The Cleaver approached the Prophet, leaning down to admire his work. “Who knew that the most effective torture against you would be the one I afflicted on others?” The Prophet’s only response was a glare. The corpses of the two prisoners still sat in their chairs in front of the Prophet, though the illusion had fallen. It didn’t matter much, the bodies were unrecognizable as human at this point.
The Cleaver walked over to one of the many knives given to him by Lynn. The knives that, in his excitement, the Moth had forgotten to take back. The Cleaver smiled as the runestone lit up like a forest fire as he waved his hand over the blade of the knife he had found fit his practices the best. Violet wisps of energy shot from the crude handle as the Cleaver picked it up.
“Creating the perfect vessel was never an easy task you know,” the Cleaver said as he walked over to the Prophet. Chains were wrapped around his wrists and ankles, keeping him in a kneeling position with his hands raised into the air. “Especially when the vessel-” the Cleaver grabbed the Prophet’s right arm and held it in front of himself. “-is so stubborn!” The Cleaver grunted in exertion as he severed the Prophet’s forearm from his elbow. There was no blood, as the energy on the blade immediately cauterized the wound. The Prophet let out a weak gasp of pain, gritting his teeth as he prepared for the agony that he knew was coming next. Pale bone grew from the stump, and lagging slightly behind, nerves, veins, and muscles coiled themselves around the limb.
The Prophet watched as the skin that formed around the regrown limb turned whiter than ash and his fingertips blackened. Flakes of ashen skin floated down to the earth slowly, and black smoke trailed from the Prophet’s fingertips. The Cleaver beamed at the limb before ruffling the Prophet’s hair like a father would his son.
The Cleaver turned and walked to the locked door that trapped both of them inside the cell. He held his hand out to it, and the runestone ignited once more, causing the cell door to erupt with a brighter violet energy than the knife.
The metal door melted away, soon leaving nothing but a puddle of molten iron. The Cleaver stepped out of the cell before turning to the Prophet once more. “I think you’ll find that new arm of yours more than capable of breaking your chains. Escape, and kill all those who wronged you, even me if you must, but never forget that you have nothing. You are nothing. Nothing but a vessel serving a greater cause. Exactly what you were meant to be. Seren will welcome you back with open arms.”
The Cleaver walked out of sight, leaving the Prophet alone once more. His new arm spasmed, its fingers cracking and bending in ways they shouldn’t. He could feel the bones shatter and reform almost instantly. The pain was excruciating, but in a way he was thankful for it. It was the only thing keeping him from mentally removing himself from his surroundings.
That and a boiling, desperate need for revenge in his gut. He already hated the Cleaver, so there was no new anger there, but for the Elf named Lynn, any semblance of mercy had fled with the first drop of blood from Grayson and Vale.
Once his hand had stopped rearranging, he gripped the chain that held his other arm. The Iron crumbled under his grasp, just the Cleaver had said it would. That in and of itself was concerning. The Cleaver wasn’t one to help those in need. The Prophet figured there was a drawback to his new limb, but with each passing moment he dreaded more and more what it could be.
The Prophet pushed himself to his feet and stumbled over to the table where the Cleaver had placed his tools. He grabbed an especially long knife, forcing down the bile in his throat as he remembered what it had been used for. His gaze fell on the mutilated corpses of his old friends, and he limped over until he stood next to them.
His hand reached out shakily. He wanted to hold them, but the thought made him sick. The Cleaver’s last words to the Prophet echoed in his head. You have nothing. You are nothing. Nothing but a vessel.
The Prophet’s hands balled into fists, his nails digging into his skin and drawing blood. “They’ll die for this. No matter the cost.” The Prophet walked to the door, knife firmly in his grasp, and an idea that he knew was awful forming in the back of his mind.
° ° °
Yenneth was surrounded on all sides except the front entrance by forests filled with unnaturally large and tough trees, making finding a vantage point easy and relatively safe. Vale, Huojin, and Davis had taken up reconnaissance while the others prepared to infiltrate the city. Vale looked over to where Grayson should be, and could already see the fog rolling in. It was a few minutes out, but that wasn’t a problem. What was a problem, however, was what caught her eye next
“Holy shit,” Vale said as she peered from the treetop she sat in. Huojin stood nearby, and her words caught his attention, drawing his gaze from the city to what she was looking at. His eyes widened in surprise, and he made his way across the branches till he was standing next to her.
“Yeah, that’s a valid reaction,” Huojin agreed. Out in front of Yenneth, a shadowy dome had formed. The wind picked up, and as it did, the dome burst outwards, revealing inside it a group Vale was all too familiar with.
“Cultists,” Vale said through gritted teeth. She stood, turning to Davis who had started to make his way over to see what the two were looking at. “Go to the others and tell them the Cult of Svarog is making a move on Yenneth,” Vale barked. It took Davis a few seconds to process what she had said to him.
A look of realization passed over Davis’ face before he gave Vale a stern nod, starting down the thick branches of the tree they were standing in to meet up with the rest of Storm’s End. The mercenary band had set up several camps a short distance from the capital, but where Vale and the others were scouting from was far from any of the camps so if they were spotted, the enemy hopefully wouldn’t be able to find where the main force was stationed.
“Vale, the one in front is waving at us,” Huojin said, nudging Vale with his elbow and not taking his eyes off the Cult. Vale spun around, seeing just what Huojin had described. There were two figures standing in front of the Cult, and one of them had turned towards the forest, waving in the direction of Vale and Huojin.
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Vale wanted to believe it was coincidence, that whoever that was couldn’t actually see them, but something told her that wasn’t the case. Her fears were confirmed when the figure gestured towards them, and the old man standing next to the figure was suddenly enveloped by shadows.
At the same time, shadows sprung from the branch ahead of Vale, and from them appeared the same old man who had been in the field moments ago. The man stood tall, his long black cloak covering his form and any weapons he might have been carrying. His expression was one of annoyance, his gaze scrutinizing as he looked Vale over.
Vale didn’t hesitate for a second, drawing her curved sword and arcing it towards the Cultist. The old man’s eyes widened in surprise, but he dodged the attack all the same. Vale brought the sword back in an upwards slash to the man’s chest, hoping to catch the Cultist off guard. The Cultist raised his leg as if preparing to kick, and Vale’s strike connected with his lower leg. Instead of the clean cut she expected, her blade glanced off with a clang. Through the new gash in the Cultist’s cloak, she could see iron leggings underneath.
“If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have seen me,” the Cultist said, his voice level and carrying weight. He slowly lowered his leg as Vale calmed down, clasping his arms behind his back once his foot touched the branch. A beat of silence passed as all Vale did was glare at the Cultist while he analyzed both her and Huojin.
“I am to be referred to as the Reverend, and my Lord has sent me bearing a message,” the Reverend said. A scowl flitted across his face for a moment as he prepared to deliver his message. “You are Vale, correct?” he asked. Vale nodded. The Reverend looked past her to Huojin, “In that case, you must be Grayson, no?” Huojin’s brow furrowed before he delivered a tentative shake of his head to the Cultist.
The Reverend grunted slightly, his face showing a hint of disappointment. “No matter, the message works all the same.” He straightened his posture slightly before continuing. “The Prophet believes you and Grayson to be dead. Two prisoners were tortured in front of him with a spell cast to give them your appearances.” All the blood drained from Vale and Huojin’s faces as the Cultist continued. “We know of your ties to the man you once knew, but anything that was left of him will be gone by the time you reach him.
“At this moment he seeks out Svarog, looking to fulfill his purpose and become a vessel for our god. My Lord wishes for you not to be in the city when this happens. Why he even bothers himself with concerns for your safety eludes me, but his wish is my command. I am here to tell you to leave before the fighting begins. Leave the Prophet to his fate and live your lives to the fullest without him.” This time it was Huojin’s turn to swing at the Cultist. He weaved around Vale and brought a staff he had taken from Grayson's armory crashing down from overhead, but the Reverend evaded it. The staff clacked against the wood of the branch, and the Cultist took the initiative and jumped atop the weapon, pinning it.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” the Monk snarled, not bothering to try and pull his staff from under the Reverend’s foot. Huojin opened his mouth to continue, but was cut off by a rumble from the gates of Yenneth as they opened. Everyone’s gaze traveled to the field, where they watched as the figure out in front of the Cult marched towards the army pouring from the gates.
° ° °
Seren spread his arms wide as the army stopped a few dozen feet ahead of the Cult, the gates to Yenneth shutting behind them. “I don’t believe you’ve had the pleasure of making my acquaintance, though I’m sure you know who I am regardless,” Seren said with a theatrical bow to the bald Elf that led the battalion. He wore full plate armor similar to the rest of the cavalry behind him, though his was more decorated.
“Seren, leader of the Cult of Svarog, your presence is a hostility! Leave now and we will let you go without a fight. If you stay, you and your forces will face the full wrath of the Royal Army,” the Elf barked, his posture ramrod straight and confidence unwavering. If Seren had to give him credit for anything, it was that he was the textbook definition of a leader. Just him being there seemed to bolster morale among his troops.
“Sounds to me like you’re just scared,” Seren taunted, an immature grin on his face. He took several steps forward until he was inches away from the Elven general who, to his credit, didn’t show any signs of fear. “Hand over the Prophet and Svarog and you get to go home to your families. Any other captives of ours would be appreciated as well.” The Elf opened his mouth to respond, but he was cut off by Seren. “No, see, I believe you’ve misunderstood. This isn’t a negotiation. Step aside, or ready your weapon,” Seren goaded.
The Elf spat at Seren, the saliva landing on the Soulsteel boots that he wore. The Cultist shook his head and clicked his tongue. “You hear that, boys!” Seren roared as he spun to face the Cult, his arms shooting out to the sides, sending his cloak billowing around him. The Cultists jeered, weapons stabbing into the air in unrepressed glee.
The twang of a bow sounded from the lines of the army from Yenneth, and the arrow fired sank into the ground a few feet in front of Seren. He turned towards the fighters behind him, raising a brow. The arrow hadn’t missed, but it had completely passed through Seren. Only the people at the front lines seemed to notice as their faces were lined with a much more potent dread than the others.
“We’re just not making good choices today are we?” Seren taunted, his eyes scanning the bowmen at the rear line of the enemy. He couldn’t seem to find who had shot it, though. With a grunt of annoyance, he turned back to the Cult, crossing his arms behind his back. Seren opened his mouth to speak when yet another distraction caught his eye. To his left he saw fog rolling in, crashing over itself like waves. He had lived long enough to know elemental magic when he saw it.
Seren was certain there weren’t any elementals at Wryn’s disposal, which could only mean there was another force at play. A frown crossed the Sovereign’s face. Things were getting complicated. It seemed the Royal Army had noticed it as well, as a few had started pointing and whispering. The unrest caught the attention of the General, who had been stuck in a stunned state after watching the complete failure of one of his archers. He raised his sword to the sky and shouted for his soldiers to prepare as Seren spoke to his men.
“I promised you a chance to bite back at the Monarchs who’ve towered over you for so long, and now I’m here to give it!” Seren shouted, eliciting a rolling cheer from the Cultists. “Storm the city! Burn it to the ground! Each civilian you kill or otherwise capture is one point, any soldier is ten, a member of the Royal Guard is fifty, the King’s Guard will net you two hundred, and anyone who brings me the head of true, full blooded royalty, wins!
“Now…” Seren drew his sword, which was hidden under his cloak by his hip. It was a long, thin weapon with no handguard and runes carved down its rectangular blade.. The handle was made of dark red wood that fit snugly in the Cultist’s grasp. He pointed the weapon at Yenneth, and a grin spread across his face. “Rain Hell!”
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