by Cebelius
While that wasn't true, it was close enough, and Abram had the satisfaction of seeing Ingvar humbled when Brenna reminded him that he had given his oath. As it happened, Abram remembered specifically that only dwarven help had been promised, not true obedience. Ingvar seemed not to make a point of the distinction though, leaving Abram to silently wonder if the fool even truly remembered what he'd sworn to do.
"And just what do we do if she attacks one of us then?" he'd asked at last, surly and frustrated.
"I will engage her," Angie said, "and that's only if the air prison we have planned for her fails. Concern yourself with the plan, Ingvar. What happens in the heat of battle is left to the Norns."
Abram caught Frode's flinch when he heard that, and his subsequent exchange of glances with Tyra, though neither said anything.
Once the details were ironed out, Angie and two of the dwarven warriors were sent with Sif to complete preparations while the rest of them saw to their equipment. Not having any of that, Abram cracked his journal and spent some time writing. It had been a while since he'd thought about it, but he'd carried the book through so much and written so little that it seemed a bit of a waste. He wrote down the details of the spells he'd created, speculated a bit on who Sube might have been, and let his mind wander.
Several hours passed before Sif returned and reported that her preparations were complete. Everyone knew that they'd sacrificed surprise, but the hope was that in so doing, they had secured ultimate victory.
"How many are left?" Abram asked.
"Thirty-five, counting the Mor and Faz. He was able to get in before I could close the corridor."
"Well, we kinda figured he'd be part of the equation. I'll blow him up right off. What's their disposition? Are they situated about like we figured?"
"They've turned the tables over angled toward the main entrance," Sif confirmed. "Most of the thirty-five are ranked behind them, ready to fire. The heavily armored ones though are surrounding the Mor on this wall, here. They're closer to where we want to come in than we planned. Faz is all the way across the room, here. He's got two guards."
"I'll throw a couple runes down between us and the Mor's group when the wall goes. Should be enough. Then I'll concentrate on Faz while you guys rip and tear."
Abram looked around, then focused on Brenna as he said, "All right. The plans are laid, the stage is set, you're in charge of your people once the battle starts. We'll do our parts. Make sure you do yours."
Brenna nodded, and for the first time since he'd met her donned her helmet. Unlike the completely full-faced black iron helmets of her companions, hers was the same silvered metal as her armor, and swept back to cover her neck in a graceful curve. In front, the helmet had a vaguely Corinthian style, and Abram had to admit she looked every inch the hero.
The thought made his lip curl, and he wondered idly if he'd prefer to see her live through the next half hour or not.
I'd have to flip a coin, and I haven't got one.
Abram followed along as the dwarven warriors filed out through the tunnel Sif had made, bypassing the normal areas of Svartheim entirely in favor of a new route that took them to a space just next to the stairs that led up to the Solarium. Sif had thinned the wall in front of them to the point where had they lit a candle, it would have lit the corridor on the other side.
Once they were in place, the waiting began. Sif needed to get under and thin the wall she'd earlier erected to seal off the far end of the corridor they were next to so that when they charged, they could break through without slowing down. Once everything was ready, Tyra would make a small runestone she'd given to Brenna glow. That would be the signal to begin.
The idea behind splitting Sif's interference into two phases was simply to convince the hobs that she was only boxing them in again. Then she'd left the doors at the base of the stairs open to hint at an assault, but from the wrong direction. Gunvor had a similar stone, and when Tyra signaled, he would begin hammering a bar into place to seal the double doors that led to the stair, both blocking it as an escape route and helping cover the noise they would make when they broke through the thin sheets of stone to begin the real assault.
The stone lit, and Brenna strode through the stone wall in front of her. Abram marveled at the way it shattered like candy glass. Her fellow warriors followed her with Abram and Angie bringing up the rear.
There were no war cries, no battle fervor. The dwarves walked down the corridor as though they were just headed toward another day on the job. They passed the two living areas without a glance. They already knew — thanks to Sif — that those rooms were empty.
Brenna shattered the stone blocking the corridor, and Abram cast his first series of spells.
"Images, five."
"Images, five."
"Images, five."
"Images, five."
"Images, five."
"Images, five."
"Tentacular rune."
"Tentacular rune."
Just like that, seventy points of mana gone, but the results were glorious to behold.
Thirty-five dwarves charged the flank of ranks of hobgoblin crossbowmen lined up in the wrong direction. The real dwarves had each been assigned a table to clear, and the false dwarves simply ran everywhere, often following or preceding the real ones, their shields lifted, maces held high. None of the dwarves made a sound, though the hobgoblins certainly did.
Abram had to give them credit: the enemy had both balls and discipline. He heard several hobs bellowing commands, and the surprised crossbowmen nevertheless turned almost as one and loosed a volley into the onrush of dwarven images, all of whom had raised their shields. The angle of attack was narrow enough to keep most of the incoming fire along predictable lines, and several bolts ricocheted off the raised shields. Then the dwarves were among them, smashing their lightly armored and ill-equipped targets into paste.
He didn't simply watch though. His target was across the room, hands already weaving as he began to cast. Abram judged the distance. Seventy feet was too far for his fireball by itself, which would explode at sixty feet. Fortunately, he had another spell that was line of sight, and Abram's line of sight was a hundred twenty feet. He pointed at the floor under the mage and his two guards.
"Grease."
He then presented his palm and immediately followed up.
"Fireball."
Since the three weren't moving when the grease spell hit the floor around them, none of them fell. They didn't slip, probably didn't even notice anything was amiss in the scant time they had left. When the fireball exploded ten feet in front of them though, not only did its explosive force and flame blow them backward, forcing them to move, slip, and fall ... the grease they all landed in ignited.
The gnoll never finished his spell as the corner in which he stood was washed in flame. Instead, he wailed in agony as his robes, then his fur burned.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you do THAT, Abram thought grimly as he stepped out of the corridor and glanced to his left. Not twenty feet away a tight group of heavily armored hobs were gathered around the Mor.
Abram hesitated, then glanced at his mana. He had 11/87 remaining.
I'd be under ten if the fire affinity hadn't cut the cost of that fireball, he thought absently.
This was the risky part, at least for him. The battle was going well for the dwarves thanks to the countless illusions everywhere. Another volley had been fired, but as far as he could see none of the real dwarves had gone down since all of the illusory ones were still up and running around.
Abram knew he didn't have enough mana to successfully cast his Air Prison on the Mor though. There was simply no way, as a boss mob, she was weak enough for eleven mana to seal the deal, and even if she was, the rest of the hobs surrounding her would probably wander over and stomp his guts out. He had only one hope of pulling off his plan, and he had no real idea if it would work. Sure, sound theory, but he wasn't exactly arm-chair quarterbacking on this one.
He'd pinned his hopes, and the future of his whole game, on a gambit he wasn't sure would work, because for all his big talk with the dwarves he hadn't had the mana to waste on a Divine Nature spell.
I've already broken Hantu's rule.
Hantu's text immediately popped up. 'Yes. You truly do suck at this evil wizarding thing.'
Glancing up at his mini-map, he mentally targeted the burning mage and cast the spell on which his future depended.
"Death Harvest."
By now the Mor had noticed him. He glanced from her to the still annoyingly lit dot on his map that represented the flaming gnoll, then back to her and decided to stall for time.
And hopefully royally piss her off in the process, because why the fuck not.
He lifted his hands, lowered his hood, and for the first time met the gaze of his tormentor on his feet.
The Mor was surprisingly lightly armored, and Abram was shocked to see that not only was her belly exposed, she was heavily pregnant. She wore a spaulder on her right shoulder that flowed into a series of interlocking metal plates that covered the top of her right arm all the way down to her hand, which bore a finely crafted gauntlet in which a glittering sapphire was set. She also wore faulds of leather-backed steel plate along with metal greaves and sabatons that had rather wicked-looking spurs on both the toe and heel. On her left forearm she had a small target shield anchored to a bracer, and her long black hair was bound into a high top-knot that cascaded down to her waist. Her tusks gleamed and the left had a silver cap. Gem-encrusted loops hung from her large, goblin ears and her black eyes glimmered with battle lust and malice.
Belted at her waist were a pair of shortswords, their hilts angled for cross-draw.
When she saw who he was and recognized him, her eyes widened and she said something so cliché that all of Abram's simmering rage, all his hatred for this vicious creature, was buried under his momentary amusement, and he just couldn't help but smile. It was just a game, after all. It was supposed to be fun.
"You!"
He nodded and showed his hands in a what-can-you-do gesture as he tilted his head jauntily and asked, "Miss me?"
As he asked, he glanced toward the gnoll in the corner and saw — to his frustration — that the fires had gone out and the uncooperative shit still wasn't dead. He needed to finish the damn thing off, but he couldn't move. Not yet.
Come on. Come ooon ...
The Mor pointed and screamed, "GET HIM! ALIVE!"
Yes!
"Aw, honey! I'm touched!" Abram cried, lifting his chin and making a kissy face at her that turned her face practically purple with rage as several of the hobs closest to him turned and charged. They were only twenty feet from him, so it was a short run.
The tentacular runes he'd placed between himself and the Mor erupted into violent motion. Much screaming and dying ensued, but Abram was already running, hand outstretched as he sent spidery purple lightning arcing into the gnoll who'd just managed to stand.
"Sorry dude, but I really need you to fucking die!" he yelled as he closed the distance, one eye on his rapidly depleting mana.
The gnoll bowed backward as purple lightning played over his still smoking body, and with two mana left in Abram's pool, he finally collapsed.
Abram didn't have time to waste. He skidded to his knees, yanked open the gnoll's jaws, and reached in.
Come on ... come ooon!
His fingers found something round and he yanked it out as he whirled to face the room. He was just in time to see Angie bring her bearded ax down on the head of a hobgoblin that had been chasing him and the result splashed. Abram couldn't suppress a shudder as the giant proxy whirled and swung. The hob coming up behind her caught the blow on his shield but it was so powerful that it forced the creature to his knees.
With no time to waste on niceties like wiping the drool off, Abram popped the manna pearl into his mouth and swallowed it.
When nothing happened, he thought, Hantu! How long does this shit take?!
'You act as though you aren't the one who made this spell up,' came the rather dry retort.
Angie was now engaged with two hobs who were spreading out to flank her. Abram raised both hands and used his last two mana to blast the one to her right. It didn't kill him, but his joints did lock up and Angie didn't miss the opportunity to sink her massive two-handed ax straight through his chestplate. She left it there to pull her shield off her back and her hand ax from its belt loop as she squared off with her remaining opponent.
Okay Hantu. I am tapped and we are fucked if this doesn't work. Any time now!
'I am aware. Fingers crossed, Master.'
Abram was already in a corner, and he stayed where he was as he waited either for the mana that would keep this from becoming a royal shit show, or the ignominious 'game over' screen that seemed to be the increasingly likely alternative.
The Mor had dispersed the rest of her troops throughout the room, and the minute that his images lasted was up.
A quick glance around the room showed only three dwarves, including Brenna, still standing. They'd gone back-to-back and were surrounded by the remainder of the Mor's heavily armored hobgoblins. The odds looked to be about three to one.
Meanwhile, the Mor was personally coming for him, and the only thing standing between them was Angrboda.
She'd downed her last opponent, and slammed her ax against her wooden shield as she declared, "Abram is mine, and I'll see you in hell before you touch him ever again!"
The Mor cooly drew her swords and brandished them in quick circles as her arms crossed her body and back again, her lips curled in a casual sneer around her tusks.
The Mor moved one sword to a middle guard while she pulled the other back, ready to thrust as she said in a voice dripping with menace, "I don't know who you are, and I don't care. That's my template, and going through you to get to him will amuse me, bitch."
Abram's focus constantly flickered from the two in front of him to the blinking, empty blue mana bar in the upper left corner of his vision.
Come ooon, this is fucking ridiculous! Mana pots are supposed to be instant!
He watched, helpless, as the Mor and Angrboda closed, as twin shortswords rang off shield and ax. The first exchange seemed almost tentative.
The second and subsequent were not.
The Mor attacked in a flurry so dazzling that it was all Angie could do to fend off the glittering blades that seemed to come at her from every angle at once. Abram's hope died quickly as within ten seconds the Mor brushed aside the ax and reversed her swing, laying Angie's throat open to the bone.
The giant proxy shuddered, tried to keep her guard up despite the mortal wound, but the Mor battered her shield aside with her left and put her full body behind a merciless thrust with the right. The sword burst through Angie's backplate. Blood splattered across Abram's face as the Mor jerked the blade free and took a step back, smiling grimly as she watched.
Angrboda fell to her knees, then her face. She was dead before she hit the floor.
Abram stared wordlessly at the body. He knew she wasn't truly dead, but he also knew that she couldn't help him anymore. He was on his own with no mana, and his options were all but gone.
"You choose your defenders poorly, template."
The Mor glanced toward the ongoing fight with the dwarves, and Abram saw there would be no help coming from that direction. Only Brenna remained, and there were three hobs still standing.
Abram glanced around, saw a knife on the singed belt of the dead gnoll, and jerked it free, but his hand was shaking.
The fear was on him now, and it never occurred to him that the game had put it there. That what he felt wasn't real. It was very, very real, and what he saw in front of him in that moment wasn't the Mor. It was the table. It was him, chained to that table.
Forever.
He took the knife in both hands and turned it on himself without hesitation, but the Mor was faster. Her sword cut most of the way through his right han
d but his scream was full of terror, not pain, as the dagger flew away from him. He didn't even feel the pain.
Only the fear.
He curled around his wounded hand, his eyes tightly shut as he silently begged, Log me out. Hantu please ... log me out. Log me out!
The text that answered him was dim in his vision, but what he saw made him wail in abject despair.
'I'm sorry, Abram. I can't. You're in combat.'
He sobbed, and the Mor let him. He opened his eyes and could see the point of her sword hovering there, less than a foot from his face, just off the stone. She was chuckling lightly, and it was obvious that she was savoring his misery. He noticed that the sounds of combat were gone now, and the Mor said, "Poor little template. You tried so hard ... but in the end, I win."
Then, a miracle happened.
His mana bar stopped blinking, and abruptly the numbers next to it changed from 0/87 to 25/87.
"Air Prison!" he screamed, his head jerking up as he pointed at the Mor with his left hand.
She froze, and his mana dropped to 1/87.
Abram stared up at her, tears streaking his face, and laughed the laugh of the utterly insane.
"I got you," he cackled, still cradling his maimed and bleeding hand as he knelt before her. "I fucking got you!"
"Savor the feeling," the Mor said calmly, smile undiminished, eyes bright with malice. "Let me know when you're done."
Abram's laughter faded as the sapphire on her gauntlet began to glow. She conversationally asked, "Did you really think I would risk a fight like this with no magical protection?"
The sapphire brightened, flashed, and her balance shifted. She brought her left sword up and tapped the crown of his head with the flat, giggling as he screamed, "NO! It's not FAIR! NOOO!"
Abram lifted his left hand and sent his last point of mana into her as a burst of drain lightning, but she lifted her gauntlet in front of her swollen belly and every arc of his power sank into the sapphire, accomplishing nothing.