Red-Stained Night (Closed)

[Nevermore]

“Light is a fickle thing. While it defies the darkness and holds back the night, even the faintest light can cast the darkest shadow.”

- Faust, in his epic tragedy Mephistopheles

Volume I

A thick plume of smoke spiraled like a staircase into the heavens, a guiding marker for those whose lives had been lost -- the city had fallen.

Arimov partially stumbled through the darkening streets, hunting a straggler he had seen escape from the execution line. A handful of them had managed the feat, no doubt preparing a brief revolt before they were quashed, much like this greater uprising would be. That blasted sorcerer-witch, Elijah Belov from the reports Arimov had read, had started this. He supposed it didn’t really matter, though.

The whole rebellion would be nullified in one fell swoop and the elf would be given a payout merely for taking part. Rounding the corner, the Silvan came across an unexpected sight: three lone soldiers fending off a group of the rebels. The mercenary quickly identified the man he’d been pursuing and deemed it a worthy enough cause to participate. Námo Gîl and Tûr Amarth appeared in his hands, twin crescents to shed light on the encroaching dusk.

He lunged into the fray, his blade lashing out in a streak of silver and a spray of red. His foe's head toppled to the ground and a spurt of gore stung the elf's eyes. Blinded and acting on instinct, he calmly parried the incoming strike. He sprang backward, narrowly avoiding another slash, and wiped the blood from his eyes in time to see a corpulent woman charge him. He ducked her axe strike and thrust upward with his scimitars, cutting deep into her stomach. The woman's gaze went blank as she fell.

Her partner entered with a mace, already swinging at Arimov. He leapt away in time to avoid it, then spun around and sank both his weapons into the man's exposed back. With a final shrill call of pain, he sank to his knees, dying. Arimov was done. All his potential enemies had been defeated. The elf turned slowly to look at his allies: one of them had blood splattered all over his navy blue vest. His salt and pepper beard and hair were fairly well-kempt, giving Arimov the impression that he was a man of importance. The next was a brutish man, tall and with rippling muscles and a long cord of a dark ponytail trailing from the back of his head.

The last man seemed frail and small, eyes wide and innocent. He wore a hood over his silvery hair, and from his soft appearance Arimov guessed he was a cleric. The barbarian gave him a brief look and then a nod before returning to the priest’s side. They began toward him, but didn’t even utter a word of thanks and merely passed him by. Tough crowd. The older man, though, stopped in front of him. “I appreciate it, son,” he said with a fairly deep-voiced inflection. “We might’ve been in a bit of trouble if ye hadn’t distracted them. I’m Augustus Cesar… maybe you know me. You look familiar.”

“I’m one of the sellswords you hired to assist in the taking of this city, as well as the routing of Elijah’s mutiny.”

“That explains it. You seem handy enough with them swords of yours… maybe you should stick with me. If anyone’s gonna survive the next battle, it’ll be us. We’re not normal fodder for the cattle, y’know. I’m a seasoned veteran in this game, boy, and even these numbers aren’t gonna mean squat when that warlock sees us! Fire will rain from the skies! You hear me? Fire will rain from the skies!” There was a brief hint of manic flame flickering in the older man’s eyes, but as soon as it had come it was gone, replaced by steely composure.

Without another word, Augustus left. Arimov caught a look of him; the weathered warrior was shivering slightly, and clenching his weapons tightly. He held a longsword in one of his vibrating fists and a dagger in the other – the elf made note of it, just in case.

The sound of cheering men carried back through the streets: the capital punishment was being carried out. Arimov shrugged and mentally blotted out the noise as he walked towards the crowd. Soon enough they’d march out of the ruined city with all of their remaining forces to mount an assault on Elijah’s stronghold. His thoughts drifted to a dreamscape of the money he would be rewarded, complete with gold doubloons spewing out of ivory fountains, and briefly lost himself… but then came the vertigo, racking his mind with a bout of dizziness. His head lolled a bit to the side, swaying back and forth.

His vision began to clear a bit and Arimov began to stumble in an inebriated swagger towards the main army. The men were gathered around a makeshift platform with those at fault lined up horizontally in rows, Augustus standing atop the pulpit with a smug grin on his face. He was speaking, but Arimov couldn't filter his words properly... His meaning was obvious enough, however, when the general turned and decapitated one of the prisoners with a brisk sweeping motion of his sword. Augustus was playing judge, jury and executioner, and these people had been found guilty. Arimov looked away to the rooftops, not caring to see them die.

There, he saw through the slowly dissipating fog of his vision a lone gunman, preparing their last arrow. The mercenary didn’t bother to issue a warning, content to let one of these filthy cutthroats meet a bloody end. He did, of course, hear the cry to “look out!” as the projectile was loosed and a hail of return fire bombarded the rebel.

Arimov, though, realized just too late that the arrow was cutting through the air toward him. Tûr Amarth and Námo Gîl rose to challenge it, but he knew he couldn't deflect it. Aware that he was about to meet his end, the elf retreated into the back of his mind. At least there it would be painless. As the last moments of clarity fell upon his darkening vision, Arimov found that he wished quite a lot to see another sunset.

~*~

‘Blast. I’ve finally gotten one of these bastards, and he won’t talk!’ the witch-hunter Setri thought darkly, casting a forlorn glance at the stalwart man who sat there, bleeding. He had so many instruments of torture and had already gone through so many, but nothing seemed to help. The myrmidon was adamant; Elijah must’ve issued some sort of order, or perhaps this infernal vagabond insisted upon mocking him before death finally came. Thumbing quickly through his utensils, Setri decided that he would give no mercy. He found a particularly nasty device and decided it would be good enough.

“I asked you nicely,” Setri said, sighing in exasperation. He aligned it with the fool's arm. “But I’ll say it again: tell me all you know about Elijah and his bloody rebellion. Weaknesses of the fortress would be nice, too. If you can sweeten the deal a bit, maybe you’ll get out of this alive." He licked his chapped lips and smiled warmly. "I will kill you if I need to."

No response. After a few minutes of “friendly negotiation” with the tool, though, and perhaps a little provocation of his own with magic, Setri managed to get a scream. Beads of sweat were rolling down the dissenter’s face, forming rivers of almost-clean through the grime that had begun to layer. “I- I’ll tell you,” he stuttered after awhile longer, pupils dilated and eyes wide open in horror and anguish. Haha! Torment succeeds again. Setri allowed himself a chuckle or two before he began to concentrate, intent on capturing every single word this traitor would say.

In the end, he found he was extremely dissatisfied – the rotten cur had spilled nothing of importance except a more exact location of the enemy fortification. He called over a subordinate and told him to take the “coordinates” to August Cesar, current figurehead (in Setri’s “humble” opinion, of course) of this particular army. Setri was angry. He had been thwarted yet again in his search for anything to help him in the inevitable confrontation with the enemy.

Setri was in this for far more than revenge, though. One of his brethren had been killed by that monster Elijah, and Setri had taken on a vendetta and molded it, shaping his desire to personally murder the cretin… sorcery had no right to be in the hands of such an impotent animal. As he systematically took the life of the man he had just interrogated, the man he had just promised freedom to, Setri mulled over the statistics and decided that his chances of defeating the wizard alone were quite macabre. For the second time today, the witch-hunter recognized, he was very unhappy. Maxilla guide him.

~*~

Unconsciousness, or perhaps death, was usually a dreamless slumber, from what Arimov knew. The elf acknowledged that he was fully self-aware, which led him to conclude that he had indeed been felled by that random projectile. He felt as though he should’ve been angry, perhaps even enraged… but instead, there was only a calm acceptance. Deciding that he would go through a recap of the events that could have lead up to his most unfortunate episode of lightheadedness, Arimov took a look at all that had occurred today. In his subconscious, it was fairly easy to look back through his memories:

The gates were down! Those unruly and large siege machines had torn down the switch that opened and closed it while the men managed to briefly commandeer it. Arimov was one in the epicenter of the swarm of troops that demolished the force who tried to hold them back, meaning he wasn’t skewered on their spears and halberds. Arimov was pleased that he had already managed to dodge one of those nasty polearms. Oh, how he hated them. Smoke was beginning to rise as the troops threw torches and poured flasks full of oil they had carried in with them and a handful were beginning to arrive with entire kegs and barrels full.

Against such overwhelming odds, their enemy was being pushed back, but Augustus would be waiting behind the town with more fighters to hold them off. The red brick buildings seemed to perspire with fear of the blaze. This whole thing seemed a bit surreal for Arimov, who had only taken part in small raids… he didn’t have experience in capturing entire settlements, and from what he had heard through the grapevine, they didn’t even think the leader of the uprising would be here. Whatever. It didn’t matter to him, so long as he was paid for the hardship. He crossed his scimitar-like swords into an ‘X’ as he plowed through, nudging his way through the crowd to try and whet his thirst for carnage. It didn’t seem to take long before it was becoming harder and harder to find a good foe to challenge.

Multiple times, someone stole one of his kills and blamed it on their “adrenaline high” or “the thrill and exhilaration,” and Arimov was hard-pressed to resist the impulse to stab them on the spot. It would be easy, of course, but he might be tried for mutiny and painfully hanged on an itchy rope.

The sun was beginning to descend, now, having finished its great and daily journey across the cerulean heavens. Arimov sighed despondently as a ripple of cheers throbbed in his ears and rang out through the cluster of people. Augustus had ordered the cadavers to be piled high and set alight – these scoundrels and turncoats deserved no funeral pyres or ceremonious monologues. The men shouted their approval and pushed to get their chance to spit on their foes. A handful of volunteers, Arimov included, were sent to scan the area of survivors. They were told to bring as many as they could back alive – public executions were much more humiliating than an honorable duel...

Arimov floated insubstantially in his mind, a bit displeased now that his future had been stolen from him by a simple arrow. How ignoble. Life had been so sourly ephemeral…

But then came the lights. Arimov’s vision took a moment to readjust from the darkness to sight, taking in the images of that feeble cleric standing over him. A vague emerald light was glowing around the priest’s hands, mending the wound he had been dealt with surprising haste. His retainer was there, too, the barbarian with the long, black knot of hair. Augustus pushed past the man and offered a word or two. When Arimov gave no sign of having heard, he repeated himself, “You alright, lad?”

“Yes,” Arimov replied quietly.

“Good. Then we’re moving out.” The older man stood up straight and walked away, outside of the mercenary’s hearing range. He did, however, hear the sound of marching and grinding gears and it took Arimov only a moment to absorb the information. He realized quickly, however, that they were beginning the brief march to the ruined fortress where Elijah was said to be staying.

For some reason, the elf thought, it all seemed like a bad idea.