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[Vortigern]

Essika delved through the armoury, seeking his kind of weapon, anything with slightly more killing power than the minuscule shortsword his position amongst the law enforcement agencies of Anharad had granted him. His mighty butterfly axe had been left behind in his quarters in the Anvari fortress, and not for the first time he wished he could have brought it with him. In the next room Theria sought through stacks of bowstaves, seeking one which suited her strength and action. She emerged into the arsenal room carrying six foot of yew just as Essika lifted a heavy blade from amongst the others, long and thick and straight, curved back with twin points at the top. A cruel weapon indeed, but one which would serve his purposes extremely well up on the wall.

Grim and silent, they exited and made their way to the courtyard below the first wall, the marketplace just inside the gate, now empty and replete of stalls, most of which now served as a barricade before the gate. A barricade which was being hurriedly removed by three darkly-clad figures. Theria immediately raised her bow, arrow already nocked to the string, and loosed at them, the shaft taking one of the three in the lower back. He arched back in pain and the other two looked around, sighting Theria and Essika and ducking into cover. Cautiously they approached the gate, listening for any sound of movement, but with the battle raging above them they could barely hear themselves think.

One of the two men leapt out brandishing a shortsword and swung it wildly at Essika, only for the shorter blade to meet with Essika's heavy longsword and fly clattering aside to come to rest on the cobbles. Essika carried around the swing of his blade, the steel biting deep into the flesh of the man's neck, almost severing his head clean off. Theria caught sight of a flash of black as the other survivor fled inside the gatehouse. She followed him, eyes alert and bowstave at the ready. She froze as a loud noise began all around her.

"He's releasing the gate!" shouted Essika, following her inside. "Find him and close the damn gate!"

A savage, murderous howl rent the air as Theria sought out any trace of the man's direction, a sound that she and Essika both recognised.

"Melds," they both whispered. Essika turned and slammed shut the heavy oaken door to the gatehouse, knowing that it was too late if the gate was unlocked and melds were on the hunt.

"Let's get up on the wall," he ordered. He was about to speak again when a colossal crash sounded from without; the melds had smashed their way the gates, unlocked by treacherous cowards.

* * * * * * * * * *

Winter Vayu let a satisfied smile creep across his serene features as his melds tore through the mouth of the Hold. Four hundred of the beasts had arrived in time for this moment, and the rest were well on the way to arrival. The defenders stood no chance against the combined might of his sorcerous creations.

"The first ring is breached," he murmured. "One down, three to go."




((Copa, this should give Tom some real action. I hope he's up to this.))

[some_weirdGuy]

As the troops poured in through the entrance then defenders on the wall were forced to retreat. to stay on the first wall was to die as Vayus forces would surround them, attacking from both sides.

Like a way from the now open gate, the melds, accompanied by Vayu's forces, spread out. A horn went off singlaling the official retreat, and men further along the walls turns and ran, while those on the walls closest to the gates tried to either fight their way through Vayu's forces, or escape around the the sides.

Now with line of slight, the magi behind the wall began their bombardment of the forces at the gate. Fireballs flew over the heads of the mercenary defenders below the walls, as they fought to hold back the mass of enemies flooding in. More of Vayus forces could only come through the gate when rooms was cleared, and the defenders made sure that those not on the outside of the fray were packed in so tight as to not be bale to move.

Soon from above, on the second wall, arrows began raining down. The retreat continued, and Vayu breached the walls in several sections, as the defense moved back.

-----------
"God damn! they should not have taken that wall so fast!" said the burly general, looking down from wall two
"it appears the gate was unlocked from the inside, then pushed open from outside the walls" said his second in command to the left
"that means we have traitors among our ranks!"
"we knew that, sir. The paladin army has been on the rise, and throughout that time we continued to accept immigrants and the like. I don't doubt a number of spies would be among them. Also, it is said they can manipulate peoples minds, after seeing what the gnomes can do i wouldn't be surprised, they might not even need spies if they can turn any one of us at any time. The white magi at the temple say they are keeping them back, but i don't know..."
General Baltac knew all this, but it still galled him. Watch on the gates would need to be increased. You would think with an army camped right there they wouldn't have been able to just walce up and unlock the doors, but obviously they could.

-----------
"You cannot come in here"
Said the guard at the door firmly, moveing to block Zhars path, as the second guard came forward to, but with a casual flick of the wrist the men went flying. Zhar paused. There was a time when he would have merely killed the guards... what was wrong with him!
He sword vigorously, but still he did not go over and kill the guards. Instead he continued forward, through the marbel halls of the building, to come atlast to where the white magi sat. Most were in a circle on the middle of the floor, eyes closed in a sitting position. Both inner and outer circle made by the white robed magi.

Zhar snarled his disgust. Pacifists. They would hold the barriers that protected the castle, but as soon as the paladins broke though their wandering spirits would put up no fight, and they would be slain. Their righteousness disgusted him. Members of the paladinite were white magi, yet they still fought, and killed, why could these fools not do the same!?

"You are not welcome here, your corruption and depravity even now sullies this place" said a soft voice
"do my ears deceive me? are you not taught to accept all, and love everything? that includes me priest"
"yes, i can love you even while opposing, and indeed being sickened by, everything you are. I am most saddened, for your evil is merely a symptom. And i know that your coming can bring nothing good, and a fear that by merely being here your corruption may spread"
Zhar smiled "yes, wouldn't that be such a pity?"
Heilum sighed,
"you will not leave?"
"not unless you make me, which you won't. Not that you could even if you tried" He looked over at the priests in the circle. He could feel their energy as it held up the barrier. They were weak! Zhar could easily take command of everything they were doing now, plus more, on his lonesome without even half the strain, yet even combined these mages strained to hold.

"Please, just leave. We do not want nor need your kind of help. Even losing here is preferable to your assistance" said Heilum, great sorrow in his voice
"Oh, oh the hurt, such cruel words, still my bleeding heart, as i most certainly give a damn!... How very amusing though, would you really prefer the slaughter of all within this fortress? and the enslavement of a nation. All that blood would be on your hands, as i may be tempted to do just as you ask, and walk from this place. I have no reason to care for the death of all these innocents. I merely wish to match my might against Vayu's, He has chosen this fortress as the playing field, and so i will play the part of his opposition."
"In death they go to the light, as we will. In aligning ourselves with you we compromise everything we have lived for. You bring evil. Hatred, murder, and far worse, and you seek to use me and my brothers for your vile purposes. You cannot fight evil with evil."
Zhar's mockingly clapped his hands, each clap measured out
"Cannot fight evil with evil? just watch me. It is what i have always done before, and it has proven far more effective then your filthy pacifism ever has! i tell you this, if i am so vile and evil, then what are you? you would would sit by and allow yourself to be slain, rather then protect a child from the likes of evil men... such as me. Tell me then, through your inaction are you not just as responsible? is it not just as bad as if you yourself killed them"
"you can never understand!" said Heilum, a edge of anger in his voice
"you'd better watch that temper, i would hate for it to get the best of you"
Heilum stepped back. Despite his best efforts the aura coming of this vile man was getting to him. He could see how the darkness wormed its way around the temple, like a cancer. He looked over at the cirlce of kneeling magi. The darkness, like a mist, began reaching out its tendrils towards the circle of light created the the combined magi. The evil that emanated from Zhar was not like the aura most evil men carried with them, it was infinitely more powerful. It was bold, instead of slinking away from the light it sought to reach out and extinguish it, creeping forward towards the circular aura of light that came from his brothers, and moving towards the nearest of his brothers, Brand.

As it wispy tendrils reached out to the preist, a troubled look came to his face. While his mind was elsewhere, his body still repelled from the darkness. But he held firm, and Heilum put out his hand, and using his own energy brushed the evil tendril away from his brother. Zhar however payed little attention.
"Your master sits in his study, in communion with the other magi of the maughold. I will intrude myself upon his little meeting, and make my position clear... Maughold's magic defense is in my hands now, weather you like it or not"
A great sorrow fell across Heilum, but he said nothing as Zhar pushed past him towards his masters study.

Edited by some_weirdGuy, 17 January 2010 - 04:19 AM.

[{IRS}Athos]

Byron practically dragged Rindar from the wall, having the presence of mind to snatch up the elf's bow as he went. Militiamen and mercenaries alike streamed past them on their retreat to the keep. He was jostled by a passing Variag and fell, bringing Rindar down with him.

He felt a hand drag him to his feet, and, amazingly, saw that Rindar was upright once again. There was a steely look in the elf's eyes.

"Let's go," he said.

[mike_]

"Hold! You mother's sons, hold your places!"

Harald shouted this cry above the tumult and crash of the battle as his Variags fought alongside the plate-wearing skirmishers of Maximilian, leather and maille-girt Janizar of Murad's host, and a few golden-geared Sons of Man rallying the local Men. A few eager Paladins had run up the siege towers and were joining the battle between the North Gate and the column of pikemen.

Morion stood still atop one of the long winding ramps that led from the ground to the top of walls, his Minotaur bodyguards around him. He wielded his broadsword two-handed, not too differently than the Minotaur did with their axes. One or two of them had fallen from the flying darts thick in the air, though most maintained the ring around him.

Pier, Maximilian's adjutant with Morion, shouted to him, "Lord Morion! Maximilian sends word that Vayu's creatures have breached the West Gate!" He paused to spear an enemy mercenary with his halberd. He pulled the head of the weapon from the skewered Man's gullet, then spun it around and beheaded him in one smooth motion. "He suggests you send some of your forces to confine them to that part of the Maughold."

Morion thought for a moment, then replied, "Indeed!" He turned to Rom. "Rom, I want you and half of our brothers to go to the West Gate and hold them off. I'm sure there are Melds there. Be careful." The huge black Minotaur nodded his consent and took off at a dead sprint, running down the ramp with eleven other Minotaur behind him.

Morion turned to Belisarius, an old grey Minotaur. "There is a giant ram on the way to the North Gate. I know that it won't hold against that, so we've got to get down there before it does. Can you and our brothers hold the base of this ramp against the press?"

Belisarius nodded his consent, motioning for Morion to go ahead of him. He complied.

Many of Murad's archers had taken position on the rooftops behind and around the walls, and were plying their trade to deadly affect, their spell-reinforced bows of horn twanging in constant cacophony. The ram got closer.

-------

Rom and his followers made their way to the West Gate, where a steady stream of Melds - hideous creatures, some on all-fours and others on two legs - was charging through the Gate. The gatehouse door, a strange, Dwarven-made piece of craft carved of stone, was firmly shut. Arrows periodically shot from one of the thin arrow-slits to fly into an unlucky Meld, usually fatally.

Rom bellowed, raised his huge axe, and brought it down on an unsuspecting Meld's head, crushing it. The other Minotaur formed a line to his left and right, blocking the exit of the street into the rest of the Maughold at a narrow crossing. Melds and Minotaur screamed and roared.

It would be a hard fight to even hold this space, much less clear it. Rom hoped some more help would come, and soon.

-------

Murad's reserve infantry were now being used to try and stem the tide of Variags, Drow, Paladins, and other such mercenaries that were spilling down the winding ramp. Murad himself, along with his aides and other captains, stood in the front of the press. He had a short axe in one hand and a wicked tulwar in the other. A Janizar near him was hit by a Drow-thrown javelin, the short spear impaling him through the abdomen. The Man screamed in agony and fell; several mercenaries tried to sprint through the gap, only to be blocked by Belisarius.

Suddenly, there was a rending crackle of heat, and a huge serpentine length of fire spun from behind the column of now-cheering pikemen to whirl up and around the ramp, cooking the screaming warriors of Vayu alive in their armour. They fell from the tall work of masonry like strips of gristle from a roasted bone. The Janizar, Landsknechte, Minotaur and Variags shouted their applause at the handiwork of Murad's magi. The crash and tumble of battle resumed.

Then all were silenced by a deafening boom. The ram was at the North Gate.

[Copaman]

As Tom's ears stopped ringing from the first crash of Vayu's infernal ram, a runner came to him from the west gate. He had encountered some trouble on the way; he clutched at his arm, squeezing at the wound with his tunic to try and stop the bleeding. "Majesty," he wheezed, "the Paladins have breeched the west gate. They've brought terrible fiends with them - the melds, I heard them referred to - and the battalion stationed there has been all but wiped out. The Grand Marshall has recieved permission from King Vassignar to move your troops to the West gate as reinforcement. We need you as soon as you can get there, sir."

Tom had no option in the matter. His orders really came from Vassignar - in this case, Vassignar through the Grand Marshall, who was probably holed up in his office or some other stronghold. He turned to the High Priestess, who had been busy giving orders to the soldiers to prepare to move out post-haste. "Well. I hope you're not rusty. We're in for a hell of a fight."
"Don't worry about me. What of the humans who have been posted with us?"
"They will stay here. I hope we can clean up the mess at the West gate before Vayu's ram breaks the North gate; there's no way the humans will be able to handle the force that will pour into the city."
He turned to the runner. "How bad are you hurt?"
"I'm sliced along my arm, and I tore an arrow out of my shoulder earlier. My next stop is the healer's area for this gate."
"Don't bother. We'll need you to run messages across the keep. Elien - please, do your best to help him. Meet us at the West gate when you have finished."
She nodded her compliance, the messenger boy thanked the striped king, and then all the deathknelven fighters left the north gate for the west at full sprint.

===

As Tom and his troops neared the West gate, the King could make out the gargantuan shape of Rom and several other Minotaurs fighting off the Melds and Paladins alike. Good. We have help.

The war song of the deathknelve had not ceased despite the intense run to the west gate - as they neared the Melds it grew louder. A group of several melds broke from the main pack and closed on the incoming deathknelve with speed. Tom pushed off the ground with one foot, drew his swords while he spiraled acrobatically towards the first meld to reach the incoming deathknelven troops, and met the thing in midair. As his momentum carried him forward, he flicked his wrist to deflect the incoming swipe, brought up his free arm and caught the thing under the chin with feet of engraved metal - his spiral righted, and with the combined force of the two, Tom drove the skull of the Meld into the ground with his sword plunging in after. He stood up and looked about as the Melds engaged his bretheren, exchanging blows with the High Priestess' personal guard.

Ducking under another leaping Meld, he pulled his sword from his first victim's body, cleared his mind, and went to work. His goal was to reach Rom, clear the west gate, and make it to the North gate before the breeching. he could only guess how far out his own army was from the siege.

[some_weirdGuy]

((hey mike, i'm using Rom, if its not ok i'll delete the bit, but it should be pretty cool))

The melds clove a path through the defenders. Unthinking bodies ripping and slicing through opponents with giant serrated swords, Vayu's influence blanking out any semblance of their own thoughts. They were again the horrific beasts that had plagued the area not so long ago, only interested in death and violence, and directed in their efforts against the defenders by Winter Vayu, or 'Cold Wind' as he was known to his army.

The meld who had come to call himself Rak, having named himself thus after hearing the black birds call his name, batted away the little men that got in his way. No longer did he think on his own, he was again the monster, and deep within his mind roared against this. But he was powerless in his own body, forced to obey, instead being urged on by the voice his his creator within his mind.

His huge sword clove through three men in one sweep, and his taloned hand slashed out at a fourth, the mans chest gone in a crimson spray. His snout twitched as the scent reached his nostrils and he turned his lupine features to the large bovine beasts. In a very typically wolf-like expression he cocked his head to one side, one ear raised, studying the herd of warriors.

Nearly his equal in height, and definitely more stocky, the large beasts beckoned him, challenging him by their mere presence, and it was a challenge he would not refuse! Bestial urges overcame him, and he stalked forward with a howl, batting aside any and all between. He did not even look as the deathknelve arrived.

Within his head the part of him which had gained sentience riled against him, but Vayu's hold on him was to much to break free of. Vayu exploited the bestial part of the melds, which was all but powerless against his manipulation, the sentient part of the melds mind fought against his control, but he had gained sway over them, and there was no breaking free of his hold.

Finally he stood before the minotaur. Many corpses of men, and even a few melds lay around the minotaur, but the casulaties had not all been one sided and a couple of minotaur lay beside the dead.
Rak hacked his weapon down, cleaving through a minotaurs shoulder, with a bull cry of pain the minotaur brought up its weapon, but Rak had already leaped, crashing into the ram and sinking claws and teeth into the minotaurs flesh. The minotaur went down, and with on motion Rak ripped a hunk of the rams flesh off, chewing on it even as he scooped back up his weapon and turning on the next minotaur.

Rom turned to face the beast, seeing one of his fellows dead he roared his defiance and rushed at the beast. men scattered as the two titans fought. The melds sword flashed up, but rom bated the blow aside with his axe and headbutted the beast full in the face. With a yelp the large wolf-meld stepped back, clutching its nose. Rom stepped in to meet it, swinging his axe for a decapitating blow, but the meld grabbed his arm, its own blade coming up. Rom dropped the large axe, allowing his second hand to intercept the blow as he too grabbed the arm of his attacker.

The melds sword clattered to the ground, the two locked in a fierce struggle. Rom was more powerful, by a fraction, but the meld had an advantage of being slightly taller, and its claws sunk deep into the flesh of Rom's arm. Some paladins rush forward at Rom's turned back, but one of his fellow minotaur intercepted them, charging, head lowered, to smash them over like bowling pins. The second minotaur was about to step forward and aid Rom, but a bovine cry from one of the other minotaur saw him turn to assist them instead.

Rak snarled, hatred burning as the best within clawed at his enemies arm, the other hand reaching forward to try and scratch out the others eyes, but roms grip was strong, and the meld could bring his hand no closer, instead the sharp gallons scrapped at the air just infront of the minotaurs forehead.

Rom's strength began to show as slowly, agonisingly slow, he pushed the melds arms back, his juggernaut-like grip tightening till it began to crush the beast where he held it. Seeing the struggle turn against it the meld acted, head coming forward and snapping at roms arm, fangs sinking deep. Rom let out a cry of pain, momentarily loosening his grip. This was all the meld needed and he yanked itself from his grip to wrack its talons across roms chest. Rom stepped back, seeing the melds discarded blade next to his hoof. The meld steeped forward to meet him and he aced in an instant, a massive hoof smashed into the melds shin and it yelped in agony, falling. Seeing his chance Rom grabbed the giant sword and plunged it home, skewering the beasts chest.

Even with the blade protruding from its chest the half raised meld managed to slump forward and sink its fangs into Rom's leg. Rom kicked out savagly and the meld feel to the ground, now limp. The minotaur snorted loudly, then winced in pain at the many wounds. This had been a close one. Scooping up his axe Rom put on a brave face and went back to fighting the men. They were a welcome respite from the mighty meld.

As the life faded from Raks eyes the beast lost control, and he was himself once more
"wh..what... a way to go" came his gruff whisper. A tear glistened in his eye at the unfairness of it all, forced to die in a battle he cares nothing for, against people he holds no malice for. To have so little time, having freedom given to him with the coming of sentience, realising the beauty of the land, the sky, everything, only to have it ripped from him as he is forced to fight, and kill, once more. And then to die.

Suddenly memory flooded him as he remembered who he was before the melding. For half of a bitter sweet second he remembered the family he had belonged to, the children and loving wife, and the beautiful farm. A whisper of breath left his lips, as the world faded into darkness, and he was gone.

Edited by some_weirdGuy, 21 January 2010 - 03:16 AM.

[Vortigern]

Essika planted his boot firmly on the door, crashing it out on to the rampart of the outer wall. He stepped forward, heavy sword raised up in guard. A body fell at his feet, the head nearly severed from the torso, and Essika turned to face a white-clad Paladin, sword dripping with blood, cloak stained crimson by his conquests. The Paladin bellowed a challenge at Essika, charging forward. Essika blocked the first blow with his sword, lashing out at the man's knees with his steel toe-capped boots, easily dropping the man from his feet. As he fell Theria stepped out from the gatehouse and drove her belt knife through the Paladin's neck. His body twitched a couple of times as Theria twisted the knife against his spinal column, and then fell to the floor.

But for corpses, the wall was largely deserted now. The defenders had retreated to a position they could defend against the horde of inhuman monsters pressing against the second layer of protection.

"I can't help but think we're in the wrong place," murmured Theria. It was eerily quiet up on the wall as the sounds of battle echoed distantly across the outer city from where the second wall rose up out of the rooftops.

"If nobody's trying to kill us, I'd call it the right place," replied Essika, smiling despite himself. "You see, this is exactly what I wanted to avoid. Being stuck inside a fortress under siege and now full of those accursed melds." Theria raised an eyebrow.

"My friends are in here. Winter Vayu is outside, and hopefully he will remain there." Theria wiped her knife clean of blood on the Paladin's tunic, leaving scarlet smears across the blazoned white.

"I wouldn't count on that." Essika spoke quietly, dropping to his haunches and hiding behind the crenellations of the wall. Theria slipped in beside him, looking out across the plain. There, clear as day, was Winter Vayu, riding hard toward the citadel and the open gates, his demeanour purposeful.

"Why is he coming inside?" she wondered.

"I'd imagine he has something more planned than a simple siege. From what I know of the man, he wouldn't hesitate to start a full-scale war just to further his own ends." Theria stood up, drawing her knife again, but Essika pulled her back down. "He has his retinue with him. You won't even get close." Vayu drew ever closer, finally passing under the gatehouse and into the city. Theria and Essika scrambled across the wall, keeping eyes on him as best they could. The mage dismounted outside a thatched building, the roof of which was aglow with flames from the burning missiles his war machines had hurled over the walls. With a snap of his fingers the flames receded, leaving wide gaps in the ceiling. Vayu strode inside and, through the gap, Theria could see what he did next. He stepped up to the fireplace and hauled out the hearthstone, revealing a tunnel. One of Vayu's men slipped down the passage first, followed by Vayu himself and then his retinue, one by one, the last dragging the heavy slab back into place behind him.

"Gnomes?" queried Essika, brows furrowed.

"I doubt it. Their tunnels have much lower ceilings so that only gnomes and short dwarves can use them."

"Then he must have put it in place himself before his exile," concluded Essika. "That's the only other explanation. And that means it leads to somewhere we'd much rather he wasn't."

"So we're following him?" Theria asked, knowing full well what the answer would be. Nodding, Essika headed back down the gatehouse steps.

* * * * * * * * * *

The second wall had been breached almost at the same moment as the first wall fell, and fighting had broken out all across the rampart. Murad's scimitar cut a constant swathe through the Variag, Paladins and Valentines who now sought to bring him down. Nearby Maximillian's mighty beidhander left him nigh untouchable amidst the chaos, his reach being so much greater than any other. Murad, though, was having more difficulty and having to expend more energy on parrying, dodging and avoiding blows from all sides. More than once his skin had been spared by luck and the timely intervention of his comrades.

A moment's lull gave him an opportunity to catch his breath and survey the scene. It seemed that the defenders were close to taking back the ground they had lost atop the wall, and in the streets below the Deathknelven force, with the small band of Minotaur in the city, were holding the majority of the melds at bay. Murad would have loved to cross blades with those Deathknelve in happier times, but now he fought for survival, not practise. Howls echoed across the sky as the melds fought, killed, died, hunted. A movement caught Murad's eye and he spun round, blocking a short sword and elbowing the Palatinate wielder in the throat. Choking, the Whitecloak stumbled. Murad rapidly reversed his blade in his hand, poising it beneath the Paladin's torso. Unable to fight the lure of gravity, the Paladin slipped onto the scimitar, nerveless fingers relinquishing their hold on his own weapon. Turning around fully, Murad froze. His eyes beheld the horror approaching, and he almost gave in to panic. Half a dozen melds had clambered atop the rooves and were now bounding across them towards the wall. Watching them leap from building to building, Murad had not a single doubt they would be able to climb over the rampart.

Blocking a thrust from behind him and jumping up to stand on a crenellated peak, Murad bellowed his commands.

"Melds approach! Hold fast and make ready!" Heads turned as his voice carried, just in time to catch sight of the mercenary Captain-General grabbing a Variag by the throat and hurling him bodily from the wall to smash headfirst into the cobbles below. Then the fastest of the melds leapt for the wall, scrabbling for grip before lunging forward, sending Janizar, Landsknechten and militiamen tumbling away like leaves in the wind.



((Oh noes! Melds on the wall, Vayu up to secret plans, what could go wrong next? Plenty, believe you me. Anyway, get back to posting ways again. My final essay of the season is finished and I am happy and in possession of free time. Now let's help me make it fun. ))

[Copaman]

In between sweeping arc of his swords, Tom glimpsed upwards. The melds had reached the walls and were now up on the ramparts, quickly and efficiently clearing them of all defenders.

We're in trouble. The second north gate is breeched and the melds are on the wall. Vayu's troops will be at the citadel in no time.

He flicked his wrist and watched as the flap of skin typically associated with a meld's face fell to the pavement. He looked back up to see the thing snarling at him in the moment before a uppercutting sword met the soft gap between the sides of its jaw, drove through its mouth, and into its skull. With a rallying cry, he signaled for his remaining troops to fall back en masse - fall back being entirely the wrong term; they were simply moving to face the larger Palatinate force at the north gate.

Before breaking into a run to follow his men, Tom nodded to Rom. The understanding between the two was that the smaller wished the larger luck in battle, and intended to see the bull at the conclusion of the siege.

And then the striped ones ran for the north.

The reclaimist army needs to get here. Soon. I am not sure how much longer the remaining defenders can hold.

[some_weirdGuy]

Finding the white magi of the high temple to be a lost cause Zhar moved on. Ofcause, not before leaving a parting gift. As he strode from the temple he placed his hands on each of the acolytes who were sitting in the circle, holding up the magical barrier. The look of horror on Heilum's made it all the better. In that one move Zhar corruptive influence was spread to those acolytes.
Perhaps now they wouldn't be such self righteous, impossibly pure, pacifistic bastards. Most cried out as he touched them, more than a few passed out, but all had been influenced. Stains show up most clearly on robes of the purest white, and you don't get most whiter then that lot, nor are you likely to find a greater stain then Zhars influence.

During the meeting of magi all parties had refused his proposition of sacrifices to summon a demonic warrior. Zhar was still fuming over it. Ten young virgins, thats all he asked. But the answer to his most reasonable of requests had been no.
"fine, if you feel squeamish about sacrificing young women, then i will take children instead" this was met by more resistance and refusals. Now they were getting on Zhars nerves
"oh come on! i didn't say they had to be your kids, other peoples children will do fine" still the answer had been no. Soft bastards. The deaths required for the summoning would be a fraction of the amount who would lose their lives on the wall. Zhar had even tried argueing this point to this but still got nowhere.

Finally he had waved his hand and dispelled their magic windows (the meeting had been done via magical windows which were opened by all parties, allowing a face to face meeting despite being in completely different parts of the fortress), annoyance nagged at him. They were making him look bad in front of Vayu! this was a game between him and Vayu and because of them vayu was winning!

Zhar closed his eyes and floated up above the fortress, leaving his body where it stood. Around the fortress a shroud had been erected. Both sides held back each other, but the paladins barrier pushed against the defenders one, and because of Zhar the defeners were much less than before (the acolytes he touched still being out of commission).

Zhar looked out at the defender sin their spirit forms, holding the shield in place. He flew over to the wall of the dome encasing the maughold, feeling the conviction of the paladins outside. They felt they were fighting for good, and were giving it their all to try and break in. why couldn't the priests within the maughold be more like them?

Well, Zhar wanted to see what was going on outside. He placed his ethereal hand on the solid-seeming barrier. One of the defending priests made to call him away, but at that moment Zhar pushed, and the paladins barrier began to crack and shatter. Soon a hole opened up and he floated through. Outside the ghostsly paladins floated forward to strike at the barrier with weapons of light. It was always strange walking in spirit form, as the silence is absolute. Four saw him and silently made their approach, slashing forward. Dispite the dead silence their thoughts radiated from them as if they were speaking, however Zhar paid no attention. He raised his hand and dark tendrils flared out, spearing the paladins, he then flew upwards to survey the battlefield.

A flash could his attention on the barrier as he saw one of the paldins break though. Without an actions he enforced the magical barrier, adding an extra layer of malice to the mix. As the spirit of the paladin stepped through the break, he convulsed and evaporated into a fine mist. A second tentaively stepped forward and reached out with an ethereal arm. He to disappeared into a fine mist. Zhar smiled. Somehwere down below to corpses now sat, not a mark upon them and yet dead in the instant they tried crossing his barrier. The others wised up to the fact that going through the break was a bad idea, and soon enough the hole sealed itself. They spend back down to their bodies below, no doubt to report the event. None noticed Zhar hanging above.

[{IRS}Athos]

Byron and Rindar fought side by side as they struggled along the road, trying to get to the next level of defense. Paladins in purest white, mercenaries in dull leather armor, and even a couple of melds barred their path. The streets ran with blood as the Sons of Man made their stand. The Variag warriors fought valiantly, hacking one of the meld beasts to pieces with their long blades. However, they were taking heavy losses as the superior numbers of the Paladinate's force took their toll.

Rindar pulled Byron down a side street as they approached the main fray. "We'll need to reevaluate our strategy," he said. "The people who designed this place knew what they were doing, strategically: none of these side streets can get us to the gate."

"Well, that's wonderful," said Byron in an acidic tone of voice. "So what do you suggest we do?"

"Take to the rooftops?" suggested a voice. Rindar and Byron both looked up to see a young man's head popping over the edge of one of the houses.

"Who the hell are you?" said Rindar.

"Thaos Farndale, at your service," said the man. "I recognize you vaguely, although you probably don't recognize me. You were still in the trussed-up phase when I was with the group. Then again, nobody really noticed me even when I was with them, so I took the opportunity to slip off to here." He paused. "But really, my past isn't that important, since I may be able to get you and back to the gate." He smiled slightly. "Although you may owe me a favor in the future for this."

"Fine. Deal," said Rindar. "Now can we get going?"

[Vortigern]

Essika hauled the hearthstone aside, revealing a flight of steps leading into complete darkness. Hurriedly Theria put together a torch from a chunk of timber lying broken on the ground and some scraps of cloth. They descended into the murk, and within a few steps the torch was all that illuminated their new subterranean world. They proceeded as silently as possible, which for Theria meant rendering herself basically invisible, but for Essika meant light feet and only a few brushes against the rocky ceiling. After perhaps two hundred paces in the tunnel they found themselves at a fork in the path.

"Any ideas?" whispered Theria, wracking her brains for anything that might help, any trick she had learned over the last four centuries.

"Actually, yes," replied Essika, and he chanted a few words under his breath. Before them footsteps slowly congealed out of some queer green light, softly showing the path most recently trodden by Vayu and his followers.

"When did you learn magic?" wondered Theria, surprised and pleased.

"I can't do very much, but that's a very useful policing trick. I picked it up in the Meres a few years ago. Shall we?" Theria planted a light kiss on his stubbly cheek before turning back to the gently glowing path. They carried on into the dark passages, the footsteps lighting up before them and dying away behind them, leaving their section of passageway marked as the true course only for as long as they needed it.

After more than a few twists and turns, no doubt intended to lose any pursuers in the labyrinthine mess of caves, Theria stepped out of the final passageway and stopped dead.

"Well, that I did not expect."

Before them lay a vast cavern, largely occupied by a colossal hypogean lake, the still waters stretching away into the distant darkness. The verdant magical footprints left no doubt as to Vayu's destination, leading directly down to the waterline.

"There's a post there," murmured Essika. "Somebody had a boat tied up and ready."

"How do we follow somebody across a lake?" Theria asked, addressing what she felt to be the most important issue.

"Sadly, this time I haven't a bloody clue," answered the big man, wishing he had paid more attention to magic in his youth. They sat down on the pale sand, contemplating their next move.

* * * * * * * * *

Five hundred Paladins stood before the north gate, awaiting only the signal from within that their spies had taken down the few guardsmen left on this most inaccessible of entrances and were ready to spread wide apart the oaken portals. Captain-General Evard stood at their head, proud in his gold-and-white plumage, the brightly embroidered solar sigil of the Palatinate gleaming on his cloak to match the intricate metalwork of his breastplate.

His men stood at ease, happy to sit back and wait while others did the dirty work in preparation for their coming. A head popped up from behind the parapet of the gate, followed by the flag of the Palatinate on the pole: the sign that the way was clear. Evard barked his men to attention, ready to march into the city with its attention focused four miles away on the farthest gate from this mountainous crag of a path.

"Forward... March!" he bellowed, stepping out and leading his men towards the undoubted glory before them and within the citadel. He looked forward to reclaiming the sumptuous quarters so ignominiously stolen from him by the miserable gnomish folk with their ugly faces and strange green robes and inconsequential emotive energies. Who needed emotional control when you could blow up a house with a flick of the wrist? Evard smiled grimly. Ridding the fortress of those pestilential midgets would give him greater pleasure than any extermination he had yet undertaken.

Abruptly he stopped, and looked down. From his stomach protruded the long, slim stem of an arrow, having pierced his breastplate with no more difficulty than a knife through butter. Evard turned, dismayed to see the front few ranks of his men similarly affected, some already on the ground. He turned fully to survey his men, and saw their numbers being rapidly depleted, mown down where they stood by a hail of arrows. Then he saw his downfall: Deathknelve. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands, stood atop the rocks and crags of the north pass, lying in wait for his men, waiting for their moment to strike.

Evard fell to his knees, unable to keep himself upright any longer. Panic set in and his eyes grew wild as he saw the carnage those halfbreed bastards had wrought upon his men. His last miserable thought, as the howling Deathknelve descended upon the Paladins to finish them off, was that he hadn't managed to slay a single one of the scum.

The High Priestess of Vala'ai stood at the head of the Deathknelven army as they reformed, ready to move into the city.

"For the king!" she shouted, raising her sword high above her head. The cry was echoed across the ranks of swirl-skinned soldiers. The relief army had arrived.

* * * * * * * * *

Winter Vayu leapt off the little boat and bounded up the rock stairs, eager to accomplish the goals he had put this whole façade together to achieve back when he was the deeply paranoid ruler of the fortress city.

"Don't bother tying up the damn boat," he ordered. "We won't be needing it again." His men disembarked quickly and followed their battle-hungry warlord up the hewn stone steps towards their destination. The steps took Vayu up, higher and higher. After a minute or so he reached the trapdoor he had known he would find. Chuckling to himself, he pressed a hand against it and the heavy stone simply slid back out of the way.

"Up we come, lads," he ordered, gesturing his men out of the darkness and into the cellar room at the top of the steps. "Let's get this done."

Now they all knew the way from here. Vayu nonetheless returned to his position at the head of the column, unwilling to let any other gain the glory of the first kill. Up more stairs they ran, across a beautifully vaulted and buttressed bridge and up further staircases. Vayu raised a hand and the men behind him slowed as they approached their destination, hidden behind a thick oak door, reinforced with steel bands and imbued with magic.

Vayu rubbed his hands together gleefully, knowing exactly what kind of magic was required to pass through this final gate. "One big blast," he murmured, conjuring up two globes of black fire in his hands. He paused, taking a breath, and then hurled the fireballs at the door. It gave way instantly, exploding inwards and blasting burning splinters of wood clear across the tower room behind it. Vayu stepped forward over the rapidly cooling lumps of melted steel on the ground.

"Daddy's home," he announced to the room, but his confidence vanished in a moment as he realised the room contained not only the magi of the Maughold but also Zhar Cadavok, that bastard undead dark mage, the one he had ordered that talented young Umbar renegade to hunt down for exactly this purpose: to stop him from being here when Vayu arrived.

Zhar had time for a quick "Oh fuck," before his reflexes kicked in and he vanished, thoughtfully taking all of the Maughold's magical stalwarts with him. Vayu immediately reacted, trying to pin down Cadavok's destination but the undead wizard was simply too good at this, even in a moment of panic. Vayu roared in anger, picking up a chair from where it stood against the wall and throwing it full strength against the window. The finely-blown glass shattered into a thousand pieces, it and the chair tumbling down to smash against the flagstones of the courtyard five hundred feet below.

"Plan B, then," announced Vayu grimly, turning and stalking from the room. "We do this the old-fashioned way. Fire and the sword."




((OK guys, that's what Vayu was up to. Tom's reinforcements have arrived, and hopefully you lads should be able to hold the second wall. You should get right on it.))

[Rafv Nin IV]

((Well, I have to have a conscious character first. ))

Winter Vayu manipulated people better than any master of the puppeteering trade. Among his allies he had no rival. His enemies, however, often were as devious as the mage himself. Perhaps Vayu still remained the most cunning; but pound for pound, even the leader of the Palatinate could not compete with Arap Datrebil's favorite politician: Representative Katset Kasav.

While the most influential leader of the gnomes remained the aging Chairman, there could be no contest between the other seven members of the Assembly. Kasav, through a myriad of talents, had rocketed to power and in the past six years progressed from a minor Representative's aide to the third most powerful political figure in the Maughold. Even so, his appetite for power had not been satiated. King Vassingar and the Chairman both held more influence than Representative Kasav. He had succeeded for a number of reasons: his natural ambition, his honed empathetic powers, his brilliant oratory, and his perpetual readiness to plot and keep secrets. The last of those reasons had just produced an unexpected, although beneficial, side-effect.

Representative Katset Kasav was the only gnome of Arap Datrebil left with his wits intact.

The general method of protection for the Arap Datrebilis was thus: keep a wide open consciousness, scan for danger, and act before peril manifested. Because of this, gnomes in the organization from the lowliest watchman to the Lt. Shava Kartaan to the Chairman of the Assembly had been incapacitated by Winter Vayu's single pulse. Kasav, nonetheless, had been unharmed--not because of any impressive strength or foresight (although he often displayed both), but because the Representative was, at heart, a sneaky, backstabbing, manipulating politician. As such, he had had to develop tools for shielding his plotting from the view of an entire culture of mind-readers.

At present, the politician did not even realize the unique position he was in. Rather, his mind was occupied with the private planning that had saved him from Vayu's attack. While the battle raged in the city above his quarters, Kasav sought to gain three mutually exclusive ends: he desired to engage a promising young Lieutenant, carry on promiscuous relations (after all, her face could never be mistaken for beauty), and to skirt the gnomish custom of bath ceasing while married. Concentrating on such imports, the third most powerful political figure in the Maughold felt the proceeding battle quite beneath his interests.

Edited by Rafv Nin IV, 16 February 2010 - 04:34 AM.

[{IRS}Athos]

As Thaos led Rindar and Byron by a hidden route to the upper reaches of the Maughold, Astariel strode confidently through the streets of the first circle. She had sheathed her sword, seemingly unaware of the chaos and screaming coming from the gates above, where the fighting was still fierce. She was in what had been one of the shabbiest slums in Maughold: shoved up against the base of the great walls, the shanty town had been the site of some of the fiercest fighting as the Paladinate's forces poured over the wall. The fighting had moved further uphill after the melds had broken through, leaving the streets carpeted with bodies from both sides.

Astariel went among the bodies, composing the dead Paladins with a deeply sorrowful expression. Perhaps, had her path been different, she would have been among these scattered bodies, dead in the assurance that her death was one of many necessary for the victory of Truth, Justice, and the Light. She was not so idealistic anymore: she knew the dark sore at the heart of the Paladinate as intimately as if she had been part of Vayu's conspiracy.

As she placed the broken pieces of a young Paladin's sword upon his chest, she heard footsteps from a neighboring alley and reached for her sword. A white-armored Paladin, accompanied by a pair of mercenaries, stood at the end of the alley. And, by some quirk of fate, she recognized him.

"Tyrendos, you've certainly fallen far," she said scathingly, slowly straightening from her kneeling position. The Paladin's eyes widened in surprise--did she detect a hint of fear, perhaps?--as he replied.

"Astariel?"

"Has it been so long since we served the Light together?" she asked softly. Tyrendos' expression hardened.

"It is you, not I, who has turned from that path," he said coldly. Astariel shook her head.

"What, then, is your morality in attacking this city? Or have you also been corrupted by the words of that scum Vayu?"

"Take her," Tyrendos commanded, drawing his sword. The mercenaries, armed with axes, advanced forward with confident smirks. Astariel held up a hand to forestall them.

"Stop where you are," she commanded. When they did not halt, she added in a level voice, "or I kill him." Her eyes locked with those of Tyrendos. The mercenaries were surprised when Tyrendos gasped "Do as she says!"

Astariel's assailants lowered their weapons and backed off towards the Paladin. Astariel smiled. "Much better. Now then, Tyrendos, I have no wish to kill either you or any of my other brothers and sisters in the Order. I merely wish for answers, and I shall find them one way or another."

"I know nothing of the reasoning behind this attack," said Tyrendos slowly. Astariel could tell that he told the truth.

"Very well. Take me to someone who does," said Astariel reasonably.

Tyrendos paused. "I can't believe I'm taking orders from a traitor," he muttered. He raised his face to her. "Very well. Follow me."

[Copaman]

The small contingent of deathknelve defending the Northern gate were beginning to falter; while they had been relatively sucessful in combat with Paladins and mercenaries alike, their numbers were starting to dwindle. Initially, the melds were swapping kills with the striped warriors - until the deathknelven defenders became outnumbered (within the context of this individual engagement. Clearly the defenders are greatly outnumbered by Vayu's army in the grand sceme of the siege). Despite the odds, they continued to hold their ground for a little while, giving up only inches when they needed to and occasionally winning them back.

And then the deathknleven mercenaries came into the fray. Their dark, worn leather armor contrasted against the gold and maroon of the High Priestess' troops. At first, the mercenaries were cautious to engage the more experienced, more technically proficient defenders. But they saw their openings, and began to fight their own kind more readily - especially after word spread that Tom Joad was, in fact, present somewhere in the melee.

He knew they were truly after him; Tom could see that the concentration of melds was decreasing, and the number of traitors were rapidly growing. So he gambled. With a roar he stopped everyone around him right where they were. As they all turned to look, he let his self overflow into the air around him, resulting in a dramatic but quite harmless explosion of a light blue ball of light around him. "Those of you who know I am alive and well and wish I weren't, those of you serving as agents to the Deathbringer sitting on my throne, let you come for me. I will take you all and I will leave none alive. So come for me! I encourage you to try to size me up, to take your chances! This could make you a legend... if you kill me and live to tell."

This was, of course, a gamble. Tom knew that the deathknelven warriors defending him would be up to the challenge, but the numbers were absolutely not in their favor. He was truly gambling on the fact that he and his contingent could thin the numbers of the deathknelven traitors enough to make entering the city slightly easier for the reclaimer army; whether he had used this trick too early was yet to be seen.

[{IRS}Athos]

"This isn't very pleasant," muttered Rindar. They were cramped in single file in a low passageway. Rindar was bent almost double, and Byron was little better off, but he refrained from complaining. Thaos was several stretches ahead, checking marks on the walls of the mazelike passageways. They had already taken several sharp turns.

"They're not meant to be pleasant, and anyway, I could be taking you through the sewer," said Thaos reasonably. "In fact, most people would. They'd be disappointed to find out that the sewers of the different levels aren't all interconnected."

"You've been through them?" asked Rindar.

"Of course," said Thaos as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "One needs to know all the escape routes."

"What were these tunnels used for, anyway?" asked Byron, brushing cobwebs aside.

"Smuggling illegal goods to upright, upper-city merchants and nobles," said Thaos with a smirk. "The smugglers' tunnels were designed to confuse anyone but the smugglers themselves who should happen to wander inside. I found quite a few skeletons during my explorations: they'd wandered in, gotten lost, and starved to death."

"How did you prevent yourself from getting lost?" Rindar was curious to know. He hoped that Thaos still knew his way around. The thief grinned, his face thrown into sharp relief by the light of the torch he carried.

"Why, with a ball of string, of course."

[Vortigern]

Sat in the darkness at the shore of the lake, Theria and Essika contemplated their next move.

“No boat, no ideas,” murmured Essika. “I guess we have to turn back, then?”

“We can’t turn back!” Theria reprimanded him. “We’re the only ones who know where Vayu’s gone.”

“But we don’t know where he’s gone any more, only where he was a while ago.”

“If we do go back we’ll come out into the lower city, which right now will be full of the enemy.”

“That’s a much more convincing argument,” agreed Essika. “So we’re stuck here until the siege is over, but we have no way of knowing when that’ll be.” Theria looked up at him, then away again; he could see she had thought of something, but something she wasn’t altogether comfortable with. “Theria?”

“Elfsong,” she said. “I can take us to Oakharrow.”

“That won’t be too helpful in the context of the siege, you know,” said Essika, contemplating the consequences of their disappearance.

“More than that, no human has ever set foot within the harrow before. I don’t think the High would be too pleased if we were to break that record.”

“Do we have a choice?” Theria shook her head sadly. “Do you need me to do anything?” he asked.

“Take my hand and be absolutely silent,” she ordered. Her song came gently forth, echoing quietly, warmly, around the dark recesses of the cavern. The sound filled Essika up, took over him, looked deep inside his soul. Before his eyes images flashed of his childhood, his youth, his adulthood, his whole life. He saw Theria the way she had been when first they met, so many years before. She looked no different now, of course, but he did. His hair was darker then, not tinged with grey as it was now, he had been sporting a full beard instead of the short stubble of his middle age. His clothes were cheaper, less well-made, but his sword was of quality steel. Even in his younger days he had understood the virtue of a reliable weapon, and that thought cheered him. Looking upon Theria in his mind’s eye he was entranced once more by her serene beauty. Those deep, soulful green eyes, that flowing, lustrous hair, her lithe, slim body; he could see how perfect she was even under the expansive cloak and her manly attire, boots, leather trews, woven mail cuirass. His memories flashed forward to their first night together. The two of them, out under the stars in the woodlands of Trivandor, a cool summer night, the moon high and almost full, bathing the world in its silvery light, making her elven skin seem all the more desirable. In his rapture he was clumsy, fumbling around, but she laughed and led him in the dance. Bliss such as Essika had forgotten could even exist consumed him, showering him in starlight, surrounding him with the growing, powerful sound of her song. Breath escaped him, words seemed inconsequential, everything but Theria and him, together that night under the stars, together all the other times – the White Dragon, by the waterfall, all the places in Valenti… They all blurred into one as perfect joy engulfed the two of them standing deep beneath the ground by the shores of a subterranean lake, lifting them, carrying them away from their fears, their cares, their tribulations.

“You can open your eyes now,” she whispered. “Welcome to Oakharrow.”

* * * * * * * * *

“What did you do?” demanded one of the magi of Zhar. “Where have you taken us?”

“We’re in the town somewhere, and I just saved all your lives. That was Winter Vayu just came bursting in, you ungrateful little bastard.” Zhar spat; moving so many people had left something awry in his throat, filling it with bile. “Now get back to saving the city or whatever, I’ve got a confrontation to prepare for.”

Vayu will find ussssss.

No he won’t. We won’t give him the chance.

Zhar began to laugh, a deep, heartfelt cackle growing into an untamed roar of entertainment. “Winter, old friend, I’m coming for you,” he hissed, and disappeared.

* * * * * * * * *

“Go!” shouted Vayu. “Find him! Find the magi!” He sniffed the air and waved his fingers in a complicated little motion. Closing his eyes, he concentrated for a moment. “They’re somewhere in the town. Burn everything if you have to.” His Paladins left the room and Vayu put his hands to his temples. “Why?” he muttered. “Why couldn’t this have been simple?”

“It’s about to get a lot more complicated,” said a voice from behind him. Vayu spun round, shocked; he hadn’t felt Zhar’s reappearance at all. As he turned, though, the room around him vanished. He blinked, and a moment later when he opened his eyes, the two of them stood atop the tower.

“Is this to be our final battle, then?” he asked, stalling as he worked out a battle plan. Fireballs. Lots of them. Shades, gates, maybe a bit of bad weather.

“I doubt it,” replied Zhar. Just get clossssse enough to use our knifesssss. “Magi like you and I, we don’t die. Though I seem to recall we killed you once already.” Hissss blood will taste ssssso sweet.

“Something killed you a long time ago, didn’t it?” Vayu shot back. Concentrate… Lightning should do it. Let’s see if we can get that black heart of yours beating again.

“I gave myself willingly.” Cut off his head! Blast him! Freeze him! Taste his bloodsssss! Torture him first! SILENCE! We will have him together.

“Nobody dies willingly, Zhar.” The clouds began to circle above the tower as Vayu’s magic took hold of the elements.

“I gave myself so that I would never die, Winter. It’s called a sacrifice.” Zhar clapped his hands together and a beam of white light shot up, desiccating and dispersing the gathering cloud. “You’re going to have to do better than that.” He is pathetic! Kill him now! Drain him dry! Maybe he’s holding back? Maybe he has nothing more to offer? Maybe we could possess his body! It issss too crowded here, I will claim hissss body when we have tasssssted his blood!

“You know nothing of sacrifice,” said Vayu, his voice low and cold. “This is sacrifice.” Vayu turned and leapt, twisting in the wind as he started to fall.

“No!” Zhar dived after him, kriss in hand. “Coward!”

Vayu worked quickly; he had just seconds before his body would be dashed to pieces on the cobbles below. He cast out, searching for a new host, covering as much of the battleground before him as he could without spreading himself too thin. There. A weak mind, injured but not too badly, easy to fix. Human, male, strong enough. Vayu gathered himself together and launched at the target, leaving his body empty as it fell to its death. For a moment there was a struggle as the incumbent mind fought the nascent intruder, but Vayu was far too powerful to be cast out.

He stood up in his new body and flexed his fingers. Green light began to crawl across his skin, repairing the damage. He strode from the building where the man had been hiding away. It was time to find those accursed magi himself.

* * * * * * * * *

Illyriel was right where he wanted to be: in the centre of the fighting. He had long since given up keeping score after he got past fifty. He was doing what he could to keep the line solid on the third wall, having already conceded the first two, but he was struggling. Too many of the defenders had already fallen, but Illyriel knew that the weakest would always be the first to fall. What remained were the hardened veterans, the professional soldiers, the uncompassionate killers. And he was one of them.

Rindar and Byron fought back to back some way to Illyriel’s right, Rindar taking great pleasure in dealing as much death as he could among the mercenary Deathknelve, all in search of Tom who, after his little display to focus their attention, had merged back into the throng. Ducking under a slashing blade, Illyriel thrust his left sword into the man’s belly, his right crushing against his assailant’s knee, crippling him and leaving him to bleed out on the rampart.

The majority of the melds had decided they were going to feed, not fight, on the vast stores of dead flesh lying between the first and third walls. Only a few of them were actively involved in the battle, and it was towards them that Illyriel now turned. Two reared up side by side, a black bear-beast and a golden-maned lion-man. The lion stumbled as an arrow drove into its midriff, closely followed by another. A man dealt it a fierce blow with a mace, sending it toppling back over the crenellations, but the creature caught hold of the man with its claws as it fell, dragging him to his death. The bear roared, spittle flying from its maw as it faced down the defenders, challenging them to face it. Another arrow hit the bear in the shoulder but barely gave it pause for thought. With a mighty paw it brushed the missile away, swiping one of Murad’s Janizars aside on the return swing.

Steeling himself, Illyriel broke through a pair of Deathknelve seeking blood, merely pushing them aside. Making full use of his elven agility, he leapt atop the piecemeal crenellations and from there to the beast’s back, plunging both swords in as deep as his remaining strength would permit. The beast howled and spun around, trying to dislodge its assailant, but Illyriel clung on. He pulled one sword out and stabbed down again, aiming for the heart or lungs, or somewhere fatal anyway. The beast screamed, a painful, feral sound, and threw itself from the wall. Caught by surprise, Illyriel froze, just for a moment, but enough to leave him tumbling down on the back of his prey. The bear-meld cushioned Illyriel’s fall, but it was still far enough to knock the wind out of him.

He stood up, poking the bear-meld with his toe: it remained still and dead. Only then did he look around, and found himself the subject of several intense, animal glares. His fall had interrupted the melds’ feeding frenzy.

“Well that’s definitely not good,” he announced, mainly to himself. For a few seconds that seemed like an eternity, melds and elf were in a standoff. Then they returned to their food. Anything skilful enough to kill one of their kind was not worth bothering with when there was fresh meat aplenty all around them. Illyriel dragged his swords clear of the fallen beast and set about finding a way back to safety before the melds changed their minds.

[Vortigern]

The moment Vayu had leapt, Zhar had understood his plan. Sacrifice one body to make his escape, take a new one and restore himself before facing Zhar again. Zhar had let his spirit free as well, seeking out Vayu’s trail. He had absolutely no trouble locating it; this was his world, after all, the world of shades and souls and spirits, the hidden realm behind what most people could see.

Unable as he was to wield any significant magic while travelling in his spirit form, Zhar watched as Vayu claimed his new body. Then he smiled.

* * * * * * * * *

Tyrendos led Astariel through the streets of the lower Maughold as they headed to where he thought a commander would likely be. They emerged into a marketplace, an open square that was now strewn with the fallen. Astariel sighed and closed her eyes, whispering a short prayer for the dead. On the far side a throng of melds busily tore flesh from corpses, eager to be fed. One of Tyrendos’ men spat at the sight of them and drew his sword.

“Kedro, now is not the time,” ordered Tyrendos, raising his hand.

“They’re eating our dead the same as anyone else, sir,” replied Kedro. A flash of gold caught their eyes as one of the melds lifted a once-glorious but now blood-caked torso to its mouth, but what really held their attention was the standard rising from the spine of the dismembered corpse. “Savage bastards!” shouted Kedro, raising his sword up high. “Sir, that’s Captain-General Thadiyel’s standard they’re eating!” Tyrendos’ face turned grim.

“Astariel, it looks like our commanding officer is dead. What would you have happen now?” Astariel said nothing, instead staring intently at the melds. For a few seconds nothing happened, and the Paladins shifted uncomfortably. Then, as one, the melds turned to face the humans. They began lumbering across the square, heading for Astariel. Behind her Kedro twitched, sword in hand, ready to fight, but Astariel was too focused on the melds to notice. As they drew close Kedro swore, raised his sword and stepped forward.

“Arsehole animals!” he screamed, leaping towards them and slashing down at the foremost with his short Paladin’s sword. The meld did not even turn to look and swatted him away like a fly. Kedro crashed into the cobblestones and blood spumed out of his mouth.

“Foolish man,” muttered Astariel. “They are not here to harm us,” she said, clarifying in order to calm the other Paladins, who to her expert eye were just as nervous and therefore unpredictable as Kedro. The meld who had killed him, a grey-furred wolf hybrid, stopped a yard away from Astariel, gargantuan animalistic head at her eye level. Its deep, feral yellow eyes regarded her closely, before it stood up, reaching a full height of easily double Astariel’s meagre frame. Behind it the other melds did the same.

“Suddenly I feel very small,” murmured Tyrendos. The melds howled, then, a raw, painful sound, bringing to bear all the anguish of their creation, of their prior existence, of the life that had been forced upon them as semi-human monsters. A couple of Tyrendos’ men covered their ears, unable to bear the sound. As the howl ended the wolf-meld dropped down to all fours, lowering its head to Astariel’s feet. She smiled, and reached down a gentle hand to stroke it.

“What did you do?” asked one of the men, amazed.

“I reminded them of their humanity,” she replied. “As I hope I have reminded you of yours.” She turned to face the Paladins, five men who had fallen from the path of the Light, five souls in need of redemption, beside the five melds who longed to feel human once again. “These creatures are in pain. Your lord has corrupted them, forced them to be here and to do his bidding. If you would call yourselves men, you will accept them as friends and compatriots.”

Tyrendos looked her in the eye, gauging her truthfulness. But he knew her, remembered her from their time serving together; he knew she would never tell an untruth nor risk harm to those around her. Gingerly he stepped forward, relinquishing his grasp on his sword, and placed a hand on the wolf-meld’s shoulder. The beast looked up, regarding him thoughtfully, and Astariel saw the surprise in his face as he realised its intelligence, so much greater than ever he had thought.

“You have achieved something great here, Astariel,” he said, scratching the meld behind the ear as one would a dog. It let out a low, satisfied growl.

“There is nothing so strong as gentleness, Tyrendos,” she replied. “And nothing so gentle as true strength.”

* * * * * * * * *

Having delivered Rindar and the lad back to their battleground, Thaos had slipped away once again. A siege was a dangerous place for a thief to be, as even petty crime in a time of war would likely be punished by hanging; examples had to be made, discipline had to be maintained, and nobody would care about one more corpse. The sewers and underground passages would lead him most of the way around the Maughold, if he could but know his way around. Even after nearly a whole year doing his level best to figure them out, the majority of the city’s labyrinthine subterraneum eluded him still, so for now he thought it best to stick to rooftops and alleyways.

Leaping from roof to roof, Thaos hurried back towards the upper city, back where it was at least reasonably safe. He would hide out for a while until nightfall and then claim a bed for the night somewhere or other. As he made his way, he heard a voice, a voice he recognised.

“He’s nearby, Azuvas. We still have our job to do. Zhar will die at our hands.” Good, thought Thaos. About time somebody killed that evil bastard. But young Varin? Who’d have thought he’d have the guts? Or the skill? Say what you like about Zhar, but he knew his stuff. Thaos lingered for a moment, interested to hear what else might be in play, but the two had moved on.

* * * * * * * * *

Varin had found Zhar, at last. After weeks of hunting him down, he and Azuvas had finally located the elusive mage. And there he was, striding furiously down a quiet street in the mid-city of the Maughold. He bade Azuvas remain still and silent and stepped out.

“Zhar Cadavok. You know why I am here.” Varin watched as Zhar’s face changed from angry but thoughtful to merely angry.

“So Winter Vayu is not man enough to fight me on his own, then?”

“A worthless wretch like you is beneath his notice,” retorted Varin. Zhar laughed.

“So explain why he ran away from me like a pathetic little coward not an hour since,” demanded the undead man. Varin hesitated; was it possible Vayu had just hoped to use Varin to weaken Zhar, knowing full well that Zhar was too powerful for either of them to destroy? “You’re wondering if Vayu sold you down the river. Well, he did. But let’s give you what you came for, eh?” he continued. Zhar looked up, then laughed. “And the gang’s all here!” he cried, as Thaos emerged from around a corner, followed by Rindar, Byron, Illyriel and Tom. Cackling wildly, Zhar let black flames cascade from his hands, pooling around the street, encompassing all present, including Azuvas. The flames shot up as soon as the two strands connected behind Rindar, trapping them all within the wall of dark light.

Stick to the plan, thought Varin.

“Alright, you evil old son of a whore,” he said. “Let’s send you back to whatever hell you call home.”

[Vortigern]

The cobblestones began to blister beneath the black flames as Zhar’s magic played havoc with reality. The mage’s smile as his efforts caused such destruction was something too grim for Illyriel to contemplate. He turned away, only to see instead that the flames were dragging them down, under the ground. Realising what was to come, Illyriel braced himself, widening his stance, just in time for the crash. The ground beneath their feet gave way, though somehow the cobbles remained intact, holding together in spite of the terrible gravity dragging them all apart.

“That’s quite a trick,” announced Varin, ignoring the five warriors behind him. “But two can play at that game.” Illyriel glanced at Tom, who nodded, and they both drew their swords, stepping forward. Zhar may have been evil, but… Better the devil you know, thought Illyriel.

Tom began to up his pace, starting to run towards his enemy, but abruptly he stopped, and in that second Illyriel saw why. Before him had appeared a small army of… something. Shadows, that began to coalesce into shapes he dimly recognised, that reminded him of-

Illyriel stopped mid-stride. Before him stood a human, a man called Fordrac. He was a big man, bearded and muscular, very handy with a knife, the same knife that Illyriel now saw in Fordrac’s hand. More than twenty years ago Illyriel had tracked Fordrac across the length and breadth of Arsencia, and the bastard human had left bodies wherever he walked. That hadn’t been the problem – Illyriel had dealt with corpses most of his life – but these bodies, what Fordrac had done to them, was beyond anything Illyriel had seen before or since. Children, tortured, mutilated and abused, sometimes for days. Illyriel had eventually found and slain Fordrac, but the images of those children haunted him still. There had never been any doubt in his mind that Fordrac was the most evil man he had ever encountered. And now here he was standing right in front of Illyriel, blade in hand. On some level he knew it must be an illusion, but Winter Vayu had returned from the dead, no questions there. What if he had left a path for the devil to follow?

* * * * * * * * *

Before him Tom saw flames. Within him despair rose, anger, sadness, loss – in his mind’s eye Shadowfang Keep burned, and before him now he saw the cloaked, hooded magi responsible, the dark knights whose terrible power had scattered his whole race far and wide across the land and committed genocide in the name of some supposedly righteous cause.

He saw a fireball launched towards him from the hands of his greatest enemy and raised his swords to block it, soulfyre flaring to absorb the power.

He had always thought that if he found those who had murdered his kin he would slay them after first making them feel his pain, but now all he felt was pain, the shattering loss he had suffered, anchored forever in his memory by the absence of his mother, of his grandparents, of his childhood friends. This memory it was that had driven him to the life he had chosen, the life of murder, immorality and alcoholism, the life of a fallen king, the life of a forgotten hero, traversing the night in blood-caked armour, all the while doing his best to deny the fact that a hero is what he truly is. He tried to raise his swords against his foe, but all he could do was fall to his knees, wracked by the desolate melancholy that had swamped him for so long after the fall of his people.

* * * * * * * * *

Images swam behind Rindar’s eyes, sights he had never been able to forget, smells burned indelibly into his brain, sounds his ears had recorded with such precision he had never been able to remove them. He saw his beloved brother Anar, the one with whom he had grown up, propped up against a tree, bleeding heavily and lacerated by more wounds than Rindar could count. He saw his new sister, still in her wedding dress, Anar’s darling Tariel, white gown stained by smoke and blood, black and grey and red, torn and ruined, her porcelain flesh obliterated by deep scores down her back and legs. He fell to his knees, tears springing unbidden to his eyes. There was nothing he could do to help them.

Before him he saw Deathknelve now. The swirls on their skin stood out against the darkness of the night and the flickering light of the flames they had set. He tried to stand, but found his strength had deserted him, his body wracked by sorrow. They approached and gathered about him, not even bothering to plunge their wicked blades through his flesh, taunting him, mocking his suffering, recalling the death of his brother, of all the others who fell that day, cruel words tearing his mind in a far worse way than what their blades could do to his body. It was all he could do not to scream.

* * * * * * * * *

Thaos and Byron stood side by side, simultaneously realising they were separated from their fellows.

“What just happened?” asked Byron, looking around in horror and confusion.

“I’ve no idea,” replied Thaos. “But I think they might know.” Byron turned and saw something to make his stomach turn. Before the two of them a small horde of animated corpses made their way towards them. And not just corpses, but monsters, demons, ghosts, ghouls, wraiths, golems; whatever terrors Thaos and Byron’s minds had ever conjured, these were they, nightmares made flesh, the monsters in the shadows of the entire world. Byron drew his sword and held it before him like a relic from a saint.

Thaos turned to run, but found his way blocked by the wall of black light with which Zhar had surrounded them all. I should have gone to Valenti instead.

[Vortigern]

“Do you really think you are anything close to a match for me?” demanded Zhar, striding toward Varin. “I have studied magic for centuries, millennia even, and you, a mere stripling, think to challenge me?” Zhar began to laugh, and it was not the mischievous chuckle he had developed over the year he had spent in Theria’s company; this was the harsh, unforgiving, insane crowing of the soulless undead, a sound which sent a shiver down Varin’s spine. Hissss blood will taste sssssso good.

“I don’t think I have to be,” replied Varin, with far more bravado than he really felt. He had gotten the distinct impression that Vayu had used him. “I think I just have to distract you.”

“Look around you, boy!” shouted Zhar. “There’s nobody else here! Nobody to save your skin when my magic blisters it from your bones, nobody to stop me ripping your eyes from their sockets and your tongue from your mouth, nobody to stop me destroying your very soul and casting you into the void for an eternity.” Foolish child, what would you hope to gain by this vain attempt? Inside Zhar’s head a division had formed: his personalities seemed split between annihilation and mercy. Annihilation this time, I think.

“That all depends on what you’re looking for,” said Varin. He chose his moment carefully, waiting for Zhar to blink, and in that moment he cast the illusion. Twelve identical copies of himself, standing in a circle around Zhar. “Am I alone now, you old fool?” Zhar growled, a guttural, primal sound, and clenched his hands. Before Varin had a chance to react, Zhar’s hands emitted a series of fireballs, rising up above his head to become a peculiar formation of spheres locked together, but just for a moment. Then they split apart and each headed for one of the Varins that surrounded him. Seven of the copies dissolved away under the force of Zhar’s magic, but four others, and Varin himself, managed to evade the assault.

“What use is company that cannot defend itself?” enquired Zhar, as flames began to crawl up his arms, from his fingertips all the way to his shoulders, though Varin saw he addressed his comments to one of the illusions, which stared resolutely back at him.

“Over here, idiot,” called another illusion with Varin’s voice, distracting Zhar. The mage flung fire from his fingers, streaming away like arrows through the chimerical skin of the false Varin.

“Face me like a man!” screamed Zhar, quickly becoming frustrated with Varin’s cheap trick, but Varin had no intention of doing anything of the sort. Around himself he had drawn a tight circle in shadow magic, his own brand of darkness, invisible to all but the user. Occult sigils were evident to Varin as well, keeping him safe from the forces he now sought to command.

“Voco chythraul, io protegare varjosta.” Zhar looked up as he heard the words Varin uttered, centring his focus on the real Varin. He turned away from the illusions, the fire at his fingertips rejuvenating as he moved. That’s not good, announced one of Zhar. You think? he replied. Where did he learn to do that? Who caressssss, kill him and be donesssss. Agreeing fervently with himself, Zhar launched a blast of pure energy at Varin, a seething red beam of power, only to see it dissipate harmlessly a foot away from Varin’s chest.

“That I was not expecting,” murmured Zhar, furrowing his brow in confusion.

HE HAS SUMMONED ME. I WILL PROTECT HIM.

“That would explain it,” Zhar carried on to himself. “Alright, big-face, let’s see what you’ve got.” Zhar’s face rearranged itself into a look of excited anticipation as the demon Varin had summoned faded into view. Fifteen feet tall, hideously muscled, horns and spines adorned its head and shoulders around glowing crimson eyes.

MY FACE IS PROPORTIONATE.

* * * * * * * * *

“No,” said Thaos. He turned away from the monsters.

“What in seven hells are you doing, man?” demanded Byron. “They’ll rip us to shreds!”

“No they won’t,” said the thief. “I’ve seen undead before, I’ve seen monsters, I’ve seen all manner of things that shouldn’t cross the path of a mortal man. But these,” he indicated the horde before them, “these aren’t real. These are nightmares, fictions. They can’t hurt you.”

“How sure are you?”

“Entirely,” Thaos assured him; a life of stolen identities and silver-tongued mischief had given him a masterful command of untruths. Byron looked at him closely, and Thaos looked back.

“Alright. So they’re not real. How does that help us?”

“Use your brain, lad. If somebody’s casting illusions, that means they’re hiding something. Now why would that be?” Byron shrugged, obviously not seeing where Thaos was going with this line of reasoning. “Ignore your eyes for a moment. Listen instead.” Byron closed his eyes. Footsteps. Coming closer. Suddenly the truth of what Thaos was saying hit him. Shadows didn’t make any sound, so something must be hiding in amongst them. A single set of footsteps. Just one man. He listened closer, then opened his eyes. A bloated, grey-green walking corpse was closest to them, seemingly eager for the kill. It swung a bone club at Byron’s head, and he raised his sword to block it. The bone clanged, a sound that metal against metal would make, and Byron knew Thaos was right. Clad in the image of the walking dead, somebody was trying to attack them.

Byron blocked the corpse’s sword again, lashing out with his foot, catching the horror on its knee, which buckled. Thaos plunged his knife downwards, seeking flesh, but the corpse slid aside, retreating hastily back among the mass.

“How do we find it now?” asked Byron.

“We don’t. We just defend against any that try to attack us. If our weapons go right through them, we’re safe.” Byron nodded. This was not at all fun.

* * * * * * * * *

I AM AHNOCUITLAN, GOD OF BLOOD AND DEATH.

“I’m Zhar,” replied Zhar. “Evil bastard, or so I’m told.”

KNOW YOU THAT I WILL TAKE MY PAYMENT IN YOUR BLOOD.

“Then you’ll be disappointed to hear I’m already dead.”

THAT IS OF NO IMPORTANCE.

“Well, it was worth a try,” said Zhar, once more lighting his arms on fire and hurling bolts of flame at the demon. They bounced away harmlessly and the demon laughed, a deep, booming sound that reverberated around Zhar’s skull. How is the boy keeping something this powerful under his sway? he wondered again. “Hm. I guess this means I’ll have to scale up my operations,” Zhar mused, contemplating the demon. “Would you mind telling me your weaknesses?”

I THINK NOT.

Zhar shrugged. He hadn’t expected that question to be answered. The demon took a step forward, and Zhar muttered a few words to himself, calculating and theorising. Another step and the demon was closer. Zhar could feel it searching him out, seeking his soul. You’ll be disappointed there too, he thought.

THAT IS ALSO OF NO IMPORTANCE.

“You were in my head,” said Zhar, surprised. “Nobody goes in my head. It’s a mess in there.”

YOU ARE UNUSUAL, said the demon. Zhar laughed.

“That’s an understatement. Take a step forward and you’ll see just how unusual I really am.” The demon did so, and Zhar flung his hands wide apart, black light cascading from his body in waves. He shed darkness like a skin, eyes closed as it wound across the floor, sneaking up the demon’s legs, ensnaring it.

YOUR PETTY MAGIC IS OF NO IMPORTANCE.

“Nothing’s important to you,” muttered Zhar crossly, finishing his spell. “Importance this, you single-minded pillock.” Between Zhar and Ahnocuitlan had opened a portal of darkness, a tear in the fabric of the universe, a doorway through which oblivion beckoned.

WHAT IS THIS?

“I call it a deathgate,” Zhar announced. He snapped his fingers and the gate flashed forward, widening to engulf the demon. A terrifying roar marked the demon’s realisation that his demise was at hand before the gate closed and silence fell. “Hell of a thing, to send a god into eternal oblivion,” said Zhar. “Fun, though. Makes a man feel big.”

“How did you do that?” demanded Varin, incredulous. “That demon was supposed to rip you to shreds!”

“Demons are stupid, Varin,” explained Zhar. “They can’t think outside the box, whereas me… You see this?” He drew a square in the air before him, marking the borders with little lines of white light. Then he reached up, high above it and off to the side, and marked a little dot. “This is me,” he said. “Do you have any idea what you’ve got yourself into here?”

[Vortigern]

Illyriel struck out at Fordrac, blades slicing through incorporeal flesh time and again, but the wounds healed faster each time. Illyriel had no idea how to combat a demon made flesh, a terror from his past returned to haunt him, but he would try the same way as he had tried to slay every evil that had crossed his path before. His blades cut through Fordrac’s neck again, severing the head cleanly. He saw a brief flash of black fire from Zhar’s wall through the gap before Fordrac’s head slipped back into place, but then, to Illyriel’s surprise, his opponent’s head carried on slipping. It lost shape, melting down Fordrac’s torso and searing flesh and bone away with it, until what had been Illyriel’s most horrific memory became nothing more than a little spark on the ground, and then nothing at all.

Illyriel shook his head, as though trying to clear a moment of confusion, and then he saw it. The illusion faded and he saw the truth of the situation. Zhar and Varin stood nearby, locked in combat on some other plane that Illyriel could not fathom. Mere feet away from him Tom still wielded his swords in combat against some imaginary foe, but then he too stopped and looked around, bewildered, before coming to understand.

“Thank the gods that’s over,” said Byron’s voice, as he hurried across to Rindar, still bent double from the emotional exhaustion the illusion had forced upon him. Then Illyriel heard the young man scream, in surprise and in agony. He spun around and saw a man, a man he could only assume was Varin’s accomplice in this endeavour, a man whose sword impaled young Byron right through the gut.

Illyriel did not even need to look at Tom as they both charged forward, swords drawn, and the man fled. Tom quickly overtook Illyriel, burning with rage from the horrors he been made to relive, sprinting headlong after the man who now fled towards where Varin and Zhar did battle.

Illyriel dropped to his knees at Byron’s side, and Rindar quickly joined him, shaking off the trauma to see to his friend. Thaos stood nervously by, unsure of what aid he could offer in this situation. He vaguely heard Tom’s roar of frustration at something, but paid no attention. He did not even bother to watch his back, knowing full well that the deathknelf was more than a match for any mortal swordsman this realm could offer. What interested him more was the sudden recession of the wall of black fire, rendering the five of them able to go wherever their feet could take them.

“Sing with me,” Illyriel bade Rindar, and together they slowly began their magic. They both understood that no elfsong could heal Byron’s wound, but they were both also aware that happiness and mental strength are invaluable to a man whose life is in danger. The least they could offer Byron was some peace as his blood trickled out. Tom, returning to them, signalled Thaos over, and they lifted their fallen comrade, carrying him up the broken mess of cobblestones that led them back to the surface. May the gods be on your side, young Byron, thought Illyriel as he sang.

* * * * * * * * *

The moment Zhar had seen Azuvas and Tom pelting towards his fight, he had sealed off his firewall, though he noticed he had not been quick enough to keep out Varin’s man. Though muffled, he heard the deathknelf’s cry of anger at being denied his prey, and sympathised. He too knew what it was to want that kill so much it hurt. So where has that chap gone? What? If someone came through our wall, where is he now? Zhar looked around. He was right. Of course I was, idiot. I’m you, aren’t I? Zhar smiled to himself, all thoughts turned inwards as he chatted idly with Zhar. We’re pretty clever, it’s true. Oh, the best, he agreed. No other human hasssss ever equalled usssss. Look good in yellow, too, not many people can say that. That’s because not many people are stupid enough to want to wear yellow. It’s a good colour! It’s the colour of liver failure. And red is the colour of a heart attack, but that never stopped anyone.

Zhar? chimed in a little voice from the back of his head. You do remember we’re supposed to be concentrating on the fellow trying to kill us?

“Who?” said Zhar out loud. “Oh yes, you.” He looked at Varin, whose eyebrows furrowed in confusion, and then he looked away again. Varin seized the opportunity to strike, a blast of luminescent green fire striking Zhar in the chest and knocking the wind out of him. It also set his robe alight. “Bastard!” shouted Zhar. “I liked this robe! I’ll make you-” His words were abruptly cut off as the sharp edge of Azuvas’s knife sliced through his throat. A moment later Zhar felt the same knife plunge into his back, then into his side.

Zhar’s face widened into a deathly rictus grin, yellow teeth on display as he reached back and grabbed Azuvas by the hair and hurled him over his shoulder, sending his assailant crashing to the cobblestones. He stepped forward, but then paused, putting a hand to his side. He tried to speak, but then remembered his throat had been cut. Varin again attacked him, another blast of magic, this time icy cold and dry as a bone, hit him in the side, but he managed to force most of the power away with a counter-spell.

A worried thought crossed Zhar’s minds. We can only take so much. We are not invinssssssible. With a trembling hand, he reached down to his belt for his kriss, the weapon that had sustained him throughout the long years of his undying existence. Before him Azuvas was getting to his feet again, knife clenched firmly in his hand. Zhar turned to face Varin as he sensed the young mage drawing upon the elemental power around them; with gritted teeth Zhar let the curtain of black fire fall and draw in to shield him, but his slowed reactions were too far behind his whirling mind. The blast hit him in the arm, sending the kriss flying from his fingers. He screeched as, for the first time in centuries, the cursed blade was gone from his grasp, in real pain from the separation. The black blade spun high, reaching its apex and seeming to hang there for an interminable moment before plunging down, straight into Azuvas’s shoulder.

* * * * * * * * *

Varin saw the blade fall, and in that second he knew his fate. He understood the power of the kriss, he understood the unbreakable link between man and blade, he understood that even the slightest wound from such an evil source would undoubtedly prove fatal in mere seconds. He had no choice but to watch as his friend and companion fell to his knees, blood draining from his face and twisted, wretched soul flowing through the knife to replenish Zhar’s depleted reserves of strength. Azuvas began to writhe in pain as his life was dragged from him, but he managed to focus on Varin.

“I’m sorry,” Varin whispered. He saw in Azuvas’s eyes something he had never before encountered. He saw his own responsibility. He had dragged Azuvas into his story and he had brought him along, binding him to his cause, making Azuvas share his beliefs and convictions. It was entirely because of Varin that Azuvas was here, that Azuvas was dying. All the sorrow he had felt when his parents died came flooding back. He hadn’t been there to protect them. He had tracked down the men who killed them, but it had been a hollow victory, not just because it had been stolen from him by Zhar and his friends, but because it was the end, and nothing he could do had brought his parents back.

Friends. Zhar has friends, people who trust him, who respect him. He is evil, a soulless wretch in bond to a demon lord, but still he has friends. What do you have? A dying servant and a dead family. What good is this life you have chosen?

Varin closed his eyes and summoned the last of his power. Take me away from here, he murmured into the vast, empty void.

Where do you want to go?

Anywhere but here.