by Clayton Wood
He felt a sharp pain there, felt his flesh tearing, hot blood pouring down his lips.
Xerxes snapped.
He roared, punching out blindly with one fist, feeling it strike something. There was a loud shriek, and he reached out with another two hands, closing his fingers around something. A throat. He squeezed it so hard it crumpled under his palms, then reached out with his other two hands, grabbing the thing’s head and twisting it all the way around with a loud crunch.
Xerxes tossed it aside, then reached out again, grabbing an arm and tearing it clean off. He swung the severed limb wildly, feeling it connect again and again.
All while the thing on his back was continuing to rake at his face.
He reached around at last, grabbing it by the head and plunging his thumbs into its eye-sockets, then tossing it aside. His vision returned quickly, blurry at first, then clear.
There were creatures all around him,
“Forward!” Dominus commanded. “To the tree line!”
The soldiers behind Xerxes pressed forward, and Xerxes waded forward with them, grabbing anything that got near him. They were fast, the little things, but with nowhere to run – and being pathetically weak – they couldn’t evade his grasp for long. Their little arms tore from their shoulders easily, their scrawny necks snapping under his powerful grip.
He grabbed one by the throat, lifting it high into the air, then punching it in the face. He felt its facial bones cave in, and its limbs jerked uncontrollably as it seized, bloody spittle leaking from its mouth.
That made him smile.
Something heavy slammed into the back of his knees, and his legs gave out, sending him falling onto his back on the dirt with a thump. He grunted, the air blasting out of his lungs.
And then the creatures were upon him.
They swarmed on top of him, slashing at him with their claws. One of them had a warhammer, and sent it crashing down on his face. He felt his left cheekbone crumple, the sudden pain sending a jolt through him.
His vision blackened.
Xerxes roared, grabbing the warhammer and tearing it from the thing’s hands. He used his other two hands to grab anything he could, crushing, yanking, and tearing. He kicked his legs, connecting with anything he could. Bit anything that got too close to his face. There was no thought. Only rage.
He let it take him, every enemy he killed feeding his bloodlust, every pain he endured making it grow. He wanted to kill everything. He would kill everything. Make them pay for threatening his family.
There was shouting from behind, and then a burst of heat. He heard screaming all around him…and the smell of burning flesh.
Xerxes’ vision slowly returned, blackness replaced by light, then blurry colors. Black and orange and red. The heat intensified, and his vision sharpened.
The creatures and trees around him were on fire.
Enemies threw themselves on him even as they burned, trying to burn him along with them. He ignored the flames, rising to his feet and walking right into the fire, dragging the enemies around him into it. They screeched as they burned, their black fur smoking as the fire consumed them.
The flames licked at his armor, burning his flesh underneath. Xerxes ignored the pain, striding right through the flames, grabbing nearby beasts and tossing them into the inferno. Still the things swarmed around him, trying to drag him into the tallest flames.
He resisted, tearing off their limbs. Plunging his fingers into their eye-sockets and ripping out their eyeballs one-by-one. Reaching into their mouths and tearing out their teeth, their tongues. Destroying anything he could get his hands on.
Eventually the remaining creatures gave up, fleeing from him and running deeper into the forest, at the ring of Ironclad barring their way. Xerxes ran after them, watching as the little things swarmed his men, crawling over each other to leap past the circle entrapping them. They weren’t even trying to fight anymore.
The Ironclad killed many of them, but some managed to escape, fleeing into the forest.
Within moments, every last one of the creatures had either escaped, been torn apart, or burned to death.
Xerxes surveyed the burning trees around him, thick smoke choking his lungs. He gazed at the bodies littering the ground, most of them the enemy, some of them soldiers and Ironclad. Then he strode back to the line of soldiers at the edge of the Fringe, watching as the parted before him, giving him wide berth. He strode through their ranks, ignoring their wide-eyed stares, reaching Sukri and Vi, who were standing next to the copy of the king.
“Feel better?” Vi inquired.
“BETTER,” Xerxes agreed. “HUNTER…OK?”
“Probably,” Vi answered. “He’s been flying around the whole time. Probably killed at least one of the Svartálfar,” she added.
There was a thump behind them, and Xerxes turned to see Hunter having landed a few yards away.
“Lot more than that,” Hunter retorted. “Hey bro, hey Sukri,” he added. “That wasn’t too bad.”
“Surprisingly no,” Vi agreed. “But we still haven’t seen Zagamar.”
“Probably didn’t have the guts to come at us himself,” Sukri guessed.
“Yeah, no,” Hunter countered. “Zaggie’s a megalomaniacal asshole. He won’t be scared of us. Vi’s right…we should be surprised that it was this easy.”
“The Svartálfar are very incomplete copies of Zagamar,” Tykus pointed out. “They were still predominantly animals.”
“Agreed,” Hunter said. “Which means these were pawns. Fodder.”
“They all will be,” Vi countered. “You yourself said Zagamar would never let any of them become too much like him.”
“We haven’t seen Zagamar yet,” Tykus warned, staring off into the woods. “This was a test.”
“A test we passed,” Sukri chimed in. “We should go after Zagamar before he has the time to make more of these things.”
“Agreed,” Hunter replied.
“We’ll take care of cleaning up here first,” Vi stated. “Otherwise a lot of these things are going to regenerate.”
Xerxes grunted, watching as the soldiers and his men attended to their wounded comrades. At least a quarter of the soldiers had been either killed or significantly wounded. The Ironclad had fared better, with a majority of them still standing. He heard the clopping of hooves from behind, and saw Dominus approaching. Even atop his horse, the man was still not as tall as Xerxes.
“Slit the throats of every last Svartálfar,” Dominus ordered his men. “Drag them to a pile in the woods and burn them.”
Xerxes signaled for his men to help, and the soldiers and Ironclad got to work, quickly forming a huge pile of black corpses in the charred forest. They poured oil on it, and shot a flaming arrow into the pile. Flames spread quickly over the mass of bodies, thick smoke billowing upward. The stench of burning flesh and hair reached Xerxes’ nostrils.
The smell of victory.
He stepped over to Hunter’s side, putting a hand on his brother’s small shoulder. Hunter glanced up at him and smiled.
“Good work bro,” he signed.
“You too,” Xerxes signed back.
The smoke from the burning Svartálfar filled the sky, mingling with the smoke from the burning trees around the huge funeral pyre and forming a thick haze in the forest, the intact trees beyond barely visible through it.
“Guys?” he heard Sukri blurt out. Xerxes glanced down at the little cat-girl.
“What?” Hunter asked. Sukri pointed at the wall of smoke far ahead.
“Thought I saw something.”
Xerxes peered through the smoke, but saw only trees.
“NOT…SEE,” he replied.
But then he did see something. A hint of movement beyond the flames and the wall of smoke rising from them.
He heard Sukri draw in a sharp breath.
“Guys!” she shouted.
Dark creatures burst out from behind the curtain of smoke, running toward them; a line of Svartálfa
r extending east and west as far as the eye could see. More and more of the beasts appeared, thousands of them rushing past the burning pyre. Hundreds of them crawled up the tall wooden columns supporting the King’s Road, reaching the top and overwhelming the archers there, tearing them apart in seconds.
And then the Svartálfar stopped at the edge of the woods, an army easily ten times the size as the one they’d faced moments ago.
“Shit,” Hunter swore.
“Circle up!” Dominus shouted. “Archers, prepare to fire!”
The soldiers and Ironclad obeyed, starting to form a huge circle around him. The Svartálfar horde stared at them, still standing at the tree line.
Then the ground rumbled.
Xerxes watched as the trees far in the distance – well beyond the creatures – shuddered, a loud crack piercing the air. One tree toppled over, then another, then another, like dominos. The line of Svartálfar directly ahead parted.
And something huge burst through the vegetation between them, knocking over the trees in its path. A giant serpent with legs like a centipede, silver scales covering much of its body. But the scales on its head were mostly black, as were its sunken eyes. A long, forked black tongue flicked out of its mouth, and it stopped at the tree line, rearing its head up until it was as high as the treetops on either side.
“Oh shit,” Xerxes heard Sukri blurt out.
“What the hell is that?” Hunter demanded.
The serpent lowered its head, and Xerxes spotted something standing on its back. At first he thought it was just another of the Svartálfar. But it appeared to be a man. A man utterly nude, with skin as black as night, the muscles of his chest and abdomen rippling with every movement. His arms and legs seemed too long for his body, his face narrow with prominent cheekbones. His black, sunken eyes stared down at them.
He raised one fist in the air.
“Citizens!” he shouted, his deep voice carrying easily over the battlefield.
A hush went over the soldiers.
“Put away your weapons,” he demanded. “Join me, and we will take back what is ours. We will crush the tyrants that seek to control us. To kill us for the crime of being ourselves!”
No one moved.
“I offer you the chance to stay yourselves,” he continued. “Or if you wish it, to gain the gift of my will. I urge you to take it.”
He gazed at the assembled soldiers. Not a single man moved.
“Go to hell,” Dominus shouted. Zagamar turned to the former duke, then sighed.
“Very well,” he stated. “Remember that I gave you a choice.”
Then he brought his hand downward sharply, and the massive horde of Svartálfar attacked.
Chapter 41
Hunter burst backward as the massive horde of Svartálfar rushed out of the Fringe toward them, flowing around the still-burning funeral pyre and onto the packed dirt of the Deadlands.
“Back!” he shouted, grabbing Sukri and pulling her with him.
“Form a line!” Dominus shouted. “Archers, fire at will!”
The soldiers rushed to form a line in front of Hunter and the others, the archers falling back and readying their bows. A volley of arrows arced overhead, raining down on the Svartálfar right as their front line smashed into the line of soldiers. The soldiers raised their shields, stumbling backward but holding the line.
The Svartálfar leapt over each other, throwing themselves at the soldiers from above like people throwing themselves into a mosh pit. Wave after wave of the creatures crawled and jumped over each other, dogpiling the line of soldiers and forcing them to backpedal or get trampled under the sheer weight of the horde.
And one-by-one they did fall, the line of soldiers caving in, the Svartálfar tearing the Kingdom’s men apart in a bloody massacre.
“Protect the archers!” Dominus cried. “Ironclad, hold the line!”
Another volley of arrows shot at the Svartálfar, dropping dozens of them…and not so much as slowing down the onslaught of the beasts. The Ironclad rushed in to help the soldiers, the huge, eight-foot-tall creatures forming a much more formidable barrier.
“Get on your horse!” Dio shouted at Camilla, dragging her winged steed by the reins toward her. He helped her mount it. “Fly!” he ordered, slapping the horse on the flank. It reared up on its hind legs, flapping its wings and leaping into the air. Dio rushed to the front lines with the Ironclad and the soldiers, his staff whirling as he took out Svartálfar after Svartálfar. Vi fought her way to his side, the two of them murdering the foul creatures in rapid succession…and barely managing to hold the line.
“Help them,” Hunter told Xerxes. “I’ll protect Sukri.”
Still, Xerxes hesitated, staring at Hunter.
“I’ll be fine,” Hunter insisted. “If anything happens, I’ll fly.”
Xerxes nodded, then stomped up to the front lines, pushing soldiers and Ironclad out of his way. He joined Vi and Dio, grabbing any nearby Svartálfar and tearing them apart as if they were made of paper.
But there were far too many of the creatures for them to contain, and they spilled around the line of soldiers and Ironclad on either side, rushing inward toward Hunter and Sukri. And the archers, and Dominus, and Tykus.
“Circle up!” Dominus commanded. “Protect the archers!”
The line of soldiers and Ironclad fell backward at the edges, but the Svartálfar continued to rush past them on either side.
“Hunter!” Sukri cried, gripping his arm.
And then the creatures were upon them.
Hunter unsheathed his longsword as the nearest Svartálfar leapt at him, lopping off one of its arms, then decapitating it. Four more rushed at him in its place, and Hunter pushed Sukri back, focusing inward. His eyes were drawn to the tall man standing atop the serpent in the distance. A man with skin as black as night, a man instantly familiar, as if plucked out of his memories and brought to life.
He took a deep breath in.
Za-ga-mar!
He felt the Legend within him stir, and time slowed.
The four Svartálfar rushed at him in slow-motion, and his mind raced, planning the manner of their deaths in an instant. And in an instant, they died, their heads separated from their shoulders.
His mind calculated rapidly, studying the massive army before him. The man standing atop the horned serpent. The conclusion was instantaneous.
This was Zagamar reborn.
Hunter had a sudden urge to take his sword and thrust it into his own chest.
He resisted, knowing that the piece of Zagamar inside of him recognized that Zagamar had been reborn, and that Hunter – a mere fraction of the full Legend – was no longer useful. He wrestled control of his body, forcing Zaggie to work for him. Using him.
You’re mine, he thought. I’m in control now.
Five more Svartálfar rushed at him, and he dispatched four of them rapidly. The fifth one leapt at Sukri, shoving her onto her back and clawing at her face. She raked at it with her foot-claws, tearing through its belly, its intestines spilling onto her. She slashed its face with her hands, rupturing its eyeballs with her sharp claws.
Hunter kicked it off of her, pulling her to her feet…just as dozens more of the beasts rushed at them from either side.
“Get behind me!” Hunter cried, gripping his longsword with both hands.
And then the giant serpent struck.
It lunged forward, swinging its long tail at the line of soldiers before it, sending Svartálfar and soldiers flying to the right. Only Vi and Dio managed to avoid the attack, leaping over the tail as it swept by. Everyone else was decimated…even Xerxes, who was tossed to the right, landing with a thump on the dirt. Svartálfar swarmed over him, piling on top of him.
The middle of the line of soldiers was gone, Svartálfar pouring through the gap toward Hunter and Sukri.
Hunter focused, time slowing even further as he gave in a little more to Zaggie. He set his feet wide apart, watching as hundreds of Svartálfar ru
shed toward him. He knew instantly that there were too many of them to take on single-handedly…even for him.
Vi turned and sprinted toward him, cutting down anything that dared to get in her way. Dio was right behind her, and Xerxes rushed toward them, Svartálfar hanging from his body as he waded through the swarming horde.
But there was no way they’d make it to Hunter – or the archers – before the Svartálfar did.
Another volley of arrows struck the beasts, felling dozens of them. But the Svartálfar behind merely trampled over their fallen comrades. Hunter gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, planting his feet wide. His heart raced in his chest, his breath coming in short gasps.
Can’t maintain for long, he knew. Body will give out.
The slow-motion tsunami of Svartálfar reached him, an unstoppable juggernaut.
He felt the Legend within him calculating, taking in every detail, analyzing every possible strategy. Thoughts moving so fast they spilled over each other, impossible to follow. He didn’t even bother, giving in to it. Trusting it.
And then he burst into action.
His blade moved in a slow-motion dance, faster than anything around him, a graceful harbinger of death. It cut into Svartálfar after Svartálfar, sprays of blood from their severed arteries heralding their deaths like crimson fountains all around him.
They attacked him, lunging at him, trying to overwhelm him. But he was not overwhelmed. He was incapable of being overwhelmed.
His deadly dance flowed effortlessly from one swing of his sword to the next, every attack planned long in advance. He saw Sukri behind him, watched as one Svartálfar tried to attack her. He lopped off one of its arms, even as Sukri raked her claws across its face, tearing the flesh from its bones.
She lifted her leg straight up in an axe-kick, sending it down, her foot-claws extended…and tearing the beast apart from the chest to the groin. Intestines spilled from its body, and it crumpled to the ground.