spear trailing a banner, upright under the weight of the dripping Moln head recently impaled upon the tip.

It was the sight of that last, more than pain or fear, which drove Nemo’s opponent to utter madness. Screaming defiance, the Moln hefted his greatsword and charged towards the Main Forcers, who in turn came to a halt. Before the giant closed half the distance, the first rank dropped to one knee, and the second rank let the weight of their shields turn their bodies in a sharp half-turn. Eight javelins arced out, and eight javelins struck the giant in his center of mass. Overcome, the giant went down with a bovine low of agony, writhing for a moment before falling still.

At a barked order from the guide, the sentry advanced once more down the street, moving to clear away the bodies with the sort of efficiency only exhibited by professionals trained to the job. One of their number was tasked with seeing to the only survivor of the fight, sitting him down on a handy barrel and sharing a skin of wine-cut water, then splinting Nemo’s fractured arm with practiced ease.

“Lucky bastard,” the Main Forcer remarked casually as he bound Nemo’s arm, showing his teeth in a quick grin beneath his helmet. “Shor’s light shines on you, slagger.” The soldier wasn’t familiar, so the friendly epithet was probably a guess based on the neighborhood’s proximity to the Foundry.

“What’s going on everywhere else?” Nemo’s voice was dull and distant in his own ears, as devoid of emotion or energy as his own body felt.

“Dunno,” said the Main Forcer, making a tight knot in the bandage that made Nemo wince. “We’ve been mowing ‘em down everywhere we’ve been, and there’s no fire except one the Hammer snuffed out. Thank the spirits, eh?” Nodding in approval, the soldier got Nemo under his arms and pulled him to his feet. “Come on, up you get, you big fucker. We’re moving on, and we can’t leave you here for one of those bastards to step on, can we?”

For all his weariness, Nemo found that he was at least capable of putting one foot in front of the next. Retrieving his sword, he started cleaning the blood from it idly as he walked, first wiping it against his kilt and then picking flecks of drying matter away with his fingernail. So absorbed was he with the task that he could ignore the bodies lying in the streets through which he followed the sentry, ignore the distant screams of pain and anguish, and even the bellows of giants falling under Ironborn spears and blades.