The silhouette of the diminutive Berserker stood in the archway to the nave, her armored form framed by the flickering orange light of the torches in the entrance chamber. A distant crack of thunder reverberated through the large, dark chamber, and Ben saw a slight, deep red glow slowly begin to illuminate the scarred face of his mentor. A terrible, manic grin and a raised brow above the singular, crimson eye wavered after the woman’s gaze had swept the debris-covered chamber to rest on an unmoving body several paces behind Ben and June.
The familiar feverish lust for battle he had seen vanished from her face in a heartbeat. Ainsle stood motionless. A plain, short sword hung limply from one hand, and a similarly unremarkable dagger was held loosely in the other. The glow of her crimson eye intensified, and Ben watched as a single tear rolled down her scarred, wrinkled cheek.
“Ainsle-” Ben began as the veteran Berserker blurred past him. He felt the cold sweat on his brow chill as the displaced air of her passage ruffled the growing locks of his black hair. He turned to see his mentor leap at the retreating arachnid creature —back arched and blades raised above her head— to impact its monstrous form with a sickening crunch, a tumble of chitinous legs, and the panicked clattering of chains on the cold stone floor.
A deep, rumbling cry shook the air in his lungs, and the dozen figures of the crimson-robed assassins appeared once more. The Priestesses of the Hand darted past the Berserker and the Matron, who were locked in a frantic struggle, leaping over debris and destroyed pews. Their targets were clear.
“June, they’re coming. Can you brighten this place up?” Ben said to the shivering Evoker beside him, who did not react to the request.
“Illuminate,” incanted a soft, familiar voice. A mote of bright light rose into the air from his periphery, illuminating the entire nave with a pale glow.
Ben turned to the source of the familiar warm radiance behind him. Ann stood in the archway with hands held tightly to her chest. The light cantrip revealed the brows on her pale face to be slanted, her mouth agape as if in disbelief, her head tilted in what Ben thought to be confusion. “Sister Justina?” she muttered the question; the tone further emphasized her bewilderment. “I don’t understand...”
“Annie!” Ben called out to his Keeper. “She’s trying to kill us!”
A blur of red in the corner of his eye caused him to instinctively parry the curved blade of a dagger aimed in a blisteringly fast lunge toward June. The assassin Priestess swiftly disengaged after the clang of steel rang out from the flat surface of his halberd’s axe head. June’s wide eyes and a raised hand toward the area above Ben’s head told him to crouch as a pulse of pure arcane energy blasted out from the Evoker’s hand. He spun low to the ground to watch a smoldering figure sail through the air from the impact of the Caster’s attack.
With the light spell Ann cast, he could track the positions of the Priestesses as they stalked slowly, circling the group. He extended his halberd and lowered the tip; grip spread along its haft, butt held high in a purely defensive stance. He spared a glance at the chaos of sharp legs, chains, and the angry form of his mentor engaged in a battle that echoed throughout the cavernous chamber —sounds of crashing wood and steel against stone were punctured only by the intermittent, guttural cries of the Matron. Yet, Ainsle remained chillingly quiet as she methodically cut and stabbed with the pair of blades in a style he had never seen before.
He briefly glanced toward his Keeper, who stood frozen, her head shaking subtly as she blabbered unintelligibly under her breath, blue eyes wide at the scene before them. “Hey!” he called out to the blonde woman, eyes trained on the encroaching assassins. “I need you to focus. Now.”
“Something is wrong… why would they…” Ann trailed off.
“Open your fucking eyes!” June cried, causing Ann to recoil. “They-they killed him. He’s dead. He’s…” she said, voice cracking and lips quivering. The Evoker sniffed and glared; her teeth bared at the Keeper.
“I don’t-” Ann began as a robed figure launched herself at Ben.
He thrust his weapon in an attempt to discourage the attack, yet the Priestess twirled, robes billowing outward to create a beautiful flower-like spiral of fabric. She evaded his spearhead and appeared to flow along the haft before suddenly being violently repelled backward by an unseen force to tumble ungracefully amidst the wreckage of pews several paces away.
“My heart, direct me,” Ann said, voice abruptly cold.
Ben exhaled a slow, tremulous breath. “There should be about ten to twelve of them left,” he said as his eyes scanned the area, darting between the skulking, cowled assassins. “Protect June so she can let loose.” He paused and glanced at his mentor, who was still engaged in an even exchange with the Matron of the hand. “If you have anything you think would help us finish these red ones quickly, go ahead. We need to get to Ainsle.”
“As you wish,” said Ann before standing beside the Evoker. A tug at the back of his throat and the prickling of hairs on his forearms told Ben that his Keeper had begun a substantial working.
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“Guidance of the Tundra Stalker.”
Immediately, Ben felt a cold Aura envelop him. His vision became… clearer. Sharper. His eyes snapped to each of the robed Priestesses, their figures slightly more tangible to his senses. As if they stood out to him, like a wrongness that drew one’s attention. A cool wave of what felt like brisk morning air cascaded over his body, and a sureness of control blossomed in his rapidly calming mind.
He took a deep breath and exhaled. He moved. The blade of his axe head sang through the air —the sweet sound of promised death caressed his ears— but the attack was a feint. A flutter of deep red fabric evaded the arc of the beautiful weapon before his fist crumpled the nose of a tan face beneath the hooded cowl, causing the shocked assassin to stumble backward and fall to the floor. Ben turned, ignoring the bleeding Priestess, and advanced with steady steps as a bolt of energy incinerated the prone figure.
He willed the remaining Faceless, roughly fifty in number, to harry the robed figures. What was left of his legion of terrors assaulted the assassins in rhythmic waves, attacking and retreating in an ebbing and flowing of spindly torsos and deadly claws. A creature fell to a counter-attack from a robed figure, yet he was able to compartmentalize the death feedback. Not that the pain had been lessened to any degree, but rather, it forced him to focus intently on not expending his subjects carelessly. He felt his control over the creatures improve, if only slightly —he could order them to engage with the condition that they retreat to preserve their lives, should the circumstance call for it— and they obeyed.
The subtle shift in the air to his flank warned him of an incoming attack. He whirled, pulling the sleek polearm tight to his frame before he lunged forward with the timing of a Master Halberdier —spearhead impaling the neck of a crouching figure three paces from his position. A gurgling cry felt distant to his ears as he sought his next opponent.
The assassins dispatched several more Faceless, and Ben decided he was at the limit of his pain tolerance. He willed his subjects to move to protect the rear and flanks of Ann and June and, by doing so, relieved the burden of focus that direct control required. Ben stalked the last of the red-robed Priestesses.
The Aura, Guidance of the Tundra Stalker, was powerful, he thought, as he cleaved through another two of the evasive assassin Priestesses. The effects were subtle, regarding the aid to his actual combat ability, yet the clarity and focus it provided was an intoxicating amplifier. Ben found the current of battle, but it was… different. Almost as if he were enacting a performance rehearsed numerous times before. He knew where his quarry would be, and his weapon moved to meet his prey. He was efficient. He was the hunter.
Another loud crack, followed by a bright flash, saw the last smoldering corpse tumble across the stone floor to his feet. June had released intermittent bolts of arcane energy with increasing success during the fight, and Ben scanned their surroundings once more before turning to look at how Ainsle was faring against the Matron. The contest seemed relatively even between the giant spider abomination and the horned Champion of Vengeance. Ben worried that his mentor would be unable to maintain the relentless assault.
“I think… I think that’s the last,” June said between labored breaths.
“Yeah,” Ben said as he glanced at the exhausted Evoker. Ann stood with eyes closed, palms together in prayer, undoubtedly her preferred posture while maintaining the powerful Aura. He began to jog toward the altar, where the Matron was engaged with Ainsle. “Stay back for a bit. You need to catch your breath, and we might need you to jump in if things go sideways,” he called back to the Evoker as he commanded the Faceless to surround the albino woman in a wall of flesh. “Ann, with me.”
The blonde-haired woman followed Ben in silence; her hands gripped the hem of her pure white robes, causing the thick fabric to hike up her legs as she matched his jog. Her brows were furrowed in concentration; Ben thought that perhaps there was a limit to the casting range as he glanced back at his Keeper.
“Tear that bitch to shreds,” June growled. The exhaustion was evident in her hoarse voice.
Ben and Ann quickly covered the distance to the altar as they watched the Berserker slash with the short sword, inhumanly swiftly at a manacled, chitinous leg. The Matron evaded the attack, her legs lifting, skittering, and stabbing down with dull thuds in the stone in a terrifying staccato. The clinking, rusted chains seemed to offer no hindrance to the monster.
The light spell Ann had cast upon her arrival revealed the monstrous form of the grotesque half-giant-spider, half-woman, who moved with a speed that was impossible for a creature that size. Smooth, black segmented legs converged in a large thorax; its similarly smooth, bulbous abdomen jerked with each impossible movement. The pale, nude torso of the Matron protruded from where Ben assumed the head of the spider should have been, her pale arms hung limply at her sides —as if the limbs were but useless remnants of her previous human form.
The Matron snarled as Ainsle severed a leg with the large dagger held in her off-hand, and Ben watched as the rows of eight dark eyes on her face began to glow with a deep crimson light.
“AINSLE!” Ben cried.
He was too far to disrupt the attack. He spun and launched his halberd at the creature’s face. He held his breath as he felt a sickly power coalesce within the Matron. The thrown weapon droned through the air, spinning toward the head of the spider. The creature twitched and ducked as the polearm sailed above her head to clatter against the smooth curved wall behind the altar. Ainsle seized the opportunity and darted to sever a hind leg with the plain short sword. The Matron screeched a chilling cry of pain as her gaze locked onto Ben’s.
A dark red beam of light shot at the young man from her eyes. Fast, he thought. A blinding pain erupted from his shoulder, and he felt Ann’s horror through their bond. He fell to a knee but forced himself to stand, only to see Ainsle knocked prone by a desperate swipe of a chitinous leg. The old Berserker began to roll to her feet, yet Ben knew that she wouldn’t be able to dodge the sharp appendage that plummeted toward her.
His throat tightened as his muscles burned with the beginning of his concept. Suddenly, the creature stiffened, and the sharp claw missed its mark —impacting the cold stone. The Matron of the Hand shuddered once more before her large form crumpled to the floor. Two obscenely large arrows protruded from its lifeless head.