Book of The Dead

Rurin felt the clash of her blade against another person’s for the first time in her life and found she didn’t like it.

The Soldier was good, well trained and equipped, with a shining steel breastplate and helmet that radiated with enchantments. They blocked her slash and immediately moved to riposte, blade flickering through the air, almost seeming to ignore the intervening space.

However, they were not gold.

With one gauntleted fist, Rurin bashed the strike to the side, crouched low and leapt forward. Even her enhanced vision wasn’t enough to prevent her sight from blurring as she blasted forward at ridiculous speeds. Her blade, perfectly weighted and aimed with inhuman precision, punched through that shining breastplate with ease, her monstrous, Unseen-enhanced strength, and her Skills, designed to pierce even the toughest of kin, were simply too much.

Her brand flared into life, burning and searing at her nerves, forcing Rurin to clench her teeth and shut her eyes against the unbelievable pain. If she hadn’t advanced beyond the strength of her curse, she would have been brought to her knees, unable to move.

Rurin watched the light fade from the eyes of her opponent, then lifted her sword with one hand, the body rising along with it. With a flick of her wrist, she sent it tumbling away.

“I hate this,” she groaned.

Just because she hated it didn’t mean she had any option but to keep going. The fighting continued all around her, and her people were outmatched. She could see it in the way they coordinated, the way they tried to fight, instinctively, as if they were facing kin.

Slayers didn’t bunch up, that just made them easy targets. They spread out, trying to balance aggression with caution, always alert to the dangers confronting their teammates and ready to intervene. The Soldiers didn’t behave that way. They fought in tight formations and moved as a single unit. If an individual Slayer approached, they would turn as one, confronting the opponent with a wall of shields and a flurry of blades.

Other members of the team would fly in to relieve the pressure on their ally, only to be rounded on in turn. The tactics that worked against the beasts were not as effective against trained humans, and it was showing.It was a good thing she was there.

She flicked her blade again, sending the blood still marring the steel flying into the grass as she sized up their opponents. The Soldiers had formed a solid frontline, with Magisters and Priests behind, providing spell support along with divine blessings and healing.

The smart thing to do would have been to circle around and try to find an angle to assault the weaker backline. If she managed to get amongst them, she could rip the mages apart in moments, but she suspected that it may be a trap.

Marshals were notorious for their ability to lock people down, rob them of their strongest Skills, even reduce the physical stats of their foes. If she charged in, there was a chance she’d find herself cursed, bound and weakened as a dozen different spells and abilities rained down on her.

Instead, she chose to do things the simple way, which was generally her preference anyway.

She was a Vanguard. An Ascended Vanguard now, and she did her best work up close and personal.

Rurin rushed forward faster than the eye could follow, lowered her shoulder and launched herself directly at the shield of the Soldier in front of her. He spotted her coming, which wasn’t easy, and managed to brace before she got there, which was even more impressive, but she wasn’t going to be denied.

With Momentum active, and her absurd physical strength, she struck the shield like a Titan’s hammer, crunching the metal and sending the Soldier flying back. Rurin grinned as the others rounded on her, all preparing to strike at her exposed frame.

She lifted a foot and sent it crashing down into the earth, activating her Resounding Strike as she did.

The ground rumbled as the incredible force rocked the dirt beneath their feet, sending a shower of sod flying in every direction and knocking half the troops around her to the ground. Even her own people caught within the blast weren’t able to keep their feet.

Rurin bellowed and waded forward, laying about her with her blade. She wasn’t the most deft with a sword, she was no Magnin Steelarm, who could make steel dance like a fairy and strike like lightning. She wasn’t a technician, she was a workhorse, and that’s what she did.

An overhead slash that brought her opponent to their knees when they attempted to block it, followed by a swift kick to the chest that sent them flying backwards. She parried a thrust then clubbed the Soldier on his left shoulder with her gauntlet. The bone broke with an audible crack before she reached forward to grasp the straps at the back of his breastplate and twisted to hurl her victim into the path of her next challenger.

The two collided heavily, and Rurin had a tiny bit of space, enough for her to charge.

The Vanguard was a Class that operated similar to Defenders, Or Shield Guards among the Slayers. Frontline fighters who wanted to be the focus of the kin’s attention as much as possible. They had to be fast, to put themselves between their allies and the enemy, they had to be durable, to absorb tremendous amounts of punishment, and they had to be a threat, otherwise they’d be ignored by the kin.

A Vanguard typically didn’t bother with a shield, they protected their allies by turning themselves into a living battering ram, and Rurin had knocked the wind out of monsters as large as a house on the charge.

That was when she was silver.

Like a grey-haired, grinning meteor, Rurin slammed into the nearest Soldier, who once again did an admirable job trying to brace for the impact, but found themselves hopelessly outmatched.

She punched into the regrouping formation of the enemy and began to lay about herself once more. Her blade was a simple one-hander, short, weighted to the tip and forged of the hardest metals the magick-forges could produce. It was designed to work up close and personal, which was exactly how she liked it.

Rurin didn’t remember outmatching the bronze ranks when she’d been promoted to silver, but as a gold, she felt she stood head and shoulders above the lower rank. The Unseen had empowered her to an absurd degree, to the point she wondered if she was even truly human any longer.

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To fight a gold rank, they would need to bring another gold rank. There had to be one here somewhere, and she intended to wreak havoc until they deigned to show their face.

A flicker from the corner of her eye was all the warning she got. Caught off balance, Rurin kicked off the ground, sending herself ten feet into the air. She spun to avoid the arrows that tried to pick her off before landing a dozen metres away from where she’d leapt, looking at someone who, on the surface, didn’t appear all that different from the other Soldiers.

Yet she could tell the difference. It was impossible for her not to see it.

“How’s the brand, slave?” the Soldier said, shaking out her sword hand.

“Hurts like shit,” Rurin replied cheerfully. “Going to be a lot worse when I cut your head off.”

“I don’t think there’s much chance of that, dog. These are the last moments of your miserable life.”

Rurin lowered her stance, blade held loosely to the side, her grin never faltering.

“You talk too much, princess. Come and fight.”

The rest of the combat reformed around them, as if both sides had decided to give the golds their own space by unspoken agreement. If one of them was able to triumph over the other without sustaining major injury, then the battle would completely tip towards their side.

The gold ranked Slayer was used to fighting with such stakes on the line, she held her teammates’ lives in her hands every time she went out to the rifts, just as they held hers. Just how much combat had this loyal pet of the Empire seen? She was eager to find out.

The Soldier made the first move. Equipped as the others were, with a sword and shield, she executed a predictable move, charging forward with her shield held high. The difference was the speed and power behind the move.

Rurin dug in her heels and leaned into the blow, and still was pushed back, her feet tearing through the ground as she endured the charge. Her bones rattled and muscles screamed as she pushed back, finally grinding to a halt. Which was the moment a sword snaked out from the shield. Three thrusts, each so fast they may as well have struck at the same time, each aimed at her vitals. The Vanguard dodged one, knocked another aside with her gauntlet and caught the third with her own blade.

Needless to say, her opponent’s swordsmanship seemed a little more refined than her own, but that didn’t bother Rurin too much. That wasn’t how she won her fights.

She swept up a leg and managed to catch the contemptuous look on the Soldier’s face as she adjusted her shield. That expression didn’t last as the shield collided with Rurin’s shin with enough force to lift the Soldier from the ground.

Rurin laughed, crouched and launched herself forward as if she’d been shot from a ballista. Her opponent managed to angle her shield just enough to deflect Rurin to the side, leading to a glancing clash that sent both of them tumbling.

Then the brand ignited in pain. Rurin hissed furiously as the curse flared to new heights, far and above the constant pain she’d been pushing through the entire fight.

Where were they? She glanced around quickly and found her target, a Magister, staff raised and hand extended towards her. The prick was manually feeding the brand, and with a gold ranked opponent in her face, there was precious little Rurin could do about it.

“Regretting your choices, dog?” the Soldier taunted, striding forward, shield raised.

Teeth clenched and hands shaking, Rurin gripped her blade tight and prepared to engage again, only to find her legs were suddenly heavier than before, her limbs drained of their strength.

It was going to be like this, apparently; they were going to tip the scales in their favour. She couldn’t really blame them, she’d do the same if she could.

Like a predator circling a wounded deer, the Soldier approached with caution, but Rurin wasn’t in the mood to wait. Despite the pain and everything else weighing her down, she did what she did best: she charged.

What met her was an immediate stab, aimed to punch through her armour and core her heart. A perfectly timed, perfectly weighted attack along the perfect line, there was no way she could possibly dodge. Luckily, she had no intention of dodging, it wasn’t really her style.

The shock of pain as the blade pierced through the meat of her forearm was almost a welcome distraction from the curse, a new source of suffering for her to focus on. She threw her arm to the side, directing the sword away from her body and slammed into her opponent, who wasted no time twisting her blade to widen the wound.

Nasty bitch!

Rurin bit back a scream and dropped her own weapon, using the free hand to take hold of the blade. The edge of the enchanted steel bit onto her fingers even through the gauntlets, but Rurin had an absurdly high constitution, her flesh was more like stone. Rotating her body, she pulled the weapon from her opponent’s grip and brought up her back foot to plant a furious kick which was deftly caught on the shield.

Minus her weapon, the gold ranked Soldier was launched ten metres backwards, only to land deftly on her feet. She smiled from behind her visor as she drew her second, shorter blade. Rurin pulled the other sword from her arm, throwing it to the ground. Blood poured from the wound, a gaping hole in the meat of her arm. At least the bone hadn’t been cut. At least, she thought it hadn’t been cut. A little healing and she’d be right as rain. Perhaps the Priests would oblige?

“It’s not looking good for you, dog,” the Soldier taunted. “How are you going to fight with your arm like that?”

Rurin only shook her head and sighed.

“You young-folk, always want to talk in a fight. Ruins the atmosphere. I’m not going to fight anymore.”

There was a deafening roar followed by the sound of a thunderous collision. Dirt and dust flew everywhere, obscuring what had just happened. Rurin grinned.

“He is,” she said cheerfully.

Then she collapsed onto her backside, groaning. The Magisters hadn’t let up on her curse, and whatever was sapping her strength was only getting stronger over time.

“You look awful,” a gruff voice said.

“Want me to tell you how I feel?” she offered.

“No thanks, I can guess.”

Worthy Steelarm approached her, greathammer slung over his shoulder, a look of mild concern on his face.

“Magisters are activating my brand,” she said.

The Hammerman winced in sympathy.

“I think they’ll be too busy to bother with it soon enough,” he assured her, rolling his shoulders.

“Then get to it,” she said, shooing him away, “everyone wants to talk today.”

Worthy rolled his eyes and began to stride away, his every step radiating the strength and power he contained within him. She wasn’t sure exactly what Class he had now, but she doubted it was anything ordinary. The Steelarms had to feed their children something along with their mother’s milk. They were made of different stuff.

Beory had dismissed the accusation sternly, saying her genes would produce the greatest Slayer of all time, she had no need of Magnin’s.

Thinking of her murdered friend, Rurin let herself fall backwards into the dirt. The bulk of the fighting had moved away, and if some silver ranked idiot decided to try and finish her off, she would deign to rise and teach them a lesson.

Perhaps the history books would record this as the first real battle of the rebellion, if they mentioned it at all. A meaningless scuffle at a crossroads with less than a hundred on either side.

At least it was a victory for their side, but even someone like her could tell it wouldn’t last for long. The currency of this war would be in gold ranked fighters, and soon, the Duke would bring more of them to bear than the rebels could hope to match.

It was a lost fight from the beginning. Without a miracle, they couldn’t hope to win. All they could do was inflict as much damage as possible while they were still alive.

The pain of the brand finally faded, and she groaned with relief. With any luck, Worthy had smashed the Magisters’ heads in before they managed to switch targets to him.

“Stupid Steelarms,” she sighed, “they’re a bad influence on me.”