by Chris Turner
With bonds stripped, the monster reared alive. He tore at the ropes and ripped off his shredded cloak and flexed his muscles with untold fury. The oak-knotted nakedness of his upper torso was awesome to behold. Corded limbs flexed like serpents. From sheer mass alone, the Dakkaw could pummel three men at once. He pulled his legs to motion, freed himself of the prison spire and stood facing Baus with a hateful glare twisting his scarred, blooded visage. Baus expected the worst, but the ogre did not maim him. Easily he could have crushed him like a hunter’s bird in his palm, but he hesitated. The shouts of the villagers echoed in his mind. It seemed to remind him of something deep in the past, many hurts committed—injustices far too numerous to give a free pass.
Baus gave a fateful wave. Beyond his hopes remained a glimmer of conviction that he would pass on to the afterlife without a mauling.
The Dakkaw flashed a grin—a crisp idiotic grin, but with a vitriolic bellow that was to turn men’s bowels to ice as he hurtled toward the manor to meet Baus’s pursuers.
With no staves or sacks of shallots and onions to hinder him, the ogre became an impenetrable target. He was something that men could not be. A thing of fable, an aberration of nature that would rise in its hour. Hysgode gave a horrid shriek and turned tail back to Silsoor on viewing the leviathan charging at him. He gaped over his shoulder, terror quailing his bowels. Despite the Vulde’s vindictive persuasions to engage the menace, he fled past like the powdered pretender he was. Tulesio was marginally braver, drew his sword, but was fast on Hysgode’s heels, the battle cry dying in his throat, with other members of the town watch taking his lead.
The Dakkaw ripped after them. He snatched a brand off the lintel, howling with rancorous glee and set fire to the sacks of shallot and onion strewn about the plaza.
The bakery began to burn. So too went Gwaent the carpenter’s shop and its thatched roof. The whole village was soon catching in flames. The monster staved in doors, smashed windows, pulled down flags and banderols which ironically were to celebrate the hanging on the morrow. Nothing could stop the monster in his moments of vengeance. He smashed the unfortunates he caught—without remorse, dashed their brains to the cobbles like dolls or scarecrows or stamped their legs to pulp with tramps of his elephantine feet.
Panic swept through the village like an infectious disease. It was one of those horror tales spoken of in storybook legend. To subdue the Dakkaw in close quarters was one thing, but to lay him low on open ground—was near impossible.
The pandemonium gave way to destruction and death. It was well past midnight and lights were ablaze in all the old manors, and now Krintz’s gongs pounded with a relentless fury. Their vehemence could do nothing to stop the unbridled assault.
Baus did not pause to critique the slaughter. He grabbed a torch and ran pell-mell to Haggleman’s pub toward the north end of the square. Ale-sotted patrons staggered out and rushed to intercept him.
“What’s the furor?”
Baus howled: “The Dakkaw has escaped! Run for your lives! Are you fools?”
“What? You call us fools?” In ever swaying numbers they closed on him.
“Yes—fools!” Baus shrilled. “The ogre is on the loose! Flee, or perish—’tis your choice!”
Many backed off and chose to flee; others snatched up weapons and stumbled toward the center of the square, taking up arms against the ogre. A foolish choice. Baus was spared a lengthy argument; he tore himself away from the throng and fled as if he never had, scuttling down a back alley, stumbling over bales and rain barrels, shaking the miserable, cobwebby haze out of his head. How foolish of him to have indulged in his urges!
Fleeing harum-scarum, Baus passed through another darkened alley, then stumbled headlong through cramped spaces between stanchions, sacks and an iron gate. He swerved, weaving a path at intervals, leaping ever upward toward the hills on Krintz’s north side. He passed the town’s inner palisade, stumbling through sheds, sties, gardens, other shadowy places where no one was about. He looked into the chill night. Luckily he still possessed his brand, otherwise he would have been lost.
Reaching the outer palisade, he stopped, puffing before what he believed to be the northern gate. He tossed his torch up over the wall and began a hasty clawing up over the wooden pales that in days past defended Krintz from its enemies. He jumped down the other side. The fall set his ankles throbbing. He rolled off, coddling the stabbing pain and cursing himself as he clutched at his heels. He picked himself up, snatched at his torch and limped off into the darkness. Even as he hobbled down the dirt path angling toward the larchwood forest, he looked back to see pillars of flame roaring skyward. The fireworks lit the black sky in a ruinous wreath of crimson. Baus knew well the grim outset had been spurred by his own doing—and that the Dakkaw’s grisly work had only just begun . . .
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So ends the first book of Rogues of Bindar.
To discover the fate of the adventurer, download Book II, Freebooter of the Rogues of Bindar series.
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Other books by Chris Turner:
The Relic Retriever
Fantastic Realms
Future Destinies
Denibus Ar
Discover other titles by Chris Turner at Smashwords.com:
http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/Innersky
