Cabochon felt the Dungeon's mind retreat from his own, drawn by matters elsewhere. He was to stand, on his own, against two dozen armed men.

The unicorn bucked its head, sending the chieftain sliding off its horn. Blood and soot ran from the wound pierced through his stomach, but the man was alive as he landed on the ground, still clutching his sword of billowing smoke. "Fucking kill them!" He gasped out.

The dead men burst into action.

Cabochon lunged forward to protect the unicorn, taking a hatchet across the back. The axe-blade chipped and rebounded against his nacreous armor.

They swarmed down upon him, galloping past on their horses. Another blow slammed into his gut and took the wind out of him. A mace swung towards his head, and he narrowly lifted his arm in time to deflect. The impact jarred him down to his bones and left his already-injured hand numb. Grit swirled through the air as dozens of hooves kicked at the just-settled ash of the burned village.

His head swum with the sound and the motion, unable to keep track of the dozens of bodies moving through the clouds of soot. Shadows charged at him through the billowing ash.

Cabochon caught a man mid-charge, ripping his stomach open as he galloped past- the man dropped from his saddle, foot caught in the stirrups, a corpse dragging behind as his horse continued to run.

A sword caught Cabochon across the cheek, gashing open a deep wound and a spill of blood that painted his face. The unicorn slammed into the rider’s horse, goring the beast across its horn and sending it to the ground, thrashing and kicking.

“We have to retreat.”

Already, the chieftain was fighting his way to his feet. Blood and fire gushed from his belly in equal measure, but he stood. “Your horse has a fighting spirit. Got me bleeding.” And he laughed, a mad bark of snorting laughter that gushed out of him as embers burned around the edges of his wound.

Cabochon caught a spear and levered it to rip the man grasping the other end free of his horse. Lifting the weapon, he cracked the man’s skull with the haft. A twist, and the bladed end scythed through the air, slicing open a throat.

Three men lay dead around him, a fourth pinned beneath a dying horse. He flung the spear and watched a fifth topple from his steed. They wheeled around him, their horses stamping up flying clouds of ash, and came rushing forward.

Something smashed into his shoulder. A spear cut at his legs. He lifted both hands to protect his face, and an arrow sunk into his gut, landing between the seam of armored nacre plates that guarded soft flesh beneath.

He felt blood spew forth, a spreading wet heat that left him feeling nauseous. The point where the arrow had pierced him was searing pain that made his head spin. Ash clung to his tongue and filled his lungs, the thunder of hooves all around him.

The unicorn was at his side, laying it’s horn across his wound. A gentle light filled him, like a star was within his chest radiating soft warmth throughout his body, the wounded flesh sealing up around the arrow’s shaft.

Together they fell into a fighting retreat, Cabochon lashing out with his bladed hands at anything that came close, the unicorn diving into the fray with horn held down to pierce through hide and flesh alike.

The flower the goddess had given him was safely hidden away, tucked into a nacre-pouch on his underbelly.

One, then two more men died to Cabochon. His touch simply glided through their flesh and pulled out red ribbons of blood and viscera. In exchange he took a blow to his arm that bent it crooked, tearing the joint free from its socket. The limb hung useless now.

And he made it maybe two hundred feet from where he’d stood. He was not a fast creature at the best of times, his bulky, strange body, his missing leg all slowing him down- and now he had to stand for a fighting retreat, devoting his attention to shielding himself from the blows that rained down as the marauders charged past. Each time, he was battered and swung about, steel and iron cracking against his segmented armor of pearly nacre.

It was useless to hope to reach to the ship, but rushing towards him were the survivors of the Serpentine’s raid on the silent market. Five nacre-spiders crested over the hill at Cabochon’s back, and the dead men roared in bloodlust as this new foe came scuttling down the hillside to meet them in battle.

They clashed, and limbs fell like scythed wheat as the bladed limbs of the spiders tore into the men. They were only men, if ones who could fight with no fear of death, no hesitancy or love of their own lives to hold them back.

But they had numbers. First one spider died to a spear that shoved through its open mouth, gutting it from within, and then another was weighed down under four men hacking away, a lucky blow finding the join between abdomen and thorax to cut the beast in half.

In moments the battle was turning conclusively against the Dungeon’s forces, and all Cabochon could do was fight his way up the hill and leave the spiders behind to hold the line.

That was when the chieftain broke through. Fire spread across the right half of his body, unfurling from his arm like a great cape of blue-white. Clutched in his good hand was the smoke-sword, and he rushed towards Cabochon, slashing at a nacre-spider that reared up to block his way. The spider’s armor did nothing to stop the blade from cutting through, killing the beast without leaving a mark.

The unicorn snorted and reared up, ready to fight, but Cabochon stepped past. This was his battle.

These fanatics couldn’t be allowed to threaten his Maker.

The blade slashed at him, forcing him to back away, step by step, fearing the intangible edge of that strange sword. He lifted up onto his hindlegs and slashed with the front two, nearly catching the bandit leader across the chest- but the man was quick, dodging back, letting another marauder rush past him and charge for Cabochon.

Cabochon caught the interloper’s sword across his armored chest, letting the blade scrape away harmlessly in a spray of sparks. His bladed fingers raked the man’s face and blinded him, a kick severing his leg at the knee.

And suddenly, stepping ten feet in a flicker of movement and a swirl of ash, the chieftain was upon him. The smoke-blade stabbed forward and pierced Cabochon through the chest. Just below the heart.

His world turned to dust.

Everything was ash and smoke, grey upon grey. All the emotion and light, the colors and beauty, bled from the world. He was left strangely apathetic as the chieftain drew back his sword, preparing to make another cut, this time the head. Another severing to break him from the world.

The unicorn intervened, driving the man back with a stomp of its front hooves. Now they danced around each other, circling, lunging and feinting back as the bandit chief laughed and laughed. Cabochon felt nothing. He could have helped, but felt no urge, no necessity. He would simply prefer not to.

Smoke unfurled from his lungs as he breathed out. There was a blackness looming at the edge of his vision, creeping inwards. It was death. He would die if he didn’t move soon, didn’t cling to life, didn’t refuse to simply lay and down and die.

But he couldn’t see a reason to fight.

The Dungeon spoke to him, filling his mind.

I COMMAND YOU TO FIGHT

A runaway horse crashed into the unicorn, sending them both toppling over. The chieftain advanced, laughing, the unicorn struggling to stand but struggling, limping, one leg broken.

Cabochon hesitated, and still, did nothing. The Dungeon washed through his mind in a wave of fear and anger but these were small things, little sparks that failed to warm him.

Fleeing from the smoke and clamour to his stillness, a ladybug landed on his bleeding face. Its red little wings fluttered and Cabochon remembered-

Remembered the strange beauty of the Maker’s underground world, with its luminescent bodies of glass. Remembered the organized patterns and deliberate art of it all. Remembered watching the Maker carve out a new land where there had been only blank stone, calling forth fields of grey flowers and trees with weeping faces.

He saw, suddenly, the patterns in the flow of the grass when the wind came, and in the fluttering bits of ember that sparked up from the settling fires of the village. He saw the disorganized, messy, but fundamentally beautiful way the battlefield unfolded.

He saw the world, and it was beautiful.

The chieftain lifted his sword-

Cabochon caught the hand that held the blade, his fingers tearing through the flesh of the wrist, severing tendons and muscle. The sword wobbled, and dropped into the grass. With his hand, Cabochon pierced through the man’s chest as he gaped in disbelief, his fingers piercing through ashen flesh to find the warm, burning ember where a heart should have been.

“Life is too strong for you. Out of my way.”

He ripped the ember free and hurled it away. The chieftain collapsed, turning to ash.