She Marches With Melek - by H. Jeebies

[SunrypeSlim]

She Marches With Melek
by H. Jeebies

Jobrim searched his pack for the third time in a minute, his hands fidgeting from the excitement coursing through his veins. Far above on the hillside, it would be impossible to hear the clank of potions and sundry from his preparations. Peony kept watch over the hordes below, her crossbow trained on one in particular; a Melek mage, by the look of it, festooned with baubles and icons of long dead gods. It was a fitting decoration for the deathless childe of darkness that now babbled its foul magicks through stolen, swollen lips. Kendra, for her part, remained unperturbed by the horde, its size, its fell art, or even its shambling moans. Her confidence had been infectious at the outset, with the small party gathered in like-mind to tackle work from the job board, but that hadn't lasted. By the time they had reached the auld broken roads, the air had grown fetid and toxic, grey mists settling in the valley they had set their sights on. Even the residual heat of the day turned to a chill and sobering wind by the time they arrived.

The trio, not long in each others' company, had nonetheless worked the job before and knew what to expect. They approached with caution, using Peony's keen elven senses to spot the shamblers from far off. They picked a spot from which to view their quarry and set camp, even as the miasma of the unhallowed graves wafted downwind towards them. Jobrim had the first doubts, though he didn't share them; the youngest of the three, his willingness to prove himself overrode the burgeoning fear within him. It wasn't until Peony had loaded a bolt and began to stand watch that he realized that fear might have a purpose. With that, he'd gone into an obsessive checking and rechecking of his pack, desperate to memorize its layout so he would not slip up in that vital moment to come.

Soon, it was time to depart; the preparations were done, and to Jobrim's mind, no more excuses to give in to the paralysis of fear. He rose to the fore, his steel fresh from the forge, and marched down the hill to engage the hordes. Kendra, at his flank, brought her staff to bear, its tips glowing with unearthly light from above; Jobrim was reminded for a moment of the inspirational quality the woman had shown before, and his resolve strengthened. Peony strode in her slim, silent manner behind the two, touching them gently with the magics that enhanced their natural talents, before falling back into a safer position.

One, then another, then countless heads turned on pocked, rotting necks, their joints creaking, their moans growing louder as they caught the scent of food in the air. As their weary march wheeled around to face the shaded hillside, a glint of light on steel slashed through the air quick as the wind, cleaving a long-dead head from sagging shoulders.

With a cry, Jobrim pushed forward into the next of the horde, his measured strikes proving his mettle. Kendra stepped out from behind him in an unpredictable charge, flanking the early arrivals with rapid blunt strikes; sparks of starlight shone out with each heavy blow, leaving the fallen revenants sizzling on the ground. Peony fired shot after shot over their heads; her magic had mostly been spent at the outset, and but for a few powerful spells for emergencies, her contribution was limited to this. Yet as Jobrim finally took a hit, his armor failing to hold back the sharp, sickly claws of a deadly ghuul, Peony was ready to react with blessed waters.

But as valorous as they were, the trio could not slay the horde fast enough to avoid getting surrounded. Pressed back to the hillside, they were forced to ascend backwards, swiping beneath them as they retook the high ground. Jobrim, for all his earlier terror, had reached a state of epiphany in the fray, and moved without hesitation to carve fouled flesh from bone. Yet as the cry rang out, one all too human, he whirled around to see an animated harpy had descended from above and caught Peony with its gnashing teeth. Jobrim did not falter, and charged the creature with his shield raised, knocking the both of them to the ground, but Peony cried again as flesh was ripped out from her shoulder. She fell in shock from the pain with Kendra standing over her, face as stone, stance almost matronly in its certainty and dedication to protect the fallen mage.

As Jobrim planted a hand to the ground and tried to push himself back up, he was struck down by a burst of red withering light. He could feel his strength sapped, but his will remained strong, and he rose once more. His steel struck true into the chest of a charging ghuul, and he wheeled the creature around to knock down the others that had begun to harry Kendra's flank. Together, the two held the line as Peony applied healing salves to her wound.

Before long, their muscles began to burn from the exertion, their skin itching and bleeding from the plagues of the undead onslaught. Peony, from the ground, wove wards of arcane majesty that managed to deflect the bursts of foul light, but the ground was littered with the corpses of the slain and there was no end in sight, save one.

When it happened, it happened fast; one moment, Jobrim stood proudly at the forefront of the battle, the strength of steel writ on his expression; in the next, his sword fell from his hands as he screamed, reaching up to his face and with a voice of abject, absolute terror, he screamed a scream to rival the dead themselves in torment. Wisps of white smoke evaporated away from his face, leaving an impression of a phantom before fading into nothing, but Jobrim stood no more. His face lay frozen in that same expression, the one he'd fought so hard to keep hidden, before being buried beneath the stomping feet of further foul monsters.

Kendra's own magics began to fade from her staff, and as the light went out and the horde descended upon her, that confidence shattered just as fast as Jobrim's mind before the phantom. She held back the horde of ghuuls for but a moment as her free hand grasped a delicate orange vial and, crushing it, she poured the liquid with bits of glass into her desperate mouth, swallowing hard. In an instant her form evaporated, and the mindless hordes saw her no longer, though there she still remained, standing over Peony, who looked up into where those inspiring eyes had once been. Before she was overcome by the horde who, by this time, had scented out the elf from the dead, she could swear she heard the voice of her once companion apologizing, before all fell to silence.

In Kendra's ear she could hear the shambling feet of ghuuls, racing aimlessly but for the scent of her blood and fear. She could hear the heavy beating of her heart, racing just as fast but towards one certain aim, one Kendra knew with absolute confidence she would achieve. Atop the hillside shone the last rays of daylight, a thin narrow horizon stretching out, to Kendra's mind, to infinity. Her feet dug deep into the loose rocks of the hillside, scattering them down behind her as she climbed higher and higher, farther from the fallen, farther from her fellows who had trusted her so well. Shame rose up in her, doubt -- and in that moment, Kendra's fate was sealed with one final spell.

A rotting Melek shaman, its reptilian visage clothed behind ancient wraps, rune-inscribed and cracking with wear, rose up from amongst the horde and held Kendra in its grasp from afar, before turning her about at its wordless command, hollow sockets staring balefully into the woman's glazed eyes, before with a closing of its hand, It commanded them close forever.

It is said that one hot afternoon in Maribeh, a small party of three departed from Ephia's Well to an unhallowed mass grave west of the city. None of the three were ever heard from again. But those who knew her speak sometimes of Kendra, the once-faithful, once-true knight who, on the coldest of nights, in the shadow of the valleys, can be seen among the dead, walking with purpose and the surest of confidence in her new fell masters. Now, they say, she marches with Melek.

[Inquire of Mr. H. Jeebies by correspondence at the Krak Des Roses.]