by Aaron Dennis
ill at ease.
The mummified corpses suffered wildl spasms and fell onto the ground where their black, mangled limbs broke through their linens. The group screamed and most made their way back to exit the chamber, but the door was sealed once more.
“What? What?” Lokheart stuttered.
There was little time for deliberation. The wiry man-eaters were black-skinned people with twisted body parts and too many sharp teeth. They darted about the chamber hissing and tearing at flesh. All too quickly did members of the expedition fall.
As the man-eaters gnashed at flesh, they whipped their large heads, pulling long strands of bleeding muscle off bone. Their claws dug deep inside bellies and retrieved hands full of entrails upon which they feasted. The warriors tried to fight back.
Screams of pain, and gurgling breaths of people choking echoed. Horror struck Jorunhaal when one of the creatures leapt onto his back. He ran backwards with all his might into a wall. The creature fell with a hiss. The warrior brought his axe down upon its face, and a green substance spewed forth.
Lokheart stepped and thrust one blade into the abdomen of a man-eater, kicked it off the blade, spun, and slashed the reaching arm off another. Samja was a veritable whirlwind of tiny blades herself. Durro tried to save the others as he fought with sword and shield. A quick bash to the head of one monster knocked it off one of the travelers. He then plunged his blade deep into the creature’s back. It whined and hissed before dying.
Some of the soldiers managed well with their spears. Though their enemy was agile, the length of the spear was an efficient boon. Unfortunately, the creatures were many, and they were hungry.
“Old man! Do something,” Durro yelled.
No one had seen Wilheim since he opened the door. “He has left us!” Lokheart cried as he continued to fight.
For minutes, the battle raged on. The creatures were less interested in fighting and more in eating. They focused their attention on those who were cowering and unarmed, but the warriors tried their best to keep everyone alive. Blood of red and green covered the ground. The formerly angelic scene had taken a very daemonic turn.
Two creatures locked onto Jorunhaal. He stood between them and a badly wounded woman. While she trembled against the corner, the man-eaters leapt at the warrior; one leapt high, the other low. The low one bit at his shins and clawed his thighs. The one that had leapt high was kept at bay by girth of axe. The warrior then pulled his elbows down while pulling his knee up, forcing the creatures to crash into each other.
With an opening provided, he swung at one, severing an arm. The axe cut clean through then stuck inside the creature’s chest. The man-eater screamed and thrashed. Jorunhaal stepped forwards, thus driving the head of the axe, and the wounded creature, into the second one.
A sudden pressure grew over the men and monsters. The men looked around in confusion. The man-eaters grew slow. Something was impeding their movement.
“Quickly, before it wears off,” Wilheim’s voice was a breathy whisper.
Samja grit her teeth. While unable to move as fast as she was accustomed, she was much faster than the enemy. She swung an arc over her head to plunge a dagger into the skull of one monster and while pulling it out, she thrust with her other dagger into the chest of a second monster. Raven hair whipped about as the exotic woman in foreign furs moved in and out of attacks.
Jorunhaal brought his axe across his body to bash a creature in the face. He stepped in and delivered a powerful kick. It both dislodged the remainder of the first creature from his weapon and knocked over the second monster. With a mighty swing he tore through black flesh. Cracked ribs and gray entrails spilled from the enemy. He tried to check the wounded men, but the battle did not slacken.
Durro continued defending those around him. With four creatures upon him, he brought his shield in from the left and crushed the jaw of one enemy then brought his shield back to the right and struck a second. He followed up with a thrust into its belly before pulling out and striking the one behind him with the pommel. After drawing back to his chest he sank the blade into one more creature. With a final spin, he brought the shield across the left side of his body, struck the man-eater across the face, and finally cross-slashed before it fell over dead.
In an attempt to catch his breath, Durro shot a look over the scene. Black, twisted corpses lay strewn about the stone. Men and women whose faces he once knew were torn and bloodied. Everyone was fighting with every ounce of strength that yet remained.
Lokheart and the other soldiers finished off the few remaining monsters. The heft of the air finally returned to normal. Everyone was badly injured and sweating profusely. Only heavy breathing prevailed for seconds. Then, silence broke with worn voices.
“What happened,” a soldier asked.
“I happened,” Wilheim replied.
“That was a spell,” Lokheart gasped.
“Aye. To slow the enemy, I had to slow you as well, but my mastery of time and pressure has its advantages no,” he said more than asked.
“Where were you?” Samja demanded.
“Everywhere and nowhere.”
“See to the wounded,” Jorunhaal ordered.
The wizard gave a nod of obedience and set to casting his healing magic. A wave of the hand and some light healed the superficial wounds, but most of the injuries were grave. Several were already dead. Their mouths hung open as their lifeless bodies laid against blood-stained walls. All the warriors needed healing as well.
Lokheart was gasping, his back turned to the others. Claw marks had ripped away his armor and rent the flesh beneath. He stood in a pool of his own blood.
“Lokheart,” Durro asked.
He half turned his face to his superior. “It doesn’t stop bleeding,” he whimpered.
Durro walked around him to check his wounds. Gaping tears had rendered his left arm practically useless. Muscle and tendon fell from exposed bone.
“Wilheim, can you help him?” Durro pleaded.
The old mad stood from a woman who was beyond saving;. too many holes were in her belly. He shook his head in dismay then deftly slit her throat with a small knife. He approached Lokheart.
“Let us see, yes…yes…I can mend the flesh, but you will never use this arm for battle again,” Wilheim replied, coldly.
Tears stung Lockheart’s eyes. He cried, albeit softly, then nodded to Wilheim. The old man held the arm aloft and Lokheart shouted out with pain. A wave of the hand brought numbness to the soldier. He was no longer able to grip a blade in his left hand.
The better portion of thirty minutes passed. Wilheim healed those injured and killed those teetering on the verge of a slow and painful death. There was no room for disapproval of that kind of mercy.
“Now what? You have brought this on us,” Jorunhaal accused Wilheim.
“Was it I?”
Jorunhaal sighed in disgust. It was not….
“We continue. I sense not much travel before us…I…am weary,” Wilheim sighed.
A Word
Beyond the burial chamber were numerous corridors leading to darkened rooms. A path of neatly cut stone ended in a small room filled with torches. The fire’s light produced an ominous glow over a roughly hewn exit. The men and women trudged; heavy feet dragged over the natural rock.
“The, the torches,” Lockheart whispered.
Though no one replied, they all wondered just who, or what, had kept the flames alight.
“This area appears to have been carved by tools,” Jorunhaal said after a quick scan.
“Aye. Once sealed away, others have come before us. Not much further now,” Wilheim replied.
They continued through a cavernous expanse of brown rock. A safe assumption was that the expedition had finally reached the mountains, though quite far beneath them. Sullen faces of exhausted travelers avoided eye contact.
“What will we find?” Lokheart heaved.
“Magic? Power perhaps? No…I see it. It is but a word,” Wilheim answered.
“Your ramblings are incomprehensible, wizard,” Samja snapped.
“That is the way of magic. It is a force. Action. Rarely can it be explained.”
“Will it be dangerous?” Jorunhaal interjected.
He feared not for his safety, but for the men and women he was leading to slaughter.
“Most certainly,” Wilheim whispered.
The group shook their heads in disgust. They had traveled for far too long, but resting was no option; it had not been one since their arrival on the dreaded island.
Fear and weakness coursed through their veins, yet they pressed on. The farther they traveled, the more they stumbled and dropped weapons. On occasion, the loud clamor of steel falling to stone froze the group on the spot. No apologies were uttered for mistakes. It was beyond understandable; it was expected.
“We must break. I am too weary,” one of the men gasped.
They had been silently pressing onwards for hours. Jorunhaal turned to look upon him. The man was older. Just a farmer or woodworker…poor bastard.
“He is right. They need rest,” Jorunhaal said.
Wilheim shook his head. He stepped in close to Jorunhaal, invading his personal space. The mage’s glare was daemonic. For a moment, the warrior believed he was staring Hell in its face. Wilheim’s expression relaxed. With a wave of his hand he indicated it was fine by his reasoning. The group broke for food and water.
What was left of the expedition was only Wilheim, Jorunhaal, Durro, Lokheart, Samja, two other soldiers, two men, and one woman; so many had fallen. Jorunhaal observed