Excerpt: The Captain of the Dammed

Ch 19

Torrin woke to the sound of barking dogs.
Life spent as a cadet with constant drills and surprise inspections in the middle of the night made for light sleeping habits. As a cadet, he had thought it was a senior’s way of torturing plebes. Tonight it was a life saver.
He immediately grabbed his sword and shield while he shook the muzziness of sleep from his eyes. Large forms were descending upon him in the starlit night. A half moon provided a bit of extra light to cast shapes into pools of deeper shadow.
He rolled left as he first saw a massive crab snap towards him. His shield took the blow as he crouched behind the shield trying to better determine his foes.
A tentacle flailed in from further to the left and he used his sword to parry and bat it twice as it retreated.
A form hunched to his right and prepared to pounce upon him before another form ploughed into it causing the pair to go tumbling away in howls of pain and aggression.
Then the crab claw was beating again against his shield. He caught the claw on his shield and tried to cut the end off with his sword. The sword could cut through the end of a black smith’s anvil but failed to nick the carapace of the creature.
It was then that he realized that in the muzziness of grabbing up his sword that he had forgotten to remove the scabbard. He cursed bitterly his stupidity as a tentacle latched on to his ankle and prepared to send him sprawling from his kneeling crouch.
He slammed down with the pommel of the sword squishing the tentacle. He had to slam down twice more with the sword hilt before tentacle released his ankle.
Again the crab claw came forward. This time he let the claw crab his scabbard as he finally drew forth his blade. Springing forward he slashed for the top of the hulking shadow while using his shield to bash the crab claw aside.
The blade bit deep into flesh like a cleaver hacking off the head of a fish. A backward tug of the blade allowed it to slice with the edge and release a spray of blood across his shield and clothes.
A gagging cry came from the creature as it stumbled back trying to stop its flow of life.
He moved forward to put a thrust to its chest to end its existence when the tentacle latched around his throat. In seconds his own life was choking out of him.
A raptor like talon latched on to his left bicep pinning his shield arm in place. In seconds the creature would place a knee and lock the choke hold into a death grip.
It was then that the creature locked on to his back screamed. It screamed once loudly and a second time the scream came as a gurgling choke.
Immediately, the iron grip on his neck and arm loosened. He could feel the weakening palsy as the creature continued to try to order its limbs to work but could not get the limbs anymore to function.
Then with a shove that impacted hard into the creature that still sagged against his back, he was free. He staggered forward gasping for air into his bruised throat. Each inhale was raw pain but it also tasted like nectar from the gods.
Near him, the furball of growling tumbling shapes had ended with the forms of two large war dogs standing over an unmoving heap.
Two other heaps lay on the ground and standing beside him with a large spear was his aunt.
He went to thank her and his knees suddenly went weak. She caught him before he fully fell and looked into his face.
“Easy there. Are you hurt?”
He went to answer her and only a gasping rasp came from his bruised throat. Finding he could not properly speak, he shook his head to signal that he was fine.
“Sure, sure, you are perfectly fine but you can’t talk. Lean on me for a second while we get you somewhere safe and get a fire going.”
Falchor arrived moments later. Dread showed on his face as he saw the form of Torrin being supported by his Aunt.
“How bad is he?”
“He can’t talk but I think he will live. I need to get him somewhere there is some light to be sure.”
Falchor tossed his shield to the side and took his left arm to help move his battle numb legs forward. He had been in a few fights before but never had he felt this bodily weakness after a fight. He also had never felt this close to death with its hands wrapped around his throat.
He sagged mercifully to the ground near the fire pit while the sergeants quickly turned the coals into flames. A quick check showed a wealth of marks on his neck and ankle but nothing beyond scratches and deep bruising.