by A Uscila
Or at least that’s what Wail told himself. What he believed wholeheartedly. Thus he struggled. Struggled with all the might his bony limbs could muster. Struggled to get this god damn threat to his current state of mind away. To get rid of it.
Eventually - Wail tired, which ended up as an abrupt stop of all struggles. His leg still occupied by the relentless sobbing of a little girl.
As the warlock stood rooted in place, while trying to regain his breath - the sobs seemed to calm down somewhat, as other sounds slowly came into existence. Words and phrases, pieces of sentences with a very clear and heart-wrenching meaning.
“Don’t…” - the little girl mumbled into Wail’s dark robe - soaked with dirt, dried blood and now snot and tears -“Don’t leave…” - She continued - “Please…”
A desperate cry. A plead that was expressed towards the wrong person. How unlucky could this girl be?
“Baaaah...!” - With a loud weird noise, Wail could only vent his frustration regarding the current development in such a fed-up manner. While providing an answer that was clear to no one. Not even himself.
Chapter 46
Panic ruled supreme, as a handful of soldiers put on a desperate resistance against the tides of living dead. Beset on all sides - they fought a losing battle. A bare twelve men, ragged and bloodied. Their tabards darkened, torn and dirtied - far from their original yellow shade.
Stuck in a narrow alley - the group was divided with four fighting on each end, while the remaining were busy hacking away at a nearby wall. With two using axes and the remainder providing ranged support for their fellow man. Armed with javelins - they were waiting for opportune moments to skewer any, who managed to slip through the line of defense. Quite a few did - seeing as the four on each side were barely enough as a means to stop the tide. Their exhausted limbs on the brink of failing.
“I can’t…” - One of the defenders moaned, as his shield hand gave-in under the pressure. Unable to stave off two mutilated corpses that fell upon him with all their weight. Pinning the poor bastard to the floor, mercilessly ripping him apart piece by gruesome piece.
Watching as the left side was crumbling, the two javelin throwers turned and released what little ammo they had - right at the breach through which a large amount of corpses spewed in. A futile effort - as the three remaining men were already overwhelmed – another one of theirs being torn into bloody bits right after the first one was. Torn apart by former brothers-in-arms. Brothers, who were cut down, yet have risen in a quest for indistinguishable and gruesome vengeance against all life.
“We’re almost through!” - One of the soldiers, who was still tirelessly hacking away at the wooden wall shouted, as he refused to let go of hope. To let go of their last line to salvation.
Seconds felt like hours, as the group watched the approaching tide - while at the same time ready to ram themselves through the wooden obstacle. An obstacle that was moments away from collapse - a multitude of holes already present.
As an answer to their prayers, as if guided by an angelic hand - light seemed to shine through the said holes. Illuminating the remaining group with a deep red radiance. For those of a more rational and calm mind - this would have seemed like a prelude to hell’s fiery depths. Opening its maw to swallow these pour souls at the hour of their peril.
Yet to the four - light could only signify salvation in their moments of unspeakable darkness and horror.
They quickly reacted and started hacking away with even more vigor and desperation - and it seems like something or someone decided to give a helping hand. As the light quickly intensified - blinding the group and providing them with an unexpected present.
A devastating explosion shook the alley - blowing apart the crumbling wooden wall and blowing those in its near vicinity to smoldering bits. Ending their suffering and delivering a form of mercy in mere moments.
From beyond the wall - a tall, yet scrawny figure limped out. A mad magician with fire in his eyes. Indeed, seems like Wail decided to finally show himself. He lumbered out from within the structure - with a familiar bundle still strapped around his right leg. Wail seemed quite agitated, as he conjured another fireball and glared around the alley for additional victims. A means to vent. Yet none were present - the explosion enough to shake the last defending force on the right and provided their downfall. A horde of horrors already busily devouring this hard-sought-after meal.
Yet Wail didn’t seem satisfied, as he glared at the horde with pure, undiluted rage. As if sensing their master’s demand, most of the undead slowly crawled away from the dying soldiers, with but a few of stubborn shambling corpses remaining.
Agitated even more, over this display of insubordination - Wail poured his magic into the conjured fireball - making it grow into a whirling mass of furious flame. Without mercy or rational thought - he then threw it at both the dying and the un-living - incinerating both in a man-made hell. Pieces of charred meat and burning splinters peppering the surroundings - as walls were shattered and body parts were torn apart due to the explosion. Quite a few pieces of flesh even managed to slam across Wail’s pale visage. Which - obviously, angered the magician even more so.
Wail took a deep breath through clenched teeth, in a vain attempt to calm his immature inner-mind, since the situation wasn’t advantageous enough for the magician’s taste. At this point - only half of his health managed to regenerate, both due to the help of the remaining Soul Syphon victims and his natural metabolism. Even worse - only a third of his mana reserves were left due to forgetting to hold back with the fireworks. Guided by his impulsive mood swings - wasting away precious points of magical life-force. Not much of it was being supplied back - since most of his natural mana regeneration was syphoned by the mass of undead that he carelessly summoned.
Dire straits indeed. But as they say - no matter how bad the situation is, it can always get worse. Alternative Reality seemed to go by this motto quite often - as it threw in another unwelcome surprise.
A fresh supply of noise caught the attention of Wail - as it approached with increased tenacity from one of the side-alleys. Shouts, the usual clamor of steel and an ominous rumbling of a multitude of feet. It arrived in force from the deeper parts of Wail’s castle-town-to-be. A large group of fleeing soldiers - almost every single one - clothed in darkened yellow.
Fleeing from an unknown force - the large party charged straight into a number of Wail’s undead minions - who were a little too slow to react. Seeing as their perception was quite limited due to mutilated perceptive organs.
Fearlessly, or more like - desperately, the party ripped the undead apart with abandon. Rushing to cut their way through and continue their advance.
Reacting to the sudden assault - the undead gathered together in a single mass in increasing haste - rushing to devour those living as one big mass of deformed and singed flesh. It rammed into the attackers like a wave of meat - turning the engagement into an immobile lump. Jamming the traffic right at the juncture of two interlocking alleys.
Wail, somewhat taken-aback by the sudden development, regained is wits only moments after the engagement - partly due to his imaginary cold nerves and partly due to getting used to similar developments that took play day in, day out. Using the “traffic” jam as an opportunity - he quickly cast Soul Syphon onto the approaching foes. After all – he really needed some additional influx of health. Moments away his signature black dust materialized right above the engaging forces. Slowly settling on the heads of unaware victims.
Yet before Wail could take the next step in taking control of these circumstance - a rumbling force erupted from within the scuffle.
Blown away as if by an explosion - a multitude of reanimated corpses flew out into every direction - creating a small opening in Wail’s horde. From within it - a familiar figure stepped out.
Bathed in gore - a broad shouldered man stepped into view. He wielded an uncomfortably sharp axe in one hand, and a round metal shield in the other. Clothed
in chainmail and leather - a man of rugged facial features. Short dark hair covered his scalp, while eyes with an edge to them glared at Wail from under dark bushy eyebrows.
If Wail didn’t know better - he might have thought that he killed this fella before. An unpleasant lump rose in his throat.
“Remember…” - The warrior started, only to be interrupted by a few undead that decided he was tasty-looking enough to attack. Unluckily for them - the only thing they managed to get was an axe to the head. Though one of them received special treatment and got his face smashed apart by a shield’s metal boss. Once the warrior finished them off, he turned to Wail once again.
For some reason - the warlock didn’t move a muscle, even though he clearly had the opportunity to do so.
It might have had something to do with the fact that a little bundle of horror still clung to his leg.
“Remember me?” - The warrior tried once again, as he smiled viciously at the magician. Tormenting the innocent with his blood-freezing scowl. A scowl that twisted up in anger as another of Wail’s minions used this as an opportunity to attack. With only the upper half remaining - a mutilated corpse managed to crawl all its way towards the warrior and dug into his left pinky. All it got in return was a boot to the skull.
“God damn it” - The warrior cursed under his breath as he furiously stomped the annoyance to its second death.
Things didn’t seem too well off for Wail at this moment. Not only did that temperamental fellow seem quite dangerous - his forces were slowly, but gradually cut apart by the yellow side as well. If things continue as is - the psychotic warlock will end up completely alone.
“Where’s that exhibitionist boyfriend of yours?” - The warrior asked again, unfazed by the lack of reply to his last question.
This time, Wail felt his anger rising. Not because of the mocking tone that the foe so obviously dyed his speech in. Nor was it the implications of homosexuality. Oh no. What angered Wail was the fact that he, himself understood of whom the bastard was talking about. As if the warlock through of the relationship in the same way - which ended up triggering a series of insecurities, one being related to his seemingly unresolved sexuality.
In provocatively slow motions, Wail bent down and practically ripped the little girl off his leg - only to raise her up to his chest. As if psychic - the girl quickly reacted to Wail’s actions - attaching herself to his upper-body in a similarly clingy manner. This forced Wail to furrow his brows even more. Things didn’t seem to be going his way at all. How did the kid figure out the warlocks intentions? How did she notice that Wail was about to throw her at the warrior in a desperate attempt to buy time and use it to run away? This kid was getting really annoying, really quickly.
“What? Cat got your tongue?” - The warrior mocked once again. He casually placed his weapon on a shoulder, as if to say that the surrounding carnage didn’t pose any threat to him at all - “The name’s Borg. Tell me yours, so I could carve it on your forehead once I behead…” - He continued, only to be interrupted once again, as the undead repeated their reckless advance to oblivion as if guided by an invisible puppet-master. One that might have been an innocent looking warlock, standing a few meters away.
With the occasional curse and over-done swings - Borg dispatched the attackers for a hundredth time, taking his god damn time in cutting apart every single undead in his immediate surroundings. As if to make sure none of them got up ever again.
Once done - he turned towards Wail once again. Both still stationary, unmoving from their predetermined spots.
“Well?” - A barely audible irritation entered Borg’s tone. Seems like the continuous refusal to communicate finally got to him.
At this point - the undead were on the brink of annihilation, as most of them were already torn apart. Did not seem like the yellow forces would have time to enjoy their small-time victory though - as a myriad of shouts emerged from their rear. None of them sounded too festive either.
Both Wail and Borg stood still amongst the carnage around - locked in a battle of minds. Their narrowed sights battling it out - waiting until one of the two blinks. Any moment now - the two would explode into an epic competition of skill and wits.
Wail decided otherwise, regrettably. Seeing this as the perfect opportunity to destroy the hopes of all those observing, he simply turned and dashed away in an obvious tactical retreat. A barely audible “fuck this” drifting to the ears of the dumfounded Borg. Did not seem like he expected any of this, as the warrior was completely frozen in surprise.
“That god damn…” - He murmured under his breath, as Borg got ready to chase after the fleeing magician. Before he could do so - an arrow struck his right shoulder with surprising force. Staggering the unprepared warrior, a pained curse escaping his lips.
As If on cue - the cries of pain and shouts for help that were occasionally heard from behind Borg, quickly multiplied into a symphony of pain. A myriad of arrows raining down upon their heads being something that might have had something to do with it. As Borg’s forces fell one by one, while others tried desperately to flee - Borg gritted his teeth and quickly turned to meet the oncoming barrage with a raised shield.
“Shield wall!” - He roared in an ear-ripping display of vocal power, forcing a number of his comrades in arms to react to the command. Yet all of it was too late - not enough were left to take up the order or fast enough to react. Their numbers far from enough to form a solid defensive formation - as arrows easily seeped through its cracks and rained death upon their heads. Cursing under his breath, Borg was forced to abandon all hopes.
“Retreat!” - Bitterly, he roared once again, sounding the rout as he too turned and ran. Though only after placing his metal shield upon his back. Its size more than enough to protect his broad shoulders.
Arrows rained upon and around his withdrawing figure. Bringing death to the remainder of his fellow man. Yet none of it seemed to reflect upon his eyes, as Borg’s chest heaved heavily. Hot air escaping flared nostrils in furious puffs, while thoughts of aching regret, no doubt, filled his mind.
Just you wait. Revenge will be his eventually.
Chapter 47
Wail breathed heavily, as he dashed in uneven steps across the dim alleys. Each step sinking deeply into the damp earth below. Soaked in the tears and blood of the deceased. Seems like the crazed warlock was finally reaching the outskirts of the inhabited part of his castle-town-to-be. Horrific scenes of the fighting that went about visible everywhere. Certainly not something for the eyes of the faint hearted. You’d think the game creators would have chosen not to make scenes like that so realistic. Or at least made them last less.
Regardless, unaffected by the occasional mutilated corpse, the deep cuts left on the surrounding walls, the blood stains or the gore that he would occasionally step in - Wail continued on. His determined dash now regressing to a bare and uneven sprint. Tired lungs no longer able to keep up with the demand for air, nor his strained muscles able to cope with the demanding work. A few more minutes, and the magician finally gave up on the run. Giving a quick glance behind his back, as if expecting to see someone behind. Eyes anxiously darting from one dark corner to the other. Unable to notice anything out of the ordinary.
Luckily - the last few alleys Wail passed were completely bereft of any living. Or un-living for that matter. Sure, sounds of conflict would still occasionally echo across, the occasional figure would dash between one alley into the other, like a black cat crossing your path. An ill omen, as some would say.
And Wail was quite superstitious after all. He had no choice but to try and up the stakes for his survival. He halted his advance and sighed heavily enough for a certain bundle of annoyance attached to his chest to hear.
“Look. If you want to stick with me, that’s fine” - Wail started with quite the tired tone, his ragged breaths still a little way off from the normal breathing rhythm - “But the least you could do, is not do it literally, like some extra baggage. Let go of me and t
ag along. At least that way, you’ll be less of a nuisance” - If one didn’t know Wail too well, one’d think that he was being mean. If one would have known Wail? One’d have known that he was being mean.
Yet, the statement did seem to have an effect. Surprisingly. Slowly, but surely - the child released the magician from her death-embrace and slowly climbed down. Only to stand alongside the child-abuser unsteadily. Without a word said, with her head of black lowered - the child slowly extended her hand towards Wail’s robe in an attempt to grab it. To get a hold of something - real. Reassuring. To feel…safe. A homeless kitten, searching for shelter.
She should have known better.
Her little hand grabbed air - since Wail was no longer there. Frightened, the child suddenly lifted her head and stared with teary eyes at the back of her supposed “salvation”. Little hands reaching out towards the figure that kept on getting further away. Running away with echoes of wicked laughter tailing behind.
“Sucker!” - The heartless villain shouted, barely managing to insert a single word in between all the laughter and irregular breaths. What a bastard that Wail was. What a bastard indeed. Heck, he was even allowed to enjoy the moment of his petty success in fooling a child. At least for a few short strides. Right until Alternative Reality screwed him over, once again.
Wail slipped. Falling on his back in an extraordinary display and quite the splash. Stunned in breathless surprise, covered in mud, blood and gore - Wail just lied there completely still. A few words silently escaping his clenched teeth.
“God. Damn. Footwear” - He cursed under his breath.
