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The Tale of Beowulf: Betrayed

"RRRARGH!"

The behemoth's roar was so loud it shook Beowulf's bones: he spun beneath its goring horns, cut a shallow gash across its savage-toothed, bellowing snout. With another bone-rattling howl, the behemoth charged again, and Beowulf danced backwards, his blades cutting a ferocious storm to keep the beast at bay.

Twin bursts of flame, to his left and to his right: the shadows of two dragons, looming over a man and a woman, as the walls of fire converged on the behemoth in front of him. The purple-skinned monster reared backwards, screaming in pain and rage, and Beowulf saw his chance. He plunged forwards, felt for the magic of the fire and the magic of the Behemoth. The magic of beasts was different than the magic of men, more intuitive and instinctual: in the behemoth's case it was layered into its muscles and its bones, to augment its already-incredible strength and toughness.

With his cutting blade, Beowulf sliced downwards, pitched that magic inwards, and cracked the monster's ribs. With his piercing blade, he drove up through the skin, softening it as he went, and speared the behemoth's heart.

The creature's roar choked off with a squeal of pain: it tumbled forwards, and Beowulf twisted nimbly out of its path, as it slammed to silent death behind him.

"And you thought the three of us couldn't handle this place," Beowulf scoffed to Reis.

"What I thought was that it was dangerous for us to handle this place," grunted Reis, sweat standing out against her brow.

"I am with Templar Daravon," Bremondt chuckled. In spite of his spell, he seemed none the worse for wear. "We are more than equal to the task at hand."

Beowulf grinned at the Archbishop, and led the way deeper into the ruin. They were within an old coal mine, which had once fed the machines of Ivalice in their desperate struggle against Ordallia. An old foreman said they had found signs of an Ydoran research outpost buried deep beneath these hills. The behemoth was the mightiest of the dangers that protected this place, but not the only one: Beowulf's blades, and the Dragoners' spells, made made short work of the rest.

It was hours before they found what they were looking for: when Bremondt pressed his hand to a rune on one wall, and set lights blazing through a cavernous space deep below the earth. A great domed chamber stood in front of them, ringed by blocky buildings much like barracks. A short tour through the barracks revealed enormous cells, rune-gleaming bars and chains secured carefully anchored to walls and floors.

"What is this place?" Beowulf asked, fingering one of the chains.

"An Ydoran research outpost," Bremondt replied. "Less dangerous than some. It was designed to help improve the Dragoners who served the Ydoran legions."

"It could make us stronger, Father?" Reis asked, eyeing the chains uneasily

"Perhaps..." Bremondt flipped through the immense Codex as he scanned a metallic device near the cell door. "But it looks to me like things could go wrong...hence the chains." He shook his head. "This isn't what we're looking for."

"What are we looking for?" Reis asked.

"The fruits of their experiments here," Bremondt grunted. "Something that would allow a Dragoner to achieve the full measure of their power. Perhaps even another Stone" His eyes gleamed. "The legend of the Braves is already incredible enough. Can you imagine if we could count full-fledged Dragoners in our ranks?"

Beowulf's heart raced in turn. The Stones were not yet accounted for: the new Templar, Barich, was hunting down rumors of one buried in Goug, and when they had last spoken months ago, Delita and Wiegraf had been sent to find one rumored to be in the treasure horde of a bandit who'd raided supply lines during the 50 Years' War. But there was Aries in Wiegraf's hand, Gemini in Elmdor's, Leo in Vormav's, and Scorpio in the Cardinal Delacroix's. More and more of the Stones were claimed: if Beowulf wanted to call himself a Brave, he was running out of time.

"Here!" Bremondt called, and pushed through a creaking door into another wide room at the heart of the barracks-like complex. It reminded Beowulf a little of his father's immense training room, except that here the runes were not separated into a grid but dense and purposeful, concentrated mainly on one circle of polished metal at the center of the room. Just in front of the circle stood what looked like an altar with its own dense runes.

"The Ydorans certainly built things to last, didn't they?" Reis remarked, cocking her head at the altar.

"They did indeed," Bremondt chuckled. He had opened the great Codex again, and was murmuring quietly to himself. "Yes, yes..." He made a note near the back of the tome, then snapped it shut. "We'll have to bring a full research team down here before we do any serious work, of course. But..." He trailed off, frowned between the altar and the circle. "Wait. I don't think these match."

"Which ones?" Reis asked, sidling up behind Bremondt.

"This one, here in the center." Bremondt pointed to one of the runes, but did not touch it. "Can you tell?"

"Not from here," Reis replied, and strolled towards the circle. She squinted, prodded the outermost rune of the metal disc with her toe, and when nothing happened, she strolled into the center. "Looks alright to me, Father."

"Good," Bremondt said, and his fingers flew across the runes on the altar, like a pianist's fingers flying across a keyboard.

Power like light bloomed across the altar, and crackled across the metal disc. Reis gave a shout of alarm and lunged off the platform: with a flicker and a thunderous thoom, a dome of light flashed and smashed Reis backwards, so she lay prone upon the disc.

"Reis!" Beowulf cried. "Bremondt, what's-"

He turned, and caught the gleam of runelight against the barrel of the gun protruding through the doorway they'd come through. He pivoted on his heel, and the bullet bit into the earth where he'd been standing.

"You do not lack for skill, do you?" Bremondt grunted, with a rueful look at the bullet hole. His hand continued to fly across the altar, as power flowed from the . Behind him, four armored women darted inside, bearing swords and spears. Beowulf could just make out the barrels of two guns in the doorway, though he could not see their wielders.

"What is this, Bremondt?" Beowulf whispered. He had taken two steps back, to better see the room—Bremondt's soldiers, Bremondt himself, the doorway, and Reis, lying prone on the metal disc as magic crackled up from the runes around her.

"A necessary step to secure our rightful future," Bremondt answered. "I had hoped one of the monsters would take care of you before now...but God helps those who help themselves."

Shadows reeled in the corners of Beowulf's mind. He kept his eyes flickering around the room, running through the practicalities, so those shadows wouldn't smother him. He kept his mouth firmly shut, because if he started to ask questions, he might drown in them. How long had Bremondt been planning this? And why?

Reis growled upon her disc: a strange sound, like two voices layered together. The first was Reis, moaning as though in pain, but there was an undercurrent to that voice, as deep as a behemoth's roar. Within the prison of light and magic, the shadow of the dragon hung heavy over her.

"Let her go!" Beowulf demanded.

"As soon as the magic is done," Bremondt said. "The Ydorans used this place to guarantee the loyalty of their Dragoners. It is regrettable I must resort to such measures...but Reis must be purged of your corruption."

Beowulf felt for his magic. He studied the soldiers. He studied Bremondt. "I don't think I'm the corrupt one here, Bremondt."

Bremondt's dark eyes flashed, and he gestured with his free hand: Beowulf was already moving as the gunshots cracked through the air, felt the wind of their passing along each cheek. The four Amazons were charging towards him: Beowulf charged them in turn, raised both swords-

And feinted, first away from the disc, and then back towards it. The Amazons moved after his feint, struggled to recover: he had a moment.

A moment was all he needed. Beowulf drove the piercing blade towards the edge of the metal disc, and slashed his cutting blade at the edge of the dome that surrounded Reis.

"NO!" Bremondt cried, as the magic fluxed and pulsed. Beowulf hadn't been ready for it: not for the fierce, subtle forces flowing through the plate, as treacherous and multilayered as the currents of a river, and not for the strength of the dome that surrounded her. It was defensive magic like a ward, healing magic like a Healer's spells, strengthening magic like the Bursting Blade, and more: it was the might of the Ydorans, still alive after all this time. Beowulf fought as hard as he could: tore a shallow gash in dome and plate alike. But that was all he could do: within an instant, he was flung back through the air, to crash against the far wall.

The back of his head cracked against stone. Stars spattered in his vision. Some part of him heard Alister yelling at him to get up, that his enemies would give him no quarter, no he could give himself none, either. The two Amazons at the doorway had stepped through, their guns trained on him: the charging soldiers were hurtling towards him again, weapons drawn for the kill. At the altar, Bremondt was yelling in frustration, his hands flying across the runes.

And in front of him, inside the dome, the light exploded upwards like a geyser, then sank down in upon itself, condensing like boiling steam back into water. Condensing, until what remained was a great dragon, larger even than the behemoth the three of them had killed hours ago. Its violet scales gleamed in the soft runelight.

The dragon roared, and the roar was fire: a great gout of flame, sweeping across the room. The gunwomen threw themselves low: Bremondt extended one hand, and the shadow of wings closed around him, so the fire parted around him like water around a rock. But the women charging towards Beowulf hadn't seen the transformation: they had only just started to turn when the fire found them.

As the burning Amazons fell screaming to the ground, the dragon galloped through its own flames, shaking the ground with every thunderous step of its mighty feet. It was charging straight towards him. Beowulf couldn't find it in him to stand. Not even when the dragon craned its serpentine neck down towards him, and opened its mouth full of sharp teeth.

And those teeth hooked him along the neckline of his cloak, and lifted him into the air, like a mother cat carrying her kittens by the nape of the neck. Then the dragon was turning, charging again, breaking through the door in a rumble of shattering stone, and Beowulf's mind was lost to dizzy darkness.