Hunter of Legends (Fate of Legends Series Book 1)

by Clayton Wood

  “Hunter!” he bellowed.

  Hunter grimaced, scrambling to his feet, finding his hammer lying on the ground. He snatched it up, then ran at the Ironclad, swinging wildly at its back. The hammer struck true, but again it bounced off the thing’s thick armor, barely moving it. Hunter wound up to swing again, but the Ironclad smacked the hammer out of his hands.

  Then it reached out with one massive hand, its fingers wrapping around his neck.

  Hunter grabbed at its hand, trying desperately to pry its fingers from his throat. But its grip was impossibly strong. It lifted him upward, staring at him with those horrible black eyes, its mouth twisted into a snarl. The blood rushed to Hunter’s head, a pressure so intense that he felt it would explode. He tried to take a breath in, but no air came.

  He gasped, clutching at its hand, feeling the world start to fade around him.

  Gammon roared, grabbing his hammer. He rushed the Ironclad, smashing the hammer into the side of the creature’s head. It lurched to the side, turning to face Gammon, lashing out with two fists. Gammon dodged the blow, then came in again, smashing the thing square in the face.

  Hunter felt the fingers clutching his throat open, and he fell to the ground. He landed on his back, grunting with the impact.

  Gammon went in a third time, but the Ironclad ripped the hammer out of his hands, tossing it far into the woods. It grabbed the front of Gammon’s shirt, tossing him onto the ground. Gammon rolled, stopping right next to Sukri.

  “Run!” she cried. “Get out of here Gammon!”

  Gammon grunted, pushing himself to his feet. He glanced at Kris, then at Hunter.

  “Come on!” he shouted, scooping Sukri up and sprinting down the path, back the way they’d come. Hunter scrambled to his feet, sprinting after them.

  Something shoved him from behind, sending him careening into the packed dirt of the path.

  Hunter gasped, pushing himself up onto his hands and knees. He felt hands grip the back of his arms, felt himself rising up above the ground. He kicked his legs uselessly, crying out as the Ironclad’s grip tightened, sending pins-and-needles down his arms. The creature turned him around to face it, pulling him forward until his face was inches from its all-black eyes. He could feel its breath hissing through its narrow mouth, the odor making him gag.

  “Hey,” a voice behind the Ironclad called out.

  The beast twisted around, looking over its shoulder. Hunter spotted someone standing on the path a dozen feet away. A woman wearing a dark brown leather suit, her hair so short she was practically bald. It was, Hunter realized, the woman they’d met earlier. She glanced at Hunter, her green eyes locking on his for a moment, then turned to the Ironclad. She crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Drop the boy,” she ordered.

  The Ironclad turned its head to stare at her for a moment, then pivoted to face her, holding Hunter to the side with one hand. Then it stomped toward her, swinging one huge fist at her head.

  She grabbed the mace at her right hip, ducking down and to the side, whipping the mace in a tight arc at the Ironclad’s leg – all in one smooth motion. Her mace smashed into the thing’s right knee, forcing its leg to lock. It toppled over, dropping Hunter as it fell face-first into the dirt path.

  Hunter rolled away from the thing, scrambling to his feet.

  The stranger was already standing again, facing the Ironclad, who rose to its feet, limping slightly. The armor at its right knee had crumpled, red fluid oozing from the flesh beneath.

  “Run along,” the stranger ordered, waving the thing away with one hand. Hunter realized that her mace was back at her right hip. The Ironclad gave a deep growl, then grabbed a hammer from the ground. It picked up another, then strode toward the stranger slowly, eyeing her warily.

  She just stood there.

  The Ironclad burst forward suddenly, swinging both hammers with terrible speed, right at the stranger’s head. She stepped backward, avoiding the blows by mere inches, her hand going to her mace at her hip. She whipped her hand outward, her mace whirling through the air, the end smashing into the thing’s knee.

  Again.

  The Ironclad’s knee crunched, bending backward with the blow. It roared, falling forward onto its hands and knees, the hammers dropping from its hands. The stranger strode forward, putting a boot on the back of its head and shoving its face into the dirt. Then she walked on its back, hopping to the ground on the other side and bending over to retrieve her mace. She secured it to her right hip, turning to face the Ironclad.

  It grunted, rising upward, standing on its good leg. Then it spun around, facing the stranger once again. She crossed her arms over her chest, staring it with those green eyes.

  “Go,” she ordered, “…or die.”

  The massive creature stared at her, then turned its head, its black eyes boring into Hunter. It tilted its grotesque head backward then, its narrow mouth gaping open.

  A deep wailing sound came from its throat, ending sharply. The creature paused, then made the sound again. It echoed through the forest, so loud that Hunter had to cover his ears.

  The Ironclad returned its gaze to Hunter, looking at him for a long, uncomfortable moment, its beady eyes glittering in the fading sun.

  Then it charged at the stranger, hopping on its good leg toward her.

  The stranger dodged to the side just as the thing was upon her, unsheathing her longsword and swinging it at the thing’s injured knee in one smooth motion. The blade went right through the shattered limb, severing it in one blow. The Ironclad roared, falling onto its belly with a thump. She sheathed her sword, grabbing her mace and leaping into the air toward its head. She slammed the mace into the back of the Ironclad’s skull with enormous force, its armor denting inward under the blow. Then she brought the mace up again, striking downward in the exact same spot, the back of the creature’s head crumpling inward. She unsheathed her sword, thrusting it straight down into the creature’s skull. The black blade buried itself into the Ironclad’s brain, the monster’s limbs spasming once, then again.

  Then it lay still, a pool of blood forming around its severed leg.

  The stranger yanked her sword from the thing’s corpse, sheathing it, then turning to face Hunter. She crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Told you you shouldn’t have come here,” she muttered.

  Chapter 15

  Dominus leaned back in his chair, glancing down the long table in the center of the Hall of Tykus. The other dukes sat in their chairs along the sides, Dominus’s son Conlan seated at the head, in the king’s chair. Conlan was king in name only, at least until his transformation was complete. For only Tykus could command the dukes, and by extension, the kingdom.

  Dominus slipped his right boot off under the table, tapping the ball of his foot against the cool crystalline floor. He grimaced at the gnawing pain in his toes; they’d been aching since this morning, a constant pins-and-needles sensation pricking them.

  “Our next issue is that of the Ironclads,” Duke Ratheburg stated. “Dominus, you requested a thorough review of the recent attack. I took the liberty of mobilizing the Royal Guard to secure the military base and collect evidence. We’ve questioned the survivors, of course, and are continuing to do so.”

  “What have you found?” Dominus inquired.

  “Your initial suspicion was correct,” Ratheburg replied. “The Ironclad were indeed searching for something. Or rather, someone.”

  “The Original, I presume,” Dominus guessed. Ratheburg’s eyebrows rose.

  “Correct,” he confirmed. Then he frowned. “How did you know?”

  “The Ironclad have been patrolling the Gate for two decades now,” Dominus explained. “This is the first time an Original has come through in that time period.”

  “Yes, well,” Ratheburg said. “One of the surviving soldiers was attacked by a group of Ironclad on the King’s Road near the city.” He hesitated then. “He gave a rather…odd report.”

  “How so?”
Dominus asked, feeling irritated with Ratheburg. It was a pointless game, this withholding of information for dramatic effect. He glanced at Axio, standing at one corner of the room. Now Dominus’s officially-recognized heir, the boy needed to be present for nearly all of Dominus’s meetings. He would test the boy later, to see how observant Axio was.

  “He claimed that there was a particular Ironclad that attacked him,” Ratheburg stated. “A rather unusual variant…one we’ve never encountered before.”

  “Go on,” another Duke urged.

  “Apparently this beast was a full third of a meter taller than the typical Ironclad,” Ratheburg continued. “And possessed of a glowing blue mane composed of some gelatin-like material enclosed in a transparent membrane.”

  Dominus frowned, lowering his gaze to the tabletop. A new variant of Ironclad was of significant concern, at least potentially.

  “Even more curious was the fact that this same soldier was posted at the Gate when the Original arrived,” Ratheburg added. “And in fact was instrumental in saving the boy. One of the three Ironclad was of the same variant, with the glowing mane.”

  “Does anyone else corroborate this story?” another Duke inquired.

  “Several soldiers admit to seeing the maned beast during the attack on the Original,” Ratheburg confirmed. “It was killed with great difficulty, I hear…and might have killed everyone at the post single-handedly if it hadn’t been for the Original’s weapon…the gun.” He sighed. “We only have the word of the one soldier for the second spotting.”

  “I’d like to study the corpse of the one they killed,” Dominus stated. Ratheburg grimaced.

  “Unfortunately that is impossible,” he countered. “The soldiers never retrieved the body.”

  “What?” Dominus blurted out. “Why not?”

  “Apparently the corpse wasn’t there when they went to retrieve it,” Ratheburg admitted. “Perhaps there was a hidden Ironclad that spirited the corpse away.”

  “Hmm,” Dominus murmured, rubbing his chin.

  “This begs the question, of course,” another Duke, a man named Mezgar, stated, “…of what to do with the Original. If we keep him in the city, the Ironclad may attempt to attack.” He sighed. “We’ve clearly underestimated their numbers,” he added. “And they scaled the walls of the military base easily. What if they attempted to attack the city?”

  “The walls they scaled were seven meters high,” another Duke replied dismissively. “Ours are nearly twenty. I doubt the beasts would have much success.”

  “They could have taken out that entire military base,” Duke Mezgar pressed. He was a famously cautious man by nature…and the man responsible for maintaining the city’s inner defenses, particularly those of the Acropolis.

  “Their numbers are a concern,” Dominus agreed. He himself was responsible for designing the outer defenses – the wall and the King’s Road. “The Original appears more trouble than he’s worth.”

  “But they want him for a reason,” Ratheburg pressed. “The question is: why?”

  “The boy has taken up with the Seekers,” Dominus replied. “I spoke with Master Thorius myself yesterday. The boy is strong-willed, but not particularly gifted otherwise. And as you yourself said,” he added, “…he knows little of his world’s technology. He’s not much use to us.”

  “But what use is he to the Ironclad?” Ratheburg pressed. “That is the question.”

  “He’s of no use to them if he’s dead,” Dominus replied. “Seeing as he’s an initiate in the Guild of Seekers, there’s a good possibility he won’t survive.” A possibility that was far more likely after his…discussion with Thorius earlier. He glanced at Mezgar. “In that case, he won’t be of use to anyone.”

  “Perhaps so,” Mezgar admitted.

  “And how would the Ironclad respond?” Ratheburg pressed. Dominus shrugged.

  “No worse than if we kept him in Tykus,” Dominus ventured. “In any case, we can’t afford to think defensively,” he added. “The Ironclad have attacked us. We must not let that go unpunished.”

  “I agree,” Ratheburg replied. “We cannot tolerate their existence any longer.”

  “What do you propose?” Mezgar inquired, his eyes on Dominus.

  “I’ve already commissioned the Guild of Seekers to find where the Ironclad live,” Dominus answered. “High Seeker Zeno put his best men on it yesterday.” He turned to Ratheburg. “We’ve lived with this menace for long enough. I agree with you…we need to end them once and for all.”

  “But how do you know they even live in one place?” Mezgar pressed.

  “They’re organized,” Dominus explained. “Hierarchal. All hierarchies in nature have a leader…and have a territory they call their own.”

  “It’s a sound idea,” Ratheburg opined.

  “Indeed,” another Duke agreed.

  Conlan leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table. Dominus glanced at him, then shook his head ever-so-slightly. The law stated that a king in transition could not speak during these meetings…not until his transformation was complete. No single man could rule Tykus except the incarnation of Tykus himself. In the interim, the dukes ruled.

  Conlan’s eyes met Dominus’s, and his jawline rippled. But he said nothing.

  “I propose we fund the Seekers generously,” Ratheburg proposed. “Perhaps we can also have these Seekers contaminate the Ironclad’s land with artifacts promoting insanity?

  “Paranoia would be a useful emotion against them,” another Duke offered. “Stone from the asylum would work. It would turn them against each other.”

  “Wouldn’t that represent a danger to the Seeker transporting it?” Ratheburg inquired. “We can hardly afford to have mad Seekers running about.”

  “Seekers specialize in transporting dangerous wills,” Dominus replied. “This would be routine for them.” He stood then, signaling the end of the meeting. “I’ll draft a comprehensive strategy,” he declared. “The Seekers will deploy tomorrow.”

  * * *

  Sukri cried out as Gammon sprinted through the woods, following the narrow dirt path back toward the Deadlands. Pain shot up her left shin with each step Gammon took, the ends of her broken bones grinding against each other. She grit her teeth, sweat trickling down forehead.

  She heard a mournful wailing behind them, and then another, the terrible sound echoing through the woods. She glanced over Gammon’s shoulder, hoping beyond hope to see Hunter following behind them.

  “We gotta get Hunter!” she urged.

  Gammon ignored her, weaving through the forest as fast as he could. She could hear his panting, feel the sweat on his arms. She’d never imagined that the big guy could move so fast.

  “Gammon,” she pressed, then cried out again as a particularly sharp pain lanced through her leg. “Ah, shit!” she swore, holding her breath. “Damn it!”

  “Sorry,” Gammon apologized. But he didn’t slow down. She looked ahead, seeing the edge of the forest in the distance, the barren expanse of the Deadlands beyond. Then she reached down, gripping her broken leg, trying to stabilize it. But it was no use…each step Gammon took sent agony through it. She moaned, closing her eyes and burying her face in his shoulder.

  An image of Kris came to her then. Lying there on the ground, his eyes staring lifelessly upward.

  “Hold on,” Gammon warned. She opened her eyes, seeing the path ahead take a slight dip into the Deadlands. Gammon reached the end of the path, his boots thumping on the hard, packed earth. Each vibration sent more jolts of pain through Sukri.

  “Oh god fucking dammit!” Sukri swore, crying out again. “Slow down, slow down!”

  “In a minute,” Gammon promised. He pressed onward, his breaths coming in short gasps now, his skin slick with sweat. She could feel the heat radiating from him, his heart hammering in his chest. She looked over his shoulder, seeing the Fringe shrink steadily behind them. The Ironclad was nowhere to be seen. It hadn’t followed them…and she knew the terrible reaso
n why.

  Hunter.

  “We have to get Hunter,” she urged, looking up at Gammon. “He might still be alive!”

  “He’s gone Sukri,” Gammon retorted, veering left until he was running almost parallel to the tree line. “They’re both gone.”

  “You don’t know that,” Sukri pressed. But Gammon said nothing more. He was starting to slow down, she realized. At this rate, he’d kill himself before they ever reached the city. “Stop,” she ordered.

  Gammon continued running.

  “Gammon, stop!” Sukri repeated. “We’re far enough away now…you need to rest.”

  Gammon hesitated, then slowed down to a walk, being careful not to jostle her leg too much. Still, the pain was extraordinary, worse than anything she had ever felt. She cried out again, clutching at her shattered limb.

  “Hold on,” Gammon said, stopping suddenly, then lowering her gently to the ground. Even that sent agony through her leg, and she laid there on the dirt, doubled over in pain. Gammon took off his backpack, rummaging through it and pulling out a long, sheathed dagger and some rope. “This is going to hurt,” he warned.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded, staring at him warily. He reached for her leg, pressing the dagger against the side of it, then wrapped the rope around her leg and the dagger, forming a crude splint. He tied it off, the rope uncomfortably tight around her leg. Then he picked her up carefully, continuing forward. It still hurt with each step he took, but it was a little more manageable now.

  “Thanks,” Sukri mumbled, resting her head against the big guy’s shoulder. She closed her eyes, another image of Kris’s lifeless body coming to her. She grit her teeth.

  I’m sorry Kris.

  “It’s getting late,” Gammon observed. “The closest shelter is the military base.”