The Dragon Egg Saga. Stephen Lindsay J.

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ