Chapter 136 - Willow in the Western Wind IV

Archibald’s moustache fluttered in the wind as he raised the crossbow that was his arm and took aim. Even for the master marksman, who was quite literally one with his weapon, lining up a shot was difficult. Beckard and Zelos were moving around at a hundred times his speed, and he couldn't afford to miss. He had to land a debilitating, non-lethal blow, a shot perfectly timed to hit one of the elf’s limbs.

He didn’t know what kind of magic Alfred had used to seize control of the swordsman’s body, but he was confident that they would be able to help him, so long as they captured him alive. Beckard was unable to cast whilst engaging in close quarters combat, but he would be able to purify the elf’s affliction in short order, so long as he was allowed to focus.

Fortunately, the knife-ear was actively fighting the magic that had him constrained. His blows were non-lethal; he would always shift his blade just enough to keep it from taking the priest’s life. After each telling blow, he relented and paused, just long enough for the cat-sith to close his wounds; the battle would have ended long ago had he been unrestrained, but such was the might of the only Greenwood elf to have mastered the ancient Redleaf art.

The long, drawn out melee was an opportunity that swung in their favour. Beckard had the edge in a battle of attrition; he was a true paladin, unlike the others, who possessed the title but lacked the class. Healing himself was a simple task that consumed only a sliver of mana; he would be able to recover, so long as he wasn’t slain in an instant. It was precisely his sustained durability that allowed him to wear down his opponent, or more specifically, the consequences thereof. Every slash the elf landed came with a splatter of blood. Some were dodged or repelled with his sword, but not even he could evade them all. The occasional drop would land on his skin, catch fire, and burn his flesh away.

After switching positions and taking aim, for the twentieth time, the ranger noticed an irregular glint out of the corner of his eye. Glancing towards it, he found a creature emerging from the equitaur’s corpse. It was almost a thousand meters away, but to his artificial eyes, everything was clear as day. The strange animal was a viper, a large snake, covered in a patternless coat of silvery-blue scales. The monster slithered off as soon as it broke free and darted through the citadel’s streets. It snuck from building to building, shadow to shadow, as it slowly made its way to the battlefield’s most prominent conflict.

Knowing it to be another one of Alfred’s creations, the artificer took aim and fired a pair of arrows. Each was a bolt of electric energy, constructed of exactly 1645 mana, the amount he regenerated in a second. They were not the most powerful attacks, but they were fast and accurate. And yet, neither landed on target. The monster swerved out of the way and dodged not only the projectiles, but also the tiny explosions that followed. He generated and fired another dozen arrows, laced with more powerful payloads, but again, the serpent evaded his fire.

“Damn it! Fuck Alfred and everything he’s ever made!”

Snarling, he looked through one of his ravens’ eyes and checked his surroundings before leaping into the street and taking off. He navigated the urban maze with the help of his drones, turning a total of seven times to reach his destination. Once atop Frederick’s forge, he raised his bow and unleashed another barrage of attacks. But again, the serpent refused to fall.

It repelled his regular arrows with its tail, as would some sort of monk, and evaded the exploding variants by seeking cover or digging its way underground. Slowly but surely, it was closing in on Beckard’s back, whilst the priest remained none the wiser. Archibald wanted to shout, but he knew he couldn’t warn him. Even the slightest distraction, voiced at the wrong moment, could distract the priest and render his life forfeit.

The dog leapt from his perch with another low growl. He could easily annihilate the snake with a larger explosion, but he would have to get closer if he wanted to make use of an even bulkier arrow. His bowstring was too loose, and he couldn’t fix it without compromising the plan. He needed Alfred to know his exact range if they wanted to stand a chance.

A thousand complaints were voiced under his breath as he landed on the main street and sprinted after the serpent. Even with his body altered and enhanced, the huskar wasn’t much faster than the monsters hovering in his vicinity. He had to dispatch each as he moved, so that he wouldn’t be overwhelmed. Each individual attack was fatal. The arrows would pierce the monsters’ brains, detonate, and cover the streets with their grey matter. He checked every kill against his log; his approach was careful and cautious, made in a way that ensured he would not be caught unawares.

That was why he was surprised to find his ankle grabbed. A tendril, sourced from a flowerless mirewulf, snagged him by the foot before he could scale the cathedral; it overpowered the piston in his legs and pulled him back down to the ground. The dog managed to land on his feet, but not before he was grabbed by the throat and smashed against a wall.

The artificer deployed a mechanical claw from the base of his bow and swiped at the space in front of him. The talon-shaped bayonet was sanctified, blessed with the ability to purify the undead and destroy the immaterial, but even then, it hit nothing. That interaction alone informed the huskar of the assailant’s identity. It was Alfred, or perhaps one of the foxes serving under him. They were the only ones whose force magic was potent enough to move his heavy, metal frame.

Still, he was not alarmed. The huskar reached into his pocket and produced one of the many devices he had picked up over the course of his journey. It produced a large barrier around him as it was activated, a defensive matrix capable of neutralising all the spells running rampant within it. Surely enough, it was effective. The stranglehold on his windpipe faded as the magic-negating circle manifested under his feet. For a moment, he relaxed. Breathing a small sigh, he brought a hand to his throat and slowly eyed his surroundings. Alfred wasn’t very fast on his feet, and all the foxes were mages. He would be safe, so long as he remained within the barrier.

Or so he thought.

His mechanically enhanced senses picked up on a series of loud rumbles, but he was unable to pinpoint it until it was too late. Its origin had moved. Until it was almost directly underfoot. He needed to fire an arrow, but he couldn’t use his bow without abandoning his defenses. The weapon was effectively a wand; its bolts could not be constructed if no magic was allowed.

Bending his knees, he leapt just high enough to escape the barrier, only for the mirewulf’s corpse to interfere with him again. The alpha landed directly on top of him and sent him crashing into the dirt. He scrambled to get up, but a thin, frail looking hand burst from the earth and grabbed him by the throat before he could rise to his feet.

He immediately tried to bash his bayonet against it, but a tendril, a long scaly limb, seized his arm and wrenched it behind his back. Another hand gave his other arm the same treatment; he was incapacitated, with his legs serving as the only remaining points of resistance. He deployed the knives hidden in his mechanical ankles and kicked at the attacker. He gauged and swiped like a madman. But the last-ditch effort yielded no notable results. The blades slid off the assassin’s armour; he couldn’t muster up enough force to do any lasting damage. He didn’t have the strength. His dexterity and wisdom were both nearing the hundreds of thousands, but the ability score representing his raw power was barely three digits. He had always solved his problems not through his might, but the application of his mind and the use of his robotic companions.

He had already tried ordering his mechs to attack. They had abandoned the mission they had been previously assigned and rushed to his side, but those that drew close were eliminated, not by the individual strangling him, but another party. If the ravens’ half-intelligible reports were to be believed, it was a fox. One of Alfred’s minions was getting in his way and doing its utmost to seal his fate.

Left with no other choice, he disabled the clamps that kept the prosthetics attached to his knees, triggered their self-destruction mechanisms, and kicked them towards his rear. It was a feature built primarily to protect his technologies and designs, but it was potent enough to function as a weapon in case of capture.

At the count of three, the artificial legs burst into brilliant fireballs. Napalm spewed from his creations, engulfing everything in a ten meter radius in a ball of flame. The artificer was no exception. He could feel his lungs frying as they were filled with fire.

And yet, the grip on his throat refused to loosen. The blast was ineffective; he was the only one he had managed to hurt.

Terror flooded his system as he realised that there was no way out. He opened his mouth to scream for the priest’s help, only to find a blade jammed into his throat. His tough, metallic flesh prevented the weapon from cutting through him, but he could do nothing as it dug through his gullet and destroyed the artifact that had replaced his vocal chords.

He flinched as pain suddenly began working its way through his system. It felt like his wrists were being stabbed, over and over by dozens of tiny glass shards. The same sensation came from the other points of contact; the arm around his neck was like a vice made from the blade of a saw.

A quick glance at his health revealed that it was dropping at a slow but steady rate. There were no more physical strikes, but the damage was unrelenting. His assailant continued to hurt him, to sap his life force away.

___

Log Entry 5083

You have slain a level 744 Huskari Android Mainframe.

This feat has earned you the following bonuses:

- 114 points of agility

- 10 points of dexterity

- 41 points of spirit

- 172 points of strength

- 60 (30x2) points of vitality

- 12 points of wisdom

Claire frowned as she looked over the log entry. She had put a lot more effort on killing Archibald, but the bonuses he yielded were not much different than those provided by Frederick’s demise.

Log Entry 5084

You have leveled up.

Your racial class, Frostblight Lyrkress, has reached level 209.

Your primary class, Llystletein Essencethief, has reached level 192.

Your secondary class, Cloudburst Sorceress, has reached level 157.

You have gained 1908 ability points.

All in all, she had wound up with a similar number of levels, but she couldn’t tell if that was only because some of the goblin’s experience had gone to waste, with both bloodthief and vector mage reaching their final levels. Whatever the case, she ignored all the skill-related entries read in the goddess’ voice skimmed right through to the end.

Log Entry 5090

You have completed “Eliminate Insurgents.”

250 levels have been awarded. These may be freely distributed through your status screen. All levels must be distributed simultaneously.

Your Llystletein Authority skill has been upgraded to Llystletein Authority++. Your soul has been unmarked for harvest, and the actions submenu has been upgraded with the ability to open a portal to the location from which you last entered the lost library. This ability may only be used within Llystletein.

Again, the lyrkress frowned. It both was and wasn’t what she wanted. The freedom to leave on command was welcome, but returning to the manor would do nothing but quite literally put her right back where she started.

She had become much stronger over the course of the time she had spent in the dungeon, as evidenced by her most recent kill, but she was no match for her father, or even his soldiers. Archibald had only fallen because Sylvia had helped to expose his weakness. She never would have been able to stick to him for long enough to execute him, had the fox not safeguarded her from his minions.

If she was unable to win a fair fight against a level 700 artificer, she would never be able to defeat even one of the three hundred soldiers in and around the manor. If she was lucky, she would be able to sneak out without a confrontation, but she doubted that fortune would shine on her so, even with the fox’s help. The lyrkress didn’t know exactly how high her companion’s level was, but she doubted that they would be able to escape from her father either way. His senses were too sharp; the bubble they were using to get around Llystletein was meaningless before the all-seeing General Augustus. They had to resort to commandeering Beckard’s plan and using his key, lest they were willing to risk certain capture.

The half moose sighed. Slowly shaking her head, she backed away from Archibald’s corpse and walked through the back alleys with her eyes focused on her status screen.

Her ascension was imminent. The quest’s reward provided the ability for her to level her racial class to its cap in an instant. But that instant was something she didn’t quite have.

Her danger senses all went off at once. Her scales rose, her eyes sharpened, and her ears twitched. Something was coming. She could feel it approaching, its only giveaway a high pitched whistle.

Stepping back just in time, she narrowly avoided the tip of an accursed blade. Its dark, corrupted edge cleaved straight through her previous position as its owner looked at the corpse behind her in horror.

“You killed him.”

Zelos grit his teeth. His arm shook as he tightened the already firm grip he had on his weapon. His breathing was erratic, and his heartbeat even more so. A glance at the object in his other hand revealed an unmoving cat-sith. His priestly robes were covered in cuts and bloodstains. He was tied up, but his chest was still heaving, evidence that blademaster’s intentions had differed from hers.

“Yes, I did.”

There was no lying her way out of the accusation. He had likely seen it, or at least caught a few glimpses. It had taken nearly a full minute of channeling to steal all of the huskar’s health, more than enough time for him to note the sudden lack of arrows.

“Why?” Zelos continued to tremble. “Why, Claire? He was a good man.”

“He was a nuisance.”

She had never intended to abide by Alfred’s whims, but like Alice’s brother, Archibald had always been at the top of her list. The huskar was the one that created the ravens that made her suffer, and he was the one that had denied her the opportunity to vent her rage. Death was all he deserved; she had only refrained from ending him during their previous encounters because she had been hoping to avoid the precise confrontation in which she found herself engaged.

“You killed Frederick. You’re not one to judge.”

Zelos frowned. “No I didn’t.” He began circling around her with his weapon raised.

“I watched you stab him through the neck.” Claire turned at the exact rate he walked. Her eyes were kept focused on his feet, for the moment she would need to react.

“He’ll be fine.”

“He isn’t.”

“A wound like that won’t kill a goblin king, cursed or not.”

“I watched him bleed out. He’s dead.”

“That’s impossible!” The swordsman’s voice grew louder as his eyes moved to the side, towards what she assumed was likely a log.

He looked away for only the briefest of moments.

Just enough time for the lyrkress to launch an attack.