The First King of Shannara - Terry Brooks [168]
The battering ram resumed its pounding and the second gate collapsed, widening the entry further. But no one approached.
Risca glanced upward through the curtain of rain. The last of the Dwarves were coming down off the battlements and out of the watchtowers. In moments, he would be alone. He should flee now, he knew. He should run with the others, escape while he could.
There was no point in remaining. Yet he could not make himself turn away. It was as if he held the outcome of this battle in his hands, as it by standing where he was, by holding firm, he could stop the onslaught that threatened to overwhelm them all.
Then something huge appeared in the charred, fire-scorched entry, a shadowy form that lumbered into the gap. Risca hesitated, waiting to see what it was. The dark shape hove into view, coming into the pale, uncertain light of the dying Druid fire. It was a creature out of Brona’s netherworld, come out of hiding with the fall of night, a thing of ooze and slime, of spikes and armored plates, of heavy limbs and massive body. It stood upright, but it was scarcely human, bent down as if by the weight of its own ugliness, yellow eyes lit by its killing need. It caught sight of the Druid and slowed, turning to face him. It carried a huge club, both clawed hands wrapped around its grip.
“Well, now,” Risca breathed out slowly.
The creature stood alone momentarily in the gap, then trudged slowly across the burning rubble. No one else appeared, although Risca could hear the Northlanders scrambling, bringing up what scaling ladders they had to place against the unmanned walls, massing in the darkness for the rush that would sweep them into Stedden Keep.
Meanwhile, this creature is sent to challenge me, Risca thought, knowing it could be for nothing less. Do they think I will not stand against it? Do they test me to see what sort of power I possess, what strength of will? What is the reason for this nonsense?
He could not answer any of these questions, of course. And now the monster was coming for him, pushing aside debris and bodies as it descended to the court out of the gap, lantern eyes fixed on the Druid.
They seek to trap me, the Druid thought suddenly. A diversion to distract me, a foil for my magic, and then they will come for me in force. The arrogance of it made him smile.
The netherworld creature lumbered toward him, picking up speed. The club lifted before it, both a shield and a weapon. There was still time to flee, but Risca held his ground. There were Northlanders watching. They knew who he was and they were waiting to see how he would react. He would give them something to remember.
When the creature was within two dozen feet, Risca brought up his battle-axe, gripped it in both hands, whirled about to gain momentum, and sent the gleaming blade flying at the monster.
The beast was right on top of him by then, rushing to the attack, and had no chance to deflect the blow. The axe struck the heavybrowed forehead and split it apart with a grating of metal on bone.
The force of the blow snapped the massive head back. Blood poured down the ruined face, a black ichor that filled the crea Hire’s gaping maw. The beast dropped to its knees, already dead, and began to topple forward.
Risca was already drawing back, racing for the safety of the door, when something moved in the shadows to either side and he threw up his magic instinctively. The sudden glare of the flames illuminated the handful of Skull Bearers that slunk from the shadows, dark-winged and red-eyed as they sought to close on him. Risca gritted his teeth in disgust. They had been quicker than he thought, coming over the wall while he obligingly waited on their decoy. He darted left at the closest of them, sending the Druid fire hammering into it. The winged hunter fell back, hissing in fury, and red fire exploded in front of Risca as he sought to gain the tower entry. Something slammed into him, knocking him sprawling — one of the Bearers, claws slashing. Risca rolled free and