>run
Da Sole turns to run, a coward at heart. But after a few moments, he reaches the top of the hill, and turns around to look in horror as his army is decimated by one woman.
* ** *** ** *
They circle her, blades drawn, breath heaving in fear. They press close, not going to give her the benefit of attacking one at a time.
It matters little.
One brave soul darts forward. She catches the sword in the crook of her scythe and sends it flying into the eye of another, spinning around to block a stab to the back and whip the blade of the scythe around the neck of the first one. A yank takes his head from his shoulders, and she rolls forward into the falling corpse, dodging a flanking strike from two sides at once.
She comes up with two rapid slashes, cutting a X into the chest of one opponent, spinning to catch a blade and use it and its owner as a platform to launch herself into the air, twirling. The curved blade of the scythe dips behind one mans head and into his spine, and is ripped out only to slice the legs out from another.
Turn, parry, twirl the scythe and remove their weapons, knock them into the other warriors. Her foot lashes out and kicks away a spear head, then the scythe comes up behind it and separates the mans upper body from his lower, seamlessly flowing into an attack on another which turns out to be a feint to lure in a half-plated Coronan who finds the Orcish steel buried in his throat. As he gurgles and falls, frothing blood spraying, the scythe doesn't stop, continuing a spiral of death like a morbid ribbon, leaving chopped corpses in its wake like so many vegetables in a kitchen.
The warriors fall like pawns before the queen, ten, twenty, thirty men. Some try to break and run, but the woman has no love for cowards, and they find themselves in pools of blood sooner than if they had tried to fight.
Those who fought died, those who ran died. The woman danced through the disorganized ranks of ten thousand men, and with nary a scratch upon her cut them down like wheat.
And just when they thought it could not get any worse, and surely they would all die to that terrible crescent blade... A spark briefly lit the woman’s fingers. Then there was a great clap of thunder, and ten seasoned warriors fell twitching to the ground.
The scythe continued its beautiful dance of death, a ribbon of corpses in it's wake, accompanied by claps of thunder leaving long tendrils of twitching men dying in staggered strips, like the branches of some great tree.
The woman spun to block one blade, the scythe dipping up and underneath to prick the hand of the swords owner. He cried out in pain and dropped his blade, leaving him open for the scythe to wrap around him and flay open his back like a fish. He fell to the ground and died.
But the scythe was not done, dipping and weaving in a way that no trained soldier could understand through years of experience with straight swords and spears, and all their parries were for naught, as the blade slithered around defenses and plunged into flesh.
One man had the misfortune of watching the curved blade slash backwards, under the woman’s own arm, and dip into his gut. The curvature of the blade reached it up into his chest, and then she yanked the scythe with a grunt, his chest exploded, chunks of rib flying every way, and the heart carried by the scythe to fly into the face of yet another man, who in his shock provided no defense at all to the scythe as it beheaded him.
A crack of thunder left ten men dying, as the scythe brought three men down in such time. The woman worked the weapon as more than just an extension of herself; no, more as if she were a extension of the weapon, carried forth as a platform for it's slaughter.
Five minutes ago the armies were fighting. Now, half their numbers gone and one third of the remainder dead by scythe or by lightning, their only thought was escape. But no escape could be had. Any who tried to run and were seen found the way blacked by the same woman who had been meters away, teleporting in a flash of brown magic, the scythe already in deadly motion. Heads rolled on the ground like tumbleweeds in a great desert, kicked by frightened men who were no longer fearing anything but the woman before them.
* ** *** ** *
De Sole blinked, and the woman was gone, vanished without any trace beyond the mountain of corpses. He turned left, then right in his confusion. Then he turned around.
Her scythe cut up through the bottom of his mouth and hooked his jawbone, lifting him up into the air.
"Vene Da Sole." Said the woman from inside the deep brown folds of her cloak.
Da Sole gurgled blood in response.
"Your armies trespassed in Hussar lands without warrant and without explanation."
Da Sole gurgled confusedly.
“You were warned by letter, by courier, and by common sense. No agreements were signed to allow Coronan troops on Hussar soil. No agreements were signed to permit a trespass, temporary or permanent. You ignored the sovereignty of Hussia and the safety of her people.
“By order of the Emperor of the Holy Areonetian Empire, you are summarily executed in his Majesty's name, and your soul consigned to three hundred years imprisonment in his Majesty's royal gem grotto.”
Da Sole gurgled pitifully, tears streaking his face.
“By His Majesty's grace, your senses will be permitted to function,” She continued. Da Sole wept openly, for that was not the mercy it claimed to be. “And by His Majesty's grace, in the eyes of Areos, you will be permitted freedom of afterlife after your term has concluded.” That, at least, was good news. A few unlucky criminals had been locked in the dim, empty gem grotto for over a thousand years.
“This is a lawful execution.” Said the Necromancer, and with that she shook the scythe and Da Sole perished, head ripped apart by the steel blade. His soul, light tan in color and translucent, fled from his body like mist, but drifted slowly and inexorably towards a small crystal held in the woman’s off hand. It was drawn in like water into a funnel, and when the last wisp of brown smoke was gone, the woman returned the crystal back to her pocket, deep within her voluminous cloak.
Turning, she studied the only other soul on the hill not incarcerated in a gem. The Aide is on his knees, hands on his thighs, and head bowed, awaiting death. He too is Coronan, and is thus wanted for trespass on Hussar soil, though the ground they now stand on is Schenburgi by law. Hussia separates the two nations, and General Da Sole didn't wait for the proper agreements to be made before marching to fight this hated enemy.
The woman taps one long, pale finger on her lips. “Stand up.” She says, and the Aide rushes to his feet, a practiced hurry only servants could manage. “Do you know any magic?” She asks.
>Yes
>No
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Topic: Necromancer: A prologue (Read 8284 times)