“Commander Caleum! Where are you?”
Squatting next to the lifeless husk of a tree, Anora called in reply, “Here! To your left.”
She watched the soldier turn and jog in the direction of her voice, then stop short as he realized what she was doing. Immediately, he averted his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Commander. I...”
Anora stood, turned, and kicked dirt over the puddle of nearly fluorescent yellow urine she’d deposited. Out here, where the Afflicted reigned, she often found herself too focused on their destruction or too tired to care about who watched whom relieve themselves. Not everyone felt the same.
“It’s all right. What is it?”
The soldier kept his eyes on his feet while she lowered the end of her hauberk to the middle of her thighs.
“There’s a storm coming, Commander. It approaches from the south.”
Anora grimaced. Storms always resulted in sickness. Sickness lead to death. Death lead to Affliction.
“What do the scouts say?”
“They’ve found no substantial shelter.”
Anora walked toward the soldier, beckoning him to follow. They could ride in the storm and stay mobile but some of the men would surely not survive. Remaining here and establishing camp meant trading shelter for mobility. The Afflicted could easily take advantage of that weakness and attack. Some of the men would surely not survive then, either.
Anora reached a clearing of dead earth where most of the men milled about nervously. Rarely during a break in travel did any of them sit and even more infrequently did they lie down. If the Afflicted attacked, each of them wanted to be on their feet and at the ready. But their fatigue was palpable. With rest, as proper a rest as they could manage, they’d be that much more effective during the next assault.
“A storm nears!” Anora shouted. The men turned toward her.
“We make camp here. We eat, we stay dry. At least for tonight.”
She knew that while some of them men would either secretly or openly welcome the respite, others would disagree and prefer to keep on the move. To them, she offered their next target.
“The scouts have found city ruins a half day’s ride away. When the storm ebbs, that’s our objective. We will route any Afflicted who’ve taken up residence and see if there’s anything or anyone useful there. So get your rest now while you can. We don’t know what awaits.”
A peal of thunder rumbled softly in the distance as the men began to form a makeshift camp within the clearing. Signaling two of her sub-commanders, she began a discussion of night watches and patrols. If the Afflicted did attack during their stay, her men couldn’t afford to be caught unaware.
Actions Speak Louder
Moderator: Staff
The more Anora remembered, the more unnerved she felt. To see herself in her mind’s eye as she once was, to know what she had fought against and to finally understand what she had become was almost too much to bear.
The memories crushed her like an avalanche.
An uneventful yet uneasy march to the city.
A search for food first, survivors second.
The hoard of Afflicted who suddenly spilled forth from every avenue.
Her men surrounded, running into and out of buildings with no safe quarter to be found.
Soldiers dying, then quickly reborn into a new horrific existence.
Her own self trapped in an alley with Afflicted closing in from front, behind and above.
The realization that her time in the world was at an end.
Her firm resolve to annihilate herself if necessary never wavered. She would not return as one of them.
The incantation spoken as the Afflicted enveloped her.
A bright green flash as her body and soul gave themselves to oblivion.
The pretty but crazed face of a young girl who ordered her to rise, called her Lady Plaguetrest and gave her command of another army.
The girl.
The witch!
This was her doing!
Until now, until this moment, she had not fully realized that her memories were true recollections and not fragments of a half-remembered dream. She stepped back from the window in horror.
She was Anora Caleum, scourge of the Afflicted.
She was Lady Plaguetrest, Afflicted.
Somehow, the incantation had not eradicated her soul as was promised. Somehow, the witch had restored her.
Rage curled across her face as she stared out the window in disbelief. She was the very thing she’d sworn to destroy. How could this be? Whatever the witch had done, Anora would make her undo.
Far away from the Celestial Tower, one of the dragons came to rest on the ground, perhaps wounded or tired. A mass of undead swarmed toward it. There was no time for escape. Fascinated, Anora watched as another dragon swooped down and expunged an object from its belly. The object fell as the dragon veered away. A moment later, a brilliant blue light enveloped the dragon on the ground.
Anora smiled grimly. One beast had killed another to prevent its capture, to stop the horde of undead from claiming it as their own. If only she had been so lucky.
Slowly she turned away from the window as the blue began to fade away. This was the witch’s doing. The destruction she’d helped perpetuate. Constructing the Tower of Death. The corruption of bodies, of souls.
Anora could not allow it to continue. She would end the conflict and ensure destruction of the Afflicted upon this island.
More importantly, she would find the witch and make sure they both died. This time, forever.
The memories crushed her like an avalanche.
An uneventful yet uneasy march to the city.
A search for food first, survivors second.
The hoard of Afflicted who suddenly spilled forth from every avenue.
Her men surrounded, running into and out of buildings with no safe quarter to be found.
Soldiers dying, then quickly reborn into a new horrific existence.
Her own self trapped in an alley with Afflicted closing in from front, behind and above.
The realization that her time in the world was at an end.
Her firm resolve to annihilate herself if necessary never wavered. She would not return as one of them.
The incantation spoken as the Afflicted enveloped her.
A bright green flash as her body and soul gave themselves to oblivion.
The pretty but crazed face of a young girl who ordered her to rise, called her Lady Plaguetrest and gave her command of another army.
The girl.
The witch!
This was her doing!
Until now, until this moment, she had not fully realized that her memories were true recollections and not fragments of a half-remembered dream. She stepped back from the window in horror.
She was Anora Caleum, scourge of the Afflicted.
She was Lady Plaguetrest, Afflicted.
Somehow, the incantation had not eradicated her soul as was promised. Somehow, the witch had restored her.
Rage curled across her face as she stared out the window in disbelief. She was the very thing she’d sworn to destroy. How could this be? Whatever the witch had done, Anora would make her undo.
Far away from the Celestial Tower, one of the dragons came to rest on the ground, perhaps wounded or tired. A mass of undead swarmed toward it. There was no time for escape. Fascinated, Anora watched as another dragon swooped down and expunged an object from its belly. The object fell as the dragon veered away. A moment later, a brilliant blue light enveloped the dragon on the ground.
Anora smiled grimly. One beast had killed another to prevent its capture, to stop the horde of undead from claiming it as their own. If only she had been so lucky.
Slowly she turned away from the window as the blue began to fade away. This was the witch’s doing. The destruction she’d helped perpetuate. Constructing the Tower of Death. The corruption of bodies, of souls.
Anora could not allow it to continue. She would end the conflict and ensure destruction of the Afflicted upon this island.
More importantly, she would find the witch and make sure they both died. This time, forever.
Even though she probably didn’t know it, there was no way for Casey to safely reach extraction point Omicron. From above, Matt watched and swarms of undead approached from every direction, pinning her within a quickly shrinking circle. To make matters worse, she’d gone silent again, either unable or unwilling to respond to his hails. That she was still continuing south was a minor miracle but he didn’t trust she had the wherewithal to safely conduct herself to the extraction point even with a cleared pathway.
One thing was certain: Casey wasn’t going to make it out alive on her own. Worse, if the ill-conceived plan forming in his mind was mistimed by even a split-second, she wouldn’t have the chance.
Matt spied a small clearing three hundred meters away from her current position, directly in Casey’s path. It had to be there.
With no time to lose, he pushed the Bearcat into a dive and quickly relayed his proposal to Pilar. As expected, she made no promise of survival.
“I know,” he replied bleakly. “Just have your people in position. Once it’s over, either way, everyone’s under orders to get to the portal and back to Rhydin. If she and I make it through, we’ll take our chances down there.”
The undead continued their unrelenting surge, closing in on Casey with remarkable haste. Issuing one final set of orders to the remainder of his flight, Matt opened the shunts to the fighter’s plasma vents, approached the clearing and ran though the timing estimates in his head one final time. Pilar had already redeployed three of the 81st’s mage-carrying fighters from portal-bolstering duty to the Isle. At full speed, they’d arrive in just under a minute. He anticipated forty-five seconds before Casey broke into the clearing. The undead would follow ten or fifteen seconds later. Taking the Testmos’ speed, attack angle and clearance range into account, they’d have to release before Casey even reached the clearing. If Casey altered direction or slowed in the slightest, she’d die. If the fighters from the 81st were late or if the mages therein hadn’t the time or mana resources to complete the spell, they’d both die.
Zooming over Casey’s position as quickly as he dared, he throttled back dangerously and yanked the fighter’s nose upward into a near stall just above the clearing. Engaging the stabilizing thrusters before the fighter stalled completely, he smashed into the earth at a speed far greater than standard regulations recommended. Vented plasma coalesced and discolored the air, marking the path of his rapid descent. As the cockpit snapped open and he disengaged his safety restraints, he half-heard the Testmos’ pilots communicate that they’d reached their initial waypoint.
Tossing his survival kit onto the ground below, he leapt from the cockpit. He landed in a crouch next to the kit and before standing, withdrew his mage-empowered Gauss pistol. Hearing the roar of the Testmos’ engines as they neared, he wasted three precious seconds with his neck craned up, watching as the fighters loosed the remainder of their bombs, both pious and conventional. Snatching the kit from the ground, he ran as quickly as he could away from the Bearcat, seeking to intercept Casey once she breached the clearing’s perimeter.
Nearing the edge of the clearing, Matt knew something was wrong. Casey should have broken through by now. He came to an abrupt halt several meters from the tree line, anxiously scanning for a sign of her approach. He could both hear and feel the rumble of pounding feet as the undead neared. He could sense the proximity of the bombs, now mere seconds away from detonation.
Above, the pious bombs continued their rapid descent as the conventional bomb casings ruptured, scattering cluster bomblets in a hundred meter radius.
He couldn’t wait any longer. Another few seconds and he’d find himself vaporized along with Casey and countless undead. He screamed the prearranged order into his helmet.
“Cover! Cover! Cover!”
Twenty meters to his left, Casey stumbled through the tree line. She didn’t see him and, running on a path perpendicular to his position, headed straight for the Bearcat which by now had released a large cloud of plasma vapor.
Matt cursed.
Then he ran.
As fast as he could, he streaked toward Casey. Even if the mages from the 81st were overhead and able to provide protection, he was making their job near impossible in becoming a moving target.
“Cover! Cover! Cover!”
It took him just over three seconds to chase Casey down and another half second to tackle her to the ground.
His voice turned from issuing orders to a desperate plea, “Cover! Cover! Cover!”
The pious bombs struck first.
The plasma above the Bearcat ignited immediately. The fire rapidly traced its way from the air into the still-leaking Bearcat vents.
The cluster bomblets hit the ground just as the Bearcat exploded.
The ensuing green and orange fireball lit the Isle like a small sun. The concussion wave that followed splintered trees. It flattened undead soldiers. And it brought Chalay Isline to his knees.
One thing was certain: Casey wasn’t going to make it out alive on her own. Worse, if the ill-conceived plan forming in his mind was mistimed by even a split-second, she wouldn’t have the chance.
Matt spied a small clearing three hundred meters away from her current position, directly in Casey’s path. It had to be there.
With no time to lose, he pushed the Bearcat into a dive and quickly relayed his proposal to Pilar. As expected, she made no promise of survival.
“I know,” he replied bleakly. “Just have your people in position. Once it’s over, either way, everyone’s under orders to get to the portal and back to Rhydin. If she and I make it through, we’ll take our chances down there.”
The undead continued their unrelenting surge, closing in on Casey with remarkable haste. Issuing one final set of orders to the remainder of his flight, Matt opened the shunts to the fighter’s plasma vents, approached the clearing and ran though the timing estimates in his head one final time. Pilar had already redeployed three of the 81st’s mage-carrying fighters from portal-bolstering duty to the Isle. At full speed, they’d arrive in just under a minute. He anticipated forty-five seconds before Casey broke into the clearing. The undead would follow ten or fifteen seconds later. Taking the Testmos’ speed, attack angle and clearance range into account, they’d have to release before Casey even reached the clearing. If Casey altered direction or slowed in the slightest, she’d die. If the fighters from the 81st were late or if the mages therein hadn’t the time or mana resources to complete the spell, they’d both die.
Zooming over Casey’s position as quickly as he dared, he throttled back dangerously and yanked the fighter’s nose upward into a near stall just above the clearing. Engaging the stabilizing thrusters before the fighter stalled completely, he smashed into the earth at a speed far greater than standard regulations recommended. Vented plasma coalesced and discolored the air, marking the path of his rapid descent. As the cockpit snapped open and he disengaged his safety restraints, he half-heard the Testmos’ pilots communicate that they’d reached their initial waypoint.
Tossing his survival kit onto the ground below, he leapt from the cockpit. He landed in a crouch next to the kit and before standing, withdrew his mage-empowered Gauss pistol. Hearing the roar of the Testmos’ engines as they neared, he wasted three precious seconds with his neck craned up, watching as the fighters loosed the remainder of their bombs, both pious and conventional. Snatching the kit from the ground, he ran as quickly as he could away from the Bearcat, seeking to intercept Casey once she breached the clearing’s perimeter.
Nearing the edge of the clearing, Matt knew something was wrong. Casey should have broken through by now. He came to an abrupt halt several meters from the tree line, anxiously scanning for a sign of her approach. He could both hear and feel the rumble of pounding feet as the undead neared. He could sense the proximity of the bombs, now mere seconds away from detonation.
Above, the pious bombs continued their rapid descent as the conventional bomb casings ruptured, scattering cluster bomblets in a hundred meter radius.
He couldn’t wait any longer. Another few seconds and he’d find himself vaporized along with Casey and countless undead. He screamed the prearranged order into his helmet.
“Cover! Cover! Cover!”
Twenty meters to his left, Casey stumbled through the tree line. She didn’t see him and, running on a path perpendicular to his position, headed straight for the Bearcat which by now had released a large cloud of plasma vapor.
Matt cursed.
Then he ran.
As fast as he could, he streaked toward Casey. Even if the mages from the 81st were overhead and able to provide protection, he was making their job near impossible in becoming a moving target.
“Cover! Cover! Cover!”
It took him just over three seconds to chase Casey down and another half second to tackle her to the ground.
His voice turned from issuing orders to a desperate plea, “Cover! Cover! Cover!”
The pious bombs struck first.
The plasma above the Bearcat ignited immediately. The fire rapidly traced its way from the air into the still-leaking Bearcat vents.
The cluster bomblets hit the ground just as the Bearcat exploded.
The ensuing green and orange fireball lit the Isle like a small sun. The concussion wave that followed splintered trees. It flattened undead soldiers. And it brought Chalay Isline to his knees.
With a tired groan, Chalay Isline struggled back to his feet, took stock of his squad and wondered just how much worse things could get. He had no idea of the cause behind the incredible blast that had nearly knocked him unconscious nor could he devote much time to worrying about it. Four mages, exhausted from working on the portal, had never disembarked from the assault shuttle. Two more had fallen in battle as the group made its way toward the Tower of Death; one of those had simply been overwhelmed by undead before the others could save her while the other ran out of mana mid-cast, leaving himself easy prey for one of the horsed Overlords.
With their mana nearly spent and his team a full one eighth the originally planned size, Chalay had little reason to hope they’d breach the Tower of Death via magical means. But just as they’d bolstered the RASG’s weaponry with magic, so had the RASG reinforced his team with technology. Each member of the squad carried a pack of time-delayed explosives they’d plant at the base of the tower in hopes of weakening the structure enough that it might induce the entire thing to topple over. Even with the few packs remaining, they still had a small chance of success.
Chalay reached up to wipe away grime and sweat from his brow with his left arm. He had to get his team up and moving again before undead overran their position.
Once everyone in the squad was upright and mobile, Chalay beckoned for them to move forward. In another sixty meters, they’d reach the edge of the compound and after that, it would be a mad dash toward the Tower. He hoped, indeed they all hoped, the RASG had killed enough of the undead to provide a relatively safe path.
Realizing he could hear himself think, Chalay frowned and looked up at the canopy of trees overhead. Engine noise from the RASG fighters had drifted away and nearly faded completely. That meant his team was on its own...also not part of the plan. They should have been well on their way back to the shuttle by now.
His team slowly picked its way forward but began to pick up speed. No foot soldiers or Overlords seemed near. The RASG had done its job.
With a satisfied nod, Chalay shifted his pack and broke into a light run as the rest of his squad did the same. They closed in on their target; guttural moans and sounds from wounded undead reached their ears but none was near enough to seem a threat. Chalay brought his team to a halt twenty meters from the border between the trees and the Tower of Death. He issued a few last minute instructions as his team all withdrew their explosive packs. Sucking in a deep breath, Chalay turned toward the Tower, ready to break into an all-out sprint until he reached the base.
He hadn’t taken a step when the brush in front of him burst open in a flurry of leaves and branches, followed by undead of a type they’d yet to encounter. Taken aback, Chalay’s mouth fell agape as a hulking monstrosity followed the smaller undead through. He heard, not with his ears but inside his head, a low guttural triumphant laugh as the creature reached down and plucked him from the ground without effort. A moment later, by the time his limp body dropped to the ground with its spine shattered into pieces, the rest of his team was no more.
With their mana nearly spent and his team a full one eighth the originally planned size, Chalay had little reason to hope they’d breach the Tower of Death via magical means. But just as they’d bolstered the RASG’s weaponry with magic, so had the RASG reinforced his team with technology. Each member of the squad carried a pack of time-delayed explosives they’d plant at the base of the tower in hopes of weakening the structure enough that it might induce the entire thing to topple over. Even with the few packs remaining, they still had a small chance of success.
Chalay reached up to wipe away grime and sweat from his brow with his left arm. He had to get his team up and moving again before undead overran their position.
Once everyone in the squad was upright and mobile, Chalay beckoned for them to move forward. In another sixty meters, they’d reach the edge of the compound and after that, it would be a mad dash toward the Tower. He hoped, indeed they all hoped, the RASG had killed enough of the undead to provide a relatively safe path.
Realizing he could hear himself think, Chalay frowned and looked up at the canopy of trees overhead. Engine noise from the RASG fighters had drifted away and nearly faded completely. That meant his team was on its own...also not part of the plan. They should have been well on their way back to the shuttle by now.
His team slowly picked its way forward but began to pick up speed. No foot soldiers or Overlords seemed near. The RASG had done its job.
With a satisfied nod, Chalay shifted his pack and broke into a light run as the rest of his squad did the same. They closed in on their target; guttural moans and sounds from wounded undead reached their ears but none was near enough to seem a threat. Chalay brought his team to a halt twenty meters from the border between the trees and the Tower of Death. He issued a few last minute instructions as his team all withdrew their explosive packs. Sucking in a deep breath, Chalay turned toward the Tower, ready to break into an all-out sprint until he reached the base.
He hadn’t taken a step when the brush in front of him burst open in a flurry of leaves and branches, followed by undead of a type they’d yet to encounter. Taken aback, Chalay’s mouth fell agape as a hulking monstrosity followed the smaller undead through. He heard, not with his ears but inside his head, a low guttural triumphant laugh as the creature reached down and plucked him from the ground without effort. A moment later, by the time his limp body dropped to the ground with its spine shattered into pieces, the rest of his team was no more.
As Jesse flitted to and fro within the Citadel, alternating between cackling with glee while her enemies retreated and howling with rage at the sheer insolence of their attack, she had no idea that a new even more dangerous enemy closed in on foot.
Anora had spent several minutes in an effort to locate the witch. Now that she had, she made no attempt to mask her approach with stealth. As she stalked forward, hatred for the witch burning in her eyes, she spoke the words of an old invocation that she’d learned long ago. First, she’d extract the witch’s soul. She would encase it and destroy it. Then she could set her own soul free.
Whirling around in a ballerina’s fouetté en tournant, Jesse halted abruptly when she spied her Lady Plaguetrest. The scowl on her face immediately turned to a delighted smile. Oblivious to the rage etched on Anora’s face, Jesse raised her arms as if ready to pull her creation into a giant hug.
“Ah, Plaguetrest! Are Skele-Fingers and Cryptor with you? I have plans, plans! You see my enemies run away! They are afraid! Or tired. Perhaps they’re tired. And afraid! Come, come,” Jesse beckoned with a singsong voice, “we have much to do to do, do to do to do to!”
Anora clenched her fists tightly before spreading her fingers wide. A few more feet and she’d grab onto the witch, place her hands on each side of Jesse’s head, and end her miserable existence.
Finally, Jesse clued in on Lady Plaguetrest’s mood.
“Are you upset? Don’t worry! We’ll rebuild your Shadow Legion! Better than before! Maybe next time we can add extra limbs to each member...then one can do the work of two!”
Jesse twirled again.
“Where would you be without me? Working with a legion filled with two-armed and two-legged creatures, that’s where. How awful for you! No wonder you’re upset. You know, you should have come to me with this idea weeks ago. Think of how much time we’ve wasted, and it’s all your fault!”
Jesse’s smile turned into a frown as she huffily stamped her foot. Clearly, Lady Plaguetrest wasn’t as smart as she’d believed. She’d need to do something about that. Lost in thought, Jesse didn’t realize that she was being lifted off the ground until her feet dangled in the air.
“Hey! Leggo!”
Jesse squirmed and kicked as Lady Plaguetrest sandwiched her head between both hands and lifted her off the ground, squeezing hard.
“Ow! What’re you doing? That hurts! Cryptor! Skele-Fingers! Hel...”
Simultaneously, both Jesse and Anora heard and felt a voice resonate through their minds. The voice, deep powerful and booming, shook their very bones.
“Enough! “Drop the witch!”
Not at all aware of Jesse’s screeching protests at being unceremoniously dumped onto the floor, Anora immediately obeyed out of sheer compulsion, turned around and gasped.
Anora had spent several minutes in an effort to locate the witch. Now that she had, she made no attempt to mask her approach with stealth. As she stalked forward, hatred for the witch burning in her eyes, she spoke the words of an old invocation that she’d learned long ago. First, she’d extract the witch’s soul. She would encase it and destroy it. Then she could set her own soul free.
Whirling around in a ballerina’s fouetté en tournant, Jesse halted abruptly when she spied her Lady Plaguetrest. The scowl on her face immediately turned to a delighted smile. Oblivious to the rage etched on Anora’s face, Jesse raised her arms as if ready to pull her creation into a giant hug.
“Ah, Plaguetrest! Are Skele-Fingers and Cryptor with you? I have plans, plans! You see my enemies run away! They are afraid! Or tired. Perhaps they’re tired. And afraid! Come, come,” Jesse beckoned with a singsong voice, “we have much to do to do, do to do to do to!”
Anora clenched her fists tightly before spreading her fingers wide. A few more feet and she’d grab onto the witch, place her hands on each side of Jesse’s head, and end her miserable existence.
Finally, Jesse clued in on Lady Plaguetrest’s mood.
“Are you upset? Don’t worry! We’ll rebuild your Shadow Legion! Better than before! Maybe next time we can add extra limbs to each member...then one can do the work of two!”
Jesse twirled again.
“Where would you be without me? Working with a legion filled with two-armed and two-legged creatures, that’s where. How awful for you! No wonder you’re upset. You know, you should have come to me with this idea weeks ago. Think of how much time we’ve wasted, and it’s all your fault!”
Jesse’s smile turned into a frown as she huffily stamped her foot. Clearly, Lady Plaguetrest wasn’t as smart as she’d believed. She’d need to do something about that. Lost in thought, Jesse didn’t realize that she was being lifted off the ground until her feet dangled in the air.
“Hey! Leggo!”
Jesse squirmed and kicked as Lady Plaguetrest sandwiched her head between both hands and lifted her off the ground, squeezing hard.
“Ow! What’re you doing? That hurts! Cryptor! Skele-Fingers! Hel...”
Simultaneously, both Jesse and Anora heard and felt a voice resonate through their minds. The voice, deep powerful and booming, shook their very bones.
“Enough! “Drop the witch!”
Not at all aware of Jesse’s screeching protests at being unceremoniously dumped onto the floor, Anora immediately obeyed out of sheer compulsion, turned around and gasped.
A black armored hulk, without helmet, stood tall and proud several feet away. Though the half-giant was hardly recognizable, she knew it was General Rothime. Trembling, Anora took a step backward as she drank in the horrific sight of the general’s helmetless head. The right-half of Rothime’s lower jaw was missing entirely and through the gaping hole, she could see that his mouth held no teeth. Too, his tongue had fused to the roof of his mouth, creating a grotesque mound of purplish flesh that swelled and shrank when Rothime attempted to move his jaw. His eyebrows had burned away and only a small jagged patch of blood-matted hair remained on his head, just above his left ear.
Though the ash, soot and blood smeared across Rothime’s face, Anora noticed that a glowing gold had replaced the pale blue of Rothime’s flesh. As she stood silent and frightened, the general ‘s chest bucked up and down as if in a deep hearty laugh.
A moment later, a peal of laughter rung in her mind, followed by his new voice.
“Come, Plaguetrest,” said the voice as the Rothime’s body beckoned her to his side. “Come. You see, the witch is nothing now. The foul magics she unleashed upon this hellborn island have made me...will make us all more powerful than she ever dreamed! For you see, I have died a second time and I am renewed as are many of our companion soldiers! You see how I have been altered. You hear my voice as it should have always been!”
Rothime gestured toward a window.
“And not just I. Those who were not obliterated by the sky-demons are changed. We were spared for a purpose! We have survived. We are transformed, reborn! We are Glandah! And I, as Jarl of this new breed, have declared war upon the sky demons, upon their masters, and,” Rothime jabbed a finger toward Jesse, “upon you, little witch.”
Jesse cocked her head, trying and failing to digest Rothime’s words. With a slight frown, she took a step forward.
“Your face went away and you don’t slur anymore and your voice rattle-rattles in mine head. How has this happened? Perhaps, I think...” Jesse paused. Her eyes darted about for a moment before she snapped her fingers. “I think we will find you a new bone to glue on so you cover up that terrible hole. But wait!”
Jesse leaned closer to Rothime, her frown deepening. “Why are you here? Did you rout our enemies? Are they shaking in terror? Is there new dead to join mine forces?”
She paused again, then screeched, “Nobody declares war upon me! Eye'm the Archmage! Eye'm the greatest! Eye'm the Vice-Admiral of a fleet of my own making! You take that bac...”
“SILENCE, WITCH!”
Rothime’s shout literally caused Jesse’s and Anora’s knees to buckle. Before Jesse could recover, the half-giant strode forward, plucked her from the ground, and casually tossed her across the room like a rag. Jesse skidded to a halt inside a small alcove of books, knocking several off of stone shelves as she crashed against them. With nothing more than a simple look from the Deathbringer, several golden bars spiraled from the ground. Twisting upward like charmed snakes, they imbedded themselves into the top of the alcove’s arched entryway, effectively creating a cell to contain the unconscious witch.
Smugly, Rothime turned away from Jesse and focused his full attention on Anora, who remained rooted to the ground.
“And now,” the voice thundered in her mind, “what to do with you?”
Though the ash, soot and blood smeared across Rothime’s face, Anora noticed that a glowing gold had replaced the pale blue of Rothime’s flesh. As she stood silent and frightened, the general ‘s chest bucked up and down as if in a deep hearty laugh.
A moment later, a peal of laughter rung in her mind, followed by his new voice.
“Come, Plaguetrest,” said the voice as the Rothime’s body beckoned her to his side. “Come. You see, the witch is nothing now. The foul magics she unleashed upon this hellborn island have made me...will make us all more powerful than she ever dreamed! For you see, I have died a second time and I am renewed as are many of our companion soldiers! You see how I have been altered. You hear my voice as it should have always been!”
Rothime gestured toward a window.
“And not just I. Those who were not obliterated by the sky-demons are changed. We were spared for a purpose! We have survived. We are transformed, reborn! We are Glandah! And I, as Jarl of this new breed, have declared war upon the sky demons, upon their masters, and,” Rothime jabbed a finger toward Jesse, “upon you, little witch.”
Jesse cocked her head, trying and failing to digest Rothime’s words. With a slight frown, she took a step forward.
“Your face went away and you don’t slur anymore and your voice rattle-rattles in mine head. How has this happened? Perhaps, I think...” Jesse paused. Her eyes darted about for a moment before she snapped her fingers. “I think we will find you a new bone to glue on so you cover up that terrible hole. But wait!”
Jesse leaned closer to Rothime, her frown deepening. “Why are you here? Did you rout our enemies? Are they shaking in terror? Is there new dead to join mine forces?”
She paused again, then screeched, “Nobody declares war upon me! Eye'm the Archmage! Eye'm the greatest! Eye'm the Vice-Admiral of a fleet of my own making! You take that bac...”
“SILENCE, WITCH!”
Rothime’s shout literally caused Jesse’s and Anora’s knees to buckle. Before Jesse could recover, the half-giant strode forward, plucked her from the ground, and casually tossed her across the room like a rag. Jesse skidded to a halt inside a small alcove of books, knocking several off of stone shelves as she crashed against them. With nothing more than a simple look from the Deathbringer, several golden bars spiraled from the ground. Twisting upward like charmed snakes, they imbedded themselves into the top of the alcove’s arched entryway, effectively creating a cell to contain the unconscious witch.
Smugly, Rothime turned away from Jesse and focused his full attention on Anora, who remained rooted to the ground.
“And now,” the voice thundered in her mind, “what to do with you?”
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