The Crimson Claymore

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Searon’s claymore was in his hands, glowing red, sparkling as he twirled it about to deflect blows from axes all around him. And yet, even as he defended himself against the black-scaled reptilian draeyks, the blazing orange eyes he saw in his dreams the night before were still the only thing on his mind. He felt as if those eyes were watching him still, and he could almost swear to have seen them through the thick forest enveloping him. Three draeyks lay dead on the ground. The stench of distilled vinegar and rotten eggs brought an awful taste in his mouth, taking away the scent of pine he treasured so much.

Only two of the creatures remained, both cunning warriors but frightened at his skill with a blade. He didn’t understand why he had such a hard time killing the savage creatures. For the past three years, Searon had been slaughtering a few each and every day, yet it never seemed like it would be enough. There was only one of him, and there seemed to be thousands of the wretched creatures. Sometimes, it felt as if they would never be destroyed but would keep coming back to haunt him in his nightmares.

He charged the two draeyks in front of him, focusing all of his rage for the creatures. Anger bled from Searon’s veins to his clenched fists, passing through them and into his claymore as it grew brighter and brighter, with such ferocity—casting a crimson gleam to his weapon which nearly blinded, even to himself. Searon’s blade only glowed while being used, almost appearing as if on fire. The crimson claymore felt cool to the touch, but its steel proved harder than any other sword, and if Searon pushed it a certain way, it could fracture any other metal it came to contact with. Each of the creatures blocked his incoming strikes with such precision, baffling him. He tried changing the degree at which he slashed the blade, but the attempt seemed even more useless than what he tried before. A flash of orange stole his attention as he gazed into the oak trees beyond. Before he even heard the click of the crossbow, he felt the searing heat of a bolt puncturing his left shoulder. Gritting his teeth over a shout of pain, Searon tried to shake off the tingling burn which ran through his veins. He stepped forward, ready to finish off the bloodthirsty beasts.

Now three stood in front of him, two with axes held high, and another, farther back, with a crossbow in its grasp. He stood calm, teeth bared, soaked by raindrops under a blanket of storm clouds while thunder rattled the ground around him. His boots felt slick against the wet leaves and mud, yet he held his ground. He took a step back, sheathing his claymore in its scabbard. The two creatures in front rushed at him now since he stood weaponless. He quickly ducked before leaping away from them as the third, with a crossbow, locked a bolt into place.

One draeyk brought its axe down toward Searon’s head. He reached up to grab the weapon as another bolt pierced his forearm. His teeth clenched as a great moan of anguish escaped his mouth, but he did not let go. Despite the agony, he continued forward, allowing his rage to turn his pain into numbness. He kicked the draeyk in the gut, causing it to drop its weapon, which he snatched before it hit the ground. Searon twirled the axe in his hands before chopping the overgrown lizard’s scaly skull in two. Closing his eyes, Searon heard the crunch of scales and bone. Grimacing, the warrior wiped from his face the black ooze filling his nostrils with the scent of spoiled milk and vinegar.

The other draeyk charged at Searon, delivering swift blows, which struck in such an odd pattern, making it difficult for Searon to deflect. He let the handle of the axe slide down his hands as he blocked another attack. Searon spun the axe around, feeling the imbalance of the weapon, and used the blunt side to slam into the creature’s knee. A loud ding in his left ear echoed from where an arrow struck his crimson-and-silver helm. The draeyk in front of him collapsed to his injured knee in the mud, clearly defeated at the hand of Searon. Before Searon finished the creature, the warrior stared deep into its soulless red eyes with such hatred, the wretched reptile nearly flinched. Searon nodded approval at the defeated creature’s distress before slashing its throat, causing thick ebony blood to pour down the creature’s body before it collapsed onto the ground.

Searon turned to the remaining draeyk still holding a crossbow, and heaved the axe at its throat with inhuman speed. The reptile stepped aside with only millimeters to spare, and the axe pierced into the side of an oak tree, its handle wobbling from sheer velocity. Without a moment to spare, Searon ran forward, tackling the creature before it had a chance to reload its crossbow. They wrestled for a moment, the lizard’s sharp yellow teeth unable to puncture Searon’s armor. Drawing upon his superhuman strength and speed, Searon grappled with the draeyk a minute longer before growing bored with the struggle and rolling away while unsheathing his claymore. The creature, timid, attempted launching one last bolt toward Searon’s face. Swiftly and without much effort, Searon curved his blade to intercept the bolt’s tip, causing it to ricochet away, but the shaft still found its way to Searon’s face, smacking against his jaw. His chin throbbed, and a deep red welt began to form. He sliced the creature’s crossbow in half with annoyance and took another step forward where, with a sneer, he sliced its reptilian head from its shoulders.

He groaned heavily, sheathed his claymore, fell to his knees in the mud, and thanked the creator. When he opened his eyes, he noticed those same orange eyes which had been so unsettling in his dreams the night before. No longer did he dream of them, but they floated in front of him, growing closer.

The thundering ceased with the rain; chirping birds and squeaking crickets had been the only sounds breaching the silence surrounding him. An elderly man appeared from the shadows between trees, startling Searon. Despite his keen hearing and sight, he never saw nor heard the old man approaching. Long, wispy salt-and-pepper hair graced the stranger’s shoulders, falling in thick curly strands. A raggedy brown robe draped past his shoulders to his feet where he wore thick brown leather boots. He walked with the aid of a tall, thick wooden bark hued staff and seemed to be made of hardened wood which nearly resembled glass. The tip of the weapon (as Searon saw it) had five curled limbs which reminded him of fingers clawing for an unknown object. Searon clenched the hilt of his claymore, watching wearily as the old man approached him, radiant orange eyes glowing brighter with each step.

“Put that blade away, you fool,” the old man said.

“Who are you?” Searon asked, staring deep into the man’s demonic orange eyes.

“Someone who is much more attractive, and much smarter, than you are,” the old man said with a gravelly voice.

“You’re asking for it, old man.” Searon’s eyes narrowed in frustration.

“No, if I were asking for it, I would simply ask. However, you may call me Karceoles,” he said, folding his arms over his staff and grinning with lowered eyebrows.

“You must be wandering in the wrong forest. There are draeyks all through here,” Searon said in an attempt to frighten him off.

Karceoles kept his smile. “You underestimate me, boy. Besides being more attractive and smarter than you, I’m also exceedingly stronger.”

Searon grew tired of the old man now, and the way he talked without the slightest hint of respect in his voice. He studied the man’s face: full of hard lines, a strong, rounded jaw, swirling flames of orange for eyes, and, although he seemed aged, his wrinkles made him appear more wise than old.

“What do you want?” Searon asked, growing weary of the old man and ready to be on his way.

“Some help. I’m looking for someone to start a war, and I’ve found you. That is a lovely horse. I haven’t seen one with black and white stripes before, especially so large,” he said.

Searon turned to see his black-and-white striped stallion approaching, saddle and bags secured tightly; the mighty steed apparently oblivious to the old man. It nuzzled its cheek against Searon’s palm, which the warrior stroked before climbing atop the magnificent beast.

“He’s one of a kind.” He glanced away from his horse to the old man. “I want no part of any war,” Searon said.

“I’m afraid it’s too late …” Karceoles’s eyes wandered off, as if searching for something.

Searon began to wonder what the old man went on about, but before he came to an answer, four draeyks jumped out from the trees with axes raised. He raised his claymore to block an incoming blow at the same time. Karceoles raised his staff, blocking the strike of the axe. Searon found it strange when the axe didn’t slice through the wood, but the old man blocked it, creating sparks with his staff as if it were metal. Karceoles swiftly moved his staff with ease, blocking every strike by the draeyks and adding offensive parries of his own at an ungodly speed. Searon, already in a weakened state, had a tough time battling the draeyks. They outmaneuvered him, and then one struck him in the knee, causing him to fall off his horse.

Searon continued to fight from a kneeling position, overcoming a draeyk to strike it down. As he did, an incoming blow came from behind. He wasn’t fast enough to catch the strike. An axe sank into his shoulder, forcing him to fall flat on the ground, his face in the dirt. Searon tasted crunchy leaves, with a bit of blood in his mouth. Karceoles slew his draeyk before raising his staff to point at the last two creatures by the warrior. Searon rolled over to stare at the two lizards above him as a swirl of orange flame escaped the tip of Karceoles’s cane to toss the two draeyks at lightning speed into a thick tree. Their piercing screams were the last sounds of their existence.

Karceoles gimped over to Searon, offering his hand. The fallen warrior hesitated. Sighing deeply, Searon accepted the help and got to his feet with the old man’s aid. He glanced around to see four dead draeyks, and his eye twitched when he studied Karceoles.

“What are you?” Searon asked tilting his head.

He studied the old man, noticing his deep-brown cloak covered his tan robes with a hood. The old man’s eyes were no longer orange but a dark brown flickering with slight hues of orange every few seconds. With his tangled-salt-and-pepper hair, he looked strange without a beard to warm his face. It became custom for most of the older men of the land to grow beards, but this man seemed to make a point of keeping it shaved.

“I am a wizard. As I have said, I am stronger than you,” Karceoles said, lowering his cane to rest upon it.

Astonishment came to Searon, as he’d only heard rumors and stories of wizards. If they’d ever existed, they were supposed to have gone extinct at the same time as the dragons. He couldn’t be sure if the old man told the truth or not because he had never seen a true wizard or knew what they looked like. The only thing he remembered was they wore robes and cloaks and held a staff. It had also been known that their power resembled their eyes and robes. However, Searon considered how ridiculous orange robes would look upon the strange old man.

“What is that?” Searon asked, pointing to the large wooden scepter. It was the plainest weapon he’d ever seen holding so much power.

“This is called a zylek, which means channel of energy. It is customary for wizards to carry one so we can focus our power instead of using it blindly,” Karceoles smiled. “It also shows how much smarter I am than you. Now, you can make a comment about how great-looking I am, and all three things I’ve said about myself being more superior than you can fall right into place.”

“I don’t know how your mind works, old man, but no woman would find you attractive ahead of me,” Searon beamed at the old man’s confidence.

“We’ll just have to see about that,” Karceoles said, taking a step toward Searon and twirling his zylek with his strong, wrinkled hands.

“Aren’t you supposed to have orange robes? Or are the stories false that match powers with robes?”

“My robes are orange.”

Searon looked again.

“They’re old … and dirty.”

“Why do they have to be the same color?” Searon asked.

“If not, the magic that burns through me will burn through whatever clothes I wear. Therefore, wizards have learned to wear the same color, lest we wander naked.”

“Are there a lot of wizards?” Searon asked, watching the old man closely, unsure if he could trust him.

“I am the last one left of Calthoria who is worth a grain of salt,” Karceoles explained. The wizard raised his zylek, inspected it closely, and watched with concentration as it transformed from brown to orange.

“Are there more lands across the seas?” Searon asked, never having heard such tales about other continents. He was sure it plausible, and he heard some tales of people traveling to other continents, but he hardly believed those stories.

“There ought to be. How else might the kheshlars have migrated here?” Karceoles said, pulling his hair out of his glowing eyes and raising his eyes at Searon.

“There are kheshlars here? Where are they?” Searon asked. His heart raced. “I’ve only heard stories of kheshlars showing up here and there but never knew there were any here.”

Tales of kheshlars traveled across the land, but none had ever been seen, and Searon hadn’t been sure it was any more than a story. His past few years had been filled with relentless traveling through human villages and cities, searching for draeyks to slay; he had never come across any kheshlars. He stroked his horse’s mane as he pondered these thoughts.

“There’s an entire section of their territory deep in the forest here in Calthoria. They have a capitol there called Sudegam,” Karceoles said.

“That is unreal,” Searon said, trying to remember the old stories of kheshlars he had heard.

“What is unreal is a foolish man trying to seek out all the draeyks of this land by himself. The draeyks of this land more than triple the numbers of humans,” Karceoles said with confidence.

“Don’t preach to me, wizard; I can handle myself,” Searon said, gritting his teeth. Talking to the old wizard had grown exhausting, and he grew tired of wasting time.

“Everybody has problems with the draeyks, boy; you’re not the only one who has lost something because of them,” Karceoles said as he sighed and drooped his head to one side.

“I don’t know how you know so much about me, wizard. I live my own life. I don’t need you telling me what is stupid or not,” Searon murmured, reminiscing on his haunted past. He wondered if he had been transparent to the wizard. He would have to do better guarding his emotions.

“You don’t need anyone to tell you that facing them alone is stupid, boy. You already know that. This is another reason why I am much smarter than you,” Karceoles smirked, expanding his chest to show his masculinity.

Searon clenched his eyes and held back his anger, remembering his family and how much he missed them. “Despite what you think, I will not quit hunting the draeyks.”

“I’m not asking that you do. I’m merely suggesting that you be smarter about it,” Karceoles said, holding his zylek from his body and letting it glow the brightest orange. Flashing swirls of orange magic enveloped the top of it; those swirls seemed to dance.

“And how is that?” Searon asked. He became interested in any information which would lead to the death of draeyks.

“Go to the kheshlars, and ask for their help. There is a great war coming soon, and if you humans can get the kheshlars to ally with you, you can defeat the draeyks once and for all,” Karceoles said. The swirls cascaded out from the zylek before disintegrating into the crisp air.

“From what I heard about the kheshlars, they do not ally themselves with anyone who is not kheshlarn,” Searon said, remembering the stories of old. It was often said to ask a kheshlar for help would be like asking for a woman to be quiet during the birth of her son.

“You must try,” Karceoles pleaded, eyes less focused and more concerned, watery in the sunlight.

“You are mad, wizard. I must do nothing. You cannot burst into my life and make demands of me; now leave me be,” Searon said before putting his claymore back into its scabbard and turning away.

“Actually, I can, and I have. You will go to Sudegam, and you will ask for the aid of the kheshlars in the upcoming war against these reptilian creatures,” the wizard said with hardened eyes and pursed lips.

“I will not. What war?”

“A leader has risen. It is time we have one as well.”

Karceoles raised his zylek, and orange magic trickled from it, catching Searon’s plate mail on fire, burning through to his flesh. He dropped to the ground, rolling until the fire put itself out in the brush, but the hot metal still burned against his flesh.

“Fool, do you think torture is going to work on me?” Searon growled. He could always handle pain; he had already lost everything he cared about, and physical pain meant nothing to him anymore.

“Yes … Yes I do,” Karceoles smirked deceivingly.

Another swirl of orange magic flowed from his zylek to freeze Searon in a block of solid orange ice. He was still conscious as he stared at the wizard in disbelief, his eyes shifting but his body unmovable.

Karceoles shook his head, allowing his tangled white-and-gray hair to seemingly float in a breeze of magic. “Some fools never learn.”