Читать книгу The Dragon Egg Saga - Stephen Lindsay J. - Страница 3

A year ago Karl Jeffers didn’t even possess the imagination to conceive of the scene in front of him. How could he? He was busy running his Brown Coffee Bean Bistro and worrying about whether or not the shit-tanking economy was going to stop people from spending $7 for a glorified cup of Joe. The thought of a quartet of 8 foot tall, 350 pound, grey skinned Orcs standing around a garbage can fire in the middle of an abandoned Wal-Mart parking lot was ludicrous – nothing more than the barely readable ramblings of internet nerds writing Dungeons & Dragons fan fiction.

And yet facts are facts. Here they were, three Orcs, or Bludden, as they called themselves. Very much alive. Very much real.

As real, Karl thinks, as the ridiculously oversized sword clenched in his fists. The blade is more rectangular than a typical sword, about four inches wide running the entire 3 foot length from base to top. He can’t quite remember if it had started life as the bumper to an old Cadillac or a Saab. He wants to think it was a Caddie, simply because that was the type of car his grandfather had driven, but in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t really matter. The two bladed edges are sharp, the handle feels natural in his grip, and the weight strains the muscles in his arms enough to keep them on high alert. When it comes down to the killing, those are the things that really matter.

Of course, one ridiculously oversized car bumper sword pales in comparison to the true dealers of death the Orcs have at their sides. Two are holding hammers, the heads of which could crush a bowling ball just as easily as a raw egg. Another has a double sided battle axe. Probably weighs more than I do, Karl thinks. And that last one has – what does Mayowen call it? – A mace? Regardless of what it’s called, to Karl it looks a lot like the hammers, only pointier. And there is no doubt that each one of those big, ugly bastards knows how to dole out heaping helpings of death more accurately than he does.

That isn’t to say that Karl can’t kick some ass when needed. 51 years old or not, he’d survived the last year pretty fuckin’ well, if he says so himself. Sure, his salt and pepper hair is a bit long and unkempt, and a fresh crop of graying stubble covers his face. But the mid-life complacency paunch he’d developed in his 40s was just about gone now. And the brutal caffeine withdrawal headaches, prone to blurring his vision and making him swim in a bit of nausea, had quit their daily visits almost three months ago.

And how far back had he started training with this sword? Five months ago? Six? It doesn’t matter. It was far enough back for the sword (and him) to have been baptized in blood and come out craving more on the other side.

Karl adjusts his grip on the handle, tightening and loosening, tightening and loosening, like a league leading slugger sitting on a full count and anticipating the next pitch. Oh yes, he thinks, I can dish it out. The questions is, can you ugly bastards take it? As is always the case in such matters, there is only one way to find out.

#

Cooso hated being sent out on patrol. He hated the long, cold nights. He hated how this world only had one moon, making those nights unbearably dark. And he hated that he was always sent out with the same three morons – Dinmal, Meelan and Hucus. None of them had a lick of sense within their thick skulls. A pack of wild hoomans could charge them, and those fools would watch, jaws slack, as the dangerous little creatures approached.

He warms the gigantic slabs of meat he calls his hands at the fire, resting his war hammer against his leg. It has been months since the hammer has been free to do its deadly business. The hoomans, it seems, don’t have much fight left in them. Not that there was much fight to begin with. Yes, they had their mac-heens that spit fire and steel. But they weren’t organized enough to use them effectively. They trembled beneath the might of the Bludden army, pissing themselves like dying dogs. And die they had, praise Da’Dilleck! Freshly spilled hooman blood, hot and red, ran like rivers those first few months. And Cooso’s hammer had drunk of it greedily.

But now things had slowed. The hoomans, what hoomans were left anyway, had taken to hiding. And flushing out cowardly rats was the job of the Callips, those detestable, half-sized, sniveling worms. They enjoyed the dank, dark places – hell, they thrived within them. Let them flush out the hooman rats. Then Cooso could be done with these wretched night patrols and his hammer could once again drink deep.

A sudden gust of wind assaults Cooso from his right. Cursed winds, he thinks. Its crispness stings the skin and burns the lungs. Just another reason to leave this world dead and lifeless and never return.

The quickening pat, pat, pat of running on the parking lot pavement interrupts Cooso’s thoughts. He turns, but his head moves faster than his mind, keeping him lost in a moment of disorientation. A quick glint of moonlight on steel catches his eye and then he feels it - something tugging across his mid section. His hands drop to the spot just in time to feel the fat and muscle separate and the first steaming gushes of blood come pouring out. He’d been sliced. Hooman god’s be damned, he thinks, I’s been murdered!

#

Karl crouches behind the rusting hulk of a long abandoned Kia Sportage, watching the orcs as they stand around the fire. He thinks of them the way his younger mind thought of a brontosaurus – massive and powerful, but dumb as a fuckin’ stump. Clearly they’d been sent out here to keep guard over this Wal-Mart. Apparently hoomans (that’s how the orcs’ large, but not very dexterous mouths pronounced the word ‘humans’) could be counted on to make a run to Wal-Mart even after the world fell to shit.

A slightly more intelligent creature would have set up watch inside the Wal-Mart. They’d let any unsuspecting hooman walk through the front door, stroll past the area where one would normally find a bored retiree working as a greeter and the shelves of ‘Rolled Back’ toilet paper and Twinkies, and then smash the side of their face all the way to kingdom fucking come, never giving them a chance to make it to the electronics department with their hopes that all of the ‘AA’ batteries hadn’t been looted yet.

But these weren’t slightly more intelligent creatures. These were orcs. And orcs could always be counted on to be two things: vicious and stupid. So here they stand, huddled around a flaming garbage can, weapons hanging limp at their sides or, even better in one case, resting on the ground. Completely unaware of Karl watching them, waiting for the wind to whistle just a notch or two higher before he makes his move.

And here it comes, as if on cue. A powerful, chilled gust of wind swoops down, blowing Karl’s long hair off of its resting place on his shoulders. An even stronger gust rushes overhead, the whistle of it rising to a near howl.

In unison, almost as if they’ve choreographed the move, the orcs all turn their backs to the wind, shielding themselves from its harsh bite.

Karl tightens his grip on the sword. He can’t help but steal a quick glance at the Kia’s bumper. Fiberglass, he thinks. What the hell good is fiberglass? They just don’t make ‘em like they use to.

He springs from behind the broken down hulk and charges, staying low – as low as his galloping strides will allow. His Marine issue combat boots (picked up from an abandoned surplus store in his home town) make a pat, pat, pat on the pavement as he runs. He holds the sword down by his hip, ready to swing it mid-stride so long as his timing (and the wind masking his approach) stay true.

Ten yards away. Karl exhales long and slow. The wind continues its overhead howl.

Pat, pat, pat.

Five yards away. Karl inhales deep. The cold air bites into his throat and lungs. His vision, quite good under normal conditions, sharpens in a way that only those who’ve tasted violence can truly understand.

Pat, pat, pat.

Three more steps, Karl thinks. Three more steps and the first blood of this terrible night will be spilled. And at that moment, the howl of the wind, his one and only ally on this deadly errand, stops.

Pat, pat, pat.

The closest of the orcs hears the approaching footfalls on the pavement and turns his head in Karl’s direction. But for him, it is already too late. Karl, teeth bared in a grimace of effort and determination, swings the sword level with his own shoulder. The blade hits the orc’s mid-section, entering it with ease. The force of Karl’s forward momentum causes the blade to drag across the creature’s body, ripping through the flesh as it goes. For an instant, as Karl continues past the first orc, he worries that the blade will stick in the creature’s gut and cause him to lose his grip on it. After one agonizing moment, barely enough time for one full thump of his heart in his chest, the blade pulls free. Blood and torn bits of flesh trail after it as it exits the orc’s abdomen. Swords fashioned from old car bumpers, it seems, don’t exactly make clean cuts.

Karl presses on, not bothering to notice as Cooso falls to his knees, his hands clutching the jagged, gaping wound across his stomach.

The other three Bludden have already taken up their weapons and are turning to engage this brash hooman. The quickness that may orcs lack in their thought process is more than made up for in their instincts for battle.

Dinmal, the Bludden directly to Cooso’s left, takes up his battle axe battle axe with both hands and raises it over his head. With a grace that lifetime martial artists would appreciate, Karl continues to take full advantage of his forward momentum, pushing off hard with his right leg, springing his body in a half leap, half barrel roll to the left. The massive axe slams into the parking lot, narrowly missing Karl’s tumbling body. The force of the impact drives the blade four inches into the pavement, lodging it there.

Dinmal grunting and straining, pulls on the axe with all of his considerable strength, his focus now solely bent on freeing his weapon.

Karl tucks, rolls, and is on his feet in one continuous, fluid motion. His eyes dart to the right, looking for the closest possible danger, just as Mayowen had taught him. Battleis about acting and reacting. It’s seeing everything without having to take the time to look. Karl hates these little nuggets of crazy-ass wizard wisdom, but he has to admit that Old Man Winter (for that was how Karl thought Mayowen looked and has been unable to get the thought out of his head, like it or not) was usually right. And if this particular lesson hadn’t stuck, Karl would never have been able to react to the monstrous war hammer now being swung at his head.

#

Hucus, the owner of said hammer, turns in time to see Karl gut Cooso, and he can tell that Dinmal’s clumsy, overhand chop was going to miss. So he stands, legs spread for balance and leverage, and waits for the nimble little hooman to come within range.

Dinmal swings his hammer along a path that should allow the flat end to meet up perfectly with the side of the hooman’s head. And hoomans, being such fragile creatures, often part with their heads easily enough. One swing, Dinmal thinks, should be all it takes.

#

Karl ducks even before he fully stands up. He feels the air inches above his head as it’s pushed aside by the force of the head of the hammer. He hears as it first connects with, and then quickly shatters, the hip of the axe wielding orc behind him. The newly hipless creature lets out a scream that a year ago would have been mistaken for a metal garbage can being dragged under a truck. As much as he wants to, Karl knows that he simply doesn’t have the time to turn around and see just how much damage that hammer did. He has to strike.

He swings the sword, which is pointing toward the ground, up in a big, looping arc. It picks up speed and power as it goes and comes down hard, embedding itself in the thick muscle between Hucus’ shoulder and his neck. The beast cries out, another crunching metal sound, and claws at the sword. Blood shoots out from either side of the blade in great, pulsing bursts.

Karl steps to the side as Hucus falls forward, tumbling onto Dinmal. Dinmal, his hip now in no less than 20 pieces, has no chance of withstanding the weight of his fallen comrade, and the two of them tumble to the ground in a heap of oversized gray flesh.

Once again Karl’s battle trained vision picks up an attack a split second before it will surely end his life. Meelan, the last of the Wal-Mart outpost Bludden, is three steps into a bull charge when Karl notices. He leaps to his right, but doesn’t quite make it. Meelan’s baseball glove sized hand clamps onto the back of Karl’s shirt, stopping him in mid-air.

“No more hopin-hop, hooman! Meelan got you!” The creature snarls, sounding dimly comedic, like something out of the later Dr. Seuss books. The ones that weren’t really written by the good Doctor himself. “Now you die!”

Karl’s mind races, but not with anything useful. No last second escape plan or funny little quip to go out on. Instead, he simply wonders if the Incredible Hulk’s retarded cousin here will smash him into the ground, snap his neck, or put his face through the back of his head with that mace he’s holding.

But before any of those grisly scenarios come to fruition, what appear to be a series of tiny fireworks start firing off less than an inch in front of Meelan’s face.

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

The pint-size explosions burn into the soft tissue of the creature’s eyes, causing him to drop Karl and clutch at his face.

“Gyaaa!” he yells, wiping at his eyes.

A fresh round of the fireworks erupt.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

Karl lands hard on his ass – hard enough to cause his own set of soundless black fireworks to appear in front of his eyes. Through them, he watches as a short, dark figure leaps from the shadows and onto the distracted orc’s back. In his hands the shadow-man has a pair of seven inch daggers, which he promptly buries in the sides of the orc’s neck. In a lightening fast twist and pull, the daggers are out again, and the area that once housed the front of Meelan’s neck bursts forth with a stream of blood. A gurgling half-choke, half-moan sputters from Meelan’s lips, his eyes roll back into his massive skull, and he falls, dead.

The shadow-man lithely hops from the falling creature’s body and lands next to Karl. He sheaths the twin daggers, gunslinger style, in holsters strapped to each thigh. He’d blended into the shadows almost to the point of invisibility. But now it’s clear that he has the hood of a black hooded sweatshirt pulled up over his head. Tight around his shoulders are the straps to a backpack which also happened to be black. As he uses one hand to slide back the hood from his head, it becomes obvious that this shadow-man is, at best, a shadow boy.

13 year old Clayton Bell smiles at Karl. It is the kind of smile reserved for kids who have no idea the type of danger they’re involved in. His emerald green eyes blaze forth from his face, seemingly backlit by some deeply internal roaring fire. He holds his hand out to Karl, who takes it and stands.

“Thanks for the assist, kid.” Karl brushes at his pants, removing the patches of dirt that he picked up during his tumbles on the pavement.

Clay runs a hand through his thick, dirty blonde hair.

“Don’t thank me, Karl. I ain’t the one who saved ya.” The boy hikes a thumb over his shoulder. Karl’s eyes follow the kid’s gesture.

“Right.”

Standing behind them, about 30 yards away, is a woman. Her hands are on her hips, which are cocked to one side in that are you going to admit you fucked up way that woman can sometimes stand.

Karl looks at her and raises a hand as if to say I know, I know. The sounds of metal scraping pavement causes him to around. Clay, his face pulled down in a grimace of effort, is attempting to pick up the massive mace lying on the ground.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Clay looks up at him, tongue now sticking out from within the grimace. “This one here… is all… messed up.” He gives up and lets the mace fall back to the ground. He sweeps his hand toward Dinmal, who is writhing on the ground. “I was gonna put it out of its misery.”

Karl walks over to Hucus’ body, places one booted foot on the side of the dead creature’s head for leverage, and pulls his sword free. There is a quick sucking sound as the open wound pulls in the cold, night air. “I’ll take care of it.”

Clay raises his hands. “Whatever, man.”

Karl walks over to the spot where Dinmal is rolling back and forth on the pavement, being careful to keep a few feet of distance between himelf and the orc. Busted hip or not, the damn thing could still be dangerous.

“Hey. Hey!”

Dinmal looks up at Karl. Tears, like newly created rivers, are streaming from the creatures eyes. His yellow, uneven teeth are clenched together and visible through his snarling lips.

“Fuuk ya, h-hooman dog!”

“Human dog?” Karl chuckles. “That’s a new one. Doesn’t make much sense, but it’s nice to know you ugly fuckers have at least a smidgen of imagination in those thick noggins of yours. You know that word? Smidgen?”

Karl brings his sword crashing down into the center of the Dinaml’s face, not bothering to give the orc a chance to respond. The blade connects with the wide, flat bridge of the creature’s nose and shatters it. The middle of its face sinks in from the force of the impact and a fountain of blood spews forth from its mouth.

Karl wrenches the sword back and forth, trying to free it from Dinaml’s face. Bone crunches with each tilt back and forth of the blade. After a half-dozen tries, it comes free.

“Whoa. That was frikkin’ nasty.” Clay looks at Karl, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his oversized gray cargo pants. “You’re a stone-cold killer, Karl.”

Karl shoots Clay a wry half-smile. “Not too bad for an old guy like me, eh?”

“Not too bad for an asshole who, for some reason, refuses to work as part of a group!”

Karl rolls his eyes as he looks at Clay, not wanting to turn around. He knows who it is, and he knows why she’s pissed. “Look, Melissa—”

A sudden burst of those familiar fireworks explode before Karl’s eyes.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

“Gah! What the hell!?” Karl drops his sword and swats at the painful bursts of fire looking like a man trying to ward off a particularly nasty bee. He turns, coughing and wiping tears from his eyes. “Just because you learned a new trick doesn’t mean you can use it all willy-fucking-nilly!”

Standing before him, hands held up like a Las Vegas magician selling the audience on an elaborate illusion, is Melissa Odell. Her come-hither eyes, perfectly formed birthing hips, and full, round breasts combine with her 33 years in a way that could make her the very definition of the term MILF.

“The next time you take off like that instead of sticking to the plan,” says Melissa, daggers shooting from her eyes, “I’ll let the goddamn Bludden pulverize your ass!”

Clay steps in between Karl and Melissa, his arms spread out like a referee at a prize fight. “Okay, okay – let’s remember that we’re all on the same side here. Geez, you two are more obnoxious than my folks were right before their divorce!” Clay flips the hood of his sweatshirt back onto his head. “Can we please just finish this pointless exercise and see what’s left in that Wal-Mart? The last thing I need tonight is another lecture from Mayowen.”

Melissa and Karl eye one another like a couple of gunfighters - each trying to anticipate the move of the other. It is Karl who breaks first. His set jaw relaxes into a playful, almost handsome grin. He takes a deep, theatrical bow, waving one arm out toward the Wal-Mart entrance in grandiose fashion.

“After you, fair maiden. For the Mart of Wal awaits.”

Melissa steps briskly past him, not pausing as she smacks him upside the head.

“Ow!” Karl yelps. “I hardly think there’s any call for violence.” But he isn’t angry. Quite the contrary. It gives him tremendous pleasure to know that he can get under that controlling broad’s skin every now and again. She may be sexy, and she may be the only one of them with any aptitude for magic, but neither of those things changes the fact that she can, and often does, get a right nasty bug up her ass when she wants.

Karl steals one last glance at the four dead Bludden, rests his ridiculously oversized sword on his shoulder (not noticing how the blade has become sticky with the coagulated blood of his fallen foes) and follows after his companions. Taking a couple of Bludden in an open Wal-Mart parking lot was one thing. But none of them should face whatever could be hiding inside said Wal-Mart alone. Even he knows that.