Through the Fire and the Flames

[Charles]

Charles swung desperately with his hammer, lashing the werewolves with blows that shattered bone, splintered skulls, crushed ribcages and ruptured internal organs. Behind him, the human forces had gotten too close. The first sword scraped across the back of his armor with an evil hiss, and he pirouetted with terrifying speed, bringing his hammer across at head height to pulp the mans head like an over ripe melon, before turning around again to fling off a werewolf that had gained a hold on his back, flinging him loose with a shake, and crushing another one, driving its head down into its chest, somehow without managing to rupture the skull.

The six warriors finally reached him, but they too would likely pay the price. The first man to get a hand on the hammer never would know what hit him as a black mailed gauntlet lashed out to smash his face, and the hand slipped off his weapon. The next two hands to get ahold of it were slightly luckier. He couldn't crush them fast enough, so he improvised. The first man was still blinded from the pain of having most of the bones in his face broken by the squat goliath that had sucker punched him. Charles grabbed him by his arms, and lifted, straight up. Then he flung the man straight out. The impact was thunderous, three large men crashing together makes alot of noise, and when a fourth man, in plate mail no less, follows after them, it becomes even louder, as bone and flesh shred and splinter under the impact of nearly 300 pounds of man and metal. He put his hand on the hammer to heft it again. The humans and lycanthropes had learned discretion, and had since backed away from the brawl. Fighting this man was a fast way to die, and even their numbers hadn't stopped him from killing ten in the last minute or so. That made nearly 40 of their total number killed in the whole fight, and the man didn't even show the strain he was feeling. Blood flowed thickly down his face as the stress of so much exertion wore on his body. His skull felt ready to split open, horrendous pain shooting behind his eyes threatening to break his concentration.

"Gimme back my god damn hammer!" He had had a hand on it, but another of those mysterious warriors had run up and tore it from his grasp at a dead run. He leapt up, following the man as he ran, ripping the mace from his belt to bash the mans skull in. The daggers behind him finally seemed to give up the fight, dropping to the ground as he gave up concentrating on them, letting that stress off of his abused body. He caught the first of the soldiers leading him away from the battle and into the mages trap with ease, slamming his mace into the mans hip. The bone shattered, and he fell to the ground, crippled. The rest would likely be less fortunate, taking blows to whatever part of their body first exposed itself. He slammed one in the base of the spine, sending him spinning, and straight into a tree. Only 7 more to go before he got his hammer back, and really wreaked his vengeance on the surviving soldiers.

[Deus di Eclave]

Five members of Legion Celer broke into the clearing at a dead run, one lugging the intruder’s warhammer before him. The drow necromancer smiled and whispered a summoning to his familiar. It was risked to have both halves of his soul in the same area, but as long as he didn’t die before Fascath disappeared again he would be fine. The brute carrying the hammer stopped before his lieutenant and handed over the bloody weapon. The dark elf’s arms could barely carry such a cumbersome and heavy object, but Drizaghar needed to be carrying it when the trespasser entered the clearing.

The five that had returned stood silently behind the drow, waiting for their comrades to usher the psionic into the clearing. The dark elf chuckled at their naiveté, the others weren’t coming back… he was sure of it. The hulking intruder had been more than a match for his finest soldiers, time to put his brawn to the test. As the target crashed into the clearing while practically riding the dead body of a Celer Warrior, Drizaghar smiled.

“Quite a massive amount of damage you’ve managed to dole out with this,” he sneered at the psionic. Fascath materialized visibly next to him, his hands taking the warhammer from his master’s grasp. “I’m afraid I can’t let you keep it.” With that, Fascath winked out of existence, vanishing back into the Antifirmament to guard both Drizaghar’s soul and the hammer. The necromancer focused on his opponent’s striking blue eyes, taking stock of the man’s soul for a few brief instants. Then, readying his whip, he asked, “Who are you?”

~~

Silas Koloblicin winced every time he took a breath, the large dent in his armor coupled with a massive bruise inhibiting his ability to breathe properly. Regardless, he remained in control of the forces of Den Caedo, directing them from a sedentary position. “The brute’s taken off into the woods,” he summarized for those who had been in the back of the column. “We’ve orders to stay put, according to Captain Azotocht of Clades. Gather the dead so Lieutenant Drizaghar will be able to reanimate them when he returns.”

The seventy or so human warriors dragged the bodies of their fallen comrades into an orderly line. They were used to this routine, Gelucius had started out as the smallest of the three legions. The zombies stood frighteningly still several paces down the mountainside, unnerving the human captain. Few of them had entered the fray before the intruder had taken off after his stolen hammer. Lucky bastards, Silas thought, gingerly touching his side.

The lieutenant’s familiar suddenly appeared before him, dropping the trespasser’s warhammer at the captain’s feet before piercing the man with his soulless black eyes. “Guard this,” the drow rasped, his voice harsh and cold. Silas nodded and the familiar winked out of existence as quickly as he had appeared.

Hoisting the warhammer, Silas nearly fell over as the strain made him double over while pain shot through his side. Wondering just how a man could swing such a weapon about so easily gave the captain chills. Who was this stranger?

[Charles]

"I am Charles Talbott. Magebane. You are a necromancer, and as such your life is forfeit. Are you willing to try your hand at me, or do you want me to kill your troops first?" He hefted his now gore splattered mace. The blood and organs dripping onto the ground made a nice statement about just what lengths he was willing to go to to get his preferred implement of destruction back.

"Do you have any idea just how dead you and all of your soldiers are? I mean, honestly? Have you seen the current death toll? I think, I may have lost count somewhere, but I think I've already killed more than 40 of your men. And I don't have anything worse than a headache, bruises, a nosebleed, and a few cuts on my legs. Do you really want to even think about trying this, especially since you already know what I can do to you?"

He stepped closer, slowly and carefully. He was moving as slowly as possible to try and catch his breath. He'd worn himself out struggling just to stay alive, and he couldn't let it show, so he made it look like a more deliberate and menacing advance than it really was. His muscles burned with the exertion he'd put them through over the last, what was it? Maybe ten, fifteen minutes at the most? The death toll was staggering, a short engagement, and more than forty men, dead by his hand or art.

"You very much do not want to press this issue. I can, for example, kill your men long before they reach me. Like this." He took a risk, trying something he'd thought of before, but had never risked. Using the same power he'd employed to carve the human warriors of his force to ribbons, he reached into the chest of one of the necromancers bodyguards, and instead of pushing, or throwing, he SQUEEZED. The amount of power needed to throw a weight twenty yards would likely be more than enough. At least it would hurt like a bitch and make the man collapse. If he was right, the mans heart would burst in his chest, and he would drop like a stone.

[Deus di Eclave]

The drow necromancer watched casually as one of his guards’ faces tightened in pain. The man let out a strangled cry and dropped forward onto one knee. Pushing on the ground with his fingertips, the Celer Warrior arched his back in pain and screamed. The sound tore through the trees and echoed on the mountainside, amplifying the man’s agony. Calmly, Drizaghar walked over and rested a hand on the soldier’s back. Instantly the power of necrosis swept over the tormented man, turning his body into a decayed husk. The dark elf felt increased power flood his veins, urging him to strike Charles down where he stood. But he dismissed the notion, instead turning to the remaining four guards.

“You may go,” he announced to them. Eagerly, the four warriors turned about and raced down the hillside, leaving their lieutenant alone with the self-proclaimed ‘Magebane’. The fiery whip crackling at his side was the only audible sound as Drizaghar slowly turned back to the hunter stalking toward him. “Is this the part where I tremble in fear, psionic?” he whispered. “You’ll need more than muscle and flying daggers to best me.”

Reaching into his mental warehouse of stored spells, the necromancer selected what he needed at the moment. And what he needed was a show of force. Closing his eyes as Charles Talbott came ever closer, the drow reached out around him with his mind. He latched onto everything that had died in the immediate area within the past year or so and dredged it to the surface with a great surge of power. Tendrils of necromancy snaked from him into each of the new undead warriors, connecting them to him. He opened his eyes and chuckled softly, watching as trees, wolves, bears, large lizards, travelers, and even his own Celer Warrior emerged from the surrounding woods to close in their target.

“Do you know who I am?” Drizaghar said softly, his voice seething with hatred. “I am more than just a dumb pawn of Xem'zûnd; I am Drizaghar, the necromancer who will one day rival The Forgotten Ones. Remember the name well, Magebane.” As he finished his sentence, the dark elf cracked his flaming whip, launching the fiery weapon’s tip through the air straight for Charles’ chest.

~~

Azotocht Li waited patiently just outside of the clearing where his lieutenant battled the Magebane. Stripped of his formidable hammer, the hulking man presented less of a threat. Though, the lycanthrope captain added, He’s still dangerous. He watched as the two exchanged words, each trying to intimidate the other into submission. Quickly growing restless, he hungered for blood to be spilled. And even though some part of him hoped it wasn’t Drizaghar’s, any blood would fill his hunger.

“When do we attack?” came the nearly imperceptible whisper from the Clades Warrior next to him. Lacking any real orders from their lieutenant since the start of the battle, Captain Azotocht had told his legion to follow the Celer bodyguards. The hulking soldiers had led them back to their leader where they had waited.

Although he too fervently desired to whet his claws with the blood of the intruder who had slaughtered so many of their number, the lycanthrope captain knew it was not his place. “If the Lieutenant falls, we move in,” he told his soldier. The word was passed around, each one of them making sure to remain unheard.

The Captain of Legion Clades shifted anxiously as he focused once again on the scene before him. Finish him Drizaghar, his lips curled into a snarl as he envisioned it. The trespasser deserved no less.

[Charles]

"No. You don't tremble in fear. You shake in agony." He reached out with his mind again. It was easier this time, he'd already touched that line of power once before. He snapped the connection with brutal force, sending the dead stumbling back to peace, and sending the power blasting back down on the would be necromancer. "You're no Forgotten One. You're just a boy."

He had gotten as much of a breath as he was going to, and he took his chance while he had it, darting forward, mace high, aiming for the Drow's head while he was incapacitated by the pain of the backlash. Blood flowed freely down his face, cuts had opened up on his cheeks, and his nose was still dripping steadily. He was over exerting himself in the extreme, this had been the first real test of his limits in a very long time, and he didn't like what he was learning. Backlashing another spell on his opponent was out of the question, but he had another trick up his sleeve. He'd seen the other lines of power in the necromancers mind, and the spell they all tied in to. He took one last risk, exerting the last of his mental strength to snap the tie that bound the undead to his command. The entire undead portion of his force was now feral, and much less dangerous. To him at least. To the remaining humans it was an immediate and deadly threat as the undead fell out of his control, and onto his troops.

[Deus di Eclave]

This time the pain was unbearable. Drizaghar dropped to his side and pulled his knees toward his chest as his body spasmed uncontrollably. He felt as if his mind were bleeding; clearly Charles had been the source of the pain earlier and Drizaghar had foolishly dismissed it. As he lost control of his body, the dark elf necromancer returned into the corners of his mind and took stock of what was happening.

The fire whip had veered slightly off-course as a result of the mind-lashing Drizaghar had received, but it had still managed to wrap about Charles’ left wrist and leave a decent burn. However, the powers keeping it in existence had been severed when it left the dark elf’s hand. Pushing it from his mind, he focused on the next problem.

He saw the loose ends of the tendrils of necromantic power and cursed as he realized what they meant. Gelucius was on their own, free to attack whomever they pleased. He hoped that Silas was coherent enough to keep Den Caedo safe. The thought moved on quickly, for shocking waves of pain still rolled over him. How to make it stop! his mind raced for an answer, lighting upon the only option he had.

As Charles the Magebane closed in with his mace leading, Drizaghar willed himself to lunge forward. The necromancer grabbed his opponent’s ankle, pulling himself in close and unleashing his necrosis. So long as he could absorb even the tiniest portion of the trespasser’s lifeforce, he would be able to end the torment wracking his body.

~~

The zombies of Gelucius began moving and Silas jumped to his feet as quickly as the prodigious bruise on his side would allow. “Alexander!” he called to the legion captain. When there was no answer, he tried again, “Alexander!” When the zombies near the back of the column lunged forward to tear of strips of flesh from their companions in front of them, the Den Caedo captain knew something had gone terribly wrong.

“Den Caedo!” he called behind him, “Operate under the assumption that Lieutenant Drizaghar has fallen in battle. The undead are to be treated as the enemy. Fall in!” Soldiers began running down the mountain to take formation beside their leader, unnerved by the news he had given them.

As the zombies closed in, Captain Silas Koloblicin gripped the stolen warhammer firmly in both his hands. Let’s see this thing in action again, he thought. Screaming a warcry, the injured leader of the human legion tore down the hill and began laying into the undead forces. The rest of his men weren’t far behind, their swords slicing through the rotten flesh and decomposed organs with ease.

“For Drizaghar!” came a cry from amongst his men and they soon all picked it up. Presented with a common enemy, the zombies stopped cannibalizing one another and turned on the humans. Several men fell beneath the unified attack of the undead before anyone could save them. “Form up!” Silas yelled, realizing they would need an actual strategy.

Cursing the undead, his mind raced for a plan. But it was hard for him to think when he realized his lieutenant was no longer alive. What was to become of Patrol Torris?

[Charles]

The pain was intense. The burn was almost nothing, especially compared to the pain that the ring was causing. He did the only thing he could think of. His mailed boot lashed out to strike the necromancer in the ribs, kicking like he didn't have any other hope. And he was probably right. The ring was slowly sapping him, even as he was battering the mage gripping his leg into a blody pulp with repeated blows. "Fucking Die dammit! You're dead! Get with the program!" He lifted his leg up, and brought it crashing down onto the mages arm, sure to snap the bone and get him free of the parasitic grasp. It was a desparate move. He could tell that he was dying, that whatever attack this mage had summoned was killing him, and he knew his only hope was to kill the mage first. The boot lashed out more, pummeling the slender drow's face with desperate strength. It was at that point in their battle, where only one would survive the next exchange of blows, and it simply depended on who hit the hardest and the longest. Charles hoped he would be the one that hit the hardest.

[Deus di Eclave]

Through the ring of necrosis, the dark elf had finally leeched enough power to push the mindlashing aside and focus once again on the battle before him. Kick after kick rained down on his bony frame, but the pain was nothing compared to what he had just been through. Crawling away and scrambling to his feet, the drow necromancer readied his final spell. Even with the borrowed lifeforce, Drizaghar felt himself slipping. No matter, he could end it now.

Focusing on the construct ready in his mind, the dark elf’s left hand rapidly decayed up to his elbow. The putrid strips of flesh sagged from the rotten muscle and bleached bone. Simultaneously, flames erupted from the fingertips of his right hand, racing up his arm to likewise stop at his elbow. Raising the arms above his head, the necromancer chanted the activating words to the spell and clapped his hands together. Instantly a pike formed in his hands, marbled in black and red with a wickedly sharp point.

Summoning the remains shreds of his strength, Drizaghar hurled the mystic weapon forward toward his adversary. Stumbling as he cast the spell, the drow’s aim was off. Cursing under his breath as he crumpled to the ground, he was unable to see where his pike hit. His last breath escaped from his lungs even as the summoned weapon launched through the air. The thin point melted a hole through Charles’ armor, piercing his left tricep just above the elbow.

The dangerous mixture of necromancy and fire played their role perfectly, the powers of death in the pike drawing every last ounce of strength from the brute’s left arm while the powers of fire sutured the wound. Unfortunately for Charles Magebane, this would be no ordinary scar. The effects would plague him physically for several days before subsiding, but the black mark would never fade.

It was Lieutenant Drizaghar’s final act to halt the progress of a single warrior into the region of Raiaera. As the lycanthrope troops slowly stalked in for the easy kill, the dark elf’s body slowly decomposed into the ground. Only after every last trace of him had vanished did Captain Azotocht let out a ferocious howl. Legion Clades hungered for blood; their retribution for their fallen leader paid in crimson.

[Charles]

"Well that hurt...a lot..." Such a simple statement to sum up the incredible agony that had moments previous torn through his arm and rendered it mostly useless. The pain was intense, but far away, as if somehow disconnected from his body.

"Do you really want to do this? I'm still armed, you're still squishy, and at the moment, I'm still INCREDIBLY FUCKING PISSED OFF! GODDAMMIT!" He was running on not much more than adrenaline at this point, but adrenaline did strangwe things to the human body. He was surging with manic strength, and as the first werewolf jumped anyway, he batted it down like a toy with his mace. He was fairly well frothing at the mouth at the moment, and if anyone could have seen him in his armor he would have been shaking almost uncontrollably with shock and stress. Blood caked his mouth and chin, though at least his nose had stopped flowing. He could taste it in his mouth, harsh and metallic, it tasted like mortality, the bane of all life. The mace continued to swing in a blur, smashing skulls and bones as he struggled through the lycanthrope pack, back towards the human members of the troop. He could probably convince them to join him. Odds were good they were just men, not fervent supporters of Xem'zund.

[Deus di Eclave]

The lycanthropes piled on the maniacal warrior, trying to drag him to the ground. However, as the mace ripped through warrior after warrior, Azotocht began having second thoughts. The werewolves typically acted first and asked questions later, but that was why the later Lieutenant Drizaghar had chosen Azotocht for his position. He thought more than the average beast and, as a result, made a decent strategist. Seeing a bloodrage fill the intruder before him, he called to his troops, “Back! Fall back!”

The members of Legion Clades, while confused, still obeyed. Their numbers had been almost cut in half since the start of the encounter and Captain Azotocht wasn’t about to lose any more in a needless fit of revenge. As he loped away from the bloody clearing, the lycanthrope warrior vowed that he would have his vengeance on the mage killer.

Charles Talbott would never feel safe in the woods again, he would make sure of that.

~~

Captain Silas Koloblicin of Den Caedo stood in the midst of a battlefield covered in the limbs of the undead. Decaying fingers still grasped clumsily at the air; merely severing them from their hosts hadn’t been enough to halt their animation. His chest heaved with the exertion and every breath shot pain through his side. Damn hammer, he swore, setting the thing on his shoulder as he turned toward his men.

Since the battle had ended, the members of Den Caedo had been uncharacteristically silent. Some tended wounds and injuries, but the captain suspected that most were thinking of their fallen leader. Drizaghar had rallied them to his cause; without him they had nowhere to go but back into their homes near the edge of the Red Forest.

“You fought well today, men,” he told them, patting a few on the shoulder as he shared in their grief. “The Lieutenant would have been proud.” His gaze dropped to the ground and he kicked idly at a severed leg. “You can all go home now,” he stated simply.

As the men began to move off in small groups, Silas stared off into the woods where he had last seen the drow necromancer. It was an honor serving with you…