“Nice spell,” a female chaos elf says, watching her companion cower from the effects of Sari’s illusion. With a muttered spell, a crackle of lightning dances between the woman’s gloved fingers. “Odd that you’re suddenly going non-lethal after killing three of my friends. Are you already weakened?”
“Heat of the moment has worn off,” the champion answers as she circles the caster. “I’m only going to kill the ones that go after Luke. So it’s best that all of you focus on me if you want to survive this.”
“That’s very kind of you, but you’re the one we’ve been sent after. The warrior is not really our concern.”
“It doesn’t mean we won’t kill him,” General Vile announces. The halfling is kneeling next to Luke with a blood-dripping shortsword held back for an easy killing blow. “Drop your weapon and turn on your special power. Stephen wishes for you to suffer before you die.”
“Don’t torture the girl,” the other caster argues. She bravely approaches Vile, leaning forward to whisper. “You told us she didn’t have to suffer. We should simply kill her and leave because the others could return soon. Besides, my queen has a soft spot for this girl and I would hate to be involved in something that upsets her.”
General Vile sighs and lets his sword arm fall to his side, his eye turning to the nervous gypsy. With a swift flick of his wrist, the halfling’s shortsword slices through the chaos elf’s neck. The Eblem poison works quickly and blood gushes from the wound, the woman’s choking gurgles making some spurt out of her mouth. He moves to the other side of Luke to avoid the pooling mess and aims his shortsword at the slumbering half-elf again.
“Do as I say or the same thing may happen to your friend,” Vile says, his voice cold and steady. “I’ve no idea how the Eblem blood will react to the living curse. It could turn him into a monster or grant him an agonizing death. I suggest you not push me to find out.”
“Okay,” Sari replies in defeat. Her body grows a thick layer of frost, but she stops when the halfling clears his throat. “What? You wanted me to use my powers.”
“Not the naiad abilities,” he states with a cruel grin. He beckons to one of the remaining chaos elves, who nervously walks into the open. “You can prevent yourself from being moved, but you still feel pain. Turn that on and let me find out how much you can take. I promise this will be brief.”
“I’m really getting tired of you people torturing me,” the gypsy mutters, snapping her fingers to give a show of her immovability turning on.
General Vile points his finger at the anxious chaos elf warrior, who draws his longsword and takes careful aim. He strikes her arm with the flat side of his blade, which quivers from the impact. The warrior beats on Sari’s limbs and sides while she patiently waits for Vile to call for the painful assault to stop. At the halfling’s request, the warrior attempts a few stabs to her shoulders and knees. The tip pushes in enough to draw blood, but the weapon is shoved out of the wounds by an invisible force. Feeling brave and hoping to end the display, her tormentor slams the hilt of his sword into her forehead. With a surge of anger, Sari draws her stiletto and stabs the chaos elf in the stomach. Both collapse to the ground, but only the gypsy is able to drag herself to her hands and knees.
“I prefer to be quick, but Stephen wanted a show,” the halfling soldier says as he approaches Sari. He kicks her in the head when he gets close, knocking her onto her back. “Now you’re truly defenseless.”
Vile lifts his poisoned blade to strike, but his body jerks and he emits a gasping cough. As she rolls over, Sari can see the end of a shortsword sticking out of the warrior’s chainmail-covered chest. With eerie grace, a hand holding a dagger swiftly comes around and pulls back to slit the soldier’s throat to the bone. Vile falls to the ground dead, giving Sari a clear look at the brown-haired halfling standing in front of her. His leather armor is battered and there are smudges of dried blood on his gloves, making the gypsy think this is not the first life he has taken.
“Bye, dad,” the newcomer says, his voice teeming with bitterness. A friendly smile crosses his face when he looks at the gypsy and extends his hand. “My name is Nimby. I think it’s about time we talked.”
10
Heart racing and palms sweating, Timoran hides in the darkness with Fizzle crouched on his shoulder. They have been patiently waiting for Zander to join them for what feels like an hour, but may only be minutes. Realizing that they cannot wait any longer, the barbarian gets on his belly and crawls down the smooth hallway. Powerful gusts of wind rocket over him and he feels the Dark Wind harmlessly lashing at his back. He stops when a gangly shadow steps into the distant light and leans forward as if trying to spot the warrior. The creature unleashes a faint howl and wanders off, leaving Timoran to continue dragging himself forward.
“What that?” Fizzle whispers as he crawls next to his friend.
“I assume the source,” Timoran replies, struggling to keep his voice low.
“How we beat?”
“There is that wind-enhancing gem that John gave us.”
“Use now and see.”
“I do not know. It could be something we use after we destroy the source.”
“Then what we do?”
Timoran stops and thinks, his eyes watching the doorway for the return of the shadowy creature. He hears echoing howls from ahead and several shadows dart across the chamber’s entrance. Reaching into his belt pouch, he draws a flask of Ifrit mead and greedily drains every drop. He can see the form of Fizzle staring at him, the curious gaze of the drite easily sensed in the near darkness.
“The crystal enhances the scent that is on the breeze,” Timoran explains, feeling the alcohol warm his belly and steel his nerves. “I was told to use a potent smell, so I chose Ifrit mead. It is now on my breath, so all I have to do is blow on the crystal. Hopefully it works and we can cleanse the Dark Wind from the region. Are you ready for battle, little one?”
“Fizzle do best,” the drite declares as he crawls forward. “How we fight?”
With a broad smile, the barbarian moves to the edge of the darkness and silently draws his great axe. “I shall fall back on the tried and true tactics of my people. I will swing my weapon until all my enemies are defeated. I trust you to use your magic, my friend. It is likely that you will be more successful than I.”
“Fizzle protect friend,” the dragon hisses, patting the warrior on the shoulder.
Timoran nods to the drite and focuses on the vast chamber to get his eyes adjusted to the bright light. Shadowy figures drift around the cavern, their tall bodies and gangly limbs swaying in the whipping wind. Wisps of darkness constantly float off the hazy creatures and pour into a churning orb in the center of the room. A howling wind erupts from the shimmering back wall and disperses the globe, transforming it into a wave of Dark Wind. Timoran holds his breath as the living curse is fired into the hallway and launched up the chute.
After getting a sense of the terrain and a general idea of the creatures’ movements, Timoran crouches and waits. Fizzle crawls up the wall to get out of the barbarian’s way, his scaly body turning invisible. One of the creatures drifts by the entrance and faces the warrior, who pounces and swings his axe. A startling wail erupts as the shadowy monster explodes and its remnants streak into the ceiling. For a second, Timoran thinks his eyes are playing tricks on him when the darkness far above his head shifts like a gentle ocean. He grips his weapon when more of the creatures rise from the mass of ooze-like Dark Wind that he mistook for shadows among the stalactites.
The low muttering of a spell gives Timoran enough time to sprint away from the entrance, veering to the side to avoid whatever is about to happen. A dazzling beam of magic erupts from his invisible friend and cuts a swath through the teeming monsters. Wails of fear fill the air as the creatures panic and fly around the room. Many of them explode upon the walls and scattered rock formations, their bodies reforming almost immediately. Several of them dive for the source of the spell, haunting shrieks trill
ing from their faint mouths. Forced out of the entrance, Fizzle darts through the air as a pair of the creatures give chase.
“They see Fizzle!” he screams as he zips around the chamber. “Primal demons! Born from aura and not grow more! Dark Hazes!”
“How do we kill them?” Timoran asks through gritted teeth. He swings at the demons that are within reach, cleaving them in half and sending their bodies back to a newly made orb of Dark Wind. “I cannot tell if we are making progress. The wind can still take the living curse to the surface while we fight, so I assume we are failing.”
“Fizzle have plan!”
In a guttural language, Fizzle chants a long spell that shakes the entire chamber. The gray stone above the entrance melts and flows over the opening. With a loud crunching, the liquid rock hardens and locks everything in the large cavern. Another gust of wind appears to carry the Dark Wind away, but the living curse is splattered against the barrier and forced to spread across the room. The trapped magic whirls around the walls and creeps along the floor before reuniting in the middle of the room to try again on the next gale.
“That contains the problem,” Timoran says as he leaps over three demons and hacks them apart. “Although, it means the curse will build in here to the point where we might not be able to survive. There has to be a way to end this quickly. Can you cast more of your disintegration magic?”
“Fizzle would make us go poof too,” the drite replies, flying low and weaving a collection of stalagmites. A glistening spot of water catches his attention and he licks it as he passes by. “Fae water! If we find, it help! Very pure and powerful!”
The barbarian spins to strike all of the demons that surround him, sending hazy limbs and heads flying. “All I see is a pool of dead water to my right. Then again, our enemies would not have left such a thing in here. They must have corrupted the pool before they prepared these Dark Hazes. Is there a way to purify fae water?”
“Need priest, Nyx, or Sari,” Fizzle answers while splitting into three. With demons close behind, the fake drites soar toward the walls and explode in a rainbow fireball that engulfs their pursuers.
“I am beginning to think I failed to prepare for this mission.”
Due to the ease that he is able to disperse the demons and the fact that they keep coming back, Timoran lets his rage settle and conserves his strength. As he fights, he takes his time scanning the chamber for anything that can help. Another blast of wind pushes the Dark Wind ahead and the living curse coats all four walls. The thick ooze drips to the floor and turns into mist that reforms the orb in the middle of the room, the churning seemingly more violent and agitated than before. His guard down, Timoran leaves himself open to a nearby demon that slashes at him with shadowy claws. The attack passes through his body and sends an unnerving chill through is flesh. With a flick of his wrist, the barbarian slices the demon in two and both halves disperse into the orb.
“Timoran okay?” Fizzle asks as he lands on his friend’s shoulder. He blasts a demon with his rainbow breath, sending the creature retreating into the ceiling. “Fizzle no see blood. Not sure what happen.”
“It was uncomfortable and hurt, but nothing lasting,” the warrior says in a numb, distant voice. With a mild roar, he leaps over the demons and lands next to the corrupted fae water. “I can smell the infection on this water. This may have been our only key to victory since we cannot truly kill these creatures. It appears we will die here unless you have any ideas, my friend.”
“Pray?”
Timoran is about to laugh when a wild idea crosses his mind. Lifting Fizzle off his shoulder, he turns to the fae water and takes a deep breath. He goes down to one knee and places his great axe against his forehead, the edge making a small cut into his skin. Against his warrior instincts, Timoran closes his eyes and focuses on praying to Kerr the Barbarian God and Ymir the Orc God of Fury. The sound of the howling demons and another blast of wind makes his muscles scream for action, but he knows it would only lead to his exhaustion.
“Fizzle defend,” the drite announces as he darts into the air.
“Protect yourself, my friend. I shall withstand their barrage and grow my anger to appease the Enraged Lords. I feel that these beasts do not have the power to kill me.”
The demons converge on the kneeling barbarian while Fizzle tries his best to keep them at bay. They ignore the drite even as he sends some of them away with a twisting beams of prismatic light. With their ghost-like claws, they slash at Timoran and wail at the sensation of hitting nothing. Created to attack potent auras, the muscular barbarian’s lack of usable magic makes him a tiny target. Lacking a true intelligence, the Dark Hazes never consider searching him for the pinprick of a weakness. All they do is fill his body with a numbing cold that frustrates him to the point where all the warrior hears is his thrumming heartbeat.
“Intimidating Ones, I am neither a priest nor a shaman, but I follow a just path,” Timoran whispers, quaking at the demons’ chilling touch. “I have controlled my rage and unleashed it as a weapon using the methods of my people. This has made me a powerful and wise warrior. Now I face an adversary that my strength cannot defeat. One of my dearest friends will die if I do not succeed, so I cannot surrender. Please grant me the blessing of cleansing this fae water, so that I may use it to defeat my enemies.”
The constant wind dies as a booming voice echoes in Timoran’s ears. “You ask for the wrong thing. Water is not your realm and your body is only part of your strength. Do you really follow my methods?”
“I have no magical nature to use against the demons.”
“You were chosen as a champion!” the voice of Kerr roars in anger. Another voice laughs, but is swiftly silenced by a snarl from the angry god. “You may not like it, child, but there is magic within you. The demons are too stupid to find it and it appears you are equally as thick. Such pathetic begging, I doubt you are even worthy to claim membership among my people. If this is how you honor my name then I will enjoy watching your bones rot in this hole. That is what is best for a faux barbarian.”
Timoran feels his fury rise into his chest and a low growl rolls from his throat. His knuckles turn white as he grips his great axe and tremors run through his arms, the limbs practically begging to be used for destruction. Waves of aggression waft off the warrior, embedding a spark of fear in the primitive demons.
“I am Timoran Wrath, a proud member of the Snow Tiger Clan,” he declares, rising to his feet and opening his eyes. Their beautiful blue has been erased by a burning white as if they have turned into tiny flames. “My blood is that of a barbarian!”
“Then prove it!”
Timoran unleashes a roar that shakes the chamber before he charges at the horde of Dark Hazes. Leaving a distortion wave in its wake, his great axe swings with amazing speed and power. The demons are turned into ashes when they are struck by the rage-infused weapon, which forces many of them to retreat to the ceiling. He attempts to run up a wall and leap at his enemies, but they gather in the center where even his powerful legs cannot propel him. Unable to reach the creatures, Timoran’s fury surges and he rushes at the only object within reach. His great axe drives into the pulsating orb of Dark Wind, which explodes with a deafening blast. The churning storm sends the crazed barbarian crashing into the wall, its howling winds shredding the demons that are too slow to take cover. After the chaos, only a handful of the creatures are left and they drift to where the orb once stood. None of them react to Timoran barreling into their midst and finishing them off. As he regains his senses, the ashy remains are whisked through the air by an oddly serene gale.
“That is the champion I wanted to see,” Kerr laughs, the echo startling Fizzle. “Never bother me with your weakness again.”
“What happened?” the drite asks as he cautiously approaches his friend.
“It would appear that I have more power than I realized,” Timoran says while catching his breath. He slips the enhancing crystal out of his bracer and holds it in his sweat
y palm. “I trust you will keep this between us, Fizzle. I do not understand what happened and I fear our friends will barrage me with theories. After all, it is strange that I had a power that was ideal to this situation. This will reveal itself in time, so there is no reason to rush for an answer or concern the others.”
“Fizzle keep secret,” the drite promises with a grin. Quickly casting a spell, he dissolves the stone blocking the entrance. “Now we save Luke.”
Timoran breathes on the crystal and a savage wind immediately whips around the chamber. Rock formations are reduced to pebbles as the gales chaotically ransack the room. Fizzle darts behind the barbarian when he feels an enchanted breeze attempt to pull his wings off. Howling like a wild animal the angry air slashes deep grooves in the floor before escaping through the entrance.
“I am still holding some rage and it appears to be within my breath,” Timoran whispers in disbelief. The thought of what that gust of wind will do fills him with a sense of dread. “Do you believe I have made the situation worse?”
“Trees will not be happy,” Fizzle says, scratching his head with his tail. “What we do to clean air?”
The warrior sighs and turns the crystal over in his hands, the strong scent of Ifrit mead wafting off its facets. “It will happen gradually, but some may die before that happens. I think I misunderstood Priest Aneveom. This crystal was not supposed to purify the air. The enhanced scent could energize the sick, giving them enough strength to hold out until the Dark Wind is naturally cleansed from the region. We need something that can put people at ease and rise above their pain. Perhaps even make them believe they are healing, which can cause their bodies to react in kind.”
Curse Of The Dark Wind (Book 6) Page 21
