hand. “Can you move?”
Abalias coughed and wheezed. “Dammit, that big bastard with the cannon is gonna pay!” he sputtered.
“Colonel.” Graale hesitated. “He killed the others and destroyed the Hellion.” Graale’s eyes were dark with rage and his words crashed into Abalias with more force than the two cannon shells that had shattered his leg and almost ripped him in half.
“Dead?”
“I tried to kill him before he got a shot off…but I…aimed too damn low!” Graale grumbled in self-loathing and guilt as he looked away from the colonel’s blue eyes, scorching with rage and vengeance, and onto the empty floor.
“Then there’s no way off this rock. It’s just you and me and as many of these bastards as we can take with us!” The colonel struggled to his feet, wincing slightly at the dull pain in his leg while steadying himself on Graale’s arm. His gleaming ice armor encased his body once again just as the Berzerkers recovered from the blast of the Hellion and sent a blind surge of bullets zinging toward their position. “We’ll make for the center row and use the burned-out wrecks as cover from those damn cannons. We’ll strafe those sonsofbitches until we’re out of ammo, then we’ll charge into the lot of them and kill as many as we can with our bare hands!”
Graale winked a small dark eye in agreement as he unholstered his service revolver and handed it to Abalias. “I know how much you like these things and I’ll be too busy settling scores with The Guardian here,” Graale said icily as he laid a bare, rocky hand on the barrel of his cannon.
“Thanks, Sarge. I couldn’t have picked better soldiers to die with today,” the colonel said earnestly as he cocked the hammers on the eight shot revolvers. Then they both set off at a dead run between the rows of burning, decimated ships.
Chapter 11: The Dark General
T he Berzerker called Gyumak was huge. Two of his enormous tentacle arms each wrapped around the gigantic triggered handle of a smoking cannon that he cradled to his purple, fleshy body. “Destroy that ship, you useless dog!” the cruel voice of his master commanded. Gyumak didn’t speak but he understood, and he didn’t like being called a useless dog. He roared at the insult; but, even with all of his strength and ferocity, he would never defy General Killikbar.
The dark leader of the Berzerkers answered only to Helekoth, and his viciousness and cruelty were almost as well known throughout the universe as his master’s. Killikbar belonged to the race called Extollers. The trapped souls of four of his most ferocious fallen enemies hovered around him, gazing upon his victims with lidless, white eyes. Each was a sacrifice to one of Kilikbar’s four gods of war. Their torsos were clearly outlined in misty white-blue ether that faded into trailing wisps of phantasmic smoke at their waists and illuminated Killikbar in a glowing shroud of evil. Each specter was bound to the will of Killikbar and had to obey without question: the price paid by all who fell to an Extoller under the sway of the darkest magic.
Killikbar was not a giant like Gyumak, but on his hind quarters he easily stood over seven feet tall. Before he was captured by the Durax, his fur had been a majestic white, but now the blood of uncountable fallen enemies stained every part of him that wasn’t covered by his once proud armor. The brown reeking filth was crusted to his matted fur and each battle brought a new sickening, sweet coat that streaked from his huge teeth and painted his torso and limbs in gory victory. He did not use guns if he could help it: he preferred to feel his implements of death bruising flesh and breaking bones, tearing tissue and spilling blood. Thousands of scratches and nicks marred both the enormous mace clutched in his right paw and the large, curved blade at his side. “Destroy the ship or die!” Killikbar growled with animal rage, pointing the long handle of his
Abalias coughed and wheezed. “Dammit, that big bastard with the cannon is gonna pay!” he sputtered.
“Colonel.” Graale hesitated. “He killed the others and destroyed the Hellion.” Graale’s eyes were dark with rage and his words crashed into Abalias with more force than the two cannon shells that had shattered his leg and almost ripped him in half.
“Dead?”
“I tried to kill him before he got a shot off…but I…aimed too damn low!” Graale grumbled in self-loathing and guilt as he looked away from the colonel’s blue eyes, scorching with rage and vengeance, and onto the empty floor.
“Then there’s no way off this rock. It’s just you and me and as many of these bastards as we can take with us!” The colonel struggled to his feet, wincing slightly at the dull pain in his leg while steadying himself on Graale’s arm. His gleaming ice armor encased his body once again just as the Berzerkers recovered from the blast of the Hellion and sent a blind surge of bullets zinging toward their position. “We’ll make for the center row and use the burned-out wrecks as cover from those damn cannons. We’ll strafe those sonsofbitches until we’re out of ammo, then we’ll charge into the lot of them and kill as many as we can with our bare hands!”
Graale winked a small dark eye in agreement as he unholstered his service revolver and handed it to Abalias. “I know how much you like these things and I’ll be too busy settling scores with The Guardian here,” Graale said icily as he laid a bare, rocky hand on the barrel of his cannon.
“Thanks, Sarge. I couldn’t have picked better soldiers to die with today,” the colonel said earnestly as he cocked the hammers on the eight shot revolvers. Then they both set off at a dead run between the rows of burning, decimated ships.
Chapter 11: The Dark General
T he Berzerker called Gyumak was huge. Two of his enormous tentacle arms each wrapped around the gigantic triggered handle of a smoking cannon that he cradled to his purple, fleshy body. “Destroy that ship, you useless dog!” the cruel voice of his master commanded. Gyumak didn’t speak but he understood, and he didn’t like being called a useless dog. He roared at the insult; but, even with all of his strength and ferocity, he would never defy General Killikbar.
The dark leader of the Berzerkers answered only to Helekoth, and his viciousness and cruelty were almost as well known throughout the universe as his master’s. Killikbar belonged to the race called Extollers. The trapped souls of four of his most ferocious fallen enemies hovered around him, gazing upon his victims with lidless, white eyes. Each was a sacrifice to one of Kilikbar’s four gods of war. Their torsos were clearly outlined in misty white-blue ether that faded into trailing wisps of phantasmic smoke at their waists and illuminated Killikbar in a glowing shroud of evil. Each specter was bound to the will of Killikbar and had to obey without question: the price paid by all who fell to an Extoller under the sway of the darkest magic.
Killikbar was not a giant like Gyumak, but on his hind quarters he easily stood over seven feet tall. Before he was captured by the Durax, his fur had been a majestic white, but now the blood of uncountable fallen enemies stained every part of him that wasn’t covered by his once proud armor. The brown reeking filth was crusted to his matted fur and each battle brought a new sickening, sweet coat that streaked from his huge teeth and painted his torso and limbs in gory victory. He did not use guns if he could help it: he preferred to feel his implements of death bruising flesh and breaking bones, tearing tissue and spilling blood. Thousands of scratches and nicks marred both the enormous mace clutched in his right paw and the large, curved blade at his side. “Destroy the ship or die!” Killikbar growled with animal rage, pointing the long handle of his
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