Adrenaline surged, infusing fury into his bulk. Iron screeched in rusted agony as he mangled the trap into a twisted sculpture of scrap metal.
The hunters required dealing with.
Vildar lead his band though the trees in an ale-inspired totter. The men reeked of the cheap drink and made no attempt to conceal their approach.
“Vildar!” The Beast hurled the twisted trap at Vildar’s bulbous head. The hunter ducked at the last second, narrowly avoiding the heavy projectile. The man behind him was not as fortunate. The trap smashed into his chest, bludgeoning his breath free. The gasping man went down in heap, his battle over before he knew it had begun.
Vildar slurred instruction to his equally inebriated henchmen. Two men fumbled for crossbows and fired wild shots as they staggered. The Beast stood his ground, allowing the quarrels to sail harmlessly by. He closed the gap in a frightening eye-blink, swatting the bowmen away with powerful backhands.
A hunter in a filthy brown cloak slashed at the Beast’s back, tearing through cloak and fur. The Beast stomped around and roared into the man’s face, shaking free the sword in his grasp. The terrified hunter fell to his rump and clawed at the snow, scrambling madly for escape. The Beast’s jaw clenched. “Coward.”
He seized the man by a handful of tunic, raising him a child’s height from the ground. The Beast’s gaze locked with the hunter’s, delivering an eternal warning. He tossed the shaking rogue onto his disabled friends. Vildar clutched a throwing dagger, staring at the Beast’s unprotected flank.
“Don’t even consider it,” the Beast called over his shoulder.
Vildar dropped the dagger, turned and ran. He trudged through the snow, stumbled and fell. Warm fluid trickled down his leg. He swam through a drift and ran off into the woods. The Beast picked up Vildar’s shameful scent. His laugh rolled over the tree tops like angry thunder. “Run, you gutless puke!” the Beast roared triumphantly, “ Run, for the Beast of Briarburn will forever be at your back!”
A calm fell over the forest and the Beast kicked at Vildar’s blade. Right back where I started . Out of habit, he reached for the medallion. A soft whisper called out to him. “She needs you now, more than ever.”
The Beast spun to the sound, crouching defensively. He panned around, considering every angle of attack. “Show yourself!” A frosty wind sifted through the tree line, carrying the whisper to his perked ears.
“He has taken her to Meridian...”
Chapter 13
Battle standards flapped with mounting excitement atop the Nekropolis’s shadowy spires. The tattered flags bore the Liche Queen’s sigil: a silver skull impaled by a trio of serrated blades. Where the Pierced Skull went, despair soon followed.
A dense palisade of petrified trees weaved into a perimeter wall that cast perpetual shadow onto the accursed grounds. Five towers snatched at the sky like a twisted, black hand fingering an invisible orb. The bitter wood creaked always, contorted by the painful designs of the castle’s mistress. It was a blight upon the once living land it occupied. It was the Liche Queen’s most prized treasure.
The Liche Queen herself stood on the peak of the highest tower, surveying her domain. She waved her hand, dragging a patch of dark clouds in front of the sun, plunging the land into shadow. The milky swirl of her eyes relaxed. She disdained the light and all of its pitiful creation.
She had selected the location of the castle herself, inspired by the sprawling decay of the petrified forest covering the country-side. So moved by the deathly spectre, she had summoned forth from the rock a fortress built in their image. The Nekropolis’s main gate faced west, in firm defiance of the sunrise. A deep chasm stretched for miles into the horizon, offering protection beyond the formidable walls.
Spanning the gorge was a bridge renowned for inspiring as much fear as the
The hunters required dealing with.
Vildar lead his band though the trees in an ale-inspired totter. The men reeked of the cheap drink and made no attempt to conceal their approach.
“Vildar!” The Beast hurled the twisted trap at Vildar’s bulbous head. The hunter ducked at the last second, narrowly avoiding the heavy projectile. The man behind him was not as fortunate. The trap smashed into his chest, bludgeoning his breath free. The gasping man went down in heap, his battle over before he knew it had begun.
Vildar slurred instruction to his equally inebriated henchmen. Two men fumbled for crossbows and fired wild shots as they staggered. The Beast stood his ground, allowing the quarrels to sail harmlessly by. He closed the gap in a frightening eye-blink, swatting the bowmen away with powerful backhands.
A hunter in a filthy brown cloak slashed at the Beast’s back, tearing through cloak and fur. The Beast stomped around and roared into the man’s face, shaking free the sword in his grasp. The terrified hunter fell to his rump and clawed at the snow, scrambling madly for escape. The Beast’s jaw clenched. “Coward.”
He seized the man by a handful of tunic, raising him a child’s height from the ground. The Beast’s gaze locked with the hunter’s, delivering an eternal warning. He tossed the shaking rogue onto his disabled friends. Vildar clutched a throwing dagger, staring at the Beast’s unprotected flank.
“Don’t even consider it,” the Beast called over his shoulder.
Vildar dropped the dagger, turned and ran. He trudged through the snow, stumbled and fell. Warm fluid trickled down his leg. He swam through a drift and ran off into the woods. The Beast picked up Vildar’s shameful scent. His laugh rolled over the tree tops like angry thunder. “Run, you gutless puke!” the Beast roared triumphantly, “ Run, for the Beast of Briarburn will forever be at your back!”
A calm fell over the forest and the Beast kicked at Vildar’s blade. Right back where I started . Out of habit, he reached for the medallion. A soft whisper called out to him. “She needs you now, more than ever.”
The Beast spun to the sound, crouching defensively. He panned around, considering every angle of attack. “Show yourself!” A frosty wind sifted through the tree line, carrying the whisper to his perked ears.
“He has taken her to Meridian...”
Chapter 13
Battle standards flapped with mounting excitement atop the Nekropolis’s shadowy spires. The tattered flags bore the Liche Queen’s sigil: a silver skull impaled by a trio of serrated blades. Where the Pierced Skull went, despair soon followed.
A dense palisade of petrified trees weaved into a perimeter wall that cast perpetual shadow onto the accursed grounds. Five towers snatched at the sky like a twisted, black hand fingering an invisible orb. The bitter wood creaked always, contorted by the painful designs of the castle’s mistress. It was a blight upon the once living land it occupied. It was the Liche Queen’s most prized treasure.
The Liche Queen herself stood on the peak of the highest tower, surveying her domain. She waved her hand, dragging a patch of dark clouds in front of the sun, plunging the land into shadow. The milky swirl of her eyes relaxed. She disdained the light and all of its pitiful creation.
She had selected the location of the castle herself, inspired by the sprawling decay of the petrified forest covering the country-side. So moved by the deathly spectre, she had summoned forth from the rock a fortress built in their image. The Nekropolis’s main gate faced west, in firm defiance of the sunrise. A deep chasm stretched for miles into the horizon, offering protection beyond the formidable walls.
Spanning the gorge was a bridge renowned for inspiring as much fear as the
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