“Cover!” Brenn shouted, hoisting his shield and letting his broadsword sink into the dried and cracked mud of the 'battlefield'. A killing field, abused and filthy, covering them all in a thin layer of mud. He was no commander, but he was a paladin. An official one, now. He'd returned to the nearest major church of Vestia in Varia, only to find his small city under assault by bizarre creatures the likes of which nobody had ever seen before. With the marshal dead, this was all he could do. “Tythas! I need support!” He cried into the din. The only saving grace, a blessing of the gods perhaps, was that these creatures did not use weaponry. There were so many of them, though, that it didn't seem to matter.
“Aye!” Tythas looked better than ever. A shockingly beautiful man, almost feminine in both features and the way he moved. Feeding on the blood and death of the battlefield – Brenn had gradually shed his disdain for the other man's powers. That didn't mean he liked them, though. They were both in their 'junior year' at the academy. One year away from graduating, taking contracts beyond the confines of Amistad in work study. “Blackest black, the veil between life and death, I beseech you. Let mine word be your own, my will be the herald that lays bare the threads of existence. Let the dead dance and slay under a moonless sky! Army of the dead!”
Brenn grit his teeth, grimacing. Beside him, he could see Sigi and Astrid doing the same. None of them liked it – even Alex. She was familiar with many forms of magic, but necromancy in particular was a bit too much to accept wholesale. Tythas was who he was, and their friend. They all looked away as the recently diseased soldiers of Brigandium rose from the ground and groaned. Clacking and vibrating with the need to obey their master. Corpses awkwardly animated, brought back for one last chance at defending their homeland.
Forbidden magic, but in times of war there was precedence for simply looking the other way.
Power was power. Their professors had said this time and time again, and no specific power was evil. It was how you used it, no matter how hard it was to accept, they tried. Tythas moaned in exhaustion. His capacity for reanimation was roughly a hundred soldiers, reaching beyond to raise a hundred and twenty before his mana ran dry. Once again, he was the middle aged man they remembered. In consideration of his friends, he refrained from absorbing the energy of death from the battlefield to render himself young again. That was something he could earn over time, with more humane means and no perceived threat to the souls of the fallen.
Sigi rose, spitting blood and leaping over the trench. All of the border regions of Varia and
Haran alike were under a whirlwind assault. Even the successor states, though due to their small geographical size, they were handling it a bit better. Amistad was secure, but the Varians had paid an excessive amount of coin to recruit aid from wherever they could. Her jorunn sang through the air, crushing one of the... Mushrooms? She wasn't sure. They were a bizarre amalgamation of man and fungi that grew at an insane pace. Within days, an infestation could become a war band of hundreds. Weeks? Thousands. And they were ferocious, mindless things. Fighting, screeching, dying like berserkers unconcerned with life.
Only humans. All they killed were humans. Screaming and raving about some 'father' who would cleanse the land and destroy the 'corruptor', this 'great enemy' of theirs. Whatever that meant. Regardless, they were furious about something – and they blamed mankind for some wrong done to them. Rising from the ground in vast tides to overwhelm towns, cities, and villages. Many of the smaller population centers near the border had fallen or been abandoned. Trieste in the west had been slaughtered wholesale. Every man, woman, and child. The city itself scoured entirely of life.
On one side, more of those aberrations brought on by Hastur, and on the other – the mushroom men and their wrath. Caught between a hammer and anvil, both empires were fully mobilized for war, the legions swarming about their borders in anticipation of attack.
Magnus grunted, back to back with Sigi as they labored to keep their footing. Brigandium was in a rocky valley, offering them a rare choke point by which to prevent the enemy from reaching the villagers fleeing to the safety of the city. Everywhere was death. Haran had their professional legions, reacting with lightning speed, but Varia – for all their numerical superiority – was slow to mobilize. Wider on the accessible border, not given the same geographical protection of the span, only a river that was no barrier to these things.
“Fuck!” Magnus shouted. “There's so many of them!” He forewent a weapon. Choosing to wear a pair of heavy gauntlets, striking with expert precision, each fist wreathed with fire. They were weak to the element. Hated it. It dried their flesh and wilted them, screeching in agony before finally being put down. Their black trees were the only thing resistant to it, bursting forth all over the battlefield to spawn yet more of the strange creatures. Every man, woman, child, tree, or parcel of grass. Biomass to expand the swarm. Amistad took this threat seriously, and so they had lent all aid possible to the southern empire. It wasn't every day that a completely foreign race emerged from the ground and started devouring everything like locusts.
Sigi crushed another. And another. A hundred of them. Her arms leaden and body sagging, refusing to quit. Astrid remained at the rear, healing and providing what enchantments she could. Hastening Sigi's own metabolism as she used bull's strength and falcon's flight to raise the power and speed of her blows respectively. Alex remained between the two groups, spraying a swath of lightning to scald and burn away the approaching growth. They'd all grown, but her in particular... She was transcendent, well on the path to archmage, they said. A living weapon that could lay waste to entire battalions. But alas, the creatures came in such a number that 'battalion' didn't seem all that impressive. The swarm of fungal humanoids overcame them, striking them to the dirt and beginning to collapse on the city proper.
“Fuck...” Magnus repeated. It was like that. You lost, and you were wrapped in the boughs of one of the black trees. A source of sustenance for this living plague. Tendrils stabbing at your skin and enveloping you, like ripe fruits, sucked clean of any moisture. The others at the trench didn't last much longer, caught up in the tide and suspended. Powerful mages always went like that. Soldiers would just be killed and absorbed, but these creatures absolutely loved mana. Fed on it. Hated humans, leaving the beastkin and other auxiliary soldiers milling about in confusion as they were ignored entirely. If they attempted to fight on further, they were either killed or incapacitated, but those that lived remained so, of no interest to the creatures. “Sigi!”
Magnus reached out, their hands mere inches apart.
“It was a good fight, Magnus Casterling.” Sigi laughed, looking a bit more calm than she should. He was a warrior, and an impressive one at that. This wasn't the end they'd had in mind, but it was an honorable death. To stand before the darkness and refuse to yield until their last drop of blood fell to the soil. How she should have died, alongside her parents and siblings. Perhaps her sacrifice would save some others from the fate that had befallen her land and family. “It has been an honor.”
Her face was still, but Magnus' was wracked with emotion. Thinking of his wife, his child on the way, even his father. His mother who yet remained in Agoron as far as he knew. So far away. He'd not been given the chance to say goodbye. “The honor was all mine, Sigi Stalvarg.” He swallowed his anxieties. His fears. His pride. They were friends, all of them. Looking about toward one another as best they could with eyes full of regret. More worried about the others than themselves.
Except, they didn't die. The tendrils fled their skin and the trees receded. Leaving them weak and barely conscious, but alive. All of the mushroom men had lowered themselves to the ground. Even the 'trees' seemed to bend and bow under some incredibly pressure come from the south.
Sigi looked. As did the others, too weak to struggle any further. A titanic projection of a very familiar man was hovering in the sky.
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“My children...” It said. “Go back to your homes. To your caves. Await my coming, for there will be a slaughter yet to come. Nay, not a slaughter. A cleansing. The cleansing will come. Mankind has learned their lesson and it is time to recede, recuperate, and slumber until my voice is to be heard again.”
A simple, albeit bizarrely romantic command. One they obeyed immediately. The torn field returned to normalcy, all of the so-called 'mycelians' disappearing beneath the earth. Even the smallest of spores scalding their lungs fled into the dirt. Minutes later, it was all empty. Half devoured corpses drying in the hot sun. Leaving those yet alive listless and disturbed, twitching and spinning in circles. Not that anyone could blame them, it had all happened so ridiculously fast. One moment they were prised to begin scaling the walls of Brigandium, and the next they were gone.
“I'm glad you're okay.” A tired voice panted. “I came as quickly as I could.”
“Iscari?” Magnus asked, panting similarly, laying in the dirty compared to the other who stood. “What just happened? Why was Tyr in the sky like that?”
“A long story.” Another voice came, a black robes and hooded man appearing from behind their friend. “Perhaps for another day. Prince, if you please – I shall be returning home. I'll need to recover. That was quite the exertion, but your help was appreciated. This will further my research by a decade, and I thank you.”
“Understood.” Iscari nodded calmly. Beside him, the hooded figure collapsed, very dead. Dimensional magic was impossible in the twin empires. Only the lesser successor states allowed for it at all. For 'reasons', Octavian had said, that were incredibly important. To eject his anima from one of thousands of haemonculi in such a heavily warded area had left the puppet lifeless. All along the border, though, Octavian had thrown the colleges into a panic. Thousands of mages working feverishly to repair the destroyed wards.
“Hastur!?” Magnus struggled to rise, furious. “You're working with Hastur!?”
Iscari stared at him, calmly. His flat emotionless mask not breaking under the unspoken accusation leveled at him by the other man. “It was not Hastur who brought this calamity upon us. But he just helped us stop it.”
In truth, it was Hastur's fault. Once, these creatures had refused to harm humanity. Tyr had done this for a purpose, he trusted his best friend more than anyone in the world save his own father. Then, that bastard had tinkered with them. Tried to change them, and he had, only making it worse. Breaking their hive mind, but not their predilection for violence, driving them to madness. It wasn't a long 'war', but it had resulted in over a million deaths, and Hastur was at fault. There was no information that could convince Iscari otherwise.
If left to their own devices, the world would've been 'made better' for it. Hastur didn't care about the death toll, but at least he recognized and owned up to his own mistake when petitioning Octavian to study them further. Saying he knew how to 'fix it' this time, though he hadn't explained how. With the changes he'd forced on them, they were no longer something the empire could ignore.
“Why?” Astrid asked, similarly exhausted. First, the creatures would suck away mana. Next, was spira, a concerning development. Leaving one an empty husk of liquid, which they would take as well. Not even bones were left. Everything had use to the swarm. She was terrified, scarred by what she'd seen, they all were. To see it end so anti-climatically was not how they'd envisioned the event playing out.
“Why what?” Iscari asked. “Why was I working with Hastur? Because he's the only one that could help us. What choice did I have? I did what I had to.”
“No.” Alex looked a lot better than the others. She was almost certainly the most competent mage in their entire group of friends. Friends that, Iscari feared, might no longer be such after today. Because of events out of his control, but he couldn't let Tyr take the blame. It wasn't his fault. “I think she's asking why a projection of Tyr showed up in the sky just now. Iscari...” Alex appeared in good health, but ready to vomit. She was shaking all over and wasn't so daft as to miss the implications. “Is he responsible for this...? Did he... Did he really kill all of these people?”
“That...” Iscari wasn't sure how to answer the question. He loved Tyr, with all his heart. Tyr was smart, forward thinking, free and brave. Courageous and proud. Despite their separation, he couldn't stop how he felt. None of them blamed him, but at the same time they all hated him for abandoning them – or at least the way he'd done it. That was how people worked. They were selfish, they weren't like Tyr who did so many things for people and never expected any praise. Iscari knew he couldn't be people. His feelings so strong for the other man that he couldn't think straight half of the time.
Octavian had insisted it would all 'work out', initially. He showed no worry or remorse for all of the dead.
And Iscari had attacked his father. An impossible thing to consider. Granted, he'd been put flat on the marble floor of the palace upon doing such a thing, but his intent had rung through. Octavian had sighed and capitulated. Forcing Hastur to appear and explain the situation. After months of study, Hastur had chased any and all leads. Desperate to find out what 'genius' created the mycelians. He'd broken their hive mind, and the creatures had promptly evolved into a warrior society, a zealous theocratic culture. Xenophobic beyond anything Iscari had ever experienced.
They blamed Hastur for changing them. For breaking their community and making them 'forget their mission'. Forcing a broken individuality on them, something they didn't want, claiming it pained them. Only through the attentions of this 'father' of theirs, Tyr, did they think they could be made whole again.
Octavian was Octavian. Powerful, as all awakened primus were. But Hastur was Hastur. Iscari was Iscari. If he wanted to wipe the existence of Hastur from the earth, he could. And Hastur knew that, so he studied harder under the plentiful threats. Eventually, it was obvious. Tyr was the cause of this outbreak. Bending anima as one should never do, and creating a new race. But there was a thing about it. A new lesson. The gods remained silent to the phenomena. Saying nothing. In this way, it vindicated Tyr of any 'crime' and made his actions 'right'. Jartor, had balked at the idea. But not in the way one would think. He commended the forward thinking of his 'son'.
'Son'! Iscari had wanted to march up to Haran and challenge Jartor himself. Tyr had been killed. Killed! By his own father, no less! And yet Jartor had praised him for what he'd done and ordered Octavian to take immediate action. Ordered! Ordered the primus of Varia! To find him, because nobody could. Tyr was no longer on this continent, at least, and most surprising of all – Octavian had merely nodded in understanding, lowering himself before the other primus!
To Iscari, it was an affront. He did not understand the brotherly relationship between Jartor and Octavian whatsoever. To be friends was all well and good but house Longinus were not some flunkies to be ordered about... It made him sick. Jartor had betrayed his own son, and Octavian had neither said nor done anything. All primus' were supposed to be like family, but the only one who seemed intent to defend him was Iscari himself.
Regardless... Iscari lived to serve his father's will, in a way that Tyr never had with his own father. Tyr was free and willful. He hated it, but he could not disobey Octavian, coming to a conclusion with Hastur and developing a plan. A plan impossible without Iscari, for he knew Tyr better than anyone. His face, his mannerisms, even his mana signature. The man was obsessed, concerning Hastur a great deal. But he, in turn, obeyed. With a health dose of fear, of the retribution of a man that would soon be a proper primus. Someone beyond his ability. Tyr was so weak, physically and magically. Primus or not, he was easily disabled. Iscari was another story. He who carried the hope of all mankind on his shoulders, already so powerful. It was better to just agree, and try one last gambit to silence the mycelian threat.
He still had the spores. Could create a new threat to counter the old, but they were incredibly valuable. Should he ever need to kill a primus, that was his only option. Thus, he was content to gain what benefit he could and remain in their good graces a moment longer.
“No.” Iscari lied to them for the first time, helping his friends up and off the ground. “Tyr would never do something like this.”
He'd never betray the confidence of his best friend. Never. Dying before doing so seemed so natural and easy to him. Praying that Tyr returned to these lands soon to explain the grand plan he'd formulated. Surely, there must be one. Alex, by the look of her, already knew he was lying.