C. Sebastian Nutt
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Chapter 187 - Prize
🕑 Added 2025-07-03 08:18:01 +0000 UTCThere is a moment, a solitary instant, after stepping through the screen of light where Tanalious feels every other door he has made in the world. Possibility stretches out before him, pathways through the world, the freedom to leave all his worries behind, to find somewhere else to be. Only, the whispers of freedom are a lie, aren’t they? If he left, if he ran, he would be leaving her behind. How long could they make it, a day, maybe two, before the master found them? No, he would stick for the night. Come tomorrow, well, who knew?
His foot exits the light, landing on an uneven surface of bark. There is no time to react. One moment, he steps from his portal, and the next, brambles stab at him to skewer him. He freezes, too afraid to even move, the point of one of the tree’s limbs stopping just in front of his eye.
“You came.”
The voice sends a shiver down his spine, a distorted crackling like snapping wood and creaking bark blended to form words. The stabbing limbs of the tree slowly move away, stretching out once more, seeking to reach toward the crimson moon hovering high overhead. Tanalious sucks in a breath, turning his head to find the speaker.
Sigrid stands against one great limb, the supple bark of her skin making her almost impossible to see if you didn’t already know where she was. He can hold the faceless gaze of the woman only for a moment before he has to look away. He knows he should find her beautiful in this moment, that this faceless entity who embodies the power granted her by the master is the ideal he should seek, and a part of him does. Another part, the infantile emotions, the self-loathing that the master promised him a cure to, can’t see her that way, can’t see any of them as more than deformed miscreations of a more sinister evil.
“Dal said the deed was done,” he manages to say, staring at his feet. He feels her approach like one might know a predator walks behind them. Tanalious flinches as her fingers land on his shoulder, the offered squeeze of reassurance felt as a promise of pain and torture.
“Is it?” Sigrid’s faceless head turns away from him.
The canopy of the blood tree is a circle of lumpy ground, the swarming branches forming a bed of lumber far larger than the palace’s throne room had once been. Pieces of the building linger here and there, spots of blood seeping into the grain, discarded and broken chairs, an odd spot where a long strip of unbroken floor stands wedged between two lumps of wood, the purple carpet running across it unblemished. All around, dozens of people hang from the branches, run through by the stabbing limbs and left to linger like fell ornaments, their bodies emaciated as the tree sucks all it can from them. Sigrid looks past all of it, seeing none of the carnage, her eyes turned on one spot in particular.
The duke’s throne sits, just a breath from fully tipping over, the dais it had lain upon cracked and broken. Before the throne, standing on the rug that had once led up ornate steps, a terror from the hells gnashes its teeth, its multiple pairs of eyes staring around wildly. In its hands, it holds a dismembered arm, its teeth nipping at the marrow of the humerus. Upon the hand waves a band of platinum set with an emerald that shines with magical light, the signet of the Mari house. What remains of the duke lies next to the demon, a broken mess that is difficult to picture as once being a man.
“Huberous,” Sigrid says, the tree upon which they stand creaking with her words. “He thought that he could summon such a powerful creature in such a weakened state. The summoning alone might have killed him.”
“Did you give him any other choice?” Tanalious asks, unable to take his eyes from the scene of the demon feasting.
“There is always a choice,” Sigrid says. She turns, nodding toward a column of stone leaning against a particularly large branch. “The pillar is inside. Let’s put an end to this.”
“There are magicians on the ground,” Tanalious says. As he gazes toward the column of stone bricks, his eyes are pulled toward a speck of red peeking out from the black stone. “They hit us from behind, but there aren’t too many of them. The demons should be able to handle it.”
“No, we can’t.” Sigrid’s words make him pause in his approach to the pillar. She looks toward the edge of the city, the buildings below made so small by the tree’s height. “The barrier guarding the city never fell. Kessa is either delayed or she failed. Without the rampage of the monsters, they will turn their attention toward us when they get the chance.” Her stick-like fingers come up, scratching small circles against her chin. “Somehow, they predicted us.”
“What…what do we do?” Tanalious asks.
“Hurry. If they are this quick with their counter-attack, who is to say that they aren’t also striking elsewhere? Who is to say that Iz is still safe?”
He wastes no time in scurrying across the bed of the tree to make it to the column of stone, ripping away dark bricks to reveal the prize within. The mortar, broken by the tree’s ascent, comes away easily. In no time at all, Tanalious stands, looking at the bar of rust-colored metal once hidden within the pillar. All in all, it is only seven feet long, no larger around than a sapling. If he didn’t know any better, he would never think of it as the prize that it is. It isn’t until he presses his hand to the smooth metal that he feels the power thrumming through the pillar, more power than he ever dreamt could be contained in such a small object. It is no wonder that it took Ferro so many weeks to find it within the city, even with his preternatural sense for metal. Moving his hand even a hair’s breadth away from the pillar, Tanalious loses all sense of the magic within the pillar, so powerful are the enchantments keeping its power sealed.
“So, this is a Pillar of Civilization,” he says.
“That it is. Get it, so that we can leave this damned place. Maybe we didn’t manage to kill their city, but I doubt they will forget today.” Sigrid stands at the edge of the tree, her arms crossed over her chest as she gazes down at the destruction below.
Tanalious moves to work, pressing his hands against the pillar, summoning the magic granted him. He delves into the magical object, feeling the power thrumming inside, exploring it with his burgeoning mastery of the elusive magic of space. The inevitable conclusion begins to burgeon in his mind. Before he can even gulp down his trepidation at the words he must speak, Sigrid turns toward him.
“What?” she asks.
“I can’t…I can’t move it. Not quickly anyway. The pillar is too powerful, too long rooted to this spot. It will take me some time to summon a doorway that could bear it through.” Sweat trickles down his back as he forces the words out, never stopping his conjuration of an adequate doorway for a second. If what Sigrid said is true, then Iz could very well be in danger. Every second counts.
“How long?”
“I don’t know, less than an hour, I think.” I pray, he adds in his mind.
“Good,” she turns her attention once more to the courtyard below.
“If the duke is dead, we could always…”
“No!” The word is like a whip across Tanalious’ back. “Not unless absolutely necessary. Those were the orders. I will decide when such an eventuality occurs.”
He doesn’t speak another word, turning all of his focus toward his conjuration. All around him, bodies sway in the warm breeze of the crimson night, the sounds of battle and pain far too distant to reach them as high up as they are. He puts everything he has into his magic, straining in ways he never has had to before. And he prays, though what god would listen to the words of a creature such as him, Tanalious no longer knows.
Lights bob in the dark. Dovik watches the dance of the flickering torchlights, the slow ballet almost entrancing in its movements. The screams he hears, the roar of flame and magic, the clash of steel, and the shrieking of monsters form a strange music to watch the rhythmic dance. All colors stand out amid the torches, colors he recognizes, mixes of fiery pastels and washed-out white and teal. Even in the few seconds he focuses on the dance, six of the lights wink out, driven to the earth by invisible bodies and snuffed out.
One of the flames, its color chaotic, a dark yellow with lines of maroon swimming through it like eels, grows large in the void of flames, approaching. It lifts into the air, sailing silently toward him as he waits. Just before it reaches him, he hears the low growl in the back of the throat, senses the rush of air pushed ahead of the figure, and acts.
Dovik vanishes, appearing above and behind the crackling fire, his left arm slicing backward as he twists his body in the air. The blade bites into flesh, a line of resistance fighting back as he cuts deep, a womanly scream scoring his blow. The world returns in a rush, the black fog over his eyes dispersing as the woman he just cut into falls to the churned soil, shaking as a dark stain begins to spread from the new wound in her back.
No, this isn’t a woman, he has to remind himself, but he can’t help but doubt. The creature on the ground, the one that had been running through the chaos, blinding everyone, looks so much like a girl. Illigar had told him that these creatures would appear as deformed humans, but as Dovik looks down on her, he only sees a young blonde girl, no older than seventeen. Tears slip down her face as she stares up at him with hateful eyes, one hand reaching back to feel the bleeding cut along her back, the other trying to drag her away while her legs hang limply.
He brings his sword up, levelling it at the downed creature, remembering the warnings his parents had told him about the life of a magician. They warned him that monsters could wear the skin of humans, elves, and dwarves, though he imagines they meant something more metaphorical. Because, although his eyes tell him that the creature scrambling away, trying to crawl back through the grass, was no more than a young human girl, he can still see its soul. He sees the yellow as sinister innocence and knows the maroon to be the dark delight beneath. To everyone else, this might only look like a girl, but he sees the monster beneath the flesh.
Before he can strike, something dark slips into the range of his aura, a malevolence coming straight toward him. Dovik sacrifices more mana, vanishing from his spot to reappear elsewhere inside the range of his soul presence. There is no time to readjust to the new position before he needs to bring his sword up. A titanic weight collides with his sword, the reverberation shaking through his hands and making them go numb. Dovik slides back on his heels, boots tearing up the sod as he struggles to keep his feet.
The figure in front of him is no more than a dark blur, giving him no time at all to understand the situation before he has to move his sword again to guard. He sees the bar of dark iron collide with his shining weapon, hears the air itself whistle as it is cut apart, and sees space vibrate with the collision. CLANG! This time, he fails to keep hold of his weapon, the grip slipping from his fingers, the blade cutting across his shoulder as it is launched away. Then, he sees his attacker, the creature that appears to look like a young blonde man, a crude iron sword held in one of its hands.
“I feel you,” it announces. The flaring magic of the battlefield reflects brightly in its eyes, almost like a cat’s eyes. Dovik sees the soulfire flickering inside of it, sees the strength of the dark flame and the malice it holds; the same malice that is reflected in the monster’s hungry smile.
“At least make it worth my time,” it says, the ground where it stands peeling away as it steps forward. It crosses the distance in a blink, the crude weapon it holds swinging for Dovik’s face in the most simple of chops.
Dovik vanishes again, but like before, the monster pursues. They enter a dance of sorts as Dovik dodges and dives the swinging blade. He feels as if he is fighting the termite king once again, his abilities to manipulate the space around him pushed to their limits by the sheer speed and strength of his opponent. The blonde monster’s attacks are simple things, the sword swings that his father instructed him out of in the first week of his training, but technique matters for little when disarmed, when blocking your opponent is a risk and dodging a prayer.
The pair rush over the battlefield, the shallow cuts Dovik suffers growing deeper by the moment. The air itself begins to sizzle, a smell like old eggs and bile snaking into his nostrils. Dovik doesn’t notice the issue until the back of his throat begins to burn. As a cough is ripped from his throat, his eyes stinging and watering, he takes a cut across his side just between two ribs.
He flashes away, spending more mana than he would like to appear almost a hundred feet from where he was. More coughs shake from his throat, his lungs heaving, and Dovik finds blood on his hand when he pulls it away. He is not alone, he finds. All around, for hundreds of feet in any direction, men and women choke on the air itself, coughing or vomiting as they flail to keep the encroaching demons away. Pox and sores break out across their skin as the mysterious illness sets in upon them, their veins standing out inflamed against their skin. Most shake so badly that they stand no chance against even the poorest of the monsters. As the sickness spreads, a circle of death begins to form, a young boy, sixteen maybe, standing in its center.
Dovik feels his stomach cramp, the pain almost driving him to his knees as his vision starts to turn red. Half-blind, he reaches down, finding the hilt of his sword and bringing it to bear once more. Even amid this sudden affliction, he had enough presence of mind to reappear near his lost weapon.
As his eyes fail him, the awareness of his soulsight and his presence take over. There is just enough time to register the dark flame of his pursuer’s soul. Another ringing clang sounds through the battlefield as their swords meet once again. This time, Dovik turns his sword, letting his enemy slide past, letting the air take most of the blow’s power. A second blade falls into Dovik’s hand as he turns, prompting the monster to turn with him, only for Dovik to vanish and appear on the other side of the creature. Dovik’s sword lashes out like a snake, cutting a fiery lash across the monster’s shoulder, but it is too quick to land anything deadly.
The melee resumes, though this time, Dovik takes the initiative. Years, more than a decade, of devoting his life to the pursuit of swordscraft focuses on this single moment. Despite the monster’s superior strength, despite its incredible speed, it is pushed back. It tries to block, but Dovik aims to disarm. It snatches scraps from the field as it backpedals, rocks and bits of wood transforming into new weapons in its hands, but Dovik presses. He sees the inexperience writ on the monster’s face, on its soul, and flourishes as he advances.
By no rights should it have happened. Were they in an arena or on the dueling grounds, Dovik would win; there would be no question. But this battlefield, where men and women lay dying, distracted demons feasting upon them, no stability and no predictability exist. Dovik’s lungs spasm, the muscles in his throat tightening as he suppresses a cough, moving forward to strike before he can lose the tempo.
Ferro sees the step coming. No, it is more that his magic knows that it will come. Something inside of him, some part of the power granted to him by the master, predicts the young man’s next attack. He moves, magical instinct guiding his hand, and slips past the guard of one of the man’s sabers, the longsword in his hands flourishing as if it has a mind of its own. He catches Dovik’s second sword with his own, the blades shooting a line of burning sparks as Ferro knocks it up and out of the way.
For a heartbeat, both share a look of astonishment at the performed parry. This was the feeling he felt before, Ferro recognizes. The feeling of magic itself whispering to him, leading him closer and closer to his calling. This is the feeling he dreamt to feel again; the one he came to this battle to find once more. His smile grows wider as he turns his blade, aiming the tip straight for Dovik’s heart.
The ring is a high whine. Ferro barely sees the ringblade slide over the tip of his sword, pulling it to the side, forcing a miss. Strange energy floats in the air, a figure seeming to move at a different speed from the rest of the world, circling around him. The cut across his back is like fire as Jess swings down her chakram. Ferro gasps, stumbling forward, his weapon discarded as he puts distance between himself and the red woman who nearly cut his spine apart.
He finds the two standing there when he turns: a human man in a blue coat and a lithe lizardkin woman with a huge steel ring for a weapon. Both stare at him, their eyes bloodshot, a dribble of blood on their chins as Dal’s sickness continues to ravage their bodies. Two against one, not exactly ideal, but Ferro knows somehow that the worse the odds, the more the magic will speak to him.
The ground shakes as something plummets from the sky. The three combatants jump away from the eruption of earth on instinct, weapons raised. In a small spot, the earth lies cratered, bits of rock and wood still tumbling from the air in the wake of a lone figure's landing. Ferro squints, seeing a shadow within the dust struggling with something on the ground. A cry is stifled, and as the dust begins to clear, Dovik recognizes the figure as one of the commanders he had seen on that first day when he had infiltrated the adventurer’s hall, Illigar the Sage.
With a sickening rip, Illigar pulls himself to standing, turning to face Ferro. The magician raises his hand, the dust parting to reveal the severed head of Dal hanging from Illigar’s fingers by loose and bloodied hair.
“What was it you said?” Illigar says to him, tossing away the head. “At least make it worth my time.”
