Born of Darkness (William King) - William King Page 0,52

was not that the speed of the battle had slowed down, but that his ability to apprehend what was going on had increased. His hurts were fading away. He could no longer feel his bruises, only a slight numbness on his flesh where they had been. He felt stronger and all nervousness and fear sloughed away from him. He was invincible. There was nothing to fear from the Old One no matter how powerful his magical armour made him. He had slain many such foes in his time. Surely this would be but one more.

A small part of Kormak’s mind recognised these thoughts as a species of madness, as much a side effect of the drug as his speeded perceptions or his numbed flesh. Somehow he managed to refrain from throwing himself forward into the maelstrom of battle. No matter how strong he felt, he knew the Old One was stronger.

Nonetheless it was his duty to fight, to protect the others from the demon. “Vorkhul,” he bellowed. “Turn and face me.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

KORMAK CHARGED TOWARDS the Old One. He aimed a cut at its neck. The dwarf-forged blade clanged into the armour. Slivers of metal flew off the point of impact. The sound of the blow resonated like a bell.

The axe swept towards him, trailing bands of green light. He stepped away, knowing better than to attempt a parry despite how strong he felt. The axe-blade whipped by, a finger’s breadth away from his face.

Encouraged by his stand more soldiers threw themselves forward, and were reduced to bloody pulp. Kormak shouted for them to keep clear.

He struck another blow, aiming for the runestone in the centre of the breastplate. Vorkhul raised an arm to block the blow then lashed out with his fist.

Kormak eluded the strike. He spotted a potential weak spot at the elbow joint of the armour and brought his blade down on it. Sparks flew but his blow had no effect.

Vorkhul returned to the offensive. He rained down blow after blow, forcing the Guardian back towards the milling soldiers. Kormak ducked low and aimed a sweeping blow at the back of Vorkhul’s knee.

This time he managed to find a weak spot. The blade slashed through a gap in the armour. The force of the Old One’s movement ripped it from Kormak’s grip.

He faced the Old One without his most potent weapon. The terrified soldiers were at last retreating from the burning building. He was alone and unarmed against the most dangerous foe he had ever faced.

Even through the euphoric confidence of Valen’s Elixir Kormak felt the worm of fear gnawing at his heart.

***

Screaming agony surged through Vorkhul’s leg where the edge of the Khazduri blade made contact. He altered his form, letting it flow away from the weapon, pulling it clear out of the leg of the armour, not wanting to let it touch him.

He was unbalanced, his movement restricted. He reached down to pull the weapon from the knee joint of the battle-suit. If only he could get it free he would be safe and his opponent would be unable to hurt him.

***

Kormak saw the Old One bend to remove the blade. For a moment Vorkhul was off-balance. He sprang forward, aiming all his weight at the metal form, tipping it to the ground. Kormak had the sunflare in his hand and his dagger in the other.

He jammed the dagger into the armour’s faceplate. With a heave of his drug-enhanced muscles he prised it open. He activated the sunflare, pushed it in and slammed the faceplate shut once more.

***

Vorkhul felt himself fall and wondered what the human was up to. No matter. He pulled the blade from his leg-piece. All he had to do was rise up and crush the man.

The visor of the faceplate rose. A sharp blade entered aimed at his eye. He pulled his flesh away from the point of the dagger until he realised that the human’s puny weapon could barely scratch him. The mortal must be mad with fear to even attempt such a thing.

Burning light exploded in front of his eyes. He was blinded and dazzled and in pain from the sunflare. He constricted his form deeper into the armour, compressing it, seeking to get away from the blaze. Trapped within the armour there was no escape.

***

Kormak bend over and picked up the dwarf-forged blade. It felt like regaining a part of himself. With all his strength, he drove it into the runestone in the middle of the chestplate. The magical gem shattered, revealing the fitting into which it had been mounted. Kormak drove his blade right through the gap. He heard the sizzle of Old One flesh as the sword made contact, smelled the death-stink, watched as black fluid leaked from the gaps in the armour.

***

Searing pain blazed through Vorkhul. No matter how he tried to writhe away he was caught by the runes of that devil blade.

No. No. He could not die. Not now. Not so close to victory.

A last image of a long ago ball and a perfect lunar beauty filled his mind. The Lady smiled a forgiveness he did not want. He thought he heard music and then he heard nothing at all.

***

Vorkhul was dead. Kormak turned and walked from the blazing building. Prince Taran stood at the foot of the steps, looking up at him. His face was pale and shocked. King Aemon leaned on his brother’s shoulder looking drained of all strength, a pale, sick shadow of the man Kormak had first seen.

“Is the Old One dead?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Kormak. “It is dead.”

Behind him the roof of the museum crashed down. The palace burned. The drug burned in his belly. Kormak felt like he had won no victory at all.