The Many Deaths

Wilhelm collapsed to the ground as the bolt of pure force slammed into his back. He had just lost his leg, now replaced by the warg's. Then they had to march dozens of miles to Fort Balthazar, and now that they were here, Isszhta was trying to kill him. Wilhelm used the stone wall to pull himself upwards, fingers scraping across cold stone. He turned himself about laboriously, then sprung at the Veran. His fist smashed into her jaw, knocking her a few steps back. He had to take advantage. The thief pulled out his crossbow from beneath his cloak. As he looked down to load the bolt, he felt a cold hand against the side of his head. Isszhta moved fast. Lethally so. As the ice spread across his face, the dagger in the left hand rose, then fell, sending chunks of frozen flesh skittering across the stone floor.

Willem dashed away from the animate statue. Pulling from the Astral, he threw an owl at it from deep within his pockets, distracting the golem for a second. Not enough. The Masked Man's guard was still gaining on him, and the bard had nothing left. Every time he drew energy from the Astral, he had to stop, recite the words, perform the motions, and maintain concentration for a few critical seconds. Willem heard the slams of the stone feet behind him. Massive fingers grabbed his head, lifting him effortlessly off the ground. Willem thrashed against its grip, but it was inevitable. The vise slammed shut, a resounding crash followed by a cloth-muddled thump.

Lares struggled against his bonds as Drasius grew closer, holding out the metal scroll. The messenger felt cold valchite against his face as the Knight pressed the scroll against Lares' head. The cold bite of metal changed instantly to searing pain, as the world grew bright. Lares felt his bonds fall away, and staggered, blinded, agonized, away from his tormentors. The heat and light grew to a crescendo. As the rune flared, the crowd turned away. The light was followed by a slam. Thunder roared in the street. The detonation tore the drow apart, sending fragments of bone arcing through the air in a macabre rain. Drasius grinned. The Ra-priest was next.

Daemon whirled about, sending another arrow at the encroaching energons. Nothing more than spheres of energy with long, dark tendrils, the shots barely scratched the things. They began to approach the warrior, tentacles outstretched. A lone, curious tendril alighted upon Daemon's arm. Where it touched, energy played across skin and flesh withered and collapsed, fetid, full of rot. Ever-agile, the human recoiled, dancing backwards. The energons that had circled behind the Verdigris mercenary caught and rent with waiting arms, arcs of energy flensing away chunks of flesh. Daemon screamed, collapsing to the metal-coated floor. A singular tendril caressed the fallen warrior's face, removing her eye and jaw in a steaming slurry. Comrades looked on as the body was reduced naught but decaying flesh and evaporating blood. Daemon was no more.

"Xerivious," the titanic half-dragon rumbled, "Daemon is dead."

"I did the best I could!" the cleric of Iisan whimpered, still casting glances at what remained of the corpse.

Sigurd placed both hands upon Xerivious's shoulders.

"You served well. You could have served better."

"I - wait, Sigurd, no-"

Snap.

Dragon looked up as Sigurd approached.

"You look well, wyrmling," the ebon-scaled behemoth said, eying his target.

"What do you want, Sigurd?" the mercenary leader responded, toying with his coins.

"You know what I think of dragons. Two allies of mine already died here."

"I know. Daemon was my friend! But now's for - two?"

Sigurd drew the Harvest. Dragon took flight, bounding away from the murderous beast. Sigurd closed the distance in a single stride, bringing the khopesh down. Purple light flickered in the hallway as Dragon's wings turned to dust on the wind. Dragon whispered his last.

"Why?"

"My brethren before. You now, my father later. Then all the rest of your kind."

The carving knife bit deep into the brass dragon's flesh, setting free his blood and viscera.

Isszhta swore as she clambered over bits of rubble where a Siegebreaker tower had fallen. Her dress was tattered, hair burnt, fingers raw, her whole body bruised, battered, broken. Vanagandr wasn't a city anymore. It was a charnel house. Isszhta herself had to kill two of her guards. Cyrus had commanded them to kill anyone nearby. As the witch dropped off a block of masonry, she felt a gust of wind from the normally-placid summer air. A fell heat was carried on that infernal zephyr, rage and pride and sorrow all in one. Isszhta sighed, releasing all her breath, letting her arms fall to her sides, then turned. Cyrus's eyes, like crucibles of molten steel, followed her movements. His iridescent gold-crimson scales flexed, snapped together into plates, then disconnected into smaller, almost perfectly triangular pieces as he moved.

Isszhta backtracked in her mind, trying to find any sorcery to get her out of this alive. Nothing. She was spent. Useless. And Cyrus had no need for useless things.

Eamon jolted up as Rax entered the padded cell. The dwarf's wide, eerily dilated eyes flickered from Rax's face to random places in the room, tracing out unrecognizable patterns. Behind the Veran came another dwarf. Eamon recognized him. Sam, the priest. Her friend.

"Hello, Eamon. I brought you a friend today," Rax said gently, almost crooning. "You remember him, don't you?"

"Forgetting. So pretty," Eamon said, voice quavering, "like the cherry-tree blossoms."

"Yes. Like the sakura. Can you tell Sam what you told me, about the woman?"

Eamon slowly stood up and turned, rotating to face away from the visitors. The former soldier's voice started as a whisper.

"No time has she wandered and not seen. Remembrance of days halcyon in glory stark in her mind," Eamon began, as if repeating a chant, "with all futures merely solemnity."

Sam glanced, worried, at Rax. It was far worse than he had expected.

"Austere is she, born not of the dominions nor eras of this world. Harsh and stern, sciences of the damned and dying are children all to her lineage." Eamon's voice was frantic, terrified, and her volume was only increasing.

"Eyes of gold forever accusing! Benign is she, for benignity is her afore-gifted role! In the dusks and dawns of Gaia, abominable methods hers are bespoken of in whisper and trembling tale of destruction!" Eamon still held still, as if petrified, but her words were hysterical, shrieking.

"Woman not! Fury and Woe of all Mankind, Judgement bequeathed by the Uncaring Progenitor!"

Eamon stopped, drawing ragged, heaving breaths. She turned to Sam, whispering.

"Know It not by Flesh, but by Mind, for Thought is Its being. The Caretakers Primeval, Its kin are now Spirit. Now either It or Man will join Them."

Eamon collapsed, tears and mucus and saliva streaming down her face, weeping uncontrollably. She convulsed occasionally, writhing from unknown torments. Sam turned and ran from the room. Rax stayed a moment longer, pity in her eyes. Then she walked from the room, pulling a guard aside for an order.

"Put her out of her misery."