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In
the Forest ...
"Kill
them, kill them, kill them!" screamed a voice from the darkness.
The voice was thin, piping, and alien.
Who . . .
what said that? thought Ember, as she peered through the darkened alley.
Two figures
resolved in the gloom, both similarly hidden under red masks. One
continued to advance, weaponless, his stance suspiciously similar to her
own. The other remained behind, observing. Something squirmed on his
back--a sack?
The
advancing ambusher charged. The thin voice laughed, a cacophony of
splintering wood.
Ember
shifted to cha riut, the attention stance, hoping to deflect the
brunt of the attack. The snarling man still managed to land a kick to
Ember's forehead. Pain blossomed like a poisonous flower. She grunted,
reeled, and avoided a fall through iron determination.
"Yes!
Death to the Enabled Hand! I am the Child, and I command it!"
screeched the voice, almost certainly issuing from the bulging sack on
the last red mask's back.
Through her
pain, Ember wondered who the "child" was and why it hated her?
Brek Gorunn
broke from his attacker's hold, scrambling to his feet. His enchanted warhammer fell firmly into his grip.
"You
made a mistake with us, bandits. Hide your faces all you want. You
can't escape Moradin's justice . . . oof!" Brek's
attacker landed a whirling kick to the dwarf 's midsection, but the
dwarf remained on his feet. He looked over to Ember, and gasped
"Ember,
are you hurt?"
Ember waved
one hand reassuringly, hoping she didn't look as bad as she felt.
Weakness pulled against her every move like unseen spiderwebs. She had
to end this fight quickly. Ember struck with her left hand, drawing on
all her training. It was the ah sang bo, the swaying snake feint.
Her attacker took the bait and
shifted to block;
Ember spun in the opposite direction and chopped his neck with her other
hand. The red mask fell without a sound.
Brek
Gorunn's attacker realized the tide had turned. He twisted to run.
Brek roared, and his warhammer caught the man once, twice, thrice . . .
and he, too, was down. The last ambusher, the one with the passenger on
his back, turned and shot off down the alley. The goading voice screamed
out defiantly, then faded into the distance.
The dwarf
cleric gave chase, but stopped short when he saw how hurt Ember actually
was. For her part, Ember felt like a glass shot through with tiny
cracks. One more hit, and she'd shatter.
She slowly
sat down, breathing through her mouth.
Looking
at her friend, she said slowly, "Brek . . . I have the feeling
those were not simple bandits."
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