VAASTILIMI

The metal gauntlet of the Swornslayer suit easily pierces the thick wood of an eating room, an’ he pulls the planks down, creating a makeshift doorway. Kin pour out, braves and younglings, mothers and elders; an’ they look upon him in the Swornslayer.

That brings them further fear. He turns; unable to look at their faces. A bolt of electricity arcs through the air; slaughtering three different duskwraiths — turning their silghtly-oiled skin alight an’ reducing the rest of them, insides and outsides, to a charr. The smell of roasted meat doesn’t reach him through the mask.

The Swornslayer is immune to gas; resistant to all forms of damage, and has the ability to keep a user alive within it even if they lose their heartbeat. It is a near-perfect weapon… and when he finds who has attacked the city, he will make them feel every ounce of its power.

He looks up; as instructed, the spider-riders are bringing water from the reservoir atop Amorhai and dumping it upon the ropes; creating vast clouds of steam. It is no ordinary fire; hot enough that he can feel it through the armour, yet cold enough that it doesn’t near-instantly consume all its fuel in but a moment. Sticky, almost.

Three bumps alert him to an entity behind him an’ to the left — and the outer visor rotates to look at it; his blood runs cold despite the heat and despite the armour — and then he’s on the ground, dragged across the thick-planks. He can feel a pressure around the armpit, and powerful stomps near his head.

For a moment; he had thought it was the troll… but no. He brings his foot up and stomps it back into the ground, where the foot stays, anchoring his body like Amorhai itself. The creature dragging him; not expecting him to turn into dead weight, falls backwards, and he grabs the hook around his shoulder and breaks it in two with a quick palm.

His visor rotates back around; acquiring the target. It’s undeniably a duskwraith; but at least three times the size of others. A long hook ends in an obsidian-sharp talon made entirely out of tough, thick bone. Iridescent scales reflect the orange glow of fire — which she doesn’t seem to fear at all. It is the matriarch — no wonder it had the strength to drag a quarter-tonne suit of armour.

His eyes follow its intended path; and then narrow. It was going to throw him off. That might have been the end. It’s intelligent; obviously — and Vaastimilmi must stink of her clutch. After all, he found them turned to mush as if stamped on by a boot.

It screeches; an’ he sees Asritareen pull away out of pain. It whirls on the elder; leaping from standing to eviscerate the councilwomen. Vaastilimi kicks the thick-plank, trusting the sturdy wood to come loose rather than break — and it venerates his faith as the other end flies up and slams into the matriarch’s belly, sending her up a few meters. Asritareen — ever the dithering fool — stumbles backwards.

Vaastilimi is there quick enough to catch him before he falls. It would not do well for a councilwomen to die — at all — but certainly not by falling to the ground.

Besides; he owes the councilwomen an apology. He owes the entire council an apology. If he hadn’t been interrupting their work, he would have been focusing on his own… namely the security of his people. There is no world in which he lets a councilwomen die for his mistake. Not whilst he has the power to do so.

Fortunate, then, that most of them have come to the main living quarters. The matriarch lands, then gets up in a split second. Vaastilimi shuffles inside the armour. It’s a little too big; but any efforts to Reshape it over the years have been futile. Whatever it’s made of, the As’tiki cannot replicate it.

He squares up; holding a wide stance. Once, the suit had an accompanying spear — the actual Swornslayer — but the Emperor had taken that along with as much else as he could… but never showed interest in the suit itself. Now, Vaastilimi uses the suit as a weapon, ready to grapple with the matriarch.

If they kill her, maybe, just maybe, the others will slink off.

Time to wake up from the dream.

He charges, spinning his arms in small circles; an attempt to confuse. He grabs for her leg; she pulls it away. A slash across the visor sends his head slamming into the side, but the suit takes nothing. A fist connects with her neck; a tendril wraps around his leg and yanks, sending him face-first into the ground — the unyielding wood refusing to slow his descent.

A hand around her leg; finally caught. He pulls it, drags her down it his level, and then he whirrs the machinery in the fist and explodes all of the coiled force in a single instant, like a long mace to bare flesh. He feels the bone underneath pulverise into fine powder; fat explodes from the fresh-cuts along with a torrent of blood. It coats his visor; and he feels the matriarch squirm until it rips off its own leg — freeing itself from his grasp, but at what cost?

He wipes away the blood in time for a solid-scaled head to slam into his chest, what must be a near half-tonne of muscle and bone crashing into him all at one. How? How does it drive itself with only a single leg?

Six tendrils find home in crevices; small rocks, supportive pillars. They pull until they begin to snap — but he is pulled with them. Nearing the edge; nearing death. He raises a fist; but her tail smacks into the helmet, both covering the visor and knocking his head to the side. He tastes blood — a cut on his forehead. Then he feels… faint.

Not a cut on his forehead… he feels the pain now, cutting through the adrenaline like a scalpel through As’tiki flesh. His skull is cracked. He has to finish this now; he sends a flurry of wild blows — aiming for something, anything. His vision swims; where is he; what can he do? Nothing?

A blow connects; he feels a series of cracks each louder than the last — they rumble through the metal and reverberate in the hollow space until it’s a deafening echo. The tail slips away; an’ the weight of the matriarch rests down on him.

He’s slammed to the ground; but the matriarch hold still. He’s won… now they just have to clear up the rest of them. He pushes it off. It’s not dead, still giving small, insignificant screeches. A massive bruise permeates through its skin along the entire left side — where he hit.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

He goes to lift his leg; then stumbles. His balance is off; enough that the suit thinks its an intentional movement and doesn’t balance it out. He falls to a knee; then takes the arm out of the suit an’ puts it up to his head; trying to feel the wound. Blood has drenched the side of his face; his skull is torn open.

“Vahum!” shouts Asritareen; and Vaastilimi snaps to attention. Fear is etched in the Councilwomen’s words. He rotates the outer visor; unsure if he can turn his head and not faint. Anger doesn’t even begin to describe the feeling that shoots through him. A human stands there, roughly double the height of the councilwomen, holding a knife to his throat.

—

EMERIC

Emeric’s mind is on fire. Every stimuli pulses through his blood; and he holds a knife just inches from the As’tiki’s throat. The metal monstrousity ahead of him is dark-red, with massive width — shoulders the size of his head, forearms like cannon-barrels connecting to cold, hard fists.

He heard the tension inside release when it punched; heard the orchestra of broken bones; felt the satisfaction secondhand. Now, the As’tiki inside can’t even stand — yet the suit holds nary a tarnish. Covered in blood, singe-marks, soot, and even a strange lightning-shaped burn-mark, yes, but basically untouched. No dents; bruises nor even marks from those claws.

It had made him so jealous; and without thinking… he had sprung a trap birthed from a necessity to have it. He had gone up to the top area, and he’d seen the bowl of liquid gold…

If he brought that; and a Suit of Virika to his master… he’d fund an expedition to hunt the Wandering Troll on the spot. “As’tiki, you are a leader of sorts, yes? You can understand me?”

If the As’tiki seems bothered by the knife to his throat; he doesn’t show it. “Yes. I can.”

“Tell your warrior this; I will kill you if they do not leave the suit.”

The As’tiki scoffs. “As if he would. Not for me, human.”

The suit rises; and a pang of fear runs through him. Yet the movements are slow… the user is injured. If he can get them to move more, to aggravate the wound… perhaps he would not even need to force them out. He thinks for a moment; but then stops as a voice comes from the suit.

“Cannot. Leave. Need… for… troll…”

Emeric’s eyes go wide. They want to give the suit to the troll? That is beyond insanity. That cannot be allowed to come to pass. Then… angering the As’tiki inside would be the best deal.

Easy enough.

Emeric digs the knife in; enough that it draws blood. The As’tiki gasps, then begins to speak quickly. “Why are you here? Why did you do this?”

Does he deserve an answer, since he is about to die?

No.

“I think you want to kill the troll! No!?”

That catches his attention, but he doesn’t speak, not yet. The Suit takes a step closer.

“I find it a very unbelievable coincidence that a troll would show up at our doorstep with two injured friends, covered in burns; and then have an obvious alchemist come and set fire to our home. You’re a monster hunter, after the troll!? Am I right!? You brought fire because you know it to be their weakness? Do you think we’re harbouring it?”

He spins the As’tik around; looking at it as it continues. “We’re not — I swear! It’s up in the ritual area, suspended by poison and choked by rope; held over a pit of molten gold. If you would just stop—“

Emeric smacks the As’tiki across the face, a surprisingly painful endeavour thanks to the rigid exoskeleton. “You are lying. I saw the gold, yes, but there was no troll.”

The As’tiki’s face grows grey. “The troll… wasn’t there?”

Emeric shakes his head. “I know you are harbouring it. Tell me where it is.” He demands, then slips a small vial from his sleeve-bandolier into the palm of his hand; concealed by the As’tiki’s body.

“You don’t understand. If it’s not there… then… its free.” Fear somehow spreads further into the cracks in its face. A pool of eyes collected in a small disc scan the ceiling; the walls. It speaks, finally, its voice full of betrayal — and more fear. Terror, even. To the point where it doesn’t even seem afraid of him anymore. “Damn you, Honoured.”

“That’s fine.” Emeric responds. “As soon as I get that suit, I’ll find it… and I’ll kill it for you. I’m only interested in the troll; the rest of you can either die in the fire or put it out — I don’t care. I only want the troll.”

Not in the slightest bit true, of course. He’ll kill them all and come back for that gold. Unfortunate that most of the duskwraiths will be death — and you really need live specimens to distil if you want quality potions. Duskwraith potions go for a lot of money. Near-infinite night-vision, enhanced strength, a pack-instinct that gives you a metaphysical awareness of your surroundings. He’d tried it once. He can see why they would pay so highly for it.

“I can order our Vahum out of the suit. If you’ll kill the troll… and leave us alone.”

Emeric nods. “It’s a deal.” He says, giving a friendly smile. She turns and speaks in a language he can’t understand…

Then she closes her eyes. A horrible ripping feeling spikes through him; and he slashes the blade across her throat. Then he’s shunted backwards; her body snapping and twisting and crashing — into him — as the Suit’s fist breaks through the As’tiki’s body and grazes his arm.

He feels the shoulder snap under him; and pure spite runs through his veins as he throws the concealed vial in his hand directly towards the suit — where it lands directly on the head and blasts the visor back.

A second later, the suit freezes still, as if suspended in time. Not something his simple kinetic vial should have done — a protective measure, from the suit? It’s akin to being hit by a particularly heavy mace.

He’s not sure; he steps back, roaming his hand over his wound. Green-yellow blood coats him like it had just rained — not his own, obviously. There’s a break, at the highest point of the bone. Not clean by any means.

He checks his satchel; keeping an eye on the Suit — but he finds nothing. He’s completely out of potions, even those that could help reset a bone. He lets it hang limply as he carefully approaches the Suit of Virika… and it makes no movement.

He unfurls his spear; and a second later a steel rod fills it neatly. He pokes the suit… it doesn’t budge. His nose — akin to a dog’s at this point — smells blood, bone, and… grey matter? He wishes for a potion of vision-translucency… but that’s not something he normally carries and he certainly doesn’t have it now.

As it stands, there is no way of knowing if he’ll be grabbed and ripped apart the moment he steps forward to try and claim the suit; that the As’tiki inside isn’t just fainting. His mind skips through the options; run; wait; do it. It settles on pushing him forward. His hand touches the suit; nothing happens. His eyes dart between the fists; to the visor and back and back again. Not a hint of movement. He relaxes… just a bit.

Before, he’d thought it too small, if an As’tiki could operate it, and that he’d have to get it reshaped… but that doesn’t seem the case anymore. It’s about the right size, even.

Pain comes to him; from his side. He rips the cloth up, looking at the source — a large burn-cut over his abdominal muscles. Fire? No… too directed; with specific lines of black flesh. Lightning. If he hadn’t trusted his immediate instinct and slashed the As’tiki’s throat…

Where it had penetrated deeper, it had cauterised. In a few hours, he will be in a world of pain — but as it stands a mix of adrenaline and victory flood his veins, dulling the worst of it. Hopefully that one was the only mage they had; else the only one with a connection strong enough to create electricity usable for offence.

He looks upon the suit, smiling. All the pain will be worth it. He just needs to pry it open; remove the corpse inside — and then he can hunt his prey without fear, without worry. It will be so, so sweet. He’ll kill all the disgusting offspring of that beast… then finally hunt her down.

Finally. Peace is on the horizon.

Then words creep into his mind.

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