by Taylor Leigh
The mutant let out a howl unlike anything Reginald had heard and when the creature looked back at him his eyes were coal black. Shocked and unprepared for the sight, Reginald let go of his grip on the Denizen and fell backwards.
‘You will not survive this treachery, boy!’ the Denizen said in a voice so unfamiliar and otherworldly it sent a tidal wave of terror through Reginald.
The creature dove forwards and clamped his fingers round Reginald’s neck. He felt the claws piercing his skin. Where were Marus and Arkron? Had they left him behind? He let out a strangled shout for them but it was completely cut off as the edge of creature’s hand crushed into his windpipe.
He gagged and kneed the creature in the stomach, sending him toppling over Reginald’s head. The Denizen’s domed head cracked against the stone floor and he scrabbled about on all fours, slavering like an animal. He started chanting in a strange tongue Reginald didn’t understand.
He dove towards his sword just as the Denizen leapt. The creature hit a pillar and skittered up it like a spider, using its odd leg additions before turning to look down at him. Reginald turned back to his sword and curled his fingers round it just as he heard the mutant jump. He whirled round, horrified, as he saw the Denizen diving through the air towards him, Daemonic face twisted into a mask of macabre horror. Without thinking, he raised his blade just as the Denizen hit him and fell backwards as the force of the Denizen smacked into him. He heard a wet, rough, sliding noise and felt something warm cover his hands.
The creature howled and then went still. Reginald opened his eyes. Its head was resting on his chest, twisted to one side. Out of the back of the creature stuck his sword, black with blood.
Reginald pushed himself up shakily and shoved the body off his blade. It slid away limply. He swallowed and gaped down at it. The creature’s chest heaved, as if still full of life, and then something he could only describe as a blast of freezing wind hit Reginald hard. He heard a horrible roar and saw in amazement as the force—barely visible—rocketed down the hallway out of sight.
Echoes of cries came from down the hall. Of course others had heard the noise. He cursed and dodged behind a pillar. Across from him he saw Marus, arms crossed across his broad chest.
Reginald stared at him. ‘Were you there the whole time?’
‘Yeah,’ Marus said easily.
‘Why didn’t you help me?’ he cried.
Marus shrugged. ‘Wanted to see how you’d hold up. No point following someone if they can’t win a simple fight.’
Reginald narrowed his eyes. ‘I don’t really appreciate that, you know. That thing was hardly a simple fight!’
Marus walked over and put a hand on his shoulder, reassuringly. An amused smile played at his lips. ‘Relax, you did fine. Not many people can take out Daemon-possessed Denizens, believe me!’
Arkron leaned round the corner, looking irritated. ‘Are you two done mucking around? Can we go now?’ Her eyes darted down to the body. ‘Oh, you got him. Good show. Now let’s move!’
Marus saluted. ‘Yes, Ma’am.’
Reginald wiped blood from his forehead and pushed away his feeling of disappointment that he didn’t get a bit more praise for killing the possessed monster. He figured when one was in the company of Arkron and Marus, one had to do much more than killing a single Denizen to get admiration. With that, Reginald vaguely wondered what new horror he’d have to defeat to live up to their expectations. He then followed his companions into the yawning darkness, wondering if it was possible if Victoria was having as hard a time as he.
* * * * *
Andrew ducked behind a building, mind racing, arms full of his volatile weapons. He had managed to stay out of the way of the thickest of the fighting but things were definitely taking a turn for the worse. The snow was falling harder in swirling clouds of white and the streets were a complete sloppy mess. Everywhere he looked was killing and fire.
He made a face, not particularly pleased with the situation he was in. Sure, danger didn’t bother him; in fact, he preferred it to the dullness of everyday life. It took so much to keep him from becoming bored that a fight like this was almost welcome. Risking his life seemed to be the only way he could keep sane. What he was not happy with was having his arms loaded down with explosives and no real way to defend himself. Not to mention the fact his nose hadn’t stopped bleeding, which he found both repulsive and exceedingly irritating. At least he’d been able to force the tics and voices in his head to stop. For now.
He ran up the hill to where a group of men, including, to his relief, Tollin, were standing. The men, besides Tollin, were holding crossbows and taking sniper shots at the Blaiden below them. Tollin seemed to have organised them into a rather well-thought-out operation. His arms were crossed tightly and his expressive brows were curved low over his eyes.
‘Andrew!’ Tollin cried, brightening upon seeing him. ‘What-ho! Wondered where you’d gone off to.’
Andrew took a deep breath and scanned round the small hill. ‘I see you’ve made it. And managed to bring some order to this chaos.’
Tollin’s expression grew dark. ‘Being known for my expertise in battle is not something I had hoped for, but I will help where I can.’
‘What? Would you rather be known for your knowledge on Scottorrian folktales?’
‘That’ll be the day,’ Tollin sighed wistfully.
Andrew walked to the edge of the knoll to get a decent view of the battlefield. He gingerly rested his load on the ground and dabbed absently at his nose. Things below weren’t looking so good.
Tollin came up behind him. ‘Oh,’ he said, voice low. ‘I see you’ve made good use of the gunpowder. Genius! This type of technology shouldn’t rightly be invented here for at least a half a century!’
Andrew smiled smugly. ‘Well, whoever thought that didn’t count on me.’
‘I would say not!’ Tollin grinned. ‘Brilliant!’
‘Sir!’ one of the crossbow-bearers called. ‘Your brother is coming! He’s got a pack of Wolves behind him!’
Andrew swept up a glass jar and trotted over to where the man was. He directed his gaze down the slope. Thedric was running up the hill towards them, eyes wide, sword bloody. Behind him were seven giant Blaiden men, snarling and running on the edge of their sharpened antler wrist guards. They were almost upon him.
Andrew fished into his coat pocket and pulled out a matchbook. He struck a flame and glanced at Tollin with a wry grin, then he touched the flame to the wick. The wick burst into flames and Andrew hurled it away from him, down the slope, shouting at Thedric to move as he did so. His brother looked up just as the jar sailed over his head and he dove for cover. The explosion rocked the hillside as rock and sand and shards of glass spewed everywhere.
Andrew shook his head, ears ringing. He had aimed well. The bomb had landed smack in the centre of the Blaiden. There were only two left, and they didn’t appear to be very well off.
‘Well, that went surprisingly well!’ Tollin congratulated.
‘Exceedingly,’ Andrew agreed.
Thedric was still lying flat on his face, but Andrew could see no injuries through all the smoke. He was wearing chainmail; that should have blocked most of the shrapnel. Slowly, his brother stirred. Thedric pushed himself up dizzily and staggered up the hill towards them, in nowhere near a straight line. He reached the top of the hill and sagged against a tree, wiping black soot from his face.
‘You could have given me some warning!’ Thedric said a bit too loudly.
‘I did,’ Andrew replied.
‘What?’ Thedric cried.
‘I SAID I DID!’ Andrew raised his voice.
‘Bloody hell,’ Thedric continued loudly. ‘I’ve gone deaf!’
‘You should have covered your ears,’ Andrew griped impatiently.
‘How could I know?’ Thedric hollered.
‘Oh, I don’t know, common sense?’ Andrew shouted. He glowered and marched away, back towards his pile of weapons.
&
nbsp; He was secretly pleased with the way the bomb had turned out. He hadn’t known if it would work; there was every possibility the device would have exploded in his hand, or the fire could have gone out. If he had better fuses he knew it would be more effective, but all in all, it was rather satisfactory.
The Blaiden moved in packs when they fought, which worked perfectly for Andrew. The bombs proved devastating to them, and the Blaiden didn’t seem to comprehend the danger. Even though they were repeatedly hammered by the explosions, they paid the bombs little mind. It was slightly disturbing to watch—to someone more emotionally unstable than himself, of course. Andrew distributed a few of the bombs to the most level-headed of the guards—keeping the best for himself. And though there weren’t many to go round, they provided all the difference in the world. Ingenuity beat muscle every time.
As much as he wanted to put Tollin in charge directing the groups with the devices, the man would have none of it. He had a visible distain for the weapons, looking down on them with a superiority that Andrew found slightly stinging.
Tollin might have been a man of peace, but he wasn’t about to sit back when others were in trouble. While he wasn’t throwing bombs or shouldering a crossbow, he was a brilliant strategist and spent a good deal of his time darting away from the hill to help others in need and rescue people from burning buildings. Andrew watched him closely, feeling a tinge of mistrust for anyone who refused to fight. He could tell by the way Tollin moved that he knew how to, and was more than likely fairly good at it, but for some aggravating reason, he kept it hidden. Still, he had to admit he was impressed with Tollin, who seemed willing to do anything, no matter how hard, and that he did it all without killing, unless absolutely necessary. He wasn’t sure if he found the trait admirable, but he certainly respected Tollin for his restraint. Not many people had such self-discipline or control. Andrew should know; he was surrounded by such people.
Thedric moved to stand next to him, crossbow loaded but lowered to the ground. ‘This is getting out of control. Do you have any ideas how we can win this thing?’ By the tone of his voice, his hearing appeared to be on the mend.
‘Several.’
Thedric waited, but Andrew didn’t feel like elaborating. ‘Okay, well, any chance on acting on any of them soon?’
Andrew stared at him coldly.
His brother let out a breath. ‘Well, will you tell me what I can do?’
‘Just shut up and keep shooting.’
* * * * *
She was almost free from the bleak grip of the mountain, and having survived was itself a shock. Their pace was swift and her mount needed no convincing to continue that way. Such was their panic. The ride was a tear-whipped blur. The dead swamp, the fen and barrens were all behind them, left with no regret.
Somehow, Victoria knew with dread, the Daemon beast was still pursuing them as a lethal shadow. Victoria had thought that perhaps the beast wouldn’t be able to get out of the pit, but it had gotten free before and the Guardian was free now. It was trailing them, and by the sound of it, gaining.
Elberon must have sensed that the beast was hunting them, for he was spurred forward by an unnatural terror. She had a feeling the ride back to the keep was going to be a lot faster this time, judging by the speed they were going.
The horrible roar behind her shook the forest, blurring her vision as the noise rattled her brain. She wondered again if the spores it had swallowed were affecting it, making it go mad. A tree behind them cracked and fell, pushed aside in the beast’s rage. Victoria didn’t dare look back.
The forest was nothing more than a grey haze to her. She found it baffling even when she was standing still. Now, at top speed, there was no way to make sense of it. She honestly had no idea if they were headed in the right direction, or if Elberon even knew where he was running, but she trusted his senses better than her own.
She wasn’t sure how long she had been riding, but to her surprise, the keep loomed into view. Elberon slowed upon taking the path, breathing heavily.
Victoria glanced behind her, feeling Elberon’s sides heave against her legs. ‘We’ve made it!’ she said, trying to be cheerful. The horse snorted.
She stared up at its stern walls, the shattered windows and torn lawn. Andrew had told her to wait here—she’d promised she would. Now that she was faced with the keep, her mission over, she knew she couldn’t keep her promise. There was no way, beast or no, that she could stay cooped up in safety while her friends fought and died. The agony of the wait would be unbearable. She needed to get back to Miol Mor, promise or no. What good was in surviving the battle if everyone else perished? What if Andrew died and she wasn’t there? The idea was like a knife in the gut.
The forest had gone strangely still, save the horse’s breathing and the wind in the branches. Victoria could hear nothing out of the ordinary. It was as if the falling snow had buried all signs of life. The forest seemed to be waiting for it to stop.
Elberon staggered towards the keep, making a beeline for the stable. He stopped and stared with bleakness at the smouldering ruins.
‘Sorry, old boy,’ Victoria sighed. ‘We can’t stop here.’
Victoria turned round in her saddle and peered through the trees, frowning. She didn’t think the Guardian had given up on her; not after how determined it had been earlier. With the forest so quiet now, however, she began to wonder. A woodpecker flew over the keep, laughing loudly, flying away from the dark trees. Victoria’s frown deepened as she went scanning between the trunks, eyes searching for anything. She thought she saw a flicker of movement. Her heart skipped slightly.
She took a deep breath. What was she doing? Her friends were still back at the village, fighting for their lives. Andrew needed her. She felt another flutter of panic at the thought of not arriving in time. Victoria didn’t know how much help she would be to them, but she needed to be by Andrew’s side, whatever the outcome of the fight.
She kicked Elberon into a staggering walk just as a loud snap! crackled behind her. She cast a quick glance behind and watched in dread as the beast shouldered its way through the tangle of growth. Its little yellow eyes locked with hers and it let out a horrible snarl.
Elberon didn’t need to look behind. He broke into a run back down the road. The loud crunching of the beast’s feet hitting the frozen ground turned to a scraping slide. Victoria glanced back and watched in in morbid fascination as the beast began to slip down the frozen road towards them, gaining terrifying momentum. It’s claws carving ruts through the earth.
‘This road is going to be a problem!’ she shouted to Elberon. ‘We better hit the trees or else he’ll be on us!’
She yanked Elberon’s reigns hard and the horse slid several metres, hooves digging into the iced ground, before diving off of the road and into the brush. Victoria cursed as she curled nearer to the horse’s neck as branches whipped past her, trying to snag in her hair. She heard another enraged roar behind her and her teeth clacked as Elberon jumped a fallen log. Elberon seemed to know where he was going; she just hoped they’d make it there in one piece.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Marus kicked a mutant Denizen off the edge of his sword and cast a wild look about the intersecting dark hallways. Reginald pressed himself up against the wall, praying that the noise the previously dying creature at their feet had made wouldn’t attract any unwanted attention. His mind was spinning. The palace had turned to a funhouse of monsters and the supernatural, and its games were messing with everyone’s heads.
‘This is getting tiring,’ Marus said to him.
Reginald nodded in agreement, feeling awkward next to the gladiator. As far as the fighting had gone on this mission, he’d clearly been useless next to Marus. Marus had taken out almost every living—or otherwise—creature they’d met. He felt ridiculous even next to Arkron, who, comparatively, hardly dirtied her hands during their expedition. She had adopted an attitude of someone on an everyday outing. She honestly seemed somewhat bored wit
h the whole thing.
He envied them both.
Before them were the doors to the throne room, which, despite their great weight, were heaving in and out, as if breathing with life.
‘Okay,’ Arkron said, steadying herself as the palace trembled. ‘The throne room is just ahead. You’d better prepare yourself right now for anything. You think out here has been bad?’ She chuckled darkly. ‘This is the epicentre of the rift. Things should be at their strongest in here, surrounding the stone.’
‘Perfect,’ Marus moaned. ‘I love feisty Daemons.’
Arkron swung her pack off of her shoulder and rooted round in it. ‘Reginald, put your veil over your face.’
‘What? Why? Doesn’t matter if anyone recognises me in there or not. Besides, it’s uncomfortable.’
The palace shook again.
Arkron pulled an item out of her pack, what looked like a chalice wrapped in rags. ‘You’ve been in the throne room before, you should know. They’re burning spores in there—very potent way to get high off of them. The particles of the burnt spores are small enough to inhale but large enough to be blocked by cloth, you won’t be as affected if you cover your mouth and nose. Things are going to be difficult enough inside as it is. The spore count is going to be high enough to be poisonous. And I can’t have any of you getting tipsy.’ She handed Marus one of the rags wrapped round the cup, which he tied over the lower half of his face. When she looked back up, her face was all business.
‘Okay, when we get in there, we’re going to have to move fast. We need to get the Queen out and, more importantly, break the connection between the stones. Leave the Daemons to me; I’m the only one who can handle them since we don’t have the physical weapons necessary to dispose of them properly.’