by Mark Eller
* * * *
The first sensation he felt upon waking was a searing pain along his cheek. His eyes flew open, and he groaned as the burning switched sides to track its way along his other cheek.
“Oh my, I think I woke him up.” A scratchy, whiny voice said from above and behind his head.
Larson tried to look toward the voice, but he couldn’t move. Nothing obeyed his commands. For a moment, he thought he had been tied though he couldn’t feel any ropes or chains. He felt nothing holding him, and yet he could not move. Cold, hard fear settled in his chest like a block of ice.
Something tugged at his leg, jerked him around. He tried to lift his head to see what yanked on him, but again, his body stayed immobile.
“Cut it off if you’re hungry,” the whiny voice said.
Cut it off? Cut what off?
A low hiss sounded down by his feet.
Suddenly free to move, Larson choked back a scream and rolled to the side as a piece of the darkness lunged at him. He swore as his bruised body was struck, grabbed, and thrown. Spinning in the air, Larson crashed into the wall. He gave a strangled gasp as ribs snapped.
More laughter echoed through the room. Raising his head high, Larson called to his goddess. “Anothosia, I pray to you, help me find my sword!”
The room burst into brilliant light. Hellkind screamed and scattered. Appearing as a ball of golden light in the middle of the room, his goddess’s gift, Larson’s sword, shattered the darkness, blinding the creatures of the hellgods. Suddenly able to move, Larson dove for it, grabbed, and rolled to a crouching position with the blade held ready. His body screamed agony as his broken ribs stole his breath. Black spots marring his vision, he stood and readied himself for battle. Again, a blast of muddy light slammed him into the wall. Larson screamed. Searing pain traveled up his right arm.
Darkness overtook him.
