The art of MeritAmun

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Fate and destiny play a cruel game

Eerie silence reigned over the tiny hamlet that nestled beneath the crumbling edifice of the monastery as Nikolai’s band rode into view. Shapes flitted through the misty gloom, moving from one carefully built barricade or stone-walled building to another, the baron’s soldiery going about its preparations quickly and efficiently. Here a team of men hauled timbers and stone scavenged from whatever sources were available to add length and depth to another defensive strong-point. There other men had taken over the hamlet’s metal-worker’s shop, sparks and puffs of cinders billowing forth as strong arms placed a keener edge on weapons or hardened the carven spear-points of pike-length staffs of wood that lined the defensive emplacements like the quills of a porcupine. In the center of the defenses the open cobbles of the village square had been cordoned off by a thickly bristled and tall line of stone that curved into a half-moon shape following the curve of the mountain behind it. Centered almost exactly in the middle of that line and across the square, almost as if built into the mountain, stood an ancient but beautiful church behind its own fence of stone and wrought-iron. Terror-stricken mortal faces would turn to stare for a moment at the construction going on so swiftly in their normally quiet home before a more motivated or intelligent friend or relative would tug them back into motion, rejoining the line of huddled humanity as it made its way into the supposed sanctuary offered by the church.
Nikolai recognized one of his captains exchanging words with a trio of mortals, better dressed and fed than the others, obviously the official and unofficial leaders of the hamlet, as well as a figure in a grey habit with its hood pulled low over its face. Noting the consternation on the captain’s face and the mix of nervous anger and bad temper on the faces of the hamlet’s representatives he decided it would be best if he intervened before his man had to kill anyone to prove a point. With quick gestures and a few muttered words he dispatched Vlatko and Tristan to take their men to help with the clearing of the no-man’s land outside their defensive perimeter, a work which had progressed rapidly already by his estimate, leaving almost a hundred feet of level, empty ground behind the outer strong-points, the five of them set evenly around the inner half-circle like they were on the spoke of a wheel some twenty feet out and twenty-five feet apart. His bodyguard followed him in silence, their plate armor and full-visored helms leaving them anonymous and imposing upon the shadow-black nightmares they rode while at their center Nikolai sat easy upon his mount, creating a stark contrast in his own black wargear and robe of white silk, his helm with its horse-hair crest dyed crimson set upon his brow. His captain turned and saluted as he approached, ignoring the three mortals, and the baron noticed the monk’s hood bob in the approximation of a nod as he drew his steed to a halt. The three mortal’s faces all lost their color as they finally turned their attention to him, whatever they had been so determined to argue about fleeing from their thoughts as quickly as he suspected they now wanted to flee from him.
“What troubles my loyal subjects so that they must interfere with their baron’s best attempts to defend their lives against any and all threats?” Nikolai asked, his voice shocked that any such occurrence could actually happen. The richest of the three, most likely whatever petty bureaucrat that served as the titular head of the hamlet, looked like he was about to choke on his tongue while only the most plainly dressed, also the largest and most muscular, found his voice again.
“Exactly that, m’lord baron.” The large man pulled himself straight and saluted with admirable marshal bearing. Whether he had served under Nikolai, the baron couldn’t recall, but he decided that the man might actually have something useful to say so he accepted the salute and nodded for him to continue. “Not that I would wish to tell you your business, sire, nor do I share the queasiness for losing my property over my life like these two other fools, but myself and a few of the men here would lend our arms to our own defense if it pleases you. We’ve all seen service in one place or another and we’re not the sort to let others fight and die for what is ours while we can lift a blade.. sire.”
“That is a sentiment I can respect, my good man, and one which I happen to share, but I must warn you that what is coming is like nothing you’ve seen before.” Nikolai told the large man, being as honest as he could be, then he continued before any objections could be raised. “What I can offer you is a compromise, however, that should suit both of us. If you can arrange your volunteers together and guard the entrance to the church from anything that gets past us, then I think we can both agree that our honor has been assuaged. If you need any supplies or arms, just let my captain know and he can get you and yours sorted out.”
The large man nodded and Nikolai flicked his gaze to his man, the two of them heading away and conferring in low-tones, while that left the baron with the monk and the two rich men who seem to have recovered their voices. Before they could speak Nikolai pressed a finger to his lips.
“Shh. If I must waste another full minute of my time with any talk not military in nature, I’ll kill the man who so bothers me.” Nikolai’s threat rumbled out, low and dangerous. He waited for a five-count, then asked. “Why do I still see you standing here and not running for the church, you pair of stuffed hens?”
The gratifying speed with which the two men ran towards the doors of the church brought the slightest smile to his face. Finally he turned toward the figure in the monk’s habit.
“Greetings, Mirja, have you retreated to the cloister of the monastery now, or was the habit just a practical choice?” Nikolai bowed regally, or as much as he was able while mounted. In response the figure pulled back her hood, revealing that it was indeed Mirja, a wry smile flickering over her face before it returned to a sober seriousness that more suited the occasion.
“The latter, of course. Your senses are quite keen tonight, Nikolai, to sense me so easily, or perhaps my preparations were not as complete as I expected them to be.” Lord Kashtiran’s daughter said ruefully. “My father sends his greetings and bids me do what I can in the coming conflict. Might I inquire what details have been established so far?”
“Two hundred immortals, both infantry and calvary, are heading directly for us at this moment, with the rogue and at least three of his children in their midst.” Nikolai studied the reaction of the sorceress, looking to see if the numbers would cause her to let anything slip. He had learned from long association that despite her usual tendency to stay a step outside of immortal affairs that Mirja usually was as well informed, or even more so, about current affairs than the most clever spy.
“Two hundred is more than both our forces combined, he has brought his whole strength to this place and seeks to finish the game tonight one way or another.” Her answer was as much as Nikolai expected, but he took it as a mark that his own appraisal had been correct. “I shall need protection and a central place to work from if I am to affect the outcome, once I begin my workings they shall target me directly and stop at nothing to destroy me.”
“Choose your place, I shall see that it is protected as best as any can be, m’lady.” Nikolai turned to his faceless, anonymous bodyguard. “Tonight her protection takes precedence over mine, you shall see that no harm befalls her, not even the slightest distraction mars her concentration, while one of you is still able to act, am I understood?”
Almost as one the bodyguard rode silently around him to encircle Mirja and she nodded her thanks, then moved with them to a spot near the center of the square where there was a tiny patch of green, a garden, amongst the cobblestones. Nikolai took a long look up the mountain at the monastery’s looming presence, then wheeled his steed and headed for the center of his lines, where a commander should be.
Just as he reached them he heard the unmistakable pounding of hooves, feet and steel on steel in the distance. The battle was almost upon them and he raised his voice in a bellowed command.
“Make ready to receive charge!”

***

Stoyan and Dalzalar had come across the enemy column quickly after they had left the gathering point, for which Stoyan gave thanks to the foresight shown by his brother in the creation of their herd of nightmare mounts. The otherworldly horses were difficult to create and even more difficult to maintain in such large numbers, and a huge amount of the barony’s wealth went towards their upkeep, but at this moment the monstrous expense was made worth it. The tireless, soundless mounts were to even the best breed of horses what an immortal was to a normal human, and they were just as vicious and bloodthirsty. Their hooves were as sharp as a hardened steel blade and their teeth were as large and dangerous as any lion, they would account well for themselves tonight on the flesh of men and horses, he had no doubt.
Dalzalar’s thirty calvary wheeled hard to one side, as their plan of attack called for, so that they could hit the enemy lines in two places simultaneously where they could make the most of their fewer numbers and have the best chance of getting away without suffering major losses. Stoyan kept the count in his head, counting down the seconds as he looked left and right at the thirty immortals lined up on either side of him. The faces were set and grim, eyes hard as they concentrated on the combat they were about to launch into on his order. None of them suffered from the nervous tics that most mortal soldiery acquired, fear was more of an abstract concept than an overwhelming emotion to them, and if anything, Stoyan mused, they most likely only looked forward to testing their skills and strength against the rogue’s forces.
At a count of ten seconds Stoyan drew his saber, noting that along the line weapons filled hands just as silently. He wondered how many of them would be nothing but ash when the dawn sun rose, wondered briefly for a moment if he might be one of them, but pushed the thought away. At five seconds he raised the saber to point at the night sky, knowing its length would soon be dripping with blood and he felt his body react to the thought, the beast awakening inside him making him the same offer it always did. The speed, strength and heightened awareness he needed to survive and defeat his foes in exchange for its due in their blood. This night of all nights he could not refuse, though his control remained tight on the beast’s leash. Going into frenzy would only get him killed, and he was no use to his brother if he was dead, not unless that death tipped the balance of his family’s fortunes back into their favor. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but he was prepared for it if it did, clinging to that simple fact as tightly as he always had, placing himself secondary to the continuation of his family.
As he finished his count and dropped his saber to point in the direction of the enemy column and loosed his grip on the mental reins of his steed, he left those thoughts where he had been, moving forward into the present both mind and body as the line of calvary charged through the trees and into battle.

***

In the darkness the nightmare mounted loyalist riders were only blurs of moving shadow, a disturbance caused by the wind or perhaps a flock of birds taking to the air from the bushes to all but the sharpest senses. Even to the immortals riding under the rogue’s banner, alert and ready for any such sneak attack, it took them a moment, one long second, to realize they were under attack, and it cost those on the edge of the column their lives as one second was all the time the loyalist calvary needed to cross the distance and be amongst them. Blades and spiked maces whistled as they cut through the air and cleaved into necks and shoulders of the marching infantry, causing grievous wounds upon those unlucky enough to be hit. Immortals dropped or were spun away by the sheer force of the blows, limbs flailing and jerking in the shock of surprise and pain as their precious blood fountained from severed veins and arteries. A second later the calvary was through the column of infantry, only the quickest amongst them having time to wrench their weapons around for another strike before they were carried beyond their enemy. Only a single of Stoyan’s warriors hadn’t made it through the lines, his nightmare having been tripped up by a soldier it had attempted to trample. Now it spun in place, rearing and kicking out with its deadly hooves at those who were now besieging it and its rider, who himself was laying about with his long-hafted axe in precise, methodical blows. More than a few of both the rider and steed’s strikes hit their targets, sending the foreign soldiers staggering away clutching wounds or spitting blood, but in the time it took the loyalist calvary to come around to being their second charge he was gone, pulled from his mount, the nightmare itself staggering as spear after spear pierced its hide.
Dalzalar smiled wickedly, having come through the initial charge without losing a man, though he knew that would change soon enough. Still, it was a point of pride that the Kasthtirans hadn’t lost the first man, and it made the beast howl even louder in his ears. The enemy were forming up admirably fast as their second charge began and his smile widened, they had a surprise coming if they thought they could use the standard anti-calvary tricks against nightmare mounted calvary. He chose his target and readied himself to brave the wall of razor-sharp pikes and spears looming ahead of him.
The second pass of the loyalist calvary took no more time than the last, measured in a few seconds, and was just as devastating. A few scant feet from the raised spears the nightmares launched themselves skyward, sixty riders simultaneously taking to the air in a great leap that carried them past the hastily erected defenses and into the midst of the still scrambling soldiers. Sharp hooves shattered skulls and bones, blades slashed through tendon and muscle, maces and hammers crashed through shields, armor and into the bodies they attempted to protect. Then the loyalists were through the line of infantry again, speeding into the night-shrouded trees, leaving only two of Dalzalar’s Kashtiran riders trapped behind them, laughing as they dealt out as much carnage as they could before the weight of numbers brought them down.
Each of the loyalist calvary had done their share of damage to the foe, even if they had only wounded those they had struck, every blow helped to even the odds they faced. By Stoyan’s estimation, they might have permanently put down perhaps a dozen of the enemy and seriously wounded twice that number. A good trade for only three losses, he observed, but a single question remained to haunt him. Where was the rogue and the calvary that Vlatko and Tristan had reported? If their foe was as canny as he thought he was, the answer came all too readily. He had done the same as they had, riding ahead to test the defenses of the monastery.
He waved a signal to Dalzalar as the Kashtiran rode closer, knowing they were needed at the base of the mountain as quickly as they could arrive even before he heard the sounds of battle in the distance.

***

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To the mortals amongst them the riders appeared almost like phantoms in the darkness of the encroaching forest when they finally noticed their approach. The immortals, on the other hand, sensed the threat in any number of ways long before their mortal cohorts became aware of it and certainly well before the semi-circle of mounted figures became visible between the trees. Uniform amongst them all was the galvanizing effect their foes’ appearance had upon their resolve, the busy hub-bub of preparations being made silencing instantly as each defender took up their appointed place in the porcupine-like defensive lines, checking their armor and gripping their weapons in expectation of the coming onslaught. No illusions were held, no false concepts of decorum or mercy upon the battlefield to be remained in even the greenest of the assembled warriors, leaving only a grim determination to survive whatever might be coming. The calm before the storm had set in and the deathly quiet of a tomb ensconced the tiny hamlet beneath the monastery like a surreal moment of imagined deafness.

As the enemy riders cleared the trees, proceeding in ordered and even ranks into the no-man’s-land the loyalist work-teams had cleared, a low thunder filled the gauzy silence. Faint at first, like an echo half-heard, then louder and more immediate with every horse’s hoof that touched ground, the wave of sound built up volume and tempo until the very teeth of the defenders felt loose in their skulls. Orders would have been wasted in comparison to the unearthly din, even those shouted by an immortal’s powerful voice, but none were needed. Each man, mortal or otherwise, bent themselves to their set task, aiming powerful bolt-fingers that were only vaguely reminiscent of crossbows and required a crew of men to operate, lifting the black iron pikes designed to catch an immortal upon their barbed crossbars in teams of three or four, while yet others hefted heavy axes and thick-bladed zweihanders with which to dismember any immortal who became so entangled. In the very center a meager line of heavily armored knights, the baron’s personal guard, waited shoulder to shoulder with their liege-lord, each one amongst them ready to die a second time to ensure their master’s survival.

The first line of riders was almost upon them, only a few dozen yards from the edge of the lines and pressed close, almost knee to knee, as the bolt-flingers let fly. The twang of their steel cables was lost in the noise of the calvary charge and the arm-length, iron-tipped hardened-oak bolts shot out seeking flesh in the target-rich environment so quickly that only the most observant immortals could follow their flight, which did nothing to diminish the visible results of the deadly volley. Horses faltered in their headlong gallop, the force of the impacts nearly stopping in them in their tracks, sometimes sending them crashing disastrously under the legs of their fellows and causing small piles of broken bone and torn flesh to dot the line of the charge. Varieties of undead and immortals were skewered or pulped in sprays of pinkish mist when the wickedly heavy and barbed iron heads struck them, the unspent force casting them like child’s dolls through the air in awkward, flailing arcs or sudden reversals in direction carrying them back the way they had come. Others slumped in their saddles, or fell from them, burst open like smashed gourds while the instruments of their destruction continued on past into the serried ranks behind where they had markedly less accuracy but equally disastrous effect. Rarely a rider would leap from his falling steed as if hurled forward by a catapult, spinning and flipping through the open air towards the waiting mass of iron pikes and stone-faced killers milling about them, while still more rarely a rider would merely shift impossibly out of the path of the hurtling bolts, bending low over their horses’ necks, urging them to greater speed.

Forces along the line shifted like clockwork, the bolt-flingers’ crews disappearing behind raised pikes as they hurriedly worked the cranks on their weapons, measuring haste with common sense so as to not risk snapping the tautening steel wires that were capable of slicing them and all those about them to unidentifiable chunks of meat while others calmly slotted home fresh bolts as soon as their mechanisms were locked and ready. No effort was made to fire a second volley yet, the enemy riders in the first wave were only a scant dozen yards from the sharpened points of the pikes and the fortifications their wielders sheltered behind, they would be unloosed upon the survivors of the initial charge once its force was spent as well as the second wave of riders following closely behind them. Surveying the damage the archaic devices had inflicted from his position amidst the center of his forces, the baron was both proud of the damage they had caused while inwardly he cursed at the limited number of casualties they had produced, knowing that the odds were still far from anywhere in his favor.

The chaotic symphony that ensued moments later as the calvary charge hit the fortifications was truly ghastly to hear. Horses screamed as the were mercilessly ridden into the shallow trench filled with wooden spikes at the base of the low stone walls that formed the defensive emplacements in the line, timber bent with groans and cracked with pops that sounded like black powder explosions all up and down the trench. Iron pikes creaked and warriors shouted in their native tongues as the first, unlucky few, victims who had leaped early rather than crash to the ground with their mounts, were caught fast on the barbed crossbars and wrestled to the ground even as the hatchets and blades began to rise and fall upon them. More eyes turned skyward, the second and third ranks of pikemen craning their necks to follow the mass of airborne immortals that followed the first few, each rider having jumped the moment before his steed’s impact into the defenses, which while propelled by preternatural strength sent them soaring past the quills of the outer defenses and into the hastily scrambling to reorganize back ranks.

It wasn’t so much a surprise, one could not battle immortals and allow for anything to be a surprise, but the tactic was not quite what had been expected, just as the sudden appearance of the renegade’s calvary meant the baron’s strategy of harassing it with his own had gone awry. Assessing the situation from amongst his bodyguard, knowing that his own calvary was out beyond the defenses somewhere, along with the renegade’s column of infantry, concerned Nikolai deeply, yet other matters must take his full attention for the moment. For instance the second wave, two ranks of calvary already shifting themselves into a wedge aimed at the left of his formations, where Vlatko and Tristan had command, hoping to split the two redoubts apart and forge a pathway of dead horses and soldiers into the rear of his defenses, to the entrance to the monastery itself. Passing orders along he eyed the spear-head of calvary warily, fighting against his urge to commit himself so early in the battle, knowing that now of all times he must trust his child and his commanders to fulfill those orders without his direct oversight, Nikolai bared his fangs in a hiss of frustration and rising blood lust. They would hold, he thought to himself as the bolt-flingers released their second deadly volley, they had to at least until their own calvary arrived in support, but where in all the hells of his past were Dalzalar and Stoyan, and what were they doing with that calvary they needed so badly?

***

Vlatko would care where his uncle and his Kashtiran ally were if he had the time to spare, but at the moment given the maddeningly heavy nature of the melee besieging his anchor-point in the line he barely had time to notice the size of the impending second calvary assault that seemed aimed directly at his and Tristan’s positions, or more specifically the slight space between them. The baron’s child thought furiously to himself, all the while keeping his shining Eastern-style blade whipping about him almost as if it itself was alive and seeking to kill or incapacitate his enemies all on its own. The sabers carried by the majority of the rogue’s troops were excellent for strikes while on horseback, but they suffered from a lack of flexibility with their single-edged blades that made it difficult to reverse them or stab with the tip as the opportunity presented itself.

He demonstrated the flaw for the second and third time in quick succession as a pair of the rogue’s soldiers who had escaped or avoided the deadly traps of the pikes rushed him from opposite sides as he yelled for his position’s two bolt-flingers to loose and the crews to rally to him. Dropping as if his knees had gone out and balancing on his free hand, his first thrust slid up under the jaw of one of his attackers, puncturing clear through the top of his skull, then slid out in time for him to arch his back and extend the whip-like blade in a lightning parry that deflected the second attacker’s attempt to take his head off so that it knocked the man’s guard off his centerline and allowed Vlatko to use the impact’s momentum to slash the man’s throat from ear-to-ear, nearly decapitating him fully. Rising back to his feet, shouting more orders furiously for whatever good they might do, he caught sight of the unmistakable mane of golden hair amidst sprays of carmine and scarlet that was Tristan in battle across the narrow street between their positions. The leonine immortal almost casually split his last opponent in half and met Vlatko’s gaze, smiling fiercely, before nodding to his partner and turning back to the defenses of his own redoubt. Vlatko quickly followed suit, finding himself wearing a similarly predatory grin for no reason he could explain, sheathing his sword and grabbing up one of the massive iron pikes as he took a place next to his men, readying himself to receive the coming charge along with them.

***

Mirja almost giggled, her head swimming with the scent of blood being spilled across the battlefield, but her discipline stifled the distracting emotional high such a massive amount of bloodletting summoned in her. Standing in the rear of what passed for a town square in the tiny hamlet she knew so well, her naked body exposed as a fierce wind that had nothing to do with the weather set her light silk robe and unbound hair fanning out behind her as she stood over the tiny brass bowl set above a brazier in front of her. Focusing on the present, on what she must do, took an effort of will and she produced a tiny phial, much like the ones the baron’s soldiers had been given, but infinitely more precious as the baron’s blood, which it contained, was completely undiluted. With her talents and the single drop of blood that she held in her hand she could corrupt or destroy the baron’s entire blood-line and the myriad possibilities threatened her concentration once again, shaking her head to clear it of anything but her true goal.

Quickly, before she could get lost again, she emptied the phial into the brass bowl, her eyes find the flow of the battle, see the hammer blow the rogue intends to land on the baron’s flank. Smiling with a self-satisfaction that goes beyond any veil of sanity she draws a silver razor from somewhere and uses it to slice deep furrows in her wrists, the pain focusing her will and her will focusing the trilling call of the blood surging around her. Her blood dripped into the sizzling bowl, mixing with Nikolai’s, the catalyst needed to link her will to his blood and let loose her conjurations. Spreading her arms wide, channeling the strength she drew from the slaughter around her into the link, she fed that strength into all those with Nikolai’s blood that she could reach. She slipped into a swirling trance, the sounds of battle retreating until all she could hear was her own maddened laughter.

***

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The enemy calvary crashed upon the defenses like a storm-driven wave breaking against jagged cliffs, almost as if trying to do in a single instant what natural erosion would accomplish over long years. This detail wasn’t lost to the eyes mindful of strategies and tactics watching from across the battlefield, measuring the motivations and purposes of the rogue in this attempt to breach the defensive line drawn around the single entrance to the monastery that loomed above them all. Inside the silence of Nikolai’s helm, unbroken by breath or speech, the baron contemplated the cresting mass of horse-flesh and undead threatening to overwhelm and crush the defenders of the small gap in his lines, Vlatko on one side and Tristan on the other. He suppressed once again the desire to unleash the beast howling in his soul and join the combat, to batter and slash until his sword was bent and dulled, to then toss it away and rip apart these lesser creatures, the rogue’s fodder, with his talons and teeth. Instead, with a simple thought, his bodyguard moved around him in a fair approximation of the ancient phalanx formation of his living life’s history, moving carefully around him as he himself shifted position so that he would stop the advance of any of the enemy that made it through the line, yet still be able to view the battle as a whole. The rogue’s banner flew in the center of the wedge, and Nikolai would not let the night end without a reckoning between them.

***

The pike in Vlatko’s grip bent, despite its thickness and the reinforcements meant to prevent it from doing so, as he managed to spear another horse and its rider on the barbed crossbars, the torque of the impact sending him stumbling as it threatened to lift him into the air, forcing him to let go. The men of his command who were free, wild-eyed and berserker minded, fell upon the fallen foe with their heavy blades rising and falling in a slaughter-house rhythm, more dark blood and gore slicking the muddy mess of the frozen ground, only the hot blood of the horse steaming as it fell. Despite the sudden extra strength that had possessed his warriors, Mirja’s doing he suspected, the sheer amount of the enemy pressing in was beginning to take its toll. The evidence of it was, literally, all around him as he fought for balance in the muck and piles of corpses which included faces he recognized more and more often.

He looked for another pike briefly but gave up and drew his sword again as he didn’t notice one that wasn’t ruined or already in use, already rushing forward to rejoin the line when he caught the barest whisper of sound and ducked into a roll. Something stung his ear, the sharp bite of pain angering him more than anything else, and as his feet found purchase he propelled himself sideways, changing direction randomly in an attempt to avoid whatever blow would coming next, and only managed it partially as he felt another blade bite through his armor and scratch the skin between his shoulder-blades. He planted a foot and spun on his heel, weaving the whip-like blade of his sword in a complex pattern around his body, deflecting two more strikes meant for his throat and groin before he identified his attackers, the twin females he’d seen riding at the rogue’s side, each with a katar, a middle-eastern punch-dagger, in each hand and the round disk of a buckler worn on each wrist. They moved in a disconcerting not-mirror of the other, their movements appearing well choreographed yet never exactly the same and always with one moving a fraction of a moment before or after the other, creating no visible patterns that he could yet see. A mortal man might have been distracted by their shared shapeliness and beauty, accentuated by the revealing armor that they wore, but Vlatko only saw the monstrous thirst in their eyes and the bared fangs revealed by their voluptuous lips as they were distorted by twisted snarls of hatred.

As one they moved to circle him, the first darting low to his left and the other spinning, blades outstretched, high and to his right. He dropped a knee, making as if to roll out from between them again, the one to his right falling for the feint and spinning to punch a katar at where his arm-pit would have been if he hadn’t risen straight up instead of diving forward, pirouetting neatly on the ball of his foot and kicking out a foot aimed at the other’s temple. His blade flicked out and up to his right, opening a bloom of crimson as its point whipped across the bare throat of the twin that had overreached herself, her head suddenly hanging at an awkward angle as she tumbled forward, the scream of her twin gratifying in its horror as she blocked his kick, only barely managing to knick his thigh with a wild thrust of her blades. Shifting his hips and spinning into the air, Vlatko struck a beaked fist into the now exposed vertebrae at the nape of the girl’s neck, letting gravity add its force to his own preternatural strength. He felt bone shatter under his knuckles, his remaining opponent sprawling out limp beneath him as he landed on her back. Given time and blood she could heal the damage he’d done, even to something as sensitive as her spinal column, but he didn’t even give her time to realize her fate as he wrapped his arm about her pretty head and yanked with all his strength, twisting and pulling until he felt his prize rip free of the skin, muscle and tendons that had secured it in place.

He stood, dropping the disembodied head and casting his eyes around for the other twin in case there was some life left in her despite the vicious wound he had dealt her, when he was picked up and slammed backwards into the headless corpse by something that had punched into his chest like a nightmare’s kicking hoof. Within a sudden haze of shock he looked at the thickly-carved arrow shaft, its black and red fletching, that jutted from his chest just above his heart, having missed puncturing the organ by the tiniest of margins. His own blood dribbled from his lips as he tried to curse and found himself unable to draw in the air to do so, scrabbling in the sludge beneath him in a failed attempt to stand as he realized he was affixed to the corpse beneath him by the barbed tip of the arrow, that if he wrenched himself off of the shaft his life-blood would well out of him in a few scant minutes. For the first time in over a century he felt suddenly, irrevocably helpless, but he pushed that thought aside and summoned every ounce of ego and arrogance that he could as he looked up into the eyes of the third daughter, sat upon her horse just ten yards away, another arrow already knocked and drawn, ready to fire from the vicious composite bow in her hands. He cast a bloody sneer in her direction, saluting with his free hand with as much flippancy as he could muster, consigning himself to having lived both his lives to the best of his abilities, thinking of his family, his honored father and sweet sister, wishing them his love though he didn’t have the strength to send the message far enough.

The last daughter of the rogue nodded once in reply to his mockish salute, time slowing as he watched her fingers uncurl from the bowstring and loose the shaft that wouldn’t miss his heart this time, but as his vision tunneled-out. He didn’t feel the impact as it hit, wasn’t even able to follow it as it flew, but in his blurring sight he saw a gilded, leonine form swinging what looked like a massive bar of metal, maybe a sword, appear in an explosion of spraying crimson and flecks of torn flesh where the rogue’s daughter was only a lifetime ago. It approached at a run, quicker than he could follow, stopping at his side and clarifying into shape as Tristan, a panicked look on his usually expressionless features.

“It is alright, my friend,” Vlatko managed to gurgle. “Serve my father well, in my absence and tell Raya she always had and will have my love.”

“Shut up, Vlatko. You’re not dying, you melodramatic fop, you just need blood,” rumbled the granite-upon-granite basso voice of the huge warrior, already opening his wrist and bringing it to his friend’s lips. “Drink while I get you unstuck.”

Vlatko could do little else, instinct overriding his thoughts as the heady scent of rich blood invaded his senses, clamping himself to the offered wrist. There was a sharp pain in his chest, the crackling of bone and snapping of wood, then the world tilted, sending a vertiginous shudder through his stomach as the big man lifted him from the ground and supported as he found his feet. Vlatko pushed himself away in a groggy stumble, releasing his friend’s wrist before he could grow too attached, already feeling better and feeling that much more a fool for having gotten himself into such a predicament in the first place.

“Thank you, Tristan,” he rasped, then cleared clotting blood from his throat. “It appears I owe you once again, how many times has that been, now? Tristan? I said how many…”

Vlatko turned, seeing his friend standing, but wobbly, like he was a drunken mortal, a few feet away. His bright eyes spoke a mute farewell, and then the big man tumbled to the churned mud at Vlatko’s feet in two separate halves, bisected neatly and almost soundlessly by a dark rider’s curved blade as he rode past. Keening in anguish, Vlatko fell to his knees at his oldest friend’s side, but the man’s eyes were empty, staring sightlessly up at the stars.