The Battle of King's Tomb

By: Crathen Posted on: January 30, 2010

Lucaine Pyramides, the greatest assassin on Sapience, the deadliest mortal ever born. Catarin's final whisper, apprehensive and hopeful and regal all at once, echoes in his mind long after the sound of her footfalls fades from his perception. "Good luck, Lucaine...", she murmurs - simultaneously a hopeful benediction and an apprehensive farewell.

He shakes his head, trying to clear his mind, but her words do not fade. Even as the soldiers arrive, hatred in their eyes and in their voices, the voice resounds within. Emboldened by the weight of their numbers, they approach the lone swordsman. And without exception, before they raise a weapon, they fall. Fury pounding through his veins, Pyramides wields Three Moons like a berserker, obliterating the foe. After each slash his eyes dart around, and his perception of a surviving foe is invariably accompanied by a rapid movement of the hands, as the unfortunate stumbles away under the weight of some affliction.

More cautious now, they advance, and Pyramides is forced to dodge, and to dance aside from blows, but not to parry, for Three Moons is not a blade to stop another: it is a blade to kill. But every dozen evaded blows is accompanied by the one which strikes home, and each of these causes Pyramides to tire and slump a little more. Each sip of healing elixir does him more harm than good, for it convinces his opponents that they face a mortal, not a God.

(How dare these wretches threaten my beloved Catarin - they are not fit to kneel before her, it will be my death before they breach this threshold. Let my rage fuel the demise of my enemies!)

The night wears on, and soon Pyramides trades a grevious wound for each casualty his opponents suffer. Each time an enemy comes within arms length, Three Moons is upon him: whether sheathed or naked, the blade ends a life. Where they come two or more at once, Pyramides is at risk: and so his wounds accumulate. Never does his lethal grace falter, but neither does their attack.

A fortunate soldier plunges a wicked dirk into Pyramides' arm: taken aback by his success, the man starts. A hint of fear enters Pyramides' eyes as the injury takes it's toll, but within an instant, the fear is gone, replaced by determination and hope. The sheath of Three Moons connects with the soldier's temple with sickening force, sending the corpse flying into the mass of enemies surrounding the tomb's entrance. In hopes of delaying another injury, Pyramides brushes a tattoo on his arm, takes a drag from a pipe, and rubs a palmful of healing salve into his injured arm.

As the shields form around Lucaine Pyramides, confidence spreads like a wave through the troops. The beast falters! As Pyramides settles his hand onto the pommel of Three Moons once more, ready to resume his doomed defence, a voice sounds in the half-light.

(I am almost spent, I can feel it. Almost three hundred have I felled and yet they keep coming. But I must not falter. Catarin needs me. I will never let her down. Let my fear fuel the demise of my enemies!)

"He weakens! Look at him sweat, see him gasp. Mark how he gauges his defences, hoards his healing! One more attack, and he will surely fall!" The brave, foolish words ring like a clarion from the mouth of the Duke, Errikale. Almost unconsciously, Pyramides voices his reply, his words impudent and his tone defiant. The banter continues and the soldiers grow impatient; Errikale commands them to advance.

Pyramides breaks the double barrier of his shields, seizing the initiative and slaying the four men closest to him with a single slash, his weapon sheathed before the bodies hit the floor. Still bolstered with foolish confidence, more advance: but Pyramides draws Three Moons once more, and holds it before him in both hands, looking past the blade to the cowards preparing to swarm him. And as they swarm, the power of fire leaps into Three Moons, and a blazing pyroclasm erupts from Pyramides, enveloping the soldiers in an unquestionably fatal outburst of Shin energy.

Still they come on, and Three Moons stabs and slashes and carves relentlessly, but the combat takes its toll on Pyramides too, as wounds from cruel dirks and vicious scimitars and brutal quarterstaves mutilate his body. Finally only one soldier remains before him, and Pyramides destroys him in a heartbeat, his hand shooting out to shatter the unfortunate's sternum with an impossibly forceful strike.

(My defeat approaches, and Catarin is yet within the tomb. Every second I can keep these vultures from her is another second in which she may prevail. I must... endure! Let my desperation fuel the demise of my enemies!)

The corpse falls to the ground, but no gaze rests upon it. Pyramides calls out to Errikale, taunting his adversary, weariness and desperation in his voice. He does not register the sound of his own voice, but somehow understands the meaning of Errikale's reponses, replying with as much irony and venom as he can muster.

Finally, Errikale approaches, his hand tight around a thin silver dagger: the Arsenic Fang. He calls out again to Pyramides, but his words are meaningless. Pyramides waits, his eyes closed, and hears the final footfall of Lucius Errikale, the final mistake of his life. The eyes of the hero snap open, and Errikale immediately comprehends the gravity of his movement: in that instant, a sort of terrible foresight enters his mind. For Pyramides' eyes blaze with emotion: with rage, with fear, with desperation. Errikale cannot tear his gaze away from those eyes, even as Three Moons slices cleanly through his body, once, twice, four times.

The soldiers stare on as Errikale's body collapses, in pieces, to the ground, the Arsenic Fang falling to his side, as wholly destroyed as its master. Pyramides stands where he has for the whole night, facing the entrance of the tomb. His sword is sheathed; his body trembles with exertion. He holds his stance for a long moment, and falls, face-first, to the ground. Before the darkness envelops his consciousness, he sees a flash of cerulean blue, and a blissful wave of emotion washes over him.

(I love you, Catarin.)