Expedition

by Aaron Dennis

them.

  His most recent battles consisted of fighting the Medsai. They were brutish and hard men and women who lived in the forest west of Ilteriel. None of them, not even their children, were as soft as those under Jorunhaal’s aegis. The deaths of those who needed protecting weighed heavily on him. It was time to move.

  “Sir,” Durro started.

  “Aye, get them up.”

  The guard captain made for them.

  “Leave us,” the woman yelled.

  “We are already doomed. What can you do now, great warrior,” one man mocked.

  A sudden bang and crackle of light struck fear into everyone. “Enough of your sobs,” Wilheim’s voice was venom.

  He wielded his magic to rally the group. They were as afraid of him as the potential dangers lurking beneath the island. They took to their feet and moved once more.

  The cavernous area persisted for some time. It was not until the ceiling grew low, and they dragged their boots through puddles of water that they spotted something new. Ahead of them were more torches. The burning staves placed throughout the cave shone over ancient arches. Neatly arranged and cut stone was stacked. While the arches appeared to hold the cave’s ceiling in place, it was only for aesthetics.

  “It taunts us,” Lokheart grumbled.

  They all agreed. It was an insult to place such beautiful architecture in the bowels of Hell. After passing under the heavenly arcades they came to a large opening.

  Droplets fell from the ceiling. They heard the sound of moving water. They saw a podium of bone. It was small, less than two feet tall. A stone tablet sat atop the neatly arranged bones, which were held in place by a black, stone form. A single rune was carved on the stone.

  “What does it say,” Jorunhaal asked.

  Wilheim bent over the stone, his gray hair fell off his shoulders and obscured his face. Then he stood upright with more power and speed than seemed necessary.

  “Legacy.”

  The men passed glances at one another.

  “Look, there’s nothing here. I hear water. If it flows, then it must come from an opening or move to one. We may yet find our way out,” Lokheart said.

  “To what end?” Durro sounded bereft.

  “What? What do you mean? We need to get out of this damnable place. If the former residents built ships and left, so can we,” Lokheart argued.

  A sudden gust rife with the scent of death assaulted the group. The torch fires went out, leaving them all in darkness.

  Despair

  The winged daemons—brown, bat-like men with eyes of flame—flew about the group, screeching, clawing, tearing. Wilheim’s light spell had revealed a true horror. Only he and the warriors remained. The rest were a bloody mess.

  “Help me,” Lokheart cried out.

  With one good arm, he slashed at the flying monsters. They swooped in and rent flesh. He stumbled back before being floored by an attack from the rear. He rolled onto his back and thrust his blade, but the daemon caught his sword with its claw. Saliva fell from its mouth. Lokheart yowled, and the soldiers came to his aid with their spears. They were too late.

  The daemon took his sword away then clamped vicious teeth around his throat. It drew back, leaving a gaping wound. Blood pooled around the dead soldier.

  “Nooo,” Durro yelled.

  He bashed a daemon with his shield then ran to Lokheart’s corpse, rammed into the daemon kneeling over his friend, and as the two tumbled over, the creature let out a piercing cry, causing the captain to falter. He yet dodged a swipe before smashing his fist—sword in hand—against the daemon’s face. As he stood from the enemy, another flew by and swiped at his face. The razor-sharp claw took his eye.

  Bolts of crackling lightning appeared from nowhere. Wilheim was casting his magic while keeping his form shrouded. The lightning did well enough against the daemons who ceased their erratic movement long enough to strike. As the yellow arcs crashed over the winged beasts, they were sent reeling, torn asunder. Charred monsters were strewn about the cavern floor, yet most of them continued their winged terror.

  While Samja crouched low, she rolled and tumbled, slashing one way and the other. A daemon flew overhead, folded its wings, and dropped onto her small form. With clawed feet it gripped her shoulders. She let out a shriek of pain while striking at her assailant’s legs. The daggers cut deep, but the monsters did not know pain.

  Jorunhaal hacked into a leathery wing, and one daemon fell into a crouched position. With open maw, it yelled a terrifying call. Jorunhaal was unaffected. He kicked it in the chest before bringing his axe down, cutting into the daemon’s head, and spilling brain and bone onto the ground. He ran over to Samja.

  With all his might, the warrior struck the axe into the spine of the monster holding his friend. When it fell off her, it took pieces of bleeding flesh. Jorunhaal spun and brought his heavy weapon along with his body. The axe decapitated the beast. As its head flew off, ichor rained from the lifeless body.

  “Can you still fight?” Jorunhaal barked.

  She did not reply, but stood and charged over to Durro, who cowered behind his shield. A monster beat its wings while gripping the shield in its feet. The captain plunged his sword into his enemy’s crotch then bashed at his own weapon, effectively tearing a new cavity. The monster’s entrails fell onto the ground. Durro gasped and staggered back as he kept one good eye on the situation around him.

  They were all covered in wounds; gaping holes tearing ever wider with every action. Too many daemons danced about the air. One landed before a soldier. He bravely ran it through with his spear, but the daemon took the soldier’s face in its claws and tore down. The soldier fell back. His screams were little more than a choking gurgle as death took from the island.

  The barbarian and the others staggered, and they tried stepping firmly to swing their weapons, and dodging what attacks they could, but the onslaught came from every which way, as did the lightning from the invisible wizard.

  “What madness is this? We cannot win,” Durro cried.

  “We must,” Jorunhaal yelled back.

  The warrior smashed his large fist into the face of a daemon. It grabbed his wrist, but Jorunhaal slid his other hand up the axe handle, and raised the sharpened steel into its chin. Once it stumbled away, he gripped his weapon with both hands and hacked low. The blow took the daemon’s leg off below the knee. Another daemon flew in from the side. The clawed feet took the warrior’s ear. He screamed in pain.

  Samja leapt at one as it was in flight. She deftly climbed its form. Her weight brought them back to the ground, where she struck repeatedly with her daggers. As vile blood covered her face, she screamed and screamed, not from fear, from despair.

  It was too much. Men spun, ran, and swung weapons. Daemons flew, clawed, and cried out. Bolts of lightning crashed and crackled all around. More and more daemon corpses littered the ground, but it only made it more difficult to move without stumbling. The smell was perhaps the worst of it. Something like warm waves of rotting bile made breathing difficult. The battle raged on.

  “Captain,” a soldier called out.

  His back pressed against a wall, and a daemon slowly approaching, he slid one foot out and struck with his spear. The daemon batted it aside and spit in his face. Durro ran to his man’s aid. With a spin he brought his shield into the enemy’s back. It stumbled into the soldier, and Durro cut it down.

  They met eyes for only a second. Another claw reached from behind and tore his throat out. Durro’s blood poured onto the soldier. The man simply dropped his spear. He looked upon the visage of his maker. The daemon ate his face.

  Samja was running. She hopped over a rock then peeked from behind. Her assailant was no longer behind her, but above. She stood and struck overhead at the oncoming enemy. Her blades sank deep into its abdomen. It fell before her onto the rock and tried to stand. Before it did, she slit its throat with precision.

  There were fewer enemies left, and most of them focused on the beast of a man,
Jorunhaal. He let loose many war cries, one for each brave swing of his axe. He kicked and punched and resorted to biting his enemies. With a massive swing, he rolled his axe around his body and hacked the wing off a daemon. He side-stepped, shouted, and struck another in the belly. Blood oozed from the wound. He stomped on the head of a grounded creature, turned, kicked, butted with his head, and bit the throat out of another. All the while, flashes of lightning helped to keep him alive.

  The remaining enemies flew at him. No longer landing and fighting from the ground, they swooped over and clawed at his head, face, neck, and shoulders. With each pass, a new wound tore open. The daemons cackled, adding insult to injury. Samja threw her daggers, and they lay embedded in the back of one beast. She charged and took the blade from the lifeless Lokheart. Bravely, she ran into battle.

  As Jorunhaal was overwhelmed and fighting from one knee, she reached the fray and brought the blade close to her body then plunged at a high angle with both hands. The steel pierced a creature and protruded from its chest. It grabbed bloody steel and held it. Samja faltered.

  The beast spun around and landed. With a deathly embrace the blade entered her own body. Courageous in the face of battle, she died.

  The barbarian was in tears. It was over. “I cannot win this…I have failed!”

  There were only two daemons remaining, but the warrior had little strength left and no bolts of lightning had appeared for moments.

  Wilheim’s magic