The Tyranny of Ghosts (Legacy of Dhakaan) by Don Bassingthwaite

Author:Don Bassingthwaite [Bassingthwaite, Don]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Wizards of the Coast Publishing
Published: 2010-05-27T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER

ELEVEN

13 Vult

Geth ripped Wrath from his scabbard, but their attackers were already on them. They moved fast. Very fast. He caught only a brief glimpse of hairy brown limbs before the first of the varags was on him. He barely got his gauntlet up in time to block the creature’s strike. A heavy grinder like Tooth’s but much older, the blade worn to a curve by long sharpening, went scraping across the black metal. Geth struck back, but the varag slid aside with frightening speed. His blow found only air.

Then it was past him and whirling to attack again. Geth turned, keeping it in his sight, and finally got a good look at the creature. The varag’s face resembled a hobgoblin’s, with flat nose and thin lips, but stretched out and thrust forward almost like a muzzle, its teeth sharp and prominent. Flat, heavy horns grew across its brow almost like armor. Its long, powerful legs had the backward bend of an animal’s. Its arms were almost as long as its legs and when the varag turned, it hunched forward to pivot around one clawed hand. Rough leathers wrapped a body that was as tall as a bugbear but much leaner, like a hungry wolf.

The varag howled as it lunged a second time—a battle cry, Geth realized as Wrath translated words barely recognizable as thick, guttural Goblin. “Blood and meat! Blood and meat!”

The ancient grinder battered Geth’s gauntlet again, but this time Geth twisted his hand and grabbed the varag’s arm as the blade skittered away. He stepped into the varag’s charge, ducked, and heaved. The shrieking creature—no matter that it spoke, used a weapon, and wore clothes, Geth couldn’t think of it as anything other than a beast—hurtled over his shoulder and crashed hard into the ancient stones of the road. Its words cut off with a clashing of teeth. The impact would only stun it for a moment. Geth moved in, Wrath raised and ready to chop down.

Long feet with claws even heavier than those on the varag’s fingers raked at him. Geth jumped back, but the claws still caught him a blow across the belly, shredding his shirt and tearing into his skin. The wounds were shallow—deeper and it would have been his guts instead of shreds of cloth sagging to the ground.

Geth wanted to look and see how the others were doing. He could hear the sounds of their fighting, but he didn’t dare take his eyes off his attacker. The varag was too fast. As it twisted to its feet and grabbed for its grinder, Geth reached into himself—and shifted.

Some shifters manifested claws or fangs or a burst of speed when they drew on the power of their lycanthrope ancestors. Geth’s gift was sheer toughness. He felt the sense of invulnerability that shifting brought burning in his blood, toughening his skin, making his already thick, coarse hair even thicker. The gashes across his belly closed themselves into angry scars. He sank back into a crouch, sword and gauntlet raised.

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