NOVEL SIMPLE CH. 11 The Chief's Hall
Fury carried him to the Chief’s hall. Santi threw the glowstick into the corner and then snapped open another road flare that he tossed into the opposite corner. The red light overpowered the darkness revealing a long rectangular hall, crumbling stone furniture pushed to the sides.
The Chief stood straight and met Santi’s eyes as he entered the hall. The kobold chief was tall for its kind, slightly over five and a half feet. Its fur was matted and dirty, its jowls were flecked with dried blood. A half eaten limb lay close by, the remains of one of its kin. It carried a long bone that had been shaped and sharpened into a rough caricature of a spear. Its yellow eyes were glazed in a mix of hunger and rage, growling low in its throat as Santi marched toward it.
Santi was covered in the blood of the Chief’s tribe and holding a heavy splitting maul that dripped blood on the ground with every step. If he had been in his right mind, Santi would have approached the fight slower, more methodically. Instead, he bull rushed in, a keening war cry ripping from his throat as he closed the distance between the two of them.
His overhead blow had all of his strength and hate imbued in it, whistling as it split the air in what would be a death blow if it landed. So far, Santi hadn’t had too much resistance, even the warriors dying with little fight. They were three-quarters starved and weak monsters to begin with. A false sense of confidence had wormed its way into Santi’s heart, a sense of superiority. The Chief corrected him.
It sidestepped, letting the axe split nothing but dirt. Santi sagged forward, the lack of resistance throwing him off balance. The Chief lunged, the needle point of the spear aiming for Santi’s neck. Santi threw himself to the side, quickly realizing his heavy pack was still on as he crashed on the ground. He wormed his arms out of the strap and rolled across the dirt as the Chief stabbed down where his heart had just been.
Rolling away from the Chief, Santi popped back to his feet, now close back to the entrance of the hall. His axe had been left buried in the dirt, the spare daggers he had collected were in the bag. The only weapon he had left was the small dagger he had taken from the shaman. A poignard, it was a poorly made and constructed poignard. The thought flashed across Santi’s mind as he crouched down low, the poignard held ready.
The Chief growled and shuffled forward, not rushing as it sent a few lazy blows at Santi. Swiping them away, the sound of metal on bone filling the room as the Chief began to close the distance. Its lazy lunges became sharper and faster, forcing Santi to retreat and dodge as well as block. If he had been fully healthy, he could have matched the chief blow for blow. Now, exhausted from his trials, he struggled to hold on to the poignard as he knocked another testing blow away.
Santi was in trouble, the spear gave the Chief too much reach. He needed to close the distance or get his axe back. The heavy axe would allow him to cut down the kobold fast enough. The Chief lunged again, this time closing the distance itself as it threw a flurry of blows at Santi. Once, then twice, the bone spear found flesh. A long scrape along his ribs underneath his heart. Then a close call as it tore a furrow along his right leg. That blow would have ended him if the Chief had properly connected.
“FUCK OFF!” Santi screamed, anger and pain merging together as he kicked the dirt in an arching spray. The kobold yowled as the thick particles got in its eyes. It swung the spear back and forth in a blind attempt to keep Santi from getting close to it. Santi wasn’t closing the distance, he was running to his axe buried in the ground. The smooth polymer handle felt good in his hand as he yanked it from the dirt and spun to meet the kobolds charge.
Tears streamed from its now bloodshot eyes as it attacked in a half blind fury. The maul was a poor weapon to deflect the rapid thrusting of the spear, the head much too heavy to counter the quick movements. Santi danced backward, using his faster speed to keep the Chief chasing him. He ducked under a wild sweep and saw his chance. He surged forward and struck the kobold in its chest with his shoulder. It was a proper tackle, somewhere out there was a proud football coach.
Santi let the axe drop and wrapped both hands around the kobolds knees. With his shoulder in its sternum, he churned his legs and lifted. The Chief was lighter than he looked, but ferocious. It dropped the spear and raked Santi’s shoulders with its claws. Hot pain radiated through Santi, a pained cry mingling with the kobolds growls. Santi lowered his head and dove to the ground, keeping the kobold tucked in close. It was a short fall, but with the power of his run, the kobold broke in several places.
Santi heard and felt the bones break as it screamed in agony. Its arms flopped limp to the ground as its head thrashed back and forth. Santi rolled off and looked down at the pitiful monster. It was half dead when he entered, starving and forced to cannibalism. Its spear was a bone that was yellow with age. Even with the Chief being in such bad shape, it had hurt him. There were gashes on his shoulders and he had two long cuts from the spear.
“You’re a little shit, you know that,” Santi spoke down to the paralyzed Chief. It glared up at him, hissing and growling in equal measure. Santi’s blood decorated its claws and Santi was glad it hadn’t thought to bite him. It was such a stupid move, tackling a monster with natural teeth and fangs.
“You know, the first time we fought you, you were actually kind of impressive,” Santi told his captive audience as he went and retrieved his axe.
“Eight of us came and cleared the rift. We got the shamans before we got down here, but you had a couple of warriors with you,” Santi walked back and stood over the Chief. A hard look on his face as he stared down at his broken foe. His blood had darkened his clothes and the pain was making it hard to think.
“You were in here and had a proper spear. Armor too, this lacquered wood that was turning spells and skills. You killed a friend of mine. Speared him right through his eye. Fuck, you were fast. Got Harry before he even knew the fight started. We got you though. You died in the dirt, growling and hissing just like right now. I’m glad Harry didn’t come down here this time. He deserves a better death than this shithole.” Santi finished the Chief off with a pair of heavy blows.
Leaving the axe buried in the Chief, he went and got his pack. He had planned for emergencies and started shuffling through the pack for his medical supplies. Gauze, disinfectant, even some thread and a needle. He peeled his sticky shirt off, dropping the ruined garment on the ground. Using one of his precious water bottles, he cleaned the scratches as best he could, twisting his arms to reach. Santi counted his blessings; they were high on his shoulder rather than down by his shoulder blades.
The iodine caused a few tears as he poured it liberally over the long, ragged, wounds. He couldn’t use the gauze, so settled for some large square band-aids that probably weren’t worth the effort. His ribs were a little easier, more water followed by iodine. He was able to place a thick wad of gauze on the wound and tape it there. The gauze was darkening even as he moved to his worst wound, the long furrow along his quad.
“This isn’t good,” Santi muttered to himself as he cleaned it. Without a healer he was fucked. There was no other way around it. These wounds won't heal fast enough for him to take advantage of his innate knowledge. Clearing a rift didn’t offer any physical rewards like a dungeon would.
“Hope someone has a healer class.” Santi dragged his pants back up after he wrapped his leg. He tugged a rolled up shirt out of his pack and delicately pulled it on over his bandages. The bottle of pain pills were all over the counter, but they were better than nothing. He used the rest of his water to wash down a handful of them, not bothering to count them out. Santi repacked his bag and left it there. He knew what was waiting for him in the guardian’s chamber and all he needed was his axe and some courage. Rallying his courage, he limped through the Chief’s hall, and into the heart of the rift.