Sark Ore - Tunnel Rat - 4

The four inverted shadows moved from the cavern's entrance. Shovel drawn up spear-like in a double-handed grip, the speaker circled around to Sark's right. His companion followed suit, the cross-guard of his dagger glowing putrid green from the heat of his grip. They moved in an obviously practiced formation, the speaker slightly offset and behind the knife-bearer, ready to take advantage of any opening his friend could make. The digging edge of his weapon was the stark dark blue of null light beside the other's shoulder. The lethal head would be impossible to see cutting through the chilled cavern's air.

"We know who you are, Sark Ore," the leader spat, voice a demonic gurgle.

Sark rolled his shoulders. Tension clicked loose in his spine. He clenched his fists, flexed his fingers to warm the muscles then balled his hands back into hammers. He swept the approaching quartet with an appraising gaze. Despite their greater numbers and superior arms, spindly limbs and hunched shoulders painted them as slaves. Though the emaciated, grey-skinned dwarf's muscles burned with exhaustion and his guts knotted with hunger, he knew his foes would be in the same state.

Sark widened his stance a fraction. Hands raised to his jaw, he glanced to the second pair of attackers. Less disciplined than the leader, they moved as separate entities. The knifeman held back, allowing his companion to take advantage of the shovel's greater reach. The second held his spade single-handed, raised above his shoulder ready to jab or throw.

"How unusual," Stark said, turning slightly.

The leader gurgled a laugh, still circling to Sark's flank.

"Did you think you could hide your identity in the slave pits, scum?"

"No, but I never expected to meet four men who's wives I'd despoiled."

A snort from his left signalled Sark's opening. He sprang off bunched calfs. Two strides and a leap carried him toward the undisciplined spade-wielder. A grunt of suprise echoed through the chamber. Sark drove his knuckles into the slave's gut. Air exploded from emptied lungs. Iron and wood clattered to the ground. The birght orange silhouette doubled over. Snaking a hand into the slave's shaggy hair, he twisted until he heard a yelp. He thrust his hip into the dwarf's shoulder, yanking hair to extend his neck. Sark's elbow arched down. The sharp snap of splintered bone reduced the odds in Sark's favour.

"Horst!"

Body heat flared at Sark's flank. The knifeman charged, an amber flurry of bellowing rage. Hot saliva sprayed from the berserker's lips. Warmed green steel slashed empty air. Fingers still entwined in the corpse's hair, Sark hooked a hand under an already cooling arm. Left leg thrust back, he twisted his hips, hurling the cold, dead body toward the raging dwarf. The cadaver hit the ground with a dull thump. Lifeless limbs flailed and snapped as it bounced. Legs, dead and living, tangled. The berserker stumbled. His knife clattering to the ground. Flesh and gristle followed. Rotten teeth erupted from a shattered jaw.

Naked feet slapped an approach. Sark dropped low, stretched a hand to the discarded shovel. Shaking fingers snatched at bare rock. Air whistled behind him. Hard pain exploded in his shoulder. Hot blood stained his back once again.

"Give it up," the leader gurgled, slamming his spade an inch from Sark's fingers.

Shuffling feet rasped closer. Ragged breathing filled Sark's ears. The stink of unwashed bodies clogged his throat. The flat of a blade found his cheek, pressed against his flesh with lethal promise. Heat signatures closed in, the cold steel shovel blade almost looked black against the pumpkin background.

"We don't have to do this the hard way," the leader rasped.

Sark narrowed his eyes. Chest tight, breath coming in ragged gasps, he bowed his head. He gave a nod, began to raise his hands with tectonic slowness. Pressure increased on his cheek, the blade biting despite it being held flat.

"I underestmated you."

Voice low, he kept his eyes downcast. Curving his spine, he allowed his shoulders to slump.

"May I die on my feet?"

Shuffling feet prickled his ears. The blade on his cheek eased off, freeing blood to trickle from a small gash. A shrug passed between his captors, their silence betraying confusion. The spade's edge scraped stone.

"Don't see why ..."

Sark cut the knifeman short. Driving upwards, he slapped the knife away from his cheek. Turning his palm inward, he seized the dwarf's wrist, jerking hard and thrusting with his forehead. Bone snapped and cartilage ripped as he stoved his captor's nose flat. Unfinished, he dug a thumb into the dwarf's wrist. Tendons buckled under the pressure. Twisting his hand, Sark strained the abused joint beyond its natural rotation. The attacker screamed, blood and snot flying from his ruined face. Silencing the thug with a haymaker that dislocated his jaw with a sickening pop, Sark used his hold on the knifehand to angle the blade toward its owners belly. A hammer fist to the pommel drove the blade deep. Warm ichor and looping viscera stained Sark's fist red.

Displaced air whistled impending doom. Driving his fist into the gaping wound, Sark gripped pulpy flesh. Rocking his weight back, he pulled the groaning dwarf in a half-circle. A clanging spade-strike silenced the dwarf's protest and caved his skull into a bloody crater. Sark released his hold. Dropping a shoulder, he rolled away from the remaining assassin.

"They say you're demon touched," the voice rasped, his spinning shovel illuminated by cooling brain matter.

"Me, I think you're just dirty skink filth."

"What do you want?" Sark growled, setting his feet, ready to intercept a charge.

"Two of your friends are dead. One will never chew his food again. Do you really want to do this?"

The leader spun his spade. Blood and brain sluiced from its edge in a sloppy arch. Aiming the weapon spear-like once again, he shrank into himself to create a smaller target.

"You wiped out the Murtz clan," he spat, gurgling voice twisted with emotion.

"They were thieves and murderers," Sark said, his voice flat.

"We're all killers down here!"

His words not yet an echo, the enraged dwarf charged.

Battle lust ripped through Sark's veins. Pushing the murderous instinct aside, he forced calm upon his mind. Stance loose, fingers splayed, he watched the leader's bobbing head. With the distance between them closing, he readied himself to step sideways and drive his knuckles into the attacker's spine. Scant feet seperating them, he forced tension from his limbs and breath into his lungs. Fists clenched, he rocked up onto his toes, ready to spring. His plan crumbled in one tactic-spllintering second.

The orange glow flashed low. Metal scraped stone. The enraged killer tumbled to the ground, turning his momentum into a clumsy roll. Flesh-warmed wood speared upwards, driven by the dwarf's leaping weight. Caught off guard, unprepared for the suicidal tactic, Sark squeezed his eys tight as the spade's handle drove into his throat. Cartilage spintered. Pain ripped through Sark Ore's neck and skull. The force sent him backwards. He thrust out his arms, pinwheeling them to keep his balance. The trick failed. His skull cracked against the floor with a wet thud.

"I'm the last of the Mutz," the leader hissed, his null light silhouette looming above Sark.

"I wanted you dead, but Brig made a better offer."

Drawing back his weapon in a double-handed grip, he spat a thick gobbet of phlegm into Sark's face. The spade's hilt followed soon after.

The four inverted shadows moved from the cavern's entrance. Shovel drawn up spear-like in a double-handed grip, the speaker circled around to Sark's right. His companion followed suit, the cross-guard of his dagger glowing putrid green from the heat of his grip. They moved in an obviously practiced formation, the speaker slightly offset and behind the knife-bearer, ready to take advantage of any opening his friend could make. The digging edge of his weapon was the stark dark blue of null light beside the other's shoulder. The lethal head would be impossible to see cutting through the chilled cavern's air.

"We know who you are, Sark Ore," the leader spat, voice a demonic gurgle.

Sark rolled his shoulders. Tension clicked loose in his spine. He clenched his fists, flexed his fingers to warm the muscles then balled his hands back into hammers. He swept the approaching quartet with an appraising gaze. Despite their greater numbers and superior arms, spindly limbs and hunched shoulders painted them as slaves. Though the emaciated, grey-skinned dwarf's muscles burned with exhaustion and his guts knotted with hunger, he knew his foes would be in the same state.

Sark widened his stance a fraction. Hands raised to his jaw, he glanced to the second pair of attackers. Less disciplined than the leader, they moved as separate entities. The knifeman held back, allowing his companion to take advantage of the shovel's greater reach. The second held his spade single-handed, raised above his shoulder ready to jab or throw.

"How unusual," Stark said, turning slightly.

The leader gurgled a laugh, still circling to Sark's flank.

"Did you think you could hide your identity in the slave pits, scum?"

"No, but I never expected to meet four men who's wives I'd despoiled."

A snort from his left signalled Sark's opening. He sprang off bunched calfs. Two strides and a leap carried him toward the undisciplined spade-wielder. A grunt of suprise echoed through the chamber. Sark drove his knuckles into the slave's gut. Air exploded from emptied lungs. Iron and wood clattered to the ground. The birght orange silhouette doubled over. Snaking a hand into the slave's shaggy hair, he twisted until he heard a yelp. He thrust his hip into the dwarf's shoulder, yanking hair to extend his neck. Sark's elbow arched down. The sharp snap of splintered bone reduced the odds in Sark's favour.

"Horst!"

Body heat flared at Sark's flank. The knifeman charged, an amber flurry of bellowing rage. Hot saliva sprayed from the berserker's lips. Warmed green steel slashed empty air. Fingers still entwined in the corpse's hair, Sark hooked a hand under an already cooling arm. Left leg thrust back, he twisted his hips, hurling the cold, dead body toward the raging dwarf. The cadaver hit the ground with a dull thump. Lifeless limbs flailed and snapped as it bounced. Legs, dead and living, tangled. The berserker stumbled. His knife clattering to the ground. Flesh and gristle followed. Rotten teeth erupted from a shattered jaw.

Naked feet slapped an approach. Sark dropped low, stretched a hand to the discarded shovel. Shaking fingers snatched at bare rock. Air whistled behind him. Hard pain exploded in his shoulder. Hot blood stained his back once again.

"Give it up," the leader gurgled, slamming his spade an inch from Sark's fingers.

Shuffling feet rasped closer. Ragged breathing filled Sark's ears. The stink of unwashed bodies clogged his throat. The flat of a blade found his cheek, pressed against his flesh with lethal promise. Heat signatures closed in, the cold steel shovel blade almost looked black against the pumpkin background.

"We don't have to do this the hard way," the leader rasped.

Sark narrowed his eyes. Chest tight, breath coming in ragged gasps, he bowed his head. He gave a nod, began to raise his hands with tectonic slowness. Pressure increased on his cheek, the blade biting despite it being held flat.

"I underestmated you."

Voice low, he kept his eyes downcast. Curving his spine, he allowed his shoulders to slump.

"May I die on my feet?"

Shuffling feet prickled his ears. The blade on his cheek eased off, freeing blood to trickle from a small gash. A shrug passed between his captors, their silence betraying confusion. The spade's edge scraped stone.

"Don't see why ..."

Sark cut the knifeman short. Driving upwards, he slapped the knife away from his cheek. Turning his palm inward, he seized the dwarf's wrist, jerking hard and thrusting with his forehead. Bone snapped and cartilage ripped as he stoved his captor's nose flat. Unfinished, he dug a thumb into the dwarf's wrist. Tendons buckled under the pressure. Twisting his hand, Sark strained the abused joint beyond its natural rotation. The attacker screamed, blood and snot flying from his ruined face. Silencing the thug with a haymaker that dislocated his jaw with a sickening pop, Sark used his hold on the knifehand to angle the blade toward its owners belly. A hammer fist to the pommel drove the blade deep. Warm ichor and looping viscera stained Sark's fist red.

Displaced air whistled impending doom. Driving his fist into the gaping wound, Sark gripped pulpy flesh. Rocking his weight back, he pulled the groaning dwarf in a half-circle. A clanging spade-strike silenced the dwarf's protest and caved his skull into a bloody crater. Sark released his hold. Dropping a shoulder, he rolled away from the remaining assassin.

"They say you're demon touched," the voice rasped, his spinning shovel illuminated by cooling brain matter.

"Me, I think you're just dirty skink filth."

"What do you want?" Sark growled, setting his feet, ready to intercept a charge.

"Two of your friends are dead. One will never chew his food again. Do you really want to do this?"

The leader spun his spade. Blood and brain sluiced from its edge in a sloppy arch. Aiming the weapon spear-like once again, he shrank into himself to create a smaller target.

"You wiped out the Murtz clan," he spat, gurgling voice twisted with emotion.

"They were thieves and murderers," Sark said, his voice flat.

"We're all killers down here!"

His words not yet an echo, the enraged dwarf charged.

Battle lust ripped through Sark's veins. Pushing the murderous instinct aside, he forced calm upon his mind. Stance loose, fingers splayed, he watched the leader's bobbing head. With the distance between them closing, he readied himself to step sideways and drive his knuckles into the attacker's spine. Scant feet seperating them, he forced tension from his limbs and breath into his lungs. Fists clenched, he rocked up onto his toes, ready to spring. His plan crumbled in one tactic-spllintering second.

The orange glow flashed low. Metal scraped stone. The enraged killer tumbled to the ground, turning his momentum into a clumsy roll. Flesh-warmed wood speared upwards, driven by the dwarf's leaping weight. Caught off guard, unprepared for the suicidal tactic, Sark squeezed his eys tight as the spade's handle drove into his throat. Cartilage spintered. Pain ripped through Sark Ore's neck and skull. The force sent him backwards. He thrust out his arms, pinwheeling them to keep his balance. The trick failed. His skull cracked against the floor with a wet thud.

"I'm the last of the Mutz," the leader hissed, his null light silhouette looming above Sark.

"I wanted you dead, but Brig made a better offer."

Drawing back his weapon in a double-handed grip, he spat a thick gobbet of phlegm into Sark's face. The spade's hilt followed soon after.