Character note: Yeven (was Piffy), Mariane (was Manald)

-57-

"The entire southern district was wiped out, that few survivors claimed that it was the Lord of Death's doing."

The burly warlord's eyes shot open. Not from the mention of Whiteterror, but rather the dramatic destruction of Prontera. Larzen passed a sad glance over the city, then turned to the sole survivor of the Fiendbanes, expecting more dire news out of him. The man's face was badly burned, torn pieces of the black veil hung from his jaws. His left eye was so badly hurt that he was forced to shut it.

"But he is dead now. And… I doubt any of our troops are alive, sir."

Smith appeared beside Larzen, a horribly ruined helmet cradled in the crook of his arms. Blood painted his forehead and blotches stained his cheeks, and a trail of red down his chin traced back to a split lip. Larzen was just as badly hurt; he had suffered a fatal stab in the gut, and the cloth garment underneath the armor so thickly soaked in blood that it could possibly be wrung to squeeze it out.

Larzen had searched in vain for any living priest, hoped against hope that he would survive long enough to find a cure, any cure, from anyone who was capable of healing. At this rate, he would die from loss of blood. There was hardly any life force left in him.

"Support me, Smith. I can't walk."

None had seen the robust warlord so battered, so beaten, not even in the wars before the four manifested onto Rune Midgard. Smith struggled with his bad leg; a feathered shaft was imbedded in his left thigh. He grabbed the other warlord under the arms, and it felt freezing cold to him. His face froze, and shook his head in denial.

"No, Larzen! Don't freaking die, man! Don't bloody die after a hard-fought victory!"

Larzen slipped from his grasp and fell onto the ground on his backside, then rolled to his side. His breath was quiet, and Smith had a feeling that he was fading away. He did not realize he had been too preoccupied with the dying warlord to notice the sudden waves of acute pain in his leg. Drawing in a deep, ragged breath, he shook Larzen one last time, but he did not budge. The warlord –his face white as a Whisper –moved his lips.

"We've won, Smith. Did… did we n… not? Ah… I wanna be back… back at home, sip that bottle of Yggdrasil ale. That… that burned my zenies, and I ain't finished that yet. I'd share that, lad. You won't steal it, would ya?"

Although the words were breathed out hoarsely, Smith made out the words. He grabbed Larzen and pulled him to a sitting position.

"Yes, we won. And you had better live long to reform the Fiendbanes!"

Smith felt as if a dead weight was pulling the man backwards. He slapped his cold cheeks repeatedly, yet there was no sign of a reaction. He then realized Larzen had stopped maintaining his position. He was dead. Smith let the body fall to the ashy floor, and he looked around him. Bodies piled over one another, in various position of their fall from the death score. Some buildings were felled over one another, while some were destroyed cleanly. A couple were leaning over to its side precariously, black clouds of smoke drifting out from smashed windows with the bars or panes removed together in the lightning frenzy. The stench of sulphur was rich in the air.

The sole survivor of the Fiendbanes, called Murrin, knelt watching Smith staring at nothing in particular. He wondered if those alive had their sanity intact. Placing a palm over his chest, he dipped his head in deference to his dead leader. Murrin stood up silently, and left in search for other survivors.

If it ever occurred to him that she was the one who laid unmoving under the crumpled base of the Fountain of Odin, Pay would probably draw an arrow from the quiver at his hips and stab himself. His breaths came in wheezes from the black smoke and sand, and he cautioned towards the spot where the fountain used to stand, but now made a tall mound of smashed, wet stones and splintered metal, water running off in all directions. The golden statue of Odin, a mounted warrior with a sword held high proudly in a clenched fist, was merely pieces of worthless gold that was once an exquisite, rare spoils of the Dokebis.

A woman's leg was the only exposed part of a corpse hidden under the rocks, and what frightened Pay was the boots she wore. Those brown boots that hunters or huntresses usually wore in their hunts. It was almost like their default dressing code, according to him.

Please, I have never really prayed before, but don't let it be her. Please.

His hands slowly parted the rocks, revealing the hem of a white dress smudged with black patches of dirt. Half his anxiety was dispelled, but he continued removing the rocks. Praise be the light, she was in no white dress.

Pay wanted to at least respect the dead woman. Shifting aside the last chunk of rock that apparently had her trapped to death, he grimaced at the sight of a novice priestess, or rather an acolyte. The gruesome wound across the neck suggested that a thick axe blade had sliced deep in it. His fists clenched unknowingly; as much as he hated the orcs, he was just as furious to see such calamity befall the greatest fortress in the legends. Looking at it now, it had become just a myth. Prontera may have survived, but too many have died. Far too many.

The hunter's Arbalest bow, with the horns and strings snapped, lay gripped in his hands. He began to wonder if something had happened to Yeven. And Cerberus, too. This could very well be an omen. Hurling the broken bow behind him, he fought the difficulty in breathing as he searched for her in the unbearable smoke. It was a blessing to survive the battle against the four, but he knew if he did not stop his fruitless search, he would still die nonetheless, from over inhaling of fumes. He was already running short of breath.

He had done all he could; keeping the scant hope alive, screaming her name to the extent of losing his voice, risking the poison intake, and even braving the buildings that leaned dangerously to its side. But she was nowhere in sight. His glimmer of hope died, as he fell limply onto ashes.

Although dimly aware of it, he had been trying to examine his feelings over her, until now. Ever since you did that bandage, you have been fluttering my stomach, huntress. Come to think about it, I thought I saw her making calf-eyes when I wasn't looking.

His eyes fluttered open for a moment, then close. Pay was not sure how long he slept, but he remembered the dreams he had vividly. He heard his name being called a million directions, yet he saw no one each time he turned to face that particular direction, before the opposite side called to him immediately. It was almost impossible to react in time, but he was sure the voice sounded like hers. When it stopped, he saw a huntress running with her back turned to him, her blonde hair undulating behind her.

"Hold on! I'm almost there to get you out! Just hold on and don't run!"

Did she also die in that crazed lightning dance? But she was with me, so she must be close-by. I would be more stupid than a poring to sprint all over the city.

His eyes opened again. This time round, he heard someone calling his name. He rubbed off the blur in his eyes, and saw two women kneeling beside him, except that one was very much younger. She was an acolyte he had never seen before. He turned –and saw her.

"Elemire?" he struggled against his painful throat. "I…"

"Keep still, sir, I will heal you as soon," the acolyte said. He was surprised to see her among theunharmed.

A wave of tingling green energy flowed from her palms and into the hunter, soothing him like some sort of heavenly treatment. The pain in his parched throat was gone, as did his coughs. He found himself breathing easier.

"I've brought you an acolyte, you poor hunter. Were you calling my name?" Elemire whispered, her face contorted with concern. "You look very much –"

Pay let out a long breath, and unlocked his index and middle finger that was crossed tightly. His emotions were bubbling, and whatever he had planned to tell the huntress, he summarized it all in a tight, silent embrace.

The army in white, the blacksmiths hailing all the way south from Alberta, brandished their axes and hammers to slice the pulley ropes on the huge catapults that lined the fields outside the church. From the looks alone, the orcish controllers were not a trifle as close as the warriors. They were skinnier versions of the green-skinned beasts, and they hardly fought. The blacksmiths made quick work of them to minimize the damage, although it was much heavier than the limits people could imagine.

In one quick order, the catapults were all razed into rubble. The blacksmiths stood in a scattered mass, gazing up to the burning towers of Prontera sullenly, as though guilty of their tardiness that caused it. There was little celebration, but they were glad that the church had not fallen. At least, it was still intact, standing with importance as a pillar of hope.

Leaning back against the wall, he watched the fear-stricken faces of the church novices. King Tristan III stood up slowly; it was the first time Tien saw him without the air of self-importance or pride, without the traits of a king. The monk wondered if there was hardly any of those left in King Tristan, from the partially destroyed city. He was suddenly aware of half the reason in those frightened novices with fearful looks, and his hands reached his face automatically in a futile attempt to clean the blood off that had long adhered to his face.

"What now, monk?"

"Don't speak like I am of devilish rhapsody, Tristan," Tien said, ignoring protocol. "I came to say you are safe."

King Tristan III parted his jaws, staring at the monk with wide, but unsure eyes.

"I'm not quite sure I follow, but you killed the damned knight in black?"

"Them," Tien replied curtly, jerking a thumb backwards to the main hall. The condition of the priestess struck him like a snake, and he thought by creditting the assassin he would indirectly change the king's mind to put him behind bars. He thought his guilt hadprompted him so.

His head swam, a wave of pain darting through his brains. His eyes burst open when memory returned to him. The last he recalled, he was being pulverized by the Abyss Knight, his bruised midriff triggering a chain of flashes in his head, and that had worsened the pain. Skull tried sitting up, but his injured mid section barred that move. Grunting like a man shot in the chest, the assassin reached a hand to the woman lying against a bench near him. That foul knight had better not touched her…

Skull swung his head around suddenly, expecting a death swing of Abyss's sword. But there was nobody. The hall was empty, except for him and the priestess. Then he saw the black scraps of metal and a black blade broken neatly in two jagged halves. The knight was nowhere in sight.

He died? Why… how…

That was not topping his chart of questions and worries. Snapping his head back to the priestess, he cupped her cheek with a hand to shake her mildly. Her torn dress and her locks that lay in a tangled mess told him of trouble.

"Mariane?"

She lay still for a moment more, before her eyes fluttered open dreamily. But Skull thought it looked like it was out of exhaustion. The thunderous beats against his chest slowed at the fact that she was alive.

"Mariane…" he uttered, not knowing what to say next.

The priestess opened her mouth to say something –and choked. She struggled with her intended speech, but Skull calmed her, trying to put on a placid look to consolidate his efforts. He then helped her to sit up.

"Slowly…we're quite safe for now."

The assassin waited for words to come out, but heard nothing. The next thing he knew, Mariane buried her head into his chest in fierce, choking sobs that made Skull's brows crease together.

"What is wrong… tell me, say something."

The priestess bawled her eyes out while Skull demanded her condition. Still, nothing came. Things began to feel wrong…

"Not for long, assassin."

Skull turned to see a monk striding out onto the aisle, his face a mask without emotions despite the blood. On the contrary, that had strengthened the impassive look.

"Why, monk? Why?" Skull pursued with apparent impatience.

"She is traumatized." There was a long pause, before the next statement came. "Traumatized by the Abyss Knight, somehow he muted her in the process. The priestess can't speak, assassin."

Skull felt a thousand swords thrust into his heart, if not worse. He looked at Mariane for a long while, stunned so bad as if a band of crusaders had bashed him in the head with their shields. His fists were wrapped around the hand-hold of the katar so tightly that his knuckles were white.

Why do everyone around me have to end up either dead or hurt? WHY? Am I under the Dark Lord's tough luck, or what?

"How did you know all these, monk? So you weren't out cold just now, were you not? You could have done something! Why didn't you do something? Why, you bastard!" the assassin roared, arousing attention from King Tristan III who just appeared. But Skull paid him no mind.

"Snapping at me won't heal her, assassin," Tien reasoned. "You want to save her, and you failed. Who is to blame? I am a monk, and I fight demons. I am not a babysitter, and hell, I don't babysit girls."

With that said, Tien stalked out of the church, knowing too well that nothing would pass the thick skull of the assassin.

A man clad in black dived to knock aside the alchemist when the last chain of the lightning frenzy dashed across him. Both men rolled over to crash against a large slab of stone.

"Ah! Sagis, you!"

"I bloody rescued you, don't say a thing."

The wizard tucked the necklace back under his robes, after realizing it had flown out and had been dangling in front of him. Yeven began rubbing his back furiously, where it collided with the stone. He was still glaring at the wizard.

"Ye happy now? I think I've got a broken back, all 'cos of ye!"

"Quiet, alchemist," Sagis hissed. "I think that lightning killed Cerberus."

"Killed?" Yeven howled, his face turning red in the process. "Wh- Ye didn't see with yer own eyes, wizard! First ye send me knocking into that bloody stone, and now yer runnin' yer mouth!"

Sagis was already gone, flipping bodies of knights who lay dead on their stomach. He suddenly caught the glint of something red and blue, and immediately identified that as Cerberus's weapon. The Firebrand and Ice Falchion.

Didn't that lightning hit him after I saved that ungrateful alchemist?

"Cerberus! By the gods, the lightning did hit you!"

"Wizard… Sagis, I won't die just yet. We still have much to do," the knight whispered weakly, the words escaping his lips hardly audible. He circled a finger around the city. "It isn't the end. Far from it."

Sagis eyed the knight with clear disbelieve. He had witnessed the fall of the Lord of Death in person, of course, the duel of the superiors included. And all of that- everything that was happening- was cut short within a single, hellish thunderstorm, stopped dead in one heartbeat. Time seemed to suspend itself during that moment, while he never plucked his gaze from it.

That dramatic finish had his heart twisting. He was not sure from what; maybe a shatter to his indifferent attitude, if he doubted he still carried, or maybe even for fear that none was left alive in the blast. Fear that the Avenger was left dead. He could have sworn that Cerberus was pretty much dead; none was able to evade death when struck even by the most insignificant of a fork, as far as he speculated from the sight laid out before his eyes.

For a fleeting moment he wished he was on a penance to collect nightsoil for every household in Prontera; the guild business meant nothing to him already, and maybe if it did not existed, Prontera would not be landed in such pathetic state at all, neither would a blade of grass on Rune Midgard would be jeopardised at all. A phosphorescence from the blades awoke him from his reverie.

"I just need some rest, wiz, my swords bolted that lightning enough to keep me living," Cerberus said, holding up his swords.

"Good, that's good," came a soft reply that could not have come in the wizard's territory. "It's over. It's all over."