10.31 - Pt. 2 - The Wandering Inn

10.31 – Pt. 2

(This chapter has come out in two parts so make sure you read Pt. 1 first! –pirateaba)

 

 

 

 

Mortemdefieir Titan. Draconic Warrior. The Dragonheirs.

They had so many names. There had been hundreds of them created over the whole history of the Drake people. Hundreds; not thousands. There might have never been more than six hundred ever made.

Which sounded incredible, for each one was multiple stories tall, with claims some had been made over a hundred feet tall to echo Giants and other beings of myth. But that was six hundred ever wrought over tens of thousands of years, with all the magical acumen and lore—and desperation—of the Drake people.

Once, some Dragons had conspired to make them, these champions of the Drake people. Some became heroes, fantastic leaders, and noble warriors who battled every foe of the Drakes. Others turned despotic, drunk on power, or rebelled against their cities. Still more disavowed their duties and simply left, finding lives and purposes away from their homes.

Those who lived became legends, each one having a famous name and deeds. For you see, the Draconic Titans had been made like their Ancestors. Just like the last Dragonlord of Flames, just like Teriarch, they were old stories.

—And he had so many names. So many that General Shirka hadn’t been able to even read through them all in the few minutes she’d stolen to herself to read the report Strategist Ulhouse had generated via Pallass.

She doubted General Edellein knew; whether the Eyes of Pallass did was another matter, but soldiers loyal to 2nd Army had dug the files out of Pallass’ secret libraries. Files on old Dragons, friend and foe, marked with confirmed deaths, possible sightings—files obsessively tended to in the hopes one of them would one day return. That those old ages of myth and legend would come again.

Shirka was no Ancestors-follower, someone who thought the Oldblood breath and wings were blessings that made you better than other Drakes and longed for a Dragon to lead and inspire. She had always, privately, considered Dragons to be more like roaming nightmares, unstable Named-rank adventurers with all the problems that entailed.

Now here she was, standing in the thin air of the High Passes, breathing in the scent of metal, heart hammering in her chest, listening to a thudding sound of a monster coming her way. And to her left, on a small ridge of rock, scales glistening under the wet mists drifting through this valley, was the Dragon.

His scales were so polished they actually reflected golden light onto the cliffs overlooking this basin in the mountains. Stone and desperate shrubs and hardy little root-plants littered the available soil, but it was strewn with rocks. Hard, defensible terrain now marred by the long trenches in which Drakes hid.

Painted yellow armor, non-reflective, shields grasped in tense hands by [Soldiers]. Arrayed in combat squads, spaced out around Shirka’s position like the angriest set of interspersed warts in the world, no one group next to each other.

Angry wart formation. Shirka thought Saliss had once coined the term; a group of armored [Soldiers] holding a position, be it pit, trench, or uncovered space, led by an officer, augmented by a [Mage] or other specialist like a [Battle Alchemist]. Dedicated specialist squads in the back, ready to rush in.

There weren’t as many soldiers as Shirka would have liked. The rest of her army was elsewhere, and the vanguard of her forces seemed small when compared to the Brass Dragon standing silently in the mists. If Shirka looked to her right, on the Dragon’s other side, she would see a small party of [Servants] surrounding a woman in pink.

Magnolia Reinhart’s people, and to the rear of both forces was Lord Xitegen and his tiny retinue of Humans and Golems, most of them deployed, like the Golem whose body was essentially a giant quiver for arrows, rooted in place and aiming upwards, ready to spew projectiles into the sky.

It wasn’t a sight to set the Demons of Rhir into flight, let alone even another army. But for the Dragon and this force would have been outnumbered by any regional power; they were a fearsome and bloody enemy to take on, especially given their reputations and leaders, but not one for world-shaking combat.

But for the Dragon. He had not moved once all the planning had been done and they had heard that heartbeat begin to sound through their feet. Teriarch had alighted on the cliff, as mortals rushed about in nerves, and sat there.

Like a cat. Be it so sacrilegious, that was how Shirka thought of it. Like her old cat, Spikeclaw, sitting with his chest out, tail curled behind him, all four paws close together on the ground. The only differences were that Teriarch’s sinuous head could arc up and that he had a proper mane of metal, which rippled behind him in the occasional breeze.

His eyes seemed so vastly tired, wary, and, Shirka thought, afraid, like every [Veteran] looked. Not blinding fear, but the fear of someone who was about to race towards death again. The fear of the waiting that would vanish as soon as you met the enemy and you did what you did best.

That, more than anything, convinced Shirka that she wasn’t dreaming and this was no trick. The Dragon did not come here spouting inspiring platitudes and claiming this was some noble battle against high horrors of yester-ages. This was a battle to the death, nothing less and nothing more. It was dire; of course it was. They all knew that, which was why the rules were off.

No, the rules had always been fake, Shirka decided. Everyone here had figured out the rules were all fake, even if the punishment for breaking them was real. It was just that they all had an excuse not to follow them today.

Reinhart and Pallass. Xitegen and…Goblins.

They came down from the mountains, from their ‘Goblinhome’, as the thumping grew louder. Not many, but enough.

I count sixteen Wyverns. Carn Wolves…can’t be more than forty riders. Looks like eight hundred, maybe.

“More than you thought the Goblins could field, Ulhouse. Which means they have even more that the Chieftain didn’t take.”

Shirka saw the Goblins on foot jumping off the Wyvern’s backs or descending in smaller columns down the mountain. They were organized, fast, and lots of them were Hobs.

Lots. She imagined having to take a fortress from this lot, and her scales crawled at how bad it could be. This group was setting up higher on the plateau, and she recognized those oversized crossbows being mounted to stands. Spearmaster Gaellis commented sourly.

Looks like they want to be ranged reinforcements. Only a few of them look ready to go in close.

“Sensible of them. I want my voice carried to everyone in 2nd. Do not attack the Goblins. Or I will shove my boot up the remains of whatever the Dragonlord does to you. This is not the moment.”

Shirka felt her army wanting to pivot, to focus on what they instinctively thought of as a threat. But they sensed her calm conviction and desisted; this was not the time. Besides, Shirka hadn’t brought her [Goblin Slayers]. Shirka wouldn’t have been able to trust their judgement here, and she needed perfect cohesion. So the [General] crooked a finger.

“Open a [Communication] spell. If they don’t have a [Mage] who can respond, send one of ours over and have them follow the [Chieftain].”

She waited as it was done, watching Teriarch. When he had seen the Goblins, the Dragonlord had groaned. Softly. He’d whispered, too, but he was big enough that she could hear his voice clearly. And besides, it was easy to hear him.

No one was speaking. For so many [Soldiers], it was eerily silent; the clank of metal or the sounds of labored breathing were the only noises the [Soldiers] made. Combined by thousands of lungs, it was not quiet, but it sounded like a muffled stormcloud of fear and expectation.

“You have nothing to lose and everything to gain. Why, Chieftain Rags…? The Trolls? Ah. Of course. Loyal allies. Goblin loyalty.”

He said that contradiction as if it meant something other than what Shirka would have assumed. As if it were a virtue proven in deed and history. Everything the Brass Dragon did was like that. She yearned for a one-on-one conversation with him, a chance to get to know this stranger and appraise him fully.

He spoke like an ancient [Sage] or mystical old [Archmage]. He acted like some kind of long-lost [Hero], a retired warrior headed to one last battle. He looked like a myth. Magnolia Reinhart treated him like her beloved grandfather falling to age. But who was he?

—No longer a [Soldier], Shirka decided, because he did not relish reinforcements, regardless of their origin. He wanted them to live. Shirka would take any help she could rely on.

Connection established, General Shirka. I have made contact with their—

One of her [Mages] began, and a voice cut him off.

Hey. Who this? I am Prixall, [Witch] of the Flooded Waters Tribe.

Goblin, keep the link to the [General] clear without an express invitation to—

Shirka broke in, her tone as calm as she felt inside. Flat. Icy. Waiting for that thudding heartbeat to grow louder. Each beat seemed to be more thunderous. Closer. How loud could it get…?

“Magus, enough. Witch Prixall, please connect me to your [Chieftain]. Lord Xitegen and Lady Reinhart are both linked to this spell, as is the Dragonlord.”

Eh, ah, uh, can’t do that. Chieftain’s not here. I can get you Snapjaw?

Chieftain Rags wasn’t here? That wasn’t in Shirka’s calculations. The [General]’s eyes flickered, and she didn’t know what to say, so she was glad when Magnolia broke in.

Witch Prixall, this is Lady Reinhart. You and your tribe need not be here. This is not anything I would demand of your tribe…the odds of your people being slaughtered are high.

Xitegen’s voice sounded like someone was pulling teeth from his mouth but, happily, he’d just found a dagger to stab said tooth-puller with.

I, for one, welcome our allies in our time of need. I insist we give them the honor of the vanguard, Magnolia.

There was a laugh from Prixall.

“Hah! You’re Lord Xitegen. We like you.”

Shirka swore she could see dozens of Goblins stop setting up and begin waving energetically at the Lord of House Terland below. Their genuine enthusiasm put Xitegen off.

—Funny.

Yes, very! Everyone likes honest enemies. Beats all the dishonest ones, like Lord Tyrion who wants to have sex with Wind Runner so bad he stops killing us. You’re welcome to try anytime. We’ll kill you so hard your mom will feel it, though.

My mother is dead, which is, in this rare case, positive. However, you have my agreement on Lord Tyrion. The Wind Runner may have stellar qualities—I wouldn’t know, besides her running ability—but she’s not worth forgoing vengeance.

More laughter from the Goblin; Shirka thought she could see the [Witch], a Goblin with a pointed hat, slapping one thigh and doubling over. She had that bright, witty banter of someone ready to die.

Dead gods, but Goblins must make amazing veterans. Better than crazy Raskghar in whatever stupid plan Edellein’s got…

Shirka wished she hadn’t thought of that. Prixall’s response was glib.

Yah, yah. But you won’t kill us yet. Because you don’t think you can. Honest enemies. You, eh, got a strategy down there? Snapjaw says the Titan is close-death, smelly-death, and only good plan is to hit it from afar.

A grunt from Xitegen.

That’s my general understanding of the situation, but I defer to General Shirka.

“Give me a rundown of your forces’ unique traits, Witch Prixall. Ranged weapons are to be used on command only; they run the risk of fratricide. Which means—”

Friendly fire, not killing siblings. Yeah, yeah. I got it. Here’s what we got.

The [Witch] rattled off a startlingly concise list of her forces’ dispositions and affirmed they could move as units wherever was needed, only confirming Shirka’s instincts. This Goblin treats her army like, well, an army. A voice broke in as Shirka spread them out and assigned them to her firing teams.

This is Teriarch. I am teleporting munitions to your forces. Have your Thunderbows use these bolts. They should be of the right size.

The Dragon broke off his vigil, and everyone started as he slapped his tail lightly and golden light enveloped a claw. Shirka saw Ulhouse confer with some [Mages] next to her, and mentally whisper to her.

<“Teleportation magic and some kind of unlocking spell. He must be portalling them to the Goblins, [General].”>

She nodded, wondering how many ways you could use that kind of seamless spellcasting. And if you could, why not trap the damn ground or…?

The enemy’s going to be a good spellcaster too, and we’re bait. Still, he has a plan, one hopes. Teriarch was still speaking.

Where is Chieftain Rags?

A new voice filled the speaking stone, audibly stressed, but determined.

This is Snapjaw! I don’t know where Chieftain is. Wow, you’re big. Not that fat either!

The spluttering sound next to Shirka was one of the [Soldiers] spitting out a drink. The Dragonlord’s reply was somewhat loud over the sounds of Magnolia and Xitegen laughing.

—I greet you, Snapjaw. I assure you I am in shape for this encounter. Is Chieftain Rags’ absence, perchance, related to the inn…?

Shirka snapped to attention as Snapjaw made a disgruntled noise of her own. There was a clack-clack sound in the background.

Everything’s related to the inn. Hey, these big bolts…how heavy are they? Do they fly straight or dip?

Fly straight or…? Hm. A good question. Let me check.

The Dragon closed his eyes, and there were two flashes in front of him; it appeared like he’d pulled a bolt from the Goblins over to him at incredible speed and conjured another with a glowing tip.

Thirty percent lighter, and any with markings on the shaft will fly true. The others will be more prone to gravity.

Gotcha. Can we fire a few to test out how they fly?

That would be unwise. I suggest aiming for the center of mass. You will be hard-pressed to miss.

That true. Redscar with us when the [Chieftain] arrives, I hope. He’s a [Blademaster]. High-level. He says the Titan’s bigger than it is ugly, and it’s uglier than Tremborag’s left butt. What we doing about the death heartbeat?

The Goblins had good intelligence. Teriarch was responding slowly with an expedited recap of the war discussion.

I will neutralize that if I can. Your role in this battle is to provide decisive support and attacks on the cores when they are unearthed. Hit-and-run. Do not present the Titan with a large number of bodies as a target. Depending on its specialties, you will have to adapt, but I intend to be the—

“Goblins!? We have contact, Wing Major Hiclaw! They have a flanking position on 2nd Army!”

A voice broke through the Dragonlord’s conversation, and Shirka tensed instantly. Where—how—? That wasn’t coming from her army. She whirled as Ulhouse spun and cursed.

“Dead gods damn it, if someone in Pallass failed to pass on the notification—wait, we’re in a communications blackout. General! It’s—

Manus. Shirka would have known it from their bearing; southwest, as well as the fact that she knew Wing Major Hiclaw.

Wyvern Riders. She estimated eighty of them with her [Quick Assessment] Skill, which made Gaellis whistle as they came over a ridgeline, flying low to avoid aerial monsters and detection.

“That’s got to be at least thirteen full flights! Who got us reinforcements? Esor? Luciva? No way it was Edellein.”

Whoever it was, they were about to commit real fratricide; Shirka heard the familiar, clipped tones of Hiclaw, a slightly nasally drawl interspersed by the tearing sound of wind, giving orders.

Flights 1 to 4, prepare for low-altitude strafing runs. Breathe at thirty feet for effect. 2nd Army, be advised, air support inbound. [Company: Breathless Acceleration]!

They sped up in the air, coming down hard and fast, and Shirka barked back.

“This is General Shirka, abort run, abort! Goblins are friendly!”

Foreign actor on secured lines, Wing Commander. Identification passcodes missing.

Dead gods damn it—Ulhouse was rattling a string of numbers off as Hiclaw’s Wyvern, a foul-tempered Darkness Wyvern, shot overhead. His voice was cool.

Major illusion spell at three o’clock. Brace for traps.

That idiot thought Teriarch was an illusion? The Dragon seemed torn between amusement and resignation. Meanwhile, Snapjaw was brightly speaking over the officers.

Ooh, target practice for our new arrows! Ready, aim…

Before Hiclaw could order an evasive maneuver, Shirka used a Skill she hadn’t needed since she was a [Major].

[Assert Command]! Drop your wings and descend! Hold fire or I’ll shoot you all down myself! Hiclaw, get down here, you idiot!”

The Wyverns jerked and dropped low out of the air. Some managed to stop themselves from landing, such as Hiclaw’s flight, but many slowed to a glide that bore them into the ground or tried to regain height and ended up flapping ungainly to the ground.

General Shirka, what the hells are you doing?

Hiclaw was not happy about the Skill. It didn’t work on the Goblins, but they held fire as his wing broke off their attack run. Shirka couldn’t breathe Dragonbreath like his Wyvern could, but her tone was almost icy enough.

“Wing Major, land on my position or I will [Assert Command] over the testicle I rip off you and your Wyvern. Those Goblins are friendly. Dragon is not an illusion. Affirm and land. Ulhouse, volley every Wyvern flight in the air with [Lightning Bolts] in three minutes.”

Yes, [General].

Ooh, I like her! Do we have to fight her later?

There was a cackle of laughter from Snapjaw, and Hiclaw’s flight began dropping fast, despite the arguments coming over what was supposed to be a command line. Typical Manus; they liked having access to all other Drake military communications, so they made the commander’s encryption their standard frequency and reserved even more encrypted communication codes for their forces. Just to make sure everyone understood who was in charge.

Well, who was in charge had the most Drakes and the most spells. Hiclaw leapt from his saddle as his Wyvern passed overhead and [Featherfell] towards Shirka.

“General, we’re here to support your forces by order of Dragonspeaker Luciva. What the hell is—”

He was coming down ready to spit clouds of life-sapping darkness when Hiclaw twisted and Teriarch called out.

“No, you idiot, not you too—!”

The biggest Frost Wyvern that Shirka had ever seen in her entire life came screaming down from above. He must have been in the clouds; Hiclaw’s personal Wyvern, Toffy, reacted to the scream by aiming her head up and spitting a stream of blackness that billowed upwards into a cloud.

Deadly and dangerous—for smaller beings. Not the Frost Wyvern Lord. He pivoted, fell, with his wings folded, and unfurled them as he entered the cloud. With a snap, air exploded around him as well as shards of ice. It blew apart the cloud from within, and he passed by Toffy. Shirka swore she saw the Wyvern drop-kick the smaller Darkness Wyvern.

“Toffy!”

Hiclaw whirled as the black Wyvern went crashing downwards. She landed hard, yowling and screeching, but the Frost Wyvern Lord didn’t capitalize on his advantage. Instead, he regained altitude by breathing frost at the ground at the last moment, literally halting his momentum, and flapping upwards. He flew back across towards the Goblins as Teriarch roared at him. His voice was so loud that Shirka pulled the speaking stone out of her earhole to avoid being deafened; she could hear him just fine because he was shouting across the entire valley.

“You feckless idiot! I warned you this was even less your fight than the Goblins’! This is my enemy! My responsibility! Leave! There is no reward for victory; only death for you and your Weyr!”

A dozen other big Frost Wyverns, larger than any tamed Wyverns, Goblin or Drake, had alighted even higher than the Goblins. The Frost Wyvern Lord flew back to them, landed with his back to Teriarch, then flipped his tail up and showed everyone a really good view of his rectal cavity. Hiclaw was tending to his shrieking Wyverness as she tried to roll off her back and onto her feet, shouting questions, and Shirka heard Ulhouse doing the same.

Her only thought was to wonder if there was some mysterious link between cats and the Dragon species. They both walked around on all fours, were balls of ego and magic, and hissed when they got mad.

The Dragonlord of Flames was shouting at the Frost Wyvern Lord, there was chaos in Manus’ ranks as they tried to make sense of what was going on…

2nd Army was silent, telepathically linked. Magnolia Reinhart’s servants were quiet. Shirka swore the woman was drinking tea. She wished the woman were a Drake.

“General, what is going on? Identification code S44E-Helix-1B—”

Shirka cut Hiclaw off without glancing at him. She slashed a hand and spoke.

“That’s a real Dragon behind you, Hiclaw. This incident is sealed to even High Command if you’re wise. Since I know you’re reporting to Luciva, I’ll leave you to decide if you want to risk him frying you. We’re about to engage in combat, and everyone here is an ally. Ulhouse will assign you a battle group. If you don’t fall in, I’ll kick you off the mountain.”

The thumping was growing louder. They might have ten minutes; they might have an hour. Hiclaw hesitated, and Ulhouse strode over. He turned his head as the Brass Dragon slapped his tail.

“You brat, get over here and—”

The largest magic claw that Shirka had ever seen appeared over his head and tried to pull the Wyvern Lord towards him. The Wyvern Lord’s response was to blast it with frozen breath, then spit a ball of ice at the Dragonlord. Everyone took cover, and barrier spells went up. Teriarch stared at the whirling orb of frost, and it vanished in midair.

“At least you understand restraint. Very well.”

A lightbridge appeared, spanning the air, and he began to walk along it as the Wyvern strutted like a superior chicken down to him, using his wings like arms. That seemed to convince Hiclaw that if he wasn’t under an illusion spell, he was insane.

 

——

 

It was all funny. Really, and truly, it was. The sight of the Dragonlord of Flames trying not to eat an aggressive headbutt from the Wyvern Lord, growling at him and castigating him until Magnolia Reinhart called him out like a child, made him a person. It was fascinating.

It was like how Saliss described The Wandering Inn. Meeting new people and seeing them as real, living individuals rather than another face in the crowd. Meeting individuals, not strangers.

Fascinating, alluring. Like a view of what could be if Shirka were not a being who belonged to wars. She would never visit The Wandering Inn in peace, not like this. Nostalgia for what she would never have prickled at her heart, and the [General] watched as that rhythm of death coming from the mountains mirrored her own.

Thud. Thud. Thud…

Wyvern Riders assembled and ready to fly, both Wyverns and Drakes staring at the Dragonlord in awe, visibly whispering, to Hiclaw’s chagrin. Feral Wyverns yawning in the air as the Wyvern Lord strutted past [Soldiers], sniffing at everything, frowning at Magnolia Reinhart and snapping at her until she stared him down, and Lord Xitegen having a bunch of snacks and finding everything as amusing as Shirka.

Then came the Goblin Chieftain. A Wyvern rose over one of the sides of the valley, flying hard, but clearly unhappy. It juked awkwardly downwards, and Shirka thought whoever was riding it was a piss-poor rider. That was borne out when it balked at seeing the Dragonlord and so many foreign Wyverns. Someone fought with it as it half-circled the valley, then deposited a number of green shapes.

They leapt down, and Shirka saw one slow her descent with a jet of green flames. Just like the Wyvern Lord. She began speeding towards the other Goblin forces, propelled, it seemed, by the flames.

“Neat trick. Someone copy that.”

Ulhouse commented as Goblins ran after the first one. They were quick. A small group; eight? At least one of them was high-level, and Shirka adjusted a sight spell and picked them out.

“That Goblin with the swords. That’s the one who fought Zeladona. You were going to take him on, Gaellis.”

The [Spearmaster] grunted as he recognized Redscar. His eyes followed the Goblin.

“Which means that’s the Flooded Waters Chieftain. What’s your take on her, General? Good match?”

Shirka liked to size up enemy leaders, but the 2nd Army’s [General] folded her arms as her eyes found the Goblin and the Flooded Waters tribe surrounded the [Chieftain].

“…I don’t know. Upgrading my threat assessment. I can’t get a read on her. She feels…raw. But she can’t be.”

It was weirding her out. Then she heard a voice come over the command line, breathless.

“I’m—I’m here. This is Chieftain Rags. Let’s do this. I see the battle plans. I’m a [Strategist], primarily. I’ll do my best.”

Something about the way she spoke was familiar. But off. Shirka narrowed her eyes and silenced her speaking stone.

“Ulhouse. Get me eyes on that Goblin. I can’t see her in the throng. Find out what haircut she has.”

“What hair…ah.”

Ulhouse began trying, but when the Goblin strode to the head of her forces, Shirka saw she was wearing a helmet. Very practical for battles. Smart, unlike idiots who wanted to pose for an [Artist] and got headshot; Shirka had one on herself. The [General] just narrowed her eyes.

Why?

That came from the Dragonlord as well. He paused and spoke into the communications spell.

“Chieftain Rags. I told you not to waste the lives of your tribe in battle. Pull your forces back.”

I can’t…do that. Someone has to fight. I can’t let you risk your lives alone. It’s not right. Someone has to be here, and it’s me. Us.

She did not sound confident. Shirka saw the Goblins around her subtly shifting with her magnified vision, as if their discipline had taken a hit. Out of the corner of her eye, Shirka wondered if she’d seen Magnolia Reinhart twitch. But then that timid voice firmed, and a note of quiet determination took over.

…Here we are. I am Chieftain Rags of the Flooded Waters tribe! I will defend my tribe and Goblinhome and The Wandering Inn to my death! Do you hear me? This day has always come, for all of us! Time to pay our dues. I believe in hopeful days, peaceful days. We will earn those days. With me!”

It was a speech, and Shirka didn’t do speeches, because they could go so catastrophically wrong. It was the kind of thing new leaders did, and she was pretty sure the Titan taught that it was a bad idea to do that, along with Manus.

—However, it seemed to work, and the Goblins let out a distant cheer. Shirka stared at the Chieftain, but she had not the time or ability to quiz her suspicions on this matter.

Then the Titan appeared. Not that very minute, not in an instant. But all that had come before became a distant memory.

 

——

 

The thudding of that heartbeat heralded its appearance first. The sound rolled through the valley, a slow tempo at first, and distant, but growing louder and rising in intensity until it was each second, and each beat made smaller stones on the ground tremble.

Earwax vibrated in your head. Sweat turned cold and kept coming. The tension grew worse and worse—and then the smell reached the army.

Fetid, foul, putrid, none of it described the corpse. It wasn’t even that actively…foul. It smelled like something so old it had passed beyond rot. As if it were just the world now and you would never emerge from the corruption assailing your senses.

The trembling grew worse.

Everyone was looking around, [Mages] scanning the sky, the valley’s edges, [Soldiers] peering in every direction for something, any sign of the enemy. No one could find the spot, but the Dragonlord spoke as the feral Wyverns began to take off. The disciplined Wyvern Riders held—but their mounts were terrified.

“There.”

He indicated a crack in the mountains; a gash almost directly opposite the army. There was no way to fit anything in that gap; maybe the smallest of Goblins in some places, but the mortals eyed it incredulously, asking if there was a cavern just out of sight.

There was not. The Dragonlord knew better. He waited as soldiers shifted and Wyverns began to shriek in agony at the sonorous heartbeat.

Now, he could feel it. A mass of death emerging from the mountain. Death magic so overwhelmingly powerful it would have begun to kill the ground if there was that much nature. Mortals grew weaker; the most susceptible felt the strength leaving their limbs, the beating of their own hearts growing more labored, as did the breath of their lungs.

Terrium Archelis Dorishe dug his claws into the earth. He saw the crack bulge, stone breaking. Then grey flesh began to push out of the crack, like liquid. Expanding as it met the air. Stone was forced free, showering outwards, as more flesh emerged.

An old trick. From a being who could make its body, even its bones, as malleable as rubber. Teriarch just analyzed the extreme state of decay. Skin so dead it had gone from black to brown or remained blue and bloodless; covered in filth, caked blood, and even fungi and various rotten fluids.

And insects. Further confirming it was indeed a Mortemdefieir Titan. It revelled in death and rot.

A misshapen head appeared first out of the crack in the rocks, followed by an arm. Teriarch saw a flat face and two eyes so badly rotted he could see holes in the pupils—before the first volley of enchanted arrows hit the Titan’s head.

It didn’t jerk back; it weathered 2nd Army’s volley as stones rained down around it. If anything, the gap widening just let it pull more of its body out.

“Hold fire, General. You cannot hurt it that easily.”

And it will run. It—he—is testing the forces here. The Titan had indeed paused, but he began to pull more of his body out of the crevasse. A few pieces of his head were smoldering or fizzling with magic; the damage was barely even visible and healed in seconds.

That volley had been someone in 2nd Army panicking. Not the weapons Teriarch had given the Goblins or the other equipment he’d drawn from his vaults. It could have probably killed many, many [Soldiers] of the modern day, even so.

Not this. The head kept expanding, and the Titan rose higher as more of its body pulled out of the crevasse. Now, all of them could see the image that matched Teriarch’s memory.

A giant Drake…but subtly different from the ones standing before the Titan in miniature. This Titan had that same reptilian head and torso, but the neck spines extended down his actual back. Many were broken, but they were long and jagged, and he was stooped when he stood. Used to smaller places, perhaps.

His scales were huge, but more like actual scale mail than Drake armor; they overlapped and shifted, though again, many were torn away, revealing black flesh beneath.

Insects writhed all over the Titan. So many his form appeared to be subtly shifting from afar. The Mortemdefieir Titan was forty feet tall when it stood. Teriarch was shorter than the Draconic Warrior unless he reared up, but he was actually of the same mass as the Titan.

Not as small as they could go, but lower mid-range. Probably one of the largest they could send to fight underground. Which one of the City of Graves’ could it be…?

Too many to know, too many whom he had never bothered to learn the names of. The Titan fully unfolded himself, and Teriarch noticed the final change. Its legs were digitigrade; like a dog, it kept its toes on the ground but lifted the back of its heel upwards.

The Dragonlord remembered Mrsha’s words to him. It was nimble. Quick. Feet like that certainly enabled fast running, dashing from spot to spot. But little stability compared to normal bipedal feet.

Bad eyesight.

The Dragonlord of Flames adjusted his plans slightly in the silence as mortality beheld this old nightmare. The Drake’s mouth was slightly open, revealing a cloud of pestilence, and its half-eaten eyes were darting around, inspecting the army before it. It was naked, but so caked in filth that any genitalia it had been given wasn’t visible.

This was the completed Mortemdefieir Titan, and it had no signs of nerve atrophy. When it took a step forwards it was slow, yet dainty, ending Teriarch’s hopes that the Titan would be uncoordinated. So he spoke as every eye fixed on him, including the Titan.

“I am Teriarch, the Dragonlord of Flame. Have you any last words?”

 

——

 

His voice was so…gentle. The Titan started, and for a second, it was there. True, genuine terror. Recognition.

It knew him. Just like General Shirka, consulting old records. Just like the immortals of Ailendamus or old kingdoms of Terandria. The Titan’s movements were so humanoid and adaptive; it jerked backwards, twisting its torso as if to flee into the rock, caught itself, and clenched one clawed fist.

So fast, as fast as a Human ten times smaller might move. Its eyes narrowed and then turned into a gregarious smile, and it performed an exaggerated bow, both hands raised. Both immortals ignored the armies tensed between them. Their voices boomed through the valley.

The Drake’s voice was actually higher-pitched than Teriarch’s, but his every word had an echoing quality and more sibilance.

“Oh mighty Dragonlord of Flames, have you no other words for…?”

The Dragonlord cut him off, voice flat.

“Speak normally.”

He was fanning his wings slowly, and the air was moving; around the Titan, it was foul and still, but a slight breeze seemed to be coming from the Dragonlord, spreading out in every direction. Then it reversed as he drew breath. The Titan’s muscles visibly contracted, and his face twisted in distaste.

“Must I speak in the lesser tongue? We hail from the scaled heart of the true world, Dragonlord. Nevertheless. I ask again. Is this the only thing you have to say to me, when you sensed me wake? I who have been trapped aeons in the crushing dark, clawing against the hateful doors, abandoned by my people, sentenced to madness where only my will kept me alive, sundered into pieces. I who have emerged to this world where I hear none of my kin. Last of all! And the first thing the mighty Teriarch, the Pyrelord who stood over burning Invictel, the Champion of Lost Causes, the Hero of the Wyrm Wars—the first thing he offers me is death! Have you no heart, Dragonlord? Is there no mercy for me?”

He bowed deep, dipping his head lower and sinking to one knee. The Titan’s voice was courtly, fluid, yet gave the impression his fluid address was an act that could be peeled away if he chose.

The Brass Dragon did not move, nor did his implaccable expression waver, even as the [Lady] in pink shot him a nervous glance. He jerked his head slightly at the mountain.

“The Trolls.”

The Draconic Warrior hesitated, and his head came up as one eyelid jerked downwards, narrowing. Teriarch clarified.

“Twenty thousand years you lay below, a captive. I do not discount this. Yet the first thing you did was slaughter the beings you encountered. If you had changed, if you had a moment of regret, you would have spoken to them. You did not. I need no more proof.”

The Titan’s lips twisted as he rose out of his kneeling position. He flexed his claws open and closed as he stood erect, staring up at the sky, at the sun. Wide-eyed despite looking into the sun.

“Lesser species. Levelless, inferior. I should have known the Pyrelord would judge me by this. Thou arrogant slaughterer, slattern for every mewling, worthless creature. Damned tyrant of noble fire, come to purge the world of foes. Slumbering traitor, fornicating with our foes of Chandrar, piss-stained coward of the Draconic Wars, traitor, worm, and sanctimonious preacher of holy virtues! Mother take your worthless hide, wretched bastard-king of flames, spewing your seed of ideals over every inferior people and cause!”

His voice rose as he began to spit flecks of black liquid at Teriarch, the Titan’s bared teeth writhing with huge worms. His face puffed up with rage as he spoke. Rotten pieces of flesh were falling off his body, regrowing…the [Soldiers] closest to him were watching as his body regenerated even as it was devoured and fell prey to the rot of his flesh.

The tirade would have continued, but the Pyrelord exhaled, and the air in the valley heated. The Titan’s invectives stopped, and the Dragonlord’s voice was soft.

“Have you…any last words?”

The Dragon’s irises were glowing bright, and the rest of his eyes had turned black. Vivid purple and blue lights shone at the Titan. Slowly, the rotting warrior tensed, hunching over, and his groin moved, a withered piece of flesh engorging.

His smile was full of putrefaction, and he chuckled as his head moved left and right, taking everything in with that dead gaze.

“I hear Mother’s voice. I will bring her your hide, Dragonlord. Just like your brothers and sisters.”

The Dragonlord’s head dipped, and he closed his eyes for a second. The Mortemdefieir Titan leapt.

He covered two hundred feet in a single jump, carrying himself into the first ranks of the [Soldiers]. They looked up, and a squad of twenty-four died as his foot crushed them. The Titan raised one foot, pieces of broken metal falling from his skin or being pushed back out.

The Dragon exhaled as chaos burst around them, and the Titan jumped back. Just a hop, then another as his feet touched the ground.

Purple flames shot across the valley in a stream, turning the far mountains into a perfect hole oozing molten stone. Teriarch swept the breath right, and the Titan leaned under the flames. Effortlessly fast. Teriarch swept his head diagonally to catch his foe.

The Titan pirouetted out of the way, sliding one foot around and twisting back up and away. He opened his mouth and belched a stream of insects, black bile, and gas back at the Dragonlord. Teriarch leapt up from the ground, air blasting around him as he took to the skies.

The first enchanted munitions began flying as the Titan swivelled to follow the Dragonlord, sweeping his caustic breath upwards.

Shields!

2nd Army took cover as the foul insects landed among them or sprayed off magical barriers, which overloaded. Mutated flies and grubs started at the size of a hand or as long as an arm, but began expanding, bloating as they tried to bite or claw everything in reach. In seconds, some were as large as dogs, others half the size of the [Soldiers] and still growing. 2nd Army hacked at them as pieces of the Titan’s body began to blow away.

It ignored them, eyes on the Dragon flying upwards in near-vertical ascent. The Draconic Warrior’s own putrid breath ran out, and it wiped its mouth and seemed to notice the army at its feet.

A squad was charging into the miasma of insects. The Titan bent down and scooped up two handfuls of Drakes and a Gnoll and held them up.

“Dragonlord! Hostages!”

He danced backwards, leaping out of range of the projectiles blowing pieces of the ground apart. The Draconic Warrior’s leg twisted on landing, and he stumbled. Turned with a frown.

“Hm?”

 

——

 

Magnolia Reinhart had moved her hand as the Draconic Titan landed. Her face was a mask of concentration, eyes glowing with their own force. Her servants weren’t moving; they had their orders.

Ressa saw the Titan stumble and then turn. It didn’t even look at Magnolia, just put its foot down hard—

The [Lady]’s arm twisted around, and Ressa saw her bones break. Blood began to spread under her skin as Magnolia stared at her arm.

“—Healing potion. It’s too heavy.”

Ressga fumbled for a potion until Ressa tore it from her grasp and began to apply it.

“Grit your teeth. Don’t do that again—”

The Titan was hopping around, even faster than Teriarch had said it would be. Magnolia’s eyes never left it; it was glancing around. But her aura was suppressed.

Reinhart! What the hell was that? Ceasefire! We can’t tag it while it’s moving.

Xitegen. Magnolia’s face was pale, but she didn’t move as Ressa twisted the arm as gently as she could, cursing and producing a knife.

“I have to cut it open to see what I’m doing.”

“Do it, Ressa. It’s how you fight these things, Xitegen. Don’t let it sense your presence. Or distract it for me.”

It’ll rip your arm off—

Magnolia Reinhart breathed in and out. She glanced down at what Ressa was doing to her arm and spoke.

“I am the strongest [Lady] in Izril. I have bested every [Matriarch of Herds] and [Lady] on this continent. I have only lost to one being: the Goblin King. Focus on your battle.”

She saw the Titan, dancing and waving its captive [Soldiers] in the air, turn to spit more breath skywards. But the Dragonlord was so high, now, that he easily dodged the breath. His distant form shone a second—

A bolt of lightning hit the Titan in the chest and turned the entire world to whiteness. When Magnolia Reinhart picked herself up, the Titan was lying on its back, a massive crater in its chest.

“Teriarch…?”

She looked up, and the Titan dropped the dead [Soldiers] as it sat up. It rolled out of the way of the next lightning bolt and stood. Its eyes were narrowed.

“I see.”

 

——

 

The Dragon cast as many spells as he needed for his plan in the air. He was going to cast more on the ground, but his enemy couldn’t be allowed to see what he was doing. Teriarch juked, preparing another [Bolt of the Lightning Giant].

Nimble, the girl said. What was its specialty? Show me. Show me, show—

Mortals about them as ever, and they knew the true enemy was only each other. But a mortal could be the decisive blow. Yet their eyes were only for…

Smiling. That old monster smiled so, damn him. Enjoying this. The lightning had stopped the smile. It came back as the Titan cast his first spell.

He raised his arms high overhead and twirled forwards, dodging a hail of burning arrows like a swarm of fireflies; his hands made a complex set of symbols along his chest, and then he opened his mouth.

[Ray of Oblivion].

Red light gathered in streamers around his open mouth and formed an orb of energy. Then the orb discharged a beam of light skywards.

Beautiful. War magic at its finest. Activation via gesture without the need for incantation. And magic meant to kill a Dragon.

The Dragonlord was too high up for any slower spell to catch him. And he was a Brass Dragon. His kind were already virtually flameproof; his scales were among the hardest of all his kind. What could down him?

Flying Dragons normally fell prey to lightning or wind magic, but the greatest Brass Dragons conducted electricity or nullified it at will. What else was there? Water? Ice? His flame had bested Frost Giants. So—death.

A Tier 7 death spell from a war machine created to unleash that magic in moments. The light was darker than the traditional, ominous crimson glow. Burgundy, like wine. Cutting a line through the sky, killing everything in its path.

Magic. Tiny organisms—a cloud was pierced by the beam and began to disperse, as if an invisible force were eating away at it from the hole created by the ray.

The [Ray of Oblivion] missed. The Dragon dipped one wing and swung under the ray, replying with another bolt of lightning. This time, the Titan responded with a second spell.

“[Swarm of the Locust King].”

He dipped his hands towards the ground and pulled up, and the host of insects arose from his body, magnified by the spell. The Titan ignored the bolt of lightning that blew a piece of his head away, exposing brains, which pulsed green and purple. The insects whirled higher, hundreds of thousands, eating the firepower aimed at him and forcing the nearest [Soldiers] on foot further back. They spiraled upwards.

Another spell from a veteran of conflicts with Dragons. He was a death-aligned spellcaster and didn’t deviate from his specialty.

The fourth bolt of lightning went straight for the Titan’s exposed brains, and it raised an arm, letting the bolt open a huge crater down to the bone of the arm. He lowered it, beaming, and then swept around, running for the edge of the valley. Teriarch snapped a command into the speaking stone.

General Shirka, stop him from leaving the valley at all costs!

He was turning, trying to avoid the spiral of insects now swirling upwards towards his position. The two had been testing each other. Trying to find an early weak spot in the other’s defenses.

The Dragonlord of Flame was mobile and refused to close with the Titan; by the same token, the Draconic Warrior knew his limits exactly. He would allow his body to regenerate any wound that wouldn’t impede him.

These battles would inevitably favor the Draconic Warriors as time ran on; even the magic of Dragons wasn’t equivalent to the Seith Cores embedded in his body.

The Dragonlord was casting a new spell as he attempted to avoid the insects. They had no chance of harming him, but clinging to his body until he was borne down by their numbers or fouling his wings or vision? They could do that, and the [Ray of Oblivion] was waiting.

The Draconic Warrior was running for a better vantage point to face his enemy, content to literally outpace the army pinning him here. He drew a foot back as he ran and kicked contemptuously at another squad of [Soldiers] in front of him.

The impact crushed the squad of Drakes and Dullahans into the ground. However, this time, the Titan’s foot drew back and revealed intact bodies, who began weakly squirming or stabbing as the rotten limb drew back.

Ulhouse’s Skill. The Titan was past the squad in a second, and the hail of arrows halted to avoid friendly fire.

Reposition now!

General Shirka was bellowing at Ulhouse as her army swarmed forwards, but the Titan was too vast and tall. He simply jumped an entire company of [Soldiers], laughing—

And stumbled again.

It was his right leg. The ankle didn’t so much twist as fail to keep up with his desire to transfer his weight onto it and leap again. The Titan faltered, caught himself, and three dozen projectiles hit him in the right shoulder.

It wasn’t Magnolia this time. No force had made his leg weaken. It was, rather, what wasn’t there that had caused the lapse.

The broken Seith Core. That single moment of opportunity was all it took. Fluid, the Titan took three more steps forwards, and something yanked him around by the right shoulder. He twisted, then swung around to see what was stopping him this time.

The Draconic Warrior’s right arm was aglow with dozens of vibrant, green bolts, launched from above. Goblins. Their Thunderbows had fired the first volley this battle, into the opening the weakened leg had given them. The Titan had simply ignored the bolts that lodged in his skin. His mistake.

His eyes weren’t that good. He had missed the munitions they’d been loaded with.

Anchor Bolts. The magical artifacts strained at the air, humming as they locked themselves at the point of impact along with the Titan’s arm. It took him a second to allow the dead flesh to loosen and tear the bolts free with the skin and tissue. The Titan pivoted, and Major Hiclaw’s Wyverns exhaled.

Flames burst over the Titan’s face and chest as he raised an arm to shield his face. He batted at the air, but the Wyverns broke off before his grasping fingers reached them. The Wyverns dove before strafing away, three flights at a time. The Dragonbreath ate away at the Titan’s skin, turning it molten and charred.

Kneecap that bastard! Now! [Tactic: Slay the Giant].

General Shirka pointed a finger, and Spearmaster Gaellis jumped. He hit the Titan in the kneecap as a squad of 2nd Army’s best spear-users hit the Titan with every impact Skill they had.

The right leg buckled, and the Titan wobbled again. 2nd Army closed in, armed with grappling hooks, mounted cavalry prepared to lash the ropes to their saddles and pull the monstrosity down.

 

——

 

Gaellis was the literal spear of the assault, and he pulled his spear back from the cracking cartilage to fully hamstring the Titan. The Drake yanked on his spear—and it stuck suddenly. He grunted, precariously perched on the Titan’s knee. The [Spearmaster] heaved with all his strength, and the spear didn’t move. He wrenched it left and right, swearing, and saw something in the gap he’d created in the flesh.

Red…hands? The Drake saw them grabbing at the tip of the spear. Not true hands, but rather, fleshy bits of sinew mimicking hands. Three had a hold of his spear and were keeping it there. The last had formed an odd, pointing finger—

The [Spearmaster] let go of his spear and kicked off the kneecap a second before the smaller ray of green light could touch him. He heard shouting from below as the Titan lurched upwards.

What was going on? Gaellis saw confusion below and realized his soldiers were in combat. Not with the Titan, but something else.

Objects had fallen from the Titan’s legs, emerging from his sundered flesh. Not just the insects that infested the Draconic Warrior.

Undead, clinging to the scales, some morphing out of his ‘flesh’, reconstituting themselves from where they had been absorbed. A rearing caterpillar-like maggot spraying thorns out of its pale hide as it leapt on the nearest [Soldier]. Undead Trolls, swinging clubs of bone, and more of those hands. Tendons and nerves whipping about and grabbing [Soldiers]. One constricted around the neck of a Gnoll and crushed her windpipe as her friends tried to cut the deadly garrote away.

Fall back! He’s sweeping the area!

Shirka’s mental and verbal command reached Gaellis as he drew a backup spear, and he veered off his second assault. The Titan glanced down, disdainful, and reached down with one hand. He pulled at something—his chest—and opened his left rib cage, ripping the flesh apart into his chest cavity like someone opened a door.

The largest grub that Gaellis had ever seen unwound itself from around his ribs and plopped onto the ground with a tremor. It was like a bloated tapeworm and reared up before spraying a cloud of gastric acid at the nearest [Soldiers].

“[Smog of Toxins].”

The Titan exhaled a putrid fog downwards, and then he was gone. Thudding in the darkness—Gaellis heard voices.

He’s moving! Cut down those monsters and get out of the fog!

The [Spearmaster] was too preoccupied to issue a report, mentally or otherwise. He was fumbling for a mask designed for hostile toxins and fighting with his other hand, stabbing repeatedly into what might have been a tick as large as he was. Then he ran forwards, throwing [Soldiers] he found who weren’t wearing masks. Tossing them as far as he could out of range of the cloud.

When Gaellis finally got the mask back on his head and could speak, he saw the [Soldiers] attempting to leave the spreading cloud of mists and battling the horrors the Titan had dropped.

The undead were easiest; a [Fireball] lit up one before one of his [Spearmen] impaled the Troll through the leg and jumped back, leaving it easy prey for the squad to bring it down from afar. But those slithering tendrils…

<“Dullahans, forwards! Gaellis, get out of there! We need you!”>

Gaellis heard Ulhouse’s voice in his mind and understood. 2nd Army’s Drakes fell back, and Dullahans moved forwards. They weren’t faster or more nimble than their counterparts, far from it; one of the sinew-worms dodged a hacking [Soldier] with an axe and tried to strangle them. Instead, the Dullahan’s helmeted head popped off, and they seized the worm with their hand. Their limbs detached rather than letting the worms constrict them.

Gaellis ran through the cloud of toxins and burst out on the other side. He ripped the mask off his face and vomited a streak of liquid onto the ground. Then he touched the speaking stone next to his earhole.

“Gaellis to Ulhouse. [Healers]. All forces: the smog is poisonous to touch as well as breathe!”

Then he searched around for the Titan.

 

——

 

The encounter with 2nd Army didn’t slow the Titan down more than a few seconds. While they were battling his minions, he was pivoting, taking aim, as more Anchor Bolts hit him. He’d given up on leaving the valley to strike the Dragonlord.

The swarm of insects had shot up so fast that they resembled a tornado all of their own. Teriarch had been attempting to simply outfly them, but he hadn’t reckoned on their speed. The leading trail of them rose upwards, blocking his way, and he flew above as they outpaced the larger Dragon, closing like a living net.

The Titan took aim as the Dragonlord’s form rose perilously, losing speed with his gaining altitude. He was an open target, and they both knew it. So rather than keep flying upwards, Teriarch abruptly reversed course and dove straight into the heart of the insect swarm. They covered him immediately as he pulled his wings around him, dropping like a golden bat.

What was he doing? Only one being realized what maneuver the Dragonlord was utilizing.

The Wyvern Lord had been circling the battlefield, wondering how to take on the undead…big thing, which was a rival for the ancient glacier-monsters of ice for size. It was too big and used magic? He had been waiting for his opening when the swarm rose. Now, he saw the Dragonlord execute the same maneuver he had used against the other Wyvern.

The Brass Dragon dove into the heart of the swarm and then unfurled his wings as he unleashed his dragonfire. A burst of dazzling flames incinerated a majority of the bugs, but the Dragonlord did something more in that moment.

The Wyvern Lord’s eyes narrowed with shock as the roiling flames turned into black smoke. The Dragonlord vanished in a haze that obscured his location, and the Titan cursed in what the Wyvern Lord assumed were bad words.

So that was how you did it? You didn’t just blow apart something, you vanished—a second burgundy-colored beam pierced the clouds, and the Dragonlord emerged from the opposite side, winging away as insects trailed after him.

Now he was building up speed, and the Titan began to stride forwards again, but the Goblins’ bolts had stymied him. He tore at the magical objects buried in his flesh, and another pass of Wyverns began to breathe elements. The Wyvern Lord shrieked a command at his Wyverns and dove. He didn’t need to be told they were buying the Dragonlord time.

This time—the Titan’s wrath came for the Wyverns. He opened his mouth, and the third beam of light vaporized two flights of Wyverns. The Wyvern Lord flinched as he saw pieces of wings and a leg falling out of the sky.

The Frost Wyverns around him aborted their dives, panicking as Major Hiclaw’s forces scattered. The Titan peered up and swept the beam towards the Wyvern Lord.

He breathed the coldest frost he had, but the beam never touched him. A hail of glowing arrows fell down and detonated in the Titan’s face.

The Golem man. The Wyvern Lord’s breath froze that baleful head for a moment, and then he hit the Titan with all his weight.

The Frost Wyvern Lord tumbled away, then regained his wings, stunned by the impact. He saw the Titan lurch back a step, then come around. A hand reached for the Wyvern Lord’s tail, and the Wyvern Lord swore he saw another hand push it slightly off-course.

Grimy fingers snapped closed and briefly caught the Wyvern Lord, but the frost and his desperate twist got him free. The Wyvern Lord sped away, screeching victoriously. He heard a roar of frustration from behind him and redoubled his speed.

Now would be a good time for that old Dragon to show off! The Wyvern Lord searched around for that brass glow and saw…nothing.

He ran away. The Wyvern Lord’s jaw dropped as he sensed the Dragonlord miles away. He ran away?

No, wait. Why was the Titan suddenly looking afraid…?

 

——

 

Openings. The Mortemdefieir Titan had surprised the Dragonlord of Flames with his enhanced spellcasting. The Dragonlord had still managed to dodge, forewarned by Mrsha’s comments. But facing a true hybrid spellcaster-warrior was highly, highly…no, even if he was a specialist, it would have been the same.

High levels made for nightmarish foes.

The swarm of insects had been meant to prevent Teriarch from gaining time to cast spells. Every second the Titan was distracted, halted in place, the Dragonlord had a chance to set himself up. The purpose of the mortal army was to keep the Titan occupied and not allow it to retreat or prepare for what it knew was coming.

You know me. The Champion of Ashen Wings, Teriarch of Kerozel, had always been known for one tactic in war.

He was miles away already, flying away from the battlefield and accelerating with each second as he reduced the friction of air on his body to a minimum, set up guidance spells, and plotted his course. The further he went, the better.

He needed the space.

The Dragonlord’s wings ignited with pink flames as he angled them unnaturally so they were no longer flying like a bird, but acting as guides. He propelled himself forwards with his flames as he had done against the Great Wyrm of Ailendamus.

But this time, he did it properly. He was not panting for breath, and his wings were steady as his fire engulfed him.

Pink and gold burning around the Dragonlord as he accelerated and then curved. His wings moved only fractionally as he locked them into place with magic—at the speeds he was going, even the slightest deviation would radically alter his trajectory. And he was still accelerating when he abruptly stopped hearing anything.

The Dragonlord pushed through an odd, elastic barrier in the air, and he was moving faster than sound itself, leaving the wind trailing behind him a shockwave of force.

<”Shirka: Dragonlord! We can’t hold him!”>

The spoken missive appeared in his mind, written rather than heard. The Dragonlord’s reply was also dictated from his thoughts.

I am coming. Clear the area.

The High Passes were in front of him now, those jagged peaks that hadn’t existed when he had been a boy. Just one smaller but wider mountain…his eyes strained as he sensed that abhorrent mass of death.

One second. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six—now.

He exhaled, spun, and then levelled upright, and he was out of the High Passes, veering past a mountain. He had to adjust his next approach or he’d hit a mountain; Teriarch swerved left, counting down until his next approach.

His speaking spell was transcribing cheering.

 

——

 

Redscar had seen the greatest [Blademaster] to ever set foot on this world draw her sword. Zeladona’s figure was a shadow in every foe he met, and he always felt like he was struggling to capture even a millionth of her skill.

Against this terrible foe, he felt the same. There was no art or swing of his sword that had a hope of doing enough damage. But when he looked up and saw that pink comet burning towards him, he and he alone saw the Dragonlord strike.

The Titan was mid-run, diving for cover, when Teriarch passed overhead, a glowing nimbus of pink fire with a golden core. A meteorite—who struck faster than the speed of sound.

Redscar saw the Dragonlord’s wings outstretched, propelling him with the roaring pink flames behind him. He didn’t stop or even move greatly. Rather, he dipped one wing and exhaled.

By the time you blinked, he was miles away, but the flames were directly on target. It actually came down diagonally, allowing the Dragonlord to pass by his foe and lead his attack; the slower-moving Dragonbreath was still faster than the Titan could even think of moving. But it wasn’t just…flame. It was, like Zeladona’s blade, something else.

Golden fire emerged from the pink corona and stabbed downwards. Pink, blue, and green fire trailed around the central stream of fire, and some of it, Redscar realized, was coming off the Dragon. He was generating incredible temperatures by the sheer heat in his body and passage through the skies. The Goblin had no word for what he saw—pure plasma, dragged into the Dragonbreath, amplifying the attack.

The Titan saw the golden beam of Dragonfire slicing downwards at him. He was, like Redscar, like the Dragonlord, in a different realm of speed.

So he dodged. It was a Skill—[Graceful Dodge]—that let him twist out of the path of that golden spear of flames. Slowly, like someone underwater compared to the Dragonlord, but he evaded the fire—

The Dragonbreath curved. It rippled before hitting the ground, and the ray of searing fire struck the Titan in the chest. Redscar saw the Titan’s eyes go wide with horror, and the Goblin thought he saw the tip of the Dragonlord’s flame; a roaring Dragon’s mouth.

Flame, like a [Blademaster]’s art, touched the Titan, and then the monstrosity screamed. Redscar threw up one arm, and the air turned into brilliant dawn; the lesser flames engulfed the Titan, like the very atmosphere had turned to flame.

An ocean of blue, cut with pink, green, and purple shone overhead as mortals flinched back, like the aurora of the sky at night. The fire ravaged the Titan; the golden flames disintegrated pieces of his chest, his ribs, his outstretched arms—

Then the flames were gone, and the screaming Titan was writhing on the ground, howling, and the shockwave of wind nearly blasted Redscar off his feet. He anchored himself with a sword and looked up at the sky, mouth open in delight.

The last Dragonlord of Flames had made an art of his war, just like Zeladona. So the [Blademaster] watched, filled with envy and delight.

The Titan tore at his flesh, ripping it off rather than letting the flames continue devouring him. He was trying to run as Rags screamed.

Fire! Fire again! Keep him there!

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk! The Thunderbows fired constantly, trying to slow the Titan down. It was running now, and Redscar could see why.

The Dragon was coming back. In the distance, he saw a pink meteor slowly curving through the air like the largest [Fireball] in the world, drawing a streak across the skies. It lit up the rain clouds above Liscor, a wandering comet of magic, and the Goblin stopped for a second to admire it.

“Cool.”

He grinned and saluted the air with a sword. So that’s what the old days were like? No wonder the old Dragon had so many admirers.

 

——

 

A second pass, and this time, he dropped the flames down so a pillar of fire seemed to hit the Titan as it tried to throw up a shield. That hurt it.

The Draconic Warrior had known flames. It had killed Dragons. But it had not felt these flames. They vaporized the flesh off its bones and gave the warrior a taste of true pain, the first it had felt in aeons.

The Dragon’s fire incinerated magic, matter, and even scorched the soul. Teriarch was burning through his energy endlessly quickly, but he didn’t care. He swerved again, already setting up a third attack run.

There was nowhere to run. The Mortemdefieir’s barrier melted in the face of the Dragonlord’s greatest attack.

Again, the Dragonlord cut through the skies over the High Passes, flying west, and his flames lit the heavens. They burned so bright that in rainy Liscor, if you looked up, you’d see what seemed like a second sun passing overhead.

 

——

 

So engrossed was she on Rafaema’s progress back to Manus, and her people trying to see what the hell was happening in the battle, that Dragonspeaker Luciva didn’t look up from her inner war room in Manus’ High Command. Only when someone shouted at her a fourth time did she glance up.

“What? What comet…?”

She dashed from the keep just in time to see it. It was distant; so were the High Passes. But she could see that far-off mountain range dividing her continent. And—yes—

The Dragonspeaker’s eyes widened as she saw a glowing shape, tiny as a mote of light, curving in midair. Heading back towards the mountains.

“How fast is that?”

Someone wondered aloud. The Dragonspeaker cast around and saw [Soldiers], [Tacticians], [Mages]—not a one had a word for what that was. A spell? What kind of spell did that? A Skill?

A…Dragonspeaker Luciva wanted to breathe the word aloud. Then she peeked over her shoulder and realized that if she saw this—

 

——

 

From the northern part of the Great Plains of Izril to the Drake cities to the far north, people stopped in the streets and pointed.

Those who’d been watching scrying orbs showing only the most distant views of the High Passes gazed up and rubbed their eyes. Their eyes followed the pink streak across the sky, a trail of brilliant glory, and they wondered what it could be.

Lord Calidus Reinhart couldn’t take his eyes off the image.

“Aunt, what is this?”

He half-turned in the Reinhart group call, craning his head and leaning precariously over the edge of the balcony to see. He almost fell; one of the [Assassins] had to grab hold of him to keep him from dying. The [Lord] dangled in midair and clearly heard someone sigh.

“Looks like dear cousin Magnolia is up to her ears in danger. Again. I knew we kept her around for a reason.”

Cecille Reinhart lit a puffer stick as she sat back in her chair. The younger Reinharts were agitated, scowling, worried, but the older Reinharts just kept their eyes on the scrying orbs.

Waiting.

 

——

 

The comet burned in the eyes of a young Drake child staring up towards the High Passes. While the adults pointed and wondered if it was some illusion or Pallass’ magic, the child remembered a storybook, and the comet set fire to their imagination.

 

——

 

 

It set a different kind of fire alight in the minds of other nations. [Kings] and [Queens] were pulled away from their scrying orbs and [Court Mages] by old advisors or frantic [Historians], who had old leather tomes in their hands. A name connected to the image of a crimson-scaled Drake, a kindly old man.

For the King of Myths, Nuvityn of Erribathe, there could be no doubt. He called a halt to the procession and turned to his advisors. He forgot how young all but the half-Elves were. They didn’t want to say it for fear of being ridiculous, even with the evidence plastered before them. So Nuvityn glanced at the two oldest half-Elves sitting on the walking cottage. He had suspected it, but now it was confirmed beyond any shadow of doubt.

“The Dragonlord of Flames.”

King Nuvityn felt his heart stir, and Magus Tserre merely sniffed.

“Teriarch.”

She took a deeper sip of tea, then paused and grimaced as she realized that Prildor’s and Nuvityn’s eyes were locked upon her.

 

——

 

A panic in Germina. [Assassins] were running around like frightened nursemaids, and subjects of Germina were standing in a huge crowd just outside the capital city.

Quarass, come down! It is not safe!

They remonstrated with the child hovering in the air so high she herself was barely visible, save for the Serkonian Lance held in one hand. That was a harsh, emerald green glow, like a star burning low in the desert sky.

The Quarass of Germina ignored them. She was flying as high as she could, magnifying her vision. She knew it was ludicrous, even with all the spells she could cast, but she wanted to see.

“So it is a Draconic Warrior. Nothing less would have you flying.”

Her hands were too-tight on her staff as she counted the poisons buried in her vaults and made plans. She had known he was alive. But she hadn’t been sure if he would wait this age out, sticking to small deeds and commentary, just like all the others.

No, this time he had come as the warrior. The wrathful foe who burned so hot he reduced kingdoms to ash. The grieving hero who presided over the pyres of his foes. The doom whose light still lit the darkness of her dreams, even thousands of years later.

The Dragonlord of Flames had awoken, then. Let his enemies beware.

 

——

 

Dead silence in Invictel. In the cities of Dullahans, they had old tales too, but they marked their enemies, not fond myths of magic and wonder.

A giant figure strode past the Adamite Chosen, Dullahans wearing ancient sets of Adamantium. The Seer of Steel did not have to duck as he carried his head into a vast, glass dome set in the city, at one of the highest points.

The fact that head and body were united was rare. The Seer of Steel spoke, wishing Tulm were here. But then, the fact Tulm was not spoke to his foresight, as ever.

“WE CONFIRM IT AGAIN, THEN. NOT JUST THE EXISTENCE, BUT WHERE. MARK THE SPOT AND TELL TULM TO BEWARE. PYRELORD.”

Reverentially, the leader of the Iron Vanguard stopped in the middle of the vast dome that enhanced scrying spells to their limit. He placed his head in the center of the contraption as crystal magnifying glasses swung around the dome, locking together in the direction of Izril. And the Seer of Steel watched the comet passing by. Until the glow—vanished.

 

——

 

Three passes, and he was melting.

His bones were melting.

The Seith Cores were unable to keep his body intact. The Titan had been flailing, screaming, in pain.

He’d forgotten pain. That was one of the tricks of the Dragonlord’s breath. It reminded the immortals, those who held death in contempt, of their fragility. It was agonizing.

—But he had to live. Not this death. He had survived the madness of time. He had lain in the darkness so long, dreaming of the sky.

He refused to die yet. He had survived hell, gone insane, dragged himself out of it, and the voice had rewarded him only twice in the aeons of his despair.

The Titan’s arms were melting. He was virtually immobile; the flames had fused his body with the ground, but his chest and head were intact. After the first pass, he had pivoted into the fire. Shielding the only two parts of him that mattered.

The Dragonlord was coming a fourth time. He wouldn’t stop until the Draconic Warrior was dead, and it would not take many more passes. The one mercy was that the mortals had drawn back, stopped their assault.

An opening.

But the Dragonlord was moving so fast. The Titan’s burnt sockets rose to the sky, shedding smoke. He could see, even without the ruined eyeballs melting down his face. Impossibly fast. Death coming again in a line across the heavens.

Moving in a straight line. There would only be one chance. So the Titan whispered words it hadn’t spoken for twenty thousand years.

“[Emergency Healing]. [Lightspeed Reaction]. [I Pierced the Walls in Hate]. [Ray of Oblivion].

Flesh and bones regrew. The Titan became a blur of movement to the mortals fixed on his form.

A single line of red shot skywards and hit the comet; it fell from the skies, trailing fire. The Titan crowed in victory as it raised its ruined arms, and its flesh began to knit, bones fusing together. It stood there in contempt for that arrogant champion, melted flesh running off its body like tears.

Then the first oversized bolt of lightning actually knocked the Titan off its feet. It landed and rolled, wondering how…?

A woman in pink lowered a tube as a salute from the Emperor of Lightning traced itself across the sky. Then the mortals were attacking again. The Titan rose to its feet, laughing quietly, then bounding forwards, hands open, tearing.

 

——

 

—riarch? Teriarch!

He pushed himself up and knew his wound was bad. It had pierced even his good scales.

Hadn’t killed him.

There was that.

“I’m alive.”

The Dragonlord searched around for the enemy and then tried to climb out of the trough of dirt he’d created. The trough of broken stone he’d carved was littered with remnants of his Dragonbreath—and pieces of gold. His scales. He glanced at his right side and wished he hadn’t. There was a charred crater in his flank, and the spell had blasted a hole clean through his wing as well.

Bastard. He was quick. What was his class…?

Teriarch, he’s attacking 2nd Army! You have to get back here!

The Dragonlord knew he had to move. He limped forwards, ignoring the crunching of scales, trying to tell if he was bleeding. How deep…?

I’ve had deeper wounds. But he had a true, mortal opening now. Next phase. He could still fight. He could.

“Take—take down his body mass, as I said. Eighty percent. They can’t use Skills when they lose over twenty percent of their form…”

He was mumbling, running, realizing he wasn’t even on the right mountain. The Dragon whispered a spell and leapt, spreading his one good wing open and gliding with the aid of magic. He had to keep fighting. Dead gods, he hated an even match.

Of course they’d sent a monster to kill the Trolls. So fast. Too fast. He had to get in close now. The plan. Stick to…

He could hear voices over the speaking stones and flew faster, despite the agony. Mortals were dying again.

 

——

 

Now the reaper raised his scythe and cut a bloody harvest. The Titan thought of himself thusly, and he also thought of himself as Titan first. He had forgotten the days when he was a small Drake like the mortals below him.

His yellowed teeth pushed further out of their gums as the rotted warrior turned his attention to the pestilential army beneath his feet. He raised a hand and conjured a scythe of green magic to harvest lives.

And he was wrong. The analogy fit. The analogy of the scythe mowing down chaff was known in this world and others, but it was wrong.

Scythes cut wheat and other grains. Reapers, as in Grim Reapers, were fables. Images associated with death that deviated from the real act entirely.

The Mortemdefieir Titan was no scytheman harvesting lives. He was more akin to the farmer eradicating fields infested with mice. All the pleasure he took in the act, his vindictive war with beings so much smaller and individually weaker than he was, resembled the thrashing of a furious and malignant child.

There was no grave impartiality with which he raised that scythe which could harvest countless lives in a single stroke. There was no care for each and every stalk and grain of life, no matter how large or small, no fairness in how the Titan acted.

He was no reaper.

—The Draconic Warrior hesitated and swung his scythe down in a wide, cleaving blow, the sickle blade running across the ground. With pure, brute strength, he cleaved the magical weapon through flesh and bones, bisecting dozens of [Soldiers] at the waists in a single blow. Then he swung the scythe back the other way, crowing with delight.

Come, come! I have such art to make of your bodies! A present for Mother!

With each step he advanced, he swung the scythe back and forth until the hail of blazing, red projectiles made him shield his still-healing face with an arm. The Titan turned and saw the Golems.

“Terland.”

He tensed, jumped, and then he was falling towards the knot of Golems led by Lord Xitegen. The Titan brought down his scythe on the artillery-Golem fearlessly firing arrows up at him. Burning orange explosions pockmarked his flesh, and the scythe cut the Golem apart. Magic thousands of years old made a curious whispering shriek as the Golem fell apart, and the mortal soldiers cried out in anguish. Then wailed as the blade cut across them.

 

——

 

The Solstice seemed pleasant compared to this. At least those monsters hadn’t been this fast. Xitegen Terland sprinted for cover with his two Golem attendants, leaving those unfortunate enough to be left behind to die.

When he turned, slamming his shoulder into a boulder, Xitegen saw red staining the rocks all around the remains of the beautiful Golem Harbinec, now pieces of ceramics and a sundered Golem heart spilling magicore onto the ground.

Gone. A treasure of House Terland forever destroyed. More importantly, the brave men and women who had tried to defend her now bloody stains the Titan was grinding under one bare foot. He turned his head, grinning at Xitegen, as General Shirka shouted orders in the background. They had to fight the damn monstrosity, keep it down, wound it, while the Dragonlord returned.

Wound that?

Lord Xitegen’s faith in his Golems, his own Skills, wavered as he met the corpse-monster’s gaze. He pointed a finger.

“[Again, and Again, and Ever Again], [Covering Fire].”

Burning arrows fell from the skies, gifted to him by the Dragonlord of Flames. They littered the Draconic Warrior’s flesh like angry ticks, burrowing deep and removing chunks of his skin, but how ineffective it was!

My legs for a sword! A damn Relic! That Dragon hadn’t bequeathed a single one to the assembled forces here! Only arrows and temporary munitions! Why?

Xitegen drew no sword as the Titan stepped towards him. He was no gifted fighter. Primera and Seconda, his Golem bodyguards, would keep him safe. If not…

[Shuttle Run: Fast As You Can]! Lord Xitegen turned and sprinted for it. He heard booming laughter behind him as he dashed, zigzagging around boulders, leaping over stones and praying he didn’t twist an ankle. He had Boots of Speed on, and as he leapt over a patch of gravel, something struck the ground behind him.

A sigh as that lurid green magic pierced the ground deep, then a thunderous rumble as it yanked stone and dirt and the scythe’s blade up. Xitegen ran right, shot a glance over his shoulder—

The Titan was swinging the scythe up again, one-handed. The other was open-palmed, aiming downwards, spraying the ground and House Terland’s soldiers with black fog. Men and women folded up as they clutched at their throats, dropping dead, then jerking to their feet and rising as undead.

Death fog or something. The Titan swung the scythe upwards and cleaved a Wyvern in twain as Major Hiclaw’s forces whirled back. The Titan spat a bolt of lightning that caught another Wyvern dead on; it might not have killed the poor beast, but rider and Wyvern went flying down in a scream. Then the scythe was back on its shoulder, and he was glancing at Xitegen.

Destruction incarnate. Even the legendary tales of the greatest War Golems that Xitegen had read of seemed to pale in comparison to the Drakes’ finest weapon of war. It was enough to make the man’s limbs heavy and eclipse all hope of survival.

So this monstrosity was the second-worst thing Xitegen had ever seen in his life.

The Goblin King was ever worse.

The [Lord] pivoted, and one finger pointed as he dashed forwards.

[Awaken the Constructs]—Primera, Seconda, now! All forces, bring it down.

He gave no further orders; he was no strategist or general. The glowing lights of every Golem, eyes and their Golem Hearts, brightened and shone as they moved faster, with more certainty. His two servants leapt as Xitegen kept running—away from any allied forces. The scythe swung down as he sprinted faster, heart thundering in his chest.

A wall of lurid green energy slammed into the ground ahead of the [Lord], and he twisted desperately. His right shoulder passed by the magical scythe, and he felt a tingling—Xitegen dashed backwards, but it didn’t sweep towards him. He gazed up and saw the Titan shaking out its right arm.

Primera and Seconda crashed down, cracks on their porcelain features. The Titan’s right arm jerked spasmodically, and he abandoned his scythe a second; his left hand snatched something, and Xitegen saw the Draconic Warrior’s leg was under attack.

Controller Lectara, armored in her Golem suit, was striking the pallid flesh with her fists, tearing out chunks of the Titan’s skin and firing every spell the Golem shell she wore had been augmented with. Battle Golems were climbing the Titan’s leg, adding their own weight and mass to the attempt to knock the Titan down.

Lord Xitegen, we’re closing the net! Hold a second longer! We’re teleporting you—

“Forget me! Save Lectara!”

Xitegen shouted into a speaking stone desperately; he saw the Titan snatch his subordinate and raise her in one fist. Her armor creaked, and barrier spells imploded as the Titan tried to crush her one-handed. Her Golem-armor refused to break so easily, but Xitegen heard a high-pitched whining. The Titan’s other hand came up, and two fingers pinched the Human woman’s head.

Like a child would rip the head off a toy soldier.

Lectara vanished in a glowing shimmer of motes a second before the Titan ripped her armor apart. She reappeared behind House Terland’s lines, stumbling, before regaining her balance and moving back to the front lines.

Frustrated, the Titan threw the armor down, kicked a Battle Golem, and pointed a finger at Xitegen.

The finger fell off the hand as a green-and-red figure dropped from above. Xitegen blinked; Redscar plunged downwards as Frost Wyverns strafed the Titan with freezing breath. Then he saw 2nd Army’s [Soldiers] pouring towards the Titan’s feet.

The Flooded Waters tribe backed away as the Titan swung a fist at the Frost Wyvern dodging out of view. However, again—Xitegen’s eyes narrowed as he saw the arm wobble and the backhand fist miss the Wyvern.

Was that Reinhart’s doing or…? The Titan visibly grew frustrated and lashed out with a kick at the nearest Golem before seizing his scythe up.

Watch the scythe! Shieldwall formations! Don’t let it reposition—

Strategist Ulhouse was giving orders, but a second voice cut over the stone.

Chieftain Rags. The right arm and both legs are weaker. Their Seith Cores were damaged or destroyed. Has anyone seen a Seith Core?

Negative. How deep are they buried?

The Titan had been damaged down to its bones in places by the Dragonlord’s assault. Xitegen had been wondering the same thing—as he ran further from the battle behind him, calling in another shower of arrows, he heard a rasping wheeze. The Dragonlord.

Not…each limb. Moving them. Chest and head.

Xitegen shot a glance over his shoulder and grunted. That explained it. The Titan was content to take damage to its limbs, but it had shielded those two parts.

“Break the center and all the core-things go down with it. Wonderful. General Shirka, pull your [Soldiers] back and let my Golems take the brunt of the assault. They’re going to be slaughtered.”

The scythe dipped and cut, and Xitegen saw 2nd Army’s lines tighten up. It wasn’t like spreading out would save them. Poor, brave bastards. This is what Golems were for. General Shirka’s voice was intense in Xitegen’s ear.

“Negative. 2nd Army, hold your ground.”

 

——

 

The Mortemdefieir Titan had recovered from most of its wounds already. It was, still, visibly slower than it had been, but each second saw it moving faster.

And it had Skills.

A platoon died as the glowing scythe swept through them—then the magical blade finally shattered. Every [Mage] in 2nd Army had been trying to dispel it this entire time.

It barely slowed the old warrior. He simply began sweeping two spells around him, rotating with his remaining fingers splayed.

Blood, thick and red, and green poison. The blood became blades which slashed down on [Soldiers] before the poison dropped them. Then the corpses rose.

2nd Army was moving around Shirka like a single organism unified through her, seeking to contain and destroy this gigantic threat.

Ants besieging an invading toad made of rotten flesh. The General of 2nd Army saw and felt it all from her command area behind the embattled front lines.

She hadn’t moved. Her arms were crossed as she watched the Draconic Titan cavort, a sick expression of glee on his face. She could have entered the battle and charged.

He wanted that. The Titan was casting around for Lord Xitegen, searching for the people who held together their forces. Bellowing challenges.

“Is this all you have, little cousins? Face me! I hail from the City of Graves. Once more, I shall teach you and every lesser race their place.”

He opened his mouth and fired another ray skywards, this time at the Goblins on the cliffs. Shirka listened to casualty reports coming in.

—Four Thunderbows down. Repositioning…

4th and 5th Squads pulling back. The poison kills in seconds. We need a [Healer] at—

Coming in for another pass. Give us covering fire.

That was Major Hiclaw. His Wyverns were dying. The Titan kept picking them off as the greatest of threats. Even now, he spun as the Wyvern Lord dove, and Hiclaw and his personal flight both opened up Dragonbreath on him.

Now.

“Swords, take the leg out.”

Shirka said it for the benefit of the others, but 2nd Army was already moving. That [Ray of Oblivion] spell hit the Wyvern Lord full on, and Shirka grimaced; with a screech, the gigantic Wyvern fell out of the skies.

But the flames boiled away the flesh until thick, yellowed bones exposed the chest, and the Titan pivoted, protectively covering his chest. He sprayed a cloud of black fog around him, tensed to leap…

Shirka saw the massive form of the Titan jump out of the clouds, repositioning, and then curve. The Titan hit the ground, barely a hundred feet away, cursing, and she saw his left leg fold under him.

Got you.

[Soldiers] armed with swords were still clinging to the Titan’s leg, slashing at the nerves and tendons, hacking through the flesh. Shirka thought-spoke her next order.

“Alchemy squads—ready for my mark.”

In position, General.

The Titan was getting up. He rolled over his leg, tearing at the [Soldiers] trying to disengage, and Shirka felt three die.

She knew their names, connected to each one. Felt those moments of terror, determination, the flashes of agony until they were gone. The Titan tweezed an enchanted sword out of its leg, and Shirka spoke as it rose.

“Mark. [Army: The Alchemist’s Kiss].”

The Titan glanced up and twisted—the explosion caught him in the right breast and sent him smashing flat again. The backblast made everyone around Shirka stumble; wind and dust kicked up as hundreds of alchemical flasks detonated.

Shirka’s 2nd Army used the power of Pallass well. Alchemy. That was one of Saliss’ own personal alchemy combinations.

“Come on, come on, you damn freak…”

Ulhouse was growling as he trained a spyglass on the moving figure of the Titan. It sat up, and Shirka saw two glowing white orbs hidden behind the ribs before flesh swiftly re-knitted. The Titan lifted a hand as everything came at it.

Explosive arrows from above. Goblin Thunderbows, aiming pinpoint volleys. Battle spells—every arrow 2nd Army had—another booming bolt of lightning from Magnolia Reinhart’s relics.

He sacrificed his arm to shield his torso. When the Titan lowered the limb, Shirka saw more bone than flesh, but it was already regenerating as the Mortemdefieir Titan stood with a snarl of genuine fear.

One opportunity gone. Shirka’s eyes narrowed fractionally. This was identical to her image of fighting Wrymvr the Deathless. Healing without end, a war of attrition that would only swing one way, but the Titan was even more dangerous still.

Kill it! Coordinates locked!

Ulhouse was screaming, and a spell flashed down from the heavens. Pallass’ support, or maybe Manus’.

A spear made of flames the size of the Titan. It drove downwards, straight for the chest. Burning fire from the vaults of a Walled City saved for this exact occasion.

“Too slow.”

Shirka was ordering her troops to fall back, to re-establish their shield lines. Ulhouse twisted, half to eye her. But it—

The spear of flames touched down but never burned the Titan. Shirka saw a sword cleave the spear in two, and the Titan rose. He brought the sword low, and more of her people died.

A sword in his hands now. A longsword bearing the sigil of Pallass on the pommel. Glowing with faint magic.

“[Spoils of the Dead: Fit for My Hand]. A pitiful tool for a pitiful era. Where are you, little [General]? Ah. There you are.

When he turned, she saw a swordsman holding the sword with its point aimed at her, and Shirka understood.

So that’s why the Dragonlord didn’t arm us except with arrows. He’d suspected the Titan could steal weapons.

“Incoming.”

Shirka reached down and flipped her own weapon into her hand as her other found a vial and uncorked it. She took a sip as the Titan threw a piece of its flesh at her. Then it began to slash about itself with the sword, mocking the mortals.

The glob of flesh from its chest morphed, splitting. Shirka saw faces appear, blank-faced and rotten, embedded in the flesh. The main body landed as she jumped back, and the faces in the glob of flesh opened their mouths, revealing biting, extending, lolling spiked tongues. Another piece of flesh crashed down, morphing trunk-like, stubby limbs and pulling itself up, raising a fist.

Crypt Lords and some kind of greater undead. Shirka threw the weapon in her dominant hand. A hatchet; it thunked deep into the nearest Crypt Lord, and the buried metal head exploded. Shirka raised a hand and caught her throwing axe as her bodyguard pushed forwards. As she fought, she could still feel her soldiers dying.

The Titan was swinging that sword around in huge, long arcs. Bending over to slash its blade along the ground and crush or cut everything in its path. It got several Goblins who failed to duck or jump the blade, cut apart a squad of Shirka’s soldiers.

Then the sword hit a line of 2nd Army’s forces who’d formed a classic spear-and-shield wall. [Soldiers] stood shoulder-to-shoulder, shields raised, as spears from the second rank pointed forwards.

The sword cut across the immobile ranks of her forces and glanced off. The Titan pivoted, eyes narrowed, as the front ranks staggered and were caught by their companions.

Two-handed, the Titan gripped its sword tighter and swung a second time. Shirka ducked a barbed tongue and threw her hatchet again. But her soul was with 2nd Army, with the front lines. Every member of her army on the field was right there, teeth clenched together, braced. That bastard’s sword hit the massed [Soldiers], and everyone in 2nd Army felt it and—heaved.

[Army: Combined Action — Push].

For the first time, the Titan’s arm jerked back, and the gigantic sword nearly tore from his grip as he reeled backwards. His eyes opened wide with shock, and Shirka gave the order.

Now! Get him!

Her forces were moving at the speed of thought. They broke forwards in a rush, dodging his desperate, off-balance swipes, coordinating their attacks as they swarmed his feet, stabbing, reacting to threats they couldn’t see, one unified army.

A copy of the famous Antinium hivemind. An army who reacted like a single, instinctive organism.

They took his toes off first. Ripped little bones out of his feet, hacked chunks off his feet as he tried to dance backwards, kicking an army of furious armored shapes a tenth his size. But they kept coming. Through the poison he spewed, avoiding bolts of magic, getting up after being smashed flat by his fists. Dying, cutting, mouths locked into snarls of their own behind their alchemy masks.

—Until he used a Skill. One Skill, and all those minds vanished, and the sword rose, dripping with blood, a chunk of land cleaved free. Then the ancient Drake laughed until the Wyvern Lord rose unsteadily and breathed enough ice to freeze the very scales off the Titan’s face.

He skipped backwards, stumbling, slashing at Magnolia Reinhart’s servants now, who peppered his bad arm with their own artifacts. His flesh was regrowing, toes reappearing—and he threw a glance over his shoulder at General Shirka. One peeking eye, surrounded by mounds of flesh being incinerated by her [Mages], found her.

The Titan bent over and peered at her, teeth bared, and that gloating face became uncertain. A frown—a waver in his own poise as he searched for what he could not find. Dismay. Anger. Fury.

2nd Army’s [General] stood there, arms crossed, gore on her armor and hanging from her tail, watching him. She was bleeding. Her boys and girls were dying. But they kept coming, forming walls of steel and will. [Alchemists] opening flasks which spewed ominous smoke.

[Soldiers] pulling each other up and willing wounded friends to live. Abandoning the dead because there was nothing there. And ever-following their [General], who spoke so seldom.

A stone-faced Drake, face unmoving, giving curt orders.

A snarling, spitting beast of war, demanding the Titan’s head.

Right by their sides, the voice in their ears telling them to dodge, to keep going. With them until the very end. They were never alone.

Thudthudthudthud.

2nd Army advanced, and General Shirka was the only one who was ever truly by herself. She faced a monster from the old eras as her army bled its lifeblood onto this field.

She had faced worse. Seen more of her people die. She had fought wars against rival armies of Drake and Human and Gnoll.

Bleed for me, Titan. Use another Skill until you run out. Your magic is waning faster than it’s recovering.

I will see you die.

Shirka’s claws opened and closed, reaching for the Titan’s throat. She ran across the ground, a thousand pieces of her hungry for its blood. The Draconic Warrior saw her, then. It lost its smile and crouched.

It leapt like a shadow into the sky and fell to earth, blade aimed for the [General].

The Titan of Baleros said:

Mark.

 

——

 

She was weeping as Goblins died. Wiping at her eyes and giving orders in a shaking voice. She didn’t want this. She couldn’t do this.

But here she was. She saw every moment, and when the Titan fell, chest glowing like a funereal pyre of every color, downed by the Forgotten Wing company’s surprise attack, she gave the order.

“Snapjaw, Prixall, Redscar, go.

Three Goblins led their warriors down, leaping off Frost Wyverns and aiming for the Seith Cores visible in the Titan’s body. The Seith Cores were trying to move deeper into the rotted flesh, away from the open air.

—The Titan refused to let the Goblins destroy another. It was lying on its back, mouth open, eyes unfocused and wide. Then it saw Redscar diving, blades drawn, and the Titan vanished.

It moved so fast that Rags had to find it again and saw it hunched with its back to everyone, like a child trying to play hide-and-seek. 2nd Army pivoted on it at once as Redscar’s cursing came through the speaking stone. The Titan of Baleros’ voice too.

We cannot commit more spells. Tell me that got it.

“H-hold! We’re trying to take him out! Almost—[Unit: Teleportation Advance]!”

 

——

 

The [Student] pointed a finger, and the Titan’s head turned in the window he had of the battlefield.

Niers Astoragon was aware he was, perhaps, the only outsider with any view of the battlefield at this moment. So he was taking notes. Or rather, recording everything.

Multiple [Mages] were peering to see as much as they could of the battlefield. Foliana was invisible so as not to obstruct their views, and behind Niers, Ryoka Griffin, Erin Solstice, and as many [Strategists] as could fit into a room were standing there.

Iuncuta Eirnos blinked her good eye when she heard the Skill.

“What was that? That’s not a low-level [Strategist]—”

Niers cut her off with a glare. He swivelled back to the image, praying the window wouldn’t close. The Titan was roaring, kicking and swinging his blade around wildly—his flesh was rapidly regrowing around his chest, but the window the Forgotten Wing company had opened was still there.

If anyone could hit him. Right now, it looked like the Titan was poised to do more damage to 2nd Army. He was stabbing down in a flurry of strikes with his sword. It might have literally been a [Flurry of Strikes] Skill; he kicked at the Goblins who were chasing after him.

Redscar raised his sword, and Niers saw a tiny figure grinning in the second before he vanished. The Titan’s foot passed through the spot where he had been, and the huge warrior stumbled before catching himself. He swung his sword at a squad of 2nd Army’s [Soldiers] and then jerked.

The sword seemed to slip sideways. Niers saw the Titan stop his whirling attacks in every direction and look down.

A figure went tumbling backwards as the [Soldiers] fell back in good order. Niers murmured.

“He parried it.”

“Impossible. He just blocked the blow with a Skill.”

One of the younger [Strategists] who’d joined the Forgotten Wing company after Velan the Kind had become the Goblin King protested. This time, Niers said nothing.

“That was a parry. He’d be a good Tallguard.”

Commander Rozcal of Reton rumbled, voice approving. Niers’ saw the Old One raise a foot to stomp downwards, and Redscar ran for it. He crossed his swords and vanished as the foot came down. When the Titan raised his foot, the [Blademaster] was clinging to the leg, and a visible gash was deep in the ankle.

A voice in the silent room. Foliana rematerialized and glanced around.

“Find out what he likes to eat.”

No one said a word as the Titan tried to belch stomach acid and more maggots down on the [Soldiers] in front of him. Niers was searching everywhere. Where was the rest of Rags’ Skill? She wasn’t stupid enough to waste it…

Then he saw a curtain of air peel backwards, like a vast painting revealing huge, flying Wyverns behind it. A cackling Goblin [Witch] undid her illusion spell. Snapjaw and her Frost Wyvern appeared out of the air with two dozen Wyverns at her back.

“[Unit: Big Belch]!”

Her faint voice drifted up to Niers, and every Wyvern in her formation exhaled at once. They caught the Old One straight in the chest, and this time, Niers saw a familiar, white, glowing orb. He sat forwards.

 

——

 

—using Skills on my people! That Goblin does not have authority to—

Major Hiclaw had been throwing ten kinds of shit through the speaking stone link until his Wyverns hit the Draconic Warrior. Then he made a choking noise and fell silent.

[Teleportation Advance]. Prixall’s illusion magic wasn’t enough to cast [Mass Invisibility] on a bunch of flying Wyverns, but she could just hide them in the air. And Snapjaw?

The [Chieftain of the Maw] had the silliest sounding Skill in the world. It could make a Hobgoblin burping contest so loud they could cause earthquakes in the High Passes. Or—on Icecube and Wyverns—

It made a whole lot of Dragonbreath.

The first wave of Wyverns hit the Titan with a wave of multi-colored elemental breaths that washed over his chest, obliterating flesh and his ribs. The second pass, led by Hiclaw, exhaled, and the combined Dragonbreath burned clean through Mortemdefieir Titan’s back.

There it was, just under one ribcage, mirroring his heart. A Seith Core shone nakedly towards the sun.

Hit the core! Now!

Shirka roared, and every [Archer] with a shot tried to take it. The Titan spun, visibly disoriented, shielding his exposed stomach and the hole running through his intestines with his hand. He stumbled away, but the Wyverns were all over him.

The fury of Manus rained down in strafing runs as the Wyvern flights burnt through the Titan’s back. They broke off, circled, and came back in an onslaught faster than the regeneration of the warrior. He slashed at them, but the mobile Wyverns were diving fast under the Wing Commander, evading the blade.

And while the Titan was trying to escape the Wyverns, the ground forces were preparing to take the Draconic Warrior’s feet out. He stumbled again as something hit one foot so hard it broke every toe. The pink carriage went spinning away, and the Titan fell to one knee.

The rotted, gigantic Drake glanced over his shoulder as Wyverns swept over his back, blasting through one shoulder blade. His eyes were open wide with fear for the lesser species of Dragons.

Fear—and wrath.

How dare you. You? The Dragonlord was one thing. But mere Wyverns?

Manus?

That rotted throat croaked reluctantly. The single good arm of the Titan rose to the sky as his other arm shielded his chest. He reached upwards in supplication and spoke.

“[Bound Spell: The Dragonfly Net]. Mershi. MERSHI!

Above him, the clouded spring skies darkened. The diving Wyverns faltered, and a voice broke over the speaking stones.

“That bad! Run! Run!

Snapjaw. Her Frost Wyvern and the flights near her dove away. Major Hiclaw’s forces continued strafing.

Belay that order! Barrier spells! Dispel hostile magics! Disp—Ancestors.”

 

——

 

On the ground, in the air, the mortals gazed up as the sky darkened. And twice now, across Izril, people in far-distant cities stared up and pointed. Children tugged at their parent’s hands.

Look. Look at that.

The stars were out.

They shone through the navy blue sky over the High Passes. Stars. Glowing dots in the sky. Nine stars that formed a…a constellation, a picture in the sky that no one had ever seen before.

People peered up and frowned, shading their eyes to see. What was that? Those stars—

They seemed like a net. A long pole and a net. But why those stars? And why did they glow? Only a few people looked up and felt that ancient, familiar terror.

Even the Immortal Tyrant stopped smiling for a second. She studied it and named what she saw.

“Constellation magic.”

Then the stars flashed, and she wondered how many had died.

 

——

 

Constellation magic of Mershi, the City of Stars.

Prixall, the [Witch] of the Molten Stone tribe, had heard stories from her mother of grand magics of the Walled Cities. She stood on the ground as the glowing stars seemed to project their astral fire downwards. Power bled down out of the heavens and formed lines of stellar magic, bound together in imitation of the constellation above.

A net. A net made of starfire. It swung down and dragged itself through the air, across the ground, blazing with light so bright it seared her retinas.

She ran. The [Witch] was a Goblin; she turned and ran with every [Soldier] who saw it as the edge of the net dragged across the valley floor in a wall of fast-moving, white-hot fire. But they weren’t the target of the spell.

The Wyverns fell, burning, scales charred to ash, and one of them struck the ground in front of Prixall and a squad of [Soldiers]. They ran around the blackened corpse; the rider was gone. Prixall heard screams through the speaking stone.

[Full-Speed Fallback]. Hiclaw, get out of there. All soldiers, pull back, pull back.

Shirka’s voice was steady. The net swept the ground as the Titan lay there, healing. He raised his head, dripping saliva, grinning balefully at them all.

The edge of the net was sweeping towards them. Prixall had already cast [Speed] on herself and everyone around her. She was running up the valley and saw Snapjaw diving towards her, but the flames were going to burn all of them…

A figure bounded towards Prixall, and she dodged. Someone was running the other way? Prixall saw a green figure and a familiar, crimson sword. Redscar? She twisted, and the Goblin jumped into the air.

He had only Garen Redfang’s blade in his hand. The Goblin seemed to hang in the air for a single, long moment as the edge of the net dragged towards him. Then he cut downwards.

[Sword Art: The Lightning Split].

The stellar fire unravelled in front of him, and the section of the net in front of the Goblins and [Soldiers] came undone. The blazing strands passed by on either side of Prixall, and she flinched as the heat turned the ground to glass. Then—the magical spell pulled upwards and vanished, and the twinkling stars glowed for another few seconds before winking out.

Prixall didn’t realize she was sitting down until Redscar strode back towards her and held out a hand. The Goblin checked his blade as he sheathed it.

“Come on. He’s healing. We have to start again.”

He yanked the [Witch] up as she, Snapjaw, Icecube, and the panting [Soldiers] stared at him. The Wyvern Riders were trying to regroup—a third of them had just vanished. And the Titan was getting back up.

“How did you do that, Redscar?”

Snapjaw called down to the Goblin, and he shrugged.

“I fought a stupid lightning man. Come on.”

When they saw the Titan turn, eyes glowing balefully, he showed them his healed chest, and Prixall sighed.

 

——

 

The Titan of Baleros’s voice was calm. Nothing about Rags was calm, but he injected some of it into her head.

“—out of that.”

“Wh-what? Professor?”

Her Skill was fading out, but the Titan of Baleros was able to speak for a few more moments. The image of him grew hazy, and he spoke again, a tiny man staring down his namesake. Rags was shaking; the glassy marks on the valley floor caused by that constellation spell were still smoldering.

“He’s out of his big Skills and spells. That was a trump card, I’m sure. Did you crack any of those magical Seith Cores? I didn’t have a full view of the offensive.”

Rags shook her head. The Draconic Warrior had recovered all the damage they’d worked so hard to inflict. He was still crouched, his back to the other armies, and one finger seemed to be doodling in the ground. Like a child sulking.

“N-negative. I’m sorry, sir.”

Don’t apologize. Get the bastard.

The window blinked out before she could respond, and the young Goblin felt like puking. They were trying. But he just kept—

“That’s three major Skills and a bound spell down. Renew the assault.”

General Shirka spoke as if she were filled with ice. As if she hadn’t just seen a dozen of Wyverns burn and fall like flies.

Her 2nd Army had bled more than any other force on the field by far, but her [Soldiers] just advanced as the Titan uncurled; its back was a smoking mass, but half its ribs and flesh had regrown as it swivelled around to face the mortal army.

When it did—it had something in its claws. Rags’ eyes focused on it. It looked like a rune. A magical spell? Oh, oh—she wasn’t good at magic. But she understood it. It said…

Bleed.

The young Goblin rubbed at one eye. Her hand came away wet. She tried to see the liquid on her hands. Then felt it running from her mouth, her nose, her ears.

“Healing potions.”

The Goblin mumbled. She felt at her side and saw Taganchiel topple over next to her. The rune pulsed in the Titan’s claws as he stood.

“[The Blood Festers, and Rots].”

His voice was crooning, and when he said it, Rags convulsed on the ground. She grew terribly cold, and her hand spasmed. Goblins around her reached for her, and she tried to scream.

“No potion! No! Don’t look! Don’t—

They didn’t understand fast enough. Goblins gazed down and then bled and caught the sickness he sent them. They reached for healing potions—potions that would kill them by accelerating the rot.

He’d figured out a weakness of theirs. Mortal armies low on proper healing potions—no, unable to counter a mass-wounding spell. The Titan beamed as he bent over writhing figures and then peered around. He began striding, quickly, towards the [General] standing and spitting blood onto the ground.

Do something. Do something. The [Student] was choking on blood in her lungs, in her nose, mouth, ears—filled with despair. She was begging the Professor to come back in her head. But it wasn’t her fault.

Those glorious promises in her head and heart. The Goblins were all looking towards her. Where were her better days? Where was that promise written on her soul?

“Show me…that…brighter—”

The [Student] gurgled, and the Dragonlord roared. He swept his head over the valley and breathed flame.

Fire rained down and struck Rags. A falling sheet of white fire, laced with hints of peridot green and gentle blue aquamarine.

It should have hurt. It should have burned her as she lay, her blood burning and festering in her veins. Instead, a breath of pure, radiant air had entered her lungs, and she sat up and felt like she had inhaled life itself.

Rags stopped coughing. She sat up, spitting blood, and heard Taganchiel cry out in relief as he felt the same blessed magic sweeping over him. Rags touched the flames burning over her and saw them coating the valley below. Then she looked up and saw the Dragon breathing flames into the sky, a rain of purifying fire.

The Titan stopped laughing and swivelled from General Shirka. He lifted one hand as the flames ate into his flesh, turning it to ash. A second time, the two of them locked gazes.

“That will cost you your life, Pyrelord.”

The Draconic Warrior gripped his sword tighter in two hands as he bent his knees to jump. The panting Dragon silently bared his fangs, and the Titan’s smile stretched until it transfigured the entire face, his lips cracking to let out a gleeful little voice.

You’re out of flames now.

The Dragon jumped from his perch and hit the Titan, and the two crashed down into the center of the valley, fighting with fang and blade, claw and fist.

 

——

 

The mortals had forced the Draconic Warrior to use his precious Skills and magic. He was running low on spellcasting, hence the use of a blade rather than his spells. But the Dragonlord of Flames had sacrificed his breath for the mortals.

He had mastered Dragonflame in every form. He could breathe smog or lightning, even ice. Yes, he could breathe purifying flames, but nothing was infinite.

His lungs burned and ached. He could not breathe as they collided in the air, and then the miasma of the Titan’s body was about him. They cast few spells as they landed, lashing out at each other.

Gone was any pretense at elegant duels of magic. They tore at each other, trying to gain leverage, strike a weak spot, wrestling on the pitiless ground. The Dragon bit and ripped worm-riddled flesh free. He felt hands trying to find his eyes, clumsy huge fingers trying to gouge them out. He was afraid.

Afraid. Always, always.

He sometimes got mad at them for mocking him. For teasing him, or how they grew angry because he was a Dragon, vaster and stronger and more magical than all but Giants. As if he didn’t know. If it were so easy, he wanted to shout at them—

If it were so easy, why have my people died?

Skills. His opponent had Skills, and he had none. In magic, in physical combat—the rule was the same. I have to know what his trick is.

The Titan’s trick was speed. Agility. He threw powerful magic fast and hard. 2nd Army had forced him to use some of his better Skills, but even then, even now, the Dragonlord knew the rule. Attack mercilessly with guile and savagery and skill and you might win.

—But you’d suffer. You couldn’t anticipate every Skill.

At first, he had the advantage. They tumbled downwards, and Teriarch was on top of the Titan. He weighed more; he had his armored scales on his side, and he bit and tore pieces of the Titan off.

Now I know where your cores are hiding. The chest! All four of them had to be in there. It was also why the Titan was having trouble with its coordination. The damaged or destroyed Seith Cores weakened his magical output, and his limbs grew less responsive.

Giants, now, Giants hadn’t been made, so they could be so much more adept in ways that had nothing to do with war. A Giant could write; most Draconic Warriors had lost that simple dexterity. But it hadn’t mattered in the…

The first blow that didn’t glance off his scales came as Teriarch opened his mouth to rip through a maggot-riddled rib. He was gagging at the taste, trying to exhale any flames—

Impact. His sinuous head curved backwards, and Teriarch’s entire body lifted a moment as the Titan threw a punch upwards. Too fast to see. The Dragonlord felt that.

A second punch glanced off his chest scales, a dull impact he barely felt. His entire body was a fortress, one of the strongest ever conceived. It would take more than even a Titan’s swing to knock him down. Teriarch snapped back with his head, claws raised and—

Four? He took another blow to the head; two to the chest, one to his wings. They hurt.

Some kind of Skill. Teriarch drew his head back as he reared up on his hind legs, slashing desperately. He dug them into the Titan’s arm as the roaring warrior of rot pummeled his body with the other hand.

They were rolling across the floor of the valley, across the stone and dirt, smashing boulders to dust with their sheer weight. Teriarch kept his long neck moving, weaving, like his sparring practice with Alber. He couldn’t let his head take too many blows.

That, of course, left his body open to the hammer-punches, which came harder and harder, like a smith trying to beat metal on an anvil. Worse, Teriarch’s damaged scales meant the structure of his armor was compromised. The metal gave—slowly—but flesh and blood moved and bruised.

Too fast. For each snap of his teeth and gouging of his claws, the Dragonlord felt the Draconic Warrior land two blows, three, a blur beneath him.

Rotten flesh. Slower, slower than living. But there was no pain to inflict, no blood to leech or boil with spells. Just stringy, stubborn meat clinging to bones. He tried to pull more up, and the Draconic Warrior—

A hand grabbed the Dragon’s neck as he tried to yank it back. Then Teriarch saw a slab of meat rise and fall—

 

——

 

The elbow caught the Dragonlord across the face, and the Son of Graves rejoiced. Suffer! The Tyrant of Flames felt that! He—Teriarch—

The Dragonlord of Flames felt it. A legend of the world was twisting in the Draconic Warrior’s grip, unable to break free, reeling, blood running from an eye socket. He was stronger. Stronger than a Dragonlord!

No moment of intimacy, no other victory or triumph or achievement had ever been as ecstatic as this. The Titan felt arousal and lust and hatred and countless conflicting emotions leading to one emotion he called joy.

His repeated blows to the Dragonlord’s head ended as his Skill finally gave way to what felt like a snail’s crawling pace, a slowness in the world after his superior state of being. The Titan raised his free hand to probe at the Dragonlord’s side.

The scales. He had to dig his fingers into the wound he’d made, rip the Dragon apart from the inside, infect his entrails. The Titan realized, though, that something was wrong.

Teriarch’s scales were already damaged. Shredded—and not just by his capstone Skill. They had rends in them, gashes caused by some weapon. He was already wounded? Or had his injuries refused to heal? The Titan’s fingers found the ragged weal of destroyed scales and began to dig into the vulnerable flesh beneath.

Scoop his insides out. Delicious, wet, and then wear his hide. Give it as a gift to Skinner and stack his bones on an altar to Mother and then—

The Titan felt the Dragonlord’s claws digging into his own body, vaguely, but it was futile. Let his foe savage him; the wound healed oh so fast, even weakened as the Son of Graves was. It didn’t hurt.

The Mortemdefieir Titan shook the Dragonlord’s head to see his face of agony as he dug his claws into the exposed flesh. He wanted to see terror, fear, in the being who had frightened him, even when he was supposed to be invincible, that burning warrior of flames who had brought obliterating light even to the darkest places.

Instead, those famous eyes opened, like a distant sea, and there was only willpower there. A bronze sea below the cerulean currents. The Titan didn’t understand. Then he saw the Dragonlord’s teeth were shining, sparking. The claws in the Titan’s body ignited

Brass Dragon. Masters of alchemy and metal, fire and force. The claws were spraying sparks and reacting to the air. Then they touched.

Click.

 

——

 

His claws caused an explosive reaction that blew apart the arm holding his neck. Teriarch did that rather than expose the Seith Cores. When he bit, his teeth caused another detonation.

How, Ressa had no idea. Some secretion secret only to Brass Dragons? Or a spell? It gouged more flesh out as the Titan flailed, now trying to get away. His arm flopped around on the ground, trying to return to the body, and that was when Ressa acted.

Staff—take down that limb! Now!

She raised her dagger, the Blade of Grass, overhead and ran for the limb with every servant fleet of foot. They dodged around the tumbling giants, and Ressa tossed her first throwing knife into the arm, anchoring the blade to a chain. It thunked in deep, and she tossed the chain to the figure running next to her.

Reynold. He seized it and heaved as more ropes flew. [Maids] and [Butlers] trying to web the limb down along with 2nd Army’s cavalry. No one else was close to the two brawling titans; this was insanity.

It was all they could do to help. No one could fire into that melee between the two without fear of hurting Teriarch, and the two rolling figures—

A [Maid] vanished beneath one wing of the Dragonlord as the Titan threw him back, headbutting, biting with his rotten teeth; the Dragonlord’s flaming talons left nothing but soot. Neither one noticed the death. Ressa saw the other servants adjust course. Dodging, slipping on the rocks, vanishing—

The arm was trying to move. Ressa dug her feet in as she threw more anchors with all the weight Magnolia lent her, with all her strength and the other servants. They held it six seconds, nine—

Eighteen seconds before the Titan saw them. It spat one word.

Die.

And its heart thummed, a drumbeat of death. Slowly, then with increasing force until horses dropped dead and the servants’ limbs weakened, and Ressa shouted.

“Retreat! Now!

Some fell, dead, even as the arm floated higher. It joined the Titan as the brawl continued, and Ressa picked up a fallen Drake [Soldier] and ran with their limp body over her shoulder. Had they made a difference? Had they mattered?

She couldn’t say. She dropped the [Soldier] as she reached the lines of fighting mortals. Fighting—their own number had become undead. The Mortemdefieir Titan’s infested parasites kept falling from it, but most of all—

Ressa beheaded another Troll’s corpse as it lumbered past her. She swung her dagger into a dead Drake’s skull—the same Drake she had saved—and she flicked an explosive knife into a giant flea-monster’s head. 2nd Army was maneuvering, encircling the two fighters, prepared to attack if the Dragonlord got free, and disposing of the lesser undead commendably quickly.

Yet—Magnolia’s servants, on the edge of the fighting, noticed something no one else did.

“Big sis Ressa! Big sis!”

Ressa saw the green figure and nearly killed Ressga. The [Head Maid] snarled as she grabbed the Goblin running through the fighting.

“I told you to stay with Magnolia!”

“Big sis, big sis—the undead! They’re all going there!”

The Goblin pointed urgently, and Ressa’s head spun. She saw the undead not fighting 2nd Army were all indeed moving one direction, if subtly. The [Soldiers] were focused on the biggest threat. They didn’t pay attention to random undead, like another corpse, which sat up and then began to shuffle away.

Towards the crack in the mountain where the Titan had emerged from. Not to the Titan’s aid. Ressa was panting for air. She took a step towards the mountainside.

“Magnolia. I need…someone check out that crack in the mountain.”

She thought she heard an affirmative, but then she sensed an impact through her feet and heard a terrible scream of metal. Ressa grabbed Ressga and swung the Goblin behind her. She deflected something with her dagger; the impact sent her crashing down.

Blood in her lungs, pain in her chest. Something had impaled Ressa; the Goblin was crying out and trying to tug it free. Ressa glanced down, about to tell Ressga it was fine; she had a healing potion.

Then she saw what had hit her.

A glittering, golden piece of metal covered in red blood. Not all of it hers. A piece of a scale. Ressa looked up and saw the Dragon’s face. Part of it was torn away, and the Titan raised his arms, howling victory as he struck again. And again—

 

——

 

Mists were rolling in through the valley now, over the mountains. Two figures lurched to their feet, rammed into each other, fell apart, then met again, repositioning for a better charge, forcing one off the other, striking the ground—rising—

No mortal armies to stop them. Just impacts.

The ground was hard. The Dragonlord was being smashed into the earth again and again by the Titan. Yet the ground barely yielded; it was Teriarch whose scales were bending under the force of the fighting. He fought wordlessly now, silently, biting and tearing with no regard for his safety, but he seemed to slow with each impact.

By contrast, the Titan was accelerating again. His Skills—he halted the Dragonlord’s charge effortlessly, knocked him back—

“[Hammer of the Heavens].”

Teriarch hit the ground, and his chest was bowed in slightly. He tried to rise—vanished as a wave of fog covered him—the Titan thundered forwards, ignoring 2nd Army’s attempts to slow him—

They reappeared in a tangle of flesh and metal. The Titan had Teriarch by the throat again, and he was bashing the Dragonlord’s head with one fist. Someone tried to catch his arm—he tore the [Lady]’s grip away without a second’s thought.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Krch—

His face. The Dragon’s angular head bent inwards. His face deformed, and the Titan howled as the writhing below him only grew madder. He put his foot down, trapping the Dragonlord, and put his hands together, hammered them down, and the head dented inwards again.

The ground barely moved this time. Mercilessly hard—harder than the Dragonlord’s battered scales. Somewhere, a [Lady] was screaming. Explosions rippled the Titan’s back, and he laughed, bending to wrench the metal jaws apart. Ripping the lower half of the face away, holding a jaw of gleaming brass scales, wet and bloodless—

Bloodless?

The Titan gazed in confusion at the lower half of the Dragonlord’s jaw. There was no flesh, no blood, no viscera attached to the bent metal. As Teriarch’s head rose, the Dragon’s metal body still clawing at the Titan, his ruined head shone amidst the mists, and the Titan and watchers realized something.

There were no pupils in the dark eye sockets. No familiar eyes. And through the gaps in his damaged armor, you could see…darkness.

No flesh. No blood. No organs.

The Titan was fighting an empty metal shell. His outer layer of scales, but the Dragon inside had vanished.

The Draconic Warrior’s gloating confidence turned to concern in a moment. He swivelled, putting his arms up, and the nearest cliffside exploded outwards. A Dragon, armored in stone, landed on the Titan, roaring, as his empty shell renewed its assault.

Tricks. The Titan’s mouth was open in rage, and the Dragon spoke.

“[Second Sun].”

Fire burned white hot as the Titan twisted away. Molten flesh poured out of his chest, and the Dragonlord pointed. Above him, the air flashed, and a light shone from high overhead.

“[Winds of Zeikhal].”

A gust carried sand, filling the valley with enough debris to blind everything. The blast knocked the Titan down, midleap, and he lay on his back, staring upward as the Dragonlord spoke a third time.

“[Javelin of the Frost Giant].”

This time, the Titan caught the javelin before it could run him through and pin him down. He rolled, and when a vast tree root sprouted from the ground, he fought free of the pinning branches before they could pierce him from within and rip him apart.

Yet the lights still shone. Now there were four of them, high overhead, piercing the dust and mists. The Draconic Warrior saw them as he swung a hand, shearing through a wing of the fake Teriarch. He peered up, spoke an oath, and tried to flee.

No!

The fifth element of the Dragonlord’s spell was metal.

Fire, air, water, earth, and metal. Components of old forms of alchemy, building blocks of reality. On five separate peaks above the valley, an elemental rune shone, forming a pentagram.

[Pentagram of the Five Alchemies]. Each spell had activated a rune, and now the Draconic Titan was in the center. It was crude by the standard of the Dragonlord; the simplest of diagrams enforced only by the power of the spell.

It was enough. Teriarch, armored in pieces of stone, having sacrificed his outer scales for this diversion, lifted a claw. He spoke:

“[Sealing Gates of the Five Sages]. Vanish another twenty thousand years, wretch.”

The Titan leapt—and two gates slammed closed as a pentagram of magic flashed through the air over him. The dust and mists closed in until it seemed as though another world lay between the Dragonlord and mortals and the Titan—and the two doors of stone, etched with the secrets of alchemy, were the only opening between the two worlds.

The Titan seized the doors, trying desperately to hold them apart. His arms shook—and the doors moved together as his strength failed him. His mouth was open in horror and fury.

“You—”

His voice was twisted with effort as the doors closed until his head was in danger of being smashed between the gates. Teriarch watched, pouring his magic into the spell, teeth bared.

The Draconic Warrior’s eyes bulged as the gates narrowed further, and his right eye was the only thing visible now as his fingers trembled to keep the gates from closing. The people in the valley should have seen the Titan’s bulk behind the doors, but there was nothing. Just empty ground and mist.

The doors closed another fraction, and they were crushing the fingers now. The Draconic Warrior screamed, a howl of rage and fury, and the doors snapped shut, his fingers falling to the ground, writhing and then falling still. The doors stood there, stone slabs leading to another dimension, containing an Old One.

A prison for a monster, as you might find in a forgotten corner of the world. Meant to be hidden away and never opened. Every eye was on the gates. The Dragonlord panted for breath, exhaling slowly, slowly. He turned his head, voice rasping.

“I think—”

Then the gates cracked. The reverberation made the valley ripple, stone and earth rippling like water. One of the five peaks around the valley exploded as one of the runes failed. The Dragonlord’s eyes swivelled back to the doors.

“Ah.”

That was all he said as a second impact shattered pieces of the leftmost door apart. The air snappedand an eye was visible through the gap. It drew back, and the Titan struck the doors a third time from inside, and the doors fell outwards.

He walked out, hands raised, stepping lightly, his face a strangely serene mask of concentration. Fluid of movement; when he raised a palm, he seemed to shove the air, and the shockwave blew the remainder of the alchemy spell apart.

The movements were familiar, even if the exact nature of the technique was not. Martial arts. The Titan lifted his hands up to the sky, kneeling for a second in silent worship. His voice was reverential as he rose.

“[The Walls of My Prison Broke]. And I was free. Now, Dragonlord—”

One clawed hand rose, palm up, and the other beckoned as the Dragonlord’s breathing resumed its ragged edge. The Titan stepped towards him, and Teriarch exhaled—a hand brushed the flames aside, parting them like a broom parted a stream of water.

Inner energy. Not much. Not trained like a master of Drath, but enough. The Dragonlord limped forwards, ignoring the [General]’s order for him to fall back and fight in tandem with the others.

“We are both at our limits. Come, Warrior of Graves. Let’s finish this.”

They met, and the Dragonlord’s blood began to splatter the ground.

Then rain.

 

——

 

Their final clash was where he bled. The Draconic Warrior was weakened, low on magic and out of his greatest Skills. But the Dragonlord had shed his scales, like a snake shed its skin or a hermit crab its shell.

Too long had he waited in his armor. He had grown too large, and even now, he was slower, imprecise, tearing and biting and cutting with his claws as Dragonlords had once fought—but with a distant memory of finesse.

The Titan was a warrior in the peak of his fury, lashing out with compact blows, desperation turning even his least-used techniques into an edge. Teriarch had no more armor; a jagged claw tore open his underscales, and his blood struck the ground.

Such painful ground. When the Titan knocked him down with another shockwave of internal force, Magnolia Reinhart saw Teriarch’s head raise, and blood was streaming from the stones dug into it.

“He’s too weak. General Shirka, advance! Ressa, help him!

Magnolia was shouting orders, but she was what she had always claimed she was: a civilian. They ignored her, even her greatest servant.

The Dragonlord will retreat when he deems it best. He’s still trying to expose the Seith Cores.

Shirka’s voice was flat, intense, as it had been this entire battle as she’d watched her people die to edge closer to victory. At this moment, Magnolia hated her for it. Ressa was clutching at one arm, panting. Blood coated her uniform, but her wounds were healed—mostly. Her flesh was still regrowing around one arm from the potion, but she had to keep fighting. She rasped at Magnolia, urgent.

“Magnolia, what about the undead…? I can’t get closer.”

She’d tried once already; the shockwaves had tossed her like a ragdoll. Even all of Ressa’s training and levels were overwhelmed in the face of the sheer force.

And Teriarch was losing. Magnolia had never believed it could happen. Each cut and slash from the Dragonlord was weaker. He’d regained his breath, but it was a pale thing compared to his earlier flame. By contrast, the Titan was visibly picking up speed. No longer was he gloating or relishing his victory: he pressed forwards in a single-minded assault, a disciplined warrior now.

If Teriarch fell, what would become of them? Again, the Dragonlord raked the Titan’s chest, ripping out two ribs, exposing himself to a devastating palm-strike which sent him crashing backwards. Teriarch curled up as the Titan lifted an arm—for one second, everyone saw a Seith Core exposed.

But the massed ranged fire, even the two ballistae, failed to destroy the core before it vanished into the chest cavity. And then Teriarch was limping away. Fleeing—the Titan jumped and kicked him into the ground, and Magnolia shouted.

Servants of House Reinhart, attack!

To her relief, the order was echoed by multiple voices.

Spearmaster Gaellis, take a leg out. All forces—begin the assault.

Primera and Seconda leapt forwards as Xitegen’s Golems stormed down the slopes with 2nd Army’s element. Major Hiclaw and the Wyverns under his command flew with Goblins as Redscar and shock troops prepared to drop in.

The Titan abandoned his careful martial artist’s stance and drew an oversized sword out of the air. He opened his mouth, and burgundy light lit the valley up. The ray of destruction was meant for Teriarch; a figure dove and blocked it with his wings and body.

The Wyvern Lord hit the ground, and the Titan chuckled as his blade swung right and left, cutting a Wyvern off by the wings, coming down and flicking—removing heads of a Drake squad.

Magnolia ran and grabbed the pink carriage as it shot forwards. Reynold took her past the [Soldiers], into the melee, as Ressa and Ressga shielded her. She didn’t see the desperate battle or hear the Titan’s chuckle. Her eyes were only for the battered figure lying on the ground, trying to crawl away.

 

——

 

“Teriarch?”

He was panting, wheezing for air, blood running from his eye sockets, the gashes and tears in his side. His eyes were still open. He was lucid, and the Wyvern Lord was prowling between him and the Titan, mouth open, roaring a silent challenge.

That familiar gaze focused on Magnolia as he raised his head, and she saw stones were dug into his face, shards of earth embedded in his flesh.

“Magnolia. Run. I…”

The Dragonlord tried to rise, then just crawled forwards another length as a second [Ray of Oblivion] tore the air overhead. The Titan was advancing. Magnolia’s voice was too high.

“You have to retreat, Teriarch. We cannot lose you!”

We will lose 2nd Army. Xitegen’s forces. How many can flee outside of my carriage? How many of my people?

She didn’t know, only that they could not lose him. The Dragonlord shook his head, stubborn. Stubborn for once! She had asked him countless times to fight, to make a stand, and now he was here, she saw the nightmare playing out.

“No. No, I have to…”

His voice trailed off. He tried to crawl away again. The Titan was moving towards them, but slowly. He was systematically grinding down 2nd Army’s attacks, fighting defensively for once. Now he had victory in his hands, he was cannily wearing down his foes, letting them expend their artifacts and magic.

He’d beaten the greatest threat. Magnolia knew their only hope was to have Teriarch rise, but she couldn’t do it.

“Magnolia, he has to fight. What can I do, Teriarch?”

Ressa was kneeling by Teriarch, yanking out pieces of stone embedded in his scales. Magnolia was arguing with her, as if it would change anything.

“Ressa, I will not allow it! He is a master of stone and metal and—he can’t even stop the earth from hurting him! His armor is gone! He has to fall back!

“No. Get clear.”

The Dragonlord was turning, legs shaking. He was rasping a spell, and Magnolia felt Ressga pulling at her. The Goblin’s eyes were wide, and she was trying to take her mistress to safety. Magnolia grabbed the only thing she could: a part of Teriarch’s leg.

“I can’t let you do this. Ressa—”

She was about to order her servant to help her, at the cost of everything else, when Ressa tore another piece of stone out of Teriarch’s face and cursed. She shook red blood onto the ground, and Magnolia realized she’d cut her hands.

“Damn. Sharp as Creler claws. It’s so damn—”

She tore a piece of linen out of her belt pouch and wound it around one hand. Then stopped. Magnolia had been pulling at Teriarch, for all the good it would do her, and her fingers had been slipping on his bloody scales.

Underscales, yes, but still a Dragonlord’s scales. Hardest in the world, he’d always claimed. She’d known he could shed his scales, but even his newer scales should have been harder than steel by magnitudes. Indeed, they felt it. Yet…the stones from the ground were dug into Teriarch’s flesh. Embedded in his scales. Piercing them with ease.

Magnolia looked down at the ground and bent over. She touched the pale, brown earth, shifted it with her shoes, and kicked at the compacted earth.

“Ow.”

It was hard. Sharp, even. Magnolia tried again and couldn’t even budge the earth. It was pressed so hard together that the brown soil felt like stone itself. Magnolia succeeded in shifting some clods of earth around and saw the pale-brown loam, slightly wet with dew from the mists, turn to—

White? Grey? Pale, semi-translucent material? Not more earth, but something far more luminescent, even filthy as it was. Magnolia realized the carriage, angling to shield her from the battle, had taken on a strange tenor to the wheels.

Instead of the soft rolling, it clacked slightly, a clatter of hard material. Ressga picked up a stone with a handkerchief and bit it. She spat out a tooth and some blood and looked up.

“That not right. Regular stone not that hard.”

Their conversation went unnoticed in the flurry of orders, the dance of death, and battle around them. Teriarch lay there, bleeding, rising vaguely, and Magnolia saw another being turn his head.

The Wyvern Lord. His scales were torn away in two places by the [Ray of Oblivion] spell, and he was wounded, but he protectively shielded Teriarch like a furious child, baring his fangs, hissing.

Watching the Dragonlord out of the corner of one eye. Magnolia’s head swung over, and the Dragonlord rasped as his gaze turned heavenwards. An old man’s weak plea, a dying fool’s words of bravery. For the benefit of their audience, their foe.

“Please, child. Get clear.

The [Lady] stepped back. She grabbed onto the pink carriage as Ressa leapt into the driver’s seat and took the reins from the surprised Reynold. Ressga climbed onto it, and the Wyvern Lord spread his wings, shielding them as the Titan began to laugh.

Thum, thum, thum, its heartbeat sang louder as he began to advance again, body recovered.

Thudthudthudthud—the sounds of an army falling back as General Shirka sent Xitegen’s Golems forwards to stall the Titan. Flights of Wyverns breaking away.

Thum. 

A blade cutting after the fleeing Seconda as the Golem leapt for safety.

Thum. 

Eyes on the feeble Dragonlord, struggling to rise, blood dripping from his teeth as he snarled one last time.

Thum.

Sharp stones crunching together as the Titan walked, refusing to give even under his weight. But he never noticed that, did he?

He had bad eyes.

Thum.

The Dragonlord vanished. He winked out of existence, and the snap of displacing air made the Titan blink. He followed the trail of the magic, and his head rose. Up, up, up—

Then there was silence as the Mortemdefieir Titan’s heart stopped. His eyes found the tiniest fleck of gold, so high overhead even the glitter of scales was all but lost in the sky. The Titan took a step back, and the earth rose as his feet sunk into it. He glanced down, pulled at one foot sunk up to his knees in the ground, and the earth would not move.

The Titan pulled as his heart remained silent, and he felt how tough the earth was, how unyielding. The warrior of rot struck at it with his sword, and it would not move.

The ground glittered like jewels.

 

——

 

[Earth to Mithril]. Wide-range ritual. A slow spell.

[Teleportation Anchor] and a simple [Expedited Teleport] spell to bring him skywards.

The rest was easy. It took him a moment to cast. The hardest part was staying on target. But the Titan was an obvious target. Teriarch had tagged him with a locator spell a dozen times during the fight.

The key was then to have a final blow to end the Titan. To expose the Seith Cores. To destroy the foe.

He didn’t have one. He’d used all his magic during the fight. He had no Tier 8 spell hidden away, no Relic blade he could use that the Titan might not turn against him. Besides, his enemy was waiting for that. It had to be authentic.

It was authentic. The Dragonlord was out of flames thanks to his wasted Breath of Life, out of magic with his [Pentagram of the Five Alchemies], out of strength with his duel against the Titan via fang and claw.

All he had left was himself. And altitude. And basic magic.

[Frictionless Surface]. [Room: Vacuum of Air]. [Extend Spell]. [Suspended Motion]. [Flash Move].

Five spells. One reduced friction of his body through the world. The second and third created a ‘passageway’, a vertical chamber from which he fell straight down to earth. The fourth kept him in one place, but temporarily.

He kept casting the last one. [Flash Move]—down. Down. Downdowndowndowndown—doubling his momentum, tripling it, until he reached speeds that would turn a mere orange into a projectile with enough velocity to turn a castle wall to dust.

And he was no tiny orange. The Dragonlord cast all of this in the span of about twelve seconds. Twelve seconds as the Titan, up to its knees in the ground turned into diamonds, tried to get free.

The rest was physics. A Dragonlord’s worth of weight thrown at speeds beyond the speed of sound, towards a target that could not escape, onto an anvil of one of the hardest materials in the world.

He had done this before. But in the past, he’d been younger. So now, he was even heavier than—

The Dragonlord fell, and the High Passes shook. Agony filled his body as he hit the ground and he felt something snap.

Only part of it was him.

 

——

 

In Celum, people felt the earth tremble and stumbled and fell to their knees, crying out. They looked up and saw snow moving along the peaks of the High Passes. Birds flew from forests; avalanches tumbled down along the mountain range.

At the site of the battle, no one was left standing. A pink carriage landed on its side; Wyverns fell out of the air, knocked down by the force of the impact. The mountain trembled, and mithril dust and fragments flew into the air in deadly shrapnel, but the ground did not move—much. The crater was surprisingly small, enhanced as the ground was.

The Dragonlord of Flames awoke, peered down, and tried to claw the staring face gazing open-mouthed at him. He could not. His right claw was dangling at a wrong angle.

Broken. The Dragonlord felt more parts of him were broken, but his other claw worked. It slashed at the face, but the Draconic Warrior didn’t move.

A third of his face was left; his lower torso was obliterated down to the knees embedded in the ground. Splattered flesh and splinters of his bones had ‘cushioned’ Teriarch; the bed of paste ran up to his ribcage, the only part of him left intact.

A pale-white orb was lying under one of Teriarch’s forelegs. As he pulled himself up, he saw the Seith Core fully exposed. The Dragonlord reached down and dug it out of the Titan’s chest.

His ears rang. He could not think. He bled. His bones were broken.

But his foe was not yet dead. The Dragonlord tore ribs free, and the flesh tried to regenerate, then gave up. The Draconic Warrior’s body was in shock.

Where is the rest of you? The Dragon plucked the Seith Core out of the rotten skin. He dug his talons into it, feeling the ancient magics trying to resist him—he ignored the temptations to claim the Seith Cores, how much power they held.

The first Seith Core broke, and the Titan twitched. Its open mouth half-closed. It gaped up at Teriarch, unfocused eyes still in dawning terror.

“Please…”

The Dragonlord ignored him. Three left. He dug deeper into the Titan’s body, like the crudest surgeon performing invasive surgery. Ripping pieces out as the mortals stirred.

They saw the Brass Dragon, half-lying on his foe, wearily casting flesh to the side as the Titan tried to raise arms it didn’t have, kick legs that were gone. It lay as 2nd Army’s stunned consciousness sought order and found it.

Reform. To me. To me…

General Shirka’s mental tone was disorientated, but it firmed, and [Soldiers] staggered back into ranks. They surrounded the downed Titan and Dragon at a great distance, shocked, stunned, trying to understand what had happened. Even their [General] didn’t get it, but she didn’t have to.

The enemy was down. The plan had worked.

Finish it.

Elements of Shirka’s army secured the ground around the Dragonlord. They stabbed anything hostile; there were still a few parasites from the Titan left, though they seemed as stunned as their creator. 2nd Army found Magnolia Reinhart being pulled from her carriage. The [Lady] was dazed, but her eyes focused on the Dragonlord as he ripped the second Seith Core out of the Titan.

“Oh, please…”

The Titan was whispering as the Dragonlord began to crush the second Seith Core. Teriarch ignored the quavering voice. Tuned out the familiar cry for mercy until a note sang through that he recognized.

“Please—die.

The Seith Core pulsed. The Dragonlord felt it warm in his claws. His eyes opened wide. Madness. He’d prepared himself t—

 

——

 

The explosion kicked Magnolia off the carriage and would have killed her if not for Ressga, who threw herself forwards to stop Magnolia from breaking her neck.

“—lia!

Ressa leapt onto the carriage and was knocked down by the gust of wind and debris. She cast around, saw the pink figure on the ground—then turned and saw Teriarch.

Smoke rose from the Dragonlord’s mouth and eyes as he stared up at the sky, like some ancient warrior praying to the heavens. It was only an illusion. His blackened scales kept smoking as he collapsed over the Titan’s chest.

The Titan was all but obliterated himself. The remains of a grinning face, strewn flesh—nothing was left of him from the detonation. Nothing but another glowing Seith Core rising upwards.

The third one. Where was the fourth? The Dragonlord tried to chant a barrier or shield himself. The Seith Core pulsed. Then it exploded.

 

——

 

So many quakes. The High Passes were trembling, and so were mortals. Shaking—unable to even withstand the true powers unleashed.

In truth, even immortals shook at the scope of the destruction unleashed here. A Dragonlord and a Draconic Warrior had met in truest battle, and they had found which was the deadlier of the two, in the end.

A battle that even the greatest ages would have recorded as exceptional. Savage and cunning, and at the very end, the Dragonlord had triumphed.

As…the Son of Graves had thought he might. He was, after all, the Pyrelord, the Dragonlord of Flames who had never fallen in battle. It was foolish to assume victory, even now.

It would be the mark of desperation to overload his Seith Cores and take the Dragonlord with him, but it was an option each Draconic Warrior had. Few did it, even at death’s door, because it would be their end. Even so, if he had no option—would the Draconic Warrior do it?

No, never. He wanted to live. He’d never do that. Not unless…it would not be his end. Then it was a tactical decision.

In the crack of the mountain, the last dead Drake’s corpse wiggled into the hollow of the stone. It vanished as the world outside became eye-searingly bright. It was silent, then, save for a few beings.

A few parasites left over from the Titan, worming around for sustenance. A handful of [Scouts] sent by Strategist Ulhouse to check out where the undead were going. Their [Light] spells flared and illuminated the pile of corpses. Troll, 2nd Army’s, Magnolia Reinhart’s, Goblin, Wyvern parts, pieces of flesh from the Titan…

The pile began to shift as a pale-white glow activated in the heart of the rot. The [Scouts] saw it and levelled their weapons. They tried to stab the fourth and final Seith Core. They were climbing the flesh pile as limbs began to form out of the dead meat when something pulsed.

Thum. Thum. Thum.

Soldiers faltered. Hands grew weak—bodies fell and became more flesh that turned liquid and formed a chest. Then morphed upwards to turn into a head. Staring eyes. A bittersweet smile.

The last Seith Core of the Titan reformed the body out of the materials he had secreted away, which had cloaked his final ‘heart’ until his main body suffered defeat. After all, the Dragonlord would have sensed it if he made two bodies.

“One, then. Weak am I.”

A bitter blow indeed. He would have to guard his energies. But it had been worth it. The Titan began to squeeze himself out of the mountain. To kill his greatest foe, it was a worthy sacrifice. The corpse of the Dragonlord would be his new body. Assuming anything remained.

The Dragonlord lay in a depression of stone in the valley, on his side. Intact. He breathed in and out, then jerked as the Titan emerged.

“No…”

His voice was a moan, but the Son of Graves was just as disturbed to see his foe alive. How? He’d felt his third Seith Core detonate. Two should have killed even the Pyrelord. How…

The valley. Part of it had completely collapsed. A cliff had buried the far side of the valley, and the mountainside itself appeared like someone had carved a divot out of it. The Titan didn’t remember that prior to ‘dying’. His eyes focused on the cliffside. Then he sensed her.

A panting [Lady], standing on top of her carriage, hand still raised. Lady Magnolia Reinhart was clutching at her back, hair strewn everywhere, hat missing, covered in dirt, but her eyes blazed triumph. She’d thrown the final Seith Core. Tossed it into the mountain and saved her Dragon’s life.

“Humans.”

The Son of Grave whispered the word like a curse and strode out of the mountain. An army pivoted to meet him, but was shaken. His eyes were on the Dragonlord. His foe had to die. He had to kill him.

Had to. Had to—he had only one Seith Core left. His limbs felt leaden. His magic was exhausted.

The mortals were advancing. The Titan wavered. He glanced back at the crack in the earth, that inviting den where he could hide in the deeps and make another plan. He gazed at the Dragonlord, so near death.

If he just—

A blazing comet overhead made the Draconic Warrior flinch. He fell back, hands raised in terror as a streak of ice passed over his head. Another Dragon! It was slower, far slower than the Dragonlord, but it pivoted, turning for a pass, and he saw—

The Wyvern Lord. His wings were angled, and blue frost propelled him forwards like the Dragonlord had flown. The Mortemdefieir Titan’s eyes grew round with surprise, shock—and the Wyvern Lord roared as he tried to arrest his flight and aim an attack at the Titan.

Kill it now. Seal the opening.

The [General]’s voice echoed through a speaking spell. That decided the Titan. He turned and dove into the crack in the mountain, squishing his body into the crevasse, fleeing down, down as his body turned to liquid, protecting his final lifeline. He would be back. Oh, yes, yes.

Just not today. Not for a while, not while his foe lay above. He was weak—he’d be weak long, and the Titan would rebuild strength far faster than the Dragonlord healed. He’d win. 

Damn him.

Damn mortality.

Damn, damn, damn….

He fled. Above, the Dragonlord of Flame lay there and gave no chase. His foe yet lived. Tears ran from his eyes as he felt his own immortal shame and fear. It was not over. As it had always been, always, always, always.

It was so hard to kill their kind.

 

——

 

The scent of rot faded with each burnt piece of flesh, and slowly, the oppressive weight of the death magic lifted from the valley.

The scars remained. New ones, like the circular weal on the Dragonlord’s side. 2nd Army was wounded, missing figures in the squads and companies gone forever, only numbered in official reports. Only their family and comrades knew their names.

House Terland stood around the pieces of one of their Golems and solemnly gathered up the fragments of its heart, and some shed more tears for the broken Golem than their dead.

As for House Reinhart, each servant who had passed was covered with a pale shroud of linen, if a body could be found. The servants said nothing now; eulogies would come later, and pensions for families paid.

The Goblins cremated their dead while Manus’ soldiers harvested gear from their fallen [Wyvern Riders] and skinned each Wyvern with enough hide to make something useful. They silenced their whining Wyverns as they worked, grim-faced, before burning what was left.

The Wyvern Lord did not allow anyone to touch two of the Frost Wyverns of his Weyr who had perished in battle. Instead, he landed, bent to sniff each one, and then shrieked to the heavens, calling smaller Wyverns of his flock. He began to devour the corpses of the two large Wyverns as his people joined in.

In that moment, he was more Goblin than Goblins, and the Wyvern Lord stopped eating after a few bites. He raised his mouth, dripping with stale blood, and gazed at the one being who had suffered the most and lost the least.

The Dragonlord of Flames was still covered in blood and grime. He appeared nothing like the awe-inspiring legend who had first come upon the armies and promised victory or death. He seemed smaller; he was smaller without his outer layer of scales.

But most of all, he seemed defeated, even more than the Titan, who had fled screaming curses. This was a victory, surely. All but one Seith Core was destroyed. The Titan had been sent fleeing, and even if he emerged, 2nd Army had proven that it could stymie the Draconic Warrior’s advance.

“A second battle with the Dragonlord should be a victory. It only remains to lure the bastard out.”

That was Xitegen’s opinion, and it dovetailed with most of the other commanders present. Yet the Dragonlord kept his head bowed, his tangled mane of flowing metal still twitching with insects from the Titan, blood etched onto his scales.

A [Lady] was removing some of the insects from Teriarch’s mane with her hands, speaking to him. Magnolia Reinhart seemed…relieved. Like a younger woman who had seen both all she feared and all she had hoped for and not been disappointed. In truth, the rest of the mortals could say the same.

They had witnessed a Dragon’s battle with a foe of old. Earthshaking, filled with tricks and maneuvers and, yes, no clean victory, but why did he look so broken by his triumph?

It was because his foe lived. Lived—and would return. The Dragonlord had a second battle to bring. It did not matter if the Titan was weaker; he would make up for that weakness in viscousness, hatred, and vengeance. Rooting that monster out of the High Passes would be…

“—Nigh impossible. Even if I were not wounded, I doubt it could be done. He will hide and prepare traps if I follow him down. Hide away as long as it takes until he can strike. And I…I do not have the will to bring illumination into the heart of the mountain. I fear I will meet my end in those depths at the end of a tunnel that has never known sunlight. I am no [Necromancer], you see. I do not speak the voice of stone to turn every grain of soil and rock against him. I am only me, and that was not enough. I am sorry.”

Sorry? It was as the young species thought of the future, of tomorrow’s battle and the cost of this one, that they finally understood. Every single being present for this battle—they would mourn and grieve, and when they closed their eyes, they all knew a voice would be waiting for them. But he—he had no reward, no assurance that next time he would be stronger.

All the Dragonlord had ever earned were scars, and another dried in blood and pain on his side. Teriarch finally moved and turned his head away from that crack that led into the mountains.

“I must go. I—there is something I can do.”

“Lord Teriarch, if I may, a conversation with you would be instrumental for my city.”

General Shirka strode forwards, still animated, having only fought once this long battle. Her eyes flicked to the Goblins, who were hanging back, packing their Thunderbows, and then to the others.

“I as well, sir. The Dragonspeaker must know of your presence as soon as our communications seal is lifted!”

Major Hiclaw had a bound arm, having snapped his limb after one of the Titan’s shockwaves had tossed him from the air. His salute was no less crisp, though. The Dragonlord saw Xitegen approaching and Rags looking his way. The Dragonlord shrugged his wings, flinching as it opened his wounds further. One wing was tattered; a membrane of magic moved to cover it as he flexed his wings once.

“The Dragonspeaker and I will speak if it is meant to be, Major. This is not over. I will communicate with all present later. Later…I have to go. The Draconic Warrior—”

“We are prepared to scout the mountain, Dragonlord. With specialists from other elements of Pallass’ armies and your aid, we may finish this engagement without giving the enemy time to regroup.”

The direct offer made the Dragonlord flinch. He eyed Shirka as Lord Xitegen raised his voice.

“Yes, if there is a method, House Terland stands to arms with valiant Golems and all that. I’d rather make sure the enemy is dead than celebrate a victory and kick trouble down the road a decade. Should I send for Golems from the north? Doubtless, my family has some kind of superior mining Golem in its vaults.”

He snorted, but he was as focused as Shirka. They turned to the Dragonlord, and he looked away.

Away. His eyes roamed the High Passes, the mists blown away by the conflict, the ground now returning to normal—and beyond the rainswept Floodplains of Liscor. The Dragonlord’s eyes opened wider, fractionally, and he rasped.

“I—believe reinforcements are in order. Yes. Competent help. But given the Titan’s weakness and its exhausted state, I do believe we have a window of opportunity. Yes. I shall gather…I must…I will return.”

He spread his wings and began to walk forwards. Magnolia Reinhart spoke up.

“Teriarch? Where are you going?”

His voice was weak, lost. The Dragonlord did not meet her gaze, nor any other’s. He was staring at something as his claws left the ground, one limp and bound with an impromptu spell. Wounded. Mumbling.

“There, yes, there. Of course. It’s the optimal place to be. I shall be back when I am needed.”

They called out after him, asking questions, begging for a conversation, answers, all those familiar things you asked Dragons. The Champion of Ashen Wings didn’t reply. The Star-Dragon of Iltanus beat his wings and began to glide down, out of the valley, towards the Floodplains. To Liscor?

The reason why was obvious as everyone fixed on the rainy clouds and noticed something odd in the weather patterns below. As ever, Liscor was a basin obscured by storm clouds, rain sleeting down without end. That was not surprising. However, there was a break in the rain cover. At first, it seemed to be a simple fluctuation in the weather, a break in the storm.

—But as moments passed, the aberration refused to change. Rain clouds moved around the gap in the center of the Floodplains, breaking around the ray of light slanting downwards, as if the radiance were a physical thing.

A beam of light, a spotlight, a pillar of radiance from the heavens, illuminating something below. What it was was not immediately visible, but when the Dragonlord, the [Lady], the Goblins, when they saw it, they knew.

The inn.

Thus, the Dragonlord flew away. He departed the mountains, fleeing his wounded foe, his duties, running—for that moment of weakness was always when you least expected it. He flew for answers, for hope, for aid, and left the mortals and his foe behind. They watched him depart, and in his absence, a bit of magic and wonder vanished.

So, then.

All that remained was this. General Shirka’s head rose from her wounded army, and she focused on the other threat.

The Goblins. Slowly, and deliberately, she raised a speaking stone to her mouth and murmured into it.

“This is General Shirka. Begin phase two.”

 

——

 

She was throwing up bile, an insect she’d swallowed, and horror onto the ground. Again and again, in front of her—no, Chieftain Rags’ people.

The [Student] was ashamed. She had done everything she could, maneuvering the Goblins, trying to guess when the Titan would turn and spit death at them. No grand strategy; she’d just played her part in the battle while General Shirka directed the unified forces.

It was still too much. Goblins stared empty-eyed up at the sun as their friends and comrades laid them to rest. It was not the first time the [Student] had seen this, but dead gods, it felt like it.

I come from better days than these. She saw Trueshot abandon her Thunderbow to swing a blade down. An axe; the Hob cut the head off a fallen warrior to make sure they wouldn’t come back. Roughly half an hour had passed since the battle’s ending, she guessed. The forces present had taken that time to begin the labor-intensive task of cleaning the battlefield.

Most importantly, before they could think of moving, following Teriarch, setting up defenses, or just debriefing, was cleansing their wounds.

The damn insects were still everywhere, and more than one Goblin had needed Prixall’s help extracting some of them that had buried into their flesh in the fighting.

“We’re just lucky the Titan didn’t have nastier kinds of insects. Parasites. Looks like it really was a warrior more than plague-spreader. Bad enough.”

Prixall was speaking in the background as Rags coughed and wiped her mouth. The [Student] was aware of Snapjaw’s voice, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.

Not my Snapjaw. In her timeline, the Snapjaw of then was more relaxed, sillier, kissing Badarrow and a good leader, but not the Snapjaw who strode around, higher-level, grim-faced, a true Chieftain in authority. Especially now. She glanced at Rags, then snapped.

“All Wyverns get ready to fly. I don’t like the Drakes or Lord Xitegen. Double-check wounds—then we’re going to the inn with every Goblin who can fight. Redscar, why did you leave the Chieftain behind?”

She rounded on the [Blademaster], who sat, cleaning his swords. He jerked a head at Student Rags.

“Got a Rags.”

Snapjaw made a fist to hit him, and Rags spoke, fumbling for a water flask.

“That was Chieftain Rags’ order. She—we—knew the Titan was coming. She told me to come here. It was that or try and stop…him.”

She pointed a weak finger at the ray of light shining down, and Snapjaw squinted at it.

“Who that?”

Pawn.

Everyone but Redscar and the bodyguards who’d come with Rags were utterly confused. The [Student] was reminded of the other crisis ongoing, and she turned to the place where the Dragonlord had vanished into the mists.

“We have to keep moving. I need you, Snapjaw, Prixall, everyone we can get above Level 30. No one under that. Send the rest to Goblinhome?”

She meant it as an order, but it came out as a question. Snapjaw nodded instantly.

Tell the Troll Queen what happened. The Titan’s below. Maybe she has to run or leave until it comes out. Bad stuff, but at least…

The Goblins were moving, separating into groups, when Rags saw the Drakes milling about below start to assemble. Those little hairs on the back of her neck rose, and she held up a hand.

“Wait. 2nd Army’s reforming. Look sharp.”

Instantly, the Flooded Waters tribe moved to readiness. They still occupied the higher cliffs from where they had been fighting; 2nd Army was far below, and Rags could see how much damage they’d taken. Probably 20-30% casualties. Which was merciful in a sense; disastrously bad for the core of Pallass’ best army.

But they have the bulk of their army somewhere else. It was the right call not to bring them in, but could we press the Titan now that it’s weakened? Or would they be more useful around the inn? The [Palace]…we need help there, too.

A darker thought occurred to Rags as she saw the Walled City’s forces closing ranks, forming up.

No. They can’t be…

General Shirka did not stride to the front of her army. She spoke from the middle, in a voice that rang over the valley floor. She still stood at parade-rest, looking much like her army.

Wounded, blood splattering her yellow chestplate, weary, but defiantly precise. Intense; a perfect image of a [General]. And calm.

Chieftain Rags of the Flooded Waters tribe! As the conflict with the Mortemdefieir Titan has ended, 2nd Army’s directive has changed. In lieu of an immediate enemy to pursue, our orders to neutralize the Goblin threat in the High Passes resumes. As of this moment, the main forces of my army have begun a siege of Goblinhome in the mountains. My [Goblin Slayers] have encircled your fortress and escape routes. We are prepared to attack.

Rags’ empty stomach dropped as if someone had flung her over the cliff. The moment she’d seen 2nd Army pivoting towards her, she’d sensed it.

No, nononono—this isn’t right! This isn’t fair! How could you? We came to help you! Her mind was racing to find a solution, to give orders, as her emotions rose in outrage.

“That traitor! Garen Redfang would be ashamed!”

Prixall hissed, and half the Redfangs glared at her as Redscar drew his blades out of their sheaths. Snapjaw had gone deathly pale.

“They can’t have gotten all the escape routes.”

Rags tried to reassure her. But at the same time, she knew it didn’t matter. The escape routes were meant to let Goblins flee an invading army. If they tried to escape with watchers all over the High Passes…Rags spoke, putting herself into automatic.

“Strategic analysis. They have two ballistae up in the mountains, the majority of their forces…over a thousand [Goblin Slayers]. They’ll have trouble breaking the gates of Goblinhome, and the pass is trapped. They have time. We have Trolls!”

They’ll be eating supplies far faster than normal, though. We’re outnumbered to hell and back, and once Shirka gets up there, she’ll amplify all their abilities. And many of the best fighters were right here…

Unable to return to the mountain unless they could find a secret tunnel not uncovered by the enemy. Oh, it was so damn perfect.

“The inn. Maybe we can use the [Portal Door]…no, it doesn’t lead straight into Goblinhome. Or help from Lyonette? The [Knights]? We can beat 2nd Army to the mountain. If we fight in…”

Snapjaw was trying to think, eyes darting around her. Her breath was coming shallow and hard, and Rags saw her blanching pale white. Redscar just peered down the valley.

“I’ll kill her. Then die. Give me three Wyverns and half the Redfangs.”

He sounded so calm as he swung both swords up and pointed down at a figure standing next to Shirka. The [Spearmaster], Gaellis.

Death and sacrifice. Tragedy and—Rags’ mind was blazing with helpless questions. Could she ask Niers to use his Skill despite the politics? What happened if Lord Xitegen helped?

He was down there, too, and his forces had pivoted first to check 2nd Army, then towards her forces. If he used his Skill, they might never get the Wyverns airborne. But all of this panic was underlaid by a single note of confusion in Rags’ mind.

Shirka’s doing this wrong. For such an elegant betrayal, the [General] had royally messed up her execution, hadn’t she? If she had intended to kill the Flooded Waters tribe, she should have launched her attack thirty minutes ago or encircled Rags’ forces.

The [Student] looked around, but she didn’t see [Snipers] or specialists targeting them. Shirka hadn’t gone for the most crucial element of the Flooded Waters tribe. That caused the [Student] to raise a hand.

“Wait. Something’s up.”

Redscar glanced at her, and Snapjaw broke off her orders. Both hesitated; the [Student] raised her voice.

Hold your ground. That’s a damn order! I have to see what she’s doing. Trust me.”

After an infinitesimal second, Redscar lowered his swords and Snapjaw’s Wyverns stopped beating their wings. 2nd Army wasn’t coming at them at the moment, just standing to attention. And Shirka was still speaking.

“…Your complete and unconditional surrender. Failure to comply will result in the annihilation of your tribe. I have orders to wipe your people out, Chieftain Rags. Surrender.”

Surrender? Rags fancied she could feel Shirka’s gaze on her skin, like a dagger being pressed into her chest, but it was oddly blunt. The [Student]’s head rose, and Prixall snapped.

“A good way to kill us all when we ‘surrender’! Humans in the north do it all the time! Or worse to captured Goblins.”

“Wait. I think I see what she’s doing.”

Incredulous, the [Witch] turned, and now it seemed like General Shirka was speaking less to Rags and more to everyone present. Lady Magnolia Reinhart was standing stiffly to the side, surrounded by her people, and Lord Xitegen was glancing from Shirka to the Goblins. The 2nd General swept a hand over the battlefield.

“In minutes, the communications blackout spells will lift and contact with Pallass will resume. The report to Pallass and Manus will detail 2nd Army’s defeat of the Old One Titan with auxiliary assets to be declassified to High Command as needed. Subsequently, 2nd Army brought the Flooded Waters tribe to battle and inflicted significant casualties on their ranks. I would prefer the next item in my report to detail the complete surrender of the Goblin Tribe, which I accepted. You have my word your Goblins will not be killed; there is a precedent for Pallass to take in auxiliary prisoners and make use of them.”

Auxiliary…the Raskghar. Rags’ eyes narrowed suddenly. General Shirka’s voice was flat.

“Surrender Chieftain Rags, [Blademaster] Redscar, and Shaman Taganchiel into my custody, now, and I will halt my siege.”

She’d done her homework well enough. Though Prixall was technically in charge—the [Witch] hissed at them.

“Only three? That’s stupid! What about Snapjaw, or me? We can still fight even without you, Rags!”

“Precisely. She wants just three of us. That would probably satisfy her High Command, especially if all of Goblinhome disarms.”

“Not doing that.”

Redscar snorted, but he had closed one eye and was thinking. It was Snapjaw who said it.

“Is she stupid or giving us a way out?”

No Goblin wanted to say it, because it sounded ludicrous, but Rags spoke.

“It’s a way out. Her orders are clearly to destroy us. Or neutralize us…and there’s only one way to do that. I think—she’s not even asking for us. Just a ‘Chieftain Rags’, ‘Redscar’, and ‘Taganchiel’. How would she even tell the difference? We all look alike.”

The skepticism on Snapjaw’s face could have altered reality itself. She hissed at Rags.

“Ch—you can’t take her offer! They’re Drakes! Pallass! Remember Tyrion Veltras?”

Rags remembered Tyrion Veltras. A different Tyrion than Snapjaw knew. She looked down the valley and thought of all the ways she could have done this. What she might do if she had a hostile idiot breathing down the back of her neck like the Professor always claimed. Most of all…Rags turned.

“Someone call Taganchiel. Ask him how close 2nd Army is to Goblinhome.”

She waited for a reply, and it came back in seconds. Prixall glanced up at the mountains.

“2nd Army is well out of range of anything but ballistae and long-range spells. They’ve been firing—”

Everyone jerked around, and the [Witch] continued.

“—into the cliffs. There’s a lot of [Soldiers], Chieftain.”

They were all looking to her. Rags still felt sick, but something was upon her, now, that she hadn’t felt since she stepped through the door from her world into this one. A familiar, tantalizing sensation in her chest.

Hope. She surveyed the Goblins around her and saw so little of it in their expressions and stances. They were ready to fight and die. They had seen the end of countless Goblins before.

This could be a cunning trap. Rags gazed down into the valley, and that imposing [General] stood there, waiting. It could be.

The [Student] inhaled, and all the Goblins around her saw her intent. They could have stopped her; Prixall began to move, and Redscar caught her arm.

“If it is, so be it. I’m not the Rags who leads you. I’m the Rags who believes in miracles. General Shirka! I accept your offer!

Snapjaw relaxed slightly with something like a sigh. Other Goblins grimly checked their weapons, but ‘Chieftain Rags’ made a show of drawing her shortsword and raising it overhead. She dropped it to the ground, then turned.

“Uh. Can someone pick that up? I’m going. Send two Goblins with me. Not Redscar.”

Awkwardly, she began picking her way down the cliffs. Rags was afraid to see what the other Goblins were doing. Would she see mockery if she looked behind her, disdain for the fool that had replaced their leader?

She slipped on a patch of rocks going down and nearly fell on her face. Cursing, Rags windmilled, and someone grabbed her and hoisted her up.

“Gotcha, Chieftain.”

Leapwolf rode down the mountain, grinning as he hoisted Rags onto his saddle. Her mouth opened in horror.

“You idiot! We’re decoys!”

“Yah. I’m decoying for Redscar.”

“I meant—Prixall, you’re not even male!

“Taganchiel could be a female name. Besides. I can teleport.”

The [Witch] was floating down the cliff as well. Behind them, the Goblins were tossing down their weapons and then carefully picking them back up and hiding them in bags of holding.

There was a farcical element to everything. Below them, General Shirka was giving orders, and, it seemed, glaring down a bunch of her [Soldiers]. Lord Xitegen seemed the most furious out of everyone, but in a cold way; his Golems were lumbering into a column, and it looked like he was ready to jog off.

Rags’ eyes were on General Shirka and darting to Lady Magnolia Reinhart as well. She was waiting for that deadly arrow to strike her dead, and she raised her hands over her head until they got tired and she felt silly. Then she wondered how far General Shirka’s mandate extended. If, perhaps, the [General] might withdraw her forces in light of her grand victory and pass by Liscor.

Or simply what a [General] of Pallass might say to a Goblin who was her captive. Rags gazed down at the figure of Shirka as Leapwolf descended to the valley floor, and now, she swore she could faintly see a smile on the [General]’s face. It wasn’t as serious or grim an expression as Rags thought. The Goblin’s heart leapt, and she smiled herself.

Then her head turned, and someone blew a strangled note into a warhorn. Rags pivoted in her saddle as Leapwolf jerked, and his Carn Wolf juked sideways. Rags cried out.

“No, no! Stop!”

The [Soldiers] approaching her levelled their weapons and tensed, but the Goblins weren’t attacking them. Rags pointed a finger, screaming, and every head rose to one wall of the valley on the eastern flank of 2nd Army.

A Goblin, the largest Goblin that anyone present had ever seen, jumped onto the ridgeline. He was covered in scars, bare-chested, and he had a two-handed axe fashioned out of the beak of a Kraken.

Chieftain Naumel was beaming, covered in sweat and dirt from his long march, and he pointed a finger down the mountain. Straight at Rags. Then he charged. There was no horn, no clarion call to arms.

He charged and roared, and Goblins poured over the ridge, thousands of them. Great Goblins outpacing Hobs and regular-sized Goblins, wearing warpaint of the sea, screaming as they tore down the slopes at 2nd Army.

The Kraken Eaters had arrived.

 

——

 

Pivot! Do not engage the Flooded Waters tribe until attacked! Volley! Volley!

Strategist Ulhouse’s voice snapped after that first moment of stupefaction. His Skill, [Counter: Surprise Attack], saved lives. [Soldiers] slammed into a new shield wall as the lines of 2nd Army moved.

General Shirka was as stunned as Chieftain Rags. The moment she looked up and saw the Kraken Eaters coming, she knew that her [Scouts] on the eastern edge were dead. Ambushed and killed by these Goblins.

She hadn’t noticed. Their ‘voices’ had fallen silent without anyone registering. The Titan’s onslaught had distracted 2nd Army, and the [Rogues] of the Kraken Eaters must have had stealth Skills.

Kraken Eaters. She knew their name. That famous tribe had never plagued the south. Now, they were upon 2nd Army.

<“Break that charge! Focus on the Chieftain! [Prepared Strategy One: Shield Wall]! [Prepared Strategy Two: Arrow Barrage]!”>

They were out of their [Fireball Volley] and [Mighty Cleave]. But 2nd Army had teeth! The time it took for the Naumel’s forces to sprint down the valley were enough for the [Lord] of House Terland to act as well.

“[Again, and Again, and Ever Again]! [Covering Fire]!”

The sky turned dark. Arrows were falling. Strategist Ulhouse pointed a finger, his thoughts raging like icy fire.

<“[Mark Target]. Kill the bastard.”>

A crossbow unit fired, one rank kneeling, the other standing. Shirka saw the bolts tearing a vertical line through the air towards the huge Fomirelin.

He didn’t slow down as he bounded towards the first ranks of Drakes. His tribe wasn’t slowing either. They ran through the arrows, and Shirka’s scales began to prickle in unease.

The last encounter with the Kraken Eaters tribe she remembered was when they went up against a Named-rank team, Orchestra. One of the teams who had cleared Chalence. The Kraken Eaters had sent the Named-ranks in full retreat. And—they had never been destroyed by the Five Families of the north.

<Hostile magics. Counter!>

<Impossible. It’s not battle magic. Shamanic magic!>

Minds buzzed alarms. Soldiers tensed, but the magics cast by running [Shamans] of the Kraken Eaters weren’t instantly hostile. Rather, Shirka saw the grinning Naumel’s skin change to grey armor.

Then the arrows hit him and pieces of him scattered across the ground as the bolts snapped like a forest exploding. No, not him. His skin.

Ulhouse’s thought-speech was rattled as the Kraken Eaters emerged on the other side of the volley. Magical bolts had managed to pierce the grey ‘skin’ over his body, and some had even blown pockets of flesh and blood out of him. They were healing just as fast.

<What the hell is that?>

<[Sharkskin Hide]. Mass spell. They’re eating the arrows. [Regeneration] on the Chieftain.>

Shirka was getting sick of foes who could regenerate. She saw Lord Xitegen’s arrows were having a similar lack of impact on the Goblins. She saw one or two fall from a lucky strike to the head or eye; the rest just kept running.

“Strategist Ulhouse, verbal communications. Lord Xitegen, pull back! You’re exposed! Get the heavily wounded deeper into the ranks!”

2nd Army was still at fighting strength here, but the wounded who’d engaged the Titan were over seventy percent of the army in some capacity! The lack of healing potions meant that her troops were hurt—and Lord Xitegen’s forces had taken damage too.

The Golems were setting themselves as the Kraken Eaters’ erratic volley of arrows sang over the ranks of her people. Shirka saw one arrow glance off a barrier spell around her. Another should have bounced—she twisted and dodged it last second.

<Piercing arrows! Watch yourselves!>

An alarmed thought-shout from one of her officers, laced with pain. General Shirka grabbed the arrow and raised it. It had a glob of purple she assumed to be poison. But this tribe wasn’t a magical powerhouse. How…?

It looked like a jagged piece of some kind of pink-red gemstone. Shirka narrowed her eyes. A piece of an artifact? A Golem’s Heart?

“Volley! Hit the knees of that Chieftain! Switch to lightning ammunition! Alchemists—volley!”

Ulhouse was targeting Chieftain Naumel with everything he had. But the Great Chieftain kept coming. His protection spells and healing were negating everything but magical attacks. Yet even the [Fireballs] and Arrow of Blast did nothing; he emerged from one volley, grinning, water glistening over his body.

Water magic. The [Alchemists] loosed potions from slings, and the Chieftain did dodge that. He spun left with a ballerina’s grace; when he resumed his run, his back was laid open with burning acid and alchemical flames, but already healing.

<“Brace!”>

Spearmaster Gaellis thundered as he lowered his spear, readying himself. The front ranks, Drakes, Gnolls, Dullahans, Garuda, all tensed, forming a line of metal. They had to hold the Kraken Eaters back.

Shieldwall of will and Skill and muscle and bone. The screaming Goblins were spearheaded by Naumel and his Fomirelin. Dozens of them, shoulder-charging into the spears.

Hold! 

The Great Chieftain’s grin widened. He crashed into 2nd Army’s front rank, and a spear snapped in his shoulder. Armored figures stumbled back as he landed in the second rank. Then he swung his axe.

Ten feet of empty space let another Fomirelin smash further into the army, and he hit another [Shieldwall]—and crashed through. He swung a sword left and right, hammering down, then raised a shield to block a counterstrike from a Drake officer. The blow pierced the shield, and the Great Goblin grunted in surprise; he twisted, wrenching the blade from the Drake’s hands, and his teeth snapped shut over the Drake’s head.

Shirka felt over two hundred lives vanish in a second; the Goblins barely slowed down until they hit the third rank. 2nd Army reeled. Chieftain Naumel roared.

“[Tribe: Unstoppable Charge]! [Tribe: The Breaking Wave]! Kill the nobles and Chieftain Rags!

He pointed, his finger jabbing as he swung his axe again. At Shirka, Ulhouse, Xitegen, and Rags.

He missed Magnolia Reinhart. Shirka had no time to wonder why. The main force of the Kraken Eaters hit 2nd Army.

The Fomirelin’s rush had halted; they swung their weapons around, clearing space, but the regular Goblins didn’t simply charge between them. Instead, a dozen feet from 2nd Army, they jumped.

They came over the heads of the fighting [Soldiers] and landed in the midst of their enemies, slashing and sowing further chaos. Instantly, Shirka directed her warriors to encircle and slaughter the Goblins before they could open the lines further. Then she saw a greater threat.

<Front ranks, fall back now!>

Drakes tried to disengage, but the first three ranks were too late. A Hobgoblin who had landed amongst the Drakes turned and threw his battleaxe.

“[Sister, Catch]!”

The enchanted blade spun through the [Soldiers], and a grinning Fomirelin caught the weapon. The Kraken Eaters were turning and engulfing the front ranks entirely, not mindlessly rampaging ahead. Some were grabbing weapons and even trying to yank armor off the dead and living—

The Great Chieftain kept coming. General Shirka drew one of her throwing hatchets and saw his eyes settle on her. She was counting her Skills, now, warning Gaellis.

<“Gaellis, stop their charge or they’ll butcher our wounded. Do it, now!”>

He hesitated, then tore away from her as the Great Chieftain punched a [Rider] off his saddle. He ran through a Wyvern breathing fire, and his lieutenant leapt on top of the Wyvern and began to strangle it as Goblins shot the [Rider] out of the saddle. A mortal foe, not some great epoch of ancient horrors.

<[Alchemical Coating: Dullwit’s Liquor]. [Returning Throw]. [Unit: Dig In]. Protect Lord Xitegen. Protect—>

She threw her hatchet. He caught it.

Ancestors, he was fast—

 

——

 

Anxiety. There was no report from the front.

Of course, a communications blackout had been announced. Why, he hadn’t been informed. ‘Auxiliary’ allies.

Supreme General Edellein had informed members of the Assembly of Crafts he’d called for the blackout, of course. He did that to insulate Shirka and to present a unified front. She never understood that.

Nor had he authorized anyone else to [Scry] the battlefield, but he couldn’t…stop them. Once the scrying blackout ended, it was free rein on the battlefield.

Victory was what General Edellein expected as he sat tensely in Pallass’ inner war rooms with Strategist Esor and a few [Senators]. A dead Titan, perhaps being stood upon by a brave Drake in uniform.

—When the scrying orbs flickered to life, he saw General Shirka, the focus of the spell. A hand hefted her into the air, then slammed her into the ground. The struggling Drake cut at the arm with a hatchet. Edellein’s mouth opened wide as the grinning Goblin grimaced—then tossed her, ripped the hatchet out of his arm, and threw it. Shirka rolled; the hatchet glanced off one shoulder pauldron. She blew something from a vial at Chieftain Naumel: corrosive blue flames.

He kicked her twenty feet, then ripped the blue fire off him. The Great Goblin’s head swivelled, and he barked.

“Cazmaw. Kill the Terland.

“Wh—what is—”

Senator Errif had turned pale, and his cup of wine was suddenly shaking in the Gnoll’s grip. Strategist Esor took one look at the image and snapped.

Get me a location and precision artillery spells, now!

Edellein rose.

“That’s not—where’s the rest of the army?”

The image was zooming out, showing him a portion of 2nd Army being assaulted by a vast Goblin tribe. They were pushing back, trying to keep the Goblins from breaking their formation in twain. But the biggest Goblins—the biggest Edellein had ever seen in his life—were rampaging forwards.

Not uncontested; a group of them went down, and he saw Spearmaster Gaellis impale one through the chest, and a flying maid landed on one of the Fomirelin with an axe-kick that snapped the arm like a twig. But General Shirka herself was trying to rise, and Lord Xitegen was retreating as one of his servant-Golems’ faces cracked.

Lord Xitegen?

People were demanding answers, crying out in confusion, sending orders to shut down the broadcast of the battle. But it was too late. Edellein began to bark at Esor.

“Tell 2nd Army to maneuver into Razorback Spray formation—”

Then he silenced himself and just watched, knuckles white on the table. There was nothing he could do, he realized, but watch. The Great Chieftain stomped towards General Shirka as an equally large Goblin grabbed Lord Xitegen in one hand and grabbed his head in the other to pull it off.

 

——

 

When she saw Chieftain Naumel appear, Rags closed her eyes. When they snapped open, she turned and spoke.

“Prixall, tell Snapjaw to grab Redscar and retreat.”

“But they’re—”

Do it now. Get them out of range. As fast as you can. Leapwolf, go.”

The Hobgoblin twisted in his saddle. He looked down into the chaos of the battlefield, and Rags pointed straight at Naumel.

The Redfang warrior didn’t hesitate. He drew his blades, copying his mentor, Redscar, and rode into the chaos with a whoop of laughter. Rags closed her eyes again, but she didn’t activate any Skills. She was a [Student].

“Prixall. Put me to sleep, then get out of here.”

The [Witch] had just fired off a [Message] spell to Snapjaw. Above, the Wyverns were aborting their attack runs; the Goblin was almost as confused until she got why Rags had given the order. She hesitated, then put her hand out.

“[Deep Slumber].”

The [Student] collapsed. Prixall snapped her fingers as a screaming Frost Wyvern dove towards her.

[Dispel Magic].

Then she ran as the Goblin got back to her feet.

 

——

 

Lord Xitegen saw Primera break in half as the Great Goblin crushed her head. That wouldn’t have killed some Golems, but her Golem Heart had been embedded in her head. He’d always thought it was a vanity.

The triumphant Goblin seized him up and tried to rip off his head. Xitegen’s magical rings flared and died in face of that tremendous strength, and he felt his neck twist savagely.

“[D-Defiance After Death].”

He choked the words out, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw the ruined body of his beloved Golem sit up. She pointed one shattered stump of an arm at Cazmaw, and the Fomirelin twisted.

The burning rush of flames ignited Xitegen’s skin, but it didn’t matter. He landed hard, rolling, and tried to draw his sword. He would have run, but he couldn’t see—

He got one blurry image of a roaring Goblin before said Goblin punched him. Xitegen lost his sword and rolled back onto his feet more from momentum than anything else.

He looked around for Lectara, Seconda, or anyone; he just saw [Soldiers] trying to fend off a second wave of Kraken Eaters charging at them.

“I should have made the family kill them ages ago. Complacency.”

The [Lord] staggered upright and rubbed one sleeve across his face. Cazmaw stepped forwards and grinned.

“Complacency.”

He agreed, his voice sonorous and low. Then he charged. Lord Xitegen turned and sprinted for it. A coward ran. A coward sat behind battlements while good men and women died.

Sometimes, you ran from monsters. Lord Xitegen ran until he saw the rear of his forces, wounded men and women and Golems in front of him. Then he stopped, sighed, and turned. They were calling for him to get behind them.

“Coward I may be, but a disgrace to House Terland I am not. [Covering Fire].

He did try to dodge as that vast hand grabbed for him, but then it was lifting him up. Why was this Goblin so intent on his head…?

Ah, of course. Parity.

Xitegen carefully spat into one eye. He saw Cazmaw’s teeth bare, and fingers delicately grabbed the edges of Xitegen’s neck, claws digging in deep. The [Lord] stared past the Goblin, and his eyes focused on a blurry shape. It looked…like a green comet.

Or a Goblin flying with magical fire.

 

——

 

[Rocket Kick]!

Rags kicked Cazmaw in the side with all the force in her body. Even so, she was astonished by the sight of the gigantic Fomirelin tumbling away from her.

The [Apista’s Jetfire] spell kept Rags moving; she swivelled, burning a tight circle in the ground, and saw a man lying on his back. Was he…?

“Lord Xitegen! Here!”

Rags reached for him as a furious, howling roar came from Cazmaw. Goblins were racing after their leader, intent on butchering the both of them. Lord Xitegen was staring at the sky. When Rags extended her hand, those dreaming eyes focused on her.

“Alas.”

He didn’t take her hand for a second. Just stared at her. When Rags screamed at him to get up, the [Lord] reached up.

“The world is upside down. And rightside up. I feared it was always both.”

She had no idea what he was talking about. The Goblin whirled and grabbed Xitegen. She lifted him up, which surprised both of them; her back and arms felt like they’d break, and she spoke.

[Jetfire Jump]!

They hit only a dozen feet in the air, mostly due to Xitegen’s weight, and landed behind Controller Lectara as she thundered towards them. Rags dumped Xitegen down, and he stood. He glanced once at her, then spoke.

“Don’t kill this Goblin. Seconda—kill that one.”

Rags turned, and her finger shot across House Terland’s soldiers and Golems. She screamed a single order, from the gifts of levelling.

[Champions of the Brass Dragon]!

Controller Lectara grunted as her battered and broken Golem suit took on a polished, golden glow. She saw flame spells reactivating in the magical sigils on one arm. A Terland [Soldier] levelled a flaming spear at the Kraken Eaters. They never slowed as they charged.

They feared no flame.

 

——

 

Lady Magnolia Reinhart’s hand rose, and she swept it over the ground. Her arm was burning. She felt like she was lifting the hills themselves; her arm wanted to break.

She ignored it and pushed.

Three dozen Goblins racing after Cazmaw vanished. Surprised Goblin faces gazed down and wondered why they were flying—

The Fomirelin was harder. He didn’t even stumble as he smashed into Controller Lectara and began to grapple with her hand-to-hand. He grunted as Magnolia tried to sweep a leg, topple him—

Too heavy. Too high-level. The [Lady] took a breath as Controller Lectara blew flames over the Goblin, blinding him. Cazmaw headbutted the woman, stunning her.

Magnolia slapped Cazmaw with all the energy she had left. The Hobgoblin rotated slightly with the impact, grunted, looked around, and found her. He raised his spear to throw at Xitegen and Rags, and the pink carriage hit him.

After he stopped tumbling, Ressga ran him over again before speeding towards Xitegen and Rags. Reynold was running alongside the carriage, dashing into the fighting before speeding back on his enchanted legs.

The [Lady] pivoted, arm twinging with effort, and swept arrows out of the sky. Aiming at her. Someone had noticed her presence; she saw a female [Shaman] as big as the other two Fomirelin pointing at her.

Magic burst from Fituna’s finger in the shape of raging sharks, made out of water with fangs of ice, to take the [Lady]’s life. Ressa cut two apart as she darted forwards and tangled with a pair of Hobs guarding the [Shaman].

Seven leapt through the air at Magnolia Reinhart, and she swept her hand dreamily across the sky.

The spell vanished; no sharks vanished in a spray of water. They just winked out. Fituna blinked; she saw the [Lady] open her palm, and water and droplets of ice fell from her hand as she shook her fingers out.

The confidence of the Kraken Eaters’ [Shaman] wavered. She backed up as a pair of Hobs fell, twitching, and the [Maid] advanced.

 

——

 

General Shirka pushed herself off a boulder and wished that idiot would stop kicking her. It was a viable tactic; their weight discrepancies meant it kept her from forming up with her people, and she kept having to get to her feet.

All she needed was an op—

Shirka ducked a cut from his axe that took off her neck spines. Naumel threw an uppercut, and she raised arms to block it.

The punch carried her up; she kicked him in the face and used the motion to propel herself backwards. He was already swinging for where she landed. There was no stunning him, and he seemed virtually immune to her poisoned blades.

Shirka landed and leaned under the blade until her entire body was lower than her stomach. She came back up; he was on the backswing already. She grabbed the axe’s teeth with her gauntlets and let the force toss her to the side.

“You’re fast. Better than some Named-ranks.”

His compliment and self-satisfied grin said he was having the time of his life. Shirka drew a backup axe and charged. She hacked, right-left, a diagonal chopping motion that gouged into his arm. He grimaced at that; it bit down to the bone, but he took the blows to go for another swing. Shirka was getting ready to leap over the blade when the hilt hit her in the head.

He bashed the pommel into her helmet again and grabbed her. It was, again, the best tactic to use. She wasn’t as strong as he was, and immobilized, he could strike her with all his force or rip her head off. If she let him.

The Drake quivered in Naumel’s grip, and he reacted instantly, swinging his axe one-handed for her. She exploded out of his hand and caught the axe. The points dug into her claws and drew blood, but she stopped the blade and stepped forwards.

One punch.

The Kraken Eaters saw their Chieftain tumble head over heels, and Naumel pushed himself up and rubbed at his chest. A rib snapped back into place.

“What Skill was th—?”

Shirka tossed a vial into his mouth. The bang blew fire out of his mouth and nose and ears. He reeled, and she threw the axe.

“[Inspiration: My Hero’s Strength].”

The axe thunked into Naumel’s skull, and Shirka swore as his head came back up. He grinned at her.

“[Avert Mortal Blow]. [The Kraken Dives].

He was up and on her, leaping like some gigantic fish with claws, in a moment. She struggled, punching, trying to knock him off her, and only felt the Fomirelin’s claws stop tearing at her armor when someone stabbed her.

A blade glanced off her armor; she heard a roar, and Naumel tore away. Shirka rolled to her feet and saw a Hobgoblin passing by her.

Leapwolf’s sword had gone straight through Naumel’s back. The Hobgoblin rode like a cavalryman, standing up in the stirrups of his Carn Wolf’s saddle as it bounded away from the furious Chieftain. He saluted her, and Naumel swung his axe.

[Great Cleave].

The Hobgoblin parried the blow with both his swords. [Effortless Parry]. Then his Carn Wolf jumped, carrying him out of range of Naumel. The Great Chieftain spun away from him and found no General Shirka.

“Get me lightning enchantments. Acid barely works, but he feels lightning.”

The [General] was walking into position with a squad of 2nd Army’s heaviest hitters, led by Strategist Ulhouse. The [Battlemage] began enchanting blades, and the Great Chieftain hesitated.

His eyes narrowed, and he seemed to sniff the air. He noticed Cazmaw backing away from Lord Xitegen’s forces and that his Goblins weren’t making it into 2nd Army’s heart. A roar from above made the Kraken Eaters’ Chieftain sweep his eyes skywards.

Wyverns, led by Major Hiclaw, were coming in strafing runs. The Wyvern Lord was carrying a struggling Fomirelin into the skies. Two hundred feet, three hundred—the Wyvern just dropped the Great Goblin from the height, then dove for another target while breathing frost.

Aspat. Go. Go!

The Kraken Eaters’ Chieftain turned and pointed his axe backwards. His forces began to disengage. General Shirka advanced, but the Kraken Eaters were as fast on the retreat as they were on the offense; they began hurling magical artifacts, leaving pools of caustic slime or tripvines exploding over 2nd Army’s ranks.

The Goblins only stopped for one thing, which was to grab the best weapon or piece of armor they could find. Then they were retreating over the valley’s edge as Xitegen’s rains of arrows kept falling.

They left only the dead in their wake. And the ruination of plans. General Shirka saw Lord Xitegen wearily stomping towards Magnolia Reinhart, a pair of Goblins casting around as her wounded army regrouped a second time. General Shirka wanted to wave at that short Goblin. Instead, she had to shout.

Lower those weapons!

Rags turned as the nearest [Soldiers] of 2nd Army raised their weapons and aimed them at the [Chieftain] and Leapwolf. She met Shirka’s gaze, and the [General] heard a voice in her earpiece.

I am taking authority of this disaster. Destroy both tribes, General!

General Shirka calmly took her earpiece off her head and spoke into it.

“Eat shit, High Command. All forces, stand down.

She rubbed at her face and wished Chaldion were still in charge.

 

——

 

Orders were being given. A Goblin tribe was running. Two Goblin tribes were moving, in fact, but the Kraken Eaters were merely preparing for another attack. The other was fleeing, faced with battles it did not want nor need.

The sun was shining down on an inn, and the Titan lived.

Disastrous. You could well say that. Or was it a triumph?

The Dragonlord still lived. He flew downwards, rain glancing off his scales, and in the High Passes of Izril, a [General] of Pallass threw down her hatchet in front of her army for all to see. She tore the helmet off her head as she was relieved of command.

General Shirka of Pallass raised her hands over her head as General Edellein ordered Strategist Ulhouse to take charge. The [Strategist] paused to spit blood and then removed his badge. Spearmaster Gaellis planted his spear point-first in the dirt.

Calmly, slowly, thousands of [Soldiers] tossed their blades down, which was, when you got down to it, a really stupid tactical move if the Kraken Eaters decided to look over their shoulders. But in this moment…Lady Magnolia Reinhart would have bet on peace between Gnolls and Drakes before this sight.

She caught her breath as Lord Xitegen Terland glanced at the Goblin who stood, panting, one foot nearly twice the size of the other after kicking Cazmaw. He did not offer her a hand to shake, nor Leapwolf. Instead, he dug around in a bag of holding and motioned with one finger.

Seconda, his personal Golem, stepped forwards and produced from her midsection a platter of glasses. Lord Xitegen Terland pulled a vintage from his bag of holding, cut the top off with an enchanted knife, and poured three glasses. He handed one to Rags, one to Leapwolf…one to Leapwolf’s wolf, Coatsparks…and then poured himself a fourth.

The two Goblins and Lord Xitegen stood awkwardly with glasses in hand and without much to say in the face of all their problems, like unhappy newcomers at a party. Then the young Goblin gazed up. She tossed back her wine in a single gulp that made every [Vintner] and [Wine Connoisseur] who saw the image wince and then shaded her brows as she looked skywards.

Even now, Rags of the Flooded Waters tribe swore she could still see his brilliant light.

“When we need him most, he will be there. When the worst comes, we will not be alone.”

That was all she said to Leapwolf. Lord Xitegen stared bleakly at the distant, screaming [Supreme General] of Pallass, and then at the mountains where 2nd Army’s forces still lay, the Kraken Eaters, and then towards the shining ray of light hanging over Liscor.

“Young…lady. I admire optimism from you more than even myself. But when the next, imminent calamity arrives, I don’t know if he will have the strength to survive it.”

This statement he felt was reasonable, if bleak. Yet Lord Xitegen was unprepared for the blazing smile that the young Goblin gave him. She held her glass out for a refill.

“I don’t believe I specified who ‘he’ was, Lord Xitegen. It could even be a she. All it takes is one brave [Innkeeper], or Dragon, or [Lord] of House Terland…Goblins aren’t picky about our champions.”

She beamed at him, and the [Lord] of House Terland stared at her with an open mouth of dawning realization and horror. Then he began drinking as fast and hard as he could.

 

——

 

<Repeating assigned levels for clarity out of combat…>

 

[Student of Grandmasters Level 47!]

[Skill – Rocket Kick created!]

<Rocket Kick — Allows the user to kick an object with all the force and momentum of a rocket! The proportional momentum of the user enhances the Skill! New <ROCKET>-type Skills also produce heat and flame analogous to the user’s technological level and equipment!>

[Skill – Jetfire Jump created!]

<Jetfire Jump — Sudden acceleration from any position! Be careful as this jump can easily injure an inexperienced user! Unlike other jumping Skills, Jetfire Jump has far more personal momentum and force behind the motion and can even be used to propel other objects in the opposite direction if used right!>

[Skill – Unit: Champions of the Brass Dragon obtained!]

<Unit: Champions of the Brass Dragon — A gift for warriors who aid a Dragonlord in battle! Once more, accept the blessing of the Brass Dragons in the form of heavy armor resistant to fire and blades that can sunder mithril! Be warned, this Skill is not always an upgrade, but individuals in a group can refuse the Skill if so-desired. The armor is also proportionally heavier than regular steel. And very shiny.>

 

 

[Flower of Izril, Lady of the Dragon’s Promise Level 58!]

[Skill – Staff: Manufacture Dragonscale Equipment (Brass) obtained!]

<Staff: Manufacture Dragonscale Equipment (Brass) — Create items fit for servants with any Dragon scales you find lying around! Acceptable gear includes outfits fit for <SERVANT> classes such as [Maid], [Butler], and so on! Depending on the role, items such as swords may not be acceptable, but certain cooking utensils may qualify. 

Manufacturing Dragon-based equipment is notoriously difficult, and this Skill economizes both the difficulty involved and the waste of resources to far more acceptable levels. Getting Dragon scales is always difficult, but happily Dragons do shed their scales…assuming they let you keep them.>

 

[General of Will, Wardchild of the Savior Level 47!] <Guardian: Saliss of Lights> <Guardian: Onieva Oliwing.>

[Skill – Army: Patch Up Those Wounds (Cleansing) obtained!]

<Army: Patch Up Those Wounds (Cleansing) — Put some spit on those wounds and keep fighting, soldier! In this case, not even spit will hinder your forces—your battles against noxious foes and your own personal childhood trauma with poisonous enemies means your soldiers will heal and not fear disease nor poison! Within certain limits. 

This Skill will heal the approximate amount of damage equal to 1/16th of the damage each individual [Soldier] can withstand, prioritizing the least-lethal wounds first. Otherwise, you’d be incentivized to charge your forces into the worst danger and use this Skill to mitigate! Keep your lads safe! Tell Spearmaster Gaellis he’s an idiot if he tries to charge alone.>

[Skill – Unit: Massed Attack obtained!]

<Unit: Massed Attack — Attack a single foe from a distance! Designate a target and your entire unit will be allowed to strike and use their Skills as one on the foe! Perfect for slaying gigantic enemies or foes who refuse to come into range! Bear in mind the Skill is not unlimited in range, and the [Massed Attack] Skill does not amplify your unit’s abilities, merely allow them to simultaneously hit the enemy.>

[Ward Skill – Item: Potion of Growth obtained!]

<Item: Potion of Growth — An item straight from your personal hero’s creations! They worked hard on this one, but seldom use it because of reasons. Grow in size until you’re twice your height! Effects last (20) minutes at present, and the vial can be given and imbibed by anyone you wish. Watch out, your enemies can grab this and use it against you! 

The vial is temporary and lasts five minutes until it vanishes; drink the entire potion for full effect. Tastes like raspberries mixed with dungbeetle innards.> 

 

[Golem-Lord of Enduring Dignity Level 49!]

[Skill – Revive Golem (Autonomous) obtained!]

<Revive Golem (Autonomous) — Lose a Golem? No problem! Bring them back! Don’t shed a tear, because your Golem will reassemble around its Golem Heart and be good as new***! 

*Memories of said Golem will not endure past the breaking of their Golem Heart.

**This Skill is only available once per month at your level. It might change at Level 50! Good luck!

***Primera isn’t really a Sentient-class Golem so she applies! She’s called that but she’s an excellent Autonomous-class at best or she’d remember any of her previous owners and have a personality. Which she doesn’t. Standards have fallen these days. Only Domehead has reached Sentience-class since Zelkyr’s era. 

Golems destroyed in the distant past or whose remains are over 51% lost cannot be revived, but everything else in House Terland is free game!>

[Skill Change – Covering Fire → Covering Fire (Piercing Arrows)!]

[Skill – Covering Fire (Piercing Arrows) obtained!]

<Covering Fire (Piercing Arrows) — Now your arrows can pierce steel armor! They have approximately half the piercing effect of a Level 30 [Archer] using [Piercing Shot], but you’ve got a lot of arrows!>

 

[Goblinchampion Level—]

[CLASS CANCELLED.]

 

——

 

As they slept, at various times, four individuals—among many, many more—woke up in states of confusion, dismay, and in one case, sweat-soaked horror.

But mostly great confusion and concern, which was odd because they’d all gotten such helpful explanations about everything! The Grand Design (Second Edition) had worked so hard, too.

It might have gotten a bit over enthusiastic about some of the Skills, but it felt like this was a lot of fun…for the people getting the levels! And the Grand Design (First Edition) was finally coming over to check its work.

It couldn’t wait to show off what it had been doing.

 

——

 

After a while, the Goblin [Student] stopped pinching herself and tried to grab the nearest quill and paper to write all this down.

 

——

 

The [Lady] of House Reinhart resolved to talk to said Dragon about this immediately…though she did wonder what kind of designs her people could come up with. But she was exceptionally concerned.

 

——

 

The [General] lay in her tents, wondering if she’d keep her class long enough to use her new Skills. She wondered what the hell was going on and whether her savior would call this, too, the work of The Wandering Inn, and that was a terrifying thought.

She thought for a long time about why this was happening, what was going on, as everyone who heard that voice did. But then Shirka’s mind focused on something, and she rolled over to rest her chin on one hand.

“…They? Odd grammar.”

The voice of levels had used ‘lads’ because Shirka called her army that. And it had called Gaellis ‘he’.

 

——

 

Lord Xitegen got up, gave crisp orders to have Primera’s pieces found and assembled as soon as possible, then found a bottle of wine and decided to keep drinking.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note:

Praise the time off. Praise the editing!

Not just me (although I’ll take some credit), but having a good system. This chapter would have been decent if I just wrote it, but I had time and feedback, and it became far stronger.

I am indeed still getting better at writing. Though I hate editing, I think this is one of the better chapters I’ve written. You may disagree, in which case I will be exceptionally hurt. But as the first chapter for 2025, I’m pretty confident in it.

…Wait, now I’m not. I don’t actually remember everything I wrote in the chapter. I realized during my break I have to shuffle the words out of my head. I can actually reread chapters even in Volume 10 and not remember them. To be clear, I remember all the plot beats, but how I wrote it, with the prose and style, is actually largely absent.

I’m sure that’s not concerning, and I can actually enjoy reading my own chapters, which is great. The point is, that break was good for me. I released this as a double-chapter because I felt like you should read it this way.

Thus, if I need to take another week off to perfect the next chapter, I will. I know that’s a big gap, but I’ll try not to need it. And I am delaying my yearly month off to finish this arc, as I said. We’re focusing on the Roots/Palace of Fates arc here, and it might take more chapters, but I think I should get back to doing entire arcs rather than bouncing around.

Feeling more positive. Going to eat sushi after this. Maybe I’m achieving a better life-work balance? Hah, I’ll probably ruin it at some point, but I do feel positive.

However, that’s just my little world. I want to wish all my readers and people caught in wildfires, wars, or other disasters all the safety and respite there is. 2025 is going to be difficult; it feels like that’s a safe assumption. I can do little except continue writing, and I doubt that will help out, but I do worry about readers posting about being caught in the Los Angeles fires, for instance. Sending you all the luck I’ve got.

See you next week (or the one after that),

—pirateaba

 

 

Phone Wallpaper: Mrsha Sipping by Pontastic!

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/tobiasnordin

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/tobias.s.nordin/

YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCde0VI7ReuYdsyzoFrIfr7g

Website: https://www.nordink.net/home

 

Bluefruit Juice and Lupp Corn by Mystik Druidess!

 

Healing Slime Sips by LAnrae!

 

Dungeon by Saphire!

 

Dungeon by Brack!

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/brack

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Brack_Giraffe

Bluesky: https://bsky.app/profile/brackgiraffe.bsky.social

 

Inn by Avi!

Ko-Fi https://ko-fi.com/0avi0

 

Sleepy Queen of Desonis by Artsynada!

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/illudanajohns/

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/illudanajohns

 


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