Evolve

by Derek Belfield

  Slate figured he’d been well trained because he had the foresight to hang onto his sword as well.

  The Scourge Heritor leapt from his perch as soon as the knight had forcefully left the immediate vicinity. He watched as Shale moved with blinding speed using claws, fangs, and tail to dismantle any of the soul-driven armor that remained.

  Slate tried to end the fight with the knight quickly and tried to punch his blade through the man's skull like he had done to enemies many times before. With preternatural speed, the Vallyrian Knight rolled out of the way and regained his footing. Slate's opponent was visibly stunned from the explosion but not out of the fight. Slate could see blood running down both ears and was a little disappointed that the Vallyrian's eardrums had only been punctured and his inner ear remained fine. If those had been jellied by the blast, then he wouldn't have been able to respond the way he had.

  Slate drew fire from his gut and let out a fireball towards his enemy. The knight slung his blade through the conflagration, and the sword flashed purple. He was smirking as the metal absorbed the fire. At least, he was smirking until Slate right cross caught him full in the face. For the second time that evening, the knight had been flung onto his ass.

  Slate moved to capitalize on the knight's predicament. Unfortunately, as soon as the Heritor neared, the knight had returned to his feet once again. Slate saw him start whispering and his sword light with a violet glow. The knight rushed forward, and a lilac afterimage spread behind the knight as he swung his sword at his neck.

  It was only a combination of reflexes and new musculature that allowed Slate to avoid the removal of his head. As it was, he had to turn a backward dodge into a back handspring and return to his feet. He launched another fireball and followed it with another melee attack, but the knight had wizened up.

  With contemptuous ease, the knight's blade absorbed the cleansing flames, and the knight moved to intercept the punch that Slate had thrown. Instead of throwing his full power behind the blow, Slate had faked his speed and instead, grasped the knight sword arm on its downward arc. With his other hand, he formed a blade and launched his claws into the knight's side. The movement was so quick that the knight didn't have time to respond.

  Slate removed his fist from the man's torso, and ripped out an unknown organ and threw it to the ground. Still grasping the sword arm, Slate swung to his inside, placed one forearm into the space between the arm and shoulder blade, and brought the knight crashing to the ground with his herculean strength. As the knight hit the ground, Slate's tail blade severed his spine and punched into his brain stem a moment later, killing him instantly. The edge had been launched with such force that it penetrated the ground for several inches through the man's head.

  You have defeated a level 35 Vallyr Soul Knight. You have earned 21,950 experience. You have reached level 37.

  He heard enthusiastic clapping as he looked up to Shale waiting on him to finish. He growled at her. She had probably finished her enemies long before he had finished his one.

  Let's eat, he said.

  She walked over with a savage grin on her face, and after a matter of moments, the streets were one Vallyr knight cleaner. They received twice the number of usual biomass from a humanoid and thought it was weird. He didn't complain since killing the armor didn't reward them experience or biomass. He and Shale both believed that the armor were relatively shitty opponents.

  ∆∆∆

  The rest of the night passed without incident. Instead of attacking the Vallyr, the two monsters focused purely on eliminating the rest of the possessed armor. Killing the Vallyr, while profitable, took too much time to accomplish their primary goal by sunrise. Just as the sky began to lighten, they rested back to back on the roof of a large warehouse. They had already scanned the building using their mana vision and determined that the structure was empty and thus safe to take a reprieve.

  Do you think that we got them all? Slate asked tiredly.

  I think so. Shale replied, exhaustion evident in her voice. We haven't seen any more of the armor, and the Vallyr retreated to the inner citadel long ago.

  Slate frowned. Yeah, that was weird. I expected more from them. I get that there isn't that many of them, but I expected them to put up more resistance. Shale idly scratched a scar on her leg where an ax blade had caught her earlier in the evening. We have been systematically removing their defenses. Their morale has to be in tatters. She replied.

  I guess. Slate allowed. I just don't like how these guys use magic. It gives me the creeps. They clearly have some kind of control over people's souls. It can't be a coincidence that Lucidus starts the Scourge so near to people who use souls to power automatons. Meanwhile, she gives us the one weapon that seems to disperse their soul magic.

  He could feel Shale shrug. It's kind, of her right to do so, isn't it?

  Slate shrugged. What do you mean? He asked.

  Well, she brought you back to life, didn't she?

  Yes, he said, trying to figure out what Shale was trying to say.

  Well, the Lord of Light also freed me, gave me this form, and gave me a purpose. She gestured to herself, him, and their surroundings. We kind of owe her one, don't we? She continued. I don't know where I would be if she hadn't intervened in my life through you. I know for a fact, you would still be dead without her. If that's the case, it doesn't seem like she's asking very much from us to kill some monsters who do some screwed up things with people's souls.

  After her speech, Slate was quiet as he thought about what she said. I think for the first time, I'm questioning my loyalty to the Lord of Light. I thought she had to be kind of messed up to create monsters like us. He said pensively. Our whole purpose is to kill. It's the Guardians and the Faithful who have missions that could even sort of be justified in a conventional moral system. But for us? I don't know. What happens when we're done?

  Sensing his tone, Shale stood up and sat down in front Slate. They were mirror images of each other, legs out, forearms lazily resting on their kneecaps. Soot and blood had blackened their scales, and even when they used their camouflage, they looked like bloody apparitions. Shale had never heard Slate sound so tired and vulnerable. She looked him in the eye and tried to think about what she could say to bring him back. It made her uncomfortable to know that the implacable and formidable Heritor of the Scourge wasn't perfect.

  She wasn't eloquent, and she didn't have experience trying to cheer people up. The best she could do was be honest. Lucidus doesn't throw away tools. She said with false confidence. When I was lying in the dirt with a Scourgling about to rip its way out of my body, I thought I was going to die. Maybe, part of me wanted to die. She sounded morose. I had no purpose—I had no reason to live except for the promise that you made me. Like a summer storm, you had ripped through my life and changed everything in a single night. She paused then, trying to think about what she want—no, needed to say to him.

  At the moment before my death, Lucidus took me away to her realm of light, and she told me that she had made a mistake. She said that she had planned for me to die, but discovered that I would be more useful alive to her, than dead. Shale peered deeply into Slate's eyes, her heart thumping nervously.

  The Scourge will always be around. Lucidus will always need them as the vanguard of her people. Whether it's this city, this empire, this world, or another. She'll always have a use for us. But endless slaughter isn't enough. Even as broken as I am, I know that. Instead, I put my purpose in you. You'll forge the Scourge into a weapon that Lucidus will keep close at hand and in doing so, you'll ensure our safety, our power, and our future. I believe in that. I believe in you. Anger grew in Shale's eyes.

  Forget gods and goddesses, we're nothing but a means to an end to them. But this…She gestured to the two of them. This…matters. I need you, and the Scourge needs you. She swallowed heavily and held out both of her hands. Slate looked at them and then slowly took them in his own. She summoned up her courage and continued …and sometimes, when we'
re alone, and there's no one to see—no guardians, no faithful, no gods, goddesses or enemies. It's okay if you need me too. I'll always be here, and there's nowhere else I would rather be.

  Slate sighed. A fear that he hadn't realized was clenched around his chest released. Ever since the conversation with Merus, he wondered if he was doing the right thing—whatever the right thing meant.

  Thank you. Slate said simply and let her hands go. Shale didn't reply as she watched the mantle of Heritor descend upon him once more. Gone was the vulnerability and indecisiveness. Slate was back, and he was ready for the next step. She felt like the clouds had passed from in front of the sun, and she could bask in his light again.

  Well, let's go gather our troops. Slate shared a smile.

  Exiting the city was a relatively simple affair, there was barely anyone on the street, and as soon as a citizen poked their head out and noticed the pieces of armor scattered around their neighborhood, they quickly went indoors and hid there. They reached the eastern gate which faced the closest to where the army was mustered, and the two monsters used their acid to melt a doorway into the portcullis large enough for a single person. It wasn't large enough for Slate's bulk, so he waited in front of it while his mate left to gather the guardians.

  Close to an hour later she arrived back at the city with the guardians in tow. During that time, a few passersby had come by the gate, spied Slate's hulking form, and quickly retreated from whence they came.

  Slate turned and watched as Shale and Winterborn separated from the bulk of the guardians and made their way to his location. He moved out of the way to allow them passage, and they gathered under the shade of the curtain wall.

  Lieutenant Winterborn smiled as Slate arrived and she visibly resisted the impulse to salute. Slate smiled back and nodded as he appreciated the effort.

  "My Lord Heritor" Winterborn sultrily began. "Am I to believe you cleared the city all by yourself?" Slate's smile immediately faded. She had placed heavy emphasis on the word "yourself."

  He looked between the lieutenant, Shale, and back. He wasn't dumb enough to answer that question. Especially after Shale had practically bared her soul on the rooftop. He ignored Winterborn's question. "Lieutenant Winterborn," he said gravely. "There are about twenty-five of the Vallyr holed up within the citadel. Most—if not all—of soulbound suits of armor have been eliminated, and I don't predict that your Guardians will have any trouble in the outer city. I want you to set up a small number of your warriors here." He gestured to the gate, "and start processing the citizens through. The rest of us will continue to the citadel and clear out the rest of the Vallyr."

  "Aye, my Lord." She said with an impish grin. Slate wondered how she made Lord sound like a pet name between lovers.

  Slate smiled again, thinking fondly of his plush bed back in the palace. "If we're lucky. We should be able to clear out the citadel by tonight and be well on our way tomorrow." Slate noticed that

  Winterborn's cheerful expression had gone slack. "Heritor, what. Is. THAT?" Winterborn sounded concerned, which immediately raised his hackles.

  Slate frowned and turned around to follow her gaze. I had to fucking say something. I know to NEVER say something. This is like being in the field and being like "don't worry the forecast said it wasn't going to rain!" I am so fucking stupid! He berated himself.

  A giant purple light had illuminated the citadel. If someone had listened close enough, they would be able to hear chanting in the air around them. An icy wind began to whip through the city as if drawn to the beacon in the center. As they watched, a fuchsia beam of light blasted into the heavens Abruptly, the energy cut off and it spread through the sky like heat lightning during a Texas summer. A rip in the sky began to form, and the chanting grew louder. The sound came from all around them as the wind wailed like a thousand-banshee choir.

  Magenta, humanoid apparitions began to pour out of the portal and descend upon the city. Slate watched in horror as each soul found a suit of armor to inhabit. Instead of singularly possessed armor rising from defeat, they then floated into the air to coalesce into a giant figure in the sky. Thousands of pieces of armor from hundreds of bodies reassembled themselves into a golem made of armor and soul energy. It floated there until purple flames lit the golem from within. Pupil-less eyes opened up in the golem, and it glared balefully down as the invaders below. The wind and the wailing cut off as the portal behind the golem closed.

  The golem dropped to the ground with a clatter of metal just outside of the inner city, and then it roared its defiance to the air.

  "Fuck." Winterborn said, lacking her usual charm.

  Chapter 20: Bastion’s Last Trick

  Mordryn scowled darkly as he stormed out of the palace cursing the fool in his family line that had every allowed their progeny to become soul-bound servants to the Ventrix bloodline. Mors' father Gould dal Ventrix would never have sent him chasing after a ghost story and yet here he was ordered to take a two-day journey out to the very edge of the Collective.

  The only thing that Mordryn could reconcile himself with was the fact that he wouldn't have to take an average horse. Since he was under the direct orders of the Patriarch, he could borrow one of the Soul Stallions in the royal stable. The beasts were magnificent, and he had loved riding them since he was a boy. It was a small thing, but when your life was filled with tedious reminders of your own servitude, it was the little things that mattered.

  As his black leather boots tapped an angry rhythm against the stone tiles, servants and minor nobles alike gave him a wide berth. He had a reputation for being unpredictable. He was just as likely to greet a person with a dagger as with a smile. There wasn't a single person in the Collective outside of Mors who would dare anger the assassin. He was a couple hundred years old and had refined his craft throughout several generations. He had prided himself on never missing a target and never failing a mission.

  As a result, every time his current body began to age and die, the royal family would select another body and complete a complicated ritual to keep him ticking. Over the years he had been men, he had been women, and he had been a variety of ages and conditions. For some missions, the Collective had captured particular people, and he had taken their skin for himself. It wasn't just his ability with a blade that made him so deadly, it was also his ability to blend in anywhere at any time. He had been alive so long that he had been around for the inception of most cultural and social practices in the region.

  His competence was a double-edged sword, his life was entirely at the whim of the royal family, and they took great pains to keep it that way. With a thought, they could banish him to the Between, and he would wait there in indeterminable pain until he was summoned again. He had been dismissed as punishment for a time by Mors early in his rule, and the assassin had never been the same. As a whole, the Ventrix line was terrified of losing power, and they had reason to be concerned. Vallyrian politics chewed up and spit out the weak and inept.

  The last real conflict had been close to a century ago when Mor's father Gould dal Ventrix had still been the Patriarch. He had supposedly died in a ritual gone wrong, but most of the aristocracy believed that Mors had assassinated him.

  Just thinking about Mors frustrated Mordryn and he keenly missed the days when he would ride into battle with Gould. Mors had brought stability and peace to the realm, but what use was a weapon during peacetime? The entire Vallyrian economy ran on souls and slaves, and yet Mors had refused to push the boundaries of the Collective. He was too focused on maintaining his power and keeping the other noble lines from his throat, that he couldn't see the Collective rotting away from the center. It had turned corrupt and weak, ripe for a change in circumstances.

  Mordryn was so deep into his thoughts that he almost didn't notice when his feet had taken him to the stable. He had been sitting there watching a Soul Stallion as a slave had looked on in fear. His brain caught up to his ears as he realized that the slave had asked him three times if he needed a
ssistance. "Piss off," he snarled.

  The slave's face went white with fear, and he stumbled away with a hurried bow. Mordryn didn't watch him go, already forgetting the insignificant life. Instead, he focused on the stallion in front of him. It was black as pitch with malicious looking purple eyes that shone with a ghastly light. The horse was thin to the point of starvation but it very much alive. A thousand of the best horses in the Collective had been sacrificed to create this one magnificent creature.