Untitled Short Story Pt. 3

A low rumble permeated the gloom. In an instant Ivanson had his sword raised, his eyes darting from side to side. He turned as he advanced, the wicked point of his blade held before him. 
He jumped as another rumble reverberated from behind him, this one louder than the first. Lifting his sword, he turned and prepared for a brutal hack. But the blade bit naught but mist, wheeling the traveler round with the swing’s momentum.
Recovering, Ivanson peered into the fog. No shadow marred the homogenous mass that surrounded him, but that hardly filled the traveler with confidence. He recalled the old maps and journals he poured over as he sailed for the mist, and they all shared a warning; here be monsters.
Another rumble echoed to Ivanson’s left, loud enough to rattle his teeth. It reminded him of the last gasp of a tumbling tower, or the march of a thousand armoured boots. He eyed the fog cautiously, yet the source of the sound eluded him.
Irritated, Ivanson lowered his blade and raised his left hand. He concentrated, drawing power from the very core of his being and worming it through his veins. His blood ran hot, the searing pain ignored by the grizzled traveler. Boiling energy collected in his forefinger and thumb, evaporating the mist around his hand and blackening the leather of his glove.
With a snap, Ivanson discharged the power. An ember jumped from his hand, sparking and whistling as it shot through the mist. Tendrils of vapour swirled in its wake, enveloping it. In a moment, it was gone from Ivanson’s sight, consumed by the fog. 
Then, with a crack, the ember exploded. A vortex of flame cut through the mist, clearing a sphere in front of Ivanson. That’s when he saw what had stalked him; a humanoid form writhed in the flame, its immaterial form made momentarily visible by the black smoke swirling about it. A cry came from the thing, shrill and terrible. 
The traveler did not wait to study the figure closer. Shouldering his sword, he bolted into the mist, hoping he was travelling in the right direction. Shrugged off a bloody fireball, he mused as he sprinted.
Ivanson knew not if the spectre had pursued him. If it did, it was doubtful he would hear it until it was upon him. Didn’t come all this way to die, he thought, pushing through the fatigue that threatened to halt him. The sea of grey flowed past him, and each step looked like the last. 
He told himself the end had to be close, that safety lay just a few steps away. Just a smidge further...

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