Chapter 5: Fight and Flight

Are we going to die?

She wove through the horde of demons, her heart thumping heavily against her chest as she threw fireball after fireball in the direction of her attackers. With one hand, she swung her staff around—this served to keep the crimson and cerulean demons; the fallen and the carvers, away. Her other hand, she held steady, straight; it was the channel of her mana. She spoke the words breathlessly, words of magic, and words of fire, as the balls of flame erupted from the the tips of her slender fingers.

We are greatly outnumbered… What if we cannot defeat them?

With gritted teeth, the sorceress shook her doubts aside—now was not a time for fear. If she did not act fast, both her, and her companion would perish. She screamed—releasing her fear, her anger, and her frustration; and every emotion that had been building deep within her chest dissipated away into but one thing: reckless courage. The orb of fire within her palm was ready—with a heavy grunt, and with all the strength she could find it in herself to muster, she launched it into the heart of a group of fallen; and several fell, burnt, charred, and dead, onto the muddy ground.

She allowed a small, grim smile to grace her features, however short lived it was destined to be. Every demon she felled was quickly replaced by another, and another, and another; their attacks varied and unpredictable. It was all the sorceress could do to remain standing, to fight back against the army that seemed intent upon stamping the life from her. Her breath came in short, quick rasps as she fought to stay conscious—she was at the very bottom of her supply of magical energy.

The demons could sense her fear, her weakness. Triumphant, they bared their teeth, raising their clubs and swords; the sorceress would soon be finished. They pressed closer in on her, assaulting every bit of her they could reach.

Cordelia flung her staff limply about, wincing even as it came into contact with several short carver heads with sickening crunches—it all sounded too gory for her stomach to handle. A wave of nausea washed over her head as she threw a fire bolt at one of the corrupted rogues before her. With a shrill death-cry, the rogue fell to the ground, eyes widened even in death. Even in the heat of the battle, the sorceress noted faintly that they were no longer crimson—they were, instead, a clear, serene blue. The rogue was at peace, now.

Her moment of solemn contemplation had cost her—greatly. She did not quite understand the physics of the arrow that pierced her abdomen, but when it did, she shrieked—she had never felt such pain before. Warm blood flowed from her gaping wound in a river of red, staining the sorceress's clothes and armour. Twas the arrow of a corrupted rogue.

The rogue released a cry of elation; emboldened, she notched another arrow, aiming, this time, towards the sorceress's heart.

Cordelia choked several sobs back; the pain was almost unbearable. And yet, here was the rogue, ready to end her misery; ready to end her pain, and, her life.

With a pang, the sorceress realised: She was not quite ready to die.

It was in her final, most desperate moment, that she'd thrown her hands into the air, and screamed—"Caer dyoniatche!"

The world exploded in showers and sparks of flames. The sorceress thought she could hear the faint cries of the corrupted rogues; and the shrieks of the fallen, and of the carvers—feel the charred, lifeless corpses of the hellspawn collapse all around her.

And then, darkness overcame light; she saw, and felt no more.

He felt choked; breathless, almost as if the air were not enough to keep his heart beating. The hellspawned horde stood on every plane visible to him, brandishing weapons and baring teeth—they were united.

For a moment or two, the druid considered the irony of the situation—that the demons were united was a bizarre enough situation. That they were united against him, however—the thought was quite enough to bring a cringe into his face.

Saul gritted his teeth, grunting heavily as he slammed the headpiece of his staff into the abdomen of a skeletal archer; it crumbled to dust at his feet even as the foot of his staff collided with the skull of a zombie. Half a second later, it collapsed onto the ground to join its fallen brother.

He could hear Ceres's shrill cries from within the horde of demons, and could only suppose that the brave bird was deep in battle. The sounds of Cordelia's exploding fireballs came quite often to his ears—they were comforting, for they were proof that his companion stood and fought, still.

This is going to be a long battle.

He took but a moment to straighten; inhaling sharply, he held his staff at ready, and launched himself towards a group of zombies. It was true that the zombies were slow, weaker than their undead cousins—the skeletal archers. And yet, within the sharpened lengths of their fingernails rested all sorts of diseases and poisons. Untreated, these poisons were most likely fatal.

Biting down upon his lower lip, the druid ducked the blows of their scaly, putrid arms. With his staff, he knocked several of his opponents back—there were too many of them to handle at close range combat. He swore heavily, drawing his dagger from his boot-sheath—several flashes of silver followed, in which several of the undead zombies fell dead at his feet. Several short seconds passed in which the druid kicked the corpses aside; whispering apologies under his breath. There would be no reprieve for those who stumbled in battle—only death.

He swore heavily.

The zombies had made their way towards him once more. Saul winced—without really thinking, he raised his staff, and took aim. "Aladon myare!"

The zombies exploded in a myriad of crystalline colours, even as the twister moved from target to target. Satisfied, the druid took but a moment to breathe—and then, almost as if he'd meant to do it all along, lifted his staff and summoned yet another barrage of twisters.

Saul watched with a grim sort of satisfaction as more of the hellspawn fell. It was not until half a second later that he'd realised; he'd not heard the sounds of the explosion of fireballs for over five minutes.

He froze.

Cordelia!

He could feel a feral sort of panic building up deep within his chest; what if? What if the sorceress had been overtaken by darkness? Could it be that she'd—

He snarled.

No! He would not think of it!

The hordes of hellspawn were somewhat dissipating; many had chosen to flee into the wilderness of the Stony Fields. Saul supposed that they could be taken care of later—he had other things on his mind. Out of the corner of his eye, the druid thought he'd saw Rakanishu flanked within several of the larger carvers. He growled.

Coward!

He did not think; all thoughts, even those of the sorceress, seemed flushed from within his head as he charged towards the sapphire-skinned carver. He wanted to hurt the little demon, to kill it, to render it completely dead even within the fiery halls of hell.

The sapphire-skinned one bared its teeth, lifting its barbed club as several streaks of lightning wove through the ground towards the druid; it could sense the druid's steely determination. It would be a fight to the finish. Its minions scarpered—they, too, could feel the wrath of the human. Unlike their master, they were in no mood to do battle with death.

The druid struck first; it was with a heavy cry of rage—a battle cry, that he'd jumped at the carver. His mother's blood; his barbarian blood, coursed thick within his veins. The sapphire-skinned one snarled, jumping aside; it was fast, as it was short. It sneered; and, with superhuman strength for one of its size, rammed its club into the druid's chest.

Saul grunted at the force, though he showed no weakness; he lashed out at the carver with his staff. The hard wood hit the carver, the force knocking it back several feet. It growled, enraged; thousands of lightning wires barbed through the ground.

It was all that the druid could do to avoid them.

The sapphire-skinned carver bared its teeth once more—precisely as the druid took aim with his staff. With a loud, angry shriek, the carver backed away; its sight had been frozen away. It was panicked, now.

Saul gritted his teeth, lifting his staff once more. The carver was now running back and forth, issuing barbs of lightning bolts at random. It was time to finish the fight.

"Aladon myare."

The twisters hit the weakened carver one after the other; and for several long moments, the druid watched the chilly windstorms at work. The magic of the elements, mingled with the lightning magic of the devil created an odd sort of supernova; sparks of every imaginable shade burst from the ground.

And then, the twisted form of the carver shattered into nothingness; Rakanishu was dead.

He stood in the deafening silence for several long moments. The world seemed devoid of life, save for himself—he could feel nothing but the pounding of his heart against his chest. He clenched, and unclenched his fists.

Only when Ceres landed heavily upon his head, was he brought back to consciousness. The bird released a shrill, rather contemptuous cry; and then pecked him, hard.

Cordelia.

Saul gasped; his body seemed to return to life as the air coursed through his veins. He jumped, whipping around to scour the battlefield for signs of his companion.

She's not here.

He could almost feel his heart stop as his throat became stuck; could it be that she lay upon the ground? Could it be that she was cold, hurt—perhaps, dying?

Perhaps dead?

Saul shook his head; all sanity, all prospect seemed washed from him as he ran from bloody pile to bloody pile. He kicked at the corpses, searching for just a glimmer of her crimson hair—just a glimmer of hope for her survival. Where could she be? She was not among the dead—nor was she anywhere to be seen.

Concentrate, you fool.

"What is there to concentrate upon?!" His voice was hoarse, even as he flailed an arm out at the hawk; with a soft cry of disgust, the bird flew from his head, coming to land, instead, upon a large boulder beside the cavernous entrance into Nerheid's belly.

If she were dead, there would be a body. Incidentally, if you ever attempt to hit me again, I will not hesitate to abandon you.

Saul growled, pacing heavily towards the bird—and she stared imperiously at him. "I know that." And then, almost grudgingly, "—Sorry."

They have taken her.

"Who?! Where?" The druid pressed his nose to the bird; he was mildly aware of the madness in his eyes—they were reflected deep within the bird's jade orbs.

Into Nerheid. She is unconscious, but alive still.

He was beginning to breathe once more; he could feel the air rushing into his lungs. Gratefully, he inhaled, then exhaled, before lowering his face onto the cold, hard stone. He was trembling. "Ceres—I must follow."

Well, of course.

The stone felt strangely comfortable beneath his skin; the relative cold calmed his mind and relieved his fears. She lived, still. There was time yet to rescue her.

I'd heal myself first, if I were you.

Saul shifted his gaze slightly. Ceres continued to stare at him, though not unkindly. She hopped beside his head, nipping him somewhat affectionately on the ear. In the presence of the hawk, the druid found himself relaxing slightly; he was not alone. Nature resided, still, within his veins.

He nodded slightly—and winced. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, he could fully feel the extent of his injuries. Several wide gashes lined his arms, and his back ached—he vaguely recalled taking a blow to the back. The soles of his feet burned; quite a few of Rakanishu's lightning waves had found their target.

Hurry up.

The druid chose to ignore the bird; with impeccable speed, he tugged two phials of crimson potion from his belt, pouring them into his throat with gusto.

I am going to fly ahead to Nur'durain. I shall meet you on the other side.

Saul nodded. "Be careful." He mumbled.

Ceres drew a single talon carefully upon the boulder on which she stood, before taking flight—higher, higher, to the very summit of Nerheid. The druid watched her for a moment; only a moment. His entire body burned—ached with injuries. The potions had aided him, somewhat—there would be no time for proper treatment within the encampment.

He narrowed his eyes, peering silently into the darkness of the caves. The stench that hit his nose brought a wave of nausea to his head, though he disregarded it—he could not afford delay.

Without so much as a backward glance, the druid plunged through the cavernous threshold, and was instantly swallowed by darkness.

Author's Note: This is probably the shortest chapter I've ever written for this fic! It just seemed like a fitting end for this chapter, anyhow. Anybody feeling sorry for poor Saul just yet?

Alright, I've got some explaining to do, it seems. Some of you are probably under the impression that Saul is in love with Cordelia. I understand, really. The truth behind it all is quite simple. Saul is actually just infatuated with Cordelia—right now, he's curious as to why she interests him so much. At the present moment, the most that can be said for their relationship is that it's a platonic, brotherly-sisterly one. They aren't in love.

Yet.

Anyhow! Thanks go out to:


Ophelion: Here's your gore! I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter—I got a right headache just writing it. I confess, I suck at battle scenes. Wish I had your talent with writing fight scenes.

Phreno: Oh my goodness, I'm so glad you're still alive! I was wondering where you'd gotten to! Thanks for the review, I say, and thanks for updating your tale! I was missing Raven and Aries bunches! And, I hope you enjoyed the angst in this chapter!

Christopher: Hehe… I'm glad you find my tormenting of Kashya amusing, to say the least. Thanks for reading my story, hon. Glad you enjoyed it!

Cheers, you guys. And please, please, please, if there are any of you out there reading my fic' without reviewing—

--PLEASE drop me a line! I need tons of critique, whether good or bad. Please and thank you!

Signing off for now!