Epic (34 page)

“Yes. No more ‘heals.’ ” Anonemuss stated the grim fact that troubled them all. The dark elf had thrown away his crossbow on running out of bolts and was now fighting in the second rank, alongside Cindella, with a silver short sword and buckler.

“I have a potion left,” offered Injeborg.

“Save it for B.E. It’s more important that he keeps going than me at this stage,” Harald replied.

Reluctantly, as Harald was clearly nearly dead, Erik had to agree.

They continued, fighting step by step towards the stones.

“How close do you have to be to summon the tower?” Erik called out to Injeborg over the clatter of weapons.

“I’m not sure. Sigrid seemed to think I would be able to do it fairly easily. I wish she was here; she knew the most about it.”

“Want to unclip and ask her, while we guard this spot?”

“No, that’s going to waste valuable time. I’ll just keep trying.”

With fifty yards to go, one of the many goblin arrows that whistled through the air around them struck Harald in the head. He was down. Anonemuss dropped out of line and tried to remove Harald’s boots, but it was taking too long and they could not wait. Every time the warriors at the front killed a skeleton, they had to take a step forward, or attrition would bring them all down before they got to the tower.

“Leave them!” Cindella called back over his shoulder as she parried a skeleton. It was almost impossible to kill skeletons with a rapier, so he no longer tried, content to stay alive and keep moving in the wake of the warriors.

“Low health,” shouted B.E.

“Bjorn, Sir Warren, cover him. Come back for the potion, B.E.” Erik called out.

A few moments later and B.E. had safely disengaged, hurriedly lifting the wolf snout visor of his helm to pour the blue liquid into his mouth.

“Ahh, that’s better. This is awesome, huh? The swords are just incredible.” Without waiting for a reply, B.E. sprang back to take up the drive towards the ancient stones again.

“He’s crazy,” gasped Injeborg. “This battle is far too important to be having fun. The whole world’s future is at stake and he’s thinking about his toys!”

“Yes. But that’s his way. And look at him—he’s amazing.”

Crashing and blasting about him, B.E. was lashing out with Thunder and Lightning, swift skillful blows, feinting beneath the swords of the skeletons and riposting with destructive energy.

Forty yards to go.

A great shadow fell over them, and at the same time their ears were engulfed in a whirlpool of hissing sound. Above them towered the medusa, furiously staring down from burning scarlet eyes that, despite the protection of the “resist petrification” potion, caused Cindella to freeze momentarily in horror. She reached down effortlessly and grabbed Anonemuss in her fist. He was kicking and hacking at her fingers with his sword until brought close to her face, where the hundreds of snakes that made up her hair struck at the dark elf. He convulsed and was still. Casting aside the limp body, the medusa turned again—this time reaching for Cindella! She dived away from the hand in a roll, barely able to avoid the thrusts of skeletons that stabbed eagerly in her direction as she recovered her feet.

B.E. had caught the medusa on the wrist of her groping hand with Lightning, severing it from her arm. With a terrible shriek, she reared up, ichor pouring from the wound, filling the air with steam, and burning them all as acid drops sprayed amongst them. With a new chorus of hissing from her snakes, the medusa tried with her other hand, this time reaching over to make a grab for Injeborg.

“No!”
cried Erik. She had to live to summon the tower.

Bravely, despite their wounds, the two bears rose to their hind legs and let out a roar to match the howls of the medusa. They heaved the hand away, tearing great chunks of skin from the fingers with their claws and teeth. The medusa furiously thrust her head down among the group, snakes striking in all directions. Weaving a path between snake and sword, Cindella gave the greatest leap she was capable of to reach the medusa’s neck. Then she plunged both her rapiers into the soft skin as deep as they would go. At the same time, B.E. was hacking at the snakelike body with shocking, powerful blows. Acidic blood was pouring out of the medusa, obscuring their vision with steam.

A great shudder racked the creature’s body, swiftly followed by another. With a terrible pungent gasp, her head sank, and a wave passed down her trunk, all the way to her tail, which shivered and rattled, then collapsed to the ground.

“Poisoned,” announced Bjorn glumly.

“Same,” said B.E.

“Keep going! Keep going! We’re nearly there.” As the steam from the burning blood of the medusa dispersed, Erik saw that both bears were dead, as were the female paladins. There were just five of them left, and both the warriors were poisoned.

Thirty yards.

“I’m going down. Hope you make it.” Bjorn staggered, falling first to one knee, leaning exhausted on his ax. Then as the skeletons clattered in, jaws clamping gleefully, he collapsed to the ground, dead.

With B.E. ahead, Sir Warren behind, they struggled on, but now their progress was terribly slow. Parrying and dodging, Cindella was at full stretch, for Erik had to try to keep Injeborg alive as well as cover threats to his own character.

Twenty yards.

With some surprise, Erik heard Injeborg casting a spell.

“I thought you were all out?” He caught her eye. She was looking past his shoulder with as much of a smile as a gray polygon face could manage.

“Look.”

Hope rising, Cindella turned. There it was, towering above them. Great blocks of dark silvery light, piled to a great height. The tower was featureless, other than a large shimmering black portal, in the shape of a door, but looking as though dark water was constantly flowing back and forth across it.

“Good,” B.E. panted. “Because I can’t last much longer; the poison is taking me down fast.”

“You can make it!” Injeborg tried to cheer him, with some effect, as B.E. straightened up and dealt more crushing blows to the skeletons ahead of them.

With ten yards to the gaping mouth in the tower wall, B.E. suddenly stood erect, and flung his swords away, leaving his arms spread wide.

“What a way to go!”

The skeletons around him paused, suspicion written all over their bony postures. Then, with evil glances at one another, they charged him and finished him off in a rush of stabs.

“Erik, you have to go on. You can make it. Leave me.” Injeborg was flailing desperately with her staff.

“I want you inside with me. I need your advice.”

“You can unclip, once you are safe. Now go! I can’t make it there.”

With a wince, Erik had to admit that Injeborg was right.

“Get inside the tower if you can.” Cindella turned to Sir Warren, who just grunted a tired response. Then she took off. A shield provided her with a perfect angle to kick and leap into the air; twisting, she landed two-footed with a crunch through the ribs of a skeleton soldier, then a roll as swords slashed the space she had occupied moments before. She lurched to the left, before spinning back to the right, catching a shield arm and almost dancing with the skeleton as she parried the blows from its comrades. Howls of anger rose up from the final guards, the great hounds, who bounded towards her with slavering jaws. Then a last tumble and desperate leap through the flames that the hounds roared forth in order to guard the black portal and Cindella was through the entrance to the ethereal tower. And all was still.

Chapter 31

THE TOUCH OF THE VAMPYRE

With some anxiety,
Ragnok’s Sidhe elf kept his mount half turned towards Newhaven as he addressed the orc. “Count Illystivostich, I want to see Count Illystivostich. Do you understand?”

The orc scowled and cowered slightly each time Ragnok mentioned the name of the vampyre, then it grunted and shuffled away.

Left to himself for some time, Ragnok looked out over the battlefield and wondered at the result. The sun was setting behind thick layers of cloud, so that the valley was heavy with shadow. Huge piles of bodies lay in uneven clusters, occasionally making strangely symmetrical patterns that marked the impact points of lightning bolts and fireballs. It was clear that the army of evil creatures had won; thousands of them still roamed through the valley. But ominously a new feature had replaced the ancient standing stones—a tall, featureless tower, thin as a spike, reaching up into the sky. It reflected the pale silver light of the two moons with a pale translucent sheen. The remaining goblins and trolls were camped around the tower. Did that mean those children had reached their goal and were inside? Or was this just a precaution by the vampyre?

“You wish to see my master, the count?”

A flat and lifeless voice made Ragnok jump, his horse shifting uneasily. A pallid humanoid figure was before him, elegantly dressed in a black suit, with a high collar caressing the skeletal cheeks of his face.

“Yes.”

“Follow me.” The servant drifted uphill following the road away from Newhaven.

Overcoming the reluctance of his mount, Ragnok set it walking slowly behind as they picked a route through the heaps of gray bodies. He swallowed nervously as they passed goblins, talking in subdued tones, their pale yellow eyes glowing avariciously as they looked him over. They passed the tower, a short distance to their right. A pack of hell hounds lay about the base of the building and they, too, turned to watch Ragnok’s progress with scarlet eyes, which blazed all the more fiercely in the fading light. At the point where the path turned into the edge of a forest was the count’s ornately carved carriage, heavy velvet curtains drawn over the windows.

“Wait here. He will be manifest shortly.” The servant took the reins of four vicious-looking black stallions, and rose silently to the driving seat above the carriage.

The sky darkened, only a ruddy glow left on the clouds to indicate the recent passage of day. Through a gap in the slow-moving clouds could be seen the glitter of stars.

“Who are you?” A chill voice stole out of the black depths of the carriage, its door now standing wide open. The flutter of the evening play of starlings had ceased, as had the intermittent hoots from the owls of the woods.

“I am Ragnok. This is another character, but I’m the same person who you have spoken to in the form of the Executioner, the black warrior.” His voice was dry and choked.

“I see.”

For a while, the count said nothing more and Ragnok suppressed a shudder, unable to ask the questions that he had rehearsed on his way to this meeting.

“Come into the carriage.”

For a moment, a surge of horror prevented Ragnok from dismounting; he did not wish to share that dark, confined space with the creature. But he made himself cross over and step into the vehicle, which creaked and rocked as he pulled himself inside.

The vampyre was sitting stiffly across from him, delicate fingers smoothing the folds of his velvet cloak. Ragnok could not bring himself to look up into the count’s face.

“What . . . what happened? Did they get inside?” he eventually managed to ask.

“Yes. You failed. All your boasts were idle. Cindella, Sir Warren, and one other are inside, waiting for the correct alignment of the moons. Then, if they choose, they can destroy everything.” The vampyre was matter of fact, but Ragnok blushed with shame.

“Can they be stopped?”

“They can. I will kill them shortly. But it is the manner of their deaths that is important.” The vampyre shot out an arm and gripped Ragnok by the chin, forcing his head up. Never before had the eyes of the monster sent forth such waves of power. They were explosions of dark flame against a deathly white face, now twisted into a feral scowl. Ragnok immediately felt a shooting headache, one that he knew would continue after he unclipped. The situation made him dizzy and his vision began to blur so that he felt he was falling from a great height towards two great pits set in a plain of white chalk.

“What interests me now,” whispered the vampyre to itself, “is whether I can remove them from this game, permanently.”

The blood was beating in his ears. Ragnok felt sick, and wanted to unclip for a while, but he could not even blink.

The vampyre leaned across, so that their noses gently touched, like an intimate kiss. But all the time the count’s wide, staring gaze emitted pulses of energy. Each one now came with a clap of sound; it was the blood surging to his ears, matching the beat of his heart. The carriage was still, vampyre and Ragnok locked face-to-face, listening to the rhythm in his chest, which began to pulse faster.

Still holding Ragnok’s face in a viselike grip with its right hand, the vampyre plunged its other hand into the chest of the character, causing a tingle to pass through him.

“I am squeezing your heart. Do you understand?” The words came slowly, each one laden with malice.

Desperate now, Ragnok tried to look away but was terrified to find that he could not. His eyes filled with tears, his body poured with sweat, and, despite himself, he imagined a cold hand, clawing inside his chest.

The thumping of his heart was louder now, beating fast and erratically, its sound filling the black chamber of the carriage.

“I squeeze. I loosen. I squeeze again,” the count whispered, the flow of pulses from his glare becoming faster, and with them the shuddering strokes of Ragnok’s heart. “Listen to my voice and carefully consider its meaning. My fingernails stroke your beating heart. I envelop it in my fingers. I squeeze. I loosen. I secure my grip upon it. I pull it from your body!” With a terrible cry of elation, the vampyre released a massive pulse of energy, jerking its hand out of Ragnok’s chest and waving his clenched fist in triumph.

High above Mikelgard, in the great meeting chamber, now in darkness other than a small flashing light from the unit that Ragnok had been using, a still figure sat slumped at the table. Head tipped to one side, the man was still clipped up to the game, but he was no longer breathing.