Hunter of Legends (Fate of Legends Series Book 1)

by Clayton Wood

  And then he heard a loud grunt.

  He glanced backward, seeing an arrow sticking out of the thing’s temple.

  It turned to the side, just as a shadow appeared behind it. A man, swinging a massive hammer at the back of its head. The hammer struck the thing, and it lurched forward, falling onto its belly on the ground.

  “Get him!” the man shouted.

  More men rushed toward the thing, also carrying huge hammers. The first man swung again, smashing the thing’s head with a loud crack. But the hammer bounced off, leaving only a small dent in the thick black armor encasing its skull. The creature rolled onto its back just as one of the other men swung their hammer at its head, and it grabbed the falling hammer with two of its left hands, yanking on it hard. The man flew over the creature, falling head-first onto the ground with a sickening crunch.

  “Use the pointy end, idiots!” one man shouted.

  The men rotated their hammers 180 degrees, revealing a long spike tapering to a sharp point opposite the blunt end of the hammer. One of them swung the vicious spike at the creature’s head…but not before it got to its feet.

  The thing swung one huge arm, knocking the hammer away, then grabbed the man by the throat, tossing him aside. The man flew through the air, smashing the back of his head against one of the wooden pillars. He fell to the ground, motionless.

  Dead.

  Another arrow slammed into the creature’s armored back, barely penetrating it. The creature lunged for another one of the men, grabbing his hammer and ripping it out of his hands. Then the thing swung the hammer in a tight arc, taking the man’s head clean off his shoulders in a spray of blood.

  Shit!

  Hunter backpedaled, then spotted his revolver lying on the ground nearby. He reached down and grabbed it.

  One of the men swung their hammer at the creature’s abdomen, the spiked end striking the black metal plates there. But the spike bounced off, knocking the creature back a few steps. It roared, grabbing the man’s arms with its bottom pair of hands, then reaching forward with its top pair, plunging its thumbs into the man’s eye sockets.

  The man shrieked.

  The creature lifted the man up above its head, then slammed him down onto the ground so hard that he bounced nearly a foot off of it. It turned its grotesque head toward Hunter then, taking a step toward him.

  Hunter cocked the hammer of his revolver, then pointed the gun right at the thing’s face, pulling the trigger.

  The revolver kicked back violently, a loud bang echoing through the air. Hunter stumbled backward, falling onto his butt on the hard ground. The creature’s head jerked backward, a chunk of its face blowing off. It fell onto its back with a loud thump.

  One of the men rushed in, swinging their hammer, striking the thing’s face with the spiked end of it. Its face caved in, bright red blood squirting out of the wound. The man yanked the spike out, rotating the hammer, then swinging the blunt end of it at the thing’s face again. Its entire head crumpled, chunky yellow stuff oozing out of either side of the hammer, spilling over the dirt and mixing with a rapidly expanding pool of blood.

  The thing’s limbs jerked, then went still.

  “Finish off the others,” one of the men ordered, gesturing at a few of his companions. They nodded silently, running back toward the structure. “Don’t forget the runner,” he shouted after them. The man lowered his gaze to the dead creature, shaking his head. “Never seen one that looks like this,” he muttered, kneeling before it. He poked at the glowing, gel-filled membrane on top of its head. “What is this shit?”

  He poked at it a bit more, then glanced up at Hunter, eyeing him warily. The man was older, perhaps in his forties, and bald. He was very tall, and heavily muscled, with scars crisscrossing his face. His clothes appeared to be made of some sort of thick, tough brown hide.

  The man stood up, smirking at Hunter.

  “Almost got yourself turned into lunch, kid,” he declared. He slid the butt of his hammer on the dirt, scraping blood and flesh from it. “Lucky we came in time.”

  Hunter stared at the man silently.

  “You’re welcome, by the way,” the man added. He reached out with one hand. Hunter hesitated, then realized the man wanted him to shake it. He switched his revolver to his left hand, then tried to grasp the man’s hand with his right, but the guy leaned in too far, grabbing Hunter by the forearm. Hunter paused, then did the same, gripping the man’s forearm. The man grinned. “I’m Alasar,” he introduced. “Sergeant Alasar.”

  “Uh, I’m Hunter.”

  “Nice meeting you,” Alasar replied. He looked Hunter up and down. “Not from around here, are you?”

  “I don’t think so,” Hunter replied. “Where is here, anyway?”

  “You must’ve come through the Gate then,” Alasar deduced. He shook his head, giving a low whistle. “Never thought I’d live to see an Original.”

  “A what?”

  “What’s that thing you used?” Alasar asked, gesturing at Hunter’s revolver.

  “A gun,” Hunter answered. When Alasar just stared at him blankly, Hunter cleared his throat. “Like a little crossbow,” he clarified. This seemed to satisfy the man.

  “Well it certainly helped,” Alasar stated. “Would’ve lost a lot more men if you hadn’t used it.” He smiled, giving Hunter a curt nod. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  “Come on,” Alasar prompted, picking up Hunter’s backpack and handing it to him, then turning back toward the structure and walking toward it. “We better get going before more of these bastards come.”

  Hunter looked up, seeing a few men – dressed like Alasar – on top of the structure. They were lowering something to the ground…a ladder. Alasar started climbing up, and Hunter put the gun in his backpack, zipping it up and slinging it onto his back. He followed Alasar up the ladder, and within moments, they reached the top. The stone plates forming the floor upon which he stood were as wide as the structure itself, and rectangular in shape. It was a bridge, Hunter realized; though why it was running across a veritable desert was beyond him. A half-dozen men stood before them on the bridge, all looking remarkably similar to Alasar. Each was tall, muscular, and middle-aged, each carrying various weapons. Including a few bows.

  “He’s an Original,” Alasar declared, gesturing at Hunter. “What’s your name again, kid?”

  “Hunter,” Hunter answered.

  “Right,” Alasar replied. “Did we kill that runner?” he asked one of the men, who nodded.

  “Yup.”

  “You sure?” Alasar pressed. The man nodded a second time. “Good,” he stated. “We don’t need those assholes sending reinforcements.” He turned to Hunter. “Let’s get you home, kid.”

  “Home?”

  “Not your home,” Alasar clarified. “Ours.” He began walking to the left along the path made by the bridge’s stone slabs, gesturing for Hunter to follow. “Come on.”

  Hunter followed behind the man. Two other men walked behind Hunter, while the others stayed behind.

  “What is this place?” Hunter asked, quickening his stride until he was walking beside Alasar.

  “This?” Alasar replied. “These are the Deadlands.” He gestured at the barren landscape all around them. “Used to be part of the kingdom,” he added. “Not anymore.”

  “The kingdom?”

  “You’ll see,” Alasar replied. He glanced at Hunter. “So you’re really from the Gate, huh?”

  “The Gate?”

  “Yeah,” Alasar replied. “From the other side,” he added. Hunter frowned…the man must be referring to the stone ring Mom had gone through…and that apparently he’d gone through too.

  “I guess so.”

  “Damn,” Alasar murmured. “Can’t believe I’m looking at an honest-to-god Original!”

  “An Original?”

  “Someone who comes from the other side,” Alasar clarified. “Now I know why we posted so many men near the Gate. Used to think we we
re daft to post soldiers there.”

  Hunter glanced behind him, seeing a few men on the ground below, standing around one of the fallen creatures.

  “What were those things?” he asked.

  “Those beasts?” Alasar asked. Hunter nodded. “Those are Ironclad,” he answered. “Strong fuckers, aren’t they?” He shook his head. “You’re damn lucky they didn’t get you,” he added darkly. “Who knows what they would’ve done to you.”

  “Why did they attack us?” Hunter pressed.

  “They hate humans,” Alasar answered. “If the Ironclad had their way, they’d kill every last one of us, let me tell you. We’ve been fighting them off for over twenty years.” He glanced at Hunter. “One of the damn things murdered my father when I was a kid. I joined the military just to get a chance to kill a few of ‘em.”

  The path angled upward, following the gentle slope of a large hill. They strode up it, and Hunter had to struggle to keep up with Alasar’s quicker pace. The sun beat down on his back, making him sweat.

  “Has anyone else come through like me?” he asked. “A woman, about eight years ago.”

  “Eight years ago?” Alasar asked. “No.”

  “You’re sure?” Hunter pressed. Mom should have ended up here just like him, after all.

  “I’m pretty sure.”

  After a few minutes, the incline ended at the top of the hill a few dozen feet ahead.

  “Get ready for it,” Alasar warned. Hunter frowned, glancing at him.

  “Ready for what?”

  Alasar smiled, but said nothing, continuing forward up the path. Hunter followed, reaching the top of the incline. Ahead, the path leveled out, then dipped down, following the slope of the terrain. Beyond the hill was a huge valley that extended for miles ahead. And beyond that…

  Hunter stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes widening.

  There, beyond the valley, built at the foot of a huge hill in the distance, was a massive stone wall. It was easily fifty feet tall and forty feet wide, and extended to the left and right for what seemed like miles. It went back to form a giant rectangle, beyond which Hunter saw the sparkling waters of the ocean. And completely surrounded by the giant wall…

  Alasar stopped, glancing back at Hunter.

  “Told you to get ready,” he said with a smirk. Hunter just stared, unable to believe his eyes.

  There, encircled by the wall in the distance, was a massive, sprawling city. Tall buildings rose up toward the sky, built on the upward sloping side of the hill. And in the middle of the city was another wall, one nearly as tall as the first. One that surrounded a building larger than any Hunter had ever seen. It was a veritable fortress made of white stone. To call it a castle was an understatement; it was far larger than any castle he could imagine, with countless spires with golden domed roofs rising far above the city. It’d been built on the very top of the hill, rising from the rock itself as if it had grown from it. The white and gold fortress contrasted sharply with the deep blue of the ocean far beyond, gleaming in the light of the sun.

  It was quite easily the most incredible thing Hunter had ever seen.

  “Welcome to the kingdom of Tykus,” Alasar stated, spreading his arms out wide. “And welcome home.”

  Chapter 4

  Dominus gripped his cane tightly, grimacing at the gnawing pain in his calves as he made the long walk through his gardens, the discomfort worsening with each step he took. After a few minutes, he stopped to kneel before a pallet lying on the grass, feeling the pain slowly – mercifully – abate. The pallet was one of many, and set upon each were numerous wooden boxes. He set his cane down on the grass, peering inside the box nearest him. There were a half-dozen wooden frames stacked front-to-back inside; he pulled one of the frames out, disturbing a few bees as he did so. They buzzed around him, some landing on him. He ignored them, hardly fearing their sting. For he was dressed in a protective white suit from head to toe, his face hidden behind a layer of mesh a few inches from his nose. He pulled the frame all the way out, staring at the flawless array of hexagonal cells constructed of beeswax within.

  Perfect, he thought. An expression of the bees’ particular nature, every hive the same.

  He studied the cells, spotting worker bees milling about. The young workers, he knew, were nursery bees, taking care of the eggs that the queen laid, and the very young. Older worker bees secreted the wax, creating those perfect hexagonal cells. Still others collected nectar from the flowers, transforming that sweet substance into one sweeter still: honey.

  And then, of course, there was the queen.

  A singular creature, the queen bee. The undisputed leader of her hive. She laid all of the eggs, choosing whether to create males or females. She directed her workers, ensuring the survival of her hive. No hive could thrive for long without a robust queen, one fit for her duties. Her presence ensured that bees – their very identity and way of life – would survive the passage of time.

  Dominus lowered the frame back in its proper place, then chose another, lifting it upward. This one had what he was looking for…empty cells. But they were in a spotty configuration…and there were too many drone bees. He peered at the cells closely, spotting eggs there…but laid on the side of the cell instead of the center. The worker bees were starting to lay eggs.

  All signs of a failing queen.

  He searched for the telltale sign of the queen – worker bees surrounding a larger bee, one with a longer body – but she wasn’t there. She must have fled, sensing danger. Either that, or she was dead.

  Lowering the frame into the box, he was about to pull another when he heard footsteps behind him. He twisted around, seeing his servant Farkus walking through the garden toward him. A tall, slender man nearly as old as Dominus himself, Farkus’s back was slightly bent, his white hair short and his face smooth-shaven in the manner of all servants.

  “Your Grace,” Farkus greeted, stopping to bow deeply – while keeping well clear of the hive. “Your visitor has arrived.”

  Dominus sighed, rising slowly to his feet, then turning away from the row of boxes and walking up to Farkus. He took off the hood of his beekeeping suit, handing it to the man. Much to Farkus’s dismay, as there were still a few bees crawling on it.

  “My nephew, I presume,” Dominus guessed.

  “Obviously, your Grace,” Farkus confirmed, holding the hood at arm’s length. Dominus smirked; the man was possessed of the same distaste for wasted speech as Dominus was…a product of them having spent so many decades together, no doubt.

  “Bring him to me,” he ordered. Farkus bowed again.

  “Of course, your Grace.”

  He left, and a few moments later he returned, a boy walking at his side. Nearly six feet tall, with long blond hair and blue eyes, he was a near-perfect representation of the kingdom’s royal line, an ancient family borne of the greatest of the Legends. The two stopped, and Farkus bowed again, gesturing at Dominus.

  “His Grace, the Duke of Wexford,” he introduced. Axio bowed.

  “Your Grace,” he greeted. Dominus said nothing, studying the boy. He’d never met Axio before, which was a shame. For one reason or another, Dominus had always found himself too busy to entertain the boy whenever he’d happened to be visiting the Acropolis. Axio was perhaps sixteen, and well-groomed, with clear attention to detail. He was also wearing the uniform Dominus had given as a gift earlier that year. A sign of thoughtfulness and consideration, assuming he’d dressed himself. With the way the youth were these days, that was hardly a given.

  “Welcome,” Dominus replied at last. “I trust your trip was uneventful?” He spotted Farkus’s grimace, and suppressed a smile. It was a stupid question, a banal conversation-starter. The boy had traveled from the kingdom along the King’s road…a journey involving considerable risk. If it’d been eventful, the boy would’ve been dead.

  “Yes, your Grace.”

  “I take it you know why you’re here,” Dominus pressed. Axio nodded.

  “I
do.”

  Dominus clasped his hands behind his back, staring at Axio silently for a long moment. He was curious about the boy; he’d of course heard a great deal about Axio from the boy’s family. They’d spoken very highly of him. But of course they would; it wasn’t every day one had the chance at their son becoming the next Duke of Wexford. A chance at power and extraordinary wealth had a tendency to make people abandon their honesty…and any other inconvenient morals.

  The boy stood silently, eyes slightly downcast. Waiting.

  Dominus regarded the boy approvingly. The boy was patient…another rare quality in young men. No fidgeting. No betrayal of nerves whatsoever. Whoever had trained him had done so well. It was too much to hope that such calmness was the boy’s natural predisposition, but if it was…

  Dominus limped up to the boy, a dull ache in his right calf growing more intense with every step. He ignored the discomfort, stopping only a foot away, far closer than one should find comfortable, staring down at Axio. He waited, focusing inwardly. Moments passed, and he felt a slight trepidation, but that was all.

  Interesting, he thought.

  “Do you want to become Duke of Wexford when I die?” Dominus inquired. Axio hesitated.

  “My family does,” he answered. Dominus arched an eyebrow. Answering the question without answering the question. The boy was nuanced.

  “And what do you want?” Dominus pressed.

  “To serve the king,” Axio replied.

  Dominus sighed inwardly. A typical answer, devoid of information. Blind loyalty was mandatory in the common folk and idiocy in the aristocracy. Patriotism – love of one’s nation – was far nobler, as long as it wasn’t blind.

  “Oh really?” he stated. “And who does the king serve?” Axio gave him a confused look.

  “The king is the king,” he answered. “His role is to rule, not to serve.”

  Dominus grimaced, feeling suddenly annoyed. Another rote answer. Not that he could blame the boy; the educational system was designed to raise compliant, obedient citizens. Couldn’t have people thinking for themselves, after all.