WH inspired book chapter 3 (rough draft)

Angar shook his head until the words went away.  A grawlok was emerging from the pool behind him, and another was beginning to surface in front with two more following it.

He didn’t have time to fight them all.  Even if he did, four at once would be too much and prevent him from completing his king’s orders.

He sprinted up the path, narrowly dodging a claw strike from the emerging grawlok at the fork.

He wanted to reply to the words’ accusation.  If this Moloch thought he was a coward, it would soon realize how wrong it was.

The wide tunnel contained many curves but few intersections, and the ones it had made it clear which passage to take.  Or he hoped so.  He was assuming the well-worn paths were the correct ones.

No other creatures assaulted him during his ascent.  He sucked in air with sharp, ragged breaths.  He gave up trying to keep the sweat out of his eyes or finding a comfortable way to hold his heavy hammer as he pushed himself further and further along the steeper and steeper incline his path took him.

As he turned a sharp bend, he saw a large tuft of stingervines hanging down from the ceiling and walls, slithering around, seeking out anything they could grab hold of. 

Dozens of dried-up husks of grawloks littered the passage, their shells splintered into tiny fragments by the powerful tentacles.

His heart sank.  He hated these vines.  But the good news was that these things needed natural light to survive, so he was at the peak, or nearly so.

When the vines encountered something living, they latched on and caused immediate and extreme pain – pain that lasted a long while.  The touch also inflamed a large area and caused nausea and muscle cramps.  The venom itself large tufts of vines like the ones in front of him, in severe cases, could cause death or paralysis.

And, of course, failing to escape the vines also resulted in death.

These vines were a big part of the training regimen his mother had put him through.  That’s why he hated them so much.

The first time he had to offer a limb to one of these, he was a small child.  It was such a terrible experience that the memory was impossible to forget.

And as bad as that memory was, the second time he had to offer up a limb to a stingervine was much worse. 

He couldn’t stop the memory from playing out in his mind.  He was very little at the time.  His mother stood two paces away, her jaw set coldly, her eyes boring into her son, judging him, finding him wanting.

“We don’t have all day, boy,” said his mother, disappointment clear in her voice.  “Go on.  Give it your arm.”

Angar wiped tears from his eyes.  His chest was filled with fear.  “Please, Ma, it hurts so much.  Please.  Please.”

“Stop being so weak.  Life is pain.  You need to become inured to all forms of it.  Whatever does not destroy you will forge you into something stronger, more resilient, and better equipped to confront the ordeals that lie ahead.  Go on.  Your arm.  Give it to the vine.”

Tentatively, Angar stretched his little arm out.  Then he snatched it back.  “I can’t!  Please!  Please don’t make me!”

“Stop crying!  Control yourself!  This stingervine is small.  It’ll hardly hurt.”

Little Angar, at the time, remembered the pain from the first time he had to do this too clearly.  It had felt like a fire that sparkled in painful bursts under his skin, fire that wouldn’t go out, a spreading fire that burned hotter the longer it lasted.  He couldn’t do it.  He wouldn’t.

His mother barked out, “Such cowardice is unacceptable!” 

She strode forward and offered her own arm to the vine.  “There.  Do you see me whining and crying like a gutless weakling?  It hurts, yes, but not enough to make such a fuss as you are.  How do you expect to be a man at all, never mind a great one, if you can’t even handle a little discomfort?”

Those judgmental eyes bored into the child, still calling him a weakling without the need for words, until he found his spine and the courage to offer up his arm. 

If anything, since he knew what to expect, it hurt far worse and was far more torturous than the first time.  And, like the first time, it lasted an eternity, or felt so.

As Angar aged, the stingervine part of training had become easier to tolerate, but it never became easy.  It was always something he dreaded.

He was grateful that his mother took his training so seriously, and that she trained him well, making him hail, hardy, and strong.  She was a great woman, respected by all.  He had always been very proud of her – the powerful and feared Weirding Witch.

Up until today, that is.  The atrocities she committed were unforgiveable, regardless of her motivation.  What she did was sick and depraved.  It broke his heart.  He hoped his glorious ascent to Qitakai would wipe the shame and memory of it.  And remove the stain of shared blood.

Angar dreaded stingervines still.  But he had to get through these. 

If he had a torch and time to strike sparks to ignite it, he could get through safely, but he didn’t. 

No sense putting off the inevitable, he thought before charging through the vines.

As he moved past, slithering vines surged forth, latching onto his forearms, face, and neck with a vicious grip.  Agony and searing heat erupted wherever they made contact, a torment he fought to ignore.  

His mind flashed back to those harsh lessons, but now he was not the boy trembling before his mother – he was a man grown now, a warrior of Mecia, knighted in court, and under orders given by his king and father.

He pressed on relentlessly, not halting until the vines were stretched to their limits, taut with no give.

He let his hammer fall, then with a fierce yank, tore the clinging vines from his arms, blood splattering across the cavern walls.  In one swift motion, he drew the flint knife from his belt, sliced through the vines around his neck, then brutally freed his face, fresh blood painting the walls.

He knew he couldn't tear the vine from his neck while it was still attached to the tuft – not without risking his death.  Now, with the vine segments on his neck lifeless, he carefully peeled them away.

Angar sheathed his knife, picked up his hammer, and ran to a ladder leading out the cave.

This was his first time atop the great Mount Shirdis.  He was surprised by how porous it was, the entrance to many caves leading away from the flat lip he stood upon. 

There was a wooden hut meant to house the lookouts watching for approaching enemies, ready to sound the alarm horn when some were spotted.  The hut was empty.  He suspected the lookouts were the men trapped in the cave-in his mother triggered.

He moved to the edge to look out over the valley.  He looked towards the battlefield and saw demons streaming out of the strange gateway still, but the fog hid all the corpses.

Far to the south, what remained of the Kondunean legions, and a decent number of them remained alive, fled from demons. 

Fog blanketing the ground all around the Ulimuns, and many demons could be seen poking out of it, many of them heading to the city of Mecia.

Angar went to the alarm horn, took a deep breath, and blew into it.  The deafening loudness of the horn sounding was something he wasn’t prepared for, so that first blow was stifled.  He blew it again for much longer.  And again.   And again.

He moved back to the edge.  Many of the demons heading to Mecia had begun moving to Shirdis.  Some only looked towards where the great noise came from.  He waved his arms as he bellowed out a challenge.

He looked towards the large group of demons following the retreating Konduneans.  Most had stopped to look towards where the noise came from.  He continued to wave his arms and bellow out for a few more moments before going back to the horn.  He blew in it for as long as his lungs allowed.  And blew again.

When he went back to edge, he saw many demons headed towards or climbing up the great mountain he stood upon.

Knowing his plan was working, a brief sense of triumph mingled with burden, and lightened his heart.  He wouldn’t kill all the demons, but if he got lucky, he’d kill a ton of them, maybe even half.

His heart raced, but he was resolved.  He’d avenge his father and brothers before joining them.

Angar went back to blow the horn a few more times before feeling the dark whispers tickling his mind again.  He rustled through his mother’s pouch, taking out the relic – a glowing blue ball.

He walked towards the crater and looked down.  He couldn’t see far.  It was filled with extremely thick, brownish fogs. 

“I offer you this massive tribute of blood and slaughter, Great Lord!” yelled Angar as the holy relic was tossed in.

He waited.  He neither heard nor saw anything besides the fog swirling as the glowing ball passed through it. 

Angar became nervous.  He hoped the relic was the correct one.  He tossed in the whole pouch of relics in case his mother had lied about which one was correct. 

The sky above darkened.  It felt more humid, like when he was in the lower parts of the cave with all the pools of acidic water.  Then his ears popped, and he felt a sense of unease.  The air felt as if it was charged, like before a major lightning storm, but more so.

A sense of foreboding crept over him.  Lightning began flashing in the distance, lighting up the gloomy sky, and the light seemed to linger.  A major storm was coming. 

Then all Angar’s thoughts went to the demon he saw cresting the lip of the mountain, his first time seeing one up close.

It was a creature of terror and dread.  Its form was colossal, with a muscle that bulged and rippled beneath its skin.

This demon's skin looked as if it was made of hard obsidian, a deep charcoal black, spiked with hard ridges here and there, along its arms and legs, and a dense grouping of them covered its chest.

The demon’s head was crowned with wicked horns, twisting and curving like gnarled branches of an ancient and cursed tree, and sharp, capable of impaling with ease.

Its face was as if malice was given form, with eyes that burned like fire and were devoid of any mercy.  Long and jagged fangs protrude from its mouth, each one a weapon in and of itself, still dripping with the blood of its last victim.

Its hands were oversized, each finger ending in a point that looked like it could slice through the thickest hide.

As it finished its climb and stood, it moved with a predatory grace, especially considering its massive size, and it made a strange noise, almost like a laugh.  Possibly.    

Laugh or not, it chilled Angar’s soul and curdled his blood.  It was a sound that echoed with the agony of a thousand tormented souls.

Around the demon, the air seemed to warp with heat, and the stench of decay filled Angar’s nose.  As eye met eye, maddening whispers, voices right at the edge of understanding, filled Angar’s head with sweat insanity.

He almost lost himself in those powerful whispers.  Almost.

But he was Angar of Mecia, son of Baraga, King of Mecia, and Laka, the Weirding Witch, descendent of Elaxada the Mighty, Mahtma the Conqueror, and the great Kondunean Emperor Xon Gheir the First, and this demon would need more than maddening whispers to stop him.

As more demons crested the mountain, Angar hefted his hammer high above his head and charged forward and swung his weapon mightily at the demon. 

Almost disdainfully, the monster caught the hammer’s head in its massive, clawed hand.  Once more it laughed with a sound that echoed with the agony of a thousand tormented souls. 

The strange laugh chilled Angar’s soul and curdled his blood again.  Before he could do anything else, the air around him grew eerily still, as if the world held its breath.

Then the mountain violently exploded, sending Angar and the demon barreling through the sky at tremendous speeds.