What happens when fire-breathing dragons battle Stukas for aerial supremacy over a battlefield? Can an earth wizard's magic defeat a panzer? Krish, a farmhand turned mercenary, witnesses this and much more as he confronts the Necromancer King's new war machines resurrected from before the First Civilization's fall. Worse yet, a wounded prince tasks Krish to find the fabled Colonel of the West and barter the royal family's malevolent Blood-Sword for a weapon to thwart the Necromancer King's victory. Flank Hawk is set in the distant future where magic exists and brutish ogres are more than a child's nightmare.
Genre: FICTION / Science Fiction / GeneralGuzzy signaled for my attention and pointed over the gully’s lip toward the disturbance in the undergrowth. He grinned, showing his yellowing teeth. “It’s coming for you.”
After listening to the rhythmic rustling for a few breaths, I set aside my spear and drew my broad-bladed short sword. The reeking stench of rotting flesh sent flashes of last night’s desperate battle through my mind. Screams, blood, and death echoed there.
Still smiling, my cousin scrunched up his nose and donned his rusted steel helmet before lifting his heavy frame to peer over the gully’s lip. “Give it half a moment, Krish.”
I leaned against a rotting oak rising from a bend in our sheltering gully and stared at the nameless stream trickling through its bottom. My stomach tightened as the sun’s light faded. The last few nights of battle gave me reason to fear the dark. The faint stench reminded me of the putrid odor that always preceded the zombies. My militia training on livestock corpses wasn’t enough. Walking dead, with pus-rotted skin teaming with maggots, clubbing and grasping, were far more frightening.
Guzzy nodded while checking his broad-bladed axe. “Some necromancer master ordered them forward again.” His face and cheeks looked pressed into his worn helmet. Even if my cousin was heavy, he was anything but fat. Nobody I’d ever seen could hew limbs from bodies like him.
I climbed around the rotting oak and pinpointed the rustling in the tangled vines. With a sneer set across my face to mask my disgust, I held my breath and chopped into the animated arm. My first swing cut into the hacked-off remnant from last night’s horde. The soft ground absorbed the blow. With aim, my second effort severed the hand at the wrist. Then I pinned the writhing, bloated hand with my boot before shearing away its fingers and thumb.
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Spanish
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Already translated.
Translated by María Victoria Madruga Flores
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