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A Stalker's Game (Short Story) Page 5

ignored the older dwarf’s words, lunged, stabbing the honed tip at the top of the mace into a shin. The Stalker wobbled, jumped around until he latched onto branches for stabilization, but by the time the Stalker claimed his footing, two maces sought his demise.

  The assault sounded brutal and unforgiving, with dreadful cries loosed into the freezing wind.

  Rogelius turned to locate Tom, yet through the shuffle of snow and blood, not a trace of his body endured.

  Tom aimed for surprise, but the crunch of older snow gave away his position. Rogelius whirled around, parried the longsword, countered with an onslaught of his own until the blade went flying from Tom’s intense grip.

  “I’ve never seen such a fierce warrior,” Rogelius admitted. “How did you fall at The Battle of Hell?” Distracted, the dwarf allowed Tom to recover, leaping back, drawing his sai. The dwarf grunted, laughed with felicity, raised the hafts of his weapons and twirled them.

  Tom struck first, but the dwarf repelled with equal ferocity. “That is compared to me of course.” The dwarf beamed a great smile, boasting his confidence. Rogelius advanced quicker than Tom anticipated for the dwarf’s bulk, swung for his torso and made contact with the armor.

  A subdued pressure was all Tom noticed, at least for the first meeting. The second and third contacts caused much more pain.

  The dwarf, who thirsted for recognition, had a chance at the grand title to bear for an entire year. Not to mention the assurance that his seed would produce a new generation of House Tirranus, over which he would rule as Dwarflord. He pressed his attack even more, pummeling the armor, and Tom underneath. A flurry of swings flattened Tom, who collided with the snow, creating a massive indent around him.

  Powder danced in the air, disturbing their eyesight.

  Tom tracked down the wide figure, observed that the snow did the dwarf no favors, nestled in his moderate bristly beard and eyebrows, clumping together. Tom no longer intended silence, but speed; he dashed from Rogelius’ side, standing well over the dwarf’s height. The sai penetrated the thick wrists from above, and immediately the dwarf dropped his weapons.

  Withdrawing, Tom impelled the dwarf to his knees, clutching the massive head between his forearm, bicep, and chest. A sai hovered near the dwarf’s neck, grazing the pale skin from time to time.

  “Please—please, I want to live.” Rogelius’ plea startled Tom. Dwarves were not known to grant or accept clemency.

  Tom looked on ahead, distant. He saw his own family, his wife and two little girls. The faces without names that endured in memories of times and places that existed, even when they did not. False characters implanted in his mind to give him a sense of fidelity and love. Something to cling to while away from home, and stir a goal within him, a goal to support without fail or question.

  “I’m firstborn, the heir of House Tirranus. I can free you.”

  Without hearing, Tom gazed on longingly. They were not dead; they had never existed at all. Yet, he remembered their imprinted warmth. His golden-haired daughters bundled up in his arms while out in his frosty yard. Pale-green and cobalt orbs gazed lovingly into his own, yearning to be comforted by their father’s presence. Their exuberant smiles, filled with cheerful creases that went from ear to ear, showing off all of their bleached teeth, sparkling in the sunlight. His wife’s cozy cuddling, wrapped up in dense blankets; her rich chestnut hair flowed down the crest of her back in windy locks while her bouffant bangs styled up and back in a small lump, as the sides of her curls clung to her face, lightly grazing her sunbathed skin.

  All nothing but visions that interminably haunted him.

  His stomach rebelled, weakened by his memories. His muscles switched from stable to trembling. His nerves skipped all over his body.

  “Please,” Rogelius stammered, terror-struck, knowing the armor’s previous incapability to free a victim from death.

  Through pink, puffy eyes, Tom watched his family transform into stubby figures of dwarves, retaining the same faces.

  “I can’t,” Tom mumbled. His words were feeble, almost inaudible.

  The implacable impulse to travel west returned. Tom’s dithering ceased. The hand threatening the dwarf’s life plunged forward; the prongs perforated the tough skin, all aligned with precision of the weapon. From the three holes, the dwarf’s blood drained onto the canvas of snow, soaking the area in deep crimson.

  Tom added the contents from his breakfast. Another casualty added to his conscience

  The armor did not allow him to regain his focus, but resumed its course to a destination unknown.

  A faint, sparse trail of blood led up to his body from the east. Tom lay in soft snow, facing the sky. He discerned clouds shifting, reshaping into various monsters, and periodically, his family. The cold weather and damage from the mines did nothing for his respiration. His breaths were shallow. His body idled, exhausted with a tingle spreading throughout his cooling blood.

  “I think I’ve got something over here,” a sonorous voice shouted. Soon, a large round face stared into Tom’s eyes, with a shaggy red beard suspended from a stone chin, its owner proud of its length. “It’s him all right.”

  More faces surrounded him and blocked out the sun and sky. After a moment, recognizable features moved the rest of the faces aside. “Thought you could get away?” Tirranus spoke in a harsh, withered voice. “How you made it this far west and survived two nights out here is beyond me; how you killed my pluperfect heir is an even bigger question.”

  Tom opened his mouth to talk, but coughed instead. “What . . .” He trailed off but found his voice again. “What’s happening to me?”

  “Did you really think we would let loose our stock without assurances? We’ve bound you with food from day one. Everything you eat has The Spice in it, you can’t live more than three days without it.”

  “Not possible,” Tom exclaimed; then he burst into a coughing fit.

  The other dwarves laughed, the surprise in Tom’s voice gave them great amusement.

  “Take him away, lads,” the Dwarflord commanded. “I’ll put him in The Mortal Ring until he fails to draw breath, and I get a satisfaction that gems simply can’t give.” His Master displayed a gleeful expression, in high spirits that he found his stock before Tom’s ineluctable expiration.

  Tom shuddered as the guards lifted him. “I can’t . . .” He tried to finish but bit his lip unintentionally. With blood filling his mouth, he spoke softly, “Kill again.” Heavy eyes closed. Darkness struck that no light dared to enter, and only one thought lingered in his mind that made him wish his life were at an end, one designation that plagued his restless body with a driving feeling that suppressed all others . . . westward.

  Westward.

  The End

  If you enjoyed A Stalker’s Game, read the events that led up to it, in my debut novel: Life Descending (The Cry of Havoc, Book 1).

  Read it for free: click here. If you’ve finished and enjoyed Life Descending, continue the story with Darkness Devouring (The Cry of Havoc, Book 2).

  About the Author

  Born 1988, John Hennessy became entranced by the world of fantasy and sci-fi at a young age, playing video games and reading books for many long nights/early mornings. He recently graduated from Western Washington University, and now lives in the Rose Lands of Portland, OR, at work finishing The Road to Extinction Trilogy. Visit his website at: https://www.johnhennessy.net.

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