T Lain - Return of the Damned

Tasca shrieked as the magical energies bore down on him. He tried to dodge the spell, but it was no use. The manacles encased his entire body, flaring once when they hit before disappearing. The elf took one more step, then froze in place, eternally dodging away from a spell that he couldn’t escape.

Whitman’s hammer connected with a cultist’s helm, making a satisfying sound like a bell tolling. The man’s head flopped back across his shoulders on his broken neck, looking almost like a turtle retreating into its shell.

The four remaining men swung their battle axes. Whitman blocked one with a well-placed hammer blow, but a second got past his defenses. The blade bit into his beard. A long strand of graying hair flopped to the ground with a thin line of blood rimming the outside edge.

The other two men attacked Clemf. Their blades swung in at the same time, one high, one low. Clemf leaned away from the strikes by arching his back and pulling his chest away from the higher of the two axes. The razor-sharp edge whispered past his chestplate, barely missing.

With a desperate, off-balance swing of his sword, Clemf swung at the low weapon. His longsword whistled down and crashed into the hilt of the battle axe. Metal bit into wood, and Clemf’s blow managed to push the soldier’s attack off target. The second blade kissed the edge of his shin, slicing into the leather bands that held his armor in place. The long, metal plate that protected his lower leg dropped to the floor with a clatter.

The attacker twisted his wrists and yanked back on his weapon. Clemf’s sword, still stuck in the wooden shaft of the battle axe, came free of his hands, and he stumbled forward off balance.

Regdar watched Clemf lose his blade and then his balance. Not wasting any time, the big fighter leaped over the tattooed man’s bent-over frame, greatsword held high over his head. With a savage cry, Regdar smashed his blade down on the soldier’s shoulder. The magical blade beamed brightly for a brief moment as it sliced through metal, leather, flesh, and bone. The soldier screamed, and his arm dropped to the ground with a clatter. Blood from the freshly opened wound spilled out over his severed arm, his battle axe, and Clemf’s sword still embedded in its handle.

Regdar let go of his sword with one hand and jammed his fingers into the other soldier’s helm. Slipping through the eye slit, his extended digits poked the soldier in his right eye. Regdar felt something soft and slippery at the tip of his metal gauntlet. With a vicious jab, he thrust his hand farther into the helmet. The soldier screamed and stumbled back, streaming blood and viscous matter from his faceplate.

Clemf got to his feet and scrounged for his sword. He shoved the armless man to the ground and then spied his weapon, now covered in blood. He snatched it up and rose to his full height in the middle of the room, sword in hand.

The gnarled man on the stairs looked down from his perch at the tattooed fighter. Narrowing his gaze, he wiggled his fingers in the air, ending with a shout and several jerking motions with his wrist.

Regdar watched as Clemf’s knees shook and his shoulders slumped. He dropped the sword he had just picked up, and he let out a scream that made the tiny hairs on the small of Regdar’s back stand on end. Then Clemf turned and bolted from the room, pushing past the immobile elf and crashing haphazardly into the doorframe on his way out.

Whitman hefted his hammer and struck with a bone crunching blow.

“That’s for my beard,” he shouted.

The soldier before him shook from the blow. He’d managed to block the mighty weapon from striking him, but the shock of the impact vibrated through his body. The dwarf wound up and struck again. This time he managed to slip past the soldier’s axe and hit him on the forearm, knocking the weapon from his grasp. Whitman rolled the momentum of his swing into another, follow-through attack. The third blow hit the same forearm with a distinct popping sound.

Though he was grievously injured, the black-armored minion still stood, and he pulled a dagger from its sheath with his good hand. His injured arm swung loosely at his side as he crouched, holding the blade out before him, taking short steps away from the ornery dwarf.

“That’s right,” shouted the dwarf. “Be afraid. Be very afraid.”

The only uninjured soldier remaining took one look at the angry dwarf and turned his attention on Regdar. Winding up as if he were chopping wood, he bent his knees and swung his axe down, meaning to split the big fighter in two. Regdar swiped his blade up with both hands. The two weapons collided with a gut-wrenching clang, and sparks flew in the air. Both men were knocked back by the impact. Regdar sighted down his blade, never before having seen fireworks issue from his weapon.

The greatsword was untarnished, its shiny finish still polished and bright. The soldier’s axe, however, was a different story. The impact with Regdar’s magical sword took a huge bite out of the axe. If he hadn’t known better, Regdar might have thought the soldier’s weapon had been some monster’s afternoon snack.

The armless soldier still lay on the floor, unmoving, where Clemf had knocked him. His counterpart still struggled with his ruined eye. He had removed his gauntlets and now was gently probing the gory hole in his face where his eye had been.

Regdar lunged at the uninjured soldier. Feigning to the left, he drew out the man’s parry and changed directions at the last second. The edge of his blade slipped past the notched head of the man’s axe, expertly angling between metal plates to strike home. The big fighter pushed the blade deep into the soldier’s chest.

Regdar held tightly to the hilt of his greatsword and twisted the weapon in the wound. The big fighter then wrenched it out and watched the soldier slump to the floor.

The robed mage eyed the two remaining intruders. Shifting his glare from Whitman to Regdar and back again, the gnarled old man began reciting another spell.

Regdar saw the green-robed man, his eyes closed, sprinkle dust into the air. A large, brilliantly blue magical cloud appeared, obscuring the gnarled man from view. The cloud drifted across the open room and sank to the floor, where it surrounded the dwarf.

The soldier with the dagger and broken arm backed away from Whitman, taking advantage of the spell to open the distance between him and the dwarf. Retreating all the way to the far wall, the man braced himself, holding his puny weapon menacingly before him.

Whitman was completely gone from view. Tasca was frozen solid, holding the same pose that he had through the entire encounter. Clemf was nowhere to be seen, fleeing in panic.

With a loud shout, Regdar charged across the room toward the wizard. Though the fighter was strong and quite fast, his heavy armor slowed him down enough for the spellcaster to begin chanting the words of another spell. His stubby fingers wiggled at the oncoming fighter.

Halfway across the floor, Regdar realized that he wouldn’t be able to reach the gnarled, old man before he could cast the magic already forming on his lips. Twirling his sword overhead, Regdar pointed the tip of the blade at the stairs, planted his front foot, and hurled his magical greatsword like a javelin.

The well-made weapon hung in midair for a brief moment. Though the blacksmith who crafted it never intended it for throwing, the blade carved a perfect arc as it plunged away from Regdar’s hand. Its tip descended, and the magically sharpened sword pierced the hood of the green robe, then clanked as it hit the stair behind the wizard.

Regdar stumbled forward, trying to catch his balance. He looked up at the spellcaster, bracing himself for whatever magical malady or monstrosity was about to strike him. The old man raised his hands, his eyes glaring down at the fighter.