A shriek like a mammoth’s trumpet ripped through the ruined tower.

Transfixed by the cry, the flight of the Garumnan warriors scraped to a startled halt.

“That was lord Eppon,” a pale man murmured.

A scarred woman groaned; her knuckles white on her spear.

Uneasy eyes rose skyward, but none emerged from the portal in the ceiling. Only silence greeted their ears.

“We…” a young warrior choked, his voice warbling and reedy. He shook himself like a dog in the wet. “We need to aid our lord!” he suddenly shouted, brandishing his spear. “We can’t abandon him!”

“Quiet, boy!” a bearded veteran snapped. “You didn’t see that red-eyed demon with his fire sword! You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“We…we have the protection of our demons!” the young warrior snapped. “Lord Eppon-”

“By the Three boy, he’s dead!” the scarred woman scoffed. “That sounded like a butchered pig! We’re done here!”

The young warrior’s face reddened. “You don’t know that! You’re all cowards!”

“Us? You’re the one closest to the door!”

“I fear nothing!” the youth roared, banging his spear on his shield.

A tumult of shouting rose from the broken tower. Leaderless and demoralized, their discipline collapsed. Comrade argued with comrade. Threats flew. So drunk had they been on their overlord’s victories that the sobering chill of defeat froze their wits brittle.

Only the roar of the grey-bearded veteran stopped the din. “Quiet! All of you! We have to do something! If we dare go back without Lords Agisil and Eppon’s killers, what the Overlord’ll do to us’ll make what he did to them personal guards of theirs look like a day at the summer fair!”

The babel died in heartbeats. As one, the warriors looked to each other.

“Death by the southlander’s wizardry would be mercifully quick,” the scarred woman muttered, starting back for the stairs. “I’ll not go out nailed to a cross!”

“Be still.”

The deeper voice of another woman smote the room.

Hisssss.

Vitriol burned the warriors’ nostrils.

An armoured figure had come to stand in the tower’s doorway.

Hulking in build, a vermillion sword of terrible size hung in her hand like a willow rod. A great rounded shield stood ready upon the opposite arm - emblazoned with the golden head of a mammoth - and six wings rose from her visored helm like the horns of a dragon. Golden witch-light poured from an ether enshrouding her form - at once liquid and vapour - hissing with an undercurrent of wrath.

Blue eyes burned balefully from within the sapphire slit of her helm.

St. Cristabel Esclanore took a deep breath. “I am-”

“Die, die, you mange-filled bastards!” Wurhi the Rat darted in behind her, snarling and violently shaking her little fists.

The Garumnan warriors blinked and looked at each other, having no understanding of her Makkadian words.

The Traemean knight threw a look to the Zabyallan, then back to the warriors, taking another breath. “I am-”

Clang!

A slingstone struck her on the side of the helm.

The saint did not flinch. Her eyes narrowed at the young warrior, who paled and took a step back, bumping into the scarred woman.

St. Cristabel sighed. “So be it.”

With a silent prayer to Amitiyah, the saint surged forth with all the power of a hurricane.

Her bearing sword gleamed in its luminescent shroud. Those before her cried out, bracing behind their shields.

Whooooosh!

The knight’s stroke was monstrously quick.

Crunch!

Shields shattered. Painted demonic faces and the stout warriors behind them split like rotten fruit. Flesh and bone parted like water. The sheer might in the saint’s arm blew limbs and torsos through the air, trailing gore and viscera. Luminescent ether bled from the vermillion blade, clinging to severed flesh like glue and splashing over those close to their sundered brethren.

Hissssss!

Shrieking, they fell as vitriol ate them to the bone.

Caustic light burned the gore from the saint’s armour, and she stalked forward with her titanic blade dancing like a dagger. Each thunderous stroke reaped warriors like dry wheat, and the corpses poured over the floor in caustic pools.

Wurhi choked down the urge to be violently sick.

“Damn you, she-witch!” The grey veteran charged at the knight in desperation, but a swift twist of her wrist brought the hammer-like pommel down on his skull. His head crumpled in a flash of gore and brains.

Panic spread.

Those remaining scrambled up the stairs. Several tripped in their haste and plummeted. If the fall did not finish them, a spiteful Zabyallan and her dagger did.

Scant few made the top floor and found themselves trapped.

Burning light and a clink of armour heralded their reaper ascending through the stairway.

Three whirled, their spears thrusting, but her shield turned their blows aside.

Whoosh! Chok!

Her sword severed their legs at the knees and they fell in screaming, twitching heaps. St. Cristabel stalked past them.

The scarred woman - all that was left of Eppon’s once mighty force - looked about frantically for some escape. Her gaze fell upon the Sengezian collapsed against the wall and a wild hope sprung up in her eyes. She raced toward the fallen swordsman, intent on a hostage, but the knight charged her swiftly, driving a kick to her back so hard that she flew from her feet and sailed over the edge of the tower.

Her despairing scream ended with a dull thud on the forest floor.

St. Cristabel raised her visor and lifted her bearing sword in salute to her god. “It is finished.”

Wurhi of Zabyalla gingerly emerged from the stairway, attempting not to step in the crimson slurry left in the knight’s wake. She failed spectacularly. “By all the gods and demons, you killed them dead! Dead dead! I’ve seen bones less dead!”

A pained, cough and chuckle came from the fallen Sengezian by the far wall. “I will miss your words, Wurhi,” he forced a laugh.

“Shit! Shit!” The Zabyallan rushed to Kyembe. “You slow-headed bastard!” she cried, flinching at the amount of blood soaking him. “You’re dying! Heal yourself with your magics! Quick! Quick!”

He took a deep, trembling breath. “My eldritch energies are exhausted, Wurhi. All I can do now is slow what comes.” He laughed his deep, rich laugh but there was a bitter undercurrent. “That lumbering fool and his archers have slain Kyembe the Spirit Killer.”

“No! No! You’re alive, so keep living, you idiot! Don’t give up!”

His breaths grew shallower. “My legend ends here, Wurhi.” He chuckled.

She did not laugh with him. “You…you…we’re oath bound! You can’t die!”

“Oh, I think you will find that I am most capable of that.” His eyes grew unfocused. “Proficient, even.”

“No!” She grabbed the front of his tunic. “I left my home and my whole life!” she snarled; her face close to his. “We’re supposed to go to Laexondael together!”

“You…you can still-”

“Can I?! What am I supposed to do when I get there!?”

“Take…take my share of Cas’ treasure.”

“And then what?!” she nearly shrieked. “I can’t understand what most of these barbarians say! I can’t speak to them! Who’s going to watch my back when someone decides to rob me!? How long am I going to last without a partner?!” Her eyes narrowed in frustration. “Did the so-called ‘Kyembe the Spirit Killer’ let Wurhi the Rat come with him just to die and leave her to pick pockets in some strange market!? Here!?” she gestured wildly to their surroundings. “Where the air is moist as a river and the cold grabs your bones?! I would’ve been ten times better off in Zabyalla dealing with Cas’ throwaways! Why did you let me come with you! Why?”

He looked at her for a time, then feebly raised a hand to her arm. Crimson eyes met green ones. “I am sorry.”

She squeezed her eyes shut and bowed her head. Little hands clutched his clothing tightly. “You…” she grimaced. “You…”

Metal clinked quietly as footsteps approached.

St. Cristabel’s body blocked the rising moon, but illuminated them with the glowing substance sheathing her form. She looked down on the wounded Sengezian, her expression grave. “You have fought a difficult struggle, Spirit Killer. In force, your enemies fell upon you, yet you preserved your companion’s life at the cost of your own. That is honourable. I would see that you need not endure such pain of body and heart.”

She raised a gauntlet over the Sengezian and squeezed the empty air. Luminescence pooled beneath her clenched fist as though juice were squeezed from a fruit. “I shall ease your suffering.”

Wurhi whirled on her in shock. She’d seen what that glowing stuff did to people. “What are you doing, you crazed, filthy-”

A glowing droplet fell from the saint’s fist and splashed over Kyembe’s forehead. His eyes grew round.

Hisssss!

“Aaaaaaaargh!” he screamed, writhing against the stone.