Mhaieiyu

Arc 2, Chapter 1

The Slippery Slope of the Righteous

“Myldew,” Corvus said in turn. He stood straight and stiff, eyeing the woman who watched him too. This Celestial, clad in hard armour so thick it darkened the inside of her helm enough to keep her eyes from view, took her healing hands off the Harbinger’s chest, leaving him to his pain, and she made herself tall, letting the clink of her metals further impose. She took the bronze-pole halberd from the grass and tucked the bar under her arm. It was then hoisted and raised; a magnificently crafted golden blade curved like a wave at the top.

A blacksmith’s delight.

Corvus’ possessions were lacklustre in comparison. A simple vest and leggings that resembled chain mail, only instead of links he sported the scales of Wyverns, all bright colours that changed by brightness. In his hand was a simple spear about six feet tall with a bog-standard iron at its end. Judging from a glance, he could tell whoever handled it did it with little care. It might not have been sharpened for weeks.

Corvus looked at the two of them for a good while, eyeing their movements. He could tell the Harbinger was wounded terribly, though he couldn’t rely on him being indisposed if a battle ensued. He thought a Crimsoneer wouldn’t hesitate to die for his cause.

He took a step forward, letting the grass tickle his boots, and after another three seconds, he took another. The closer he came, the more he knew he was standing on a delicate vine above a long, long descent.

But see, Corvus — he had wings. And he was in The Other Place no longer.

“Corvus, don’t do it!” the halberdier said, taking the heavy weapon into both arms as the tip dropped to chest level; her knees bent and ready for action.

The Guardian’s Sword didn’t respond. He eyed her carefully, his hands grasping the wood of his harpoon. Like a bird of prey, his eyes remained locked on his targets, scanning his surroundings using his peripheral. This might be his last chance to strike against Conquest.

“I’m sure our Guardian would be disappointed if I slew you, Red,” Corvus said with a smirk of all things. “I will have to apologise to him later.”

Sagittar seemed startled at that comment for a moment. With a grisly voice, he tried to exhale a sentence. “It is uncanny when you say such similar words.”

The Lieutenant either failed to register what was said or absorbed it like booze in blood. Now was no time to get emotional. With a firm face and no telling of where or what he might do, he jumped forward instead of running and beelined for the Crimsoneer. He came with a flap of his wings, twirling his body like a spinning missile, and right as he by the halberd’s striking range, he stopped himself mid-flight with a booming push of his feathers, nixing his speed in an instant and feeling the air brush him as the axe was dropped like a guillotine right in front. With a firm flutter, his wings snapped his direction, turning at a ninety-degree angle in less than a second. He jammed the spearhead as best he could in the too-wide shoulder gap. He managed to pierce the skin and stagger the next sweep of the halberd as it came just in time for him to roll underneath, skimming the business end of her might once more. Satisfied, he pulled back, taking another moment to assess his targets. Sagittar was still down. His Celestial opponent was wounded, but still able to wield her weapon. Corvus was unharmed. All checked out.

“Agh! By Victus, Corv, I was hoping you’d be sloppier!” Myldew protested his skills.

Corvus didn’t waver his position, mumbling a response. “If I were you, I would keep our Holy Mother’s name out of your mouth, after your treason.”

That accusation angered the woman, and he knew it did. She said nothing though, keeping her wits about her as best she could.

“Just leave,” she said, “your base of operations is falling apart.”

“A soldier more is a soldier less. With my sword gone, I’m sure that saying is true. Would it be the same for you if I took your arm?” he said with a viciousness, interrupting her rebuttal by springing forth again.

This time, he shot himself high into the sky, divebombing into her instead. Myldew was forced to dodge, not good enough a batter to bet being impaled in one swoop. The spear would simply shatter if he tried that, and Corvus knew it. What mattered was that her instincts didn’t care. Once again, about a second before collision, he reoriented his wings her way and gave a great, resisting flap, cushioning his descent to a little jump and blasting her back a few inches from the sheer wind he brewed.

With her balance robbed, he swooped in, snagging her knee this time. In her attempts to stay on her feet, she distractedly allowed another opening for attack, which he took advantage of by trying to jab her in the neck. She responded by sealing her throat between her helm’s chin and the top end of her breastplate, but all this did was propel her backwards and nearly break her jaw as the wood pole snapped and shook her armour painfully.

With this, he ran across her body, making sure to kick her halberd out of grip, and made a mad dash for his real opponent: Conquest himself.

The Crimson barely had a chance to exhale a frightened gasp before the broken stick was rammed into his stomach with the splinter-laden stick. Corvus had realised the better half of this spear was lost, but his hand couldn’t afford to take the vibrating top end when it broke off, nor could he waste time at a critical moment.

With the momentum he had gathered and his own sheer strength, he mashed the remnants of the weapon as powerfully as he could into Sagittar’s stomach, forcing him off his knees to drag his back against the grass. With gritted teeth and an intense urge to puke, Sagittar still rose an arm his way, preparing to eviscerate the angel with the force of the pebbles strewn about, only for the half of the pole to be thrust with a furious cry into his open palm, skewering it and splitting his wrist in two lengthwise, procuring an agonised bellow from his lips.

Corvus relinquished the blunt weapon as he was made to dodge a ball of white flame that exploded against and set fire to a sizeable elm tree. The blazes grew upon its trunk, to surely spread, but judging by Corvus’ hateful expression—covered from chin to forehead in aggressive wrinkles—Myldew knew he would pay it no mind as a Hell was made around them.

The armoured Celestial took a glance toward the Harbinger, who held his mangled palm with his unhurt hand and did his best to control his breathing.

Writhing, he said, “Lo, my Lord, the depressing spite of your Sister’s subject…!”

The Sword, driven up the wall, shouted in a large, emotional voice. “You fucking devils came to our door and vandalised that which we hold, and you have the audacity…?!” Corvus bent his knees forward and grabbed his head. “I’ll slay you, you wretches! I’ll kill you, betrayer! I swear it!”

“What will vengeance fulfil?!” Myldew protested, brewing two more globes of plasma by her sides.

“We will survive without this scorn to bite us, and without you keeping them alive,” he almost spat, taking a step forward.

The halberdier tensed. “You reek of murderous intent.”

“You think so?”

“There will be no one left to survive if you leave your folks to die!”

“And by who is that true?!”

Myldew sizzled her saliva. “By your inaction, and by our forced hand! If we cannot resolve this without a massacre, then we shall play by your rules!”

“Our rules…?” Corvus asked, thumping at his chest. “If you would let us live, perhaps we wouldn’t have to resort to such! How can you stand there, a fellow kin and bright-wing-blessed, and insist that we are at fault for protecting our children?!”

Myldew finally shouted back, “You would live! You would be reborn! Just let the King do his work, and all will be well, I promise you!”

“Of course. I’m sure all your promises will mean much when nothing is left!”

“You ignore all but the sacrifice!”

“You’re ignorant in your trust, Myldew. Placing it all in the hands of an envious divine,” Corvus said, putting up his fists as if they ever stood a chance against a blade.

“And your faith in the Goddess is any less?” she said.

“Our Goddess does not demand we all die and allow the world to be consumed for our well-being.”

With these final words, he lunged forward like a stalking leopard, dodging the first fireball by jumping with his wings, only to take the brunt of the second, which he allowed to burn him as he swam right through its wrath. With a charred face, the pinnacle of his anger was reached, taking the spearheaded half of the stick off the ground with a skilful roll under the halberd’s fluke and sacrificing a strike to the chest from the polearm’s pummel. He reeled back with a gag and a hacked breath, taking the shortened spear in his hand like a sword, and tried to ponder a plan under the ill effects of his ire.

Myldew too was breathing heavy, the movement under armour and the use of spells unkind to her stamina. “Are you content living amid a heaven doused in smog as you do?”

Corvus growled at her. “Are you joyous of your monstrosities at crier's foot?”

“We just want those righteous to be happy,” Myldew explained.

“You wish to murder,” Corvus contested.

“I sense the same in you.”

“I want to stop you.”

Myldew furrowed her brows, not that they could be seen. “No,” she said like a whisper, “you want for blood. Like the young man you so despise.”

“I will kill him, too,” he said in turn, a savageness uncharacteristic of him.

Myldew’s demeanour turned cold. “Aquila would be so upset if she saw you now.”

“I hope she would agree that you are worth vanquishing. Just die, traitor.”

Corvus prepped his wings with a flap and burst forth, the winds following him strong enough to rip bushes from their roots, and as they would come to blows, a large shadow ripped from the darkness and tackled the Celestial’s side, sending the two on a roll.

Once they had stopped, Corvus was pinned under something that snarled and huffed, making a noise not too distant from a wolf’s bark, but with a bass to it that would much better suit a bear. He stared up at the gigantic, dripping maw of the Bulkhead atop him, the sheen of his almost metallic head plate disturbing his eyes. The black-crimson sludge that fell on Corvus irritated his skin like mild acid. Though he struggled and fought, the angel could do nothing to lift this weightful beast, and hungry as it may seem, it did nothing but tilt its eyeless head down at him, unwilling or unable to act without further instruction.

Corvus couldn’t see it but he heard the groans of the pained Harbinger, who after a while walked past the Sword with a limp; aided by the halberdier who held his spared arm over her shoulder.

“Where the fuck are you going?!” Corvus shouted, slamming his fists and digging his knee into the major caste Crawler.

“I’m sparing you from your own turmoil. Try not to despise me too much when you reach Her Gates,” Sagittar pleaded in his common morosity. With that brief pause, he and his accomplice vanished into the green.

Corvus, enraged at the possibility of his escape, took the spearheaded stick near him and began jabbing it into the depths of the boulder-headed monster’s gullet, cutting it from the inside. The Bulkhead whined like a mutt and shook its head, biting off the stick and rendering it lodged in its throat. After a moment of recovery, it snapped its jaws at the defenceless Celestial, who could only squeeze his eyes shut and bear fate.

A squelch and a gurgle changed things.

More of the ooze dribbled onto his face, and soon the heft that had pinned him was rolled off his torso with a thud. He quickly sat up and wiped the disgusting toxin from his skin as best he could, and when he looked up to meet his rescuer, the first thing he saw were four razor-sharp claws right in front of his eyes.

His first reflex was to crawl backwards with a jolt, his hand nearly touching the needles’ edges, but when he looked further above, he saw who they belonged to, and relaxed.

“Eclipse…” he said, noticing her sour expression lighten all too suddenly as if she were hiding her emotions.

“Hello, pup. It seems I caught you in a fairly sentimental state,” she replied, letting him stand up. “I couldn’t imagine being eaten by one of these fellows was on your bucket list.”

“You’re right. Thank you.”

The Celestial was far too dismissive, the exile noticed. It’s as if nothing else held a grip on his life but murder. He just stood up, reached inside the maw of the monster, and confirmed his weapon had been swallowed. Corvus balled his fists and put them square on his skull, whispering a throaty, pleghmy sizzle from the pits of his being as the torment of frustration wore at his logical thinking.

“Your name is Corvus, I remember,” Eclipse said, feigning ignorance and approaching him from behind. She put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You don’t seem well. Maybe you should rest?”

“I can’t. I can’t until I avenge her. Erica…”

Corvus dropped to his knees, and Eclipse with him. The grass beneath hugged their legs. Cool, damp. The woman heard a sob so faint from the angel.

“I… There’s a moral code, and…”

His speech was incoherent. He wasn’t making sense. His thoughts were impeded by hatred.

“I have to make this right,” he finished, sniffing so softly, trying his all to conceal his sadness. To be the robotic person he often was. To seem sturdier by allowing nothing to pierce him.

“Corvus,” Eclipse said, “I think you should rest.”

“I have to——”

“I’ll find them. I’ll take you to them. When the day comes that your mind is ready, I will allow you to make this judgement. But not now. Not today,” Eclipse insisted, turning his head toward her gently.

Corvus’ breathing shuddered as he soon felt sick. The air had become warm with the fire that gathered around. There was a damp line that streaked down from his right eye, past his lips and off his chin. She peered into his eyes, and he peered into hers. His chest grew and shrunk more smoothly and slowly. His eyelids covered his sight. His pale skin regained colour. Corvus’ head bobbed, listening to the cracking of wood and spits of ember, and then his body dropped forward into her arms.

No matter what, he wouldn’t lower his guard. He wouldn’t bawl. Eclipse understood that this was a necessity for him. She cradled his head, and let him sleep. All the while, the fire grew.

♦ ♥ ♣ ♠

The battle raged on even an hour after the barrage. Crawlers had stopped rising from the earth, but many still lived, converging against the Facility’s sturdy walls and pouring through the open window; a disaster that would only have been possible when the damage done was from within, as the massive panes were designed to take most of the brunt from outside, at the expense of weaker inner sides. A tax paid in full by Sagittar’s self-sacrifice.

The soldiers had split into two teams: one that destroyed the masses from the field, which slowly decreased as the Crawlers grew scarce and migrated to within the halls, and the second team, which dealt with interior threats, which naturally grew from a few dozen to several hundred officers.

The assault on the Facility was not impossible to handle, but it was an exploitation of a dire weakness that had long been left unreinforced due to it being considered a nigh-on impossible target. Strangely enough, despite bearing all of its stored weapons, the Facility itself was not truly prepared for a full attack directly on its front lawn. The base acted as a remote weapon, sporting mortars of immense proportion which served to diminish threats before they should reach the fortress’ walls. However, these weapons could not be used within a certain range. Moreover, the troops within could better prepare and psyche up when a battle is given at least travelling time. But with not a second to spare, and after just enduring a separate conflict, the troops were spent before the siege began. Privates, not yet formed by the tests of war, were scarcely used, instead instructed to find refuge in the vault and escort others along the way. Corporals captained by Sergeants formed tactical groups outside to keep further invaders at bay. Lieutenants led by Colonels formed checkpoints for cadets, doctors and other staff to evacuate and hide behind; with First Colonel Lance stationed right outside the vault entrance.

And then, the Brigadiers.

The First, dead.

The Second, dead.

The Third, shielding the gunmen outside, who had begun to squeeze into the doors they protected to better serve the fleeing workers as attackers on the lawn reduced to zero. Emris split off soon after the last of the count was made.

The Fourth, long dead.

The Fifth, splitting apart the last of the Crawlers who breached the window with Norman. Thanks to them, the volume of new intruders dropped dramatically, though the odd distracting Bulkhead kept them too preoccupied to stop the lesser castes from slipping in. Once the last had finished entering, with a conclusive split of one of their skulls with the rear end of his axe, Norman gave Bruttus a thumbs up, and the two of them finally dropped on their knees to regain their breath. Truly, their ever-enduring stamina had been thoroughly tested.

The Sixth, Willow, hastened the strategic team to safety, having earned through search a medic who wheeled a bleeding Hoern on a stretcher, all the while mowing down any encroaching Crimson on sight with his rifle; his muscle memory for reloading and maintaining his guns uncanny with his age. They had nearly reached the bunker when that long, tall beast that paraded itself blind, giggling and sniggering, stumbled upon them.

The group of twenty-odd specialists boots skid as they came to a stop. Willow stood before the lot, acting as their protector, and he looked up at the monster with defiance. One man with a rifle.

The oversized Crawler lowered its head at them, sniffing about and clapping its jaws. After a while, it raised itself, stiffened up, sunk its claws into the stone floor and raised its shoulders; baring its might.

“Of all to come, of course I’d be pitted against one of you, Grinner,” Willow spat, cocking his gun.

The monster growled, its hips high, and it suddenly lunged at the group. Willow threw himself down, failing to slash its leg as it galloped past him and took a member of the team into its hungry mouth. The gutwrenching scream that followed was incredibly brief, ended with a crunch; the young man’s limbs flopping about. Willow gritted his teeth, spun in place and swung the rifle quick enough to fire without stopping. The bullet hit the beast’s thigh and it roared out in anguish, limping about with great speed as it circled the team. One alone could do nothing as the monster plucked strategists off without resistance. That is until…

“Ignoring me, are you?!” Willow shouted after failing to hit the speedy target for the last time.

When the circling beast passed him by, he threw himself upon its torso’s side and rammed his knife into its ribs, grappling against it and holding on with all he had as the Grinner cackled and cried, kicking about in bucks. Still, the officer prevailed. With a firm grip, he kept the weight on the blade and dragged it across a wide axis, spilling as much of its sludge-like insides as possible. With a whip of its skull, the beast whacked the Brigadier off, running off to compose itself some distance away.

Willow felt his every bone creak as he lifted himself from the floor, feeling deathly already yet all too vigorous; placing the hunting knife’s grip sideways between his teeth. He found his rifle to his right. He took it, tested the sharpness of his bayonet, and then, instead of holding the trigger, he folded an arm atop his head and held the length of the rifle forward with an up-facing tilt, wielding it like a spear.

The monster bore its teeth, snarled and then charged. The collective gasps and troubled murmurs of the strategic team didn’t phase him. As the Grinner came close, Willow tightened his grip and steadied himself, and right as the giant hyena sped him by and snapped its fangs his way, like a jouster, the Brigadier reamed the long barrel into its gullet, piercing its jaw and using the momentum to throw himself up to its lanky back. He landed harshly on his delicates, which was fine. Willow had no plans for children any time soon.

The beast began to buck once more, doing its damnedest to throw him off, but with an iron grip and horseback experience to boot, the veteran stayed aboard. Taking the black-bloodstained knife from his mouth, he dug the point into the nape of the creature, pushing all five inches of its brass steel into its neck. The Grinner stopped bucking, slowed itself to a trot and breathed coarse. A few seconds later, its legs gave under it and the Crimson lamb died.

One victory amid six losses; that was the count of the deceased. Brilliant minds were devoured — one of them elderly. Hoern. Plucked right off the stretcher, his failing life had been ended with the grace of eaten popcorn.

“Victus, this rancid smell.” Amid the worried mutters of the survivors, Willow groaned this complaint. “Like boiled sulphur and Blackpowder.”

“Sir!” one of the lads warned, pointing off in the distance.

The Brig looked on ahead to find, to his disillusionment, two Bulkheads and a gang of Crawlers making their way to where they stood.

“Wonderful. For the Gates’ glory, I suppose,” Willow said, all too casually. He stood before the team once more, this time in shambles, and cracked his neck. Looking back, he said, “I don’t suppose either of you has some liquor on ye?”

Their troubledness became confusion, and when the Sixth saw it on their faces, he raised a brow and faced the beasts again. Sounds of amazement came from behind as the two larger lambs were felled with a sequence of sword strikes so quick his eyes hadn’t the time to register. Shortly after, a burst of gunfire brought down the horde of Crawlers in one sweep.

Before he knew it, the swordsman responsible was next to him, and Willow whipped around and swiped his rifle his way. The reflexive action would be inconsequential as two swords stopped his blow with a cross. The Sixth was all too surprised to find a Wraithsman stand beside him so simply, joined after by a woman of similar young age — two captured spoils of war.

Willow gathered his bearings after a bit of staring, confirming their Wyvern armbands, and pointed at them accusingly. “What is the meaning of this?! Prisoners of war escaped?!”

“Those two… They’re the Wraithsmen!” a strategist called out.

“Thank the Goddess! Are they on our side?”

Willow grumbled. “I would assume not.”

The young man looked back at him with a look of apathy. “Could you not get so bothered?”

“Hardly doable, as stands before me ye o mighty,” the Brig toyed, a drop of sweat on his brow.

“Don’t concern yourself. There’s no breach in the cells. The Wraithsmen are ours,” a new voice said, clear and proud. “You can pin their leave on me, too.”

Willow and the rest turned for the third man’s arrival; one of older age, but not by much. Somebody they had recently finished speaking to.

“Ah, the Yanksie wolf in our clothing, too,” Willow grumbled, met with a chuckle. “Under martial law, claiming stake over such authority. This is all too convenient for you.”

“As if planned by the Divines,” Elior said, a soft smile lining his face.