The gates have finally opened, and I know I should be feeling the joy of the moment. But I do not. My happiness has crystallised within my breast, for I can see the sun, and yet not go outside and enjoy it. They are always there, always screaming for me to come out, so that they can get me. Bring me to Armok, for whom I'm just a link in the chain to be forged as he sees fit. In the past I am told that I stood tall against his might, threw him into a magma flow which burned and scorched even him. The power of axle and water, magic and might threw him into such a web of power it rocked him from our world, and brought him...here. What happened to the Armok that was part of this world, I cannot even guess, but I know what he meant regardless. The Forumites cannot afford to lose even one link of the chain which holds us to this plane. We are not meant to go outside, no. Red, blue, white… how can these colours stand against the blood of a god?
And yet, we must. We must prevail. Though we but stand as a candle flame stands before the wind, we must flare higher and brighter than ever before. Old Necrothreat should be looked down on from our civilized centre, with fountains and shaded walks. But first...we need the outside. To show the gods we won't bend. That we have the fortitude, the strength, the courage to go on. I am told I once held force to bring down a deity. I am told so. And yet my hands tremble even trying to lift the latch on my bedroom door. But let the tides of undead and haxxors come, they shall find them steady enough on the hilt of a sword.
2nd Limestone
Not all share my zeal for a new start. Yoink, the resident hospital bed inhabitant since my arrival, has now refused to even clean himself.
I asked Sprin to see to the matter, but he only laughs in my face. The brute. He should be punished, but I dare not. His eyes shine with a fervour, barely tempered with love. I looked with jealousy at the expression in his eyes – to feel a love that could shake the mountainhome to the ground at its lowest point is something I would give much to possess. Sprin made the entirety of Necrothreat Jenny's tomb, punctured the bowels of the earth in mourning her. The world burned in fire because he could no longer see it whole without her- and part of me appreciates that. Part of me wants that. With disgust, I shake my head to dispel memory and look up at the ceiling of my bedroom. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drops from the ceiling have been falling for some time now, and in each one I see a world, a fortress. Drop. Drop. Drop. I hold out my hand, and a droplet falls onto it, explodes, fractures, dies. With a sigh, I stand up and start the orders for an above ground stronghold to stand as a girdle around my droplet, for though the earth gets nearer, I shall make the drop harder than the earth, harder than fire.
A whisper tickles the back of my mind.
Fire is my element – fire eradicates water before it even sees the ground.Another siege. Another fight for the upper land. My sword's not in my grasp...the bedroom door seems much more welcome, but the people are looking at me, Sprin walks past with a sneer of cold command, Jenny brushes her hand against my arm with concern in her eyes – how did I get to the hospital from my room? - Yoink is glaring at me from his unwashed face. A voice that holds the crack of the whip and fire wove through my mind, my mind, or is it mine? I'm now in the dining room, and still they look at me, but no, I know they don't look at me. They look through me, looking for a hero that only the tales of Apiks keep alive. I am no hero – I am me, better than some, worse than most. The Forumites follow me though, so I shout at them to man the newly made stations, repel the enemy, leave the crypt as no bar. They hurry to obey. I hurry to my room, closing the door. My sword rests on the inside of the door, and as it did – although I knew it not at the time – in the times of old Necrothreat, my hand reaches for the pen instead to pour the pains of the mind into the page and lock them there.
I live within the shadow of a former me
Who had the seas as his to command,
Who waved his hand and saw gods shake,
Who shook himself, before standing, gritting, living.
I am not he. I stand behind the window, looking in,
I could be him, I know, but I just quake
I'm full of sin – they tell me how he used to win,
He fought the gods for the Fort's sake.
Highmax strove with his sword, Apiks with spoken word
He held them both together, wielded both word and sword
And I'm not he. I have neither the blade, or what Apiks said-
I am just me, and shadows jump in my inner thoughts,
And each one says “you can't do this
Your dreams will vanish.”
Stay back, the shadows of the past I never lived!
I cannot live in shoes I've never seen,
His steps are in the sand, I'm in the tide
Of what is and what could have been.
They tell me that he lived just as I now live,
A leader of this fortress full of death
And kept his head when all about was doom,
But I'm not that, I'm all that's left.
Do not ask a shell to hold gold,
Don't ask me to help you,
I'm not ready, I can't do it,
The things they say are true
Of just a dream, an ideal already sold.
So true. The words hold the truth of the matter, as they always do. My hand is too callused by sword and pick to wield the pen as it should, but the words… the words remain the same. We will fight the enemy, give no quarter, but they are not the real enemy. These are just the front lines of a bigger plot, a larger army. If we cannot drive this token force back, we have no place in this world.
As if to mock me, a knock on the door is swiftly followed by Timeless Bob, running in with a message for me once again. Panting, he holds his grime-stained missive up – a scout's report, baring a description of the enemy to instil terror in even the most hardened veteran.
Necrothreaders are here. Scourge of a thousand forts, beast of myth and legend. In the Old Tales of Apiks they rarely featured, but the common Forumite has much to say on the matter. They shoot lightning and fire, have powers over your mind, can raise the dead. Some of it is even true. With a sigh, Th4DwArfY1 picks up the face of a fortress leader and ties it on firmly, so firmly no one could see any gap to the man beneath. “Let's go then.” Timeless Bob nods, awed, and follows the leader through the door. To another battle. Another bloody battle in a long line of them.
3rd of Limestone
A day of waiting on the enemy, who stand in steaming ranks beneath the Necrothreat rain. A day's reprieve, as it were – the work on the surface had many forumites exposed to the enemy, who are dangerously close to the main gate. I will not go outside to assist them, and indeed very nearly would not leave the gate open for them. For the good of the many, the gates should be closed. I am about to give the order when Apiks approaches, pickaxe slung over his shoulder, anger blazing in his eyes. A gleam of white appears on the blade of the pick, and as it fades there seems to blaze with new light within the depths of his eyes. With a sharp gesture, he indicates the many people in the outside rain, and also the line of beasts rotting at their stations who seem to be waiting on some foul officer to order them forward.
“Well, Leader of our Fort. Will we leave our people to die in agony while we cower in the grottos of our people, our arched halls and our smoky furnace rooms? Will we protect the body of the fort and let its soul die?" I look at him, and see a picture of a Forumite in the full of his rage. His jaw knots and clenches, twisting his beard. Beneath his beetled brows, a furnace blazes in each eye. He intimidates me, yes, but also causes a similar emotion to rise – the stubbornness of those hewn from the rock, our blessing and our curse. It is all I can do to hold down my sharp retort and simply nod instead.
With a grunt, Apiks throws down his pick. It falls with a loud clang and clatter, and all around turn to see what is happening. Spreading his arms, he addresses himself to the room at large- “this is the pick of Apiks, and with it I shaped the walls in which you live. I am the gate builder, wall raiser, and storyteller of Necrothreat. Close the gate and kill our spirit. Close the gate and kill me, if you wish it. I will return for my pick when I have gathered all those outside.” With that he bulls into the storm of rain and bestial howls. The others look at each other, and the muscles that work the levers relax. The doors, it would appear, were going to stay open whether I wished it or not. All I can do is grind my teeth and order the military into position. We were going to need them.
And that is how it came to be that as the rain lashed down and the beasts howled, our military saw its first real action. The fortress rested at our backs like an enormous shadow, while before us the stain of the undead crept ever closer. Ur's forces, some whisper with halting breaths. The force which caused the First Fort to fall. A small, gleaming line of heroes is all that stands between the fort now and that force – Mastah with war reindeer, Ruhn and Arx with their spears. Me and highmax with our swords. As we stand and wait for the hammer stroke, Apiks hurries towards us with the last of the citizens. Fire. Death. Destruction. The Necrothreaders have arrived. The civilians run past, scared, the pick of Apiks glowing as a marker to show them the way. The Forumite himself is wreathed in fire, mouth open in a silent scream. Before my eyes, flesh is stripped back, skeleton laid bare, soul flees. Here dies Apiks, Father of Forts. Here dies Apiks, my friend. A pit opens in my heart, and I look into the face of death. The face of a Necrothreader, who killed Apiks. My mind can't process the information, the colours of the battlefield seem drab. But deep within, down below the waves of despair, is a molten core of anger and hate. This is what I nurse as the bones of a brilliant and wise Forumite crumble to ash in front of me. This is what I bring to life, help surge through the despair. They have destroyed part of us, but the dead of Necrothreat have a habit of rising stronger and more fierce because of it. Grimly, I level my sword at the beasts and prepare for the assault.
It takes a day to come.
4th Limestone
A battalion of Trolls are the first to break ranks, running to the rough hewn fortifications with a zeal for death. They climb over once thought to be secure walls and drop amidst our confused men, casting about with heavy limb and sharpened horn. Battered troops begin to give way before the surprise attack…. And then an arc of blue blood streaks through the air. Highmax claims his first kill. A limb flies into the air, and terrified Trolls start backing away. Sprin whirls like a dervish, his blade a part of him, tears streaming down his face as he slices through skin with a surgical precision. He goes through the forms of the Sword Dance with an efficiency and beauty which inspires the troops, but still he cries. Does he cry for the death he is dealing? Is it possible that Sprin can emphasise, can care? Is it the death of Apiks or his foes which saddens him?
Regardless, the beasts are on the run. With a vicious grin, I give pursuit, the Forumites falling in behind us. From each throat rises the chant of a nation in thrall to anger and hatred. From each throat rises a lament for the death of Apiks. The meek come forward and find they have the strength and courage of a lion. The crippled find new strength in their limbs. In each mind pulses the thought – “Apiks will be avenged!” The thrill of the fight gives everything vivid colours, each droplet of blue blood the sheen of a diamond. I have not felt this alive for many years, and all it took was for death to look me in the face. Weapons brandished, we force the beasts back over the walls to whence they came. The first wave is repulsed. Now to wait on the second wave, the thread zombies and Necrothreaders. The true test of our fervour.
As the Trolls are repulsed, the Necrothreaders burn the ground surrounding the resting place of Apiks.
His pick still gleams on the ground, and I have left it there for now. It gives the men strength and courage. Gwolfski curses from the back of our lines and jostles for position with Sprin, but even in him a surge of Patriotism is kept alight at the sight of the lone pick. He curses loud and long, but when he passes by that place, you can often see a suspicious gleam to his eyes. Now his curses are directed at the Necrothreaders, not Sprin or the rest of us. He will be a stout warrior, if we can drag him from his forge long enough. Strong muscles built at the anvil bode well for his strength behind a hammer, smelting alloys of blood and bone rather than separating Tetrahedrite in the glum depths.
For now there is the problem that comes with too much fire – as Highmax once noted, the Trade Depot of our fort has the odd ability to spontaneously erupt into fire. I suspect undead intervention in this case, for fire is ever the bringer of death. Like blood, the flames roil in our fort's entrance, so fierce I lock our military behind closed doors. We huddle in the dark of the earth and hear the boom and crackle of fire through the door. We hear the door to the fowl shelter splinter with a flurry of sparks, and the sounds of death as the flames feed on their small bodies, making an offering to their master, Ur. We hear the sounds of death be replaced by the sounds of a facsimile of life as they rise, scorched of their life to haunt us in our time of battle. NAV, hand on his crossbow, raises his tankard of ale. “A toast to the Forumites, hiding in their hole! A toast to us!”
The sound of flames die down, but they are now reflected fiercer than ever in the sound of NAV's anger. Dashing his cup against the wall, he pushes open the door, letting warmth and light bathe us. The sound of the undead grows louder, and I look at NAV, silhouetted in the dark doorway, the only man amongst us. The flames flicker strangely in Sprin's eyes, disconcertingly. As one, the Crossbow Battalion, the Drunken Brawlers, toss down their customary cups and join NAV. The rest of us wait longer, listen to their calls, the sound of bolt on flesh. The sound of men at work. Louder than them all, NAV shouts so the walls shake. “Take up your weapons against the foe! Attack!”
As the sound of a scuffle rises to a fever pitch, Fabulous Death Bringer stands up, drawing the eyes of all. From his side he lifts his mace, with which he has a legendary skill. With a few practice swipes, he gives a curt nod to his squad. They rise from the huddle, and somewhat reluctantly follow their commander as he strolls boldly out the door. The sounds of battle get noticeably louder, and the clarion call of the Death Bringer's voice lifts the spirits of all. Standing, I order the remaining men up and outside, gesturing at Highmax and his fellow legendary weapon wielders. His hollow eye gazes at me balefully, full of shadows and doubts, knowledge and death. “Apiks will be avenged,” comes the hoarse whisper, for my ear alone. I clasp his shoulder as he starts to pass. “Yes, he will be.”
Like a snake, the tendrils of flame dart and billow about the figure of shadow standing in the centre of the room. His cloak seems to be made of shadow brought to life, his guttural commands fill the troops with dread. He gazes on us, and then breathes on us. In his breath the true meaning of heat and death is revealed, as more burning tendrils writhe to join their scorching fellows. The maelstrom of flame could only be beaten down by many Forumite feet, and already still bodies lay in pools of blood. The price of our inaction. The Necrothreader turns its gaze on us, and with a smile raises hands. Hands that burn red and hot and dangerous. A red hand and a black smile. Diving and weaving, the military forces its way closer to the being of destruction, dodging deadly bolts of fire as they go. Soon, my fellows are engaged in battle of their own. I see Mastahcheese struggle in battle, but when he turns his eyes are gone, and in their place are pits of dark flame. A vicious smile splits his face as I stare in horror until with the sound of grinding bones he clumsily pushes his way into the crowd once more.
A scream wells up in me, a cry of anguish and despair. The muscles in my jaw bunch and clench, and a rage I've never felt the like of before wells up inside me, taking control. The beast moves like quicksilver, like smoke. Bolts fall around it like rain, swords and axes clash against each other instead of becoming embedded in its flesh. On the peripheral, I see Mastahcheese vanquished and sent screaming into the void, and his undead torment pierces my heart with sadness. Another titan has fallen. With renewed hate, I dance the Sword Dance with the beast, dodging flame and death. In the end, it is undone by it own hubris, as such fiends so often are. Pausing to gloat over a fallen foe, it turns its back on the Booze Brawlers – a deadly mistake. A flight of arrows hastily falls around it, causing the air to ripple with their passage and force, and one shot strikes true and deep. Blood splatters my face, brain matter flies through the air. With disgust, the Forumites move back from the stench, as of Brimstone, which rises like a malignant spirit from the corpse. With renewed hope, we attack the remaining undead, forcing them after their dark master into the void.
The armies of night had better beware. The tramp of angry footsteps echo in our halls, the cleansing shine of steel gleams in its corridors. Our halls resound with the cries of our injured, but also with our war cries. Mastahcheese is dead. Apiks is dead. The military has taken a large hit, our very backbone has been struck, but instead of caving beneath the blow we merely reel, and then stand again. For we are the stuff of mountains. We will be the nightmare of our undead nightmares. Rest in peace, Mastahcheese. Your war reindeers champ at the bit for revenge, as do your comrades in war. Steely faced Forumites face the door to the farm, a place where the humble planters and diggers passed peacefully in by gone days. Its edges are cracked and peeling, the only sign of the recent trouble. I go forward and open the door, and silently the avengers pour through the portal, casting themselves selflessly on the enemy. Thread zombies and a Necrothreader to raise their foul corpses and spur them on. Flame wreaths him, he laughs,
he laughs, and everything stills around me.
This is not rage. This is not loathing. This is the stillness of a winter night with ice forming on the water buckets. This is the patient breath of a hunter, drawn in and out in puffs of white gossamer. If the fire of hate could be frozen and drawn into something patient and calm, that would be what this is. The clatter of war falls from my ears, and all that is left is me and the arrogant attacker. A gleam of blue tells me that Highmax is near, that I have a companion in this time of madness. Toady One nods at me grimly from the other side, his eyes seeming to see into the heart of my emotion. The final Necrothreader's smile wanes as he sees the blood of his partner splattered on our faces, and becomes a rictus snarl of hate. The fight begins.
Like a snake, I swipe in with my sword, a dark gleam offset by Highmax's blue and Toady's silver. As metal clashes against metal, I sweep low, striking at the vulnerable parts. Around me the sounds of battle pitch to higher levels, rise and fall like the sea, but for me only the ice and the kill remain. Slicing, cutting, jabbing, I manage to land a blow on his legs. His blood splurts in a red geyser, a fountain of rubies. Certainty fades to fear in his eyes as he crumples forward, hamstrung. A gleam of other blades surround me in a protective net as Highmax and Toady hold off others, even throw the odd shot at the Necrothreader, but for me only one thing remains. The blood stained fiend in front of me. A second heart beat pounds like a fevered drum inside me, and each pulse is accompanied by the thought “revenge,” “revenge,” “revenge.” With a prayer to on high, I gather my darkly gleaming blade and pound it hard against the Necrothreader's helm, which rings with the clear, sharp sound of a bell. Stunned, the Necrothreader cries out, and I shout over the sound of the ringing helm, “I will have my revenge!” and stab its exposed foot, revelling in the sight of its tortured flesh and sundered skin. It drops its lash, the scourge it most likely used on its Forumite slaves, and tries to curl inward. I laugh at the pitiful wisp of shadow in front of me, and prepare the killing blow. Like a shadow falling from above, my blade pierces its leg once more, and a moan of pain rises from my nearly vanquished foe. Prepared to take of its head in one fell swoop, I stand over it, blink away the sweat in my eyes…
...and am on my back, the Necrothreader forcing me down, ripping my sword away from hands curled into fists with determination. Without the sword's weight, the fatigue I have been hiding hits like a sledge hammer, and I gasp. Sprin will have some work fixing me after this trip...if he gets the chance. Twin points of darkness gleam above me, its eyes. I remember the quicksilver movements of its brother, and curse myself for a fool. I should not have fallen for its ruse. I should have...what I should have done seems uncertain. Its eyes grow larger as my concentration slips, becoming maelstroms which seem to suck at my very soul. Vaguely, I hear ringing, see Highmax beset by Thread Zombies, Toady running to his aid… like a black curtain, the veil of sleep rushes towards me, the release of self, maybe death. Beyond its black borders the land of the dead stretches onwards, calm and still and welcome. Devoid of passion or war. I sink towards it with a kind of relief. In a hissing gasp, the beast above me says “I win this war, fool. Ur shall rise again, we shall rise again. Join your friends in death and be done.”
But I can't die yet; the ice in me won't allow it. My very matter protests against it. With the last of my strength, I claw the Necrothreader with my nails, finding gaps in its armour by some chance or divine guidance. The beast howls and rolls off me, and I surface from the dark dream it had been spinning, gasping like a fish fresh off the line. My hand goes almost automatically to my sword, and I raise my arms through a force of sheer will. I stagger forward, then collapse to the bloodstained floor once more, one knee to the ground and using my sword as a staff to keep balance. Blood trickles crust my beard, congealed and sticky, and my arms are so leaden I doubt I could lift them if I were offered the Mountainhomes as a reward. The lasher Necrothreader bends towards me once more, armour rent and cloak torn, foul blood streaming from its many wounds. Its eyes come closer, look deeper, try to steal my soul once more. Fire kindles in my legs and arms once more as with a guttural cry of “I
will have my revenge!” my sword once more flies straight and true, punching through the foe's gorget like it was tin, puncturing the sweet flesh beneath. Once more Necrothreader blood spews and coats the cobbles of Necrothreat. Swiftly, with the speed of a striking cobra, I wrench it free and embed it in the black iron of the thing's breatplate. I fall into darkness with its screams echoing in my head, bouncing and jarring, shrill and discordant. Even in my exhausted state it sounds like the finest music, and I go with a smile on my face.
Highmax looks on as his friend falls to the ground in a heap, his dark blade jutting from the chest of his prey. Having ascertained that Th4DwArfY1 breathes, he advances with a threateningly spinning blade, Toady fending off the surrounding thread zombies. A crossbow wielding beast tries to stand up to him, and Highmax looks on with cool respect as Toady deftly twirls his blade and sends limbs flying across the room.
He quickly dispatches the last of the gibbering fools with the other troops as Highmax advances forward, cool respect turning to flaring hatred as he approaches the prone Necrothreader. Armour rent in many places, blood flowing like a river, and skin as pale as alabaster. It was clear he did not have long left. Still whirling his blades, he quickens his pace until he is right beside the wheezing man, diminutive now without his aura of power. “You killed my friend in this attack. Apiks. You will die knowing his name, I swear.” The blades whirl faster, splitting the air with a whine as they pass through. Spitting blood, the Necrothreader gasps, saying “Only distraction...real attack...not this easy..fool.” Its guttural speech comes to a close with the coughing of more blood. The blades sing a higher pitched tune, and it looks into the empty, gaping hole of an eye. Highmax's whole eye seems to glow with an inner fire, but this one...shadows writhe and spin within those murky depths. Somewhere deep within that husk of a person, death felt the cold, clammy hand of fear. With a smile like a knife, Highmax sweeps the flat end of his blade up, caving in the skull of his foe. Blood explodes with flesh, and any semblance of life the corpse once had is drained away.
Highmax looks over the bloody carnage of the battlefield and through the fortifications to the dark mountains, where the setting sun paints a gleam of rouge on the peaks. He speaks without meaning to speak, mouthing words he feels to the very core of his being. His hand fidgets on the hilt of his sword, and his beard rises and falls as he speaks. “This was just a lackey for others. The force that ordered the attack, that caused Apiks' death is still out there. I cannot just stand by. I will have my revenge.” A stray beam of light from the baleful sun escapes through a chink in the mountains and bathes the Forumite in red, red like blood. “I will have my revenge.”
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I've been saying I'd update soon for ages. I feel genuinely bad about that, and thanks for all your...eh, let's call it patience, shall we? At the very least your tolerance. If it helps, I wasn't enjoying myself when I didn't have time to work on it.
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Topic: Necrothreat III, whatever that is (Read 336837 times)