Born of Darkness (William King) - William King Page 0,29

Kormak stepped over the mess of his friend’s back. The spine was snapped. Gerd’s slashed lung was visible through a rent in the flesh. A horrible sick wheezing filled the air. The abbot was already dead. His body had not quite accepted the fact yet.

There was nothing Kormak could do for the man except avenge him. He raced forward, trailing the dog, determined that this time, he would get the Old One.

***

Vorkhul bounded along on all fours, stretching his limbs, getting as much speed out of this form as he could. Behind him the largest of the dogs bellowed its stupid rage. Its hunger for blood outweighed its fear and made it careless. It saw an animal fleeing before it. Instinct told it to pull the prey down.

Behind the dog was something far more formidable; the man with the sword. He intended for the hound to slow Vorkhul so he could close and strike the killing blow.

In the confusion, the human was leaving the light behind him, moving into the darkness which was Vorkhul’s realm. It was simple. First kill the dog and then in the dark take the man.

Soon. Soon it would be time to turn on his pursuers once more.

***

From up ahead came a sudden agonised yelp. Kormak almost tripped over the corpse of Slasher. The big dog lay torn in two. A huge chunk of meat was gone from his chest. Blood pooled on the floor all around him.

The light of the torches and Rhiana’s pearl was a long way behind. From up ahead he could hear the sound of water and smell sewage. It overpowered even the stink of the dead dog’s innards.

Tension twisted his stomach. His heart raced. Out there in the darkness something watched, waiting for him to make a mistake. Following it into the dark would be suicidal. Worse—he had left Rhiana and Rodric behind him. The Old One had already doubled back once. It could do so again.

As the cold air swirled around him like the fetid breath of a great beast, it came to him that he was not the hunter here. The Old One was at home in the dark in a way he would never be. It could move faster and choose its time to strike. Already it had killed three of its pursuers. Perhaps even now it was moving to slay another.

He had been overconfident, too certain of his ability to kill it. He had led Gerd to his death. He considered the elixir in the flask on his belt. It would grant him super-human speed and strength for a few minutes, provide him with what he needed to slay his foe. If it did not kill him. If the Old One did not attack while he drank it and waited for it to take effect.

He pushed all such thoughts aside as needless distractions, as the voice of his fear. He did not need the drug. He took a deep breath to clear his mind as he had been taught to long ago on Mount Aethelas.

“Rhiana! Rodric! Leave the abbot! Get over here now!” he shouted. There was no answer. He dared not glance back to see if they were coming. In that moment of vulnerability the Old One might strike.

Long tense heartbeats passed before the lights grew brighter around him. He heard the snuffling of Fang and the footsteps of Rhiana and Rodric. He kept his gaze locked in front of him. The light drove the shadows back. He stepped forward, blade held ready, senses wound to a pitch of almost unbearable keenness.

***

Vorkhul watched the man with the sword move forward. The runes on the blade glittered darkly. The Old One saw death written in them. He could tell the man was nervous, perhaps afraid, but that his will over-rode his fear.

The human’s whole body was taut. His muscles were coiled, ready to strike. The scent of his armour made Vorkhul feel ill. Its touch would burn.

Perhaps Vorkhul could reach the human before he struck. Perhaps he could get in a fatal blow despite the mail shirt. Perhaps.

Perhaps the human was not the only one here who was afraid. A fatal promise was inscribed on that terrible weapon, spelled out in words of unbinding written in the primal language of creation. The human had struck him only a glancing blow and still the wound had not healed. Perhaps it never would. Another strike might end him.

There was a terrible asymmetry to this conflict. His pursuer wagered an