Ghosts of Korath

by Jake Stone

  Galail doesn’t back down. She holds her place, chin lifted in defiance. “You can’t wound me,” she says haughtily. “Nor any of these women. Unless you want to answer to Bantha.”

  Tulgrit, wrestling with frustration, sheathes his blade and replaces it with his whip, slashing at the young woman with merciless lashes. Galail, understandably, retreats toward the back of the cell, where the other women quickly huddle in fear.

  “It’s fine,” I manage, feeling some of my strength returned to me. The wounds have already begun to scar, and the ache of my bruises have dissipated. But I’m nowhere near what I used to be. “I was missing this little shit, anyway.”

  Tulgrit growls.

  Rising to my feet, I offer Galail a grateful nod who holds my stare.

  “I’ll see you soon,” I mouth to her.

  “You’d better,” she replies.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The little bastard drags me out of the cell and into the hallway, where he begins to lead me by the leash back to his lair.

  But this time, I’m clearheaded and able to think. Casting my gaze around me, I begin to take in my surroundings, cataloging the twists and turns of the hallways, the number of guards sitting at the corners, the types of weapons they carry, what they’re drinking, what they’re eating. It all gets scribbled down into my brain like a notepad and carefully I start to plan my escape.

  “Hope you had enough rest,” Tulgrit says with a snicker. “I still have many tricks to play on you.” He punctuates the threat with another tug, and I grimace from the pain.

  “I’m gonna snap your fucking neck,” I mutter beneath my breath, swearing death upon him before all this is over.

  The dungeon, I realize, is only a stone’s throw away from the cells. If I could figure out a way to break loose of this little shit’s manacles and collect my things, I could make a quick return to the cells and free the girls. But first I need to escape.

  The goblin kicks open the door of the dungeon when we arrive, its massive wooden girth slamming against the wall, where it sends a gust of wind throughout the stone-built room, flickering the torches hanging along the sides and swaying the whips hooked along the wall.

  Yanking me forward in an aimless direction, he struggles as he tries to decide where he wants to place me. The rack? The metal cross where I was before? His blood-red eyes shift between the two. And it’s during this time that I start to study the medium-sized chamber, identifying and assessing each instrument in a flash.

  “Come!” he commands, giving my leash a jerk.

  He’s not wearing clothing of any kind, no belt or strap where he can hide his keys, so when he pulls me again, I over do it, and throw myself with the momentum of his tug, crashing into the workbench where his tools of pain are strewn about.

  My fingers search blindly amongst the metal devices along the table, feeling for the shape of a key, something that I can use to open my cuffs.

  “Get up!” he grunts, angered with my clumsiness and gives my leash a jerk. I lift from the bench and stand to my feet, realizing with a wince that my little torturer has made his decision.

  “To the rack!” he sneers, words dripping with malice.

  I stumble forward, nearly tripping over my feet as he tugs me toward the rack in the corner of the room. He hops onto the metal structure with surprising agility, like a cat leaping onto a ten-foot high wall, then hops down to the other side, using the leverage of his position to reel me in.

  As tiny as he is, he’s amazingly strong, as if the sinewy muscles of his frame are imbued with the dark gift of power, and within a few tugs I’m lying on my back, facing the ceiling.

  It takes the little bastard less than a second to pull the straps over my chest and lock them in place. He then gives the leathery bands a couple of tugs before hopping back onto the rack and granting me a shit-eating grin as he stands victoriously on my chest, fists resting on his hips.

  “You ready for your first trick?” he asks.

  “Yeah, why don’t you make yourself disappear,” I reply.

  His dark lips quirk to the side as he realizes I’m not going to play his game. He doesn’t like my defiance. He wants to hear me beg, to reduce me into a defenseless pet who cries for mercy. But he’s not going to get it.

  With a sigh, he leaps off the rack toward his wall of instruments, trying to lift his spirits with a song about innards and limbs and human pies. A disgusting little tune, but he sings it with such playfulness that it reminds me of a nursery rhyme.

  Lips pursed, eyes narrowed, he goes through the wall of instruments like a woman at a shoe store, fingering the coarseness of the tools, eyeing the sharpness of the edges, gauging each one for their worth. But none will do.

  Finally, his eyes light up with excitement as he’s hit with an idea, and I watch him, worried, as he opens the iron closet sitting in the corner of the room.

  Inside, I see my armor, blade and rectifier shoved away, lost amidst a clutter of military fatigues that had once belonged to Republic soldiers. They glimmer softly in the torch light, beckoning for me to save them. I will, I promise. Just a little more.

  Tulgrit snatches something from the bottom shelf, and quickly returns to my side, carrying Atia’s white cylinder in his hand.

  The bastard!

  I flinch as the little bastard hops onto the table, clinging onto me like a cat hanging from a curtain. Climbing onto my stomach, his face darkens as he inspects the wounds along my chest, a frown tearing at his ugly face when he runs a finger along the scars that have already healed.

  “Where did my work go?” he demands, glaring up at me. “All of it gone?”

  His lips peel back in irritation, but just as I expect him to get angry, his delirium returns with a vengeance, and his eyes grow wide again. “That means I can do more!” he says, activating the spear. “And Tulgrit doesn’t have to worry about Bantha getting angry with him.”

  I wince as he begins his work, straining against the spear’s sharp blade that peels the skin of my chest like a banana peel. He’s precise in his work, a focused artist, determined to draw the perfect line and it’s when he finally reaches my stomach that he lifts the blade over his head, as if preparing to plunge the length of it into my stomach, that I finally speak.

  “Hey,” I say. “You want to see a trick?”

  He tilts his head to the side like a confused dog, a frown twisting his wart-covered face. “What trick?”

  “This one.” I pull my arms from behind my back, showing him how I picked the lock with the key I was able to snatch from his workbench.

  He gasps in shock, and I catch him by the throat, nearly snapping his neck to the side. He squirms in my grasp, stabbing my wrist with his knife. But I don’t let up. I snatch the weapon from his tiny hand and sink it into his stomach, stabbing his little body over and over again.

  When his eyes finally close, I toss him to the side, leaving him on the stone floor like a dirty rag.

  Unlocking the cuffs around my ankles, I leap to the floor. Blood trickles down my chest, but I don’t care. Soon, it’ll heel. For now, I have to arm myself and figure out a way to free the girls.

  Throwing open the metal doors to the closet holding my equipment, I begin to don my armor. The thick plates feel good against my body, securing it in something hard and thick, and I suddenly feel ready to face the world. Activating my helmet, I draw my sword, knowing that a blast from a rectifier will draw too much attention, and set off back into the hallway.

  The guards stir when they see me. Small figures with hefty guts, they come at me with all that they have. But they’re nothing to worry about. I swing my blade as I drop to a crouch, slicing off their legs just above their knees. Their bodies fall over with a clumsy tumble, spasming as blood gushes from their wounds.

  Remembering which way to go, I rush through the halls, sneaking past guards, hiding in the shadows, careful as I make my way down to the dungeons, where the women are still being held.

  Whe
n I get to the entrance, I’m met with the lone guard who’d led me in the first time. Squatting under the soft glow of a lamp, he peers up at me, a piece of human flesh dropping from his jowls as he’s hit by the surprise. He blinks once before I ram my blade through his head.

  Knealing by his body, I go through his tattered remains, digging through the stinky rough wool and corroded armor that is as disgusting as it appears. The touch and stench of this thing makes me feel as if I’m sifting through rotting garbage. Thank God I’m wearing a helmet.

  When I find the keys, I rush to the women’s cell, unlocking the door and stepping inside.

  “Xander?”

  The whisper comes from Galail as she, along with the other women, jump to their feet. They crowd around me with watchful eyes, thankful that I’ve come for them.”

  “We have to go,” I tell them.

  “What about the guards?” Galail asks.

  “A couple are down,” I answer. “But there’s still a lot more. Can you get us out of here?”

  She rolls her lips between her teeth as she considers the situation, then offers me a stern nod, “Follow me,” and leads us out of the cells.

  According to Tora, she and Galail know these caverns inside out. So when Galail tells me to “stop,” or “go this way,” I do so without protest.

  It isn’t until we reach a long tunnel bisected by an expansive hall that she brings us to a halt. “Wait!” she whispers. Traipsing forward, she glances around the corner, pausing only a moment, before waving us forward.

  We hurry in a line, the women taking the lead, while I bring up the rear. Once inside, though, we’re met with the frightening sight of an entire ceiling covered with hanging bodies. The rotting figures dangle at the end of chains, swaying around us like giant slabs of meat in a butcher’s freezer.

  The reek is immense, and I have to activate my helmet’s filtration system to keep from vomiting. The women aren’t so lucky. They cover their mouths as they’re hit with a wave of nausea, a few of them even retching into their palms.

  “Breathe through your mouths,” Galail whispers.

  One of the women, a taller one with matted hair and a swan-like neck, accidentally bumps into one of the bodies. The head falls back, snapping from the neck, and crashes to the floor, creating a loud thud that echoes throughout the entire hall and into the passages beyond.

  We glance at each other in silence, hearts racing as we wait for the sounds that are sure to follow. And just like that, the footsteps come. They’re few at first. But then, slowly, they start to build, aided as doors are flung open, voices call out for help, and their calls are answered.

  The Hellions rush into the hall with raised weapons, eyes growing wide as they see me and the women standing before them.

  “Get behind me!” I order, drawing my blade and stepping forward.

  The guards rush out in a wild frenzy, flanking me from every side. In total, there are about fifteen of them, but they’re scantily armored and their weapons are medium sized cleavers.

  The first swings his blade over his head like an axe, trying to cut me in two, but I parry the blade with my own, then spin around, slicing his head from his shoulders. The body topples over, tripping the guard next to him.

  The next few seconds are a blur as I begin to cut the rest of them down, blocking and parrying, deflecting strikes then countering with my own. I keep the monsters at bay, refusing to let any of them get past me where the women are watching huddled and frightened.

  As the enemy starts to dwindle, one of the smaller guards, a runt of a demon, flees into the hallway, darting away into the shadows. No doubt to warn the others. I can only clench my teeth in frustration, reproaching myself for letting him go.

  The last demon comes at me with a blade that can barely be called a knife. He lunges straight at me, aiming the weapon at my chest, where its point skews against the thick plating of my armor. Catching him by the throat, I dig my blade into his stomach, watching in disgust as his face twists from the pain. Dead, I release my grip and he drops to the floor.

  “More are coming!” one of the women screams, gaze shifting to the passage where the frightening sound of boots are rising.

  “The bodies!” Galail calls out. “Some of the bodies are still armed. Take them and defend yourselves.”

  The women rummage through the hanged bodies, searching through their clothes and snatching weapons from the leather belts that are amazingly still held together around their waists. It’s a courageous gesture. But one that’s not feasible.

  “We have to go,” I say to Galail.

  “No,” she says, “You do.”

  “Are you kidding me? And you leave you here to get killed.”

  “They can’t hurt us,” she tells me. “But they can hurt you.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” I say.

  “I’m not,” she says. “I’m worried about us. Now leave. Find your friends. Find my sister. And come back for us.”

  I glance around the hall, terrified to see the number of demons streaming in. They’re growing in number, flooding around us like a broken damn. I had no idea there were so many.

  “Head toward the entrance,” Galail tells me. “When you see a wall with a red circle, turn left and go into the room. In the corner, you’ll find a bed, remove it, and underneath, you’ll find a hole.”

  “A tunnel?” I ask.

  “A drop,” she says. “Now go!”

  The women are already forming a wall around us, batting clumsily at the demons with sharp swords and long spears. They grimace their frustrations as a few of them make their purchase.

  “I’ll be back,” I tell her.

  “You’d better,” she says.

  I race into the hallway and activate my scanning system, following its lead. According to the grid, the entrance is toward the east. So I continue on my way, past a pair of rooms, through a tiny hall, and up a long stairway that’s lined with more human skeletons.

  As I reach the main level, I’m relieved to find a wall with a red circle painted across the front. This must be it. Turning left, I rush into the room, ready to get the hell out of there. But when I look around, I see that there’s no bed. Only sacks of rocks and dirt piled up along the sides.

  Son of a bitch!

  Frantic, I begin to toss the bags away, searching for the drop Galail had promised me. But to no avail. It’s simply not here.

  Damnit!

  From the hallway, I hear the ominous sounds of fevered boots rushing along the stone floor. They’re coming for me. I have to hurry. Heart racing, I start lifting the bags even faster, desperate to flee before I’m found out.

  Unfortunately, it’s too late.

  The door swings open and I see a slender hellion in a hooded cloak armed with a twisted sword and holding a snarling canisaur by a leash. The demon dog snarls its distaste for me.

  Ah shit.

  They come at me in a charge, desperate for my blood. Drawing my blade, I meet their charge with one of my own, and we clash in the middle of the room, blades sparking in the dark.

  To my surprise, the hellion is a fine swordsman, a trained warrior with decent control. He parries and ripostes, defending my attacks with competency, allowing the canisaur to leap at me with snarling jaws.

  I elbow the monster in the face, sending it to the side. It whimpers for a moment. Then renews its attack, snapping at my forearm and elbow. I shove it back with the bottom of my boot, able to send it across the room and into the hallway where it slams against the wall.

  The fighting picks up as the hellion and I close in. Under the torch light flickering around us, I’m able to spot the red sash wrapped around his arm. A symbol of some kind? I’m not sure. But by the way he’s fighting, I can only imagine that it’s some special rank signifying his place in the army.

  He lunges at me like a fencer, aiming for my heart. But I’m able to spin to the side, avoiding it at the last second and retaliating with a swing of my own. My blade flies
over his head as he ducks, and I’m thrown off balance. He takes the opportunity to uppercut the chin of my helmet, and slash at my chest, his crooked blade somehow able to dig a line across the chest plate of my armor.

  What the hell?

  I barely have enough time to blink, before I feel the canisaur’s weight against my chest. It leaps onto me with a growl and I’m suddenly forced back, crashing into the bags of dirt behind me and, to my utter surprise, through the floor of the temple.

  My head buckles as the back of my helmet is bombarded by a list of rocky ledges. I’m sliding down what appears to be the side of a hill, a slant of rock beneath the temple that rolls me out to a flat stretch of rock that overlooks the volcano below.

  Rising to my feet, I sigh as I see the canisaur once again galloping toward me. It’s delirious in its rage, red eyes almost pulsing as it draws nearer. Searching for my blade and rectifier, I give out a deep sigh as I see them lying yards away from me. This is going to be tricky.

  Holding my ground, I wait for the canisaur to make its move. It leaps from its hind legs, jaws growing wide as it nears my face. He’s almost on top of me, when I step to the side, allowing it to fly right past me, over the edge of the cliff.

  I give a tiny snort as I watch the dog’s muscled body begin to grow smaller against the backdrop of boiling lava, its once ferocious barks now a tune of whimpering desperation.

  I’m barely turning around, when I see the hellion swordsman with the red sash striding toward me. Face still shadowed by his hood, he marches over my weapons as if they were just stones, aiming his twisted blade in my direction.

  Fuck.

  “Maybe we can talk about this?” I ask with a shrug.

  The swordsman ignores me, choosing to leap at me instead, and I feel the juddering shock of metal against the vambraces of my armor. I deflect the blows as best I can, leaping away from the edge of the cliff and staggering back for room. But he’s quick and precise. He’s unlike any hellion I’ve ever faced before.

  Punching him in the chest, I’m able to send him a few feet back, earning a moment to breathe. Panting, I glare up at him. “What the hell are you?”