As soon as Lae and Kye rounded the bend leading out of the camp, Lae stopped in her tracks. Upon noticing this, the young hunter turned back to urge her on.
“We don’t have time to waste, Lae. Come along.”
She looked up at Kye. “Hey. You know this place like the back of your hand, right?”
Her small voice carried with it a sense of urgency.
“Yes. We won’t get lost, but it’s a long road ahead of us. Come on, Lae. I know it’s scary, but we need to leave.”
“Above the camp, I saw a lot of cliffs,” she said. “Can you take us up one?”
The unexpected question blind-sided the hunter.
“What are you talking about? Why would I do that?” asked Kye.
“I want to stay and watch the fight. From somewhere high up, we can help them, right? You can take us somewhere safe where the monsters can’t reach us. Then, Papa wouldn’t—”
“Hey. Do you think this is easy for me?”
Something in the tone of Kye’s voice made Lae flinch back.
Kye continued, “Do you think I want to leave my hunt-brothers? All that remains of my family, so that I can run away like a frightened hare? Do you know what the Hunt-Leader’s orders are when you’re out in the passes?”
She didn’t respond, but Kye carried on anyway.
“They are higher than the Chief’s! The Chief’s! Ignoring them is the same as treason!”
Lae mumbled something.
“What?” he asked.
“…Then go.”
Kye stared blankly at her.
“Go,” she repeated. “You have to listen to Papa, but I don’t. I’m not a hunter. I’ll stay behind and find a safe place to watch them fight myself.”
The thin man’s mind raced. What did he do in this situation? By the determination in her eyes, he knew this child would put up a fight if he tried to bring her along by force. Knocking her out and carrying her wasn’t going to work, either. His pack was heavy enough without adding a twelve-year-old and her gear into the mix. He was a scout, not a mule.
And Mele. He had his old friend’s death weighing down on his shoulders. Kye was still disgusted with himself for not doing more to save him back at Boling. He’d rationalized it at the time, telling himself that someone had to bring the information about the masked ghoul back to Orimo. Someone had to survive—so he ran.
Only now did he realize that it had been more than duty that spurred him on. It had been fear.
And he hated that.
- - -
The sounds of battle filled the clearing. Guttural roars intermingled with shouts and the thump of arrows sinking into flesh.
Vanalath listened to all these things, unable to do a thing about any of them. He could open and close his eyes and he could move his jaw. That was it. Even drawing air into his lungs to unleash a howl was beyond him.
But he burned. He burned with a seething heat that roiled in his skull, as if it could break free of his mind and immolate him whole. The light of the fires dancing off the leaves suddenly seemed too bright for his eyes.
Monster.
Spikes of pain pierced his skull.
Die already.
He focused all of his willpower on his sword arm. He couldn’t even feel the limb’s presence, but he knew it was there. Imagining the fingers twitching, Vanalath pushed against the restrictive numbness.
Join us.
Move. Something had to move. It would either move, or it would break.
A sharp noise sounded out as one of his teeth cracked from the pressure generated by clenching his jaw. Then, his entire body convulsed. Sensation returned in a flood of lightning, causing him to spasm like a dying fish. The overpowering response exaggerated each of his movements. He flew up from the ground and landed on his chin. Then, he attempted to hold out his arm to stabilize himself, but it slammed into a tree. A leg flew out from underneath him, and he ended up once more sprawled out on the ground.
Status Effect:
A shiver ran through Vanalath. Slowly, he stood, bracing himself against a tree. On that tree, he noticed a hole at eye-height that appeared to have exploded out of the trunk. Then, he saw an arrow that had sunken into a rock behind him. Somehow, the projectile had pierced solid stone to a depth of nearly five inches.
His hand went up to his throat. There, he found a gaping wound and shreds of flesh. It was the same at the back of his neck.
Finally, he connected the dots. He’d been attacked, and he hadn’t even seen it coming. Glancing up at the battle, he searched for Orimo. He quickly found the man, who had taken to the top of a large, flat boulder in the center of the camp, from where he could see everything within the clearing. To his back was a stone obelisk that towered above even the nearby trees.
The human line had fallen back. Though this was no longer the small chokepoint where only five undead could reach the humans at once, there were now two small paths up either side of the hill, each of which had a contingent of five or six hunters. The ridge they were on gave the thinned-out lines of hunters a great advantage, as the clumsier lesser undead had trouble scaling the steep ground. If a ghoul couldn’t be slain, they were simply kicked down the hill, giving Orimo more time to unleash his special variety of death. The man had slowed his rate of fire even more, but his shots were just as deadly as before. Whether the slowed pace was due to tiredness or the improved defensive positions of his men, Vanalath didn’t know. Orimo was still rapid enough that a ghoul was dropping dead every ten seconds. The other archers were practically a non-issue compared to that one man. In fact, they seemed to have realized it themselves, as the bowmen were in the process of switching out their bows for makeshift clubs, moving in to reinforce the warrior lines.
Vanalath didn’t have time to worry about the state of battle, as he soon realized the danger of his current location. If he remained apart from the rest of his army, the hunter would doubtlessly find him again. He quickly shuffled out from behind the tree, joining the ranks and doing his utmost to appear like just another of the mindless ghouls.
It was fairly easy to give in to his instincts and let himself be carried forward by the tide of bodies. In under a minute, he approached the ridge. It was here that he caught sight of Kalaki. The ghoul in question had taken cover underneath an overhang on the ridge, a place between the two paths that made their way up. He appeared to be waiting for something. Vanalath let himself get jostled by the crowd of undead, stumbling over to the spear-bearer as if by accident. Kalaki’s placid gaze fell on him as he came to a stop. Here, where he was hidden from view and had over a dozen feet of stone and earth between him and Orimo, he had a moment to recollect himself.
His last failure had shown Vanalath that infiltration wouldn’t work. Orimo had the eyes of a hawk. He needed to break the front line, but going alone would just get him singled out again. He had to gather strong ones, create enough threats that his enemies couldn’t keep up.
Hand darting out, he grabbed the shoulder of the first evolved ghoul he found. He dragged it into the cover of the overhang. As he did, he growled a command. He felt his throat swelling from the pressure of the air passing through it. It seemed as if his windpipe hadn’t fully healed. He repeated the process as soon as he found the next ghoul. Then, he saw Iokina. She was lingering near the back, surrounded by her five bodyguard shamblers. Though she’d been put at the head of a platoon of twenty ghouls, he didn’t see her commanding them. Rather, she seemed to be in a daze. That wouldn’t do.
Before he could figure out how to bring her over, a figure fell down from the ridge above, nearly landing on Vanalath.
It was Anamu. The young ghoul had a half-dozen arrows sticking out of him, mostly in his chest and back, but one had speared him through his mouth, passing through both cheeks as if he were biting down on it. This last arrow had the effect of pinning his veil in place, so his Brand remained hidden despite the fall. Vanalath was somewhat surprised to find him alive after what must have been a number of frontal engagements, but perhaps the ghoul moved too quickly for Orimo to get a kill-shot in.
Making use of this opportunity, he directed Anamu to go to Iokina and bring her to him. The feral creature did as he was told without complaint, and in short order, Vanalath had assembled a troupe comprised of his original trio, Iokina and her five shamblers, and an additional four evolved ghouls he’d singled out. There wasn’t much space left in this overhang.
First, he turned to Iokina, growling out a question.
What happened to the ghouls you commanded?
They charged ahead, she replied.
And you? he asked.
She replied that she was waiting.
Well, now you must fight. You will assist me. The rest will attack the right flank first, then we will strike the left. Understood?
Yes, she said.
Orders confirmed, Vanalath finished splitting their party in two. His hope was that the obvious offensive of Kalaki and Anamu and the other ghouls would draw enough of Orimo’s attention for Vanalath and Iokina to break through on their side. He was placing a good deal of faith in these five shamblers, though most of that faith was founded on his mistress’s reaction after discovering their existence earlier that night. He had yet to see them even fight. Though they only appeared to be lesser ghouls, he hoped they proved more useful than that.
His final command to his two Branded subordinates was simple: strike hard, but don’t die. He remembered the necromancer’s warning that their death would forever cripple his own potential. If Orimo turned his gaze on them, they were to duck and evade, using other ghouls as shields if need be.
Strike hard and strike fast, retreating if necessary.
As he once again mixed himself into the stumbling mass along with Iokina, Vanalath adopted on the look and mannerisms of a lesser ghoul. He growled, pushed, and jostled his way to the front. As he neared them, he observed the line of hunters. They were clearly tired. If not for the terrain advantage, they would have been overpowered long ago. As it was, they were barely holding on. It made sense that the less-effective archers would come to reinforce them.
Vanalath hung back, waiting for his troops on the right flank to strike. He ensured he kept moving, weaving around, hoping to disguise the preemptive dodges as simple stumbles. The entire time, he felt a tingling all over his body, as if he were subject to a scrutinizing gaze—that the slightest mishap on his part would result in an arrow through the brain. Though he didn’t know why, he got the sense that perhaps Orimo would notice if Vanalath looked at him for too long, so he decided to only watch the normal hunters.
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When a man screamed, he knew the moment had arrived. Without waiting to see how effective his subordinate’s attack was, Vanalath, who had been wound as tightly as a spring, burst into action, drawing his concealed blade as he blasted up the steep ridge, closing the fifteen-foot gap between him and the hunters in under a second.
As he struck, Vanalath couldn’t help but remark how much more easily his sword—which previously seemed heavy and unwieldy—passed through the neck of his first victim.
He dodged underneath the resultant spray of blood, driving his shoulder into the torso of a second hunter, cracking ribs and knocking the air from his lungs. Vanalath quickly wrapped an arm around the man’s neck, flipping him around to provide a human shield between him and Orimo’s arrows. He had no time to check if the hunter in question was aiming down his sights at him, as by now the three remaining warriors on the ridge were entirely focused on him. They were yelling something, and a glance told Vanalath that the six refreshment fighters would be on him in mere moments.
If one of the flanks didn’t fall, this fight was lost. Orimo would simply pick them off, one by one. He had to break through here.
Digging in, he reached for that familiar well of energy. Once his toes has dipped into that deep water, he reared back and unleashed a mighty howl. Into that action, he packed all of his will, his anger, and his intent. He wished to communicate only one thing: that he would kill them.
A force, invisible but tangible, rolled from him in waves, accompanying the roar that ripped from his throat—and it did so quite literally. His windpipe, barely healed, ruptured from the strength of the blast. Leaves on the trees nearby trembled as if a wind was blowing them back, and the hunters who had just begun to recoup after his sudden attack stepped back, eyes wide with fear.
His blade whipped up at the nearest man, but his target parried with a frantic motion of his short sword, jumping back at the same time and managing to divert most of the force. Despite the successful block, his sword was sent high from the sheer difference in strength. Vanalath capitalized on the hesitation of the other two, pressing his attack with a follow-up thrust. This time, the hunter wasn’t able to avoid it, and the sword punctured him below the collarbone.
The barest movement of wind warned him, and he leaned out of the way just as two objects whistled by. One of the hunters had swung at his unprotected back, and at the same time an arrow flitted by, so close to his eye that it ripped the cloth of the scarf he wore.
He hadn’t even noticed the arrow. If not for the other hunter forcing him to dodge, the projectile might have struck true.
Orimo had locked in.
At this inopportune moment, the prisoner in his arms finally recovered his breath and began to struggle. Vanalath bashed him over the head with his pommel, darting back and holding up the unconscious shield so that his vitals were covered. At this moment, the six archers arrived, but so did his own reinforcements: the shamblers. He’d left them eating dust when he had charged in, but they had now made it up the ridge.
For a short moment, both sides stopped, taking the measure of one-another. Well, Vanalath got the sense that the shamblers weren’t doing much measuring at all, but rather that they were waiting for him to take the lead.
In the brief stillness, he noted that the noise coming from the right flank where he’d sent his Peons had increased. Then, Vanalath shifted slightly, and an arrow that would have pierced his Achilles tendon instead hit him in the foot. He took that as a warning, and began taking evasive action. As if covering for him, the shamblers stepped in—all at once.
What happened next was peculiar, even for Vanalath.
The two remaining hunters from the first group darted around to cut him off in a bid to help Orimo get his shots in, but the shamblers rotated around to intercept them. As they did, four of them struck out at the same time with their weapons—lengths of wood with bits of mangled metal on the end. The four attacks were divided so that two hit both of the hunters. As if they’d agreed on it beforehand, two of the strikes targeted their faces and two aimed for the torsos. The hunters backpedaled, barely dodging in time, and one of them received a glancing blow to the chest for his trouble.
The men couldn’t be blamed for the close call. Though the shamblers’ attacks were sluggish, they were deceptively precise. Despite being so near to one another and aiming for the same targets, the shamblers didn’t interfere and collide with the others, but instead maneuvered around their allies like clockwork. It was even difficult to call such actions “maneuvering.” It was as if the shamblers were simply never in a position that would interfere with another in the first place. It was almost like prescience.
Was this Iokina at work, or something else? Vanalath was unable to check on what the stitched ghoul was doing, but he couldn’t help but think that if the shamblers were able to read the hunters like they read each other, it wouldn’t even be a fight. As it was, a protracted engagement began between the six undead and the seven hunters—if one didn’t count the unconscious eighth in Vanalath’s grasp.
Though more lesser ghouls were consistently climbing to the top of the ridge, the fight still didn’t swing in their favor. This could be attributed to Orimo, who appeared to have split his attention between the right flank, where Anamu and Kalaki fought, and Vanalath himself. Every time the swordsman stepped forward to strike down a hunter, an arrow would fly out, targeting one of his limbs. It was frighteningly impressive how Orimo’s shots never harmed Vanalath’s prisoner, despite regularly coming within inches of him. Forced into a defensive position, he wasn’t able to turn the tide of battle or stop the hunters from skirting around him to pick off the reinforcements.
At some point, the man he stabbed earlier finally bled out, bringing the number of hunters who had fallen to his sword to three.
[Level increased] x 3
Strength + 2
Agility + 3
Miasma + 1
[Level increased] x 4
Strength + 2
Agility + 4
Dexterity + 2
Vanalath realized, as the fight went on, that they weren’t going to break through like this. Dealing with eight fighters was well enough, but he was forced to remember the sight of that first arrow that had drilled through a tree’s trunk to strike him down. If he got a perfect chance, Vanalath didn’t trust that Orimo wouldn’t sacrifice the hunter he held in a bid to kill him, especially if the other hunters began to drop.
So, he did something reckless.
He lowered himself into a crouch, pointed himself directly at Orimo, and began running. Almost immediately, the hunters tried to break away from the shamblers to stop him, but Vanalath was too fast, even with the added weight of his prisoner. He barreled past the shocked warriors, up the path, and towards the enemy Branded.
The only thing that warned Vanalath what was coming next was his own guesswork. He knew he was the greatest threat on the battlefield, and he knew Orimo realized that too. Now, he was charging in a straight line towards him. What would he do if the two of them had switched places?
Vanalath pitched the prisoner to the side, using the rebound to throw himself into a roll. None too soon either, as something that sounded like an angry wasp zipped by, taking a chunk of his shoulder with it. There was a small explosion behind him as the arrow collided with the ground, but Vanalath didn’t spare it a glance. He got to his feet and resumed his mad sprint. Without the prisoner blocking his line of sight, he finally got a chance to look at Orimo.
What met his gaze, instead of the hunter, was two knives flying directly at him.
Once again, he threw himself into a roll, but he wasn’t quick enough to avoid the first knife, which sank into his left eye. He lowered his head quickly enough that it didn’t pierce to his brain, but the eye had been blinded.
Fortunately, that appeared to be Orimo’s final card to stop him from approaching, and he covered the rest of the distance by running on all fours.
After his third brush with death in as many minutes, Vanalath, steeping in a rage, crouched at last before Orimo the Hunter. The two of them were as still as the rock on which they stood, knowing that the first movement either of them made would be met by an immediate counterattack.
Orimo was a head shorter than Vanalath, though with the addition of his four-colored headdress, he appeared nearly a foot taller. His nose was hooked like a vulture’s, but his cheekbones were high and proud. The man was slick with sweat, and the scent of blood hung thickly about him. He was injured, and bleeding severely at that. A wound on his stomach had opened up from the exertions of battle. One of his legs also appeared to be lame.
Despite the obvious injuries, Vanalath maintained the ten feet of distance between them, not closing in to strike. His bloodlust had reached heights previously unknown to him, but his sense of caution was screaming. This old man, looking like he might keel over from a stiff breeze, exuded a clear aura of danger.
Was this the difference between a Tier 2 and a Tier 3?
Orimo said something in Yaranese, but Vanalath’s attention was fixed on his hands, which had at some point dropped the bow they held in favor of a pair of daggers. He repeated himself, but his words cut off in an exclamation when Vanalath’s scarf, which had been damaged many times, unraveled from around his head and fell to the ground. Evidently, the sight that followed was a shock, as Orimo took a step back, forgetting his wounded leg. This caused him to stumble, and Vanalath, noticing the blunder, charged.
But he couldn’t predict that a fist-sized rock would suddenly smash into his back, sending him sprawling. There was no time to tell where the stone came from. Orimo was recovering, though the man now looked skyward, a different sort of surprise on his face. He appeared horrified.
“Lae! Andi gul!? Viru nakadam!”
He shouted something, possibly at the rock-thrower, as Vanalath climbed to his feet. His left shoulder blade was broken, and he couldn’t move the arm, forcing him to wield the bastard sword in one hand. He lunged, and a flustered Orimo parried with a downwards sweep of his daggers. Vanalath followed up with a diagonal slash. Orimo blocked the full force of the blow this time, but the ghoul was stronger, and the man was sent flying off the boulder with a grunt. He collided with the stone obelisk that Vanalath had noted earlier and crumpled to the ground at its base.
He leapt off the rock after him.
There was screaming somewhere in the distance, but he ignored it.
Striding across the ground, Vanalath lifted his sword. Orimo panted heavily, blood forming a puddle on the ground where he lay. His stomach wound had fully ripped open from the strain of blocking Vanalath’s strike, and it didn’t appear as if he could even move.
An arrow sank into Vanalath’s back, but he didn’t flinch. Through the red mist filling his vision, he saw only his enemy.
A flicker of movement was all the warning he received. Two more knives flew out at Vanalath, but having expected something along those lines, he was already dodging. One sliced his cheek, and the other missed entirely.
More screaming. A second arrow missed him and clattered off the stone monument. The sounds of battle in the background had waned. Without Orimo’s assistance, the hunters must have been quickly overwhelmed.
Vanalath raised his sword, and Orimo, struggling, lifted his head to stare back. Something burned in his gaze, but it wasn’t a plead for mercy. It wasn’t acceptance of death, either. It wasn’t despair, defiance, or spite. This was something else entirely. Something that went beyond him: beyond the confines of this valley. Beyond this world.
Vanalath brought down his blade and after a moment, Orimo’s head fell to the ground with a wet splash, coming to rest in a puddle of his own blood.
- - -
[Level increased] x 2
Strength + 2
Agility + 2
[Level increased] x 8
Strength + 4
Stamina + 2
Agility + 6
Dexterity + 2
Ichor + 2
You have received the title:
No more arrows came Vanalath’s way, and he no longer heard sounds of combat. Down the hill, ghouls feasted upon the bodies of the slain, though a few of their number approached him.
Vanalath’s forehead burned. He was engulfed with the feeling that he stood on a dam holding back a turbulent river. Having encountered this feeling before, he realized what was coming next, so he found a spot to sit down. He delayed the rupture so that he could pull an arrow out of his back and remove the knife embedded in his eye. Finally, he leaned back against the stone monolith, closing his eyes and allowing the river to burst free.
INFORMATION
Name: Vanalath
Titles:
Race:
Level: 40
Abilities:
Class:
Level: 38
Skills:
Status Effects:
STATISTICS
Strength: 43
Vitality: -
Stamina: 33
Agility: 46
Dexterity: 24
Ichor: 6
Miasma: 15
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