On the back of a fire wolf, Agazuul swiftly made his way to Johnstantine’s farmstead north of the Cyne road.

Agazuul found only Carl’s wife Nathalie there, who swore he’d return soon. However, one of the farmhands told a different tale as Agazuul prowled the grounds. The farmhand told Agazuul that Carl had taken off with his horse down the Cyne road.

Agazuul thanked the young lad and dropped him a silver for which he was grateful. The Cyne road leads from where the mountainous path to the Sanguinators academy begins all the way to Durnaelf. Until the start of the trilateral war, a town that was mainly inhabited by elves, their foothold within the realm of men in Tharios. However, since the war began, no elf has been spotted there. After the usurper Osred Brighaerd destroyed many mage towers along the Aggrandiant Range–most of them inhabited by elves–none were too surprised when Durnaelf was quickly abandoned.

Agazuul retrieved his fire wolf, which he left not too far out from the farmstead but far enough that Agazuul could avoid needless questions.

It felt strange to go for Carl Johnstantine first. He was a valuable ally, but cowardice ruined all the potential his incredible powers held. If it wasn’t for his cowardice, Agazuul could have slain Orcus, laid claim to his skull staff, or taken his head as a trophy. The damned Demonic Duke of Death was Agazuul’s to kill, so battered after their ritual and ruse.

Now, there was a new chance and a chance for Carl to prove that he had what it took to make himself worthy of the title people had bestowed him. Carl Johnstantine, The Demon Slayer. The Demon Slayer as if the Sanguinators didn’t even exist. If any of the tales held true, he’s barely even making ends meet. Over-preparing and putting worry before courage.

At least his disdain for the man occupied Agazuul’s mind during the often uneventful trip along the Cyne road.

There were a pair of goblins for Agazuul to strike down. They’d been tailing him for a while on their wargs. Agazuul extended them the courtesy to change their mind, as he’d not want to expend any of his resources on such weaklings. Goblins are a derivative of a derivative, born as the halfbreeds of orcs, while orcs themselves started as an undead horde beholden to Orcus. Tales in books that crumbled to the touch tell of a coven of hags that outsmarted Orcus–a ritual and ruse not unlike the one that brought Orcus to his knees before me not too long ago– theirs was different. They infused life into undeath spawn still freshly borne from the essence of Orcus; such is how Orcs came to be. Goblins share not such a tale. They are spawn, born long ago when orcs laid with gnomes. Shall we then blame Orcus or the coven of hags that tricked Orcus for the small creatures that had taken Agazuul’s attention?

A few things stood out to Agazuul as he traversed the Frygdscael woods. Two blood splotches not too far removed from one another. One of the goblins chasing had a shield with an arrow cut in it, the cut giving way to underlying layers of paler, less weathered wood. The other chaser was missing an eye–a fresh wound– the green flesh surrounding the eye socket turning various shades of purple, and yet there was one clue above all, which let Agazuul know he was on the right path.

A few arrows lay strewn about on Agazuul’s path before him, and as he grabbed the most broken one without losing momentum, his suspicions were confirmed. An arrow with the last remnants of frost within the cracked wood, the arrowhead bent and blunted. Carl’s go-to frost armor. Agazuul was clearly on the right track.

Agazuul had made it to Aeleford, the goblins valuing their life more than a mere handful of coins. Agazuul inquired about Carl, and many swore they saw him pass through; even more, however, came to Agazuul to thank him for his grandiose deed. Agazuul and his decision saved them from servitude in the Deeprealm. Their gratefulness towards him–unlike their fondness of Carl–was warranted. As nothing save invites to many dinners kept Agazuul here, he said his general goodbye and set for Durnaelf, where Carl would likely be.

This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

However, as Agazuul traveled further southbound, just crossing the bridge that spanned the Lorg-mèinn River, he was ambushed by five goblins who were stealthily waiting in nearby shrubbery. Two of them Agazuul found immediately recognizable; they must have gathered a few friends. That is assuming that friendship is even a thing amongst the goblin kind.

Agazuul reached his hand out and conjured his blade; it would be all he needed for this fight. Gracefully dismounting his fire-wolf, he carefully gauged the situation. The one-eyed goblin and two others seemed eager to draw their bow from a distance, so there were only two arrows that he’d have to keep in mind. The remaining two small green basterds were charging in for melee combat, a mistake they wouldn’t live to regret.

Agazuul quickly closed the distance and swung his blade in a wide arc to behead both goblins before firing the first volley. Three arrows came Agazuul’s way, one missing him by a wide margin, the other two easily stopped by his heater shield. As a flame flickered on the opposite side of the goblin archers, Agazuul broke into a dash. His fire-wolf closed its mighty jaw around a goblin, leaving only feet and half a head. The last two Agazuul finished with a swing, step, twirled to avoid the dagger thrown, lunge, swing.

They made their choice, a poor one at that. As Agazuul looked around him, eager to clean off the vile blood of these goblins of his mighty blade and armor, he spotted something in the distance, not too far off from Aeldorn lain at the base of the Aggrandiant Range. A mighty beast soaring menacingly in the sky above. A mottled mess of browns and beiges, two large, powerful legs, wings that could knock a rider from its horse, but unlike its four-legged brethren, unable to conjure elements from within its throat.

Agazuul wasn’t one to squander a good fight, so he charged his fire-wolf straight at the draconic beast. Agazuul wrote arcane sigils upon his wolf with his shield hand as he rode, shouting the incantation required. The sides of the wolf opened, flame spouting like geysers, obsidian shards held in place by the fire, forming wings. With the momentum of the stride, they almost instantaneously took flight. The aerial advantage that a wyvern enjoyed was now for naught. The wyvern came toward Agazuul, unable to allow another creature to dominate the skies alongside it. Agazuul slid his hand across the blade, filling the etched runes with fresh blood, a black aura forming around the blade, infusing it with necrotic power.

Agazuul prepared another of his sanguine powers in anticipation of the wyvern’s approach, his hands eagerly weaving his blood held up like string through the dark words he spoke. The wyvern charged in to bite Agazuul’s steed. Still, the blood-woven spell had taken hold before it could. The wyvern’s first attack resulted in a near-direct strike as Agazuul changed the fire-wolf's trajectory at the last possible moment, a mere rake across the fire-wolf’s flesh. The second attack was aimed at Agazuul in quick succession, a dastardly quick strike. Agazuul cast a protective ward on his shield as he held it between him and the wyvern. Agazuul came away without a hit, and his blood spell did its work. The beast’s quick, successive strikes resulted in the wyvern’s skin breaking apart and blood pouring out of its body. The draconic beast roared in agony and anger.

Agazuul took his blade and resolved to limit himself to the sword and shield for the moment; with no hand free, he’d not be able to cast or weave any spell. Despite not being used to this form, the fire-wolf took intuitive commands well. Agazuul’s various hip-based movements were enough to guide it through complex maneuvers as they avoided the wyvern’s aggressive strikes. Each duo of successive strikes broke apart more of its body, but that wouldn’t be enough. Agazuul swung at the creature, adjusting his regular, aggressive style to be more reserved and precise. Two quick strikes translated into two large gashes across the belly of the beast. The wyvern roared, flapping its wings with the intent to blow Agazuul off his mount, but all it got for its efforts was Agazuul’s blade thrown through its neck. As the beast started to drop from the sky, Agazuul called the blade back to his hand before banishing it. The battle left Agazuul satisfied but also brought one thought to the forefront.

"I need a bath," Agazuul said to his mount.

END OF CHAPTER 6 - Agazuul 3