Skye is the Limit by Phenomenal Pen (detective books to read TXT) 📗

Chapter 19: The Sacrifice

The Count uncorked the vial and raised it towards his lips. But just as he was about to down the potion, another quake jerked the dainty container out of his hand.

His eyes bulged as they followed the vial’s plummet. With a soft clink, it broke into two and its precious contents gushed out like orange syrup onto the ice.

“No no no no no…” the Count muttered. Everything happened so fast and the break was clean in the middle of the vial. It was instantly emptied. In desperation, it even occurred to the Count to try and lap up the medicine straight off the ice.

“Leave it, Count!” Man-At-Arms screamed at him. “It’s just a placebo! You don’t need it!”

“He’s right, Count!” Nethril radioed. “Forget it. Pick up your sword and break the chain! You can do it! We believe in you!”   

The Count could hear his companions’ pleas but his body refused to obey, refused to act. His fear was different from what Bear Tooth had previously experienced. Bear Tooth was brave. It was only another of the dream world’s uncanny effects that Bear Tooth had forgotten who he was. The Count’s terror, on the other hand, was very real. It was the paralyzing terror that gripped men’s hearts and numbed their brains in the face of likely death.

The Count was all too familiar with the feeling. He had lived with it every day and every moment of his life as an explorer. It lurked at every corner of a labyrinthine cave system like the Fiery Caverns. It could make men lose their bearings and then, slowly and agonizingly, lose their minds. Or, it could happen in the blink of an eye. On a scuba dive, getting entangled or discovering that you were low on air and then making a rapid, fatal ascent to the surface. Panic was the real Grim Reaper. It was many small things happening all at once, till the task-load became too much and the person made the wrong reaction.   

The window of opportunity had closed. Nethril shot an arrow from her eyrie and it buried itself – with a sickening, squelching sound – in one of the Orc Mother’s beady eyes. The Orc Mother jerked her left hand out of Bear Tooth’s grip and also let go of the chain. She let out a pained howl that was acoustically devastating. Bear Tooth, the Count and Nethril dropped to their knees and covered their ears. Mage and Man-At-Arms had tumbled backwards at the sudden absence of tension in the chain.

Despite the incapacitating vibrations, Mage staggered and plucked Fairy’s ice prison off the chain. He then squatted next to the writhing Man-At-Arms and placed the chunk of ice in his hands.

“Please take this to Nethril,” Mage shouted above the unceasing vibrations. “Have her heal Fairy through the ice.”

He then picked up the anchor chain and trudged towards the prostrate Orc Mother, through the crippling barrage.

The Orc Mother was balancing clumsily atop the slab that was suspended in magma. She was attempting to raise herself. Mage made a gigantic leap onto her island and landed right in front of her head. He slung the chain over her nape and, twisting it around her neck, tugged both ends hard. Her infrasonic blasts stopped immediately. 

“Please make haste, Man-At-Arms,” Mage radioed as he fought to keep the Orc Mother down on her elbows. She was pushing herself up but the chain around her neck prevented her.

Man-At-Arms clutched the frozen Fairy and made towards Nethril. Unfortunately, the Orcs appeared to have finally found a way to resist the hacking devices. They were blind and still disoriented so they had switched to using their noses. They kept cocking their heads and sniffing the air to lock in on the Dreamwalkers’ alien smells.  

The game was now football and the play was a run play. Man-At-Arms must rush the ball through a swarm of soldier Orcs who, in their hive nature, moved in perfect sync to form solid phalanxes of various shapes: a wedge, a wall, a funnel, a quincunx…

With Fairy tucked under his arm, Man-At-Arms ran forward to the Orcs’ left flank, away from Nethril but towards the weakest part of the formation. As the enemies transformed themselves into a giant axe swinging down, Man-At-Arms sprinted up the side of what should be the handle.

Little did he know that was exactly what the Orcs wanted. Behind the apparently weak left flank, there were reserve forces. Man-At-Arms realized this too late. The blade of the axe formation had started rolling up the line and attacking from his rear. He was surrounded.

“Bear Tooth!” he screamed and tossed Fairy backwards.

Bear Tooth jumped and caught the flying chunk of ice.

“Gotcha!” he roared.     

In the center of the rolled-up formation, Man-At-Arms grinned and his eyes glowed red. Down his arms, his Anima bracelet had transformed into an XM556 microgun. Unlike its unwieldy ancestors the Gatling gun and the minigun, the microgun could be fired from the hip. It had a motor and could chew and spew four thousand rounds per minute, which were belt-fed from an accompanying Anima backpack.

“I think I understand what the three rabbits mean now,” he said to himself and his coat-of-arms duplicated in gold the same fieriness in his eyes. “Full cyclic firepower. YEAH!”  

The Orc formation had transformed into a mobile giant hand that attempted to grab Man-At-Arms, but the Dreamwalker fired a steady stream of ammunition and blew the fingers away. The Orcs were like rows of slot machines simultaneously hitting jackpot and bleeding coins. Man-At-Arms opened his charmed satchel and it acted like a leaf blower in suction mode as it gorged itself on all the gold.

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