Legion of Light Gaiden: Prelude to Ruination

[Wings of Endymion]

Drip… drip…

Bleak rays of moonlight illuminated her white skin as she stepped into the lukewarm water. Her newly washed clothes were folded in a neat pile to one side, and only a single threadbare towel shielded her from the winter chill. Soon, even that was cast aside.

Once upon a time, the heated pool in which she now submerged herself had been a place of recreation and relaxation, a secluded sanctuary for the high-flying politicians and dons of the Raiaeran underworld. Located just below ground level, at the very heart of the building that had once been Trenyce’s seediest casino, it drew upon a private underground spring that had somehow remained uncontaminated by the corrupting plagues that had devastated the city of sin. Even after the harshest winter in decades had stemmed the tide of Xem’zund’s diseases, the pool was the only source of water in the entire city that Yuka could even remotely label as pure.

Drip… drip…

She luxuriated in the silky feel of the liquid against her skin, carefully applying suds from the precious bar of soap that she had so far managed to keep away from the filthily possessive claws of her undead neighbours. Ar’zhanekkar, chief necromancer to the Death Lord who now laid claim to the zombie-infested town and the surrounding lands, in particular seemed to delight in persistently annoying her at every opportunity, ruthlessly sabotaging what menial tasks she was assigned, and keeping her awake at night by sending his misshapen “pets” scurrying through her room. She was used to gritting her teeth and bearing her torment in silence, in the knowledge that the necromancer was simply jealous of her status as the favoured acolyte of the great daemon Natosatael. She knew that he was also attempting to sow discord to draw attention away from his ignominious and cowardly retreat from the Battle of Nenaebreth a week ago. In the meantime, however, she could not afford to jeopardise her tenuous hold on the daemon’s loyalty any further, having practically blackmailed him into fleeing the battlefield just as he was about to take revenge on a long-held grudge. It was true that he needed her to attain his goal of lasting power on the corporeal plane, but Natosatael was not so sane or so predictable such that she could be certain that he would not abandon her on a simple whim.

Drip… drip… Splash!

Briefly Yuka's mind settled on a vision of the young man she had saved that day. She took to the pool to disguise the rapid beat of her heart, letting her steady strokes sweep the involuntary thought from her head. The flow of water against her skin was even and rhythmic, as she carved a silent path through the velvet sheen of the dark depths. She’d been a champion swimmer once, and it showed in the effortless grace with which her slender frame slid through the water.

It had been him... her old friend, Ingwe Helyanwe. She had heard the rumours, of course, and had braced herself as best possible. But it was one thing to be told that he had travelled halfway across the world just to see her again, and quite another entirely to be confronted with that reality in the heat of battle, as he single-handedly defied one of the most powerful daemons in existence. Even now she could clearly recall the flush of exertion in his still-youthful features, the soot and blood that stained his white Academy tunic, the dusty beads of sweat trickling down the rims of his glasses...

Drip… drip…

The rigours of war had left their mark on his features, and it was with a healthy dose of guilt that she realised it was largely her fault. If she had taken the time to explain to him the circumstances of her departure before that fateful night at the Academy… if she had listened to Thomas’s advice and taken measures to prevent him from following her… if she had been able to dissuade him, all those years ago, from falling for her. But he was too shy for his own good, and she too kind, and their destinies had taken an unpredictably violent twist from the halcyon peace they had enjoyed back in Nippon.

The rhythm of her limbs never once faltered, a steady sixty strokes per minute. It was her heartbeat within her breast that sounded erratically in her ears, as her emotions circulated between concern, admiration, fear, and back again. When at last she came to a halt, her lungs fighting for air and her limbs like leaden weights attached to her torso, she was no closer to making any sense of the situation.

Drip… drip…

Floating spread-eagled amongst the gently cocooning water, Yuka Kanamai looked to the night sky through the glass roof and asked it a single question… Why? But in this area of the city of death at this particular time of night, there were none who could hear her cry much less answer it.

Only the steady drip of the broken tap sounded its incessant reply.

[Wings of Endymion]

Yuka Kanamai considered herself quite the seasoned traveller for her twenty and three years, having resided for better or for worse in a wide variety of lands. She had been born in the Nipponese settlement of Himeji, a bustling castle town that was also the centre of the country's silk and banking industries. Her schooling years had introduced her first to the crowded conurbation of Naniwa, then to the academic paradise of Minoh, each of which had been uniquely exciting in their own individual manner.

After she had made her decision to accompany Thomas in his quest for power in the underworld depths of Haidia, she had expected to grow accustomed to the perpetual red sun and oppressive heat of the daemon realm. But she had been gifted with the opportunity to visit various locations under various guises, from the peaceful streets of Scara Brae to the esoteric pavements of Talmhaidh, from the weather-bound skies of Knife’s Edge to the desert winds of Irrakam. She had even been drawn into an alternate dimension by an elitist cabal of powerful mages, only to have to fight for her life in consecutive death matches, followed by a frantic dash back to Haidia through Scara Brae and Corone when they stripped her of her powers and left her for dead.

But nothing she had seen or experienced had prepared her for the sheer devastation of the ruined wasteland that had once been Trenyce. It was as if the city, once so populous and teeming with life, had died a painful and gruesome death overnight. Of all the horrors that Xem’zund had unleashed upon Raiaera, surely the debilitating plague that had stripped Trenyce of its humanity and mutated its population of plague-bearing harbingers of undeath was the worst.

The mournful toll of the midnight bells found her kneeling at the edge of the pool, gently patting her hair dry. Yuka knew that no living soul had survived the onset of the plague to continually enact the daily ritual. And yet still they sounded, every night without fail, for exactly eleven and a half peals before they were cut off by the deadening silence.

It took a conscious effort for her to force her mind away from concentrating on the phenomenon. To do so would invite horrors far beyond her ken into her head, and she had no desire to die a pitiful, mewling death as her sanity tore itself apart.

When she walked the lonely streets, she could still spot the remnants of what had once been, here and there amongst the bleak silhouettes of abandoned cityscape. An overturned table strewn with cards, wisps of lacy fabric caught on dingy fragments of marble statues, a child’s plaything lost amongst the neglected rubble of a ramshackle domicile. To her mind the most frightening thing of all was that, aside from one or two doors busted open in hasty flight, there were no signs whatsoever of struggle, only of fear and confusion and months of ruin. Not a single corpse or time-bleached bone had been left to rot on the frozen thoroughfares; not a single speck of dried blood encrusted the grey slate tiles or the marble frescoes. Half of the population of the city had died in paralysed agony, and the other half had mindlessly picked them clean, down to the last shred of stringy sinew.

Once, Trenyce had been a seedy, insidious place. Now, it was simply silent, a sacrilegious sanctum where several thousand zombies and other more dangerous things danced to the will of their new overlord. The dimly moonlit pool by which she sat, as morbid and as brooding as it could be, was the only place that Yuka could call upon to escape from that reality.

It was little wonder then that she dallied as long as possible in drying her silken-fine, raven-black hair, before taking the time to comb its straggly strands into a straight waterfall that almost reached to the small of her back. She knew that such pampering was a luxury that she could ill afford, but she clung to the fact that it was such small pleasures that set her apart from her undead compatriots.

Briefly she toyed with the thought of further availing herself of the small stash of ladies’ amenities that she had discovered in one of the poolside drawers, various ointments and creams that promised to polish the skin, invigorate the hair, and a myriad other effects besides. It was with firm control over a furtive feeling of guilty pleasure that she told herself no; the night was late enough as it was without sacrificing even more of her precious sleep. And the kami knew that she needed said sleep, for the hasty retreat from the southern stronghold of Nenaebreth had destroyed many of Lord Maeril’s schemes, and even now his underlings were scrambling to enact contingency plans. She had to admit that she was not a little impressed at the Half-Elven death knight’s resourcefulness, and the unfazed manner in which he reacted to setback. Only now was she beginning to fully appreciate the depth of his ambitions and the malevolent intelligence behind his ploys.

Yuka knew that she was rapidly sinking beyond her depth into life as his minion, and that a single mistake would lead to only one outcome.

It would be one far worse than death.

[Wings of Endymion]

At length she picked her lithe frame from the tiled floor. Ghosting over to the antique mirrors that lined one side of the swimming pool, she marveled as she always did at the magnificent masterworks of artistic utility. Mounted over a convenient hand basin but large enough that they could reflect the entire body of anyone who stood in front of them, they had been left untended for long enough that their suffering was beginning to show. The dingy glass reflected the dull sheen of the calm waters, the silky moonbeams that illuminated the cavernous hall, and the neat pile of clothes and belongings that she had shed at the edge of the water. A faint glint of metallic silver caught her eye amongst the folded robes before she turned her attention elsewhere, taking a measure of solace in the pristine wooden gleam of her well-preserved staff.

She studied the face that stared back from beyond the murky gloom, noting the wide lively forehead, the thin arch of dark eyebrows, and the gentle slope of the small snub nose. The facial structure was delicate, with dainty cheekbones and a sharp chin; bright black eyes peered keenly from behind long lashes, and pale lips were touched with self-conscious mirth. Her winter-white skin was both free of blemish and flushed in faint embarrassment, giving her reflection an almost doll-like appearance.

She was not beautiful in the conventional sense, she knew. Her features were a tad too sharp and thin, her brow too large and lined with expression, and her preference for a natural appearance over a made-up one perhaps somewhat unfortunate. But given the circumstances of her lifestyle, she was not too displeased with what she saw.

She widened her focus to take in the rest of her figure, her forehead furrowing in critical appraisal. Her physique was boyish, athletic and slender, the product of years of running and swimming under a fairly demanding training regime. She despised it somewhat for its almost complete lack of feminine curve and charm, although at the same time she had to admit that without its strengths she would have struggled in the theatre of war. Gracefully she stretched her flexible muscles, pulling a face at the rudely protruding ribs and the bones of her waist, and the thin toned legs that were so typical of a distance runner. Her hair was growing too long as well; soon she would need to trim it, or else…

Lost in an innocence that had been so completely lacking from her recent experiences, it was only then that she noticed the second face observing her from the mirror… without a corresponding physical body in the real world to match.

[Wings of Endymion]

“… hello, Thomas,” she greeted it, an uncharacteristically droll response quelling the sudden pulse of adrenaline through her breast. She fought also the instinct to reach for the small towel that lay just beyond her reach, knowing that he would only take unnecessary pleasure in her discomfort. Rather, she leaned forward towards the mirror in a belated attempt at camouflaging her immodesty, mentally cursing him for his timing.

“Is that how you greet a friend you’re talking to for the first time in nearly a month?” Thomas Motokaji – or rather, his face in the mirror – replied with a single raised eyebrow. One of the many small tricks that the Nipponese psymage had picked up through his daemonic contacts was the ability to project an image of his current self before somebody already familiar with his face, with the restriction that he had to appear in a reflective surface such as a mirror or a pool of water. “Not to mention, it certainly took you long enough to notice me… were you enjoying…?”

“Do be quiet,” Yuka interrupted gently but firmly, neatly wiping the self-satisfied smirk from Thomas’s face with just the hint of a raised voice. As much as she felt a great liking towards her old friend, a mixture of admiration and respect with a certain adulation for his carefree and headstrong nature, there were some times when he simply grated on her nerves. She hunched low over the basin and peered closely at his face, determined not to allow him any more liberties, all the while fighting to keep the beetroot flush of shame from her cheeks. “What do you want?”

Thomas simply gave her a patronising smile, and the gesture served only to infuriate her further. For a moment, the confrontation degenerated into a staring match, as Thomas effortlessly avoided the continuous stream of icy daggers sent in his direction by the fuming Yuka.

“Nothing much!” he admitted at last, widening his smile into an innocent grin and eliciting an exasperated sigh from the young woman. It was obvious that he enjoyed needling her, and her naturally trusting personality put her at a distinct disadvantage against his machinations. Not to mention that he had the knack of appearing before her in the most compromising of situations; he was quick to dismiss it as an unfortunate consequence of the nature of the spell, but it was no less embarrassing. “I heard about your defeat in Nenaebreth and thought that I’d send you some things to cheer you up. After all, you must have lost most of what I sent you previously, right? I’ll tell you, though, it was a difficult task finding your room… you usually choose places on higher floors. What was it… something about being closer to the stars? Anyways…”

Yuka’s mind tuned out as Thomas continued to ramble on in meaningless babble, the image of his smiling, chatting face in the mirror appearing for all the world like some grotesquely decapacitated caricature. Behind her vacant expression, however, she was genuinely thankful for his presence. She wondered if that had been his intent all along, to let her know that she wasn’t alone.

“Oi, Yuka.”

She regained her senses with a bemused blink of surprise, to find Thomas’s apparition staring at her with an extremely arid expression worn on its handsome features. “You alright?”

Yuka smiled her brightest smile and let her momentary happiness overflow. She was not so deluded as to completely give in to the moment, but for the time being…

“Yeah.”

“Good,” the talking face replied, settling back with another smugly satisfied smile. “You looked pretty down there for a while.”

Yuka wondered briefly just how long he had been amongst the mirrors watching her before she had noticed. Simply thinking about what he might have seen caused the heat to rise to her face once more. It wouldn’t do for her to be so careless, she had to…

“And if you ask me, I think you’re what the men in Nippon would have called a senaka bijin… a woman with a beautiful back,” Thomas continued, injecting a note of connoisseur-like expertise into his voice as his blue eyes twinkled in glee. “Although it really does have to be mentioned… you haven’t much to show on the other side, have you…”

The look on Yuka’s face said it all.

[Wings of Endymion]

Five minutes later, the situation had changed slightly in its miniscule details. The ornate Raiaeran mirrors, with their gilded sheen and intricately wrought frames, now sported a number of fist-sized cracks where Yuka had attempted to bring Thomas’s cheeky tongue to justice. The young woman had found the time to don her tunic top in an attempt to dissuade her companion’s roaming eyes, and Thomas himself looked suitably chastised by the experience... or perhaps it was only disappointment.

It was his face in the mirror that finally broke the exhausted silence, his cultured dulcet tones suddenly solemn and sober.

“And now to serious business,” he told her, and she noticed that his eyes were not smiling any more. With equal measures of questioning and foreboding, she leaned closer to the mirror.

Thomas Motokaji had been in the same year as she since day one of her schooling. The lackadaisical second son of a wealthy local lord, he had competed for her attentions with a scholarly young man who went by the pseudonym of Ingwe Helyanwe… the very same Ingwe Helyanwe who had led the allied armies that had defeated her compatriots at the Battle of Nenaebreth a week earlier. Older than she by nearly a year, as well as ten months Ingwe’s senior, he had reaped manifold throughout his education the benefits of his unintentional advantage. Gifted both physically and intellectually, his talents had placed him always at the centre of attention, although he had lacked the drive that motivated the two younger children in their respective pursuits. From a young age, Thomas’s defining quality had been his ability to influence and manipulate people, for better or for worse: the same aura of control and charm that Yuka found irresistibly attractive, and that drew many others to him like moths to a flame. In time he had realised his true calling as one of Nippon’s few true practitioners of magic, and had devoted himself towards the attainment of further power, augmenting and enhancing his already formidable charisma with a vast array of more practical abilities. The man was such a natural genius at whatever he did, it was almost as if he didn’t even have to work for it.

“Are you sure that you don’t want to come back?” he asked, one eyebrow raised as he peered at her questioningly.

Thomas was referring to his operation in Haidia, where he had somehow managed to negotiate full access to the libraries of ancient arcane lore held there. She had spent nearly a year with him in conscientious study before she had left for the surface world with her patron Natosatael, summoned to take part in the epic war between High Elf and undead. His deep brown eyes seemed to be imploring her to return, and although she was far too used to his tricks by now to be caught up in any of his mind games, she had to admit that not so long ago she would have been very tempted by the offer.

“I’m sure,” she replied firmly, placing an open palm such that it lightly touched the glass by his ‘cheek’.

Yuka remembered as if it were yesterday the night that she had decided to abandon her uneventful life at the Academy in Nippon. The letter from her father practically ordering her to return to her family’s business in silk trading and money lending – in truth a well constructed façade for an underworld empire into which she had been indoctrinated from the moment of her birth. The implied threat to her safety and the safety of those around her if she refused to meekly obey his demands. The feeling of helpless inevitability as she drowned in the knowledge that she dared not risk the lives of her friends and surrogate family – the students and tutors with whom she had spent the most blessed three years of her life – to the vengeant menace of the most powerful yakuza warlord in the west. And the perfect solution that Thomas had devised for her when he’d inadvertently read her troubles from her mind: to escape to Haidia, the leading caste of which whom he had an ‘agreement’ with, by opening a trans-dimensional portal under the guise of an invasion of the academy by evil indigenous spirits, the youkai.

She hadn’t expected Thomas to go to the effort of summoning a daemon of the fifth circle – Natosatael – to protect her. Neither had she expected Ingwe to react quite so strongly to her leaving, or for him to be able to battle through an entire army to actually banish the daemon. There was no other explanation for the feat except to dismiss it as a random fluke, but the fact remained that he had done it… causing the arcane backlash from the banishing and the subsequent collapse of the portal to scatter Ingwe and the rest of her friends across the length and breadth of Althanas.

But that was all in the past now, Yuka told herself. She had to concentrate on her current predicament, or else there would be no future for her to look forward to.

She could not bring herself to return any more to Haidia, where the daemons regarded her suspiciously as an outsider, and where she needed Thomas’s presence to accomplish anything. If it were anything that her experiences had taught her, it was the belated realisation that she could not spend her entire life relying on others; sooner or later she would have to confront the ghosts of her past by herself. By the same token, she could not allow herself to run away any more.

And besides, there were no skies in Haidia. Not a single star to watch over her as she slept, for in Haidia there was no night, and the comfort of the heavens was an eternity away.

Thomas watched impassively as thoughts and memories tumbled about in an incoherent mess in her mind. He could sense however the underlying resolve of her conviction, and he realised that it would take more than one night of gentle words and playful teasing to change her mind. Much like the first time that he had spoken to her after she’d left Haidia under Natosatael’s protection, he marvelled at how strong she had become. At the same time, he was determined that some day she would return to his side.

“Very well then,” he sighed at last, acknowledging the firm set of her jaw and the clarity of the expression in her eyes. Another day, perhaps, but not now. “In which case, I have something that I must tell you.”

[Wings of Endymion]

Yuka snapped to attention in an instant, knowing better than to disregard any such advice. Thomas was the kingpin of a vast information network that was nigh unparalleled in the known world, and he had a frightening ability to separate truth from rumour, fact from fiction, and minor altercations from world-changing cataclysms. The young woman furrowed her brow in concentration, wondering what news he had for her now.

“Maeril is planning something,” he told her, carefully gauging her reaction. If she showed any sign of fear or hesitation, then he would risk everything to return her to Haidia, with her permission or without. The consequences of his actions – not least of which would be Yuka’s wrath – he would take later. But Thomas had a bad feeling about this particular piece of news… and more often than not, his bad feelings tended to be proven correct. “I don’t know what… he’s wrapped such a veil of secrecy around his actions that even my agent has not been able to find out.”

The young woman’s brow twitched as she digested the information. She’d certainly noted the furtive movements of Maeril’s necromantic cadre as of late, particularly those of their leader, the repulsive Ar’zhanekkar. About the only spellcasters who hadn’t been involved in their activities were herself and the shadow-mage Angelus, who had been distracted by something else… Wait a minute. Thomas said ‘agent’, singular. During the battle at Nenaebreth, didn’t Angelus say… ‘I also serve another, whose commands in this case take precedence’… just before he attacked Ingwe? In which case, what did he mean by ‘He has been waiting for a long time for an opportunity like this…’?

She fought to keep her face impassive, filing away the revelation so that she could ponder upon it at a later hour. Thomas, in turn, noticed the subtle increase in tension, the slight tic of the vein in her temple that told him her intelligent brain was working away at something. But probe as he might with his formidable arsenal of mind magics, the surface of her soul was as serene as a moonlit pond, only faint ripples of emotion stirring its smooth sheen. Either she’s become very adept at hiding herself from me, or she really doesn’t know anything about this at all…

He sighed to himself, for the first time in his life not knowing quite what to make of her. For a moment, he seriously debated spiriting her away by force. But that would only earn him her enmity… no, he could not take that risk. The best he could do now was to keep a close eye on the situation and come to her aid if…

“Thank you for the warning,” she whispered suddenly, her dark eyes firm as if they had reached a definitive conclusion. Thomas noted the excessive formality in her voice and hesitated, unsure of what it – and the delicately gentle smile that wreathed her features – meant.

“In which case…” he replied, disguising his confusion behind a smile of his own. He had to withdraw for now… he had to think over the events of the day and Yuka’s reactions. “I probably should be going. Keeping you up too long would be bad for your…”

“Thanks,” she interrupted again, almost as if she had not been paying attention to his words. The look on her face was tender and distant, as if she were remembering something from a long time ago. “I… I saw Ingwe the other day…”

“And?” the psymage replied brusquely, his image fading from the glass screen.

A faintly exhaled breath later, Yuka was alone once again. Only the sound of the silence about her kept her company as she turned away from the empty mirrors, her face an impenetrable mask of resigned calm.

[Wings of Endymion]

As she mechanically went through the motions of dressing herself, her mind spun amongst a never-ending spiral of agitated thought. Slipping on clean cotton briefs, winding the cloth bandages around her chest, then pulling on a pair of leggings to match her tunic: each and every action was carried out as if she were a soulless automaton. But by the time she had gathered up the rest of her belongings in preparation for leaving the pool, she had at least re-established a semblance of order over her thoughts.

Firstly, Angelus works for Thomas… there can’t be any doubt of that. It explained everything, from why the shadow-mage had been friendly – or at least, grudgingly non-antagonistic – when she had first joined the undead army, to his cryptic actions on the day of the battle, and all his enigmatic cooperation in between. Whether Thomas had known in advance of her plans and had planted Angelus in her path, or whether it was simply fortuitous coincidence, Yuka neither knew nor really cared. As an ally, however, she knew that she dared not rely on him… his motives and his agenda remained too unclear.

Secondly, Maeril is certainly up to something, she confirmed to herself as she stepped from the tiled poolside into a carpeted foyer, the elegant chandeliers that hung far above her head long since darkened and lightless. Slowly she felt her way across the room, using her wooden staff to counter the weight of the haversack on her shoulders, until she reached the circular balustrade that led back up to ground level. Yuka shivered slightly as the chill of the night air seeped through her thin clothing, and she ran the last few steps to warm her body, skilfully juggling her staff whilst throwing on her cloak.

She had no idea what it was that the death knight was planning, and Thomas’s lack of information on the matter only scared her further. If it was something that even he didn’t know, then what chance did she stand of finding out herself? But that was exactly what she had to do… and if it was anything even remotely close in scale as to what she feared it might be, then…

Yuka caught herself just in time. Had she just considered turning against Maeril and Ar’zhanekkar, and most likely both Angelus and Natosatael as well? The thought caused a fresh flood of fear to rush through her body; what could she, a lowly human sorceress, ever hope to accomplish against such powerful foes?

The line of reasoning troubled her greatly, and she didn’t know what to make of it. Once again she tucked it away into the recesses of her mind, where it would no doubt fester and sore like an infected wound.

Thirdly… Thomas still hasn’t forgotten about Ingwe. The thought struck her as harshly as the fierce moonlight as she stepped out into the night, a blast of chill wind catching her in the face and sending wisps of newly dried hair billowing for the protection of the dilapidated doorway. She blinked reflexively as ash and grit assaulted her eyes, quickly turning away into the lee of the gale. Soon the blustery tempest died down, and she was alone once again amongst the silent desolation of what had once been Trenyce, ruined buildings and abandoned boulevards thrown into stark contrast by the gaze of the bright moon surrounding her on all sides.

She didn’t quite remember when it was that Thomas and Ingwe had first begun feuding; in fact, to the best of her knowledge, they had most likely been at odds with each other from the day they had first met, in spite of Ingwe’s forgiving forbearance and Thomas’s casual charisma. Maybe it’s true when they say there’s not enough room in a single year for more than one legend… she pondered to herself, smiling a tad guiltily in bittersweet nostalgia. She wondered if they realised that the days she had spent with them and the rest of her friends from the Academy had been the best of her life.

In so many ways, they were exact opposites of one another. Thomas was outgoing and outspoken, confident and charismatic; Ingwe was affable and academic, mild-mannered and modest. Thomas had a light-hearted, almost lackadaisical approach to life and preferred to remain behind the lines and out of the limelight, while Ingwe was serious and dedicated to the point where his determination often took him – however unwillingly – to the forefront of the action. Yuka smiled again as her musings accompanied her along the darkened thoroughfares. Her footsteps were light and wary; after all, it was one thing to be told that the undead that roamed the town were completely under Maeril’s control, and another to trust it entirely.

And yet, she thought to herself, they could actually be quite alike at times. The young woman smiled again as she steadily wound her way towards her quarters in the distance. It was mostly in the small things that only a close friend could notice… but perhaps it was most apparent in the way they both seemed to care about her. Sometimes she wasn’t sure whether to be pleased by the attention or not, so stifling could it be.

The young woman exhaled deeply into the tranquil night, all her nagging worries and throbbing thoughts crystallising into the frosty breath of wind that escaped towards the stars overhead. The darkness around her writhed with imaginary horrors like a haunted graveyard, but at least in her own heart there was calm and peace. The expression on Yuka’s face was a curious mixture of halcyon and sorrow as she closed her eyes and allowed consciousness to suffuse the vicinity, as if trying to absorb all the death and devastation emanating from the mournful ruins and release it purified and free of corruption into the heavens above.

“… there,” she sighed, her instinctive caution justified. As if in response, the fabric of reality stirred, and something else moved in the night.

[Wings of Endymion]

“I wouldn’t come any closer if I were you,” Yuka warned the rocky remains of what had undoubtedly once been a fine villa. Giant slabs of marble lay strewn amongst the accumulated dirt of months of neglect, accentuated by the fallen branches of a lifeless fruit tree. She stood in the remains of the courtyard of the mansion, the ornate tiles paving the ground cracked and worn, and the well-kept flowerbeds long since lost to time. Judging by the size of the place, she had no doubt that it had once belonged to somebody important… now, however, it was just another ruin.

“I’m warning you!” she called again, when the shadowy movements did not cease. Letting her haversack of clothes fall to the ground with a dull thud, she gracefully held her staff out at arms length and traced an arrow from it to her chest, wispy magic forming in the wake of the motion.

Even when the movement stopped she held her position, her senses screaming danger with every measured rise and fall of her slender chest. She knew that it was out there, watching her, feeding on the uncertainty and fear that its momentary pause would cause. Determined not to show any weakness for her opponent – no matter what it might be – to exploit, Yuka kept her face stoic and emotionless, all the while searching her surroundings for some clue as to the identity of her attacker.

She was not too surprised when, moments later, a low chuckle rolled out over the cold courtyard.

“Ah yes, the favoured one,” it wheezed, cultured tones long since corrupted by necromantic darkness echoing ominously about the frigid stone.

“Ar’zhanekkar,” Yuka replied with equally cold courtesy as the necromancer stepped into view, fighting hard to quell her disgust. Obese belly, hunched back, filthy black robes, and the heavy cowl that hid his sagging, sunken, pallid features… she knew that he did not care for his appearance any more, but it was almost as if the evil mage was trying to look as repugnant as possible. Never once did her aim waver as he continued to circle her over the broken slate tiles, his dark clothing blending once more into the shadowy night. “Does Maeril know you’re here?”

“How DARE you take the master’s name in vain!” the dark spellcaster, formerly known as Archibald Winsome the Third of Corone, hissed in sibilant fury. “You puny, insignificant human, you…!”

Dead branches snapped beneath his feet as he made to take a step towards the arrogant female from the east. As he did so, however, a lightning flash of sheer white scythed through the air and tore the hood from his head, exposing to the moonlight his balding lice-ridden pate and the dying scraggles of his unkempt, dirty brown hair. In one smooth movement before he could react, Yuka had another magical arrow nocked to her staff-bow.

“I said, no closer,” she whispered, the implied threat carrying clearly through the crisp chill air. Her dark eyes burned with coldly calculating fury as she deliberated her best escape from the delicate situation… and came up with none. If Ar’zhanekkar really wanted her head, and was willing to defy the implicit protection of Natosatael and Maeril for the chance, then she had no choice… she would have to fight her way clear. “Next time, I won’t miss.”

“Spirited, aren’t we…” the necromancer replied, regaining his composure and licking his lips in anticipation. His moniker meant ‘the vengeful one’ in some obscure archaic demonic tongue, and he lived up to it well. A prideful man, arrogant and not used to defeat in any shape or form, his recent string of setbacks had greatly unhinged his already suspect sanity. In his deluded mind, there was only one person responsible for his troubles.

The one who had appeared uninvited when he had summoned the great pact-bound daemon Natosatael to his side. The one who had usurped his promised position as the daemon’s favourite disciple. The one who had so cunningly manipulated him from the heights of his rank as Death Lord Maeril Thyrrian’s high necromancer to a new low as some second-rate laughing stock.

That woman. Yuka Kanamai!

“We’ll see how spirited you are after I’ve torn you limb from limb, ripped your beating heart from that pretty little body of yours, and then fed the rest of you… still alive of course… to the maggots.” Ar’zhanekkar grinned, an evil, sadistic, and completely insane grin that completely devoured the lower half of his face.

“Meet Jack,” he introduced in mock courtesy as arcane runes glowed at the tip of his gnarled staff. “He’ll be your… entertainment… for the night.”

Yuka barely reacted in time to throw herself aside. A handful of blood-encrusted, wickedly sharp claws flashed through the air where she had been standing.

[Wings of Endymion]

Yuka hit the ground painfully, gravel and grit chewing into her right shoulder as her conjured arrow dissipated like so much morning mist into the night. Her peripheral vision focused on the monster that had snuck up on her from behind, and she involuntarily cringed at its hugely misshapen face and its drooling jaws. Its beady, white-less eyes were filled with a blank glazed look, and its features were marred by numerous grotesque scars and blistering sores.

The sight was so horrible, her reaction so violent, that she barely remembered to keep hold of her staff and continue her roll, in order to avoid its next strikes. And yet, somehow there was something almost pitiful in its expression, like a mutilated doll that still maintained the innocence it had once projected. Razor sharp claws came precariously close to clipping the side of her head… and then she was away, opening up enough distance between herself and her foe to breath once more.

How did it get behind me without me noticing? The young woman could barely bring herself to believe that her defensive wards had been so easily broken. And what in the kami’s name is it?

She regained her footing with her staff held out before her like the barrel of a gun, words of power held in readiness on the tip of her tongue. Fleetingly she realised that her shoulders seemed lighter than usual, and an instant later she realised why. The undead construct had torn a large portion of her cloak into shreds, and they fluttered like forlorn pennants of royal blue wool at the tip of his claws… which, she again noticed rather belatedly, seemed to have replaced his fingers altogether, grafted on by dark magic and held together by crude stitching...

Now was not the time to be distracted by such matters.

“Renkuha!”

A sustained gust of wind erupted from the tip of her staff and slammed into the monster, gouging a shallow chunk of flesh from its right shoulder. But it was almost as if the spell had no effect whatsoever. Without a single gesture of pain, it hurled all two hundred kilograms of its naked muscular frame towards her across the empty courtyard, its spine flexing unnaturally with every movement. Deceptively agile and dextrous, it closed the distance to her in a matter of moments… but this time, Yuka was prepared.

“Baku-no-in… Jyubakusatsu!”

She traced the sigil on her palm to activate her magics, and in response bright runes glowed on the ground at her feet, coalescing into whip lashing vines of light that exploded upwards to bind and restrain her attacker. The construct reeled as if it had slammed into a brick wall, tendons snapping and head lolling listlessly as it fought against the magic. Yuka knew that the spell would not hold for much longer, but she had confidence in her legs as well… if she could use the time gained to put some distance between her and her foe…

Not good!

As soon as her feet left the ground, she knew she was in trouble. Something darker than the night-cast shadows was reaching for her ankle, courtesy of the other combatant involved in the skirmish… that infernal necromancer. Instinctively Yuka knew that she would do well to avoid contact with the magic, but already it was too late.

Ice-cold numbness rushed through her leg, and she fell to the ground with a dull thud and a muted whimper of agony. Her vision swam as she tried to focus, more of the necromantic tendrils arrowing in on her as she lay prone and helpless on the ground…

“Shu-no-in…!”

Barely had the defensive ward activated when it collapsed again under the sheer power of Ar’zhanekkar’s spells. Yuka was thrown ten metres against the far wall, her trajectory broken violently by the rubbled stone. She fell limply to the ground, the air knocked from her lungs. A wave of blinding dust rose in the wake of her passage, temporarily obscuring her form from view.

“Still relying on incantations, are we?” Ar’zhanekkar chuckled in disdain as he steeped from the safety of the shadows. The necromancer held out a hand in command, and his minion broke free from its restraints at long last to shamble across the stones, wickedly curved blades glinting cruelly in the moonlight. ‘Jack’ let out a curious noise, half growl and half croon, sniffing like an inquisitive puppy at the tattered flesh of Ar’zhanekkar’s palm. “And to think that you are Natosatael’s chosen disciple… how disappointing.”

He paused, wheezing phlegm from his throat as he awaited her reply. When one was not forthcoming, he shook his head in sardonic disenchantment, dismissing her from his thoughts like an emperor dismissed a lowly slave.

“Ah well,” he sighed, again coughing throatily. “Finish off the insignificant flea, Jack, and let us continue with the preparations for Lord Maeril’s grandest work.”

The undead construct nodded slowly in acquiescence, turning towards the spot where Yuka had fallen. Gradually growing intent dawned in its eyes as it took two steps into the whirling dust cloud, claws poised to strike. Then it paused, slightly confused, as the artificial mist dissipated in a fierce blast of cold air. Yuka’s angry voice echoed over the open ground.

“I just washed my hair, you know…”

[Wings of Endymion]

She rose from the dust like some divine angel of retribution, half-a-dozen translucently swirling spheres of arcane power arrayed in a makeshift halo about her head and shoulders. Blood trickled from the corner of her pale lips like a crimson stream through fresh snow, but Yuka paid it no heed, instead choosing to bring her staff into an offensive stance before her.

“Hmm… a six-fold delayed incantation?” Ar’zhanekkar mused, involuntary surprise colouring his voice as he recognised Yuka’s intent. “I take that back, human. You might just be an interesting kill after all…”

“Do. Be. Quiet,” Yuka ordered, unleashing her pent-up fury and frustration into six blinding beams that streaked silver through the night towards her enemies. The young woman threw herself forward to accompany them, weaving another arcane arrow from the winds of magic as she went. Ar’zhanekkar, as she expected, simply melted back into the shadows with a simple wave of his gnarled staff, but that still left ‘Jack’.

All six bolts slammed into the undead construct, releasing explosive energies that erupted outwards as if heralding a miniature supernova. Barely had the monster recovered, tottering unsteadily backwards with huge chunks of rotten flesh and mutilated muscle torn from his torso, when Yuka appeared directly in front of him, eyes glaring fierce daggers into his angelically blank face and her arrow primed for action. ‘Jack’ felt something weightless but exceedingly painful slam through his chest; instinctively he lashed out with both claws, but the young woman had already shifted balance and kicked away.

A moment's silence, as both combatants took stock of the situation, and then...

"Mmm....mngh."

Yuka smiled in grim satisfaction as the construct finally noticed the arcane arrow embedded through its heart, moaning pitifully with vandalised vocal cords. Belatedly it tried to claw at it with its disfigured hands, as a young dog would try to scratch an itch in an inaccessible location. But the arrow simply disappeared from sight, leaving behind a gaping hole in its grotesquely pockmarked chest. ‘Jack’ let out a low moan, almost sorrowful in its gentle intensity, before its body began to contort and spasm uncontrollably.

“… but you didn’t think that it would be that easy, did you?” Ar’zhanekkar’s voice sounded from somewhere in the shadows, strangely smug. “Did you?”

With mounting horror, Yuka realised that the spasms were not death throes, but something else entirely. Fresh flesh was bubbling from the gaping wounds in a mesmerising gory spectacle of necromantic power, torn tendons and broken bones knitting back together before her eyes. Somewhere in the distance the necromancer laughed; closer to hand, Yuka’s eyes narrowed in renewed focus.

How about if…

Words of power once again danced on the tip of her tongue, and one after another, a trio of spheres popped into existence above her head. Without hesitation, she unleashed her magics once more, this time concentrating them against the emaciated left leg of the undead construct. Perhaps if she destroyed it outright…

A bloody explosion of splintered bone tore the limb from the monster’s body, thoroughly sickening the young woman who was carefully gauging the situation. But almost instantly she saw that it was of no use. Something grey and grotesque pulsated at the stump of the dismembered leg, growing back in glistening repulsiveness with such speed that ‘Jack’ did not even lose its balance.

Yuka recovered her shattered wits in time to leap away as the construct charged her once again, claws extended like a net of razor-sharp steel out to ensnare their prey. In the frantic minutes of cat and mouse that followed, she learnt exactly two things: that she had the advantage of speed over her opponent, but not by enough to make a difference in the confined courtyard from which neither Ar’zhanekkar nor ‘Jack’ seemed inclined to let her escape, and that she could not hope to deal with both necromancer and minion at once. Ar’zhanekkar’s arcane prowess weighed heavily against her, when not dedicated to maintaining his underling in pristine condition; his command over the dark arts was undeniable, and she would have been hard pressed even to deal with him alone. His tactics were nothing special, a simple extension of the classic fighter and mage combination, but to a lone spellcaster such as herself, they were nigh insurmountable. He could simply throw Jack at her with no regard as to what she did to it, forcing her always on the defensive and whittling away at her stamina with offensive spells cast from the safety of the shadows. Directing all her attacks on the construct would not work, either, for Ar’zhanekkar could simply heal it with impunity, and it was a guaranteed certainty that she would exhaust herself before he did. She needed time to breathe, time to plan a counterattack…

Concentrate! a little voice inside her screamed, but it was a brief eternity too late. The dark blast caught her in the side like a sledgehammer, once again sending her flying against the remnant of the villa walls. A sickening dull thud, and the young woman crumpled.