The world seemed like a much quieter place now for not having the High Priest, Osric Ead, alive to give his venom-dripping sermons anymore. Priscilla thought it was a better world, at least. Maybe Njáll agreed with her simply on the grounds that the only good priest was a dead one. Sometimes, the little details made all the difference.
"The key," Njáll said, no more urgently now with Osric laying in a pool of blood between them than when he had first found Priscilla trying to steal the coveted blood sacrifice of the Northmen for herself. "Give it to me."
"I seem to recall Erik Golden-Shield taking a key from Kazamir after we had gone through all the trouble of winning the battle for him. You were there too, were you not?" Priscilla mused, hefting the weight of her sword in one hand while holding her dagger tight in the other. "Shame about all that honor and glory going to a man who hardly deserved it. Almost makes you stop and wonder about who you are fighting for…"
Njáll stretched his neck from side to side, a sharp crack of bone sounding from beneath the curtain of ringed metal masking his face. "Save your clever words for that bear cub you've tamed. I think I'll check your pockets for another, just to be sure. Perhaps I will find Gunnar's balls, too. Sell them back to him at a good price."
It would have been a funny joke, one that Priscilla might have laughed at despite her growing closeness with Gunnar. Maybe even because of it, but Njáll had chosen that moment to lift his meat cleaver of an axe and swing it at her head in a sweeping arc, so she had other things to worry about besides whether or not laughing at Gunnar's expense while he wasn't around was rude.
She ducked and slid sideways as Njáll's axe wooshed over her head, then jumped in close and slashed at his undefended side, cutting with her dagger and opening a crimson line that blended with all that red leather he wore. He gave an angry roar and struck at her with the barbed end of his weapon, forcing her to retreat as he turned around and cleaved down at where she stood. The axe came at her lightning quick for such a large and brutal weapon, but Njáll wielded it with all the strength of a wrathful demigod, as practiced in its deadly use as he was in breathing.
She just side-stepped the falling axe blade before it smashed into the floor beside her feet, sending wood chips flying into the air. Springing forward, Priscilla thrust with her sword, aiming to pierce Njáll's chest, but he brought up the haft of his axe and turned the narrow blade away, robbing her of any chance to end things quickly like she had done with the Peacekeeper before. As she danced around the corpse of Osric, careful not to let the evil bastard trip her up and get her killed from whatever pit of Hell he was burning in, Njáll gave chase. With a great roar, he swiped at her, and she ducked with a yelp just before the axe blade chopped through the posts holding up the expensive-looking curtains around the bed, sending them tumbling like a gaudy red wave.
"Surely, we can find a way of talking this out?" Priscilla huffed as she deflected the next blow, positioning herself between Njáll and the bed.
"No more talk!" Njáll growled. He took a step back so he would have enough room to line up his long axe with her head when he next swung, but she didn't give him the chance. Grabbing hold of the fallen bed curtain, she tugged it from its broken frame and threw it over Njáll's head like a crimson shroud, golden tassels flying as it enveloped him. He grunted and cursed, blinded by the thick curtain meant to keep out the cold and the light as Osric slept peacefully above the corruption and ruin he sowed each day in the city below. Seizing the moment, Priscilla rushed in close to the subdued Raider and quickly stabbed him in the gut.
Her dagger plunged in and out of the curtain, blood leaking onto her clothes with each new hole she made while Njáll howled like a kicked puppy underneath. After the third stab, he managed to land a punch to her head, sending her reeling back with her dagger still in him. He fumbled with the curtain, ripping it off his head, bleached skull looming in the air like some robed demon, and tried to toss it away, but it was stuck to him where the dagger was pierced through. Giving a bestial snarl, he pulled the blade free and glared at its bloody shine before tossing it away.
"You… fucking bitch!" he snarled at her once he had regained enough sense to see that she was running for the door. "I'll kill you and drink from your fucking skull!"
"You can try," Priscilla called back over her shoulder as she ran for the stairs, but she only made it halfway down before she heard noises echoing off the stone walls from the floors below. Screams, mad and frantic, then pained shouts followed by fiendish laughter and the wet chopping of meat. More Vikings, dealing out scant mercy to those left below. "Dammit…" She turned back, deciding to take her chances with the one wounded Northman who already knew she was there rather than rush headlong into a fight she might not win.
Njáll stood leaning his hulking form against the door frame, axe head resting on the floor and the shaft held weakly, his other hand pressed to his bleeding stomach while his shoulders rose and fell with each labored breath. "I will make sure… all you tins burn for this… And Bjǫrnsson too, if need be..."
Priscilla laughed. Njáll was hardly the person she expected to kill up in the tower when all was said and done, but now that he was there, it seemed like the prudent thing to do. It struck her that she had thought the same of Gunnar once, along with his brother, Herleif, not long ago. She reflected bitterly on when killing Gunnar had seemed like the only option for moving forward and how her change of heart seemed all the more muddled now that she was still keeping more secrets from him, even when it was clear that he trusted her entirely. Njáll, though, required no such deliberation on what had to be done to ensure the success of her mission.
"Come on then. You will not be getting another chance," she huffed, waving him over with a flick of her sword. Njáll stepped forward, one leg trembling before he willed himself to stand strong, rising to his full height in the dark hallway, an extra head taller than most men, and leveled his shoulders in defiance of her challenge. The light from the balcony shone stark against his silhouette, and he seemed to take up the entire width of the hall before her. He made an easy target in that tight space, with little room to wield his great axe, but Priscilla was standing down the steps from him, meaning she would have to fight an upward battle to make it back to the room. He took another step toward her, putting one heavy boot on the first step, and then she sprung, hoping to catch him off guard, betting that he believed she would just stand there and let him come to her. Waiting for her wounded enemy to make a mistake would have been the smart thing to do, and so he punished her for making a dumb decision instead.
He knocked her sword away with the haft of his axe, and she usually would have attacked again with her dagger, but her other hand remained empty. In an act of surprising agility for a man with three stab wounds to the gut, Njáll pinned her sword against the wall and kicked her square in the chest, sending her down the stairs with a shriek, weaponless and tumbling ass over head. The kick had hurt bad enough, but every stone step she rolled over on her way down was another bruise just waiting to form. Finally, she crashed into the wall at the bottom of the stairs, the world spinning around her even in the gloom. She only just got her bearings as the sound of boots coming down the steps filled her ears. Njáll was near tumbling his way down after her, limping with each step as he held a bloody hand over his stomach, snorting like a bull and just as angry. Priscilla rolled out of the stairwell before he reached her, stumbling on shaky legs for a moment as she made her way into the empty room a floor below Osric's apartment.
It seemed the tower had been some sort of scriptorium for the Pyre to create their manuscripts and propaganda to deceive the masses. There were more empty desks, inkwells, and jars filled with dazzling colors, piles more of blank and half-illuminated parchment all left abandoned now that the tower stood isolated within a city overrun with heathen savagery. Priscilla jumped over the desks and weaved between the low benches to get away as Njáll burst forth from the stairwell and barreled his way through the room after her, knocking the wooden furniture away as he gave chase. She kept her distance, but with the Vikings lurking on the floors below, she had nowhere to run. Murky rays of light shone through the tower windows around them, but they were far too high for her even to consider them as a possible means of escape unless she wished to end up plastered against the mountainside next to the Warden, who had jumped earlier.
She was trapped like a damsel having to fight her way out of her own locked tower, and there was no point in waiting for some dashing hero to come and rescue her. Not that Gunnar counted as much of a dashing hero in the first place. More of a shaggy, well-mannered brute, but then, reality did have a habit of altering childhood fantasies as one grew older.
"Come here, you tin witch!" Njáll growled, tossing aside a desk to crash against the wall as he came for her, quills and manuscripts flying through the air.
Priscilla cursed as she looked back and saw how close he was now. She jumped onto a desk and sprang away just as he chopped down with his axe and split it apart in an explosion of sharp splinters. Her breath came on in hot pants as she jumped again, but the next desk suddenly fell out from under her as Njáll chopped the legs out as she landed. The room lurched around her as she tumbled and fell hard on her side, teeth rattling in her skull, eyes squeezed shut as hot pain flashed behind them. She more felt the axe blade coming down on her than saw it and rolled to the side just before it split her in two. Grabbing a nearby stool, she hurled it up at Njáll as hard as she could, the dense wood taking him in the head just as he was yanking his axe free to strike again, eliciting a grunt of surprise as he stumbled back.
Priscilla grabbed for the dagger left slung in her belt. Not her dagger, given to her so many years ago by the smiths of the Sisterhood, but the one she had taken off the Peacekeeper killed upstairs. The weight felt unusual in her hand but familiar enough to wield despite the lack of a crosspiece on the hilt and single edge to the blade like an oversized eating knife. The means by which she had come to possess an extra dagger were a bitter memory now, but sometimes even the cruelest deeds done out of desperation still proved fruitful in the end. At least, that was what Priscilla told herself as she whipped the dagger around and stabbed it into Njáll's foot.
The Raider gave a sharp howl of pain, and Priscilla heard panicked shouting from the floors below; the rest of the Vikings surely alerted now to their companion's distress. Gritting her teeth, she yanked the dagger free from Njáll's bloody boot and sprang up from the floor, running straight for the stairs back to Osric's room, desperately trying to figure out what to do next as she ran. Njáll spat his wrathful curses and stumbled over the toppled desks to get after her, and she knew that no matter where she went, he would continue to give chase regardless of how many holes she filled him with. She had to end the fight there and now if she wanted any chance of escaping the tower alive with the vault key. Coming to a stop in the middle of the room, she gripped the curved dagger tight in her hand and turned around to face her foe, presenting herself as a clear target while Njáll came charging at her in a terrible rage.
"I'll rip you to pieces!" he shouted while leaving red boot-prints behind him as he came on, dipping his shoulder and opening his arms wide to take her off her feet. The hollow eyes of the skull mounted on his helmet stared her down, and she wondered briefly who the person might have been before they had been killed and used as a decoration by this blood-splattered barbarian.
Priscilla counted her breaths along with Njáll's thunderous steps before he finally got to her. She didn't move, didn't flinch, refusing to step aside even as every hair on the back of her neck stood on end, her instincts willing her to flee. Another quick step, another thundering footfall, and one more- then she jumped. Not to the side, where she would have been clear of the Raider's stampeding charge so that she might slash at his outstretched arms or stab her dagger into his broad back. That would not guarantee her a killing blow, and she needed her strike to count. A bit of recklessness was required to ensure her mission succeeded. Hardly ideal, but that was the state of her life these days. It was all for the mission, she reminded herself as she jumped straight up into the air. Everything she did was for the mission.
Tucking her legs up beneath her, dagger still gripped tight in her hand, Priscilla felt herself linger in the air for a single heartbeat. Then came the hit.
Her breath was stolen from her lungs at the impact, her body no longer hovering in place as Njáll carried her through the room and toward the stairwell at a blinding speed. The room rushed past her in a blur, her hood fluttering about her head. All she could see was the dirty fur wrapped around his shoulder as he clutched her, his strong arm squeezing her painfully tight, threatening to crush her spine with his frightening strength. She gritted her teeth and fought through the pain, still holding onto the stolen dagger as he carried her across the room. She felt the dagger stuck in place and how Njáll's grip began to slacken just a bit, his steps starting to slow and stagger ever so slightly.
A shadow fell over them as they entered the stairwell, and all at once, Priscilla felt her back slam against stone when they reached the far wall. They crashed together, pain lacing up her back from her tailbone to the base of her skull as her body shuddered in Njáll's embrace, but his grip went slack. Then she fell, a gasp escaping her lips as her bottom slammed against the floor, taking away what little breath she had left. Her head was ringing, not entirely knowing if her helmet had protected her or caused more harm from the crash, but she had no time to clear it as Njáll fell upon her with all his weight. Panic momentarily welled in her chest as everything went dark beneath his bulk, the smell of sweat and blood filling her senses as he enveloped her, the gleam of his axe shining bright just at the corner of her vision.
Kneeling at the bottom of the stairs, Njáll gave a slow lurch back, one shoulder rising and then the other. He made no sound and gave no more curses as he rose. He only sat up and away from the wall before pitching backward again, falling to the floor in a heap of dust and the clatter of bone. The hollow eyes of his skull ornament stared blankly up at the ceiling while Njáll's eyes turned dark and glassy through the thin slits of his mailed helmet. Or, at least, one eye did. The other was split around the sharp blade of the stolen dagger, the blade driven into his head nearly down to the hilt.
Her strike needed to count, and luckily it had. Reckless indeed, but she could hardly argue with the results so long as the mission was a success.
"Almost... the Silent... fucking Blade..." she panted, sitting a moment to catch her breath. She could still hear shouts and screams from the floors below, but for now, she just needed a moment to think. It would be no small thing for Ivar's man to suddenly turn up dead, especially after the battle had already been won and the Divine Pyre defeated. Luckily, she had a cultist handy who would give no protest if she used them to shift the blame.
It didn't take her long to get back on her feet and up the stairs, not with the sounds of carnage growing ever closer up through the tower urging her on. The Peacekeeper was heavier than Priscilla would have thought as she lifted the body from the desk. Perhaps they had fared better as one of Osric's attendants here in the tower than the starving masses below in the city, but it was hardly a comforting thought as Priscilla carried her out of the room and to the top of the stairwell. She winced as the woman's limp body clattered down the steps after tossing her. It seemed like an undue insult to a Sister, even if she had betrayed their homeland in the end, but it was for the good of her mission, and so she buried the guilt deep, same as always.
The woman's body was draped over Njáll when Priscilla came down the stairs. She positioned the Peacekeeper as best she could, making it appear that she had been carried off her feet and slammed into the wall, limbs spread limply about and head bent over against one shoulder. It would hardly do to leave the woman's neck wound bare, but neither could Priscilla hope that anyone would believe the Peacekeeper could still land a killing blow to Njáll while suffering from a lethal blow of his axe. Luckily, the Raider carried two dark-metal knives on his belt, although they looked more like brutal spikes than blades. She took one and jammed it into the Peacekeeper's throat, piling up yet more guilt in the pit of her stomach, then frowned at the unlikelihood that these two poor souls would have each landed a killing blow on each other at the same time.
"Stranger things have happened, I hope," Priscilla muttered to herself, looking down at the two corpses with hands on hips. "Perhaps it will get you both put into a saga, at the very least."
"Njáll?" came a harsh call from somewhere further down the tower. "Njáll, where the fuck are you!?"
"Dammit," Priscilla hissed, sparing the Sister one last pitying look before she turned and dashed her way up to Osric's room. She snatched up her sword along the way, sliding it back into its sheath, and just as she stepped into the ruined apartment, a sharp cry of anguish broke through the air.
"Njáll! Where are..? Ah! Get your níðing asses up here, you louts! Njáll is dead!"
More shouts followed, angry and shocked, but Priscilla paid them no mind as she searched the room for her missing dagger. If she wanted the Vikings to believe a fight had broken out in their absence, she wanted to make damn sure that they thought no one was left alive to talk about it. Her heart was pounding in her chest, spooked by the stomping of boots coming from the stairs, and the curses snapped freely as more Northman ascended the tower to find Njáll dead and the one who had surely done it already beyond the pain of their revenge. Then her eyes fell on the metal length of her dagger, the sun shining off its gleaming edge as it poked through the clouds and smoke from the open door that led out to the balcony. As she snatched it up off the floor and sheathed it on her belt, she realized the balcony was the only path left open to her now.
"Dammit," she hissed again, cursing herself for not thinking things through and getting herself stuck between a lot of sharp metal and a very long drop to the city below. Once again, she was forced to put her life on the line to see her mission through to the end, like so many Peacekeepers before her. Always for the mission. Looking over her shoulder toward the door, she caught sight of a figure hurrying up the stairs, and then she was dashing out to the balcony.
The wind blasted her as soon as she was outside, whistling about her hood, feeling as if she might get swept away before it finally died down. The Walled City lay sprawled before her, still burning in parts, the Viking camp filling the plain outside the walls, silent and empty of the horde. The clamor of countless angry Northmen and helpless civilians rose to greet her as they moved through the narrow city streets and alleyways like ants, and it might have been an impressive sight to behold if she hadn't needed to find a place to hide with all haste. Only, there was none. The balcony was not very big to begin with, and whichever way she looked, there was only more open space filled with nothing but wafting smoke. "Dammit all!"
"Who's there!? Show yourself!"
Priscilla's heart leaped into her throat at the northern accent of the demand coming from the room behind her. There was no more time to think, and so she didn't. Stepping over to the stone railing surrounding the balcony's edge, she jumped up and went over.
It could never be said that Priscilla stood as a coward in the face of battle and death. She had bravely faced down two separate foes and come out alive in just the past hour, with nothing but a few bruises and the sin of yet more murder weighing on her soul to show for it, but nothing had put the icy chill of fear in her like dangling off the balcony's edge as the city stretched out below her from a dizzying height.
"Oh God..." It was a desperate plea. So far, her mission had been a success, and now she only needed to hold on a little bit longer, Lord willing. She held on tighter than at any other time in her life, clinging to the balcony's edge. Beneath her, there was a stone framework supporting the balcony against the tower, just close enough that she might get her foot on and take her weight. As quietly as she could, she began to swing, ever cautious of her grip on the stone floor lest she should slip and fall like an angel cast out of God's heavenly kingdom. That thought did little to inspire any confidence in her, given her tumultuous history with being cast out from both court and her homeland by the Pyre, but she had little time to dwell on it when she heard disgruntled voices from above.
"I swear I thought I saw someone out here..." The voice seemed somewhat familiar to her, and Priscilla recalled the rat-faced Berserker from the tavern in Eitrivatnen from the sound of that high-pitched whine.
"You're seeing things. Got your blood up after cleaving apart all those priests and finding Njáll like that." The gruff voice of the one-eyed Warlord, also from the tavern. Njáll's friends, or close enough, and no less grumpy than the last time they had met by the sound of things. "Ivar is going to have your head when you tell him."
"Me? Why do I have to be the one to tell him?" snapped the Berserker.
"Because you're the one who found him! You should have been watching his back instead of letting him get done in by one of those hooded bitches."
"Who am I supposed to be, his fucking mother?" the Berserker grumbled. Priscilla gritted her teeth, feeling her fingers slipping on the stone, but she nearly had her foot to the framework as she swung her legs and reached out with the tip of her boot. Everything would have been fine if the two fools had taken the empty balcony for what it was and just left, but instead, they kept arguing like a couple of starving dogs over a bone. "Not my fault he went after the High Priest all on his own and left us to clean up the scraps!"
"That's another thing Ivar's going to be pissed about," grunted the Warlord. "You see the cut on that níðing shit? Barely any neck left to keep his head on. Who do you think did it? Njáll or the tin?"
Priscilla was almost there, just a little further with her foot. Her teeth gnashed together so hard she thought her jaw might break. Wiggling her foot forward, it barely scraped against stone as she swung, eliciting a pained whine as her arms began to tremble.
"Shh... What was that?"
"What was what?" asked the Warlord. "I don't hear anything out here except the fucking wind."
"I hear better than you can see, you one-eyed bastard. I can hear a rabbit jumping through fresh snow and catch it with the toss of my axe at thirty paces, so shut your trap about the wind, and let me listen."
"Thirty paces, my hairy ass. You wouldn't hit the broadside of a drakkar even if it'd run aground on you. I see well enough, and I don't see anything but black smoke and this miserable city on fire, so don't tell me you hear something that isn't there."
"Don't tell me what I can and cannot tell you, and I'm telling you to shut the fuck up and let me listen!"
That was it. She was going to die listening to the two bastards boasting and arguing over pointless drivel. Their friend was dead at the bottom of the stairwell, and their prize corpse lay with his throat ripped open just a few steps away, and yet they remained bickering on the balcony while she felt her strength failing her with each passing breath. Silently, Priscilla cursed them both. She cursed herself for getting stuck in such an awful mess in the first place, and then she cursed the Sisterhood, the Legion Council, and the Divine Pyre as well for good measure. Her fingers gave another slip, and still, she couldn't secure her foot on the stone framework. Death by falling from a balcony while hiding from two morons. Not exactly the saga-worthy ending Gunnar might have ever boasted about, but then boasting had never been her style in the first place.
She could have stood to hear Gunnar boast a bit more, though, and maybe have Coal take a crack at him with a joke after. Fools that they were, she really thought of them as her fools now, and suddenly she very much wanted another chance to sit down and have a drink with the both of them, better than the last time in Eitrivatnen, now that Njáll was dead. That would have been nice, actually.
"So, you hear anything?"
"Shhh... Just listen..."
"There's gold in here!" shouted another voice from inside.
"Gold!?" cried the Warlord and Berserker together.
"And jewels! Did you fuckers even bother to search the room, or are you just here to take in the sights?"
Immediately, both Northmen rushed back into the tower, their boots scuffing on the stones. It was not as if they went very far, but it was far enough for Priscilla as she quickly hauled herself up the railing and slumped over onto solid ground, or rather a solid balcony still suspended hundreds of feet up in the air. It might as well have been holy ground as she laid herself out and caught her breath while the Vikings inside scuffled and fought over the treasures found in the small chest on the desk.
After a moment, she pushed herself up and slid up against the door frame, still breathing hard and knowing that if she were caught now, she would not have the strength to fight off however many Vikings were left inside. Peeking around the corner, she saw just the three of them crowded around the desk, the Peacekeeper's original sack of loot now claimed next to them as they shoveled out the treasure from the chest to fill their pouches and pockets. The Berserker had his back to her, and luckily, the Warlord had his one good eye fixed on the gold and jewels rather than the balcony. The third warrior was another Raider, all done up in splashes of red, old paint, and fresh blood both, and from each of their belts hung a severed head, still dripping blood around their boots. The heads were marred with gore and frozen expressions of anguish, but it was not too hard to recognize the faces of the book-hurling priests.
"Alright, that's all of it," said the Raider, and he slapped the empty chest away and grabbed the sack of loot. "Let's get out of here."
"What about Njáll?" whined the Berserker, squinting at a sapphire in the dim light through his ridiculously ornate visor.
"What about him? He is feasting in Valhǫll, and we have our gold. Grab the priest, though. Ivar will want the body."
The Warlord grumbled as he stooped down to grab the holy corpse under one arm while the Berserker got the other, the two of them dragging Osric towards the door. "My knees are going to be shot by the time we get this sack of meat down all these stairs."
"Guess we could always just toss him out over the balcony to make it easier," said the Berserker. Priscilla's hand went to her dagger at the suggestion, fingers still numb from dangling off the balcony for so long.
"And then what? Scrape him off the ground after and deliver him to Ivar in a bucket?" They both laughed as they walked out of the room, their voices fading away with their descent down the stairs.
Priscilla let out a slow breath, then carefully looked again to make sure she was alone. Her hand was shaking when she let go of the dagger, and her legs were weak as she stumbled from the balcony and back into the room. All that was left of the carnage that had befallen the apartment was the broken bed frame, a few knocked-over paintings, and a dark bloodstain leading toward the stairs. She glanced over at the open picture frame, still stuffed full of scrolls of which the Vikings hadn't shown the slightest interest if they had noticed at all. Her fingers brushed over a pouch on her belt, a bit more feeling in them now, enough to feel the outline of the vault key kept inside.
Taking a step around the large pool of blood soaking into the floorboards, her legs shook and nearly buckled beneath her. It had been a long, hard day, and somehow, she felt that the journey down the tower would be no easier than the journey up. It seemed the Warlord wasn't the only one whose knees were shot. Sitting down on the bed, Priscilla suddenly felt exhausted. Her strength seemed to flow out of her like the breaking of a dam, and she fell back onto the feathered mattress, not caring in the least if its softness was lost to her within the armor she wore. She was still alive, for now, and that meant her mission could carry on. Another step forward, but still so far to go. For the moment, at least, it was nice just to lay back and breathe. Surely, she was owed that much for all she had done and still had yet to do.
Glancing up around her, she took in the tattered remains of the curtains that still hung from the broken bed frame. She reached up a hand and stroked along the red fabric, taking in the delicate gold embroidery and the fine craftsmanship. Then she tugged at it, feeling the material go taught as it clung to where it was fixed to the bed. A strong material, perhaps strong enough to make her descent down the tower just a bit easier on her legs.
Red curtains dangled out of a tower window a few stories up from the ground, tied together to give just enough length for Priscilla to get down to the mountainside safely. She felt like she needed another rest in bed once her feet touched solid ground, but such simple pleasures would have to wait a while longer. Her descent had taken her out the back of the tower, as the front entrance was now surely kept under guard, which suited her needs just fine. It was not the city she meant to return to, but rather up along the quiet mountain paths of the volcano.
She did not bother trying to hide her means of escape as she began climbing up the rising slope. So long as no one spotted her, she would be fine, and it may as well have been a fearful priest that had slipped out the window to flee to anyone who found it. Instead, she focused on making her way up the mountain on tired legs, careful not to fall and send any rocks tumbling to raise dust and give away her position to the Northmen still in the alcove below. Thick smoke and heavy clouds rolled through the sky above her, obscuring the sun except for small glimpses of golden rays, making it hard to keep track of the time as the day gave way to night. Only when the orange glow of the fires still burning through the city began to reflect off the mountainside did she realize just how much time had passed since she started walking. Looking back over her shoulder, the city seemed so much more contained within its great walls from such a distance, and even the alcove itself seemed like a small hole dug into the foot of the volcano, but she couldn't stop until she was sure this part of her mission was complete.
It wasn't until she found the cave that she knew what she had been looking for, but the distinct glow from within the darkness drew her like a moth to the flame. Luckily, she didn't have to go very far or deep, feeling the air grow hot instead of cooler within the rock, sweat tickling her brow beneath her helmet. Even the ground was warm through her boots, and she watched where she stepped, careful not to set foot into any painful surprises. The rushing lava flow ahead was the source of light by which she walked, and even now, still a good distance away, she had to squint through the heat she felt on her face just to look at it. It was fitting, having come here to carry out her deceit within the very glow of Hell's fire.
The mountain was no place of holy power, but it still possessed a destructive power all its own. Hot magma spewed from a crevice in the rock, flowing through a sliding channel formed from years of heat, new growth, and constant erosion until it disappeared beneath the cavern floor and delved deep into the earth once again. Only a little was needed to suit her purpose, but an entire vein of glowing lava would not go amiss. She did not approach any further, not wanting to chance passing out and being roasted alive in her armor, forgotten and left behind by her legion beneath the mountain of false worship.
Opening the pouch at her hip, Priscilla took out the key and weighed it thoughtfully in her hand. The dull metal shone brightly in the lava glow, just like the gold within the vault it was meant to open might have dazzled and shined. A vault that would remain forever closed to the Vikings so long as the key remained lost, leaving them to sit outside its sealed metal doors, brooding over how to get in. They would remain camped within the city, refusing to be parted with their most coveted prize. Erik would make them all stay, she knew, until this city became their tomb.
That was her mission. Destroy the key and keep the Vikings tethered to the vault. The formulae might have been the payment for allowing her legion to return to Ashfeld free of punishment, but destroying the key was the true task given to her, the true will of the Legion Council and the Lord-Warden. It was why Elise had lied to her about Apollyon's armor, to create a prize beyond worth that no Viking would be able to resist, and it had worked precisely as planned. For this, she would perhaps be hailed as an actual hero, but somehow, it felt like a mistake as the key weighed heavy in her hand.
Things were not as simple as they had once been. The barbarians who had helped her defeat the fanatics and cultists that had ravaged her homeland were not all the demons she had believed them to be. Doing this would not come without consequence for her and most certainly for Gunnar. He shouldn't have mattered, but he did. He was a weakness, but she could not bring herself to cut it out and toss him away. Her masters would demand that she obey, that she would complete her objective and serve dutifully, but now she only found herself questioning.
Would this act of treachery be worth all the pain and suffering her people had endured? The pain and suffering that had yet to come? It had not been Gunnar who had abandoned her to tyrants when her legion needed help the most, or Herleif, or even Erik for that matter, glimmering bastard that he was. Yet here Priscilla stood, ready to throw them into the fire along with the key at the behest of those who had abandoned her without a second thought. To them, it was her place to serve, to be the blade in the darkness, to keep the peace in the face of war and ruin; such was her oath.
This was the mission given to her, and a Peacekeeper always puts the mission first.
"Heavenly Father," she whispered to herself, squeezing the key so tight in her hand so she could feel the hot metal through her glove, "give me the strength to face the trials that lay before me and show me the right path. Guide me righteously, for I have wandered alone in the dark for far, far too long. Show me that what I am doing is right, and please... may they all forgive me if it is not."
She tossed the key, and tired as she was, her aim was true. It landed with the faintest spark as it dropped into the lava, disappearing in the blink of an eye beneath the red glow. Her mission was complete; now, she only had to wait. There was nothing more to be done.
As she slinked back to the city under the cover of growing darkness, moving through shadows and smoke like a thief in the night, she didn't feel like much of a hero. Heroes, to her mind, were never meant to live out their noble lives carrying so much shame.