Shadow Wolf time! This is part of my weekly writing exercise, written raw and rough. The first story arc, Blade Breaker, can be found here. The first story of this arc, Red Fangs, can be found here. The previous week’s post can be found here.
“Gonna fill ma bella!” chortled the thing emerging from the darkness, gnashing its teeth.
“Oh, thank Furis!” said Berkhilda, relief evident in her voice. “I was getting sick of all this prattle!”
Berkhilda pushed past me to meet the creature. The tunnels here were wide enough that she had space to swing her axe. Of course, had we been in a smaller passage, such a beast would not have been able to follow us.
“Gun cut yewww up!” chortled the thing.
Zavra whimpered, cowering behind me. Berkhilda snorted and charged. Her saw-toothed axe blurred as it sliced through the air. The beast made no attempt to dodge, nor did it flinch as the blade clove into its chest. Blood, thick and black, ooozed out of the cut.
“Wight… it is some sort of wight!” I shouted.
The massive wight slammed its bulk into Berkhilda as the vampire warrior struggled to pull her weapon from the wound. As strong as she was, the creature’s mass seemed to defy her, and she was pinned to the side of the passage by a veritable wall of pale flesh.
“Hurhurhur,” said the Beast, raising its cleaver.
I leapt at it, but something snared my foot, and I stumbled, catching myself before I fell. The wight swung its hook hand at me. I was just able to get my weapons up to shield myself from the blow. The impact lifted me off my feet. I flew. I hit the brick, bracing for impact as best I could, and slid down.
“Wathe yurrr turrrrn,” gurgled the corpulent wight. Berkhilda was pounding on it with her fists now, each punch driving deep into the folds of its flesh, but her powerful blows seemed to have little effect. Wights are notoriously resistant to pain, although I have never heard of any that were so rotund and gleefully hungry.
As I pushed myself up, the wight chortled and raised its cleaver. Berkhilda caught its arm and held the weapon in place with furious strength. The beast raised the hook-hand, scrapping it along her armour.
I pushed off the wall, charging, and leaping up onto the mass. The wight turned its head toward me beady eyes, widening. I landed on its mountainous back, digging the crowsbeak spikes on the back of my hammer and axe into its flesh, like pitons.
“Geddorffff,” rumbled the creature. Shaking and trying to reach me. I pulled myself up, and dug in again.
Berkhilda roared and I could see now that she was holding the creature by both arms, her face red with fury and effort.
“Hold on!” I shouted raising my axe as I crested a meaty shoulder.
“Do it!” Berkhilda shouted back.
The only way to kill a wight is to take the head. I swung my axe. The blade buried itself in neckflesh. The wight bellowed, trying to snap at me, shaking and rolling. I felt like I was in a boat, tossed by hurricane waves.
“FURIS GIVE ME STRENGTH!”Roared Berkhilda, pulling with all her might on the beast’s arms.
I hacked again. Black blood, thick and foul smelling, like tar, splattered on me. I hacked again. The beast gurgled and roiled. I hacked again and the head flew off, blood oozing out of the stump.
The wight, suddenly lifeless, sank to the ground. Berkhilda snarled and ripped her axe from the body.
“Well done,” I said.
“Its not over yet,” said Berkhilda, glaring at Zavra and hefting her weapon.