Willow was beginning to grow frustrated.
“Say that again.” She demanded the clansman before her, who was a few loud questions away from trembling where he stood.
“Two of our soldiers were discovered dead. We’re trying to look for evidence of where the perpetrators went.” He cleared his throat, doing everything in his power to avoid her icy glare. “But the collateral damage is astonishing. We could barely recognise their bodies. One of them was almost completely charred — Ambition Clan work. ”
“We know that!” She struck the table before her, the impact tremoring up the walls of the mahogany hut.
Willow regarded her own creation with relative disdain. As a Vanguard, her Mark was still powerful, but such arrangements had been a horrific annoyance. A Mercenary, no doubt, would have sprouted a small village within an hour of spare time. An exaggeration of course, but the difference was enormous nonetheless.
And the place hardly resembled a building as it was. More like a cluster of trees contorting around one another with uncanny grace. She wasn’t an architect, or a carpenter. Grotesque distortions of nature like this was the best one could do without careful preparation, and full mastery over Chantal's Mark; mastery that far surpassed an Emblazed, or even herself. Two things she didn’t have the time, nor the specialities for. Yet, no matter how creepy the way the canopies stretched above may have been, you would catch Willow dead before stepping foot inside one of the lesser tents.
Now that was truly barbaric living.
The clansman rubbed at his neck. “I’m sorry Willow.” His voice was tight, tense like a string stretched to breaking point. “With all the evidence we’ve accumulated — the sounds from below, destroyed supplies, and the missing fugitives who fall into our hand Durations later — our suspicions of a rebellion are all but confirmed. They must have tunnels underground. That would explain how they operate out of sight.”
She nodded, eyes closed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This settles it. Tonight, none of you are allowed any shut-eye until they’re found and brought to justice. Juniper sends us here, offers them to join the glorious splendour of The Wild Clan, and this is how they treat us?”
Willow leaned forward, hands clenched. Never before did she remember being nearly this irritated. Dark, underground societies, right under her nose . . .
The man said something along the lines of feverish agreement, but Willow paid him no mind. “Instruct every squadron to send roots deep into the ground. We’re going to crush these fugitives like the vermin they are.”
“Right away. Of course.”
With that, the man scuttled off as quickly as possible. The pathetic sight left Juniper wondering what the younger generation had come to.
Departing the hut into a valley of tents, Willow dealt with her agitation the only way she knew how: by doing something.
She commanded a nexus of roots to ravage the hidden depths below. She took in a breath, smiling pleasantly to herself as she imagined evasive rats finally receiving the treatment they deserved. Inexorable death.
Then Willow opened her eyes with a start.
Blue flame.
The soldier who had reported to her, all knees and elbows, stopped dead in his tracks. Two blazing clansmen, masked head to toe in the azure fashion so many of the Ambition Clan liked to don, had ensnared the camp in a blazing circumference. The raging barrier stretched out two metres above, an encompassing humidity sweeping through the air.
Already, small groups were skirmishing with the two of them. Willow grabbed a tiny splinter of wood from a pocket, imbued it with a little Wilderness energy, and sent the tiny thing flying. Before the wind could knock it astray, the sound like a boat rocking ashore resounded. A log burst into existence, gliding towards one of the pair with the power of a battering ram. Troops around applied their own Marks, until the construct grew truly terrifying in scale.
It was too large for the tiny figure to dodge out of. They were going to be crushed. Willow would cackle at the pitiful attempt at glory, before crushing their partner with equal-
The colossal pole thundered down with the force of a thunderclap. The heat around was challenged as a clapping gust of wind brought chill air with it. But Willow's initial mirth dissolved quickly.
The figure remained fighting, only a few metres away. Willow couldn’t even tell if they were shaken, cloaked under that fiery ruse.
And then, like every bad thing in the world was snowballing, she realised a lethal truth: she had grossly underestimated the scale of this campaign.
Everywhere she turned, anonymous fighters draped in much the same fashion kept her men and women well occupied. Willow’s teeth clenched until they ached, as again and again, the strength of her troops was matched. This might even turn out to be, heavens forbid it, a close encounter.
Where the hell is Brison? The thought terrified her, but none of the crusading rebellion matched his physical stature. Speaking of which, fighters in numbers far surpassing the initial two made up the rest of the Ambition Clan. Everyone was fighting, a noticeable group far more powerful within the enemy sect than their peers, but the determination shining through each and every one of them was ubiquitous.
She supposed they were called their namesake for a reason.
Within a second, Willow found herself at the back of one flaming specimen duking it out with a clanswoman of her own. Infinity sped through her Astute Warrior Mould, a hybrid specialty that enforced the flesh and bone of each major limb. A green fist appeared over her own, superimposed, before sprouting into a gigantic appendage. The stiff plantage was carried forth by her enhanced strength, squashing the enemy dead in a single stroke.
A deafening noise reverberated around the blow, and Willow rushed through attack after attack of flaming projectiles. Truthfully? Each impact stung. Not incredibly intensely, and she summoned a small shield of oak to absorb each, which she quickly cast aside. But Willow didn’t possess any abilities focused on pure defence.
Two more she squashed in less than one minute. This obviously enraged many of the Ambition Clansmen.
A dozen or so confronted her in one group. Swirling around, she enlarged yet another splinter. Those in the group not wise enough to take a steady step aside were squashed. Bones and cartilage may have been crushed. But no immediate deaths.
More flames than she could easily block amassed upon her body. Protective skins of wood layered over her, taking the brunt of the fires. Right before Willow felt like the inside of a boiling cauldron, she would shred the thin armour. Like a snake overdue on their skinning, she repeated this temporary protection again and again.
A club appeared in her hands. Substantially smaller than the rams Willow had manifested before. Constant protection being worn down was tough to sustain. But Willow didn’t worry — this conflict would be done and dusted with soon enough.
A skull caved in where she struck. She sent a smoky silhouette flying with another swing. Nothing, no matter how many of these dimwitted clansmen threw their lives away, would stop her onslaught.
Through the cyclone of rage bearing down on the Vanguard, Willow spotted a number of her own subjects dead. Charred masses dispersing to ash in grim visages.
And then, past the hellish pandemonium, she saw him: Brison.
One exchange with him; one death ensured, and the Ambition Sect’s plan will be foiled.
He stood plainly, beckoning her forward with a taunting hand. His stoic expression was clear, no flaming waves draping him, but the hidden mockery was overwhelming. Obviously, the man wasn’t one to delay the inevitable. If they were to cross blades regardless, why wait?
She flew forward, all Infinity streaming to her legs, and dived to the old codger.
There was no need to exchange words. That was a formality Willow ignored all together when the passion of combat roused her spirit. She braced herself, mentally preparing, calculating a score of potential approaches to the fight Brision might take. He was a Warlord after all; an entire Rank higher than her own. This wouldn’t be an easy fight.
They approached one another with forced nonchalance, speed ramping up ever-so slightly with each progressing stride. Willow drew her last few splinters. They enlarged like the others, about an eighth of the size of the previous battering rams, moulded together through a strip of leafage. Within those lengthy, bound strips, carried the force of a thousand year-old canopy. One strike, and the Warlord’s skull would cave in. One swipe of the arm, and Brison’s head would-
The man turned tail and fled.
“Coward!” Willow spat in disgust, hefting the overgrown hammer over one shoulder and rushing forwards.
Brison barreled ahead, but Willow was always one step behind him. Their distance wouldn’t budge, the difference in Divine Rank more overt than ever. It was beyond infuriating — a rat race Willow simply couldn’t win.
The surroundings, razed as they were, offered little in the way of plantage she could manipulate. Chantal’s prowess allowed Willow to manifest her own, of course, but creating nature where there was none was much more draining. Instead, she focused on the already existing wood of her light armour and weaponry.
Spears of average size flew towards the fleeing man, who didn’t do so much as summon flame. He skirted out of the way of the few that came near, and the others . . . Willow’s aim hadn’t even been close.
Am I being led? The possibility was rage-inducing. The fight, more chaotic than ever, continued on without her presence. The Ambition Sect collectively smiled in obvious glee, more determined than ever now that the opposing leader had been waylaid.
Help crush the Ambition Clan’s populace one by one, or deal with their leader directly? The trap was obvious, even as Brison leaped through the flame boundary. But traps only worked if they succeeded, as obvious as that sounded. Call her vain, but Willow was confident in her abilities to crush the man. Problem was, she couldn’t get his clutches on him.
A gap appeared before Brison, and he jolted through the fire boundary unscathed. The same couldn’t be said for Willow, who, upon catching up, was met by a whole inferno. Fires be damned, she sent every drab of Infinity into her legs. They had already been full to bursting, but one last surge was all Willow needed to leap overhead.
The wall trespassed, she turned her falling dive into a roll. Free from the Ambition Clan’s artificial perimeters, Willow vaulted into an all-out run.
Her squadrons were capable. It wouldn’t be her fault if they couldn’t deal with a clan so modest, so obscure as Tanish’s. Pah, she hadn’t even heard of the cocky god’s name before Juniper had allocated her with this accursed vassal.
Spinning the hammer, one pulse of energy transformed the leaves into writhing, tentacle-like vines. With one almighty toss, she threw what was virtually a sledgehammer into Brison’s back. Before he could react, the verdant tendrils enveloped his body. For one glorious moment, the Warlord was impeded. For one glorious second, before Brision had the breathing room to set himself aflame like a human monolith, he was all hers.
She launched upon him like a rabid canine. Flames consumed him all over, but it mattered little. Willow retrieved her weapon, spun into her next blow, and pounded down at the man over and over again.
Out here, there was no one to intervene with their conflict. Willow’s men had all been occupied with the brief instance they all shared a resting time, and the Ambition Clan had obviously all gathered together, within their shielded battlefield, to carry out their coup.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Willow hardly paid attention to their surroundings. It was clear now she had been overthinking. Brison had never had the cunning, nor the patience for something as technical as that. This oversight would be his downfall.
“You sorry excuse for a Warlord,” she spat molten lava, “and I had you pinned as a potential threat. Could I have been more over-prepared?”
Brison swivelled up and around, a whip of pure flame manifesting in his hands. Their weapons collided, sparks flying, wood chips scattering through the air.
Her weapon was fully alight, and Willow’s confidence was shattered with the antidote it dearly needed. With a shriek, leaves appeared from thin air itself, gliding towards Brison like kunai locked onto their target. Tiny wisps of fire scattered off the man, incinerating the emerald constructs whole, but a few got through. The stems immediately sprouted into full coatings of oak, giving the impromptu throwing knives a jutting weight.
They slit across his skin, drawing Ichor in a dozen places.
Willow didn’t even have the chance to laugh maniacally when a fist blurred into her chest. She staggered backwards, gagging as all the air was winded out of her.
Another wave of covered leaves shredded into the Warlord, but it wasn’t enough to prevent him enveloping her completely. Flames crawled across her flesh, pure white, and far more humid than anything she’d witnessed from the clan before.
Screeching, Willow sped away, summoning every plant bloated with water she could name. Primroses, small trees with her namesake, small batches of cotton — all offering up their moisture.
Water splurged upon her, but the fires persisted. Again and again she tossed liquid, but nothing would quell the flames. Further and further she ran, crying out like a snotty-nosed child.
Only after rolling across the dirt, summoning more water, and running around frantically was Willow freed. Her skin was charred, boils popping up on virtually every inch of skin. It was agony, the worst pain she had ever experienced. She visualised her men and women who had lost their lives in much the same manner. It was a pity they didn’t have the privilege to escape such a demise.
Brison was sprinting off yet again, and Willow clenched her fists — the action evoking yet more pain as her blood boiled. Her Infinity reserves were severely drained, she could taste nothing but the coppery taste of blood, but still, she persevered.
I’m going to kill him. Her mental voice sounded more like a series of scratches than anything her vocal cords could emit. I’m going to tear that bastard limb from limb. I’ll drag it out. I’ll make him choke on his own-
In a sudden gust of power, the man expelled flame through the back of his palms. He flew towards an indent inside the mountain range, blasting through a doorway into the Gallery. From her investigation of the surrounding area upon arriving at this stretch of land, Willow knew the place to be nothing more than a museum. Juniper was a benevolent leader, and so allowed their vassals such items of history. What could he be possibly doing there? One part of her mind quietly enquired.
Another answered. Fleeing of course! Snap that old man’s neck.
Willow found herself finding that assessment quite reasonable. She cannoned into the pearly white interior only seconds after he had. Through an empty, linear antechamber she marched, breathing deep of the encompassing Infinity. New strength reinvigorated her body, eased the persisting pain. Her Divine Rank ensured the smouldering flesh was already healing, and with each footstep closer, Willow felt her confidence grow. Her grip on the hammer tightened until her hand began to cramp.
Into the main chamber, she entered.
Immediately, Willow was forced to put a palm up.
The blinding, incarnadine light of Infirnite hung overhead. Her eyes stung at the eerie, enchanting glow, but she strained her eyes wide open, despite the temporary strain. She had to fight not to flee right then and there.
Up above, clinging onto the mountain of the crystal, hung Brison, and two other boys at either side. Ginger and blonde hair respectively, they glowered down at her. At last, three Marks activated at once, supercharged by the overhanging crystal.
As their snaking flames deepened into a terrifying white, Willow’s skin flared. She turned to run in the fastest motion of her life.
It was a trap all along. I fell for a trap, I-
She couldn’t hear the sound of her own screaming. It was like being mowed down by three separate flamethrowers at once. Any healing her tissue could have accomplished was undone, the entire room setting aflame. Fighting stances, techniques she had mastered, hours of endless training — it was all lost into the bonfire. Soon the pain ceased all together, but that only made her yelp all the louder. Her nerve receptors must have been fried off.
Willow could barely feel her own body as she scrambled out of the room, but they were upon her before that flimsy escape was possible. Fists flew, kicks landed, and Willow was left useless. It didn’t matter how much Infinity she poured through her Vault, it didn't change anything that she was straining her god-given Mark to its absolute limits. Being a Vanguard, she had sacrificed the maximum potential of both divine gifts, to bind them into a Boundless Mark. Even now, as flames ravaged her skin, it remained as a pearly white construct, tubes off-springing from the Mark like roots.
Her Vault — though even that title fitted little — had been reduced to a limited set of tunnels she was yet to fully improve. Her Mark could only pump out half the might of a Mercenary-Ranked, and there was nothing in that moment she could do to change that.
Demons. She was being attacked by demons.
Some time later, long after she had stopped thinking, stopped doing anything other than trudging madly towards the exit, a beefy hand gripped her from the nape. As Brison whipped her out into the chilly, acrid air of outside, she spluttered. Smoke had blackened her lungs, and Willow’s vision was blurry from blood, purpled eyelids, and moisture. Nevertheless, she could still make out, faintly, her own people defeated. Most were fleeing off into the distance; the others dead or soon to be.
“Now,” Brison spoke carefully, nothing malicious in his tone. “You have two options here. One — accept death from my hand, thus protecting my clan with brute force. Or, if you have some wits about you, you’ll run. Report to Juniper that the Ambition Clan isn’t to be meddled with. That we’re not some feeble, subservient people on the brink of extinction. Best make your decision fast.”
Willow glanced around feverishly. “What? I, no-”
She was sent sprawling without another word. Chucked out like an abandoned child. Immediately, molten ire as hot as the flames that had consumed her sent Willow rasping for vengeance. Keen to slit the man’s throat. To watch as he suffered as she had.
But she knew, with a wistful surety, it wasn’t the smart move. It was either stand her ground and be put down — her legacy shattered — or throw in the towel to fight another day. Returning home with a ruined reputation, but one she could slowly, with time and careful political manoeuvring, repair.
She took the first few footsteps away, as leader following her people, when something stopped her. Willow’s legs froze in place, as if her Mark had gone rogue and transformed her legs into fixed stumps.
She should go. Heal with the longevity her Rank as a Vanguard provided. There may be some scarring, but-
Like a wolf watching his prey, Willow felt Brison stare daggers into her back. That sense of overhanging death only intensified as she took her valiant stance. Mania sped through her, the prospect of stepping down, of admitting utter, undeniable defeat to a sect so . . . so worthless, so good for nothing . . .
The image arose of Juniper greeting Willow after her failure, wrinkling her nose in disgust. It was unbearable, an inflated picture more tangible, more visceral than life itself. Her mind was made.
Willow screeched, swivelled round, gathering every resource within her. If she was going to die, she would bring this bastard down to burn in the hellfires of the underworld with her. Her Mark appeared to shimmer, as if seen through a desert’s heat. The Infinity left clutching to her tunnels, pervading through the surrounding atmosphere, all of it was devoured.
Running on so much mad power she felt like Juniper’s — no Chantal’s — equal, Willow cackled. She set her eyes to where the man had stood eagerly, keen to pinpoint his vital areas.
She was forced to freeze. Brison was gone.
All that blind confidence vanished. Gone like water seeping through a basin. Disappearing as quickly as the Warlord himself.
“No,” she said dumbly. “No I-”
A hand streaking with a white as deep as ebony flashed to her right, and even before her head was cut clean off, Willow knew it was all over.
Her neck was reduced to a mangled mess in a single stroke. Willow sputtered nonsensically for one helpless second, before her vocal cords too failed her. Her head settled to the ground below, body thumping down to join its other part. Droplets of Ichor splattered, and unable to utter a sound, unable to drag the entire world to suffer in the depths of hell with her, Willow died quietly.
----------------------------------------
Once the rejoicing concluded, after the people had enjoyed their fill of food and drink, and after clansmen finally stopped nagging Remus and Aziel to recount their sect leader’s brave crusade, the night took on a much more sombre tone.
The cool night air, adrift with patches of lingering smoke, was a fierce shade of unchanging twilight. Only the raging fires, these orange beacons made the natural way, dared to clash against the draping night. Mounds of wooden debris burned away feverishly. It was the collected remains of their wrecked grounds. The foundational, barebones structures from which once stood fine buildings.
Now they served a greater purpose.
Most of the bodies had been found. Some, however, including the ones lost at the start of The Wild Clan’s campaign, had been lost. Likely disposed of by Willow’s people themselves. For these few, honourable bundles and items closely intertwined with their being were added to the sizzling heap.
Remus stood side by side with Aziel as he observed the roaring flames. For a man who had drunk his weight in wine mere hours ago, Remus had never seen him so sober.
“We did it.” Aziel finally said. “We did it.”
“Yeah.” Remus blinked. “This is strange. I’m not used to things working out this well.”
“But look how many people we lost.” The crackling spoke for itself. “Is this the cost of survival? What if the Unbounded attack us again? What if-”
Turning to his friend, Remus planted a hand on his shoulder. He wasn’t surprised to find the man to be shaking a little. “Then you’ll be ready.” Remus said firmly. “Tanish himself told me, whilst I was advancing to Emblazed, that he’s more hopeful for the sect than ever. The hardest days have already passed.”
Aziel smiled meekly. “I almost keep forgetting how fast you’ve advanced.” Aziel shook his head. “It's almost unbelievable. Just in a few Passings, you’ve acquired full mastery over your Mark, reaching heights long since thought dead to our branch of godly power.”
They continued to make ego-boosting comments, laughing as much as they dared. Yet, it was all pervaded by a serious tension. The people they had lost, the things they had witnessed tonight . . .
“Willow’s fate.” Remus found himself broaching the gruesome topic. “I’ve never seen a death so barbaric. Why would she give it all away? Brison was giving her a chance to recuperate, and she just . . . discarded that chance. What a waste.”
“Some people don’t know when to swallow their pride. It's a skill, in some ways. Nevertheless,” for a moment, that old, hate-choking version of Aziel surfaced, “Willow received exactly what she deserved. Brison was being merciful.”
Merciful. If decapitation was deemed fit to fall under such a title, gods be damned. If this sort of savagery was every-day in the front lines, Remus would have to acquire an iron stomach.
It was then that the man of the hour, Brison, returned, beaming with obvious content. “Gentlemen, it was an honour fighting alongside you. We may not have been able to thwart Willow so overwhelmingly if it wasn’t for both of yours’ assistance.”
Remus matched his grin, only for his heart to falter at the sound of the funeral pyre. The cost. It stung. But for now, he pushed those emotions down. “It was our honour Brison. I’m thankful for everything you’ve done for me.”
“Nothing more than any other clansmen of mine would receive. But oblige my curiosity if you will: what are your plans now? As a full member of our clan, you’re free to stay of course. But I suspect you have other intentions.”
“Indeed.” He replied honestly. “I know it's unorthodox, but I consider myself of two clans. Carpentry and Ambition. For now, things here are settled. Now I must do what I set out to, seasons ago. I have my eyes on the war front.”
The man’s beam widened. For a man as withdrawn as the Warlord, that was practically the equivalent of breaking out into hearty laughter. “Never change Remus, never change. But I must warn you. I don’t want to be patronising, but for an Emblazed — even one as remarkable as you — it’ll be a fight for survival. Hell, I don’t think they even allow Emblazed to enter the front lines.”
“A problem for when I get there. Though, before that, I have . . . other matters to attend to.”
“Do these nondescript matters have anything to do with Violet?”
Remus' thoughts raced. How much had the man inferred? Surely sending a Projection had warranted some suspicion.
Now, the man really did laugh. Remus grew flustered, closing his mouth which had been foolishly agape. “No matter. Whatever it is, I’m sure you’re doing some good out there.”
In the distance, as clansmen finally retired to their beds, Remus caught sight of a familiar God-Graced. Waving at him in ripping waves of humanoid liquid.
He turned back to both men. “Looks like I’m needed.”
Aziel crossed his arms. “It seems this is farewell.” The two clasped hands, learning shoulder-to-shoulder.
“If you ever need me, call.” Remus offered. “I may be in the midst of my own entangled life, but if the opportunity ever arises, I’ll be happy to help in any way I can.”
“You’ve done more than enough. If you’re in danger, don’t hesitate to ask the same of me.”
It was bittersweet. Remus looked from one man to the other, pride in his heart. “What are your plans now that we’ve recovered? It would be unwise to ignore the elephant in the room.”
All three of them did their best not to glance at the surrounding debris.
Brison stroked his chin. “Money has never been an issue for the Ambition Clan, thanks to how many of our folk our veterans of the front lines. I suppose we’ll have to hire some builders to assist us. Might even include some better barricades while we’re at it.”
“I wish this place a speedy recovery.” Remus knew he could delay his exit no longer. It was time to say goodbye.
He made his final farewells, took the first few initial steps towards an aggravated Maris — it was never advisable to keep a God-Graced waiting — before stopping in his tracks.
Remus, an idea occurring to him — a brilliant, masterful idea — turned around. “Actually, speaking of builders . . .”