The Fall of Melchiah
And then they were alone. Melchiah and Zephon, armoured now except for their helms, waited.
"It's been an honour." Melchiah said suddenly.
Zephon laughed. "I doubt that."
"Very well," Melchiah replied, smiling, "I abhor you, every moment I have had to tolerate you over these years has been excruciating."
"What's this? A seduction?"
"My wife has just left the room!"
Conversation trailed off. They knew what they were doing. Distracting themselves from their approaching doom. Who was taking his time.
"Where the hell is he!?"
"Patience...he will not forget us."
A gate was heard, slamming closed. Then screams, pillar guardians crying for aid.
"Should we?"
"...No. That's Malek's concern...Now."
Footsteps approaching. The click of bone on stone, not metal or flesh. They readied themselves.
"Regrets?" Zephon asked, donning his helm.
"Many. But I need not live with them long." Melchiah stepped away, spear raised. The footsteps drew closer, and then they beheld their murderer in the flesh for the first, and final, time.
Their attacker was a haggard thing, with the appearance of a semi decayed corpse. A broad spine was exposed to the eye, and it was a creature of bone and muscle in its entirety. Two tattered remnants of wings extended from its back, and there was a faded banner wrapped around its face and shoulders like a shawl...or a shroud.
It was like no creature they'd ever seen. There were traces of vampirism in its appearance, but only in the way there were traces of humanity in vampiric appearance-hints of lost nobility. The cloven feet and claws were that of an adult vampire, but not even a vampire could sustain a body so destroyed, and they knew every surviving adult of note in Nosgoth by sight, if not name. The closest comparison they could make was to one of Mortanius' wraiths, but it was too real, too solid, to be a wraith. And it bore the reaver, lately obtained at great effort in Janos' lair. Some other machination of Moebius? Merely bad luck that he had stumbled across it? More likely the former, but they were destined never to find out.
Their assassin paused briefly, as though recalling past encounters or tales it knew of them, before launching itself into the attack. The Generals each challenged it, saying something, threat, bravado, promise, entreaty, it didn't matter. They accepted their fate, but that didn't mean they had to go dumb or singing to the slaughter. The demon didn't reply.
"Back to hell with you!"
Their assassin bore the Reaver, an impeccably forged weapon, if a bit too showy for many tastes. Unlike many vampires, the demon had some familiarity with the weapon, and in fact not inconsiderable skill, but the memory of Janos Audron's mutilated corpse was fresh in his mind, and it was never advisable to fight in hot blood. He attacked with fury, but neglected to defend himself. Melchiah forgot to put up a token resistance and attacked, driving the demon back into a pillar at the edge of the courtyard. With Zephon protecting him between strokes, Melchiah used the long reach and agility of his spear to good effect, repeatedly jabbing at what appeared a vulnerable spot-the creature's exposed spine. The assassin hardly had time to react, and each strike struck with stunning force. Cracks visibly appeared in the spine, but each time Melchiah drew back, they disappeared before his next blow fell. The demon writhed desperately, blocking, ducking, sidestepping, counterattacking, but he couldn't escape the strikes, and Melchiah continued nailing him to the pillar. But no matter how hard he struck, he couldn't create a lasting wound.
Finally, the demon realised it couldn't defend itself and merely leapt clear of the conflict, fleeing to the centre of the courtyard before turning to wait for them. Slowly, Melchiah and Zephon stepped to meet it, keeping together. Many would have run, but that was merely a waste of energy. The demon readied itself. Having realised that blind rage would not serve it, it began accessing its skill, working art into the display. Having now recovered his wits, Melchiah stopped bothering to concentrate, having rather lost heart. Even a Sarafan General's reflex defense was considerable, however, and it was several minutes before he felt the steel bite.