Chapter 341: Touch of Death |
Touch of Death
Saint Nay
A wide-area spell would take time to shape, especially across so vast a space. Moreover, her Static Shock had already failed multiple times that night, so even in her madness, Nay still formed it with care. Against the hundreds of intruders who had violated her home, she would do no less. She wanted them all dead. As for the captured survivors, they would taste her eternal torture for the ruin they had brought upon her sanctuary.
“We found her!” someone suddenly shouted from the corridor she had passed only moments before.
Still in mid-chant, Nay snapped toward the voice, startled to see a group rushing into view at the corridor junction she had passed only moments before.
At once, her instinct warned her that more would be coming. She had been caught unprepared.
Normally, she would have laid a second, smaller Static Shock about herself as a reserve. But now she was broken, and the noisy, crass voice in her head would not cease. The discipline she had cultivated over more than two hundred years had been shattered.
Instead, she stood with a sly grin, as if accepting their challenge. She took her scepter from her belt and gripped it tight as she prepared her body for battle.
[Carapace of Scales]
[Skeletal Fortitude] [Serpent’s Strength] [Adamant Shoulder] [Mindlock]
Magic rushed from within her source through her broken vessel, and the corruption on her body slowly turned grotesque. But it was a small price to pay for the hardiness and steadiness now settling through her body. She would need it, for her opponents were far from common spearmen in grandfathers’ old ringmail.
Her eyes had already marked the few who led the vanguard against her. First was a half-man, half-beast clad in ringmail and carrying a sickeningly long axe, likely one of the half-beasts she had heard about. Next was a broad figure with twin heavy swords, whose gear marked him as a Hunter. Then came an unknown figure in a silver mask, armed with a long sword and shrouded in a thin magical aura that baffled her. Lastly, there was a tall, broad-shouldered man in knightly armor with a hard, grim face.
All of them looked at Nay, craving blood. Her blood.
Nay gritted her teeth, angered that the Black Lord had brought so many against her.
When did he see through my guise? No man should have seen this far ahead. Who would wage a full war against a weak order of Healers?
The four charged at her.
Feeling the scepter in her hand, she lowered herself almost into a crouch when they reached the distance she wanted and touched it to the floor. At once, she cast a spell she rarely used.
[Rotting Land]
On open ground, this spell would slowly turn soil into a slick clay mire, enough to steal men’s footing and break the force of a charge. It needed time to spread, but even in the first instant, it could seize whatever moisture it found and make the ground treacherous. Here, on stone floor, it could do none of that. It could only force dirt, damp, and foul residue up from the cracks, rising in a filthy surge that spread across the floor and climbed as high as a man’s chest.
But it was enough. Even poorly, it gave her a path to reach the intruders at a distance, and she followed with:
[Heart Rupture]
The half-beast howled as the filth and moisture clinging to her took the brunt of the spell. Her charge turned erratic. She stumbled hard and slammed into the wall at her side, her long axe clattering to the floor. The tall knight also faltered, his advance broken for a breath as his footing gave way beneath him. But the other two still came at her with grim determination.
“You’re no man,” Nay mocked in her harsh, unnatural voice.
“Right back at you,” came a strained female voice.
The silver mask was several steps behind the Hunter, whom Nay judged the greater threat. In just a few breaths, the man had already closed the distance with long strides. Had Nay not encountered the bearded man below, she might have misjudged his speed. Faced with a fast blade, Nay swung her scepter just as fast.
Thunk!
“Die!” she yelled as the gemstone in her scepter sparked to life, sending a violent current crackling and arcing toward her opponent’s blade. It struck, and a white flash burst between them at the moment of contact. But the Hunter lost no more than two beats before driving back at her with his other sword.
Facing a powerful dual-wielding Hunter, Nay leaped back with inhuman force.
The Hunter stayed on her and landed three blows as she gave ground.
Two of the strikes she caught on her scepter. Its gold layer had been grazed hard enough to reveal the forged iron core beneath, yet violent currents still raced along its length. The last blow she took on her own forearms. Her scales and other spells protected her, but the Hunter’s blade still drew blood.
Dark ochre ran from her arms as they traded more blows. At last, the Hunter staggered and leaped back in pain. The lightning in her scepter had finally worn him down.
Even Nay, who held it, trembled, for even through the insulated grip the current still arched at times into her arm.
Without warning, save for the speeding footfalls, the silver-faced woman in ringmail lunged. Had this been an open field, Nay would have been dead. But in a corridor like this one, she could track the approach with little effort and still react, even when it seemed too late.
The long sword moved like a blur, reaching with terrible length, but in the end it only caught the hem of her raiment.
Her opponent’s failure pleased Nay. Even with sweat trickling down, she raised her scepter threateningly. “Come at me, cur. You half-mage bitch, you give me the itch.”
“What’s that? Decades of sleeping around finally catching up?” the silver mask retorted as she leaped for an overhead slash.
Even incensed, Nay knew better than to deflect so powerful a blow. With crazed bravado, she tried to read the long sword’s path and sidestepped at the last moment. The blade came down hard. She misjudged it ever so slightly, and her wounded left arm took the edge just enough to knock it off line. That sacrifice earned her the chance to sweep her scepter into her opponent’s back with utmost hatred.
The scepter slammed into the ringmail like a battle mace, and the silver-masked woman gasped in pain.
Nay couldn't help but grin, sensing that her scepter would soon spark with its fullest fury. But in the next instant, her hard, scaly face was struck sharply to the side. Blood burst from her nose and lips before she even realized what had happened. It was a slap. The silver mask had hit her so hard that Nay immediately lost her footing.
She slipped and barely recovered after several awkward steps. Nay glared with fury into the very soul of the one who had just humiliated her. “I’m going to tear that wretched mask from you and put holes in your ugly f—”
What stared back at Nay was a pair of hauntingly beautiful golden eyes.
She howled and recoiled, her body jerking back as the magic within her flared out of control. The last remnant of soul inside her felt as though it were being burned away. Even the many souls bound within her, Angela among them, shrieked in agony. Nay pressed her wounded left arm over her eyes, but it made no difference. Her very source had begun to leak, spilling burned mana.
Even with Mindlock, her focus was broken. Worse, the pain did not leave. What remained of her vessel began to heat from within, reddening like a cheap pewter cup left too long in a bonfire.
“Y-you!” Nay prepared her counter. No wonder her Heart Rupture had failed. The silver mask was no half-mage.
The taste of iron began to thicken in the air as she began her incantation. But the silver mask’s sword was already coming at her with merciless speed. To guard or evade too eagerly would only give her opponent room to press the attack, so Nay stood her ground and raised her scepter to meet the blow.
Clang!
Clang!
Both fought to maim and kill, but Nay, who did not dare look too directly for fear of her opponent’s gaze, was the one on the back foot. She had the greater strength and the stronger body, but lacked skill and a truly destructive weapon. Still, each impact of their exchange sent wild arcs of power crawling over her opponent, yet the silver mask pressed on through ragged breaths and pained gasps.
Skreeech!
Their last exchange dragged on as the sword bit deeper into the scepter’s iron core. More arcs sparked, and the silver mask’s shoulder jolted. It was finally enough. Her opponent’s sword slipped from her grip.
“Hah!” Nay scowled in triumph and snatched the long sword into her own hand. Only then did she recognize it for what it was. A dopplesoldner's great sword. "A claymore."
At that same moment, the larger group of men coming up behind the vanguard finally came into view. Still, she kept her focus on the four, who, despite all she had done, were still struggling to recover.
Nay brandished the claymore and took up a stance against its original wielder. “Cur, get a taste of your own weapon—”
From the fast-approaching group still farther down the corridor, one shouted in fury, “NAY!”
Whether it was a challenge or an insult, it made her turn. Then she saw him at the head of dozens, charging toward her. He tore off his helmet, revealing black hair. Nay’s eyes widened. The voices in her head screamed louder.
The Black Lord was here in the Monastery.
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Nay let out a piercing scream, so sharp and shrill that all but the strongest clapped their hands over their ears.
Even without preparation, she unleashed what she had prepared just for the Black Lord. Her vilest curse from the forbidden grimoire.
[Touch of Death]
A shadowy ethereal bolt burst toward the black-haired man.
***
Francisca
Ever perceptive, the half-kin sensed at once that the bolting shadow was a great danger to her master. Even with her heart in chaos and her limbs trembling from a spell unlike any she had ever felt, she forced herself onto all fours and leaped, crossing half the width of the great corridor in a single majestic bound, and swatted the bolt aside with her massive hand. It burst apart at her touch, its blackness breaking into a hazy mist. At once, it felt as though her heart had turned to ice.
Francisca crashed to the floor. She couldn't even move her jaw, but only trembled in death’s grip.
Amid the shouts of warning, already fading from her, she watched through blurring eyes as the remnants of that dark haze still drifted toward the Lord. Then Sir Harold came into view.
Though staggering in pain, the knight stepped in front of the dark haze and slashed at it, cutting it cleanly in half. When that did nothing, he took it with his body.
There was no light. No sound as it passed through his blood-stained chest plate. Only a strangled gasp as the man crashed to his knees, his head hanging low, his falchion clattering across the floor. There he stayed.
“By the Ancients,” Sir Sterling breathed in shock.
“Harold!” the Lord shouted.
The Lord rushed ahead of the crowd of his men, and his Gemstone of Strength was shining within him. Francisca had rarely seen it like this. Her Lord usually carried gentleness in his eyes. Now, they asked only for death.
Francisca felt her consciousness slipping away. Gasping, she closed her eyes as her body grew colder.
...
Saint Nay
Her Touch of Death had been thwarted, but it had still taken down two of the vanguard, and Nay snorted in amusement. Moreover, the air in the corridor had turned sharp and metallic. Her cruel grin only vanished when the Hunter hurl his sword at her.
The heavy sword hurtled straight at her, but Nay read its path at once and dodged cleanly. Caring little for anything but the Black Lord, she ignored the wounded Hunter, only for the silver mask to step into her path, dagger in hand.
“Out of my way!” Her voice rang with authority.
“You’re mine!” The silver mask refused and lunged at her.
Nay tucked in her scepter, lifted the claymore in both hands, and swung at the approaching enemy with all her might. The tip struck the stone floor with such force that shards of stone burst upward.
Frustratingly, she failed to hit her opponent. Nay remained wary of the silver mask’s eyes. Even now, her inner magic still felt as though it were burning.
Already inside Nay’s reach, the silver mask seized on the miss and drove her dagger toward the Saint’s chest. Nay twisted her body with Serpent’s Strength, and her opponent adjusted with all her might. With a ripping sound, the dagger tore through Nay’s raiment, bit into her hardened, scaly skin, and drew blood.
That mattered little to her. Without so much as a flinch, Nay threw a hook and smashed it into her opponent’s mask. The silver mask let out a choked grunt and recoiled. Sensing an opening, Nay struck her several more times until warm blood splattered across Nay's face.
Nay withdrew two steps. The blood had not struck her by accident. Any mage worth the name knew that trick. Blood carried the essence of one’s magic and formed a connection between its owner and whatever it struck. Nay braced for her opponent’s spell, but all the silver mask managed to do was retreat, nearly falling onto her backside.
Her caution evaporated in an instant, and her gaze returned to the Black Lord. Yet the Hunter remained a nuisance, blocking her path with his heavy sword.
Nay found him unworthy of her attention, but paused when she saw the Black Lord and his men already closing in behind the Hunter. From the other side of the corridor, a large number of men-at-arms were also rushing in with halberds and spears.
She was trapped, but that only drew a haunting smile from her. “That’s close enough.”
Iron immediately filled the air, sharp on the tongue, and every patch of skin began to prickle. She had given it enough time. Her favorite spell was ready, and everyone who mattered had entered the corridor. She had broken her incantation against the hundreds in the courtyard, but these men would serve just as well.
Orange and blue sparks were already spilling around her as she chanted.
[Static Shock]
All the men saw a violent white light erupt through the corridor. Some braced themselves, raising their shields or throwing up an arm to cover their eyes. In the next instant, their bodies jerked as the charge tore through them, and then a thunderous boom cracked the air hard enough to nearly rupture their eardrums. Dozens shrieked at once, staggering and collapsing in the middle of their charge. From one end of the corridor to the other, more than a hundred men were struck down.
The stone floor hissed from the heat that had just passed through it. Numerous men lay strewn or piled across the corridor, dead or unconscious, with hazy smoke wafting from their clothes.
In an instant, all movement and noise ceased.
Nay laughed, ignoring the blood coming from her nose and mouth. “I won,” she declared, blood trickling down her chin.
She had strained herself too hard. But she gladly paid that price as she took her sweet time examining her victims, starting with the silver mask. The woman was now farther away, likely having tried to flee before being struck down, and now slumped with her back against the wall. Meanwhile, the Hunter had collapsed where he stood, unmoving.
But as Nay turned, something came spinning at her. Too fast to make out, it struck her in the unarmored chest and sent her reeling several steps back.
Nay drew a hoarse breath, shocked. Her face twisted in fury at her own carelessness. Yet she knew from long experience that nothing should still be moving. The spell had been prepared quickly, but she had been meticulous and had waited long enough to let it charge.
With her left hand, she tore the thing embedded in her chest free and saw that it was a throwing axe.
But even more shocking still was the sight of the Black Lord continuing to move despite the smoldering heat radiating from his body and hair.
Dropping the bloodied axe, Nay couldn't help but take a step back. The Black Lord had endured her Static Shock, just like that bearded Hunter below.
She even dropped the claymore and reached for her scepter, only for a burst of blood to spill from her chest. Only then did Nay realize that her wound was not closing as it should. She glanced toward the throwing axe on the floor and saw that its color was dull, not like iron at all.
“Silver...?” she muttered in confusion, but had no time for more.
The Black Lord was already closing in, fast. His battle axe came in with a brutal sweep.
The axe and scepter clashed and caught for an instant. The man was far younger than she had expected. He was not handsome in the gaudy way of aristocrats, but possessed a gentlemanly charm, and there was such reliable fire in his eyes.
That single glance cost her. The Lord tried to drive her scepter aside, but Nay tore it free with brute force. She tried to punish him, but he was already a step ahead, his follow-up strike coming at once.
Clang!
Sparks flew between them as Nay battered the axe aside with even greater force. She stared at the Black Lord, hating him with all her might, wishing he were an ordinary, fat-bellied, soft-fleshed nobleman.
The Black Lord stared back at her, his eyes cold, full of murderous intent. Before she knew it, he planted his foot firmly, spun low, and drove a horizontal slash at her waist.
Still, she read it correctly. Steel and iron clashed again. The blow grazed her golden scepter and rattled her arms to the bone. But a grin escaped her lips. Her scepter sparked and arced, yet there was no answering jolt. Only then did she realize the axe’s haft was made of wood.
Her grin turned to a snarl while the Lord drew a sharp breath. In one trained motion, he lowered his stance, twisted the axe’s angle, and drove it back upward in a rising cut.
Nay threw herself back with a dancer’s quickness, and the axe passed only inches beneath her chin. She hated that, even for an instant, and swung her scepter in anger.
Her counter struck the Black Lord, who took it on his armored elbow and forearm, his guard like a pugilist’s. That only angered Nay further. She drew her scepter back just enough for a thrust. It struck true and landed with little more than a dull thud.
She gambled on the scepter’s power, but again there was no answering jolt.
What is wrong with this?!
Her weak counter invited the Black Lord’s harsh reply. He drove a cut meant for her neck. Nay was forced to sacrifice her left arm to knock it off line. Blood gushed out, for even her hardened scales were not proof against sharpened iron. The blade bit nearly to the bone. “Why you,” she cursed, humiliated, furious, and pained.
She leaped back and raised her scepter before her, trying to cast, but the Black Lord gave her no chance. Even in armor, he moved with the speed and daring of a pit fighter.
Just what kind of training did this bastard have? He’s a lord, for fuck’s sake!
“You should eat a lot and fuck your whores!” she snapped as she defended herself against three consecutive axe blows. Her scepter barely caught the last. He was getting faster and deadlier. Nay strained her eyes for his next move, but instead he twisted his axe into the bind and used the axe head like a hook, wrenching hard at her weapon.
Nay held on through sheer strength. Then the Black Lord suddenly gave with the pressure, and her own pull dragged her off balance. It was only an instant, but that was enough. Even from a dead angle, he drove his elbow brutally into her side and shoulder.
Even with Adamant Shoulder and Serpent’s Strength, blood trailed from her mouth as her body recoiled.
“That is for everyone.” The Black Lord’s cold voice reached her ear.
She had no time to react. He was already bringing the axe around like a well-trained woodcutter.
At that range, and with her footing gone, Nay played a gamble. She could take an axe strike without dying, and this one was not made of silver. Mid recovering, she thrust out her right hand with the scepter.
The axe mercilessly crashed into her shoulder, cleaving through her scaled skin and breaking the fortified bone beneath. Dark blood seeped from the wound, but she caught the axe’s shaft with her left hand, keeping him from dragging the blow into her neck.
And this time, her free hand found his chest plate and slid across its smooth surface to the ringmailed neck. Her fingers clamped down at once with crushing force. The Lord lurched and let out a strangled grunt, his left hand shooting up to wrench at her wrist. Nay stared at him with pure murderous rage.
[Thunderforged]
She drew on the strength of her scepter’s gemstone. But as quickly as her wicked smile bloomed, it was erased. Even with her fingers crushing his throat, there were only sparks along her scepter and across parts of his armor, but no jolt.
“What are you...?” she could not resist asking, stunned.
“Is that a joke, lich?” the Black Lord managed an answer.
Her strength allowed her force him higher by the throat, tightening her grip despite his effort to tear her hand away. Yet he still kept murderous pressure on the axe buried in her shoulder, refusing to yield even as she choked him harder.
Both held each other fast and refused to let go, staring into one another. His dark brown eyes against her radiant golden ones.
Did the silver mask’s eyes damage my magic that badly? Had she dulled it so much that I could no longer read the man right before me?
Before she even realized it, the Black Lord balled his fist and slammed it into the back of the axe head. Nay coughed up blood. Even with Adamant Shoulder, the blade cleaved deep, prompting her to mutter in defiance, “You’re the second false-human I’ve met today.”
“I can say the same of you and your undead,” he answered through strained breath, his hand returning to the axe’s haft.
Nay let out a cold snort at the irony. At the same time, she felt the Gemstone of Strength radiating within him. Already struggling to keep her feet, her tone softened as she said in a voice laden with magic, “You’re hollowed just like I am. We’re closer than you think.”
“I don’t negotiate with fell creatures,” he answered through gritted teeth.
Gathering all she had left, Nay poured her Serpent’s Strength into his ringmailed neck. The Black Lord winced, but remained as stubborn as a mountain goat.
Wait... physical shield?
Her thought was cut short. Out of nowhere, something struck Nay from behind.
“Gahh!” She recoiled. The blade had gone in deep, and she felt her strength slipping away at a dangerous pace.
“You missed me?” the silver mask asked from Nay’s back.
“No, wait!” Nay cast aside her pride and pleaded. Her heart was already at its limit, and her inner vessel was too broken to do little more than keep the great wound in her chest, carved by the silver axe, from tearing wider. Worse, the magic needed to maintain her combat form had become a double-edged sword. Now, she had nothing. Nothing at all.
Ignoring her, the silver mask asked the Lord, “I can’t hold her for long. Capture or kill?”
“End her,” the Black Lord gave a single answer.
“No—!” Nay screamed.
The dagger tore free from Nay’s back, but only for an instant before it drove mercilessly into the side of her neck. Her neck broke with a sickening crack. Nay could only gasp as her immortal life was torn violently away.
The scepter finally slipped from her grasp. All she had left was Mindlock. It was a powerful spell, one that kept her body fighting even when everything else was lost. Even with her neck already broken, her right hand rose like a possessed creature, and both hands clamped around the Lord’s neck.
For a heartbeat, the Lord stared at the dying Saint as he wrestled against her grip, but his consciousness was dangerously fading. The silver mask’s patience finally snapped. With one slash of her dagger, blood spluttered, and the Saint’s long-haired head finally fell.
Yet even as it touched the floor, the death grip remained.
But now there was less strength in the choke. The Lord managed to wrench himself free, and the bloodied body staggered before collapsing to the floor. Its chest still rose and fell, and blood still poured from its wounds, until at last its heart gave out.
Unseen by anyone, the bloodied head writhed as tears fell from her eyes. “By the Ancients...” she whispered with the last of her ebbing conciousness. “He’s one of the Dwarven...”
Not even corrupted blood could halt her violent end. At the same time, the voices in her head wailed in pain and excitement. The damned souls dragged the last of Nay’s spirit into the abyss. In that endless darkness, there were only hungry souls, weighed down by guilt, all grasping and reaching for her. Her already damaged soul finally fell among them, with Angela clinging to it, weighing it down in one last act of spiteful revenge.
With the Saint’s death, the threat within the Monastery was finally over.
***