The teeth lay there on the worn stone floor of the courthouse atrium, white bone dotted with splatters of blood.

I have a bad feeling about this.

"Ur-Namma. Have you been collecting human teeth, by any chance, and not telling me about it?" Oak asked. "Because if you've lost a couple, they are right here in front of me."

The elf looked away from the fold in space, brows raised. "No, I have not been filling the pockets of my robes with human teeth. Such a plebeian trophy is beneath me," Ur-Namma replied. "Hurry, the fold is destabilizing as we speak."

Geezer snarled, and his hackles stood on end. Inhuman wails responded, echoing from the stone walls of the atrium. Something moved in the darkness above. Something white and gleaming.

Humanoid figures vaulted down from the balcony circling the atrium and landed among the neat rows of chairs and tables. Wood broke and splintered into pieces under the monster's weight. The creatures straddled the line between strange and plain horrific.

They were men of bone and cartilage, covered in teeth all over, and sporting wicked claws. Mutated husks devoid of humanity. They had no visible eyes, and their lipless mouths hung open, revealing rows of flawless teeth.

Elvish curses spilled from Ur-Namma's lips and his thin, long fingers grasped the straps of the rucksack on his back with a white-knuckled grip.

Oak counted four monsters. All of them stood between him and the dais. Between him and the way out.

Figures. I guess it would have been too easy otherwise.

Sounds of running, and a chorus made up of screeches and wails, brought a vision of a horde to his mind. Abominations converging to their location from all around the building. A whole gang of gnashers.

What is a courthouse without its judges? Law, without the enforcers? Today, justice is blind. And apparently, it has teeth.

A fifth boneman jumped down from the balcony across the atrium, landing in a crouch not two steps from the elevated dais upon which Ur-Namma and Geezer stood. Too close for comfort.

The hellhound growled, but the terrible energy that had suffused the sound in the Square of the Secretariat was gone. Only a faint wisp of it remained, and the boneman weathered it undaunted. Geezer stumbled to the side, head drooping. The dog shook with exhaustion.

He locked eyes with Ur-Namma. The elf was on his last legs, and they both knew it. It felt like time stood still, and yet there was not enough of it to say all he wanted to say. A nod would have to suffice. The elf nodded back. Ur-Namma knew him well enough to know what he wanted if the worst came to pass. Geezer would not be alone.

"Sixty heartbeats!" Ur-Namma shouted. The elf grabbed a hold of Geezer and pulled the hellhound through the fold. With a faint pop, they both disappeared, taking the rituals with them to safety.

Sixty heartbeats, before the fold collapses. All the time in the world to stroll across this hall. But to fight through it? We will see. Hesitation is death.

"Right. Let's get to it then," Oak said, and cracked his neck.

The bonemen charged. He pulled out his two-handed falchion and moved to meet them.

The first man of bone and cartilage took the full brunt of Oak's flames to the face, and fell backwards onto a row of chairs. A brutal swing bisected another. He rushed through the shower of blood, and dodged right, jumping over a pair of desks. Fifty-five.

A clawed hand of gleaming, polished bone reached for Oak, grabbing, tearing. He lopped the offending limb off and pressed forward. Ever forward. The bonemen were not idle. They turned over tables and threw aside chairs as they sought to rend his flesh. Chaos descended. The air was filled with grunting, wailing, and the breaking of wood and bone.

Oak repaid every scratch with a swing of his sword, sending hands and heads flying as he ran. Forty-six.

Two abominations of bone jumped down from the balcony above. Another two followed close behind them, eager for battle. A boneman launched itself at Oak, trying to tackle him to the ground. He evaded, jumping over another row of chairs and tables. The stone floor greeted him harshly. He landed awkwardly, twisting his ankle, and cried out in pain. Forty.

Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

Leg smarting something fierce, Oak hobbled into the circle at the center of the atrium. Halfway there. Every step was a struggle. The bonemen harried him from all sides. He tried to make room and push through again, but the monsters were cunning.

They dodged, kept out of his reach, and waited for others to join them instead of facing him without help. A blow landed on Oak's back, sending him reeling. Roaring, he turned and swung with all of his might, cleaving the boneman in two. Claws raked his side, retreating out of reach before he could retaliate. He stumbled, but kept himself standing. Thirty.

Defending, retreating. Knuckles covered in the teeth of men smashed into his face. His head snapped to the side, nose broken. Oak's back smacked against the podium at the center of the atrium. Blood flowed freely from the wounds on his back and on his side. His leg gave out, and with a cry, he fell to one knee. Tired. Barely able to lift his blade.

How many heartbeats has it been?

The bonemen crowded around him, inching closer. There were so many of them. Hungry maws opened wide. The monsters struck him with fleeting blows, leaving shallow wounds behind. They mocked his efforts, made fun of his hopeless struggle. The bonemen had him right where they wanted, and now they played with their food.

His vision swam, and the whispered promise of the mists of Ma'aseh Merkavah rang in his ears.

You will die here and take your place among our ranks. You will be bone-dust swirling in the wind. Forgotten grief lost to the wastelands of time.

When hands covered in blood grabbed hold of his shoulders and dragged him down into the dark, Oak did not resist.

He welcomed the Butcher with open arms.

***

A savage heart beat in the Butcher's chest. He was a hardwood standing tall in the storm. The roots of his bones dug deep into the foundations of the earth, pushing him up to his feet. Aches and pains were nothing to the Slaughterman. Bloody lips opened wide into a wicked smile as he raised his head and faced the meat surrounding him. They did not know it yet, but death stood among them.

The Butcher's ears were sharp. He heard the mocking whispers of the bonemen, hidden among the screeches and wails.

"This one thinks himself mighty. Look at him, standing there like his defiance will matter."

"Pummel your skull, bleed you dry."

"I have reached a verdict, dear colleagues. His blood is tasty. Rich and smokey."

Dead meat, speaking hollow words. Violence would silence their tongues.

"You think to bleed me dry? Use me for supper? Me?" the Butcher laughed. "I will drown you in your own feeble blood. Fools. The Ferryman of Death cannot die."

A blow came from the left, and he flowed under it like water down a stream, already swinging. His blade cut through bone and sinew, parted flesh from flesh. The boneman fell screaming, arms flopping, ripped open from navel to neck. A stomp on his head crushed the skull, and decorated the floor with his brains.

The rest flinched back in surprise, startled by the sudden death of their comrade.

Flames answered the Butcher's call, and the bonemen burned in droves. One of them got clever and threw a chair at him. The Butcher dodged and came for them. Claws reached for him from all directions, but it was for nought. He was a hare hopping, a lynx on the prowl. Too agile by half.

His target dove away from the first strike, crawling under a table to escape. The second swing chopped through the table and severed the boneman's spine.

"Cowards, one and all. I will end your shame!" the Butcher shouted. "Come! Come and face me!"

A heavy weight landed on his back, and thick arms caught him in a bearhug. No matter. A tree could bend in the wind. He dropped his falchion and dove, rolling, twisting, turning. Sharp claws shredded his sides. He wriggled like an eel, until he was on top, and his hands were free. They were not empty for long.

One chop from his cleaver was all it took to split open the boneman's skull. The Butcher hopped up, laughing.

The slaughtered corpses of the bonemen strewn across the atrium joined his laughter. Their voices warped and grew heavy, laden with meaning. The choir of the dead sang a lament for their living brothers. They were yet to receive his kindness, and worse for it.

The remaining bonemen gathered to face him. Seven against the Flesher himself.

I am a mountain face in a thunderstorm. A landslide rushing downhill. I am the Butcher, and my blades extract a heavy toll.

"You are hurt, warrior," the leader said. "It is over. Bow down, and I will end your pain."

"Hurt? You are wheat to my sickle. I will reap you, fool!" the Butcher laughed. "If only there were more of you to kill!"

The leader was kind enough to charge, so he kicked a chair into the boneman's feet, causing him to stumble, and hammered the top of his head into a smoldering pulp with a pyrokinetic blast of orange flame.

Such a pretty sight. Crackle and burn, my candles of bone.

Cleaver and short sword in hand, the Butcher went to work, wet eyes shining with joy. There was a hook waiting beyond the veil for each carcass he cared to make. And there always would be.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.