NOVEL WEB Chapter Twenty-Four
Carter drew his sword, the familiar iciness passed through his body and set his teeth on edge. ‘This isn’t going to do me much good against these boneheads. There’s nothing to really cut.’ He glanced down at himself, feeling the lack of his armor. ‘Not like me, anyway.’ The skeletons marched forward steadily, their hollow eye sockets fixed on him, moving without hesitation or caution. ‘Not having brains and being undead would allow for that.’ They’d been down there so long that they had taken on the odor of mustiness that clung to the rest of the dungeon, a damp, earthy scent that filled his nostrils. Even so, the creak of ancient tendons and joints as the skeletons moved set his teeth on edge.
With a grunt of exertion, he blitzed into them, slamming the hilt of his sword into sternums—both exposed and hidden by rusted armor—crushing shoulder sockets, splintering forearms, shattering hips, and snapping clavicles. The clash of metal against bone echoed through the chamber, mingling with the sharp tang of sweat. Their weapons—swords, spears, daggers, maces, and others—pounded at or sliced through his body, the sting of each cut and the impact of each blow sending jolts of pain through him.
At first, his wild attacks kept him ahead of the onslaught, his sword smashing through bone and armor with satisfying crunches. But as their numbers dwindled, they pressed in closer, their skeletal limbs moving with tireless precision. More strikes began to land—glancing blows at first, then more direct hits. The sharp burn of a blade slicing across his thigh, the dull ache of a mace striking his ribs, each impact driving him back. Whereas before, he’d pressed relentlessly forward, now he was in full retreat, his muscles screaming in protest as he tried desperately to fend off their relentless attacks.
Fatigue had kicked his butt a long time ago, and now every breath felt like fire in his lungs. His movements were slower, each swing of his weapon felt like he drug it through water, and he was coming perilously close to exhaustion. His field of vision narrowed, the edges of the room blurring and darkening, the flickering torchlight creating ghostly afterimages in his tired eyes. Sweat dripped down his face, stinging his eyes and making it harder to see.
Desperation clawed at him, his grip on the hilt tightening as his strength waned. He could hear the skeletons’ clattering bones all around him, their weapons singing through the air, the smell of decaying leather and old death overwhelming his senses. He gritted his teeth, pushing back the dizziness threatening to overtake him, knowing that if he fell now, there would be no getting up.
‘If I risk a glance back, I’ll eat at least four shots to my chest.’ The skeletons pressing their attack the hardest all wielded long swords, so he was in no hurry to look. The sharp edges of their blades gleamed menacingly in the dim light, each one ready to tear through flesh and bone.
Four weapons cascaded at his chest in a wave. The rush of air as the swords came down was a blur of motion, but somehow, he managed to deflect, block, or parry all of them. As he parried the last one, he caught a break. Carter’s sword shattered the skeleton’s wrist, the sound of cracking bone echoing in the narrow corridor, causing it to drop its mace, which clattered loudly against the stone floor.
In desperation, he kicked his foot upwards. The toe of his boot caught the pommel just right. The weight of the mace sent a jarring sensation up his leg as it bounced back up far enough for his left hand to shoot out and catch the hilt. ‘Damn it. This shit always happens. I do something incredibly badass, or awesome, and no one is around to see it. If I try to tell anyone, none will believe me.’ His grip tightened on the mace and the cold metal pressed into his palm.
A blade slicing through the fat near his ribs brought him out of his reverie in a hurry. The sudden, searing pain made him gasp. Carter hurled his mace, and another miracle occurred. The head smashed into the eye socket of a skeleton, knocking it backward. At the same time, another came forward to take its place, but the mace’s handle tangled in its ribcage, and both fell. The dull thud of bone hitting the floor was oddly satisfying.
He now only had two to deal with. After dodging their attacks, the swish of their blades narrowly missing his skin, he chanced a glance over his shoulder. A narrow corridor led away from the skeletons and whatever other nastiness lay beyond them. The cold, damp air from the passage seemed to beckon him, a possible escape from the relentless assault. A forehand smash with the grip of his blade sent the skeleton on his right into the one on his left, giving him a few moments of breathing room. He turned and ran, his heart pounding in his chest, the rhythm matching his hurried footsteps.
It’s never a good idea to blindly run down a passageway in a dungeon, even one that had once been a castle of some sort. The sudden click under his feet reminded him. Not taking the time to think, Carter dove onto his stomach and hoped like hell he hadn’t triggered a floor trap and thus made himself easier to kill. The rough stone scraped against his armor, the impact jarring his entire body.
Something swiftly brushed the bottoms of his feet, and there came a tremendous boom. The shockwave rattled his bones, reverberating through the corridor. He glanced back in time to see half a skeletal forearm, wrist, hand, and sword fall to the floor. The rest was between the lengthwise wall and the new dead end behind him.
Not taking any further chances, he studied the floor ahead of him and also scanned the walls to either side. The sweat on his brow felt like fire as he discovered his fingertips were millimeters from activating another pressure plate on the ground. ‘Fuck, that was close.’
Carter carefully rose and stepped over the plate. The rest of the corridor was trap-free, but his senses were on high alert, each creak and groan of the ancient structure setting him on edge. He came to a dead end in a long corridor, which terminated in three doors. The one on the left had a picture of an open treasure chest filled with gold and jewels, the one in the middle had an image of a skull and crossbones, and the one on the right had a picture of a dragon battling a tiger. The details were breathtaking, the carvings so intricate he could almost feel the tension of the depicted battle in the air. ‘Hmm. Which one do I want?’ He folded his big arms over his wide chest and looked between them all. ‘Eeny meeny miney mo it is.’ The rhyme was recited, and he picked the door with the skull. ‘International sign of danger. Apropos.’
As he reached for the handle, his body twitched, reminding him of the aches and pains of his recent battle. ‘Gods, I wish I had a healing potion.’
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The world snapped back into motion with a violent jolt, as though the very air had been torn open with a deafening crack. Adora, her breath catching in her throat, felt the ground beneath her boots shift, the gritty texture of the dirt and scattered pebbles digging into her soles, the warmth of the earth cutting through the leather. Blood splashed across her face, hot, wet and fetid, as her sword tore through the throat of the huge moose-headed demon.
For a moment, she was disoriented, the familiar weight of her sword a comfort in her hand, but something was wrong. The noises around her were not what she was expecting to hear. Instead of the deafening clash of battle, all she heard was scattered thumps and the agonized cries of wounded soldiers. She strained to hear the echoes of combat, but her hearing confirmed what her eyes were telling her – the battle was over but for tending the injured.
Around her, her army stood frozen in disbelief. Eyes wide, weapons at the ready, they had been poised engaged in combat just seconds ago. Now, they all stared at the same shocking sight. Across the battlefield, the once-terrifying horde of demons lay crumpled on the ground, their twisted bodies still, their grotesque faces frozen in expressions of surprise. The acrid stench of sulfur and blood filled the air, sharp and biting, mingling with the metallic tang of black ichor seeping from their throats. Each demon had been struck down with surgical precision, their throats sliced cleanly, as if by an invisible blade. The hot air felt thick, almost suffocating, the cloying smell of death clinging to her skin and clothes.
Adora blinked, her heart pounding in her chest as she tried to make sense of the scene before her. She could still taste the iron tang of adrenaline on her tongue, the sharpness of battle not yet faded from her senses. Her hand clenched around her sword hilt, knuckles white, the rough leather grip digging into her palm, grounding her in the surreal reality before her. Her eyes darted from one fallen demon to the next, their once-glowing eyes now dull and lifeless. How could this have happened? They had been outnumbered, on the brink of what should have been a desperate last stand. Yet now, the enemy was vanquished, and she didn’t know why.
Then, she noticed it—a lack of a familiar sound, laughter, full and boisterous. She peered around, but could not find him. ‘I know he’s here. I summoned him a couple of minutes ago, but why can’t I hear him?’
Sir Alistair approached. Blood—not all of it his own—streaked down his face, mixing with the sweat that had dried into a sticky film on his skin. His once gleaming armor was dented and stained, the deep gashes and claw marks telling of the brutal melee that had just taken place. His sword, still gripped tightly in his hand, dripped with dark, viscous ichor. “Your Majesty, you seem perturbed.”
He surveyed the battlefield, eyes narrowed against the acrid smoke that hung heavy in the air. The ground was littered with the twisted, contorted bodies of the demons they had slain, their forms dissipating into foul-smelling ash that the wind would soon carry away. The scent of sulfur and burning flesh clung to his nostrils, making it hard to breathe. “Where is His Highness?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.” Her muscles trembled from the strain of the prolonged fight, and every bruise and cut screamed in protest. But she paid no mind to the pain; it was a familiar companion, one she had long since learned to endure. The taste of copper lingered on her tongue, a reminder of the close calls, where her teeth had clamped down hard in desperate moments.
“The battle seems to have been won with an expeditious use of a Time Stop spell.” He glanced back to her. “Did you know His Highness had it in his repertoire?”
Another shake of her head. “I didn’t. It’s not a spell that can be inscribed on a scroll.”
“Maybe he found an artifact?”
“He would have given it to me.” As she wiped a gauntleted hand across her brow, the metallic tang of blood and sweat filled her senses. A deep weariness settled into her bones, heavier than the weight of her armor. She wanted nothing more than to collapse, to let the exhaustion claim her, but there was still work to be done. She sheathed her sword with a final, grim determination. “No, it’s something different.”
With one last glance over the ruined battlefield, she turned away, Alistair following a pace behind her. Each step carried her further from the carnage, but the horrors of the fight lingered in her mind, a dark shadow that would not easily fade. Adora knew she would carry the scars of this battle for the rest of her life, both seen and unseen.