6th Day of Ash, 122nd Year of the Age of Steel
Masagh followed the two Inquisitors further as they made their way through the Northside. If they were allowed to walk free, the story would spread. They might tell wives or husbands, they might complain to their coworkers. That was how rumor and folk stories were born. Such an intangible rumor may seem harmless to anyone else, but Masagh knew their power. Eventually someone would come along who believed it, and that someone would come sniffing around.
He watched them enter the Gash bridge for the long slog across. Flying high above them, he angled down to land midway across. He would transform and dispatch them quickly, tossing them into the Gash. Then he would take care of Serat.
The wild howled as he bounced across the cobbles slightly, cold and deep. It swirled around him as he let the Animus invocation fall away. The pterincus body twisted and malformed. Wings shriveled and limbs thickened, fingers grew. Eventually Masagh the ghoul lay across the cobbles. The wind still howled.
He turned his red gaze on the direction of the Northside, freeing his claymore from its scabbard. Belatedly he wondered what he would do if others happened to be crossing the bridge at the same time. They could hardly be the only three moving about the city in the dead of night. Grimly, he knew it was a purely academic exercise. He tried to avoid killing when he could, but this was a night for the reaping. No threat to House Creth would stand tall.
They weren’t speaking when they emerged from the darkness, just trudging along in their own thoughts. Masagh watched them silently, making no effort to hide himself. He held the claymore in his hands and gathered the aether within. When they were about thirty feet away he saw the younger, Mycomb, look up and do a double take. He was not startled, just mildly confused. He flung a hand out to stop his companion. They both eyed Masagh’s garb and then the claymore.
Their faces shifted into a similar stoney understanding. Jessle stepped slightly away from Mycomb to the side.
Willing to fight, then. That would make it simpler.
Masagh held the sword at waist level and surged the aether into it. It shimmered and blurred as he pulled it apart into two with then Duplicate spell. Letting the Dancing blade spin up to mirror the duplicate in his hands, Masagh spread his feet.
“Are you the one who killed the Orkhan Drollock?” Mycomb said, his voice flat and only a small edge of fear betrayed any feeling. Professionals even in the face of the unlikeliest of outcomes, the truth.
Masagh did not respond, instead he began walking towards them.
Jessle glanced briefly at Mycomb, then drew out the longsword at his side. “Show us your face, you.” He said. His words too carried the flat professionalism of a man who had seen horrors in his day to day life for far too long for such a simple thing like death to intimidate him. “Mycomb.” He said as Masagh came within ten feet of them.
The younger Inquisitor pulled from his belt a wand. Masagh leapt to the side and rolled forward in the direction of Jessle. But Mycomb did not aim the wand at him. Instead the younger Inquisitor pointed it up in the sky. A cloud of bright orange flame erupted from the thing. It mushroomed up at least thirty feet into the air before dissipating.
A signal.
Masagh stood up next to the older Inquisitor and their blades were clashing. Sparks flew and the sharp twangs of steel on cold iron rang out over the Gash. As the flame died in the air, it brought Jessle’s face into sharp relief. Determination and a grey look of mortal peril was etched across his features. Masagh thrust low and the Dancing sword mimicked, only a beat behind. Iron twisted in the air and the longsword deflected one and blocked the other.
Masagh did not let up on the attack. He may have two blades, but there were two Inquisitors to kill. He had a better chance of surviving them one on one. Stepping in he Brough the claymore down hard from above while the dancing sword moved like an echo. Jessle grunted as his weapon caught both hard strikes and he reached up to support the flat of the blade with his off hand. Masagh stepped in and shoved viciously. He turned his pommel to strike Jessle’s face.
Iron met the soft flesh of the older Inquisitor’s face just as Mycomb entered from the side. Masagh was forced back by the younger man’s blade. He growled in frustration and reset his stance, the dancing blade hovering at his side. Jessle wiped blood from his face and grimaced.
“Go get help.” Jessle said to Mycomb.
“I’m not leaving you alone with a Reaver.” His partner spat back. Brave, Masagh thought. Fear and adrenaline raced across the younger Mycomb’s face more nakedly than Jessle’s. Both stepped away from each other slowly, moving to either side of Masagh. In any other circumstance Masagh could simply step back and flee. But he had not shown himself to them just to run and survive. This was about snuffing the two out.
Masagh stepped a half turn towards Jessle, recognizing him as the more experienced threat. His dancing blade slid around to mirror his stance, facing Mycomb. They would sit and wait as long as they could, stalling for backup. Masagh would have to be the first to move. He shot forward with a thrust, the dancing blade a moment behind. Both men raised longswords to deflect and then the dance was renewed.
The three twisted and lunged across the stone of the long bridge. The two claymores weaving and cutting through the air with mirrored paths. The ghoul held his own against the pair of Inquisitors. He had been correct in assuming Jessle to be more experienced. While Mycomb fought with more speed and strength, Jessle required attention to counter. His movements and strikes were more complex.
But he was not so experienced as Masagh. The ghoul made an arm shaking strike downward and Jessle was forced to block the blow high. He groaned as their blades locked and they were forced in close. Masagh leaned forward and bit into the flesh of his cheek, ripping. The Inquisitor yelled but did not drop focus from the blade. Masagh surged a pulse of aether at the dancing blade sparring with Mycomb.
Then he stepped to the side, spinning the wounded Jessle around. There was a wet thud as Masagh’s red eyes locked with Mycomb’s. He watched the young Inquisitor’s gaze widen and shift to the toppling form of his partner. Jessle lay on the bridge, gasping and gurgling, still alive despite the dancing blade skewering his spine. Masagh stepped past him to stand between the fallen man and Mycomb.
He spat the blood and flesh from his mouth and gave the redvein an a cold look. The hunger burned in him. Mycomb tore his gaze from the fallen Jessle to stare at Masagh.
“You will pay for that.” He said, clearly steeling himself to continue the fight. His eyes glanced to the side. No doubt he was hoping some backup arrived soon.
“You won’t be the one to collect.” Masagh grated. He also glanced to the side. Torches burned in the distance, though distinct forms were not visible. He raised the duplicate claymore and beckoned Mycomb on. While he did so, he slid the dancing blade free slowly with his mind.
Mycomb rushed forward with renewed vigor. Masagh met the charge with instinct and a cold determination. This Inquisitor had not done anything to deserve this in particular, but he had crossed paths with the wrong case, the wrong mystery. Enough of his kind had murdered enough of Masagh’s for the ghoul to feel no pity at having to snuff out the brave man’s life.
As he rushed forward Masagh made to block his telegraphed attack. Then the ghoul feinted and sidestepped, lashing low to slice across the man’s boot instead. Mycomb could not stop his forward momentum and stumbled.
He fell head first into Masagh’s waiting dancing blade. The tip slid bloodily from the back of the young Inquisitor’s neck. Masagh sighed and let the duplicate disperse out of existence. For a moment the only sound or movement was Jessle’s feeble attempts to crawl away from the scene. Masagh was watching the torches approach.
He lifted his hand and the dancing blade returned. The aether use tonight had left his feeling drained and the pact heavy. It would take a toll on him, hopefully he could postpone it until he returned to safety. Masagh tore his eyes from the approached torches and stalked up behind Jessle.
He kicked the Inquisitor onto his back. The man groaned in defeated pain, curling around his wound. His legs were paralyzed.
“Yes, I killed the Ork.” Masagh muttered to him before bringing the blade down on his neck. He tossed the head over the side of the bridge. Then with decidedly more effort he pulled the body to the side as well, dropping it over. He hurried to do the same with Mycomb. He turned back towards the Northside, away from the torches.
As the ghoul hurried off to find a safe place to transform, the torched approached. The firelight glinted from the engraved Inquisitor’s sword that still lay on the bridge in a pool of blood.
It was a terror filled half hour later when Masagh crashed into Triforge Square as a pterincus. He skidded along the cobbles and wasted no time in shifting back into his own form. It was already a long process to transform a full body, made longer by the aether strain. He gasped as lacerations sprouted along his forearms and pain wracked his temples. He had not held back this night. The pact would match his zeal with vindictive accuracy. The blows from the fight he had not felt in the moment were coming back to him.
It was all he could do to topple over the edge of the well and into the dark water below. For a long while he simply lay at the bottom in the frigid well, letting the pain roll over him. Then, eventually, he stood back up and made his way up along the tunnel way leading to the Compound.
He needed to find Sabrione. One final loose end remained.
