Stealthily he reached up grabbed hold of the elf’s ankle, gave it a silent squeeze. Then held his position. To her credit, she hadn't flinched with Krin’s sudden touch. She understood his unspoken command. Together, they remained the statues the Romans placed everywhere, hoping the Nerthani would give up its search, and move on.
Bu-bu-bu-bum. Bu-bu-bu-bum.
A bead of sweat rolled down Krin's forehead.
If those blasted drums would just stop! In the silence, the rhythmic pounding, now sounding as though it was moving further away from the prison mound, seemed like an entire line of slavers’ drums had taken up residence within his own skull; drowning out the faint sounds of battle still rampaging in the village above. I mean, doesn’t the drummer have more immediate concerns than…well, drumming?
The burning in his lungs made him realize he had been holding his breath far too long, Krin slowly released it, hoping the creature wasn't also drawn to breathe the way some insects were. As he drew in his next one, he reached for the next rung. Finleara's foot was still on it when he grabbed ahold. The increased weight was apparently too much for the gossamer rung to bear. With a gut-wrenching snap, the silk broke away from his grip. As Krin fell, his right hand snapped up, and grasped the next rung down. He jerked to a sudden stop, wrenching his injured shoulder violently. Though he managed to maintain his grip, it was too late.
The Nerthani, attracted to the sudden movements, jerked its head toward Krin, and struck out with its snapping beak.
TWENTY
The beak shot out like a coiled viper, clamping down hard onto Krin’s ankle. If not for the high leather boots he was wearing, the powerful pincer-like mouth would have certainly sliced foot clean off. The excruciating pain made it difficult to keep his tenuous grip on the ladder with his injured arm.
“Hold on!” Finleara said in a hoarse whisper, before lowering herself, and reaching out to him.
Krin winced as the beak bore down on his leg in a bone-crushing vice-grip.
“Argh!”
A jolt of pain shot up his leg, and congealed around his healing shoulder. This forced his hand open in an involuntary spasm. He fell, toppling headfirst toward the ground. But the giant worm refused to release its next meal so easily, and Krin found himself dangling by his ankle several feet off the ground.
Bu-du-bu! Bu-du-bu! Bu-du-bu-du-bu-du-bum!
The goblins were still pounding on their accursed drums, riling the Nerthani into a fit of malevolent rancor. As the tempo of the drumbeat suddenly changed, the creature’s tail slithered out of its burrow, thrashing and flailing about, and wreaking havoc on the lower rungs of the silken ladder.
Krin shuddered at the thought of the slimy eggs littering the worm-burrowed tunnels, then realized what a particularly precarious position he was in.
Okay. This isn’t one of your pranks you’re trying weasel out of. This is serious. Think!
But before even the slightest inkling of a plan began to take shape in his mind, Krin felt himself being slowly pulled up from the cell floor. Wriggling his upper body around, he lifted his head to see the tubular stalk of the beak retracting back into the Nerthani’s gaping jaws. It was reeling him in; pulling him into its mouth like a fisherman’s lure.
“I could use a little help here!”
“I am thinking!” Finleara shouted from above. Fixated on its helpless prey, the worm didn’t so much as nod in her direction despite the noise she was making.
Krin watched helplessly as the heel of his boot slid along the creature’s smooth snout, moving closer to the gaping mouth. “Well, think faster! I’m running out of time here!”
Frantic now, Krin moved his hands up and down his body, patting at his clothing in hopes of finding something useful within his pockets. But the goblins had been thorough when they had searched him, and had removed every meager possession he had on him. Even his belt had been removed to prevent him from turning its buckle into some tool of escape.
Bu-du-bu! Bu-du-bu! Bu-du-bu-du-bu-du-bum!
“Will you knock it off!” he yelled futilely at the drummer, just as his foot slipped into the maw.
“No, wait,” Finleara said. Up on the rung of the worm-spun ladder, she was nearly eye to wide eye with Krin. “Listen.”
Bu-du-bu! Bu-du-bu! Bu-du-bum! Bu-du-bu! Bu-du-bu! Bu-du-bu-du-bu-du-bum!
“I don’t exactly have time for drum solos right now, Leara.” His leg was now in the creature’s mouth, all the way up to the ankle. “Um, I’m seriously running out of leg here.”
Then he noticed his ascent into the worm’s mouth had stopped. The stalk slackened, as the Nerthani cocked its head to one side as if it were curious. The beak still held his ankle, but the pressure had lightened enough to allow the circulation to flow unhindered once more. His foot tingled with the sudden rush of blood, but he ignored it. Instead, he held his breath and waited.
Bu-du-bu-du-bum. Bu-du-bu-du-bu-du-bum.
That’s when he understood what Finleara had been trying to tell him. The sound of the drums was moving. Moving away from the prison mound in which they had been cast. The creature, evidently, had noticed it too.
Bu-bu-bu-bum. Bu-du-bu-du-bu-bum.
Slowly, the beak’s grip relaxed even more as the Nerthani swayed back and forth to the beat of the retreating drums. Watching the beast, Krin began wiggling his foot back and forth; working it loose from the confines of the boot. Satisfied that the worm no longer paying attention to him, he worked faster. Inch by inch, he felt his foot pulling free, until, without warning, he slipped out, and fell the remaining distance to the floor. He landed on his back, pushing the air from his lungs in a violent spasm. Krin struggled to catch his breath, arching his back, and fighting down the panic that comes when one loses their capacity for respiration.
Sensing the loss of prey, the Nerthani’s head whipped around, and it seemed to sneer down at Krin as he struggled to regain his wind. But the beating drum outside quickly reclaimed the strange enchantment over the worm, and soon, the worm’s head turned toward the retreating rhythm.
With a hiss, the beak released Krin’s boot, and slowly retracted back into the Nerthani’s head. The gaping crevice sealed itself up with a gut-churning slurp of folding skin and muscle.
After an eternity, the creature lowered itself to the chamber floor, and began wriggling toward the southwest wall—in the direction of the drumming. Krin watched as the powerful muscles underneath its thick, purple-grey skin bunched together near where a neck might be, and pushed into the compacted soil. After a couple more long moments, the worm’s head had completely disappeared within a newly formed tunnel. After several minutes, the rest of its segmented body writhed its way through, and into the darkness beyond.
Krin, having finally caught his breath, let out a long, exhausted sigh.
The Nerthani was gone.
Krin felt the smile stretch across his face before erupting into a nervous cough of a laugh.
“Ha! We did it!” He climbed to his feet, slipped on the discarded boot, and looked up at Finleara as she clung to the silken ladder high above him. “I never doubted it for a minute.”
The dark elf let out an exasperated sigh. “That may be, Master Krin,” she said dryly, “but we are not out of this yet. Also, you now have no way up here, and the light of the silk worms is fading. If you truly are as wise as you think you are, then tell me…how would you propose we handle this?”
Krin felt a low growl scrambling up his throat, but held it in check. The girl was definitely getting on his nerves. The sooner they were out of the cell, and going their separate ways, the better. Of course, his irritation with her didn’t mean she wasn’t correct. A quick glance around the room revealed that the lower tiers of the ladder had been torn asunder, making it impossible for Krin to use as a means of escape.
Furthermore, just as Finleara had indicated, it was getting more and more difficult to see. The glow of the silk worms was, indeed, dissipating, and soon, they had find themselves once mor
e in the pitch black. Once that happened, they had be right back to square one.
“Easy,” he said with smug satisfaction. “I’ll just sing us up another ladder.” Before the words were even out of his mouth, Finleara dropped from her perch to land, catlike, next to him.
“Hey! Why’d you do that?”
“The song of the Blitzmereh is not something one can just ‘sing up’, as you put it,” she said with a scowl. “I’m not entirely sure how you managed it in the first place, but the creatures that inhabit the soil around this cell have already been touched by it. It would take days before they will be able to submit to it again.”
“Blitzmereh?”
“Is none of your concern. It is an ancient skill reserved for those of the highest nobility of the dark elves, and takes years of disciplined training to master.” She eyed him up and down. “Without the lifeglyphs, I have no idea what clan you hail from, but I am amazed that you managed to fumble your way through the right notes to begin with.”
“Now wait just a min—”
“Furthermore, we have a more expedient path to facilitate our escape now.” She nodded toward the newly formed tunnel on the southeast wall. Krin leaned in and peered through the opening. Though it was dark inside the burrow, he could see that the path was leading up toward the surface. Which meant…
Blast! Why hadn’t I thought of that? “All right,” he said, moving to the tunnel. He grabbed hold of a stray glow worm that was still clinging to the wall, and held it into the opening. Its ice-blue sheen illuminated the tunnel for nearly ten paces up the slight incline. “It’s time to show ourselves out.”
***
Garhet lumbered toward the Nerthanic Tabernacle; a great drum strapped to his back, which nearly had him doubled over with its weight. The hammer mechanism he had fashioned—a pulley-controlled system that allowed a single squeeze of his elbow to launch the spring-loaded hammer into the skin of the drum—was working perfectly. He could already feel the rumble of earth beneath his feet as the rhythm drew the creature closer to the surface.
He cast a quick glance ahead of him. The goblins were still trying to save themselves from the Cra'chuna. Their bone-swords, and spears seemed completely ineffective against the giant cats. Garhet winced when the torso of a smaller goblin split in two, as the Cra'chuna’s scimitar-like fangs skewered him.
He disliked the clans of the vile Go’hoblidin, but he disliked the Dhunarolc’s predatory cats even more. No matter how nasty the goblins could be, genocide was not merited for the sake of a distraction. Garhet hoped the timely arrival of the Nerthani would level the playing field, allowing him to rescue Krin and finally whisk him safely to Madagus Keep. The dwarf, however, wasn’t entirely certain his plan had a candlestick’s chance in Wyndter of working, but as he absently pumped his arms against his torso and was rewarded by a rhythmic burst from the drum, he chided himself for doubting.
Don’t think like that, he thought, drawing closer to the Tabernacle. It’ll do ye no bit of good worryin’ about it.
The tremors were getting stronger, and nearly knocking Garhet to the ground just as he reached the north facing side of the Tabernacle. It wouldn’t be long now, and he had best be clear when the giant worm bore her way through to the surface. Frantically, he slipped one arm free of the strap holding the drum to his back, and leaned backward to set its base gently to the ground. Once satisfied it was on level ground, he freed himself from the other strap, and began a wobbly retreat toward the prison mound.
Before he had sprinted more than a handful of steps, however, one of the Cra’chuna leapt onto his back, driving him face down on the ground, before it bounded off, wheeled around, and prepared to strike again.
After centuries of battle, Garhet’s instincts kicked in almost instantly. Quickly, he rolled onto his back; unclipping his axe as he did so, and bringing it up in a two-handed blocking grip. He looked up just in time to see his assailant lunging toward him for its follow-up attack; its six-inch claws extended, and ready to tear his flesh to shreds. But before the beast could land, a large shape blurred from the dwarf’s periphery, slamming into it mid-air, and plowing it to the ground with a shriek. He sat up, still clutching his axe, to see Ulfilas slam a powerful fist into the beast’s face.
He’s alive! Garhet marveled, jumping to his feet. Even though his trust of the giant Visigoth was still tenuous, he was relieved that the big man had somehow escaped the Cra'chuna. But not for long if ye don’t help him, ye ginger-bearded idjit! Get movin’!
He paused for five beats, watching as Ulfilas and the cat rolled along the ground in a struggle for survival. Then, he lifted his axe above his head, and ran to assist his companion. Just shy of reaching them the earth shook violently directly beneath his feet, and the Nerthani exploded from the soil in a tidal wave of slime and sinew. Garhet was hurled into the air. Instinctively, he dropped his axe, reached out, and grabbed hold of the wiry filaments of hair along the giant worm’s head as it writhed from its burrow. Once the dwarf’s grip was firmly established, he pulled himself closer to the beast, and held on tight.
When his strange, segmented mount reached its zenith, its head whipped around toward the bounty hunter and Cra'chuna, who were still locked-= in mortal combat. Excited by the chaotic cadence of the violence below it, the worm let out a high-pitched squeal, and Garhet watched in horror as the worm’s beak slithered from its head.
The dwarf had seen the Nerthani only once before, nearly seventy-five years ago. It had laid waste to a lost battalion of Romans that had accidentally wandered into valley of Thana Pel, seeking shelter from a brutal winter storm. They had innocently stumbled into a goblin nursery, similar to the one they now fought to escape, and were offered up to the mad goblin goddess by Mother Tuhg. Garhet, who had been sent to the village as an emissary of the Magi, had protested the sacrifice, but Tuhg wouldn’t listen. She had thrown the battalion into a pit, had called up the giant worm, and watched as every last soldier of Rome was devoured in a matter of a minutes.
As formidable a warrior as Ulfilas was—as demonstrated by his survival against one of the Cra'chuna—Garhet had no illusions as to his fate against the worm. He had hoped to pit the creature against the goblin horde, as well as the demon cats, giving he and Krin the precious time they needed to escape. But in order to save the Visigoth from the worm’s ravenous gullet, he had to figure out how to kill it.
Suddenly, a black-veined arrow whizzed past him, nearly taking off his ear. Still clinging to the back of the Nerthani, Garhet craned his head to see a horde of goblins charging toward them. He looked the other way; there was now no sign of the other Cra'chuna, and the dwarf wondered for a heartbeat, if the goblin defenders had managed the impossible.
Two of the cats had probably run off at the sight of the Nerthani. Their whereabouts were the least of his concerns. He knew as long as he cleaved to the giant worm, the archers would not unleash a full barrage at him. However, Ulfilas and the remaining cat would not be so lucky. If the Nerthani didn’t kill them, the goblins certainly would.
This just keeps gettin’ better and better. But first things first. Although the goblin army vastly outnumbered Garhet and the bounty hunter, they would be relatively manageable once the monstrous creatures had been dispatched. It seemed practical to dispense with the worm goddess here. Now. While he still had a modicum of advantage. Proximity.
He cast his gaze down to the ground where his axe rested uselessly in a pillow of pine needles and snow. That left only one weapon at his disposal. Carefully, clutching at a handful of fine hairs across the creature’s back with one hand, he reached the other over his shoulder, unsheathed Glalbrirer, and hesitated. The sword was a sacred weapon, crafted by Kraen-Lil himself. Because it was crafted in the Thanaheim by materials brought over from the Dhunareme, it transcended the properties of any weapon ever constructed in either world. It alone had the capacity for vanquishing any denizen of Wyndter that threatened the mortal world, including the very last of the Dhunarol
c—the Winterking himself.
More importantly, the sword was to be wielded only by an heir of Kraen-Lil. For anyone else to use its blade seemed nothing short of blasphemous. Did Garhet have the right?
The dwarf’s questions were rendered moot. The Nerthani dipped its head, and lunged toward the combatants rolling on the ground beneath it. Garhet watched helplessly as he descended toward the fray. Watched as the Cra'chuna’s talon-like claws tore at Ulfilas’ leather armor; its fangs snapped toward the giant’s face. But before they reached their target, the worm’s tubular beak whipped out, stretching toward the struggling Visigoth below.
TWENTY-ONE
“Watch out!” Garhet shouted, just as the beak snapped down.
Ulfilas, whose reflexes were far sharper than the dwarf’s own, grabbed hold of the cat’s raised hackles, and rolled onto his back dragging the ravenous feline on top of him as a shield. Tasting eminent victory, he let out a cacophonous bellow just as the Nerthani’s beak clamped down on the doomed cat's exposed neck, then hurled it into the air. Somehow, even without the benefit of eyes, the worm tracked the Cra'chuna’s trajectory, then shifted its head to hover directly underneath it, and spread its mouth wide. After a split second of weightlessness, gravity once more took hold of the cat, and erupted in an earsplitting yowl as it plunged into the gaping maw.
“That…” A familiar young voice spoke from behind Garhet. “…was so gross!”
The dwarf craned his head to see Krin stepping from the Nerthani’s burrow. His clothes were covered in grime, dirt, and something…something that glowed with a cold blue hue in the twilight of approaching dawn. A moment later, another figure emerged from the opening. A lithe, athletic female with a pony-tail of silver-white hair, skin dyed a light shade of Persian blue, and a series of tattoos that swirled vine-like around her entire body.
“Oh no,” Garhet mumbled. “No. No. No. Not her. Please don’t let it be her.” From his fortuitous vantage point, perched high atop the giant worm, he glanced nervously around the camp. The goblins were now stood in reverently at a healthy distance from their goddess. Their jagged teeth bared at the intruders, but they were wise enough to remain silent despite their obvious agitation.
The Legend of the Winterking: The Crown of Nandur Page 16
