Darkin A Journey East - By Joseph A. Turkot Page 0,34
followed by Adacon. In a moment they both were standing in a wide dungeon hall ten yards high. The walls were bare, and there was no sound except for the droning crackle of torches that intermittently lit the hall.
“Look, stairs,” pointed Adacon, and they ran for a nearby staircase, their swords out and ready. They clambered up the tremendously steep staircase, Adacon leading the way. After many times around the circumference of the tower, each flight becoming increasingly vertical, they came to a foyer walled with inlaid jail cells and a path out onto the balcony. They entered into a small room laden with crimson carpet, on which stood several tables. On the tables were spilled tankards and flasks, as well as several upright beakers containing a thick brown liquid. On the wall hung what looked to be a giant decorative hammer. The slaves noticed an odd aroma, sweet yet pungent all the same. It wafted to them from the balcony entrance.
“Bulkog,” whispered Adacon.
“He must be on the balcony,” Erguile whispered back. They gripped their broadswords and quietly paced toward the balcony. The air was cool and a slight breeze rolled in from outside, carrying the odorous pipe smoke. The slaves turned a corner to face the precipice, and there they beheld the source of the aroma:
Pipe in one hand, hoary blade in the other, stood Bulkog; he appeared, however, unlike anything Adacon or Erguile thought a troll should look like. Both of them had seen illustrations of trolls, and this looked nothing like one. Bulkog was bigger in size than Erguile, almost two-thirds as big as even Slowin the golem. His skin was yellowed and dilapidated, oozing brown syrup from its pores. His head was poorly constructed, as if he had been misshapen in childbirth or beaten savagely in the face. His hair was wrapped up in leather bindings, and the mess of it that could be seen was greased and grey. He wore thick silver armor on his legs and shoulders, but his chest was bare except for a rotted black shirt. At the sight of the slaves Bulkog coughed deeply and dropped his pipe. A trickle of brown paste slipped from his lips, suspended itself in midair, and finally sagged to the stone floor of the balcony. Reaching for a sword, Bulkog spoke:
“What’s this—vile thieves of Zesm, come to steal from my hidden stores? Hold still and I will rend you both asunder—”
Adacon and Erguile began a full charge and Bulkog stepped back to parry with his long steel.
The blows fell hard, but Bulkog deflected both without effort; Adacon’s sword glanced off the troll’s shoulder armor, and Erguile’s strike was rejected by Bulkog’s own blade.
“Feel the bite of Ettlebane!” roared Bulkog, and in their recuperation from the parries, the deranged troll bolted past them back into the red foyer. Adacon and Erguile, temporarily stunned, rose again to action and gave chase. They confronted Bulkog in the foyer as he was taking down from the wall the massive hammer of war.
“Heel now to Ettlebane and Mirebane, blade and hammer of the Feral Dynast—or do not, and seek a prolonged death!” raged the drunken Bulkog, wobbling as he swung Ettlebane his sword in one hand, and Mirebane the war hammer in the other.
“Seek this,” replied Erguile cockily, and he swung violently at Bulkog’s head. Bulkog was drunk, but he retained his speed and blocked Erguile’s attack for a second time. At last Bulkog struck, flailing forward with both weapons at Erguile in a north to south swing. Erguile quickly rolled aside, diving headlong onto the floor, blood blending into the carpet as his leg grazed the steel at his ankle.
“Ahgh,” Erguile moaned, slowly regaining his feet. Bulkog stood over him ready to finish when Adacon came from behind; his sword bit directly into Bulkog’s shoulder, just between where his armor met his neck.
Adacon tried desperately to remove his sword from Bulkog’s shoulder but it wouldn’t budge; the cut had been a severe depth and the blade was buried in muscle. Bulkog twisted around to face him, and Adacon lost grip on his sword. He recoiled in fright, cowering with his arms over his face.
“Time to die, you rotten human; feel the death pang of Feral steel,” Bulkog bellowed as blood oozed down his chest from the fresh wound. Raising his hammer high over Adacon’s head, the mallet descended; Erguile had rolled near, and as the hammer fell, he stabbed down fiercely into Bulkog’s