Carla felt pressure on her leg and looked to see the man bandaged moments before supporting her with his unwounded shoulder. A stream of blood flowed from his lip where his teeth bit into it. More blood and agony. Nodding thanks that she could never articulate into words, she stifled a sob and hoped to calm the hammering suffocation of her racing heart.
"What is your plan?" she croaked after several shallow breaths.
Dagmar gestured at the top of the rock with his staff, where the handles of a stretcher scraped and jabbed, making the light entering the cave flicker and dance. "As well as they intend, they lack the muscle to move it. Tell them to put pressure on the top when I say so and stand as far back as they can. I'm going to give the top a little nudge."
"Oh." Carla considered, and her shoulders slumped. She could not see any better suggestion, and time was slipping through her fingers like sand. "What should I do?"
"Pull that man around the bend and duck back with him. If I mess up, I might only cook myself."
"Only? Brilliant plan."
"Aye, but sand is trickling in the hourglass," Dagmar wiped the blood from his mouth where he had chewed through his lip. "Best crack on if we are to charge to the rescue. Right?"
Carla laughed, a long, shrill howl of despair that echoed forward and back and fled into the dark. It was all she could do not to sob when trapped in near darkness, surrounded by the smell of blood and smouldering rock.
"We have one chance at getting this right as I'll fry the stretcher." Dagmar observed looking along the passage and shook his head. Disbelieving, she thought, at what they needed to accomplish. Their last gamble. "Everyone ready, prayers said?" he boomed, throwing his voice towards the crack, and propped the staff against the wall. Towards their brightest slither of hope.
"Yes." Carla hissed, silently willing him to shut up and gestured for him to proceed.
"Get a fuckin' move on!" a strained voice called outside. As she hauled the man to the bend, the stretcher handles grated on the rock as though they were showing their impatience too. She ducked her head to hide a grin at the expression on Dagmar's face.
"Casting now. Knock," Dagmar strained, summoned a ball of azure flame that placed everything into sharp angles and shadow and threw it. For Carla, as her grin faded, everything in the cave went white and a voice echoed from far away. "Knock." Blue fire blossomed into whiteness, then greyed into darkness before oblivion.
.*.*.
"Hold your positions!" Mathyss ordered. He replaced Merizus to allow Trevir to remain in ranks and Kandra to direct the remaining archers. Sensing the shadowy threat, the elf slashed overhead at the threatening hand and continued around the seamen. His men's frantic rush had halted the male's advance, but they desperately needed every straggler with breath in their lungs to fight like demons. He hacked at the nearest leg, more in frustration than menace. Seeing the arm move away, he took hold of the sandal and climbed to see what remained of Van Reiver's men. They were hurrying, beaten and limping, but they still had fight. Energised with newfound hope, he struck harder from his vantage. Harder, faster. Die, just die, he wanted to scream.
Two of his scouts charged in, following his example, stabbing and chopping at the ankle and heel as though cutting wood in one moment and dancing away in another. Hope spluttered: if they cut and sliced, their arrows were spent. What was the point? Self-recrimination was as futile as spitting at the monstrosity which mauled his command.
Contorting its monstrous face in anger at the storm of blows, the cyclopta flailed at the dancing elf, then ineffectually at his skirmishers. They were too fast. Then, as if realising it was outclassed, it lunged between phalanxes towards the sea as Van Reiver re-joined them. Two of Van Reiver's slower men fell over each other, before the arrow-studded hand snatched Mathyss' scout who had detected the cyclopta earlier. With a booming chuckle, it raised the scout until his feet dangled just above their helmets. Then it swung him, scattering the sailors. The scout's hands became bloody on the shingle, his scrabbling fingernails ripped away in the vain search for a hold as he jerked skywards.
"No!" Mathyss gasped, as powerless as the spearmen who reformed. Van Reiver acted first, snatching pebbles from a gouge in the shingle and hurling several. Mathyss leapt forward and cursed when the rocks hissed past his head as they returned to earth.
"Fuck!" The navigator cursed. Mathyss could sense his futility. Hear his despair. A chipped tusk, pinpricks from arrows—what had he been thinking charging everyone down here?
The hideous mouth smirked, impervious to each blow, then turned to Mathyss and yawned wider. Brownish teeth like lichen-covered tombstones emerged into daylight before the gargantuan pushed the unfortunate scout's head into his mouth. There was a horrifying pause as time stuttered before the teeth descended. Then the crunch of bones breaking. The single eye glowered bitter amusement at its small foes as silence reigned and humans and elves held their breaths.
"No!" Mathyss thundered, punching the quiet asunder as it discarded the corpse at his feet. The cyclopta boomed a chuckle as Mathyss screamed his loss, hacking again and again at the cyclopta's calf. His longsword blurred, becoming a lumberjack's axe, slicing the flesh apart. Mathyss knew anyone watching would consider him berserk, but his logic was accurate. The percussion of blows cleaved a crimson wedge into flesh over the tendons and blood vessels. Sensing he was close, Mathyss rammed his sword into the hole he made. The creature howled, trying to shake him off and spinning him to dangle from the back of the cyclopta's sandal as the giant pitched to the right, throwing him from his precarious perch as his blade ripped free. The creature pivoted on the impaled foot, hammering a stiffened leg through Grimm's phalanx.
Mathyss landed with a faint crunch of shells under his heels, and half-turned to discover the blood-caked heel he'd shredded spinning in a full circle. Unable to dodge, Mathyss took the impact full on his hip. A sharp crack threw him to the water's edge. His sword flipped end over end, glinting with dusk to slice point first into the surf over a dozen yards distant. Voices and the sound of the sea swirled around him, the depths calling out to him. Somewhere nearby an elf screamed shrilly—he wished the bastard would stop as it was impossible to concentrate, and his thoughts merged with the dark.
.*.*.
"Up you get. Just lean back." Carla felt hands press under her armpits and a pressure formed in her back as her vision blurred. Her legs sagged, but someone drew her up and kept her upright. Feeling returned to her feet, and she blinked her vision clear. Dagmar grinned at her, a slanting wedge of low light highlighting the sharpness of his face and the scorched scrap of hair on his chin that smoked.
"It worked?" She mumbled, blinking grit from her eyes. She looked again and realised it was Ephraim pinning her against the cave wall. That explained the calm strength, compared to the magus leaning on the opposite wall with even less steadiness than she felt herself.
"Pretty much," Dagmar spoke for both men and inclined his head towards the light at the end of the tunnel. "Sorry, you've been out a minute or two. I rolled it back a bit, so we have a way out, but Merizus and Harcux took the blast as it vented. It injured the serjeant and Harcux is dragging him around from the next bay where they got thrown."
"Aye, I need to get yer two out fast an' then the injured. If another pebble gets chucked, we're here for the eternity." Ephraim's shadow stated with a ghoulish echo. "Yer gonna have to climb on the rock an' I'll catch her on the outside. Hurry, caster. Yer wanted at the big guy, an' it's a tad hot, unnerstand?"
"Aye," Dagmar called back. "Get her out first and I'll hobble on down." Ephraim opened his mouth to object, but Dagmar jerked his head in the dim light and forced an encouraging smile on his face. Carla looked at him but couldn't make her mouth respond. Her brain struggled to comprehend each syllable, each word, and she could taste the tension in the background on the tip of her tongue.
"Shit, c'mon, lady," Ephraim urged. "Hurry."
Carla felt herself being pulled along even before she decipher
ed the words. For a moment her legs considered rebelling as they banged into something that dragged behind her. She slid into the wall and Ephraim compensated by hauling her to the end and letting her embrace the warm rock as he scrambled past her onto it. The blackened wedge half-blocked the opening, rising to her chest. She needed rest. The warm rock on her cheek made the perfect bower. The stone vented tendrils of smoke from tiny pits that popped into the fading light as though signing the route. Then she realised it was the blood of the fallen she lay on, evaporating with the residual heat while she dithered. Carla shuddered.
"Lady?" Ephraim hissed and thrust his hand back at her. She looked, gulped frigid, clean air and willed her limbs to move. In a blink, he pulled her to him and snatched away her backpack. Carla looked blankly at him, then at the rising slope of the rock. For what seemed an endless age, her mind stalled on his earlier intent. Then she understood. "I'll go first. Climb after me, an' when you feel the stone tip, spin around and drop feet first. It ain't far, an' watch me." He shook her and stabbed two fingers towards his eyes. "Watch me."
"All right," It was a struggle to say even that, and a greater effort to follow the small man and crawl up the hot irregular surface. Like an infant moving for the first time, she pawed her way up. The heat from Dagmar's spell was invigorating and her progress became faster as strength suffused her sluggish muscles. She looked back and saw Dagmar struggle onto the rock, wedge his foot onto something and, grunting and mumbling, launch himself onto the boulder with enough force to make the stone sway from side to side. She heard a crack, a clatter and a curse. She guessed he'd broken or lost his staff. Carla looked back to Ephraim, and he had vanished.
Carla's stomach flopped, and the inattention was almost her undoing as her leading hand encountered no resistance and she almost toppled as the stone wobbled. She jerked her fingers back, scraping her palm on barnacles, and scrambled around as the marine instructed. She had seen the drop and was grateful he had taken the time to explain to her. Annoyed with herself with each wasted second, she gathered herself and pushed off. Her stomach lurched at the sense of weightlessness, then she felt arms encircle her again and her legs buckled as she hit sand.
"Gotcha," Ephraim grinned and pulled her upright. Some of his worry lines on his face faded until he looked down the beach. Carla followed his stare and felt numb.
"Incoming," Dagmar huffed in a strained voice, forming a shadow against the sky. Ephraim nudged her aside and Carla waited for the magus to drop. With a flap of cloth, crunch, howl and double grunt, the marine caught him. They wobbled, staggered away from her and toppled in a heap. Carla snorted. She couldn't help herself—it was the last thing they needed.
"Hurry it up an' stop fuckin' about." Harcux wheezed as he appeared while dragging Merizus. Carla saw the exhaustion and knew that the strongest of men was done in. The seaman sucked in a breath and dropped Merizus' leg. His immense chest heaved as he threw a broken spear across to Ephraim and jerked his head at the magus. Carla could see it had snapped behind the head and was useless as a weapon. "Follow me, an' hustle up." Harcux attempted a smile and, grunting at some unseen injury, slid out a second spear he had wedged into Merizus' belt. The big seaman looked at the marine and scuffed away in an increasing trot towards the melee. Towards the screaming, she thought.
Ephraim pressed the spear into Dagmar's hands and, backing up a few paces, took a running leap at the rock. He muttered something Carla missed and faded from view back inside. Dagmar stamped the broken end into the beach and tested his weight on the spear with a step. His leg wavered, forcing Carla from introspection into motion as the magus swore. She hooked his arm in hers and leaned into him to keep him up and force them to move after Harcux. One step became five, five became ten, and the number became lost. Harcux left them behind. Each ragged breath torn from their throats brought the roaring cyclopta closer. Brought death closer. Unable to speak, Dagmar trembled; surges of agony racked him as he leaned on her shoulder, gasping breaths as he tensed before each step, hissing them out as he dragged his bandaged foot forward. He tugged his injured arm free of the sling with a sharper hiss from flared nostrils and flexed his fingers.
"What are you going to do?" she asked, her heart thumping in a rapid beat. With the fear and adrenaline, she could feel sweat running between her breasts and crawling from her neck into the small of her back. The blood surged in her ears, pounding to a rhythmic pumping as she sensed Dagmar swallowing his agony and considering his options.
"I've hidden long enough, avoiding my responsibilities and duty. Men will no longer die for the pointless luxury of my self-righteousness. For my gutless teenage principles. Do? What I should have done when we arrived here instead of fucking about on the stretcher and injuring Merizus. I'm going to kurchizzle the big bastard!" His face sagged into a grim death's head like a mercenary war banner. "That's serious magus talk, Carla. Words I once swore I would never use in any fucking circumstance. Now, your ladyship, excuse my bloody language, quench your guilt, and let us commence the fireworks!" Then in anti-climax to his grandiose speech, he grunted, dropping the spear. Carla waited. And waited.
Dagmar reddened as both hands formed claws and shaking under her grip he leaned forward to glare at the creature. Carla gave him a wary look, half expecting the outcome to degenerate into further farce as he vibrated. Dagmar strained as though still conflicted, grasping after something unseen, a thought not tangible, or visible, a skittering concept beyond her comprehension. Before her disbelieving eyes, he conjured a ball of pure arcane fire, far bigger than anything she had witnessed previously. A scintillating cobalt-blue, bigger than the size of her head, with roiling pulses of lightning skittering across the surface. It balanced for a moment between his hands as he compressed the pulsing waves of heat. With an unintelligible yell that made her ears ring, he launched it towards the behemoth's face.
Without a pause for recovery, or thought, Dagmar repeated the spell, and all but toppled with the effort. Carla cradled him tight against her chest as he fumbled with trembling hands to withdraw one of the elven scrolls from his belt pouch. Her legs tried to buckle, but she gritted her teeth and forced them to straighten, pushed him to stand tall. Carla could still feel the fading heat prickle her flesh and her fear-dry lips. Her questions fell away when she saw the dread in his eyes as he read. Hesitant at first, he formed the strange words, and she felt him splice his will together. With more confidence, he repeated the phrase, rising in cadence. Carla felt surrounding energies converge, she felt them tug and seethe around her body, caress her hair. They focused on Dagmar as he became the eye of the storm. The sunjammer's wrath was manifested into arcane energies, and Carla's horror fell away. She rejoiced in his fury.
46
The comet blast of enraged energy slamming home in the giant head took Van Reiver and everyone in the melee by surprise as the cyclopta reeled with a choked-off sob. Searing blue-tinged agony fountained in the echo, spilling blood and roiled ear over the massed men in a foetid shower of steaming steak. Growling, the massive head and eye rotated to the fresh threat, the eye emanating an eternal malevolence. Before the cyclopta could retort, a second blue ball scorched deep into its nose and cheek, a finger's breadth from the great eye. Yowling, the giant pawed its face. Burning blue light burst between splayed fingers as the rancid stink of roasting flesh filled the air.
Van Reiver backed away from the heel he'd sweated over and barely scratched. Like his men and the elves, the flash of light from exploding energy high above him came as a welcome surprise and invigorated him. Re-energised hope for them all. As the cyclopta stumbled, holding the side of its massive head, a spurt of blood from the ankle injury Mathyss had caused seized his attention. He stared, realising a possibility as though the foot was a horse squirting a piss. He lumbered towards the heel, trampling through the bloody stream, and launched himself in a scrabble of blood-drenched sand and stone, to hang from the sandal straps where Mathyss had stood.
Reversing his longsword was
awkward one-handed, but somehow, he managed it without dropping the blade as he swayed over scuffed helms and glinting spears. Grimacing within his stifling helm at the agony burning in his shoulder as he twisted, he rammed his blade into the hole as though it was a prybar, probing, teasing. He felt a crunch of bone against steel as the tip penetrated flesh, sinew and muscle, the hilt clinking against the top of the anklebone as he leaned into it, driving it as deep as it would go. Chancing his luck, he grabbed the blade two handed and leading with his chest, threw his full weight onto the point. His stomach churned at the motion and sensing through instinct the giant hand approaching, Van Reiver ducked. His mind caught up in a flash and, appreciating the greater peril, he dipped under the hilt and growing shadow and prepared to drop. The hand missed, cracking against sandal leather in a rush of air where his head had been a fraction of a second before. He snatched at the pommel of his sword as he lost his balance, twisting the blade against the ankle joint as he fumbled, then seized the hilt.
The lamenting outcry overhead pained their ears, stabbing into everyone's brains like a white-hot poker. With a fresh heave, the cyclopta rasped free its pinioned foot, hurling aside the spearmen and scattered the skirmishers. Van Reiver overrode his brain's primal impulse to fling himself away and clamped both hands around the sword hilt in a death grip as his feet slid off the bloody sandal leather. He felt the blade grating against bone as he spun. The cyclopta shook its foot from side to side, hanging human, impaled spear, and all flashed over a forest of blood-stained spears in a crimson rain.
A third blast of energy hissed past the giant's ear, forcing Van Reiver's surviving men to scramble back, cursing in impotence, as the beast spun on its good ankle, swinging the navigator like a rag doll in an exuberant child's hand. It glanced over its left shoulder, its malignant eye pulsing, and the onrushing elven scouts convulsed in a smoky detonation. The creature swung back, spinning a shocked Van Reiver as it obliterated two women into bloody mist. Another of Van Reiver's men toppled. A steaming trunk minus head and limbs was a sickening sight, trapping him between terror and indecision.
THE TRYPHON ODYSSEY (The Voyage Book 1) Page 42