48. Khruj

Good Doctor ran her hands over Excelerate’s naked, scarred torso. His breathing had slowed and evened out. He didn’t seem to be in such pain anymore but hadn’t stirred during the whole time since they had brought him in.

Kiren and Lace had already been on the bad end of a few stern talking-tos by several Heroes. That was a small price to pay for Excelerate to be safe, in Lace's mind.

“Thank you,” Good Doctor said. She looked up at Kiren and Lace for a moment before returning to her work. Her eyes were red and puffy from weeping. “I… honestly didn’t think I would be seeing him again alive.”

“What is it between you and him?” Lace asked. “If you don’t mind me asking. You just seem very… concerned… about his safety.”

“Jorge and I have a complicated history,” the grey-haired Hero admitted. “One I’d rather not share while he’s on the fine edge between life and death.”

“I’m sorry, Master. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“So, is he going to make it?” Kiren asked.

Good Doctor sighed and ran her hands over Excelerate one last time before folding them in her lap. “Well… The good news is that most of the toxins that have afflicted him seem to be out of his system. The bad news is that his body has already been run ragged. He’s lost a lot of blood. Now, Mina’s helped me replace some of it, but it’s still a close thing. I think he’s got a good chance of making it, but it’s hard to tell at this stage.”

“I… see,” Lace said. She approached the side of the bed and softly touched Excelerate’s bony shoulder. “Maybe we should give you some time to do your work, check up on him later.”

Good Doctor nodded and tucked a strand of grey hair behind her ear. “That would be much appreciated. I believe the Heroes on the wall would appreciate all the help they can get.”

Lace and Kiren left the room. He put an arm around her as they walked, and the reassuring weight helped even out her breathing.

“The old fuck’s gonna pull through, alright?” Kiren said. “He hates the world too much to leave it behind. All we need to do is make sure the Lodge is still standing by the time he comes to.”

Lace held back tears.

“Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

*****

Allivon traipsed behind his master.

Wordsmith stopped every few seconds to rifle through a tome or volume. She flipped the pages so fast that one could hardly think she could glean any useful information from it. Knowing her, however, she was getting exactly what she needed.

There was intense fighting up above. The future of the Lodge, the city as a whole, was at stake, and yet, down here in Records, Allivon heard not a sound. It was all as peaceful and calming as always.

“What can I do?” Allivon asked, wringing his hands. “To help, I mean.”

“You can be quiet,” Wordsmith snapped. She caught herself a moment later. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. This is just a… high-pressure situation. I have to find some ancient knowledge which will help our colleagues in destroying the Beasts. To be perfectly frank, I doubt there is anything you could contribute that would be of assistance. You could go wait over there.” She pointed with a black-painted fingernail towards the opposite end of the large chamber.

That stung a little. Allivon had been training for over a year to be Wordsmith’s aid, to learn her needs and act on them before she even knew what they were.

Regardless, eager to please, he shuffled off down the central aisle and left the Hero to her work. Although, he did allow himself a bit of grumbling along the way.

On the way, he was overcome with an odd sensation. As if he were being watched. He stopped, turned, and found himself eye to eye with the twisted Staff of Khruj. If that unnatural length of hardened flesh could ever be called a staff.

The large, round eye that topped the staff was staring straight at Allivon, its pupil an impossibly narrow slit.

It was enough to creep him out, but luckily the staff couldn’t do anything to hurt him from that display case so long as it was impaled with those consecrated stakes.

He glanced down.

The stakes lay on the bottom of the glass case, corroded to their cores, and there were several oozing holes in the Beastly thing where they should have been placed.

He wanted to scream.

He should have screamed.

And yet, something compelled him not to. A soothing force.

The eye compelled him, in its silent fashion, to look up. So he did.

The staff stared at him, and somehow, Allivon knew exactly what it wanted.

He knew exactly what it could offer him.

“I wish to kill your brothers,” Allivon said numbly. “Can you do that for me?”

Khruj did not respond. It didn’t even move inside the glass case. Allivon felt its response.

Yes.

“Then… what do I do?”

Blood. Yours. Reveal to the dark heavens.

Allivon got a sudden, terrible gut feeling. There was something off about this. Why was he talking to the staff? What had Wordsmith told him about it, again?

The soothing force fell over him once more like a warm blanket, and he shook his head. It was no matter. Wordsmith didn’t need him, anyway. She despised him. Why should he make any effort to obey her?

He went through the various sections of Records, eventually finding a tray which contained a multitude of gleaming silver shards. He pricked his thumb with one of the metal pieces and watched a fat drop of blood well up. He tossed the silver back in and returned to the staff.

It wasn’t in its case, but the glass wasn’t broken either. It was simply… gone.

It waited for him on a nearby table, staring up at him. For some reason, he felt a strong urge to please the unblinking eye.

Allivon shook his head and clutched his bloody hand. He was doing this for the Guild. To protect them, and to show Wordsmith his worth. Nothing else.

Take me in your hand, the staff spoke, an ethereal echo, and the power is yours.

Allivon hesitated.

“What am I doing?” he asked himself. “This is insane. I can’t…”

A wave of sickly sweet ambrosia washed over him. It buried his suspicions deep, and suddenly he didn’t have the will to question what he was doing.

He picked up the staff. It was cold to the touch, but the flesh pulsated beneath his fingers. His blood seeped into the instrument, and the eye atop the staff twitched with soundless ecstasy, spasming out of control.

Yes… it hissed. At last. Freedom.

Allivon was filled with a swelling, rapturous sensation. Every fiber of his being brimmed with power. He tilted his head back and a small cry escaped him.

With this power, he would live a thousand years. He would bend the world to his will. He would level the stars. None of his petty aspirations mattered any longer. He felt his mind expand, encompassing ever greater unknowns.

“Allivon? Is everything alright?” Wordsmith asked from somewhere. “I don’t have time to be…”

Allivon turned around, and there she was. Wordsmith gaped at him, then the staff in his hand.

“You…” she stammered.

Allivon raised the staff.

A bolt of dark, hot lightning shot out of the eye, a jagged edge that almost seemed to absorb the light around it.

Wordsmith was struck in the chest, and her layers peeled away one at a time. Cloth, skin, fat, muscle, organs. Her torso was completely eviscerated as her limbs danced with deep, primal agony.

She fell to the floor, dead as anything, and Allivon turned away.

He saw no need to look upon her.

She was insignificant.

He had ascended to a higher state of being.

*****

Kiren felt useless, leaned on his blade. He watched Heroes and apprentices alike take potshots at the undulating horde below, whether with bow and arrow or more potent ranged abilities, like Gantho’s bombs.

There was no end to the monsters.

Their numbers stretched beyond the wall and continued in among the streets where they disappeared from sight. He found himself dreading that they might continue on forever.

It was a single, coordinated wall of flesh. At this point, counting numbers was useless, and would only serve to confuse one’s brain. There was only the fight.

And they were losing.

The spawnlings hadn’t yet broken through the gates, but they had launched targeted strikes in certain areas, making it onto the walls. Only a focused response from the strongest Heroes had managed to repel them.

But that wouldn’t work forever. Even Heroes grew tired, that he knew well. The Beasts didn’t. They didn’t require rest, or food, or sleep.

They were merciless.

Unrelentless.

Endless in their hate.

Droves of dead creatures piled up around the walls, even higher around the gate. Somewhere in the hundreds, it was impossible to tell with any accuracy. Regardless of the dead, the spawnlings simply climbed over their fallen counterparts and continued the assault.

They showed no signs of slowing.

“There’s so many of them,” Lace said. She looked over the battlefield, same as him, letting her Power rest a smidge. “Evangel must have been gathering them for a long time.”

“Don’t forget about that other humanoid,” Kiren muttered. “Those bastards were planning for this outcome.”

“We’ll make it through this yet,” Haden said. Despite his smile, Kiren could see the fear behind his eyes. He held Tommyn’s shoulder just a little too tightly. “We just need to wait for help to arrive.”

Kiren laughed bitterly. “Help? What do you mean, help? We are the help. If the Heroes can’t save this city, who will?”

Lace opened her mouth to say something but hesitated and closed it again.

“I dare you,” Kiren said. “I dare you to say it. Paragon.”

“She might still come,” Lace said.

He shook his head. “No, she won’t. She’s too busy up at her castle, making sure her and hers are all fine and dandy.”

Once he was finished with his tirade, everyone settled into an uncomfortable silence.

He was right, of course, but part of Kiren wished he hadn’t said anything. The look of utter, wide-eyed terror on Tommyn’s face made him wish he had let them all believe in their delusions of a grand rescue.

The field of spawnlings split down the middle to the gate, moving in coordinated unison. They clicked and shrieked and laughed as they awaited something.

Someone.

He is coming.

It wasn’t long before he was proven right.

A monstrous thing shambled down the empty lane left by the spawnlings. It was larger than Snapjaw, almost the size of Titaness, with a horrifying bulk of straining, rotting muscles that quivered like bundled lute strings on the outside of the body.

Much of it was hidden behind a dark, bloody cloak, and the face, tiny compared to the body, was concealed by a wooden mask carved out to resemble a demented, gleeful grin.

Evangel.