Untold Tales (7 page)

The berserker lowered his targe, shook off the remains with a jerk, and roared the Lore as he swung his hammer against the base of the tree, channeling the untamed weave through the rune-etched head. The ground shook, the deadfall groaned, and with a final surge of strength, Oenghus Saevaldr charged the tree, slamming his shoulder against the base. The blow tipped the ancient pine off its foundations. The ground gave up its roots and its crown toppled towards the gorge. Ripped from the earth, the pine plummeted into darkness and stopped with a deafening crash, its crown wedged against the opposite side of the chasm.

In one smooth sweep, Oenghus swung his targe over his back, reversed his hammer grip, and leapt into the pit. Air reached out to grab the giant, an unbearable foe that swirled around him like a mad dervish. His boots hit bark, knees buckled, and he slid. He twisted, driving the hammer’s spike into the fallen tree. The spike shredded and slipped and then caught, jerking his shoulder, but his grip held fast.

Oenghus dangled over nothingness. The air was dark and cold, and if not for the sliver of sunlight high overhead, he would have thought himself blind. Gritting his teeth, he heaved, pulling his bulk towards the slanted tree. He reached up with his left, and searched. There, a knot. He hooked a finger into the hold and pulled himself up, scrambling onto the swaying trunk.

With a twist, he wrenched the spike from the bark and balanced on the precarious bridge, half slipping, half sliding his way towards the opposite side of the chasm.

The top of the pine was wedged in a crevice that it had gouged from the wall. On this side of the divide, there were no maggots, no waxy earth—no sign of the taint. On the far side, however, the Spawn was drawn like moths to a flame, thirsting for the Goddess of All.

Oenghus hooked his hammer on his belt and gripped the rock wall with hands that had been hewn from granite. As long as there was a crevice, an edge, or even friction, his strength held. He climbed, moving swiftly from one foothold to handhold, until he came to a vertical crack in the cliff face. It was as good as a ladder to the Nuthaanian. He curled his fingers, making a fist, and wedged his hand into the crack. One fist after another, rapidly climbing down into nothingness until his boot touched a flat rock.

This far down, the temperature plummeted with the earth and the sun was as slender as a crescent moon above. Trickling water and the creaking of ice reached his ears. A frozen river.

Oenghus unslung his targe, slipped his arm through the straps and flexed, tucking his shield arm close to his body.
Gurthang’s
familiar weight rested in his right hand as he waited, letting his eyesight adjust. He had a hunter’s sight, and it rarely failed him in the night. But even down here, in the depths of the earth, with sunlight so distant, foliage grew. Darkwood glowed softly red in the gloom. Black leaves greedily soaked what little light bled through the crack above, and on this side of the river, the stunted trees thrived. The other side of the bank was lost to his sight.

Oenghus moved upriver, towards the mountains, and the recent avalanche. The sharp scent of decay crawled down his throat, sitting heavily in his stomach, tugging relentlessly at his innards. It was rot and death and he followed the stench as he climbed over the rocky bank. The darkwood illuminated a curving shape, like towering fingers reaching towards the others.

He stopped, studying the shape, trying to make sense of the shadows in the red glow. A slurping, sucking, hungry sound insinuated itself between the creak of ice.

All at once, his mind clicked, and he took a step back. The shapes were not fingers, but ribs—a ribcage of monstrous proportions. And currently, the Spawn was crawling over the half buried carcass. Something seeped down the ribs like ooze and a shadow slowly took form—not the boulder he had thought it was at first but a skull—the skull of a fiend. The source of the taint.

Oenghus held himself very still.

The bones moved, rock shifted, and a tremor roiled under the intruder’s boots. Ever so slowly, Oenghus took a step back. And then another. An icy blue glow lit the crevice like a beacon as a single eye flared to life in the socket of a gruesome visage. The tainted sought life, but the Void consumed the spirit, and the once-god’s spirit, although ancient, was strong and full of life. It sensed his presence.

The Spawn swarmed over the skull, slithering under the tattered remains of flesh, wrapping around bone like sinew. The massive jaws snapped shut. The sound filled his ears and stole his breath. The earth trembled as the skeletal fiend shifted and stirred, rising with a slow purposeful grate.

A towering, undead foe filled the crevice, shaking loose ice and rock. Oenghus did what any self-respecting berserker would do—he uncorked his flask and took a long, bold swig. Fire sped through his veins, searing his bones until the blood in his body threatened to burst from his pores. A roar ripped from his throat and the berserker slammed his hammer against shield, sparking lightning.

The Void-tainted fiend moved with a swarm of maggots, scraping the river of ice with jagged bones. Oenghus charged the monstrosity. Lightning crackled in the gorge, blasting an appendage. Maggots flew into the air, but they reformed as he reached the base, swinging his hammer at a leg. Calling it a leg was laughable. The spirit of the fiend did not care what shape it took or what bone it used—as long as it devoured.

Oenghus pounded his hammer into the monster, beating back blows and catching others on his targe. The realm narrowed until only a moment existed in the red haze of battle.

A strike blind-sided the berserker. He flew through the air and hit stone. Instinct propelled him to the side, and he moved, throwing himself off an overhang as a massive hoof slammed into the rock. A sword sized talon came down, and he caught it on his shield. The screech of metal filled his ears, wood splintered, and the fiend drew back, ripping the shield from his arm.

Blood filled his senses. His forearm throbbed, and he let the pain feed his fury. Oenghus gripped
Gurthang
with both hands as an appendage whipped towards him. He cracked the head of the hammer into a crushing femur, batting it back. The bone shattered from the impact.

Again, Oenghus struck the fiend. The Swarm regrouped, reformed, and the fiend sprouted eight limbs that moved like tentacles. All of them struck at once, driving Oenghus back, step by precarious step, as he cleaved and hewed, straining to keep his feet until his back hit stone. Four bone tentacles stood poised, rattling like a snake, gathering strength for the final strike. With a rush of air, the fiend drove its limbs at the berserker.

Oenghus dove, felt the bite of razors and the pound of air. The chasm shook as the tentacles pierced the rocky wall. He threw his arms around the nearest limb, gripping the spiny vertebrae before it jerked upwards. When it did, he was yanked off his feet and
Gurthang
slipped from his bloody hands.

All was a blur, and all was pain as the tentacle sought to dislodge him, slamming him against the cliff. He held tight, ignoring the maggots swarming over his flesh, searching for a kink in his armor weave. As he rose ever higher, towards the fiendish skull, Oenghus roared the Lore and the Gift surged through his hands, sending a shockwave pulsing into the bones. The maggots withered and shrank back, abandoning the bones. The tentacle on which he clung collapsed.

Oenghus hit the frozen river with a crack. He surged to his feet, racing towards the fiend’s legs and seized the closest, climbing up the thick bone with a surge of speed. Claws raked at the pest, tearing flesh, but Oenghus was lost in the haze of bloodlust, and every blow only fueled his rage. He reached the ribs and climbed inside the cage, slipping on carrion. A shriveled, decaying hide draped the remaining innards like a sagging tent. With a shout, Oenghus sent a bolt of lightning into the center of rot. It sizzled, the maggots recoiled, and for a moment, a pale heart pulsed in his line of sight. Blackness oozed from the dead flesh.

Without weapon or shield, Oenghus was far from helpless. He gripped the end of a rib and heaved. It resisted. A slice of heat ripped down his back. The pain was enough. Muscles bulged, and with a roar, the rib snapped. He stumbled back, catching himself on a knob of bone. Oenghus hurled another bolt towards the heart of the fiend, lighting a tunnel with energy, opening a path through the tainted carrion. At the same instant, he drew back his arm, and brought it forward, hurling the sliver of bone.

The pointed rib fragment struck the heart, and Oenghus’ world heaved as the fiend spasmed. The Swarm converged, seeking to protect what was most vulnerable—the source, the last remnant of the Void-tainted fiend.

As the monster thrashed, Oenghus leapt from the carcass, hit the ice, and slid. He scrambled and slipped as the bone fiend stabbed its pinchers in fury. In the darkness, amid the fading spark of spirit still clinging to this realm, Oenghus’ fingers closed around a familiar haft. Runes flared to life at his touch, and he stood, turning to face his towering foe. With a roar that shook the cliffs, he drove his hammer into the ice. A splinter turned into a crack, and then two, the ice fractured, spreading like a spider’s web from the focal point of power.

The frozen river gave way as the bone fiend clawed and thrashed for purchase, but there was nothing to support its weight. It fell into the water. Oenghus ran, leaping from one island of ice to the next, striving to keep his balance. One slip, one misstep, and he would plunge into the deep Fjord with the fiend.

Icy water splashed on his leg, and the world fell. He leapt, hit solid stone, and rolled. Without pause, he stood, turned to the cliffs and called to the mountain above—to the ancient stone. His booming voice stirred the earth like a quake. The rock recognized the life that had been hewn from its own by a crack of lightning. Boulders tumbled, and the great glaciers above shifted, thundering from the heights, falling into the chasm and slamming into the Void-fiend, driving it into the depths of the dark river.

When the roar subsided, and its echo died, Oenghus Saevaldr stood in silence, gazing at the churning water. Summoning his strength, he raised his hands and brought them together with a booming clap. The sides of the chasm crumbled, filling the river, burying the Void-fiend beneath a mountain of earth.

A
STREAK
OF
lightning reached out of the chasm towards the sky and a roar burst into the valley, shaking the ground beneath Farin Thatcher’s feet. He scrambled away from the gorge, from the broken tree, and would have run all the way back to the castle, if it had not been for Knight Captain Keeling’s hand clamping down on his shoulder.

“We’re not going down there, are we?” Farin’s voice was not as steady as he would have liked. Only a madman would venture into a Scar.

“Haven’t you heard the saying, Sergeant?” Keeling asked. The Knight Captain’s voice was as cool as iron. “Never follow a berserker. We have another mission.”

“What might that be, sir?”

“The witch you found—she’s enchanted the Nuthaanian. He is not right in his head.”

Were berserkers ever right in the head? Farin kept his mouth shut. As if to emphasize his thought, the earth began to quake and a section of the chasm caved in by the mountain’s base. The two men retreated, stumbling away from the edge. The earth did not relent. And thunder rumbled in their ears. It came from the pit, not the clear sky.

“But what about the taint?” Farin yelled over the rumbling.

“If the berserker stops it, then all the better.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

Keeling looked to Farin. “We have the other Wise One.”

Farin looked away, towards the Scar. The Knight Captain was not suggesting that the kindly healer go down into the chasm—he was suggesting that they use her to leave the valley. As much as leaving appealed to Farin, he would not abandon his men.

“And what if he does?” he asked in a lull of shaking.

“We are to make sure that he does not return to the castle. Shoot on sight, Sergeant, and make good on your blunder. You should have never brought the witch into our midst.”

Farin clenched his jaw, and nodded. And then they spoke no more, the earth roared, and both men were jarred from their feet. Farin fell onto the waxy earth and nearly lost his stomach as the Swarm responded to the touch of his unwarded skin. He scrambled upright as if he had been burnt, and staggered to a grouping of rocks that sat like an island in a sea of bleakness.

A slab cracked from the mountain and a great avalanche of ice and rock tumbled into the gorge. Farin could only watch, praying to the Guardians that the ground did not open up under his feet and swallow him whole. He feared the worst, when the surrounding earth ruptured like a bloated corpse, exposing the innards to daylight. Farin lost his stomach to the stench. But it did not last long, the Spawn shriveled and dried beneath the sun.

When silence settled on the valley, Farin opened his eyes. He found himself clinging to a boulder like a cat on a log in the middle of a river. Ice and earth swirled in the air. He coughed, squinting through the hazy afternoon.