The smell was intoxicating to the point of putridity. The cork stopper would have fallen to the floor if Worne had spat it to the side, but the lingering flavour forced him to chew and swallow. Why did water never crystalise on the bottle? It was freezing to the touch despite being pressed to Worne’s body for days.

Another jolt of downward force caused Worne to collapse even further. His head lay flat on its side, his hand mere inches away, clutching the tiny bottle. Black vapour seeped from the neck, trailing into Worne’s nostrils as if guided by some unknown force. A flood of unwanted memories clawed their way back into the forefront of Worne’s thoughts, scratching, engraving plunging crevices deep into the folds of his brain.

Wincing, Worne pushed the bottle under his thick moustache and to his lips. The freezing, viscous liquid spread and coated his mouth like frost creeping through a cave. It slid down his throat with ease, searing with exquisite pain.

Worne’s senses—even those lost long ago—shocked his nervous system, jolting through his body like a blacksmith’s hammer against hardened steel. His back arched, convex, slowly lifting from the ground. Worne smiled a toothy grin. His breath, opaque and white, seeped through his teeth like steam. After years of slumber, after decades of catatonic stupor, Worne was finally awake; finally alive!

Daithi froze, Madwen’s nearly lifeless body slumping further under his powerful grip. Something was wrong—terribly, terribly wrong. Fear pierced his heart—no—something far beyond fear: doom, pure and absolute. Breath shallow, eyes wide and trembling, Daithi slowly twisted his neck.

There he stood, not Worne, not the bull he once taunted so gleefully, but an awesome vessel of inhuman wrath.

Stone cracked and crumbled beneath Worne’s every step like dry, brittle earth. The tremendous downward power that had previously bludgeoned him was now no more burdening than flakes of snow.

Daithi’s grip weakened and his shoulders dropped. How could he not have seen it? How could he have been so blind? He and Worne were the same, were they not?

A voice spoke to him—an embodiment of an ancient, instinctual terror etched into his very essence millions of years ago.

You are going to die.

Madwen dropped limp to the floor, the fearful lord backing away slowly, hands raised in surrender.

“Enough! I’ve let her go!” shouted Daithi, but Worne continued, inching closer, stepping around the pile of humans, each helpless soul pressed harder and harder against the floor.

“She’s a sorceress! Don’t forget why you exist!”

Worne stepped closer still, steadily raising a single, large hand toward Daithi’s throat. A thick cloth touched the back of Daithi’s head—a wall tapestry. Damn it! It was embarrassing. Backed into a corner like this? This was his kingdom, the fruits of his labour. Would he really allow one man to undo everything he had worked so hard for?

Dathi thought to speak, but his silver tongue tarnished, unwilling to move. There was no reasoning with a raging bull. His eyes sharpened. That leaves only one option.

Daithi bared his teeth.

Worne closed his fist and swung.

Daithi dropped low, swooping under Worne’s hulking arm with unparalleled agility.

Shards of chalky stone shot in all directions as Worne’s fist ploughed through the billowing tapestry and into the wall.

In one fluid motion, Daithi unsheathed his dagger and planted it deep into Worne’s thigh.

Worne’s eyes followed the obvious veteran, moving with grace and precision.

Daithi continued his attack, twirling around—

Worne caught Daithi by the cape.

The lord’s eyes bulged—the soft fabric pulling taught, collapsing his windpipe, sending him twirling into the air.

Worne yanked.

The cape’s clasp gave; Daithi’s skin burned as the fabric whipped past. His back slammed against the hard floor, forcing air through his bent trachea. He expected the strength… but the speed?

A shadow appeared above him. He breathed in sharp—air hissing through his throat—and rolled to the side.

Worne’s colossal boot came screaming down from the hells above like a falling star.

With a burst of strength, Daithi pushed against the floor and propelled himself to his feet.

The lord’s clothes still settling, a massive hand came tearing through the air.

Daithi quick-stepped back, but a clump of motionless bodies sent him stumbling to the floor yet again.

Worne roared, reaching for the lord in the mass of people. Never would Madwen accept the death of innocents, but with his strength, that’s all he would accomplish were he to attack.

Daithi scrambled backwards, gasping, continuously faltering and floundering. Finally, he found solid ground and rolled to his feet.

Worne dashed forward, raising his fists and unleashing a flurry of jabs.

There was no time to think; Daithi moved only on instinct. His muscles had memory, though decades had seen that memory fade.

At last, the inevitable had come. A single, tremendous blow struck Daithi squarely in the gut. The incredible force imparted upon the lord sent him tumbling through the air, slamming into the head table in a thunderous crash.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Daithi stared at the ceiling surrounded by twisted, splintered wood. Each strained breath wheezed and whistled. Deep footsteps reverberated in his head like a great cathedral, walking just outside his narrowing vision. The sound of wood scraping against stone flooded his senses until finally, Worne appeared above him wielding a table larger than even himself.

“Should have… know… it was… you…” Daithi coughed. Tiny speckles of blood spewed upward, then landed gently upon his face.

Lifting the table high above his head like an axe before a log, Worne roared once again.

“Enough!”

Silver light beamed from across the great hall, and suddenly, there was peace. Madwen stood warily, bracelets burning bright, energy almost entirely focused on the two fighting men. Neither could move, and nor would they until she allowed.

“Worne. Get the stranger. Don’t hurt a single soul, do you understand?” said Madwen, exhausted but in control. Under the tremendous force, Worne managed to look at Madwen with a single eye only. Any strength he had, he used to keep himself standing and breathing.

“Good.” Madwen released her magic and her bracelets dimmed in kind. Worne’s head snapped toward her, fury boiling within. He knew he stood no chance against her—he’d always known this—but a part of him hoped his full strength could outmatch hers. How wrong he was. Worne’s power was impure, forged by men and their foul, perverted sciences; Madwen’s power was clean, pure, born from the world itself.

Eyes locked for a moment longer, Worne yanked the dagger from his leg and dropped it to the floor with an empty clang, then moved for the dungeon. Blood drained from the wound as he walked, dripping onto the white stone—dark. Madwen crouched over Daithi—still half-laying on the floor—and studied the man. He’d overpowered her, seemingly draining the magic from the very well within her with a sort of hunger she had never known.

“What are you?” she asked. And what more is Worne, she added.

Just then, a noise stirred behind her. It started as a whine but grew into a sort of whimpering. Madwen turned. The people—none of them moved. They weren’t dead, not from what she could tell. Some could have lost consciousness, but surely not all of them. The cry grew louder, longer. Madwen left the lord, still concentrating on countering the stranger’s magic and keeping Daithi pinned on the floor.

A woman lay among the bodies, staring into nothing above, tears streaming down her cringing face. Madwen stepped closer, then gasped. Everyone lay, eyes open, staring into some dark abyss. Slowly the crying grew, not from the woman, but from the people around her—from the men and woman choosing to lay still.

“Gods,” said Madwen. “What’s happening? What have you done, Daithi!” Madwen dropped her magic, and the glow from her bracelets ceased.

Daithi gasped desperately as if on the verge of suffocation. The lord lurched forward to collect himself, his mid-length hair veiling his face.

“It’s not what I’ve done, Omeness,” he said. “It’s what you’ve done.”

“What are you—” Madwen looked back to the heap of sobbing bodies. The wailing—it was growing louder. Soon the entire great hall was filled with not but torment and agony. Madwen looked toward the entrance, then to the moonlight streaming through tall stained windows. More noise carried from outside.

“It’s the entire city…”

Worne squeezed through the tight spiral staircase, shuffling slowly downward toward the dungeon. Were Worne seizing the castle, he would have been at a strict disadvantage with such a bulky build, but on this day, none stood to resist him.

A man clad in armour sat back, slumped on the final stair, sword on the floor in front of him. He wept quietly. Restricted in movement, Worne raised a foot, nudging the man. The man wobbled but stayed still, moaning continuously. Worne grunted, then shoved the sorry man to the floor where he stayed, staring into nothing.

Many more hopeless men and women in guards’ uniforms awaited Worne as he emerged from the stairwell, each strewn about the hallway like soiled clothing. Several passageways continued in several directions; most of the human husks, however, concentrated near one thick, wooden door.

Straining bouts of quickened breaths sounded beyond the door, the familiar sounds of a panicked, fearful man. The door gave way when pushed, though only slightly; something resisted on the other side, squishy like flesh. Another guard must have slumped to the floor, Worne figured. Worne forced the door thrice more to no avail. Again he grunted, like a bull before the charge. Fists closed and knuckles cracking, Worne jabbed his hand clean through the sturdy wood, splinters exploding outward into a thousand tiny pieces. Another fist exploded through to the other side of the door, then another, and another. Soon the reinforced lumber was nothing more than mulch, the hinges handling alone along the frame.

Madwen knelt to a group of people. “What’s wrong? Tell me. I can help you.” A trembling man grabbed her hand and squeezed.

“All those people… dead,” said the man.

“Ma’,” said a woman. “I’ll miss ye so much!”

“Why do I even try,” said another man. “Just kill me now and be done with it.”

“Please, bring back the light.”

“Help me.”

“They’re all dead. They’re all dead!”

“Help me!”

“Take me back!”

“Help us!”

“Bring it back!”

“Bring back the light!”

Each and every soul quaked with anguish, expelling their sorrow hopelessly into the air.

Daithi forced himself to his feet, both hands bracing his ribs. “Ye should have… never have come here.”

Only one cell sat occupied; the rest were empty, save one that had been bent and warped beyond recognition. It served as a stark reminder: this man was to be treated carefully. Madwen had said the young man wielded his power without form, but even a novice could drive a pointed tip through one’s heart if the circumstances allowed.

Worne expected to see the man circled on the floor like a newborn, but the man stood instead. He held his hands close to his chest, twitching about randomly and uncontrollably. The man would stand still, then pace in tiny circles, eyes scattering about, focusing on nothing. He muttered n language unknown to Worne, whispering randomly, then occasionally yelping a single word before returning back to the whispers. It was unnerving to see someone with so much power rambling like a madman.

Worne approached the prisoner, careful not to spook him. He looked up to Worne.

“P-please… help me!” he broke into tears, still twitching.

Worne inspected the cell door.

“Please, someone help me!” he screamed. The man squatted, holding his head and pulling his short, fuzzy hair.

“Here to bring you to Madwen, the sorceress,” said Worne. The prisoner did not reply.

Guards lined the dungeon up and down, as well as the corridor just outside. Madwen would still be fighting the young man’s power above.

With no time to waste, Worne tested the iron bars of the door. They creaked and warped under his strength, but with both horizontal and vertical bars, it would take too long to make a hole big enough for the prisoner.

Worne looked to his right—a destroyed cell door leaned against the far wall. Only one way then, Worne concluded.

Worne grabbed at the bars near the hinges; his large hands hardly fit through the gap. Knowing the Gildaun craftsmanship, he expected more resistance from the metal, but the hinge’s barrel peeled from the hinge-leaf like the flayed hide of an animal.

Ayube looked up at the giant before him. He moved to leave, but something stayed him. Too many thoughts berated his mind. To flee, to stay? It all felt the same. Deep down, he knew they weren’t, yet still, his mind refused to believe it. It was as if he were dreaming; everything felt equally logical and illogical.

“Need to leave,” Worne growled, his voice darker and deeper than even before. The man shook his head.

“I’ll carry you if I have to.” He watched the prisoner back further into his cage.

“Fine.” When Worne reached into the open cell, the man flinched and jumped back. Worne had no time for games; he ducked down and pulled the man by his arm.

“Ah!” Pain shot through Ayube’s arm and down to his gut. It coursed through him with purpose a vigour, writhing violently like a serpent through a rodent’s burrow. Finally it stopped, and in an instant, Ayube felt his energy draining. Emptiness overcame him. He resisted the large man’s grasp at first, reaching wildly for the cell’s bars, but in but moments, he felt himself slipping.

The noise around him faded, as did the light. He felt himself tossed upward, slung over something—likely the large man’s shoulder. There was no fighting the beast that took him, not the emptiness he brought.

Ayube’s eyes closed.

Was this peace or death? He could not tell—but he welcomed it.