Runeblade I: The Great Depths, out now on KU, Amazon, and Audible! |
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I talked some big talk about the work that went into this book. Well, here it is. We start with the og, then we end with the rewritten. Remember that time that Kaius had to clear out that little old church in a glowing blue forest?
His eyes narrowed. Breathing kept even more through rote practice than true confidence. The undead lurched forwards. Stumbling as its lacking coordination failed to keep it steady on the uneven stones that littered the gap in the wall. Its jaw hung open. Almost like it was wailing, though he heard no sound.
Behind it, Kaius could see its compatriots closing in on his position. Quickly.
Fast steps closed the distance between them. The undead brought its hatchet down in a heavy chop toward Kaius’s head.
Snapping into a hanging parry, Kaius caught the blow.
His blade met the hatchet edge to edge. Binding the weapon even as his arms shuddered under the undead's infernal power. He knew he would lose a contest of strength. He didn't even try.
A flick of his wrist moved the hatchet off-centre. His blade was a lever, using the momentum of his foe used against them. Twisting to free his sword. A slight lunge and he had run the undead through its throat.
A certain death.
Or so he thought.
The reality of what he was facing hit him with a punch.
Pain exploded through his chest. Hot iron flooded his mouth as he stumbled backwards out of range. Ribs grated with the movement. Cracked.
They were quickly enveloped with an itching fire as he steadied his footing, his Health beginning to slowly drain as it soothed bruised flesh and splintered bone.
“Idiot! Mistakes like that are how you end up dead!” His father's voice seemed to echo in his mind
The other undead were quickly approaching the gap in the wall. If Kaius wanted any chance of maintaining the favourable choke point he had to put pressure on the one that had hit him. He brought his sword into a low guard. A flexible position to defend from.
He ignored the sharp discomfort in his chest.
The undead came into range, swinginging its hatchet. Kaius backstepped. Allowing the momentum of his foe's swing to pull it off balance.
He stepped forwards with a lunge, sword poised to lance the undead through its skull. It pivoted its hips. Eyes burning with glee as it returned its hatchet in a spiteful reverse strike.
Kaius’s face blanched. He could abort his strike. Attempt to dodge the incoming blow. However, the only way he could do that would be to throw himself to the side. Leaving him unbalanced and the initiative firmly out of his hands. No time. He had to commit.
He braced his core, twisting slightly to minimise his profile.
The blunt edge of the hatchet slammed into his obliques, just missing his lowest rib. Air whistled past his clenched teeth. Winding him.
His sword punched through the undead's nose. Enchanted steel sliding through bone with ease.
**Ding! level 11 Wretched Militiaman slain**
Stepping out of the lunge, Kaius forced himself to ignore the radiating ache of his side. It was quickly joined by the crawling dull itch of his regeneration. He forced himself to take a deep breath, his diaphragm spasming.
The rest of the undead had arrived.
He brought his longsword up. Hilt pulled in tight to his armpit, floating point trained on the head of the leading militiaman that advanced on him. This one armed with a derelict straight sword and buckler. Right behind it, a companion encased in a pitted breastplate and wielding a spear.
The final one trailed behind them. Still making its way across the graves.
The one with the straight sword entered first, its reinforced buckler held out front to ward off blows. The one with the spear fell in behind it. Hovering and ready to attack from behind its vanguard.
Kaius grit his teeth.
“I’ve got this” He reassured himself.
He stabbed forwards. The leading undead reacted instantly with a speed that contrasted its withered body. Its buckler knocked his sword away from its head, following through with a running stab towards his chest.
Sense Weaknesstwinged. Muscle memory and Warforgedenhanced skill capitalised on the burst of intuition.
Kaius took a half step back, the dirty point of the militiaman’s straight sword coming within a hair's breadth of his tunic. He pivoted his hands. Borrowing the force of the bucklers parry to twirl his sword overhead.
He was too far back on his rear foot to cave in the undead's brain pan, but…
The point of his sword ripped through the undead's ratty leather armour. Cutting clean through its leading bicep. Treacle-like blood welled up from the wound, spilling slowly free. Reanimating magics or no, the creature was still primarily of flesh and blood. It needed muscles to move.
Its arm fell weakly to its side, sword held in a limp wristed grip.
Immune to shock and pain, it did little to stop the undead. Stepping forwards it twisted with its hips, throwing its whole weight into a wild haymaker
Neither did its spear-wielding companion give him a moment to breathe. Even as Kaius stepped back again to avoid the vanguard's reckless attack, the rear undead thrust forward. Pressuring him with its spear.
Fear shot through him. He shifted his head to the side to avoid the blow. A fire split his cheek, blood spilling free to wet his neck. The pitted blade had exposed his gums to the tepid air of the underground glade.
He sucked in a breath. Air stung his open cheek, mouth filling with blood. He didn't have a moment to think. Health would deal with it. He had a fight to finish.
Swallowed blood coated his throat.
The leading undead was still off-kilter from its full body swing. Kaius attempted to stab forward to finish off the foe. Its companion gave no quarter, a flurry of thrusts preventing him from finishing off its ally. Forcing him to focus on parrying.
They danced like this for some time. Kaius narrowly dodging clumsy half-disabled swings from the leading undead as its spear-wielding companion locked down his advance. Every wasted second, another that the final undead with the club drew closer. Each party was in a deadlock. If it joined the battle the tenuous balance would be broken, and not in his favour.
He had to do something, and fast.
Worse, he was not fuelled by indefatigable magics. His muscles burned, his chest bellowing with great gulping breaths. Each one grating at the two almost healed chest wounds, every aggravation slowing down the healing process.
Still, he was getting his measure of the militiamen. Furious, strong, and relentless they might be, their movements had an almost rote quality to them. Repetitive. Exploitable. He had yet to see any one of the undead do more than cycle between a few clumsy chops and stabs.
With every stab and wild swing, Sense Weakness and his own combat knowledge shed light on more and more vulnerabilities.
The leading undead threw its whole body into a swing once more. Its limp arm and the awkward weight of its sword pulled it off balance on the uneven terrain. Another opening. One he knew would be defended by yet another stab from the rearguard undead.
Kaius’s focus contracted. Blade spinning to parry the spear thrust that had seen coming. Borrowing force from the collision he pivoted his sword into a downward slash, taking the off-balance undead clean through the neck. Decapitated, its body fell limp.
**Ding! level 14 Wretched Militiaman slain**
Without pause his sword whipped back up, parrying yet another probing strike.
And another.
He advanced now, putting the pressure on the undead spear wielder.
It retreated, attempting to gain sufficient distance to bring its weapon to bear. A stab, then another step. Then a stab. Repeat. If he moved to attack, the spear came up. Warding its face.
He twitched. Jerking his sword forward in a false stab.
Its spear came up. The moment was here.
Kaius slashed low. Blade met desiccated flesh, shearing through its knee. The undead pitched over. He carried his cut through to whirl into an overhead strike.
His blade buried itself in the undead’s brain pan.
**Ding! level 12 Wretched Militiaman slain**
**Ding! Sense Weakness has reached level 17!**
Triumph washed over him, his mouth splitting into a feral grin that twinged the slowly shortening cut through his cheek. His eyes stayed trained on the sole remaining undead, tonguing the rent. Feeling the air as his flesh writhed as it reknit itself closed.
Wielding a great club in both hands, it was garbed in a long shirt of surprisingly well preserved chain, while a dented and dirty steel helm sat on its head.
“This one might be a tougher nut to crack.”
Kaius took advantage of the momentary break in battle to survey his resources.
Resources:
Health - 94/200 (2/min)
Stamina - 0/190 (2/min)
Mana - 120/120 (2/min)
Kaius winced as he took in his drained stamina. With his frantic pace through the dungeon, he would have entered battle without it topped off. The resource drained far faster in mortal combat compared to casual exertion, something he had had to learn the hard way in his first spars with his father.
He would have to rely on his bodily fitness from this point out, something luckily supported by both stats and skill.
“Hopefully I get a level of Physical Conditioning out of this.”
Kaius squared his shoulders and advanced on the approaching undead. Sword point was held low in a guard of false openings. Hoping to bait a parryable swing.
The final Militiaman reached the breach. It whipped its great-club towards him in an overhand blow. Kaius’s sword flashed up, binding the dense wood of the club, and pulling it away in a sweeping parry. He disengaged with a twist to follow through with a lunge. The point of his sword lancing towards the undead's face.
Its head turned at the last minute.
Sparks flew as his blade ground its way across the undead’s steel helm, missing its open face.
Already having reset its stance the undead returned with another wild swing. Kaius stepped back, the club whistling past his chest with a draft that cooled the sweat beading on his skin.
He stepped back again, stance shifting so that his sword was held diagonally behind him. More false openings. The undead stepped forwards.
Another swing.
His breath heaved, a deep burn settling into his lungs.
Another step back. Another swing.
He struck from low to high. Enhanced muscles straining as he sought to regain the flow of battle. The point of his sword skittered against the chain that covered his foe, drawing a grunt of frustration from him.
He brought his sword back up, held over one shoulder. For the first time a great cry left his lips as he brought his sword down over his head in a furious cut.
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The undead brought its club up, catching his blade as its edge bit deeply into the wood.
Muscle memory took over. He twisted his wrists slightly as he pushed forward, breaking the bind. His sword slid past the militiaman’s guard, impaling it in the throat.
His point caught on the chain covering the creature's neck.
“Fucking! Mail!” He laboured through clenched teeth.
Soundlessly the undead lashed out again. Kaius hissed in surprise..
He whipped his sword to block the blow, just barely managing to bind it as the reverb of the strike nearly lost him his grip on his blade.
The undead hammered on his guard. Empowered strength and leverage working to its advantage. Kaius’s arms quivered, a deep ache shooting up his arms as his bones creaked from the strain.
Without his stats he would already be dead. Even a fifth stronger and more durable than baseline, he was barely holding on.
Panic began to claw at him, his breath coming in shallow gasps.
The undead drew back, only to smash into his blade again. Kaius shook in his stance, knees nearly caving under the force of the blow.
His eyes rolled in his sockets, closer to an animal’s than a man’s.
He needed to do something. Now.
The club rose again, and Kaius broke. Stepping back the undead struck the ground with a small explosion of dirt, before whipping its weapon towards Kaius once more.
He just barely managed to parry it.
His thoughts turned to Hastur. To his father. A memory flashed through his mind.
He sat at the edge of a clearing, hot blood spewing down his face and staining his naked chest red. His practice blade lay in the dirt somewhere behind him. Hastur stood over him with a hand outstretched, his knuckles bloodied. He held his own blade in his dominant hand. Dark hair with soft curls failed to cover his fathers kind green eyes, smile lines standing out on the prolonged youth of his face.
With a lurch he was pulled to his feet.
“Remember son. We are not swordsmen.”
Kaius panted, squaring his shoulders.
The undead, soundless as always, brought its club down in another heavy blow. With a sharp cry Kaius brought his blade to meet it. Binding it once more.
The impact shook him to his bones.
Before his foe could leverage its strength Kaius pivoted his blade, turning his block into a parry. The undead, suddenly faced with a lack of resistance, swung its club away. Utilising the momentum of the exchange Kaius spun. His leg flicked out into a scything kick.
The heel of his boot impacted the undead's helmet with a clang.
It stumbled, suddenly off balance.
Kaius planted his feet. Pulling his sword in tight to his chest he shifted his weight onto his back foot. He lashed out with his leading leg into a push kick that unbalanced the militiaman..
The undead fell, helmet clanging loudly on a stray flagstone.
Lunging forwards, breath and spittle flew out from between his painfully clenched teeth. His gloved hand slid up the blade of his sword, grabbing in a firm half sword stance.
Kaius dove onto the decrepit body of his foe. It grabbed its club with both hands, pushing the weapon up to meet him.. The bar of reinforced wood took him in the ribs. Pain flared through his sternum. A sharp crack emanating his just barely healed ribs. Still weak from the punch he had taken earlier. Kaius coughed, watching a fine spray of red coat the undead's wretched face.
He didn't falter.
Kaius tossed his sword to the side. Too unwieldy in quarters this close. He ripped his hunting knife free of his belt. Aligning its point with the eye of the undead. Even now, trapped by leverage and the full weight on his body, it tried to snap at him. Rabid in its desire to end him.
The point of his knife came down, brackish sludge erupting from its ruined eye. He felt the slight resistance of its socket.
A cry of rage. A shift of his body weight. It was done.
The undead fell blessedly limp.
**Ding! level 18 Wretched Militia Captain slain**
Kaius rolled off the captain's body, bonelessly falling on his back as his chest heaved. Knife left standing proud in the undead's socket. He winced as each breath caused the edges of his twice cracked ribs to grate against each other.
**Ding! Physical Conditioning has reached level 14!**
**Ding! Warforged has reached level 18!**
Kaius couldn't help it. He laughed, pain or no. There was something so singular about staring death in the face, succeeding, and being rewarded for it. It was the sweetest ambrosia, and the most decadent nectar.
“You were right, father. As always.” He smiled as we watched the softly glowing moss throw shifting shadows on the cavern ceiling. “I’ll be out as soon as I can, and then I’m coming for you.”
<pmargin-bottom: 2em">Kaius steeled his heart, standing firm on rocky ground that littered the hole in the church’s wall. He held the breach—had made his choice of battleground.Now he just had to win.
Four undead remained; four undead advanced.
They were decrepit, garbed in little more than ratty leather and armed with rusted weapons. They were still a threat. Kaius found himself looking to the final undead again and again—no matter how important it was to keep his focus on the one closest to him.
It was bigger than the rest, hefting a club that would shatter his bones like kindling. Worse, it was armoured in more than rotting scraps—rusted chainmail and a pitted steel helm wrapping it tightly.
He set his stance, forcing himself to keep his grip on his blade light. Swiftness would keep him alive; panic would see him dead. Even if the undead were spread across the graves, they’d reach him with less than a minute between them.
Heart thudding loudly in his chest, Kaius felt his blood grow hot and his muscles taut. Every moment stretched as his focus honed.
The first undead soldier arrived, hatchet raised high as its mouth opened in a soundless scream.
Kaius exploded into motion.
Snapping his blade upward, Kaius cut into the haft of the axe, catching the swing in a bind. His arms shook under the strain as he halted the blow. Strong. Too strong.
He pivoted, twisting his wrists to wrench the blow away. Before the undead could recover, he flowed into a thrust. His blade punched through the creature’s chest, black blood welling up.
It was a textbook parry, a single continuous movement that would have left any living creature—even one with Health—disabled as their lungs filled with blood. Unfortunately for him, his foe was not living, and his instinctual counterattack nearly ended him.
Uncaring of the blade in its chest, the undead hit him in the side with a heavy haymaker. Pain roared through his chest as he felt ribs crack, quickly followed by a feverish itch as his Health rushed to the wound.
Kaius gasped, winded as he jumped back—narrowly avoiding a wild hack.
Panic flared, clawing at his throat. Rapid Adaptation quelled the fear, focusing his mind on the fight ahead. He raced back in.
This fight needed to be finished, now! Before the others arrived. He could see them cutting their way through the gravestones quickly, in spite of their lumbering steps.
Racing in, he refused to repeat his earlier mistake. It was hard to resist blocking with how poor the creature’s technique was, but he adapted—utilising its poor control against it as he turned aside bone-splintering strikes.
Most fell around him, directed to his sides. Not all. Blood dripped down his chest from where the creature had pivoted into an unexpected reverse strike, its axe leaving a shallow cut through his chest.
Gritting his teeth, Kaius steeled his will—the injury was minor; he would heal quickly. He could still fight.
Ignoring the burn, snapped up into a high guard and cut down—catching a sideways hack and guiding it past him. It left the undead off-balance—leaning forward with its head undefended.
Kaius bared his teeth hungrily.
A twist of the wrists was all it took—the undead's skull crunched as rancid brain slopped out of a new hole.
**Ding! Level 11 Wretched Militiaman slain**
One down.
Snapping his eyes upward, Kaius searched for the rest of the undead. The fight had taken his full focus—how close had they gotten?
He saw his death fast approaching, one undead charging through the breach with a spear levelled at his face.
Kaius gasped and dived back, smacking the thrust aside. Fast, too fast—it should have taken the spearman longer to reach him.
His horror only grew as he saw the remaining two right behind them and closing fast. Their clumsy, lunging steps crossed strides at a time—cursed strength granting the undead a speed he hadn’t anticipated. He had a handful of seconds at most.
It was too much—no way he could hold off all three at once! Not when defending himself from one felt like trying to parry a battering ram!
A scything cut of his opponent’s spear snapped him back to the moment. Yanking his head to the side, Kaius winced as blood welled through an open hole in his cheek.
Stupid! A moment was all it took in a fight; he’d known that since he was a boy.
Gritting his teeth in fury, he hacked at the spearman's guard, Sense Weakness screaming out to him as the undead jerked from block to block. An unguarded throat, a bared stomach, defenceless limbs. None of them were right—he needed its head.
His plan to choke the undead in the fallen wall had already failed: he had bare heartbeats until the final two arrived—including the big one with its bonebreaking club. Rotten roots, it might damn him, but he refused to flee without another dead!
The others he’d have to lead through the trees—they were fast, but he was faster. Gods’ grace, he’d handle the rough terrain and tight confines better.
Slamming upwards, the undead spearman smashed his blade aside. Kaius’s eyes widened. It thrust straight for his belly—and he felt the moment.
It was committed; it was unguarded.
Slamming his weight into his heel, Kaius spun to the left and hissed as blunted iron tore through his flesh. The wound didn’t go unpaid. He slid into a clean, one-handed fencer’s thrust, the tip of his sword sliding neatly into the undead’s eyes.
It shuddered once before its spear slipped from its hands to clatter against the stone-littered ground.
**Ding! Level 14 Wretched Militiaman slain**
Kaius turned and ran seconds before the final pair of undead could overwhelm him.
They gave chase as a single unit, ungainly, but still swift.
….
The undead just didn’t give up! They’d chased him relentlessly—persistence embodied. By the gods’ scorn, he felt like a bloody deer!
It didn’t help that he’d been forced to lead them in a tight, looping swirl through the parts of the underground glade he’d already explored. The last thing he needed was to run into another monster before he dealt with these ones.
Desperately sucking in air, Kaius darted to the side—avoiding a pitted straight sword that would have torn out his throat. Sweat poured from his brow, and his blade felt like it had been forged from lead.
The blow hit the tree behind him, sinking deep with a dull thwack. The undead tugged at its weapon—Sense Weakness called out to him. Kaius grinned, already moving.
Finally.
Striking from high to low, he cleaved through bone and rotten flesh, splitting its head right open.
**Ding! Level 12 Wretched Militiaman slain**
**Ding! Sense Weakness has reached level 17!**
Doubling over, Kaius got his breath as best he could and took the opportunity to check his Resources. He heard crashing from his right—but it was still far enough for a breather. Weighed down by its heavier armour and oversized club, the larger undead had fallen behind.
Resources:
Health - 94/200 (2/min)
Stamina - 0/190 (2/min)
Mana - 120/120 (2/min)
“Gods’ scorn, I’d better get a level of Physical Conditioning out of this.”
His flight had been hard—a constant chipping away at his Health from dozens of wounds. It had been all he could do to avoid a crippling injury. He shuddered. Even if he could have recovered from a cut to his calf or quad, it would have slowed him, and that meant death.
The club wielder crashed out of the undergrowth, smacking at brush with its club. Every swing kicked up glowing spores that swirled through the air like smoke.
A final breath to steel his heart; he raised his sword and bared his teeth.
This was it.
Hungrily clacking its blackened teeth, the undead charged—rising high before its club came crashing down.
He might have been exhausted. Sweat and blood might have left his clothes sodden and heavy—but it didn’t matter. This would be his victory.
Roaring a challenge, Kaius dashed to the side. A shudder ran through his legs as the undead smashed the ground. More spores kicked up, filling the air with a disorienting haze.
Steel sang to the violence in his heart as Kaius swirled into a tight cut for the creature’s neck. Sparks flew as his blade skittered across its armoured neck.
“Bloody! Mail!” he laboured through clenched teeth.
He pulled back—but not quick enough. The undead heaved, striking as if its crude weapon weighed nothing. Ice shot down his spine as Kaius slammed his blade home, catching the blow with the edge of his weapon to create a bind.
Elbows buckling, Kaius roared as he pushed back. The bastard was so bloody strong! Searching for something, anything, Sense Weakness nudged his attention. Its armpit—the chain was rusted out!
Caught in a deadlock, he twisted his wrists and slid his blade over the face of his opponent’s weapon. The club sailed on, clipping his stomach.
Bile sat bitter on his tongue as Kaius plunged the tip of his sword home to savage the creature’s shoulder.
Its arm fell limp, and Kaius roared in satisfaction, pushing his assault.
Only for the undead to swing its heavy club one-handed—just as easily as it had before. It smashed into his blade, sending his prized weapon clattering into the undergrowth. Dread flowed through his veins, muting the hot roar of the song in his blood.
He tried to dive—a smash cut him off.
Mind racing as he danced back, he searched for something, anything he could use to turn the tides.
Unbidden, a memory came to mind.
He sat at the edge of a clearing, hot blood spewing down his face and staining his naked chest red. His practice blade was lying in the dirt somewhere behind him. Hastur stood over him with a hand outstretched, his knuckles bloodied. He held his own blade in his dominant hand. Dark hair with soft curls failed to cover his father’s kind green eyes, smile lines standing out on the stat-prolonged youth of his face.
With a lurch, he was pulled to his feet.
“Remember, Son. We are not just swordsmen.”
He snapped back to the moment as another swing crashed through the haze of spores, a vicious smile on his face. So he lost his sword. No matter, he could win without it.
Lunging towards his weapon, Kaius baited another attack—only to dip back. The moment the undead connected with the ground, he stepped in and stomped on the side of its knee.
The joint buckled. It tried to stand, lunging for him with a wild swing. Dodging the wild blow, he ripped his hunting knife out of his belt and dived.
A handspan of finely wrought steel plunged into its yellowed eye, buried to the hit by his full bodyweight.
**Ding! Level 18 Wretched Militia Captain slain**
**Ding! Physical Conditioning has reached level 14!**
**Ding! Warforged has reached level 18!**
Kaius couldn't help it. He laughed, pain or no. There was something so singular about staring death in the face, succeeding, and being rewarded for it. It was the sweetest ambrosia and the most decadent nectar.
Aching and exhausted, he hauled himself to his feet and limped for his sword.
“You were right, Father. As always.”
Kaius smiled as he watched the glowing spores swirl like ink in water. “I’ll be out as soon as I can, then I’m coming for you.”
------
This isn't even close to the most dramatic change, but it is the easiest one to show without context :)