Had he lost?

Buttonweed had no choice but to stay away from Veximarl as the necromancer operated on Claire’s corpse. He didn’t know what sort of trap Veximarl would have up his sleeve. Though he had expected for Veximarl to hand off the child quickly to Alton. There was a rest stop not too far south from here. Alton may head there with the child, but as long as Buttonweed had Sybil, he would have his victory.

But he had to deal with this nuisance first. Not once had he considered Veximarl to be a necromancer. He didn’t think Till was foolish or brave enough to let one thrive under her watch. Surely, this marked the end of Braytons’ prestige as a barracks.

Buttonweed had merely considered Veximarl to be a weak paladin specimen. One of several vermin that grew in the Crimson Region. Like Highland, he had been forced to use trickery and tools to help compromise for his inferior magic.

Yet this was not a paladin standing before him, but a promising and dangerous necromancer. Crafted with care by the vile swamplands and thriving under Till’s watch. Buttonweed bit onto the corner of his lip. Not out of fear, but for the thrill of the fight. He so rarely had the opportunity for a challenge. Iath’s call to battle was rumbling within his bones, aching for the chance to strike.

But he also knew his time was limited. Sybil would be returning soon. Alton was a clever boy. Even if he went to a clinic with the child, it would not be long before he caught up with Sybil. Grimstone Squad was full of predictable fools that constantly followed each other about. That was not a strength, but their greatest weakness.

Veximarl kept Martyr positioned between himself and Buttonweed. He took his time to fetch the pieces of his spear and screw them together. With a heavy sigh, the blood that had stained his clothes began to flake off into ashes. His armored vest was riddled with holes, but he didn’t like the weight that his blood had added to his clothes.

“Any more words, brood?” Buttonweed readied his sword.

Veximarl unsummoned Martyr. He glared at Buttonweed for a moment before sighing again. “There will be time for words later.”

“You’re mistaken to believe you’ll get anything from me,” snarled Buttonweed.

“You’re mistaken to believe you’ll be alive,” retorted Veximarl. “The dead withhold nothing from me.”

Buttonweed extended his hand and summoned his shield. Vines with rounded leaves and purple blossoms began to coil about it as a sickenly sweet scent flooded the area. Veximarl was forced to cover his nose and mouth with his sleeve. Whatever magic this was, it worsened his headache and made him feel nauseous vertigo.

Using the distraction to his advantage, Buttonweed charged in at blinding speed. His sword made contact with Veximarl’s shield. The shield cracked, but slowed the sword enough for Veximarl to take a step to the side. Buttonweed increased the distance between them as his arm erupted with blood.

A shield that reflects damage back at the attacker… Buttonweed glanced down at his arm. It had been slashed down to the bone. He let out a curse under his breath as the wound began to knit itself.

Veximarl cursed as well. His shield wasn’t supposed to crack. The weakness plaguing him was far stronger than he had anticipated. He didn’t have the strength to maintain Martyr, but he hesitated to unsummon Rite. Not until he knew that she had stopped Sybil.

Even if he could maintain Martyr, he wouldn’t dare to set her against Buttonweed. Arrows of true faith were their undoing. Veximarl would not risk their lives to spare his own, not even if they were already dead.

And then there was that vile shield magic that Buttonweed was casting. A second and third shield had appeared in front of Buttonweed. The smell only grew worse. Coughing and gagging, Veximarl took another step back. He kept his eyes on Buttonweed, who had gone to search the remains of the archer he had brought with him.

He couldn’t afford to let Buttonweed take his time. Veximarl was weakening by the second and he knew he wouldn’t be able to defend himself against an arrow. It didn’t matter if Buttonweed attempted to shoot him or stab him with it, the minutes left in Veximarl’s life were decreasing far faster than he was comfortable with.

“Mother, please grant me strength,” he whispered. “Cacophony!”

His spear was raised in the air and his owl appeared above him. Lightning began to rain down upon the pair, catching fire to the trees around them. A tinge of guilt was felt over burning the trees that had been planted by his peers, but Veximarl would repent later. He had to go on the offensive or die.

Veximarl ran forward, using Cacophony’s lightning to hide himself from Buttonweed’s sight. He lunged his spear forward, only to make contact with one of the paladin’s shields. Flipping his spear about, he cast his spell of decaying flesh in the form of a flock of birds. Some managed to make it around Buttonweed’s defenses, but he was healing faster than Veximarl could decay.

What choices were there? Veximarl couldn’t do anything to compromise Buttonweed’s brain, throat, or lungs. No matter how the paladin died, Veximarl needed those parts to be intact so that he could interrogate him. Yet without a killing bow, Buttonweed was nearly as resilient to wounds as Veximarl was.

The bolts were landing dangerously close to him as well. He couldn’t afford to waste energy summoning shields to protect himself from Cacophony’s blasts. Against his better judgment, he unsummoned the owl and went for an all-out attack with his spear.

No matter where he struck, Veximarl was blocked off by either sword or shield. Buttonweed was fast, much faster than any opponent he had faced before... Because of course he was. Veximarl was a swamp child and Buttonweed was a Grand Temple paladin, raised with military precision since the age of four.

Channeling what energy he could, Veximarl made the archer’s body explode. Yet, not even a splattering of blood across Buttonweed’s back and hair was enough to provide a gap in his defenses. Veximarl’s eyes flitted over to Claire. He could attempt to raise her long enough to cast something, but she would likely resist him. That was more energy he couldn’t afford to waste.

Veximarl forced himself to think. It wasn’t as though he was raised by the wilds, he had Grulick by his side. The woman who had spent decades teaching some of Braytons’ finest Knights… As well as Stonetoe and Grimhawk. There had to be some lesson trapped within his mind that would prove critically important to saving his life.

Buttonweed brought his sword down, scraping off some of the wood on Veximarl’s spear. There was no luck in using his reach to his advantage, as Buttonweed was skilled at closing the gap. And with that sweet stench growing all the stronger, all the paladin needed to do was buy enough time for Veximarl to make a mistake.

If only they were in the swamps. Time and time again, a younger, weaker Veximarl was able to get the better of tainted beasts. Not with summons or other with newfound tricks, but with the thousands of years of bodies buried within the bog. Mountains of bones to smash into and drown out his enemies.

Claire’s body, even with the bones torn out, wouldn’t prove much of a challenge for the paladin. Exploding the archer’s body on Buttonweed had only made him angry. That rage somehow made him stronger and more intimidating. A repeat of that wouldn’t be in Veximarl’s favor.

Buttonweed lunged his sword forward again. Rather than risk damaging his spear any further, Veximarl allowed it to be knocked free. He held out his hand, summoning his shield in front of him, and Buttonweed’s sword froze mere inches from it.

That’s right. Fear of the unknown. That was the one advantage that he had over the paladin. One advantage was all he needed, because Grulick never raised him to be a knight. She taught him to be a disgusting, vile swamp rat who sunk his teeth into anything he could get and to hold on until he was declared the winner.

His free hand outstretched behind him, seeking out flesh and bone with his senses. Swinging that same hand forward, he called for the dead to be at his command. Death was what came for all. Young and old, strong and weak. Veximarl was superior to any foe that would face him, because he was the one that controlled death.

Sybil’s Nip sailed through the air, skillfully curving around Buttonweed’s shields and piercing through his armor. Veximarl ducked below both sword and shield, grasped onto the dagger’s hilt with both hands, and plunging it further into the paladin’s heart. He channeled what little strength he had left into a single word.

“Rot!”

Foul magic took hold of Buttonweed’s life. His heart began to weaken and decay, beating slower and slower... Yet the paladin did not fall. Whether it was stubbornness or some hidden strength, he refused to bend a knee to bed a knee to death, even after the life had faded from his body.

Veximarl pulled the dagger free, and ill, foul-smelling chunks dripped from the wound. He stumbled back, nearly falling over in the process. Then he doubled over, panting and wheezing. All around him, the fire was raging on. The season had been a dry one and Veximarl had no idea how far it would spread.

He looked over to the tree that Sybil had carved their squad’s emblem on. Flames had already swallowed up the bark. Even the ground around him was scarred, no doubt killing the seeds that they had planted. All Veximarl could do was let out a weak chuckle. Truly, there was some ill irony at work here.

The fight had been won, but his work refused to end. Veximarl took a step forward and yanked at Buttonweed’s gauntlets until they fell off. He then searched his fingers and examined all of the paladin’s rings.. Surely, one of these had to be what he was using to control Sybil.

A hiss echoed around the clearing as all of the flames became snuffed out at once. Veximarl stuffed the rings into his pocket and held out his hand. “Resurgence.” His spear snapped to his waiting palm.

If he was destined to fight another, there wasn’t a choice in the matter. However, there was nothing but relief to be had as a Braytons horse carefully stepped into the clearing. Zaniyah leaped off and readied her axe while Chickadee looked around, carefully scanning for opponents.

“Alright!” Zaniyah held her axe above her head. “Bring it!”

Beat and Shaw rode in after. They remained on their steeds, ever cautious as they evaluated the situation. Once again, Veximarl could only laugh weakly at everything that had happened... What a cruel turn of events indeed.

“I’m afraid you are too late,” he muttered.

Zaniyah clutched her axe to her chest. She looked like she was mere moments away from breaking out into tears.

“No, no.” Veximarl caught sight of Rite entering the clearing. Weakness brought on by her appearance made him drop to a knee. “I believe Sybil is fine. Alton should have taken her and fled.” Rite hesitantly sniffed the ground before she trotted over to Veximarl. He wrapped his arms about her and buried his face into the fur of her neck. “... I’m sorry.”

Chickadee had approached where Buttonweed was somehow still standing. He brought up his heel and lunged his foot at the paladin’s chest, forcing him to fall to the ground.

Still uncertain of what to do, Zaniyah kept her axe at the ready. “... Are you okay?”

Veximarl shook his head. His face remained buried in Rite’s fur. “I still have work to do.”

Chickadee spat on Buttonweed’s body before turning to Veximarl. “And Grimhawk?”

Veximarl’s arms tightened about Rite’s body. “I don’t know… I sincerely hope that he is with Alton and Sybil.”

Beat dismounted and went to assess how badly Veximarl was injured. “Have you interrogated Paladin Buttonweed?” Veximarl shook his head. “I will assist. You will need a clear head to help with your questioning.”

“I appreciate it,” muttered Veximarl. He dug around in his pocket and produced the rings that were on Buttonweed. “These were on him. I believe one was used to control Sybil... Is it possible to use it to somehow cure her?”

“Professor Rosethorn may know of a way,” answered Shaw. Beat took the rings from Veximarl and held them up for Shaw to take.

Zaniyah continued to stand awkwardly, uncertain of what she should be doing. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Shaw tucked the rings into his saddle sack. “We will search the southern roads. It is likely that Alton has stopped at a rest station to wait for news of Tuton’s battle.”

Then back on the horse she needed to go. Zaniyah winced. She didn’t want to say it, but her legs were starting to feel like jelly again. “... Alright.” Hopefully, Sybil wasn’t all that far. It took two solid days of riding to get here, they had even switched horses at the barracks in order to make it here quickly. She didn’t know how much more she could take.

“I will attempt to return to the barracks, but it may take some time,” stated Veximarl while the others prepared to leave. “I need time to rest before I travel again.”

His worries had been lifted, but greater ones loomed in his head. Veximarl prayed that his worst fears wouldn’t be verified by Buttonweed’s interrogation. Though the truth needed to be exposed, a part of him knew that answers would do nothing but harm the ones he cared about most. Some secrets were best left hidden.

And who else would have to die because he chose to keep those secrets? There was already enough blood on his hands. How much more would be added by the time the moon rose?

---

Sybil’s eyes fluttered open. The quiet of the woods had been replaced by the sounds of voices and traffic. She eased herself up, realized that she was inside the wagon, and peeked her head out the window. They had stopped by a junction in the road, where several carts were waiting for their turn to pass through.

Rest stops such as this one existed whenever there were great distances between towns. It was almost, but not quite a village. They usually had an inn, a general store, and sometimes a clinic. This one was larger than the ones they had seen on their way to Felsend, which implied that their driver had either headed north or had gone off course from the barracks.

Much to Sybil’s relief, Grimhawk was in the wagon with her. He was laying on the bed and still in a deep sleep. Her head felt muddled, but the memories were still intact. It was likely that Alton and Veximarl were victorious. They were simply taking a different path back to the barracks in order to confuse any pursuers.

She sat down on the bench and held out her hand. Mist escaped from her palm and formed into a shield in front of her. White in color, the same as her mist. Its emblem was a set of fancy dancing shoes, whose ribbons twisted and turned about the shield in a decorative manner.

“... Who are you?”

This wasn’t her magic. This was some stranger using her to cast their magic. She clamped her hand down on the back of her neck as the shield poofed into nothingness. Grimhawk seemed to know something about it. Or, at least he had also asked who was fighting him, implying that he knew it wasn’t Sybil who was in charge.

“Sir Grimhawk?” Sybil stood up from the bench. “Are you awake? We’ve stopped somewhere to rest... Were you hungry?”

She stood up and placed a hand against his shoulder. Though the summer heat raged on, his body was like ice. Sybil’s hand snapped back in horror as she shook her head in disbelief.

“Help!” Sybil raced for the wagon exit and quickly wedged herself through it. “Please! Is there a cleric nearby?!” She looked around, frantically pleading to everyone and no one at the same time. “Someone, please! Help me!”