Vol 8, Chapter 5

◆ Battlefield, Duchess Ariel POV ◆

Exhale.

A diagonal strike. Simple, unremarkable in itself, but with enough force behind it an enchanted greatsword cleaves through anything in its path. This is the kind of blow that splits horses in two, sinks deep into chimeric flesh, bites through knightly plate, and sweeps aside the nobility.

The battered, already notched blade halts at its highest point, then crashes down.

The creature before her wears no armor, only black scales, yet the Duchess does not restrain her hand, fearing those scales might rival steel. The strike must cut the body diagonally, regardless. And since the foe is seated, dodging is difficult.

So he raises his arm.

The heavy steel edge bites into the black scales. The blade carves deep, dragging toward the shoulder, unable to shear through in a single stroke. A crunch of bones, the crack of a joint torn from its socket. The arm yields and falls to the ground, and the slowed blade presses on.

The runes along the sword flare as they touch black blood. Power drains from them like wine from a pierced skin. The fight against the Inquisitor has already strained the blade to its limits; now it faces another, equally demanding foe. The power of the Abyss gnaws at the enchantments, leeching strength from the steel. Even so, it still holds enough for a few more blows before becoming nothing more than ordinary iron.

Breaking through the comparatively thin collarbone, the blade drives into the ribs. By now it is obvious to the Duchess that no matter how strong her strike, the blade will hardly reach halfway. If she cannot cut the spine, then she must pierce the heart instead. The first rib gives way, the second…

The demon's other hand catches the blade, clamping it within the wound. Black blood streams down his torso. The strike is stopped.

What next? Pull free? Twist? Either choice means surrendering initiative.

The Duchess steps forward, shifts her grip, and leans her whole weight into the blade, forcing the strike through brute strength. The ground beneath the demon sinks as she presses, millimeter by millimeter, deeper and deeper. More, and more. She can almost feel his heartbeat reverberating through the steel.

The demon resists, but his position is hopeless. He knows it too.

His tail lashes out, whipping against her shins, denting the metal of her armor deep into the flesh beneath. Not enough to topple her, but like a whip it lashes out again. Arielle does not wish to test her legs against it; she steps in closer, pressing herself against the hot body. Now she is too near for the tail to gather speed. It thuds helplessly against her back, leaving dents in her armor.

But now she is close enough to finish it. Her gauntlet releases the hilt. The demon seizes the instant, regaining a few centimeters, but her hand slides behind his back to grasp the blade, hot with blood.

That is all.

Leaning over him, she presses with the implacability of a guillotine, holding the weapon by its edge with both hands.

The tail abandons its blows, wrapping around her arm, but it is too little, too late. Her position is not merely good; it is perfect. Like a housewife cracking a stubborn nut, she bears down with all her weight. The demon shifts tactics again. Realizing brute strength will not avail him, he snatches up his own severed arm with his tail and flings it into her face. Claws rip through enchanted steel as though it were foil, tear across her cheek, shred flesh, shear hair. Blood fills her mouth with a salty, metallic taste. She shakes her head. Useless. The black hand clings fast to her helm like a giant spider, blotting out her sight.

But sight no longer matters. Even blinded, even if he gouged out her eyes, the outcome will not change. The foe is right before her, and she feels it: the nut is cracking. One last heave…

The pressure yields, the blade crashes down, severing the heart and screeching across vertebrae. Victory!

At that same moment, agony bursts in her chest. The Duchess recoils instantly, tearing the clawed hand from her helm.

The dull ache swells into searing pain, blood streaming down her stomach in crimson sheets. The demon sits clutching her still-beating heart in his claws, fangs bared in a grin, but the light in his eyes dims.

Arielle plunges her sword into the ground, but her legs give way and she sinks beside him. Kneeling, mirroring his pose, she reaches toward her own heart, still gripped in the hands of the Count, transformed into a demon.

Her gauntlet brushes his claws just as the demon's eyes open once more. No trace of reason remains in them, only something perverse and twisted. With one motion the creature shoves the heart into its maw and rises. Scarlet runs down its chin; wet chewing noises fill the air.

The terrible wound seals before her eyes.

Paying no heed to the kneeling Duchess, the demon strides toward the mages, crushing the Ashiran girl beneath his feet as if she were nothing. Darkness floods Arielle's vision; the last thing she sees is the demon wrenching Detlaf's head from his shoulders… and devouring it.

Exhale.

The battered, already notched blade halts at its highest point, then crashes down.

This time she does not delay. As soon as the sword shears through an arm and bites into the shoulder, she drives forward, hurling the demon to the ground and tearing the blade free of the wound.

Dust erupts as their bodies strike the earth; through the haze, black blood sprays, spattering the red-haired girl lying nearby.

A greatsword is awkward at such proximity. She needs a heartbeat to shift her grip.

A gnawing void opens in her belly, followed by searing pain. The strike of his claw has split her armor and her guts, perhaps even her spine, for she can no longer feel her legs. Painful, but survivable... But the thrust of her blade into his heart—that he could not withstand. At least, she hoped not.

Strike! She plunges the blade to the very hilt, nailing the demon to the ground, and wrenches it sideways. His eyes fade. Victory.

Her breath comes ragged; the stench of her own entrails rises in her throat, almost forcing her to retch, but she gropes at her belt for a vial of healing draught. The wounds are grievous, but not beyond survival.

She does not see the demon's eyes flare with fire once more. In the next instant, her arms, and then her whole body—are torn away from her.

Blood fans across the soil as her head arcs over the battlefield.

Exhale.

The battered, already notched blade halts at its highest point, then crashes down.

A surge forward. The agony of torn entrails. The blow pins the demon to the earth.

This time she does not waste a moment on potions. Wrenching the weapon free, Arielle hacks through his neck, severing the head. Done. Victory.

Her chest heaves. That final stroke drained too much of her strength. Darkness gathers at the edges of her sight. She fumbles for a vial…

A clawed hand looms before her. Pain. Blood.

She lies on the ground beside her own blood-smeared spine.

Through dimming eyes Arielle sees the headless body stoop, lift its horned head from the dirt, shake it clean, and set it back upon its shoulders…

Exhale.

The battered, already notched blade halts at its highest point… and crashes down… crashes down… crashes down…

In her wild eyes flash hundreds of duels. She runs through possibility after possibility. Death. Death. Death.

No matter what she does, the battle ends in her death.

Even stretching the fight out in hopes her husband might arrive changes nothing. However she slays him, the Count refuses to die… and kills her. Again and again. Again and again.

It is like the battle with Dastan: helplessness, futility.

Exhale.

The battered, already notched blade halts at its highest point…

And drives into the earth.

"You do not die, even when killed," she said evenly. There was no fear in her voice. Death had no terror left when she had met it a thousand times.

"Any man dies when killed," the Count growled, and she winced.

A man? Look at yourself, hellspawn.

But she did not voice it. She only pressed her free hand to her chest, still aching from the last death. He was wrong. In everything.

The demon turned back to the unconscious girl, brushing her cheek with a claw.

They had both endured the Inquisitors. This had seemed the perfect moment to end him… yet she had been mistaken. She had to be better prepared. Far better.

"Her wounds must be seared shut, or she will bleed out," Detlaf said. His face was drenched in blood; he seemed scarcely able to stand himself.

From afar, the Duke watched. Arielle felt her husband's disapproving gaze. Their eyes locked. Thorn shook his head slowly, warning her to hold back. Hah… If only she could…

The Duchess stepped toward the girl, drawing a vial from her belt. Through a hundred deaths she had never managed the cursed stopper…

She crushed the glass vial in her hand, the potion spilling through her plated gauntlet onto the Ashiran girl's stumps.

The fresh scent of mint drifted over the field. The bleeding halted, the shredded wrists sheathed themselves in a thin healing film. A mere reprieve; the healers would have much work ahead if her fingers were to grow anew.

Detlaf bowed in thanks, and the Duchess arched a brow. The archmage had not previously been known for such care toward an unfamiliar Ashiran... But she did not care.

"Be ready to light the field," she ordered harshly, ripping her blade from the soil and turning her back on the demon.

A minute later the sky slowly drew a dark shroud over itself. Day turned to night.

*****************************************************************

◆ Battlefield, Pontiff POV ◆

A heretical blend of alchemy, steel-magic, and fire once again poured down from the heavens. Steel vessels whistled mockingly before vanishing into nothingness.

The Pontiff had no intention of testing again what would happen if they struck the ground.The piles of drained bodies around the altar testified well enough to the mistake he had made when he first allowed it.

A whistle.

Another steel cone tore through the air above their heads.

With a sweep of his hand, the Pontiff erased it as well. Even exploding a hundred meters behind them, the burning shards of the blasphemous weapon would still reach them.

Their blood stores were almost gone. Nearly all the refugees taken along had already been sacrificed, and still the alchemical vessels rained down. The heretics were too far to call down Anathema upon them. The Inquisitors sent to annihilate the cursed mages had fallen, and something had to be done.

They could not simply hope for a miracle. The One aided only the steadfast and the resolute.

They would have to abandon the altar.

It was not great sacrilege. Today it bore not the relics of saints, but a precious cargo entrusted by the King. The gold of the altar itself held little worth in the eyes of the Church.

Using the brief pause as the enemy reloaded their alchemical catapults, the Pontiff drained the life from the last refugees and raised his hand to the sky.

Light—this was the first thing a novice learned to manipulate. Many battle-prayers had… too shocking an effect to be shown to ordinary believers. Learning them was arduous, for consuming darkness itself was far more difficult than consuming magic.

But incomparably easier than matter.

He lifted his hand, whispering prayer, and a dense veil of black blotted out the sky. Not a single mote of light from the magical dome could pierce it.

Absolute night. Darkness and emptiness. It reminded him keenly of his days as a novice in the temple…

"Brothers! Each must take a holy burden. From this moment, each carries his load alone!" ordered the head of the Church.

The remaining Inquisitors lowered the altar from their shoulders.

In the impenetrable dark the sealed chest was opened. Spherical flasks passed from hand to hand. The faint glow of runes etched thickly into enchanted glass was the only light for miles around. No… sparks blossomed on the hill.

The whistling in the air grew.

The Pontiff listened into the dark and raised his hand. First. Third. Fifth… Too late.

A flash blinded his eyes, thunder hammered his ears. Shards drummed against armor, lodged in the gold of the altar.

The brother who had shielded the altar with his body slumped to the ground. From the shattered flask seeped violet vapor. The others snatched up their vessels and wrapped them tightly in the rags of the fallen refugees. The enemy could not be allowed to discover them.

"We move. The holy veil will not hold long; we must cut straight through their ranks. May the One guide us!" proclaimed the Pontiff, setting the example as he hurled himself toward the foe.

He rushed like a storm, his cassock whipped by wind. Despite their heavy armor, the Inquisitors did not lag behind their leader.

Far behind, bursts of fire blossomed, the deafening roar of alchemical detonations at their backs.

His feet tore across the field, grass ripped from the earth wherever it dared entangle his steps. His hands clutched to his robes the sacred vessel, bane of any mage.

Was it wise to close with the enemy?

Could he have chosen another path?

The minutes of darkness were nearly gone. The shortest path to their goal lay through the enemy's back lines. If he had retreated, the knights might have tried to intercept the scattered warriors of the Church. Some Inquisitors might still have broken through the blockade, but… then even more knights would have been slain.

He had no wish for that.

After all, once he had been their First Prince.

Two kilometers. The closer he came, the more lights flared upon the hill. Fireballs floated in the air, soldiers stoked campfires. Now and then steel tubes spewed flame, as if by habit hurling their alchemical payloads far ahead.

One and a half kilometers. One. No closer did he wish to go. Now they would swing wide around. But first…

The Inquisitors slowed and halted. For now they were nothing more than shadows at the edge of the light.

The hill was already brightly lit, but not for long, for magical light easily guttered out at the touch of the One. The head of the Church concentrated and began his prayer.

One by one the orbs burst, fell to sparks, and winked out. The hill sank into darkness.

Only a few campfires continued to burn, dimly lighting the field.

"It is time."

The armored figures moved in silence, devouring dozens of meters in seconds. They were already abreast of the hill. In another minute the foe would be far behind.

Hissing, a lone shell streaked overhead and burst in the sky. A searing flash caught the dark figures unawares; the towering Inquisitors stood out far too clearly against the field.

Flame engulfed the hill. Iron flies screamed all around, too swift for him to unmake. Fortune favored them—all passed by.

"Brothers, fulfill your mission. I will hold them and join you later," the Pontiff intoned, setting his flask upon the ground.

He could not turn aside all the shells, but his strength was enough to deal with the shooters. He still felt kinship with the noble knights… but not with the heretics who had yielded to demonic doctrines and dared to take into their hands the profane weapons of the Abyss!

He would dispatch them to the One Himself, that they might see their errors.

A click. Darkness. The taste of soil.

He tried to speak, but only wheezed. He tried to rise, but the body was too clumsy. His hand groped at his throat and sank inward. A hole.

The flesh realized the gravity of the wound and clamored for blood. Hunger swelled, forcing his jaw to snap convulsively. The moment a leather boot crossed his vision, he lunged, sinking his fangs deep.

"Abyss!" A woman's voice… and then nothing.

Darkness lifted.

*********************************************************************

"Ah, fratricide! It recalls the old days, when I fought for the ducal coronet," Thorn von Steiger reminisced with affected grace. Yet his eyes were wary, and his hand rested far too near his sword hilt.

No wonder. He had not expected to behold the corpse of the Pontiff himself… or was it? The headless body in a cassock might as well have been any novice.

"Fine shot, Dolan… but are you certain it was him?"

"Sure as stone. He was the only one in robes," the marksman replied without a hint of doubt. The Duke cut a guarded glance toward the musket.

"Very well, I believe you…" I said with a nod. "But many will not. A pity the head burst to pieces."

"Hm. That I would contest. Look here…"

The sniper, utterly calm and without reverence, pressed his finger into the stump of the Church leader's neck, where shards of spine still jutted.

"The bullet struck here, dead center. I should have aimed a touch higher, eh… But that is not the point. The head was nearly torn away, hanging by a thread, but here—this is no bullet mark. It is a blade. The head was cut off."

"And not a drop of blood…" I murmured.

"Exactly. I always thought there was something off with these holy men. Bloody leeches, the lot of them."

The head was gone. It was the second to vanish. Our watchman lashed to the mast had likewise disappeared. The captain, of course, was delighted… so delighted that I learned of it only a week later.

"Perhaps the Inquisitors took it. A few slipped away," I supposed.

Once the darkness broke, the artillery resumed. Against such swift lone targets their fire was clumsy, yet not all the Inquisitors reached the shelter of the woods.

"Perhaps. I saw some carrying bundles wrapped in rags. Could be they bore the head off as well…" Dolan scratched his crown.

For a while we stood silent over the headless corpse.

"He ought to be buried. Dolan, call the men, have them fetch a spade."

"You jest? Whatever he was, he was of royal blood. You cannot simply dig a hole in a field and toss him in like a mangy cur!" the Duke protested.

"Mmm… Yet we agreed it might be but a novice. So why not?" I gave a crooked smile.

As though a corpse cared where it lay.

"Hmph. Well, do as you wish. Only recall, by our accord, half the altar is mine… Whole, it will fetch far more. What say you if I pay you in gold for the other half and claim it entire?"

"No quarrel… But my aide will weigh the sum."

The Duke inclined his head, casting a glance toward the altar a few kilometers off.

Around the golden pyramid, his mounted knights already swarmed, drawn to the noble metal like bees to honey…

"Hm, some kind of potion," one said, prying open a coffer.

"Let me see… Never seen such a thing," another muttered, turning a spherical flask in his hands.

Runes wound in long lines about the vessel, and within seethed a dark-violet substance, half-liquid, half-vapor... It looked nothing like a healing potion. No man among them would dare drink such filth.

"Best hide it away and deliver it to the lord," he said, doubtful.

"Aye, so we shall… Look here, another, but spent," the knight pointed to a pierced flask lying by a fallen Inquisitor.

None of them noticed the nearly-dissipated, barely perceptible violet vapor seeping beneath their armor…