Read Online Flames of Awakening: Faemoch Cycle Book 1 by Michael Reynolds - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Reynolds
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sat as still and quiet as he
could. He held his breath for quite some time, hoping to be passed by. The
patrol noticed the three bodies laid out in the snow around the tower's wall.
The men chuckled at their comrades' seeming drunkenness. One of the two
approached Grundar, assuming him to be another reveler. When the patrolman got
near enough, Grundar leaped to his feet and drove his readied dagger into the
surprised man's chest. The other warrior lunged forward and swung his blade at
Grundar, but Grundar ducked away from the attempt. The man dropped his sword
and charged in. He bowled Grundar over, pinning him to the ground.
"Intruders!" the patrolman
called. "North side of the tower. Raise the alarm! Intruders."
Grundar didn't expect this man's
quick reaction time. He mustered his strength and thrust the man up into the
air and off of him. The chieftain was up and to his feet a split second later.
He slit his foe's throat but was a moment too late. He could hear the sound of
at least a dozen of Fylzia's horde headed his way. The group closed in on
Grundar; attackers came from both sides of the tower. They formed into ranks,
encircling him. Grundar's original assessment of their number was off,
unfortunately. There were closer to eighteen of the armed men.
Grundar dropped his axe to the ground
and knelt in surrender. The Hawklos barbarians closed in to take him prisoner.
Grundar grimaced.
"Ye took m' boy. Now let 'im go
'n I'll let most o' ye leave with yer dignity."
Chapter Ten
The strong smells of sulfur and
woodsmoke permeated the small round room at the top of the tower. A fire roared
in the fireplace opposite the door. To the right of the fireplace sat an altar
that emanated evil. Skulls, candles, and other, viler, ritual implements
perched atop the altar. These religious symbols, carved of bone and wood, bore
the signs of age-old dark secrets. A table in the middle of the room held
numerous blood-spattered knives and bowls of various sizes. Some of the bowls
spilled their noxious green gels onto the table; some sizzled and smoked yellow
or red mist into the air. None of that sickened Jaxius. Not nearly as much as
the vision of Bergar suspended in the air directly across the room from the
devilish altarpiece.
The young barbarian's flesh was
stripped away in many spots. His limp body spun there in mid air, ripped and
torn. A steady trickle of blood pooled slowly below him. Jaxius watched the
witch. The hag was crouched down between him and his friend, still carving her
vile symbols in Bergar's pitiful flesh. She giggled and mumbled to herself
while she worked her magic.
Jaxius, his attention focused on the
plight of his young friend, did not have time to respond when a hammer caught
him in the side of the face, nearly ripping his jaw off. Jaxius turned to face
Morgrys, the witch's barbarian raider who had taken Bergar that awful night two
weeks prior. All of his reigned in anger and hate began to roll and roil in his
gut. He could feel it burning and seething. He launched himself at Morgrys with
all his pent-up fury. He struck furiously at the barbarian.
Morgrys had been prepared for the
onslaught; he parried or dodged every deftly placed strike.
Jaxius' hatred grew deeper the longer
their battle raged. He continued to thrust and parry, trying to make his way to
Bergar. It wasn't until the table was at his back that Jaxius came up with the
beginnings of a plan. He needed to distract both the barbarian and the witch.
He adjusted his fighting style to be much more defensive. He focused his entire
fight on parrying each of the barbarian's mighty blows. Jaxius slipped each
parry bit by bit, hoping to draw his opponent in. Morgrys' hammer still came
swinging in, getting more aggressive with each blow.
Jaxius' plan was working. His huge
foe was getting cocky. When the barbarian took a deep breath, preparing for his
final death-blow, Jaxius knew that his chance was now. Morgrys heaved his
mighty warhammer
could. He held his breath for quite some time, hoping to be passed by. The
patrol noticed the three bodies laid out in the snow around the tower's wall.
The men chuckled at their comrades' seeming drunkenness. One of the two
approached Grundar, assuming him to be another reveler. When the patrolman got
near enough, Grundar leaped to his feet and drove his readied dagger into the
surprised man's chest. The other warrior lunged forward and swung his blade at
Grundar, but Grundar ducked away from the attempt. The man dropped his sword
and charged in. He bowled Grundar over, pinning him to the ground.
"Intruders!" the patrolman
called. "North side of the tower. Raise the alarm! Intruders."
Grundar didn't expect this man's
quick reaction time. He mustered his strength and thrust the man up into the
air and off of him. The chieftain was up and to his feet a split second later.
He slit his foe's throat but was a moment too late. He could hear the sound of
at least a dozen of Fylzia's horde headed his way. The group closed in on
Grundar; attackers came from both sides of the tower. They formed into ranks,
encircling him. Grundar's original assessment of their number was off,
unfortunately. There were closer to eighteen of the armed men.
Grundar dropped his axe to the ground
and knelt in surrender. The Hawklos barbarians closed in to take him prisoner.
Grundar grimaced.
"Ye took m' boy. Now let 'im go
'n I'll let most o' ye leave with yer dignity."
Chapter Ten
The strong smells of sulfur and
woodsmoke permeated the small round room at the top of the tower. A fire roared
in the fireplace opposite the door. To the right of the fireplace sat an altar
that emanated evil. Skulls, candles, and other, viler, ritual implements
perched atop the altar. These religious symbols, carved of bone and wood, bore
the signs of age-old dark secrets. A table in the middle of the room held
numerous blood-spattered knives and bowls of various sizes. Some of the bowls
spilled their noxious green gels onto the table; some sizzled and smoked yellow
or red mist into the air. None of that sickened Jaxius. Not nearly as much as
the vision of Bergar suspended in the air directly across the room from the
devilish altarpiece.
The young barbarian's flesh was
stripped away in many spots. His limp body spun there in mid air, ripped and
torn. A steady trickle of blood pooled slowly below him. Jaxius watched the
witch. The hag was crouched down between him and his friend, still carving her
vile symbols in Bergar's pitiful flesh. She giggled and mumbled to herself
while she worked her magic.
Jaxius, his attention focused on the
plight of his young friend, did not have time to respond when a hammer caught
him in the side of the face, nearly ripping his jaw off. Jaxius turned to face
Morgrys, the witch's barbarian raider who had taken Bergar that awful night two
weeks prior. All of his reigned in anger and hate began to roll and roil in his
gut. He could feel it burning and seething. He launched himself at Morgrys with
all his pent-up fury. He struck furiously at the barbarian.
Morgrys had been prepared for the
onslaught; he parried or dodged every deftly placed strike.
Jaxius' hatred grew deeper the longer
their battle raged. He continued to thrust and parry, trying to make his way to
Bergar. It wasn't until the table was at his back that Jaxius came up with the
beginnings of a plan. He needed to distract both the barbarian and the witch.
He adjusted his fighting style to be much more defensive. He focused his entire
fight on parrying each of the barbarian's mighty blows. Jaxius slipped each
parry bit by bit, hoping to draw his opponent in. Morgrys' hammer still came
swinging in, getting more aggressive with each blow.
Jaxius' plan was working. His huge
foe was getting cocky. When the barbarian took a deep breath, preparing for his
final death-blow, Jaxius knew that his chance was now. Morgrys heaved his
mighty warhammer
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