The line between chaos and order is very thin. Order is the expected. Chaos is the unexpected.
It is expected that the Holy Order, the common name of the Holy Church of the Spoken Realm, is the largest, most interconnected and mightiest organization in the world. They are the shield against the unknown. The sword against monsters prowling the night. They are unity against the forces of division.
So, to stand against the Holy Order is madness -chaos-. They cannot be defeated, and so, should not be challenged.
However, humans trained in the arts of war are prepared to face those less trained in the arts of war than they are. There are no other armies in the world save for those serving the Holy Order and those of the southerners beyond the mountains.
A handful of humans and drakyk soldiers of order are facing a soldier forged in chaos.
Though he’s outnumbered once more, Murtoa of Lakia is a force of chaos and order combined. He has spent more time at the forefront of the battle with monsters no men could face than anyone else. The Holy Order clerics, priests, and paladins guard the order of the cities. Murtoa actively fights chaos, often using chaos.
The weapon he is currently wielding in circles up to velocity is an exotic weapon to most weapon wielders. The kusarigama is a knife on one end and a weighted ring on the other of a wire string. Twirling the wire gives the knife momentum, and it is truly an artform not to tangle oneself and be able to offensively engage opponents.
Murtoa slings the blade with a scorpion like sting, quickly scooping the wire back to keep the blade spinning when the priest throws himself back. Another has recovered from earlier, and Murtoa pivots, slinging the blade out again, this time in a slashing arc. The second priest blocks with a forearm, crying out when the blade slashes through his vestments. A second wide arc swings all the way around Mury, and he slashes the same second priest again, this time crossing his face.
Every move of Mury’s arms is like the ministrations of a spider weaving a web, but instead, dancing the blade in fluid and beautiful motions like a dragonfly darting through the sky. It’s impressive to watch for those able to watch; namely Coco, Maerin, and Lykha. Gyrryth is in a wrestling match with one of the paladins over a sword, while the paladin Eandenui is healing the ‘princess’ Maribel with Tomoba pleading for Maribel to hang in there.
Coco launches a flasher at one of the paladins trying to flank Gyrryth, but she watches Mury with bright eyes. The human warrior is engaging a total of five remaining Holy Order fighters and winning.
Maerin continues to drink her flask, softening her sobriety as much as she can now that she’s out of blends that she can make to help. She murmurs, “There a weapon Murmur isn’t good at?”
Coco replies proudly, “Nope! ‘S why ‘Bando slicks gams e’ery brick he passes.” She slings a rock at the paladin she blinded, causing him to swing his shield defensively as he tries to recover his vision. “An’, I may be numbah two, but two be bu’ a tickle and a crawl from numbah one.” She snickers deviously, grinning at Lykha as the young fairy watches the goings on with a straight face.
She seems to be focused on the Archbishop, Brother Phudre. The bishop is shouting a sermon, though no one is paying attention other than Lykha. “You are all of you standing contrary to the will of the spirits! The world is forged in order, and the great spirits are the pillars of that order! Schieranna, Rui-Buri, Merzianne, Ulterryn, Gruicelle, and Nieolsynys! Great spirits! Grant us the strength to vanquish this evil!”
The magical energy in the air is palpable around the archbishop. His armor is glowing, and energy is visibly curling through the air around him as he shouts. He is a masterful wielder of the spiritual magics. He has likely only one equal on the field, but Murtoa’s mastery of the weapons of those of the spoken realm makes the human warrior a true threat to the archbishop.
Especially as the priests and other fighters fall one by one, unable to flank him effectively.
Murtoa uses the kusarigama to snag and disarm one of the warriors, slinging the freed short-sword behind himself with a careful sidestep as he yanks it towards him. The blade spears into a priest trying to flank him, and he uses the blade-edged weight ring on the other end to finish the fighter.
Gyrryth manages to disarm the paladin, slamming the heavily armored shield-bearer to the ground with a skillful flip by the former sword-arm. The spellshot tries to block a sword-strike from the other paladin, but the paladin has the melee advantage as both a drakyk and a trained swordfighter. Gyrryth is batted backwards by repetitive and skillful sword strikes, and it’s everything he can do to keep his guard up.
The blinded paladin recovers his senses, glaring at the girls. Coco yelps, “Eeep!” and she starts running towards the sand cruiser. The paladin roars, charging after her, and Coco asks, “Mae! Any more spits to sling!?”
Maerin retorts quickly, “I’m out! Just me drink!”
“Tricksie?”
I’m out of magic, right?
“I’m out!”
Coco calls out, “MURY! HELLLP!” It’s probably because she doesn’t know what else to do, and she’ll get all three of them killed if she tries to face down a paladin head-to-head.
It seems to work, though. The human warrior pivots, launching a dagger in a swift motion.
Oh, thank you, you handsome human you.
The dagger finds a mark in the paladin’s back. He grunts, stumbling briefly, but he shakes it off, rising to his full height to continue charging. The fairy’s expression hardens. She snaps her fingers under her other armpit as she murmurs almost silently, “Death.”
The paladin pursuing the girls suddenly collapses in a noisy clanging and crashing of metal, and the battle rages on as Coco continues her flight to the sand cruiser, only turning around when she has something to put between her and a heavily armored and armed enemy.
Coco asks, “Oi! What sto’d his tocka!?”
Lykha looks at Maerin, who is looking at her. The younger fairy quickly replies, “It was Mury! He threw a dagger! What a lucky hit!”
While the senior fairy doesn’t say anything to confirm, she also doesn’t say anything suspicious or refuting.
Great. What was I supposed to do, though? Damn idiots.
Coco asks, “Go’ any thinks for helpin’ ‘em!?”
Both Maerin and Lykha look around. Lykha looks at the sand cruiser, asking, “Coco, you can drive this, right?”
The teen looks at the sand cruiser, spitting out as if it should be obvious, “‘Course! Bu’ a clou’s blue on a shine day!”
“Great. Because paladin armor has a weight limit.”
Coco looks at Maerin, and the latter nods in agreement, even though both are surprised. A big grin, however, forms across Coco’s face.
***************************************
Archbishop Phudre has been in the Holy Church of the Spoken Realm’s Protector Corps since he was old enough to hold a sword of his own. He has ascended through blood, sweat, and tears. He heard the stories of the battles occurring at the fringes of civilization and the supposed man who brought down mountains to defeat an army. He waited in tense suspense for news of the first attack on one of the Great Cities.
But, the Holy Church held the line. The armies of the south could not press into the north. The demons and their heathen ways of dark magic were kept at bay.
And the peasant folk celebrated a peasant hero.
Phudre may be watching his brothers in arms fall, but he was granted plenty of time. He channels the energy of the spirits through himself as a conduit of their divine grace. He has been granted protection of the light, power of the void, flames of the fire, breath of the wind, flowing rhythm of the water, and solid defense of the land. A powerful aura of energy swirls around him, and he can feel the magic swirling through him. His shield glows with the energy of Gruicelle, and his blade trails dark energy of Nieolsynys. He is a living tank, and the powerless human warrior may be skilled, but no blade can pierce his defense.
Murtoa of Lakia may be a legendary name, but he is not infallible. He turned his back on the Church, and he has now betrayed them. He must die before he can use his name to rally more dissenters.
The human vagrant warrior spins the kusarigama he stole, looping it quickly around his left forearm, twisting it around his own gauntlet. When it reaches the blade, he catches it, sticking the blade in under the wire to stow it. He sprints at Brother Yanch, the paladin whose sword was taken by the traitor Gyrryth. Murtoa leaps into a dropkick to Yanch’s flank as the paladin attempts to jog around behind the drakyk spellshot. Yanch is stumbled to the side, catching himself and bracing with his shield. A paladin has two weapons; a mighty sword and a heavy shield, both of which a paladin worth either can do immense damage with. Murtoa rolls backwards to recover his footing.
However, a noise catches Phudre’s attention. He glances, but lets instincts take over, diving to his left.
The roar of a full-throttle sand cruiser races close and zips past Phudre by a narrow margin.
Yanch is not so lucky. A metallic clunk batters repeatedly under the hull of the sand cruiser, and the paladin tumbles to a stop in the damp sand.
The cruiser circles wide, lining back up with the Archbishop. He rises to his feet, entering his iron shield stance. His shield begins to glow more vibrantly as he charges energy. The harder he is hit, the harder the recoil on the attacker. The vehicle will be smashed to pieces.
Murtoa runs up the drakyk Paladin, Halbyrnn’s back, suspending himself from the warrior’s collar as he jams a dagger into the gap under the helmet. Halbyrnn stumbles, reaching up to try to dislodge the human warrior. Murtoa is not so easily shaken off, and he jabs the blade several times. It’s hard to tell if he’s making hits, but it becomes apparent when Gyrryth moves and takes hold of his stolen blade with both hands.
Phudre has a choice to make; focus on demolishing the vehicle or dodge and attempt to save Halbyrnn.
However, they are outnumbered. The young women may be inconsequential as combatants compared to Murtoa and Gyrryth, but they are clearly crafty and dangerous. Incapacitating them is a must. A fully realized paladin like Phudre can defeat any skill-level of human warrior, and a spellshot whose spells are expended is virtually nothing to him.
Phudre braces, channeling his full light power into his shield. It glows brightly.
However, just as the impact is about to come, the fairies both urge in a panic for the teen girl to divert. The vehicle swerves at the last second, cutting into the sand as its wing dips. Sparks and rumbles fly as sand sprays into the air and part of the wing shatters into pieces.
Phudre swings his sword in frustration, but it only scrapes the vehicle as it rumbles to a rough stop.
Halbyrnn cries out, clutching his side after a powerful impact from Gyrryth. This gives Murtoa enough opportunity to force the paladin’s head down, opening the gap in the back of his neck armor. The human warrior finishes the job with one more merciless stab of the blade, and he rides Halbyrnn to the ground as the drakyk paladin collapses.
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Phudre growls, charging towards them. Murtoa hears him coming and spins, backpedalling as he observes the paladin’s blade. Phudre swings, and Murtoa ducks, avoiding the attack as he quickly darts around the paladin’s side, attempting to keep the shield between them. It shortens Phudre’s reach, sure, but he is a paladin and an Archbishop. His shield is only slightly less of a weapon than his sword.
Gyrryth tries to come to Murtoa’s aid, and Phudre blocks the strike using his shield with ease. He spins in a powerful whirl, slamming Gyrryth with a charged shield bash, and the energy explodes, launching the drakyk spellshot back. Gyrryth tumbles to the sand as Yanch’s sword pierces the sand nearby.
Murtoa has recovered the grapnel glaive from where he speared Brother Lucone. The human warrior’s deft and accurate hand motions with the weapon are as natural as all the others. It’s impressive that a former artilleryman carries such skill. But, it is no matter.
“Are you sure you wish to face me, Murtoa of Lakia? Your wounds are adding up.” Blood drips from Murtoa’s armor. In spite of his skill, he is not invincible.
However, whether through foolish bravado or naive heroism, Murtoa does not back down.
Phudre jogs closer, mindful of the sand cruiser. The girls have disembarked, but the teen is carrying a combat scythe. The Archbishop scoffs to himself. He dares the peasant heathen to attempt to fight him.
Murtoa keeps his footwork careful, and Phudre taunts, “You’ve assembled quite the crew since last we met, Murtoa.”
“Same as earlier today.”
“I’m not surprised you don’t remember. Loyal servants of the Spirits are far more numerous than a vagabond wearing a name he did not earn.”
Phudre lunges, spearing his sword forward. Murtoa quickly sidesteps, attempting to hook the blade with the grapnel end of the polearm. Phudre draws back and powerfully swings in a clockwise swing, keeping his shield close to front.
Murtoa attempts a soft parry, but he doesn’t rely on the blade of the polearm, and for good reason. A shard of the metal blade is sliced clean off by the void-magic-infused blade of Phudre’s sword.
Blade on blade will not work for Murtoa, and he seems to realize this instantly. He tumbles swiftly under a back swing of Phudre’s, spinning back to his feet. The unorthodox warrior hooks the grapnel end to the top edge of Phudre’s shield. The paladin scoffs. No one wins a tug of war against a Paladin Archbishop for his shield.
However, Phudre has a moment of struggle attempting to lift it. He finds that Murtoa is now hanging from the shield as if it were a wall. He hefts himself up over the top, punching down on Phudre’s helmet’s visor.
The impact isn’t physically damaging, but it does rattle Phudre momentarily. In that moment of temporary delay -that split second of hesitation in the Archbishop-, Murtoa touches something from his pouch to the Archbishop’s helmet.
A sudden impact jolts through Phudre’s entire body, as if he was just punched in the spine. The jolt and pain combined drop Phudre to a knee. He grunts, pressing himself with sheer willpower. Murtoa tries to hit him again, but the Archbishop surges strength and slams the shield down to the side. Murtoa avoids being pinned, but is hit by the shield as Phudre slams his full weight down.
Murtoa stumbles back, helped to stable footing by Gyrryth. Phudre rises to his feet, stomping down on the small device the monster slayer used. It shatters with a small crackle, and the teen girl in the dress cries out, “Hey!”
He doesn’t take his eyes off of Murtoa though. He is not an orthodox fighter, and he is not an honorable warrior. He is used to fighting monsters on the fringes of civilization, but he knows little of warfare and defending the innocent.
Gyrryth offers the sword to Murtoa, stating “Sir Murtoa. This will likely serve you far better than I.”
Murtoa asks only, “Can you use the other spellshot’s equipment?”
Gyrryth looks. “I shall see.”
Phudre growls, “You will not, traitor!” He charges in, and Murtoa takes the sword, using both weapons. Strangely, he’s yet to draw the sword hilted at his hip.
The human warrior manages to keep the flat of Phudre’s sword against Yanch’s, and he attempts to spear the Archbishop with the polearm. Phudre’s shield is a part of him, though, and he keeps it close, deflecting the polearm.
Murtoa acrobatically twists under Phudre’s sword once more, doing his best to control the Archbishop’s momentum, but Phudre surprises him when he spins all the way around, slamming Murtoa with his shield charged. The energy explodes out, and Murtoa tumbles across the sand.
Phudre can feel his mana dip. He’ll have to be mindful how many times he uses heavy spells like that, but he needs one more for the moment. He chants, “Come forth, Wisp of Schieranna! Burn thee to ash!” A swirl of cinders circles his right forearm as he holds his sword like a holy symbol and casts the spell. Murtoa calls out, “Gyrryth!”
The drakyk spellshot looks and dives to the side as quickly as he can, but a heavy portion of his left side is caught in the column of fire that blasts past him. Gyrryth cries out in pain, clutching his arm.
Murtoa launches himself forward, nearly taking Phudre’s hand when the Archbishop has to adjust his posture again. The human warrior releases the sword after a quick hit, stepping against the shield again. This time, though, he kicks up into a high jump, and he spears the polearm down. Phudre takes it on his collar, shrugging his shoulders to turtle his helmet down defensively. He tries to charge-bash with his shield again, but Murtoa has already kicked into a backflip, landing near the sword. Without sacrificing a beat, Murtoa takes the sword again, launching in close once more. He seems to be fighting with yet another style, telegraphing several moves before his actual swing takes place, and he becomes much more difficult to parry.
Fortunately, Phudre is far more heavily armored. He tries to follow Murtoa’s movements, taking a shielded step towards the warrior. He only barely recoils his head in time, as a blade sweeps through the horizontal opening of Phudre’s helmet -a slit barely wider than a blade-. He can feel the air and the inside of his helmet lights up with sparks.
Phudre takes a lunging step, halted at the stomach suddenly.
He looks down, finding the polearm positioned as a wedge against his abdomen.
The sword slams his helmet near his neck, and the Archbishop stumbles. He has little control of his momentum, so he seizes what he can by diving forward, tumbling on his right shoulder to keep his shield from blocking him. He swings his shield viciously with a charge, but he finds nothing but air.
Suddenly, a star-shaped creature is launched at his helmet, and Phudre flinches back as it hits his helmet. Surprise and panic grip him, and he quickly batters his own helmet to try to keep the creature from latching onto him. He throws the compromised helmet to the sand, desperate not to be…
The maigon has already flopped lifelessly on the sand at his feet, and his helmet now tumbles away from him. Murtoa even trots by to kick the helmet even further, though the human warrior is finally panting.
Phudre growls, kicking the maigon’s corpse aside. “You are a deceitful warrior of some skill, but you are running out of tricks.”
Murtoa replies with a hint of winding in his breath, “Every trick I use is one less remaining.”
It irritates the Archbishop some that, even after slaying several loyal servants of the cloth, there isn’t a single ounce of remorse in the treacherous warrior’s tone.
“None of you can leave. Your interference sealed your fates.”
“Usually does.”
Phudre keeps his calm, but he sucks his teeth in disgust. All he’s doing is giving Murtoa a breather.
He grips his shield once more, storming forward. Murtoa tries to keep his motions similar to the last maneuver, but Phudre is ready this time. He feigns a light shield bash, recoiling instantly. This almost catches Murtoa as he tries for another aerial attack, and the warrior stumbles once before diving to Phudre’s left, once more keeping the shield between himself and the sword.
Phudre pivots the opposite direction, sweeping his sword low. However, his right foot is blocked by a kick, and he nearly falls. The Archbishop rears his shield to slam it down where Murtoa is. He charges his shield, slamming it down with as much force as he can generate. His energy is getting low, but a blast of sand erupts. Murtoa isn’t smashed by the impact, but he is thrown once more to the ground by the blast.
This time, Phudre closes the distance before Murtoa can escape, and he slams the lesser warrior with his shield. Murtoa coughs, but he manages to parry a follow-up sword strike by slamming the Archbishop’s wrist with Yanch’s sword. Phudre’s blade slams the sand next to Murtoa’s collar.
A fist full of sand is thrown, and Phudre manages to close his eyes and turn his head, avoiding the bulk of the sand. He pins his boot down forcefully on Murtoa’s chest, and the warrior coughs again. The Archbishop drags his blade intentionally across Murtoa’s collar, cutting flesh. He then presses the point to the warrior’s neck.
“MURY!” The teen’s voice cries out from only a couple yards behind the Archbishop. He looks, and she, along with the two fairies on her shoulders, stand together, holding the combat scythe that she can barely keep the head off of the ground.
Phudre scoffs. “Try it, child. Heresy knows not age, and mercy excludes none.”
She trembles as she tries to grip the scythe, clearly seriously contemplating swinging it.
“Archbishop, please stop this.” The voice to speak is Eandenui, a paladin dangerously close to betraying the cloth and earning herself a place alongside these traitors and heathens. She adds, “It’s over.” She gestures at Maribel, who is sitting up in the arms of Tomoba, with nothing but a blanket covering her. “The girl is safe.”
Phudre hisses, “That thing was never meant to survive the process. And it cost us a valuable weapon.”
Murtoa coughs, stating, “Maigons are weapons of Nature. Nothing more.”
Phudre presses his blade a little further, drawing blood. “I should make an example of you on the spirit altar. The beloved knight proven to be a traitor. YOU of all people should know what lies south of the wall, and that it is one of them. The Premier committed an act of madness when he adopted a demon, clearly succumbing to darkness. This… incident may not have gone to plan, but it will still serve our needs. ‘Dragon kidnaps Princess, Murtoa of Lakia kills dragon and consequently, the Princess, and the Holy Church avenges her death.’ A fable created Murtoa of Lakia, a fable is fitting to destroy him.”
Coco exclaims nervously, trying not to provoke a killing blow, “‘S all true! Mury is the monsty slaya everyone says! Me own peeps peeped it!”
Phudre scoffs, musing caustically, “A single knight defeats an army AND a colossus, ending a war? No greater fiction exists in this world.”
“Why yer fancy spirir bricks spit such a gab, then!? Why would ‘ey?”
The older fairy retorts drunkenly, “Ma’es mo’e sense ‘an a arg-... ark-... ar-cannon-ery… person... Mury, all by his lonesome being a normsal person *hic*.”
Murtoa coughs, murmuring, “The war never ended.”
Phudre looks down at him with hateful eyes, and then glares at Gyrryth as the spellshot tries to limp closer wielding a warhammer. He pivots his shield arm towards the teen again when she tries to raise the scythe’s blade up, and she braces the shaft on the sand as she squeaks, “Eep!”
He then looks to Eandenui, growling, “They have killed your brothers, Sister Eande. They have desecrated a sacred tool. Is this the knight of legend you admire, or a heretic and a terrorist threatening the security of the Holy Church?”
“What weapon did he destroy, Archbishop? The city?”
There’s a moment of quiet as Phudre contemplates his actions. The most effective way to use Murtoa’s death is to publicly try him and execute him, as there are many imposters out there and saying he died would fizzle out quickly. Even publicly executing him may not be enough to kill a name with far too much power behind it.
Additionally, he is sensing hesitation in Eandenui that will make it difficult to cover up the truth without killing her. Leaving only himself alive will make it especially difficult to corroborate his story that he was the only survivor without severe cowardice involved.
But, the labors of the righteous path are not meant to be easy.
“I am the Archbishop. It is my word against the dead. And I condemn all of you traitors to die.”
Just before he leans on his sword, Murtoa’s forearm slams the blade, shrieking as metal wire scrapes across it and deflects the blade off of his neck -though not without slicing a shallow wound in his skin-, and the blade pierces once more into the sand. He even pulls the blade down with his glove, which off-balances Phudre a little.
In the same instant, a slashing pain burns into Phudre’s thigh, and he shouts, stumbling back as Murtoa kicks his hand powerfully as he rolls. Phudre’s sword clangs across the sand, and he stumbles several paces back to gain distance as he touches his thigh.
Murtoa finally drew his sheathed sword, having slashed Phudre’s inner thigh. He just as quickly sheathes the sword, and the teen calls out, “Mury!” She shoves the scythe towards him, and he catches it it.
Eandenui draws her sword, and Gyrryth steps up next to Murtoa.
“You are, all of you, TRAITORS! You spit on the safety and security of the cities after leeching our resources! None of you would be alive without the Holy Church! And none of you can stand against it! I AM THE ARCHBISHOP! I WIELD THE DIVINE POWER OF THE SPIRITS!”
A young female voice hisses in counter to him, “Not anymore. Looks like you just ran out of magic.”
He looks to the source. It wasn’t the teen, but it was from her shoulder, and a foreboding feeling grips his soul.
The voice very clearly came from the younger fairy, but she is not the same. The body is the same, the outfit is the same, and her company are the same. But, this is not the young fairy accompanying Murtoa and Gyrryth.
Buried deep in her eyes is a powerful gaze that pierces into him.
And all at once he knows the truth.
That truth frightens him very much.
*****