Tales of Mantica

by Rospond, Brandon; Waugh, Duncan; Werner, CL

  Gently peering from around a protruding section of rotting wood, he scanned the ground in front, trying to identify what it was that Denner had spotted. Suddenly, he felt the back-draft of an arrow as it flew past his face, no more than a foot away from his head. Unperturbed, he stared into the distance, following the projectile's path as it disappeared into the gloom, the serrated metal point glinting in the starlight. Unable to see what Denner had been shooting at, Gareth turned back to the archer to seek confirmation, just in time to see the man's body fall limply to the ground.

  He barely had time to cry out a warning before an axe buried itself in his back. As he collapsed to his knees, he could not help but wonder at how he no longer felt cold anymore.

  * * * * *

  Hearing Gareth's scream, Warner and Randall spun around to face the direction of the noise, only to be greeted by the sight of three half-naked men, caked in thick layers of black warpaint, closing on their location. The small group was mere yards away in the darkness and would have caught the pair completely unawares. Randall swung into action, freeing his second blade and taking up a defensive posture between the oncoming assailants and his partner. Seeing that the element of surprise had left them, the unarmored men separated, with the two on the edges breaking away to either side, encircling the pair of rangers.

  Randall could not help but marvel at the speed and silence with which they moved through the undergrowth, easily rivaling the skills of the best scouts the Brotherhood could produce. Sharp teeth glimmered in the half-light, their predatory smiles betraying the attackers' confidence. Each wielded a pair of mismatched hatchets, their crude, battle-damaged edges waving dangerously in their owners' hands. The swordsman began edging backward, trying not to let any one individual pull him into an engagement and lock him in place. To do so would leave Warner defenseless and vulnerable to the rest of the pack; and once the archer was gone, it would be only a matter of time before they brought him down too.

  With a sudden blur of movement, the quickness of which stunned Randall, the man to his right flung one of the axes toward him. Desperately pivoting on the spot and leaning his body back, the ranger narrowly managed to avoid the spinning weapon; but before he had time to pull himself back into a ready stance, the enemy was on him. Savage blows rang down one after another onto his dueling blades. The man attacking him may have been reduced to a single weapon compared to Randall's two, but the warrior's momentum combined with his own poor positioning lent his foe a tremendous edge. The sheer downward force of the strikes threw Randall's arms wider with each and every parry, making it even more impossible for him to regain his positioning, the feral aggressor's crazed fervor utterly unrelenting in the face of the savage melee.

  * * * * *

  Warner's eyes were wide with a mixture of fear and surprise. The shock of having been so nearly set upon without any warning whatsoever was so completely unfamiliar to the experienced soldier, that for a moment, he was utterly fazed by it. But seeing Randall jump into motion snapped the archer out of his daze and his right hand unconsciously fell to the quiver hanging from his belt. Grabbing hold of the first arrow shaft he could find, Warner tilted the bow into the motion, and with practiced speed, fitted and nocked the arrow onto the string.

  The bow was already at mid-draw by the time Warner had switched to an aiming stance. As he pulled his right hand in below the chin, drawing the arrow back, he felt the habitual sensation of the string's rough fibers dragging across the lower portion of his face. With practiced speed, he took in the full scope of the skirmish before him. Randall was struggling under a flurry of brutal blows from one of the painted wild-men, while another of the snarling ferals closed on Warner himself. In the background, he could also see the third man pulling some kind of primitive, short-length bow from behind him. Three threats, all of them potentially fatal.

  Warner was not unaccustomed to hand to hand combat, but he could not fight and shoot at the same time, one leaving him terribly vulnerable to the other. Randall was staggering back under the ferocious onslaught of his attacker, losing ground every second. If he did not help him, it would only be a matter of time before his friend was cut down, and he needed Randall to keep his own approaching antagonist at bay. The archer had no other option than to hope his opposite number was either slow, or a poor shot.

  Lifting his feet high to avoid catching them on any unseen obstacles, he quickly sidled around the tumbling free-for-all ahead of him, trying to find a clearer angle on the enemy. Randall, unable to see his comrade's movements, but trusting to the pair's training and experience, tried to open up some space between himself and his assailant to allow his partner to take the shot.

  Warner, starting to feel the burn set in across his chest from the effort at keeping such a high poundage bow at full draw, focused intensely on the two men in front of him. He had no time to check the rest of his surroundings, any opening in the frantic brawl would be momentary and gone within an instant.

  Suddenly, Randall twisted and threw himself bodily beneath an incoming blow, leaving his back exposed to the enemy, but crucially placing the axeman between him and Warner. Instinctively, and without any hesitation, the archer let his arrow fly, the force of the released energies rippling along the limbs of the bow, his arm shaking slightly as the load it had been bearing suddenly dissipated.

  At a distance of only a few yards, the projectile hit the target at once; its lethal, triangular broadhead tip slamming into the man's unarmored torso and smashing through the bone, burying itself deep in his core. The enemy's attacks were halted instantly, his body too concerned with the catastrophic damage it had suffered from the bolt's impact to pose any threat to them. As their foe fell to the forest floor, Warner could see Randall back-pedaling to avoid being trapped under his bulk. Satisfied that his partner was safe for the moment, the archer reached for another arrow and looked to his sides, trying to locate the other raiders.

  Without warning, a steel-capped boot kicked him in the lower back, sending sharp signals of pain shooting up the rest of his spine and throwing the archer down onto his front. After hitting the ground, Warner felt a knee slam down hard, pushing him into the dirt. With the pommel of his blade caught beneath his own weight, he struggled futilely against the sheer mass pressing down on his body. Laboring to breath under the crushing pressure, he was unable to call out, and, pushed face-first into the mud, the villein never saw the downward blow coming.

  * * * * *

  With his initial assailant incapacitated, Randall rounded on the enemy archer and rushed forward in an attempt to cover the intervening ground before his foe could draw him in his sights. The other man pivoted on the spot, trying to get a clear shot on the Brotherhood soldier, his vision obscured as the swordsmen maneuvered behind a nearby tree trunk whilst still closing the gap between them. With a growl, the maddened wild-man cut the string of his bow, letting it fall to the ground in the process, and hefted one of their group's characteristic short-hafted axes from his belt.

  As Randall cleared the tree, he was caught flat-footed by the archer, who, having thrown himself forward, immediately lashed out with his crude axe in a wide sweeping blow. With no time to think, the swordsman stepped inward into his opponent's guard, taking the flat of the axe blade against his chest. He could feel the sheer strength of the hit cracking several of his ribs, but the larger surface area of the axe's bit bounced harmlessly off his gambeson, the thick, padded-linen fibers preventing its edge cutting down into his flesh.

  With the pain in his chest making him roar in frustration, Randall slammed the pommel of the sword in his right hand hard against the axeman's forearm, the reflexive shudder running up and down the injured enemy's limb, causing him to lose his grasp on the primitive weapon. The whites of the enraged man's eyes shone in stark contrast to the cracked black paint that encircled them, and Randall tried to push the other warrior back so that he could exploit his blades' longer reach. But before he could put the full force of his weight into the ac
tion, the enemy landed a quick flurry of punches on his uninjured right flank, throwing the whole movement off.

  Quickly recovering from the ham-fisted blows, Randall lashed out with a forward kick, planting his foot firmly into his adversary's lower core, finally driving the man backward. Grinning wickedly now that he had the upper hand, the swordsman started to slowly circle his prey, simultaneously working some movement into his upper arms to loosen up the musculature that was beginning to cramp. The wild-man, rather than showing concern at his own lack of weaponry, rotated his head almost quizzically, appearing to be appraising Randall with curiosity as opposed to apprehension.

  Sensing the end of the fight coming, Randall let out a low growl and made to move toward his rival, only to find himself staggering more with every step. It felt as if his energy was draining away, and the surprised swordsman pitched forward onto the ground, digging his blade into the earth in an attempt to stay upright. He looked up at the painted man in confusion and watched as his foe revealed a left hand holding a thin, bloodied, dagger-like length of steel. It took several seconds for Randall's increasingly oxygen-starved brain to process what he was seeing; and as his head collapsed under his own weight, he at last saw the gore-soaked puncture wounds down the side of his gambeson.

  Collapsing onto one side, he tried to cough up the blood that was flooding his respiratory system, his vision slowly fading away as he watched the unknown attacker walking off into the distance.

  * * * * *

  The men pulled from the Crucible had heard the desperate screams echoing out of the darkness and were all on edge, a fact that Quaid could not fault them for. There was something about this place that crept into a person's bones, and, being so close to the source, even he could begin to feel what Aldous had spoken of. Pacing along one of the stone-lined passageways, he finished checking in on the last of the garrison's deployments and headed back to the central courtyard to reconvene with Aldous and Grant.

  “Everyone is in position,” Quaid nodded to the other two knights. “Whatever is coming, there is not much left that we can do to prepare for it.”

  Grant nodded glumly and turned to Aldous. “Have you managed to glean any more information about this place? You may not get another chance going forward.”

  Aldous's scarred and burned face stared hopelessly into the distance. “That altar back in there, the one that I sensed earlier; I dare not delve too deeply into it. Whatever presence it is linked to is waiting, always just out of sight. I will not be able to defend myself against something that powerful. And from what we have seen here,” a sweep of his gauntleted hand encompassed their surroundings, “all I can tell you is that it is not in fact Abyssal in nature, or at least is not tied to any individual Wicked One that we have dealt with before.”

  Cruel, guttural laughter came emanating from a darkened alcove set into one corner of the enclosed space, causing all three men to recoil noticeably. “And it took you that long to come to this realization?”

  A powerful figure clad in layers of black plate and moving with deceptive ease, despite the weight of his armaments, stepped into the light. In one hand, he clutched a large, brutal looking axe that immediately put all of the knights on alert. “You are all truly ignorant. And none of you should be here.”

  Aldous quickly shifted into a bladed stance, resting a hand on the grip of his sheathed sword. “It would be wise for you to tell us who, or what, you are.”

  The newcomer's eyes locked balefully onto the Retribution knight, all sense of humor lost. “Really, it would, would it?” The dark warrior's tone took on a more threatening note. “You have no right to even set foot in these grounds, and yet here you stand. The only reason that you are still breathing is because I will need every one of my men for the coming battle.” The stranger's volume continued to rise. “You will leave, now! While I am still feeling generous.”

  Undaunted, Aldous's body language hardened noticeably as he stared the other man down. “Whatever strength you think the darkness that you serve may have granted you, be warned that –”

  Grant stepped forward, interposing himself between the two and cutting off his compatriot, his voice more ingratiating, but still firm. “Wait, you said a battle.” He pointedly made eye contact with his fellow knights. “Who are you expecting to come here?”

  More harsh laughter, the chain of the dark warrior's axe clinking with the heaving movement of his chest. “Come now, don't tell me that such esteemed paragons of virtue as yourselves, members of the Brotherhood even, could possibly be so uninformed as to the true nature of the Abyss.”

  * * * * *

  A man daubed in black warpaint sprinted shirtless through the trees, his breathing rough and ragged. Alongside him ran a blur of white, a creature raised in the far north and unfailingly loyal to its master. Fear got the better of him, and he turned, in spite of himself, to see if his pursuers had closed the gap. A ball of burning incandescence nearly blinded him as it flew by, mere inches from his face, ultimately smashing into the dead, rotten husk of a nearby tree trunk. The fiery projectile immediately set the tinder-dry wood alight, and he raised his arms to ward off the unnatural heat of it.

  The bright light coming off of the blazing tree ruined the man's night vision, causing him to trip and stumble over the many rocks and unseen roots that lined the forest floor. His pace slowed, and he heard his companion growl dangerously at a threat that lay just behind him. Gripping a pair of axes, one in each hand, the man turned to face his fate, knowing full well what was about to befall him.

  * * * * *

  Even the ever diplomatic Grant bristled at the insult. “What do you mean?”

  The knights watched uneasily as the armored warrior's grip alternately tightened and loosened on the haft of his axe in a random, but seemingly increasing, frequency. “This is a holy site of the Varangur, and it has stood here since the Reckoning itself. It encompasses more knowledge about the truths of this world than can be found in all of your libraries combined. And yet you have the arrogance to presume that your path is the righteous one? You cannot begin to fathom the powers that exist beyond the pathetic struggle that you dedicate your lives to, so consumed by your own people's limited importance.”

  Aldous drew his blade first, followed shortly by Quaid. Grant, still trying to glean whatever information he could from the man before them, moved to interpose himself between the knights. “If that is the case, then why not enlighten us?”

  The man's significant bulk twisted to face Grant, bringing with it an intense and entirely unwelcome focus. “Is your faith so shallow? Are you so weak that you would turn from your beliefs and bend a knee to a stronger patron?” Even with his features hidden behind the helmet's brutish faceplate, it appeared to the other knights that the stranger was enjoying playing with their discomfort. “Very well, perhaps my words can enlighten your blinkered souls. I am Gunnar, one of the chosen Sons of Korgaan - the only truly whole deity still left, whose magnificence surrounds you right now. And for time immemorial, we have fought against the –”

  The man's words were cut off by the shrill howl of a nearby, canine-like creature, which was soon picked up by more and more of its breed.

  Breathing in deeply, Gunnar closed his eyes, savoring the cold air as it filled his lungs in anticipation for what was to come. “It would appear you have missed your opportunity to leave. They are here.”

  Quaid stepped forward, his voice earnest. “Who are?”

  The other warrior looked at him, his eyes shining with mirth. “The slaves of the Abyss, of course.”

  The three knights shared shocked looks between themselves, events spiraling beyond their control.

  “One question remains, however,” Gunnar began. “Do you want to die on your feet, fighting, or running, like an animal?”

  * * * * *

  “I do not like this,” Grant stated matter-of-factly as the knights walked down the corridor.

  “None of us do,” Quaid grimaced as he stopped a
nd looked the man in his face. “But what other option do we have?”

  Grant shrugged. “It just does not feel right. We know nothing about these people, we simply cannot trust them.”

  Aldous rounded on the other two, anger flushing his face. “Our job is to kill the Wicked Ones' servants, and that is what we are going to do. If these Varangur help to serve that goal, then so be it!”

  Grant looked to Quaid pointedly. “And if they turn on us?”

  “Then we kill them too!” Aldous snapped. “But right now, we have a known enemy to deal with, understand?”

  The two knights eyeballed each other for a drawn out second before Grant begrudgingly turned on his heels and headed off in the direction of their men.

  Quaid waited until his friend was out of hearing range. “What the hell was that?”

  Aldous seemed surprised by the question, nodding in the direction in which Grant had left. “He forgot his place.”

  “His place?” Quaid was incredulous and drew close to the Retribution knight. “Have you forgotten what our order stands for? Every man has his say, you know that as well as any of us. What is really going on here?”

  Aldous gazed off into the distance, his hand instinctively going to the burn scars running across his once handsome face. When he spoke again, his voice seemed different, softer; it reminded Quaid of how he had sounded all those years ago.

  “I am sorry, truly. Sometimes... I...” The knight struggled momentarily to regain his composure. “It has been a long time since I have worked alongside others. With everything that has happened, it can be difficult.”

  Seeing the sincerity in his brother-knight's face, Quaid nodded in acceptance, gently laying one hand on the other's shoulder. “Then let us prepare to fight them. Together.”

  * * * * *

  The black-clad warriors, or night raiders as Gunnar had called them, came streaming out from the edges of the clearing. Alongside them ran small packs of tundra wolves, their large size and sheer physical presence more than making up for their conspicuous white pelts. As the men poured into the temple, the Brotherhood soldiery watched them engaging in strange observances and rituals before the desecrated idols. Some even began collecting together the chunks of the broken statues in an effort to sort through them and return the fragments to their respective effigies.