Sark Ore - Tunnel Rat - 10

A guess and a prayer saw him charging into the right-hand tunnel. With the sounds of booted feet and grunted orders echoing in the torch-lit darkness, Sark reached into the pouch slung over his shoulder. Dried plants and cool, metal tools met his burrowing fingertips. He snatched a handful of turture implements, ready for use. Sweat glistening at his hairline, the dwarf considered dashing torches from the wall. He scrapped the idea, knowing his heat signature would be easier for his pursuers to spot in looming darkness.

"Where are you?"

His low rumble barely louder than his slapping feet, Sark turned a corner. Pulse racing, limbs aching from strain and years of torturous slavery, he almost ignored the shiver rippling through his spine and the cooling of the sweat lathering his skin. A gust of cool air caressed his beard. Sweat-flattened strands of hair rustled in the breeze.

Split lips twisted into a grin, he drew lungfuls of fresh air into his chest. The taint of water rolled across his tongue. Sark slowed, keen ears alert for the sound of chasing guardsmen. Only the soft lapping of water on a stony shore penetrated the darkness. With shaking fingers and the unfamiliar sensation driving his heart with war drum ferocity, he wrapped the long length of chain around his left wrist and doubled down on his sprint.

Worked stone gave way to rough, pick-hewn stone. Torches flickering in sconces grew farther apart. Lungs burning, Sark followed familiar passages, turned yet another corner until he spied a cleft in the rock barely large enough to fit his frame. Blood pounding in his ears, he ducked his head and leapt through, body tense in sweet anticipation of the deep dive into a subterranean sea that held his chance of freedom.

Shoulders hunched and head bowed, he cleared the stony threshold. Exhilaration shattered under a bullwhip's crack. Leather and pain snaked around his ankle. A muscular tug dragged him to the ground. Dropped metal clattered against stone somewhere to his right.

"I didn't think you'd be the type to hang around."

Hands pressed into the earth, knee and hip flaring with pain, Sark levered himself onto all fours. Coughing up a ball of phlegm laced with blood's coppery tang, he turned to face Brig. Dark leather armour covered her magnesium-white skin. A boiled hide helmet, moulded into the likeness of a bat's muzzle, covered her head. She gripped a short, stabbing sword in her right hand. The whip in her left hand connected them like an umbilical cord.

Regaining his feet, Sark once again dipped into the sack hanging from his shoulder. Turning his left shoulder to the woman, obscuring his movements, he scrabbled through the noise-dampening thatch of vegetation. Panic flared in his chest for a moment, receeding when he felt the last slender length of iron nestle in the sack's bottom corner.

"A sword and armour, Brig?"

Keeping his right hand hidden, he rolled the chain from his left wrist. Links clanked in the cavernous expanse. The lock dropped with a dull thump. Disturbed glow flies and shrieking bats scattered to the ceiling's apex.

"That seems a bit much to castigate a half-starved slave."

The leather helm tipped back, throwing Brig's laughter into the cavern roof. Her guttural braying set more bats dancing.

"Always so clever," she sneered, releasing Sark's ankle wth a flick of her wrist.

"I'm only here as an impartial observer, a referee if you will."

Footsteps and a low, muffled cry sounded from behind a looming stalagmite. A brown hem, darkened from absorbed moisture, shuffled into view. Mara's shoulder followed until Sark could see her scarred face. Head canted at an angle by a thick fingers entwined in her silver hair. Fear-swollen pupils devoured all but a sliver of her mercury irises. A dark iron blade bit into her golden throat.

"Sark, forgive me. I..."

Solid fingers wrenched her head backwards, the violent snap turning her words into a gargled mess. A second figure moved from behind the calcified pillar. Red tattoos burned in a shaved scalp. Wide eyes stared with a hint of instanity matched only by Brig's stare.

"Rix," Sark sneered, adjusting his grip on the chain.

"I should have known only a mind as petty and small as yours would be behnd this."

Bellowing with rage, the former merchant swung his captive by the hair. As Mara staggered foreward, Rix drive a boot into the base of her spine. She crumbled with the uncontrolled speed of a landslide.

"Petty?" Rix gurgled in his throat-broken voice, hand reaching to a sword at his belt.

"You ruined me, scum. Your arrogance saw me dishonoured, sold into slavery for tarnishing the Rix name."

Glyphs burning with an infernal light, Rix snatched his weapon with his free hand. The blade, identical to Brig's, hissed from its sheath. Its sharp edge glimmered in flickering torchlight.

"You took everything from me, Sark Ore, and now you shall pay. Brig!"

Shifting his stance, Sark watched a single sigil burning brighter on Rix's scalp. The swirling double-helix tattoo flared to blinding levels. A grunt of pain issued to Sark's left. A cracking whip drowned out the moan.

"Master." Brig slurred the word.

With slow, gangling movements of the recently-risen dead, she raised her sword. Again her whip spoke. A side-step carried Sark away from biting leather. The dwarf woman repelled his lashing chain with a cut of her blade. Movement flashed at Sark's right. Glowing runes sparked to life in Rix's flesh. The once-merchant hurled his dagger. Super-heated air cracked with a thunderous roar. The steel blade glowed with the power of harnessed lightning.

Sark ducked. Burrs of energy rippled from the enhanced blade. Burning sparks arched from the weapon as it whistled past his ear. Electrical shards pulled his hair on edge and seared blistering pockmarks into his flesh. Hand reaching for the slender length of steel in his pouch, Sark rolled to his feet.

Brig's whip cracked loud, snaked around his wrist with intolerable strength. The dwarf woman grunted, the sound hollow and unnatural. Her massive strength sent Sark back to the ground. Pain flared in his elbow as the bony joint smashed into ancient rock.

"Maybe I should take your face," Rix gurgled.

Burning tattoos giving his face a demonic aspect, Derro Rix advanced. Luminous liquid dripped from the edge of his gladius. Each venomous globe hissed as it slapped against the floor.

"Brig."

Sark squinted against the light of Derro's incarnadine double-helix glyph. His arm jerked, almost ripped from his socket by Brig's tug. Razor-edged rocks ripped his flesh. Twisting his body, he fought to stop her dragging him closer. He struggled to find a footing, brace against a lip in the imperfect ground. The skin of his heels split and tore. Unperturbed, she kept draggin hand over hand on the snaking leather length, pulling him closer.

The dwarf woman gave one final tug, dragging Sark to his feet. Iron-hard knuckles smashed into his jaw. Blood and saliva flew from his split lips. A second blow found his sternum, knocked the air from Sark's lungs with the power of a smith's hammer. Mind seething, he smashed his forehead into Brig's face, felt the gristle and bone in her nose collapse. His blood froze at her lack of response.

"Hold him!"

Massively strong hands grabbed Sark's throat. Eyes bulging, lungs burning, he stared into her manic eyes. Crimson fire flickered in her irises. The unnatural glow masked her pupils. Thick ropes of saliva drooled from her twisted lips.

"Present to me the sacrifice!"

On Derro's command, Sark felt the grip on his throat loosen. Another vicious blow rocked his skull. Stunned, he could not resist the woman turning him on the spot. Her sinewous forearm clamped around his throat. Air throttled from his lungs, he felt the world spin. Darkness swelled at the corners of his vision. Immeasurably heavy, his bearded chin dropped to his chest. Sigils burned in his fading vision. Acid dripped onto stone, fizzled with a serpent's hiss.

"Hold his face," Derro Rix rasped.

Iron hard muscles around his throat uncoiled. Air rushed his lungs as fingers ripped into his scalp. Stars flashing before his eyes, Sark stuffed his hand into the leather pouch, felt a bodkin's cold haft. With shaking fingers, he snatched the tool from his satchel. A savage, desperation-fuelled stab drove it backwards. More pressure eased from his throat. A howling cry threatened to burst his ear drum. Hot blood and viscous fluid leaked from Brig's ruptured eyeball and over Sark's fist. Weight dropped from his back. The dwarf woman crumbled to earth stained red with her vital liquid. Sark dropped to a crouch, snatched the blade from her twitching fingers. Seeing the steel implement thrusting from the slit in her leather mask, he pressed his lips in a grim smile.

"Well done," Rix gurgled, eyes flashing to his minion's corpse.

"But she was no less a slave than you, Sark. Prepare to pay for your meddling arrogance."

Gladius extended, its lethal blade reflecting shimmering light, Sark moved in a half-circle toward the length of chain discarded on the cavern floor. Eyes fixed on the tattooed warlock, he scooped the iron links into his left hand.

"Fool."

Rix barked as Sark bent low. Scalp blazing with demonic fire, he leapt to his enemy. Venom sprayed from the tip of his altered sword, splashing deep burns into Sark's flesh. Bringing his own balde up to parry the blow, Sark turned his head to save his sight and threw his weight into a rolling leap.

"We've done this before, Rix," the Puppeteer sighed, ignoring the burn of acids devouring his flesh.

"We both know how this ends."

Derro Rix, his face twisted in a rictus of hate, bellowed in rage. Sword raised high, he hacked down at Sark's skull. Corrosive venom raining from his weapon's edge, he shifted the direction of his blow. The cursed blade stabbed low at Sark's exposed gut.

Sark Ore parried the blow with a flick of his wrist. Face contorted into a grimace, he felt a dozen more pits burn into his skin. The pain throbbed throughout his body, draining his strength and will to fight. Controlling the other's blade with a hacking cut, he leapt back and away. Cool water lapping a stony shore drifted to his ears. Drawing moist air into his aching lugs, he adjusted his trembling grip on the short sword's hilt.

"I see you took notice the last time I put you on your back," he said, forcing a laugh through his ragged throat.

"Only a coward attacks an unprepared dwarf," Derro seethed.

"Only a dickless skink attacks a slave."

Fury spread across the warlock's face. His cheeks coloured, matching the glyps etched into his flesh. Gripping his sword's short hilt double-handed, Rix growled feral rage. Blade aimed at Sark's chest, Derro charged.

Eyes fixed on the charging demonist, Sark wrapped the weighted chain around his twitching fist. Fighting the instict to dodge and weave as Rix hurtled at him, Sark stood steady. Only when Derro's blade flashed a scant yard from his belly and burning venom splashed his foot did he react.

The iron chain flashed out with a twitch of Sark's wrist. Time slowed as polished links unspooled. Rix's eyes flared wide. Solid iron lock careened into his enemy's jaw. Bone and flesh splintered from the impact. Sark barely had to twist his shoulders to avoid the tumbling dwarf. Rix crashed to the ground, blood and snot pooling in the meat of his ruined face. Red runes dimmed upon his scalp. The rise and fall of his chest was little more than a twitch.

Sark slid the last links of iron from his fist. Eyes fixed on the dying warlock, he opened his mouth to speak. Finding no words, he dropped to a knee. His blade entered the back of Rix's skull driven by the full force of Sark's weight. With blood pooling around his feet, he left the sword sheated in Derro's flesh.

"Sark!"

Mara's voice, though week and frail, startled Sark. His head spinning and flesh alive with agony, he crossed to the woman with staggering steps. Drained muscles complaining, he crouched beside the pile of robes and her clutched hand.

"Please," she whispered.

"Help me."

Taking her hand in his, he pressed his lips to her ice-cold knuckles. Eyes locked with hers, he offered a smile.

"I have no time for traitors."

Ignoring her pleas, Sark Ore rose on trembling legs. Following the whisper of water on rock, he staggered into the underground sea. Filling his lungs, he dived into the frozen water. He would find freedom or death.