Good spirits had been unable to survive the landing in Boaz. Rolnak had visited the city before, and it was the same as ever, reeking of suspicion and fear to anyone that wasn’t a ‘good proper upstanding human’. A busy port town like Boaz should be a melting pot, on the highway to Dunmont as well as being the gateway to the human kingdom, but it wasn’t. Despite all the trade and wealth that flowed through the vast wooden warehouses and the grand stone buildings that fronted the docks, people in this town couldn’t lose their fear. Bloody Racists.

“Look at them all!” Rolnak cast his arm out in a wide arc over the dock front as people hurried away on business that was suddenly so much more important now their ship had arrived. “Pah, fucking cowards. They should try living in Jahzarra, no walls, no army, nowt. And all the time you’re surrounded by the most feral infested country off of Sassucus. That’ll teach you fear!” He spat in disgust over the railing of the ship, not on the planks, he had far too much respect for captain Garran for that. The man had proven himself one of the most worthy and capable people in Czarina. Rolnak wouldn’t spit on his ship, not if the man could drink like that. But still, those dogs out there had no concept of what fear was and there they were, running away, with their tales between their legs. There was probably a full company of human soldiers on their way, whether they’d arrest them on the spot on just ‘escort’ them was still to be seen. But you shouldn’t trust a human as far as you could throw him, shifty buggers, especially when they were dealing with Daeva or Hybrids.

He spoke to soon, as they walked down off of the gangplank they showed up, a whole load of em’, led by some foppish prick Rolnak reckoned in could slice from balls to chin, mail and all, before he had a chance to shit himself. But Neon beat him to the blocking, and Rolnak laughed in the slightly awkward silence as she reminded their captain of her rank. He almost forgot himself sometimes, the Daeva Monarchy had always been very secretive about the line of succession. Assassinations had been a big problem, keeping a right host of noble children around the palace and never officially revealing the succession made taking out heirs far more difficult. He had never looked at her as the future monarch, he had only really known her during the course of this mission, and hadn’t learned until Sassucus, and his image of her had already been firmly implemented in his mind by them.

He didn’t bother talking much on the journey through town. No one really seemed in the mood for conversation, there was too much of an oppressive tension in the streets. Everyone here wanted to go and kill them. That was fine. Rolnak wanted to kill them all as well. If anyone felt like bringing it, Rolnak would be all too happy to oblige.

They reached the edge of town before long, there was no trouble, but everything was still uneasy. He was walking behind Torva and Hagumi, he saw the Wolf Daeva was getting a hard time off of the guards who were trying to provoke him. None of them were really trying to screw with him, Torva was more of an easy target. Fine, as long as they didn’t screw with him he might just make it to Dunmont without killing anyone

Then he saw their transport.

“You gotta be kidding me? A fucking cage?” He growled, his fist tightening, his teeth grinding. Neon and Hagumi got some plush carriage, while the rest of them where slighted with this crap. Still, grin and bear it, just go and kill someone when we get to Dunmont, Rolnak thought. Just don’t kill all of these guards now… although his rage was telling him to. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.
Then they asked him to surrender his weapon.

The guard who faced him noticed a change in Rolnak’s demeanour as he was told to give his up his weapon. He had previously had his jaw clenched, his face distorted slightly by supressed rage, a burning in his eyes. As soon as he was told to give up the giant sword on his back, his entire body relaxed and his stare went blank. The guard repeated again his request to give up his weapon. Rolnak seemed to comply this time. He removed Skullsplitter from his back and offered it, hilt first to the soldier. The relived soldier reached out to take it, he closed his hands around the hilt and pulled it away. Or at least tried to.

The sword would not move, he had both hands on it and pulled hard, but it wouldn’t budge. He looked up to Rolnak, only to see he was holding the tip of the blade between his fingertips. Without changing his grip, he lifted the sword, using only his fingertips for purchase, high above his head, the startled guard still clinging on. The man was lifting several feed off the ground before he decided to let go and fall to the ground. When he got there he found Rolnak putting his sword back onto his back and bending down to look him in the face.

“You can have my sword when you can take it from my hand. My cold. Dead. Hand.”

He didn’t wait for a response, he climbed into the cage with Torva and the others, his eyes murder.

Seeing straight was overrated, that was the conclusion that Rolnak came to as he staggered back and forth down a corridor in the Palace of Dunmont. Since he had been loaded out of that goddamn animal cage he had taken to drinking, hard drinking. He was sure the others would rather that he kept his wits about him when they were surrounded by people that wanted them dead, but that was all more the reason to get blitzed out of his mind. It had not been a difficult thing to do: follow your nose to the kitchen, threaten whoever the hell was there until they told you where they kept the booze, break store room lock, and before you knew it you could be drunk enough to not give a crap about… well… just about anything.

But back to seeing straight, why would you want to? Sure it made walking easier, but what about the women? Women always looked better when you were drunk, and instead of there being just one of them with you, there were two! And they were twins! It had been a good half hour, who knew they let prostitutes into the palace? Well… it might have been a prostitute, Rolnak had given her money and then they had sex in a washroom behind one of the servant courtyards. Or had it been the other way around? He couldn’t quite remember, whatever the hell he had found to fortify this wine with was hellish strong.

Slowly, he managed to find the cupboard that they had said was his room. He couldn’t quite lie flat in it, but there had been enough room where the pallet didn’t reach the end wall for him to stash what he had liberated from the cellars earlier. He threw his empty bottle out of the small, glassless window that looked out over a midden heap and retrieved another from the pile on the floor. Wretching the cork out with his teeth, Rolnak took a big long draught before staggering out of the door again. Maybe he could find some kind of cock-fighting? Or bear-baiting, he fucking loved bear-baiting. So far Dunmont had been dull, very dull. It was neat, ordered, nice. Rolnak hated nice.

When Rolnak had first been accosted by the guard he had done what came naturally, raised his fist in preparation to knock the crap out of them. But he had been so surprised by what came next his normally default response faltered enough for him to take stock of the situation through the alcohol haze he was living in. He squinted and leaned down looking into the young recruit’s face, and they were genuine! It was shocking finding a friendly face in a place like this where every single other person had either sneered at him or wanted to start a fight.

“Y’know, I dunno know why other people don’t see this? Why is’t that people just don’t seem to hav’ propa respect? I like you. You, you! Know what you’re talkin’ bout!” Rolnak let out a hail of drunken laughter as he clapped one arm round his shoulder and leaned his crushing weight on him. He rocked back and forth with laughter for a few more seconds before steadying himself and pulling the helmet out of the startled young recruit’s hands, continuing ranting as he did so.

“The problem, and I mean the real fuckin’ problem, is that people aren’t scared like they used t’be. Dat’s what it is! If y’wanna command men, if y’wanna command respect! Then they hav’t fear you. Cos’ if they don’t they won’t lis’en to a damn thing you say! I’ve sed it before and I’ll say it again! Fear, y’need the fear. Otherwise, there’s no point.”

Using his other hand, Rolnak drunk deeply out of the bottle of ‘whatever the hell he could find’, the strong alcohol trickling down his near beard like stubble and dripping of his chin. He finished the bottle and tossed it behind him, his gaze focusing back on the increasingly nervous guard.

“Yeah, that’s what’s wrong with dis’ place. I ain’t got no respect ere’ cos these lot don’t know what its like to be properly scared. They think they’re safe, with all them fancy canons and guns, and walls, and nice, polite, guards. Guards that keep them safe from the ‘dirty nasty daeva’! Who won’t even speak up about people they supposedly RESPECT!”

It was then that Rolnak smashed Timothy in the face with his own helmet.

“Guards like you.” He muttered to himself, before picking up the fallen ink pen and making a vague scribble inside it that might have been Rolnak Ordoth if you blurred your eyes a bit. After that he had a piss in it, and decided he should get back to the palace, that little encounter had left him feeling remarkably sober and there was some feeling… some tension in the air that didn’t feel right. Call it a psychic premonition, or feral based instincts, but Rolnak had a feeling he shouldn’t spend the rest of this night drinking.

“What in the name of Xiomar…” Rolnak whispered under his breath as he stared up into the night sky. The rain was pelting down, soaking him to the bone. Flashes of lightning lit the terrible scene that was being played out before him, an aerial battle the likes of which had never been seen. Two dragons tearing away at each other, one of fire and one of shadow… and darkness seemed to be triumphing over the light. The smaller red dragon was being torn to shreds its black counterpart, but in the process it was also burning down a good portion of Dunmont as well.

“Wait.” Rolnak said audibly, still standing stock still in the middle of the street, rain pouring down his face and into his eyes. “That’s… that’s… the King.” His eyes widened in shock. “And that’s… bloody hell! That’s Drakonia! That feral mother-fucker!” He ripped his sword from his back and started to jog in the direction of the fight, needing to prove his worthiness to the King… or he was going to have to grovel in front of Raha for a long time, the King would probably execute him on a whim… he’d be in one of those moods… especially after getting all fired up by doing something really crazy like killing his son. Still, this was a shot for Rolnak to get revenge on the bastard who had cost him most of his career, the feral dog who had passed him by for promotion and boy had Rolnak suffered because of that.

He was running through Dunmont when he saw what had happened. A second black dragon they swooped down and joined the fight. But in seconds they did something, and then the red breathed fire… and then… then the King was falling. The King was falling. The King had fallen! Rolnak stopped looking up, he just ran, he needed to get to Raha now. The King… the king was wounded, he would need his help. Despite Rolnak’s nature it was pressed into him as deep as any other member of the Royal Guard, preserve the King at all cost. And it was more than that for Rolnak, Raha was the person who controlled the most fear in all the world… even those who he favoured were terrified of him. And because of that, Rolnak had no choice but to consider the man his greater by far.

There was an explosion above him, but Rolnak didn’t look up. He continued with a single minded certainty. Get to the King. Get to the King. Get to the King. He tore around a corner, leaping over rubble and burning wreckage. It seemed as if most of Dunmont had been set to flame. He kept running, jumped another rubble spill and ran into the street where Raha had fallen.

His great form seemed to fill it from side to the side, the wings were lying over the roofs of houses, looking bent and broken. Snapped like twigs against the weight of the earth. He was longer than Garran’s ship, and armoured in black diamonds from tail to horns. And it was lying there… still… lifeless. The King body stirred and a flame of hope lit up in side of Rolnak. It was extinguished moments later as he saw it was not life, but like carrion crows on a carcass, the humans were trying to drag his King away.

Rage filled Rolnak like a seething wine flowing over a lip of its cup. His hands trembled as he stared at the body of the creature he had devoted almost half his life into serving, and there they were, picking at it, as if it were nothing more than dead meat. Bastards.

He breathed the rain and the smoke, and began to walk over to the vultures.

“That! Is my King! What do you think you are doing to my King!?” Rolnak bellowed as his march turned into a charge and he flung himself upon them. Fighting with a wild abandon even more aggressive than he normally did. Skullsplitter flew in his hand like it was made of air, cleaving left right and centre. The first three that approached him spears down and tried to stop him were killed in two swings as he opened their guts and smashed their chests. None of them stood a chance. The next lot were even easier, pinned against the King’s body he opened their throats effortlessly. His strokes got faster and faster. Impossible to follow! He tore at them like the winds of fury, arms and legs severed in the blink of an eye. One of them just dropped their sword and surrendered, so Rolnak too his head off with one swing.

Never before did he feel as if the blade were an extension of his arm. It seemed to know his thoughts before he did, it seemed to feel his anger, his pain. It wanted blood as much as he did!

Rolnak ripped through over twenty guards in only a few minutes. The ones who had meat shields protecting them managed to run, well… most of them. At the end of the slaughter Rolnak found himself panting, covered in blood which was slowly being washed away by the rain, in front of the majestic head of his dead King. He knelt before it, looking for any sign that Raha might still live… But no… those yellow eyes were dead and lifeless, no spark of the cruel yet awesome malevolence that had once dwelled there.

“My King… I have failed.” He sighed, his voice cracking slightly with restrained emotion. He raised his hands to his face and took it in them, trying to not to scream in rage and self-loathing, he hadn’t even noticed the bullet wound in his left arm. He had let his King die. He should… he should have never been here! He should have been at the King’s side! Protecting him! Rather than running over the continent, chasing ghosts and whispers about a cure that probably didn’t even exist! If he hadn’t been with Neo-

Neon.

Neon.

Neon.

Something snapped in Rolnak’s brain.

The black dragon. The second black dragon. It had been Neon. She had done something, distracted the King, attacked the King! She… she was responsible. She was responsible for EVERYTHING! It was her! Her! She had been the one who had distracted him from protecting his King! She had been the one that had stopped him from kill Drak when he had a chance! She was the thing which brought Drak here! Everything. Everything! Was her fault.

Rolnak got up off of the floor and looked towards the palace. His eyes said the storm had only just begun.

Rolnak stared past Garran, his eyes locked on what had just landed behind him. His left eye was twitching slightly as his entire body trembled slightly from rage. White hot, incandescent, rage. His lips partly slightly in a snarl, as he raspy whispered through gritted teeth.

“Neon.”

Within an instant he had leapt past Garran, charging over the short distance, sword raised above his head, all the while letting out a wordless berserker scream. The few seconds it took him to reach the humoid-dragon were the most agonisingly painful in his life. His head felt like it was tearing its self apart, breaking through the skull and out into the smoke filled air. Unleashed was the well of loathing that had built in Rolnak almost all of his life, every negative feeling and memory fuelled the furnace of his anger.

Images were flashing in front of his eyes. Neon knocking him out on the ship over to Sassucus. The unappreciated blood in had sweated to take Malum’s castle. The group leaving him in that net at the church. Neon, putting Chii ahead of the rest of the group. And Drak, as he had been before he was a Feral, the tactical prodigy, the boy who had somehow been worthier than him. Every betrayal, every injustice, every injury, every moment of bitterness and anger in his life. All of them, all of them were there. The jumbled images seemed to slow down the moments as he drew within striking distance, until it seemed that all movement in the world had stopped. Save for the crackle of flames in felt inside. It was almost peaceful here.

Then time resumed its march, and Rolnak brought Skullsplitter down on Neon in a mighty two handed blow.

The battle raged on around Dunmont. Artillery, bullets, magic, arrows, all of them flying through the air at deadly velocity. The huge burst of light of went up and as it did so something exploded from the rubble pile where Neon had flung Rolnak. He had transformed as she had desired, his human features gone, replaced with the head of a raging bull instead. He bellowed without words and began to charge directly at Neon in the confusion. He… no, it, was practically foaming at the mouth with mindless rage. Looking at it from the neck up, there was no sign that this had been anything more than animal at all.

The powerful slabs of muscle in his legs drove Rolnak forward at a speed which seemed impossible for such a large man. He was on Shade in seconds, butting him out of the way with the massive amounts of force he was generating . Rolnak wasn’t a light or small man to begin with, but when he transformed his height grew and his frame got stockier, more muscle, more mass, more force. As he charged past he lowered his head to bring his horns pointing forward to gore Neon if he could.

A final burst of speed propelled him straight at her, ramming into her legs with all his strength. No sooner had contact been made, he whirled past, trying to get onto her left flank. Once there he straightened and unleashed a flurry of two-handed blows, desperately trying to pierce the powerful shadow armour that coated Neon. Still, Rolnak’s wrath knew few bounds.

Rolnak was simply braying wordlessly in mindless rage as Neon berated him for his loyalty to Raha. The tendrils she used on his arms were effective, he struggled to move at points and it made his blows far weaker. All around them the war was raging with greater, and fiercer intensity, but Rolnak couldn’t give a shit. His mind was gone, he had descended deeper into feralism, of course not helped by his already hideous temper. One minute he was trying to lean in close enough to bite at Neon, the next he was flying through the air and smashed once again into a wall.

This wall had been harder than the last one, the guard had softened the impact considerable. The masonry had held and Rolnak’s back was in bad shape. He might have cracked rips, but there were certainly small pieces of broken stone sticking out of his muscles from where the impact had created splinters from the wall. The wound he had received early from the guards was bleeding profusely, and somewhere in the carnage he also had gained a broken arrow shaft sticking out of his shoulder. In wasn’t yet in a dire shape, but he was very much on the road to it.

It was then that Neon charged him. He had been ready for the blow, no matter how feral he was, Rolnak was still the better swordsman than the dragon Daeva. The power of a draconian humanoid in full flight was another matter. When the blades clashed, the impact jarred his body the whole way through. His footing slipped, he widened his stance. And just, just, held the blow in check. They were locked together, sword on sword. And Rolnak was glaring into her eyes.

“I’ll. Fucking. KILL. You.” He managed to half rasp, half grunt through the strain of effort, his transformation and the feralism. With herculean strength, he managed to break the lock. And used the precious moments it bought him to leap to the side, trying once again to flank Neon. But this time, he did not waste his blows upon her armour. Instead he bounded from a pile of corpses and rubble to land fully on the back of the Daeva. At first he tried to use his sword to dig into her flesh and gain purchase, but he wouldn’t stay on long that way. Instead, using an animal instinct that was telling him how to kill, his arm reached Skullsplitter around her neck. He was going to grab his blade with his own hand. And decapitate her.

It was now that the ice hit. The freezing wind from above that made the sweat and blood that coated Rolnak freeze. He felt his arms stiffen, his fur get coated with frost. But was it enough to cool his rage? No.

Rolnak had been continuing struggling on top of Neon’s back. He had been close. So close to cutting her head off, his blade had managed to penetrate through the shadowy black armour and had drew blood. So close to the kill! Almost his! Almost! But he would get to further. At that moment Neon blasted her shadow, sending the two of them flying up into the air, and fortunately moving Rolnak out of the way of CAS’s bladed fan. But it had spoiled the kill! Spoiled it! As they hurtled through air, Rolnak tried once again to finish it. To kill, to hunt, to have dominance! But he was thrown off of her back before he could. His horns being grabbed by Neon’s shadow magic he was hurled head over heels into the floor (Kill. Kill. Kill stopped. Kill.).

Crashing into the dirt he rolled and came back up on his feet, frozen, filthy and snarling. Looking like a true feral now. But Neon had changed even more. While her humanoid draconian form was impressive, this form was even more so. But Rolnak didn’t see the majesty, the power and strength of the dragon Daeva (Still Kill!). He didn’t see the heir to the man he had devoted his life and service to, the man he had respected and feared above all others (Still Kill!). All he could see was the enemy. What he wanted to kill. What he wanted to hunt. He was blinder now than he had ever been. And yet his senses felt all the more alive, the cold bite to the air, the pain in his wounds up and down his back, the smell of blood in his nostrils (Still Kill!). The concept of the future was lost. All that mattered now was this fight. This battle. This kill.

The second blast of shadow was unleashed, it rushed past his side in way so much more deadly than any fire could ever manage. There was a reason the shadow dragons were the rulers of the Daeva. But Rolnak did not flinch. He was watching, watching with animal eyes this new opponent (Still Kill! Still Kill! Still Kill!). He needed to kill. He needed it more than breathe itself it seemed. Never in all his eyes did want anything more than to tear her apart with his teeth and nails as he did in that moment.

He didn’t think. He didn’t plan. He just raised his sword above his head and charged into the mouth of the dragon.

The past few days had been some of the most exhilarating of Eadrom’s life, and at the same time some of the most terrifying. It had been less than two days since the death of King Raha, and so far the capital had resisted falling into chaos. There had been no rioting or looting, partly because the news was yet to properly break out in the local populace, partly because Raha had never been a… beloved… King. Although many had doubts about his heir, a girl hardly seen in the capital and known to be a drunkard and trouble maker. His first thoughts had been with quelling any potential unrest, but that would be easy, Xerses was ruled with an iron fist and trouble never got out of hand. After that he thought about the inevitable consequences of what they had heard was going on in Dunmont, the war that would tear Czarina apart. But, never, never would he have suspected he would be spirited away on a mission such as this, to accompany his new Queen in order to find a diplomatic solution with the seraphim.

And so he found himself here, on the dockside, with his mentor Sergio awaiting the arrival of pirate ship bearing his liege. He had only found out last night, and had no time to tell anyone, not his family, his friends in the capital, he had just stuffed a pack and been ready for the dawn summoning. What would she be like? His Queen? Eadrom had heard the stories, and had glimpsed the elusive princess occasionally when she had been younger and he had first come to the capital, but they couldn’t be trusted, and he doubted he would be presented with slip of a girl he had seen running amongst the courtyards of the palace all those years ago. He could do nothing but wait…

He did not have to wait long. As the sun rose behind the hills on the opposite side of Nixie lake the Bleak Dawn sailed into the harbour. She docked swiftly along with this other ship, the Leviathan, and before long refugees were pouring from the gunnels and out into docks. So many! Gods, he never even realised this many Daeva lived in the human Kingdom! He had tried to struggle up along the gang plank to satisfy his curiosity about the woman that he was devoting his service to, but he was being too polite. As soon as a refugee came down he stepped off again to allow them passage, he just couldn’t bring himself to push past them, he already felt too mean and military standing here in full battle armour. These people had been through hell and here they were to be greeted by soldiers! Still, better Daeva troops than any other.

Finally he managed to make it up onto the large (and impressive) ship, it was bigger than the ships Daeva favoured, in fact this would probably be the largest ship he had ever stepped foot on. As he crossed the gangplank commotion broke out behind him, a fight between a huge burly pirate… and a woman dressed in the officer uniform of the human army? What could this be? Should he intervene? But he was already late… there were other guards on the dock, if things got any worse they could handle it.

And there he found his queen, her Majesty Dralina Blazion I, heir of Xiomar. He could see in her the girl that had he had spotted once or twice around the palace, the long red hair with its black streaks and the green eyes were unmistakable. She was taller obviously, in fact they might almost be the same height… strange… being able to look the monarch in the eyes, Raha had towered over everyone. She looked busy, in conversation with another man in some kind of black suit… Eadrom had never seen anything like it. Should he intrude, and introduce himself? Surely it was his duty… but she was his Queen, Raha had never liked to be disturbed for things as trivial as pleasantries, but Sergio had assured him that the Princess Dralina he had known had been nothing like her father. Damn his indecisiveness, he would introduce himself!

Eadrom approached the pair and coughed, trying to be subtle as he could manage in getting her attention. He then dropped to one knee and bowed his head.

“Your Majesty. My name is Eadrom Fianna, and I have been tasked with serving and protecting you upon this voyage to the lands of the Seraphim. I humbly hope you will find my service acceptable to your standards.”

Eadrom awoke with a sudden jolt. He had been sleeping in the cabin that he had been informed by one of the rather… abrasive… crew members, was his. He had been so exhausted with the events of the past day or so, the death of King Raha and all the frantic preparation and panic that had been happening, that when he had only meant to close his eyes for a few second, he had fallen into a deep and dreamless sleep. But now he was sprawled out of his bunk and onto the rolling wooden floor of the room. What in gods’ names was going on? Were they under attack? The deck was rolling and pitching wildly as leapt up to see what was going on. Then, there was a sickening crunch something absolutely huge fell onto the deck above this cabin. It did not sound good.

Wild creaking and groaning mixed with the sound of the battle, it was almost as if something had grabbed the entire ship… but no, that would be impossible, it must be a the strain of another vessel grappled to them pulling in the opposite direction or something of the sort. But if that was the case then why did so much of strain seem to be coming from above and below? There was a hideous crack as part of the lintel that made up the cabin’s door split, as did one of the beams in the ceiling. This was serious, it looked like the ship was being crushed like a tin can. Eadrom rushed to the door and tried to open it, but the pressure that had been exerted on it had sealed it shut. He put his shoulder to the warped wood, but to no avail, it wouldn’t budge an inch.

“Hey! Someone help me! I’m trapped in here!” He screamed through the door, but no one could hear him, they were all too preoccupied with defending the ship, all of the group were up on deck, and any pirates left below were manning the guns or in bilge, trying to keep the ship afloat. Eadrom was as good as imprisoned within the small room.

Claustrophobia rose like a wave. The walls were closing in, both metaphorically and literally. The pressure that was being exerted on them had the support beams cracking and buckling, if this kept up then he would be crushed alive, or if his cabin held out, he would drown as the ship became unable to stay afloat. His head thick with fear, he put his shoulder to the door again, trying with all his might to break it down so be might escape the inevitable fate that awaited him if he stayed here. It was as he was hammering down on the door that a sudden shard of ice exploded through the ceiling from the deck above. He dropped to the floor, taking cover from the flying freezing debris that tore through the cabin. Somehow, the icy death had missed him completely, and instead had smashed into the top of the door, splintering it badly. This was his chance! There damaged door would now move slightly! It took all his effort, but by pulling and pushing alternatively, he slowly worked the door open enough to get his head through.

He looked out into the corridor, and to his horror was confronted with one of the Remora that had managed to get into the lower decks, feasting on the body of the sailor. He cried out in shock and the creature heard him. It turned, terrible emotion-void eyes locking upon him, before it barred its barbed, interlocking teeth in something that could almost be called a grin. Without warning it sprang from its meal and launched towards Eadrom’s exposed face. He pulled back instinctively and made it back into the cabin, just as the Remora’s head burst through the gap, snapping and snarling. He didn’t think, Eadrom grabbed the door and slammed it repeatedly against the frame, crushing the Remora’s skull brutally. It took a few minutes before it was dead.

He was shaking. The brutality of the kill had been… unexpected, it wasn’t his preferred style and he had been thrown out of his comfort zone. Still shaking, he took his sword belt and strapped it on, he wouldn’t be caught off guard after this. The door was still ajar on the shattered head of the Remora, Eadrom worked it open a bit more and managed to squeeze through sideways, his boots trailing through the blood of the thing he had just killed.

Out into the corridor, his first instinct was to call out, but he repressed it. There could be more of those things down here. He needed to find a way up out onto the deck, but the hurried way they had set off had given him no bearing as to which way the stairs were on this ship. Hoping to find them, he picked one direction and set off in it.

The decks were dark, there were few portholes and all the candles were out in this part of ship. Above the battle still raged, but down here there was an eerie contrast. The worst of pressure the ship had been under seemed to have been relieved, but that still didn’t mean they were safe, Eadrom had seen what damage had been done below decks, the whole place was screwed. As he crept through the darkness he heard a noise off to one side. He spun to meet it. A Remora leaped from the shadows at frightening speed, Eadrom drew his sword to strike, but before he could there was the whizz of a crossbow and bolt pierced the creature in the chest. It fell to the floor, writhing in pain. Eadrom put it out of its misery by slitting its throat with one of the long silvery swords he wielded.

“Ya’ best kept yer’ wits about yer’, laddie.” Said a sailor emerging from the darkness, he held the crossbow that had killed the Remora. He looked in a bad shape, one of his arms was all torn up and the blood was running freely from the wound. “There’d be more o’these things down inna’ bilges. I barely ‘scaped with me life.”

“Thank you, sir. You may have just saved my life.” Eadrom replied, truly grateful. “Do you the way up to the deck? I need to get up there.”

“Tis’ back the way ya’ came, boy.” The grizzled sailor replied, wincing in pain as he reloaded the crossbow with considerable difficultly. “And when ya’ get dere’, tell the Cap’n that we lost the bilge to those… things. And that it won’t be too long ‘fore she’s underwater, bottom deck’s already there.”

“Aren’t you coming with me?” Eadrom asked, surprised the man was giving him a message to pass on when he seemed well enough.

“Aye. I don’t think I can take… much… more.” The sailor collapsed to the floor and then Eadrom saw the full extent of his injuries, from the back, the man had been opened up from neck to thigh in tens of hideous gashes. A bloody mosaic of red tiles. He was as good as dead. He sat with him briefly as he gave his last laboured breaths. He didn’t know the man. But it was the least he could do. When they came no more Eadrom stood again and started to go back on himself. It wasn’t long before he came across the wooden stairs that lead up to the deck, they were slippery with blood.

Above deck was worse than below. It had been torn to pieces, there were corpses of humans and the Remora everywhere and the ship had taken such a battering that it was a wonder that it was still afloat. It seemed that most of the survivors had gathered in some kind of mage shield that had been created in the centre of the deck. He rushed towards it, striking at the remaining Remora with deadly accuracy. This was what he was best at, his swords moved like surgeons scalpels, slashing exposed throats or striking like pins into the soft, vulnerable, underbellies of the creatures. He was fast and agile and so quickly made it without injury to the black shield. It was then that he noticed one of the people inside the shield. The Queen. What was she doing here? She was supposed to be Xerses! He was supposed to be going in her stead!

“What’s the situation here!” He called out to group. “Why is the Queen here?! And where is the Captain? The lower decks are being flooded and the ship doesn’t have long left!”

Eadrom awoke in a wet pile on the shoreline, spluttering water up from his lungs as he weakly thrashed in the sand. The night was cold and dark, and for a moment he had no idea where or even who he was. Then, it all came rushing back. The ship. He had… he had gone up on the decks to see what was attacking them and he had since most of the expedition… but then… then, the Kraken! It had been a Kraken! He recalled the horror as the tentacles had risen out of the water and crushed the ship once and for all, hurling them all into the inky waters and taking the Bleak Dawn down into the depths of the ocean. Gods. The hairs on the back of his neck rose just thinking of the sight now. He pressed his aching forehead to the sand and tried to remember what had happened after that.

After the ship was gone, he had been flung into the water. It had been cold, freezing, in fact, but that had seemed trivial compared to the weight of his armour in the water. He had sunk like a stone under the black plate of the Royal Xerses Guard. He hadn’t even enough time to scream as the waters had swallowed him up whole. And down there in that darkness… he had desperately tried to escape death. Tearing away frantically at the straps that had held his armour, he had almost broken some of his fingers with the frenetic power he had poured into trying to get it off. It came eventually, the heavy breastplate slowly his sinking dramatically… But that hadn’t even been half of it. For what seemed like hours Eadrom had worked at the mail coat and the other smaller pieces of plate armour that had protected his limbs. By the time they were all off, he hadn’t been able to tell which way was up and which way was down.

He had been running out of air, in danger of blacking out, when from above, a corpse from the battle had come drifting down. He had been saved by a corpse. It told him which way was up, and in that instance, Eadrom never been as relieved to look upon a dead man as he had then. He had kicked his feet and made a rush for the surface, with the last of his air almost gone, it was almost as desperate a situation as his escape from the steel prison trapping him down here only seconds before. He had burst out into the night air and had begun greedily sucking down great gulps of air.

The entirety of this mission seemed to be just damn awful, Eadrom reflected as pulled himself out of the surf and crawled further up the beach. He felt terrible, his joints were aching and his head was pounding. As he tried to stand he noticed that there was a fire burning in the distance. He swept his eyes around him to see what, if anything he still had. He was wearing his plain under garments, and a rough spun tunic that was completely soaked through. No armour, no boots… or trousers for that matter. Fortunately, it seemed as if he had the presence of mind to keep a hold of his sword belt. He picked it up and buckled it round his waist, before setting off in the direction of the fire.

As he picked his way through the wreckage and bodies on the shore, Eadrom saw what seemed to be the remainder of the group, and the Queen herself standing next to the fire. He staggered over, his head and joints still aching profusely. There was a white-haired man talking about building an army and preparing defences. They were under attack again? Gods! It never stopped.

“We’re under attack again? By whom?”

Eadrom had gasped at how the wolf pack treated their fellow Daeva. He wasn’t completely sure but he though he remembered the wolf being named Torvik… Torva? He wasn’t sure, his head was still pounding, making it hard to think, the ride in on the surf must have been hardly than he had thought. They were led away through the dark forest, down a narrow winding path, with the trees pressing in all around them. Eadrom was naturally very light footed, but even he struggled to keep with the pace the wolves were setting, they seemed to know where every single rock and root was, even in the pitch black!

He mused on how different this place was to his own home. Home for Eadrom was a quiet wooded valley, nestled between two hills on the eastern shores of Nixie Lake. The woods there were very different to these, they had always seemed much lighter for start… but maybe that was just because he had only really ever seen these ones in the dark. As they approached the camp of the Wolf Tribes he also wondered about how different the lives they led were. He had always known that the further away from Xerxes you got the more… unusual… the Daeva communities got. But in this north-western corner of the kingdom, it just seemed alien to him. He had lived in a village, with stone and wooden houses, the people there still kept a shrine to the old spirits of the animal and the woods, but that was mostly out of respect and tradition. Here, they lived the lives that Daeva thousands of years ago would have lived… it was all quiet thrilling really.

His curiosity was piqued further by the music they played, he had never quite heard anything like it before in the courts of Xerxes, Raha had never been one for musicians or minstrels. He sat down around the fire and gratefully ate his fill of the stew provided by their hosts. Although he couldn’t shake the feeling that, as a Deer Daeva, some of them would prefer to serve him in the stew, rather than serve him a bowl of stew. He watched on as the tribe dragged away their fellow wolf, and then another prisoner into the cell next to him. Was he another from the ship? Eadrom couldn’t be sure, he’d like to speak up for them, especially Torva since the wolf had been nothing but cordial to him during the brief time they had spoken, but he felt that his place was here… beside Queen Dralina. He was a member of the Royal Guard, and he couldn’t do that if they tribe locked him up for speaking out of turn.

It was then the fire elemental Daeva from before… or maybe he was hybrid (it was hard to tell in the shadows being cast from the massive fire in the centre of the encampment) started to speak to the Queen. He thought the man was older that him… but his attitude hardly betrayed that fact, he was demanding questions of the Queen? Did he really have no idea who he was speaking to; did he not even know who Raha had been? In that moment, Eadrom felt sorry for him, what sort of life had he had led to have almost no knowledge of Daeva society? He must have been pretty isolated, even the distant tribes like these understood the position of the Daeva monarch and knew who they were.

“You should watch your tone, sir.” He said, not unkindly, standing as he did so. “You address Queen Dralina Blazion, first of her name, Queen of all Daeva kind, descendent of Xiomar.”

adrom had ignored the first woman who had come to him. Not out of spite, or malice, or anything negative of the sort. He wasn’t that type of person, who could carelessly brush away a person like they meant nothing at all. He was far too sentimental for any such callous act. No, he had ignored the first busty wolf that had spoken to him out the sheer embarrassment that had surged through him like a wave the second he had realised her intent.

Eadrom, despite being a comely youth, had never lain with a woman. He had spent so much of his time in the military academy, and then out doing the work of the monarchy. He had never really… well… he supposed he had considered finding a mate one day, but that had been distant, far away, irrelevant. Now he found the possibility of… mating… very, very, close. Too close for comfort. He had gulped and looked the other way. Just in time to catch his Queen, in the light of the fire, declare herself one of those who would stand for the wolf Torva.

All thoughts of the wolf pressed to his shoulder were flung aside. His Queen was going into a trial by combat! He had to be with her! He was meant to protect her! To serve her! He must volunteer this very instance. But by that point it was too late, the dark assassin, Shade, had volunteered himself. And then the seraphim, the one that had gone to Torva’s cage, declared herself too. He couldn’t intervene! Oh Gods! He was there to serve and to protect his Queen, and yet he was prevented from doing so! It seemed he could do nothing, he was failing at every challenge presented to him. He had barely made it from the ship alive, and had been completely useless in the battle there. Now he was useless again, impotent, when his Queen might have need of him. Perhaps he could shadow them? Make sure the queen was not harmed… he had liked that Torva fellow, but if in his animalistic state he might endanger Queen Dralina’s life... well, then Eadrom would be forced to act.

It was as he sat brooding over these dark and sombre thoughts that the second awkward encounter with those of the opposite sex began. The two wolfesses pressed up against him to each side, closer even than the last one had. Moments before his mind had been solely focused on what he could do to protect his Queen, now all he could think about was the light pressure being exerted on his right arm by the bosom of one of the wolves. All this talk of hunger and starving… he had known it as soon as he had entered the camp. These wolves, they were predators, always predators. But he hadn’t expected them to be of this sort!

“I umm… ah… I… err-” Eadrom began to speak, blushing heavily and looking down as he did so. He had no idea what to say! What did you say in a situation like this? But there was no time for words, because before he could get any out, he had been lifted off his feet and was being cared through the camp!

“Ladies! I would love to join err- join you! But I err- have to get back to the umm… Queen! And err- Torva! I need to-” He began to protest and struggled slightly, but he was firmly held between their sleek, powerful bodies… bodies he couldn’t help but glance not now they were so intimate. He looked around desperately for anyone he might have known who could help him. But in this section of the camp there was only the quiet darkness of the trees and the glowing orange light of a few torches.

Then they came to the hut. Eadrom was hurled inside by his two kidnappers and onto a bed of furs. He let out an ‘oof’ as the air was taken out of his lungs by the landing. At once, he scrambled to get upright on the bed. And then… then… what he saw before him. The wolves. Eight of them. Eight. All of them with the hungry look in their eyes of the others that had brought him here. Each one of them was more beautiful and ravishing than the last. It was not the traditional, chaste, virgin maiden beauty that these wolves had about them, it was the tempestuous, wild, voluptuous beauty of women who were full of fierce passion, burning desires, and wicked, wicked, thoughts.
And it absolutely terrified Eadrom.

And yet there was nothing more he could do except sit in the piles of furs and stare at them, open mouthed. And as he stared he could feel it, his loins stirring beneath the under garments, the slow stiffening of his erection forming. Then there was the involuntary change that came over many Daeva when it came to mating, his human form giving way to that of the Stag, the animalistic, sexual, side of a Daeva’s being. They started to press around him, removing their tops… their round, perfect breasts, gleaming in the light of the torches. The flicking shadows played across the naked fur of their bodies, both the wolves and Eadrom’s own, for now he found he had removed his shirt. They fell upon him, and as they did so, Eadrom could do no more than let out a sigh. A whisper, only just words:

“Oh… my…”

A noise somewhere between a groan of ecstatic pleasure and yelp of utter fear and absolute surprise issued forth from the great bed when Neon had barged into the hut. He had been in the throes of euphoria, his eyes closed as he had enjoyed the mind numbing sweetness that emanated from his body and the bodies of those he laid with. He felt exhausted he just wanted to stay here and sleep. But with banging of the door and then Neon’s brief and simple words to him, all thoughts of sweetness and pleasure evaporated from Eadrom’s mind like dew on a hot summer’s day.

His eyes were wide open, larger than saucers and his mouth hung agape at the shock of being found in what could only be described as desertion of his duty in Eadrom’s own mind. As Neon turned and left from the hut he began to first blink, then shake and twitch slightly, and then started stammering:

“I-I-I can- I can explain!” He leapt out the bed, intending out after her, before realising his own nakedness and then hurriedly clawing at the sheets to get enough to cover his lower half. The terror and shock had completely killed his enflamed passions and he could already feel himself transforming back out of his deer form and into his smaller, more modest, human one. But with the transformation… he felt acutely more naked. He was used to not wearing any clothes whilst as an animal, but the experience as a human was something completely different. He turned around again to tug further at the sheets… when he suddenly remembered that he was far from alone…

They lay there on the bed. A veritable harem of Wolf Daeva… their flesh… exposed… NO! Now was not the time to think of that! Eadrom tried to smile and subtlety tried to edge back towards where he had spied his clothing and few meagre possessions piled upon the floor.

“Umm- Thank you, ladies. But I err- I really have to be going now.” He tried to smile again and scratched the back of his head in a nervous gesture. Eadrom really didn’t like the way they were still looking at him.

“Where do you think you’re going deer-boy?” One growled.

“We haven’t finished with you yet!” Another said, leaping up into a crouch on the bed… ready to pounce. These women were definitely predators.

“Uh-oh.” Eadrom really didn’t know if he could take another round of the wolves voracious appetites. He already felt weak standing after round one. But it looked like they wouldn’t be giving him a choice! The wolf who had assumed the crouch position pounced at him, along with another one. They came flying through the air, completely naked, like very terrible, very deadly, angels.

Eadrom spun to avoid them, sliding off to the side. In the same motion he bent and seized his clothing and his sword belt with both hands and then rushed towards the still open door. He felt the red hot pain spring along his back as he stood from the bend… had one of them clawed him he thought for a moment, before remembering all the ‘clawing’ that had been going on the in the bed earlier.

Still, as he sprinted to freedom, on the very threshold of the hut, one of the wolves managed to wrap themselves around Eadrom’s legs. He yelped again, and was almost tripped by her. But somehow, he managed to jump and roll out of her grasp before sprinting off again. Behind him he could hear the cries and shouts of the wolves.

“Come back! Come back here deer-boy!” They all yelled, but Eadrom was already far away, pelting through the camp in nothing but what he was born in.

He certainly got some strange looks from the guards as they caught his naked, fleeing figure amongst the fire and torch light between the huts and trees. But that didn’t matter, they weren’t going to pin him down and hold him against his will to be a sex slave… well… was that really against his will? He shook his head, it didn’t matter now. All that matted was getting out of the camp and finding the group before they assumed he had stayed behind for good in the carnal company of these damned wolves!

Somehow (after redressing behind a dark and secluded tree) Eadrom caught up with group as they approached the main road. He said nothing. Maybe if he didn’t bring it up then no one would ask him about where he had been the past few hours? Provided the Queen didn’t say anything… yeah… he was screwed.

The Inferno

The Inferno

The sun was setting on the rolling hills of Cyprus, the rocky, shrub covered slopes gently kissed with the fading light. Hue’s of gold, lilac and red danced in the westerly clouds giving almost a window into God’s own kingdom. The surf against the shore could be faintly heard from the cliffs that looked out over the brazen seas as they reflected the light back up at the sky. Nestled a few hundred yards back from the rocks was a quaint villa, set against the hills and the sky, surrounded by some fertile and tilled land. Pass this warm home of a knight, the former home of the crusader Raymond of Cyprus, was a small path that wound up into the hills a way. At the end of the well trodden track was a tiny ancient building of worn stone and petrified wood. The private chapel of the villa by the sea, though it had stood longer than any villa.

Between the woodworm eaten doors and the tiny stained glass window set across from them was a small space little more than a shrine than a noble’s chapel. A small wooden altar with a silver crucifix sitting upon it and benches for less than ten people was all that adorned the room. Apart from that only the ancient beams and the rough stone, its mortar had long since been crumbled away by time and the Mediterranean heat. In this Spartan room knelt a man before the altar, his hands clasped in prayer, a crucifix around his neck. He was dressed as the man who used to own this estate did once, still bearing the chainmail and the mantle of a Knight of the Templar. The outfit of a warrior of God. But this man was doing no fighting now, he was praying, for he knew that he was not a warrior. No a warrior was too noble a name for this man’s profession.

He looked tired, beneath his blonde hair his eyes were surrounded by deep dark rings that were the signs of sleep deprivation. Though this man was not praying for rest. In his rest was the source of what he was praying for. Every time he closed his eyes and drifted off into sleep he was visited by visions of everything that he had done in his life that he regretted. Every ‘borrowed’ penny, sinful glance, and brash moment. Every damned lie, fist raised, and back stabbed. No relief would come of it, not a single moment of sleep could he draw without this grim tale being played before his horrified eyes. But there was something worst in his dreams than his life so far. A vision of the future, a dark plane of flames covered with agonised souls screaming in silence, while down below the fires in an icy cavern a smile in the darkness that made his spine shiver and would wake him drenched in sweat.

But as he went to wake a voice would call out from the terror of the dream, telling him:

“Repent. Or this will be not only your present, but it shall be the future of your existence too.”

Each time the voice would echo out to him, sounding so real and familiar, yet like across a distance of lifetimes and continents. And it was disconcerting to have such voices speaking in your dreams. And so here he was, at last taking the advice of the phantom voice, and trying to repent for all his worth at this altar. He was staying with the son of a former friend and a brother of arms, Raymond of Cyprus who fell in the battle of Hattin at the hands of Saladin. Raymond had never even seen the crusade that followed his death, a war which he had been so much part of. The praying had been for the both of them, for each of their souls. So that Raymond could make his passage to heaven swiftly and so that he could save himself from what the dreamed warned him of.

“Our Father who art in heaven,
Hallowed be thy name.
Thy kingdom come.
Thy will be done
On earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread,
And forgive us our trespasses,
As we forgive those who trespass against us,
And lead us not into temptation,
But deliver us from evil."

Under his breath the crusader whispered the prayer of the Lord, eyes dropping slightly from the effort of being awake for so long. He couldn’t remember when he had slept properly last. Finally the temptation of sleep grew too strong, and there his head nodded in front of God’s altar in one of the oldest churches on the island. And there he dreamed…

“Awake, Stephen, son of Robert. Awake, Stephen de Monfort. Awake, Stephen the Bloody.” A voice called out to him, using all three of his names, each one arousing emotion and feeling within him.

“Who speaks!” He demanded in a clear voice in the dark.

“He who has past before you.” The voice answered. “You were told to repent and you have proven that you value the immortal soul. But your sins are not light, it will take more to relieve your burden.” I had an almost mocking ring to it as it finished, telling him the solid hours of praying he had done were all for nothing.

“Then tell me what I must do, spectre.” He answered boldly, not letting his inner doubts show.

“You must travel downward, though nine circles of evil, and there you will find your redemption in the darkest of pit. Be you willing to journey to that which is furthest from the light of God?”

“I will not damn my soul to Hell! Even if I face it now! I know no fear!” He shouted back, his anger and defiance building inside of him as his eyes searched the darkness.

“Very well then. Awake.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Stephen’s eyes snapped open, and he stood in rapid motion. The chapel was gone; he stood in a burnt ruin of a building, surround by an oppressive plain of scorched earth. The hills of Cyprus were rubble and slag under a black sky of poison clouds, surrounded by a sea of boiling sulphurous acid. Where was this place? He ran out of the tumble of blackened stones and onto the ash covered scree and dirt outside. The hideous red light filtering through the smog above lit the ground with an effect that made it look like a massacre had taken place the night before. It stained the ground crimson like the blood of the many that Stephen had shed in the past.

“Dear God, this place must be hell.” But it was not, only the entrance to it. He began to walk, glad that he still wore his mail and had his swords with him. Even more glad that he had his cross on and had a holy relic with him. The finger of St. Jude, it had been given to him by an old Commander before the war with Saladin. Raynald de Chatillion had obtained it from a small monastery in Crete, and Stephen had carried it back from the holy land at all times since the dreams had begun. He walked slowly up the slopes, casting his eyes all around him for any sign of well… anything really. The wasteland was barren, nothing grew and nothing lived here. Only ruins and dust existed in this foul place.

He walked for some time, until in the distance there glinted the shine of something not dead or so dusty. As Stephen walked towards in over the broken and wounded land did it become apparent as to what it was. A giant metal disk of sorts set into the top of a hill, but not really circular, it had nine sides and was made of a dark grey metal folded into interlocking triangles. It was strange even for a place like this; the enormity of it was bizarre. It was not completely flat, at its centre there seemed to be a column or pillar that stood erect. In some ways it reminded him of the strange ruins and pillars of the old religions that littered the countryside in some places. Great worn standing stones that stood the test of time where heathens did not. Only this circle was infinitely more sinister in this world of the dead.

Slowly he approached, convinced it had some significance to his journey. He came to realise it was not a pillar at the centre, but a man. An impossibly tall, armoured figure of the same metal as of the disk stood there, silent and unmoving. It looked like some kind of statue, a statue of some kind of knight that was more demonic and horrific than any Saracen or Muslim he had seen in his life. They were the worshipers of false gods, this thing was the result of the true enemy of God. It must surely be one of warped creations of Lucifer who is bound in ice, there is nothing else something so twisted could be a product of.

He had reached the edge of the strange thing, and raised a foot to step upon it. As soon as the sole of his boot had been set down onto the metal the figure turned to Stephen. Red fire glinted from beneath its visor, making the metal glow like a furnace. He was unarmed, though his armour was a weapon itself, every joint spiked and bladed like some kind of human mace. It faced the knight and whispered in a deadly quiet voice:

“I am the gatekeeper. None may pass me.”

Stephen stared at the gatekeeper, partly in fear and partly in awe of the armoured figure. The armour was like nothing he had ever seen before, it had none of the bulkiness and hard edges as normal armour did. The figure was over three meters tall, seemed to be covered from head to toe in almost fluid metal, there were no conventional joins of any kind. It was if its very skin was the strange unearthly steel that the great plate was composed of. Despite his wonder though, he could see how it was such a deadly thing. The only gap in the dark steel was the thin gap that the ominous red glow emerged from, what he assumed was the gatekeeper’s eyes. And the blades, oh the blades, they were on every joint and corner. The fingers were just jointed knives each one inches in length and more than long enough to piece the heart of a man. Spikes on the elbows sharp enough to pierce armour and knee blades that could gut one like a fish.

It was an awful wondrous terror that consumed his heart as he stared at the formidable foe. Never before had he been beaten in battle since he had come to the holy land, he knew he was not the greatest fighter of all time, but he knew that he was more than the average. Proof enough was how he had constantly survived in his life, in every battle, where he had killed thousands maybe, he had made it through without loosing life or limb. It was either that or he had the luck of the devil, perhaps he could ask him if he made it that far.

“I guess I must defeat you to proceed?” He asked, almost unsure in himself. Surely his first challenge could not be the greatest he had faced so far in all his life? To waste his blood here would be idiotic.

“None will pass.” The gatekeeper replied in the disturbing voice once again, the eyes of fire almost flaring in the steel casing. “Unless I am fallen.”

“So be it.” Stephen said, and hurled himself at the tower of steel thorns, drawing his long sword as he went. It was a fast sprint, and it would force the guardian to be quick in defending himself, hopefully testing his combat skills and reactions. He sword swung down in a high slash at the creature’s left flank, the guardian had not reacted. The blade swung, and it was blocked. The guardian had moved so fast, Stephen hadn’t even seen the forearm swing up and block his weapon. As the two steels met, fire flashed up around the outside of the metal disk. Making escape impossible. Yet within the flames, words of a darker fire could be seen, spelling out in Latin: “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” The message at the gates of hell, of course it would be one of despair, that is what the demons of hell fed upon.

The parry had thrown him back, so he came again stronger, slashing wildly from side to side, going first high at the upper chest and then gutting shots down at the stomach. Yet because of the height it would have been impossible to reach any higher. Cleaving off the head was not an option in his fight. But by God, the thing did its job without effort, blocking the blows with ease. He drove his sword at the thing’s hand, hoping to maim its efforts in blocking before it went on a counter attack. It caught his blade. How! How could it do that! There was enough force behind that to drive it through a knight and his horse. Yet this creature could simply grab it like a child’s stick! A cold sweat began to run down his back.

The gatekeeper twisted the sword slightly, and with a turn of his wrist ripped the hilt from Stephen’s hands. It had done so effortlessly once again, somehow the creature was nigh invincible in both speed and strength. This was fight only a true master could win, no, not even the classical hero’s of old would have the knowledge and skill to battle this terrible being. He staggered back as the armoured knight of death threw away his blade to the edge of the disk. Stephen drew his Falchion and axe, though now the gatekeeper was moving, death drew near to Stephen as his eyes nervously followed the great being as it glided around the outer reaches of the arena, just out of his lunging range.

“Come! Bring me death already!” He cried, not wishing to be forced to wait longer for his honourable end. He just must have been one to impure to battle with a demon of hell and win. It seemed plausible, his hands were covered with more blood than it was necessary for him to have split. At least he could meet his death with some kind of dignity. It flew at him like a wind of blades and violence. Blocking was all he could do as steel flew from side to side. Sometimes deflected and showering sparks and sometimes connecting and drawing blood before pulling away. It would not kill him quickly, small painful wounds littered his body, stinging but not life threatening. It wanted him to suffer as it killed him, it wanted him hopeless and broken by the end of this fight. Then it would finish him like some animal to be slaughtered, all pride lost to the menace that was going to destroy him in a shower of blood an- No! He would not loose himself to despair! His mind screamed as he continued in vain to hold the killing machine back.

As he did so he felt something, he blocked all of the thing’s blows. None came through as he stated his defiance. And wait, hadn’t it started to attack when he said he wished for death and didn’t want to fight eternally. Did this demon feed upon his hopeless thoughts? It was his only chance. I can beat you! He thought and… Clang. His sword met one of jointed finger knives and held it, its unrelenting strength lessened.

“I will destroy you demon! You have no power over me!” He screamed as he swung his axe in a powerful arc, and lo and behold! The blade hit and dented the fiend’s incredible armour. It was true! His hopelessness was gone and with it the might of the creature was failing. He swung again, it went to block but it was too slow, and his sword pierced its gut. Fire and steam races out and the thing faltered. It could be killed. There was triumph in his eyes. He hacked again and again, splitting it with mighty blows until it crumpled to its knees, mortally wounded. One last time Stephen raised his Falchion and struck the deathblow, right into the eye slit of the warrior’s helmet.

It was done. And with the final blow and great groaning could be heard, the metal beneath him was moving, the steel sliding and folding in some elaborate pattern. The nine triangles began to part and fold, revealing a great dark hole beneath them, lit with dark fires below, echoing the groans and screams of agony from far below. He had retreated to the edge of the plate, retrieving his long sword. This was it now, this was the entrance to hell itself. After this there would be no turning back, but who was he kidding, there was no way he could turn his back on the only way that he could cleanse his soul. This was the only route he could take.

“To the abyss, I shall go.” He stated simply, and dived in.

Bitewind smelled atrocious. That was all the main thought that was revolving around Willet’s head as he approached the city. He had smelt it on the wind for the past three days as he had wandered his way through the woodland and fields that surrounded the area. He could smell it even over the pungent stink of the drying hides of the fallow deer he had caught a few days before. They were natural smells, and the smell of a city was not natural in Willet’s opinion.

The weather had been fair enough on his approach for most of the day in fact, but it was starting to turn grey, and by the time he had reached the outskirts of the city, it had just started to rain a little bit, seemingly from out of nowhere. He didn’t mind, the water would maybe put down the smell a bit more, which now seemed intolerable to Willet since he was right in the heart of it. Now he had arrived at Bitewind, he was actually fairly disappointed, never in his life had he been a fan of towns or cities, but he had been under the impression that Bitewind was one of the greatest, one of the largest cities that Alenta still had to offer. But it was a wreck, just like all the other former strongholds of man. The walls were big, but crumbling and patched in many places. It just looked… shabby.

Still, in comparison to most other places it was large, far larger than any town that Willet had been to before. But that wasn’t exactly hard to do. He mostly stayed off the beaten track, kept his head down to be sure. The forest was the place for him, he only went to town when he needed, and that was little as possible. Stone and wooden houses were nowhere near as friendly and welcoming than the sight of a tree line to Willet. That was home, not these artificial warrens.

“Hail, friend!” Willet shouted to the man guarding the gate. The man looked startled, as if surprised someone had greeted him.

“Friend or foe?”

“Come on man, use your ears!” He berated him slightly, but with a smile on his face. The guard was the first other voice he had heard in the best part of a moon. “Friend, I said I was friend.”

“Ah, okay. Name, business and trade?” The man shook his head, he didn’t look very well in Willet’s eyes, seemed sick and a bit shaken up. Had they had someone who was trouble through here? Or was it just a heavy night at the tavern?

“Name’s Willet, my business is trade, I have skins and dried meat to sell. I’m a hunter and trapper for most moons, though I’ve been known to work other jobs if I have to.” Willet replied, conversation was a joy, but his tongue felt leaden in his mouth, he didn’t know how to extend the answers to the question. He had gotten rusty out there.

“Well, don’t cause any trouble or you’ll have the wall watch to deal with.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, mate.” Willet meant it, getting locked up in a town was about the last thing he wanted in this life. Keep your head down, your nose clean, and then go back to the forests where you can do as you please.

The guard let him into the city without much fuss. The large wooden gates were opened by two more men inside and Willet found himself presented with an odd scene, what he had thought would be a fairly busy city going about its business was empty. It was eerie. Somewhere down a decayed looking side street he could hear the sounds of a crowd shouting, he decided to follow it to see what the hell was going on. All around him were buildings, pressed up hovels and shacks, constructed in the ruins of mighty palaces, some had been build afresh and looked in good shape, but the whole place was exactly like the rest of Alenta, a ruin within a ruin. Above all this mess of old and new was a castle, epitomising the chaos wholly. One side of it was new and fresh, looked like it had been built just yesterday, whilst the other side was a ruin, broken and battered and looking like it had been there for hundreds of years.

As he grew closer he saw the remnants of a fight, in the remnants of a temple. A whole load of those wall watcher fellows were down in the dust, and the rest were dragging away some guy with black hair, and bright silver eyes who was laughing manically. Surely, one man couldn’t be responsible for taking out so many guards? Willet was about to leave, he had no taste for such events, when he heard a voice clear as day:

“Help me.”

What the hell was? He turned around and looked at the crowd, he had been standing meters away and yet it felt like whoever had said it had been standing right behind him. The eerie feeling he had got when he had saw the empty streets of Bitewind came back with that voice. Something wasn’t right here, and it was more than Bitewind just being a city. He felt uneasy, about that man with dark hair and silver eyes in particular. His instinct was telling him to get the hell out of there… but he also felt compelled, someone, something had asked for his help. And he couldn’t shake the feeling it was the man he saw being dragged away.

What the hell was he doing? That was all that was going through Willet’s head as he followed behind the strange group that had assembled. Most of them looked like a rough lot, fighters and warriors and the sorts, some others looked less threatening… and one was piss drunk. Who the hell were they all, why was it that they had heard the call of the unusual man outside the ruined temple? Willet couldn’t really see any unifying factor between them… they were all of different genders, races, professions. Gods, might this be some kind of mental manipulation? Were they the most weak minded out the people who saw the fight? So many questions…

He ditched his load of furs on the edge of a small midden heap, let someone else have them, he could always hunt again. Some of the group were talking, but Willet was going to keep his mouth shut for now, who the hell knew what this all might be? Maybe they were all in on it? Damn it, things like this only ever happened in towns. He was just wondering what the hell they were actually going to do when they reached the castle when a loud clap caught his attention. There was a man, a wall watcher, or at least someone dressed as a wall watcher who was explaining that they were his ‘Lord’s rescue party’ (much to Willet’s disgruntlement, he had no ‘lord’) and then got them to go at an even faster pace towards the base of the castle. When they reached that he pulled out some kind of magic, created a hole right through the bleeding wall.

Some of the group seemed eager to go through, a lot of them were spoiling for a fight in Willet’s opinion… classic he would be breaking into a Lord’s keep with a bunch of potential psychopaths, still better than doing it on your own. He deliberated quite a lot on whether or not he should go through, what did he owe this man, this supposed ‘lord’? But even if he couldn’t pull up reasons, he still felt a kind of compulsion, whether it was from a general good will or if someone had been tinkering with his head he didn’t know, but the result was still the same.

“Ah- screw it.” He muttered before striding into the portal himself

This had to have been one of the worst days in Willet's life. Really, absolutely, bloody awful. Everyone was trying to kill each other and it was terrifying. He had been bemused more than anything at the transformation of the stranger Sully into cat, stranger things had happened in this world. He had been curious had the arrival of the 'Lord' they had meant to be saving, it looked to Willet he had no need to saving, if that was the case why the hell had they all been dragged here. This 'Sevv' seemed to be causing a whole load of trouble for no particular reason, and trouble was never a good thing in this age, there was already more than enough of it to go around.

And then of course, the orgy of violence began. Fire, blood, hacking, killing. It was horrible. Absolutely horrible. The group tore away, swords a'swinging through the ranks of the Wall Watchers. He left it to the big guys with the big weapons to deal with that, sticking to the back of the charge and using his axe to pick of anyone not quite dead who was still had a weapon in their hand. It was messy, bloody work, and he relished in it in no way at all. Killing people was ugly, especially with a damn axe! He used this axe to chop his firewood, would his next camp fire reek of death because of this?

He paused to crack open the head of a Watcher who had been protected by the body of one of his comrades from one of the blades of some huge, tall... monster... that Willet guessed was now his ally, until he got out of this hell hole of city anyway. It was in that pause that he was leapt upon by a Wall Watcher who had been holding back, and had noticed that Willet was not one of the group's strongest fighters. He just managed to parry back with his axe, but his footing was all wrong and it sent him sprawling back as the Watcher trust his sword at him again. Willet dodged that one, as as the Watcher leaned in and over balanced slightly, he whipped his axe in from the side and buried it into the man's torso. He spat up blood, Willet dug it in again. And again. The man coughed up a bit more blood. Then the man fell down dead.

"Gods..." He muttered appalled by the violence of what he had just done. He had tried not to look into their eyes, but he hadn't been able to... it felt so brutal, so much worse than killing an animal you hunted, there was nothing natural about this at all.

But the fight had left him behind the rapidly advancing swirl of swords that was the 'rescue party' and now, seeing he was alone, there were a group of Watchers closing in on him. Far too many to fight. So Willet ran. He sprinted down off of the street, through a vacant plot of waste ground, full of rubble and weeds, the soldiers in pursuit. On the other side there was a fairly wide alley, it looked like it should have been open at both ends, so Willet just picked a direction and ran that way. It was a bad choice, the deceptively wide alley ended round a corner where new warehouse had been placed over the archaic street layout. He was trapped.

The watchers were closing in, where the hell could he escape to? To his right there was a wooden door, it looked well rotted, he ran at it and put his shoulder to it. It groaned, but didn't open, the axe? No, there wasn't enough time. He had seconds before they caught him. He rammed at it again, putting everything he had. For an agonising moment, it sounded just like that same disappointing groan from before, a sign the door would be standing fast. But he leaned all his weight into it, the door crashed inward, Willet falling down with. He sprang up, eyes blinking, dust and blood from a broken lip in his mouth. No time to look, he ran inside.

It was an open courtyard, pull of weeds in the cobbled floor, looked completely disused. There were doors leading inside to what appeared to be some kind of industrial building, dark and forbidding, across the courtyard strange brick stacks or towers... some kind of old kins maybe? This must have been a potter's yard. One of the kilns had collapsed into ruin, a tumbled mess of broken bricks. It looked climbable.

Willet decided to run for that, rather than try and hide in the darkness of the old buildings. He made it to the foot of the pile before a Watcher entered the yard. Whizz. A crossbow bolt few past the side of his head. He leaped up the pile, scree falling down after him as he clambered up to get over the wall. As he hauled himself up onto it Another crossbow bolt embedded itself in the brickwork bellow. This was close. He was on the wall, and looked below. Oh shit, he thought, but it was better than the Watchers so he jumped.

The cesspit broke his fall quite well, after the jarring impact it was almost pleasant. Save for the overwhelming and absolutely vile stench of compounded generations of human waste. He hauled himself out and was retched at the side of it before recovering his composure and sprinting off in another direction, just as the Wall Watchers looked on from above.

Running through the city had not been easy, blending in when you look like a walking poo monster is a tough enough act on your average day, let alone when the city is turned into a battleground. But somehow Willet managed to avoid the attention of the guards as he fled the city and made it to the south gate. It looked like everyone else had made it as well, even the Sevv bloke, Willet had thought that Tyrr would have killed him, after seeing how he had melted through that wall like butter. He didn't quite know if he was glad or worried to see him unconscious.

"Look, I know I'm late. Let's just go. You can see the shit I've been through to get here."

“Your story stinks worse than me, old man.” Willet was angry, he didn’t really know why, and he didn’t even know if he had fully understood the story that had been told to him, but still he felt angry. “You really expect me to believe that this world is like it is because of the whims of six men? That’s just impossible, I mean, there’s a whole world out there, how can 6 men just choose to carve it up as they like and keep it a secret? If you remember all this then it wasn’t that long ago, if that’s the case, then why is the first I’ve ever heard of this final battle come from you, huh?”

There had been some kind of indignant fury that had been building up inside of Willet since before they had left the confines of Bitewind. He had been taken from continuing his normal (if not dangerous and primitive) life, made to commit crimes and aid in wanton slaughter, chased through the streets like prey, and into a heap of literal shit. And now, now he was being told this was all to avenge what seemed like a personal vendetta this Sevv had against a lot of very powerful people? Even if the story was true, why was he under any obligation at all to help in it, he didn’t want responsibility like this, he never asked for it.

“Why should I help you? Or even trust you for that matter? All that you have brought me since this whole mess started is trouble, why do I owe you anything!?” He shouted the last word. He didn’t believe or actually care about a word of this story, as far as he was concerned it was all lies! He wanted out, he wanted to go back to this life of self-reliance and being responsible for only one person: himself. He was just a simple woodsman, it wasn’t his place to be a saviour of the world, there was someone else who could do that, someone better than him at it.

It might have been the cider that had been handed out to them, or it might have been the overwhelming pressure of the day, but at that moment, Willet felt like laughing in the faces of everyone in that cart. He felt like jumping out, taking a piss, having a wash and then never, ever, setting foot in a city again. But he didn’t… he couldn’t just leave now, after he had accused the Old man of so many lies and deceit. He still had the common courtesy to at least see if he had anything to say back.