17
Mankind's Enemy
https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/856577034012721194/1155906119374475354/Black_Hound_chapter_symbol.png?ex=655b8b76&is=65491676&hm=2ccb5fddbf68be7df641dcad58155002c8da05c926488db38e852951e5d343e9& [https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/856577034012721194/1155906119374475354/Black_Hound_chapter_symbol.png?ex=655b8b76&is=65491676&hm=2ccb5fddbf68be7df641dcad58155002c8da05c926488db38e852951e5d343e9&]
----------------------------------------
In a broad sloping passage, surrounded by cobblestone walls decorated with large splashes of blood, he and the rest of his small squad happened upon some of the others.
Both groups were alert, tensed-up to strike at anything that might have come across them at any given moment. It was nothing short of a small miracle that, when they caught up to each other, they’d been cautious enough—or too slow, perhaps—in their reaction to not accidentally attack their own allies.
“Gods, fuck me!” Henry said, lowering his crossbow and running a shaky hand across his sweat-slicked forehead. He and the rest of the squad, led by Reese, stood down and took a collective breath, recomposing themselves.
Hicks couldn’t blame them. He felt that brief tension too, though he was quick enough to not let himself show it. Gods knew, the bastards would never let him live it down if just running into them were enough to shake him. Instead, he merely folded his arms and looked to Reese himself with a smirk. “Yo,” he said by way of greeting. “How’s your humor, big man?”
“Eat shit,” was Reese’s response, though a smile of his own began to play along his lips. “How about yours, longshanks?”
Hicks barked out a laugh and patted him hard on the shoulder. “Better than ever,” he said. “Your half made it through alright?”
“Yeah, surprisingly. Guys at the center did their job well, but…” He trailed off, then shook his head. “Either way it goes, we managed to get in here. Kieran had us split up off into teams, y’know, try and cover more ground, seein’ there’s so many of us and all.” Reese raised an eyebrow then and looked over Hicks’ own squadron. “You had the same idea, I imagine?”
Hicks nodded. “More or less. Though, if we’re already running into each other, we might as well just converge again, yeah?”
Reese considered it for a moment, then grunted an affirmative. Without a need for further words, the two small squads consolidated with each other, bringing their strength up to a more respectable number of twenty men.
Then, they continued their advance through the Black Citadel.
Despite himself, Hicks felt a shudder run through him.
He wanted to calm his nerves, to tell himself that the hardest part of the struggle was already over. And, in truth, it was. The golem, as ferocious and relentless of a guardian as it was, had been bypassed. At the farthest edge of the battle, the vast majority of the Legion and the Hounds’ aberrants were still locked in combat, leaving only a garrison behind to defend the Dark Queen.
Yes. The victory they’d been fighting for was close. They were already in the Citadel proper. All that was left now was to plow through the last remnants of the aberrants, and capture the Dark Queen. Because, just as Vault had said, it was just like chess—Capture the leader, break the enemy’s will to fight on.
But even so, in practice, it was nowhere near as easy as it sounded.
Even if it was “smaller” in comparison, the force of aberrants still within the Citadel was by no means small. It easily numbered in the hundreds, perhaps even thousands. Stalking carefully from corridor to corridor, they fought their way through.
Now, before his group, three aberrants stood; two brawny orcs and an imp, whose face was twisted into a snarl. Franz began to step forward, bringing his sword to bear, up until Hicks stopped him, shaking his head.
“Uh-huh, no need to fuck around,” Hicks said. “We’ve got an aberrant of our own.”
Almost as if taking his words as a cue, Ugly Edd strode to the forefront of the group with an exaggerated swagger. “You! You! And you!” he bellowed, his voice like gravel as he pointed to the Legion aberrants. “Come!” he commanded.
And come they did.
The struggle that followed was quick, yet brutal.
Ugly Edd barreled forward with a sound somewhere between a laugh and a growl, practically hurling his entire body into the enemy. With a lazy, one-armed swing, his mace smashed into the first orc’s torso. A quiet crack resonated throughout the hall as its ribs caved in, and it stumbled back gurgling blood, but remained standing on shaky feet.
The second orc before him retaliated quickly, screaming bloody murder as it brought its axe in an upwards swing and caught Ugly Edd in one elbow. His severed forearm sailed off in arc, but he too was unfazed, even as the imp leapt up and clambered onto his back, stabbing and stabbing away into him. He merely pivoted on the spot and drove himself back-first into the wall, crushing the imp in between it and his own weight.
Without missing a beat, Ugly Edd reached behind him with his remaining arm and grabbed the creature, swinging it directly into the path of the incoming axe. Hicks couldn’t quite tell if he’d meant to use its body as a shield or a weapon. Regardless of his intent, the blade cut cleanly through the imp, bisecting it, and carried on to cleave off Ugly Edd’s right hand.
Out of the corner of his eye, Hicks saw the first orc had already recovered from its initial wound, and stood hunched-over, focused entirely on Ugly Edd.
It wasn’t until his sword sank in between its shoulders that it remembered that it had more adversaries to worry about. “You gotta keep ‘em eyes open, old son,” Hicks jeered, before pulling out his sword and ducking back.
Another man struck the moment he backed away, his spear piercing between the orc’s eyes, obliterating its brain.
Though he’d been literally disarmed, Ugly Edd’s murderous urge hadn’t diminished in the slightest. Roaring once more, he stepped into the last aberrant’s strike, ignoring the axe that had sunk into his collar, and tackled the other orc, pushing it against the wall. The two of them glowered and cursed at each other, as they wrestled to keep one of them pinned to the wall.
Even as Ugly Edd used his stumps to hold it in place, the Legion’s orc pounded a fist into his side, quickly and repeatedly, with heavy impacts that would have long pulverized a man’s bones. Through the hateful haze in the aberrant’s glare, Hicks saw Ugly Edd give a tiny nod, almost as if he’d come to a decision. Then, he opened his mouth to a disturbing width, his tusks glinting with drool.
Hicks paled, his eyes shooting wide as he realized what he intended. “Y-yo… He’s not gonna—?”
He did.
Tilting his head forward, Ugly Edd closed his jaws around the other orc’s head. He took slow, messy chews out of its face, shaking his jowls back and forth as the other aberrant howled and flailed in alarm.
“Oh, fuck no,” Reese groaned, turning away with a flinch. “Hell no! I’m gonna be sick!”
Hicks would have joined him. Hell, he was sure many of the other men would have loved nothing more than to stop looking. And yet, something about the grotesque spectacle took a hold of their gazes, and refused to let go.
Spittle and gore and loose chunks of green flesh trailed freely across both orcs, and the enemy’s struggling soon devolved into screams of outright panic and agony. Its screams continued, punctuated by wet cracks and squelches, until, blessedly, the orc finally died. Its life ended with a final desperate squeal and a slackening of its limbs.
Ugly Edd took his time, slowly chewing before gulping down the chunk of gristle in his mouth. Then he turned back to the rest of the Hounds, a self-satisfied—almost proud—smile on his bloodied lips. “‘s good,” he said with a nod.
That time, Hicks did look away.
“That,” Keane said, his voice somewhat weak, “was some fucked up, repugnant shit. Fuck.” He shook his head, as if he were trying to clear the image from his eyes. “Fuck.”
Hicks didn’t reply. He just exhaled and recomposed himself.
Ugly Edd didn’t seem to mind the loss of his arms in the slightest. Though, given where they were standing, near the very heart of the Dark Queen’s power, he probably didn’t need to. Already, his stumps had stopped bleeding, and Hicks could see his green skin quickly regrowing to form elbows. Within a handful of minutes, the orc would have completely regenerated both limbs.
Again, he shuddered. “Shit, y’all aberrants are seriously something else.” He shook his head once more, and turned to address the Hounds, just as a shadow fell.
He barely even saw it. Hell, it was almost as if his eyes actively refused to see it.
Before he could draw in the breath, she had draped herself over Reese’s shoulders, fingers tangling through his hair to yank back his head.
By the time Hicks’ lips had parted, Reese’s neck was a red ruin, his head barely attached to the rest of his body, and the woman was crouched in front of Franz.
As both of his legs were cleaved away, Franz fell to the ground with a thud, something halfway between a sob and a scream spilling out of his mouth.
Then, she moved on to the next man, and Hicks’ mind finally caught up to the sight before him.
“Shit!” he heard Keane shout, just as she cut open another Hound’s stomach, and turned her red eyes onto him.
She was lean and somewhat short, her skin possessing a warm, rich brown complexion. A long, black cape fell over one of her shoulders. Her blonde hair was tied back into a single long plait that streamed down her back, nearly reaching her feet. But it was her ears that drew his attention the most. Long and pointed at the tip, they broadcasted her heritage for the world to see.
For that brief moment, their eyes met. And then, again, she moved with an impossible agility, pirouetting into position behind Ugly Edd. A heartbeat later, his head slid gently off his shoulders, and Ugly Edd’s body slumped as if he were simply sitting down.
And the woman was nowhere to be seen.
A chill, like an icy finger, dragged itself along his spine. It was nothing but sheer, dumb luck that drove Hicks to shoot his fist upwards, his knuckles barely grazing against her arm. Still, it was enough to divert the blade that would have severed his nape, and it only just skimmed over his cheek.
Despite that, she twisted her body in midair, landing on the balls of her feet, and facing him once again.
“Hey, missy,” Hicks said as he crouched low, unsheathing his second sword to hold in a reversed grip. “You sure looked like you were enjoying yourself back there.” Then, he let his lips spread into a smirk that he didn’t feel in the slightest. “C’mon, let’s enjoy ourselves together!”
----------------------------------------
Though the lighting within was dim, I could still make out the details of the chamber I’d walked into. The walls were made from a dark stone much like the Citadel’s exterior. The pillars that lined the chamber and held up its roof vanished into the shadows above, seeming to stretch on forever. I saw no doors or windows, save for the one I’d just come through.
A single aisle ran down the center of the chamber, covered by a thick, red carpet, and the only sources of light here were the few tall torches that lined it, their light casting long shadows against the pillars. The still air was thick with a dry, smoky smell, a mixture of dust and burned wood, sweet incense and smoke. It made me want to cough.
But none of that mattered to me. I’m sure there were a lot of other details—important ones even— that I missed completely. My eyes were focused entirely on the one I’d seen from the moment I’d stepped in here.
At the far end of the chamber, a set of steps led up to a dais. On that dais sat a throne. And on that throne, she sat, looking right back at me.
Even from her seated position, I could tell that she was a tall woman, possibly reaching my own height. Her black hair fell down her shoulders, past her waist, and reached down to the floor, framing her face. She wore a long, purple dress and a black cape over her shoulders, which obscured much of her form, but almost paradoxically revealed a lot of her dark skin. In one hand, she held a long black staff, the tip of which glowed with a faint red light.
Her features were sharp: nose, eyes, cheekbones. Anyone who even implied that she wasn’t beautiful would be lying. Olga Discordia looked every bit the queen that she was.
Slowly, I walked down the aisle, keeping my gaze firmly on the Dark Queen’s golden eyes. My footsteps were heavy, and my armor’s soft clanks echoed off the walls, the sound almost seeming to merge with my own pounding heartbeat.
I stopped once I reached the middle of the aisle, just a short distance from the bottom of the steps.
For several long moments, we simply looked at one another in silence until, finally, I remembered myself. Forcing my fingers to slacken their grip on Edwin’s mace, I inclined my head into a bow. Though, I never let my eyes stray away from her.
“I am Ansel Eschenwald, knight of the Seven Shields.” My voice was steady, confident. Somehow, I actually felt it, too. Any semblance of anxiety or hesitation within me had vanished. “Your Majesty, we’ve broken through your defenses. We’ve taken your Black Citadel. Right now, my comrades are fighting off what remains of your Legion. This war is over; Your reign has ended.”
I paused and lifted my head back up. Her expression hadn’t changed at all—It was that same, cold mask. No frown, no smile, no gleeful anger or wrathful hatred. Nothing.
Still, I couldn’t let myself falter. I drew in a breath and continued on. “It’s over, Queen Olga,” I repeated. “But this doesn’t need to end with more death. Her Holiness, the goddess Celestine Lucross, wishes for peace. Surrender, and we—”
“Your arrogance is astounding.”
Her voice was low and smooth, but somehow managed to carry throughout the whole room.
Despite myself, I flinched back a step, my eyes widening even though I’d expected her to speak at some point. Slowly, she raised a brow. I swallowed, and found my voice. “You…”
“Truly, did you come to stand before me, expecting me to simply capitulate? To grovel at your feet for mercy?” Her eyes narrowed, ever so slightly. “To plead for my life?”
“No.” I said. “That’s not it. You’re the last of your kind. Without you, there’s no future in which Dark Elves can continue to live on. But your people’s existence doesn’t have to end with you. I implore you, if...”
I trailed off as my mistake dawned on me. Somehow, my words had caused offence, killing any chance of diplomacy. I realized that when I saw her shift in her seat. The movement wasn’t quick, nor was it slow, but it seemed to capture every bit of my attention. I could almost feel the mace’s handle press into my palm, painful, as my grip tightened instinctively. I had to fight myself to slacken my fingers again, and not take another step back.
Slowly, she lowered her staff, bringing it to rest atop her lap. Its red light dimmed and then vanished completely. Abruptly, the pressure stopped, and it felt like a weight had literally been taken off my shoulders. My breath evened, I felt warmth return to my skin that I hadn’t even realized had gone, and the air seemed to become less heavy.
But, she still held my gaze, and her face was still completely unreadable.
“...I see,” she said quietly, after a time, shaking her head slowly. “You truly understand nothing. But then, how could you? You are but a misguided child of a misguided prophet.”
She lifted her chin. And then, to my horror, she raised the staff again, and pointed it directly at me.
“You sought to carry out your justice, to follow the will of your goddess. But you failed the moment you intruded here.”
I clenched my jaw, and brought up my shield and mace, even as my blood ran cold. “I came here to stop you,” I said. “To make you answer for your crimes. It doesn’t have to be this way, Your Majesty. But I’ll do what must be done.
For the slightest of moments, she stopped hiding her emotions. Or, maybe, I stopped pretending I couldn’t see them.
Her gaze was filled with neither scorn nor disgust. No, what I saw in her golden eyes was disdain, pure and unadulterated. She looked upon me as if I were little better than an insect, a creature so far beneath her that it didn’t deserve to live in the same world.
“You came here to die,” she said.
A new smell filled the air, though it was hard to describe—Almost like the strange, earthy scent before a storm came, just before lightning strikes.
I could taste it in my tongue, in my throat, and deep in my chest. The hairs on my neck prickled as heat seemed to rise from the ground at my feet.
Oh, I realized, as the light at the end of her staff coalesced into a flame. The fire moved down the length of the staff, like a snake, before bursting forth from the tip in a single, brilliant lance.
----------------------------------------
In truth, it was almost dizzying to look at her. Her body seemed to transition from movement to movement with an unnatural ease, a perfectly constant, fluid motion like that of a dancer’s. But no performer could ever hope to match that kind of absurd dexterity.
Hicks, in his own none-too-humble opinion, considered himself to be an excellent fighter—Deft of hand, quick on his feet, skilled with any manner of blades. Yet, for all his skill and experience, he’d never seen anything like this. He had no frame of reference, no response for this… this… bizarre elf fuckery.
A part of him wanted to step back and take a moment to let his eyes comprehend the sights, but he knew it would be suicide.
The woman was a flurry of activity, swords flickering in and out of existence between every slash, jab, and feint she made. She drifted closer and closer to him as she leapt from one opponent to another with an almost lazy pace, her long cape trailing behind her like an extension of her shadow.
Two men, whose names he didn’t know, collapsed as twin blades penetrated their hearts, and she moved on. Henry was next, desperately bringing his sword up to block, though she was already past him, her blade carving its way out of his other cheek. As his jaw became a jagged rictus of red, he slid down to his knees, glassy eyes staring off into the distance. Then, Hicks saw her lips tilt up into a smirk, and she ducked low, ripping the spear out of a fourth dead man’s hands.
Hicks snarled out a curse and brought up his own swords, batting away the spear as she threw it his way. Still, she stepped forwards along with the projectile, easily slipping into the sudden gap in his defense. A spinning slash rang off his blade and pushed him back a step. A second was barely deflected, her blade skidding down the length of his. The third finished her flurry, and Hicks quietly exhaled a “Shit!” as it slid along his side, leaving a brief but undoubtedly deep cut in its wake.
Another strange feint, a half-step and twist, and he just narrowly dodged a thrust that would have torn open his throat.
It was then that another man, who wasn’t quite dead yet, stood himself back up and lunged for her back, incoherently screaming in his rage.
With only a sidelong glance in his direction, the elf woman simply pivoted on one foot, heel flicking out to crash against the side of his head. She continued moving with her momentum, plunging her sword into him again as she vaulted over his collapsing body.
He offered no resistance, merely crumpling down with a muted gasp.
Seven.
Out of an initial twenty men, she had felled thirteen within a few fleeting moments, the bodies piling up around her as though thick mud, their weight no obstacle to her movements. And now, only seven of them remained. He made note of them from his peripheral vision, and suppressed another curse when he realized that, other than Keane, he didn't recognize any of the remaining six. They’d been Reese’s guys. Or, at least, they had been before the fucking elf had carved his neck open.
If nothing else, her latest kill had bought Hicks some distance between himself and her. Enough, at the very least, that it would take more than a single heartbeat for her to fall upon him again. And what’s more, the remaining Hounds were spread out in a loose half-circle, though none dared to step too close to her. Even from where he was standing, he could see the fear in their eyes. It was like that of sheep, or cattle, or some other prey animal watching a wolf prowl, sleek muscles rolling under a dark pelt.
That was, until one of them, some shaven-headed idiot of a man, lumbered forward with a hand-axe and shield in hand. The other four charged in with him, and all hell broke loose.
With a flick of his wrist, Hicks let the shortsword spin around the back of his hand, readying himself to step in as well.
“Hicks.” He almost started and lashed out behind him as a voice came, but stopped himself when he recognized it as Keane’s. A hand settled on Hicks’ shoulder. In most situations, from most people, such a thing would probably be a comforting gesture. Though, in all honesty, Hicks got the distinct impression that he’d merely been chosen as a convenient human shield.
“Yo, Keane,” he grunted, eyes still focused on the elf. Her face betrayed no signs of fatigue, even as she jinked and maneuvered around her enemies. “What brings you to this neck of the woods? Don’t suppose you decided to get off your ass and start pulling your weight, did you? Maybe toss fire her way, or some shit?”
“Not in the slightest,” Keane scoffed, and Hicks could almost feel the roll of his eyes. “As it stands now, there’s not much I can do for you guys. I’ll either be useless, or I’ll be a liability.”
“Fuck’s sake,” Hicks said, his voice low. “Just because you’re too weak—”
“Still, I do have something of an idea,” Keane said again, cutting him off. There was… something to his tone that gave Hicks pause, and he couldn’t help but turn around to face him. Keane seemed calmer than he should have had any right to, given the situation. In fact, he looked almost excited.
That alone set off an alarm in Hicks’ head. But, against his better judgement, he said, “...Well, spit it out, then.”
“I’ll need you to buy me time, first of all. If this is going to work, I’ll need plenty of time to prepare and verbalize. Won’t be able to do that if she’s on top of me,” said Keane. And then, he smiled. It was an infuriatingly smug and patronizing expression that grated on the nerves. “Remember that trick we pulled in Löwensdorf? It’ll be something like, but a bit smaller in scale.”
Hicks began to nod. And then, abruptly, his breath caught in his throat as it clicked into place for him. “You cocksucker…” he said, staring with wide eyes. “You gotta be shittin’ me.”
Keane merely shook his head. “Like I said, I’m either useless, or I’m a liability. And only one of those options is going to put her down.” The statement was flat and emotionless, completely at odds with Keane’s grim smirk, and the violent thrust of his chin in the elf’s direction.
“Fuck my life,” Hicks breathed, and then he was spinning on his heels, pivoting back to face the elf. Already, she had made short work of two of the Hounds. The remaining three, by some stroke of luck, were still on their feet, though definitely worse for wear. They’d have to do.
Feeling his lips pull back into a snarl, Hicks stalked forward, swords clenched tightly in his fists. “And fuck yours, too,” Hicks said, growling through clenched teeth. “Hope you enjoy hell, bitch.”
----------------------------------------
My body acted of its own accord, even as my mind panicked. Forcefully, I hurled myself aside and into a roll before I had a chance to second guess my own actions. I nearly lost my balance and fell, but only just managed to keep it, and came up onto one knee.
“Gods,” I let out in a gasp, the moment I saw the spot I’d been standing on just a heartbeat ago. The black stone floor was now cracked and broken, glowing red hot, and even around it shimmered slightly, as if it were above hot coals.
I tore my eyes away from it, and looked back up to the Dark Queen, my breathing heavy, just in time to see the next shining missile fire from her staff once again.
I barely had the briefest of moments to bring up my shield before it was set alight. The flame impacted against it, nearly jerking it away from my grasp, and splashing throughout its surface like a wave. Though the heat faded almost immediately afterward, I still felt sweat drip down my spine, the air itself burning my nostrils as I struggled back onto my feet.
Had I been a split second slower in raising it, or failed to take the full brunt of it with my shield, the outcome of that single attack might very well have been fatal. Hell, even if it didn’t kill me outright, I wouldn’t be in any position to defend myself any further. At the very least, I would have lost an arm.
I grit my teeth, to the point where I could feel my jaw starting to ache. Already, my arms were beginning to feel tired, my heart beating so fast that I was beginning to feel nauseous. I couldn’t stay out in the open, I realized then. If I simply remained out of cover like an idiot, then it was only a matter of when she would overwhelm and kill me, rather than if.
So I ran.
I wasn’t crazy enough to turn my back to her—Rather, I ran sideways, at an angle, aiming for one of the pillars lining the aisle, and keeping my eyes on her, and my shield up to cover my body. Another powerful crack pierced my ears, just before the next fiery lance shot towards me. Fortunately, I’d picked up enough speed that the first one went wide and missed me completely.
Unfortunately, she was a good shot, too. Rather than aim for where I was, she instead adjusted her aim for where I was headed. The second lance scorched the floor in front of me, and I instinctively slowed down to swerve away from the melting stone. The third came almost immediately after, passing so close to where my head had just been that I could swear I felt it singe the hairs on my nape.
The fourth came in even faster, and punched into my shield. Somehow, I managed not to scream as the force of the impact rippled all the way down through my arm, nearly tearing my shoulder out from its socket. The fifth and sixth struck almost simultaneously, worsening the heat even more, to the point where my shield glowed, as if it were in the process of being smelted.
I had to skid to a halt, change my angle, and then start running again to avoid the rest of the volley. Some faraway part of my mind briefly noted what a grimly comical sight I must have made then, desperately stumbling and stuttering in my steps like a nervous foal.
Another heartbeat, and I was finally close enough to dive for cover behind the stone pillar. I landed hard on the floor, with enough force to at least temporarily take my mind off the pain wracking through my right arm. After a few moments of deep, heaving breaths, I realized that it was quiet now.
The Dark Queen had stopped firing.
Still, though, the air was still filled with a heavy, oppressing sensation. Not like the drain from before leeching out my life, but rather just sheer heat, reminding me that even though I now had cover, she still held every advantage in this stalemate.
Still, at the very least, I had a moment to catch my breath and think things through.
The first thing I considered was my shield. Its surface still glowed red hot where the fire had hit it, and even though it was beginning to cool, I could already tell that the metal itself was warped, dented and misshapen beyond use now. With its foundation compromised like that, I doubted that it’d even protect me from anything heavier than a sloppily-thrown punch.
I let go of its handle and began to work my arm out of its strap. My breath nearly caught in my throat as I realized that the shield's edges had actually fused with my vambrace, and were now stuck fast.
With as much care as I could manage, I reached for my broken sword and stuck the blade near the edge of the shield. I pushed, and it actually sank into the metal, almost as if it were trying to embrace it. Prying and gingerly wriggling both my blade and arm left and right, I managed to rip the shield from my arm, and the twisted hunk of metal flew free in a shower of sparks.
I barely fought down a surprised cry when another bolt of fire struck the shield the moment it left the pillar’s obscurement. It exploded into dozens of tiny chunks of molten steel, and I felt the rush of heat that followed even from my position.
That confirmed what I already knew; She was still on her throne. Probably assessing me, waiting for me to make some stupid, desperate move just in time for her to finish me off
That didn't leave me with very many options. My first idea was to advance and charge her head-on. I dismissed that immediately with a shake of my head. This situation wasn't anywhere near close to the encounter against the golem. For starters, I didn't even have Keane's ring to defend me against her magic—Though, I doubted that just one ring by itself would be anywhere near enough to counteract her own sheer force.
I needed to do this differently. A direct approach would only result in defeat.
My second thought was to withdraw; even from where I sat hunkered down, I could see the golden doors I'd come through, directly ahead of me. Maybe, if I made a break for it and took cover behind the pillars along the way, I could manage to get away. But even that was risky. I just saw how quickly she'd blown apart my shield, barely a fraction of a second after it came out into the open.
And even if I could avoid that first hit, I'd have to move quickly and without hesitation from cover to cover, dodging every single blast of fire that came my way. If I slipped up once, I'd end up dead. Though, if I did somehow escape, I'd be in a better position. Or maybe, I could just stay where I was, and wait for the Hounds and...
...No. Gods, even if the others did get here, what then? What could any of us do against her? She was definitely holding back. I don't know why, but she made that obvious when she attacked me. If she had wanted to, she could have ended it all from the very beginning. I wouldn't have had the shadow of a chance if she'd sped up her initial volley.
Even this casual display of her power was horrifying. What could the Dark Queen accomplish if she stopped holding back her strength altogether? Hell, who was to say if she wouldn’t just get impatient and ramp up her power to kill me right now? I couldn't imagine anything other than an outright massacre.
I closed my eyes, and slowly exhaled.
She... she was supposed to lose her power, wasn't she? Then, could I maybe try to force her to use so much energy that she'd exhaust it? I didn't think that she would be able to sustain this forever, but... What if I was wrong? In all honesty, I didn't know even the slightest bit about magic or how it functioned. I had no idea if she’d eventually run out of strength, or if she could continue indefinitely.
For all I knew, it might even be that she’d grow stronger the longer this dragged on. Was that even possible? A sickening feeling tied my gut into knots, and I tried to ignore the sensation of falling even though I was already in a sitting position on the ground. What was I going to do? What the hell could I possibly do?
This wasn’t the way I wanted to fight her. Gods, I wasn’t even supposed to fight her at all. And yet, here I was. My failure at diplomacy had transformed into the world's poorest assassination attempt.
...Or, had it? For some reason, my mind went back to that night, when Lady Claudia had knighted me. When the goddess had asked me what judgement I would pass upon the Dark Queen, if given the chance.
“I’d kill her,” was my response.
At the time, I was shocked by the immediate and decisive manner I’d come to that resolution. I’d tried to justify it to myself; She led the Legion. She granted them power. The source of all the strife mankind had to endure over the past three hundred years could be traced directly back to her.
But, I thought I’d moved past that childish impulse. Hadn’t I? I’d told Her Holiness that I would negotiate with the Dark Queen, that I’d compel her to surrender, to make her see reason. To bring about peace. Was all of that just in my head? Gods… could I honestly say that this whole time, I wasn’t acting on that initial instinct? From the very moment I’d walked into this room, had I ever stood a chance of bringing about a peaceful resolution?
I felt like I was going to throw up.
My head was throbbing, and though it should have been burning with pain, I abruptly realized that I couldn't feel my right arm anymore. Though I could move my fingers, I guess that all the fire must have completely numbed it from all sensation.
I... I was afraid to find out what it would look like beneath the vambrace. From the corner of my eye, I noticed a sliver of bright red. Prim's ribbon, still wrapped around my bicep. It was still pristine, somehow completely untouched by the Dark Queen's flames.
Maybe it was because of the shield, or maybe it was just simply a matter of luck that it happened to avoid any damage, but either way, it was the only part of me that hadn't suffered the effects of her attack. I thought back to the moment before the battle, when I remembered the promise I'd made to her. And the others, too. The promise I’d made to Vera. The oaths I’d sworn before my master and the goddess. The promise I’d made to Edd, to Edwin. All those promises that I’d made…
Then suddenly, a small, breathless chuckle escaped me as I realized that it was almost the same shade of red as my hair. I reached out with my left hand, carefully unwinding the ribbon, and pulled it free.
An idea began to form in my mind. Goddess preserve me, I wished Vault was here to smack me upside the head, tell me how stupid I was, and come up with an equally reckless and suicidal plan of his own.
I was insane. Just absolutely, irredeemably insane. There was no other explanation for my thoughts. But still, I brought myself up to my feet. Just like Keane had told me before, the beauty of stupid plans was their idiotic simplicity.
I was out of choices and out of time. If I had any hope of seeing this through, of saving Edd, Diana, Prim, and everyone else, I couldn't let myself hesitate. I'd seriously have to give it my all to try and kill her.
"Sorry," I muttered blearily to the thin air in front of me. I held the ribbon up in front of my face, and traced a few curving lines on it with my finger, before wrapping it around Edwin's mace. "Even if this plan goes well, I probably... No. I definitely won't get to give this back to you, Prim."
Above all else, I had to be fast. I took a deep breath before I could chicken out. I let out that same breath as I stepped out into the open, and shouted, "What the hell are you doing?!"
----------------------------------------
She wasn't certain if it was curiosity or surprise that stayed her hand. Maybe it was just simple, base amusement. Perhaps it was all three of them at once that caused her to linger a moment, instead of cutting down the manling into nothing more than dust as he stepped boldly back into the open.
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
His head snapped up, gray eyes narrowed into a glare as he impudently looked back to her. "What are you doing?" he asked again, now with more heat.
Her momentary lapse in composure—which had allowed him to keep living, if only for a few moments longer—evaporated in an instant. She didn't respond. She had no need or reason to answer a dead man's audacity. Her eyes refocused, tracing the patterns within her mind, and the tip of her staff sparked to life once more, just before—
"Why are you conserving your strength?" he said abruptly, interrupting her train of thought, and forcing her attention back to him.
Again, despite herself, she was given pause. Almost without her noticing, her finger slackened along the staff, her mind faltering from its previously honed focus. He took another step forward, seemingly oblivious to imminent death before him.
"Do you understand what's happening? I'm your enemy! Right now, my comrades are hacking apart your own ranks, killing your soldiers, your Legion! And they're making their way here!" He took another step forward, and raised a broken sword's hilt in her direction. "We're going to overwhelm you. I'm giving it my all, while you're just sitting there and barely moving a finger. If you keep carrying on like this, we'll win. And I'll seriously end up killing you!"
He stopped then, heaving for breath. No doubt, he had to be completely exhausted. He held her gaze, the hint of a challenge in his eyes. Sanity, without a question, had completely abandoned him; whatever drive propelled him forward, it was nothing rational. Perhaps that was why, for the first time in a long, long while, she hesitated.
His words contained a deeper meaning, even if he himself couldn't possibly understand what it was. And that very thought nearly made her want to laugh from its sheer absurdity. Was she truly letting a madman's words affect her so? The thought flittered from her mind as quickly as it came; No. Never. The day she allowed such a thing to happen would be the day she plunged a knife into her own heart.
But… in a way, one fact of his crazed rambling rang true. She had been stalling. She had been holding back. For what purpose? What point could there possibly be in conserving her energy at this juncture? The end, at long last, was so close. Freedom was within reach, if she could only reach out and grasp it.
Nothing else mattered.
Victory was hers for the taking, but she had to take that final step. With that determination in her mind, Olga Discordia, arose from her throne. No longer would she be the Dark Queen. No longer would she linger in this forsaken land of nothing, tethered to a throne that enslaved her if only by a brief, vain hope that she might fulfill her duty. Such a thing was impossible now. But, at the very least, her life would continue.
Nothing else mattered.
The moment that she stood, the degenerate’s eyes widened, a small gasp escaping him. Then, just as quickly, he moved. Not towards her, as she’d half expected, but rather, back behind a pillar. To cover. It was… curious. She almost felt disappointment, in a way, to see that his brazen display had been little more than a passing ruse. But still, as she watched him disappear from sight, Olga let out a low, quiet chuckle. The sound bounced from the walls of the throne room, the echo mocking her in return.
He thought to hide, though it would do him little good. That was the mistake that she needed to seal his fate.
She gestured, and the Power unfurled, casting her will inwards. And downwards. Through the core of her body, to her feet, into the ground below her. And into the ground below him. Down to him, through the cracks in the floor that she'd seen him run over.
And upwards, bursting outwards.
Within her, a small, almost infinitesimal something disappeared forever.
Earthquakes were a natural product of the planet's continued existence. They manifested as a result of stresses placed on plates deep beneath the world’s surface, or changes in temperature, or a myriad of other stimuli. The destruction that they could wreak was a known quantity to Man, though many, in their delusion, mistook them as a divine punishment.
The minor crumbling of stone that she brought hardly fit that description, though, its principles still applied. She was the stimulus, the catalyst of energy that built up and released. The onyx floor beneath her was the plate, and the foundations below it the magma flow. The knight standing above it all was the victim. The reaction was quick and simple, the result devastating. The rumble grew in her ears, becoming terrifyingly loud, but she had felt it in her body as much as heard it.
From her feet to the pillar, a thin fissure manifested itself along the floor, carving its way through the stone, straight towards him. He managed to leap aside a split second before it struck, where he would've been perfectly situated had he not moved at all. But that was intended. She would have been surprised if such a slow maneuver had felled him. Still, the pillar and the floor around it erupted into a veritable rain of black stone, jagged edges rising and falling. The debris that was kicked up obscured the entirety of the throne room from sight.
A pained breath echoed, as a stray chunk of stone doubtlessly bit into his flesh. Then, she saw movement to her left. A momentary flash of his red hair.
Again, Olga gestured. This time, the Power was weaved within her heart, then flowed along her outstretched arm. It manifested itself as a thin line, amplified a myriad times over. With so small a distance, there was no delay between her casting and the strike, followed by an ear-splitting crack.
The degenerate’s death was punctuated by a fanfare of lightning and deafening thunder.
She found no satisfaction in that act. Though she had already resolved herself to give her all, Olga felt no small amount of regret—of disgust, even—that such a sacrifice of her strength, even as fractional as it was, had to be made.
She pushed past it. Even if it had been a wasteful expenditure of a precious resource, it had, ultimately, been the only thing she could do under the circumstances. It was an act performed out of need. That need had been fulfilled.
All that remained now was to escape.
She had not anticipated that the aberrant Legion would move en-masse towards the civilizations of the south, much less with such stunning swiftness. She had not anticipated that the High Elf's forces would attempt a counteroffensive in response, rather than consolidate the defenses of their home.
And yet, that coincidence and circumstance had transformed into the key of hope. Just as coincidence and circumstance had been what had first bound her to accursed Garan. The final battle between the remnants of the Legion and the southron invaders was a fortuitous opportunity that could not be wasted.
She would escape. She would live. Dearest Chloe would, too.
Nothing else mattered.
Olga would diminish and return north. Home. And, for some brief centuries, she would remain in the memory of Man, her name a warning upon the lips of parents to their children, a dark reminder of an ancient terror that once sought to bring despair unto the world. Her very being would fade into myths and fables, nothing but ink upon parchment. Then, slowly, that too would be forgotten, as the tapestry of history weaves upon the loom. Mankind would never know the truth. Though, in the ignorance that infected them, they likely never would have understood it regardless.
On some faraway day, another would return to Garan. Perhaps then, the land would once more be alive, rather than a field of longing and corpses. Forests might stand tall in Garan again, lush greens, rivers flowing with cool, crisp water, and skies of endless blue.
The woman that would succeed her would be younger, not one of her peers. Likely weaker, and much less accomplished. She knew not who it would be, what she looked like, nor even what she would be called. It did not matter. And yet, that woman would ensure the future of their kind. She alone would succeed where Olga had failed.
Olga Discordia would carry the weight of that failure with her forever. But she would live. She would be free.
Nothing else mattered.
Nothing else at all.
One step after another, she walked forward from the throne room. It was then that she heard it.
A soft clank of steel pierced her ears, the sound repeating itself once, twice, three times over in a rhythm. Disbelief filled her. Slowly, she turned her head, not towards the source of the sound, but rather to her left—Where she had struck down the degenerate just moments ago. Instead of a spasming, burnt-out corpse, her eyes saw a morningstar embedded on the cracked floor below it.
A morningstar, sporting a bright red ribbon around its handle.
She drew in a sharp breath as she whirled around, just in time to see him burst from the still-settling screen of dust. His gray eyes were bloodshot, narrowed into an icy glare, teeth bared like a snarling beast. In one hand, he was still holding that length of broken sword, whilst the other hung limply by his side. The degenerate leapt forward with a ragged shout, and brought the broken blade down upon her.
----------------------------------------
This wasn’t working.
That realization came, perhaps, just a little too late. He probably should have seen this outcome long before now.
It was only logical that twenty men—Well, nineteen men and an orc—should have been able to bring down a single target. And yet, the elf woman had carved through most of them like a scythe through wheat. Common sense thus implied that there was no fucking way in hell that just four of them would be able to do much of anything, whilst the fifth stood around waving his fingers and mumbling to himself in tongues.
But then again, Hicks had always thought himself as something of an optimist.
His grip tightened around his sword’s handle, and he jabbed forward the moment he saw a lapse in her defense—Only by his blade to be swatted harmlessly aside. She kept moving with the momentum of his attack, and sent her knee into his stomach. He doubled over forward but let himself be carried back by the force of the blow, and fell onto his ass. Just a heartbeat later, a thin blade cut through the air where his neck had just been.
She sucked her teeth, the first vocalization he'd heard from her at all, then shifted her attention to another man as he went for her back. She ducked under his club's swing, nudged his arm upwards with one hand, then drove upwards with a blade. The limb flew free of his body, and still she wasn't done. She continued forward past him, and stabbed him through the neck as he flailed, blinded by pain.
The man crumpled to the blood-stained ground, his mouth working in silent screams and curses, as he held his open throat with his remaining hand.
Three remained. Three against one, and still they stood no chance. What a sick joke.
Even as Hick leapt back onto his feet, her next challenger was on the move. He was a younger guy, still sporting soft features, with dark hair cropped so short he looked almost bald. In one hand he held a spear, freshly bloodied, and he flung it at her without warning. She turned in time to parry the throw, then had to duck as the man closed the gap, swinging a knife twice in an attempt to catch her in the ribs. Just as quickly as he had reached her side, she'd pivoted out of the way, letting his own momentum do the work for her. She evaded the first swipe, blocked the second with the flat of her blade, and drove her sword tip into his stomach.
With a vile, tearing noise, the blade slid through leather and skin, parting the Hound's gambeson and emerging with a spill of crimson. He grunted, fighting through inconceivable pain to swing his knife again.
She let him and caught his arm in the middle of his motion, forcing it away from her, and yanking the knife out of his grasp. She stabbed forward once more—Not to his stomach this time, but higher. His face twisted into a brief, trembling snarl, somehow still conscious for a few moments as the knife punched into his eye and out the back of his head. The red dripped down his shirt, mingling with the darker red of his stomach wound and spread in an uneven pool on the ground. He blinked and swayed, supported by the blade.
She let go of the knife and stepped back. The Hound tumbled forward like a felled tree, impacting against the ground with a dull thud next to the other seventeen.
And then it was just Hicks and one last, stocky man. But before Hicks could even think to do anything, the last remaining merc did something he hadn't expected in the slightest.
He fled.
Dropping his axe to the ground with a clatter, he spun on his heels and ran with a desperate speed that could only be compared to a horse's. The elf stood straight and still, watching as he sprinted down the hall, then disappeared as he rounded a corner, and that was that.
A soft, almost disbelieving chuckle escaped her, and Hicks joined her.
He cracked into a grin, and the grin became a laugh. Soon, he was outright cackling, and had to fight himself to not bend over and hold his sides. He laughed and laughed, frustration and fear and wild amusement mixing inside of him and tickling his very core. What an absolute fucking genius. At that moment, Hicks sincerely hoped the guy made it through this. If he ever saw him again, he'd buy him a drink, and then strangle him with his bare hands.
He sobered slightly after a few more moments, shaking his head to clear it and looked back to the elf woman. Her face was stony, but the faintest trace of a smirk still played at her lips and the corners of her eyes. Hicks spread his stance and brought himself lower into a ready position. "I can take you," he lied, fooling absolutely no one.
She took a step closer, her eyes focused and intent. Then she froze. Slowly, her gaze slid past him, over his shoulder. Her eyes widened when she saw Keane.
Keane, whose eyes were focused directly upon her. Keane, who was still babbling in some strange, ancient tongue.
Hicks smirked again. "See somethin' you like, missy?" he asked with another laugh.
She was on him immediately. She darted forward like a loosened arrow, swords glinting in the light. He twisted at the last moment, her blades slicing through his shirt but missing his skin. But she had anticipated as much, and when she pulled her swords back she slashed at him again, catching him across the chest.
Hicks hissed through clenched teeth, but pushed on, giving her a swipe of his own. She blocked, and the shock of the impact traveled up both of their arms. She grunted, and then they both returned to the offensive. The room was filled with the ring of steel on steel as their swords connected and pulled apart. But Hicks knew that this back-and-forth wouldn't—couldn't—last much longer. She already knew who her real threat was, and was steadily inching over to him. If she made it to Keane, then it really would all be over.
He slipped on a patch of blood and went down to one knee, just barely managing to stop her sword with his own. But she kept pushing forward, forcing him onto another knee. Then she twisted her wrist and pulled her blade back, and crossed it over the front of her other sword, thrusting them both forward. The swords stabbed forward, each one finding their way into a new wound in his forearms.
Hicks gave a cry, and reflexively brought his hands up. The added pressure on her swords completed the trap, and he was stuck, his arms skewered into the wall by the tips of her swords. The steel bit deep, and blood ran down his arms into his palms. He could feel his consciousness slipping, when his eyes wandered. His gaze landed on Ugly Edd's severed head lying on the ground some ways away. Even now, the orc's face remained locked in a morbidly amusing expression of self-satisfaction. Even now, his tusks still shone with the red blood of his fellow aberrant.
Hicks wasn't sure what struck him then. Whether it was a dark inspiration, or simple animalistic desperation, he had no way of telling. All he knew was that something pushed him. Something insane. Something primal. Without another thought, he chinned himself forward with a grunt and brought his head towards the elf's midriff. Then, he started biting.
"Wha—?!" The exclamation she made was one of surprise, rather than pain. Hell, Hicks' teeth had completely failed to break her skin. But that was fine, too. He wasn't aiming to wound her. Her momentary surprise was everything that he needed. He pushed forward with all the might he could muster, widening the deep wounds in his arms, but not before her two swords were freed from his fleshy grips. As the weapons clattered to the ground, Hicks brought his arms up and wrapped them around her torso as he barreled forward, forcing her back onto the opposite wall.
"Let go!" she snarled, lifting one leg, and driving her knee into his face.
Stars marred Hicks’ eyes as he felt his nose shatter, blood gushing out onto her leg and the floor between them. It was all he could do to keep from passing out altogether. He spread his jaw again and weakly bit at her knee for good measure, and was rewarded with another knee to the face. Still, he tightened his grip, locking his arms around her torso, trying as best as he could to make it so she couldn't escape. He might have been out of strength. He might have been close to dying right then and there.
But he didn't need to wait any longer.
"It's ready!" Keane's voice echoed through the hall.
Hicks looked up and met the elf woman's eyes with a bloodied grin. "Hold on to your butt," he said. "This is—"
Whatever else he was about to say disappeared, along with the rest of reality. In their place, an electric judgement raged.
----------------------------------------
The broken sword held approximately three and a half inches of jagged steel along its length. Though it was much duller and impractical when compared to a proper, undamaged blade, it still came to several jagged points, each sharp and strong enough to pierce through unprotected flesh.
It would have to be enough, had it reached her. Five inches were all the distance between the blade and the crook of her neck. It was a small gap, measly and fragile. And yet, it would have been enough.
Just a moment slower, or a slight change in trajectory. Either or both would have placed the sword at the crook of her neck, piercing her jugular. The last thing she would have seen would have been nothing more than a spray of red, and gray eyes.
But he had not reached her. He never would.
Her hand was raised up between the two of them, palm open and facing him, her fingers spread out wide, as if she were commanding him to halt. And he did halt, though not by his own will. Rather, he stopped because he had no choice in the matter.
His eyes widened ever so slightly—in an expression that seemed to her in genuine surprise—as his body levitated, suspended in midair. But that lasted a mere second or two at most, as the shock on his face was broken. A grim light shone in his eyes, and with a grunt of exertion and pain, his limp arm shot up, fist clenched to punch into the sword's hilt, and drive it forward the rest of the way to her neck.
It never reached her. To his credit, he managed to force the sword's tip forward another inch, before she locked every muscle in his body into place. Like a statue, he hung still, his lips peeled back to bare his teeth in a silent shout. Even a blink would be impossible to him, as the very blood that coursed within his body betrayed him. Olga imagined that the sensation must be strange; to no longer have one’s blood flow, but rather have it remain stagnant, as if replaced by thick, cold molasses.
She closed her eyes, and disturbed a sigh. In truth, such a direct and crude method should not have been her first choice for defense. To deliberately exert her will over every inch of his body, from the inside out, was an astonishingly wasteful expenditure. Even that fleeting moment of surprise, that shock of the unexpected, had cost her.
But the expenditure, as needless as it had been, had already been made. Again, a tiny thread was severed, withered, and died forever. There was no undoing that. But there was no point in mourning over the inability to do so, either. She had made her decision, just as he had made his. All that remained was to keep moving forward, and ensure he would never burden her path again.
Opening her eyes again, Olga met his eyes. "So be it," she spoke. No matter how much it pained her, how much it shamed her, her words were entirely for his benefit. He had nearly ended her life. Thus, his existence was one she would acknowledge. "You will die by my hand, Ansel Eschenwald. Take solace in that knowledge."
Yet she knew he would have none. The glow of defiance remained locked in his paralyzed eyes.
Without another word, Olga stepped back, placing several meters between the two of them. Then, she rotated her hand, such that her palm faced upwards. As the Power flowed and wove into itself, she closed her fingers.
The effect began immediately, yet slowly. Gradually, his skin flushed a bright red, as if he had spent a great deal of time in the heart of an oven. His face almost seemed to glow as the red rose from his chest and towards his head.
Slowly, his blood began to heat up under his skin, pushing to the surface by an overwhelming pressure. It trickled freely down his nose, and the corners of his swelling eyes. Abruptly, there was a loud pop, not unlike a large, overripe fruit being crushed underfoot, and his right eye exploded from its socket in a red burst. He recoiled at the incredible pain, his other eye screwing shut. His lips closed for a moment, as he drew in a breath, then parted again as he let out a weak, strangled groan and—
—Olga's thoughts ground to a halt. Almost unbidden, her fingers relaxed and at once, the heat and pressure vanished. Small wisps of steam arose as sweat and blood evaporated from his body. His hands clenched, and he heaved more small, spastic breaths as his body instinctively spasmed.
That should not have been possible. His entire body should have remained unmoving, locked in place down to every last muscle, vein, and ligament. Not even his heart should have been able to beat under the will she exerted upon him. Yet, somehow, it had.
The question of "How?" was answered as they made their presence known.
They flooded into the throne room like a vile, infected tide. Swarming, chattering, screeching, and laughing under their breaths. Olga did not care to count their number. Some of the Men were clad in full plate armor, and some in mail, and a scant few in little more than padded cloth. Some had full face helmets, and some had none. Some carried longswords, battle axes, maces, or flails. And some were not humans at all. Orcs, Imps, Goblins, Trolls, and other odd manners of aberrants roamed the hall with them.
And yet, despite their differences, they all shared a common thread, connecting each and every one of the bastardized horde. The head of a snarling, black dog was emblazoned on their chests, adorning their mail and plate, gracing their shields and blades.
The crowd parted then, allowing a man to approach. He was tall, and broad-shouldered, and wore the black dog upon one shoulder. Over the other, a massive sword extended nearly twice the length of the man's height, held casually in one hand. And on his lips, an easy, carefree smile played.
That he was their leader was an obvious fact. The air of command that reverberated around him was nearly tangible. Yet, none of that compared to the sheer wrongness of his presence. Blood clung to him. Not merely in the physical sense—Though it was quite literally smeared in places around his armor and skin—but in the spiritual one as well. Blood that he had spilled, blood that he had taken, blood that had been shed because of him and his sins. He was disease made manifest, as if the very essence of his sins pierced through the veil of the physical, and forever tainted reality itself.
Disgust filled her. He stood above the rest of the rabble through his sheer depravity. He, too, was someone she had to force herself to acknowledge.
The sinner cocked a brow, his eyes flicking over her, towards Ansel Eschenwald's suspended form, and then back. "So... you're the Dark Queen," he stated, rather than asked. His eyes remained on her, gaze searching for something unknown to her. Olga nearly started as she realized that he was undressing her with his eyes. Then, she became aware that her stoic composure had broken, for the briefest of moments.
She killed them.
At that moment, the expenditure became an inconsequential afterthought. The Power swirled and stretched out of her and across the entire hall, seeking and enveloping every soul within the hall. The ritual, which she had dedicated her very being to for the past three centuries, came to the forefront of her mind. Then, it snuffed out their lives. Their bodies jerked as her will took effect, simultaneously.
And then, nothing. She gazed at the horde of Men and aberrants that still stood before her, very much alive, despite the death she had imposed upon them. They were affected by it, to some varying degrees. Some swayed and clutched at their chests, as if breaking, or gasping for air that they could not get. Others held themselves up with weapons, or fell to their knees. But no lives were ended.
Ansel Eschenwald breathed out another pained groan, whilst the sinner recoiled as if struck, his nose merely leaking a small trail of blood. He smiled, seeming almost amused, and wiped it away with a flick of his thumb. "Now, that's just cute," he said with a slow drawl, before shaking his head. "But you're gonna have to do a whole lot better than that, majesty."
For a moment, anger burned within her. Hot and heavy, it settled across her skin like the heat of a fire, a crackling wave of blistering hatred that she barely contained. But then, the moment passed, dissipating like smoke in the wind, leaving her as cold and collected as she had been before. There was no reason to let herself be phased so. Not a single one of them, not even the sinner, was worthy of expending emotional energy upon.
Rather, Olga turned her gaze inwards. In her mind's eye, the world collapsed and fell away. The Power still swelled within her. It was not as it had been before. It was finite now. Something that had a defined limit, rather than the endless well that she had once been able to draw upon. Yet, as limited as it was, it had yet to be exhausted—Not quite yet. Some time still remained. How, then, had she failed to kill these interlopers?
The answer came to her almost as soon as the question manifested itself. A look beyond herself confirmed it, and she almost laughed at its absurd simplicity. They were suppressing her. Somehow, they were interrupting and disrupting her ability to draw upon the Power. It was not something that they were doing consciously, or even intentionally; nearly all the men present carried an object with them, which bore a simple, yet effective enchantment upon them. The purpose they served was singular and straightforward; To dispel.
Simple, yet effective. Effective, yet easily circumvented. All she needed to do was unleash her Power beyond the point at which the talismans could dispel it.
How absurd, how laughable, how frustrating, that the wretches had managed to advance as far as they had with something as petty as a parlor trick.
"Say," the sinner spoke up once again, his tone light, mocking. He gestured in Ansel Eschenwald's direction. "Mind lettin' the puppy down? Poor bastard's been hangin' there for quite some time now. Wouldn't want my lucky charm to die on me yet." He paused for a moment, then his smile widened into a smirk, as he added: "Hell, I'll trade ya."
Four simple words. It was really such a silly offer, in the face of everything else that was happening, the heated battle, the heavy atmosphere. Yet, somehow, a cold sense of dread welled up inside Olga. She saw a small group of men stride forward, dragging someone forward with them.
"Chloe."
The gasp was so quiet, so sudden, that nobody else heard it. Indeed, Olga was unsure if she had even said it at all. Everything seemed so far away, so disconnected. Time itself felt as if it were slowing down as the impossibility before her registered.
They had Chloe.
Her retainer was bound with steel manacles on her wrists, and a length of thick rope around her ankles. Heavy gauntlets had been clasped around her hands, chains hanging off the cuffs and secured tightly to another manacle around her waist. The long, dark cape that hung over her shoulder was gone. Her blonde hair was darkened with blood, matting it almost flat against her head. A goblin, wide-eyed as if it were scared to even be present there, was sprawled upon her shoulders, holding a blade to her throat. She met Olga's eyes, then winced, as her muscles convulsed ever so slightly.
"Lady Olga," said Chloe in return through gritted teeth.
They had Chloe. And that changed everything.
Her perception of time warped further, if such a thing were even possible, as her mind swirled with possibility.
She could kill them, Olga realized. As she had already deduced, the dispelling surrounding the interlopers was their only advantage, loosely concentrated in whatever talisman they carried, and could easily be shattered. If she pushed herself to break through it, trading efficiency and control for sheer power, she could wipe them out to the last.
And therein lied the problem—To the last. As it stood, could she guarantee that there would be no collateral damage, that, whatever she unleashed, Chloe wouldn't be affected by it as well?
'Maybe,' 'possibly,' 'likely.' The myriad cold, detached analyses came as dozens of scenarios paraded before her mind's eye, hundreds of different actions, cool and precise, yet wild in their uncertainty. Too many factors, too many potentialities. Unlikely as it was, she could potentially fail, weaving the Power wide or too strong. Each scenario answered the question, "Can I save her?" with varying degrees of success and failure. Maybe.
Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe she could. She could destroy the entire mongrel horde, and save dear Chloe. Maybe, then, they could escape north, as she had intended.
Maybe.
And maybe she couldn't. Maybe the circumstances simply wouldn't allow it. Maybe the frightened goblin, in its death throes, would spasm and slice through Chloe's throat. Maybe she would exert too much of her will, and Chloe would die by her hand.
Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Certainty did not exist. The attempt would be a gamble for Chloe's life, no matter what.
But, then, could she truly let such a thing stop her?
This was the final obstacle in her journey. Beyond it, beyond the suffocating walls of that black stone prison, was freedom. A future for Dark Elves. Home. She could not complete her duty now, that much she knew. But still, she could return, and ensure that her successor wouldn't fail as she had.
One life shouldn't stand in the way of that. Not even Chloe's. Olga's expression remained a perfect mask of stoicism. Yet, her retainer met her eyes, as if she could somehow sense how her thoughts turned.
Chloe's grimace turned into a strained smile, and she nodded. Do it, her eyes seemed to plead. I'm ready.
That selfless, and perhaps absolute, loyalty killed all determination to sacrifice her.
For a moment, then, Olga thought to end her own life. To choose death over the indignity of defeat, to deny him of the satisfaction. Ultimately, to retain her pride.
But, they had Chloe. She would see her liege die before her eyes, and she would be left alone in this world, to the tender mercies of the sinner and his interlopers. The thought was unbearable.
They had Chloe, and from the very beginning, Olga's choice had already been made.
The moment stretched on and on, until she finally broke it. Her nod was fractional, almost imperceptible. She allowed her hand to lower, and Ansel Eschenwald fell to the floor in a bloodied heap. A small number of his allies stepped forward, crowding around his prone form.
Olga hardly cared.
The sinner nodded once, slowly. But the damnable smile had yet to leave his face. "That's good, and all, but I still haven't heard an 'I give up.'"
"...What?" Olga failed to contain the astonished words, nor the shift in her expression that accompanied it.
"I mean, it doesn't really feel like you surrendered. Don't you know? Polite warfare—'Specially when it comes to high society types and whatnot—is all about protocol and communication, and all that. Shame that I ain't a noble, or anything like that." Then, he tapped a finger against his grinning lips, slowly, as if pretending he was deep in thought. "Although... the pup is a knight now, ain't he? Far as I know, that's as close as we've got to polite company 'round these parts."
He nodded towards Ansel Eschenwald, and OIga felt her heart clench as the implication set in. Surely, he did not mean…
"I'm the commander, but he's the knight. Afraid you're gonna have to surrender to him."
To him? To a broken man who lied on death's door? "You cannot be serious." She would not do it. Olga had sullied her pride by attempting to take their unworthy lives, but not this. She would not debase herself in such a manner.
The sinner simply shrugged his shoulders, as if to acknowledge the impossibility of arguing any further. Then, his eyes glinted. He walked to Ansel Eschenwald's body, and knelt beside him. Then, he spoke up again. "Tell him you surrender, and make sure he hears ya. On three," he added, glancing to the goblin on Chloe's shoulders, "cut her wide open."
The naked horror in her expression must have been extreme, for he added a short clarification: "One."
On that cue, the short sword in the goblin’s hand began shaking, jaundiced eyes darting back and forth between Olga, Chloe, and the sinner.
"Two."
Olga's grip tightened around her staff, so much so that her knuckles grew white, and her nails cut crescent shapes in her palm. So be it. None would survive, then.
The expenditure was made. The Power was weaved and quickly unfurled, saturating every corner, every being, and every lone molecule that composed the hall. It was concentrated and potent and absolute.
"Oh shit," a voice came from within the crowd. A mage, perhaps, who had recognized the Power that permeated everything around and within him. Though, none seemed to hear him.
The sinner laughed. "Thr—"
"Stop," someone said.
And he did.
The words were slurred and fatigued, but audible all the same, breaking the sinner's words asunder. Ansel Eschenwald placed a shaky hand upon the sinner's shoulder, and lifted his head up. His remaining eye was swollen and bloodshot, yet a strange glint remained in it as he met the sinner's gaze. It was, Olga realized, the same look he had worn when he'd attempted to kill her.
"Stop," he repeated, his voice little more than a croak.
A deep silence followed. The world seemed to stop revolving as the sinner froze and looked back to him, his lips still curled halfway through the word "three." All eyes stared expectantly at the two men at the center of this moment.
Then the moment passed, and the sinner laughed. He reached a hand down and ruffled Ansel Eschenwald's hair, as if he were petting a dog. "Aww, sure thing, pup," he said, with a wide smile. "I was just foolin'."
Ansel Eschenwald nodded back, and faded into unconsciousness. With that, the sinner stood and met her gaze. She felt a shudder run through her at the sight of that smug, satisfied grin. Then, he spun on his heel, facing his assembled rabble. "Victory's ours, fuckers!"
The men and aberrants whooped and hollered, breaking into a cheer at the sinner's announcement.
So it is, Olga thought to herself. She met Chloe’s eyes, and allowed the Power to dissipate harmlessly into nothingness. It truly is.