Rondel led them on for an indeterminate amount of time, the floor gradually sloping downward as they hiked. The only problem with the Left leading the way was her height. She seemed to forget, or maybe she just didn’t care, that the men following her all measured at least a head taller than her. While she could easily avoid low ceilings, more than once Balear collided into one that jutted out of nowhere. In the total darkness, he never received the slightest warning. He quickly lost track of how many bruises had already started forming on his head.
Suddenly, there was a loud crash right in front of him. Iren’s shoulder disappeared from his grip, and Balear was left alone in the dark. He reached for his sword, terrified that the enemy had ambushed them and begun slaughtering them one by one. Before he could draw his weapon, however, he pitched forward, tripping over a mound that came almost to his waist. The pile was fortunately soft, and the moment he hit it, the series of muffled “Oofs!” and a high-pitched cry of “My back!” told him what had happened.
Rondel had stopped for some reason, but in the blackness no one could tell. Balear disentangled himself from the inglorious heap, and the others did the same. Next to him, Balear heard a series of popping noises, and then Rondel said, “Well, I guess it’s fine after all.”
Although he couldn’t see her, Balear knew the old Left was smiling.
“Why did you stop?” Iren whispered, but he needn’t have asked. Just ahead, around a bend in the passageway, a dull light shone. Captain Angustion poked his head around the corner and gestured that it was safe to proceed.
With the captain leading the way, they slowly advanced. The tunnel narrowed until Balear felt rock scraping against both of his arms. It made him fear for Captain Angustion. In the cramped space, his superior would have no support. Balear couldn’t fire his bow here, and he doubted the captain could even draw his long hand-and-a-half sword.
To Balear’s great relief, the tunnel ultimately opened into a much larger room, though just how big he couldn’t tell. Dozens of torches lined the chamber walls, but their light faded before reaching the ceiling. Balear judged the distance to the torches on the far wall at well over a hundred feet. In the middle of the room, the Quodivar had mounted a series of pedestals bearing even more torches.
What those torches revealed made Balear’s breath catch in his throat. Gold and silver coins, fine textiles, exquisite jewelry, and masterful paintings covered most of the room’s floor.
The Quodivar’s plunder, however, had not made Balear react. No, his concern stemmed from the wooden table in the room’s center. Six crude chairs fashioned from logs surrounded it, and upon each sat a man. They appeared distracted with a dice game, but each of them had a dagger at his belt and a sword just behind him within easy reach. Balear pursed his lips. He and his companions were in shadow here, just beyond the edge of the room, but as soon as they entered, the men would notice them.
Amroth apparently made the same calculation, because he looked back, gave the faintest of nods, and then charged into the room at full speed, sword drawn. At first, Balear didn’t understand the gesture, but when Iren nearly bowled him over to join the fray, at last the young soldier understood. Since they couldn’t sneak up on the enemy, they might as well just get noticed and take them out as quickly as possible.
By the time Balear drew his bow, the battle had nearly ended. Iren and Captain Angustion had each slain two men already, and as Balear nocked his first arrow, Rondel stabbed another from behind. The sixth fighter, however, the one farthest from where they had entered the room, had fled the moment the attack started. The captain raced after him, disappearing into a passageway that led further down.
For a moment the others stared in shock at the empty canyon entrance. Rondel recovered first. “Let’s go,” she said. “The fool’s going to get himself killed.”
They dashed for the far passage, Balear taking the lead. He had to reach his captain. He had to protect him. Captain Angustion couldn’t die! Balear crossed the threshold into the canyon, and then the explosion knocked him flat.
The bone-crushing shower of stone missed him by inches. Coughing amid the dust, Balear regained his feet. A wall of debris blocked the passageway. He cursed and smashed his fist against it.
“A trap,” Dirio suggested, “meant to crush anyone who crosses into the canyon.”
Rondel looked doubtful. “Then why didn’t Amroth trigger it? Or that Quodivar?”
“Who cares?” Balear shouted. He wrapped both arms around one of the larger stones, trying and failing to heave it aside. “We’ve got to reach Captain Angustion!”
They all rushed to help, but with each rock Balear removed, his thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Rondel. He highly doubted that the collapse had occurred naturally, but surely no manmade effort could have caused it. The explosion that preceded the cave-in and the horrible timing of it stunk of devil magic.
After entirely too long, they cleared enough of the rock fall for Balear to squeeze through. Once past the debris, he bounded down the tunnel at a full sprint. He knew he was opening himself up to an ambush, but he didn’t care. He would run until he found his captain, dead or alive.
As he charged through the gloom, he was dimly aware that this latest passage looked nothing at all like the previous ones. Those had rough, jagged walls that stuck out at odd angles and changed direction at random. This tunnel, by contrast, was wide, round, smooth, and perfectly straight. Just like the cave-in, he had the odd feeling that nature hadn’t created it, yet neither did it resemble a human effort like Veliaf’s mine. The walls looked poured, not excavated, and everything had an eerie sheen that made it look like glass, except black.
The bizarre tube finally ended, and Balear ran into another open room, this one looking natural. Though barely fifteen feet at its widest, its ceiling, like the previous room, rose so high he couldn’t begin to discern it. Reaching the room’s center, Balear tensed. Something about this place made him uneasy.
A hand grasped Balear’s shoulder, and he jumped in panic even as Rondel whispered, “Stop.” Balear turned and saw Rondel’s stressed, even worried face. Considering her impressive display yesterday, that look unsettled him more than anything he’d seen in years.
The old Left methodically surveyed the room, those crazy sparks in her eyes again. At first Balear thought Rondel had satisfied herself, because she took a few steps toward the room’s far end. The young sergeant stared at her back, wondering what passed through her head.
Without warning Rondel spun around and drew her dagger. “Get ready,” she spat, her terse voice low and acidic. “There are ten of them.”
Iren and Dirio finally came into the room, the foreman huffing and puffing after all the effort. “Ten of what?” he breathed, his hands on his knees.
Rondel didn’t get a chance to answer. As soon as Dirio spoke, a hideous cackling filled the room, and a mass of grotesque shapes cascaded from the ceiling. The dim cavern torches cast odd shadows off their five-foot frames, reverse jointed legs, and lanky arms that nearly reached the ground. Their angular faces sported glowing yellow eyes and a pair of three-inch horns sticking out above them. Worst of all, though, the beasts had bright red hair, which reflected the torches perfectly and made their ghastly heads appear aflame. Each monster carried a pair of two-foot long swords, one in each hand, the blades adorned with barbs and a tip that curved backward. Balear trembled. Those swords weren’t designed to slice cleanly, but rather to torture and inflict maximum pain on their victims as they were slowly cut to ribbons. Only one race would craft such swords and take so much delight in using them.
Yokai.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ambushed!
Iren grimaced, all he had time for as the Yokai attacked without mercy. They moved completely unlike the Quodivar he had battled on the hill, using their muscular reverse-jointed legs and light bodies to bound over the floor and walls. With each leap, they flipped in midair and whipped their swords in tight arcs. Iren dismayed. He couldn
’t get a strike through those spinning blades. Even if he did, each Yokai wore a crude steel breastplate, increasing its protection that much more.
Bone-jarring impacts replaced Iren’s doubts as he clashed with his first enemy. The Yokai’s strength was unreal, far beyond what the creature’s small frame suggested it should be. When a second beast joined in, Iren felt himself getting pushed steadily back against the cavern wall. Between the two Yokai and four swords he faced, he barely blocked deathblow after deathblow.
He prayed for the others to help him, knowing they could not. Dirio had vanished behind a screen of Yokai and probably already died. Meanwhile, Balear fought three opponents at once. Despite the sergeant’s experience, the Yokai’s inhuman capabilities easily overwhelmed him. Like Iren, he had his back to the cavern wall as his enemies pressed him. That wall offered little protection, however, because the Yokai had the uncanny ability to jump and stick themselves to it, finding the imperfections in the cavern and climbing around it like spiders. Balear soon faced two opponents on the ground and one from above.
As for Rondel, Iren couldn’t see her at all, even though the old hag should have been just past Balear. He desperately hoped the Yokai hadn’t killed her in their initial ambush. Of any of them, she stood the best chance against these monsters.
Iren kept up his furious battle, but each time the Yokai swung their swords, their attacks got a little closer. A barely-dodged slash aimed at his head cut off several of his hairs. Two more close calls left him with shallow wounds on both legs. His breathing became labored, but he ignored the pain, trusting in the Muryozaki to heal his injuries.
With each passing second, Iren hated the Yokai more. He despised their swords and the way they swung them constantly like fans. The motion acted as both offense and defense. While one blade effectively blocked all of his attacks, he still had to contend with three that could strike him. He tried everything he could think of to get inside their guard, but the swords simply moved too fast.
Then the answer hit him. With a great effort he jumped several feet to one side, outside the range of his two enemies’ short blades. The move bought him only a second as the Yokai leapt to face him, but it made the difference. Though too far away to land a lethal blow, his sword, longer and narrower than theirs, thrust forward and landed on a Yokai’s wrist, severing the hand. The beast howled and stepped backward, clutching its stump with its other hand. Iren beheaded it without a second thought.
He cried out, “Everyone, aim for their hands!” Frantically, he glanced around, hoping the others had heard his message. He still couldn’t locate Dirio or Rondel, but Balear at least must have caught Iren’s words. A few seconds later, the struggling sergeant managed to stab one of his opponents in the hand and ultimately slay the creature.
The Yokai’s lack of camaraderie astounded Iren. When one became injured, the others made no effort whatsoever to protect it. Through the haze of combat, he wondered if in Yokai culture, someone who couldn’t fight was considered dead.
Although Balear had managed to kill one of his foes, the taxing battle had left him spent. The sergeant’s sword drooped. With two Yokai still on him, Balear would die in less than a minute. Already he had numerous cuts, and one or two looked serious.
Iren wanted to help, but he couldn’t disarm his second opponent. Wizened to its foe’s new strategy, the monster kept dancing beyond his reach. Each time Iren struck, it jumped away. It moved almost lazily, as though it had all the time on Raa.
Then Iren realized the creature’s cunning. The Yokai had seen what Iren had seen, and it too knew Balear would die soon. With Dirio and Rondel nowhere in sight, once Balear fell, Iren would stand alone. All the remaining Yokai could descend on him simultaneously. Holy sword or not, he would never survive.
Iren made a snap decision. Sprinting away from his opponent, he thrust his sword at one of the Yokai fighting Balear. Iren didn’t even need to disarm this one. His unexpected attack sliced through the creature’s neck, and it fell writhing to the floor. Iren stood in front of Balear, protecting him from further onslaught.
“What are you doing?” Balear cried. “Get out of my way!” The shout must have sapped the man’s last reserves, because the next moment he dropped to his knees, heaving.
Sweat poured off Iren’s body, despite the cave’s cool temperature. Through his exhaustion, however, he noticed the Yokai tiring as well. Their whirling defenses, while initially effective, had a drawback over time. The constant motion drained their strength, and after the long fight, their swords moved far slower than they had previously. The Yokai must have hoped for a quick victory following their ambush, so the surprising strength of the defenders caught them unprepared.
The knowledge that these beasts also had a limit gave Iren courage and brought strength to his tired limbs. He kept pace with them better, slaying a third Yokai without much difficulty. Even so, every strike, every block, every tiny motion of his body now caused him pain. When his final opponent used his own strategy against him and aimed for his left hand, Iren barely managed to deflect the blow. Even so, one of the barbs on his enemy’s sword cut a shallow but excruciating gash on his wrist, and he dropped the Muryozaki in surprise. His eyes went wide as he looked into the glowing face of the triumphant Yokai. The beast wasted no time in swinging its second blade to disembowel him.
A fervent roar issued from the far side of the room. Something whirled through the air and crashed into the Yokai’s head, shattering its skull. Iren simply stared, dumbfounded. Then he saw what had struck the Yokai, and his amazement only deepened.
A miner’s pick had embedded itself in the creature’s temple. Iren traced the tool’s path back and saw Dirio standing amid a pile of corpses, holding a hammer. He must have fought with the hammer in one hand and the pick in the other. Rondel stood beside him with her dagger dripping green ooze. The same substance covered the room, and Iren realized it was Yokai blood.
With the Yokai slain, Iren retrieved his sword, feeling the pain in his wrist fade as Divinion’s healing power restored him. As he did so, Dirio lost consciousness, and for the first time, Iren noticed that the foreman bled profusely. Rondel wrapped the man’s arm around her shoulders and carried him to where Iren and Balear rested, leaning him against a stalagmite. Iren couldn’t pull his gaze from the foreman. Dirio’s final act had saved Iren’s life. Desperate, Iren placed the Muryozaki in the man’s palm, holding sword and hand together the way he had the day before in the village square.
“Hey, stop!” Rondel shouted. “You’re in no condition to do that!”
Iren didn’t listen. He didn’t care. He saw no one else, nothing else, except for Dirio. Healing light filled the room, and seconds later, the foreman coughed and opened his eyes. Iren’s vision grayed, but at least he remained conscious this time. He stood and took a step back, silently thanking Divinion for his help.
As he did, Dirio’s face filled with panic. He cried out, “What the . . . you . . . you’re a Left!”
Iren scowled, noting the sword in his left hand. Before he could answer, though, Rondel said, “He’s the person who saved your life yesterday, remember? That’s all.”
For a moment Dirio chewed his lip thoughtfully, eyeing Iren as though he didn’t know what to make of him. Then the middle-aged miner surprised everyone by smiling, extending his hand, and saying, “Looks like I owe you my life again.”
Iren returned the grin and took Dirio’s hand, the first time in his life he had done so with anyone. Glancing at the miner’s pick in the Yokai at his feet, he answered, “Let’s call us even.”
The young Maantec next offered to heal Balear’s injuries, but Rondel blocked him. “Don’t use any more magic,” she said. “You’ll pass out again, or worse. We can’t afford that here, so just keep still. Balear’s wounds won’t kill him.”
The team rested several minutes. Balear, Iren, and Dirio all sat on the cold earth of the cavern floor. Rondel paced the room, examining the damage. Alone of all of them,
she looked completely hale, not even out of breath despite guarding Dirio against five Yokai at once. Iren felt terrible for doubting her. He’d questioned her character more than once since leaving Haldessa, but surely he’d misjudged her. Had she not fought alongside them just now, they all would have died.
“Something here doesn’t add up,” she growled, interrupting Iren’s thoughts. “Amroth came this way, but we’ve seen no sign of him. These Yokai ambushed us. Why didn’t they attack him?”
Balear gulped, white-faced as he offered, “Maybe they did.”
“Then where’s his corpse?” Rondel retorted. “If he died, we should see his body.” She continued to pace a moment longer, but then she stopped and knelt, touching the ground and trembling. “Impossible.”
Terror rose in Iren at the thought of something so awful it could make Rondel shake. The crone stood and leaned against the cavern’s far wall, a hand on her head. With fear in her voice, she described her finding. Near the opposite end of the room from where they had entered, heavy, three-toed footprints dug deep into the soft gravel floor. The prints measured over twenty inches across.
“They look like Yokai footprints,” she concluded, “but no Yokai has feet this size. No, this is an Oni.”
Balear and Dirio both blanched, but Iren just stared blankly.
“Almost all Yokai look like the ones we just fought,” Balear explained, “but once in a great while, a mutant Yokai is born that grows to extraordinary size. Those are the Oni. In shape they appear just like Yokai, but their immense bulk makes them terrifying foes. They can rip up trees with their bare hands, and their hides can deflect the sharpest blade. Even worse, they retain all the agility of their smaller kin. At least, so the legends say.”
“In this case, the legends don’t exaggerate,” Rondel interjected. “I’ve had the misfortune to fight one or two Oni in my life. I don’t consider it a pleasant experience.” She paused, thinking. “Maybe the Yokai weren’t lying in wait when Amroth came through here. Perhaps they took up their positions afterward. Yes, look here; the Oni’s footprints turn around and lead deeper into the cavern. A bloodstained streak follows them: a red streak.”
The Wings of Dragons: Book One of the Dragoon Saga Page 10