The bowstring sang and the arrow streaked away. A moment later, the creature jerked to the side as the arrow hammered into its arm and pushed through into its chest. It was dead and falling and he gave it no further thought. He already had another arrow fitted to the string and dropped to one knee as he drew, his attention on one of the creatures that had seen its comrade fall and stood to investigate.
His arrow struck and the beast toppled, and more of the lizardfolk stirred with the awareness that they were under attack. They snatched their weapons up and their tails flicked from side to side as they tried to determine the source of the assault. He realized that their hearing wasn't keen enough to tell where the arrows had come from.
They could see the direction, though, when he loosed the third arrow and caught one of the creatures in the jaw, and it stumbled into one of the little streams.
Nine were left, he tallied mentally as he scooped two more arrows from the floor beside him, drew, and fired one without so much as a thought.
Another of the creatures fell back into some of its comrades with an arrow buried deep in its chest. The other arrow launched without pause, but Skharr scowled as it sailed a little higher than he intended. It struck one of the creatures that pushed forward from behind in the shoulder and seemed to simply bounce off its scaly skin.
They had recovered quickly from their surprise and now scrambled over the pile of rocks Brahgen was hiding behind. With a single-minded focus on the barbarian, they showed no sign that they had detected his companion’s presence as they surged into a combined attack.
One more fell from the last arrow he felt comfortable launching before he discarded the bow at his feet, retrieved his sword, and unsheathed it smoothly as they tried to overwhelm him in a swarm.
A spear was thrust at him but the warrior knocked it aside easily, turned, and swung at his attacker's throat to inflict a long wound that immediately gushed dark blood. Skharr retreated quickly to the tunnel to force them to cease their combined assault, which wouldn’t work in the narrow space.
He grunted when one of the tails whipped around his legs. It was barely a glancing blow but it stung a little and warned him that one of the monsters tried to flank him. He swung his sword and missed his strike but forced the creature back a step, determined to not leave himself open as an easy target for more than one to attack at a time.
Six of them remained now—much better odds than twelve, of course, but still not optimal. He leapt back to avoid two tails that lashed out to catch his neck and his leg.
“You’ll have to move faster to kill a DeathEater, you stinking slime-brained troll turds.”
They were more cautious now and attempted to knock him from his feet before they attacked. When the next one tried, the barbarian swung his sword low and severed the tail halfway up before he countercharged with a brutal slash of his blade that beheaded one of them. He continued his swing to impale another with the tip of his blade.
Skharr moved one hand from the sword to take his ax from his belt. He used this to deflect a club that arced toward his head and sliced easily into the creature that wielded it.
With his ax in one hand and sword in the other, the warrior turned to the three remaining lizardfolk. They showed no expressions on their hardened faces, but the way they inched away from him said they had second thoughts about attacking him directly.
It was time to press that advantage.
“Come on, you fucking scaly swamp-vermin.” He bellowed a challenge and the sound echoed off the walls around him and amplified it as he rushed forward and cornered them before they could escape. One fell to his ax and he slit the throat of another with his sword.
The last one seemed to suddenly recall that it had a weapon, a crude-looking ax made from flint and wood. It hissed, swung it at him, and caught the side of his shoulder as he twisted in an attempt to avoid it.
He kept the creature that clutched its neck wound between him and its surviving companion and waited for the right moment to drive his sword into its chest. It cut through effortlessly and impaled the monster behind, and both sagged as they succumbed to their wounds. He drew his blade out and inspected the glancing blow he'd taken on his shoulder.
"No, dwarf, never mind me," Skharr muttered. "I fought them on my own this time. I suppose I can count on you to stay out of it next time as well, eh?"
When he turned to where Brahgen had been hiding, he realized the dwarf was no longer there. The godsbedammed short-assed bastard had run off.
"I'll remember that come time to divide the reward," he snapped and turned his attention to where his arrows had gone.
He froze and stared at the chamber that was no longer empty. Three figures huddled close to one of the fires. They were dressed in rags that covered their entire bodies aside from their hands which hung low, almost to the floor. Their backs were bent and they moved like old women. That kind of disguise might have worked on an unwary traveler but the barbarian could see the talons that curved from their fingers.
"Barbarian meat, yesssss," one of the crones hissed. "It has been a long time since we've tasted human and longer still since we tasted barbarian."
"He is a killer of many. His blood will be sweet."
"His muscles will be tough but it won't matter in the stew."
Skharr kept his weapons in hand and advanced slowly on the creatures. Their faces were covered but it was obvious that they watched him intently.
"I won't surrender willingly to your pot," he told them and twirled his ax and sword in his hands.
"Your compliance was never a factor," one of the hags muttered, lifted what looked like a waterskin, and blew into it.
Out of the skin flowed the same kind of mist that seemed to fill the whole island, but when it touched him, the power leeched from his muscles. He scowled in concentration but try as he might to hold fast to his weapons, they slipped from his fingers and fell with a loud clatter.
"It'll make him taste wrong," one of the crones complained.
"Don't worry," the other replied. "We'll steep it out of him first."
Chapter Eleven
The fucking mist would not go away.
Their ship sailed through the still waters and had encountered no real difficulty. He'd been through the region before and knew which areas to avoid. The orc settlements were nestled away from the shoals since they happened to ground their ships often enough as well.
They had the lamp raised to the bow of the ship to alert the orcs of their arrival and moved slower than they needed to. This was simply a precaution to make sure none of the tribes were tempted to attack.
He was there to do business with them, after all, and the best way to do that was to avoid making them nervous.
As expected, one of their ships moved beside his but showed no sign of aggression. They were escorted through the bay and into the region where a collection of simple-looking buildings were surrounded by palisades and watchtowers.
Samor had heard that they were dealing with monsters in the region, which explained the improved defenses since his last visit.
When they reached the dock, he was the first one to vault off the ship and strode along the jetty as the rest of his men tied the vessel to secure it and began to unload their supplies.
There was no sign of the chieftain, but he could safely assume she had gone to deal with some attack or another. Hell, from what he'd heard of her, she could as easily have gone out on a fishing trip. She wasn’t the type to sit on whatever passed for a throne and let others do the work for her.