“Keep climbing,” Ronin hissed. “We’re almost there.”
A few minutes later, under the cover of shadows, they reached the underside of the bridge, and Ronin took the lead.
“I’ve seen the original blueprints,” he said. “There are drainage channels at certain points for rain and snow. They should be wide enough for us both to fit through…I hope.”
Garrick scowled at him, but in the darkness, he doubted Ronin could see it.
They maneuvered along the underside of the bridge, stepping from beam to beam, guided by the blue glow of magic from Ronin’s hands. They’d just about reached the halfway point when the distant clopping of horse hooves and the squeaking and rattling of carriage wheels sounded.
“Is it the Bronze Skulls?” Garrick asked.
“Has to be,” Ronin replied. “We’re almost to the midpoint channel.”
The sounds of the horses and carriages steadily increased in volume until they came to a stop right above Garrick and Ronin.
“Checkpoint. Urthian border patrol.” Ronin pointed above him to an opening in the bridge with a bit of moonlight shining down through it. “The channel’s here. Let’s get up there.”
“Here goes nothing,” Garrick muttered, then he followed Ronin up the channel, careful not to let the double-edged battle-axe strapped to his back scrape against anything on the way up.
They crawled onto the cobblestone surface of the bridge, staying low and staying quiet. The shadow of one carriage and the snorting and settling of the horses masked their approach.
In both directions along the bridge, dozens of carriages, horses, and armored soldiers driving the carriages filled the expanse. Moonlight glinted off the bronze skulls on the soldiers’ faceplates—and now Garrick understood why they called themselves the Bronze Skulls.
Garrick and Ronin rose to their feet in the shadow of one of the carriages, and Garrick silently pulled his new battle-axe from his back.
Ronin tried to wave at him to put it away, but with dozens of carriages, dozens of soldiers driving them, and potentially dozens more within the carriages, this was far more than Garrick had bargained for. He was keeping his battle-axe out. Ronin would just have to deal with it.
Soldiers aside, the bigger issue was the sheer number of carriages they had to check. This could very well take all night, and they didn’t have all night. In a matter of minutes—or perhaps less—the formalities at the front of the group would conclude, and the carriages would advance.
In the moonlight, the carriages all looked the same. So how would they find the hellcat in time?
Garrick knew only one way to find out.
And it involved mayhem.
Ronin must’ve understood Garrick’s intentions because his eyes widened, and he frantically, yet silently waved his arms to try to keep Garrick from doing anything brash.
But this whole job was brash. Stupid, even.
In his mind, Garrick cursed Ravzar for losing one of his hybrid creations. Then Garrick inhaled a deep breath and opened his mouth to bellow a war cry that would send fear shuddering through these pitiful Bronze Skull soldiers.
Instead, the shriek of a wyvern ripped through the night sky, followed by a series of fiery explosions amid the carriages, all up and down the bridge.
Garrick’s war cry caught in his throat as he turned his eyes toward the ether.
Above them, dozens of wyvern riders zoomed toward the caravan, all of them wielding flame-tipped spears.
Chapter Three
Garrick could scarcely believe his eyes. Human riders atop wyverns—winged, reptilian beasts reminiscent of horse-sized dragons—soared all around them. They had attacked the caravan right when Ronin had planned to steal the hellcat from the Bronze Skulls. It was either an uncanny coincidence, or someone wasn’t telling Garrick the whole truth.
The wyvern riders descended upon the caravan in a cacophony of shrieks and wails, shredding the carriages’ canvas tops with their talons and teeth and setting them ablaze with their fiery spears.
Garrick’s focus shifted toward Ronin, whose face, now aglow from a nearby carriage fire, betrayed only shock.
“What in the third hell is this?” Garrick demanded, no longer trying to keep quiet.
“I don’t know!” Ronin shouted back. His hands dug into two of the pouches hanging from his belt. “Someone must’ve decided they didn’t want to wait for the auction!”
Garrick cursed.
“Behind you!” Ronin hollered.
Garrick whirled around, leading with his battle-axe, and hit a Bronze Skull soldier so hard that he went flying over the edge of the bridge and into the Liparulo River below. His screams trailed him all the way down.
Ronin had done his job. Garrick gave him a nod.
Then a flicker of firelight glinted in the sky behind Ronin.
“Behind you!” Garrick repeated the same warning.
Ronin spun around, his hands glowing blue. In his right hand, he held a rough fragment of wood, but Garrick couldn’t see what he held in his left hand.
A wyvern rider descended toward them. The wyvern’s mouth gaped open, eager to sink its jagged teeth into Ronin’s torso, and the rider’s fiery spear aimed straight at Ronin’s chest.
Garrick sprung forward with his battle-axe raised, ready to cleave the wyvern in half. But as Garrick began to move, the carriage next to them rattled violently and then launched into the sky. It slammed into the wyvern and its rider, splintering with a series of deafening cracks, and it sent them careening down to the river below.
The blue glow around Ronin’s hands subsided, and the same fragment of wood in his right hand shimmered with light from the fire, now smooth instead of rough like it had been. Ronin’s magic had worn down the wood’s essence, and it had physically worn down as well.
Garrick slowed to a stop, still clutching his battle-axe at the ready.
“We have to find that hellcat before the wyvern riders do,” Ronin said.
“And before the Bronze Skulls try to escape with it,” Garrick added. “The carriage that has it will flee. The rest will stay behind and try to buy it time.”
“Agreed.” Ronin scanned the fiery carnage around them.
Bronze Skull soldiers fired volleys of arrows up at the wyvern riders, who hurled flaming orbs down toward the carriages. Metal clashed as weapons clanged and armor tore asunder.
Then a carriage burst forth from the fracas. Fire gnawed at the edges of its canvas, trailing smoke as it rattled over the cobblestones. A pair of horses, equal parts terrified and determined to obey their relentless driver, hauled it behind them.
Ronin and Garrick shared a knowing glance. Then they wrangled a pair of stray horses and galloped after it.
Wyverns screamed and men wailed around them as they chased the carriage north toward Xenthan. But before the carriage could reach the guard towers on the Xenthanian side, a trio of wyverns attacked the horses and the driver.
In seconds, the wyverns’ vicious talons and teeth shredded the horses and splattered the Bronze Skull soldier across the bridge. The carriage tipped over on its side, as dead as its horses and driver, and the flames smoldering on the edge of its canvas snuffed out.
Then the wyvern riders’ attention turned toward Garrick and Ronin.
Garrick’s mind filled with every curse he knew, every foul word and insult, and every savage bit of wordplay he’d ever heard. Even if the wyverns couldn’t pierce his skin with their talons, the three of them, plus their riders, might still find other ways to overpower him.
The wyverns screamed toward him and Ronin.
“Bail!” Garrick shouted, but Ronin was already in motion. Garrick flung himself off the horse, clutching his battle-axe tight in one hand, and he tumbled end-over-end along the cobblestone pavement.
His chin cracked against the stone, and his elbows and knees slapped the pavement, but he’d avoided the wyverns. He was alive.
The horses they’d stolen weren’t so lucky. As bef
ore, the wyverns eviscerated them in seconds.
But that was all the time Garrick needed to get up to his feet with his battle-axe at the ready. Already the pain in his chin, arms, and legs had begun to subside.
Another benefit of his part-troll heritage and Ravzar’s blessing was quickened healing. By the time the wyvern riders engaged him again, he’d be fully healed.
Ronin was up, too. He must not have taken as hard of a fall because he looked totally unfazed. His hands glowed blue with magic.
They stood there, side-by-side, unified by the chaos of the situation and little else.
But they stood together.
The first of the three wyvern riders attacked. Its reptilian head lashed toward Ronin, only to get pummeled by dozens of cobblestones that ripped from the surface of the bridge. It was then that Garrick realized Ronin held not only the fragment of wood in his right hand but also a stone of some sort in his left hand; thus, he could control nearby stones.
Garrick didn’t wait for Ronin. A wyvern could take hundreds of hits from cobblestones and survive, but they tended to fare far worse against battle-axes.
Just as the cobblestones let up and the wyvern rider tried to take to the air to retreat, Garrick’s battle-axe cleaved into the wyvern’s scaly chest. The blade sunk in deep, deftly carving through the wyvern’s sturdy breastbone and into its vital organs.
The wyvern screeched and went rigid, and its rider loosed a shout from atop its saddle. They both went down hard on the bridge, and then Garrick’s battle-axe finished them off.
The second and third wyverns and their riders perished in similar fashion, freeing Garrick and Ronin to reach the carriage. But as they did, a shout sounded from behind them.
They turned back in time to see a tall man clad head-to-toe in bronze armor and a black cape that drifted on the cool night breeze behind him. But instead of the same skull faceplate as the other soldiers, he wore a bronze helmet, crafted from a single piece of metal, in the shape of a skull.
It made his head look huge and even a bit comical, but the twin horns made of black metal that extended from the back of his helmet and spiraled toward the front of his head added an appropriate balance of menace. The nose of his skull helmet was a black abyss, but violet orbs glowed from within his black eye sockets, too small to be actual eyes yet too bright to be any sort of sustainable magic.
That told Garrick all he needed to know. He shot a glare at Ronin. “You didn’t tell me Zoljin Hamedi was a dark mage.”
“That…information wasn’t provided to me,” Ronin said.
Garrick muttered curses and thought back to Lord Valdis. “The last dark mage I fought nearly killed me.”
“Well, fight better this time,” Ronin said.
Garrick glowered at him. “I should crush your head right now.”
“I don’t know who you are,” a dark voice from within Zoljin Hamedi’s helmet said, “but if you wish to survive this night, you would be better served to jump off this bridge than to face me.”
“We’re not gonna do that,” Ronin called back. “Mostly because we don’t know how. If you’d like to show us first, then perhaps we’ll give it a try.”
“Your attempts at humor are wasted on me. Death is my bedfellow, and soon it shall be yours as well.” Hamedi reached for the hilts of two weapons sheathed on his belt. “The contents of that carriage are mine, and the auction will fund my war campaigns for decades. This is your last chance to stand aside, or you will join the ranks of the dead who empower me.”
He drew two swords, both with black blades and dark-purple edges glinting under the moonlight. They gave off a faint aura of darkness, almost indiscernible against the night sky, but evident enough against the fiery mess of carriages behind him.
“Phantom steel swords,” Garrick said aloud.
“You sure?” Ronin asked.
“Positive,” he said.
Phantom steel weapons drained essence from their targets just as mages used essence to fuel their magic. Whenever the blades bit into a victim, they siphoned life force away and channeled it back to the weapons’ wielder.
Anyone slain with phantom steel weapons were condemned to a fate of eternal suffering, cursed to walk the path of shadows, their souls enslaved to empower the wielder. That explained Hamedi’s glowing violet eyes—he must’ve built up his power with these weapons over quite some time.
Worst of all, Garrick’s durable skin wouldn’t save him from phantom steel weapons, even with his recent blessing from Ravzar.
Before Garrick’s eyes, the ends of the phantom steel blades curved into hooks and then solidified once again.
Neat trick.
“We have to take him together,” Ronin said.
“Yeah,” Garrick agreed. “To say the least.”
Hamedi launched into the air with his hooked swords raised high and his bronze skull face staring at them with perfect apathy.
Garrick and Ronin reacted sharply at the same time, but not together. Garrick raised his battle-axe and braced himself for the inevitable impact while Ronin raised his hands and called more cobblestones to his aid.
The cobblestones pelted Hamedi’s armor but failed to alter his path, so his hooked blades crashed into the long handle of Garrick’s battle-axe. The impact forced Garrick back several inches, but he stayed on his feet.
He was about to counterstrike when Hamedi’s swords pulled back, hooked the shaft of his battle-axe, and tore it from Garrick’s grasp.
Garrick hadn’t been ready for it. He’d known it was coming, but he’d failed to prevent it. Now Hamedi was bringing his swords back for a killing strike.
But Garrick still had one weapon.
He was the weapon.
Enhanced strength. Harder bones. Troll’s blood, blessed by the God of Beasts himself, pulsed through his veins…
…accompanied by a natural desire to smash things.
Garrick lurched forward before Hamedi could complete his follow-up swing and slammed his humongous fist straight into Hamedi’s bronze skull face with all of his strength. He felt the helmet cave under the pressure of the blow, albeit not as much as he’d expected.
Hamedi skidded backward along the bridge, still clutching his hooked swords as Garrick retrieved his battle-axe.
Then Hamedi rose to his feet, slowly, shakily. As Hamedi approached again, Garrick saw the imprint of his giant knuckles in the faceplate of Hamedi’s helmet.
He’d caved it in, alright. He’d crumpled the left side of the helmet so much that it had sealed off most of Hamedi’s left eye, which now no longer glowed with that violet orb. The black ram’s horn on that side also curled, angled inward, across his bronze forehead.
Rasping, wheezing breaths hissed out of the helmet, followed by Hamedi’s voice, still dark but also quaking. “You…you think you can defeat me? You are but chaff, and I…I am the fire that consumes you!”
Hamedi launched forward again like a broken angel of death. He attacked in a flurry of wild and vicious hacks, all of which Garrick parried, but Hamedi’s strength was incredible. Garrick found himself being pushed backward.
Garrick knew this rage. He’d experienced it himself when he’d last held phantom steel weapons. They drove their wielder berserk and threatened to overtake him with insatiable bloodlust. Garrick’s fellow Blood Mercenaries had nearly killed him in trying to strip the weapons from his grasp—and he’d nearly killed them, too.
One of Hamedi’s blades struck Garrick’s arm, and the phantom steel drank of his essence in a hot sting of pain. Garrick grunted and threw a counterstrike, but Hamedi deftly knocked it away.
“Do something, Ronin!” Garrick yelled through the fighting.
But when Garrick stole a look back, Ronin was gone.
Chapter Four
After everything Garrick had survived, he couldn’t die here. Not at the hand of some backwoods warlord who’d been lucky enough to find some phantom steel swords.
But every new cut Garrick sustained fr
om those weapons, however small, diminished his essence, weakened him, and threatened to finish him off once and for all.
He gritted his teeth and kept fighting nonetheless.
He needed some sort of opening—anything at all—and he could end the fight. Hamedi was good, but he wasn’t great. He’d managed to catch Garrick off-guard a handful of times, and it had given him an edge, but he wasn’t the better fighter.
One good swing with Garrick’s battle-axe could change everything.
Then, from behind him, Ronin shouted. “Garrick, the channel!”
He hadn’t abandoned Garrick after all.
At first, Garrick didn’t know what Ronin meant. Then he remembered how they’d gotten up to the top of the bridge—through the drainage channel in the center.
But they’d chased the carriage far beyond that now. Was there another one nearby? And even if there was, what was Garrick supposed to do with it?
Hamedi slammed his hooked swords down on Garrick’s battle-axe to try to yank it away again, but this time, Garrick countered with a huge kick to Hamedi’s chest that sent him staggering back.
The added space gave Garrick time to look around. Ronin stood behind the carriage, pointing over it toward the side of the bridge. There was a channel right next to the carriage.
“Just keep backing up!” he called. “Don’t fall in!”
Garrick didn’t have time to respond—Hamedi was already on him again, slashing like a bloodthirsty demon. He nicked Garrick’s shoulder with one of his blades, and more essence drained into the phantom steel. Garrick winced, but he kept backing up, kept fighting.
As Garrick passed the channel, careful not to fall in, Hamedi followed him, still pursuing him, still relentless. Whatever Ronin was going to do, he needed to do it already.
As Garrick continued to trade blows with Hamedi, he noticed the downed carriage rattling next to him. He knew what that meant…but Hamedi didn’t.
“Now!” Ronin shouted.
Garrick pushed off of Hamedi and leaped back as the carriage scraped across the cobblestones and collided with Hamedi.
Hellcats: Anthology Page 63
