by Jeffrey Cook
He was vaguely aware of them, too. Howling, mad things that just wanted blood. He recalled there was supposed to be a very good reason why that was. He couldn't remember what that reason was and didn't really care. They followed, and they shed blood, and they howled for more. That was good enough, and so he led them, and fought through ranks, bodies falling before him, and they followed. At one point in time, he'd wanted to kill them, too. He couldn't remember why that was. Now, they wanted what he wanted, and the humans in the strange outfits were trying to make them stop—that wouldn't do—so even when the daemons looked stronger, he made the people stop talking anyway. And when he was too late, and they managed some of their twisted words anyway, sometimes the runes etched into his skin would burn, and feel like they were twisting against his skin, and then whatever the talking people were trying to do would fail. Some of them had just enough time to look surprised that their words hadn't worked before they stopped talking.
The daemons were better, stronger, tougher. They fought back. Sometimes they even managed to hurt him. Sometimes he got the weird shield in the way. He liked this shield. It was all wrong. Too heavy in the wrong places, ugly, and covered in more of the words that twisted and writhed across the wooden surface the way all of the words spat from the mouths of the talking people. And yet, it worked, both to block attacks, and to bash his way through the ranks of his enemies. And unlike his spear, it kept working. The axe stopped working too, when the head broke off in a daemon's skull. It didn't even have the good grace to make it stop moving. Hobie had to knock the daemon down, then use the shield to drive the axe-head the rest of the way.
The talking people killed another of his allies when it wouldn't stop, despite their efforts to take control. Hobie wrenched the thing's sword out of his grip, breaking some fingers in the process. He would have preferred the things that followed him keep fighting, but the thing clearly didn't need a sword anymore, and Hobie did. One of the daemons tried to attack him while he was re-arming himself, but Hobie caught the attack on his shield, and then took the thing's arm off at the elbow with the sword. More ichor sprayed him, and the runes on his skin burned and twisted, more. He decided the sword would do nicely.
More words filtered through the haze around his mind. These words weren’t twisted. He knew the language, and it sounded important. He howled again as "Close the gates! Close the gates!" took on a loose meaning in his brain.
One thousand voices howled back, and the charge through the remaining things-to-be-killed began as he rushed for the gates that had opened to let the daemons out. More tried to defend the gates, and the heavy doors began to close slowly. The responses to his howls became more urgent, and the mad rush became more violent.
Two massive daemons stood in his way. The one on the right made a big mistake. It took its eyes off of Hobie. What did it think was the greater threat? The red haze of the world grew a little more intense—and thinking, a little harder—as he let that anger mix with the pain and bloodlust.
The sword still did nicely when he drove it through the giant's knee and twisted. When he pushed, the daemon fell backwards, crashing into the gates and forcing them open again. The left daemon fell to swarming, but Hobie wasn't done with the one on the right.
He leapt onto the giant's body, rushing to get to its throat before it could get a hand on him. He nearly failed, and it grabbed at him, but pulled its hand back when Hobie's sword went through two fingers: lack of commitment. The giant died moments later, helpfully keeping the doors blocked open. More things surged across it, following after Hobie.
There was more pain, this time in small jolts, as the people inside tried arrows. He was familiar with those, and each jab was accompanied by more burning pain as the runes etched into his skin twisted more. He just left them where they hit, and raised his shield, charging forward into the attack.
The next time he howled, something called back, not from behind, but ahead of him this time. A challenge rang through the open space, and there were no more arrows. There were other daemons, and more of the talking people around, but they mattered a lot less, now. He couldn't remember why he knew that voice, but he knew he hated it.
Seeing the figure with his armor and massive sword jolted his memory. That person had hurt him before. And not the good kind of hurt that drove him on. The kind that almost made him stop fighting. That told him he wasn't the strongest.
That just wouldn't do.
Steel clashed on steel over and over as they swung at each other. Hobie didn't recall that sound from last time they fought. Maybe he hadn't had a sword then. I have one now. Still, his own attacks never drew blood, being blocked away, or striking armor. Weakling. I don't need armor.
Things howled around them and occasionally clawed or grabbed for one of the combatants. Hobie took the hand off a daemon who dared interrupt the real fight. That burning and twisting feeling began, but he spotted the two talking people and shut them up before they could try again. His opponent cut down two of the things in Hobie's army. And each time, the other attacks were just an interruption, and there was more clashing of steel, and still no blood.
Claws raked Hobie's back, and there was blood. His own. And a lot of it. He spun, beheading something with a reptilian face. Another thing next to it tried to snap its jaws, and got them broken by a shield smash instead. So eager to die.
It took a moment to find his real opponent again. Three of the things that howled back when Hobie called to them had fought their way to him. They're going to die.
The real adversary cut them down, fighting his way back to Hobie. The daemon at the gates had been stupid. At least this one knew who the real danger was here. Hobie lunged in a wild attack, trying to overwhelm the figure. The world got a little smaller, and a little darker red at each impact, and the rest of the sounds of battle seemed further and further away, and only one death mattered anymore: Hobie's, or the figure's.
When they next locked blades, the figure managed to force him back, pure strength against strength, and I'm not winning.
Just as Hobie prepared to shove back again, the figure kicked at Hobie's leg with a heavy steel boot. Something cracked, and there was enough pain that Hobie was even vaguely aware of it. He collapsed to his knees, and the figure shifted back out of reach. Coward. Weak.
Hobie tried to follow, ready to take advantage of the cowardice and pounce, but collapsed again, something in his leg refusing to support him. The figure came at him again, fast, seeing him collapse. Good.
Hobie got his sword up just in time for steel to ring off of steel, before the figure could take his head. This time, it was a different noise, though, as the figure cleaved the sword in two. It did deflect the strike enough that instead of Hobie's head, the blade plunged into his shoulder. There was that burning and twisting feel, but all of it wasn't enough to stop the figure's sword.
His sword arm wouldn't move the right way. All of the ichor, and death, and the rest faded into an awareness of only pain, and the smell of his own blood. And then an awareness in a world fading into a field of red of the grin of the figure, as he twisted the weapon in the wound.
Hobie pushed off of his good leg. The crack of his shield under the figure's chin sounded right. Felt right. Even with one leg betraying him, he managed to drive forward anyway, knocking the figure over.
The movement wrenched the sword out of the figure's hand, and with it came a new spray of blood, spatters of red decorating the figure's armor and face. The weapon went clattering away, and Hobie drove the shield down towards the figure's neck. He's not grinning now.
Strong hands grabbed the edges of the lumpy, misshapen shield, and Hobie fought them, pushing down. Blood ran freely now, his own. Everything hurts. It was perfect. He howled again.
And then the world went red, and then black.
***
There were voices, an interspersing of Latin and English.
“He's still not stable.”
“Neither is the Tower.”
"Stay still," Celeste said. "You're hurt, bad."
No, I'm hurt good. He thought. Pain right now meant he was still alive. Even so, still seemed like the best option, since neither his right arm, nor his left leg was responding very well at the moment, and attempts to convince them otherwise produced a sense he was still alive in abundance.
"Did the shield make it?" Hobie asked.
"That's really what you're asking right now?" Celeste asked, with a sigh.
"I just sort of feel like I really like that shield,” Hobie said. “I want to know if it's okay."
"Worse for wear, but still usable." That was Nil's voice.
"Don't think this gets you out of a D+ in carpentry. Thing is still ugly as Hel," Hobie said.
"You killed Matvei," Nils said. That was his brother, getting down to the important details, while Celeste was still clearly worried about his arm.
"And the draugar?" Hobie asked.
"Most of them died again, either in the main fight, or breaking into the Tower. But the daemons are scattered, and the cultists are all dead. Celeste was able to keep the rest at bay until I figured out how to subvert the rituals enough to communicate."
"Most?" Hobie said, then added, "Communicate?"
The noise Celeste made sounded distinctly displeased, but she kept up her Latin, and her work on patching his shoulder together.
"The draugar are well-fed," Nils said. "Which allowed some of them to be, well, sort of reasonable. Somewhat who they were. The ones who are left are going to go into the tunnels. With all it's been through lately, the Gisting's on its last legs. The draugar have decided to finish the job.”
“Decided.”
“Those who can think about it half-rationally don't want to exist like this anymore."
“What about those that can't?” Hobie hoped they could also be put out of their misery.
“Those that can't are still just sticking with the group, re-dying for the King of the Monsters. Speaking of whom, be good, stay still, and let Celeste work. Since it seems you'll pull through, Your Majesty still has work to do."
“You're hurt too. Everybody's hurt, probably. You people never know how to prioritize.”
“We can multitask.” Noriko barely managed to project her hoarse voice over the grinding of the sarcophagus along the frozen stone. "And we found something."
"I should be helping with that," Hobie said, turning his head enough to see Noriko provide the main heft to pull the sarcophagus along. Dagny pushed and occasionally helped lift it over small obstacles. Even with Noriko's strength, it was slow work—and obviously taxing—to make the mass of stone and iron move.
For all of the importance Nils and the lore made of it, it had always looked kind of plain to Hobie, not like legendary items were supposed to. There were no jewels, no carved images. Just a rectangle of dark meteoric iron, shot through with veins of red, all inscribed with the runes that made it so anathema to Otherlords like Xharomor.
"You should be letting me make sure your limbs stay actually attached and functional," Celeste said. "You're going to want that arm. Everyone is hurt, yes. However, no one else is to the point they've lost more blood than they currently contain."
"We've got this," Dagny said. "I'd say you more than did your part."
Hobie looked a little more hopeful at that. "You would? I mean, as in, you'd say it in a skald sort of way?"
“'The warlord fortified with blood and death / Believed his most triumphant moment nigh / But Hrobjart Bjornsson, from the squamous mass, / Outdid the centuries with ferocity.”
Hobie smiled. “I am only not applauding because Celeste might eat me if I moved my arm.”
"Understandable. I'm working on more of it, but haven't quite figured out how to put 'and then he choked him out with a blunt object and proceeded to behead him with said blunt object, just-in-case' in verse yet." Dagny said.
"So you're composing? Feeling more hopeful that there'll be people to hear it?"
"Heh, don't read too much into the success of convincing me. Maybe I'm just trying to subvert the guilt of having brought a kid into this world so recently."
“Not to ruin the conversation,” Nils said. “But there is an undead mob about to try to direct the collapse of the tower for maximum inconvenience to the Otherrealm. This will also involve extensive inconvenience to anything trying to be alive in this courtyard. Celeste, is Hobie safe to move yet?”
“He has the structural integrity of a LEGO figure, so only by Hobie standards is he safe to move, but yeah, it'll do for now. Have we got a stretcher?”
Dagny shrugged and gestured at the shut sarcophagus. “It's a flat surface, and we're carrying it anyway.”
“What?!” said Celeste.
“Oh gods, yes, that's perfect!” Hobie said, beaming. “If I've got to be carried out of here on something, I'll keep the thing warm for Xharomor.”
Section III:
Blood and Spheres
21
Won't Be Long
Igarashi Noriko
They'd all needed another break by the time they got back to the car. Hobie was taking his without trying to move from atop the sarcophagus. Celeste was spending it reviewing Hobie's condition yet again. Nils was spending it pretending he had an office inside the car.
Noriko was spending it slumped on the ground and catching her breath. She was going to need it soon. Hobie's recovery, she could already tell, was going to feel like it took even longer than it did.
“Where's Dagny?” Hobie asked. “I want to know how my saga is coming along.”
Noriko chuckled and gestured vaguely to the car. “Probably pretty slowly. Nils is dictating his letter to the council of the T'ila. It's taking a while.”
Celeste looked up. “Did we find paper?”
“No,” said Hobie. “We have a skald.”
"I suppose that speeds up dictation," Celeste said.
"Once Nils gets talking, you need all the efficiency you can get,” Hobie said. “Dagny's good, though. She'll be able to keep all those extra Nils-words in her head and still work on composing later.” He looked thoughtful. "I wonder if she's going to say anything about the Tower falling."
"Probably,” Noriko said. She thought of the sound, of the view over her shoulder as they were just reaching the edge of the bridge. “That was... well, sad, but impressive.”
"I'm glad Dagny's memory is so good,” Celeste said. “Someone should know everyone's names, when we have time for a proper funeral."
"That's going to be a whole lot of ... boats," Hobie said.
Noriko noticed the hesitation in his tone. "Are you okay? I mean, I know this was your home."
"Well, Celeste says my arm could fall off at any moment, so there's that. And when it's not splinted, my knee bends in three directions, which is a step up from double-jointed, right?"
Noriko sighed. “I was asking if you were managing.”
"I know," Hobie said, with a sigh of his own. "And I am. Just trying to self-edit. Even if most of the people who lived here would have thought 'that's going to be a whole lot of really small boats' was really funny.”
Noriko glanced at Celeste, who was stone-facedly not reacting. "I'll try not to interfere with your self-editing again,” Noriko said. “Because the jokes are a bit...”
"Yes," Hobie said. "I'm trying to uphold the community tradition of black humor. If you find any good punchlines for 'my home just ceased to exist, but at least they'd be glad to know they're being dumped on daemonkind to bar the way just a bit,' let me know.”
Noriko winced. "Sorry."
"It's okay. Except in all the w
ays it isn't. And I'm going to take those out on Xharomor later. That will be a good punchline. Right now, I guess, I just really hope Dagny has a really good part about all of them still doing their job a little longer until we can get to sending them on."
Finally, the oft-wrested car door opened.
“Are you sure you don't want to go over all this with the council yourself?” Dagny asked as she got out, looking back into the car at Nils.
“No time,” Nils said. “We're very, very much on the clock. As soon as Xharomor's gotten through everything and timed it all right, he'll be after the T'ila. We need to have prepared everything we can.”
Dagny began to look slightly agitated. “But won't there still be quite some time while he's looking for it?”
“I'm sorry, Dagny,” Nils said. “But it's occurred to me that 'Edwin Nathaniel, how can the T'ila Tower be reached?' does not take very long to say.”
“Oh.”
The realization hadn't hit Noriko before either, and now she felt sick. She made herself take a deep breath. “No time to waste, then.” She shook Dagny's hand. “Thank you so much for everything. Let's get you going, and then we'll go after Rhalissa and the sword.”
Dagny nodded and reached into her coat. “It’s safe?”
“You're right by the fleece. It shouldn't be scried.” To the extent that that mattered anymore.
“Right. And you remember what I said earlier about how to get to the port?”
“Yes. But, um, first…” Noriko resumed, and Dagny withdrew her empty hand, eyes questioning.
Noriko smiled sheepishly. “Can you help me get Hobie into the car with Nils? I'm... I'm really kind of tired.”
Dagny smiled. “Can't think why.”
Celeste had managed to rig up everything to stabilize Hobie's shoulder and knee, and she watched as Noriko and Dagny worked together to keep him that way as they loaded him into the car. Noriko handled most of the lifting, while Dagny did what she could to keep everything as still as possible, but it wasn't easy.
