Tyr had become an avatar of brutality, smashing his sister's head from her neck with a backhand, sending her limp corpse cartwheeling away. The way he fought was so blunt and thoughtless, no finesse or skill to it. Alex had seen him swing hard without relying on form, but Tyr was a consummate swordsman in his footing if nothing else. Notable in martial achievement, well practiced and cold, celebrated by the battlemages of the university, considered the best in his class and equal in raw competency to Kael Emberwind himself.
But not now. He was lumbering, clumsy, and despite being so violently quick and powerful, the others were able to dodge many of his attacks after the initial charge. She had never seen him fight like this, but didn't have much time to think about it as she was forced out of the way by Micah, the mounted balista in the distance sending a bolt at her with impressive accuracy.
Only one ballista, the bolts engraved with script that would indicate their purpose to be the breaking of barriers.
“We've got to take care of that!” Micah cried, cursing and slamming his fist into the joint at his knee, always freezing up at the wrong time. Never having his armor at the right time. Shortly thereafter he gave up on his attempts to fix the thing and began tearing himself free from the harness. In the distance, Aurelius and Tyr were hammering one another with blows that tore through the air like lightning strikes. The former making the latter look like a lumbering fool now. But the hero couldn't do much, his razor sharp rapier was unable to so much as weal the giant's flesh – and that was something. It was easy to forget that Aurelius was a hero given his behavior, but rumor had it that he was one of the stronger members of that particular vocation.
“You can walk!” Alex exclaimed, Micah was loping into a slow jog without the use of his braces. Acclimating to the unfamiliar sensation of using his legs, stiff and uncomfortable as they were – at least there was no flopping onto the ground this time. Not yet.
“You can see!” He spat sarcastically, not turning toward her, two spells held in preparation in his hands, a mana shield in the left and a kinetic bolt in the right. Very standard, though markedly stronger than he ever had been before.
Alex would have liked to retort with something else, but their situation wasn't looking so good at the moment. They were alone up here on the ridge and help wasn't coming any time soon. Nala was swamped in an engagement with the dark skinned Raj and his companions, the blood mage called Pattoli managing to keep up with her in strength if nothing else. She suspected it had something to do with the umbramancer sending tendrils of darkness into Nala's back, but now wasn't the time for scientific debate.
With Tyr still engaged in battle with Aurelius, the telurian woman harried his flanks with dual daggers, managing to pierce his skin and eliciting roars of discomfort. A wounded bear thrashing about with that axe of his acting of its own accord alongside him. They were on their own. And neither was a coward, not anymore in the case of Micah. He refused to allow himself to look bad in front of 'his woman', if only for the gift she'd guided him to finding.
Quite literally lifting him up.
“You're on the wrong side of this, fella!” Tyr shouted. Swing once, and miss, but swing a hundred times in ten seconds and you're bound to hit something. In this case, he punted Aurelius straight up in the air. But again, very uncharacteristically, Tyr did not take advantage of his opponent's vulnerability. Allowing Aurelius to recover gracefully in the air, an elegant pirouette and a burst of wind sending him cartwheeling into a perfect landing. The woman was now on his back, stabbing frantically and cursing about something 'not working'. He didn't seem to mind that, which may or may not have been in character.
“Just give me the girl. One way or another I'm going to fuck all of your wives, break them nice and slow, but I'll settle for the one.” Aurelius laughed mockingly, brute force didn't have much of an effect on him. He wasn't the most durable of the heroes but he was quick on his feet, and while Tyr hit hard, that's all it was. No magic, no finesse, a hero's armor was more than capable of protecting him from that kind of violence. That's how it all worked, with a body that strong. Simply moving him through raw force barely had an effect, there had to be a reaction behind it to harm. Analogous to a human being a hollow sphere of aluminum, full of organs, compared to the cannonball that was an awakened being. “Do that, and I'll even join your side. How about it?”
Tyr didn't seem the biggest fan of the idea. Tearing the woman from his back, fist wrapped over her skull before closing it with a crunch of finality. Her blue blood sending wisps of vapor coiling about his arm, burning his skin and wracking him with pain. Cursed blood beyond the toxicity of normal members of her race, but that's all it was. He was, if anything, the most durable person in the vicinity. That had always been his talent, offense was irrelevant in the face of the immovable object. With that, he engaged once again with the hero, growing more clumsy from his rage, unable to land a single hit.
Aurelius was graceful, lunging and stabbing and slashing, always where Tyr's axe and fists weren't. There were moments, such as when Iscari had blown him through the wall, or he'd been rag-dolled by this boy, where one might get the impression that Aurelius was weak. He wasn't, swordsmanship had never been his forte and he merely abused his goddess' given power to physically engage with people – at no point had he been on the ropes. This was the kind of man that enjoyed the act of convincing someone they were about to win before letting it all out – but that moment would not be today.
One whiff of his arcanum and Tyr would cease to be, and Aurelius, unfortunately, was not permitted to do such a thing.
Arguably the second most important person in the inquisition, and it wasn't just for his good looks and 'charming' personality. He was a monster to the point where the arenas would no longer grant him entry. Men picked apart, women toyed with, made use of and discarded – there were few people more cruel than Aurelius. If not for his position within the united churches, he might have been barred entry to every civilized country outside of the marches. And now, with their backing, he was but one character on the slate of corruption that sat at the peak of all the inequity in the world.
The fact that Tyr was durable only served to aid him in ensuring that it was as painful an end as possible.
–
Alex's mind was working as fast as it could, and no matter how fast she ran or how many times she replayed the scenario in her head, no solution became apparent. Portals were opening up all along the periphery to dump yet more attackers onto the field. At first she'd wondered at the point of the balista, but it must've been engineered specifically for this purpose, destroying the newly erected dimensional anchors that should be preventing entry. Not actually aiming at them.
First, Kael had utilized his access to bring a small party of mages carrying illusion artifacts, and none of them had seen what was happening until it was too late.
Even at a good clip, it'd be five or so minutes before any support came from Amistad. There were people firing response flares from the walls indicating that they were aware, the balista rapidly reloading. String cracking with another shot – this time at the shield surrounding the city. Whatever Hastur or his henchmen had wrought, for one balista to make it shudder like that was not a good sign.
And this wasn't even a proper magic engine...
What do I do...? She turned, eyes flitting between Nala fighting off a score of mages by herself, Tyr in his battle with Aurelius... Joined by others, including the hooded woman with the knives now returned from death as haemonculi were wont to do. Alex had frozen back then, when Hastur had first attacked the city, and now she was doing it again. It wasn't fear, but rather the anxiety that she wasn't making the best choice in any given situation. The 'what if' factor of every decision she had ever made weighed on her something fierce.
What else was there to do but run forward? Like Tyr, even if it wasn't the best way – and almost never was, that is what he did. It worked out, most times. But for all her confidence, all of her twenty years of education – it wasn't Alex who remained the most composed in this situation. It was Micah, a peasant from nowhere important, achieving nothing significant. She didn't look down on him for this, nobility weren't supposed to act that way in Haran, and she obeyed custom for the most part. But it was true, she'd had an infinite amount of advantages, training, and tutelage to be ready for something like this. And she wasn't taking action, but he was.
Micah's hands flowed like quicksilver through the air, even at a dead sprint his hard eyes locked onto the balista they were rapidly closing in on. There were mages guarding it, as well as a host of well armed guards bedecked in the bull's head of Baccia. Six spellcasters, joined by roughly thirty outriders and fifteen archers. The former most body comprised of some impressive mana signatures, battlemages of some repute – rare for a country like Baccia but no less nerve wracking as that single small figure of Micah ran heedless towards them.
“Micah, wait!” Alexis cried, the 'boy' refusing to listen, a man she'd taken such a liking to... Perhaps only because he was weak.
A warband versus a mage at the standard level with no incredible feats to mark his name as one that was known to anyone but a select few.
All trained, all ready, but they weren't prepared for what would come. And neither was Alex.
Micah, the little mouse. Micah, the failure. Never once winning a sparring session against any of his friends, out of dozens of attempts to compete with them. The average one, a man who'd stay up all night in study when the others had long turned to rest. Because he needed that, a man with very little talent, only made up for with work ethic and a dire need to validate himself in the eyes of the others, especially, and to his discredit, Tyr Faeron. He wanted to be looked at, admired, he didn't want to be the token choice among their party, and didn't want to be the low one. Tyr had been the only one to never look oddly at his legs, and while he might not have done it personally, Tyr had kept his promise, and Micah would do the same in sticking with this small thing of theirs. Protecting his new home.
“Gravity Well!” Micah shouted, his voice uncharacteristically hard, his visage violent. Rage laced his words and empowered the magic coursing through his veins, resulting in a shard of void shooting from his outstretched fingertips. Cracking space itself, a level 4 spatial spell cast with a short incantation and at full sprint... Enough to make anyone realize how hard he'd been working, that competitiveness bred between old friends.
A black sphere that warped the light around it, settling over the ballista atop an unremarkable escarpment. The mages looked up at it with raised brows, unimpressed, slowly weaving wards and defensive arrays that no single mage could hope to break.
Like the fist of a war god, gripping at a fundamental part of cosmic law and crushing it into submission. Everything happened at once.
The sky shattered like glass, starry blackness above, and the eyes of all below couldn't help but be drawn toward it and the white circle being traced around them. The mages tried to bolster themselves with yet more wards, but gravity was physical force. Once cast, it wasn't so easy as disrupting the mana present in other spells, gravity magic was poorly understood and difficult to defend against. At which point some seemed to realize that running was the better opportunity, eyes wide now – not so unimpressed.
Screaming when it touched them, and not a second later the singularity opened up and crashed into their position. Like a meteor, for dozens of meters all around, turning them to mulch and crushing all things under the gaze of a formless, starlit titan.
Perceivable reality bent, the men below becoming amorphous blurs of warped flesh and distended mouths. Bent between the vacuum force from above and the contradictory mass dragging them toward the ground.
It pushed down on them, pulping the mages on their rock first, shattering the escarpment into a hail of razor sharp splinters that did away with the soldiers below. All that was left was the ruined remains of the balista, and over fifty corpses flattened to grisly crimson paste. That, and the mage who'd done that to them. Face planting into the dirt, drained of all color and as limp as any noodle. Every vein in his body blue and sparking with dull flashes of energy. He'd put everything into this single spell, and he'd won in the process – an overwhelming victory that few could've hoped to defend against. One that might kill him, mana down.
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It took her a moment, but Alex gradually recovered from the shock of what she'd just seen, that unbridled wrath made manifest on a field of battle. How violent and visceral it had been, and the stink that pervaded the air. How ready Micah had been to do it, showing no hesitation in killing dozens of men. None of the men were left wounded, they were all very dead, caught in that monstrosity of a casting. Torn apart from a dozen angles as the mana phenomena made a mockery of natural law.
She tossed an escape runestone onto his body, the only one she carried, watching as he blipped away and back to the palace. Hoping that someone would find him, and save him.
Normally she'd have saved it for herself, but she wasn't ready for that. There were still more soldiers arriving and Tyr was no longer engaged with Aurelius. He was swamped in men that only reached his waist, but there were so many. Spears out and prodding him as his attempts to swipe his surroundings free were interrupted by several Fingers throwing themselves heedless unto death.
“Thanks, Micah.” Alex whispered softly, a bit aggrieved by being shown up like that. He was still alive – though barely, and nothing was guaranteed regarding his chances of survival. Too much magic was a bad thing when one's body wasn't prepared for it, he was lucky to get out as easily as he had. Going 'mana down' wasn't nearly as bad as exploding, bursting into flames, or simply turning into dust or stone. Nobody could explain how it worked, but it happened at times when mages reached too far. Something like that could easily be called a level 4 spell, but levels were only a general measure of vocational competency, not a guaranteed standard – and spatial magic rarely followed that trend. The spell he'd just used was massive, something five mages could attempt and yet still come up short.
She turned to face the storm of men all around them, reminded of her insignificance, the words that had angered her so in the moment that Tyr had spoken them. It was beautiful, that vista, in better circumstances she'd have liked to stay – not often taking the opportunity to simply observe the world as it was. To see. A stretch of rolling green land that turned down the craggy lip of the crater, the bustling metropolis of Amistad and its periphery estates glistening in the sunlight. The raw diversity of modern magical society reflected back to her.
Now was not the time for praising the idyllic sprawl, however.
None of their attackers cared for her, intent only on harassing Tyr and Nala. Both of which bore more similarity to a porcupine than a human, what with all of the arrows and javelins covering their bodies. Chains were thrown over both, deuritium this time, but before Nala could be properly secured she would slip her bonds and split a dozen men in half with a sidelong wheeling of her hands. The situation was devolving rapidly, and they couldn't do this alone – there were far too many.
“Tyr! We have to run!” Alex shouted with all her might, but he couldn't hear her. Even if he could, she wasn't sure he'd listen – he was lost in some sort of rage. Somewhere amidst the mass of men was that dream mage, almost assuredly. Ensuring that Tyr remained in the act of pasting men with every swipe of his massive hands, a true titan of war that had forgotten its axe in the melee. Gone was the gentle eyed demeanor and easy drawl, replaced by thoughtless violence, a flailing hulk using brute strength in lieu of all else. Cratering the ground with cacophonous stomps and open handed slaps.
Every time he was hurt it seemed to grow worse, and he grew even stronger. Faster. But less clear of mind in turn. Physical power to the point where the swipes of his hands were turning up the ground all around him for dozens of meters. Hundreds dead, and yet they kept coming. Perhaps this display of might would've been a good thing under different circumstances, but right now the enemy forces seemed intent to exploit this. Surrendering their attempts to poison him and instead drive him wild under the cool gaze of Rommel. His own sister leading their assault and guiding him slowly toward the crater and nearer the city. Between them, and the approaching battalion of Amistad's battle mages.
Shit...
Kael was gone, off to parts unknown. Only Wilhelm remained among the traitors who'd arrived, and he was fighting in defense of Tyr. Making a good showing of himself before being bludgeoned and carried off by soldiers at the rear of the encirclement. The titan drawing the most attention, a magnificence that drew all eyes – failing to see what they had in mind for him. Alex spat, summoning her courage and sprinting forward, half a dozen spells prepared and ready to release the havoc of a storm into their tightly packed ranks.
“Chain Lightning!” Alex shouted, letting loose a bolt of white brilliance writhing like vines through the air. All for naught, as a curved sword slipped gracefully into her vision, sending the bolt of electricity flying off the mark and into the sky. The man that carried the sword even more dangerous, clad in filthy army, bedecked in a red Oni mask. “You!?”
“I am pleased you remember me, it is good to see you again.” Goroshi gazed calmly at her, his stance loose but no less threatening in his apparent relaxation. He'd come from nowhere, that passive pressure of his inhuman aura tearing into space – a skill for the duplicitous it would seem. There'd been no dimensional magic, just a reminder that mages were not all to be feared in this world of theirs. “I believe we only had the briefest of meetings once.”
The mask that covered his face always obscured his features, a vicious war mask of blacks and reds to match the rest of his armor, half shrouded in a tattered cloak turned over his offhand shoulder. A cloak that he'd remove and let fall into a dimensional ring. Revealing a suit of chipped and battered segmented plate, discolored at the edges and clearly well used. A sturdy suit of armor matched by a jagged gorget that covered the neck, archaic in design, and heavily enchanted. All of him shrouded but for the high and severe warrior's tail erupting from the crown of his head, dancing in the wind brought by Tyr's struggle.
A sword in his hands, as long as any greatsword but thin and curved, with a circular ring for a crossguard and finely wrapped two handed grip. Held in one, the nodachi, a fearsome weapon that rumor held could cut through grain steel with no need for magic. Hand forged, folded ten thousand times.
“Aren't you supposed to be his friend?” Alex asked, a bit alarmed on Tyr's behalf. The revelation of all these betrayals popping up out of the blue was not ideal, and she knew it would continue. Alex didn't know 'The Slayer' very well, he was an upper-tier adventurer with a reputation for taking low difficulty contracts in mass quantities. 'Easy' for a party of five – that is. Always completing them perfectly, and to this day despite his relatively 'low' gold ranking – he was one of the better known monster hunters to those in the industry. He never entertained business propositions, never accepted personal contracts, and not once had he attempted to advance his rank. Only given gold based on performance, a rare exception given to few, otherwise he would've happily stayed silver by the sounds of it. Goroshi was a bit of an enigma, almost an urban legend. Adventurers in Amistad discussed him frequently, seeing him as the unofficial leader of their guild, and the regional guild master didn't seem to mind in the slightest.
“Even for a man of the coin, it reflects poorly on your character to betray him like this. I believed westerners men and women to be people of honor.” Alex added when he didn't seem quick to respond.
“Betray?” Goroshi looked back at Tyr for a second, showing his back to Alex. As loathe as she was to do it, she did, releasing another tendril of lightning. Unfortunately, he seemed well prepared for that, batting it aside absentmindedly with his sword, his back still facing her. Not totally surprising considering the fact that he often took contracts involving monster covens. They had mages, too, people had their tricks and techniques – and his seemed to be an auramancy equivalent utilizing raw spira in lieu of mana. “I was not paid to be here, I saw a man fiddling around with a gate stone so I struck his neck and took it. Had no idea I'd end up here, but when I showed up at their assembly area nobody even spared a glance in my direction. Their security is embarrassing, honestly.”
“Then why are you defending them!?” Alex cried, craning her head around to see that Tyr was dangerously near the lip of the crater. Below, she could make out the unique shades of hair announcing Astrid and Sigi's position at the head of the relief column. It wasn't an exaggeration to say that they were at great risk if Tyr went over that ledge. The Baccians were sparing no expense, hundreds dead to send him over, and there was a point to all of that. Obviously not the plan they had started with, but unleashing a mind addled giant into the streets of the city might be an even better one. Bergen was there, confirmed with her eyes, the one with the fringed hat and bandage wrapped eyes that worked with dreams and powerful illusions. “Don't make me go through you.”
Goroshi rose a finger and wagged it in the air. “You're good, child. Impressive for a mage – but you are failing to understand a few things.” He pointed toward Tyr in the distance, his hulking body shoved over the edge to roll down the rocky decline with a ghastly roar. Already, spells were coming from below and Alex watched with a sinking heart as a man's helmet was crumpled by a fist sized rock. Sigi was there, at least, not much distance from where Tyr had fallen. And Goroshi was blocking her from assisting, incensing her further. “Firstly, I'm not protecting them from you. I'm protecting you from them. What exactly do you plan to do here, fight them all? You possess great talent, a notable woman, but a dead one should you try to face these so-called Fingers on your own. As I would be, they are of no consequence alone, but together?”
It was a fair question, Alex had no idea what she'd do. She knew she was competent, confident in her abilities, but Nala was on the ground covered in a score of deep wounds, labored breathing and shaking limbs. After being incapacitated, her attackers simply ignored her, leaving the manticore where she'd fallen. They simply staked her to the ground to ensure no more further interruptions could occur before trotting off. None of the Fingers could die as long as the replacement bodies existed, and by the looks of it Hastur had done the same with the troops based on the constant streams of them coming and going from the portals. An immortal army, albeit a small one – this was magic on a level Alex had never seen before. Biological engineering that should've been the peak of forbidden magic, and yet the 8 Pillars had tried Tyr for what some might consider far lesser things.
She had no inkling as to what Hastur's plan might be, none of it made sense. They weren't mounting a proper assault, but rather lining the ridge with spears and waiting in neat formations just out of reach of the spells from below. Taking the high ground, naturally, but in an era of magic that kind of strategy wasn't anything relevant. Modern mages had changed everything to the point where there simply were no wars. Many of which could simply burrow under the earth and come up from behind, or literally fly. Granted, there were anti-flight wards covering the crater that Tyr had installed, insisting they be necessary – though Alex didn't understand why.
Hastur was no idiot, however, there had to be a point to it all. A devilishly cunning man who would show you the knife while poisoning your drink.
“You don't know because you're not seeing. Come with me.” Goroshi sheathed his sword, showing his back to her again in a strange display of trust considering their altercation just moments before. Perhaps Alex was truly so insignificant, and the man was not threatened by her in the slightest.
Walking to the edge, a soldier turned to level his spear at Alex before balking at the sight of the Slayer, freezing in place. Six and a half feet tall, covered from head to toe in something be it that mask or his overly thick suit of archaic plate. Eyes flicking about in confusion as to what he should do. All Goroshi did was stop and stare down at the significantly smaller man, until said man adjusted his posture, giving off a crisp salute and turning back into his formation. There was a saying about this, faking it until you made it, Goroshi's aura alone communicated might and the fact that it was not aimed at these Baccians was enough to make him appear one of their number... Apparently? Alex hoped her own men would show more sense than that should a situation like this ever unfold.
“Look.” Goroshi pointed.
And she did. Staring down to see Tyr being viciously beaten by a squad of armored council battle-mages. He wasn't fighting back, holding his hands out in surrender and snorting like a bull as they stabbed and cut at him. Astrid and Sigi were in chains and the fighting had largely stopped. Some of the mages within the 'relief force' were bleeding or dead on the ground, brained by the men behind them. A rope fastened into the mouth of her sisters when they'd likely protested.
“Why are you doing this!?” Tyr was well capable of defending himself, but he didn't, contrary to the expectations of both her and the disappointed Fingers above. Rommel was already cursing about the 'bad luck', and Bergen was offering his excuses, saying something about a 'tranquil, gentle spirit'. “We're on the same side, stop this madness!”
Something even more interesting than that was taking place.
Alex could feel... A pressure, an incredibly dense wave of meta bent anima pressing down on Tyr and preventing him from moving, accepting the beating with no further words. It wasn't that he didn't want to defend himself, it was like a god had come to this place to hold him down. From far away this pressure continued unabated, and a hooded figure detached itself from the crowd of Amistad's mages.
Not the one responsible, either, by Alex's measure, being far more in tune with both etheric and worldly energies than anyone else.
Bloody Hastur himself, the real one, an ancient and wizened old man. All Alex could hear was a scant bit of the whispers passing his wrinkled lips, something about sides. How easy it was to convince the others to betray both Tyr and his friends, and an offer that was summarily refused. The loyalty of man and how Tyr had acted in complete folly in a bid to save those who deserved no such thing. And the knife that plunged itself into Tyr's back, followed by a dozen more, doing what so many men had tried to do in the past.
She wept, unable to move. Tyr Faeron of Haran, imperial prince, son of Jartor and King of Amistad. The immortal man, died that day.