Author's note: I hadn't intended it to take as long as it did to finish this up, but better late than never. Thanks to Lilira and Sotana for their help orchestrating everything.
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It had taken most of the night, but dawn was still a few hours away when the inn came into view. The Weary Ferryman was a fair sized inn for those travelers who didn’t feel comfortable staying in Luskan or couldn’t make it inside the walls before night. The Ferryman was fairly popular, and had required a great deal of restraint to pass by the first time, but at only half a day’s ride from the city, he couldn’t run the risk of drawing attention to himself. This time it would provide both new horses and a much-needed release.
The building was two stories, the bottom mortar and stone, the top wood with a red tile roof. It could hold at least a dozen guests with ease, and usually housed half that even when business was slow. At the moment almost all of the windows were still dark, but the soft glow of lamplight spilled into the pre-dawn gloom from the back of the lower floor where the kitchen likely was. The smell of fresh bread and roasting meat filled the air as he drew closer, and it mingled with the faint undertone of straw, manure, and animals from the stables.
He pulled the wagon to the side of the building so it couldn’t be seen as easily from the road. A quick glance inside told him that many of his prisoners had collapsed, surrendering to the stress-induced exhaustion of the day, and the rest simply watched him with fear etched clearly on their faces. After checking his rolling cell, he took stock of himself. The blood of the slaughtered horses still covered him, now a dry, brownish crust on his skin and clothes.
“You should really do something about that, you know. You are making me look bad,” said a voice in his ear. “Besides, you wouldn’t want to draw any attention before you are ready for it, would you?”
As much as he wanted to ignore the arrogant fool, the mortal was right. His vessel was only good as a disguise now that he could not access its knowledge. As long as he was caked in blood, it would not even function in that capacity. A drinking trough stood in front of the inn’s porch, along with a hitching post, and he used the water in the trough to clean himself as best he could. He would see about new clothes afterwards, when he had a chance to go through the guests’ things.
When he was reasonably clean, he stepped into the taproom and glanced around, trying to decide where to start. His gaze passed over the bottles lining the shelves above two large kegs behind the bar. Though he could smell the woman bustling about the kitchen, and the guests asleep upstairs, he was struck with a strong craving to open one of those bottles and sample the contents. He couldn’t imagine where the urge came from, as he wasn’t even certain what the dark liquid was.
“Oh come now, the least you could do is pour me a drink if you are going to insist on using my body.”
“You did this?” the creature growled under his breath. He was concerned with the amount of control the mortal had regained over the vessel.
“What can I say?” Cirath replied, “Once I got back inside, slipping a craving in was easy. Besides, even you need to rest some time.”
“I am not weak like your kind, you little worm!” he snarled, a bit louder than he had intended.
The woman in the kitchen poked her head into the room, flour smudging her nose and eyes squinting as she tried to make out the form standing in her dark taproom. “Mornin’ sir, sit wherever you like. I’ll be in to light the lamps in a bit, but breakfast will still be an hour or so.” With that said, she went back to her duties.
“You see,” Cirath said, “they aren’t going anywhere. One drink, and I will leave you alone all day.”
Between the induced craving and the offer, the creature couldn’t resist. He crossed the room and rounded the end of the bar to retrieve a bottle and a cup. It had only been a day since the mortal entered his head, and already the thought of silence once more gave him a sense of what joy must feel like. The human had been tormenting him almost incessantly since he had been pushed into that blind rage, and his nerves were tattered from controlling the anger.
As the dark red liquor passed his lips and warmed his insides, he felt a rush of satisfaction and pleasure. He had no doubt that they were passed on from the mortal, but it was the first pleasant experience he had had with emotion so far, and decided to allow it.
He sat there for some time, enjoying the drink, and feeling no pressing need for once. At some point the woman from the kitchen, plump, middle-aged and motherly looking, came in to light the lamps in the room. He hardly noticed though, relishing the calming flow of emotion the same way the mortal was savoring the brandy they drank. Some time later, the cook returned with a large plate of food, making a bit of polite conversation that he didn’t hear, and pocketing some gold coins he didn’t remember placing on the bar.
After she left, he dug into the meal in front of him, taking as much pleasure from it as from the now half empty bottle. He was nearly finished with the meal, when a loud gasp, followed by frightened whimpering and pleas for help came from outside. Drawn back to his senses suddenly, irritation welled up in him for allowing himself to be distracted. He stood and headed for the door, thinking some early riser had stumbled upon his prisoners. As he stepped out into the slowly lightening morning, he was greeted with a slightly different sight.
“Not quite what I was hoping for,” Cirath said in a smug voice, “but it might do…”
Before the Dawn
Moderators: Shar, Auril, Eilistraee
With Sotana’s arrival, I felt as though we might be able to do something. The dwarves had agreed to battle beside us. We began planning, me cursing the fact we didn’t know more about Cirath, or whatever was in him. Looking at everyone thoughtfully, I asked if Tukan would mind scouting Luskan for us.
“Please, don’t go near him alone. Just see if you can figure out what he’s up to and give us warning when he heads this direction,, if he heads this direction.”
I pondered for a minute, and then continued. “There’s a largish inn about a day outside Luskan. We’ll wait, and meet you there. If he hasn’t glutted himself in Luskan he may head there to kill.”
“I’ll be accompanying my brother, with my song we’ll be able to travel more swiftly to get ahead of the monster and get ye your warning,” Torik interjected.
I shrugged in acceptance, who was I to come between family, and the dwarf did have a point.
“Now lass, I be knowing my job.” Tukan scolded me, and with Torik beginning his song, the pair headed north. I stared at everyone else for a moment, before shrugging and beginning a traveling tune to take us to the inn.
We reached the Weary Ferryman quickly, about half a day later, and the four of us headed into a private dining area.
“So. Anyone have any ideas what we’re gonna do when he gets here?” I looked to Sotana and the dwarves. I’m a bard, great for inspiration, but horrible at planning.
I had the glimmer of an idea, and I put it forth. By the time I was done, I could see that Sotana wanted to disagree, concerned at what must have seemed to be my reckless plan to endanger myself.
“’Tana, its better that I endanger myself to draw him out, then to plan to attack him inside the inn where others might get in the crossfire. At least we know he’s dangerous.”
“Please, don’t go near him alone. Just see if you can figure out what he’s up to and give us warning when he heads this direction,, if he heads this direction.”
I pondered for a minute, and then continued. “There’s a largish inn about a day outside Luskan. We’ll wait, and meet you there. If he hasn’t glutted himself in Luskan he may head there to kill.”
“I’ll be accompanying my brother, with my song we’ll be able to travel more swiftly to get ahead of the monster and get ye your warning,” Torik interjected.
I shrugged in acceptance, who was I to come between family, and the dwarf did have a point.
“Now lass, I be knowing my job.” Tukan scolded me, and with Torik beginning his song, the pair headed north. I stared at everyone else for a moment, before shrugging and beginning a traveling tune to take us to the inn.
We reached the Weary Ferryman quickly, about half a day later, and the four of us headed into a private dining area.
“So. Anyone have any ideas what we’re gonna do when he gets here?” I looked to Sotana and the dwarves. I’m a bard, great for inspiration, but horrible at planning.
I had the glimmer of an idea, and I put it forth. By the time I was done, I could see that Sotana wanted to disagree, concerned at what must have seemed to be my reckless plan to endanger myself.
“’Tana, its better that I endanger myself to draw him out, then to plan to attack him inside the inn where others might get in the crossfire. At least we know he’s dangerous.”
Judging by the stubborn set of Lilira’s jaw, I would be wasting my breath if I attempted to talk her out of this dangerous plan. Even as I nodded in reluctant acceptance, my mind began to work out the alternate arrangements I would need to make to ensure her safety. Whatever Cirath had become might be a menace to many innocents but I had come in response to Lilira’s summons and my first priority was keeping her from danger.
With our general strategy laid out, the meeting adjourned and we all settled into the inn to wait. Although I hadn’t tried to dissuade Lilira from her plan, I had managed to convince her to hold off a few days until I heard from my old friend Yadir who was trying to collect any information that might help us understand what we were facing. With every day that passed, my hope of his discovering the information we needed to defeat Cirath diminished. Our small group was growing restless with inaction and I knew that I didn’t have much longer before they would grow tired of the waiting and move ahead with Lilira’s risky idea in spite of my pleadings for more time. I made a habit of slipping out of the inn each morning before the sun began its ascent, scouting among the animals for anything they might be able to add to our woefully small pool of information, ranging further and further afield in my efforts to be as prepared as possible for the inevitable confrontation. Five days into our wait, I found a kaffir cat who had happened upon an unnatural odor inside the confines of Luskan...a smell that was man and yet not man. The small cat’s ears lay back flat against its skull as its hair stood straight out all around its body even in the relaying of the memory.
On the evening of the seventh day, our wait ended when Yadir materialized in the fading twilight as I sat outside the old inn, enjoying my last moments of daily freedom before I would need to return inside the stifling, man-made walls and rejoin the group for our evening strategy session. Yadir’s research had revealed disappointingly little and I was aware of an uneasy knot in the pit of my stomach as I bid him farewell. Until that moment, I had not realized how much I had been relying on his help to give me what we needed to ensure victory. I lingered in the dark a few more minutes, delaying the grim discussion that would surely be sparked when I revealed the sparse details my friend had been able to discover. Caught up in my brooding thoughts, I did not at first notice my other visitor until she hooted softly to capture my attention. A small night owl could barely be seen in the dim light spilling from the inn’s windows. Just an hour earlier, the bird had remarked a blood-stained man pulling a heavy cart with relative ease, an unusual enough sight that she thought it worth passing on to me. So this was it then. Sighing inwardly, I sent the owl on her way before heading slowly into the inn to impart my news. The monster we sought was closer than I had wanted to believe and it looked like we would be putting Lilira’s plan into action before morning light. I could only hope that we were all sufficiently prepared to deal with whatever the morrow would bring.
With our general strategy laid out, the meeting adjourned and we all settled into the inn to wait. Although I hadn’t tried to dissuade Lilira from her plan, I had managed to convince her to hold off a few days until I heard from my old friend Yadir who was trying to collect any information that might help us understand what we were facing. With every day that passed, my hope of his discovering the information we needed to defeat Cirath diminished. Our small group was growing restless with inaction and I knew that I didn’t have much longer before they would grow tired of the waiting and move ahead with Lilira’s risky idea in spite of my pleadings for more time. I made a habit of slipping out of the inn each morning before the sun began its ascent, scouting among the animals for anything they might be able to add to our woefully small pool of information, ranging further and further afield in my efforts to be as prepared as possible for the inevitable confrontation. Five days into our wait, I found a kaffir cat who had happened upon an unnatural odor inside the confines of Luskan...a smell that was man and yet not man. The small cat’s ears lay back flat against its skull as its hair stood straight out all around its body even in the relaying of the memory.
On the evening of the seventh day, our wait ended when Yadir materialized in the fading twilight as I sat outside the old inn, enjoying my last moments of daily freedom before I would need to return inside the stifling, man-made walls and rejoin the group for our evening strategy session. Yadir’s research had revealed disappointingly little and I was aware of an uneasy knot in the pit of my stomach as I bid him farewell. Until that moment, I had not realized how much I had been relying on his help to give me what we needed to ensure victory. I lingered in the dark a few more minutes, delaying the grim discussion that would surely be sparked when I revealed the sparse details my friend had been able to discover. Caught up in my brooding thoughts, I did not at first notice my other visitor until she hooted softly to capture my attention. A small night owl could barely be seen in the dim light spilling from the inn’s windows. Just an hour earlier, the bird had remarked a blood-stained man pulling a heavy cart with relative ease, an unusual enough sight that she thought it worth passing on to me. So this was it then. Sighing inwardly, I sent the owl on her way before heading slowly into the inn to impart my news. The monster we sought was closer than I had wanted to believe and it looked like we would be putting Lilira’s plan into action before morning light. I could only hope that we were all sufficiently prepared to deal with whatever the morrow would bring.
“You know this creature?” the Warden growled.
“You were the one crawling through my mind. Shouldn’t you know the answer to that?” Cirath replied.
The Warden stared at the weak, frightened mortal that stood only a dozen paces from him. She was facing the inn, but with the air of a scared rabbit about to run. A female with short silver hair and some odd scarring, she seemed familiar, but without free access to the host’s memories, he couldn’t pin a name to her. He inhaled deeply, hoping to learn more from her scent. Her fear was thick in the air, but there was something else beneath it. Something familiar.
“This one has crossed over before. She has tasted the void,” he said absently.
“Hoping a friend hitched a ride back?” came the mocking reply.
Teeth grinding, fists clenched, the creature took a step forward. The girl started chanting and gesturing quickly, and before he had taken his third, a beam shot forth from her hand to strike him in the chest. For the briefest of instants, he felt the vessel weakening. If he could have been amused, at that moment he might have chuckled. Reaching forth with his essence, he absorbed the magic directed at him, and the beam vanished.
“Stupid girl. I was born of Entropy, and you think you can fight me with it?”
Eyes widening, she spun on her heels, and sprinted away, dashing for the tree line on the side of the road opposite the inn.
“Is that all your kind can send against me? Perhaps I was overly cautious before…”
A quiet chuckle rose in his head, cutting his gloating short. For a split second, the host’s mind was open to him again, and an instinct forced upon him. His gaze rose to the tree line. The girl had not yet reached it, but ahead of her something shifted in the underbrush. Using his unnatural senses, the Warden pierced both darkness and brush to see a short, bearded being crouching there. As he looked on, others became apparent, watching him in expectation, certain they could not be seen.
“You knew!” he said through clenched teeth.
“Of course I knew. They are ‘my kind’ after all. The question is, what are you going to do about it?”
At that very moment, his bloodlust flared once more, a furnace eager to be fed. A thought drifted through his mind that the mortal might have something to do with it, but the anger welling up in him and the gnawing urge to kill quickly drowned it out.
The girl vanished into the copse of trees and quickly joined her allies. The creature stepped off of the inn’s porch and started to follow, when a terrified whimper sounded behind him. Rounding on the noise, he turned to see one of the women in the caged wagon pressing her back against the bars, torn between watching her captor and trying to force the bars apart.
He started for the wagon, the prospect of more immediate prey making him forget the ambush behind him. He was halfway there when a short, heavy arrow punched through his shoulder. Tearing it free, he turned once more, only to be met with a large tree branch. Air rocketed out of his lungs as the branch connected with his midsection in an upward swing and sent him flying into the air. His short flight sent him crashing through a shuttered window on the second floor, taking out much of the frame and sending him sprawling into the dark room.
For a moment, all was quiet and still. The only sounds were the booted footsteps of dwarves and half-elves as they caught up to the treant that loomed large in front of the Weary Ferryman. A pair of them, both dwarves, went directly to the wagon, but the rest only stared at the hole where Cirath and the Warden had disappeared. Seconds later, they were rewarded with the sight of the possessed man sailing out of the shattered window in a great leap that sent him into the upper branches of the animated tree.
With a few shouted words from a feminine voice, light flared around him, and Cirath could feel the creature cringe slightly. For a moment, both man and monster were dazed, and the treant took the opportunity to whip forward and slam its attacker to the ground.
Then the chaos began. Two of the dwarves, both armed and armored with heavy steel, charged, weapons raised and battle cries on their lips. The scarred girl began singing, and with each note pain ripped through both Cirath and the Warden. Another mongrel woman, oddly out of place in a plain green wool dress, was chanting furiously. The click of a crossbow was followed immediately by another projectile, this one whizzing by the target’s head. A quick glance showed one of the pair that had rushed to the wagon reloading his weapon franticly. The other was nowhere to be seen. The tree-creature raised an enormous arm to take another swing just as the Warden regained his feet.
Side-stepping the falling limb, the Warden met the charging dwarves head on. The one to his left was a step ahead of his companion. He looked to be the younger of the two, and brandished a well-worn battle axe over his head. Anticipating the attack, he raised his shield just in time to intercept the incoming fist. However, the force of the blow caused the metal to crumple, and sent the warrior staggering to the side, off balance.
The second dwarf, obviously a priest, saw his opening and swung. The hammer he wielded crashed into the creature’s exposed ribs with a sickening crunch. Barely seeming to notice the blow, the monster wrapped his hand around his attacker’s wrist and heaved. The priest’s armor tore at the joints and his shoulder popped as it came out of its socket, then he was in the air. He barreled into the singing woman, who had just begun gesturing as if to cast another spell, sending both sprawling in a tangle of limbs.
Several small flaming missiles flew at the Cirath-thing even as he released the dwarf. The first struck him, leaving a smoldering wound, but the other two he batted away, taking only minor burns. His attention now focused on the half-elf behind the treant, where the magical ammunition had originated, he did not see the other dwarf that had slipped up behind him. With a sharp thrust, the demihuman buried his short sword deep in the Warden’s lower back.
Roaring in surprise and pain, the creature twisted and lashed out at this new aggressor. Putting all of his strength into his swing, he slammed his fist into the dwarf’s nose, and the sheer force of the blow blew out the back of his head in a spray of blood, bone and gray matter.
As the body slumped to the ground in a rain of its own flesh, an anguished scream erupted from near the wagon. “Tukan!” the crossbowman cried, dropping his weapon, his expression shifting from shock to horror to sorrow and back. Even as the corpse dropped, the possessed assassin turned to face the treant. The massive animated oak once again tried to smash him into the earth with a downward swing. This time, instead of avoiding the attack, he caught hold of the approaching branch, halting it before impact. Both beings pushed with all of their might, trying to overpower each other, but they seemed evenly matched.
As the two grappled, the sound of yet another spell rung out, and the smell of ozone filled the air. An explosion rocked the area, and a bright blue-white bolt lanced out of the sky, enveloping the spot where the man-thing stood. Both combatants were thrown from their feet, singed and smoking. The treant was the first to rise, and it immediately began to lumber toward its opponent. Only slightly slower, the thing controlling Cirath rose, looking tattered and leaning on the inn’s hitching post.
The wooden warrior closed, and the Warden planted his feet, taking hold of the hitching post with both hands. With a single tug, he ripped the post free of the ground and swung it like a giant club. The pole hit the incoming treant with a loud crack, snapping in half with the force of the blow. The end left in his hands looked something like a five foot long tent stake. Even as the treant regained its footing from the tremendous blow, the Warden speared it with the giant stake. With that final strike, the tree crashed to the ground, no longer moving.
So concerned with the wooden behemoth, the creature never saw the axe coming. It split his chest less than an inch from his heart, tearing from him a scream that was not entirely human. Clamping down on his attacker’s forearm, he squeezed in equal parts anger and pain. The metal armor shrieked in protest, as did the warrior attached to the arm. With a sharp twist, flesh, bone, and armor all separated, leaving the warrior writhing in pain and missing half of his appendage.
Staggering, fighting to stay on his feet, the Warden wrenched the blade from his chest just as great fist-sized pieces of hail began to strike him, tearing skin and snapping bones. With the last of his strength, he hurled the axe at the woman whose spells had hammered at him so. The weapon tumbled through the air and struck her a grazing blow on the side of her head. Blood sprayed from the wound, and the druid crumpled to the dirt, stunned.
Distantly, the creature heard more screams, but he couldn’t concentrate enough to make them out. He was dying. He had to seal the wounds. He would not allow these mortals to destroy him. Dropping to his knees, he turned all of his efforts to healing. The air around him began to shimmer with heat, and his clothing began to smolder. Flesh knit, bones mended, sweat poured from his brow. The sword slowly slid out of his back as the damage was repaired. His clothes might have burst into flame from the heat pouring off of him, had they not been so soaked in blood. Instead, the already tattered shirt fell off of him, crumbling to ashes as it hit the ground. Much of the rest of his covering remained intact, if heavily burned.
He was nearly finished, when a different sort of attack hit him. During the combat, the host had remained silent. He had assumed the mortal had simply wanted them both destroyed, and was just waiting for the killing blow. Now he knew better. The mortal had wanted the others to weaken him, so that he could be forced out. Now he was making his move. The creature fought back with all he had, but it was too late, he had nothing left. He let out a horrible sound that must have been a scream, but could never have come from any human. The ear piercing sound grew louder, and Cirath’s head tilted back. A thick black smoke poured from his eyes, ears, mouth and nose, forming a small cloud over him. As everyone that was able watched, the cloud pulsed once, and imploded in on itself, sending out a shock wave that knocked them all on to their backs.
Clambering to her feet, the disfigured half-elf quickly surveyed the battlefield. The two dwarves that could still stand were seeing to their fallen. When her eyes fell on the other woman lying motionless and bleeding, she almost rushed to her side. There was still work to be done, however, and she stopped herself. The sun finally peeked over the horizon as she turned her eyes to the one that had done so much damage to her friends. It had seemed like years. It had seemed like years, but the battle had taken only minutes.
Drawing a blade from its place on her belt, she slowly approached the man, who had risen to all fours, and was vomiting blood. He finished as she reached him, and sat down, head slumped, too weak to move. The image of the crumpled woman behind her led a parade of carnage that flashed through her head as she raised the knife, ready to deliver the final stroke.
Then she hesitated.
He was clearly too weak to hurt anyone, almost completely helpless. She stood there for a moment, unsure what to do, when she thought she heard him laughing. The laughter grew louder and louder, then ended abruptly in a fit of wracking coughs. When the coughing subsided, he raised his eyes to meet her gaze.
“I thought you might show up, Lilira. What kept you?”
Lilira stared at the assassin, unsure. “Is it really you this time?”
“What’s left of me. Wanted to be sure you killed the right monster, eh?” Another short coughing fit bloodied his lips, and he seemed to be favoring his ribs where the hammer had struck him.
"I never planned to kill you Cirath... unless you and the monster were one and the same." Lilira peered over her shoulder for a moment at the druid lying in the dirt. As she looked, she shifted her weight, wincing as she favored her right knee.
His eyes moved to the blade still hovering over him, then to Sotana. He wondered, for a moment if she was still alive. His memory of the battle was hazy at best, as all his efforts were forced on retaking his body. He did, however, remember nearly splitting her head open with an axe.
The thought had hardly entered his mind, when he realized that he knew, much in the same way the creature had known, that she was only unconscious. It was as if he could sense her heartbeat, but even though she was only a few dozen yards away, the sensation was dim. Lilira’s pulse, quick and strong, was much easier to sense, and broadcast her fear as well as her eyes did. It seemed as though his jailer had left something of his self besides the searing pain that was tearing at the assassin’s insides.
Lilira returned her regard to the assassin, stepping back. "I must tend to her. I don't know how badly she's been injured." She glanced over at the remaining injured dwarves, a sad expression ghosting over her countenance, then again returned her gaze to Cirath. "Just lie still. No one here will harm you unless you do something foolish." The bard turned with a wince and began to limp towards the unconscious druid.
He smirked at the cautionary statement. As she walked away, he said, “You know, he was right about one thing. You do smell like death now.” With that, he struggled to stand, obviously not fully healed from his ordeal.
Lilira heard the movement behind her and twisted around to face him, cursing at the pain in her knee, and gasping at the stabbing pain in her ribs. "What in the hells are you talking about?" she groaned out, followed by, "Stay still before you injure yourself further." Distracted by the pain, Lilira reached into her vault, and pulled out a brightly colored glass flask, quaffing it. She closed her eyes for a moment while waiting for the potion’s warmth to flow through her, easing the pain in her side. As the catch in her breath disappeared, she ignored Cirath for a moment, reminding herself of everyone’s injuries, and began singing.
The power in her voice was a soothing balm to those in the area. The grievous nature of everyone’s injuries drained the bard rapidly, except for Cirath’s. She could feel the song washing over him, but it was like pouring water into a sieve. No matter how much effort she put into the song, the magic sank into him without any effect other than to tire her. Eventually she gave up, and sank to her knees in exhaustion, her song faltering and weapon sliding from her grasp.
Ignoring her comments and her song, Cirath turned and began limping away. Behind him, a snarl sounded. “You can’t let him leave! He killed my brother! He is a monster!” The crossbowman was standing over his brother’s corpse, gripping a dagger so tightly his knuckles were white. His glare shifted between Lilira and Cirath, his need for vengeance clear on his face. When the human didn’t turn or even respond, he charged, dagger raised high.
Lilira stepped between the two, “Torik, no!" Lilira yelled, grabbing the enraged bard by the arm, perspiration appearing on her forehead at the effort it took to hold him back. "Tukan knew the risk! We fought this to free Cirath. The monster that killed your brother is gone, and to kill this man when he’s unarmed and unable to defend himself would dishonor your brother’s memory!” Lilira landed in an ungraceful heap as the bard swatted her back like a gnat. She scrambled to her feet and tackled the advancing dwarf. “Barlok. A. Little. Help. Here.” She grunted to the cleric, trying to disarm the angry dwarf, who was twisting in an effort to throw the bard off.
“Let go of me girl! I’ll not let him go unpunished!” Shoving her aside, he scrambled to his feet and took several steps before realizing that his quarry had disappeared. Torik roared in frustration, and flung the dagger into the distance. Lilira walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder as he stood, quivering in rage. “I’m sorry about your brother, but right now there are still people that need your help.”
Leaving him to his grief, Lilira turned to see about her wounded friends, and the prisoners still in the wagon. She was exhausted, but there was still so much left to do.
“You were the one crawling through my mind. Shouldn’t you know the answer to that?” Cirath replied.
The Warden stared at the weak, frightened mortal that stood only a dozen paces from him. She was facing the inn, but with the air of a scared rabbit about to run. A female with short silver hair and some odd scarring, she seemed familiar, but without free access to the host’s memories, he couldn’t pin a name to her. He inhaled deeply, hoping to learn more from her scent. Her fear was thick in the air, but there was something else beneath it. Something familiar.
“This one has crossed over before. She has tasted the void,” he said absently.
“Hoping a friend hitched a ride back?” came the mocking reply.
Teeth grinding, fists clenched, the creature took a step forward. The girl started chanting and gesturing quickly, and before he had taken his third, a beam shot forth from her hand to strike him in the chest. For the briefest of instants, he felt the vessel weakening. If he could have been amused, at that moment he might have chuckled. Reaching forth with his essence, he absorbed the magic directed at him, and the beam vanished.
“Stupid girl. I was born of Entropy, and you think you can fight me with it?”
Eyes widening, she spun on her heels, and sprinted away, dashing for the tree line on the side of the road opposite the inn.
“Is that all your kind can send against me? Perhaps I was overly cautious before…”
A quiet chuckle rose in his head, cutting his gloating short. For a split second, the host’s mind was open to him again, and an instinct forced upon him. His gaze rose to the tree line. The girl had not yet reached it, but ahead of her something shifted in the underbrush. Using his unnatural senses, the Warden pierced both darkness and brush to see a short, bearded being crouching there. As he looked on, others became apparent, watching him in expectation, certain they could not be seen.
“You knew!” he said through clenched teeth.
“Of course I knew. They are ‘my kind’ after all. The question is, what are you going to do about it?”
At that very moment, his bloodlust flared once more, a furnace eager to be fed. A thought drifted through his mind that the mortal might have something to do with it, but the anger welling up in him and the gnawing urge to kill quickly drowned it out.
The girl vanished into the copse of trees and quickly joined her allies. The creature stepped off of the inn’s porch and started to follow, when a terrified whimper sounded behind him. Rounding on the noise, he turned to see one of the women in the caged wagon pressing her back against the bars, torn between watching her captor and trying to force the bars apart.
He started for the wagon, the prospect of more immediate prey making him forget the ambush behind him. He was halfway there when a short, heavy arrow punched through his shoulder. Tearing it free, he turned once more, only to be met with a large tree branch. Air rocketed out of his lungs as the branch connected with his midsection in an upward swing and sent him flying into the air. His short flight sent him crashing through a shuttered window on the second floor, taking out much of the frame and sending him sprawling into the dark room.
For a moment, all was quiet and still. The only sounds were the booted footsteps of dwarves and half-elves as they caught up to the treant that loomed large in front of the Weary Ferryman. A pair of them, both dwarves, went directly to the wagon, but the rest only stared at the hole where Cirath and the Warden had disappeared. Seconds later, they were rewarded with the sight of the possessed man sailing out of the shattered window in a great leap that sent him into the upper branches of the animated tree.
With a few shouted words from a feminine voice, light flared around him, and Cirath could feel the creature cringe slightly. For a moment, both man and monster were dazed, and the treant took the opportunity to whip forward and slam its attacker to the ground.
Then the chaos began. Two of the dwarves, both armed and armored with heavy steel, charged, weapons raised and battle cries on their lips. The scarred girl began singing, and with each note pain ripped through both Cirath and the Warden. Another mongrel woman, oddly out of place in a plain green wool dress, was chanting furiously. The click of a crossbow was followed immediately by another projectile, this one whizzing by the target’s head. A quick glance showed one of the pair that had rushed to the wagon reloading his weapon franticly. The other was nowhere to be seen. The tree-creature raised an enormous arm to take another swing just as the Warden regained his feet.
Side-stepping the falling limb, the Warden met the charging dwarves head on. The one to his left was a step ahead of his companion. He looked to be the younger of the two, and brandished a well-worn battle axe over his head. Anticipating the attack, he raised his shield just in time to intercept the incoming fist. However, the force of the blow caused the metal to crumple, and sent the warrior staggering to the side, off balance.
The second dwarf, obviously a priest, saw his opening and swung. The hammer he wielded crashed into the creature’s exposed ribs with a sickening crunch. Barely seeming to notice the blow, the monster wrapped his hand around his attacker’s wrist and heaved. The priest’s armor tore at the joints and his shoulder popped as it came out of its socket, then he was in the air. He barreled into the singing woman, who had just begun gesturing as if to cast another spell, sending both sprawling in a tangle of limbs.
Several small flaming missiles flew at the Cirath-thing even as he released the dwarf. The first struck him, leaving a smoldering wound, but the other two he batted away, taking only minor burns. His attention now focused on the half-elf behind the treant, where the magical ammunition had originated, he did not see the other dwarf that had slipped up behind him. With a sharp thrust, the demihuman buried his short sword deep in the Warden’s lower back.
Roaring in surprise and pain, the creature twisted and lashed out at this new aggressor. Putting all of his strength into his swing, he slammed his fist into the dwarf’s nose, and the sheer force of the blow blew out the back of his head in a spray of blood, bone and gray matter.
As the body slumped to the ground in a rain of its own flesh, an anguished scream erupted from near the wagon. “Tukan!” the crossbowman cried, dropping his weapon, his expression shifting from shock to horror to sorrow and back. Even as the corpse dropped, the possessed assassin turned to face the treant. The massive animated oak once again tried to smash him into the earth with a downward swing. This time, instead of avoiding the attack, he caught hold of the approaching branch, halting it before impact. Both beings pushed with all of their might, trying to overpower each other, but they seemed evenly matched.
As the two grappled, the sound of yet another spell rung out, and the smell of ozone filled the air. An explosion rocked the area, and a bright blue-white bolt lanced out of the sky, enveloping the spot where the man-thing stood. Both combatants were thrown from their feet, singed and smoking. The treant was the first to rise, and it immediately began to lumber toward its opponent. Only slightly slower, the thing controlling Cirath rose, looking tattered and leaning on the inn’s hitching post.
The wooden warrior closed, and the Warden planted his feet, taking hold of the hitching post with both hands. With a single tug, he ripped the post free of the ground and swung it like a giant club. The pole hit the incoming treant with a loud crack, snapping in half with the force of the blow. The end left in his hands looked something like a five foot long tent stake. Even as the treant regained its footing from the tremendous blow, the Warden speared it with the giant stake. With that final strike, the tree crashed to the ground, no longer moving.
So concerned with the wooden behemoth, the creature never saw the axe coming. It split his chest less than an inch from his heart, tearing from him a scream that was not entirely human. Clamping down on his attacker’s forearm, he squeezed in equal parts anger and pain. The metal armor shrieked in protest, as did the warrior attached to the arm. With a sharp twist, flesh, bone, and armor all separated, leaving the warrior writhing in pain and missing half of his appendage.
Staggering, fighting to stay on his feet, the Warden wrenched the blade from his chest just as great fist-sized pieces of hail began to strike him, tearing skin and snapping bones. With the last of his strength, he hurled the axe at the woman whose spells had hammered at him so. The weapon tumbled through the air and struck her a grazing blow on the side of her head. Blood sprayed from the wound, and the druid crumpled to the dirt, stunned.
Distantly, the creature heard more screams, but he couldn’t concentrate enough to make them out. He was dying. He had to seal the wounds. He would not allow these mortals to destroy him. Dropping to his knees, he turned all of his efforts to healing. The air around him began to shimmer with heat, and his clothing began to smolder. Flesh knit, bones mended, sweat poured from his brow. The sword slowly slid out of his back as the damage was repaired. His clothes might have burst into flame from the heat pouring off of him, had they not been so soaked in blood. Instead, the already tattered shirt fell off of him, crumbling to ashes as it hit the ground. Much of the rest of his covering remained intact, if heavily burned.
He was nearly finished, when a different sort of attack hit him. During the combat, the host had remained silent. He had assumed the mortal had simply wanted them both destroyed, and was just waiting for the killing blow. Now he knew better. The mortal had wanted the others to weaken him, so that he could be forced out. Now he was making his move. The creature fought back with all he had, but it was too late, he had nothing left. He let out a horrible sound that must have been a scream, but could never have come from any human. The ear piercing sound grew louder, and Cirath’s head tilted back. A thick black smoke poured from his eyes, ears, mouth and nose, forming a small cloud over him. As everyone that was able watched, the cloud pulsed once, and imploded in on itself, sending out a shock wave that knocked them all on to their backs.
Clambering to her feet, the disfigured half-elf quickly surveyed the battlefield. The two dwarves that could still stand were seeing to their fallen. When her eyes fell on the other woman lying motionless and bleeding, she almost rushed to her side. There was still work to be done, however, and she stopped herself. The sun finally peeked over the horizon as she turned her eyes to the one that had done so much damage to her friends. It had seemed like years. It had seemed like years, but the battle had taken only minutes.
Drawing a blade from its place on her belt, she slowly approached the man, who had risen to all fours, and was vomiting blood. He finished as she reached him, and sat down, head slumped, too weak to move. The image of the crumpled woman behind her led a parade of carnage that flashed through her head as she raised the knife, ready to deliver the final stroke.
Then she hesitated.
He was clearly too weak to hurt anyone, almost completely helpless. She stood there for a moment, unsure what to do, when she thought she heard him laughing. The laughter grew louder and louder, then ended abruptly in a fit of wracking coughs. When the coughing subsided, he raised his eyes to meet her gaze.
“I thought you might show up, Lilira. What kept you?”
Lilira stared at the assassin, unsure. “Is it really you this time?”
“What’s left of me. Wanted to be sure you killed the right monster, eh?” Another short coughing fit bloodied his lips, and he seemed to be favoring his ribs where the hammer had struck him.
"I never planned to kill you Cirath... unless you and the monster were one and the same." Lilira peered over her shoulder for a moment at the druid lying in the dirt. As she looked, she shifted her weight, wincing as she favored her right knee.
His eyes moved to the blade still hovering over him, then to Sotana. He wondered, for a moment if she was still alive. His memory of the battle was hazy at best, as all his efforts were forced on retaking his body. He did, however, remember nearly splitting her head open with an axe.
The thought had hardly entered his mind, when he realized that he knew, much in the same way the creature had known, that she was only unconscious. It was as if he could sense her heartbeat, but even though she was only a few dozen yards away, the sensation was dim. Lilira’s pulse, quick and strong, was much easier to sense, and broadcast her fear as well as her eyes did. It seemed as though his jailer had left something of his self besides the searing pain that was tearing at the assassin’s insides.
Lilira returned her regard to the assassin, stepping back. "I must tend to her. I don't know how badly she's been injured." She glanced over at the remaining injured dwarves, a sad expression ghosting over her countenance, then again returned her gaze to Cirath. "Just lie still. No one here will harm you unless you do something foolish." The bard turned with a wince and began to limp towards the unconscious druid.
He smirked at the cautionary statement. As she walked away, he said, “You know, he was right about one thing. You do smell like death now.” With that, he struggled to stand, obviously not fully healed from his ordeal.
Lilira heard the movement behind her and twisted around to face him, cursing at the pain in her knee, and gasping at the stabbing pain in her ribs. "What in the hells are you talking about?" she groaned out, followed by, "Stay still before you injure yourself further." Distracted by the pain, Lilira reached into her vault, and pulled out a brightly colored glass flask, quaffing it. She closed her eyes for a moment while waiting for the potion’s warmth to flow through her, easing the pain in her side. As the catch in her breath disappeared, she ignored Cirath for a moment, reminding herself of everyone’s injuries, and began singing.
The power in her voice was a soothing balm to those in the area. The grievous nature of everyone’s injuries drained the bard rapidly, except for Cirath’s. She could feel the song washing over him, but it was like pouring water into a sieve. No matter how much effort she put into the song, the magic sank into him without any effect other than to tire her. Eventually she gave up, and sank to her knees in exhaustion, her song faltering and weapon sliding from her grasp.
Ignoring her comments and her song, Cirath turned and began limping away. Behind him, a snarl sounded. “You can’t let him leave! He killed my brother! He is a monster!” The crossbowman was standing over his brother’s corpse, gripping a dagger so tightly his knuckles were white. His glare shifted between Lilira and Cirath, his need for vengeance clear on his face. When the human didn’t turn or even respond, he charged, dagger raised high.
Lilira stepped between the two, “Torik, no!" Lilira yelled, grabbing the enraged bard by the arm, perspiration appearing on her forehead at the effort it took to hold him back. "Tukan knew the risk! We fought this to free Cirath. The monster that killed your brother is gone, and to kill this man when he’s unarmed and unable to defend himself would dishonor your brother’s memory!” Lilira landed in an ungraceful heap as the bard swatted her back like a gnat. She scrambled to her feet and tackled the advancing dwarf. “Barlok. A. Little. Help. Here.” She grunted to the cleric, trying to disarm the angry dwarf, who was twisting in an effort to throw the bard off.
“Let go of me girl! I’ll not let him go unpunished!” Shoving her aside, he scrambled to his feet and took several steps before realizing that his quarry had disappeared. Torik roared in frustration, and flung the dagger into the distance. Lilira walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder as he stood, quivering in rage. “I’m sorry about your brother, but right now there are still people that need your help.”
Leaving him to his grief, Lilira turned to see about her wounded friends, and the prisoners still in the wagon. She was exhausted, but there was still so much left to do.
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