“You will never strike me down,” the Templar grunted, even though, truthfully, he wasn’t sure how many more of those he could take.

That blow would kill any normal man, and it had been nearly enough to do him in as well. He cursed himself for not expecting such an obvious trap that he’d seen once before. The oddly distended bodies of the things had all but given away the trap, but he’d been too focused on chopping them to pieces to notice.

So many people had died around him in the last half hour that he was practically overflowing with power. This included almost all the men that he’d brought with him, many of the nearby residents, and even some of the reinforcements that had been sent once word of the giant beast had made its way to their small reserve force stationed in the main square.

Every one of those deaths would be turned into another soldier in this awful war if he didn’t beat this thing back, here and now, though. Brother Faerbar was sure of that much. That was what made him grip the sword and increase the light that was flowing to it despite the pain from his wounds, which still hadn’t finished knitting shut.

“Vile creatures!” he yelled as another one exploded not so far away, triggering a chorus of screams. “You have no place here among the living!”

This time, he didn’t run toward them again. He merely stood there and closed his eyes as he channeled as much of the light as he could bear into his sword, and it continued to swell with brightness. At first, it was so bright that he could see the veins in his eyelids, but moment by moment, they became almost translucent as he burned brighter and brighter.

The Templar poured all of the energy he’d scavenged from the souls he’d saved as well as the thin trickle of prayers that the people of Rahkin were offering up to him, and for a moment, he felt like a true avatar of his dead god even though it all but overwhelmed him. Despite everything that had happened, there were still some who believed in the light, and he would reward that belief.

At first, he was a bonfire, then he was a beacon, and finally, even though he was almost completely blinded in this moment, he was sure that he was brighter than even the eternal flame that had once graced the tallest tower in all of Siddrimar that had been lit centuries before, at the city’s founding, to drive the darkest shadows back each night.

Even though he couldn’t see what he was doing to the enemy, though, he could hear it and smell it. Cries of agony and anger erupted from the throats of the dead, including the subsonic bellowing of the lumbering kraken zombie. Worse, though, was the smell.

All of this putrified flesh had smelled awful from the moment the battle had started. Not even the briny scent of the sea could cover it up. Brother Faerbar didn’t think that anything could make it worse, but he’d been wrong.

The blazing light that he was channeling was enough to boil them alive in their skins, turning them from rotting corpses into charred ones. Despite being blinded by his light, he could smell putrification and smoldering smokiness blending together in a way that was almost sickly sweet.

It disgusted him, but he couldn’t wretch now. Not while he was channeling so much power. It was just one more distraction, like the roars of the wounded kraken or the burning sensation coming from his hands.

Finally, after almost a minute of burning like the sun itself, he finally got the reaction he was looking for, and one by one, the explosive zombies ignited, detonating where they lay, shriveled up on the ground. In combat, they would kill their opponents, but laying there in torment, they would kill only themselves.

When the detonations stopped, and he felt very nearly drained by the power he unleashed, he finally released it, letting his sword drop to the ground as its light suddenly died. It was still a length of red hot metal, but it was warped and useless now. He would need another one before continuing to press the fight. Before that, though, he would need to let his eyes adjust to the now overwhelming darkness and give his hands a moment to heal.

Brother Faerbar winced in pain as he looked at them. They were a charred ruin, and he could see his finger bones in places, but already fresh flesh was growing over those terrible injuries. Even the gifts of the light were not without a cost.

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When the spots finally cleared from his vision, he looked out at the carnage that his light had wrought. The whole waterfront was a warzone, from one end to the other, now. Amongst the carnage, the most obvious thing was the giant zombie kraken.

The flesh of its face had been cooked, and even though it didn’t seem to have a proper skull, its giant, dull eyes had exploded, and the bones of its jaw were exposed beneath sheets of cooked, sloughed-off flesh.

The soldiers that had arrived held a wide cordon, but everywhere between here and there, there were scorched bodies, shattered buildings, and streets pock-mocked with craters. He couldn’t join them yet, though. He could barely flex his hands. The flesh was still too raw and new.

Instead, he studied his surroundings, looking for the next threat. Nothing new was boiling up from the water’s edge, and no zombies besides the blind giant still moved on the battlefield. He was fairly sure that as soon as they found a way to bring it down, they would be done here. That’s when he noticed the shadow.

Brother Faerbar glimpsed it out of the corner of his eye and whirled as he raised his fists to fight the shadowy figure, but it didn’t move. It took him a few seconds to realize not that it was just a shadow but that it was his shadow.

Somehow, it had been burned into the whitewashed wall behind him by the strength of the light he’d been holding in front of him. He wondered how that had occurred exactly, but unsure, he turned away after a moment’s study.

If I want the answer, I will probably have to ask a mage, he thought glumly.

While Jordan hadn’t been a bad sort as far as mages went, the Templar could see his damaged soul, even after only a few years of time spent using magic. He had no desire to look into the withered souls of their untrustworthy allies any more often than he had to. This would be just one mystery, he supposed, as he checked his hands and turned back to face his enemy.

He still didn’t have much sensation, but by now, his hands were relatively whole again, and they moved properly as he wiggled his fingers and checked his grip while the zombified Kraken bellowed and lashed out blindly. Brother Faerbar looked around the nearest corpses for a sword he could use. While he typically favored giant, heavy blades that could shatter and cut these foul constructs with equal ease, this time, he was looking for something smaller. He ended up finding a dagger and a short sword that worked equally well.

So, taking one in each hand, he slowly approached the blind, flailing beast. Once he had its erratic pattern down, he sprinted toward its mouth, even as all the other warriors that were still standing stood as far back as they could.

He didn’t pay attention to them, though. Instead, he waited until the beast’s jaws were opened as wide as possible, and then he jumped inside them. If the light hadn’t done much more than burn out its eyes and scorch its skull, then the only place that he could possibly strike down such a monster was deep inside.

It was possible that the dark mind that had created this had planned for such an eventuality, of course. It might well have defenses for just such an unorthodox attack. He might fight his way inside the belly of the beast to find traps, blades, or even another explosion that would tear him limb from limb.

Brother Faerbar didn’t think that likely, though. Not only did the constructions that the darkness make reek of pride in addition to all their other smells, but this one had been carrying especially volatile cargo. It seemed unlikely to him both that the darkness would destroy something that it worked so hard to build, and accidentally detonating those explosive zombies he’d fought earlier would have amounted to much the same thing.

He didn’t have time to think about much more than that, though. Once he was sliding down its gullet, he was too busy focusing on doing as much damage as possible on the way down, as well as trying not to suffocate.

The choking chemical smells of preservatives and decay were not something that had risen to the level of threat in his mind, but now that he was past the point of no return, they proved to be the largest hazard of all. Still, he persisted, slicing through chemically hardened flesh that only parted that much easier once both of his newfound blades began to glow lightly.

Brother Faerbar fought his way to the pit of the thing’s stomach one attack at a time but found no new dangers. When he reached that awful place, the thing attempted to vomit him back up so that it could chew him to pieces, but no matter how hard it tried to expel him, his blades anchored him to the walls of its esophagus.

Then, finally, he was through the wall of that organ and loosed inside the abdominal cavity, where he could do even more damage. It was here he found the real problem with his plan. Despite the fact that the Templar was relatively unrestricted, there really wasn’t any one terrible weak spot he could strike and end the thing. Though it flailed and pulsed, he was relatively safe from those motions thanks to the metal reinforcing skeleton that had been installed in place.

He struck at the heart and even managed to sever a few things that looked like spinal cords, but they weren't. Brother Faerbar attacked anything that looked even a little important or vulnerable, but these attacks enraged the creature more than they slowed it down.

He destroyed in minutes what had probably taken months or years to create, but he didn’t care. He might never feel clean again after this because of all the blood and slime, but he was going to stop this monster before he could kill anything else if it was the last thing he did.