City of the Gods - Starybogow

by Rospond, Brandon; Kostka, Jan; Werner, CL

  The other three flew at him and all at once tried to attack. He placed the dagger into the hidden holster on his right boot and then grabbed his sword with both hands. He brought the weapon up to parry the claws of the first two and then brought it around to sever the head of the third. The insane laughter of the imps grated on his nerves and assaulted his senses, but with each one that he slew, the less noise there was.

  He rolled to the left, moving out of the way of the two skrzaks’ assault, and grabbed the torch off the wall. He waited for them to come flying toward him once more and threw the blazing brand at them with all his might. The first one was set aflame as it took the brunt of the torch, and as it swerved uncontrollably, it collided into the second, the duo ablaze as their hysterics became shrieks of pain.

  Finally, there was silence again, and Bishop exhaled deeply, making sure the dagger was still safely concealed.

  “Well that was almost bad. Nasty little buggers.”

  He walked over to the other side of the wall to take another torche, but something froze his hand on the sconce. It was distant at first, but then the sound escaladed louder than before. The hysteric laughter of the skrzaks was returning and in a fever frenzy. He looked up and saw dozens of red eyes glaring down at him as they swooped down with maddening speed. Snagging the torch off of the wall, Bishop ran back through the halls that his mind had memorized.

  At each crossroad, his mind was sharp as a whip, remembering the turn where he once came from. But that did not stop the maddening chant of laughter as it followed him around each corner. His mind worked in overdrive, focusing on which turns held traps. Even if Gorje had been lax in his patrol, Bishop had still been paying close attention to their surroundings. He snapped a tripwire with a kick of his boot and kept pumping his legs forward. He grinned when he heard the splash of acid wipe out several of the demented creatures. But when more laughter took their place, he cursed loudly, pushing his body forward more.

  He bolted around another corner, right, then left; held straight for a few dozen feet, and then another hard right, left, left, straight, left. There was another trap. He looked up above the corridor he was rushing through and could just see the large rock that sat oddly above than the rest of his stone surroundings. Smacking his hand into the indent in the wall, he hurdled forward past the boulder that dropped down behind him, propelled forward by the slope it had been sitting on. The sickening crunch of bones and squish of liquid was the reason why he kept so close a vigil on his path, but he groaned in annoyance as the cackles followed still.

  No matter how good his memory was and how many traps he triggered in his wake, the skrzaks still haunted his steps. His lungs burned and his legs ached, but he forced himself onward. Left, right, left, straight, right, left-…

  And then he could hear something over the hysteria. The sounds was heavy and quick, but these footsteps were hurried. The next corner he turned around, he almost ran into the stocky karzełek from before, holding an axe high in the air. Bishop had to narrowly maneuver out of the way, pinning himself to the wall, as ten other armored men charged forward alongside him.

  “I warned ya!” The karzełek bellowed behind him as he charged forward. “If you got what you came for, get outta here right quick! We got beasties to put back to sleep!”

  Bishop shook his head, turning back to the path he had been following. “I owe you one hell of a stout ale, Gorje!”

  “I’m holding you to it!”

  The karzełek’s voice was barely above a distant echo as he rushed down the way Bishop had come.

  *****

  Bishop felt his pace slowing as he tried to catch his breath. It had been some time since he heard the insane cackling of the skrzaks; he just hoped Gorje and his men had survived the encounter. He had had plenty of encounters with strange creatures that had emerged since the earthquakes, several times even with karzełeks that the League had to barter with; and sure he had heard stories about the skrzaks. But nothing in the League’s vast network of intel could have prepared him for seeing those creatures up close.

  What a rush!

  He smiled widely as he laughed to himself. This was why he had joined the League; he loved adventures like this, and the strange creatures only made it that more amusing. It was just a shame that the majority of people had deemed creatures like the karzełeks ‘evil’ just because they did not understand them. Sure, the odious Gorje had to be forced into helping Bishop, but in the end, he knew just what Bishop was getting into and came back to help. He owed a great deal of thanks to that.

  The subject of these creatures always intrigued him and he had often talked about them with others; the women he bedded, the brethren of his order, and even tavern patriots when he visited. Evahn, his main contact for non-League clients, source of outside information, and the gentlemen that sold all of his goods for him, often told him that talking about the Slavic deities would make him a marked man, but it was times like this that those conversations that he held in generally jolliness, he had to consider seriously. There was more to many of these ‘heathen’ creatures than the church-goers gave credit to.

  Another left, right, and… The stairs. Bishop breathed a sigh of relief and then inhaled deeply, preparing himself for the jog back up, taking two of the shoddy wooden planks at a time. His nostrils drank in the odor from above ground, replacing the smell of earth with fresh air, as he held his head high. As his head poked above the broken flooring, Bishop had to pause, pressing his frame against the hastily built railing as he listened.

  The sounds were distant, but they were indeed there; the distinct mumbling of those talking amongst themselves and the shuffling of armor. Bishop cursed his luck as he honed in on the voices, listening. They were not speaking in German; the dialect sounded harsher, if that was possible, but he could not make out any words. Trading with people all over the continent taught him many languages – English, French, Italian, German, and even some of the Far East mumbo-jumbo. At this point, it did not matter; he could hear the clanking of metal and with those muttering in numbers like the men outside had to have been, they could only belong to one group.

  Bishop snuck his way up the top of the stairs, around the perimeter of the husk, and toward the door. He still had his sword at the ready as he very cautiously cracked the door open. The orange tint of the landscape reflected the sun’s descent, but he could not wait until night fell. If they found Fiona, his trip back to the League would be a slow and arduous one; not to mention, he could not let anything happen to his best girl.

  Through the slit in the door, he could see several hulking armored shapes patrolling, scouring the ruins lazily while a group sat in the middle around a fire. The cross they bore told him his gut was right; Teutonic Knights. They seemed to be in no hurry and Bishop was not sure if they had picked up his trail somewhere along the way and were searching for him, or if they had been fed the same information he had about the Firstsworn being here, or perhaps they had no idea about him or the relic and they just happened to set up camp here. He did not want to take any chances.

  Pressing the door open just enough for him to slink out, Bishop ran around and behind the far side of the house. If he was right, he could follow behind the husks to get him to Fiona and the knights would be none the wiser from where they sat. That was, until he escaped. That part he had not fully worked out yet.

  As he peered around the path behind the house, he saw a guard going through the rotting beams of a decayed house, poking items with his foot. Bishop fell upon him in an instant; the cowl of his cloak over his head once more, Bishop dove in with his sword at the knights’ known weak point – the neck. As his blade pierced the one bit of exposed flesh, he heard a gurgle and some red fluid expelled out the eye slit of the knight’s helmet, but then he fell limp. Bishop caught the body, gently placing it down as he pulled his blade free. Some knights were smart enough to have their lining high enough or even wore gorgets, but many still had not learned that even the smallest of expose
d flesh could become the biggest of targets.

  As he stood up to continue on toward the stables, another knight rounded the corner of another building. Both men froze as they saw the other, but Bishop’s instincts made him the first to strike. Before the man could even utter a shout for help, Bishop swung his legs low, sweeping the knight’s legs out from under him. There was an auditory gasp of air as he hit the ground, combined with the rustling of his armor. Bishop dove upon him, blade held to strike when the man let out an ill-fated scream. It was already too late for him though; Bishop thrust the blade down deep into the eye slit, hearing a sickening squish that silenced him.

  He pulled the sword free in a spout of blood and broke into a run toward where he left Fiona. He had not expected the man to get the chance to scream. Then again, he had not expected to have to kill anyone today; but Bishop knew better when he saw the cross. He knew, much like many others in his order, just what sort of evils had infiltrated the Teutonic Knights – abominations far worse than the skrzaks or the sacrificing shamans of the Prus.

  He rounded the corner toward his goal and another guard stood in his way, just as confused as the last. Unwilling to try something as suave as the last attack, Bishop kept running toward the man and slammed his knee in his groin. The man coughed hard and the black-clad adventurer threw his adversary to the ground. The man clutched his jewels in pain and Bishop pulled the helmet free so that he could slam the end of his pommel into the knight’s nose with a crunch.

  He knew the man would be knocked out for some time, but something about the way his eyes were shaped, the strange almond form of them, mixed with the thick beard that appeared to be writhing, told Bishop he was correct. Not all of these knights were human anymore, and thus not all of them could easily be disposed of.

  Hearing the call across the ruins from his first two kills snapped him back to action. He shoved the barricade aside hastily and then rushed in and grabbed Fiona’s reins; the horse did not fidget or become frightened at her master’s hurry. She bowed her head, as if giving him a sign she was ready to aid him. Tacking the saddle onto her once more, he brought himself upon her back and spurred her into action.

  “Ride, Fiona! Away! We must hurry!”

  The horse did as it was instructed without a hint of hesitation, bursting out of the stables and back down the path they had come. Bishop heard a whizzing noise pass by his head, and just to the side of him he witnessed a thick bolt cut the air. He bent down into the ride, gritting his teeth as he realized just how lucky he had been that Fiona had not been a few moments slower.

  “Kill that man! Do not let him escape!” Someone behind Bishop was shouting, his voice a twisted dark mangle of a man’s. It sent a chill down his spine. “Tear his limbs asunder for what he has done!”

  Another few crossbow bolts whizzed by his head, another falling just short, and three arrows whooshed forward past him before he heard the sound of horses tearing the dirt road up behind him.

  “C’mon, girl. I know you can do it. We have to get this beauty home or else I’m dead anyway,” Bishop urged on, his head close to her neck. He knew she was giving it her all, and he began to wonder if his prized steed had what it took to outrun the Teutonic Knights. Had they been mortal men, he would not have had any doubts. But these strange demons… The League still was not sure just how capable they were and what dark magics they practiced. Who knew what they did to their horses? And actually, Bishop did not want to know what they did with their horses…

  As the pines he had traversed through came up around him once more, Bishop smiled. If his luck was good, he could lose them in the forest; the leshiye and wood spirits could have their fun with the evil bastards. He turned his head to see just how far back the Teutonic Knights were, but he never saw.

  The world around him spun and for a moment everything grew black; darker than the already shadowed realm of the trees blocking the fading orange out. He shook his head hard once he stopped rolling, trying to focus enough to gain his bearings. He saw a tree close by where he lay and hurled his body closer to it. He pulled himself to a crouch at the base of the tree, took several deep breaths, and then his hand rushed to the sword at his side, thankful it was still there, and withdrew the blade. Putting two and two together, he looked up at the tree and noticed the branch that was about a rider’s height.

  “I didn’t mean this bastard, damned leshiye…” Bishop cursed under his rushing breath.

  Somehow, he had managed to get out of sight of the Teutonic Knights, as he heard them pulling to a stop several feet from where he hid. He scanned the trees quickly around him and it was bittersweet to see no trace of Fiona.

  “Split up and find him!” The demonic voice barked at his troops, who Bishop heard answer with a unison clanking of armor in what sounded like a salute. “His horse threw him around this area. He can’t be far. We can’t let him escape. Bring the wretch to me as soon as you find him!”

  Bishop felt himself leap to his feet, ready and waiting to make a move. He was at the least glad that his armor did not produce the alerting jingles of metal that his foes did, but he would have really enjoyed the company of the boisterous karzełek force of Gorje’s right about now. He stilled his breathing, concentrating on the many ringing rivets of armor all around him. Together, the soldiers marching around the forest sounded like one giant beast that prowled its way toward him as it threatened to burst down the tree he hid behind, but pinpointing each sound to a distance and direction allowed Bishop to consider all of his options.

  One… Two…

  Bishop spun his sword around and swung around the tree at neck height. His blade struck between the armor at the flesh beneath. The man gurgled as the blood rushed through the wound, swinging his arms to try and reach Bishop, but the strength was no longer in his veins. The man had worked the sword in tight and Bishop struggled for a moment before pulling the sword free.

  Another man came shouting in behind the first and Bishop just narrowly dodged the incoming attack, using the butt of his sword to knock the man in the face with all of his might. His feet began moving before he could put a plan into motion. He used all of the strength his legs could muster, pumping him through the cover of the trees as the knights around him shouted out. He only hoped he could be a shadow amongst the branches of the trees and that the leshy spirits around him saw his plight.

  Bishop duck and wove in between the foliage, trying his best to confuse his enemies as he circled around. As long as he could keep them scattered, he had a chance. He came up behind another one of the knights and ran his sword through his back. Whatever armoring the man wore was useless in its protection as the blade cleaved clean through. Bishop pulled his sword free once more, readying for the next attack as he felt the enemy rushing him, and narrowly dodged. Before he could try to make an offensive push, the man swung again and again, relentless in his attacks. Time after time Bishop wove out of the way, but after the fourth swing, in which he finally had to bring his blade up to parry, his heart sunk as he looked the enemy in the eyes.

  “Oh, hell…”

  The strange almond eyes of the commander stared ruthlessly down at Bishop as he pressed hard with his blade. He looked like a savage wolf, foaming at the mouth as he bore his pointed teeth, Bishop his prey. The more agile man pulled himself out of the deadlock, swinging low at the man’s feet, but the knight was swifter than he appeared, bringing the blade over to block the attack with one hand. He swung up, knocking Bishop’s blade back with the force of the attack, and the nimbler man had to roll his body out of the way to avoid a follow-up horizontal strike.

  He barely had a moment to get back to his feet before the commander was swinging again. The black-clad man brought his sword up to parry attack after attack, but each time, the Teutonic Knight grew more savage and aggressive; the delay between each swing decreased and the sound as the blades met resonated louder each time Bishop’s sword was forced back. He found himself retreating under the weight of the bigger man’s stal
king and hoped there were no enemies behind him that he had to be aware of.

  Something caught Bishop’s eye just beyond the knight, twinkling with the slightest of lights, and he took his eyes off of his foe for all of two seconds. Those moments were all his enemy needed as he charged in with his shoulder. Bishop felt the grip on the sword weaken and the blade flew free off to the side; he watched it with twinkles in his own eyes as the weight of the tackle stole all breath from his body. He hit the ground with an exclaimed grunt and watched with horror as the knight stalked over his body.

  The man bent down, grabbing him by the front of his cloak; his eyes almost a demonic red.

  “Where is it?! Where is the artifact?!”

  Bishop grimaced as some of the spittle struck his face. He thought about spitting back at the leering monster, but something in his gut told him it would not be the wisest of ideas. The man leaned down further when he did not answer, almost getting right in his face, as if he could wrap his teeth around Bishop’s head to tear it off.

  Then, the man snapped back up, turning around. He was looking around him, sudden fear taking over his expression as his eyes bulged and something on his chin twitched. Bishop reached down to his boot and grabbed the dagger. When the man bent back down over him, he pulled the League member up slightly, as if to threaten him.

  “Boy, where is the artifact?!”

  “Right in front of your eyes!”

  Bishop reached up while the man’s hands held his cloak, over his arms, and stabbed him in the eye with the dagger. The knight screamed as he dropped Bishop and turned away. He fell to his knees, the agony burning out of his lungs more intense than anything Bishop had ever heard before. There was a bright light that seemed to emanate behind the man’s plugged eye. Strange ooze began to seep out of his other eye, down and out his open mouth. As if he were a block of ice set out on the hottest day of summer, the man’s flesh began to decay into that strange ooze, his bones disappearing as if nonexistent.