Imperfect tools were all he had, and his best one was now expended with hardly anything to show from it. His eyes could handle the use of more Essence, but the predictive sight took a special kind of toll manifested in the form of a nose-bleeding migraine.
His eyes might be able to take more, but his head couldn’t. The dim lighting in the foyer helped, but that was a moot point when faced with this still-very-much living murderbird. His eyes narrowed as a bright idea formed, and he carefully positioned himself so his back was close to one of the support pillars of the room. He couldn’t go blow for blow or afford to get caught in a flurry of punches; as much as he wanted to pummel this monster, her armor would shred him.
Artorian’s expression hardened as Hakan stepped in and attacked. The carpet didn’t have the required stability of his technique, but a sturdy, thick support beam sure did. His cut sandal fell from his foot as he planted it firm against the beam, setting his Essence in a controlled motion.
With a booming *ka-snap*, the beam exploded into splinters where his toes had been, covering the back wall in a shrapnel cloud that eviscerated two raiders who had been hustling over as backup. The old man temporarily vanished… or so it would seem to eyes that weren’t used to keeping up with obscenely fast-moving objects.
This was nothing like keeping up with an arrow. Hakan couldn’t alter her trajectory as the tens-of-times faster Artorian moved. It was a pure, direct shot that moved on a flawlessly straight path. The explosion of the beam had not been the desire of the technique, merely the side effect of the sheer amount of power he’d propelled himself with.
Not a part of him.
All of him.
All of Artorian’s weight accelerated to the absolute maximum that it could handle without ripping apart, which it had happened plenty during sparring. Hakan’s second step had not even completed when the furious, focused eyes flickered back into existence in front of her. She could feel the *hum* of power pass from his lower half, up his spine and back, across the arm, and into his flattened, belt-covered palm… which struck her square in the chest, immediately beneath the sternum.
*Boom* was all Hakan heard before her hearing faded to absolute silence.
Artorian always had endless questions. One of them was being answered right now—what happens when you strike a non-cultivator with a full rail-palm?
The answer was… memorable. Hakan spilled—or rather burst—blood from anywhere that could expel it along with any air she had within her.
*Scrackle*!
Inner organs were crushed, and several loud breaks highlighted her brutalized spine. With a twist of Artorian’s wrist, she corkscrewed into the air and slammed against the far wall in the foyer. The juicy impact was followed by an aftershock as the blow thundered through the room. Her travel time couldn’t be counted in seconds… that would have taken too long.
*Whap*. After completely destroying the art piece on the wall, Hakan collapsed to the ground in a bloody mess beneath it. Artorian staggered backward and heaved in a necessary breath. Abyss… he was out. He ceased pushing additional refined Essence into his heart meridian—half because his body could not hold more without backlash, and half because he was teetering.
His Aura wasn’t just diminished; it was empty—completely, unpleasantly, painfully empty. He’d not realized just how vulnerable not having an Aura made him feel. Still, the battle was over. That was the end of it. With shaky knees, he sunk to the ground, beading sweat and heaving heavily as his sparse remaining Essence patched his body up.
His heart sank as he jerked his head out of the way. A third large bottle flew past where his face at been.
This was ridiculous! How many of those potions did she have? How strong were they? Hakan was giggling as she got up, her movements as jerky as a marionette. Her eyes were so bloodshot that no white remained, and actual tears of crimson lined their way down her cheeks. She couldn’t stop giggling, outright could not stop as the side effects of potion addiction kicked in.
Euphoria. Forced, unbridled, unforgiving euphoria.
Artorian forced himself upright as the power in him ebbed. The reviving Hakan sputtered out a phrase that she must have thought was one of hilarity. “Ah… aha… ahahaha! I’ve… got a lesson. For you to take to… heart. Victim!”
New blades were pulled from her thighs as Artorian watched as all the damage he’d done to her regenerate in record time. Everything except for her eyes. Blood sloshed out of the corners, and whatever the potion was doing… those kept bleeding.
Artorian staggered back, pressing his hand against the broken column for support. The maniacal giggle-laughter only got louder, and Hakan sliced her blades over each other. *Zwing*.
Common sense and reason were leaving her for… some kind of murderous joy. Hakan moaned as she saw her staggering, end-of-his-rope prey take another cautious step back. Nobody challenged Hakan. Nobody threatened Hakan. She was the Incarnate Blade! The laughing executioner. The new Queen.
She would carve her way through any and all obstacles to assure that position, and sacrificing this pawn was just the next step. Giggles still gurgling through her blood-drenched stupor, she copied the foolish man and blindly bounded straight ahead. A perfectly straight attack? No, you over-aged mole, this is a straight attack!
“Hurkkkll!” Hakan frowned as mystery pain bloomed from her chest. Her movements slowed… stopped. Thick gouts of red liquid left her in a hurry as she looked down, stuck at an unwanted standstill she had not intended.
The thick, sharp, splintered beam angled from the ceiling… pushed through her now-impaled chest. Artorian had put one hand over the other and forced the beam to crack forwards. Wood fragments pierced the huntress right through her heart.
Her vacant, uncomprehending gaze met his, and only then did she see the fierce and remorseless soul hiding inside of the man. In her mind’s eye, she saw two little souls running far, far away… and he was standing guard over them. Her stupor broke when he spoke with a dark rumble, “I shall, indeed, take your lesson to heart. You’ve shown you’re not very fond of learning, so I took the more direct route to yours.”
Hatred welled in Hakan’s expression. The old man dared to sass her in this moment? He sounded playful! She needed another potion. Another… empty. Her digits found the hidden satchel pouch that rested above her rear but found no further chances within it. “Agha…”
Panic drooled from her mouth, and she would have spat at him if possible. Her rival had twisted on his heel around the now-bent beam to get behind her. She was going to have revenge for this! She was going to recover and hunt him until–!
With her chest pierced, body shattered, and a direct blow to the base of her head that made movement impossible, Hakan died with her eyes wide open, mouth still spewing profanities until she couldn’t speak.
It was unclear if the blood loss, injury, or inability to breathe was what finally did her in. Artorian didn’t have the luxury to stay and find out. He unceremoniously dropped the woman who had caused him years of grief. Ripping the potion satchel from her waist, he checked for additional major potions but found none. What he did find was that his entire arm could vanish into this strange satchel. That was a good enough reason to keep it. The sound of a door slamming open a floor above him spurred an immediate retreat toward the open door.
It was time to go.
Epilogue
He’d gotten so close. So close.
At the last minute, his heart had made him slip up and choose his passion over his logic. Weakly, he trembled to reach out and picked up the crushed, motionless, fluffy, white sugar glider. It was still breathing, but this time, he had no hope of helping it.
“Oh… my sweet little child. I’m so sorry.” Artorian blinked as the events of the last few minutes played through his mind.
Only a few minutes had passed since then. He recalled that an arrow had sliced along his thigh the moment he passed through the open door. They were waiting for him. Such an unexpected attac
k made him slip and fall in the wet grass. His second clog flung into the air as he tumbled. Taking a potion from his pocket, he downed it. The raider sprinting at him didn’t quite have their leader’s reflexes; the tossed glass vial bashed right into his eye.
“Ack!” The distracted and dazed raider dropped his bow to hold his face, his prey already up and moving, running off in a zigzag pattern up the hill.
“Found him! Over here! He’s going up the hill!” The raider, to Artorian’s unlucky stars, was loud. Multiple arrows whizzed past him once he gained the attention of other raiders, but he didn’t let up on the run at top speed. Once over the crescent of the hill, arrows continued flying, but he had already veered off at his enter-the-forest spot. Running to the first hill was just going to give the raiders a clear target when they got atop the second one. An arrow passing his temple made that point exceedingly clear as he flung himself through the thorny passage.
He fell into the dim darkness of the forest, and his hands chafed over hard roots. Abyss, he’d forgotten it was so dark in here! Another refinement ring was absorbed just to have the Essence to cycle into his tired eyes. Artorian heard the burly men break through the same thorny spot behind him but kept going even as the migraine made itself known.
His lungs burned, his legs pumped, and his arms swung. By his beard, he was going to make it out of this alive! That promise to himself was called into question as an arrow pierced his calf, dropping him face-first on to the root-covered ground. The *baff* of his head hitting sounded worse than it actually hurt.
Pulling the arrow out, he cried out a pained *nngaaah* and dropped it, stifling the sound by drinking his last potion. Pushing up to hobble forwards, he rolled over the Essence trap wire rather than messily fall on to it, avoiding the trigger. Artorian got up just in time to wobble around a tree that took the next few arrows for him. He could not tell just how many raiders were hot on his tail, but as always, the running continued. He pushed from the tree and ran deeper into the woods along the path he sort of knew.
Dumb idea? Absolutely! Better alternative? Non-existent!
He needed the trees for cover. This was being hunted, and he could hear arrow after arrow *whizzing* past. Screams behind him were cut short as a volley of roots rose and sliced raiders into chunks. Looked like they had triggered the Essence trap. From the awful coughs, someone had also angered the skunk.
A little more and he should see… the camp!
“Oh, abyss,” Artorian muttered mid-breath. A raider was waiting in it. The strongman was holding an axe the size of him! Artorian was going to jump out of the way, but then saw something that he was unwilling to live with. There, near the roots, crushed beneath the axe-man’s feet… were several stomped sugar gliders.
Artorian’s stride didn’t stop; his anger overrode his senses. With a *giyah*, he charged the axe-man while unfurling the cloth belt on his arm. The raider thought this was wonderful and swung his axe to bisect the easy target. *Thnick*. “Hrm?”
The raider felt his axe get stuck in the tree branch above. He’d swung too high, then followed it up with the fatal mistake of letting one of his arms drop to deal with the charging non-threat. It was more than enough for the old warrior to wrap the taut, sweat-soaked belt about the murderer’s neck—which was promptly squeezed shut. Artorian crossed the cloth along the big man’s spine and hung from his back while pulling on both ends to tighten the makeshift noose.
The strongman’s face quickly turned purple, and the massive brute swung around to no avail, crushing the old man between his back and a tree, throwing himself back since he had little else to fight with.
*Thud*. To the raider’s displeasure, it didn’t force the old warrior to release his hold, but it wasn’t going to matter. Another crushing slam, and there wouldn’t be an old man! Who cared that he was getting a gentle neck massage? The blueberry raider fully let go of his axe and reached up to clamp on to Artorian’s wrists.
“I gots a surprise for you, fellah!” the man choked out. *Crunch*. The tree shook as the brute threw his whole back into it, but this was insufficient to stop the chokehold that was now actually starting to affect him.
*Fffhwizz*. *Chonk*. An arrow hit flesh, and it signaled the limit of what a very tired Elder was able to bear. His arms were twisted and spent, his back hurt terribly, and at least a few of his ribs were cracked. When the brute hit the root floor, he couldn’t hold his grip. He let go. “Oo~o~oh… abyss.”
He’d gotten so close. So close.
At the last minute, his heart had made him slip up and choose his passion over his logic. Weakly, he trembled to reach out and picked up the crushed, motionless, fluffy, white sugar glider. It was still breathing, but this time, he had no hope of helping it.
“Oh… my sweet little child. I’m so sorry.” The last few minutes had finished replaying through his mind.
The glider wasn’t happy about being held, but there was no escape to be had. It came to a rest against the Elder’s chest. More arrows whizzed by… but not from the direction he had come running. They launched with a frightening *zip* past the tree he was slumped against. He didn’t have the strength to do anything except rub his thumb over the little fluff’s head to soothe and comfort it. At further cost of his own progress, he broke down cultivation rings and poured the Essence into the still creature. “Rest, sweetling. Rest.”
He couldn’t bear to let it go. Artorian also couldn’t feel his legs very well. The shakes had returned—the same shakes he’d felt when he’d had no Essence and bundles of corruption in his Center. Worried, he took a moment through the volleys of arrow fire to look inwards. Sure enough, several of his ring-weaves had cracks, and their contents were leaking. He unfurled another refinement-ring and got right to patching those problems up.
That much, at least, he could do. Artorian hated to unfurl a near-empty tank, but he needed the reclaimed Essence to live. His meridians required a certain amount of juice to be present in his system, and the cultivation technique wasn’t allowed to rupture. In a hurry, he patched it.
He came back to himself as he heard the draw of several bowstrings in front of him. Tired, injured, and out of hope, Artorian looked up. “Ah. Looks like I’ll be joining you, my little, white fluff.”
Blazing, forest-green flames took the position eyes should have held. All the beings present had beautifully ornate bows aimed at him. Each of the weapons seemed grown, as if directly from a branch. Not a single cut or unnatural notch was visible. The figures themselves were strangely obscured, forms blending with the forest as if they were part of the landscape. Aside from the blazing flame—which reminded him of the trick that he’d done with his Essence sight—frightening masks and exposed weapons were all that could be seen.
Ah. Here were the real phantoms of the forest. Artorian closed his eyes, prepared for the end. So, he didn’t believe his ears. The phantoms spoke in harmony, in unison. The language was forced but contained a flawless pitch. Their in-unison accent was airy as the wind, which seemed to blow specifically to carry their every word.
“The Eldest Mahogany demands your presence, Starlight Spirit.”
Afterword
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About Dennis Vanderkerken
Hello! I'm Dennis, but feel free to call me Floof!
(Culprit of nickname: The ever-unmanageable fluff on my head.)
I'm from Belgium, but have lived in the
USA since 2001. English is my fourth language, and that makes things very interesting when I am putting words together into books. Particularly; the mistakes, the flubs, and the descriptions for when I forget a truly obvious word.
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About Dakota Krout
I live in a 'pretty much Canada' Minnesota city with my wife and daughter. I started writing The Divine Dungeon series because I enjoy reading and wanted to create a world all my own. To my surprise and great pleasure, I found like-minded people who enjoy the contents of my mind. Publishing my stories has been an incredible blessing thus far, and I hope to keep you entertained for years to come!
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About Mountaindale Press
Dakota and Danielle Krout, a husband and wife team, strive to create as well as publish excellent fantasy and science fiction novels. Self-publishing The Divine Dungeon: Dungeon Born in 2016 transformed their careers from Dakota’s military and programming background and Danielle’s Ph.D. in pharmacology to President and CEO, respectively, of a small press. Their goal is to share their success with other authors and provide captivating fiction to readers with the purpose of solidifying Mountaindale Press as the place ‘Where Fantasy Transforms Reality.’
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Axiom Page 37