~In the darkest nights, the stars are our guidance~
‘Dalric’ spasmed. Blood oozed from his eyes and nose, joining the stream that already flowed from his mouth. Now, no inch of his twenty-eight foot frame remained unbloodied. Still, he remained unbeaten. The spell burned Thunderfield above him, but for all the stars' fire the skies remained dark. The skies remained theirs.
“Uuawgh!”
An arrow exploded in his elbow, finally severing what remained of his left arm. The twenty or so remaining elites roared in celebration. They were all that was left. Their lessers had no arms to raise and no voice to cheer.
Soon, none would.
Thunderfield bellowed above him, its fury echoing across the plains. Mounds of fallen soldiers fell apart as its warcry shook the battlefield. It demanded release and ‘Dalric’ would not deny. When he relaxed his right hand, the sky screamed.
As if oblivion expanded down from the heavens, the pitch black clouds produced even darker lightning. The typically vast and uncountable streaks of Lightning Rain were reduced to just ten, but each held the power of thousands. They fell like a ravenous plague, searing the very air in their path.
Immediately, the would-be heroes realized that only a few of their number could survive their descent. With an idiot's resolve, a dozen separated themselves and charged toward him. Death would greet them all the same.
Two managed to pincer him in less than a blink, both wielding maces, both wielding the wind. Miniature tornadoes had already clung to the length of their weapons, but when the tandem swung for his body, they grew to typhoons.
It wasn't enough. The maces smacked his stomach and back with enough force to devastate the area. The winds were ruthless, stripping the earth beneath him, already beaten, bloody and riddled with bodies, completely bare. Yet, all ‘Dalric’ did was groan.
As he felt the pain course through his body, so too did he feel the metal plate crumble against their palm. He swung his left arm behind him and ejected the blood in his stump. The toxic sludge flew at the final Tempest Rogue. They dodged. Only to be met with the flying corpse of their companion. They dodged again. Their speed was rightfully renowned, few things could touch them. ‘Dalric’ was one of those few.
While they dodged, he turned. Eye to eye, there was nothing they could do to stop him from grabbing them and crushing their bones as well.
“Arugh!”
As the Rogue fell, a third Harpoon of Rot joined the couple already lodged in his chest. ‘Dalric’ spun and caught the fourth. He instantly infected it, distorting its enchantments but keeping the rot attunement. Without wasting a movement, he looked beyond the onrushing bodies, and launched it at the irritant.
He didn't have time to see if it hit true. He reached down, feeling the earth beneath his ethereal chains, and commanded it. The now dried and dead soil split, revealing a bloody chasm beneath. As the group drew nearer, seven colossal arms emerged, each wielding a different, iridescent weapon.
The more lithe of the ten maneuvered through the array of armaments with relative ease, but that still left four battling the seven arms of Ondrøm. A feat thrice their number would struggle with.
~Your blood is a rich wine, we're parched~
Another vexing spell. Between the rot, the Nightkin, and keeping Thunderfield active, his offensive capabilities were near nullified. It didn't truly matter, he was playing a waiting game anyway, but they found it irksome letting the little vermin run around.
~The legions of Lyric will not be denied~
The follow up spell bounced off his skin harmlessly. Unlike the Nightkin, the Orator’s power was too meager to penetrate it.
Or so he thought.
‘Dalric’ suddenly felt his left shoulder grow weaker. They snarled. Even poisoned as it was, it had its uses. He briefly tried to counteract the spell, but had to stop on account of the four swords attempting to cleave it off. He evaded the first three as they either flew or cloudwalked to his chest, but the fourth was a feint. Their true aim was his neck.
They found it.
They also found out both it and his right arm were still in perfect working condition. While their blade caught in his skin, their body sailed into Ondrøm’s maw.
The remaining three swordsmen didn’t pay the death any mind, renewing their assault before the body had even eclipsed the chasm. While their skills may have been notable individually, they were clearly strangers. Their teamwork was abysmal. The best they could do was keep him from killing one of them without trading his other arm for it. It did nothing to promote them from simple, annoying pests.
It was another losing battle for them though, as the engagement drew on he’d bite into the offending spell more and more. With time, they’d lose their only leverage. But..
~Our children know not of suffering, you will teach them its pain~
They scowled. He assumed the pointless attempts at his arm were likely a distraction, so he’d been attentive to any signs of another trap, but he didn’t imagine the Orator had enough strength to cast the first three stages of that spell without their incantations.
Arm be damned, he swiftly caught one of the three and crushed them in their armor.
He winced as a blazing heat sliced straight through his shoulder, but he managed to grab the offending blade before its wielder could retreat to safety. They didn’t dare contest his grip, but the blade itself did attempt to burn his ‘unworthy’ hand.
That rebellion hardly registered as ‘Dalric’ retrieved the other sword still stuck in his neck. They both looked comically small in his hand, but they still had use. He spared some of his strength and began fusing the two soul weapons together.
It was a doomed effort, both souls were far too mature and powerful to be combined, but ‘Dalric’ wasn’t looking for a melee weapon. He wanted a disruption.
The swordlessman had conjured a new, weaker blade and joined the Nightkin and the other swordsman in a defensive wedge between ‘Dalric’ and the Orator. Their defiance was admirab—foolish.
‘Dalric’ frowned. He peered down at the wild fluctuations the swords were causing. He looked back at the party and felt… respect, appreciation… and pity. Their frown deepened.
He quickly lobbed the coupling. Their stability just as quickly fell apart and they violently exploded above the quartet. The four were completely unharmed by the explosion, but physical damage was not his goal.
Gloom weighted on his eyelids as the Orator fell to their knees. He’d successfully disrupted the spell’s power and now it unraveled in their throat. A complex, multistep spell like Rite of Suffering didn’t just dissipate on failure, it collapsed. For someone who channeled it through their person, that meant one thing. The thorn would die.
The three failed bodyguards pointlessly rushed to their side. He knew they didn’t have enough strength to spare. They had near emptied themselves in their atta—they were going further. A forlorn expression formed on his face as he watched the trio’s sacrifice. They were extinguishing their lives to complete the spell. They had his respect, but… it was too late.
Lighting Rain struck.
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
The world went white.
Huh?
Dalric had expected an impact so fierce it would have vaporized everything for a kingsfoot. Yet no impact came, just blinding light. Even more alarming…
Wait.. I can feel my bod—
Silence!
‘Dalric’ looked towards the light’s epicenter, but before he could strategize foreign ahjer latched onto his body. It brough pain. He immediately convulsed, falling to the earth in a twitching mess. He couldn’t control himself. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. There was no he. All there was, was pain. Pain greater than anything a sane mind could withstand.
It seemed the Gods considered themselves sane.
Focus snapped into Dalric’s eyes as he felt their presence dwindle. Raw pain still ripped through him, but the spell was called a rite for a reason. There were tricks to overcome it, tricks of the soul, not the mind or body. He shakily raised his hand, relinquishing his focus on resisting the rot, and called for Laekna.
She appeared instantly, also feeling the Gods’ disappearance.
He didn’t let her get a word in, “Rescue! Now!”
Thankfully, she didn’t waste time responding. Instantly, every body she thought she had the slightest chance of restoring levitated and drifted out of his sense’s range. The endlessly pervasive light still blinded him, but he could hear the Orator screaming, unaware that they were being saved.
They likely fear they’ve failed to kill me at my most vulnerable.
Dalric left his hand raised as he called for the most costly weapon in his arsenal, Nightless Astra. For a moment, sight returned as the astral weapon’s formation demanded all the light for itself. The moment was short-lived, but it gave Dalric a glimpse at… the impossible.
They’re absorbing Lightning Rain..
He couldn’t imagine how they managed such a feat, but it reeked of terrible consequences. Unfortunate, but no matter, he would die here regardless. Having drained himself with his two self-harm loopholes, the rot rapidly went to work. Whether or not they managed to wield the destruction masquerading as lightning, wouldn’t affect the outcome. He would finally rest.
It must be quite volatile for Fae to forgo rescuing them… or its working perfectly.
A different Dalric would care about the details, but the current one was just tired. The finish line was near, he didn’t care how or what got him there. He just wanted it to end. So he laid still and let his mind slip. He surrendered.
The pain and light were blessings in that moment. They offered him no room to see or think, leaving him in a nice, ignorant bliss. A perfect cocoon from reality as he drifted away.
Of course, it would have been too kind for him to die in that state.
The light was the first thing to give, returning color to his vision. He could just close his eyes though, the pain was enough to occupy him. But even that respite didn’t last.
Eventually, the pain stopped. No sooner than it did, the torture resumed.
‘Dalric’ sprung to his feet and immediately noted he was no longer ethereally bound. He grinned, but quickly lost the expression as he realized why.
The man who made them had found another means to make a nuisance of himself. He was fashioning armor around their last warrior. A warrior ‘Dalric’ knew he couldn’t outrun. A warrior that stared right at him with a spear exuding destruction. They hissed.
He raised Nightless Astra and fired a beam of light even more blinding than the previous. To no surprise, the spear destroyed it on arrival, but it did provide information.
First, the spear was unstable, pieces of it collapsed just from raising it. Second, the armor wasn’t for fighting ‘Dalric’, it was to protect against the effects of wielding destruction in one’s hands. Third, most importantly, the vermin was poor at wielding destruction in her hands.
‘Dalric’ lunged forward. She stood at the far end of the battlefield, but within two strides he covered more than half the distance. As he completed the third, she rose to meet him.
“Death finds you now, Dalric!”
‘Dalric’ ignored the cries of an insect and engaged. Large as he was, completely avoiding the spear was delusional—it nicked him on his good shoulder—but trading damage with a giant was an idiom for suicide. They impaled her torso on the first exchange. The nick ballooned into him missing a third of his shoulder as he did so, but that was still a win.
Another exchange later, he’d lost a sizable chunk of his abdomen for her dominant arm.
Both heavily hampered now, technique fled fast. It quickly became easier to dodge than to hit true. A disaster for ‘Dalric’. Even with the spear falling apart, and the wielder following suit, he couldn’t disengage. He’d die if he tried. He’d also die if he didn’t reach a sanctuary soon. Time was short, there was only one choice.
‘Dalric’ swung wildly and recklessly, ignoring defense. Body parts could be mended, but the only path to his survival laid in killing the blight. He wagered he could over power her. She wagered he would try.
NO!
They both won.
Nightless Astra fizzled out as the final soldier fell, her head hitting dirt a few feet from her chest. It rolled to a stop, shedding its ethereal armor, and faced him. Dalric, disoriented, peered back. Even though it sat in a field of gore, it was picturesque. Not a hint of fear or horror had managed to worm itself onto her final expression. She was at peace.
He understood.
It was a proud death, a noble passing. The only emotion her face could have ever projected was that of complete contentment. She had fought honorably, for the most just cause there could possibly be, and she won.
"Ugh." He grunted as he kneeled down. Blood soaked his knees as he brushed nearby bodies aside. Once settled, his gaze returned to her face.
She was just one in an army of two hundred thousand, but she was the one to deal the final blow. The one to feel Dalric’s last swing. The one to know, with absolute certainty, that the Deathseeker would seek no longer. They were safe.
Look at me, romanticizing my own death.
Maybe he was trying to give meaning to the loss of a former friend’s child, maybe he just wanted to reclaim the peace he felt when the pain was too great to think. Maybe the trick was never being sane in the first place.
…
His eyes drifted up to the sky. He watched as the pitch black clouds slowly brightened. The sun's light, previously barred, seeped through.
They'll never be safe again.
That truth soiled any contentment he may have felt in the moment. His death was merely the end of his personal torment. Sure, he was the most potent tool in the Gods’ arsenal, but he was also the blueprint. They'd find another like him eventually. Inevitably.
His eyes returned to the battlefield. Where there wasn’t abject destruction, there were corpses laid by the thousands. How content could he truly feel when this is what it cost to free him? Two hundred thousand of the greatest ahjerists Aonica knew were now casualties. Healers that could have quelled plagues, engineers that could have built wonders, defenders that could have fought back the ever encroaching Wyld. How much of the fabric of their society had this day shredded? How much could be salvaged? How much was lost forever?
What soured it even further was the knowledge that in the end, it was a small price to pay. His actions, regardless of whether they were truly his, had killed millions. And it was only getting worse.
At first he was a mere executioner for the Gods, relieving figures of power and importance of their heads. Then he became a deadly inquisitor, silencing towns and cities that dared to dissent. Now. Now… now he couldn't be anything less than a harbinger of death. Where he walked, kingdoms buckled and their people bled.
He winced. In part because of the four spears lodged around his heart, but mostly because the memories assaulted him. It seemed with his life slipping away, the mental barriers he erected were falling.
So much for bliss.
Thankfully, the Gods were either incapable or uninterested in tormenting him in his last moments. His body and mind remained clear of their filth.
"Haaa.." He only had a few breaths left. He could feel it.
Laekna finally flew back to him, she must have known too. He could feel her sorrow radiate as she approached. For the first time in decades, he smiled. Contentment may have eluded him, but relief didn’t.
A part of him had worried all of this wouldn't be enough. That he'd emerge from this battle with only a kill count to show for it. He hadn't pushed hims—hadn't been allowed to push himself to his limit in centuries. It was hard to estimate where it laid. There was every possibility he'd grown too strong for a single empire's army to lay him to rest. He could only thank the Elders that those fears proved immaterial.
"Light…"
Dalric wanted to chuckle at his unbefitting nickname, but he had neither the time nor energy. Laekna floated in front of him, for what would be the last time, and he had a few things he needed to say.
"I swear I—"
"Don't.” He cut her off, “Do… don't se..k revenge. Don't p..omise to… to… remember me." He realized he was slurring so he summoned every last drop of energy he had for his parting words, "Leave the Gods to their schemes. You were never meant to be a part of this, never meant to be chained with me. You’ve always been too pure. The path of a monster was not yours. You're free now. D—don't." He started slipping, "Let my… ghost." It was all fading. "Hold you back."
He didn't know how much he actually got across, he could only hope she understood. Hope that she’d leave the past in whatever grave he ended up in. If he even got that much.
He could tell she tried to communicate something back to him, but it was too late. Darkness had arrived and it quickly enveloped him.
His final thought surprised him. He imagined it would be a horror show of the worst things he'd ever done or a wistful play of life before the Gods. Instead, it was just one scene, one memory. The morning of his first day of weapons training, when he picked up a halberd for the first time.
I wanted to be the greatest soldier ever…
How foolish.