FURY ROSE IN TYRAK like bile in a drunkard’s gorge.
He reached down and yanked a javelin from its sheath. Like his sword, it too was finely wrought and bejeweled at the grip, his sigil carved into the metal band. He always left one such javelin at the site of any place he attacked, standing from the chest of the chief or leader of the enemy, as a symbol of his conquest.
He raised the javelin, hooked it in his armpit, like a lance, and kicked his horse forward. He charged at the uks cart, aiming the weapon at Vasurava’s chest, screaming as loudly as he could.
This time there was no answering roar from his soldiers. They were still too stunned by the shattering of the sword.
But as the point of the javelin plunged directly at Vasurava’s chest, the cowherd chieftain raised his crook again, barely a few inches, and countered the powerful lunging weapon with barely enough force to push back a gnat.
It was force enough.
The point of the javelin shattered, the pole splintering into a dozen shards. The pieces toppled, some knocking woodenly against the forward right wheel of the uks cart before tumbling to the churned ground. Only the base remained in Tyrak’s armpit, a jagged edge poking out, and a small piece in his fist. He stared at it in disgust as he rode past the cart, turning his mount again, then tossed it aside. It was good for no more than starting a fire now. He had brought down elephants with that javelin, men by the dozen. Now it was kindling.
And yet his arm and body thrummed as if he had struck a stone wall. His fingers were numb, his armpit and shoulder sore from the force of the impact. He had pierced armored shields with lances at top riding speed and experienced less resistance than this.
He stared at Vasurava in fury. The Mraashk had an expression of frank wonder on his face, as if he too could not understand what was happening. Tyrak desired nothing more than to smash in that face, demolish that expression.
Tyrak turned to look around. He saw a mace in the hands of one of his soldiers, a burly, muscled fellow who had been exercising with the weapon as his men often did, swinging it round over their heads to build upper-body bulk and strength.
Without a word, he snatched the weapon from the man’s hands. The soldier stepped back to avoid being knocked down by Tyrak’s horse, lost his balance, and fell into the mud. Tyrak hefted the mace in his left hand—the right was still numb from the javelin impact.
Roaring with rage, he rode straight at the uks cart again. He saw the whites of the eyes of Vasurava’s friend, who was as shocked as Tyrak’s soldiers, but with a notable difference. The soldiers were merely watching as spectators; Vasurava’s companion was in the firing line of Tyrak’s assaults. Tyrak saw the man flinch as he rode forward, swinging the mace overhead in a classic attack approach, then, instead of striking at Vasurava’s body, he flung and released it.
The mace flew barely three yards.
It ought to have caught Vasurava in the chest, neck, and jaw, shattering bone, smashing flesh, battering the heart to pulp. It was a death blow. The mace weighed no less than a hundred pounds. Flung with that force from a cantering horse, it would have struck Vasurava with ten times that weight in impact.
Vasurava raised his crook just in time to meet the oncoming mace.
The mace turned to pulp.
Tyrak heard the sound of the metal being crushed, and saw the mace wilt like a flower sprayed with poison. It thumped to the ground, no more than a piece of twisted metal.
Tyrak roared his fury.
Then he turned and pointed at the company of archers, who stood staring in disbelief at these extraordinary sights.
“Archers! Raise your bows!”
He had to repeat the order twice more before they obeyed; even so, they moved sluggishly, like men underwater. One of them remained gaping open-mouthed, and Tyrak vented his fury by pulling another javelin from its sheath on his saddle and flinging it at the man. The javelin punched through the archer’s neck and out the other side in an explosion of blood and gristle, almost decapitating him. His corpse fell, shuddering and spitting blood with a wet, gurgling sound as the air in his lungs was expelled from his severed throat. After that, the archers’ years of training and relentless discipline took over from their numbed minds.
“Aim!” Tyrak cried. The target was obvious.
The officer commanding the company of archers called out in alarm. “Sire, if we miss our mark, we shall hit our own!” The danger was obvious: In a field crowded with their compatriots, the arrows were bound to overshoot their mark and strike friendly bodies.
“Loose!” Tyrak cried.
White-faced and blinking, the archers loosed.
Over three dozen longbow arrows flew through the air at Vasurava and his companion. This time, Vasurava did not even bother to raise the crook. There was no way to block forty arrows with a single stick.
Vasurava faced the barrage calmly. His expression had progressed from the wonderment Tyrak had seen earlier to acceptance. It was almost beatific in its calmness.
The arrows shattered in midair as if striking an invisible wall.
Blue light sparked where their points struck nothingness.
Vasurava’s companion flinched, then stared in amazement, as splinters fell around them in a harmless shower.
Tyrak screamed with frustration.
“Again!” he cried. “Loose again!”
Another barrage. The same results.
Tyrak lost his senses completely then.
He pointed at the cart, yelling, “Attack! Kill them both!”
But not a soldier moved. The archers lowered their bows, ashen. Those nearest to the cart gazed up in wonderment. Several joined their palms together in greeting, as if paying darshan to a deity in a temple.
Tyrak rode forward, striking these men down, crushing them under his horse’s hooves.
He whipped others, roared again and again. “Attack! Attack!”
But not one man of the thousand moved to obey.
In a red rage, unable to get them to respond to his commands, Tyrak took a fresh sword and hacked them down where they stood. He slashed at random, not bothering to check if the man was dead. Many were mortally wounded, but none cried out, none protested. All gazed at Vasurava and joined their palms in wonderment, dying without argument.