Hexamon ~ 2

~Hexamon~

Hexamon wore a wood fairy garb; a brown with green striped tunic. Sleeveless and sleek with a scabbard well fixed behind it. It was a well made armor. The design itself was impeccable. The material, fashioned from the strands of the Onc was very strong and durable. Beautifully woven into tiny braids to reveal the strokes of ingenious craftsmanship. This were what enforcers wore, this were the clothes of Legends and Hexamon was the proudest man in all of the nine regions for he had donned the robe of warriors.

His sword was ixmrit. Made by the high smiths of Ezeal. It was Blacker than ebony, lighter than Alumina and stronger than steel. Its texture was sleek and lustrous and though it was black it glinted where it was in the thorax of the beast he had slain. It was a blade worth dying for. All knew that blades crafted by the high smiths were nothing short of magical. And of all fairies and men, Hexamon was the one who had received this stunning piece of art. He called it The Cleaver.

“Even with this armor, I still manage to get wounded.” he snorted angrily, his face full of sweat as his body began to warm. Slowly, he begun to unwrap his hand around the wound on his side. The torn flesh was alive. Red with fire. Wriggling towards each other. It was magic. The Blood that poured moments ago seemed to have awakened a mind of their own as they snaked back from whence they came. Hexamon’s body was healing as he kept his focus and concentration. Even the ugly wound on his chest appeared to be cauterizing.

The trench had darkened even more now, and there was no trace of light in the sky. The small cavern suddenly felt heavy and dense as if eyes had sprouted from everywhere. The healing had ended and a vibe of relief traversed his body. Hexamon knew something dangerous was there. He ruffled on the almost black, rocky, root infested ground and grabbed The Cleaver. It vibrated with a wave of excitement like how a pet responds to its master’s touch.

Hexamon helped himself up with the sword as he edged away from the mandigus as if it would suddenly spring to life. His back hit the dark green boundary of the trench. It was interwoven with strange vines but brought his wobbly movement to a halt.

“Now it’s time to get out of here” he sighed with his eyes looming the sky which was now shimmering with silver light struggling to permeate the thick undergrowth. Hexamon’s face was troubled and weary with fear. He felt lonely and insecure. He turned right. It was pitch black and oozed with danger. Left. Same.

“Hey! Come on, we can do this”, he said assuredly to himself. Breathing quickly, he calmed himself then rummaged where he stood for a way out. With his eyes fixed at the top, he was poised to climb out. It was the best idea, he thought. His senses told him clearly, the other paths were long dark winding corridors which could be packed with all sort of unnatural things.

Quickly, Hexamon plunged his sword back into the scabbard and without extra caution he began to climb. It was easy, the vines that crept all over the side had made it so. Almost automatic his fear rescinded and he begun to increase pace. The trench was far deeper than he thought, about eighty feet; he soon realised. However the thought of finally leaving the eerie dark chamber warmed him with great pleasure. So he continued.

Then suddenly it came. He hadn't even reached half the height, when it emerged.

Its speed was lightening and its numerous legs stung. It scrambled all over Hexamon, but its roughness was numbed by his armor. Instinctively, Hexamon drew The Cleaver and struggled to stay at the height he had accomplished, swinging aimlessly and uselessly at the dark creature that clawed all around him.

At first it was one, then suddenly it became two, then four. Hexamon quickly surmised it was a swarm of them, but he was too late. A sharp pain marked his calf. His eyes blurred immediately.

Blast! He cried as he tripped and came crushing down the dark tunnel. The impact was great and his arms were bleeding sore. He was injured from scratches he had sustained on his way down. But there was no time to savor pain.

He sprung unto his feet and leapt for his sword which had conveniently landed with its tip, then with a quick rotation, he sliced at the creatures which had suddenly populated the cave. They gave off a shrill noise. That was when he saw what they actually were.

“Spiders!” he hissed curiously, then he sneered, slashing again at another pack which had thrown themselves at him. The creatures looked like spiders but had more limbs, not less than ten. They were as big as well fed pigs. Appeared like spiders on the limbs of centipedes. Black with red stripes. And their movements accompanied a discomforting screech.

There was no time for any sort of reflection or thought, as they poured from everywhere. From holes all over the sides of the tunnel. Their appearance struck malice and their movements were fast and unpredictable. As their number increased, Hexamon brandished the black blade while his feet retreated naturally. Then he broke into a frantic dash. The spiders followed with malicious fervency.

Hexamon broke through the wall of darkness and fear that shrouded the long corridor of blackness with the fearlessness that only boiling blood could muster. The tunnel was serpentine and it was overgrown with wild flowers and snaky vines that shot indiscriminately at Hexamon and the spiders. But he kept at it, striking against any obstacle.

He wondered why he hadn’t trapped himself already in a mass of sticky web. As he kept contemplating, in an instant, he was thrown of balance as one spider shot itself at his back. His body tipped forward and his legs intertwined. He came crushing down. It was tough, all black and slightly bigger than the others.

Still clutching the sword, he turned to thrust it into the spider who instinctively was also descending on the man with jaws wide opened to stun. Hexamon’s blade found its mark first. It went through the spider’s mandible like knife through veggies. It squirted and twisted in discomfort. Then a number of them landed on the corpse that had trapped Hexamon. He suddenly felt blurry again. Then in anguish, the dead creature and all the lively ones suddenly flew off of him as if an invisible hand had washed them off. His eyes flared with fire and The Cleaver glowed red from the middle.

The spiders had increased and were about to envelope him. The walls of the tunnel were painted with them. There was no space or ground. All was covered in black and red. Then Hexamon roared.

“Away with you!” his eyes, fiery with phos as he descended with the force of his sword into the ground. Immediately an unseen wave of force flushed the approaching mass backward.                Just the distraction he needed to escape the tunnel for good, he thought as he kept looking behind him. But he couldn't run. His legs had suddenly become numb. His eyes started to dull and his body became heavy with an excruciating pain. His veins stood out on his forehead and his skin darkened. The poison was working.

The startled and stunned colony of spiders quickly regained their momentum and swept forward rapidly, unharmed; their tough shells had withstood the exploding force of the Lone man's sword. Hexamon groaned painfully and gnashed at the climbing pod of toxin that was visibly spreading throughout his body painfully on a dark path of veins. 

His eyelids suddenly shut up and he fell limp with The Cleaver still in his hands. Hexamon could hear the ferocious pounding of his heart as reality slipped from him quickly. And the last he saw was the river of spiders that poured on him from every direction and a faint light in the corner of his eye. Probably the moon or his imagination.