The eyes of the Enemy （Part 2）
Silverfox stared wide-eyed in disbelief. Memories came rushing back to him. Memories of Blackthorne Manor. Of the pale elves in the Northern Isles and the cult of the moon. The way they drained the life from their victims exactly like the black cloud had just done.
He never thought he would see magic again. He hardly believed his first counter was ever real to begin with, and now this? His mind swam with questions, but he had no time to contemplate.
If this magic was the same as in the cult, he knew their enemy was more formidable than he had ever imagined.
He struggled to pick himself up off the ground, as blood dripped from his mouth and pain throttled his chest and head. His limbs became weak and achy and a wave of nausea washed over him, and he slumped back to the ground trembling.
No. Not this... Not now...
He willed his himself to get up, panting and clawing, but it was no use. His vision began to fade as darkness slowly crept in. Finally, exhaustion overcame him and his head lobbed to the side as he fell unconscious.
It was then that Zephyrah burst into the chamber, half-carrying the Dissolver, who leaned heavily on her shoulder, his steps sluggish and weak.
Her eyes widened in horror, darting from the corpse in the shadows to Silverfox lying across the stone floor.
The air crackled with unnatural energy, making every breath she drew feel heavy.
"What is happening?" She asked frantically.
Gareth called out, warning her, "Be careful—"
But before the warning had fully escaped his lips, a jagged bolt of black energy tore through the air, shrieking as it hurtled toward him. Gareth lunged aside as the bolt struck the stone where he was just standing.
Zephyrah shrieked, clasping a hand over her mouth. The Dissolver, though he was still weak from blood loss, glanced around desperately, trying to catch sight of whatever threw the bolt.
Suddenly, laughter erupted around the room, drifting between them and all around them.
Another bolt shot out, heading straight for Zephyrah and the Dissolver, but Zephyrah caught sight of it and reacted quickly.
She raised her hands, and a sphere of radiant light enveloped them, creating a barrier.
She was too exhausted to make it last for longer than a split second, but it was enough to stop the bolt.
The black cloud landed against the sphere and dissipated in an instant.
Just then, the air in the room shifted again, becoming even more electrified.
The General materialized once more, this time looming before Zephyrah and the Dissolver.
He resembled General Warrick, but his form was warped.
His face was contorted into something monstrous, his mouth stretched into an inhuman snarl.
Both irises and corneas had vanished, replaced by solid black orbs.
He spoke, and his words resounded with a chilling double-voice. One was the familiar voice of the General; the other was guttural and ancient, echoing from the depths of something far older.
"Ahhhh... I see the Ancient Power still clings to this forest." His mouth curled into a smile too wide to be natural, revealing rows of jagged teeth that gleamed with hunger. "Do you truly believe it will save the forest from what is to come?"
Zephyrah stood frozen in terror. Her mouth hung open, but no words came out.
The double voice of the creature laughed again, but the Dissolver quickly silenced it.
He rushed forward, slashing weakly with his claws as radiant light flashed from his fingertips.
Radiant light flashed against the horror's face, making it recoil in a snarl of pain as the child's attack landed.
Then the Dissolver crashed to the floor as his vision spun and the creature vanished in a cloud of darkness.
It reappeared an instant later across the chamber.
Blood trickled down a fresh gash across its cheek, but the General barely seemed to notice. His twisted smile never faltered.
"Did you think I would be as easy to kill as my doctor was?" He scoffed. "You are wrong. His mind was weak, and his body was weaker still."
"How—How did you—" The Dissolver stammered as he lifted himself off the floor.
The creatures' eyes grew angry as he boomed, "Has the world forgotten so quickly that even those that wield the Ancient Power are ignorant? I see all. I know the secrets and wonders about the realms that your feeble mortal minds could not possibly comprehend."
"Who are you?" Gareth demanded, lifting his sword and gripping it tightly. His hands shook despite the confidence in his voice. "What are you?"
The creature smiled again, then his eyes rolled to the back of his head, and his face contorted, changing back to the familiar face of General Warrick.
Warrick faltered momentarily, clutching his face and panting heavily. He straightened and looked around him, regaining his bearings.
"Where was I? Ah... Yes. The syndicate rat." He wiped the blood from his vision and narrowed his eyes on Silverfox, who was motionless on the floor, "But it looks like he is already taken care of."
Without hesitation, the General lunged for Gareth, who was closest. As he moved, his hands twisted and stretched as grotesque claws unfurled, each one dripping with writhing shadows.
He slashed at Gareth, whose sword rang out as he blocked. The impact jolted his bones. The General spun and struck again and again, relentlessly, each blow a blur of speed and unnatural strength. Gareth stumbled under the ruthless assault, barely able to keep up.
Zephyrah's quiver was nearly empty as she loosed arrow after arrow from a distance, while the Dissolver swung a scavenged scimitar from the corpse of the Anak'Suke.
But each strike or volley of arrows met only air or shadow.
The General would twist aside or dissolve completely, reappearing behind his attackers or off in the distance.
The chaos in the chamber was blinding. Cries, laughter, and the clash of metal echoed off the walls as each one struggled to attack, striking perilously close to each other. The General seemed to relish the confusion. His mocking laughter taunted them as if it were mere sport.
Then, without warning, he stopped evading and went on the offensive.
His inhuman claws lashed out, raking deep, burning gashes into Gareth and the Dissolver.
The pain was excruciating, and the wounds festered instantly.
Spiderwebs of black veins spread out from the torn flesh, crawling like living things, visible beneath their skin.
After several strikes, the Dissolver slumped to the ground in a heap, panting and struggling to stand back up. Zephyrah rushed to him, desperately examining his strange wounds and glancing around frantically, not knowing what to do.
There was nothing she could do.
They were outmatched and falling quickly.
The only one that remained was Gareth.
He was gasping for breath. Sweat and blood were streaked across his skin, and his body was crisscrossed with ragged, necrotic wounds that throbbed with every beat of his heart.
Still, Gareth fought on, swinging his sword with wild determination.
But each strike ricocheted uselessly off the General's plate armor.
His desperation drove him to headbutt, to jab with the sword pommel, to elbow General Warrick.
But none of it slowed the General's advance.
Pain clouded Gareth's vision, but he refused to yield.
Gareth's mind raced.
But he was not thinking of himself.
He thought of Rowena.
He thought of her, frightened and alone, somewhere in this fortress.
He thought of her because the enemy before him was indomitable, and Gareth knew, deep in his bones, that he was outmatched. His muscles trembled with exhaustion. His wounds were throbbing and bloody. Each breath was a struggle.
He had neither the strength nor the skill to triumph here. And the pain threatened to pull him under, to drown him.
But none of that mattered. Not when he thought of her. Rowena needed him.
And that slender thread of purpose drove him forward, step by agonizing step. As long as he drew breath, Gareth would not stop trying.
But most of all, he thought of Lady Rowena, because if he was going to die, he wanted her beautiful face to be the last image in his mind when he closed his eyes for the long sleep.
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Rowena staggered through the tunnel, finding that the passageway branched off in several directions. How was she to know which way to go? It wasn't as if she could wander through the entire fortress until she happened upon them.
No.
She needed to think this through.
She considered where they might have been taken.
The dungeon. If there is one, it would likely be underground.
She limped slowly through the tunnels, searching for a flight of stairs or a downward sloping corridor. Finally, she came upon a narrow flight of stone stairs which spiraled downward, descending into darkness.
She gulped and pushed aside her fear, feeling silly for worrying about brushing a spider as she felt the way forward with her hand.
When the steps ended, the passage was pitch black. Goosebumps prickled her skin as she slowly moved forward, fumbling blindly in the darkness. After what felt like an eternity, she could hear sounds coming from somewhere up ahead. Muffled voices, grunts and screams, and the clang of metal.
As she drew nearer, a small orange light appeared ahead, a doorway in the distance.
She quieted her ragged breathing and slowed her steps, hoping to meld into the shadows around her as she approached with caution.
Finally, she could just make out what was happening on the other side, but what she saw made her feel sick to her stomach.
It was Gareth fighting for his life, covered in blood and horrifying wounds.
The Dissolver lay on the floor in a similar condition, cradled in Zephyrah's arms as she watched Gareth fight with tears in her eyes.
The pale, white mass of a strange black-haired elf also lay on the floor, along with the body of a strange creature and a wrinkled, black corpse.
The man—or creature— who attacked Gareth looked ruthless, with rage blazing in his eyes and a malicious smile on his lips.
She watched terrified, as Gareth struggled for breath and cried out under each drag of the strange man's monstrous claws.
His steps faltered, and his swings were slow.
On his face was a look she had never seen him wear before.
Fear. Despair.
Her heart beat so hard in her chest that it hurt.
Or was it hurting for another reason?
Gareth...
Instinctively, Rowena reached for the short sword on her hip, but her hand hovered over the handle.
What could she do?
If Gareth could not handle this man, surely, she would not be able to help.
At least... not with a sword.
Her mind raced and sweat drenched her shaking palms.
She had to do something.
But what?
Gareth was running out of time.
She was useless with a blade.
A blade?
The idea that came to her scared her more than the scene happening in the room beyond.
With shaking hands, she removed the scabbard from her back and lay it on the ground. She reached for the button of the leather flap, then froze. Her heart hammered as she looked to Gareth, still on his feet, but only just.
Her breath came in trembling gasps as she unsnapped the button and slowly dumped the sword onto the ground. Its metal slid smoothly against the ground with a light, metallic scrape.
She took a deep breath and unclasped her cloak, carefully wrapping it around the handle of the sword with shaking hands. She gripped it tightly through the layer of cloth, feeling the ice-cold energy that radiated from the metal.
Her breath caught in her throat as she uneasily stood to her feet.
The sword felt heavier than ever, and it seemed to vibrate in her hands, electrified with strange, threatening energy.
It was as if it did not want her holding it.
She did not understand why, but she felt the need to explain herself.
She whispered, "I do not have a choice. I have to do this, or he will die."
With great effort, she pushed all thoughts of pain to the back of her mind and slowly crept forward, crouching like a cat ready to pounce.
She would only have one chance. If she waited in the shadows until just the right time, she might be able to stab him.
Just one touch was all it would take.
One chance.
One moment.
No room for error.
She drew a sharp breath, spotting her opportunity as Gareth fell to the ground and the armored man loomed over him, with his back to the passageway.
She gathered all of her remaining strength and charged,
The sword pointed directly in front of her,
The tip aimed directly at the seam between his plates.