Scorne cocked his head. “I’ve heard that b-b-b-before.”
Simcane lowered his brow. “Are you whom we seek?”
Scorne took a step forward. “I sure hope s-s-s-s-s-s-sooo.”
Simcane opened his arms and shed his cumbersome fur, exposing his muscular chest. His waistband held a blade that reached past his knees and curved like a crescent moon. He intertwined his fingers and bent his knuckles backward to a cacophony of cracks. Then he extracted his blade. “Come on, criminal. Face me.”
The white-haired villain cackled. He shuffled from foot to foot like he was dancing. “Are you sure that is w-w-w-what you want?” He stepped to the side, revealing a motionless figure lying on the ground, a rope around his neck.
“If you expect me to fear a man who slaughters vagrants, you are mistaken.”
“Oh th-th-this? No, this was simply p-p-p-punishment for helping you.”
Simcane flicked his hand at his side.
Jasper smirked. “Fan out? Sir, there is only one of them.”
“Fan out, I said. There are at least four.” Simcane darted his eyes side-to-side while fidgeting in a circle. “They are surrounding us.” His men drew their swords with shaky hands. Simcane recognized their unease and ordered them into a half-circle. He yelled, “Come out, creatures. I smell your stink.”
Blog stepped from the shadows to create his own. Jasper spun toward him. “One behind you, sir. Big as a house, this one.”
“I know. I saw him. There are more. One east and one west.”
Simcane’s hired hand, called Shiloe, asked with the tone of a scared child, “What are they?” His sword quivered in his hands.
The lead one shouted, “I s-s-s-s-s-s-smell the fear in your men, Simcane.”
“You know my name, heathen. What is yours?”
“I am d-death to all. I … am … Scooorrnnne.” His words trailed off like a sick song.
“Well, Scorne, I am not impressed.”
“Maybe you should b-b-be.” Scorne stepped closer to Bach.
“Sir?” Bach asked with his blade trained on the freak. His eyes shot from Simcane to Scorne and then back to Simcane again.
Simcane butted between the two men to stand chest-to-face with Scorne. Scorne looked up as thick drool leaked from his lips. Simcane stepped back with a snarl. He heard shuffling feet but saw little more than a blur of black hair whip past and just as quickly disappear in the shadows. Shiloe’s sword clanged to the stone. He swayed before dropping to his knees and clutching his throat. Blood squirted between his clenched fingers as he gasped for air that wasn’t there. He collapsed to the stone ground. A river of red surrounded his convulsing body, filling the imperfections of the street and seeping between the cracks. Cyn stood at the opposite side of the road with a murderous grin, fresh blood dripping from her arm.
The soldiers bunched together. The other two symbiots, as Simcane had heard them called in secret conversations over the years, revealed themselves. The big one was named Blog and the other was Rez, as the stories went.
Simcane steadied himself. He shouted, “Fight or die,” to his stunned men.
Two enthusiastic members of his team leaped at Blog. Their foe lifted his giant sword in time to clang it against theirs. Their combined steel was no match for his strength and the impact slammed both of them to the ground.
Scorne grinned. “You’ve brought amateurs. Th-th-this will be a pleasure. I’ve heard your legend.” He slid his sword from his hip.
“Good,” Simcane muttered.
Scorne leaped.
Simcane raised his curved blade and deflected Scorne’s attack. He hurled his foot at Scorne’s gut but he struck metal.
Scorne swung his fist but the big man batted it away with ease. The force staggered Scorne to the side but he twirled and drove his sword forward. Again, Simcane blocked his blade.
Simcane’s team of overwhelmed mercenaries wailed from behind as each of them fell to the other symbiots. He knew he had to help them else he’d soon be alone against these freaks. As good as he was, he knew his odds were poor against all of them.
Scorne lunged. Simcane dropped his blade and shoved both of his hands at Scorne’s chest. A thunderous boom exploded from his fingertips, sending a burst of force against Scorne’s ribs. The energy blast hurled the freak into the street and onto his back.
Simcane wobbled against the growing weight of the air around him. He hated using his gift. His thighs quivered.
Rez dove in, swinging his blade. Simcane dropped to his knees as the blade whiffed past his head. He gripped his sword from the ground and rammed it at Rez’s exposed chest. The freak’s metal skin shifted to deflect the steel. Rez thrust his knee against Simcane’s jaw, jarring his head backward. Simcane didn’t relent and caught Rez’s knee. With all of his weight, he drove the freak to the ground.
When Simcane tried to bounce up, Cyn was on him like a swarm of frost beetles. Pain shot across his back and he involuntarily jutted his chest outward. He glanced over his shoulder to see her grinning with her head cocked sideways like a curious puppy. Her metal skin protruded like the long blade of a knife along the contour of her forearm. She licked his dripping blood from it.
She sprung forward. He rolled to his back and with a grunt heaved his open hands at her. An energy blast collided with her face, flipping her backward head-over-heels. Red plasma exploded from her nose and she yelped to his satisfaction.
The air thickened, crushing down on him. He pushed to his feet with trembling legs. His muscles burned, begging to quit. His chest surged with each winded breath. He needed time to retreat, to recover. He peered at his soldiers as they moaned in their own blood in the streets.
Simcane gulped the precious air. A sword hurled toward his head. He grabbed the attacker’s wrist and twisted it to breaking sounds. Rez let out a squeal and yanked his mangled arm away.
Simcane rose to his feet. He turned but was too late to avoid the massive fist that crashed into his temple, spinning him into the wood pile. His vision blurred. His brain screamed “retreat” and he screamed back that he couldn’t. “Get up,” he willed himself. His four attackers approached in a cautious half-circle.
The big one flinched. Simcane threw his arms in front of his face in defense. A boot slammed against his defenseless stomach.
He fell against the building and it creaked, threatening to tumble. His hand bumped against a chunk of wood. He gripped it. Their hesitation allowed the crushing air to begin to let up. Simcane could stand though he wasn’t yet right.
Just another moment, he thought.
“More?” Scorne mocked.
“All you can give, heathen,” he replied.
Rez attacked first, sword in his good hand.
Simcane swung the wood with both arms, shattering it against Rez’s metal jaw. He wished the wood was stronger; Rez’s chin – weaker. But his foe stood strong.
The big one crashed his massive fist against Simcane’s rib cage.
Simcane grunted the wind from his lungs and fell onto the scattered rotted wood. As he began to stand again, Cyn screamed and dove onto his back. She pounded metal hate against his skull over and over. He tried to shake her from his back along with the concussion he had surely received but she held firm.
He twisted away from the scattered wood pile. She rode his back like she tried to tame a wild horse. She struck the back of his head again, sending white flashes across his eyes.
“Rrraaahhh!” he screamed as he crashed his weight backward against the warehouse wall, mashing her against the building. Her body went limp, briefly, and she let go of his back.
Simcane wobbled to the side. Blog was there. He grabbed Simcane’s head with both of his hands. Simcane heaved his elbow into Blog’s face, striking metal but breaking the symbiot’s grip. He tried to step away, but both Blog and Cyn closed in. Blog cocked his fist.
“Wait,” Scorne screamed at the last moment, halting their attack. “S-s-simcane, you fight hard. It is a shame t
hat this is where you end.”
Keep talking. I’m almost back. Simcane glowered at his enemy. “I haven’t,” huff, huff, “gone anywhere yet.” He looked down at Scorne’s closed fist. The metal from the lead symbiot’s arm slithered around his knuckles and then rose to a point.
Rez leaped from the side as if the men were in sync with each other.
Simcane clasped his hands together and heaved them with all his might. His hammerfist collided with Rez’s cheek, hurling him against the wall. Simcane turned toward Scorne.
He was too late. Scorne’s fist, with its protruding metal point, shot toward his face.
The scream that left his lungs was one he had only heard from his opponents before. The world went black from his left eye. He grabbed his attacker’s forearm with both hands. Scorne wiggled and twisted; Simcane’s head twisted with him. He fell to his knees, still clutching Scorne’s arm.
Wait, wait, wait, he screamed in his head. Don’t move.
Scorne pressed his foot against Simcane’s forehead, strained, and tugged. Simcane’s head followed his movements like it was attached to a stick until Scorne pushed with his foot hard enough to yank his fist and weapon free. Free of the protruding spike, Simcane’s head snapped back. He collapsed to his rear. The vitreous from his eye mixed with his blood and trickled down his cheek. He couldn’t see anything to his left and covered his eye with the palm of his hand.
Scorne stepped back, admiring his work. “All yours, Rez,” he cackled.
Blog leaned against his sword, laughing, enjoying the show. “Go ahead, Rez. This meat is yours,” he said.
Simcane stared past Blog and Rez as Scorne and Cyn strolled toward his still writhing-soldiers. He could only watch while Cyn leaned over one of the men and yanked his head back by his hair. The man begged for his life. She paused as if considering his pleas but then jerked her free arm upward, ripping a gash across the man’s throat. He gurgled like he was under water until he was dead. Cyn stood up straight while watching him die with sick pleasure.
Simcane pressed his hand harder against his wounded eye, trying in vain to stop the throbbing.
Rez appeared before him. He reached down, cupped Simcane’s chin, and guided him up to his knees. “Look me in the eyes when I speak to you,” he said. He started to laugh. “Oops. I forgot.” He released Simcane’s jaw, allowing the mercenary to crumble to his heels.
Rez pointed his sword at Simcane’s nose. Simcane took a deep breath. Rez drew back to echoes of Blog’s chuckling.
Rez drove his sword forward with his good arm. Simcane thrust his hand at Rez’s planted leg. An energy burst slammed against Rez’s knee with a loud boom followed by a crack! Rez cried out and collapsed to his rear, dropping his sword to grip his leg with his good hand.
Blog rose up, confused, and turned to Scorne for direction. Scorne pivoted from his cruel executions with blood smeared across his face and mouth.
Simcane summoned his strength from deep within and forced himself back to his knees. He outstretched both arms to his sides like he was being crucified to a cross. Rez lifted his head with a pathetic stare at Simcane’s chest.
Simcane swung his open hands around. The metal from Rez’s face scrambled to one side, then back to the other in a confused blur. Simcane’s hands stopped short of Rez’s ears. Another thunderous boom rang out. Rez dropped his arms to his side. His blank eyes told Simcane what Simcane wanted to know. Blood trickled from Rez’s nose. He swayed and then collapsed to his side, convulsed and died.
The other symbiots screamed in horror like a part of each of them had died with their friend.
Simcane dropped back onto his heels again. His muscles twitched against the heaviness of the surrounding air. That was a big blast and he feared he wouldn’t recover in time.
Somehow he pushed to his feet again. He took a clumsy step forward like he walked on sand with legs made of hemp. His leg quivered as he struggled to lift it and then his foot thudded back to the ground for his next step. His bloody, empty eye socket reminded him what was at stake. He strained to reach for the stars.
Scorne, Cyn and Blog stalked closer, angry but cautious. Their hesitation was all he needed. He waited with his weary fist in the air.
His foes stared at him for what felt like forever. And then, Cyn leaped forward.
Simcane drove his fist into the ground. A shockwave exploded around him, crashing against his enemies. Wood and debris shot through the air. The symbiots hurled against the buildings on the opposite side of the road. Simcane couldn’t fight the air’s weight and crumbled to his back. Even taking a short, shallow breath was torture but he fought for it, sucking in as much air as he could. With every bit of new air in his lungs, he whistled for Eko.
From across the road, Scorne stumbled from the door of a warehouse. He shook his head like he hadn’t yet regained his wits.
Eko slowed to a stop at Simcane’s side, his thick body blocking Simcane’s view of the enemy.
“Down, boy,” Simcane whispered.
Eko bent his front legs, lowering his chest to the ground. Simcane rolled to his side and entangled his hands in Eko’s mane. He shouted, “Go,” and Eko began to run. Simcane bounced along the hard ground with each jolt hurting like he had fallen from a roof. He lifted his head enough to look to his rear.
Cyn chased behind on foot, unbelievably closing the gap between them. If she caught him, he already decided, she deserved her glory. But Eko wasn’t finished and pushed harder, lengthening the gap between them. Cyn gradually faded into the distance until she stopped her pursuit altogether and disappeared into the shadows.
No longer strong enough to hold his head up, Simcane’s skull bounced back against the dirt road. He closed his eyes.
CHAPTER 38
THE HARDEST PROMISES TO KEEP
Elijah stood in the doorway of his war room with a queasy feeling in his gut. Before he could muster the strength to enter, he paused to consider the magnitude of the coming days. This was his second time in the room in as many weeks and it never got easier.
He made his way to the wall-sized map behind his chair. One by one, his top commanders entered and took their seats. They weren’t as jovial as last time, gearing up for the looming war. There were no pleasantries, no idle chatter, only serious faces.
Elijah waited until the room was full before he spoke. One seat was noticeably empty but no one dared speak Aidric’s name. This day of strategy would be a long one. Elijah briefed the servants assigned to each officer of their tasks. They brought food and drink, ran errands, and delivered messages to wherever their respective captains saw the need, soon becoming as busy as the strategizing noblemen in the room.
“Men,” he finally broke the quiet. “Everyone knows why we are here. War is upon us.” Some of the officers nodded their heads in agreement. Elijah felt no benefit in softening his next words. “If you haven’t heard, Lithia has fallen.”
Several of the men gasped and looked to each other with stunned faces.
Elijah continued, “Lithia’s army, as powerful as it may be, fell in less than a day.”
Andon interrupted, “A day? How is that possible?”
“Our enemy uses weapons of thunder unlike any we have ever seen. They create explosions that leave craters in the ground. They wear armor that repels even the most direct arrow attacks. And their numbers were ten times those of the Liths.”
“And Aidric?” Dru asked. “What has he reported? Why isn’t he here?”
Elijah lowered his head. “We have not heard from Aidric. We believe he and his men have fallen as well.” He allowed the sting of his words to settle as they would help the men be sharp in their planning.
Terik lowered his eyes to the table’s fresh sheen. Elijah watched the officers’ faces. In them he saw a realization that Lithia’s fall, and the speed at which it happened, was unexpected at best and brutally disheartening at worst.
Elijah spoke again. “Those who served with me during the Heathen War will reme
mber how we defeated those mongrels. That war plan worked well 15 years ago and I have no doubt it will be successful again. A head-on, full offensive with all of our resources, I believe, is our best approach. No army has ever withstood the full might of Epertase.”
Terik asked for permission to speak.
“Go ahead, Terik. This is informal.”
“Yes, sir. I have studied Lithia’s military for many years and forgive me if I am wrong, but wasn’t that the same battle strategy Lithia used? If they were annihilated as fast as they were, why will it work for us?”
“That is a good point and one I have wrestled with. We are only now getting sporadic reports from Lithia’s front line. From what I am able to piece together, it sounds as though they were too greatly outnumbered. We will have the advantage of being much larger and able to spread the invader’s front line thinner. If we can thin their numbers with our initial assault, we can give ourselves better odds. As I see it, this is our best opportunity for victory.”
Several commanders nodded their heads in agreement.
Jarrah asked, “What about drawing them into ambushes?”
Andon answered that it would be risky. “We could funnel them into ambushes but if that didn’t work, we would be faced with their armies already inside our borders.”
Dru interrupted, “I agree. Although Lithia’s initial assault is legendary, they are not Epertase.”
Jarrah asked, “How long do we have?”
Elijah turned toward the map and pointed to Lithia’s western border. “The enemy has two massive forces that we know of. The one that annihilated Lithia will be at the Lowland border soon. The Lowlanders will not likely put up much of a fight. I think we should send several battalions to attack there – the Epertase-Lowland border. But that is hardly our only concern. Reports from our spies are starting to trickle in and they show another force, a much larger one, approaching from the southwest near Havens Ravine. I think that is where our fight will take place. Havens Ravine will be where we make our stand.”
Light of Epertase 01: Legends Reborn Page 17
