Free Rogue Powers by Phil Stern Page A

shoulder. “Come on.” Abruptly turning around, he proceeded down the rough trail. Taking a deep breath Anson followed, almost immediately stumbling over a root.
    As was often the case in the Outlands, the forest thinned and ended within twenty feet, opening up into a small grassy glade. The stream they’d been roughly tracking through the forest now fully came into view to their right, rushing over a cliff about a hundred feet before them. The glade was broken only by a few large rocks and trees, ending with the rounded rim of the cliffs plunging down into the chasm below.
    “Pretty, ain’t it?” Conger whispered.
    “Yeah, except for all those lighting strikes.” Anson pointed at the black scars marring the cliff face to either side.
    “Well, that’s how you know you’re in the Outlands,” Conger observed. “That and all the little men trying to kill you.”
    “All right.” Looking to his right and left, Senter prepared to leave the relative safety of the wood line.  “Let’s sweep this glade, then return.”
    After killing me, Anson silently added. Tightly grasping his own sword, he kept most of his attention on the tall corporal.
    “Form up on either side of me.” Now Senter began moving forward. “Let’s go.”
    Without comment, Anson and Conger spread out some twenty feet to Senter’s left and right, respectively, stepping out of the woods and across the grass, heading slowly toward the cliff face.
    Anson heard it first, a soft rustling to their rear. Whipping about, he was barely able to deflect two Karden arrows heading toward his back. A third missile buried itself in the ground a foot to one side.
    It was a single archer, perched two-thirds of the way up a stout tree on the wood line. Without thinking, Anson mentally grabbed the Karden as he was notching another arrow, flinging him high into the air and over the cliff.
    Only now did he become aware of Conger’s anguished cries, his fellow recruit lying prostrate on the grass, arrows sticking out of his shoulder and leg. A second archer, in a tree nest on the other side of the clearing, was once more taking aim. Again, Anson grabbed the little man in filthy rags, his bow clattering to the ground as he flew straight out in the air, crashing down somewhere in the ravine below.
    Instead of moving to Conger’s aid, however, Senter stared intently at the woods from which they’d just emerged, sword held at the ready. Puzzled, Anson followed his gaze. Sure enough, three more Kardens jogged into view, swinging short blades around their heads.
    His mind racing, Anson instantly realized the Karden patrol had tracked them through the forest. Determining the humans were heading for the glade by the cliff, they’d rushed ahead, positioning their two archers to take them unawares. If not for Anson’s power, they’d all be dead.
    But if the remaining Kardens were surprised at the sight of their brethren sailing over the cliff face, they didn’t show it. Instead, two of the little trolls charged at Senter with high-pitched shrieks, while the third split off to head straight for Anson.
    There was no further point in trying to hide who his was, yet Anson still tried to be subtle. He merely tripped the maniacal little bearded man, causing him to fall straight down onto his own upturned sword. With a final screech, the Karden was dead.
    Looking over, Anson saw the last two warriors circling Senter, brandishing their small swords and screaming. Whatever the Demon’s power was, it didn’t seem to be of any use dealing with his Karden assailants. Doing nothing of a supernatural nature, he merely took a swordsman’s stance, carefully eyeing both  little men.
    Yet, even as Anson debated whether or not to help the Demon, the contest was over. Seizing the initiative, Senter energetically engaged one of the trolls, exchanging several sword blows before lopping off an arm and smashing him in the head. Barely dogging a strike from the other at his exposed back,