Darkness Devouring (The Cry of Havoc, Book 2)

By John Hennessy

From the biting peaks of Lo’Darrow to the sandy shores of Hell, blood drenches the land. The Northern soldiers regroup with reinforcements after their defeat, ready for the long march ahead. The Southern realms prepare for war with no hope of triumph. And a call deep within Leterra quakes as Mount Ti’Marro spits plumes of molten fire and ash, threatening to blanket the globe in death.

The Battle of Hell is over but the misfortunes and struggle for Tom, Bravis, Keltin, and their friends continue. The group is ripped apart to face their own trials among strange and dangerous races. New allies are met and fresh blood is spilled from the necks of new foes. Tom faces the terrible challenge of killing to stay alive while risking his soul as sacrifice to the cursed armor. Will the group be able to face the devastating odds against them and come out to see each other once more, or will tragedy be their last memories? For when darkness devours, no one survives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Hennessy
• Release date: Oct 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301722549

John Hennessy

Born in 1988, John Hennessy became entranced by the world of fantasy and sci-fi at a young age, playing video games and reading books for many long nights/early mornings. He started writing his debut novel Life Descending during his junior year of High School in 2005. He wanted to write something different for fantasy readers, something without any stock copy/paste characters, supreme evil lords, who you never see and who are just evil because they are evil. A story without class-defined skills, mana potions, and the usual D&D adventure group out on the same old quest. He wanted to write a new story that gets away from the stale fantasies with farmer boys, blacksmith apprentices, and peasants who turn world heroes. Oh yeah, and he really wanted to get away from stories with prophecies and 'chosen ones.'After he graduated from Western Washington University in 2011, he hired Sara Stamey, the editing/publishing professor at Western, edit Life Descending (The Cry of Havoc, Book 1), finally releasing his debut after six years of crafting, learning, rewriting, and absorbing caffeine as fuel so he could stay awake at the keyboard. Life Descending has since been praised by reviewers, even earning a finalist spot in ForeWord Magazine's 2011 Book of the Year Awards. Darkness Devouring (The Cry of Havoc, Book 2) has since been released in late 2012.In 2012 he released At the End (The Road to Extinction, Book 1) as a self-published book. Having spent all his cash on Life Descending (sadly without return), the book went unedited by a professional editor. Despite this major flaw, At the End was well received by most. In February 2013, Permuted Press approached him with an offer to re-release At the End and publish the rest of the trilogy. A second edition of At the End (fully edited!) is forthcoming 2013.John now lives in the Rose Lands of Portland, Oregon, with his wife Katherine, their furry feline Phoebe, and their two budgies Lola and Pablo. He is now at work finishing The Road to Extinction Trilogy. Visit his website at: http://www.johnhennessy.net

Book preview

DARKNESS DEVOURING

BOOK TWO OF

THE CRY OF HAVOC

JOHN HENNESSY

An Innovation Today Book. Go Indie.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2012 John Hennessy

All rights reserved

Chapter 12 was first published as a short story entitled A Stalker’s Game. It was edited to make it stand alone as a short story.

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Edited by Brittany Yost

Cover art and design by Brett Carlson

Interior art by Brett Carlson

Inside maps by John Hennessy

eISBN-13: 9781301722549

This book is available in print at:

http://www.johnhennessy.net

By John Hennessy

Novels

THE ROAD TO EXTINCTION TRILOGY

Book One: At the End

Book Two: Into Cinders (Winter 2012/13)

Book Trailer

THE CRY OF HAVOC SAGA

Book One: Life Descending

Book Two: Darkness Devouring

Book Trailer

Praise for Life Descending

"As good as Game of Thrones."—Stella Blackmore, Night Owl Reviews

A masterpiece.—Reviewed by Rita V for Readers Favorite

A riveting read.—Midwest Book Review

Endlessly imaginative.—Kirkus Reviews

Hard to quit reading.—Robert Medak, Allbooks Review Int.

Finalist in ForeWord Magazine’s 2011 Book of the Year Awards

—fantasy genre

Short Stories

A Stalker’s Game (free eBook)

Facebook

Visit my facebook page and leave a comment.

Dedication

To my Grandma Mary,

whose bond I will always cherish.

And to Captain Ron,

may he rest with reward.

Poem

Across the savage Stained Lands we go,

To a bloodthirsty realm untouched by snow,

Few survive where the red blades grow,

Wilting under the scorching heat.

Across the sanguinary Stained Lands we ride,

Fleeing the coming tide,

From which we wish to hide,

In fear of our defeat.

Across the corrupt Stained Lands we travel,

To watch our virtuous minds unravel,

Our parched voices scrape like gravel,

Water forever out of reach.

Across the tortuous Stained Lands we voyage,

Finding no coverage,

Our glum hearts they ravage,

Bodies rotting with reek.

A poem for the suns—

Mun Hectori

About 1491: Ruin

Table of Contents

Also by John Hennessy

Facebook

Dedication

Map

Poem

Note from the Author

Chapter 0 — Prologue

Chapter 1 — My Annals: On The Death of our Savior

Chapter 2 — The Scavengers. Crucifixions. Two Unexpected Partners.

Chapter 3 — The Report. Troublesome Questions. A Murderous Assignment.

Chapter 4 — Lo’Darrow. Items for an Auction. Dashing Legs & Hard Knuckles.

Chapter 5 — Poisonous Fangs. Hippos Never Sneak. A Champion of Fur.

Chapter 6 — The Burning of Hell. The River of Ice. The Violet Sea.

Chapter 7 — The Office. The People. The Rooftop.

Chapter 8 — Toil in The Mines. Creatures of The Deep. The Mortal Ring.

Chapter 9 — A Thief from Above. Rainbows. Blood on The Stained Lands.

Chapter 10 — Flight Test. The Land of Giants. A Battle with Windmills.

Chapter 11 — The Sands. The Red Blade. The Last Paladin.

Chapter 12 — The Penalty of Death. A Stalker’s Game. A Familiar Foe.

Chapter 13 — My Annals: On The Funeral of our Savior

Chapter 14 — A Slippery Plant. Squawking Chicks. Shadows in The Forest.

Chapter 15 — Four Walls. The Shifting Towers. A Mysterious Portal.

Chapter 16 — The Last Round. A Tune for Lady Death. The Realm of Thoughts.

Glossary

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Note from the Author

There is a glossary at the end of the book that will help with names, terms, locations, and units of time. There is also a colored map at www.johnhennessy.net

0

A Prologue

"It is the only way," Councilor Boosuri said to The Enviroturium members who sat together at a round stone table. Seven of the seats were raised above the table, one for each council member.

There are other ways, we just haven’t thought of them, Marginani countered. There is time yet. There is time. He looked up at Councilor Boosuri with disgust.

Is there time? What time is left? Oo’Bahhad asked the thirty in attendance. Hell has survived one siege, only one. There will be more.

No one has ever done what has been proposed, Councilor Saemenda spoke up. She was the first Noklathar to add to the discussion. Few Noklathar joined these sessions, overcrowded with Turnolan giants, who stood taller than the leathery hides of the Salenk folk. But she was one of the Seven Councilors of The Enviroturium; her attendance was mandatory.

Oo’Doma pounded his fists on the stone before him. His young Turnolan blood raged, coursing with anger. That does not matter, it is our only option. If we do not do this, the Lord of Light will invade, and he will succeed where the Son failed. We all know this.

What does the eldest and wisest have to say? Councilor Saemenda asked.

Everyone directed their gaze upon Councilor Lazaro, a shriveled Noklathar with majestic eyes that carried more wisdom than the thirty together.

Lazaro was deep in rumination. He looked as if a gargoyle atop a parapet, motionless. Their surroundings grew cold as The Enviroturium waited in silence. Finally, he spoke up. I agree with the young. There is no more time. His voice was a low rumble that rattled the stomach. The proposed has never been done before because a threat like this has never existed.

We will be dooming thousands, Councilor Murnissi protested. Though young, she bore the shrewdness of the oldest Enviroturium members.

Many voices agreed with her statement. Heads nodded in concurrence.

The other woman Councilor with the blood of giants shook her head against Murnissi. An acceptable loss. We will save many more hundreds of thousands, Ai’Isha responded. The time for talk is over; I call for a vote. Scribe Moedaelo, record the decisions of our members.

A young Noklathar had been listening and writing down the events of the meeting. He nodded at the Councilor.

Marginani, what say you? Ai’Isha questioned.

Nay, Marginani replied.

The Scribe recorded the vote.

Ai’Isha went around the stone table, one by one, receiving yeas and nays from lower members. But they did not count in the end. The votes of the Councilors mattered most, and there were seven of them, to ensure a tie never arose. She came to them. As one of the Seven, let my yea be known and recorded, she said. Councilor Lazaro, what say you?

Yea.

Councilor Saemenda?

Nay.

Councilor Murnissi?

Nay.

Councilor Gazali?

Nay.

Councilor Boosuri?

Yea.

That makes it three in favor and three opposed. Councilor Kay’yeesha, what say you?

The giant fumbled with his hands, staring at the domed ceiling. He muttered to himself, as if weighing the pros and cons, but for every pro he said, he also said a con, and the list sounded inexhaustible.

Councilor? Ai’Isha repeated in an annoyed tone.

These are dark circuits, and this decision will only make them darker . . . only darker. He fidgeted in his elevated seat. Yea, he said with reluctance.

Fists pounded the table, and voices cried in victory and defeat.

At last, the deep, ancient voice of Lazaro ended the feuding members. Let it be known that a decision has been made . . . it is settled. We will erupt Mount Ti’Marro.

1

My Annals: On The Death of our Savior

The Western Theatre was secured. Our Savior joined the lines himself. With his might, there could be no defeat. Salenk was ours. Brilam and Elas had been taken without bloodshed. Hell was all that remained. Diablo and his Noklathar posed no threat to the fifteen regiments ordered to engage the city.

All that changed yestercircuit.

I had not written for a while and I wanted to catalogue The Conqueramada’s movements through the South. Alexandroz had planned to attack Hell the circuit ere, on the twelfth of Idus, and no word had come of the Noklathar’s purgation.

As I wrote at my desk by the window, early in the morning, a pigeon startled me, landing on the sill to the open window. It bobbed its head in that silly manner that they do, shifting in odd uncontrolled movements. The bird cocked an eye at me. It spoke words of the battle. My heart raced. I had to tell my Father.

Seven floors I ran, down and down. I lost my breath by the fourth, but I could not stop. The news was urgent. I ran out the palace doors, down the overlooking hill, past the arching gates, and made my way to the Kathronal and the Mountain of Blood. There I climbed the stairs, floor after floor, until at last I reached the middle of the mountain, the level of my Father. I stood before the forbidden obsidian doors, peering at them with awe. Never had I entered, and never had I thought to enter. Four city guards stood by, ever watchful, though they need not, for my Father could easily quell any disturbance if need be.

News, gasped I. I have news of The Battle of Hell. The largest of the guards nodded, knocked, then waited. My Father must have spoken, because a moment later the four guards grouped together and pulled open a thick door. I thanked them for their kindness and stumbled in as fast as my legs could carry me.

I fell to my knees. I could not breathe. My Father! cried I. My Father! I bring word of the battle. I bring word of your Son! The room shined in blackness, obsidian reflected a glare from the massive open window in front of me. My eyes were blinded for a moment.

Speak, spoke my Father, in a gentle, relaxed voice.

I opened my eyes and found him by the balcony of the window, under its high arch, draped in his rainbow robe. His wavy gold-white hair shined under the sunlight. M’Light, stuttered I. Your Son . . . your Son is dead. I did not think those words could be uttered, but there I was, speaking them.

His white, pallid face turned as red as a Noklathar. He eyed me up and down. How, Feeble? How did my Son die? asked he, shocked to his very innards of innards, as the saying goes. Briefly, I think I saw his heart pumping in his chest.

M’Light, report tells that a general of Diablo stabbed our Savior in the back. Report tells that they cut out his heart, so that they could cook it like the Noklathar do. My speech was shaky. Droplets fell to the sable surface. I could not contain my sorrow.

Tears did not fill my Father’s eyes. He wept none for his child. He need not, for the Father and the Son were one, and together they ruled. He placed a hand on my shoulder, stopping my tears. Do not weep, Feeble. My Son has died the way he was meant to die. We shall continue with our cause, and exterminate those who murdered our Savior. Gather The High Lords of The Conqueramada, deploy the Deathlar to retrieve them, as well as The Circle. He withdrew his hand, as he gazed at me and saw the fear in my heart. Have courage, my dear Feeble. I am assuming command of the campaign now, our victory is still as assured as it was yestercircuit.

I was at the door when his voice stopped me like a hound. Feeble, what of the armor? I do hope King Tearfurio is keeping it safe.

Silence comes from Marendia, my Father.

He sent me away to call those whom he had requested. Within three circuits all had gathered, the news of our Savior had not yet spread within the city. I returned to my Father’s hall, accompanied by two Arch-Dragonlords, two Arch-Rangers, and two Arch-Warlords. The Circle was already present. Where is Arch-Dragonlord Narulo? questioned my Father hastily, eyeing The High Lords of The Conqueramada.

M’Father, he was killed in battle, said Arch-Dragonlord Gadada. The High Lords formed a circle around a raised table where my Father stood opposite to them. The clergy members sat on couches and padded chairs nigh the balcony. Arch-Warlord Sentanis also fell in the battle. Arch-Ranger Artimiss survived, but is having difficulty regrouping the regiments.

Poor fortune, only one Western High Lord lives, muttered my Father. Where is Arch-Warlord Guratari?

Here, m’Light, said a tall, slender man, boasting a dark-blue cloak over his dark-blue full-plate armor.

Good. I see everyone now, let us begin, said my Father. He waved his hands over the table. A city began to form from clay resting around the table’s edge. What is the extent of our loss in Salenk?

The city of Hell took shape. Report tells us that the city walls stand, and our men have retreated across the Kodiha River, but have held firm at the bridges, said Gadada. The clay model shifted north to a wide river. In all, eleven regiments have been tallied as lost.

Aburros be damned! How is that possible? asked Arch-Dragonlord Buyoyenzi.

Temerity, that’s how, said my Father with a smile. Heads nodded. I did not exactly understand, but I gathered we did not expect such resistance from the Noklathar. What does report say about the Noklathar’s losses?

Heavy. Gadada pointed to several bridges on the south side of the river. They are holding these, but here . . . He drifted his hands to more bridges inland. And here, are their weakest defenses. I suggest we send what’s left in Elas to reinforce the lines. The clay altered its shape once again, this time resembling the city of Elas.

That will not work, declared Arch-Ranger Tohaku. We do not want to play cat and mouse with Diablo, a harder strike will be better than swifter. He gazed up at the Lord of Light.

Then what do you suggest, Tohaku? asked my Father. The clay image displayed two regiments regulating Elas with watch-patrols.

Empty Meadowshire, m’Light. Thirteen strong regiments stand guard there, we can put them to good use, responded Arch-Ranger Tohaku. The model map changed its location to the camp-city. Dragons flew in formation, circling the outpost.

And if Chalin empties? Little stands between them and Heaven, said Arch-Dragonlord Kubarak, narrowing his gaze onto Tohaku. Around the table tension flexed betwixt the Central and Eastern High Lords.

The giant brutes will not cross The Bordergrounds. They know not of the dwarven tunnels, and even if they did, they dwell in our pocket. If Chalin empties, it will be to flee east. But if Turnola scrounges up enough courage to make war, then the soldiers at A’tek will be waiting, for those lines are solid, aren’t they, Kubarak? Or have your soldiers grown weak? said Tohaku, returning the sharp stare.

My men are ready for battle and the long march ahead. But, it is unwise to leave the giants unchecked. We don’t know their numbers accurately, replied Kubarak. And little eyes say they are unifying under one chieftain, bringing them together without quarrel. The map zoomed out to display the distance betwixt Chalin and Meadowshire, and the breaking points through The Devides. They know ways across The Bordergrounds, just as well as we do.

My Father looked up at The High Lords. I agree with Arch-Ranger Tohaku, our priority right now is taking Salenk and reinforcing those men, and the soldiers in Meadowshire are the only troops close enough to reinforce the retreated lines. Once Hell is secured, we can move eastward, as my Son devised. He peered at The High Lords, who all nodded, though Kubarak bit his lip.

The regiments from A’tek will occupy Chalin, while our troops in Partis raze Baili. From there, we will converge on Triasle, my Father said. That is our best option to minimize losses with the giants. Heads nodded all around the room.

Patriarch, should the people not be informed of the loss of our Savior? asked Archbishop Ellisen, who sat upon a couch across the room. He plucked bright green grapes from a vine, tossing them in the air, catching them and swallowing them whole.

Insooth, they shall be. I will address our people of my Son’s death. No one commented. Silence overtook the room.

My Father broke my discomfort. How many troops in Brilam? asked he.

Just one regiment, m’Light, headed by Warlord Vereo, said Arch-Dragonlord Gadada.

That will do. Send word to Warlord Vereo to raze the city and head south to join Artimiss, said my Father. Kubarak! He drew the Arch-Dragonlord’s attention. Their eyes met. Take ten regiments from Meadowshire, cross after the Neros. Treat the dwarves with kindness, we do not need to battle them on our way.

Yes, Lord of Light. Your command shall be fulfilled. Arch-Dragonlord Kubarak bit his lip again.

Arch-Warlord Buyoyenzi will travel with the troops from A’tek, and Arch-Ranger Dunquah will lead the regiments posted at Partis, ordered my Father. The men nodded. Now, I must apprise our people of the situation. My Son’s death will benefit our cause, have faith men, we will eradicate the plagued, and our revenge for Alexandroz’s murder will be timely.

The High Lords threw their arms across their chests. For the Father in the name of the Son, said all in unison. The clay buildings melted into a pile of soft flat blocks. My Father watched the men lower their heads ere he turned to the open balcony. A crowd already gathered below. News had spread far that The Circle and High Lords were in the capital. The people awaited news of the battle.

The Patriarch raised his hands into the air, silencing the chatter. Not a sound could be heard on any street. Bodies froze in preparation for my Father’s words.

My sons and daughters, yelled he, filling the ears of every citizen. I have word from Salenk. It is as we feared, the Nok’Lathar have fallen deep into treachery, consumed by their hatred for us. He inhaled deep. My sons and daughters, our Savior is dead . . . My Son is dead. Shock crept upon every face. Astonishment entered every heart. Ire and sadness swelled within them.

But my sons and daughters, do not be afraid, my Son’s death is not the end. It is not the end of our goal, peace is still upon us, but now our efforts call for every able arm to do their part. The eyes of Heaven watered. Now is the hour when we rise together for the glory of the North, when we become the great builders of tomorrow, uniting instead of dissolving, standing instead of running . . . shaking the world instead of falling into low graves. To achieve our ends, instruction will be given to every man, woman, and child of age to fill a trade. We will all be a part of The Conqueramada now. Bakers and Butchers, Carpenters and Smiths, Innkeepers and Tinkers, Farmers and Sailors, Seamstresses and Soapcrafters, Miners and Aristocracy, all of us, gnomes and dwarves, humans and Vaenu, Uprights and four-legged runners alike, our armies need us, and together, we must pull through! My Father’s assertive voice raised the hopes of our people, and they grew warm as his words lingered in the air. But tears were shed, enough to fill a sea, as the saying goes.

I looked upon the denizens of the North and saw that they knew it would be difficult to achieve our objective, purging the South. But in every bone that is our composition, we want freedom and peace more than anything, and I saw our people hardened by the loss, drawing strength from the Patriarch and his light.

My Father turned from the crowd and searched The Circle and High Lords with steady eyes. Not one blinked. Not one cried. Not one lapsed in resolve as leaders. They were rigid, uncompromising, and fearless. High Lords, The Circle and I have more business, outside of military matters. Thank you, and true are you, the faithful, said the Lord of Light.

They bowed and saluted. For the Father in the Name of the Son, said they in unison. That was the end of the meeting, and I went back to my room, where I wept alongside our people, for our Savior had died, the battle had gone sour, and victory did not look as possible as it once had.

I wish to record the exact details of the death of our Savior, but other than what I have put forth, it is a mystery to me. All I know for certain is that the Era of Peace has not come, but our Savior’s death marks the beginning of the Era of Havoc, the circuits of our last march toward peace. For the Father in the Name of the Son. May Alexandroz bless us all in death as he did in life. Vale.

16/10/1: Havoc. My Annals: On The Death of our Savior by Ian Azikwe

2

The Scavengers. Crucifixions. Two Unexpected Partners.

Torches were the only light on the battlefield. Noklathar soldiers searched for fallen comrades in the heaps of blood-covered bodies. Conqueramada humans still bled from wounds, left to die while their brothers retreated north across the river. Individual screams sounded in all corners of the red grass valley before the city of Hell. Fortunately, for those still alive, the suns were no longer roasting the rotting meat of the bodies; to inhaling nostrils, the fetid stench was unbearable, but soldiers carried out their work regardless.

Though Bravis’ excellent vision decreased in the night, he never gave up looking for Tom. He had endured through the bloodshed remarkably unscathed, except for a small wound near his tail where a blade had sliced his rump, but the superficial wound bled little. Now he followed behind a group of Noklathar deep into the battlefield, who investigated every body as fast as they could. When they found a Northerner, they made no mercy killings, and left them to their fate without so much as a second glance. Only Southern lives mattered.

Time passed slowly, but it was not long before the Crimson Sun poked over the horizon, emitting a soft morning glow. Bravis’ eyesight needed little light to focus, but the torches were too few to really help. His eyes welcomed the first sun, and he went to work, increasing the speed of his search threefold or better.

The Noklathar dragged and flew their brethren back toward their capital, and in the distance, Bravis noticed a circle of beams being mounted into the ground, encompassing the city. A horn trumpeted across the field and the red-skinned denizens of Salenk began to retreat behind the city’s walls.

If you want to survive the Scavengers, you’ll want to be behind those walls, too, a voice said from behind Bravis. The gyrran jumped. He turned and saw a short, corpulent Noklathar holding a trembling body of a friend. He wore tattered boiled leather that bore many sliced rips and a few large holes. His exhausted face seemed to beg for sleep as he eyed the gyrran. If you’re in full health, the better for them. The Noklathar adjusted the lanky body in his arms.

I haven’t found my friend, Bravis said. I’m not leaving until I do. He blew a snort.

The Noklathar shifted his gaze toward the northeast and nodded. If he is dead, you can find him afterward; if he is alive, well, you won’t be able to save him. The Noklathar wasted no more time, spread out his wings and took flight, hauling his elderly friend at a slow, constrained pace.

Bravis did not heed the advice of the Noklathar. Tom was out here somewhere and required his help; there was no way he could leave the human behind. The gyrran was entirely committed to finding Tom’s body, dead or alive.

He went from body to body, rolling over corpses with his head, looking for crimson, but there was no sign.

Then it came: the sound of massive propellers drowned out all other sounds. He swiveled his head to the northeast, where his eyes fell upon monstrous zeppelins, each one shrieking a continuous high-pitch death call that made the gyrran cringe. The first zeppelin neared him, then flew on by, over his head. His mouth opened in awe, for he had never seen such a magical device; he was completely captivated by the sight.

Another ship flew within proximity, observing the mess of bodies around the gyrran. A figure from above stooped by an open railing, pointing, directing the pilot where to go. The figure sighted Bravis, shifted his finger toward the gyrran, and yelled out, We’ve got a live one!

Bravis zoomed in on the silhouette. He gazed upon a tanned, dirty, and dangerous face. A blond plait clung to its chin, and long bleached hair fell to its midback, wearing a bronze half helm that covered the nose and outlined the eyes. The figure rose and leaned on the railing next to it.

The gyrran recognized the shape. Broad-shouldered, stout, taut to the point of being nearly inflexible: a dwarf. Bravis had seen only a couple in his life, and that was less than two sequences ago, but his guess was confirmed when the zeppelin touched down. Five dwarves closed in on him, gripping their two-handed Raven’s Beaks. He spun away from the war hammers and sped toward the gates of Hell, fearful of the deadly weapons and their powerful wielders.

Halfway between the city and the zeppelin Bravis stumbled over a stack of bodies. He leapt high in recovery, twisting his front legs to find balance. A glimpse of crimson caught his eye, one that shined differently than the blood stains all around him, and the burdened red grass. Tom’s armor glimmered in the morning sun.

Tom, Bravis screamed in excitement. He maneuvered around fallen soldiers, spotting the elf without a head. He stopped for a second to gaze at the unusual creature, then returned his attention back to his comrade. Tom groaned when Bravis nuzzled his helmet. He inspected Tom’s body and found a blade stuck in his left calf. Blood caked the edges of the weapon.

The overpowering volume of a propeller disturbed Bravis’ ears as a vessel landed not too far away. Three heavy bodies grounded themselves, racing toward Bravis with a giant net, trying to surround him. They succeeded.

The dwarves crept forward, laughing, taunting the gyrran. There was no way out, no way to save his human companion. The three charged. Bravis’ instinct took hold, his legs bent, then exploded into the air. He pronked away while the dwarves collided, but the damage was not serious. The hard bodies clambered to their feet, shook themselves off, and located the gyrran again.

Tom exhaled a painful cry. The closest dwarf kneeled, examined Tom’s wound, pulled the knife from his calf and rolled him over onto his back. Tom screamed a plea for the pain to cease, but blood continued to spill from the hole. Two of the dwarves bent low, grabbed his ankles and wrists, and lugged Tom’s body near the craft. A leaner figure pressed against the railing, waiting for their arrival; he shot out a hand and from his mouth burst a string of colorful magic.

Tom’s armored weight became nothing to the haulers, as they leapt aboard and threw him to the back of the craft, where from the other side, more dwarves brought in several more bodies. A lone dwarf rested in the back of the vessel, gripping a bowl full of red meat; the dwarf forced a piece down every newcomer’s throat. Tom’s body was tossed at the dwarf’s feet, and in a second, Tom was choking down the peculiar food. He coughed severely, almost hacked the meat back up, but the dwarf slid a hand over his mouth to keep it down.

Bravis watched the scene with horrified eyes. He tried to formulate a plan to rescue Tom, but there were too many of the Scavengers; the dwarves were a small army in numbers. The two dwarves returned to the third, this time with two more partners who were carrying another net. They advanced on Bravis without communication, taking up positions to enclose; all laughed in harsh, raspy voices. Tankards rattled at their hips, for all of the dwarves carried lidded mugs attached by steel carabiners.

Bravis backed away as fast as the group charged, yet he remained within close proximity of the zeppelin, calculating the number of Scavengers near Tom’s body. Dwarves kept returning and leaving, which made it impossible for the gyrran to get an accurate count, but at least one was nearby at all times. The five took up positions in front of Bravis again, yelling angry calls; they badly wanted him captured, but the gyrran could not guess as to why.

The time came. Bravis was about to spring onto the vessel when a net flew over him from behind, trapping him. Bravis called, defensive in nature, pronked to loosen the net, but the five tossed on two more nets and weighed him down. The nets crushed his wings in outstanding pain; he called repeatedly, attempting to rise and attack, but the dwarves tugged, forcing him to the ground.

He struggled, wiggling his body within the confines of the nets. Nothing worked. He was captured. Now, he was a prisoner of the dwarves, though for what purposes? Tom had only mentioned dwarves on a few occasions, and nothing too detailed about their customs, except for their bibulous nature, their greed and cheapness, and that they kept to themselves, underground if possible.

Bravis met the smile of a dwarf when a shadow came over them, one that resembled a daemon from Northern men’s nightmares. The dwarf’s gaze shifted to the sky above, the smile faded, replaced with terror. A foot smacked the dwarf, and his stout body descended to the ground, back square against the red grass.

A slender Noklathar hovered in the air and yelled, Stand for battle, honorable paladins! After circling the four remaining dwarves, the Noklathar landed, primed with two twin-edged axes. I will endure the worst engagement with your strong arms. The Noklathar eyed the biggest of the four. And in the name of my profession, I will tally this encounter as mine, for victorious I shall be when the last weapon is raised. The dwarves fell silent at the Noklathar’s words, not out of fear, but from sheer perplexity. Suddenly, the four broke out in laughter; outnumbered, the denizen of hell stood no chance against their combined might. Even in single combat the odds were matched relatively fair.

Outraged at such intolerable disrespect, the Noklathar charged the largest dwarf, but the netting tripped the tall figure. His feet became entangled, and in a second, his body slammed against Bravis. One of the axes went flying in the direction of the big dwarf; the weapon sliced through his neck and shoulder at an angle. The dwarf staggered, cried out in agony, then spat blood as more of the red fluid spilled from the mortal injury.

Rushing, the other three dwarves intended to end the fight, but the first to come upon the confused, snared Noklathar, met his demise with a wrestling axe that desperately attempted to free its owner from the bind he had ended up in. The axe cut the rope and the Noklathar spread his wings in fright from being restrained in such a way. His wings slapped the two oncoming dwarves, sending them to their backs, and in the frenzy of swings that the Noklathar unleashed to escape, the axe flew from his grip, landing with a thud in a rotting corpse. He peered around with awe-filled eyes at his freedom.

I warned them of my coming triumph over them! the Noklathar shouted with glee. He wore faded mail armor, long cycles past its prime, rusted and discolored.

The zeppelin propeller began to rotate, picking up speed until it lifted from the ground, leaving the fallen dwarves behind. With superior legs, Bravis dashed for the vessel, jumped high, but missed the mark; the zeppelin was already too high and he came crashing back to the blood-soaked ground.

The Noklathar hovered nearby and spoke in a full voice, Need to be captured, my young hero?