"Awakening", Chapter IV: The Mistborn

Incinerate your pathetic self-pity in the flames of Abyss, drown your traitorous self-doubts in the Ocean of Threads, exile your regrets to the frozen Void

- Arch-Prelate Urius  

‘Can’t you hear that? There is fighting just up ahead!’ Gareth spoke sharply to the elf walking in front of him as he halted and motioned others to do likewise.

What do you have those long pointy ears for anyway? Or did you mean to lead us here?

‘Yes, there is.’ Thuron answered with his usual infuriating calmness. Then he resumed walking the mist-veiled road. 

‘By Nether Hells, haven’t you said we must avoid battle as long as possible? How many are there?’

‘Close to a hundred. But it makes no difference.’

‘Are you insane? We cannot fight that many!’

‘We will not have to. We can pass here safely.’ The elf did not stop walking.

‘What, with their blessing? Whoever these men are, we cannot expect anyone to be our friend out here!’ Gareth hissed angrily as he caught up to the elf guide.

‘The land is too badly broken here, we cannot afford the delay of going around.’ Thuron said, more sorrowfully now.

That was true – the ravines practically riddled the landscape, Gareth knew that each was full of sharp debris, veiled by the treacherous mist.

‘They will not see us, or hear us, unless you keep on shouting. We are still under the protection of... my people’s legacy.’

‘Well, I can see myself, and you, and everyone else here, so what…’

‘Please, trust me. They do not see with their own eyes now.’ Thuron said with conviction, walking on confidently.

Then figures emerged from the mist, walking towards them in close formation, weapons in hand.

Everyone tensed, Elanor placed her hands on the hilts of her curved blades, Liam struggled to adjust his eye-glasses and Daniel put a hand on the star-cross hanging around his neck.

It was too late for stealth, if those men weren’t blind and deaf, they’d have spotted the small group. Gareth looked accusingly at Thuron – you’ve doomed us all.

His eyes seemed to answer him - if I had wanted you to come to harm, I believe I had my chance somewhere along the leagues we’ve put behind us, don’t you think?

The men did indeed move like sleepwalkers, only faster perhaps. Their eyes were veiled, and shone dimly in the gray haze surrounding them.

I suppose we just mustn’t bump into them, then…

They kept on walking, silent and tense, the uncertainty gnawing at each one’s nerves.

But there seemed no reaction from the armed men as their group approached them, then passed their vanguard, blending into their ranks. Gareth, still unsure it was not a ruse, examined the strange band from up close.

Scarred, ragged and filthy, these were unmistakably the Hinterland scavengers. There were too many though – Gareth never saw a band of more than twenty, no one could lead that many in the Hinterland wilds without having them jump at each other’s throats for the stolen scraps of food or get lost in the mist.

This group was close to a hundred and without an apparent leader.

Some looked like Neugardian thugs and pirates, others like brigands from the outskirts of Riverend, and the rest were Hinterlanders, local outlaws. A few actually looked more like former road guards.

They carried a broad variety of weapons - sabers, falchions, chains, clubs, axes and spears. All stolen or looted from corpses, Gareth didn’t doubt. But not all of those weapons were quite so ordinary, he noted.

Duncan noted that too, and he growled as the strange band sleepwalked past them.

One of the bandits was carrying a dwarven axe covered in blood. Suddenly, Gareth had a bad, twisting feeling in his gut… 

‘That’s it, boy, ye should’ve let it lie where ye’d found it!’

With a mighty swing of his heavy hammer, struck him squarely in the clavicorn with a sickening sound, and the thin man nearly broke in two, spraying gore, but not issuing a sound.

Elanor cursed the way only seamen - or sea-women - could, Thuron stopped dead and Liam almost squealed. Daniel seemed to want to come offer some rite to the slain man, but Gareth put an arm on his shoulder to halt him.

‘Get back, it’s going to get messy here now. You can offer your prayers for us, we’ll need them.’ Gareth said as he shoved the priest backward and drew his sword.

‘Aye, I’ve listened to cravens once, and that’s enough, ye scumbags ain’t going nowhere’ - Duncan hissed with fury as he brought down more of the zombified outlaws.

Soon they were all turning left and right frantically, arms outstretched, searching for them. Gareth noted that the white fog around their eyes dimmed and changed color to deep crimson.  

At least this way it’s easier to forget that these too are – or were - just unlucky men...

Resigned, and not wasting any more precious time, Gareth followed Duncan’s example. He swung his longsword, cutting down a large man with an axe who seemed close to shaking off the confusion caused by Thuron’s mysterious protection. And so the battle commenced.

Their elf guide took only a short moment to gaze hatefully at the rampaging dwarf, then his bow was in his hands and his own death count soon caught up to Duncan’s own - his archery was superb.

The bodyguard must have thought this a perfect spot, a defensible location with their back were to an edge of a deep ravine with thorny vines and jagged stones… If he thought at all, that is.

True, they could not be fully surrounded, but that was a small comfort given their numbers. Soon each of them will be fighting three or four of these men.

Perhaps being under than eldritch spell would dull their already lacking skills?

It better did.

The advantage of surprise – considerable as it was - was spent. And once their initial momentum was no more, Gareth realized just how outmatched they were by the numerous group – no, a war band really.

Worse still, there were fine fighters among these outlaws, and they seemed to possess none of the usual hesitance and gang-mentality often seen in road robbers. Indeed, these were strange foes - their tactics were different from what Gareth would have expected from their kind.

Had they not been afflicted, Gareth was sure some would be ‘waiting for an opening’, letting others take the initiative – and the hardest blows; while some would be rushing recklessly forward, eager to prove – or improve - their standing in the group’s hierarchy. But as it was, they split in threes and fours, and fought with a mechanical precision, though few had too great a skill with their stolen weapons.

Soon they managed to separate the outnumbered group and drive, splitting the six companions in three pairs.

Daniel stood behind Duncan, whose large shield and hammer were like a solid wall that swung a stone fist at you every now and then. But a few sneakier brigands leaped around the steadfast warrior and Gareth saw one get in close to the priest, dagger aimed at his neck. Daniel defended himself with his ironwood staff, but the outlaw got hold of it and was yanking it away with superior strength. Then the priest’s hand glowed brilliantly and as it touched the brigands wrist, the would-be killer shook violently and fell away, a smoking ruin of a man.

Elanor instinctively edged closer to the skilled sellsword and they fought back to back. Her skill became immediately evident, and for the moment, Gareth felt their position was strong.

Meanwhile, Thuron maintained a barrage of deadly arrows, standing in front of their wizard leader, alone but adamant and deadly, like a hero sprung out of an ancient legend.

The young mage too got a hold on himself, stopped wrenching his head from side to side. He began a series of gestures accompanied by complex verbalizations that Gareth was too amateur a mage to comprehend.

This better be a good one, Liam…

So far the fight was going well for Gareth, he felt he had a definitive edge over his opponents, surely, soon they would abandon their vane attempts and disperse… Won’t they?

Then he saw a huge man come at him with an axe in each hand, pushing others aside with his bulk.

Gareth noticed that he had more of the dark-red mist swirling around his eyes and mouth than the others; and his movements were less mechanical, more natural – and much more threatening.

Too soon, the axes came in with a fury, and he ducked, narrowly avoiding a decapitating blow and its follow-up. The man didn’t slow and Gareth could not begin to devise a strategy, all he could do was dodge, but if he retreated any more, he would open Elanor to attacks from behind.

The sellsword feinted a counter-attack, then went in below the deadly arcs of the brutal axes. He made a quick vertical cut as he tumbled forward, taking the axeman’s arm off. Then he wheeled, leap to the left and struck before his foe could bring up any defense. Amazingly though, he did have a defense – he opened his mouth and the red mist rushed at Gareth’s eyes, forcing them shut as the pain almost blinded him.

Still, even with his eyes closed, the mercenary felt the blade rend the flesh and decapitate the bulky man. Pleased by that victory, he was already coming around to defend against another opponent who was already bringing a rusty longsword down on him.

His eyes hurting, Gareth knew he could still manage a parry, and was doing just that, but then he retracted his blade at the last moment, letting the heavy swing cleave empty air, and his aggressive foe stumbled forward after it, further unbalanced by a minor kinetic push.

As the faceless swordsman flew past, Gareth whirled and struck him squarely across the spine…

A fine deathblow, but where are the cheers? Seems like I miss the verbal accompaniment to the slaughter... Damn, am I really becoming that kind of man?

The feeling of self-contempt evaporated quickly as he saw a familiar huge figure advance on him, pushing through his comrades. He recognized the man’s bulky frame and weapons, but his head was replaced with something he could not find a name for.

It was an appendage formed of mist, shifting continuously, taking this form and that, but mostly seeming to favor that of a wolf’s head and a snake’s… His arm meanwhile became a long tendril of the same reddish mist, the dripping blood absorbed by it as it extended more and more.

Unconcerned with Gareth’s expression of utter disgust and horror, the thing came at him, axe swinging, almost overwhelming him in his moment of confusion and dismay.

He dodged the axe narrowly, but the tendril touched him on the left arm and he felt it go numb. This was not going well.

Desperate, Gareth pointed his sword and sent a bolt of kinetic energy that pushed the hulking creature away for a second, letting him retreat as far as was possible.

He saw that Elanor was faring little better. Her speed and agility were growing less of an advantage with every moment. The two sabers still reaped rich harvest among the lightly armored aggressors, but the young woman herself was bleeding from a number of cuts - she wore no armor at all, though not without a reason, Gareth knew.

Gareth’s naïve hope of breaking the enemy’s spirit with merciless slaughter vanished. It was all he could do to keep lesser foes at bay and stay as far away as possible from the twisted brute as he defended against the relentless tide of flesh, steel and mist.

Meanwhile, the outlaws grew more aggressive, and were quicker to rush in with their attacks, thus serving as an obstacle in the large man’s path, one which he did not hesitate to cleave his way through... 

This wasn’t supposed to end like this…

Gareth shook of the sense of despair and looked around to assess the situation. Duncan was roaring some dwarven battle song as he fought. The priest’s magic mended his many wounds – even his dwarven armor was not impenetrable.

‘Duncan! What was your plan, you damned idiot?’

‘Plan? Just hold ‘em back till they’re all dead, wha’else?’

Or we are... Curse him. But what did I expect? It’s always like this when a dwarf gets a chance to fight for his clan... Just why did we let him drag us all into this?

But same as others, Gareth was at the end of his strength, and found himself glancing around for other options - ‘just holding them back’ was not going to work out.

Elanor was close to him, and she laughed with desperation when their eyes met.

‘I didn’t think I would die like this, killing men who won’t even regret killing me without taking their pleasure first...’  

For most of the battle, he had tried to work with precision, saving his strength, applying minor spells where he saw opportunity, otherwise staying purely on the defensive. Now, feeling the end closing in, almost seeing the deathblow coming for the exhausted female fighter, Gareth sent a wave of kinetic energy, giving it all he had left, trying to see some hope of victory or even of escape, anything.

Their closest attackers were blasted off their feet, five or six men who seemed to be without faces to him now. Some of them broke their limbs and one was unlucky enough to get impaled on a comrade’s spear.

But of course, the towering grotesque remained standing, walking right over the twitching bodies of his comrades with a sickening crunching sound of breaking bones. This time Gareth was deeply grateful that their foes did not issue any verbal reactions.

The creature was more misshapen than before – its head had solidified into something between a wolf and a serpent, a scaly neck and furry canine snout, all gnashing teeth.

Elanor stopped dead, stupefied by the sight - she had not seen the homunculus before, Gareth realized.

He saw that the mesmerized girl was about to be struck down, as the hideous tendril of mist extended towards her. So the mercenary rushed forward, pushing the female fighter out of the way.

Naturally, he got hit for his effort. This time the tendril connected somewhere near his heart, piercing inches deep into his chest and he felt it miss a few beats, his body going numb as he stumbled forward, dropping his sword. His vision blurred but did not fail him, and looking up from the blood-soaked ground, he saw the mist-born nightmare walking inexorably forward. His sword was out of his reach by mere inches…

A few strides away from him, the pirate she-wolf shook off her horrified stupor and sprinted toward the advancing enemy. Then she leapt up and kicked the brute with both feet on the chest, going higher up, narrowly avoiding the snap of the hideous jaws as the mutant’s serpent-like neck elongated upward.

Elanor kicked off the creature’s broad shoulders and summersaulted to land nimbly behind, poised to strike. She did in fact look like a goddess, Gareth’s numbed mind mused.

Then, his body still half-paralyzed, the sellsword watched one of Elanor’s blades pierce the hulking creature’s heart and the other rupture his lungs and worse…  

The horrid mist-spawn fell down on the knees, silently, its unnatural head already becoming less corporeal.

Gareth watched the mist leave him through the terrible wounds in his chest and midsection, and slither over the ground…

And as it did so, it seemed to penetrate into the mouths and ears of the felled brigands. Then their broken bodies began to rise up again.

No, no, no...

Still unable to rise, Gareth looked left and right to see how the battle unfolded elsewhere. Perhaps others could soon come to their aid?

Duncan’s foes still numbered around a dozen and the dwarf was increasingly on the defensive, using his shield more than his hammer now. Daniel no longer had the time to pray and do any healing magic – he had to defend himself as best as he could with the ironwood stick and that uncanny touch of light he possessed.

Thuron long swapped his bow for the twin blades – he was the most hard-pressed on them all, but he protected their wizard leader fiercely, seeming more like a deadly blur of motion than a single swordsman.

And there, behind him, Liam’s long incantation seemed at last to be reaching its end. His voice rose in a crescendo, summoning an eerie sound that grew to drown out all else, then snapped with a crackle of lightning as the spell was loosed on the gruesome battlefield.

It had no visible effect whatsoever.

Gareth felt the group’s morale sink as their last hope faded. Resigned, he stood up heavily, his limb shaking, if only to die standing.

There were more foes, and nowhere to expect any more help from. But they were still alive, all of them, and most importantly – Elanor…

‘You did well, pity it’s such an unfair fight.’ – he said to her ruefully as she came closer, wiping the blooded sabers on her already drenched shirt.

‘Aye, that it is. Thanks for what you did, I don’t like lying face-down in the dirt, brings back bad memories…’

‘Sure, but you repaid me when you finished that monstrosity. Ready?’

‘Always. It’s been long coming.’ - she looked bitter but resolved.

Gareth recalled his training with the knights. There, they were taught to summon the ‘borrowed strength’, that which you relied on after you last was spent. They said it came if you were true to your honor. Gareth was just desperate and afraid to die. What did that have to do with honor?

He looked at the woman standing next to him, covered in blood and sweat, but still beautiful; breathing heavily but ready to fight.

On impulse, he drew her close with his left hand – she seemed to expect this – and kissed her hungrily on her blooded wet lips. He felt himself fill with a sensation of fearlessness, beyond mere adrenaline or lust. Thus he learned that last strength could be summoned in many different ways.

He wished that the time would stretch, but it was ruthless, and too soon they had to part. Neither said a word, though their eyes spoke volumes, with their treacherous, unwritten language.

Not too bad a way to go, if you think about it.

And then the melee resumed, the two of them meeting more men and mist-slaves, still numbering dozens and with new dangerous limbs in place of the lost ones. The enemy would not relent, but Gareth found he no longer cared. Nor did Elanor, it seemed, and they just went on killing, working as one.

But their rhythm broke as a particularly nimble fighter disarmed Elanor and went for the kill, his broad falchion poised to impale the exhausted woman.

Gareth had no magic quick enough to stop him, but then he remembered he had something else up his sleeve, literally.

He pulled Tyrmond’s pistol and squeezed it the way he hoped it was supposed to be squeezed, aiming for Elanor’s opponent.

The shot was far from precise, but the thug’s right arm was hit and torn badly, bleeding all over; and his deadly falchion fell to the ground. More foes came, however, and Gareth didn’t have the slightest idea how to reload his pistol.

‘Hold on, friends, I think I have it…’ Liam’s high-pitched voice cut through the din, and Gareth grimaced, wondering what the hell he was blathering about, the useless tinkerer. But as they fought on, spending their last, Gareth saw the remaining foes were beginning to slow their attacks with every exchange.

Then they stopped altogether.

The mist hanging about their eyes and forming their missing parts dissipated, the raised men fell down, like grotesque mutilated dolls. Others were shaking spasmatically, as if waking up from a tenacious nightmare. Human expressions began to replace the masks of dumb indifference they wore as they fought.

Looking around, Gareth was relieved to see that others too were noticing the change – this was actually happening!

As the change took hold, almost at once, the remaining two dozen outlaws forsook their offense for retreat and fled as if the armies of the Warped Gods were behind them, screaming incoherently. 
It was over.