Dawnbringer

by Gregory Mattix

  “Mortal fleshlings…” The raspy voice came from the direction from which the small fiends had come. A spiny demon skittered into the room on four legs, its movements fluid like a cockroach. “Join Slaazhal’s collection, you shall.” It drew itself up to its full height and would’ve towered over Wyat even, but it was lean and cadaverous, appearing larger than it was due to a myriad of sharp spines protruding from its body, the longest of which was the length of Arron’s forearm. A lizard-like tail swept the ground behind it, tipped in long spikes.

  The spiny demon, which Arron took to be Slaazhal, grasped Pollard’s corpse and lifted him up by one leg, holding him upside down. The demon’s pets licked at the man’s bloody face and tried to get at the brains seeping from his cracked skull.

  Slaazhal hefted the body up high and walked over to a blank spot on the wall. Holding the man in place, it plucked a large spine from its back and drove it through the man’s chest, pinning him to the wall upside down. His legs flopped over, hanging outward. The demon’s jaw unhinged as it opened its mouth wide and, boot and all, crammed the corpse’s leg into its maw, severing the leg midthigh with a meaty snap of teeth that made Arron wince. Bone crunched between the monster’s jaws, and chunks of meat fell from its maw, leaving the small demons to fight over the scraps. It spat out a piece of armor, which landed with a clang.

  The spiny demon swallowed its mouthful before turning and standing over Endira, bloody drool dripping from its jaws.

  “Aah, elfses. Slaazhal like elfses.” The fiend grasped Endira by a slim ankle, dragging her along the gore-soaked floor, its attention focused on the wall, apparently searching for an open spot.

  “Oi! You leave her alone, you ugly cockless bastard!” Arron renewed his struggle against the net. Some of the spines worked deeper into the gaps in his leather armor and pierced deep into his skin as he struggled. He cursed at the demon, unable to watch it mutilate the lovely elven maid.

  The demon’s maw twisted in what might have been a fiendish grin as it eyed Arron’s struggles. “Elfses live—that good, Slaazhal pleased.”

  Arron choked off his curses, intent on freeing himself from the net. The thought surfaced somewhere that he was doing exactly what it wanted—demons fed on torment and fear as much as flesh.

  Slaazhal held Endira up before it, bulbous black eyes roving over her body. It placed her against the wall, holding her upright by her right arm, and swiftly drove a spike into the palm of her hand. Endira’s eyes popped open, and she screamed in pain before her cries turned to horror at the leering fiend before her.

  Slaazhal’s wide jaws formed a gruesome smile. “This one awake now—good.” It reached forward and grasped her left ear with a clawed hand. A swift slash of one of its claws sliced her ear off in its hand. Endira wailed in agony, face going white in shock.

  The demon held her bloody ear in front of her face. “You watch. Imps like elf ears.” It tossed the ear toward the ground, and one of its pets snatched it in its mouth in midair. The other one seized an edge of the flesh and tried to wrench it free, but the first one snarled, shaking its head wildly. A small piece tore off, which had to satisfy the second imp. The first one threw its head back and swallowed the ear whole.

  Arron roared in rage, as angered at his helplessness as he was by the mutilation of his companion. One strand of the net snapped then another as he fought to get free. He was able to get one hand loose enough to secure his dagger, which had been pinned near his boot. His sword was behind his back, still caught up in the net. He sawed at the net with his dagger, and the strands swiftly parted on the keen edge.

  The imps approached, growling at him, blood coating their maws. The nearest one spat at him, and its spittle landed on the net and sizzled, dissolving the strands.

  Acid. Little bastards.

  “This one gets angry! Slaazhal pleased—make you watch while woman elf gets torn apart!” The demon skittered over toward Arron. Its long tail whipped around and slammed the ground, but Arron rolled away, saving himself from being impaled on the razor-sharp spikes.

  He freed his legs from the net and finally rolled free of it, dagger in hand. His sword was still tangled in the net, but he needed to put some space between himself and the horror, which was coiling its tail back for another strike. Lurching to his feet, Arron backed away from the fiend.

  A sharp pain flared in his ankle. One of the imps had latched onto his boot, shaking its head as it tried to tear his flesh. Arron kicked out, lifting the fiend and smashing it against the wall. It screeched as one of the spikes on the wall pierced its belly. The imp quickly let go of his ankle, whining pathetically before its cries trailed off.

  Arron turned just in time for Slaazhal’s tail to smash into his shoulder. The sharp spines pierced his leather armor, shredding his flesh to the bone. He cried out, trying to back away, but the demon seized him by the throat. Its talons dug into the back of his neck. With its free hand, it drew a spine from its back and held it before Arron’s face.

  “Little elf, you killed my pet. Watch this…” The demon’s words trailed off as it examined him. It sniffed at him and snarled. “You no elf!” It slammed him angrily against the wall and rammed the spike through Arron’s gut.

  His vision swam, and he gasped, the pain nearly unbearable. His dagger tumbled from his hand. The grip on his throat loosened, and Arron looked down, helplessly watching as blood leaked from his abdomen around the spine. The demon suddenly released him, and his guts rent when his whole weight settled on the spike. His legs drummed against the wall momentarily before his left foot found purchase on a spike below. The rotted remains of a foot hanging from the spike was spongy beneath his boot, but he was able to brace himself a bit, relieving some of the pressure on his abdominal wound.

  The second imp sniffed at its impaled companion. Evidently not too distraught over its fate, it tugged at a coil of intestine peeking out and munched on it.

  “Elf-thing will watch now as Slaazhal feasts on woman elf while it slowly bleed out. Fear not, Slaazhal eat you piece by piece before you die.”

  A sideways glance revealed Endira’s pale face watching him. Fear and pain were replaced by a deep sadness and resignation, which tore at Arron’s heart. Blood bubbled from the ragged wound on the side of her head. The monster plucked another spine from its back and stalked toward the elf, its gleaming black eyes savoring Arron’s reaction.

  He knew they were doomed.

  ***

  The dark passageway before them was black as pitch under a new moon. Idrimel’s light spell seemed weak to her, like a guttering candle smothered by the evil and darkness of the Abyss. Perhaps it is my shaken faith, she thought gloomily.

  They had walked for about an hour with no sign of any way out of the cavern, which seemed to descend deeper into the ground. The air had become cool and clammy around them.

  Alert for danger, Wyat held his sword in hand, his back rigid. She knew how the warrior felt—her own nerves were raw, as if she’d received a jolt of lightning.

  “Look here,” he said softly.

  The rock was coated with some kind of glistening substance, hanging in thick ropes. Idrimel shuddered, thinking of some beast’s slavering jaws. Beyond, the tunnel opened up to a larger cavern. They advanced a few more paces and could see the walls were slick with more of the slimy substance. The gray ropes hung in thick sheets there, and several large lumps were cocooned in the substance.

  “Webs,” she whispered in horror. “These are webs of some creature.”

  Wyat gasped, and she turned. Her light reflected against the shiny carapace of a spiderlike creature, but one from her worst nightmares. It was the size of a horse, with a bulbous abdomen and eight legs. Atop the abdomen was the torso of a humanoid with four arms. The creature’s face looked like melted wax, all eyes and jaws. Two rows of red eyes glinted in the light. It hissed, and the open mouth revealed a spike-filled maw. It held crude blades in two of its arms. The creature skittered forward, knives slashing.


  Wyat stepped in front of Idrimel defensively, longsword raised. He slashed at it, but it skittered back before rearing up on six of its spider legs, the front two stabbing at the big man with sharp tips.

  He parried one of the tips, and the other scraped against his breastplate. He leaned sideways, barely avoiding one of the knives, which glanced off his helm. The creature’s two other arms tried to grab onto his free arm.

  Idrimel stepped up and slammed it across the forearm of one of its free arms with her mace. Bone cracked. It screeched and turned its attention to her, slashing with its knives. She blocked its strikes with her shield.

  Wyat hacked at it with his longsword, severing one of its spike-tipped front legs. The creature screeched again, ichor spewing from its stump, but it had plenty more limbs to attack with. One of the knives crunched against Wyat’s pauldron. He turned and cleaved into the side of its torso, and ichor splashed over his blade.

  The creature wobbled as if drunk. Idrimel smashed it in the face with her mace. It reared back again, the remaining front leg stabbing at her, but she deflected it with her shield. Wyat drove his sword up and into its abdomen to the hilt.

  Ichor pumped around his hands. He cursed in disgust, withdrawing his sword. A fountain of fluid spewed out as the creature fell, legs spread akimbo.

  “What in the Abyss is that?” Wyat studied the demon in disgust.

  “A drolnac, I believe. Athyzon spoke of them before. They are hive-minded creatures. We should beware. It is almost certain many more are in the area.”

  They continued past the slain drolnac. The floor of the room was sticky with webs, clinging to their boots as they crossed.

  A clacking sound reached their ears, and two more drolnac raced into the room from opposite caves on either side of them.

  Idrimel took the one on the right while Wyat met the charge of the other. She focused on her light spell, and it flared brighter for a moment.

  The drolnac skidded to a halt, raising its arms to shield its face. This one carried a pair of scythes.

  As soon as it paused, she leaped to the attack. Her mace slammed into its right elbow, and the arm sagged, dropping a scythe to the floor. The creature hissed in pain and slashed with the other, getting inside her shield and rending the mail on her upper arm. Idrimel responded by shield-bashing it in the face.

  It reared back, front legs stabbing at her. The first missed, but as she tried to evade, her feet were caught up by the sticky webbing and her movements slowed. The drolnac pierced her thigh plate, stabbing painfully into the muscle.

  She cried out and fell backward.

  The drolnac was on her instantly. Saliva dripped from its jaws as she held it at bay with her shield. It gripped the shield in its free hands, trying to wrest it away. The scythe stabbed at her, but she deflected it with her mace, scoring a glancing blow to its shoulder.

  The drolnac reared up over her suddenly and aimed a stinger on its abdomen at her, which she suspected dripped with poison.

  This is it. Sol, please make my end swift.

  A dagger sprouted in the drolnac’s throat. It staggered back a few steps, and Wyat charged in with a battle cry, leaping over Idrimel. He cleaved his longsword into the flesh between the drolnac’s neck and shoulder. The sword carved through its chest all the way to its gut. Offal poured from the grievous wound when the big man withdrew his weapon.

  “Are you wounded?” he asked tenderly, kneeling down beside her. He bore a couple slashes to his arms and one to his chin, but none seemed that deep.

  “I think I’m all right,” she replied.

  Wyat was already examining the wound in her leg, which was bleeding heavily. “Can you heal yourself? That looks deep.”

  “Is the other one dead?”

  “Aye. I’d not like to encounter more of these, though.”

  Idrimel closed her eyes, praying for healing. She could feel Sol’s power infuse her though it seemed distant and weak, as if being summoned through a thick veil of darkness. The wound closed slowly and unevenly, leaving a scar, but at least it mended.

  Wyat helped her to her feet, and they looked around nervously.

  “Any idea which direction?” he asked.

  Idrimel shrugged. She pointed to the right, where a smaller cavern wended away, seemingly less clogged with webs. “This way? As good as any, I figure.”

  They carefully stepped over a thick clog of web. As soon as their weight was on the other side, the rock shifted beneath them and collapsed. They slid into the sheet of webbing.

  For a moment, they hung there suspended, the web swaying slightly as rock collapsed beneath them, clattering down into the depths. Then it came loose, and they were falling.

  Idrimel grabbed onto Wyat’s arm unconsciously as they tumbled down the shaft. With a jolt, they hit another layer of web. Wyat tried to roll over, sending it swaying again. The sticky strands clung to his cuirass, and he grunted, fighting to get free. His gauntlets scrabbled at the rocky wall of the shaft. A piece of stone came loose and fell, striking with a thump below a moment later.

  “I think the bottom is near,” he said. “Shall I cut us loose?”

  In the enclosed shaft, the light from her holy symbol cast his concerned features in a harsh light.

  “Do it.”

  He sawed at the strands with his dagger. They slowly parted, and the web sagged down before one side tore loose, spilling them out below.

  They landed heavily, Idrimel partially atop Wyat, their armor clanging as loud as an alarm bell in the thick silence. She heard the breath whoosh from his lungs as she landed on his chest.

  Idrimel sat up, glancing around in concern at the loud noise. “Wyat. Are you well?” She shook his shoulder.

  The big man groaned and sat up. His breathing returned to normal after a moment, and he looked around. The floor was clear of webbing around them, but unfortunately, her light reflected on what must’ve been ten sets of red eyes and slavering maws.

  “Balor’s balls,” he said. “We’re in a deep load of shite now. Do you have a spell to drive them away?”

  “I can try, but with that many, we’ll be overmatched.”

  “Oh, wait.” Wyat dug around in a pouch on his belt before withdrawing a small phial. He popped the top and drank it in one gulp. Breaking glass tinkled when he tossed it away into the darkness.

  “What was that?” She sensed a power radiating from him.

  “Stay behind me,” was his only reply. He shuddered for a moment then picked himself up with remarkable confidence. He drew his sword and pointed it at the drolnac.

  “Come on then, whoresons!” he roared at the demons.

  They skittered forward into the light but then stopped suddenly as if striking an invisible wall of force. Her light reflected off their shiny carapaces and hideous faces.

  For a long, tense moment, they faced off, the only sound Wyat’s panting breath. Then the drolnac spun around and skittered off into the darkness.

  Wyat cried taunts after them. “You’d better run, you ugly spider bastards!”

  Idrimel came up to stand beside him, amazed. Just as she was about to rejoice in their good fortune, a palpable feeling of dread stole over her—one of great evil, seeking to smother the light of her soul.

  “Wyat, behind us—”

  Her warning was cut off as the true reason why the drolnac had fled dropped out of the shaft in the ceiling, striking the ground with enough force to make the floor shake.

  Terror gripping them, the pair turned to face the vezarun in all his horror.

  Chapter 14

  Arron watched in dismay as Slaazhal stood before Endira, holding the spine inches from her right eye. Teasing, it ran the spine along the curve of her cheek, tucking a stray lock of her hair behind her remaining ear. All the while, the fiend watched Arron, savoring his reaction.

  He grasped at the spike in his gut, slick with blood. He tried to pull it free but couldn’t get a grip on it. Eyeing the flat end of the spike, he decid
ed pulling himself free would be easier. However, with the spike removed completely, he’d bleed out fairly quickly, he knew.

  Better that than waiting to be carved up like a braised duck, he thought bitterly.

  His eyes went to Endira’s, but she had closed them, finding some final peace before her death.

  Slaazhal lifted the spine in front of Endira’s left eye and, with a quick stab, drove it through her eye.

  Arron gasped in horror despite his resolve to not give the fiend any more satisfaction at his suffering.

  But the spine met no resistance, passing through Endira and into the wall as if she didn’t exist. Slaazhal grunted in surprise.

  Before Arron could comprehend what was happening, Endira drifted into the wall as if she were an apparition.

  “What—” he began.

  “Arron! You must unlock your mind, or you’ll die! Become your true self.” Endira’s voice cut through his confused thoughts.

  Slaazhal stood looking stupidly at the spot where Endira had been a moment earlier. Slowly, its head swiveled, and it snarled at Arron, the only remaining target for its perverse fury.

  Arron ignored the fiend, instead focusing on the memory of the Magehunter dungeons in Nexus, as he had seen it back on Oblith with Endira’s guidance. He watched again as he gained control of his abilities, breaking his shackles and shapechanging into a rat. While that was processing, the image of the butcher before him mutilating his friend, the gentle elven maid, sprang unbidden to his thoughts. Rage and sorrow welled up at his helplessness.

  I have the power to stop this.

  As if the rush of powerful emotions was a key, something broke loose in his mind—a lock popped open, and a door swung ajar. Knowledge flooded him—he knew at long last who and what he was, along with his purpose. He knew what he must do. Nera was in peril somewhere. She needed him as Endira did now.

  With a strangled growl of pain and rage, he threw himself forward off the wall. The spike’s passage through his gut was a distant pain, lost in the fiery sensation of his body changing.