Out of Elsweyr

Chapter 17

Showdowns pt. II

Yay, still alive ! XD
And with a new chapter.

Stolen Socks (my new beta, as Raven Studio is sadly too busy to keep beta reading) and I are not totally finished with the beta reading/editing thing, but given I am going to move and be deprived of Internet for another undetermined period of time, I really had to post it.

A new edited version will be posted later on. Thus, you will be able to appreciate all the editing work done by my adorable beta.

"...Everything has a price. The Swamps gives, but the Swamps also takes, and only fools can expect to take from the Swamps without giving it something in return.

But the strangers, who came from beyond the seas, in their arrogance, could not care less. And while they meddled into the Old Arts, tearing apart the very fabric of Life and Death, the Iwas got angry.

But the strangers, who came from beyond the seas, in their arrogance, could not care less. They thought they could repay the Swamps by sacrificing lives which did not belong to them. And the Iwas got even angrier.

But the strangers came from beyond the seas, in their arrogance, could not care less.

So the Iwas sent the Nekomakas, the Guardians of the Swamps, to castigate the impious.

And the strangers from beyond the sea, losing all arrogance, finally paid the price to the Swamps..."

– Dr. David Deadstone, "Out of Elsweyr"

(translation of the Khajiit oral tradition on the Lion Men)

Vanin jumped sideways as quickly as he could to avoid a fireball on his right, wincing as he felt the heat brushing against his face. He barely managed to get his balance back to face his opponent again, now that the latter, a young and blind Altmer with surprising magical abilities for someone of that age, was already preparing another attack.

"I am going to fry you like a rasher of bacon, fatty!" Anirne yelled, snapping her fingers and producing fire small fireballs which quickly flew away toward the mage.

The old Imperial pared a few projectiles with an ice counter spell before he ducked clumsily to avoid the rest, which aimed to turn his head into a mass of melted flesh.

Aiming – or rather, being aimed at. This was Vanin's main problem right now.

Initially, the mage had thought that the girl managed to locate him by his voice, but soon, he had noticed, even if he remained silent she seemed able to follow any of his movements with great precision. With amazing precision. And it did not take too much time for the mage to work out that the Altmer was seeing him due to his magical aura – a talent mastered only by arcane practitioners of the greatest ability.

The fact that such a young girl, even if High Elf, had managed to master such a capacity at her age, and at that level of accuracy, was a wonder the mage had not been able to grasp yet and it was growingly worrying him – especially when he had the feeling his survival was at stake.

Nevertheless – and despite the fact the issue was bothering him greatly – the Imperial mage decided wisely not to dwell more on the subject as more urgent problems asked for his immediate attention; a huge Orc was running toward him, her huge double-axe raised above her head and he needed to find a way to block the attack without delay – or get ready to be cut into halves.

"Yaaaaargh!" Urzob's cry resounded between the walls.

Vanin could not help but feeling his hair standing on the end as he raised his magic staff in a protection move to parry the blow.

So far the mage had been lucky, but he could feel tiredness building up in his muscles and he felt it more and more difficult to concentrate his aura to launch spells – the effects of old age, but not only...

The two mercenaries had revealed themselves to be particularly tough opponents, and Vanin had to find a way to get rid of them quickly, or things would soon get singularly complicated and very messy.

The Imperial just had the time to shout an incantation to cast a shielding spell around his staff. But despite the magical protection, the blow was so violent the old mage felt his teeth chattering. He took several steps backward, his whole body shaking from head to foot.

The Orc raised her axe again, yelling as she did so, and Vanin braced himself for another powerful attack...

... which, fortunately for him never came, as this was the moment Anirne chose to launch another fire spell. With a rain of orange sparkles, the fire tongue lashed out between the mage and the Orc, both jumping backward to avoid the sad fate of being turned into kebabs.

"By the Gods, careful, Anirne!" Urzob barked, momentarily forgetting about Vanin and shaking an angry fist at the Altmer's ally: "You almost fried me!"

A contrite pout appeared on the young Elf's face.

"Hey, no one asked you to jump in front of me," she protested, before her lips turned up into a provocative smile: "One has to wonder who is the blindest here..."

Urzob blinked in surprise, before the rage took over.

"What?" she said, walking toward Anirne with a menacing gleam in her eyes. "And all the others, hey?" she said, pointing at carbonised humanoid forms on the ground that Anirne, blind as she was, could not see: "They were blind too, or what?!"

Deciding that Providence was definitely with him and that it would be silly of him not to take advantage of the fact the two mercenaries had suddenly became oblivious to his presence, Vanin carefully took a few steps backward to put some safe distance between him and his opponents, and to enjoy a small moment of respite which would help him to recharge his magical aura.

It would not have been the first time that Anirne's magic would have provoked collateral damages, as proved by the many still fuming bodies lying on the ground – remains of the handful of mercenaries accompanying the Four Magnificent, who had paid the price for Anirne's ardent – literally speaking – enthusiasm. Some had also been victim of their own companions' clumsiness in the tiny space offered by the corridor in which they were all fighting.

So far the lack of room – which Vanin had initially considered as a major problem – was actually playing in the old mage's favour and counterbalanced the fact that he was outnumbered by the Four Magnificent with their henchmen.

In that overcrowded, limited space the Imperial had been quickly able to bring the odds back into his favour. Originally planning to fight in a very clever and crafty way, the mage had found it much easier to rely on the simple observation that when his enemies had to be extremely careful not to maim an ally while attacking him, Vanin merely had to shoot randomly at the melee to be sure to hit the nail on the head.

This strategy has been really paying off so far, leaving Vanin only the Four Magnificent to face – or rather, to face Vanin and a rather excited Furball…

"Is that me or is that creature spring-driven?!" the mage heard the Redguard leader of the mercenaries yelling in his back to his Dark Elf companion. "And why is it always after my calves!? Take it away! Take it away!"

"It would be easier if you could stop jumping around like that yourself!" the Dark Elf retorted, as he made his strange weapon, a metallic chain ended up by an equally metallic ball, whirling around him, waiting for the opportune time to strike.

"That's easy for you to say – it is not your legs he is biting!" the Redguard snarled back. "Hey, wait! You are not going to...!?"

His horrified exclamation got interrupted by a swift whirling sound, followed by a loud "boom" – and a scream.

"Argh, Ralentu, you moron!" the Redguard yelled, jumping on his valid leg while holding his hurt feet with both hands. "That was my foot!"

Vanin cast a glance on his left, catching a glimpse of a small furry white ball, jumping around, holding a large piece of fabric – undoubtedly a bit of the Redguard's pants - between its teeth, growling furiously while shaking it madly in the air.

Furball was causing their opponents no end of trouble. The dog had adopted a rather clever, yet basic fighting strategy which consisted of constant moving and biting everything within the reach of his jaws -- with a strong focus on calves. The mercenaries, more accustomed to humanoids opponent standing firmly on their feet and not jumping around randomly chewing their opponents' calves, were totally overwhelmed, and Vanin almost felt sorry for them. Almost.

"Ayya, sorry Bombassa!" the Dunmer called Ralentu said, covering his mouth with the tip of his fingers.

"Why didn't you simply catch him?!" Bombassa barked back, foaming a bit inside his mouth in rage and pain.

Ralentu gulped and Furball, deciding to switch targets just for a change, ran toward him, his fur bristled and emitting a deep growl. "Hey, I would like my fingers to stay attached to my hands, thank you!"

"Enough!" Bombassa barked, stopping to massage his foot and picking up his scimitar he had dropped on the floor. "Kill that toothy ball of fluff and let's get over it!"

The Redguard's word worked as a spur on Vanin, who straightened up and made his hinges creak. Bombassa has made a good point – that was enough. Vanin and Furball were on a rescue mission and there was no more time to lose - who knew how long would Hassildor manage to stand against Raksada...

If the mage had thought for a moment to run away from his opponents, he had quickly realized he was just putting off the inevitable. Rather taking the bull by the horns, even if the bull in question was two feet tall, armed with an axe and assisted by an extremely talented pyromaniac medium - who was still arguing, by the way...

"Not my fault if you are totally scatterbrained," Anirne hissed in Urzob's face, her nose almost touching the Orc's. "You should have guessed I was about to launch that attack."

"Talking about being scatterbrained..." the Orc growled back, gripping the shaft of her axe tighter. "What about me scattering your brain right now...?"

Anirne's bitter answer died on her lips as a crystalline sound resounded above their heads. They quickly jumped away, narrowly avoiding the rain of pointy snow crystals which started to fall from the ceiling and embedded themselves in the ground.

"What the...?!" Urzob barked, turning toward Vanin, who was looking at them in a nonchalant pose with a hand on his hip, his magic staff rippling with blue magical sparkles.

"Sorry for the interruption, ladies," the mage said, smiling widely. "But it is getting late, and you know, old people like me need to go to bed early..."

The Orc and the Altmer exchanged a quick look.

"Just try not to fry me, all right?" Urzob said from the corner of her mouth to Anirne before charging at the mage. But this time, he was resolutely waiting for her...

As the axe was once again raised above his head, the mage made no move to parry the blow, to the Orc's greatest surprise. Instead, he yelled a powerful incantation, creating a bluish energy shield around him.

It was too late for Urzob to stop her attack, and her eyes widened as her axe bounced with a dull sound from the magical protection, so hard both the weapon and the Orc were violently projected backward – exactly as Vanin was expecting.

As the Orc tried to get her balance back, the magical shield popped up with a "plop", and a rain of sparkles flew in the air before concentrating at high speed between Vanin's hands. Another incantation was pronounced and with horror Urzob watched a ray of blue light flashing toward her chest at a high speed. She closed her eyes, anticipating the lethal blow...

There was a strong flash of light behind her closed eyelids and she felt the air around her suddenly getting very hot – but nothing concerning the terrible pain she was expecting when her organs would melt from the heat...

Prudently, the Orc opened an eye, to see that Anirne had jumped before her and deflected their opponent's attack by a fire counter-spell, which has left a large soot trail in the ground in front of her.

Vanin took a step backward and swore under his breath, his brows knitting in surprise and concern. The mage had initially wanted to get rid of the Orc first, as she represented the most direct threat – attacking hand to hand – but now he wondered if he hadn't made a huge strategic mistake by not neutralising the Altmer beforehand.

Because she had just stopped Elibrae's Amazing Death Ray – and easily so. Damn.

Oh, of course, it was not impossible to parry the spell. Actually, despite being powerful, the hex was rather common. Nevertheless, it required a lot of craftiness in the mastery of complex arcane magic to stop it as neatly as the young Altmer just did, and theoretically, one was not supposed to be able to do such a thing with basic fire elemental magic, however powerful such raw magic might be...

"You know," Vanin started softly, as his mind raced to try to work out what his next move was going to be, "that by doing what you just did, you invalidated years of research on the nature of magic by the most prominent mages of the Arcane University?"

"Oh, I am really sorry for popping up your bubble, mage." Anirne replied in a mock-sad tone, while, Urzob got back carefully on her feet behind her, retrieving her axe and shooting Vanin a murderous look.

"Shall I send a funeral urn filled with your smoking remains back to the University to support my thesis that natural magic is much more superior to your fussy arcane science?"

"Oh no – not before I tear him to shreds!"

There was a whistling sound in the air and Vanin just had the time to jump backward to avoid the attack of the Orc, who had taken advantages of the little chat between Anirne and the mage to charge the latter at amazing speed for a creature of her size.

Even if the Imperial was quick enough to avoid getting cut into two, he could not have prevented the tip of one of the blades to get caught in the front part of his cloak and robes - fortunately leaving him unscathed, but tearing apart the pocket in which he was storing the pyramid, the notes and Trencavel's necklace he and Hassildor had stolen from Raksada's quarters.

In slow motion, his eyes opened wide. Vanin saw the items flying in the air, between him and Urzob. He prepared to jump forward to try to catch the objects, but Urzob suddenly moved aside to give way to the rain of fireballs Anirne had launched at the mage.

Uttering an awful curse, the Imperial leapt aside and rolled on the floor, fast enough to avoid the destructive fires. But the items were not as lucky...

"No!" Vanin yelled helplessly as he saw the fireballs flying toward the objects.

In a magnificent burst of flames, the spell hit the items, setting aflame the notes and the precious information they contained.

"Crackeeeeeeeer!"

The horrible scream which pierced his ears made Lucien get back into touch with reality again. Blinking furiously to adjust his blurry vision, the Imperial squinted on Polly the Parrot perched on his chest and flapping her wings furiously.

Lucien, still groggy, groaned and got up laboriously from the ground where he was lying flat on his back. He could not have said exactly what happened, but his first observations brought him to draw the conclusion that a wall of the throne room had exploded for unknown reasons, making rocks and plaster flying all across the room – as well as people.

A concert of panicked screams was echoing in between the walls while the place was entirely drowned in a large cloud of whitish dust. The explosion and lack of visibility had plunged the place into total confusion, with people running around in terror, while a few officers and advisers of Sha'ka were desperately trying to bring back order, without much success so far.

"Great. Just… great." Lucien thought as he took a few steps on shaky legs toward the nearest wall, hiding behind an encrusted pillar to try to find some protection from the panicked flow of people. Unholy Mother, why, why did everything have to always turn sour at some point?!

J'Ghasta had failed in his mission, that traitor of Mudli had disappeared and now half of the palace was falling on their head. Lucien was not superstitious, but sometimes he had the feeling he was followed by bad luck. The only positive point was that it seemed everyone had forgotten about him and J'Ghasta – for the moment.

Leaving the shelter offered by the pillar, Lucien started to elbow his way in the crowd with a great difficulty. Polly, perched on his shoulder, was driving her claws in his skin, her feathers all ruffled in panic. All around, the guests, guards and servants were all trying to find an exit, bumping into each other, jostling, screaming and often trampling on each other – and Lucien himself stumbled several times on inanimate forms on the floor.

As he did his best not to be pushed around and trampled to death, the Imperial looked around him to find signs of J'Ghasta, or even Fog Marley, but in such a mess it was easier trying to find a sober Rastajiit in a Skooma den…

But it got worse... All of a sudden, the screams increased in intensity and Lucien found himself caught in a ripple in the crowd when another explosion made the tiled floor explode on his left. The little snowy crystals that rose in the air did not left any doubt on what provoked the explosion…

'Sithis, there is a bunch of nuts having a magical battle!' Lucien thought, as he desperately tried to get in the opposite direction of the crowd in order to get near the centre of the room where he had seen J'Ghasta last. It certainly wasn't the wisest thing to do, given most of the guards were concentrating in that area and trying to evacuate Sha'ka's inanimate body, but it was the best plan Lucien had in store for the moment.

More hexes were flying in the air now. Powerful ones, which regularly pulverised entire sections of the stone work and threatened the very structure of the room. Lucien gritted his teeth; the magical adepts currently fighting were certainly not beginners, but they should have been moderating their enthusiasm if they didn't want to end up burying the whole audience under the rubble of the Throne Room.

More hexes were flying around, and some sinister noises indicated him part of the room were about to collapse on them.

"Lucien, man! Over there!"

Despite the surrounding racket, the assassin managed to hear the voice and turned around. A few meters away stood a totally panicked Fog Marley, supporting a half-conscious J'Ghasta as best as he could. The latter did not look as if he was at the his best form: relying heavily on Fog's shoulder, his glassy stare looking at nothing, he looked like all energy had left him; as if all the adrenaline of the fight had suddenly vanished.

Swearing under his breath, Lucien pushed and shoved to get near them – regretting incidentally that he didn't have a dagger to hack his way through the crowd more efficiently.

"Aya, we must get out of here!" Fog shrieked in a voice breaking with terror.

Amidst the general pushing and showing, the Khajiit had lost his multicoloured beret and his foolish expression, his face being tarnished with utter panic at the very moment.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious!" Lucien barked, pushing him aside violently to support J'Ghasta.

"Are you all right?"

J'Ghasta blinked, his paw moving toward his chest and patting it carefully.

"I think… he broke me a rib. Maybe… more than one actually," he stopped and winced as his paw left his chest to move toward his jaw, "Oh crap, the bastard broke me a fang too!"

"Could have been worse." Lucien observed with the philosophical distance of a regular of chronic hassles, before his eyes opened wide. Popping from the crowd, an Amabutho had just materialised in front of him, looking as surprised as he was.

"Could still be worse, actually!" the Imperial added, throwing his foot in the guard's stomach and pushing him out of the way. "Run!"

Without waiting for an answer, Lucien rushed forward into the crowd, dragging J'Ghasta, followed by Fog Marley. Behind him, he heard the screams of more guards who had recovered from their surprise and had started to chase after them: "It's them! The assassins! Get them! Get them!"

"Fine." J'Ghasta whispered in Lucien's ear, still leaning heavily on his shoulder. "And what now, hey, Speaker Lachance...?"

"Don't worry," Lucien replied firmly as he led them toward the long balcony which followed the Throne Room, "I... have a plan."

The Khajiit gave a weak smile: "Is that supposed to comfort me...?"

'Oh no, it is not.' Lucien thought as he grabbed one of the long hangings which ornamented the ceiling, and part of which came undone in the commotion. 'Actually, I also am starting to get worried about my own stupidity.'

"Wait – what do you think you are doing?!" J'Ghasta asked hurriedly as the Imperial put a feet on the parapet holding onto the hanging as he would have done with a rope.

"Something I won't be able to regret for the rest of my life because if it fails, said life is going to end up very quickly..." Lucien replied with a horrible grin; a wicked mix of sheer terror and excitement.

"Try to cling on me as hard as you can," the Imperial advised him before turning to Fog, who was glaring at them with disbelief in his face. "That applies to you too, if you want to save your miserable junkie life..."

The Rastajiit looked behind. The guards were almost on them, and the look on their face clearly indicated their intentions with the fugitives were anything but friendly, and implied a long holiday in a dark cell in the company of red-hot brands... Fog gulped before looking back at Lucien.

"Man, you are not going to jump...?" he said with a little sceptic laugh.

Lucien ignored him and threw himself into the air with a protesting J'Ghasta, holding tight to the piece of cloth.

"You are mad! You are utterly mad, man!" the Rastajiit yelled – nevertheless jumping on Lucien's back as the assassin stepped into the air, just in time avoiding getting caught by the guards, yelling in rage and frustration as they looked at the fugitives escaping.

Lucien felt his guts in his mouth as they fell down, while Polly the parrot circled around them screeching "Crakeeeeeeeeeer!"

As they reached the full length of the hanging, the cloth tautened dramatically under their combined weight. Lucien gritted his teeth – now, either it cracked or resisted.

It resisted.

Screaming, the three companions described a nice arch in the air, while the laws of physics and more particularly centrifugal force drove them back toward the palace, two levels below the Throne room.

"Ah-ah!" Lucien exclaimed triumphantly, turning his head toward J'Ghasta and Fog, who were clutching to him convulsively. "Told you I had a plan!"

The Rastajiit did not seem to be as happy as Lucien. Eyes wide with fear, he grabbed the Imperial's chin and forced him to watch in front of him again.

"If your plan was to crash against the wall, you're a genius, man!"

Lucien's eyes widened as well as he saw the front of the building getting closer and closer. With their speed and weight, there was no way Lucien was going to be able to absorb the shock with his legs without – at best – breaking a bone in the process, but there was a slight hope in the form of a large window, a bit below their virtual point of impact on the wall...

Lucien took a deep breath. With a bit of luck – no, with a lot of luck, maybe he could...?

"We let go off!" he yelled, releasing his grip on the cloth rope.

M'kaba was looking sadly at the canvas on the ground, and from time to time, a long and desperate sigh lifted up his frail shoulders.

Of all the palace inhabitants, he was certainly the only one who was not attending Sha'ka's coronation today. Indeed, how could he have the heart to take part in the festivities while he was getting through the most difficult moment in his life...?

M'kaba continued to glare intently at the blank painting and a feeble whimper went through his lips.

It had been weeks since he had been ordered to paint that frieze and he was going nowhere. It seemed that inspiration had left him – quite ironical for one of the greatest and most avant-garde artist the country had known in centuries, who in a few years had totally rejuvenated the traditional Khajiiti painting techniques, as well as subjects tackled by his fellow countrymen to take them to new heights of post-modernism, where the intransigence of the concepts sublimated the phenomenological spirituality of temporal and improbable coincidences. (1)

But all that was just past glory. He had painted nothing in the last months, and even if he could forget about his hurt pride, he doubted his generous sponsor would show more patience. After all, tolerance and understanding were not what Raksada was famous for...

He was about to sigh again when a strange sound tickled his ears. It seemed to be getting closer and closer, and M'kaba was starting to wonder if the fumes from his pots of paint had started to attack his brain when a shadow materialised in the window...

And then, everything went very confused.

M'kaba would only remember that he had been pushed violently to the other side of the room into a pile of trestles, brushes and canvas, in an awful din provoked by his pots of paint being hurled everywhere as well as something sounding strangely like bodies rolling on the ground over several meters.

While he tried to disentangle himself from the mass of paper and wood in which he was caught in he heard voices saying things like "Woah... I can't believe we made it alive – even if J'Ghasta seemed to be out of i.", or "Man, you should seriously seek medical help you know – 'cause you are maaad" and "Crakeeeer".

The voices continued to argue for a short moment, before vanishing in the distance, and when the Khajiit artist finally managed to get free, the room was totally empty.

M'kaba blinked a few times and cautiously walked toward his canvas, where he stared at it for a long, loooooong moment.

Looking up, he blinked a few more times and looked at the painting again, a puzzled expression on his face. The blank space had given way to a series of different silhouettes – two Khajiiti and one humanoid – painted in four different colours: yellow, blue and red respectively, with tiny pink bird footprints here and there.

The result was an intriguing set-up of bodies in different and rather comical positions, and the effect obtained was definitely... interesting. Of course, it was not what he had been told to realise, but one had to admit the concept was innovative...

No, no... This was definitely not innovative. This was simply... revolutionary.

With a huge delighted smile on his face as unexplored lands of creativity spread before him, M'kaba rose a pot of paint above his head, ready to pour the content on his head...

The platform in the Throne Room on which Princess Naandi and her servant M'Thunzi were standing had remained intact by a miracle. A group of Amabuthos had formed a protective circle around the two female Khajiits, driving back everyone who tried to escape the panic crowd and sought shelter on the dais while the rest of their troop was trying to protect Sha'ka and evacuated him but with the cloud of dust around, it was difficult to distinguish anything around.

"M'Thunzi, where is Sha'ka?!" Naandi asked M'Thunzi, trying to get herself heard from her companion above the screams filling up the throne room. "I can't see him anymore!"

"I don't know!" M'Thunzi replied, screaming as well over the clamour. "They have disappeared from my sight as we-"

A powerful explosion above her head interrupted her, pulverising part of the ceiling and provoking a rain of dust and consequent pieces of masonry falling directly on them.

"Look out!" the princess yelled.

She jumped from the platform as far as she could, imitated by M'Thunzi. Naandi felt the shock wave from the collision as she rolled on the floor a few meters away, and heard the screams of pain of some unfortunate Amabuthoes, but wasn't quick enough to avoid the avalanche or rocks.

"M'Thunzi?" Naandi asked anxiously, scanning the dusty surroundings until she located the inanimate body of her servant – who opened an eye and, despite their current situation, shot her young companion an amused smile.

"I am fine, Princess." M'Thunzi replied, chuckling and straightened up on one elbow as the young Virgin of Dagomey sighed in relief: "I thought you would have rejoiced at the prospect of finally managing to get rid of me."

"No time for joking. Whoever is currently fighting is coming over here." Naandi warned.

The two women crawled into relative safety behind a huge piece of masonry and observed the scene from there; the dust around the silhouettes was still extremely thick, but their physical proximity and the light flashing from spells they were casting at each other, illuminating them intermittently, allowed the two Khajiits to get a better glimpse of the fighters' general aspect – a hooded individual armed with a dagger fighting an armoured one with a trident.

"Oh sweet Fadomai..." M'Thunzi uttered, putting her hand on her mouth, disbelief in her eyes. She turned to face the princess, and exchanged a perfectly horrified look with her.

"Hassildor and Raksada..." Naandi whined, her ears flattening on her head. "But what are they doing?"

"It looks like they did not like the decoration of the palace and decided to change it a bit," M'Thunzi replied sarcastically between gritted teeth. "Joke aside, I don't know what Hassildor and Vanin have done, but something must have gone very wrong somewhere in our plan. They were supposed to wait for tomorrow's procession, damnit!"

Naandi bit her lower lip, "What do we do now?"

"You find Sha'ka and stay with him." M'Thunzi ordered.

"Someone trustworthy has to stay with him to make sure nothing unfortunate happens to him while he is..." the Khajiit hesitated, trying to find the most appropriate word as she had no indication of Sha'ka's current state of health, "... recovering. You understand?"

Naandi nodded in agreement. If she was annoyed to be given orders, she did not show any signs of it.

"And what are you going to do?"

M'Thunzi grimaced. "Not sure yet. But I guess that if Hassildor has come here, it is not by accident... Now go!"

Again, the princess nodded and whispered a quick "good luck" before disappearing in the dust and the crowd, in search of her husband and the Amabuthoes. Taking a deep breath, M'Thunzi got on her feet and slowly tried to get closer to the two fighters, avoiding the panicked crowd, and apparently, she was not the only one to have the same idea...

A row of guards had finally managed to encircle the two antagonists, pointing their spears at them. Both standing in a fighting position, Raksada and Hassildor looked around them before exchanging a glance full of hatred, definitely not looking decided to surrender.

"Enough!" demanded a firm and very angry voice as a small and old Khajiit made his way through the row of guards, followed by a handful of Khajiits of honourable age and attitude, despite the fact they were covered in dust and that their robes were in a very poor state. The Council, Hassildor guessed, or, given their small number, a part of it.

"I order you two to stop that madness right now!"

Hassildor and Raksada hesitated, but as the old Khajiit stood between them, they finally lowered their weapons slowly, though ready to resume the fight if needed.

"Would you mind explaining us what is going on?" the Khajiit asked, shooting the belligerents a very severe look. "How dare you to fight in here?!"

"Councillor Zodwa! This man is a spy from the Empire!" the Dunmer exclaimed, pointing at Hassildor with the Spear of Bitter Mercy. "I caught him red-handed! Searching my private quarters for information he hoped to send to the Council in prevision of a future attack against Elsweyr!"

Zodwa frowned, imitated by some members of the Council, and turned to face the Count: "Is what High Councillor Raksada says true, Lord Hassildor? If so, I guess you are aware your diplomatic immunity won't protect you...?"

Despite his physical exhaustion and the poor state of his appearance, the Count estimated more prudent to observe a minimum of etiquette, and politely bowed to Zodwa and the rest of his venerable companions.

"I won't deny the fact that I broke into Raksada's quarter, Councillor," the vampire started, shooting a dark look at the Dunmer. "But only to find the proofs that he is a traitor to King Sha'ka and Elsweyr." He added, strongly enough to be heard by the Council and all the surrounding guards.

"Liar!" Raksada yelled angrily, covering the murmurs that had started among the ranks of the Council as well as those of the guards. "Don't listen to him! He is just trying to make a diversion!"

"High Councillor Raksada, please..." Zodwa tried to calm him down but without having much success. The Dunmer pushed him aside, not so gently, and walked menacingly toward Hassildor, stopping only at the limit where a further step would trigger an attack from the Count.

"Why don't you ask the Count where Master Vanin, his companion, is?" Raksada sniggered malevolently, calling upon the audience as witness.

Hassildor gritted his teeth, perfectly seeing where Raksada wanted to go with this.

"I ordered him to run away to save his life, given you had decided to kill us before being able to explain ourselves before Sha'ka or the Council," he explained coldly.

"Ah!" Raksada gave a derisive laugh and then turned toward Zodwa. "Vanin ran away with precious information he will undoubtedly transfer to the Council of the Elders!"

"Vanin had to flee! You attacked us and threatened our very lives!" Hassildor exploded, provoking the guards surrounding them to shift their positions in order to point their spears at him only.

"As for me, I only defended myself!"

"And what would you have done in my place, Count, if you had found me stealing your belongings in your castle?!" Raksada spat.

Zodwa glared at Hassildor for a while, until a member of the Council whispered something in his ears.

"You have to admit your behaviour doesn't play in your favour, Lord Hassildor." the councillor observed, beholding the chaos which was still going on in the Throne room.

Most people had already left but there was still quite a few around, trying to take the wounded away, or simply standing there, in shock.

"Listen, I can prove what I am putting forward!" Hassildor said urgently, feeling that he was not about to gain the sympathy of the Council. "If only I could see Incosi Sha'ka..."

At the words, Zodwa's face darkened and he exchanged a worried glance with his companions, who shifted uneasily.

"I am afraid Incosi Sha'ka is... unavailable at the moment," he replied softly, ignoring the puzzled look Raksada shot him.

Hassildor's stomach turned upside down at the word. Without Sha'ka, the supreme ruler of Elsweyr around, things were going to be singularly complicated. "Then, judge by yourself." Hassildor begged Zodwa, as he started to ruffle into his partly lacerated shirt to retrieve the Foodoo dolls – or the wangas, as Vanin called them – they had stolen from Raksada's lair.

"Let me show you something..."

"Watch out!"

The Count did not have the time to come to guard himself from the attack one of the members of the Council tried to warn him about. Raksada was already on him, hitting him violently in the stomach with the shaft of his spear, then caught another hit in the chin when the vampire bent double under the first blow.

Blind with pain, Hassildor tried to slash the air in front of him in a defensive move to make his assailant retreat; waste of time. Raksada parried the blows easily and was on the Count again, pushing him against a pillar, pressing the Spear against his throat, pinning him against the stone while the Count's feet battered the air helplessly.

"Raksada, stop it immediately!" Zodwa yelled angrily, before becoming silent when Raksada turned toward him, with an expression the councillor would remember in his worst nightmares for the rest of his life.

"Stay away, you lot!" the Dunmer ordered the Amabuthoes and the members of the Council, "This is between me and the Count – and I will personally take care of those trying to intervene!"

He reported his attention on the struggling Count again, his face radiating with madness and unhealthy joy as he pressed the shaft of his spear further against the vampire's throat. "This is where your miserable un-life, Hassildor." he hissed.

Even though the vampire technically did not breathe any more, having his windpipe crushed by a metallic bar was far from comfortable – especially when the said metallic bar was being heat-up by a fire spell with the obvious aim to turn it red hot.

"I understood your eagerness to go deeper into the palace rather than finding an exit to escape – the wangas..." the Dark Elf whispered in the vampire's ear. "They are what you and your nosy friend of a mage stole from me, hey? And you hoped to lure me out here, to expose me to Sha'ka and the Council? You are a complete fool, Count."

Hassildor did not answer, struggling to ease the pressure and the heat on his throat, giving hard blow with his knees in Raksada's abdomen, but the latter cared nothing about it, jiggling like a maniac. The smell of burning flesh rose in the air and a violent pain irradiated in the region of Hassildor's larynx as the shaft was getting bright red. The Count groaned and stopped kicking Raksada, deciding to change tactics. Once again, it was a moment to see if Vanin's dirty fighting tricks could save his life...

Swinging his foot backward, Hassildor threw it in the general direction of the Dunmer's crotch, hoping the area would not be totally protected by the armour.

It was not.

An expression of agonising disbelief painted Raksada's face as he took a few steps back, pressing his thighs against one another and bending forward slowly, but still holding the Spear in both hands as his mouth opened with a mute scream of pain and offended protestation.

Growling in rage, his throat burning badly, Hassildor grabbed the already cooling spear shaft, and pulling Raksada toward him, he delivered such a powerful head butt it made the audience wince – mainly because the attack was a half-success... Because, if the power of the blow made the Dark Elf falling on his back, moaning in pain, the Count was not better off.

"One day I will remember to hit the bridge of the nose and not the forehead." Hassildor whined, massaging the hurting spot between his eyebrow, though he was a bit comforted by the fact Raksada was doing exactly the same.

"Lord Hassildor!" exclaimed a familiar voice on his right.

The Count squinted in pain, nevertheless he still managed to identify M'Thunzi, who was hiding behind a collapsed pillar. She was staring at him with horrified eyes, obviously hesitating with how to help the Count.

The latter checked the space behind him. Raksada was still seated on the ground, groaning while holding his forehead but looking like he was recovering quickly. Not losing a second, the Count ruffled in his shirt again to throw M'Thunzi the wangas, but without even having enough time to put his hands on them he felt being pulled away and experienced an excruciating pain all over the right side of his body.

The Count had just enough time to catch a glimpse of Raksada standing up with his hand rippling with little flashes of lighting from the shock spell he was about to cast on him... before getting projected away, landing heavily on the ground, rolling on several meters before stopping. But the worst was to come...

So far, Hassildor had been lucky his fight with Raksada mainly took place in rather dark corridors of the Palace, whereas the Throne room with its large windows did not offer as much protection against sunlight – and the vampire had just landed right on a sunlit spot; the effects were quick to appear...

With horror the Count watched smoke rising from his arm, which was left unprotected by the heavy cloak and shirt, torn by Raksada during their earlier fight. Then came the horrible feeling of his limb being dipped into quicklime.

Under the effect of both pain and panic Hassildor retreated quickly from the light to get back to the shade, holding his throbbing arm with his valid hand.

"So Count, feeling like taking a little sunbath?" Walking slowly toward the vampire with a satisfied smile on his lips, Raksada was preparing another attack, his free hand rippling with arcane energy.

"Given your state, it's not a good idea..."

Gasping for breath, half-blinded by the mix of sweat and tears in his eyes, Hassildor was desperately trying to think coherently but his brain seemed determined to focus only on the terrible ache, and it was with mixed feelings of despair and resignation that he saw Raksada getting closer to him, his face sporting an expression of malignant glee.

With obvious amusement the Dunmer stopped and silently observed the Count fighting the furious need to faint before a flash of green light flew from his hand.

Against all odds though, the hex did not hit the vampire but at a pillar standing on his side, which, bending dangerously, was threatening to collapse – which it finally did when the spell hit its already badly damaged base.

Screams of horror rose from the spectators when the stones fell on Hassildor and hit the ground with an infernal noise, lifting a huge cloud of dust, making people suffocate and cough.

The majority of the remaining few, along with the councilors, ran away from the room, fearing the rest of the ceiling may follow.

Only a handful of guards stayed with Raksada. His eyes riveting on the spot where Hassildor was still standing a few seconds ago, he pulled what was left of his cape over his mouth and nose to protect himself from the particles of stones.

After what seemed to the onlookers like an eternity, the dust slowly settled, revealing a chaos of stones – and no trace of Hassildor.

A nasty smile on his lips, Raksada violently pushed aside the guards, who were standing in front of him and walked closer to the pile of rubbles. His smile suddenly disappeared from his face, replaced by an angry grimace.

There was no sign of Hassildor anywhere, undead – or dead.

One the other hand, there was a big hole in the floor, provoked by the collapse of the ceiling leading to the level underneath...

"He cast a shielding spell... of course," Raksada whispered to himself, opening and closing his fists in anger. He turned to face the guards and pointed to the hole: "Everyone gets down! Immediately!

"No!" Vanin yelled again.

He jumped forward as far as his portliness allowed him to, trying to reach the notes which had started to burn on the ground, but something rolled up on the around his ankle, breaking his momentum and making him to fell heavily on the ground.

"Hey, not so fast!" Ralentu exclaimed victoriously, pulling on the chain which now encircled Vanin's ankle.

The Dunmer had momentarily left his showdown with Furball, leaving Bombassa alone to face the angry dog, probably imagining than helping Anirne and Urzob against Vanin would be easier. He was greatly mistaken; if an angry little dog had been a formidable foe, an angry mage who started to get really-fed-up-with-all-this-damnit was even worse.

Vanin's face was painted with a very angry expression as he grabbed the chain with both hands. "Go back playing with your little ball with the doggie!" Vanin hissed as he grabbed the chain with both hands. "I have no time loose!"

As he spoke, he pulled violently on the chain, making Ralentu leap forward and bump into Anirne who was rushing at the mage at the same time. The collision was rather violent, making both Elves fall to the ground – Ralentu over Anirne, the latter rolling her eyes as the Dark elf landed heavily on her chest, cutting her breath.

"You moronic... ashborn! Move your ass... of me!" she panted, trying to push him aside.

But Ralentu did not get the opportunity. A wave of energy came out of Vanin's hands, starting to run along the metallic chain – a very, very old fighting trick. Sadly for him, the Dunmer seemed to ignore Vanin's classical fighting tips, and instead of wisely releasing the chains, he glared at the flash of lighting with a perfectly stupid and dumbfounded expression.

"Oops." he whispered just before the spell hit and electrocuted Anirne and himself. Both gave a short yelp of pain and surprise before remaining still, surrounded by a strong smell of burnt flesh and a few moans.

Vanin did not lose time to claim victory. He jumped back to his feet and ran toward the notes, which were still slowly burning on the ground, hoping there was still enough to save. But he had to stop again when Urzob suddenly popped up between him and the remains of the precious book, firmly holding the shaft of her axe in hands.

"Sorry, Fatso," the Orc said with a grin so large that the upper part of her head threatened to fall to the ground. "I am afraid you will have to find yourself something else to read."

"You have no idea about what you are doing." Vanin hissed, not moving, but his eyes shifting from the Orc back to the notes, part of which had already turned into a delicate lace-work of smouldering ashes.

"You really have no idea..."

"I think I am actually annoying you a lot. And I take great pleasure from it."

To Urzob's surprise, the mage smirked at her: "Oh, fine then. But your pleasure may be short as you will be happy to learn these are Raksada's personal notes that are burning here..." Vanin replied with a pout, pointing at the book.

At his words, the mage saw the Orc's eyes widening in shock and the smile being wiped out her face. She turned around in panic, raising her foot to trample on the notes to put the fire out. Surprise replaced panic on Urzob's face as she realised someone had already tended to that.

"Well done, Furball!" Vanin exclaimed happily as the dog finished peeing on the book, the flames dying in a little "psssit" noise, a faint smoke rising from the stiffening, black pages.

Furball gave a satisfied sigh and before running to Vanin, who favoured him with a large grin before turning his attention to the Orc.

"I would love to see Raksada's face when you give him back his precious notes..." he chuckled.

"Not your business, mage," Bombassa's voice resounded at his back. The Redguard had taken advantage of the diversion offered by the burning notes to get rid of Furball and sneak behind Vanin, his scimitar in hand.

"Especially after you will be dead – ah no, not again!" he ended his sentence, squeaking in fear and retreating as Furball started to growl, baring his teeth at him.

"Do you know who you are truly working for...?" Vanin asked while watching Anirne and Ralentu from the corner of his eyes as they laboriously got on their feet, supporting each other and shooting him very unpleasant looks.

"For how long have you been working for him? You look a bit dense, but but tell me you have not noticed something wrong...?"

"Once again, not your business mage." Bombassa replied in a flat tone, but Vanin managed to detect a slight touch of doubt – and even fear.

"Ye Gods, I am so going to bump him off..." Anirne growled as she and Ralentu got near to Bombassa, limping slightly. The shock spell Vanin used had a strange effect on her hair; her haircut offered an interesting likeness to a broom which had been struck by a lightning.

"We are so going to bump him off," Bombassa snapped, raising his scimitar, imitated by Urzob, while Ralentu was making his chain whirl in the air again, and flames started to dance around Anirne's finger.

There was a long pause during which the opponents observed each other, remaining as still as statues, their silence punctuated by the "foom foom" of Ralentu's whirling chain. Vanin's and Furball's eyes were moving back and forth from the mercenaries who trapped them in a pincher.

And then, the Four Magnificent charged. But this time, there was no screams or yells as they attacked. The show was over, and the noisy enthusiasm of the beginning had now given way to the quietness of fed-up people, who wanted to finish the job quickly.

To Bombassa's greatest surprise, Vanin did not make a single move to defend himself. He just stood there with the dog, showing no signs of fear or worries, except for his brows being knitted in concentration.

Bombassa's lips curled up in a nasty smile as he prepared to strike the mage along with his companions. At the last moment, there was a sudden flash of light and instead of Vanin's head, the Redguard's scimitar only split thin air.

"What the...?" Bombassa screamed, slightly crestfallen.

His disappointment was short-lived, though, soon replaced by horror when the Redguard realised that he and his two companions were about to smash together with a seven feet tall Orc running at full speed.

The collision was so brutal that Vanin, who had teleported himself and Furball a few meters from their initial position, was ready to swear the walls trembled when Bombassa, Anirne and Ralentu embedded themselves into Urzob – or maybe was it the opposite?

Nevertheless, the question did not prevent Vanin from rushing forward to grab the metallic ball which ended Ralentu's chain, and to throw it in the air in a large lateral movement around the Four Magnificent.

"Furball! Get the chain!" the mage yelled, pointing at the metallic ball, which was whirling, tying up the group of groggy mercenaries.

"Whif!"

As quick as a furry lighting, the dog caught the end of the chain in his teeth and thanks to his impetus and centrifugal force, he started to revolve around the group like a crazy, drooling and fluffy little planet, adjusting his trajectory to bind the Four Magnificent better and tighter.

When he was about to reach the end of the chain, he let go and Vanin shot a tiny fire ball which sealed the extremity of the chain with the links already fitting the mercenaries tightly.

There was an astonished pause, equalling the time it took to the now-tied-up face to face Four Magnificent to realise what just happened.

"Waitwaitwait..." Bombassa finally started in a dumbfounded voice, eyes like saucers and his face flushed because of the pressure. "The dog tied us up...? The dog tied us up...?!"

"Well spotted, Captain Obvious." Urzob growled, struggling madly to free her arms, but only succeeding in suffocating her companions as she increased the pressure of the chain around their chests.

"Give me five, Furball!" Vanin exclaimed victoriously, raising a hand in the air to high-five the dog.

"Whiff?"

"Oh, forget about it." Vanin sighed before turning his attention on the mercenaries. The use of Medroficus' Cabalistic Teleportation had consumed what was left of his magical powers, but it was worth it, really.

"This is how you get rid of a big bunch of dummies, Furball," the mage started, pointing at the struggling Four Magnificent. "Never forget that by time and toil we sever what strength and rage could never!"

The dog looked around to take a better look at the ravage place and at all the dead bodies on the ground, then turned to the mage again, raising a dubitative eyebrow.

The mage had the decency to look embarrassed. "Er… Let's get the book and leave, shall we?" he said with a cough as he walked over to the notes to pick them up, ignoring the mercenaries who were arguing at his back, with comments like "It's too tight – I'm suffocating!", "Try to loosen the chains!" and "Hey, take your hands of my butt, you moron!"

Vanin winced in disgust when his fingers came into contact with the very... humid papers.

"Ewww. And to think I will have to put them back in my robes."

But more than this - rather grim - prospect, it was the damage done to the notes both by the fire and Fireball's "rescue" attempts that made him wince. Entire sections of the book were carbonated, soaking wet – or both. Nevertheless, some parts seemed to have survived the massacre and Vanin hoped they were still exploitable, or else they would have taken all those risks for nothing.

Plus, Hassildor was certainly going to say that he did not take good care of his belongings again...

"You won't get out of here alive, mage!" Bombassa yelled at Vanin as the latter put the notes in his robes with a sour grimace and then attached the Trencavel's necklace around his neck for more safety.

"Raksada will find you, and who laughs the last laughs the best!"

"Oooh, but I have good hopes Raksada will find me, Redguard. And I will definitely have a good laugh!" The mage replied with a little ironical salute before disappearing into a corridor.

Furball gave a derisive "whif!" to the warriors, then quickly followed Vanin.

The Four Magnificent heard their footsteps dying in the distance.

"Beaten by a dog and a tube of lard... Raksada is going to love that one." Urzob growled. "The only positive point I can see here is that he probably won't let us live long enough to suffer the shame to be a laughingstock for our entire existence."

"So, what do we do now?" the muffled voice of Anirne asked from somewhere around Urzob's stomach, with the patient tone of someone on the verge of exploding, "We call for help?"

Ralentu looked appalled. "We will look like complete morons if we do that!" he exclaimed.

"Won't change anything much in your case." Urzob pointed out maliciously. "And anyway, what do you think we will look like when someone will find us tidied up like this, yelling or not?"

"Urzob, you really can't try to break the chain?" Bombassa asked her.

"No, she can't," Ralentu explained. "It is made out of mithril. Only magic will be able to do that."

At his words, all heads turned – with difficulty – toward Anirne.

"And sadly, mithril is an excellent heat conductor, so any attempt from me to break the chain will end up in turning us all into grilled sausages," she sighed.

A thoughtful silence welcomed the remark, until a heavy sigh broke it.

"All right," Bombassa said. "On the count of three, we all start yelling. One... Two..."

A silhouette was limping through the dark and deserted corridor, and that silhouette was desperately hoping that the corridor would stay dark and deserted, but he did not delude himself. It was just a matter of time before Raksada found his track again.

Hassildor gritted his teeth to contain the screams of pain as he clutched his left arm and shoulder, both still smoking slightly, the skin all reddish and cracked. The vampire grimaced at the sight; if it carried on like this, Raksada would only find a little pile of ash to stand against him...

Deciding it was pointless to continue, Hassildor leaned against the first wall available and slowly slid against it until he found himself sitting on the ground. What to do now?

Panting, Hassildor rummaged in his torn shirt and retrieved one of the Foodoo dolls – Vanin's. The Count gave a sad laugh, hoping his friend and Furball would be luckier than him, at least...

A wave of pain ran through his arm and chest, and he groaned softly. The ache was almost unbearable and he had to do his best not to collapse on the ground, twisting in pain.

"It hurts, doesn't it?" said a voice from the darkest part of the corridor. "But don't worry. Soon, pain, as well your existence, will only be a bad memory."

Still breathing heavily, the vampire turned his head in the direction of the voice, to see Raksada slowly emerging from the shadows that had been concealing him, followed by a squad of guards.

Despite the state of his outfit – his armour dented and covered in blood and dust, his cape in rags and sweat running down his face – the Dunmer was walking calmly and somewhat majestically toward him, holding his spear in one hand. He stopped a few meters from the Count and tidied his long curly hair in an affected move.

"Surrender yourself, Lord Hassildor," Raksada said in a harsh whisper. He was not smiling, his face keeping a solemn expression. Nevertheless, it was obvious that if the Dunmer's eyes could speak, they would have burst out into a maniacal laugher. "It is over."

Hassildor had a both derisive and desperate snigger as he straightened up against the wall, facing his opponent on shaky legs. "Surrender? And what for, pray tell? You are going to kill me anyway."

Raksada tossed juggled with his spear, tossing it over with a thoughtful expression, eventually splitting into a wide smile.

"True. Very true," the Dunmer said, shaking his forefinger at Hassildor. "Well, let's say that if you give yourself up, I will do my best to give you a quick and non-painful death – as well as a decent burial if I am in the mood or if there is enough of you left. So, my dear Count…?"

As an answer, and against all odds, Hassildor took his Dwemer dagger out of its sheath once more and staggered a few feet from the wall. A murmur of surprise and a somewhat admiring disbelief rose from the crowd of guards behind Raksada.

The Dunmer looked at the vampire with disapproval.

"Ah, you are being intrepid again, aren't you?" Raksada said sarcastically, before he sighed theatrically and put his hands on his hips, "That is perfectly childish you know, and I…"

Raksada did not finish his sentence because the Count had just jumped on him with surprising speed given his poor physical health, his dagger raised.

Their audience did not catch every move of the attack, but perfectly heard the metallic sound of their weapons, clashing against one another, then another sound, much softer, like skin being cut quickly.

A short yelp resounded in between the walls and Hassildor was violently pushed backward, landing on his back away from Raksada.

There was a pause during which Raksada remained immobile, glaring in front of him, his eyes wide while blood started to run down his face, a long and deep gash running from the left side of his forehead to the opposite side of his chin.

In the meantime Hassildor had straightened up to his knees, slowly and groaning in pain holding his ribs where Raksada's foot had hit him. In a heavy silence, the Count saw the Dunmer quickly retrieving what looked like a powder compact from one of his leather purses. Raksada opened it and eyed himself critically in the tiny mirror.

At the sight of the slash on his face, his nostrils flared in rage, his lips pursed as he wiped the fresh blood from his eye with the back of his hand, while the wound was getting encrusted by the muddy substance which seems to be the true liquid circulating in his veins.

The Dunmer shut the powder compact close in a dry sound and when he talked, it was in a whisper full of hatred. "Frankly Hassildor, I was disposed to be merciful toward you. I really was," Raksada made a long, carefully composed pause.

"But that was the last straw!" The Dunmer had yelled at the top of his lungs the last sentence, which echoed sinisterly in the corridor.

Still kneeling on the ground, Hassildor sniggered. "Oh, someone doesn't like to see any harm coming to his precious little face, does he? Vanin was right – you are pathologically vain."

"You... wretched... disgusting... bloodsucker." Raksada hissed, the Spear of Bitter Mercy and the little crystal chips inlaid in his armour now starting to glow in a sinister greenish light. "You are so going to..."

"Don't make such a fuss, Raksada," Hassildor interrupted him, "We both know no irreparable damage has been done to your face." He had another derisive and somewhat nervous chuckle.

"You are already sweating mud again – and mud is said to be good for the skin, isn't it?" The joke was bad, Hassildor knew, but he was merely an inch from having a severe nervous breakdown.

The Dunmer looked stunned, before he recuperated from the shock and rolled his eyes, clapping his hands together in a sarcastic manner.

"Oh, you think you are funny, hey, Count?" he asked, taking one step forward with the Spear of Bitter Mercy gleaming sinisterly, "But you are soon going to learn what it costs to laugh at my expense..."

As Raksada spoke the sound of war drums had started rising in the air, and once again, his spear and armour's glow pulsating in rhythm.

Hassildor got on his feet as quick as his physical condition allowed him to, shooting nervous glances around him. The corridor seemed to have become much darker than it originally was, but what was worrying Hassildor the most was the smell of putrescence which almost made him gag. It was so strong it seemed solid and even... alive?

"Honestly, I am impressed, Count. I did not think initially I would have to use that spell against you. Actually, I wanted to avoid it." Raksada purred, giving a hint of a few dance steps based on the rhythm given by the invisible drums.

"But it has been a nice fight and I believe it should end up in grand style, don't you think?"

The rhythm had increased, the place was now full of almost solid darkness. The Count could not discern anything around him any more – everything and everyone seemed to have been swallowed by the darkness as thick as cotton wool, so thick the Count could almost feel it brushing against his clothes, and could feel it... breathing?

And then, Hassildor saw them.

Barely standing out from the general darkness, their only visible features being tiny greenish dots the Count suspected to be their eyes, floating into their shapeless face, as well as their long, long fingers – no, their claws, Hassildor corrected himself mentally.

But above all, what was the most striking about the creatures – like every time Raksada had used his sick magic – was the terrible smell of corpse in putrefaction emanating from them. This time it was so strong it almost made Hassildor faint.

But the creatures did not give him the time to do so.

Their little green eyes fell upon him and all of a sudden turned bright red. At phenomenal speed, one of them raised its claw-like hands and slashed at the Count. The vampire tried to avoid the attack by jumping backward but he was not quick enough and the claws as sharp as razors lacerated his forearm.

Not wasting time screaming in pain, Hassildor managed to avoid another blow, but a third one got him in the back and soon he was caught in a rain of razors. The Count only avoided or parried a blow only to receive another one.

"It has been a pleasure to meet you, Count Hassildor," the vampire heard Raksada saying from somewhere in the darkness.

"No, wait – actually, it has not." There was a crystalline and theatrical laugh. "Farewell, dear Count, and may your soul rot in the darkest corner of Oblivion until the end of time!"

Yelling in rage, the Count tried a last and desperate attack, focusing all that was left of his magical energy into a powerful attack. Raksada had said he wanted it to end in grand style? He was going to get served.

The power of the arcane energy of Molleen's Infernal Apocalypse ran along Hassildor's body and concentrated in his hands, before the Count unleashed the hex on the foolish creatures. Despite his vision becoming blurry from the exhaustion, the vampire saw a wall of bright blue flames engulfing his opponents, making them retreating. A hissing sound, like wet wood burning, rose in the air as the fire started to eat into whatever they were made of.

To Hassildor's greatest dismay, the creatures did not burn to the bones – admitting they had any... A whirling wind surrounded them, sweeping the flames away from those repulsive things, before concentrating into a large fiery ball in between Hassildor and his attackers.

With horror the Count realised that the creatures were about to return his own spell and that he was too exhausted to even think about a way to avoid the hex. There was a flash of light when the energy of the spell was released and hit him.

The shock was so brutal and fast Hassildor did not even have the time to feel surprised. His eyes just managed to open wide in pain when he felt the burning flames exploding against his chest, lifting him up from the ground and projecting him backward with a rare violence.

An horrible snappy noise resounded in the corridor when he hit full force the wall behind him, smashing to bits the decorating ceramics and cracking the stones under it before falling on the ground face down.

In an ultimate effort, in agonising pain, Hassildor tried to raise his head from the floor. The creatures had disappeared and the corridor was back to normal, but everything was blurred and twirling. He nevertheless managed to distinguish Raksada's silhouette far, far away before something dark, hot and liquid ran down before his eyes.

Blood.

His.

Hassildor's head fell back down and he remained still.

(1) This sentence gives you a headache? You think it doesn't make any sense at all? That is good. Because that is the main thing about contemporary art, you know – the least you understand, the better it is supposed to be.