It was around 8 in the night. Eamon had kept a big firelight hanging through a huge tree in the corner to see as it was the night of new moon. The forest had grown quiet, too quiet. Even the insects had stopped chirping. Eamon stood in the center of the clearing, his body still, his senses alert. A soft wind brushed past him, carrying with it the foul stench of the Torkes.
They were coming.
The first wave broke through the thick brush, their eyes glowing faintly in the darkness. Their twisted limbs and distorted faces made them look inhuman. They snarled and drooled, crawling on all fours like beasts. Their bodies were skinny but packed with wiry muscles. Their long claws dug into the dirt as they moved fast toward him.
Eamon didn't flinch.
He gripped his sword, and the blade responded like an extension of his own arm. In the last few days, he had grown used to it—more than that, he had bonded with it. He no longer had to think about his strikes. The sword moved the moment he willed it. Arvin had trained him well, and now it was time to prove it.
The first Torke lunged at him, its mouth wide open, fangs dripping with saliva. Eamon stepped to the side, twisted his body, and slashed upward. The blade sliced clean through its chest, sending it tumbling backward.
Another one came from the left. He blocked with the flat of his sword and kicked it in the chest. It stumbled, and he brought the sword down on its head with force. The creature let out a weak shriek and collapsed.
He had chosen this clearing for a reason. The forest surrounded him from three sides, but there was a mountain behind him and a river to his left. The Torkes could only approach from the forest side. That gave him a narrow front to defend and limited their approach. It was a smart move, and it bought him time.
But the Torkes kept coming.
Though they were the weakest of the creatures from the dark realm, they were still dangerous. Their claws could rip flesh, and their speed made them hard to track. They were not smart, but they fought in numbers.
Eamon moved swiftly. His sword danced through the night air. He cut one across the belly, kicked another in the face, then spun around and struck a third one on the neck. The blade went deep, and the head rolled on the ground.
But the fallen Torkes didn't stay down.
They writhed on the ground, bones cracking and reforming. They stood back up as if nothing had happened. Eamon realized what Arvin had told him was true—unless their heads were removed or their bodies cut in half, they wouldn't die.
Eamon gritted his teeth.
He changed his tactics. His strikes became sharper, more precise. He began to aim only for their necks or clean cuts across the chest. He moved like a blur, ducking, slashing, leaping over them.
At one point, he saw three of them charging at once. He took a deep breath and jumped high over the first one. He landed on its back, pushed off, and flew toward the group behind it. His sword came down in a wide arc.
All three were sliced clean in half.
Their blood sprayed the grass as their bodies fell apart.
He turned around. More were coming.
Eamon's arms ached. His legs were growing sore. Sweat drenched his shirt. But he didn't stop.
The fight kept going.
One of the Torkes lunged and grabbed his arm. Then another clutched his other hand. Two more crawled behind him and latched onto his legs.
"Let go of me!" he shouted, his voice filled with fury.
He roared, pulled back his head, and slammed it forward into the skull of the creature holding his right hand. The Torke's head snapped backward with a crunch. He then did the same to the one on his left. Their grip loosened.
He yanked his hands free.
He swung his sword low and sliced the ones on his legs. Their heads fell, thudding on the grass.
He panted. His breath came in short bursts. But he didn't stop.
Another wave charged at him. He readied himself.
The hours dragged on. One after another, he cut them down. The ground was littered with their bodies, some twitching, some still crawling with broken limbs.
The night grew darker. The firelight which he had hanged, was blown away by the strong winds.
As there was no moonlight to follow, Eamon had to rely on his senses to fight the Torkes.
Eamon had no idea how many he had fought. But the pile of bodies said enough.
He had killed at least a hundred Torkes.
His shirt was torn from the side. His arms had claw marks. His left shoulder bled from a huge scratch. His legs felt like logs, heavy and slow.
He was exhausted.
And he was hungry.
His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't eaten anything since long time.
He looked toward the river.
Before the battle began, he had tied a few forest fruits in a cloth and placed them in the cold water. He had tied the other end of the string to a large rock. He walked toward it slowly, dragging his feet, and pulled the string up.
The fruits were still fresh. The cold water had kept them crisp.
He slid his sword back into the gauntlet on his back. The metal locked into place with a click.
He looked at the mountain behind him. It wasn't tall, but the climb was steep. He didn't want to eat on the ground. It wasn't safe.
He began climbing. His fingers found grooves in the stone, and he pulled himself up slowly.
Halfway up, he spotted a thick branch sticking out from the mountainside.
It looked strong enough to hold his weight.
He climbed toward it and carefully stepped on it. It creaked a little but held.
He sat down and rested his back against the stone wall.
The cool air felt good on his face.
He untied the cloth and picked a fruit. He bit into it. It was juicy and sweet.
His body relaxed for the first time in hours.
But the peace didn't last long.
Before he could finish eating, he heard a noise from above.
He looked up.
His heart skipped a beat.
A group of Torkes stood at the edge of the mountain top. Their eyes glowed in the dark, and their claws tapped against the stone.
He turned his head. More Torkes were gathering at the base of the mountain. They were crawling over the dead bodies. They had surrounded him.
He clenched his jaw.
"Of course you would come now," he muttered.
Suddenly, the ones above leapt.
Three of them jumped straight down.
Eamon didn't move. He couldn't.
They landed hard on the branch.
The wood cracked.
The sound echoed in the still forest.
The branch snapped and Eamon fell onto the ground directly between the Torkes.