by A Uscila
It wasn’t over either. Oh no - the worse would come after.
Seeing this as an opportunity - the little girl quickly dashed to the prone magician and once again attached herself to his figure - she hugged his torso, muffled sobs and murmurs escaping her little mouth. What horror. Bloody mud splattered, dirtying both the child and Wail even more. At this point - the warlock had no choice but to capitulate.
“Alright, alright! I’m sorry, ok?” - He started to whine, flailing his free hand about and squirming in a desperate attempt to escape - “It was just a little joke! Come on! I wasn’t planning on actually abandoning you!” - In desperation, he pleaded his case with sincerity. Obviously trying to fool a gullible and naïve little kid.
Eventually - it worked. Wail was allowed to get up, once the little girl released him from her evil embrace. Yet, before Wail could even think of putting his tricks to the test once more - the child quickly grabbed onto his robe and it did not seem like any plans of letting go were in her schedule. Devious little devil this one.
Cursing under his breath once more, the heartless magician finally caved in.
“What’s your name?” - He asked as the two started to slowly advance together, matching their pace to each other. Or at least Wail was, as he figured anything was better than having her attached to his leg again.
Innocent green eyes looked up at Wail from within a curtain of untidy raven black hair. Staring eye to eye for the first time with her “savior”. His shabby look, balding head, lips perpetually twisted into either a scowl or a sarcastic sneer. Dark blue eyes - always frowning, always glaring suspiciously. Always - with an edge, a barely visible glimmer of fear. Uncertainty. A true “hero” this one.
“Vivian”
*******
An axe cleaved through empty air - its edge leaving a trail of red as it swiftly traveled the short distance between its starting position and the zombies mutilated head. Ripping through it like paper. As the zombie soon fell to its knees - returning to oblivion from which its un-life was drawn from - a boot helped it step across the boundary. Kicking at its torn chest, breaking a protruding rib during the process and slamming the lifeless corpse into the ground and out of the way. With ragged breaths and somewhat unsteady steps - the one responsible for this outburst of violence hastily continued onwards throughout the dark alleys of Wail’s “castle-town”. Wide, broad shoulders, a bent metal shield on his back, a bloodied axe in hand - Borg dashed through the muck beneath his feet. Seemingly in a hurry to leave this damnable place. Dirtied by both earth and blood, his gear torn in numerous places - revealing wounds that were not even close to healing. An arrow - sticking out of his upper-left backside. Accurately aimed to avoid the shield that covered most of it. Indeed, the warrior has seen better days.
Cursing under his breath ever so often, most likely as often as his strained lungs could allow. Though words weren’t even necessary to display how unsatisfied he seemed - one only needed to stare him into the eyes. Eyes that were practically red from the pent-up anger and frustration - ready to explode at any given moment. If only he had a single drop of hope in survival - Borg would have probably turned and met his pursuers eye-to-eye, instead of turning his back to them. Yet, there wasn’t much he could have done to the archers that so brazenly interrupted his reunion with that scrawny little fire-mage. Ranged combat was never Borg’s forte after all. With sudden motion, he reached behind and took hold of the protruding arrow-shaft – only to pull it out with a pained grunt, while the projectile was thrown to the side with disgust. He was lucky it didn’t break off and came out easily.
Without pausing to catch his breath, the exhausted warrior shoved a free hand into a bag that hung from his waist. After a few moments of tedious rummaging, he finally drew out a glass bottle with transparent, red liquid within. With the help of both his thumb and index finger, Borg opened the container and emptied its content in one big brave gulp. Unafraid to risk choking on the red substance while on the move.
Once that was done, the warrior threw away the empty bottle and repeated his previous actions once again - though this time, he drew out a bottle with transparent green liquid within. A peculiar display, seeing as both of the bottles were as large as the bag itself, yet managed to easily fit inside.
After performing another brave feat of consumption while on the run, the “risk taker” slowed his advance, as a few moving figures emerged from the shadows in-front.
Ragged and bloodied men, fighting amongst themselves in a desperate struggle of wills. Conflicting needs to survive - as only one side could do so. There were at least eight soldiers wearing darkened yellow - facing off against ten without any color to identify. Though their shabby and poor equipment told all one needed to know, regarding which side they were fighting on.
Surprisingly, regardless of their inferior equipment, Wail’s bandits were performing remarkably well and were on the road to victory as their dead numbered in visibly fewer numbers in comparison to the yellow side.
With but a quick glance over the conflict zone - Borg jumped into the middle of the fight, rampaging with animalistic fury in obvious haste to finish up as quickly as possible. He took up the iron shield with a free hand, all the while swiping his axe across the bellies of two nearby-bandits. Cutting through their leather armor with ease, catching them off-guard with the sheer speed of the attack. Wounded - the two bandits were easy prey to the yellow force - as one of them ended up skewered by two spears, while the other one received a skull-crushing blow to the head from Borg's iron shield.
“Rally!” - A familiar roar echoed throughout the narrow streets, as Borg charged in deeper towards the enemy ranks, a regrouping force of soldiers quickly following suit. Organization becoming quickly apparent in their newly found vigor.
Seeing the devastatingly swift change in the flow of the fight, the bandits - wisely, decided to not waste their lives and quickly dispersed. Abandoning the fight and a few of the comrades that were unable to retreat in time.
“Do not pursue!” - Without wasting a second in the chase of those escaping, Borg rallied his comrades and continued the escape together.
Streets became wider, its corners becoming more and more illuminated by rays of the sun - rays that could now more easily reach within the alley. Their light displaying the lessening signs of battle as the group advanced. Their numbers swelling to double digits as the occasional routing yellow met along the retreat joined in.
In one big chorus of heavy breaths - the group finally stepped onto the outer-region of Wail’s fortress. A labyrinth of trenches and fortifications.
Finally, with salvation in sight - they could breathe easier - for a few moments at least. Since before any of them could even think of escaping, they realized just what kind of situation they stepped into. Everywhere Borg looked - the forces of his compatriots were embroiled in bloody conflict, as they were seemingly pushed outside the inhabitable zone of Wail’s “castle-town”. Some fled in an unorganized flight, braving the hell that was the outer region of his fortress. Others were forced into fighting, as the bandits were practically stepping on the heels of the fleeing soldiers. Both forces locked in combat at the very outskirts of the habitable zone.
A similar situation caught his band of survivors as well - as a number of enemies charged them from both behind and the sides. Routing a few men with the sudden, yet to be expected attack.
Unfazed, Borg wielded his axe with frightening precision - cutting apart any who were stupid enough to step in his way. Lips twisting into a satisfied smirk.
Body by mutilated body the group retreated at the heels of its indomitable leader - only to slow down as he was seemingly lost in a daze. Eyes locked upon something visible only to the warrior alone. Uninterrupted in the short bout of contemplation - Borg's eyes remained occupied, as if reading some text. His smirk turning into a full blown smile moments later. Mood seemingly lifted - the warrior took in the scene around once more - viewing it in a completely new light. As
if all the death and destruction that his compatriots faced was a victory - instead of the presumed defeat.
Amazingly, Borg was allowed to continue his observations as no unexpected attacks took place during the perfect opportunity. Quite the opportunity this was as well, since the warrior seemed to freeze over once again - his eyes locked on a particular individual. Familiar in both actions and looks.
Dyed in crimson - a half-naked man battled the yellow assailants with fanatical zeal. Carving a gruesome and gore-filled path with a large double-edged sword. Its body shimmering in black and red. As if a berserker, he seemed all but lost to the conflict - unfazed by neither the horrors that were performed, or the state his own figure was in. Covered from head to toe in blood, sweat and mud - rivulets of their mixture forming into almost meaningful, sinister writings.
A dreadful sight, without a doubt. Yet Borg did not seem affected by it - not in the normal way at least. As his smile did not vanish. Dark brown eyes glittering in crazed yearning, a fire – thirsting for revenge.
“What a fine day…” - He mumbled under his breath like a madman, unconsciously taking one step after another towards the observed figure - “A quest complete, a means for revenge presented…”
It was Bob that came into the warrior’s view - the same man who bested him in combat and Borg seemed intent on having a rematch.
“Hey you!” - After a long and deep breath, the warrior roared with all the power his lungs could muster, issuing a challenge only he himself would understand with both arms raised into the sky - “Remember me?” - His form expanding as much as Borg’s shoulder-width could allow, the tip of the axe glimmering in the falling rays of the sun.
Bob - after cutting down another fleeing invader, turned to look upon the bold warrior – his reddened eyes glaring upon him with crazed blood thirst. Yet, instead of meeting the challenge or even acknowledging the foe - all Bob gave this brave warrior was a sneer. A sneer so sinister and mocking, that Borg couldn’t help but freeze in stunned rage.
His eyes expanded in utter surprise the second he noticed the surroundings become brighter, while a towering shadow extended beneath his feet. A shadow so large and bulky, that it couldn’t possibly be his own. Realization struck almost at the same time as the battle-roar. A battle-roar so frightening, so ear-tearing - that Borg could do all he could, to simply resist being blown away by it.
Then came the physical blow.
A slab of metal as tall as the warrior himself - twisted and crooked, with sharp barbs and toothed edges - slammed itself into his side. Pulverizing his lowered shield hand with the strength of a mountain - sending Borg flying away like a mere rag-doll.
After a series of rolls and bounces - Borg laid on the ground bloodied and broken. His vision failing, together with his disorientated consciousness. His iron-shield now nothing but a disfigured lump of iron - completely useless and even counter-productive. Its twisted sharp edges lodged into the shield-arm.
What approached Borg, was a machine of slaughter. A towering mass of green skin and muscle. Clothed in leather and rusted pieces of steel plate - seemingly gathered from completely different sets of armor. Wielding a frightening two-handed slab of metal as if it was a simple bastard-sword, the foe approached with no visible haste. A flare of light slowly fell from the sky far behind him - casting a shadow that shrouded most of his facial features. Yet light wasn’t needed to discern what kind of creature Borg faced. Not with a pair of eyes as blood-red as those. An orc. A creature born of strife. For strife.
Surprise was prominent within the shaking eyes of Borg, with a smidge of fear deep down - as they reflected the approaching doom. With no time for anything else, his mind could only react in the one single manner, they managed to conjure in such a dire situation.
“I’ll remember you…” - Were the last words Borg the warrior spoke - before the orc’s weapon descended and put him out of his misery.
Chapter 48
A sinister laughter echoed almost like a whisper across the battlefield - drowned by the racket from all around. Cries of anguish, shouts of retreat, the clamor of steel and the whistling of arrows - all a part of the musical we call battle. Yet not a single piece of it could bring a foreboding so deep, so unsettling that your limbs grew cold. Unsettling the very blood that traveled within your veins. A result from that single whisper.
With glee - Wail could only cackle like a madman, giggle like a school-girl and snort like a piggy. All his plans coming to fruition - the long-awaited result of the siege all but coming to life. Born from the crazed warlock’s ambitions and meticulous planning.
Wherever his gaze could reach - conflict brewed in an overwhelming favor for the defending forces. With most of the invaders retreating - he could see but a few pockets of resistance that were born more out of the lack of choice, than out of valiant bravery.
With pleasure did Wail observe the backs of the retreating. Their darkened tabards now far removed from the bright yellow with which they arrived on his very doorstep. Darkened by the challenges that the invaders faced so recently, the horrors that they went through within Wail’s fortress. Their exhausted and ragged figures serving as nothing but a contribution to the warlock’s greatness.
Yet it was far from enough.
Arrows whistled over-head - peppering the backs of the retreating without a shred of mercy, supported by the occasional black mist that materialized overhead. A persecution that could lead to one and only result - total and complete annihilation.
All of this - witnessed by a figure far detached from the strife of man. The never-ending conflict that humanity is forever locked in. A little girl.
With pure and innocent eyes she looked upon the world that was created by her own savior. Tightly clutching his robe with those little hands of hers - afraid to be swallowed up, yet unable to look away from the dazzling light it produced.
A light composed of a myriad of burning fires - exploding one after the other in great big blazes of life, right before disappearing. Snuffed out by the merciless advance of Wail’s forces.
Both slowly advanced towards the routing troops – all the while Wail used this as an opportunity to leech health, experience and prepare for the last phase of defense.
Occasionally - Vivian’s savior would flash in a bright light - though it provided a far less serene and wonderous atmosphere. Sparse swirling shadows covered Wail’s outline - forming a dark and sinister aurora that vanished as soon as it appeared.
You have lost 1254 Health due to Life Tap.
You have gained 821 Mana due to Life Tap.
Mana was refilled, as Wail was getting closer and closer to full power. A myriad of messages flooding the corner of his vision – informing him of a steady health influx.
+40 Health.
+41 Health.
+39 Health.
…
Regrettably - the flashy displays of Life Tap did not achieve the secondary objective that the underhanded warlock planned on. Seeing as Vivian was not only unshaken by it - but seemed even somewhat intrigued. Trying to touch and stroke the outlines of the fading shadows - an aftereffect of the aforementioned spell.
A frown slowly crept into the warlock’s facial features - replacing the previously shinning sneer that seemed like it was there to stay for the unforeseeable future. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t get rid of this nuisance - freshly baked by the insane entity governing the laws of Alternative Reality.
At this point - he was running out of ideas. Usually - the “scare away” tactic worked wonders on almost anyone. Which is why Wail never needed to imagine alternatives - seeing as there was no need for any.
As a means of mental relief – the warlock decided to use this awkward situation as an opportunity to commence the last phase of defense. With but a flick of the wrist – Wail conjured his signature ball of fire and flung it up into the air. Using all the strength his feeble limbs could muster – making sure the flare-like ball would fly high enough to be
seen in a wide area.
Three times in a row did Wail perform the same movements and once done – he ended up back in the same place as before. Still uncomfortable over the physical contact with a foreign object. Still unhappy with a lack of solutions his brain could conjure up.
Luckily – which was definitely uncommon, an unexpected trump card came to life right at the right moment. Limping with awkward movement, on twisted limbs – it approached. Pale skin – torn, bruised and scorched at places. A ragged and completely worn out armor, a broken down and chipped sword. Indeed – minion number one showed-up just at the right moment and the right place. Rays of the settling sun theatrically illuminating the deathly grey visage.
In anticipation, Wail looked upon his creation - and continuously glanced over towards Vivian. Hoping for the best. Or worst in this case.
Yet, expectations were rarely fulfilled in the case of the mad magician. So was it now, as well.
Not a single frightened yelp or a jitter. No crying, no running away. Nothing. On the contrary - with apparent interest, Vivian observed the new arrival - only to turn towards Wail soon after.
“Can you bring my parents back to life as well?” – With widened green eyes, the child looked up at her savior with hope. All the while expecting the impossible of him. How will Wail escape this tactical disaster? How will he be able to avoid destroying the last piece of hope the little girl held on to? How the heck did the child understand that the walking horror was a reanimated corpse?
“No” – Was all the grumpy mage said as a reply, as he turned to more pressing matters. Giving up on the issue at hand all together.
Vivian, on the other hand, did not seem crushed by the reply – the only visible reaction being her cast down gaze. Her little frame giving off an almost guilty look. Yet Vivian’s hands did not let go of the robe for one second, as the recent rejection seemed far from effective as a repellant.