Verge of Darkness
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Claw-hand tightened his grip on his victims' throats and hoisted them in the air, their feet scrabbling futilely. His eyes glowed a lambent yellow as he locked gazes with them. He held a slender fair-haired woman in one hand, and a portly middle-aged man in the other.
He shuddered with delight as he felt their life essence flow through him. Breathing deeply, he felt his lungs expand. The air tasted so good. He felt his sinews swell. It was a joy to be really alive again, and watching the light of life dim in his preys’ eyes was exquisite. Oh, he had missed this so much in the aeons of non-life he had been forced to endure in the cold desolate world of the Gualich.
He could hear and feel his brother and the Bahktak feeding. Bones crunching, and the pitiful screams of the frail human-creatures. His nerve-endings tingled exquisitely as more stolen life essence flowed into him.
He opened his fingers and two bundles of clothes and bones fell to the ground.
The humans were fleeing, but they wouldn't get far. With their Bahktak ranging ahead, he and his brother, Gorger, moved after them. Gorger as usual took the lead. He had a prodigious appetite.
Claw-hand could see the humans take shelter behind a shattered wall on a hill. As he neared, a volley of arrows tore into the Bahktak. The shafts bounced off skulls and hides, but a few struck home in throats, bringing the hounds down.
Then he saw something that made him blink in surprise.
A huge figure wielding a massive black axe stepped out. A Bahktak leapt at his throat. The axeman's hand snapped out, fingers closing around the beast's throat. A swift wrench, and the hound's head lolled to one side, its neck broken. Flinging the body aside, the axe in his other hand sang through the air, the fading sunlight reflecting off its black surface. The blades sheared through the neck of another Bahktak, the follow-through disembowelling another.
Moon moved in front of the wall. Four of the demon-hounds leapt at him. Two arrows skewered one in the throat. Its killing spring curtailed, it slid on the ground, front legs splayed, ploughing deep furrows in the hard-packed earth.
Moon twisted and ducked. A beast sailed over his head and rolled on the ground in a flurry of limbs.
A spiked tail swung at Moon’s head. He barely swayed aside quickly enough, the spike missing his face by a hand’s breadth. Grunting with the effort, he flicked his wrist, slicing his axe through the flailing appendage. The hound yowled in pain as yellow blood splattered the Axeman's face. The yelp was cut off as Moon reversed the axe's motion into a vicious downward diagonal cut that splintered the beast's spine.
The other hound regained its balance, and together with the other surviving beast circled the Axeman, drooling jaws chomping. Moon stood, poised on the balls of his feet, breathing evenly with his axe held loosely across his chest.
“C’mon, you flea-bitten evil whoresons,” he hissed through his teeth. A shaft sang out, the lucky shot piercing one of the Bahktak through the eye. The beast yowled, leaping high in the air in its pain, then fell to the ground.
The survivor bunched its muscles and sprang at the giant's throat. Moon timed the beast's leap perfectly. Widowmaker swept out in a powerful horizontal cut, the blades shearing through the demon-beast's breastbone and exiting its back in a welter of yellow blood and bone splinters. Its two halves hit the ground.
All was silent for a few heartbeats. Moon stood, axe blades dripping yellow ichor, his mighty chest rising and falling as he sucked in air.
A ragged cheer came from behind the wall.
The cheers were cut off as a nauseating stench swept over the men. A few gagged as the bodies of the Bahktak decomposed into mounds of writhing maggots.
Moon staggered back, his hand over his nose.
But the besieged humans had more than a bad smell to worry about.
“What in the seven hells are they?” Masrel croaked, a tremor in his voice, as two huge yellow-eyed figures appeared before the wall.
“I think they control the hounds,” Kalas replied, his eyes wide with fear. “They were there when we were attacked after tracking them to Arnath.”
Some of the men notched arrows, and let fly. Their shafts splintered in the air and fell to the ground before hitting their intended targets.
The Suanggi fixed vertically slitted ochre eyes on the Axeman.
Moon felt the deep cold radiating from them. Their evil hit him like a wall he could almost push against. His limbs began to shake; a mixture of fear and the cold. He took a step backward.
The nearer one, a creature of enormous girth, drew a dull-red serrated sword and moved toward him. It seemed to float through the air with a dreadful sinuous grace.
“You fight well human,” its voice, like the toll of doom, echoed painfully in Moon's head. “But you cannot stand against me. I am going cut off your arms and legs, then feed on your succulent soul a bit at a time...slowly.”
Moon stopped and braced his feet, a cold anger rising. No one mocked him, man or demon. He hoisted Widowmaker high.
“Come on, you lizard-eyed whoreson,” he growled. “I know not from which of the six hells you come from, but I will cut your pigging head from your pigging shoulders.”
Claw-hand, standing back, watched with a rising sense of unease. Something about the big human concerned him, and that black axe reminded him of a similar weapon from long ago.
Gorger darted forward with bewildering speed that defied his bulk, his blade licking out. Despite his misgivings, Claw-hand expected to see the human fall. The black-bladed axe flashed out and he saw Gorger's head spin high in the air before hitting the ground with a wet thump.
Gorger had never been the brightest, thought Claw-hand. He was slave to his insatiable appetite. It made him act without forethought. His inability to sense danger had finally cost him his life.
Moon watched the other Suanggi approach, serrated weapon drawn.
This one was also big, but not running to fat like the other. It was almost as big as the Axeman. Its hands were the largest Moon had ever seen.
Dark Nordir eye locked with slitted ochre-hued orbs.
This time, the yellow eyes were not mocking.
“You are strong, human,” came the demon’s voice, reverberating eerily in the Axeman's skull. “I too was once a mighty warrior like you, before I joined with the Masters. I would know your name before I drink your soul. You deserve that honour, for you are not like those sheep cowering behind the wall with their guts like water.”
Moon didn't answer, for he had no wish to enter into a discussion with a yellow-eyed demon intent on drinking his soul.
The creature was fast. Blindingly fast. Before Moon could blink, the serrated sword was swinging at his head. Had he waited to react to the Suanggi's movement, his skull would have been splintered by the dull-red blade. But something within him - an instinct, had made him raise Widowmaker even as the demon's words were fading away.
The sword sprang off the axe's black blades with a clang that echoed through the air, hurting the ears of the men watching with bated breath.
Moon lashed out with his right leg, his foot impacting with Claw-hand’s midriff, sending the soul-drinker sprawling on the ground. Widowmaker chopped down, but Claw-hand rolled away regaining his feet smoothly.
Man and demon sprang at each other, their weapons ringing together time and again. Moon's breath rasped in his throat. Never before had he met a foe who could match his strength. A hand lanced at his face, razor-sharp claws, the length of daggers, shooting from finger-sheaths. Moon rocked back, the claws scantly missing his good eye. He powered a left hook that slammed off his opponent's temple.
It was like hitting a stone wall, but the demon staggered and dropped to one knee.
Moon swept Widowmaker out in a vicious reverse stroke, but the creature deflected the strike. It hacked at the Axeman's legs, forcing him to jump back.
The Suanggi regained its feet and they circled each other looking for openings.
Tho
se who had taken shelter in the disused barracks had joined the fighting men behind the wall. They all stood watching the duel unfolding before them.
None could quite believe what they were witnessing. Here was a man of flesh and blood locked in single combat with a devourer of souls banished from the world over a thousand years ago.
It was something none would ever forget. A tale to tell their children, and if lucky, their grandchildren, when they were old and sullied, and near-ready to take the long journey to the halls of the dead.
Those who were not there would later claim they were amongst those watching from behind the wall of the ghost fortress in the gathering gloom. Bards and chroniclers would sing songs and weave magic words of the day the giant warrior from the icy northern mountains, locked sinews with the soul-eating demon from lost antiquity.
But Moon was tiring. The soul-searing cold coming from the Suanggi was sapping his strength.
The red sword lanced into the fleshy part of the Axeman's right shoulder. Widowmaker dropped to the ground as his fingers spasmed open.
Claw-hand sensed the end was near. He too was almost at the limit of his strength. The human's strength and endurance had shocked him.
He dropped his sword and reached for Moon's throat, his claws snapping from their sheaths. It would be an unparalleled joy to devour the soul of a man so mighty.
Moon's hands shot out, closing on Claw-hand's wrists like steel traps. Both stood locked together, straining and pushing. The muscles on Moon's shoulders and arms writhed like the alabaster coils of a snow-python. The veins on his bull-neck pulsed and strained, fit to burst asunder beneath his skin. His eye, burning with undimmed battle lust, and the unquenched belief his soul would not fall prey to the soul-drinker, glared defiantly into the yellow-orbs before him.
Claw-hand felt a momentary doubt.
Moon sensed his opportunity.
He stopped straining against his opponent's strength. Relaxing, he yanked Claw-hand forward, using the demon’s weight and momentum against it.
Caught off balance, Claw-hand lurched forward, right onto the Axeman's lowered head.
The top of Moon's forehead hit the Suanggi sickeningly between those ochre eyes. The Axeman felt bone crunch.
The Suanggi sagged.
Quick as a flash, Moon twisted, flinging himself on the demon's back. His right forearm whipped around its neck with his left arm levering it in. Wrapping his legs around the demon’s waist, he bore it to the ground. He crossed his ankles and cinched his grip.
With the Axeman's mightily muscled forearm crushing his windpipe, and tree-trunk-like legs squeezing his ribs, Claw-hand was immobilized.
The Suanggi heaved, writhed, and struggled. The numbing cold lanced the Axeman with tongues of icy fire, threatening to freeze his marrow.
But was he not Nordir, from the frozen high peaks? A little cold meant nothing to him. Breath and spittle frothing his lips, he held on like grim death, applying crushing pressure.
The precious air Claw-hand had so delighted in tasting denied him, he grew weaker. Lights danced before his eyes. Blackness closed in. The inconceivable was happening. He was dying, and there was little he could do about it. It was so unfair. His new lifespan had been so brief...
Moon jerked, once, twice. The Suanggi's bones cracked like dry twigs, the sound loud and clear to the watchers.
Moon rolled away from the limp body. He remained on his hands and knees for a good while, his head swimming as he took in huge gulps of air.
None behind the wall moved or uttered a word. Each knew they had been afforded a rare privilege, for nothing they would ever do or see in the future would likely come close to matching this experience.
The Axeman pushed himself up, retrieved his axe, and staggered to the wall, his legs threatening to betray him with each step.
Some of the men stepped out to help him, but he angrily shrugged them off.
“Whist!” he growled. “The day I can't walk unaided on my own two feet is the day I make the long journey to the halls of the dead.”
Reaching Masrel and Kalas, he slumped heavily on the ground, leaning back against the wall. “Sutr's horns,” he croaked. “My throat feels like it’s on fire. Any of you sheep shaggers got anything to drink?”
Masrel ran to his wagon, and returned with a leather-bound flask.
The Axeman grabbed it, thumbed off the stopper and tilted the contents down his throat.
Flinging the empty flask aside, he looked around.
A large crowd of people had gathered, all gawking at him in awe. Some of the women had tears in their eyes.
Two women, one holding a fair-haired child by the hand, pushed through the throng and came up to him. Moon looked up at them. Both had short dark hair and haunted eyes rimmed with fatigue. Moon judged them to be sisters.
“I am Parsis,” the first said. She glanced at the younger looking one. “And this is my sister Loretta. Those demons killed our brother Toran.” She placed her hand on the child's shoulder. “This is Alia, Toran's daughter. We want to thank you for what you have done. You saved us all.”
The child ran up and threw her arms around the Axeman’s neck.
Moon sat, dumbstruck. He awkwardly patted the child on the head, looking up at the sisters for help.
The child, Alia, ran back to her aunts, tears streaming down her face. Loretta knelt, swept her up in her arms, and stroked her back, whispering soft words of comfort.
Both women walked away, Parsis favouring Moon with one last smile as she looked over her shoulder.
The throng of people eventually dispersed. Moon was relieved. Uncomfortable with the attention, all he wanted to do was shut his eyes and rest. He was bone weary, and every sinew and muscle ached. He felt like his soul had retreated deep within him, to a place cool and comforting, as it sought surcease and time to heal.
Sutr's balls, he thought, shuddering at the memory. He had come close to dying out there. He had felt those awful yellow eyes sucking his soul from his body, the agony, indescribable. The inhuman strength of the demon had almost overwhelmed him.
He shook his head, driving away his gloomy reverie. His grim Nordir gods had given him the strength and will to face his enemies. Man, beast, or demon it mattered not. And he had stood his ground, and conquered.
He thought of the feel of the child's arms around him, the wet of her tears on his face. That had made him feel good. And it was good to be alive.
His spirit lifted, he pushed to his feet and wandered over to the well he had spied earlier. He hoped there was still water in it. He could feel demon blood drying on his face and body. He shuddered in revulsion.