by Jackson Lear
I gasped, dropping to the side of the bolder as the air rushed in. The constricting pull against my body remained, pressing tightly. My vision had vanished, my hearing non-existent.
I slid off the boulder, my footing as shaky as having carried each of my company brothers up every flight of stairs in the city.
“She’s alive but not for much longer. I saw three mercenaries. Javelins. Swords. There should be two others but they were out of my sight. Five doctors. Three men, two women, most look elderly. They’ve just summoned the Eyeless Ghost and I’m pretty sure it saw me.”
A glint formed in Greaser’s eye. He gripped his javelin tight in his hand. Lifted his jaw towards the horizon. “Two miles away?”
“About that.”
Lieutenant shook his head at us. “We won’t get there in time.”
“But we might be able to stop more orphan’s dying,” growled Greaser. He marched forward, climbing the boulder despite our cries to drop down and sneak forward. Instead he reached the top of the precipice and raised his javelin high above his head. Chest flared. The timbre in his voice enraged. “YOU!”
A chill settled around us. Lieutenant, Runaway, and I readied our weapons and started to spread out.
“Yeah … you. You remember me? You took something from my father. ‘This belongs to me now,’ you said.” Greaser spread his arms out wide. “I’ve come to take it back.”
A howl from miles away ripped through the morning air. A thunderous shriek as the ground beneath us should’ve broken away, crumbling beneath our feet as the depths of Hell tore free to claim our souls.
Desten turned. Ran. I hurled Lieutenant’s dagger into his back. He staggered, knocked off balance. Lieutenant stepped in, slicing through the air and catching Desten in the neck. The doctor dropped to one knee, his hand gripping his throat, blood oozing out. Lieutenant turned towards us. Sniffed.
Greaser readied a defensive position, hurled one of his javelins, then the other, reached for his short sword and cried out in vengeful rage.
The Eyeless Ghost sprung through the air and bounded over the ground, a dozen yards easy, tackling Greaser like a full blown stampede. They landed five yards back, Greaser thumping heavily onto the grass.
Runaway yelped, not quite a war cry but that might have been his intention were he not so surprised at the ferocity of the ghost’s attack. He charged in, hacked with his sword.
I swung, the ghost rearing back, snarling at each of us. It raked its claws across Greaser’s chest, shredding his tunic and under shirt and catching one gnarled claw on his pouch strap. It swiped at each of us, our weapons nothing more than fly swats against a raging beast.
Its tattered blue and gray shards of clothing snapped through the air like they were whips ready to snare its prey. I hacked and fought, slicing a piece of clothing off as I tried to get closer to its mottled white and blue skin.
Greaser uttered a word. One that he had been holding onto for years. “Milius.” His father’s name.
The Eyeless Ghost shrieked, howled, snapped its elbows in against its chest like it had been skewered by a hundred blades. Its whole body shuddered for a split second, writhing on top of Greaser, its senses slowly returning, then targeting.
“Fuck you!” roared Runaway, lunging in with his sword and stabbing the creature where its ribs should be.
“And fucking die!” shouted Lieutenant, driving his sword into the creature’s kidneys.
I slammed my sword into its jaw, its teeth crying out against my blade. A blue molasses ooze fell, steaming the air in front of each wound as a noxious cloud formed around its body. Greaser cried out, pinned down by the weight of the creature, its blood dripping onto him.
“Get it off me!”
We hacked. It swiped. We lunged. It recoiled. It sliced through the air, we checked. It kicked. We fell.
I buckled, falling onto my ass, a wayward impact hitting me somewhere in my hip so fast that I never saw the strike happening. I leaned up in time to see the ghost lock onto Greaser, its jaws opening, Greaser’s arms coming up to its throat and the ghost slamming down, trying to tear off every inch of flesh from Greaser’s face.
“Get it off me!”
Runaway leapt onto its back, stab stab stab into the base of its neck. It spun, throwing Runaway cleanly off and climbing away from Greaser. More blue mist surrounded it. Greaser hacked a cough, scrambling to drive his sword into a worthy target.
The ghost was free, down on all fours like a dire wolf sniffing us out. Runaway and I were in front of it, both still on the ground. Lieutenant, on the other side of Greaser, shaky on his feet.
The ghost hissed at us, the empty sockets in its face drawing us in, its jagged teeth pointing in every haphazard direction, shifting as its gums moved about. It lunged.
“Milius.”
Another shriek. I slashed through the air, my sword glancing off its teeth. Runaway lunged, poking it in the shoulder. It buckled, retreating back. Head down, hissing, looking left and right. Flight instincts had just kicked in.
“Trap it!” I shouted.
It bucked down, preparing to spring forward. With nothing else for it I threw my sword. Runaway swiped. Both connected. Both did little to stop it. It leapt through the air, ten yards like it had barely taken a hit … until it landed. One hand twisted badly. It cried out, staggering as it stood upright, rising eight feet on its legs, then ten feet. No way could this have once been a man. A giant maybe, but its proportions were off. Its feet angled out like hooves but with long toes pointing out with each one moving like a finger. Its arms were impossibly long for its body, its hands and fingers as well. Its jaw, sizeable enough to dislocate and devour a whole man. Its shoulders narrow. Hips skeletal.
The four of us were up. Armed. I recovered my sword. We advanced, spreading out. Close enough for us to reach each guy to our side, far enough away that the ghost couldn’t get us all at once.
It backed away, coming up against a boulder. It growled, the deep rumble of a bass which rocked my ribs and lungs around.
“You robbed my father of his soul,” said Greaser.
“And you took Kiera away from me,” I said.
It hobbled back. We advanced, trying to pin it in. It squatted down, ready to leap away.
“Haaaaaaaaa!” Runaway ran in, diving, swiping at what could’ve been thin air.
The ghost leapt up effortlessly, landing behind us … and staggered.
Runaway flicked his sword. Blue ooze. Fresh.
The ghost squatted down again, targeting Runaway. It sprung forward, barreling into him. He thumped back to the ground, lost in a blur of blue and gray as the ghost scrambled to tear his face off. He cried out. A blast. The ghost catapulted upward, an explosion of power lifting it clean off Runaway as he fired off a life-saving charge of magic.
It wasn’t enough.
Lieutenant lunged, driving his sword right through the creature’s skull, ear to ear. It recoiled backward, howling and snapping at the air, taking Lieutenant’s sword with him. Greaser slammed his sword into its back, twisted, yanked, twisted again, drew his weapon free, stabbed again, twisted again. The creature shrieked, refusing to die.
Lieutenant reached for his sword, missing with the frantic death rolls of the Eyeless Ghost. Finally he locked on, holding tight until the ghost threw itself forward and took Lieutenant down with it. With a mighty pull Lieutenant freed his sword.
Greaser hacked, slashed, stabbed, swearing with each attack, tears streaming across his face. “You – took – my – father!”
I helped Runaway up. His face rained with blood, both red and blue. The back of his forearms had been slashed and grazed from the ghost’s teeth. But he was still up, and alive.
The Eyeless Ghost fell to its front, on its hands and knees, howling with each strike. Greaser stepped around to the side of its neck, his sword high above his head. With an executioner’s strike, he swung the blade down.
“Mother – fucker!” He freed it from the ghost’s ne
ck, tried again. “Why won’t you fucking die?”
It dropped down, chest against the ground, legs twitching, elbows still trying to keep it upright. Greaser swung again and again, never quite able to cleave its head free.
He broke off his attack, stepped back to catch his breath, on the verge of dropping dead himself from exhaustion. “I can handle this.”
He was as spent as any man I had ever seen. A five year old would’ve been a contender against the mighty Greaser right now. But as long as his sword was sharp enough he would see this through.
I said, “Back us up when you can. The three of us are going after Día.”
Sweat streamed from Greaser’s face. “Good luck.”
I headed back to Desten. He had made it a solid twenty yards, crawling on his elbows and still fighting to live. I reached down, twisted the dagger still in his back, freed it, thumped it into his temple then into his throat. Twisted. Wiped the blood clean.
We moved on, getting twenty paces away from Greaser’s hacking and slashing until Lieutenant stopped and held one hand against a boulder.
“You okay?” I asked.
He heaved, blinking quickly. “What the fuck was that?”
“Every child’s nightmare.”
I helped him back upright but even so he was few shades lighter than he should’ve been.
“We need you on this.”
“I’m …”
“Greaser’s got it. Runaway and I can’t go in there without you. It’s dead.”
“It didn’t seem very dead.”
I peered over his shoulder. Greaser had become a deranged woodsman determined to deforest an entire nation. “Will you be sleeping with a knife under your pillow from now on?”
“I already do.”
I looked to the south. Boulders. Grass. Drops. Dips. Falls. Brambles. Crags. “There’s a chance we’ve stopped the ritual but there are still five mercenaries and five doctors who are about to kill an orphan. She needs your help right now. The four of us are her only chance. You can’t sit this one out.”
Lieutenant nodded at me. His clothes smeared with blue ooze and his own blood. “I can do this.”
“Good. You’re going to have to help me kill a lot of people today. Don’t be shy about trying to take a few yourself.”
Two miles to go. The doctors would be on a full retreat now.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The faint chirp of birds brought the crags to life. A slight smell of smoke drifted our way. I started to make out the shapes of man made items in the distance. A litter. Tents. Baskets.
One and a half miles in, all five of the doctor’s mercenaries intercepted us. Three closed in on Lieutenant and Runaway. The other two were on me. They recognized the short sword and kukri I was armed with. One of their brothers was dead, that much was certain.
Lieutenant locked in on one, no doubt the one he hoped was the weakest fighter. That left two short swords on Runaway. The first one – Lieutenant’s – lunged. Lieutenant swung, checking the short sword of his opponent and driving through, then moving closer to Runaway as his two came forward.
Fully defensive, Lieutenant checked and countered, drawing one off Runaway and fighting against two himself. The worst odds he had ever faced in his life. Their blades hailed against each other, bouncing, checking, side stepping, feinting, lunging, countering. One fired a spell. Lieutenant stumbled, losing total balance and having no choice but to keep moving with it to stay out of range.
Runaway kicked out, trying to knock his opponent’s blade hand to the side. Missed. Tried again, failed. A learned process now. He had to go with something else. His opponent had a spell ready, one which didn’t push someone away; this one propelled Runaway forward.
Runaway fired one of his own, something left behind from the Eyeless Ghost’s attack. Runaway fell forward, his opponent staggered back.
He goaded. That didn’t work. He stepped back, trying to get his guy to step forward so he could kick his knee out. A quick swipe from his attacker nearly cost him his leg. Another learned process no longer effectual. Kicks were out.
I moved forward, one of their brother’s short swords in my right hand, a kukri blade in my left. Two guys on me. Both had a kukri in one hand. I kept one weapon on each of them, advancing. Couldn’t wait for them to come to me. Had to get to Día.
One reached to the small of his back. The other to his thigh. Both drew another kukri. Four blades against my two.
A whole lot of fucking hell was going on.
They closed in. To my right: the tallest of the whole group. Also the youngest. Thin beard. Long hair pulled into a tight braid. Wiry. Rested.
Circling around to my left – not far from my height. Broader. Older. Short hair on top. Mutton chops galore. Red eyed. Awake for at least a day, no more than two. Not charged with anything new. An experienced fighter. They both were.
I angled myself to my right, trying to keep one guy from being able to slip past my line of sight. I advanced into him. He stepped back. I stepped back and to the side, trying to keep him forward. His friend simply followed me, holding me between them as best he could. I maneuvered, so did they. I feinted, my guy moved to defend, recovered. I feinted again, lower this time. Another move ready to defend.
Día was my target, not these two. I turned to run. It seemed to surprise my attackers as well. I got three paces before skidding to a stop. Just as well.
“Knox!”
A jolt in my foot pinned me to the ground, like Greaser had stamped on my foot to keep me in place. I knew the timing of my kind well. I turned, keeping both of them at bay, pissing off the tired one for wasting his spell.
They started talking to each other, guttural, in a language I was unfamiliar with, working out how to distract me, who was going to move in. I was pretty sure I figured out, “Are you ready?” and, “Yeah.”
I didn’t have time to wait. I jabbed the short sword, focused on my left, hacking and attacking until he was in the middle. I kicked at his knees, connected, but all I did was distract him. He swiped down at my legs, I kicked out of the way. He lunged for my sword hand, again and again, coming within an inch each time.
Stronger with his left arm. Curious.
His right arm came out. I dropped half a foot, sweeping one leg out to kick his wrist. Connected. His arm crossed his body, almost ready for him to spin back. My foot never made it back to the ground. I angled back and stomped on his knee. It wasn’t enough to break it but it did cause him to shudder and be thrown off balance. My returning heel struck the side of his knee, knocking it away. He dropped, hobbling as he fell to one side and tried to regain control.
I followed him, leaving his friend to chase after us as I slashed wildly at whatever limb came my way from the tumbling mercenary. A foot, a shin, a couple of fingers. Didn’t matter what. He landed on his side, his kukris coming up to defend his face and chest, his legs kicking out at me. A mistake, he soon found.
He howled as half of his foot was hacked clean off. He wouldn’t be able to get his kukris to defend his lower half, not all of it. He pulled his legs up to his chest. My reach was greater. I stabbed everything I could, skewering his other heel. Not dead but very much out of my immediate concern.
His tall friend was upon me, wailing about with swipe after swipe pushing me back. I gave him an opening to my side. He didn’t see it. I gave him another, exposing a potential weakness in me. It wasn’t that he was tiring – we both were. It was that he was in serious trouble and despite having the numbers we were still winning. I can only assume that these guys had practiced one sequence of moves after another until they became so ingrained that they didn’t have to think about what came next. I can also assume that they spent their whole careers priding themselves on being so smart that they never had to engage in actual combat at all. Or, they had, and the Erast boys were simply better at fighting dirty.
I gave my attacker another opening, one he should’ve picked up on by now. My left arm was weaker. I
had a dagger. My arm was extended out like I had a sword in there. He went for it. I drew back, waving my right arm to the side as a double bluff, drawing his attention. I was exposed. The rush of, ‘finally!’ must’ve surged through his veins as his attention slipped from slicing my left hand to a more hopeful slicing of my left forearm.
I opened my fingers, slammed my hand onto his wrist, closed, yanked him forward, then arced my sword around to slice his left hand free. He drew in, freezing at the inevitable shock that was coming his way. Then a momentary pause in his eyes. One hand falling to the ground, the kukri still held tight. A breath inwards, long before the pain had even reached him. He spun, his braid snapping through the wind like a vicious slap.
I grabbed. Solid hold. And slammed his friend’s sword into the side of his skull.
One of Lieutenant’s attackers stepped forward.
“Now!” cried Lieutenant. He faltered, fading in a split second as the beings from the other side of life tore into him, pulling at his lungs and drawing a breath out. His attacker slipped, his foot never finding any purchase as Lieutenant’s magic kicked it to the side. His arms flailed for balance. Lieutenant brought his sword down, thumping his opponent into the ground. The other stepped forward to seize on the momentum. Lieutenant spun. Sliced cleanly through his attacker’s hand, skittering his short sword to the ground. A thrust into the mercenary’s throat. An extra step forward to ram his sword through the rest of the guy’s neck. Two dead within a second. I honestly never thought he had it in him.
Lieutenant turned on Runaway’s attacker. Two against one. The mercenary turned, fled. Runaway called out. His fella tripped, landing flat on his chest. Lieutenant poked him with his long sword. Twisted. Repeated.
Lieutenant and Runaway hurried to me. Lieutenant skewered Mr. Half Foot to be sure. It turned out to be necessary.
The sword I had been using was wedged so deep into his friend’s skull that I gave it up as a lost cause. I opted to use Lieutenant’s dagger and one of their kukris. It was closer in weight to my blade.
Greaser came to us, his sword chipped, dented, warped, and bloodied. He had reclaimed his two javelins. He heaved, a man who had fought an ethereal demon and won. We gave him a replacement sword. He grunted, too exhausted to even say a word.