Douglas Niles - The Heir of Kayolin

A spray of disgusting, greenish ichor burst from the wound, and the monster, twitching and thrashing, fell dead. But the next one sprang forward in the same instant, clawing and scratching on the stone surface as it charged over its slain fellow, making the same loud clicking with its wicked jaws. Brandon brought his axe around in a sideways slash, and the second creature recoiled, then snapped its head forward with lightning quickness. The dwarf used the side of his axe as a shield, blocking the lunging strike. He took a step to the side and chopped again, slicing deep into one bulging eye.

The horax pulled back, uttering an ear-splitting squeal and flailing. Brandon didn’t give it a chance to recover; instead, he stepped into his swing and brought the axe down in a crushing, overhand blow against the crown of its bulging head. That horax, too, fell dead.

But more of the giant bugs were approaching, apparently undeterred by the loss of their two mates. A trio of them advanced side by side, clawing over the bodies, rearing high to lunge down at Brandon. Still steadied and strengthened by Gretchan’s hand on his shoulder-and her words, as she continued to chant her ritual prayer-the steel-wielding dwarf didn’t allow the monsters to get too close. The evil heads lunged and struck, but he rushed to meet them with the blade of the Bluestone Axe. He gashed one so deeply the monster went into a frenzy of thrashing and twisted itself right off the ledge, into the depths of the Atrium. When two others pulled back, he struck again, gouging a deep gash into the belly of another horax. He grimaced as he wrenched his weapon free, realizing that the abdomen of its segmented body was just as heavily armored as its head.

Still, the injured horax, dripped fluids, backed away, clearly weakened. Brand followed up the strike with a charge, stepping onto the body of one of the slain monsters, scrambling up to slash his axe against another. The keen blade sliced through the connecting tissue, and its entire head tumbled free and rolled off the precipice.

The other wounded monster collapsed, legs splayed, mandibles silent. Behind it, Brandon could see at least two more of the horax, tentatively scuttling forward out of the cave. He angled to parry their attack, positioning himself to shield Gretchan if the creatures charged in tandem.

But, just then, the wounded horax snapped upward and sideways, the sharp pincers of its jaws biting into Brandon’s thigh with crushing force. Brandon couldn’t suppress a cry of pain, even as he reflexively twisted around to bring his axe against the creature’s head, crushing the carapace and killing it at once.

Gasping in pain, blinking away the tears that swam in his eyes, he felt himself swaying, the injured leg threatening to collapse beneath him. The two horax in the cavern lunged ahead together, climbing over the bodies of their slain hive-mates, rearing high and snapping forward. Brandon tumbled away from one pair of snapping jaws, swinging his axe around and cutting off one foreleg. Two more limbs reached for him, gouging his arms with what he realized were sharp, curving claws-a single hooklike talon tipped each of the monster’s legs. He bashed aside the offending limbs, but then his smashed thigh gave way with a searing, stabbing blast of pain. The agony shot through his entire body, seeming to freeze the air in his lungs as it whitened his vision. He fell heavily to the stone floor, struggling mightily just to draw a gasp of air.

One of the horax scrambled over to him, rising high, mandibles poised to strike downward into his face or chest. With a frantic effort, he swung his axe upward and felt the blade bite deep, slicing into the narrow gap between two segments of the monster’s body. The horax shrieked, wrenching backward, spilling guts and gore onto the prone dwarf. The creature’s flailing death throes pinched the blade of the axe between two plates of the armorlike shell, and as it twisted away, the weapon was wrenched from Brandon’s hand.

The final horax pounced. The injured, bleeding dwarf, his body wracked with pain, looked up at the hideous face, its mandibles clicking and snapping with almost palpable hunger. Brand felt Gretchan beside him and wished he could do something to protect her from the hideous beast, but his strength was ebbing, his leg was broken, and as the horax lunged closer, he felt his awareness slip away, leaving only blackness.

Brandon regained consciousness very gradually, which was a blessing since, for a long time, he recalled nothing of the terrifying horax, the slicing mandibles, and the cruel wounds that had scoured his flesh. He forgot about the king’s League of Enforcers, the descent into the Atrium, and his and Gretchan’s precarious position on a narrow ledge a thousand feet or more below the lowest levels of Garnet Thax. His pain was pushed to the fringes of his awareness, and he held his axe close to his heart, as if some benefit from the enchantment of his family’s ancient talisman could seep directly into his bloodstream.

Instead of dangers, perils, and pains, his awareness suggested that he was with Gretchan in some comfortable camp on their long journey north. He could almost smell fresh trout grilling over the coals of an oak fire-possibly with a hint of wild onions! Was that the sound of geese flying overhead? He sighed and stretched out, luxuriating in the feeling of soft grass beneath his back, a mossy hummock for a pillow. Somewhere water splashed, and he imagined that Gretchan had slipped away to bathe in some forest pool. With a sly grin, he thought about sneaking through the shrubs for a peek; strangely, at the moment even that little voyeuristic excursion seemed like too much effort, so he lay back and allowed himself to rest some more.

It took him a long time to realize he was lying on something much harder than a grassy meadow. He sniffed and decided that, whatever he smelled, it wasn’t fresh-grilled trout. Only when he tried to open his eyes did the memories start flowing back, and he groaned in painful recollection. His thigh was burning, and every muscle in his body seemed as though it had been stretched on a rack. Each twitch of movement was sheer agony.

Only after taking stock of his many pains did it occur to him that he should probably be surprised and grateful to be alive. He recalled the blackness creeping over him as he fell under the charge of the last horax and wondered how it was that the monster hadn’t killed him and Gretchan as well.

Gretchan!

He grunted, coughed, and tried to open his eyes. They were shut tightly, apparently sealed with some kind of crusty glue-like dried blood. He called her name, but his throat was dry, his voice an inarticulate croak. He could hardly part his lips.

But he felt her soft hand against his face, then the merciful relief of cool water, trickling slowly through his lips, bringing blessed wetness to his mouth, throat, and flesh. He sucked greedily until the bottle was pulled away-and just in time as he coughed and choked.

Finally, he forced his eyes open, breaking the brittle crust that tried to blind him. All of the terrible memories that had come flooding back proved to be accurate. He was lying on the same shelf of rock where the two fugitives had alighted after their glide down into the Atrium. The long shaft rose into the mountain right beside him, and high above he could barely make out the glimmering lanterns of Garnet Thax, the lights that dangled from so many of the plazas at the edge of the deep shaft. How far down were they? A thousand feet? Two thousand? A mile or more? He had no way of knowing, but they might as well have been stars in the sky for all the help they offered right then.

His view was blocked, then, by the welcome image of Gretchan’s face, rosy cheeked and free from wounds, her nose and eyes crinkled upward into an expression of deep concern that he found vaguely comical. He couldn’t help it; he laughed.