Gouts of dark fire poured from the air between his fingertips. The conflagration surged outward in a roiling tidal cone, cremating foulness, blasting to charr and ash hellish things writhing on recurved hind-legs. Forestry recoiled at the black heat, before the earth bugled tremulously, knots of undergrowth roots that colour of dead flesh and swollen with watery lodes clawing out from the stone and pale dirt. Further bestial things emerged sprinting from mists of stridulating scarabs that beat a terrible off-rhythm of chitinous winging. The Dreaming Dark rebelled against the scent of victory as the battlers slowly extricated towards the seething, iridescent gate. The ground was awash with un-blood soaking so thickly into the broken earth that brackish, bubbling puddles steamed in the chilled air. Overhead, the storm worsened. Living winds shrieked and howled. Great shadows of great deathlings stalked behind the cover of blood-red clouds, their steps reverberating, trembling the un-world. Punishment unlike anything dreamt of in the minds of the worst Dark Lords would unfetter soon.
Seydon withdrew; pulling Razorlight from the stones, he plied
away from the portal. Down the steady slope towards the great treeline wall of grotesquely knotted woods. Stepping into spinning strokes, controlling the flood of unreal bodies through low slashes and high cleaves that rent bone and ragged sinew. Step, guard, pirouette, parry-and-counter-stroke with the same motion, alternating between clockwise and counter-clockwise slices that were baffling to follow and even more difficult to fend off. He utilized strictly the very sword tip and his swords’ point-of-percussion, negating tremor and shock, controlling, alternating, warping and alternating attack lines until he was insulated in a eddy of liquid steel. He cocked one wrist, severed an antlered skull, twisted the other and parried a blow clawing at his haunches and caved the offending thing’s rib-cage in. Guarded high and slipped Winterfang round, stepping out of the assault line, gnashing the sword edge down through shoulder-bone and spinal grit. Seydon lashed out with Razorlight, knocking over skulls with the blade-flat, pirouetting and gliding the frigid sword-edge through exposed midriffs and backbone trunks. The slope was awash, fountaining cataracts of pouring gore. There was no counting the undead falling.
Seydon reached the edges of the damned forest, cutting through a dozen hellthings that peeled free from the bark and tried dropping onto his shoulders. Dark blood, his own, ran hot and free from a score of rending lacerations carved deeply down his scalp, torso trunk, and legs. A portion of the chase gnawing at the heels of Ashin’s cadre had diverted to follow. He snagged a small phial from his harness, swigged the alchemical draught, felt his nerve-endings light up with pain as the concoction took effect. Surface capillaries across his face and exposed skin swarmed black, throbbing. His cat-eyes went slit as stilettos, bright as harvest moons in the unholy shade. Seydon cut and struck Razorlight through a cavorting body, whirling and loosing the blade in a throw. It speared a braying cervine off its feet and trapped it fast in the living wood of a twisting elm. His hands gripped Winterfang, executing a whirlwind velocity of shearing cuts that dismantled limbs, hewed skulls free of throats, and bissected bodies from brow to scrotum. The steel glowed with arctic light, gore steaming and melting off its sheen. He spared a hand and reached overhead, teeth gritted in rictus; a pike of lightning fell into his touch, held rapt by dark Force power. Seydon grunted, shifted his heels, and plunged the rippling, spidering beam into the forest floor.
White-hot fire cascaded up through rents in the forest floor. Light seemed to blink. Darkspawn haunting too close burst where they strode, wracked by arcs of thirty-thousand amp plasma. Seydon enjoyed an all-too brief moment of breathing room, before the Dreaming Dark ceased flinching and loosed bowel-churning roar akin to the roar of opening graves. Seydon counter-hacked a goat-horned thing through its belly, reversed the edge and cleaved up through skin-draped ribs and the bridge of its collarbone. He spun, loosing a wall of crushing Force Push, tossing Winterfang to his off-hand and discharging a pyromantic stream. More dark fire, devouring, speeding up the writhing trunks of un-boughs and sentient leaf canopies, torching the goblins leering from where they thought the Dream’s shadow insulated them. Whatever still living that capered and fell off their perches, Seydon minced before they struck the ground.
Ashin, he thought.
Have your good ending. I don’t want one. I know what I deserve and its this. See you around.
And the last anyone saw of Seydon for a time was a back-lit figure disappearing into the forestry, casting flame and sparks, snapping a bright sword through body and bough. Hands of shadow reached and snatched him back into the deeper cradles of the Dreaming Dark, where the struggle went on unseen as concussive tremors wracked through the earth and cracked open ichor-draped stone…
Ashin Cardé Varanin
Sargon Vynea