7th Malachite
Th4DwArfY1 had troubled dreams, that night. The chainsaw split flesh and sinew like a knife through butter, and the fierce joy in his heart was sour, so bitter-sour. Eventually, soft music took him, and with it a feeling of comfort. Words were said, and though the morning washed them away, he remembered the feeling. It would be alright. His fighting would not curse him.
But he could not trust the chainsaw in his hands. It reminded him of the beast Apiks had become. Two Apiks flickered before his eyes, the liberator of the past and the tyrant of the present. They were not compatible; one could not become the other. The Cruel King of Necrothreat was the only disease the brave Forumites of this fortress had been unable to shake off, as they had done disaster after disaster in the past.
The reason was clear. Now, they faced a Forumite. Sprin had danced with demons,
and the Forumites had not stopped him. Not because they were afraid, no. Because he was one of them, and the Forumites do not forsake their own. It is our biggest weakness.
A weakness Apiks is not shackled by.
That morning, blood still caked behind my fingernails, I went to the throne room of our leader. As his bodyguard, I passed through all levels of security. Finally, only Rogue stood on guard, a thoughtful expression on his face. He saw me coming and saluted, standing to the side.
I had not asked for the salute, but I nodded anyway, and opened the doors to the room.
Inside, chaos. Th4DwArfY1 gaped to see Apiks, standing before a bin of scattered goods. In his hand was the chainsaw, and it gleamed with a deadly light. Before him was a line of Craftsmites, the very ones he had ordered to trick Apiks. Eyes flicking to the spilled bin, understanding came. A cruel smile on his lips, Apiks’ chainsaw came down.
Thinking came later. In the moment, Th4DwArfY1’s chainsaw met that of Apiks’, and each repelled the other, hissing like cats in a fight. The weapons growled at each other as Apiks stared down at Th4DwArfY1, a peculiar smile on his lips.
The craftsmites fled.
“Bodyguard. Soldier. Fellow wielder of the Chain and Saw. What is the meaning of this… interruption.” Soft velvet was never so smooth.
Th4DwArfY1, thank all the gods that be, did not have to answer the challenge, verbal nor physical. For at that moment, Red Hammer jogged into the room, a picture of practiced efficiency.
“King! The High Priest has gone mad!”
Apiks’ smile widened. “Excellent. You, worm, I will deal with later. I have bigger fish to fry right now…”
He left, and I followed. Apiks eyed me, but as a member of the bodyguard, it was supposedly my duty to guard him. A position he probably regretted raising me to.
Eventually, we came across Lord Lemonpie, the High Priest. The son of this body, its offspring and heir. He knew me, and smiled, but there was blood on his face.
Always blood, the nectar of the fire god. Sometimes it seemed gore was the cement that held this fortress together.
Before him was the beaten body of a worker, a known criminal who had defied work orders. Lemonpie seemed dazed, confused. He kept looking at the blood on his hands.
Apiks went up to him, smiling the same smile, the same one as always. A smile that spoke of nightmares and death. And then he did the unexpected. Slapping Lemonpie on the back, Apiks laughed. True, there was little gladness to it, but there
was mirth.
“Lemonpie, I do believe you’ve been having entirely the wrong sort of conversation with the gods. You found one slightly more… angry… than you are used to, no?”
The High Priest seemed to finally see the injured man in front of him, and flinched in horror. “No…no! It was only one conversation… thought the frog had returned… how did it talk to me without the frog? It wanted blood.” He started to get crazed around the eyes, and backed away from Apiks. “It was all I could do… find a criminal, I thought. It would be justice, justice.” Anguish on his face, the High Priest fled to his bloodstained cathedral to pray, the booming laughter of Apiks following after.
Th4DwArfY1 could not help but wonder to which god he spoke.
And at the front entrance, the bodies of the dead politicians were rotting, sending plumes of stench into the already fetid air. They needed to be dealt with, but there was no room to store so many corpses. Only one solution presented itself, but our King would not like it.
Remembering his laughter, I did it anyway.
Among the grand columns, rot. The bodies of the slain, twisted and contorted, lying in this most rich of rooms. Apiks’ throne room, made to look as it should. May its owner see such carnage, and be reminded of his own faults. I remember the look in Lemonpie’s face, the look of absolute terror as he looked down at his own hands.
In cold fury, Th4DwArfY1 ripped free the Adamantine door which held the throne room locked. It came free, a spray of stone coming with it.
The door was strong and light, and could hold off an invasion. And Apiks used it for decoration. The High Priest communed with blessed gods, and somehow, somehow, he was sure Apiks had polluted that too. He had been much too…expectant for it to be otherwise.
The door would go to the front of the Fortress, and be of use. And Apiks…Apiks could rot in hell, with Armok and Ur pulling out his bones. That is where he belongs.
9th Galena
Apiks was not happy. He had tried to hide it, but the loss of the door angered him. The corpses in his chambers, angered him. He could not know who had done it, but his eyes kept returning to me, hard and unyielding. Perhaps I had been too hasty, too quick.
Now that I have started, I need to act quickly.
And so I organise some trappers and Rangers into a unit. Apiks’ power holds sway over the infantry, but not these Forumites. Their wits are as sharp as their bolts. I will need them, but for now have sent them to train in secret. It is too soon.