"The First Flame is spluttering out, and our Age is rapidly approaching annihilation! Sir; tell us how to stop it, I beg of you!"
The man looked up from where he was stacking books in a precarious tower. He generally wore some kind of smile, but the one he wore now seemed to be a secretive one. Ever since Cierte had brought him to the Palace of the Moon he had been examining everything as though he had never seen anything like it.
Which, come to think of it, he probably hadn't.
The sorcerer had shouted in this manner only once before in his life, when his daughter had been carried off by a drake. Fortunately, Gwyn's knights had put the beast down before any real harm could come to her. But now, those same knights were spread thin, busy dealing with the calamity people were naming the Bed of Chaos where Izalith had once lain. The people of Oolacile had been protected time and time again by the Great Lord's soldiers. It was time that their diligence was repaid.
He had lost his composure. Once he confirmed that their guest wasn't going to say anything that he could understand, he strode heavily to the cooled pitcher on the nearby dresser. Pouring himself another glass, he fumed silently. He just couldn't understand why this man would refuse to cooperate! He responded to speech, and Kaathe had confirmed that he knew all languages and ancient secrets that could turn this nightmare situation around.
Kaathe's other words had begun to find root in his head. Apparently, there had been some conflicted interests concerning the next Age. Was…was this man purposely withholding information in an attempt to let the Flame fade?
He fixed the back of the man's head with a sharp stare. At odds with his previous child-like stature, he stood before the tall windows in the room, looking out over the city. Hands clasped behind his back and head held high, he suddenly seemed a different person. The setting sun made a silhouette of him, but it was clear he was shaking his head.
A ball of ice formed in Cierte's stomach. Gods…he would let the Flame die. The ice spread to the rest of his body, hardening his fear into cold resolve. He is looking on my people, my daughter, and dismissing them to the dark. He could see it in grotesque clarity; the sun failing to rise, old horrors creeping from the shadows, never sleeping well again…
He could hear Kaathe's voice in his memory, tolling like a bell; After all, this hangs in the balance should you fail.
Slowly, he rose to stride to his desk. The man stayed where he was, chuckling quietly. With the feeling of great weight, he reached the desk and activated the enchantment that lay upon it with a discreet gesture. Within a minute, the doors were thrown open.
Twelve men in cloaks had stormed the room at his call, each wearing the cloaks that named them Watchmen; protectors of Oolacile. While they might not be well-versed in offensive spells, their ability to restrain and disable was impressive. They swept through the room efficiently, finding only himself and the man.
"Sir?" the captain addressed him.
"Captain. Escort our guest to the dungeon. I'm afraid conversation hasn't proven effective."
His voice shook as he gave the order. Was he doing the right thing?
As the Watchmen led the man from the room, the two locked eyes. There was no smile on his face now.
The ice returned to Cierte's body. This villain was no Sun-loving friend. Let him see if a day or two without food would loosen his tongue.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
King Drummond looked at the reports for what seemed like the hundredth time in the last minute. They told him what sort of numbers had pledged themselves to the Darkwraiths. The numbers were surprising in a good way. While not all of them were willing or able to wield a sword, New Londo residents knew a thing or two of the importance of intelligence gathering.
He shuffled the papers and looked at them again. It was nervousness, really. He had been welcomed wholeheartedly by these people, but they seemed to see him as some kind of military commander. He had never done that sort of thing, and so relied heavily upon Dirk to fill in the many gaps in his knowledge. The man in question stood at the ready by the door, and had been since Drummond arrived here an hour and a half ago. Well, one couldn't say he wasn't dedicated. His previous doubts as to whether he was being manipulated had melted away.
While his entire situation was nerve-wracking, the real source of his nerves was the operation tonight. His exit from his "chambers" had caused quite a bit of a panic amongst his fellow Kings. The news had been suppressed where possible, but they had to realize what his next move probably was. What they probably weren't guessing was that he was aware of King Thaddeus's little escape tunnel. He had stumbled across it by utter accident more than five years earlier and had neglected to inform anyone. It would make a lovely clandestine entrance, avoiding the many defenses that he was familiar with.
"My King, the time has come."
He shook himself from his thoughts, standing. "Very well, let us be off."
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
The tunnel in question opened into a cave in the side of the Valley of Drakes. Once the gate watchmen had let them out into it with covert nods, it was a long silent trek along the trail to the point. The sun had set, but that was for the best. New Londo did have lighting, but it was still a subterranean city. Its denizens had long since had their eyes adjusted to the dim.
"I still don't see why I should be coming along. This is no place for a King!" The hoarse whisper came from Dirk's left as the group clambered along.
"We have no central location for you as of yet, my King. Should tonight's maneuver bear fruit, that will change. I believe your fellows will agree to our terms." The undead King wouldn't be following them into the fray, of course. He would remain with a detachment away from things, still not as protected as he probably ought to be, but they had to rely on secrets to be their shield at this stage.
"Hold. Enemies ahead. Cleric knights."
The message was passed back to him, followed by the sharp intake of King Drummond's breath. "They're onto us!"
"No matter." Dirk shook his head, gesturing to those assembled. "All who were assigned to our King, gather. Repel the rest of the way down the cliff face, with care."
Leaving his men to the task, he signaled the remainder to follow him cautiously. In life, he had never held a true military rank, only having done a bit of mercenary work. What he did now didn't require a badge or a bar. Only strength of will and arm, coupled with common sense. Military procedure was to announce their presence and engage. Common sense dictated he cut their throats from behind. Cleric knights weren't the worst threat they could have faced, but that didn't mean that they could be overlooked. If given time to prepare, the situation could have quickly escalated as the Lords' forces descended upon them trying futilely to end miracle-protected knights.
With the two out of the way, he wondered at their placement. Officially, the agents of the Lords were welcome in New Londo, but reality found few to none in the oppressive environment. Additionally, they were found on his path; a very out-of-the-way route. Unusual. Searching their pockets returned no special orders. It did however reveal a situation he had hoped to avoid.
Their talismans had been used recently, notable by the barely perceptible tingling one could sense while holding them. That was bad, bespeaking planning. They may have just tripped an alarm of sorts.
"Your orders, Dirk?"
He paused, looking at the corpses. "We carry on. We knew the risks."
Ten minutes later, he was steeling himself for contact. He couldn't be certain, but he was sure he had felt eyes on them. All he had seen was the tail of a wolf as it had vanished around a bend but he was on high alert, his manner affecting his troops. Coming the last stretch, his fears were confirmed.
"A nice night, eh gentlemen? Perfect for some skullduggery."
In the flat section between the cave and the trail, a knight leaned on his greatsword. The Darkwraiths were already larger than most humans, but they paled in size to this man. He was likely twice their sizes, his armor placing him as Knight Artorias; one of Gwyn's personal guard. This situation had gone from bad to worse.
"Who would be the leader here? You?" The Knight pointed to him. "Tell your men to lay down their arms. There's no need for this to get any uglier than it already is. If y—"
There had never really been any doubt to them. They had a call to answer. As one, they rushed forward in the middle of Artorias's dialogue, drawing a curse from him. They would have to be quick to grab up whatever advantage they could here. As it stood, they would be funneled through this pass and get chopped to pieces one at a time. They needed as many as they could get in the clearing as fast as possible.
Dirk considered himself a skilled fighter. He had always wondered how he would measure up to one of Anor Londo's best. It seemed he would learn presently.
Faster than seemed possible for someone of his size, the Knight swept his shield up from its resting place. Dirk ducked the swing, but the Darkwraith behind him wasn't as perceptive. With a deep thud the man was thrown off his feet, hurtling through the air and over the cliffside. To his credit, he did not scream.
"Fill in, crowd him!"
A stroke of the massive greatsword scythed into their number, slicing two Darkwraiths in half. They collapsed, bodies falling to ashes. Dirk took advantage of the Knight's brief confusion at this to put his weight into a swing of his sword at the man's wrist. His armor was likely some of the best the Lords had to offer, he would need to hit him as hard as he could. A common failing of knights in general was relying on their armor to save them, and taking lethal blows when they could have avoided them. He imagined this attitude came from their position of power, the belief that their status granted them invincibility. Steel held no such biases, it would—
With a jingling, scraping noise, the Knight threw himself to one side. Flattening a Darkwraith in the process, he rolled to his feet.
Dirk cursed to himself. He could tell the operation was botched. Fortunately, retreat was a rather simple matter.
"Red Retreat, men!"
Many opponents would take that call to mean that they were hightailing it, setting themselves to pursue swiftly. With an irrational burst of satisfaction, he saw that Knight Artorias seemed to believe this too.
The tactics of the battle swiftly changed.
Whereas before his men were doing their best to avoid injury in order to be at their best possible state for the operation to come, now they fought without heed of danger. In fact, some were actively seeking poor positions that allowed them a better striking chance.
Again and again the Lord's Knight dealt killing blows. Ashes floated through the air from the slain corpses. Acting a bit like a smokescreen, the obscuring cloud allowed some Darkwraiths inside the reach of his sword. He saw two swords turned by his armor, but the third pierced his abdomen with a pleasing sound. He watched the Knight stiffen as the special blade worked its magic. The occult blades were supposed to be an anathema to the Lords and their kin. He hadn't yet had the opportunity to see it in action, so he watched avidly as the Knight fell to a knee.
With a roar, he swept the Darkwraiths away with his shield. The sword fell from him to the ground, glistening wetly at the end. A violent shudder wracked his frame for a moment, and he seemed to sag before he brought his shield back up to bear, just in time to receive a few sword strokes.
The Darkwraith next to him fell to dust for no apparent reason.
Dirk brought his sword up in a deadly swipe behind himself, and saw a blurred form sidestep the blow. A black-armored figure in low stance stood before him now, the signature mask naming her as the Lord's Blade.
Determination filling him, he switched his own stance a few times. He had never wanted to fight this one. He was a fighter, not a skulk, and if the talk was to be believed she was the best skulk the Lords had to offer.
Ah well. Red Retreat and all.
He advanced slowly, sword at the ready. Almost faster than the eye could follow, a bright gold streak of light sliced through the night air in a brilliant arc. He instinctively moved to block it, and met nothing but air as the stroke didn't quite reach him. He had no time to register this fact as the second, hidden tracer pierced forward from a different angle, almost invisible in the dark after the other shining blade. He managed to twist the trunk of his body at the last possible second, the blade still scoring him along his side.
Pain exploded along the wound. He had heard that one or both of her blades held a deadly toxin, and it seemed that rumor held true. A hissing sound reached his ears, a crackling sensation on the damaged flesh. He refused to grant it attention, keeping his eyes on his opponent. She had backed off a short distance, but now she closed the distance frighteningly quick, blade cutting dazzling shapes in the night.
Remembering the first blow, he kept his sword low to guard against the dark tracer. For this strategy, he was awarded a swift slice through his shoulder, courtesy of the gold tracer. The wound bled heavily.
A quick glance past her revealed that few of his original party remained on the cliffside. The time grew short. He turned as if to run, seeing that she had noticed his glance. As soon as his back was to her, she blurred forward.
As she bore towards him, he reversed his motion. She was quick to react, blades flashing. He lifted his left arm to intercept the strikes, ignoring the agony. Continuing his motion, he pressed forward, colliding with her and using his greater mass to his advantage. Impacting a stone, he heard what he hoped was the breath being driven from her lungs. He brought his sword down with his remaining hand.
The blade was stopped unfortunately, as she managed to cross her forearms to catch it. Her armor was good, but he could tell she had sustained damage. Another quick glance around revealed him as the last man of his group standing. The Knight was sprinting his way, and his wolf had arrived it seemed.
With that in mind, he abruptly ended his grapple and leapt from the cliff, closing his eyes against the rapidly approaching valley floor that had been so far below. Death would simply bear him back to their current sanctuary. He would be weak upon his revival, but that could be remedied with the power Kaathe had shown them. He opened his eyes a few moments before the ground pulverized him into ash. A smile stretched below his helm.
Tonight may not have gone according to plan, but it had shown that the Lord's forces could be destroyed. They would be ready next time.