R. Salvatore - Echoes of the Fourth Magic

Billy and Mitchell watched the battle in horrified awe. Reinheiser backed away a bit, further securing his escape should the monster prove victorious, or perhaps even if the unknown warrior won. Del remained blind to everything except the particular focus of his rage, hacking away with abandon at the still-twitching tentacle that impaled Doc Brady.

The lizard wasn’t standing straight anymore. It hunched to the side in obvious agony as the concentrated blows began to take their toll. Desperately the beast lunged at its foe, but tiring from its frenzied attacks and off balance from its crooked posture, it stumbled and the warrior easily dodged aside. As the beast struggled to regain its footing, the warrior had his widest opening yet, and he grasped his sword hilt tightly in both hands and hammered it into the battered scales, jolting the monster several inches from the ground. Scales splintered and flaked away, leaving the lizard’s blue, bruised hide clearly exposed. It shrieked in agony as the warrior wound up for a death blow.

But the monster wasn’t defeated yet. With desperate ferocity, it transformed all of its rage and pain into one last, vicious lunge at the man.

The warrior had figured the battle won; the sudden attack caught him off guard. He somehow managed to get his weapon up in front of him, blocking the beast’s jaws from his face, but the force of the blow snapped off the blade of his sword and dropped him on his back in the mud.

Billy gasped and started to charge, but the lizard was in control again. It waved its free tentacle menacingly and held Billy at bay.

The warrior scrambled to his feet and faced his doom. He knew he couldn’t flee; even if he managed to get ahead of the beast, its tentacle would easily find his back. His options slim, he found an inner calm and concentrated his thoughts on a final plan of attack.

The lizard looked down on the man and exhaled a long hiss, hesitating, as if savoring the moment of its victory.

A fatal mistake.

The warrior flung his broken sword hilt at the monster’s head and pulled a hand ax from his belt. As the beast raised its forelegs to block the projectile, the warrior leaped. He crashed in heavily, his free arm hugging tightly, pinning the lizard’s forelegs against its chest, while his other arm chopped away with the ax at the unprotected hide, peeling away the tough flesh with mighty strokes. The monster tried to bite him, but he was in too close and the beast couldn’t manipulate its head that way. The lizard struggled wildly to break free, but so strong was the warrior, so ironlike his grasp, that he held tight with one arm.

Dark blood gushed from the monster’s wound, staining the persistent ax and reddening the water at the combatants’ feet. The lizard managed to free one claw, digging it deep into the warrior’s shoulder and sending a stream of blood down his back. He grunted and grasped tighter and, incredibly, the flexing of his cordlike muscles pushed the claw out.

And all the while, the ax dove in relentlessly, tearing and splattering the beast’s entrails.

Then, with a final scream of agony, the lizard burst free of the hero. The man backed away a few steps, his ax held ready, but as he watched the reeling monster, its breath coming in short, labored gasps, he knew that the battle was over. With one last shudder, the beast rolled back into the mere and was swallowed by the filth from which it had spawned.

DEL MANAGED TO sever the tentacle just before the beast disappeared beneath the mere. He rolled Brady gently over onto his back. Blood trickled out of the doctor’s mouth, mixing with the mud and slime on his face into a grotesque red-black paste.

“Oh, Doc,” Del moaned.

“Don’t worry about me,” Brady gasped, opening his hollowed eyes.

“You’re alive!” Del was amazed.

“Not for long,” Brady said calmly, and he grasped Del’s arm gently. “It doesn’t hurt, Del. Calae told me it wouldn’t.”

“Calae?” Del asked, the mere mention of the angel calming him somewhat. “What are you talking about?”

“This adventure… not for me,” Brady replied, now laboring for every breath. “A mistake that I was here. Same with Corbin. Calae came to me that first night… on the road. He explained. Apologized to me… promised it wouldn’t hurt.” He finished coughing, more blood streaming over his lips.

“They’re coming now, Del,” Brady said, his voice sounding stronger, and he turned his eyes up to the heavens. His face brightened with joy as the greatest mystery of the human experience unfolded before him. “They’re coming for me!” he asserted as loudly as he could, trying to convince himself of the reality of the moment of his death.

“Don’t worry about me,” he continued soothingly, and there was true excitement in his voice. “I’m okay now. I’m not afraid. Everything’s okay now.” And he kept repeating those words until his voice trailed off and his stare deadened, eyes going cold.

“Doc,” Del groaned. He lifted Brady’s head and hugged him close.

“Be strong, buddy,” said Billy, who had come over. He helped Del to his feet just as Mitchell walked up.

“Is he dead?” Mitchell asked hoarsely. Del nodded.

“Come. And be quick now,” the warrior called as he finished wiping the blood from his ax. “We’ve got no’ a minute to tarry.”

Covered with mud from being knocked to the ground, Mitchell was confused, embarrassed, and angry. The beast had scared him and the arrow had unnerved him. Doc Brady lay dead before him, and it was his own bad judgment that had caused the tragedy. And Mitchell wasn’t sure that he appreciated being rescued; in his fantasies, he was the only hero. “And if we refuse?” he snapped, belligerence his only defense.

As the warrior approached, Mitchell put his hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword.

“Are you nuts?” Billy whispered to Mitchell. “That guy just saved our butts.”

The warrior slid the ax into his belt and strode right up to the captain. Del eyed the man with sincere respect. He wasn’t as tall as Mitchell, but sturdier, with huge, knotted muscles. His tousled hair glistened raven black and his eyes shone a clear, untainted blue. He wore high and soft boots and a short, brown tunic, belted by a wide leather girdle. Studded bracers adorned his wrists and he had a thin, red band tied around his right arm at his massive biceps, with a matching headband crossing his forehead, weaving in and out of his unkempt locks.

“I do’no’ understand,” he said calmly.

“To follow you,” Mitchell explained. “If we refuse?”

“Then yer bones are for buzzards,” the warrior replied matter-of-factly. “For no doubt ye will die.”

Mitchell, not quite sure of the stranger’s intentions, clutched his sword hilt all the tighter.

“Behold Blackemara-the Black Mere,” the warrior continued, sweeping his arm in a wide arc. “And her name’s comin’ from the color o’ her heart, and not her water. Ye must not know where yer going, for ye cannot go much farther into the swamp. She’s too soft for the way ye fill yer boots. And if a bog do’no’ swallow ye, suren one o’ her fiends will!

“Blackemara,” he repeated, rolling the name off his tongue like the ominous rumble of an approaching storm cloud. “Good thinkin’ it’d be for ye to berth her wide in comin’ days. Few enter here, not a one but the Rangers o’ Avalon e’er leave.”

Mitchell relaxed his grip on the sword, but still eyed the stranger with icy suspicion.

“What’s your name?” Del asked, trying to end the tension.

“I am Belexus,” the stranger replied.

“Jeff DelGiudice.” He extended his hand, and Belexus clasped his wrist firmly. “Call me Del.”