A Stalker's Game (Short Story) Page 4
An unfamiliar sound hit their ears, too quick for reaction. Tom’s eyes darted all around; finally, they fell upon Stevens again. Two large circular holes were visible in the man’s chest, a third shot right through his dirt-covered head, bringing his full weight forward to the snow.
Tom froze in thought; he recalled little of elfish weapons, mainly because there was little to recall. No one knew of their secrets, hiding behind their all-encompassing wall.
Fear of the unknown rattled his senses.
A bloodcurdling roar rushed Tom’s ears.
From out of the trees, a dwarf leapt toward him like a spinning barrel. An ax clashed with his shoulder as he fell, sliced into the metal, but did not penetrate to his skin. He twirled until he met the blood of Stevens. He rolled away with a heavy push, stood, and about-faced his recovered opponent, who snarled like a canine.
The deaths of his fellow slaves did not drive Tom into a rage. No, truly he did not care for them, not anymore at least. But now, as his eyes locked with the dwarf, a murderous wrath swelled within his boiling blood. Imprisoned against all control, now released with the liberty to strike his adversary, he fueled the armor with his rage, the suit’s very life force.
The dwarf carried two single-edged axes, rotated them in the air and grinned joyously. “Looks like I’ll be the one to conquer The Cursed, and not that wretched son of Tirranus.” The dwarf did not dawdle with more words; he lunged forth, striking up with his right, and ready to block with his left.
Tom stepped rearward, shoulder curved back, out of harm’s way. He reached for his opponent’s down wrist, seized, then squeezed with crippling force. The dwarf brought his other hand down, but Tom expected such a maneuver, grabbed the exposed wrist and repeated. The dwarf knelt in Tom’s clutches and used his head as though a battering ram on Tom’s lower abdomen and crotch.
Nothing. The armor, a shell of destruction, cracked the dwarf’s head. Even so, the dwarf raised himself from his knees once Tom released his grip.
Westward drew the armor’s focus, more important than dragging out the duel, though from the battles in The Mortal Ring, Tom discovered it loved long, drawn out scenes of death. Something he did not normally have the stomach for, and showed a couple of times with vomit on the bloody sand in the coliseum. Everyday he descended further into the abyss of absoluteness, filled with an aversion to all things. In every kill, he capitulated to the desires of the armor, losing the affections that once emanated from his heart.
The dwarf charged with primed fists. Tom stepped away, let the dwarf run his course, then as the shorter figure passed, he took hold of the dwarf’s neck. The gauntlet twisted, snapped, a few distinct pops sounded in the quick movement.
Tom left the dwarf on the ground, sprinting toward a call he could not hear.
His weighty footsteps did not make it ten meters before another dwarf launched an assault of blows on the armor with a Raven’s beak, each connecting mid-back and below. He fell to his knees from the force. Without pain, he somersaulted away, unsheathing the longsword in the process. The armor lifted the weapon in defense, awaiting the attack.
The dwarf unclipped his leather helmet, threw it to the ground, revealing a bushy clump of red hair. Sweat cooled on the snow, raining from his face; a heart full of hatred gushed with heat. With steady legs, the dwarf advanced, well practiced in combat.
Tom received the onslaught in kind, parrying the war hammer with grace. Through his elevating fury, the armor worked toward the same end, giving skill where he lacked in training. Ultimately, the armor grew bored with the engagement. He noticed that the dwarves were not built for the cold, not for fighting in anyway. Without their heavy armor that he saw regularly, their second skin demonstrated its insufficiency, though none of the dwarves planned for a sincere fight to the death. Not with elfish technology.
The sword pierced a knee. Tom withdrew, stabbed a shoulder, then, at a forty-five degree angle, the neck.
The armor marched on.
Cold did not penetrate the suit, but rather kept him at a comfortable temperature in the bleak environment. Air flowed through the small opening in the helm and gave his skin breathing room; the armor absorbed the sweat and exuded a cloud of steam. Despite the armor’s efforts to sustain him, confinement gnawed at him, forever trapped in a world of bloodshed.
The whizzing returned. Tom retreated behind two thick trees, scanned the surrounding. Nothing. From behind, a sharp warm pain shot up his leg. He glanced down at his calves. In his right protruded another dart, dissimilar from the others, with a thick body marked with tiny holes. Gas emitted from the openings with an unusual pressurized sound.
Seconds later, the capsule began to spin, whining. Shocked, Tom found himself thrown another four meters or more. The explosion buried him in snow. The armor dug its way out only to be hit again. Another three meters west and two south, suffocating in powder.
A gauntlet reached out to grab a thick branch. Using the sturdy pine, Tom pulled himself to the open air.
He ran.
All around him, scads of trees fell, burst into fire, and threw limbs wildly. The tree-inhabited slopes provided minute cover from the bombardment, even with small smoke clouds rising about, so he ran up the mountain, jumping over fallen logs, then crossed east to find his hunter.
Without their tankards, the dwarves became undetectable, lost in the enormous snowscape. The elfish weapons left no traces to follow either. Tom sat, covered himself with snow in a tree well, waited for signs with extreme patience, ready to strike. Shooting pains attacked his leg and up to his mid-back. Silence was hard to maintain.
Two minutes later, a dwarf ambled cautiously across the slope, focusing on the west, but scanning all angles for safety. A few meters down the slope, another dwarf surveyed the scene.
As a trained Scout, Tom had acquired very few real fighting techniques; his job of observation and report involved little engagement. But the armor bested every blow, plotting in his mind, unconsciously. An urge overcame him.
The first dwarf hit the snow, a sai rested through his hair-infested head. His comrade noticed right away, spotted the distinct, indelible weapon, and faded behind a group of pines. Tom waited for the false move, the inevitable mistake that the dwarf would make. The armor’s capacity for restraint astounded him.
A bushy chestnut beard arrived from out of the trees next to the corpse, not the companion of the departed dwarf, but an addition to the group. He examined the body and studied the area. The companion did not make an appearance. Dwarves, well known for their greed, became even more avaricious in a contest, for a shared title meant little. Tom doubted they would extinguish one another, though. Most dwarves were not enemies with each other, but they would put themselves over competition, making sure an opponent ended up under someone else’s axe.
The dwarf hustled away, vigilant.
The companion dwarf trotted up the slope, from tree to tree, eyeing the other Stalker.
The armor saw the opening, broke loose from the snow, rushed over several logs, drew the longsword, and brought it down with great speed.
The dwarf wore a face full of surprise, but quickly compensated for his lack of awareness, deflecting the sword with the long barrel of the dart-launcher. Tom tried again, this time breaking the dwarf’s hold on the weapon. The third strike ripped through the leather armor, splitting the dwarf’s skull.
Tom reclaimed his sai, then retrieved and inspected the dart-launcher. A single, sleek black tube connected to a silver mechanical contraption, fused with pieces of weightless wood. Never before had he seen such a weapon, nor did he have an idea how to operate the machine, so he buried it in a tree well, out of sight from more capable hands.
Remorse ate at his stomach, something the armor could not attenuate. Every kill worsened the feeling without sign of relief. Tremors judged his actions, condemning him. He shook and shook, bile accumulated in his mouth until forced to spit, which lingered, slowly dripping down his chin and neck underneath his helm.
A boot stamped his back. In a tumble, Tom rolled into the tree well, felt the warmth of metal in his shoulder, and then its absence. The clever Stalker eyed Tom as he climbed out of a small pit, charged again, but was deflected.
The knife flung from the dwarf’s grasp.
Tom swung at the seemingly unarmed Stalker.
With a grunt, the dwarf stopped the sword with the shaft of a heavy two-handed war hammer. The Stalker forced Tom back a step, recovered, swung low and caught Tom’s left foot.
Tom saw the shivering clouds that passed overhead; he tried putting his feet under him, but the hammer met his helm and knocked him facedown.
The dwarf raised the giant weapon, sighted his target.
“Stop, peasant!” a voice demanded. The dwarf hesitated, but eventually complied.
“Peasant!” the Stalker yelled, riled. “I am no peasant.” He primed himself for the worst.
“To me you are.” Rogelius appeared from behind thick, snow-drenched branches. “This one is mine, peasant.” He gripped the hafts of two sound maces, twirled them with malevolence, and grinned superciliously.
“You overstep your station, child.” The Stalker’s long plaited beard tripled the length of Rogelius’ puny, almost stubble growth. “Even your father wouldn’t dare.”
Full of temerity, Rogelius