Copyright © 2005 by Wesley Adam Burdeshaw. All Rights Reserved.



CAPTAIN FROST IS IN PERIL . . .



The broad and bony fist connected with his jaw. His vision went blank. His hearing was gone. He could feel his head bobbing on his neck, was capable of thinking in that moment that it was going to fall off of his body. That’s what it felt like, at least. As his sight returned, he found himself staggering unconsciously toward the bulwarks at his right, and he was met with another blow as his face collided against the cold, metal rail. He was surprised at how painful a thing could be when it set itself in the path of a head falling fast and uncontrollably along in a predestined course.

His knees buckled under as he hit, and his body sunk to the ground like a formless mold of wet clay. He could feel the tingling in his legs that indicated the coming numbness. He wondered for a moment if he was dying, and then realizing that he wasn’t dying, he wondered if he would ever walk again within the very short period of the remainder of his life, which he was certain would come to an end sometime within the next few seconds.

He still could hear nothing, save for the hard-and-fast throbbing of his own heartbeat, though his vision faded in and out, allowing him a delirious glimpse of his somewhat bleak surroundings between the fading. He could not see his attacker, but knew that he was close despite the fact. If he could have turned his head, he might have seen something of the form of a tall, grey giant looming over him, but it would have been no more than a grey blur amid the greyer haze. It made little difference to him at the moment. To him, there was only grey and black, and he preferred neither one over the other.

He wasn’t aware of how long things seemed to last with him sitting there, his body limp and leaning against the rail, induced with such pain as to cause him to wish for the quickening of death. If his mind had been with him, he would probably not have given up so easily. But the pain! He could not think or remember or understand. He could only feel, and hope for an end.

He could see the release lever some foot in front of him. Looking at it, he found himself wanting to pull it, and in wanting to pull it, he found a need to remain alive for a bit longer. He had forgotten Addison, Sora, the fourteen men on the platform, the hated Captain Hood walking now somewhere along the hidden passages that wound through the mountain corridor.

Just the lever.

He didn’t know why he wanted to pull it, he only knew that he had to do something before things came to an end. Suddenly, he felt that he could move. He tried, or at least, he thought he tried, but to no avail. He wanted more to lay down and fall asleep than anything else. But he knew that he could not do that, though it seemed perfectly logical under the circumstances. Something inside him, a hidden sentience perhaps, told him that he could not quit. After all, it was only one hard blow to the head. Surely he could suffer much more than that before finally succumbing to death? To have given up and died then would have been all but glorious. If anything, he should at least look upon his enemy.

He endeavored to move again. Failure.

It was no use. The pain had taken its hold. The opportunity had passed, and he was not allowed another before a wrenching grip enclosed itself about his throat, squeezing with such a force the likes of which he had never known, nor would ever again in all his days if he lived beyond the moment of his seemingly inescapable death. The hand was as cold as ice, colder even; dry and scaly. He could feel the cold prick of serrated claws rubbing against his neck, penetrating the layer of skin and drawing blood as the grip was tightened. The choke-hold was firm, slowly suffocating him, but it was not intended to kill him. At least, not at first. If it had been the intent of his enemy that he should die immediately, then the claws would have torn out his jugular, or an arm would have heaved him up and thrown him over the side of the ship, and that would have been the end of it. No, his enemy, whomever or whatever he was, desired that he should be tortured first; wanted him to know and to remember a certain thing before the final blow fell.

He was thrown harshly to the deck by a single arm, which he was sure must have harbored the strength of gods, picking him up and slinging him down as if he were no more than the play-thing of some primordial beast. Surprisingly, the fall was not as painful as he had expected. The lever was right next to him now, gleaming with a weathered silver sheen amid the dull haze of greyness that pervaded the senses. He was close enough to reach out and grab hold of it. But already his enemy was approaching. He knew that as soon as he put a hand out, he would be beaten back down by another painful blow, and so he did not endeavor to move at all, wishing to lengthen the few calm moments between beatings. The pain was still too great, in any case.

Lying there, awaiting his next punishment, he was overcome with the curiosity to look upon his enemy. He knew that at some point he would have to at least try and defend himself, though it seemed at the moment a thing of childish fantasy that he would be granted the chance to do any such thing. At the moment, it wouldn’t have done any good if he had tried, other than to arouse another blow to the head, knocking him down again, perhaps for the last time.

The thing was within a few steps of him now, so that he could see it well enough despite the blur, though not as well as he would have liked—or thought he would have liked. He was soon glad, however, that he could perceive little else besides a vague, bulky form. He knew immediately by the loud, beastly snarl of the thing that his hearing had returned. It was a sound that he would rather never have heard . . . a sound that was, to him, familiar in an unsettling way. When and where had he heard such breathing before? He instantly remembered, and none to his liking.

At first he doubted, but then doubt was beaten back by the horrible memory of a grimacing face baring yellow blood-stained fangs, cadaverous skin glistening with the wet of pouring rain, eyes tainted with poison, and bloodied talons gripping the hilt of a broad axe, swinging high and fast. He remembered the sound of the blade whooshing above his head, the nightmarish expectancy of it coming down against him and pinning him to a hard and chilling deathbed. Lightning bolts had struck in rapid succession; a barrage of spears falling faster than the rain and issued forth from the hand of the enraged god of thunder himself. But the anger of that god was frail and weak in comparison to the half-mortal beast whose heart was set upon revenge, thus making him more dangerous than any god or demon. Behind that snarl was a roar that beat back the loudest and angriest clash of thunder the heavens had ever let loose. Looking now deliriously upon the thing that sought to destroy him, Henrik found that he was afraid. Surely, he thought, it cannot be . . . ?

He needed no answer. He was quite sure now that he was going to die.

Then, quite suddenly, he felt a change come over him. A question came into his mind. What was he here to do? Why had he come to this place? He remembered looking upon a small boy. At first, he did not recall a name or even a face, but simply an entity that was the form of a child. He felt longing, love, pride. And as surely as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, the man who’d nearly given up all hope within a few short moments, was reawakened to everything that mattered, and he was Captain Frost again.

With this awakening came the realization that he was in peril.

He found that if he were to focus on his efforts, and to apply the needed amount of strength, he could move. Now he was quite sure that he was going to live. He had to live because it was not yet finished. He had to live for his wife, and for his son. Even now, they remained to be all that mattered. And without him there to care for them, how could they matter? Now was the time to bring things unfinished at last to an end, preferably in his favor.

The lever was right beside him. To his left lay the body of the dead Elite, and lying just within his reach was the dead man’s rifle. Everything was quiet but for the distant crackle of flames, and the resonating snarl of the thing that towered over him with hungry eyes, lusting for his blood, and edging closer to his prostrate form with every passing second. For a moment he debated on what was to be done. Then, suddenly, an idea came to him. He lay his head back on the deck, and did not move.

The cloud was so thick about the ship that he could see nothing farther than a few feet in any direction. He and the loathsome creature may as well have been the only two beings in existence, so empty the surroundings had become with the passing of the cloud among them. That was why none of his men on the platform were firing; they could not see him. He was utterly alone, but for one companion that sought to kill him, and had sought to kill him ever since the morning of his homeward return. How long, Henrik wondered, had this miserable creature been waiting for this moment? He could have counted the days in his head if he could only have remembered how long ago it had been. Days, months, years. What did any of it matter now?

He did not pay any attention to the lever next to him, nor did he look up at his enemy, for he knew that to look into those menacing eyes would be to give the creature the satisfaction that he was and had been for a long time craving. It was for this reason the beast had not yet killed him, or so was his guess. As it turned out, he was right. He knew that to meet his opponent’s gaze would be the end of him, for only then would the creature feel fulfilled enough to kill him with a finishing blow.

To defeat the enemy of greater brawn, one must utilize abilities not shared by one’s opponent: in this case, the superior weaponry of the mind. Captain Frost knew not only the physicality of warfare, but the mental aspects of it, as well, and probably better than anyone alive, with Hood being the only exception. Korchev on the other hand, was a dumb brute, toying with his prey when he would have done better to have killed it foremost. Hence, Henrik found his one and only advantage. Laying still, he stared into some distant space as one dead, ignoring his enemy’s grunts of intensifying anger, ignoring terror, and waiting.

The creature took another step toward him. He waited. There was a snarl, louder than the previous ones and more believably hateful. He waited. There were several moments of a blank, inquiring silence while he lay there, completely motionless and with dried blood about the forehead, staring blankly with a face cold and parched. He could tell by the sounds of breathing and grunting that a question had arisen in his enemy’s mind. Good. The beast was already beginning to wonder if he’d accidentally killed his enemy before claiming his satisfaction. Oh the anger that would be aroused if this were so! Henrik waited another moment. The creature leaned in close to him to get a better look, came close enough that Henrik could catch the putrid scent of his breath. That was quite close enough.

Henrik lay there for a moment in the same way, and then without warning, shifted his gaze, met the eyes of his enemy, and grinned with such arrogance as to make him deserving of a hard blow to the jaw. The beast’s expression changed immediately from one of agitated curiosity to complete rage, and within a blink of an eye, lunged upon his brazen-faced victim with barred fangs and extended claws.

Captain Frost was ready for him, however, had taken the dead Elite’s rifle in hand, and holding it by the barrel, slung it into the grimacing face with all the force of his strength. There was a loud clap as the rifle plowed into the thick, hard skull, and a thud as his huge body collided with the deck, sprawling on all four limbs. That one blow had been severe enough to drive him to the ground, but not enough to silence him interminably. He was for the most part unimpaired, and was already endeavoring to get up.

Henrik was on his feet in an instant, had his hands around the lever. He pulled back, but the beast was up in a flash, slinging his clawed hand in a circular throw, as if it were a club in his grasp. The blow hit Henrik along the side of the cheek, knocking him back, but not in time to keep him from pulling back with all of his strength on the lever. There was a sound of shifting metal and uncoiling springs as the ramp was released from its hollow slot and flung over the gap. It landed with a heavy clash on the edge of the platform. The way was opened, but no one came.

The beast was up again, now intent upon finishing the fight begun many days past. Henrik had little time to do anything before he felt the touch of icy fingers groping along his throat, felt the claws digging into his skin as the grip was tightened around his neck. This time, the grip would not be slackened. He would not be loosed from this hold, now intended for the sole purpose of suffocating him; to kill him. He could feel hot breath against his face, but there was no smell. He stared into the eyes of his enemy while the life was slowly choked out of him, thinking now that they would be the last set of eyes he ever looked upon. How hideous and cruel they were! Not the eyes of man, not even the eyes of an evil man, but the eyes of a thing, unhuman and beastly, not of the natural world.

He found himself struggling for air now. His hands were groping frantically up and down the beast’s gargantuan arms, searching for some kind of weakness in a final quest for hope, but to no avail. The grip tightened. He continued to struggle, constantly searching and hoping for a means of escape. He could not die, not now that he had come so far.

The image of his surroundings began to fade from his awareness, until very soon they became obscured to his mind; the cruel, abhorrent face in front of him was something unexplainable and made little sense to him, while cloud and cold seemed foreign things, to the point that he could no longer remember their names, or his own, for that matter. His vision began to fail, so that he could see only a very little now. He quickly found himself wishing to see no more. One by one his senses failed him. His hearing would be the last to go.

After so long a time of stagnant imprisonment, of enduring long hours of bitter cold and hunger, brooding all the while on the lonely desire for revenge, it seemed that the beast was to have his satisfaction, after all. A few more moments, and Captain Frost the Brave and Renowned would be dead.



Find out what happens in the full length novel: Sky Land, by Adam Burdeshaw.



Post comments and tell me if you want to read more. It's a free adventure.