The Cyneweard

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Part I - Bringer of Storms :: 28

Greer slowly stood, head ringing, eyes spinning. Nothing was making sense. The crowd was bolting. Gunshots were going off every few seconds, people were shouting.

“What,” he stammered, trying to take a step forward but finding his legs unsuitable for movement. “Damn,” he said.

Realization was dawning.

“I was attacked,” he said. Another gunshot. His head shot to the dais. Guards were surrounding it. He saw the man that had attacked him lying on the ground.

“An assassination attempt?!”

He bolted for the dais, jumping two audience members that had hit the ground at the sounds of the slugthrowers going off. Up on the dais, he saw a guard go down with a slug in his face. There appeared to be one remaining attacker. Again he reached for his slugthrower only to be disappointed.

He heard the attacker yell out an unintelligible phrase. The man had Greer’s sidearm pointed at the Union Leader, who was on the ground between three of his personal guard. He fired, sending the front-most guard crashing to the ground.

Greer shot a glance at the large sword sticking from the floor of the dais. In a long bound, he landed on the platform, landed just short of the sword, and yanked it out of the floor. It was heavy. He lifted it up over his head and brought it down, slicing into the attacker’s side. The man turned and fired off a shot that went wild into the surrounding area.

“That’s my sword,” yelled the attack, blood pouring from under his arm.

“That’s my slugthrower,” replied Greer, swinging the sword down once more. The blade bit into the man’s clavical, halted as the weight of the force caught up with it, and then sunk deep into the wood of the dais once more.

The attacker tried to speak but only vomited blood onto the platform’s surface. His entrails began spilling from the gaping wound the sword had made from his sternum down. He raised the arm that held Greer’s sidearm and stumbled forward. The slugthrower fell from his grasp as he tried to pull the trigger. A laziness started to creep into the attacker’s eyes and he stumbled another step forward.

Greer geared up to make one last swing but stopped when he saw the man fall off the side of the dais and between two chairs. Life had finally left him.

When Greer relinquished the grip on the sword, he found his hands shaking and bleeding. The effort needed to swing the large sword had torn skin away from between his thumbs and forefingers. He plopped down next to the convulsing body of the man who had hit him in the face with Greer’s own sidearm.

“Healer,” he yelled, trying to keep the commanding ring in his cracking voice. A Chamatri priest ran up the stairs on the side of the dais and past Greer. He heard the holy man whispering a strange tongue over the still-convulsing attacker.

“Heal him and then hand him over,” came his father’s yell.

“Greer,” yelled Wilcox, jogging over to him. “Are you ok?”

Greer nodded. “Just shakey. I’ve never killed before.”

“You did a damn fine job, Fielder,” replied Wilcox. “Koph would be dead without you. Are you injured?”

Greer held up his bleeding, cracked palms. “Just my hands.”

“Healer!” yelled Wilcox and turned away from Greer.

Greer sighed and looked back over his shoulder at the other attacker. “He going to live?”

The priest nodded. “I have stymied the wounds, repaired the shoulder. He will need bed rest to build up his energy again.”

“We’ll want to question him tomorrow, rested or not.”

The Priest frowned and went back to his work.

“And then he hangs.”

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