TVC II Chapter 7 - Return to the Silver Pinnacle

[The Dread King]

Henrick gritted his teeth as Kithan and his undead subordinates inflicted punishment on him.

The series of spells he was casting took time and effort that could have been spent defending himself...but the damage he had taken, the pain and constriction of movement he was now suffering, was worth it. Under his breath, he had been chanting these spells, and even as the black roses dulled his senses, he persisted in his whispering. As he came to a finish, he paused for a moment, and heard the word, "YIELD."

He responded not with a word, but by raising the stump of his arm. The ice around him had started to melt into a puddle, but his smile was fixed, as still as the ice on the ground around him had been only moments before. As if spontaneously, the thorns burst into searing flame and were consumed within a second. An eruption of fire burst forth from Henrick's arm and hit Kithan square in the chest, presumably causing immense damage and throwing the Lord of Ivrel back and up into the air. As Henrick rose to his feet, Kithan crashed to the ground.

The senior assassin sheathed his sword and opened the palm of his hand, his built-up spell casting continuing to unleash itself upon the world. Tendrils of fire shot forth from each fingertip, each hurtling off in a different, but very specific, direction. The three remaining hexwraiths were reduced to nothing in an instant by his inner three fingers, and the flames arcing from his thumb and little finger blasted Bashee and Tangris, blasting them each to one side as the pyromancer advanced relentlessly on his quarry.

A conflagration ignited, burning everything in his vicinity that was not large and powerful enough to resist the searing heat of the inferno. The conflagration advanced with him, and would have swiftly accounted for even well-armoured and well-trained soldiers of the Empire. Exposure and proximity to it might even be enough to kill many of the new bloods serving in the order. As Henrick stepped towards the form of Kithan, sprawled across the burnt ground on which the toppled carriage also lay, he drew his sword.

Pointing his sword in a judgemental manner at the wraith driver that approached him, the senior brother channelled flame along it, and the tongue of fire leapt out to ensnare the wraith, lancing through it and leaving nothing but smoking ash. The exchange, which had happened in but a few seconds, demonstrated Henrick's power. His star waxed far greater than those of Sieghard, Markus, or even Kylar. You were truly arrogant to think me finished, he thought of Kithan, smirking at the embattled wight king.

He raised his sword and advanced on the wight's position, considering a black rose that lay bereft to the wight king's side for a moment. As the protective flames surrounding the pyromancer licked at it, it glowed a deep shade of crimson, shrivelled, and then crumbled into ash. Henrick was determined to relish the avenging of his wounds at the hands of the prince of Ivrel. He sneered at the remains of the black rose, and said mockingly, "A rose turned from black to red; I'll be glad to see you dead."

He raised his sword above the wight king, before swinging it down in an attempt to decapitate Kithan.

 

[Count michael]

The beast glared as the Newblood tried flanking it growling faintly whilst flexing it's claws. Gulping in fear the vampires charged the skin wolf keen to finish it off once and for all, however the beast was waiting for them.

With a mighty heave the beast kicked the first Newblood sending it flying backwards into the nearest tree with a sickening crack. With the beast now distracted the other Newblood was able to stab into the beast's back driving its blade deep, the vampire's sudden triumph turning to horror as the beast turned to regard the pesky attacker.

Lunging forward the Skinwolf clamped its jaw on the vampires neck biting down, still alive the vampire struggled feebly before the beast ripped out it's jugular in a spray of blood and gore. Turning to the remaining Newblood the beast charged at it just as it was rising groggily to it feet, slamming into the vampire the Skinwolf tore and rended the screaming vampire leaving nothing but a dismembered corpse. Finally free of the newblood appetisers the beast turned its full attention towards the main course Kylar as the beast charged forward

 

[Count Vashra]

Niklaus was not surprised to see the Pyromancer survive his attack, but was surprised to see him leap, rather than shadow-step, to his own pillar, presumably meaning he was running out of energy. This was made more apparent by the fact that he was now forsaking spellcasting and trying to engage in close combat.
"The mightiest blade cannot hurt what it cannot touch," the Shadowmancer said as he disappeared. He reappeared behind the Pyromancer, backhanding him with a spiked gauntlet, and then vanished again, reappearing some distance away, covering the area around his enemy's feet with caltrops. Then he drew his scimitar again, confident his enemy was now weak enough to risk hand to hand combat. Which he could always Shadow-merge away from if necessary. He waited for the Pyromancer to clear the caltrops, if he could.

 

[The Dread King]

Markus snarled and stumbled as he was backhanded, the spikes slightly puncturing the toughened skin of his back, halting before the wall of shadow before turning around. So, the fool thinks my wounds render me unable to tear him apart. I will relieve him of that ignorant assumption.

He smiled as he saw Niklaus presumably waiting for him to attempt to clear the caltrops scattered around him, and used an alternative approach to deal with the problem. A pit of shadows appears underneath him, into which he vanished. He shadow-stepped back into visibility next to the shadowmancer and hissed sibilantly, "I can touch you now!" With these words, he thrust his blade forth at the wizard with terrifying speed that belied the weariness brought on by his injuries.

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Kylar instinctively twisted on his whip, and it retracted in time to block the ambassador's blade. The assassin threw himself to the right only just in time as the Skinwolf charged towards him. Fear began to well up from inside him. He'd hoped that his new bloods would have finished Mikhail off by now and come to help him tackle Varelsa, but the opposite had happened, and there was nowhere to hide. He prepared to make his flight, but then something stopped him.

It was the sound of a bolt: a bolt that was whistling through the trees. It was a very special bolt; an anti magic bolt - that is, a bolt specifically designed to penetrate magical defence. Sieghard had fired it, and subsequently it had hit its target, Varelsa.

Then, all hell broke loose.

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Everything happened very quickly. Rikert's bolt hit 'Jack'; the illusion, who of course was not the real Jack, shattered; and then the sound of a great hewing was heard - a single, mighty chop. A tree, cut at the stomp, toppled, falling straight towards Rikert, and a cackling vampire who had been hidden behind it charged out brandishing a massive axe.

If the falling tree didn't kill Rikert, Jack resolved, the fall of his axe would.

 

[Count Magpyr]

Dazed and confused, Kithan barely avoided the flaming sword of the enraged pyromancer. He didn't understand, the Pearl of Ultimate Solitude was inviolable, where had it gone? First there was that crossbow firing fanatic who could not only load and fire multiple bolts at once, but seemed to have an endless supply of magical arrows tailored to whoever it was pointing at. It could even fire at different targets in the same microsecond, with different bolts! Now there was a one-armed, one-eyed pyromaniac, who even when drained of power and encased in a sphere of negation, was able to best the Lord of Ivrel. Why were such demi-gods of power concerned with the feeble machinations of some provincial council, it hade no sense?
Kithan winced as this time the burning blade bit into his buckled breastplate. He lay back and gazed at the maimed wizard. 'Time for the dual edged weapon of deepest need' he whispered. His left hand opened revealing the now familiar sphere of emerald flame. In a split second the ball expanded and changed. Colour leeched out of the flame and out stepped The Pale Lady. She knelt next to Kithan and touched his brow. 'Sister' he whispered and then slumped, insensible. The Pale Lady rose swiftly and turned in a flare of grey skirts. Her skin, robes, blouse, hair and flesh were all shades of grey. The only colour came from her eyes, two almond shaped pieces of burnt paper, with scarlet embers flickering at the edges. Slowly she glided forward, tethered by a curious thread of grey to her brother's brow. Apply flesh to the liche king's head, or strip the translucent flesh from her oddly formal features and you could see the close kinship and she was Death. Enchantments cast by the frantic wizard simply passed through her presence. Explosive, silver, enchanted bolts all simply passed unchanged through her diaphanous form. Vampires that touched her simply crumbled into dust. A trio of top assassins leapt from the undergrowth, all becoming swirls of pale ash that spun and eddied before binding with their new mistress. Beneath the tattered hem of her gown plants and small creatures withered, soil cracked and rock became dust. With each small death more ash was added to her frame , she grew and moved that little faster. Henrick continued to back pedal furiously. Glancing round the battlefield he noticed the spirit thorns fading in The Pale Lady's path, only to reform next to their fallen lord. The two wounded spirit cats with their broken armour, cowered back from their lord's sister and skulking round, made their way back to his side. The Pale Lady though continued her implacable advance. Henrick could go no further, trees and undergrowth blocked further retreat and there was no more power, he'd drained what scant resources he had and now he was spent. She continued to advance, faster yet, her face expressionless and calm. Her hand stretched out, finger poised to touch, while Henrick crouched, cradling his ruined arm, bloody tears trickling down his face from the ruined eye.

 

[Count Vashra]

"Perhaps," Niklaus mused as he spun away from the Pyromancer's thrust, though the sword bounced off his armour, and swung with his own scimitar at his neck. As he did so, he pointed his other fist at his enemy's heart and fired half a dozen spikes, which immediately regenerated on his gauntlet. Then he raised the hand, opened it, and closed it again. The shadow dome, roof included, contracted by inches. He would see what the Pyromancer's response was, and then decide whether to spring his trap. The simple motion of contracting it a little, then stopping it, would at least suggest his intention.

 

[Get of W'soran]

Varelsa was powerful, strong, quick and regenerated faster than the average vampire not to mention his incomprehensibly long experience with fighting whether in war or duels.

But even he couldn't stop an enchanted bolt he didn't see coming.

The huge vampire stumbled forward, weapon slipping from his grip, as the bolt hammered home in between his shoulder blades. As the projectile struck it released some strange form of anti-magic field causing the already weakened ancient runes (which had absorbed a great deal of damage during his time in the flames) on Varelsa's armour to flare and fail. As the magic left the suit of armour the pieces of plate fell of the vampire, no longer bound to his dark power.

"No!" he gasped as weakness spread through his body, a combination of the mental shock of loosing the mental protection provided by his enchanted armour and the silver poisoning from the bolt, causing him to drop to his knees.

Varelsa was breathing hard, a fruitless reaction of his body as his mind fought the inevitable but it was too late. Too much had happened.

The Chaos of a battlefield.
Run through by an assassin's blade.
The first mundane but silver bolt that pierced his plate.
The all encompossing fire, the burns inflicted.
And now this second, magical, silver bolt.

These wounds he could heal and heal swiftly. Varelsa's body always mended with supernatural swiftness beyond that of most others of his kind, a gift from his father, but where his body was strong his mind was weak and even the slightest damage left scars on the psyche that he could not just regenerate away.

When Varelsa looked up again at Kylar there was horror, fear, hate and most noticeably madness dancing in his eyes, his flesh rippled and his muscles bulged as he let out a cry of pain. He snarled at Kylar showing a mouth full of dagger-like teeth. "You wanted a second beast? You've got one!"

Throwing his head back the vampire roared half in pain and half in rage as his entire form changed.

Within less than a minute the demi-god, the manifestation of physical perfection, was replaced by a gargoyle that was so muscular that it was incapable of standing straight. The stench of grave-rot grew stronger now that the change had occurred.

The monster that now stood before the assassin was large enough as to make his previously human form seem small.

The Strigoi stared silently at Kylar for long seconds with a gaze that glittered with ancient malice before, in a burst of speed belying his form, he charged straight at the traitor.

 

[Count michael]

The Skinwolf gazed upon Varelsa's new form with confusion before attacking Kylar with a newfound ferocity caring little for any form of defence keen not to lose lose it's prey to the other creature.

Howling in rage the Beast tore into the vampire pushing Kylar into the path of the charging Strigoi. The beast welcomed the unexpected help but should the newcomer try stealing its rightful meal then there would be consequences as it hated sharing suddenly baring its fangs menacingly.

 

[the hidden one]

Odric, glad that he had sunk into the treeline, since the assassin's bolts had demolished his previous cover.

The tracer was effective in stalling the fusillade for a time, and it certainly surprised the other archer. Maybe if he thinks he figured me out.

Creeping out into the battle, Odric fired two arrows, timed precisely. The first, another tracer arrow, this one bright red. The second, a more unique creation. Only a few existed, and they were used only rarely by Odric. He fired it high, with less power, but it was a long, arching shot. After around 5 seconds, the arrow exploded into hundreds of razor sharp silver shards.

I don't think I've ever really fired these in a battle, not that I have much experience of course, but the silver was a nice touch.

Regaining his senses after admiring his shot, Odric sunk quickly into the treeline.

 

[The Dread King]

Sieghard, spotting the bright red arrow, ran to avoid its glow and find shadowy cover once more. He did not, however, run far enough before it hit, and he was caught in its proximity. The shards in the second arrow were mostly avoided thanks to a shadow shield that the crossbowman summoned as they headed towards him. However, the strain on Sieghard's shield simply became too great as too many shards made contact with it, and after it had shattered, a few of the silver shards scored glancing hits on the assassin, eliciting a hiss from him.

As he ran towards a darker location within the woods once again, the crossbowman fired an incendiary arrow at where he thought he'd seen an assassin with a crossbow shrink into the treeline. Even if it didn't hit him and kill him outright - Sieghard rarely missed - it would have another, more profound effect that almost made the assassin chuckle.

Odric had sunk into a treeline full of flammable wood in the knowledge that Sieghard had incendiary arrows.

That, the assassin reckoned, was the last mistake the Von Carstein would ever have the opportunity to make.

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Markus easily brought up his blade in time to parry the shadowmancer's cut with his scimitar, but barely anticipated the shadow spikes aimed at his heart, stepping out of the way just in time to avoid them. The sidestep which had saved his unlife also facilitated a flank attack.

The spikes fired from the glove of the assassin's opponent were familiar, and so they had been countered. The shrinking of the roof was something new entirely, that inspired both fear and a sense of opportunity. Fear, for a trap of shadow was closing in around Markus, and if it got too close he knew it could harm him. If the hellish ceiling continued to encroach, he would have to use fire magic to drive it back, but this would drain him immensely, for, much as he was loath to admit it, the shadowmancer was more skilled than him in the arcane arts.

On the other hand, the constricted space gave him a greater opportunity to kill the pyromancer, for there was less ground to run to, fewer places to hide in. Markus knew he should take full advantage of that, and proceeded to do so, launching a swing with his sword to the left to bat the scythe to one side. If this succeeded, his proceeding attack would be to partially reverse his cut, his blazing sword poised to slice through the shadowmancer's neck.

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Henrick had encountered Death many times before.

He remembered meeting it in the moment that he was turned. He recalled facing it in the First, Second and Third vampire wars; the unrest that led to Mannfred's downfall; the destruction of Nagash, and the rebellion in which he'd taken part.

He remembered Death, and all the occasions on which he'd met it. And every single time, he had spat in its face. This time would be no different.

He summoned magical power once more, but this time it was not to cast some fiery spell. Spells had failed against this creature, this apparition of death. No, what was needed was not a spell - it was the opposite. Pure magic coursed through the assassin's system, and the sister of the Lord of Ivrel reached out to touch and kill him.

"YIELD," Kithan had said, when Henrick had been lying on the ground, wrapped in thorns. He had not offered a verbal response, but even as the ethereal creature's hand stretched out to obliterate him, he gave it. "No," he said, in a tone wracked with pain and exhaustion. Pain, caused by the injuries inflicted on him. Exhaustion, caused by the sheer magical effort required to achieve what he was about to attempt.

And then the hand stopped: its link with Kithan shattered. For a moment, the creature let out a silent scream, but its end was inevitable. Henrick rose shakily to his feet, and beheld the curious sight of Death being dispelled. It shattered into glowing fragments, and these fragments in turn faded into void.

The senior brother walked towards Kithan, raising his blade and turning a rise to full height into a charge as he did so. As he ran towards the Lord of Ivrel, he swung his blade, trying to divide the wight king in two.

"I don't expect quarter. After all, I'm going to give you absolutely none."

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Kylar gulped at the terrifying form of the mutated strigoi, and then Mikhail hit him.

The feeling of being taken by surprise and charged by a skin wolf is not quite like the feeling of one running into a brick wall. So it was with Kylar; for him, it was as if the brick wall had run into him. He cried out, and went hurtling into the air, barreling to the ground a few metres away. He struggled to his feet, shouting in frustration at the treeline, "What in seven hells were you thinking, Sieghard? You were supposed to deal with the problem, not exacerbate it!" Thankfully, he had been pushed out of the way of Varelsa's charge by the Skinwolf, but it would not be long before the two monsters rounded on him once more.

Sieghard called out from the trees, "I'm sorry. I was trying to negate his armour!"

Kylar snapped loudly, "Come and help me over here, or we're finished. Leave that damnable crossbowman alone!"

Hissing in frustration, Sieghard obeyed his superior, running away from the safety of his cover to the handler's location. As he did so, he managed to fire two hastily drawn bolts at Varelsa and Mikhail; one incendiary and aimed at the strigoi; the other, silver and tipped with acidic poison. Meanwhile, the handler put on a brave face and lashed out his whip in from of him at whoever dared to approach. "Down, dogs!" he bellowed.

 

[Get of W'soran]

Rikert had only a moment to judge and react to the situation, the threw himself aside whilst at the same time loosing a silver arrow straight for the other vampire. Even as he hit the ground and rolled to his feet the traitor's lips where moving swiftly as he wove together a spell, linking complex arcane equations from the school of shadows. Multi-casting was rarely taught in the order as it was exceedingly difficult to split one's mind into two thought processes for working magecraft, it was also costly in both time, focus and energy but he had already prepared most of the spell before firing his arrow at the fake Jack.

As Rikert rose to his feet he split his form, an illusionary copy of the archer dropping his bow and leapt to meet Jack's axe with a swing of his sword. Of course he was nothing but shadows and the merest contact would destroy him.

Meanwhile the real Rikert had hidden himself, cloaked in Ulgu, and shadow-stepped to stand several feet behind Jack. He reached for his quiver, and grimaced as he realised it was his last arrow.

"Out of arrows and out of magic...wonderful." he thought to himself warily but he shouldn't be surprised. A victory against two captains was never going to be easy.

As he nocked his arrow he allowed himself the slightest beginnings of a smile. "Ah but this is a good one." The silver arrow was enchanted so that on impact it would liquidate and spread through his bloodstream, it would kill any vampire as far as Rikert was aware although it took time depending on the strength of one's will.

Rikert aimed at his former-brother and loosed.


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Varelsa stepped towards Mikhail angrily for interfering, growling at the smaller beast he prepared to pounce just as the explosive bolt struck him.

The Strigoi was lost in the explosive before, with a terrible roar, he came hurtling out of the explosion straight towards the crossbowman.

It seemed with every wound inflicted the monstrous vampire grew angrier and more powerful but likewise, unseen to others, deep inside the man that was Varelsa grew weaker as he attempted to fight his nature and regain control.

 

[The Dread King]

Sieghard's eyes widened as Varelsa emerge from the blast and bounded towards him. The assassin brought up his crossbow, reloading it with a silver bolt, but he would not have time to fire it before Varelsa was upon him. Luckily for him, Kylar intervened, swinging his whip in a deadly arc to try to snag Varelsa's neck and thereby hold him back.

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As Rikert threw himself aside, Jack twisted his axe so that its flat was position in front of his chest, providing limited protection. This protection paid off and Rikert's first silver bolt glanced off it, not making contact with the loyalist assassin. However, defending himself from the arrow came at the cost of being left open to Rikert's sword swing, and although Jack tried to swerve out of its way, the rebel's blade made contact with him, upon which the illusion shattered.

Jack cursed; he had been fooled by another of Rikert's illusions and that was going to cost him. You stupid; you were tricked by his tricksy illusions! You killed the wrong Rikert!

That was Rikert, I killed, wasn't it? Is that Rikert the wrong person to kill?

Yes!

So it's wrong to kill Rikert?

No, that wasn't Rikert.

Yes, it was.

It was an illusion; I told you. Rikert made it!

Rikert made a tricksy illusion to trick us?

Yes!

We should kill Rikert. The real Rikert.

Yes we should, stupid!

"Kill Rikert! Kill!" Jack shouted happily, whirling around in expectation of seeing the real Rikert.

He was not disappointed, for he saw an arrow most probably coming from Rikert, who must have been cloaked in shadow magic, heading towards him.

But then, neither would Rikert be disappointed, Jack reckoned, because he saw the arrow too late.

The captain was prepared for the end as the arrow made contact with his chest, but it never came. Excruciating pain, yes - but not instant death. The bolt appeared not to have skewered him, but liquidated upon impact.

Whilst Jack felt relieved that the arrow did not immediately kill him, he felt a growing sense of horror as the immediate pain inflicted on him by the arrow did not subside: it only few. He felt a strange, hurtful effect, much like the effect of silver, coursing through his veins, and spreading throughout his body. It rose in intensity with every passing moment, both torturing and terrifying Jack Dixen. Snarling in pain and anger, he glared angrily at where the arrow seemed to have materialised into visibility and charged at it, swiping his axe at head-height as he approached it. "No more magic tricks!" he shouted, "I'm going to cut you into little pieces; we'll see who's being so tricksy then!"

 

[Count Magpyr]

Henrick charged towards Kithan, mouthing inanities, froth spraying from his lips, however despite his typical vampiric agility, there was no avoiding the odd stumble. With only one eye his depth perception was shot and having only one arm for balance also had its effect. Consequently it was cats' play for Bashees to rise out of the ground behind him and snag his left leg with a talon tipped paw. Four razor sharp claws tore through his calf, finally snagging on his ancient fibula. Henrick fell forward, releasing his hold on his blade as his hand stretched out in a futile gesture to try to break his fall. For an instant his eyes locked with Kithan's glowing orbits. The wight seemed strangely energised having absorbed all his sister's stolen energies when she was dispelled. 'Let me help' said the Lord of Ivrel sardonically as he faded out of view, allowing Henrick to crash painfully into the ground.

Despite his stolen energy, the Lord of Ivrel was severely weakened. Using the pyromancer's distraction Kithan and his spirit cats used the opportunity to withdraw to the ruins of the black coach. Unfortunately, this gave Henrick the opportunity to cast a spell of regeneration, reversing much of the wight's earlier damage.

 

[Count michael]

With the Strigoi stepping in front of Mikhail taking the full brunt of the incendiary round, Mikhail was only pushed backwards by the blast causing the silver round to narrowly miss anything vital though it did clip its shoulder before embedding into a tree.

Whilst it didn't hit the Skinwolf directly, the silver still took effect though to a lesser degree burning the beast. Howling in agony the beast rolled around on the ground lashing out randomly as it tore at where the bolt glanced it. Gritting its teeth in pain the beast rose to its feet fighting the excruciating burning sensation as it charge forward and slammed into the one target that it's hate for far outweighed any pain that it was suffering , the unfortunate Kylar.

 

[The Dread King]

As Mikhail made brutal impact with the handler, Kylar screamed and was thrown back once again, his attack rendered useless as his whip sailed back in conjunction with his form. Whilst he managed to pick himself up quickly, slashing his whip downwards and across as he hurled himself back into the fray, his temporary departure from the commotion had done something terrible for the rebel assassins.

For a moment, it had exposed Sieghard, unprotected, to Varelsa's charge. And that was a fateful moment indeed.

 

[The Dread King]

Henrick staggered to his feet, wincing and leaning heavily on his undamaged leg. He wanted to pursue the wight, but he needed to heal himself first. He hissed an incantation, words laced with arcane power, and his voice reverberated throughout his surroundings.

For a moment, all was calm. And then blue flame burst from the cuts in his ankle and arm. After a few seconds of the endurance of a blaze that might have, uncontrolled, consumed the pyromancer, the fires in his wounds died down. They mostly snuffed out to reveal a more intact Henrick: although the extensive damage wrought on his arm and to a lesser extent his ankle remained, glowing tendons of fire replaced those missing in his ankle, and from his stump shot forth a mace of pure fire. A full reparation of the damage inflicted would probably take considerable necromancy and time, neither of which Henrick had to spare, being an embattled pyromancer. However, vampiric regeneration was gradualy restoring a small amount of sight to his damaged eye, and although it was still dim now, it would continue to improve with time, since a sliver of eye was such a small body part to regenerate, and also because of the increased regenerative abilities that had come to Henrick, as they would to all vampires who survived for long enough, with age.

Vengeful but severely drawn, the senior brother approached the overturned carriage behind which Kithan and his spectral cats were taking cover, the winds of magic roaring about him in a frenzy as he did so.

He pointed his sword at the carriage, and chuckled menacing. As he channelled fire magic down his blade, he prepared to release it in a blast that he calculated would utterly destroy the carriage and severely harm if not kill his enemies sheltered behind it, should they not escape the carriage site in time to avoid the explosion.

Fire flickered at the edge of his blade, and as the pyromancer prepared to fire, he addressed Kithan ominously, "For what you have done to my comrades, you must die.

"For what you have inflicted on me -" and that had made it personal for a normally very detached assassin " - you will die."

 

[Get of W'soran]

Rikert side-stepped the attack but his swift movement caused the assassin's relatively weak illusion to shatter. The vampire slashed swiftly at Jack's head who managed to block the attack.

"Keep fighting Jack!" the usually stoic vampire spat "The more energy you expend the swifter you'll grow weak."

In a single fluid movement he stepped to the side, twisted his wrist to disengage the sword from the axe, and thrust at Jack's chest.

"Keep fighting! I predict you'll burn away your live down to mere minutes before this is over!"

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Varelsa leapt at Sieghard, talons outstretched, when the panicking crossbowman shrieked out the last of his arcane incantation, summoned a shield of shadow to stop the beast's charge.

Of course even the best summoned shadow shield was still only Uglu, an insubstantial power that was more akin to fog and as such made poor armour. Even so a skilled mage could momentarily make it solid but this was not enough to stop the creature that was focused on his destruction.

The Strigoi smashed straight through the shield, temporarily blinded by shadow-fog as it shattered, and hurtled straight towards Sieghard.

However it had bought the assassin an extra second which was enough for him to shadow-step away as the huge bestial vampire crashed to the ground where he had been standing moments earlier.

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Henrick heard his attacker in time to spin and deflect the downward cut with his rapier before delivering a spin kick to the side of Otto's helmet. As the Templar stumbled away Henrick twisted to avoid the thrust of a second new opponent and slashed out with a swift cut which Sigmund managed to dodge.

Henrick paused as he looked at the two Drakenhof Templars that had joined the fight in an attempt to assist the Wight.

Sigmund growled softly as he raised his blade above his head, he hated the feel of the longsword that he had found near one of the New Blood corpses but it would do.

"Three against one traitor." the Grandmaster sneered, burnt flesh cracking slightly as he bared his fangs.

"Sure...three against one and yet that one is a match for all of us together especially considering our condition." the Grandmaster thought as he glanced at his allies. Kithan didn't look exactly fresh but Otto seemed mostly undamaged but Sigmund knew he himself looked terrible with his burnt face and partially melted armour.

But they would manage. They had to.

With a roar Sigmund launched forward with a downward cut aimed at the assassin's head whilst Otto came in with a cut for Henrich's ribs from behind.

 

[the hidden one]

Odric realized his mistake the second he saw the tracer arrow land.

Idiot. He has arrows that light things on fire. I am in a forest. I need to run.

Odric flipped a switch on his crossbow, loaded 5 arrows, and his bow did the rest, firing them all in succession, in the general direction of where the fire arrow appeared from. Already lacking accuracy because he was sprinting, the automatic fire eliminated all chance of a hit. Sprinting, glad to have avoided the actual arrow, but feeling the heat from the fire that was beginning behind him, Odric looked hurriedly for a new shelter.

There. A wall. It won't stand up to an explosion, but at least it isn't flammable. My attacks have been working, but slow to develop, and he has the advantage with me not seeing where he is, and his angles of fire are superior. The rain of silver delayed his attacks for a while, presumable to erect a shield, but I have more experimental arrows utilizing more than just springs and gears. If we were on equal footing, maybe I could take him out with a sustained volley, but I have no real cover, and he seems to always be firing, and has been far too accurate for comfort.

 

[Count Vashra]

The Pyromancer's firesword knocked Niklaus's scimitar away and then swung back in at his neck. The Lahmian's speed saved him from direct damage, but tongues of flame licked onto his armour. He quickly dispelled it, but realised he was still outmatched physically - only the Pyromancer's magic had weakened. He needed to end this before his lack of sword skills defeated him. He closed his fist, sending the shadow dome speeding in on itself, and then whipped his scimitar around to slice at his opponent's arm, not his sword arm. The dome would not harm him, but would provide an interesting challenge for his already magically weakened foe.

 

[Count Magpyr]

As the two vampiric knights engaged the enraged Henrick, Kithan let loose a volley of his familiar black darts. The pyromancer would be expecting another physical assault and this magical attack might well tip the balance in the knights' favour. Meanwhile he used the time afforded by the Templars and the energy stolen by his sister (at least she'd be more controllable for a while now) to repair the damage to himself and the cats. An abrupt mental call also summoned the driver of the first coach to aid in their combined attack, his scythe glinting wickedly in the fitful light.

 

[Count michael]

Leaping back from Kylar's attacks dodging the accursed whip the Skinwolf growled angrily as it once again began prowling around the vampire. The beast was getting impatient, it wanted an end to this combat able to feast on it's attacker and free from the terrible burning silver it wielded. Seeing the Strigoi busy with the other vampire gave the beast hope it wouldn't have to share it's prey especially since its hunger was getting worse with every wound inflicted on it. Standing on it's hind legs hunched over with saliva dripping form its massive maw the beast once again charge forward, however this time it was slightly different.

Leaping forwards in the air the beast drove it's paw downwards into the ground upon Kylar, who narrowly rolled out of the way before lashing out with his whip striking the Skinwolf on the snout which it to rear back in pain howling. In pain but undaunted the beast struck out dragging it's paw through the ground slamming it into Kylar like a piledriver, if the beasts claws didn't pierce the vampire then the force would at least stagger it. Not looking to see if the vampire was alive or not the beast raised both paw into the air holding them together almost tranquil like a vicar offering prayers before driving them downwards upon Kylar howling loudly seeking to finally finish it with enough force that would smush the vampire and demolish a crater into the ground

 

[The Dread King]

Jack managed to parry Rikert's thrust to his chest, but not before the blade had cut into it. The captain was tiring, it was showing, and blood was now spurting out of his body in yet another place. "Keep fighting Jack!" Rikert had shouted. At the moment, Jack was physically a mess. What do you do when there's a mess? Jack thought.

Well, you generally clean it up.

I hate cleaning up messes.

What a surprise! You run from responsibility.

A mess is a responsibility?

Yes!

So I run from a mess?

You do!

But I am a mess, so how do I run from it?

Running is a very simple concept which I would have hoped even you could have grasped.

OH! I see! We must run away, then!

Jack's eyes lit up brightly with the shine of death-intensified madness. "No." He stepped back, keeping his guard up, braced for Rikert's next attack. When it came, the captain would be ready to defend himself. However, he would not try to hold his ground. He intended to retreat - he knew he needed help, he knew his time was not long on this earth without aid.

He planned to manoeuvre through the forest, slowly but surely, back to the location of the carriages, and he intended to take Rikert with him.

-----------------------------

Kylar's natural agility meant that his flesh was not rent by the Skinwolf; however, he was knocked to the ground, and left at the mercy of the wolf as its thrust its paws towards the ground. He let out a small, futile gasp of protest, unable to stop his impending doom.

Sieghard reappeared behind the Skinwolf, crossbow at the ready, and fired. The silver bolt was fired with pin-point accuracy - straight towards Mikhail's claws.

-----------------------------

Henrick retorted, "Pah, three of a motley brigade of fools!" Moving faster than the human eye could see, he raised his blade up to block Sigmund's attack. At the same time, the mace of fire extended, the torrent of flame bending around the assassin's body in a way which would be impossible for the organic form to carry out. The flaming mace lashed out at Otto's weapon, but it was not enough to stop Kithan's darts.

The pyromancer then drew on the reserves of fire magic that he'd channelled into his blade, using it to combust the black darts. However, the sheer summoning of the concentration required to destroy each dart was time-consuming, and whilst Henrick managed to account for most of them in the few seconds he had available, a few escaped his flames; one sliced a small cut in his shoulder, another tore a hole in his coat, but did not damage; a third rent the skin on his outer leg.

Hissing, Henrick used the remainder of the residual energy in his blade by releasing it in a fiery shockwave that would, if all went to the senior brother's plan, blast Sigmund away from him. I will deal with these pests one at a time, the pyromancer resolved. Although he hated to admit it, he was now definitely on the defensive.

-----------------------------

The sweltering temperature inside the shadow dome had risen for some time as the fight between the two combatants within it had continued, but as the shadow dome started to close in on Markus, the heat seemed to dissipate suddenly; Markus grinned as the ground started to freeze over. This was a side-effect of his response to the dome's contraction, which he had expected, given the shadowmancer's previous manipulation of it.

His defence against the shadows was curious: he had used his magical powers to concentrate the heat already present in the dome at its edge. At the dome's perimeter, the air became so hot that it simply burst into flame, holding back the advance of the shadowy enclosure. The manipulation of magic required for this spell was taxing for Markus, but much less so than it would be to simply summon a wall of flame around him, as a less intelligent pyromancer might have done.

He was barely able to block the scimitar with his sword in time, but he managed to do so. For a split-second, he seemed confounded, for there were few promising avenues of attack for him. A thought occurred to him: sometimes, the old ways are the best. Keeping his sword in a tight lock with Niklaus' scimitar, and with the flames raging around the edge of the shadow dome, he threw a punch with his free hand at the shadowmancer. The icy ground that the combatants were standing on might, if the punch connected, throw Niklaus to the floor.

 

[Count michael]

With shocking accuracy the bolt hit its mark striking through the Slinwolf's claws tearing one off in a spray of foul blood. Rearing up in pain the beast howled in agony holding its injured paw close to its body whilst it lashed frenzied out all around it at both Kylar and Sieghard swinging its undamaged paw hoping to impale or smash the upstart vampire with its razor sharp claws.

However in overextending itself trying to crush Sieghard the beast had overbalanced swaying uncontrollably. Finally with a shocked growl the beast toppled forward as it plummeted to the ground like a meteor with its entire force pushing it down as once again it threatened smushing Kylar though this time unwittingly as the Skinwolf crashed to the ground.

 

[Count Magpyr]

'Keep together' cried the wight lord. Although the Templars' mundane weapons might be blocked by the python like coils of flame, but there were still gaps where skilled swordsmen (and surely these two had the skill) could pierce the pyromancer's defences. The wraith's razor sharp ethereal scythe had no such issue and thespirit swung with suprising dexterity, subtley enhanced by the Lord of Ivrel. Kithan let loose with another hail of darts while allowing his soporific vapour to pour over the embattled wizard, seeping into his pores. Every second of delay and confusion, increased the Council's opportunity of victory.

 

[Get of W'soran]

Rikert rained blows down on Jack driving the other assassin back.

Where Jack no longer tried to attack neither did Rikert push himself too hard, with everyblow the insane vampire was growing weaker and the traitor was recovering his energy both physical and magical.

Knocking aside Jack's axe Rikert slamming a powerful kick into the vampire's chest sending him hurtling backwards.

--------------------------

Behind the two fighting assassins the injured figure paused to regain his strength, one hand still clasped over his partially healed stomach and the other grasping his longbow.

With a grimace he picked up the pace in an attempt to catch up with the fighting pair.

--------------------------

Varelsa roared furiously as his prey escaped. The beast turned to look back in the direction he had come in time to see the other beast fall back in pain.

Somewhere deep in the Strigoi's mad mind a voice whispered that the Wolf had to be kept safe.

Snarling Varelsa charged at both crossbowman and handler, willing to kill which ever he got his talons on first.