The Long Dark
ft. everyone!Solomon held up a hand, commanding everyone to stay seated, and made his way to the door through the arrangement of tables and chairs. His own footfalls were whisper-silent, an uncommon grace having taken hold of him, and he sidled up to the window next to the door. The latch-bolt was in place, doing a good job of keeping out whoever it was that so clearly desired to gain entry, and Solomon peered outside through the glass to see if he could get eyes-on the nocturnal stranger.
To his surprise, however, it was so dark outside that he couldn’t even see the ground on the other side of the window. It had been a warm and clear summer’s day and Solomon only knew such darkness from the most clouded of winter nights. He almost pressed his face up against the glass in an attempt to discern anything to the left of the window, on the other side of the door, but Solomon couldn’t see anything.
Meanwhile, the thudding continued and slow and as steady as before. Whoever it was that had come knocking didn’t appear to be in any great hurry, but they were relentless. It was distinctly strange and… well,
not normal, and it made the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. The Imperial looked over his shoulder and locked eyes with Janus for a moment. The spymaster, trained to notice such things, hadn’t failed to notice the way the big man had braced himself when tempers had flared earlier in the evening. That was an involuntary response he had only seen in the most seasoned of fighters before -- and in himself. He hoped he could count on the Colovian, should he need him.
With the window proven fruitless, Solomon moved to the door. He placed himself on the left side of it, where the hinges were, and wrapped his hand tightly around the knob, ready to throw the door open and shield himself with it if need be. “Who goes there?” he called out, voice steady and unafraid.
The thudding ceased, but no answer came.
Solomon waited, counting the time with each passing breath. And then several things happened at once.
Another window, on the other side of the inn, shattered as an arm punched through the glass and seized the windowsill. Shrouded as it was in darkness, Solomon couldn’t make out who or what the the arm belonged to. Before he could say anything or direct anyone, something heavy and powerful slammed in the door with force. The wood buckled and splintered beneath the impact and Solomon instinctively pulled his hand back from the doorknob.
The window he had just looked through also blew open, scattering glass across the floor of the inn, and a dark shape cast a faint shadow inside as it moved to climb into the inn. Solomon cursed and threw out a hastily-conjured spell, an unexpected cantrip from an innkeeper; a bolt of lightning flashed and a dry
crack echoed through the inn. The dark shape on the other side of the now-broken window backed away.
At that moment, Henry appeared at the top of the stairs, wide-eyed and terrified. “T-they’re on the r-roof,” he stammered.
“Who?” Solomon demanded, but he did not get his answer. The door was splintered and broken entirely by a man-shaped thing, ghoulish and clad in shadow, that burst into the inn. A gust of cold wind came with it, as freezing as the air over the Sea of Ghosts, and the floorboards beneath the intruder’s feet were instantly coated with frost. Henry screamed and ran back the way he came. It was only when the creature stepped into the light of the sconce that Inzoliah had lit that Solomon saw what it was.
The walking dead, half-decayed and bloated with rot, hair matted with dirt and clothes heavy with moisture. It garbled something incomprehensible and turned towards Solomon, who was momentarily dumbstruck. On the other side of the inn, the second zombie had managed to climb in through the window, and wheezed menacingly.
Chaos ensued as the spell of inaction was broken. With a flash of light, Sihava vanished.
The first zombie swung at Solomon but the Imperial was faster -- faster than an innkeeper had any right to be. He ducked beneath the unwieldy swipe of the undead monster’s paw and shot back up with blinding speed. A soft, metal snick and something glimmering in the gloom were the only indications that Solomon had suddenly and inexplicably armed himself before his palm slammed into the zombie’s jaw, nearly breaking its neck with his unexpected strength.
It gurgled again, even more warbled and strangled this time, and Solomon pulled his hand back to reveal a narrow blade, the size of a dagger, protruding from the vambrace around his wrist. It was coated in black blood; the same blood that gushed forth from the new wound in the zombie’s throat. The zombie took a step back and reached up with its hands to claw at its throat.
“Intruders!” Solomon yelled at the top of his lungs, calling out not only to the people in the common room with him, but also to the other patrons that were probably still fast asleep in their beds upstairs. Another spell coalesced in the palm of his hand. “Arm yourselves!”
Janus had been far ahead of Solomon’s command. His usual lazy image and easy smile had been replaced with tense muscles and a dagger-eyed scowl, carefully watching the windows that Solomon was not, an unspoken readiness set in his shoulders as he gripped his axe’s haft and the long-knife’s handle. At the same moment that Solomon had been locked in his struggle with the first Thing, Janus had set himself with terrifying speed on the second, uncharacteristic of the man who had just before been dead set on anything but leaping into any kind of action.
His axe’s head cleaved through the Thing’s face with a sickening crunch and the ping of metal on bone. He let loose a deep growl as his knife pierced into the Thing’s solar plexus with such force it lifted it off its feet, and he sent it hurtling back out the window from whence it came. He chanced a look out and found the view almost the same as if he’d closed his eyes, “Can’t see nothing in this blackness.” He growled.
Bruno, too, was on his feet the moment the glass was spread across the floorboards, and although he hadn’t a clue of what was happening at first, the familiar sound of singing steel and spilling blood called to him, the summoning cries of Sovngarde’s shieldmaidens in his ears rattled his bones - his bow would be no good in close quarters. But as he scanned the room for a suitable weapon more workable than the dinky little knives on the table, his eyes fell on the woodpile adjacent to the fireplace and his feet followed, carrying his hands to the familiar grip of a modest woodcutting axe. There were only a couple at first, which both Janus and Solomon dispatched quickly, but Janus’ frustrated growls didn’t fall on deaf ears. He ripped one of the torches from its sconce and found his place standing ground beside Janus, the torch pointed toward the enemy, their hideous faces now illuminated before him, and the axe readied in the other.
He looked over toward Solomon, reminded of their earlier conversation, and yelled,
“At least the draugr can stay fucking put in their barrows!”Sinalare jumped to her feet, spurred from inaction at Solomon’s words. She knocked her chair out behind her and dropped the drink in her hand, Joy’s sweet concoction spilling out on the table. In seconds, the sword at her hip was in her hand. She surveyed the situation as quickly as she was able, the fog of the drink lifting -- nothing sobers one up quite like watching a zombie get hacked to bits in the centre of an inn. Rapidly, she took up position opposite Solomon near the door.
Janus backed away from the window and turned to look where Joy was. He didn’t expect her to be the type to be able to fight, Stendarr bless her, and he figured he’d be the one to do it for her.
Just as soon as Janus had dispatched one, another shambling corpse clambered into the inn to replace it. Simultaneously, elsewhere in the building, part of the straw roof collapsed and horrified screams bounced through the upstairs halls and rooms. Henry came running back down the stairs again, clearly caught between a rock and a hard place, and sprinted towards safety amidst the patrons in the common room, having recognized Janus as someone to hide behind. “They’re coming!” he yelled, voice nearly cracking with sheer panic.
Sure enough, two more zombies appeared at the top of the stairs, a disheveled farmhand that looked only recently deceased, clothes still caked in fresh blood, and another corpse that was little more than skeleton and whisps of fabric.
“What the fuck…” Janus hissed, using the back of his arm to push the stable boy behind him and Bruno as they backed away from the corpses.
His axe and the big chopping blade were held at the ready, his eyes going to each one of the dead things as he backed towards the rest of his fellows in the common room. It wouldn’t do for him to be cut off from them, three against one were not odds he liked. Not that the corpses cared for his opinion.
The skeleton came at him quickly, almost too much so, and Janus punched out with the top of his axe with a fury that shattered the skull to pieces. He almost tripped over the stable boy as he stumbled back from the second one, the dead farmhand lunging out with his hands looking to clamp his throat shut. Janus instead buried his axe in the Thing’s shoulder, took up a fistful of his bloodied shirt and his pants. He lifted the corpse and slammed him into the ground hard enough to hear the bones in his neck break. As soon as he ripped the axe away from its body, Bruno’s boot came down and crushed the rotting skull beneath all of his weight before swinging his own axe in a wild and reckless overhead arc toward one more undead creature with enough strength that it knocked its head off of its shoulders and splintered it across the hardwood floor.
At the same moment, Janus had Henry’s arm in a steel grip as he dashed to stand with the rest of his fellow patrons, looking to Solomon and waiting for some leadership.
“Janus,” Joy mumbled, near inaudibly in her panic. Frozen. Pressed with her back to the window as she watched the scene play out - her cheeks hot with inadvertent tears. What else was she to do? As her legs trembled and threatened to bring her down, wind came in from outside and her skirt fluttered in the disjointed current. “Janus,” she repeated again, finding more of her voice through choked, fearful sobs. Her smile had been turned upside down, and she watched the relentless assault amidst almost implacable dark.
She held onto the wall like the last leaf of a changing tree in summer's last sigh, the ground beneath her shaking from the calamitous action, or was that her own heartbeat shaking her so? Sound became blurred. The scrapes and crashes of metal felt like they were outside. She was trapped in a glass globe watching it happen helplessly, and unheard.
In an instant, the glass cracked.
An undead arm wrapped around her neck, bursting in from outside. She didn’t know any better than to stand there.
”Janus!” she screamed out, her lungs belting with raw horror, discordant and rasping — so much unlike her beautiful singing voice, now the last choke of the rooster. Her hands fumbled into her pockets as she heard grating breath and spittle in her ear. Joy tore at whatever item she could find, unable to look, or to aim - only plunging the implement behind her, hoping to strike well. The creature’s grip loosened, and with a pop she pulled her hand forward. There was a rotting, gelatinous eyeball skewered on the end of her spoon and she screamed again, dropping it at once before lunging forward. Her legs gave out at last, and after a painful thud, she found herself face first on the ground.
Solomon’s takedown of the first zombie was almost clinical. He stepped in close, ducking and weaving around the undead creature’s grasping hands, his hidden blade severing tendons and almost quite literally disarming his opponent. A backhanded slice cut through the zombie’s throat entirely and Solomon clamped his other hand against its forehead. His face was set into a grim sneer as hot flame sprang to life in his hand and burned through the zombie’s face, boiling its brains in its skull and seeing it crumple to the floor in a useless heap, now definitively dead for the second time, smoke pouring from its ears.
In the meantime, the situation had already severely deteriorated. Solomon caught Janus looking at him and he ran back through the common room to join the defensive perimeter with the others. “Stay close, cover each other’s backs,” he barked, the old soldier suddenly returning to the fore. He snapped his fingers and directed Henry, shaking and terrified as he was, to look after Joy.
The young man sank down on his knees next to her and anxiously pressed his hand against her cheek. “Miss? Are you alright? P-please get up, miss, this is no time to be down and out!”
Yet another window had been broken, affording the enemy more entry points into the common room. He didn’t know how many there were, but the creatures were slow and unimaginative in their assault. “Defend the room, circular formation!” Solomon commanded and took up position.
Right that second, more screams came from upstairs. He’d forgotten about the other guests for a moment. Somebody was going to have to go up there to save them. “Fuck,” he growled. That should probably be him -- this was his inn, and he was responsible for their safety. “Janus, you have the room,” he delegated quickly. The man was a soldier too, there was no doubt about it after seeing him in action, and Solomon had to trust that he would do what was needed.
With that, he set off towards the stairs, pausing only to look at the wall behind the counter for a moment. With a flick of his mind, the falchion that hung there ceased its functionality as a decorative piece and flew to his outstretched hand, where its grip settled snugly in his fingers. The weight was reassuring. Then he rushed up the steps in long, bounding strides and disappeared from sight, while more zombies shambled and climbed their way into the common room through the broken door and windows.
Sinalare stepped up to block the door as two more zombies poured in through it. The first, a decomposing creature with an abominable smell, bones protruding from the rotted flesh, reached for the bosmer with an outstretched arm. She sidestepped adeptly, her lend arm grabbing a chair just behind her, and flung the piece of furniture at the first zombie. The creature toppled as the chair was thrown so hard it broke against the rotted flesh, leaving the stunned zombie in a pile of dead flesh and splinters.
Quickly, she followed up, swinging the light sword in her right hand at the second zombie. It was less decomposed, so recently deceased that it still had patches of skin, in fact. Her sword sliced through its right arm like butter, and her left foot kicked out its right knee just after. The zombie crumpled, falling to its right, and Sinalare met it with her sword, catching it through the neck. The whole zombie’s corpse fell onto her, black gushing blood covering her casual clothing, as the second zombie made it back to its feet. She pushed the first corpse, dead-twice, onto the creature, freeing her sword from its neck.
Her full range of movement back, she dodged another unarmed blow from the remaining zombie and hacked her sword into its stomach, slicing it open. Pieces of the zombie littered the floor and the rest of its shambling corpse dropped down to meet it. Black, coagulated blood coated Sinalare’s front, smeared down her left cheek and neck.
She squared up with the doorless door frame, facing outside where several more undead scrambled towards the opening. She raised her left hand, palm outstretched, and unleashed as much energy she could muster into the crowd. A blast of pure white lightning shot from her hand. The light was deceptively small; after it shot into the first zombie, the electricity burning it from the inside out, the lightning shot out of it and hopped to the next, starting a chain. Sinalare ducked back inside the inn.
“Formation!” Janus roared over the commotion, “Keep a circle!”
The onslaught was fierce now, not a window in the inn remained in its pane. His eyes scanned the bloodied and bloated corpses limping and shuffling towards them. They’d have to punch a hole through them and get outside. There was no way they could defend the inn like this, or at all. Solomon needed to choose between escape and the patrons upstairs, and Janus was begrudgingly set on not leaving him to fight alone. They needed to maneuver, and quick. He tightened his grip on his weapons, speaking low to Bruno beside him, “You with me, brother?”
“You got something crazy in mind, don’t ya?” Replied the low, nervous rumble of the shepherd's voice. “A’ight then, mad lad, let’s see what you got.”
A flash of Janus’ telltale easy smile, though with an edge of uncertainty, “I’ve my moments.”
A burst of purplish-blue light flashed beside Janus, and Sihava appeared as though from out of nowhere. Mouth dry, she stared fearfully out at the burgeoning ring of undead. She’d spent the last minute trying to figure out something she could do; her knives were small, and the horde was large. Then, cocking her head, she’d wondered:
why can’t I try my magic? She’d run under the assumption that the undead wouldn’t respond to her illusion in the same way as people; she’d encountered a few Draugr in Skyrim, and when she’d tried to enchant them, they
laughed. But maybe these High Rock zombies worked differently. Might as well try.
She swept her arms out, spraying a series of runes beneath the feet of the zombies and holding her breath in hope as they burst with clouds of red light.
Somehow, she never thought that zombies with glowing red eyes would be a comfort. But as they turned to each other and began savaging instead of the eerie, steady advance on the ring that it had been up to that point, she exhaled heavily, wiping away the sweat on her forehead.
I can’t believe that worked.Then, turning to the men beside her, she gesticulated wildly for them to GO.
I’ve done my job. Let’s see if they can do theirs. Then--more out of nervousness than out of distrust--another flash of light, and she was gone again.
Inzoliah was just as surprised as the others when a horde of the undead began battering down the inn. Any fear she may have felt, however, was soon overcome with the realisation that she was able to burn stuff. Not light candles or throw sparks. Properly light things on fire and cook ‘em. She was on her feet as quick as she could be, knocking her chair over in the process. A few shambling undead turned their attention towards her at the sound of the chair clattering. The Mage chuckled darkly as she prepared an overcharged firebolt and sent it soaring towards the first animated corpse. The impact sent it stumbling a few paces back as skin, flesh, and bone were blasted off at the site of impact. The surrounding flesh was blackened and smoking and flaking off, exposing the bone. The zombie took another step forward before being conflagrated by a blast of Flames from Inzoliah’s right hand. The first monster fell, still smoking and sizzling in a manner most pleasant to the Dunmer’s ears. The second and third corpses were caught ablaze by the Flames as well but continued to advance unphased.
Inzoliah considered her options. It probably was in her, and all the other living beings best interest if the inn didn’t catch on fire. As much as it pained her to admit. Fireball was probably out of the question, as was Firestorm and Flame Wall. Flames was ok as long as she watched her aim. She blew out another burst of Flames to slow the undead’s advance and took a step back. In her other hand she prepared a Burning Lance, a spear of white hot fire that she suddenly thrust forward, impaling the chest of not just the first but the second corpse as well. The spear of fire hindered their movement even as it sloughed flesh from bone and turned bone to ash from the inside out. “And the final touch…” The Pyromancer said aloud to no one as she conjured a firebolt in each hand. The first struck out from her left hand nearly turning the closest zombie’s head into charcoal. The Burning Lance had dissipated by now, its magicka expended, and with its body structurally compromised by a gaping hole in its chest and it’s head reduced to a cinder, it collapsed. The second firebolt left her right hand and hit the other zombie in the shoulder, nearly incinerating it. Its arm hung limply from its torso as Inzoliah watched as its now burning body slowly failed, charred pieces falling as its pace slowed and then stopped completely. She made a noise of satisfaction, and turned to see how the others were faring and to regain a little of her lost magicka.
“Miss?” She heard one more time, before she dared lift from the ground - dazed, and with a painful throb in her head, and a raw feeling around her throat. Joy came to place her eyes on Henry, a gentleman clearly much younger than she was, and yet trying so desperately to help her. In his eyes, she saw his own fear was perhaps greater than hers.
“This isn’t a dream is it?” She asked him, shaking her head as she did so. Her hands gently took his own and as she helped herself up, she gave him as reassuring a squeeze as possible. “We’re going to be alright. I promise you this.” Joy pulled him closer, as a mother might her own child, and she positioned herself in front of him, despite the odds. Chaos was flying everywhere, and the clear path back to the circle had been blocked by another wave of the undead horde - thankfully they were occupied by the actual fighters. Still, they had to get to the circle. “A little courage goes a tremendously long way,” she whispered under her breath, back stepping with Henry behind her, clutching too now.
“We’ll climb behind the bar,” she said after a brief moment. That was clear, and there were no windows behind it. If they could just get behind it, they’d avoid the creatures and make it safely to the side of Bruno, Janus, and the others. “Go,
go!” she said firmly, giving him a nudge that way.
The young Breton had thought that he was going to be the one helping her, but somehow Joy had still ended up being the one to help him -- help him find his resolve and his courage. He took a deep breath, nodded and burst into action, making a beeline for the safety of the bar. Henry used his lithe frame to his advantage to avoid the ghastly combat and the grasping limbs of the zombies, but he almost fell over when he slipped on something black and slick on the floor, coating the wooden panels. He didn’t even want to think about what it was. It was only Joy’s hand, which he was clutching as though his life depended on it, that kept him upright.
Vaulting over the bar nearly caused him to break his knee as well, only narrowly avoiding smashing it against the polished hardwood surface, and he tumbled over the edge in a graceless heap of limbs. “Ow,” Henry muttered, cheeks flushing at the way he had embarrassed himself in front of the beautiful bard. Then he realized how insane it was to be concerned with that when they were under attack from a legion of dead people. The worst part was that Henry had recognized some of them. The farmhands and the maids and even the local village butcher.
“That could’ve been me,” he whispered as he sat up on his knees and dared to peek his head out over the edge of the bar to see how the battle was going. “That could’ve been us,” he repeated, louder, and looked towards Joy.
Joy watched as Henry climbed, stumbled, and fell across the bar. Not quite as gracefully as she would have wanted. “You’re alright. It’s not us yet.” She spoke out as reassuringly as she could, looking over her shoulder at the sight, gnawing at her lower lip in fear. “Get back up, quickly. We’ll make it, alright?” she said, smiling weakly across at him, her eyes still carrying tears and panic still underpinning her words - as much as she tried to drown that out. The bard lifted herself onto the surface, and was close to finding the other side when she felt a fierce tug against her ankle, the sharp, deep tearing of an undead hand that had grabbed her from the floor, using her leg and weight to pull itself back up to full height too. She let out a yelp of pain — and looked at Henry with suddenly wide and wild eyes. Gripping one edge of the bar, she used as much of her strength as she could to plant a solid back kick to the face of the creature with her free foot. If she had been looking back, she would have seen the jaw of the beast come clean off, and it’s blood spew forward. She had broken free enough to make it to the other side and into the blood slick. Once more holding Henry behind her.
Upstairs, Solomon encountered two more zombies on the landing as they were dragging one of his guests out of her room by her hair. The woman was screaming and struggling with all her might as the rotting hands of the undead tore and grasped at her, the source of one of the cries for help that Solomon had heard, and he wasted no time in saving her. With powerful, aggressive attacks, decisive in their power and precision, Solomon laid into the zombies with his falchion and his magic, alternating sword thrusts and slashes with brief bursts of fire and shocks of lightning. He cut off the hand of one of the revenants and kicked it so hard against the doorframe of the woman’s room that its spine broke on impact, then pivoted in place and hit the other zombie right between the eyes with a bolt of lightning, the crump deafeningly loud in the confined space. Her assailants dispatched, the woman scrambled back inside her room, weeping and stammering incomprehensibly. Solomon looked past her and saw what he assumed to be the mauled corpse of her husband, killed by the undead.
“Get downstairs now! There are others there to protect you!” he yelled at her and shook his head when she threw herself on her husband. “There’s nothing we can do for him. Go! Go!” She took a deep, shuddering breath and looked him in the eyes, confused and hurt and terrified, but he had no warmth to spare for her. Solomon only pointed once more towards the stairs before he ducked back out of the room and onto the landing. The screams in the other rooms had ceased and all Solomon could hear was the gurgling and moaning of the undead. Where were they coming from?
He forged ahead, ferociously cutting through the zombies as they appeared one by one, having left behind blood-drenched scenes of murder in every room. Solomon’s cold fury grew with every passing moment and every guest that had been brutally slain under his roof. Nothing like this had happened to him in thirty years. The only comparable experience was the Great War, and he briefly thought about the men that had died under his command then. It was happening all over again and anguish rose up like bitter bile from his gut before he found his iron resolve and squashed it.
At last, in the final room, Solomon found the hole in the roof. The straw had collapsed, presumably beneath the weight of the zombies that had climbed up -- first on top of the stables, and then on top of the inn. But why? He wasn’t an expert on the undead, but he had never heard of the walking grave-men that inhabited the cold dark crypts and barrows of Tamriel to do something like this. He was getting exhausted by now and there seemed to be no end to the reanimated corpse-horde, and in his fatigue Solomon’s shoulder was bitten and his arm clawed open by two more zombies he struggled to put down. But that was the last of them, at least for now. Panting and bleeding, he stumbled up to the hole in the roof and looked outside.
“Great gods of nowhere,” he whispered, eyes wide and fixed on the sky.
The stars had gone out. The heavens stretched out before him, nothing more than an inky swell of impenetrable blackness, so thick and pervasive that it seemed to have descended to smother to smother the land as well as the sky, and the moons were nowhere to be seen either.
All except a few. Directly above him, four points of ruddy, ugly light appeared as if from nowhere, blazing fiercely, their impossible brightness an offense to the senses as they immediately seared themselves into Solomon’s retinas. The land below was cast in a faint, baleful glow, a sickly shade of orange luminescence that flattened surfaces and made it hard to estimate distances. He recognized the lights for what they were almost straight away and there was no need to keep staring -- in fact, it hurt his eyes to do so -- and yet, he found that he could not look away. The more he stared, the more he became aware of a dim, horrible wailing in his ears. It was only when the very unexpected sound of a galloping horse penetrated through the din that he was able to tear his eyes away from the screamlight. He looked around, bewildered and frustrated at the ringing in his ears, and was about to back away from the hole in the roof at last when something caught his eye on the ground below.
A rider sat astride a great black steed, holding a torch aloft as he circled in the inn, cape fluttering in the unnaturally still air behind him. Solomon blinked, willing the afterimages of the horror at the top of the sky to fade from his vision. He saw a gleaming sword in the rider’s other hand, pointed at the inn, and his mouth fell open when he realized that the mounted warrior lacked a head on his shoulders -- a phantom out of legend, come alive before his very eyes.
“What in Oblivion is going on?” he whispered, a fruitless question with only a starless sky for an audience. The headless horseman disappeared from sight around the other side of the inn and Solomon saw more corpses stumbling across the fields, now dimly illuminated by the unnatural glow, headed directly for the inn. The situation was hopeless. They could not stand their ground; they would be overwhelmed, slowly but surely.
“Where the hell did you come from?” Solomon hissed as a zombie startled him by shrieking at him from behind and he raised his sword once more.
High above, the Serpent coiled and writhed in the sky.
Pacify, kill, return to invisibility, move on. Pacify, kill, return to invisibility, move on. Sihava estimated that she’d scissored the heads off maybe half a dozen zombies as they stood dumbly, unable to move, unable to fight. It was the strangest thing, though; she’d been using illusion magic all across Tamriel for years now. But these zombies...there was a
pressure to them. They weren’t fully receptive to her spellcraft. There was something pushing back. Something with intent. It unsettled her deeply, that there was something controlling this, some necromantic will that animated these. While she of course had known it on an academic level, the fact that someone could actually do this was enough to send her into sweats.
So preoccupied was she with her ponderings that she neglected how short of breath she was getting, and the little ache building in her temples. She was halfway up the steps to the second floor--plenty of zombies above, and plenty streaming in below--when she ran into another zombie and repeated her mantric procedure once more: pacify, kill, leave the decapitated corpse behind. But the invisibility refused to come. Only then did she notice the pulsing pain, and realize that her magicka reserves had run dry, and zombies were beginning to pour up the stairs after her. She swallowed heavily, then turned and ran silently into the blackness of the upstairs.
I just need to buy time until I can catch my breath…When the fire-witch went to work on the horde and chiseled away a burning path for Janus and Bruno, Janus knew it was their moment. “Keep the pressure! Burn a path!” Janus roared, turning to Bruno, “I’m dragging Solomon back down if I need to. Stay with them.”
Janus charged ahead, splitting a head down the middle and using his tree-trunk leg to kick out and send it hurdling back to the horde around, tripping them up. He continued his hasty advance up the stairs, seeing their path blocked by more than a few. He growled as he sliced through one’s stomach and its gut-rope unfurled at its feet. Janus was thankful for his gloves as he wrapped a hand around a length of it and heaved like a sailor, sending the Thing toppling head over heel back down the stairs. “Solomon!” Janus bellowed, “Where are you!?”
The upstairs was...surprisingly calm. At least compared to the madness below. Sihava passed by obliterated corpses, seared by bolts of jagged lightning or slashed into pieces. One still moaned as she passed, lolling against a wall as its broken spine failed it in its attempts to move. Revulsion rose in her throat, and she closed her eyes for a moment before she moved on.
The trail of dismembered undead continued until she found the source: Solomon, still brutalizing zombies as they trickled in through the gaping hole of the roof. For a moment, she pondered: what kind of innkeep had this kind of skill at combat? There must be something
very interesting in his past that he’d tried to bury in his inn. She gave a mirthless little smile, perversely amused at how her mind kept working the same angle, even when in utter crisis. But those thoughts fled her mind as she saw the sky, and her mouth dropped open. Her hand flew up to the amulet slung around her neck beneath her tunic. A wave of sheer horror poured out of her, her mysticism taking the emotion and running with it without her even knowing.
Nocturnal...where...where have the stars gone?It was a short while before Janus reached Solomon and found Sihava with him, one working at cutting through the endless horde and the other with eyes fixed upon the sky. A pang of horror weighed his shoulders down and he forced it back with a heavy swallow and a low growl, “Solomon-“
His jaw went slack as his eyes were pulled up to see the inky blackness of the sky, as if all the stars had been snuffed in their heavens leaving only void. Suspended in the pitch were four ghostlights gleaming like sickening jewels and high above him, a shape writhed like a ribbon in water. His ears were filled with a growing sound, and it only grew until he recognized it as horrifying wails and screams in a language he did not understand, or perhaps none at all. Altogether, he felt so pitiful in the face of it all, “Gods…” came the reedy, quivering whisper from his lips.
He was unable to tear his eyes away until a hand wrapped itself around his shoulder and shook him from his stupor. “Solomon!” He yelled, as he took the offending arm and lopped it off at the elbow, snatching it’s owner by the collar and heaving him to roll away on the ground. “Solomon, we need to leave! It’s not a battle we can win and this damned inn’s no fortress, man!”
Solomon’s head whipped around to look at Janus, wrath burned into his face, eyes gleaming like cold steel. But his anger wasn’t directed at the big Colovian. He softened somewhat and nodded. “You’re right. We have to make for Daggerfall.” More zombies began the unwieldy climb up the side of the inn, reminding them that they were running out of time. “Come on, let’s go!”
Inzoliah had become a whirl, firebolts flying from each hand. Every zombie that so much as looked her direction had its body blasted down to the bone by arcane fire. The smell of rotting flesh was beginning to be overpowered by the smell of charred meat, at least in this part of the inn. Someone yelled to burn a path. She had no idea in which direction the command wanted this path to be in, but it didn’t stop her from trying to burn one in every direction. She laughed in delight as an overcharged firebolt, cast from both hands, caused a zombie to explode in meaty, charred, chunks.
Solomon, Janus and Sihava flew down the stairs to discover the carnage that Inzoliah had wrought. The spymaster almost blanched at the sight of the charred corpses and the bolts of fire that were responsible. It was too familiar a sight, bringing back old memories of the streets of the Imperial City lined with the scorched dead, and Solomon had to swallow for a moment and steel himself. She was on their side, after all -- the side of the living. Solomon leapt on top of the bar, kicking away a jawless zombie that tried to drag him back down, and roared at the top of his lungs.
“We’re being overrun! Grab your things and let’s go! Regroup outside, and then we make for Daggerfall!” came his command. He made to jump back down and help the others cut a swathe through the undead so they could make for the door when something gave him pause. Over the brutal impacts of Bruno’s powerful strikes and the angry, screaming bolts of Inzoliah’s magic, Solomon could somehow hear another sound coming from outside. The tell-tale whoosh of an elongated object sailing through the air, end-over-end, following by a dull thud as it landed on the roof.
The straw caught fire immediately. The flames spread within seconds, consuming the tinder-dry material with voracious hunger, racing down the slope of the roof and leaping to the wooden walls and beams that supported the structure. “Fire! Get out now!” Solomon yelled and leapt down to the floor behind the bar to snatch the knapsack he kept there for emergencies just like this one, only to be surprised to find Joy and Henry hiding there.
“You’re still alive,” Solomon said to Henry, incredulous.
“Yes, s-sir,” the boy stammered.
“Well, get up then, we’re leaving,” the spymaster said and hoisted Henry to his feet. He extended his hand to Joy and offered her a grateful nod, deducing accurately that he had her to thank for his apprentice’s survival.
As Joy took Solomon’s hand, she took a look at the creature sprawled out like a ragdoll. She
really looked at him. The details in his clothing. Farmers overalls, torn and well worn. Boots for trekking his fields. Something changed when she noticed that. She wasn’t so scared
of him, as she was
for him. Angry for him. Heartbroken for him. His open, burst throat moved and glistened like obsidian in the broken gloom. “I spilled all the jam again Madam,” she said, as she glanced over her own clothing, coated and sticky with red. A voice from long ago that protected her for now from the worst of it. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, only half aware of it.
About as quickly as that had hit her, she snapped herself out of it, perhaps it had been the quickened sound of Henry breathing, but she took his hand in her own and squeezed him. “We’re alright, see?”
Henry nodded, though it was more of a tremble, and conjured a wan smile through his own tears. “Thank you,” he whispered, fighting to get the words out through his constricted throat.
The wave came thick. As far as Janus could see, the dead were there, plentiful as a forest. He swallowed, replacing his knife and axe to place a hand on his old friend still in its scabbard. The familiar feel of the leather-banded hilt in his gloved hand. He removed the gloves to reveal hands that looked almost black with the tattoos stark against the pale skin and the fingers wrapped themselves on the hilt with a long-dormant familiarity. With the dull rasp of metal leaving its sheath the gleaming blade was held aloft, and deep within him that feeling returned. A piece of Havel, like a splinter he could never dig out, and his heart beat a steady rhythm for the blood spilled. Without word, he went to work, moving like a tempest that took limbs and left deep gashes through the endless dead. A whirlwind of curved steel like a scythe through wheat.
It was impossible for Joy not to watch each and every one of the fighters in the bar. Inzoliah commanding her flame, Bruno’s savagery, Sinalare’s calculated motions with her magic, and with anything she could grab. Sihava moving in and out, surrounded by illusions like a spectre. In the centre, though, Janus. The soft and gentle man that Joy had spoken with earlier, now moving with an eerily elegant ease in the perpetual storm, dancing with ribbons of red. She held tighter to Solomon’s hand.
Through a spray of blood, Bruno locked eyes with Solomon, then to Joy and Henry. He was reassured that his old neighbor was still alive, but there was still a matter of protecting the people who couldn’t fight. Though his skin was smeared and his beard caked with blood, he approached the two, allowing the others to fill the gap he left in the front line. The man, straight out of a bloodbath, gave them a juxtaposed soft, weary, and worried look. Then he firmly pushed the axe into Henry’s hand, and said in a coarse voice, “Be no longer Henry the Boy this night. Come dawn, rise with the sun as Henry the Man.”
Bruno withdrew his bow and, nocking an arrow, he positioned himself behind Joy and said in a low rumble, “I’ll watch your back.”
He pulled a few more arrows from his quiver to stick between his teeth, and fired a few crucial shots toward the stragglers, providing cover for the front line fighters and periodically finding his gaze pulled toward the dunmer’s fire.
Inzoliah stepped over another charcoal-black corpse as she exploded bolts of fire into each zombie that stepped through the windows and door. Ironically, she had been too engrossed in her flamecasting to hear the first call of ‘fire!’ It was only when she saw the others beside her, hastening their way towards the exits that she chanced a look around. Flames, wild, untamed natural fire licked at her, coming for the other half of her body and the rest of her soul. She nearly tripped, scrambling forward to avoid the blaze on the side of the inn. She hadn’t set that fire, had she? It was impossible for her to mentally go back through each burst of flame and blazing bolt she had unleashed. Maybe a burning zombie had fallen and set the inn on fire. She supposed it didn’t matter now, it wasn’t the first building she had burned, and probably wouldn’t be the last. Her casting became less precise, more desperate as she fought not merely to burn and destroy but now to escape, to survive. Gouts of flame from both hands forced a trio of corpses back through the window in which they had struggled to climb through. Inzoliah advanced on the broken portal, its sill blackened and scorched and covered with fused flesh and other disgusting cooked fluids.
The Dunmer chanced another look at the beast of fire licking at her heels. She could practically feel its tongues wrapping around her legs. Her scars tingled faintly but she dare not feel them, both her hands were busy, all caution for the inn gone, she now flung explosive balls of fire from the window, making sure she had a clear path once she was out of the burning pyre of an inn. Once at the window, she half-climbed, half dove out of the exit, landing roughly on her knees. The ragged hem of her robe caught on something and tore, adding to the worn look of the thing even more. She clambered to her feet, breathing hard. Not entirely from the exertion either.
Sinalare held her doorway position as if she was a phalanx all by herself, unarmoured. As the corpses wobbled into the inn, she sliced cleanly through their rotting flesh. Severed limbs and scattered pieces of what was, once, organs littered the inn floor. She stood just to the side of the doorway, waiting with her sword at the ready as all the other occupants of the inn made their way out of the inferno.
As another handful of zombies wobbled out from around the corner of the inn, their misshapen bodies illuminated in the eerie orange glow, Sinalare hurried to meet them. Turning away from the door and the others’ retreats, she stabbed her sword in the ground, freeing up her right hand. As she moved towards them, a burning ball of flame grew between her hands, growing larger with each step she took until she flung it straight into the middle of the group. The force of not only the flames but the energy sent the huddled zombies flying. The bosmer looked down as a zombie landed with a thud in front of her. It lay on its back, eyes staring straight up at Sinalare -- or they would’ve been, if the fire engulfing the creature had been less hot. The eyes sizzled and bubbled, running out of their sockets. The sounds of others leaving the inn drew her attention back, so she returned to her abandoned sword.
Sihava conjured another mirror image of herself, an oily smile smeared across her face as she danced between them. She wasn’t, had never been, particularly good at fighting with her daggers. But that was against people. This was just so
easy, there was almost a sick pleasure to it. The corpses--too simple-minded to keep track of the real her in between the shifting magics--flailed at the illusions, and even when their hands passed through, they simply kept on trying, and failing, to kill them.
She’d had perhaps the easiest time in escaping from the inn. No ridiculous heroics, no theatrical dives from burning windows. Grabbing her backpack before it could burn, another cast of invisibility and a few butchered zombies, and she’d been on her way. But now that she was outside, no more invisibility. It simply drained her too much, and without her magic, well, she was a dead woman walking out here.
With a wet squelching sound, her daggers sank as one into the neck of another shambling corpse, and with a quick levering pull, she ripped them in opposite directions along its neck. The bulbous, rotting meat parted quickly, if perhaps messily, and the razor-keen edges sheared through the porous, half-decayed spinal column with barely a hesitation. The foul, congealed black gunk that might have once been blood sprayed out of the headless stump into her face. She spat in disgust as some leaked into her mouth, kicking the limp, headless corpse away. The burning inn behind her cast stark, slithering shadows across the field before her. She was almost grateful for it; the wavering light made it all the easier to ignore the flat, baleful luminance that burned from the Serpent’s sky.
From inside, Bruno’s bellowing could be clearly heard.
“Alright, you sorry sods! Unless you wanna get gummed to death by grandma, we’re getting
out of here!
Let’s move!”Joy wasn’t going to argue with him. Bag, lute, and lyre in hand she moved. Leaving behind the flaming and crumbling inn. Only the four blazing sparks of the Serpent remained to wish and dream upon now, and she had none left to send up there. Her birthsign burned down on her - casting a glow out in long flakes, lighting up the sprawling horizon like smelting pots in the sinister mark of its slow passing.
Strangeness bleeding out over the land without even a wind to sway a tree. And then there was Joy. Just Joy. Thrown in with this sudden and strange group of capable kinsmen. And then there was Joy. Just Joy. Her throat hurt, and her bare foot bled out too. The hot sting amidst the dust, smoke, and ash. She escaped it as she did from Windhelm, without a focus for tomorrow.
Janus had long since cut a swathe through the dead, not that his path stayed open for the others for long. Already, the corpses were filling in the gap his sword had wrought through them though the herd was culled. There was only one goal in his mind, and that was to get to the burning stables. He had gotten farther and farther from the others, tirelessly slashing and weaving his way through the mindless horde until he could no longer see or hear the others, so single-minded in his assault. He chanced a look back and could not see them in the dim, orange glow of the night. All before his eyes was a sea of movement and naught else. Naught else, but a pyre made of the inn that filled the air with the smell of burning timber, its black smoke lost among the ebony sky.
He swallowed, his mind pulled back to other fires at the sight of it. Other fires in a place long forgotten, to a man he’d long forgotten. Were it a better day to die, he would’ve left his sword loose in his limp fist, but tonight was not that night. He shook himself from the flames and turned again for the stables, old muscles burning, breath thin in his throat. His fingers traced a wound he hadn’t remembered getting along his shoulder, scratches and bruises burned and ached. One last dance, Janus thought, so the others could go. He watched the dead slowly closing in on him on every side, the lot of them switching sights from the others to this lone soul lost among fire and soaked through with blood. If the last good deed he could do was free these souls from undeath, then he’d work meticulously til morn if he had to.
Solomon snatched his greatcoat from its hook next to the shattered door and ran outside as he threw it around his shoulders, determined not to look back at the burning inn. A blur of black speed leapt out of the structure through one of the broken windows and rejoined the innkeeper’s side -- it was
The Loyal Hound’s namesake, Sirius, panting hard and ears pulled back, but a determined growl in his throat and a string of bloody drool hanging from his slavering jaws. It would seem that he had done his part in fending off the undead as well. Solomon wanted to stop and kneel down next to his dog to comfort him, but there was no time. He had lost sight of Janus already and the zombies’ numbers were constantly replenished by a steady stream of them emerging from the fields of amber grain.
He opened his mouth to call for the party to gather to him, but his words died in his throat. Illuminated by the inferno, revealing the intricate forgework on his cuirass and gauntlets and the deep gashes in the corpse-body of his black steed, the grim rider came galloping back into view. The torch that he held previously was gone and it was then that Solomon realized that it was this headless horseman that had thrown the first spark on the straw roof and burned down his home. An axe had replaced the undead warrior’s torch to match the longsword in his other hand and he brandished both weapons with a flourish, the nightmarish horse upon which he sat rearing up on its hind legs and kicking at the sky with its hooves, its ghastly neigh like the scream of a demon from Oblivion.
“This way! Run for your lives!” Solomon yelled over the noise of their desperate combat and pointed in the direction of Daggerfall with his own sword. His blood ran cold at the sight of the horse slamming back down on the dirt and the horseman beginning his inexorable charge, picking up speed and barreling down on them with murderous intent. The gleaming edges of his blades shone in the stark contrast of the firelight and the gloom. Solomon knew from experience that a ragtag band of misfits on foot were no match for a mounted warrior and so he did the only sensible thing; he turned and ran. Solomon used his momentum to cut down the zombies that got in his way with sword and sorcery alike and he evaded the ones that he could. Sirius sped out ahead of him, agile as can be, weaving beneath outstretched claws and passing between the legs of others, too fast for the revenants to catch.
Once Solomon and his dog had broken free from the crowd of undead that thronged around his inn, he looked over his shoulder for a moment and slowed down, making sure that the others were right behind him. A brutal sight greeted him. The horseman ran his steed straight through the other undead, the giant horse knocking down the mindless zombies and crushing them underfoot, and Solomon looked ahead of their foe to see who was in his path.
It was Joy, sweet Joy, barefoot and bruised and bleeding, still holding hands with Henry as they fled from the carnage and the fire. “No!” Solomon roared, dropping his sword and raising both hands to fire off a barrage of angry, desperate spells -- but the death knight was too fast a target and his fireballs and ice spikes went wide, cutting down other zombies or striking the burning side of the inn instead. His heart sank in his stomach. They were seconds from death.
The woman turned on her heel to face the demon, unaware of what was going on. Her arm stretched out instinctively, pushing Henry as far from her as she could - locked in a brace to stop him coming back. The gravel underfoot burned, her entire form shook and trembled as the glowing dim embers of the Serpent that bathed her absorbed into the Rider’s shadow. Only dark.
Bursting forth from the charred timbers of the stable’s doors were a flurry of horses whinnying and charging off in every direction, fear in their eyes to escape the fire and be greeted by the dead. At their tails was Vodevic the old warhorse, off at a dead run straight for the Headless Rider, plowing through undead with nary a struggle and no signs of stopping. Upon the saddle, standing in the stirrups was Janus, blood in his eyes for the Rider.
He wasted no breath in a warcry, his teeth gritted in an animal snarl, eyes aflame with white fury, as his blade held aloft became a blur and an almighty clang rang through the night’s cacophony before the Headless Rider’s blade could taste Joy’s blood.
“Run!” Janus’ roar to the others as Vodevic let loose his own cry rearing back on his hind legs in the firelight, before wasting no time turning back for another charge at the rider.
“It really should be me throwing myself in front of you instead of the other way around, miss,” Henry said in between shuddering breaths, cold sweat on his brow. Not even he knew where that nugget of humor came from in such terrifying times. “Let’s go!”
The horsman changed course and abandoned his prey, readily accepting the challenge that Janus and Vodevic posed. The two mounted warriors charged at each other once more and their weapons clashed in a flurry of sparks. Solomon couldn’t help but be rooted to the spot for a second or two, the burning inn and the bright steel reflected in his wide eyes -- but there was no time to marvel at the spectacle of two riders engaged in mortal combat. “To me! This way!” he yelled, urging the others onwards, his boots thudding on the dirt road in the easy, loping, rhythmic march of an Imperial legionnaire. A nearby signpost read ‘Daggerfall’, the lettering just visible in the otherworldly glow of the Serpent, and pointed ahead.
Behind them, the roar of the flames consuming the inn entirely and the hungry clang of steel on steel were the only sounds they could hear, and the gaping maw of the dark night loomed ahead, silent as the grave.
