Ingmar's Reckoning - Pt1
Fantasy short story / serial
The inn was dark and cold when Ingmar and the rest arrived. Rain had rolled in from the west about two hours before sunset, and the trees of the Dramwald around them were a black, dripping curtain that rippled and tossed with the gusts of wind. There was a solitary lamp glowing from somewhere on the second storey, dim and shaky through the swirls of rain that came down around them, but the ground floor was black.
Nothing moved except their party of hunters.
“Piss this weather,” Grummarc growled, and spat to the side. His cloak was a dark, sodden shroud around him, with no clear boundary between the garment and the orc. The straw hat he had made that morning had long since disintegrated. “ ‘Tis not natural, this late in the season.”
Ingmar signalled for the two Verusian rangers to circle around to the back, and the lithe shapes dashed off to the right and disappeared past the side of the inn.
“Probably the warlock’s doing. They say their powers warp the weather when it is used.” Ingmar motioned for Kalthus and his squire to take the left flank, and the two men split off to the side, their armoured figures glistening in the rain. Their shapes merged with the darkness within seconds. “Rain like this means he’s probably been busy. Must’ve been a big spell.”
Grummarc growled, a wolf deep in his throat, and bared his teeth. Ingmar saw the faint glow of the runes etched into his tusks, and was glad the orc was at his side.
At least it would distract the warlock with another target, if all else failed.
Ingmar’s own face was covered with a hex-woven mask from Altrusca, greens and golds woven together into a screaming hag’s face, and his view of the outside world was two narrow slits and a lot of darkness. His sword felt light when he drew it, and the torch in his left hand was dripping slow drops of thick tar, gummy in the pouring rain. The incantation to light it hid behind Ingmar’s lips, waiting for the right moment to burst forth. His own cowl and cloak covered the rest of his shape, muffling the clink of his mail, and felt like sodden wings around his shoulders.
Grummarc unslung his shield and axe at the same time, thick arms flexing forth from under his cloak, and transformed himself into a blocky, sharp-edged pillar at Ingmar’s side. Troll teeth were embedded around the circumference of his shield, and the rain dripping off them looked like blood in the dark.
The front of the inn had a covered porch leading up to the main doors, both of which were shut. Dark windows, shuttered, lined the wall in darker-than-dark patches against the surrounding stone. Ingmar set his foot on the first porch step, and was rewarded with a groan of wood as he shifted his weight.
Of all the black luck…
The second step creaked as well, as did the third, and Ingmar cursed inwardly as he hurried up and into the covering of the porch roof. Grummarc’s tread behind him, moment’s later, repeated the noise. Hopefully the sound of the downpour would cover their movement.
If not - well, then there was only one way to find out.
Positioned on opposite sides of the front doors, Ingmar gave a nod at the looming orc on the other side before using the tip of his sword to slowly push the one door open. The door swung halfway, then struck something and stopped. Grummarc, on the other side, used the side of his shield to push the other door open, which swung open all the way.
There was a body on the floor, blocking Ingmar’s door.
Only the legs and hips were visible, faint outlines on the floor, and after Grummarc stepped into the darkness, Ingmar followed, stepped over the body. He waited until he was inside before whispering the enchantment that had been hovering behind his teeth, and the torch in his hand popped and guttered into life.
Orange light bloomed through the common room and over the veritable forest of ruined furniture that lay before them. Smashed tables, chairs turned to kindling, and a serving counter along the one wall that had been wrenched from the wall and now hung drunkenly down at an angle, met their sight. A cart wheel, suspended horizontally from the ceiling and covered in a thousand candle stubs as an improvised chandelier, hung overhead and distorted the torch’s light into jagged shadows on the roof ceiling above. Gargoyle shapes danced and jittered above them as the torch moved.
Ingmar glanced down at the body he had just stepped over, and felt his stomach twist when he saw how the man had been desecrated. Both arms were gone, bloody sockets red and wet in the torchlight, and the neck had been severed and burned black. Of the missing limbs, there was no sign. The man lay on his stomach, breeches stained from where he had soiled himself in death, and the battlefield stench of blood and faeces wafted up at Ingmar as he took a step away.
Grummarc hissed, drawing Ingmar’s attention back to the rest of the room, and when he looked up, he could see the orc pointing at the rear of the room with his axe. A doorway led deeper into the building there, a door hanging half torn from its hinges on the door frame. A kitchen, probably, Ingmar thought as he looked around, seeing the remnants of the stairs that had once led up to the first floor in another corner of the room. Something had ripped them apart with great abandon, and only splintered tresses and scratched stone walls remained there now.
Torch held high, Ingmar began to pick his way through the ruined common room, trying to place his feet where the refuse on the floor was thinnest. The rain was still drumming down outside, masking the worst of their scuffling. Grummarc followed, silently looming at his back, and they had barely crossed half of the space when something exploded from atop the hanging chandelier and dove at them.
Ingmar had a momentary glimpse of spread wings and black limbs, and then something struck him and bowled him sideways through a pile of shattered furniture. His world spun for a long instant, the torch bouncing away but his sword at least staying in his grasp, and he ended up with a chest-thumping gasp against the side of a still-intact table. Stars wheeled across his vision, mingling with the flickering torchlight from where it had fallen, and when he slowly managed to raise his head off the floor - thank the Triarchs that his mask had stayed put - he caught his first sight of the beast that had struck him.
It was a daemonak of some kind - humanoid, winged, horned, midnight skin, all seen and recognised in an instant - and it was swinging a burning red blade at Grummarc while hissing and spitting like some giant snake at the weaving orc. The orc, with a moment’s warning, must have gotten his shield up just in time when the creature fell upon them, for there was a wicked diagonal gash charred across its leather surface, and flames licked at the edges of the wood where the blow had landed. Grummarc’s shape swayed and swung from side to side, the shield ever up and covering his torso, and his axe licked out to hack at any limb or weapon that came within reach - but as fast as the orc was, the daemonak was faster, and the orc’s axe bit nothing but air.
Ingmar began to struggle to his feet even as the stars still spun across his vision, and he collapsed flat on his face at least once before managing to push himself off the ground. When he looked up again, he was just in time to see the daemonak lunge forward and swing its red blade into Grummarc’s shield with a brutal overhand chop. Wood shattered and troll teeth went flying, and the orc stumbled back with a roar as the shield disintegrated off his arm. A kick from the demonic creature lifted half a table off the floor and sent it flying into the retreating orc, and Grummarc went down just as Ingmar regained his own feet.
The dropped torch had managed to ignite whatever it had landed in moments earlier, and tongues of fire were beginning to spread over the common room floor around it. Shadows and light fought each other in a flickering dance now, and the daemonak, distracted by its fallen foe, did not see the shape that Ingmar made with his hand, nor did it hear the words he intoned. Ingmar felt a vast pressure descending on his thoughts as the magic built, and when he uttered the final syllable, it felt like a mountain of fatigue suddenly dropped onto his mind.
The spell leapt from Ingmar’s outstretched hand in a ball of crackling sparks and blasted into the daemonak’s wings just as it was stepping forward to advance on the fallen Grummarc. Lightning crackled and spun over its ebony form, silvery cobwebs of power coruscating along its entire length, and it let out a shriek that Ingmar could feel reaching into the very roots of his teeth. Black smoke - not blood - burst from its skin where the lightning lashed at it, and it stumbled to its knees for a moment, heaving and panting as the smoke surrounded it. Ingmar raised his hand again, preparing to cast the spell again despite the turgid movement of his thoughts, and the creatures spun around with cat-like speed to fix him with two balefully glowing golden eyes. A hissing scream was vented in his direction, obsidian teeth visible around a flame-lined gullet for a moment, and the next instant, with a twitch of its one arm, it sent its red blade spinning through the air at Ingmar.
The shamans of Altrusca had been fighting the daemonaks of their lands for many years, and when Ingmar visited them two summers ago, he had learned much from their ways. He had sung their ceremonies and drunk their mystic brews, and in the depths of one of their trances he had woven and crafted his own hex-mask, fingers moving in shapes that his mind could not comprehend - but which the brews and the spirits knew, and which they completed with deft nimbleness even as his own eyes had rolled back in his skull to witness the spirit world around him. Later, when he woke on the beach beside the burnt-out fire, the green and gold mask had waited beside him, scowling and fierce, and woven through with the powerful magicks of the spirits he had communed with the night before. Fourtesca, Crone of Luck, had bargained hard before allowing him to take her likeness.
Now, even as he struggled with the thought of abandoning his second lightning spell and twisting away, with limbs and thoughts that felt like lead, the mask he wore took matters into its own hands. He felt the mask twisting and reshaping over his face, the leering crone on the outside spitting and snarling, and a beam of wood flipped up from the detritus-covered floor and intercepted the spinning red blade in mid-air. A second and a third beam flipped up, quick as the blink of an eye, and deflected the red blade just enough for it to blur over Ingmar’s shoulder even as he dove for the ground again. Something clanged and shrieked behind him as blade struck stone, and sparks flew over his fallen form in a hissing spray. Only his sodden cloak and cowl prevented the droplets from burning him, and even then Ingmar could feel their heat within moments.
The daemonak roared again, clearly furious at its elusive prey, and struggled to its feet at the same time that Grummarc regained his. The orc roared in turn as well, the runes on his tusks glowing bright teal now, and when the daemonak spun around to confront him, Grummarc charged with his axe held high and a Thaar war-cry bursting from his lips.
Something in the creature’s infernal mind must have made a decision then, for it leapt straight up into the air, swept its wings out, and propelled itself upwards and forwards, hurling towards the first-floor landing where the remnants of the staircase clung. The massive downdraught battered Grummarc to the floor and sent furniture debris flying in every direction, forcing even Ingmar to look away and shield his eyes with his arm. When the worst of the wind receded, there was nothing left to see - the creature was gone. Darkness reigned on the landing where the creature had landed and disappeared into the depths of the inn.
“Cowardly truc’ak!” Grummarc swore as he clambered to his feet again, axe still clutched in one massive hand. His cloak had been shredded by duel and the subsequent tumble along the debris-covered floor, and wood splinters dripped off him in a cloud as he shook himself. His black mail jingled with the motion. “Come back and fight like a man, you cockless slave!”
“We need a way up, and fast.” Ingmar cast about to find the red blade that had passed over him, but it was gone. An angry, molten red welt had been carved into the inn wall behind him, but of the blade itself there was no sign. “If it is truly wounded, we will have but moments now before it recovers.”
Left unspoken was the realization that if the warlock they were chasing could summon daemonaks, then they would need more than just luck on their side - they would need a miracle.
Ingmar and Grummarc started for the kitchen door, already slightly worse for wear after their first fight, and they had just left the common room when they heard the screaming start.
It was a woman’s voice, and it was coming from upstairs somewhere.
Great start! Looking forward to continuing.
Also: Grummarc is my guy!
Happy Monday