The Adventures of Larson and Garrett, Run or be Run Through

Chapter Six

Larson's rage and fear were at their apex when beyond the entrance's subtle glow, a shadowy figure appeared. Then, more appeared until there was only darkness, yet with his ring, he saw numerous men pour from the opening. They fanned out into two groups. One more figure stormed out, a tall, thick man whose head looked to be graced by curved horns.

"Largo," Larson muttered.

He stood there, gripping his blade, staring at a group of about fifty men and women wearing white robes, which displayed the smoky figure of a skeletal face. Their leader strode out to within a hundred paces of the stalwart combatant. Breathing erratically, Larson tried to focus on the might of Akalabash, but something was missing. His mind was racing. He needed to see his brother's face.

"Largo," he called.

"That was my name," the armored figured declared.

The man's voice was unnerving, metallic, like hissing steam. The added light emanating from the tower easily revealed a knight clad in heavy armor. The unearthly material sparkled red and black. Hanging from his hip was a long sword; its pommel was carved to resemble an elongated skull with opened maw. The scabbard was black as night.

"Is it you, brother?"

The eerie knight made a clicking sound; he was sucking his tongue in dismay. "Light!" he demanded. One of the evil wizards obliged, and an orb of undulating, magickal light appeared above the men facing off. "Larson Ross, ah?"

The knight's voice was beyond strange, somewhat gruff, aged. Cringing from the light, Larson waited for his eyes to adjust. "Sure...you know who I am," the warrior sneered. "But show me your face!"

With a pleased snort of satisfaction, the knight raised his grim visor. It was made to separate where the top portion of the skull met its bottom jaw, thus revealing a bearded man from the nose up to the brow, and as Larson saw plainly, there was a burn mark on the man's cheek. His heart sank a bit, but he was glad that he had at last laid eyes upon his cherished brother.

"Tell me you're still in there, Largo."

"O'course, ya' nit," Largo grumbled; his voice had lost its boyish softness leaving something akin to hooves over gravel, yet with the visor up, the strangeness had passed. "Now, you've come here to beat me, huh? To beat Lagos, God o' Destruction?"

"I came here to wrest that blade from your hands and bring you back to the light. As Akalabash is my witness, I will not falter."

"I'm not so sure, laddie," Largo chuckled and drew his blade. When it left the scabbard, the white steel flashed red for just a second. He pointed the end at his little brother. "Seems to me your God forgot to bless ya'."

Larson swallowed hard. Suddenly, Largo shifted forwards and came running with his blade overhead. The warrior of Akalabash slid his left foot ahead, parried, and spun to avoid a lateral swing for his face. The following cross slash, he blocked with his great sword. The two met eyes.

"You're wantin', Larson. Neither Lagos nor Akalabash hold esteem for the weak."

Largo delivered a big boot to Larson's sternum. He fell back hard, raising a cloud of dust. Their steel glistened and glimmered beneath magickal radiance.

The warrior's mind raced as he quickly came to his feet. Largo's back was turned; he was tapping his soul eater's edge against his pauldron. The knight turned askance to view his sibling.

"Another go, ah?"

"Yes, Largo...once more, we clash steel."

Larson drew breath as Largo slowly turned square. There was definitely something missing within. He prayed to Akalabash but felt no tingle, no power, no grace, nothing. Chuckling in a stilted manner, Largo grinned wide; his eyes flared, and the brothers ran towards one another.

Swords clashed. Armor rang and clattered. They twisted, stepped around each other—their feet digging into the soft dirt—they tugged and wrestled, pulled away, and clashed blades again. Largo drew a dagger and stuck Larson in the side; he went down like a ton of bricks, gasping for air. When he tried to stand, a knee to the face laid him flat on his back. Again, Largo halted; he walked off a few paces, turned his back, and asked after another go.

Choking and retching, his face red from agony and lack of air, Larson worked himself to a hunched over position. He held his blade loosely, its tip resting on the soil. Forcing air into his abdomen, he straightened to stare at his brother, and tightly, he gripped his weapon, wishing for Lordly might.

"Largo, you're being tricked, controlled. I don't know how the daemon got to you, but you must fight him!"

"Fight him," Largo chortled. "Are ya' daft? I am him."

"No, it's that sword. If you drop it, we can be together again."

"And why would I want that?"

Shaking his head, Larson called out, "Akalabash, I beg of you, help me save my brother. Give me the strength I need to serve you!"

Largo laughed flippantly. There was no Heavenly glow. There was no answer from the God of War.

"Akalabash don't aid cowards," Largo said. "You know that, don't ya', lad? You're afraid, afraid o' me, afraid o' death, and that's why he's abandoned you."

"Nooo!" Larson ran with all his might, screaming with battle lust.

He swung maniacally, but Largo side-stepped, spun, and slashed clean through Larson's sword. He stuck him again with the dagger, high in the back beneath the right shoulder. The blow made the warrior stumble before ultimately falling flat on his face.

"Turn over," Largo demanded. "Look at me!"

Larson, heaving in distress, dragged himself away less than a yard before rolling over. Fear had certainly crept into his heart—fear for his life, for his brother's life—a fear of failure.

"Largo...please."

"Please, what, boy? You want me to let you live? That it, ah? Well, don't worry. I'll give you a choice...run, or be run through."

Struggling to sit up, Larson caught sight of his broken sword, but Largo saw his eyes go for it, and he kicked it away. "Nope; run or die."

Forcing every fiber of his being into action, Larson slowly made it to his feet. He was unable to stand upright. Blood dribbled from his mouth. Agony wracked his worn body. Despair churned his stomach.

"This can't really be you, brother," Larson sighed, tears stinging his eyes. "You loved me...."

"There's no place for love in this world, whelp. Just like there's no place for cowardice. Now, walk away with your tail between your legs before I change my mind and cut you down...steal your soul...feed it to Lagos...."

Crying tears of sadness, grief, anguish, and self-hatred, Larson shut his eyes tight, turned about, and began the march for Ingleburg. Behind him, the cheers of cultists resounded, and over that sound was the reverberating laughter of the daemon.

Thanks for reading the Adventures of Larson and Garrett, Epidosde 13, Run or be Run Through. More coming soon. For now, check out the first 12 stories in The Adventures of Larson and Garret, Epic the First. StoriesbyDennis . com. Schneriously, boop my snoot for great stories!