Chapter 134 - Willow in the Western Wind II
Beckard paced back and forth in his office as he watched the sun peak above the horizon. If the celestial was to be believed, the attack on the citadel would be resuming in short order. As a whole, their circumstances were looking grim. Zelos was still missing, and neither Sylvia nor Claire had returned. All three of them, he presumed dead.
Zelos’ demise was obvious. The elf was a clear priority target that Alfred had no reason to overlook. He doubted that the celestial had singled out either of the other two, but the chimera was reckless, and while he knew little about Sylvia, he was well aware that the average Llystletein fox was not at all a frightening combatant. Their raw ability scores were overwhelming, but few ever accrued the experience required to make any use of them, and the circumstances at hand appeared to suggest that they had been overwhelmed with raw numbers.
Marleena, the scout he had sent after the pair, had been forced to retreat immediately upon entering the forest. Her report confirmed that they had greatly underestimated the size of Alfred’s army. There were mirewulves everywhere; a seemingly endless torrent of modified dryads had suddenly sprung from the soil without warning. The wave had forced them to retreat, to abandon the fortress they built and the hundreds of constructs Archibald had placed within it. Returning to the citadel’s barrier, which they had erected the night prior, had minimized casualties, but it was difficult to say if their success would continue. It would only be a matter of time before the artificer ran out of machines. It took him over thirty hours to make one, and years to construct the sacrifices that had been consumed the previous day.
“Damn it, Zelos. How’d he catch you off guard?” Gritting his teeth, the cat-sith grabbed his gauntlets and made his way out the door. There was no time for him to lollygag. Archibald had already activated the barrier, and the monsters had already started to gather. He needed to get to his position before they arrived.
After stepping out of the cathedral and walking down the street, he looked into the sky to find that the assailants differed slightly from those that had attacked the previous day. Most prominent were the fire elementals; the molten cetaceans had grown crystalline shells visible from even a mile away. He couldn’t quite discern the clear material’s precise identity from afar, but he suspected that it was made of glass, specifically the type that would render Archibald’s weaponry less effective. The armoured whales were not alone in the sky. They shared the airspace with the chain lords, which had changed from owls to eagles; they had sharper beaks, larger talons, and thin, lithe frames more suited to high speed flight.
Similar changes could be seen in the others as well. The mirewulves were larger and had more tendrils, the gator monsters had grown sails, and the monopusses had sprouted horns, obvious catalysts to empower the magical abilities they previously lacked. It was impossible to gauge the precise increase without getting close, but he suspected that the average monster was roughly twice as strong, a clear sign that more casualties were sure to arise.
That, however, was where the bad news ended. Accompanying the increase in quality was a disproportionate decrease in quantity. The populations were at only a tenth of their previous size. Beckard was almost tempted to think that the celestial was more interested in putting out a show than truly wiping them out, a mistake the demigod was sure to regret.
“Morning.” Archibald nodded at the cat as he reached the pillar at the barrier’s center. The huskar was hunched over, with his back against the medical-ward-cum-weapon-storage’s open door and one of his arms resting atop a propped up knee.
He was one of the only two present. The other was Lova, who was sitting up in her bed with two of her arms flipping through a novel titled “Shblbbhsh and Clkclkc” and the other two cupping her reddened cheeks. She had been cleared to leave the ward the previous evening, after she gained a level and grew out her missing limb, but she had opted to remain, citing her nocturnal nature and the accompanying inability to sleep.
“Good morning, Archibald,” said the cat. “Did you sleep well?”
“Well enough to hold out for another two days,” grunted the dog.
“Better than me then.” The priest reached under his robe and pulled off the bandolier strapped to his shoulder. It was covered with a number of odd parts, made of a wide variety of different shapes and sizes. The only shared property was that they were all marked with light purple runes, glowing just dimly enough to be made out. “If you could.”
“Do I look like I’m made of magic?” groaned the huskar.
“You look like you’re made of artifacts,” said the cat. “So yes, in effect at least.”
“That was a rhetorical question, y’damned zealot. Now give it here.”
Snatching the item from the tiny feline, Archibald ran his fingers across each of the nodes in turn, popping out the ones that didn’t glow as strongly when touched, and replacing them with similarly shaped devices from the pouch on his waist.
“You used way too much magic for a man against nothing but small fry.”
“It’s been a while since I last cut loose. I was a little… too rough on them. I needed the extra mana for repairs,” explained the priest.
“Go easier next time. This stuff doesn’t grow on trees.” The dog returned the magical battery pack as he got to his feet and began walking towards the pillar he was assigned. “I can cover more of the south this time. If you and Fred can both get a bit of a bigger area, we should be able to keep the east from collapsing.”
“Good idea,” said the cat-sith. “Speaking of, where is Fred?” He strapped his magical supply back around his shoulder and attached one end to each of his gauntlets as he spoke.
“Already at his post. He’s been there since before I went to sleep. Doubt the idiot got any rest.”
“He should be fine even without it.”
After sending Lova off to grab the rest of the eastern wall’s protectors, the feline headed north and drove the monsters away.
Many of the citadel’s fighters struggled against the upgraded monsters, but Archibald’s strategy aided them in getting through the second morning. Lunch didn’t come with any breaks, but the cat-sith kept his energy tank full by nibbling on the occasional frog.
It wasn’t until the early afternoon that they encountered their first major threat. Brightmoss Maze’s wave finally made its way up through the various transportation systems and joined the fray. There were ascended hellhogs and veabers aplenty, but none of them caught Beckard’s attention. That was stolen instead by the sole anomaly standing in the middle of the crowd. Towering over all its peers and covered from head to toe in armour, it marched with its back straight and its horse-shaped mouth dribbling with foam. It was a monster he would have preferred never to see again, and the only thing to have given even a drop of experience past level 200.
It was the equitaur from the bottom floor, the one that guarded the gate to the sixth hexstone. Unlike the others, it hadn’t been turned into a lord; it was exactly as it was in its chamber. Because it didn’t need to be any different. The equitaur was not an ordinary monster. It was a trial.
The grand duelist would match and exceed whatever it fought, be it an individual or a group. The only way to beat it was to overcome one’s own weaknesses and exceed the limits that the equitiaur assumed. It had taken Beckard thirty years of battling the monster to return his classes to level 600, and each fight had been just as grueling as the last. Every success required a deep contemplation of his own strengths and weaknesses and a careful examination of the avenues he could use to grow. The beast would have been an excellent training tool, had its mortality rate been any lower. But as it stood, most of those that challenged it had found themselves crushed beneath its halberd and made into another stain on its battered red armour.
Scanning the battlefield, Beckard found he wasn’t the only one to have spotted it. Fred was already dashing across the city, charging the distant horse-headed beast with his three-pronged spear aflame.
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“Spotted equitaur! Handle, me will!” shouted the goblin.
“I’ll cover your station! Focus on the fight!” Beckard shifted slightly towards the western pillar and established as wide a domain as he could. It took a fair bit of effort to constantly run between the two posts, but it was the least he could do to alleviate some of Fred’s burden. The less he thought about anything but the horse-beast, the more likely he was to come out on top.
He occasionally looked in the battle’s direction, but only ever caught the odd glimpse. It was difficult to tell what was going on with all the bodies in the way. The only thing he could say for sure was that their duel was slowly carrying them over towards the floating island’s edge.
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After ridding the surroundings of any extraneous veabers and destroying the building in his way with his hammer, the smith faced the equitaur with his trident held in both hands. The beast responded in kind and readied its halberd as they slowly circled around. Its movements were slow and patient, tuned to just the right speed to maintain the distance between them.
Knowing that the clock was ticking against him, the goblin was the first to make a move and break the stalemate. He dashed towards the monster, ducked under the incoming swing, and extended the edge of his blade towards its throat. It almost looked like the weapon would land, but the bipedal horse avoided the impact by rearing its head back and retaliating with a low, sweeping strike.
The equitaur’s strike was even more accurate than the goblin’s, but a loud, metallic clang stopped it in the midst of its execution; a flying hammer crashed into the side of the blade and smashed its edge into the stone-paved streets. A kick further cemented the weapon’s position, but Fred was unable to commit to a telling blow. He had to back off when the monster lowered its head and threatened to wrench open his throat with its horns.
Leaping away, the purple-skinned smith cupped his spare hand and brought it to his mouth. His cheeks swelled as his body lit up. His linen shirt was turned to ash, burned away by the magical crest inscribed atop his right shoulder. A system of tattoos, a complex magic circuit, stretched from his core and reached the outer limits of his form. The magic within surged as a brilliant purple flame erupted from his lips and doused the surrounding area in heat. It was a technique meant for tempering a blade, adapted to battle by way of his ingenuity. The ardent blaze melted the road and turned it into a pit of lava. The equitaur’s ankles were swallowed by the molten rock, but its fur was never lit aflame.
Its ability to adapt, to pose a challenge to any fighter, had rendered it immune to heat. Its resistance was a problem that left the goblin with few options. Fire was Fred’s primary means of offense, a key piece of his identity that had managed to work its way into every one of his classes. But he was unconcerned.
He had known that the monster would be heatproof, just as it had been the last five dozen times he’d fought it. That was why he had aimed low.
His target was never the monster, but rather its weapon.
He had only heated the axe-headed spear to enable another one of his core abilities. When his hammer next touched the centaur’s blade, it bent the weapon completely out of shape. The metal conformed to his will without the slightest resistance; its handle snapped back, wrapping around the monster’s arm and locking it in place.
He dashed up to the giant, circled to its weak side, and stabbed his trident into his fur. Knowing that the wound was shallow, he reeled the weapon back for a second attack, but found it stuck in the creature’s flesh. The horse had flexed its massive biceps to lock the armament in place. Its bulging muscles were overpowering. They snapped its restraint and destroyed the binding that had once been its spear.
Retrieving the trident was a lost cause.
With a small frown, Fred let go of the weapon and leapt backwards whilst avoiding a flurry of punches, with only a few of them grazing his frame and cutting his skin. They were roughly even. Just as expected. Both had lost a weapon, and both had been dealt the odd inconsequential wound.
The uneventful engagement was sure to have been only one of many, had a song not immediately washed over the battlefield. Its short vibrant notes came with an immediate sense of recognition. The tune was one of Zelos’ classics, a combination of several spellsongs that would bolster his power almost tenfold.
He was late, and his absence was completely unexplained, but knowing that he was alive and present filled Fred with a sense of security.
With him on the field, their victory was assured.
Alfred’s army would be unable to overcome their defenses.
Without turning his head, Fred greeted the incoming elf with a casual wave and engaged his foe with his hammer held firmly in his grasp. He faced the horse-headed monster head on and parried the hundred punches it threw every second. By engaging it, he was keeping it held perfectly still, so that Zelos could ambush it as soon as he joined the fray. And the elf prepared to do just that. He reeled back his bloodied cursed sword and thrusted it with all his might.
The blade struck true, piercing straight into his target’s side. It tore through the monster’s ribs, pulverizing them as he destroyed both lungs with its sharpened edge. The blade was twisted further up into the unsuspecting victim’s body, stabbing its way through the side of its throat, nearly decapitating it. Having failed to anticipate the attack, his victim opened its eyes wide and gasped for air as it broke away.
Blood dribbled from its lips, his lips, as he coughed.
Questions raced through the goblin’s mind, but none could be voiced. The only sounds that came from his throat were bloody gurgles. His voice box had been destroyed, and it showed no signs of regenerating. Like the blade that inflicted it, the wound was cursed. He needed a priest to undo it, if he wished for any chance of recovery.
He wanted to fly into a rage and unleash his might upon the traitor, but he knew better than to let his emotions take control. He was already out of breath. It was impossible for him to draw out the full extent of his power with his windpipe crushed. His muscles would fail if they were left to run on nothing but the mana flowing through his circuits.
So he backed off. He turned tail and ran for the nearest alleyway, but his legs were weak. They shook each time he took a step. Zelos and the equitaur were gaining on him. Rapidly. Too rapidly.
He could feel his blood run cold.
He already knew.
He was going to die.
Fred didn’t know where he went wrong. There was no purpose in Zelos’ betrayal. Their quest was shared. There was no reason for him to discard the reward that had cost him his last seventy years, just to stab them in the back right as their plan was about to come to fruition. Even if something happened to his family.
Victory was beyond his grasp. There was no way for him to face Zelos and the equitaur alone. The others wouldn’t make it in time. He had been drawn too far away from them; he doubted that either was even aware of his plight.
He was going to die.
Blood sputtered from the goblin’s throat as his legs gave out. He collapsed, falling onto the stone-paved street, but his body was pulled into the alley nonetheless. A power that wasn’t his own grabbed ahold of him and reeled him into the back street. He was hoisted through several narrow passageways before he was finally set down and propped up against a wall.
When he looked up, through his glassy, bloody eyes, he found another one of the missing persons. Claire was standing in front of him with everything but her head obscured by a thick leather cloak.
He opened his mouth to offer a groan of thanks, but she spoke before he could squeeze out a sound.
“You’ve been cursed,” she said. “You don’t have very long. Maybe a few minutes at best.”
He wanted to object. Though the wound was bad, it had missed his heart. He would be fine, so long as he was able to make his way to Beck before he bled out.
“Beckard’s dead.”
As if reading his mind, she crushed his hopes. Before they could even be conveyed.
He couldn’t believe it. He didn’t want it to be true.
“Zelos already killed him.”
But the outcome almost seemed like a given. Beckard always had been the worst duelist among them, and Zelos the best. Even with his mind hazy, he could easily foresee a conflict between them swiftly ending in the cat-sith’s demise.
“You have two choices.” There was a silvery glint as she produced a dagger from inside her cloak. “You can resist, give him the experience, and make it harder for the rest of us.” The blade’s edge almost seemed to warp as it reflected the icy blue light radiating from her chest. “Or you can yield.”
The light turned golden as it spread from her core. It ran down her arm, twisting along its length like a snake before encasing his creation in a thin layer of ice.
“Feed me the experience instead, and I’ll kill him by sundown.”
He didn’t think she could do it. Zelos was too far beyond her.
But he began to have second thoughts as he slowly raised his head and looked into her eyes.
They were as cold as the ice she wielded.
She was looking at him not as prey, but an insignificant piece of garbage by the wayside. The same eyes that most had looked at him with, prior to his first ascension, when he was as weak as a human child.
He couldn’t help but feel like he was beneath her, like he was being offered a deal by a malicious dark god.
Like she could carry on his will.
So he accepted.
Unsteadily, he grabbed her hand.
His blood vessels crystallised and burst as they came into contact with her frozen fingers, but he ignored the pain.
And guided her blade to his chest.
He couldn’t help but chuckle. At the thought of being killed by one of his own creations. It almost felt like something of a cycle, a sort of flow that would please the goddess to whom his soul would never return.
Smiling softly, he closed his eyes and said one last prayer. An ode to the flow. To the traitor’s demise. And the malevolent deity’s rise.