Chapter 14

November 1st, 2020

"A beautiful wave of black fire,
To encompass all of I'athos.
Go, Zechariah, and leave before the end of the Cycle,
For we are coming for you."

The words echoed in Zechariah's mind. The haunting, dripping voice of malice that haunted his nightmares. He glanced behind him as he stumble over the ridge of a dune, seeing the caravan below. Most of the crew had returned to their work, cooking, preparing for camp. He could barely make out Zaki shouting at someone probably over some small error. Worse though, he could see Nawfa, standing still watching him run. There seemed to be no accusation in her eyes. Then he tripped, and went tumbling down the other side of the dune. Spinning, limbs flailing, he fell silently, only grunting when the air was knocked out of him. Sand was flung everywhere as he rolled and slid to a stop at the bottom of the dune. His hand burned, filled with the fine smooth dust that comes from eons of storms and erosion as the sand is ground more and more fine. It throbbed painfully, but he didn't care. He lifted his hand, and brushed it off on his clothes, before inspecting the scarred wreck that it was. With the sands plugging his wounds, and the excess blood wiped away by his fall, he could clearly see the fresh cuts in his hand. It was an intricate web of small, but deep cuts that were very familiar to him. He'd carved these shapes into many things over the years and now, into his own hand, front and back.

He scoffed at them, laughing at the absurdity. Runecrafter? What abysmal shit. Shalzar was dancing in his throne for sure. What a fool he was. He was filled with a sudden rage and, getting to his hands and knees, he gritted his teeth and began punching the sand vigorously, shouting in agony but ignoring the pain.

"Damn it. Damn it!" He began cursing, "Damn it all! Damn the shadows! Damn my Father! Damn my cursed hand! Damn the Gods! Damn all of I'athos!"

He sat back on his heels, breathing heavily. His left hand twitched, and tingled. Must be going numb from the abuse. He really should get it bandaged but...perhaps he should just cut it off and throw it away. He hated his left hand. Hated all that it had done to him. He blamed it for everything. No, that was foolish. Not that it wasn't the reason for all his troubles but cutting his hand off wouldn't solve anything. That said, he didn't particularly care whether it got infected or not. If it had to be amputated due to infection, he wouldn't shed a tear for it's loss.

With a sigh, he climbed to his feet unsteadily and looked around. Edgeward, the caravan. Safety, and fearful eyes and accusation. Peakward, harsh Barrens, but peace in isolation. Without making up his mind, he walked Peakward, climbing up the next dune slowly, pondering to himself the whole way up. He knew he couldn't face the Barrens alone, and would have to return to the caravan but, by the gods he wished he could just make it all disappear.

"As in a beautiful wave of black fire."

Zechariah paused in his tracks. Sweating despite the rapidly cooling air as the sun dipped lower and lower, now only glowing faintly from within the Sunpeak. That was his voice. He had spoken those words. His heart raced as he got the strangest sense that he'd said those words once before, and not in the forest with the shadows. But he couldn't find it in his memory. He couldn't place. It didn't exist but he knew he had said those words before. Hadn't he?

Shaking his head and wiping his brow, he continued onwards. His mind whirling, his thoughts far away. There was this deep thudding, or whooshing, somewhere in the back of is his mind, but he ignored it. There were other thoughts that were far more important to him at that time. He cradled his left hand. Not only did it ache, but it felt like it was alive with pins and needles. He must have some kind of nerve damage, the cuts were quite deep. If his scarred hand had been somewhat problematic before, he was sure it would be useless to him now. His chisel. Gods damn it all, he'd dropped his chisel when Nawfa had disarmed him. He supposed that was a good thing, she was quite the formidable opponent but, despite his current situation, he didn't want to leave one of his only inherited items behind. What in the name of all the realms had possessed him to use the chisel his Father had given him. He knew it was dangerous. Shimarah's wrath, those thuds were getting loud.

Zechariah paused suddenly, his eyes going wide. Those thuds weren't in his thoughts. He could feel them. Driven by fear and a need to confirm it, he dashed up the last few steps of the dune. It couldn't be. Not now. Cresting the ridge, he was arrested by his fears, as a squad of Draconians raced towards him, flying directly for the camp. They were flying low and fast, skimming the dunes to keep out of sight. He saw one quickly draw a bow, taking aim at him as the beast soared above head. Zechariah threw himself to the side narrowly dodging the arrow, quickly seeing another dipping low with a spear. He threw himself back down the dune, this time more intentionally, able to to break his fall, coming to a stop several feet down the dune, managing to avoid the spear as the squad of Draconians raced overhead. He heard them shouting at one another in a guttural language he didn't recognize, and one of the squad peeled off from the others, returning to kill him.

The winged beast was between him and the caravan. With how fast they were traveling, they'd be there in seconds. Running towards a fight seemed insane to him but running into the Barrens was more insane. He needed to warn them. Raising his voice he began to shout as loud as he could as he raced down the dune as fast as he could.

"Draconians! Draconians are coming!"

The beast that was hunting him hissed and, speaking in that strange language that it had, as it's scales suddenly began to glow. First, trailing smoke, then catching fire, it raced toward him, before a demon tore itself from the skin of the beast. The thing, made entirely of flames bore no real shape, most of the time being best described as an orb though it clearly shifted frequently, faces claws, wings sprouting at apparent random and then burning quickly away. It was terror incarnate, for more than it's form, it didn't fit in this world. The air around it boiled and began to drip, as though molten metal, it fell in a shimmering twist of reality. With a mighty crash, the Draconian slammed into the sands, standing to it's full height, several hands taller than Zechariah. Sliding to a stop, Zechariah drew his sword, his hand trembling violently, as he was painfully reminded of the wound in his shoulder. Seeming to grin with malice, the Draconian reached out his hand, and the demon wrapped itself like a gauntlet around his arm. Fire pooled in his palm and he raised his hand back to hurl it at Zechariah, who crouched low, ready to try and dodge the attack...but the attack never came. Roaring, the Draconian flung his hand forward, and the fire seemed to melt away, from his hand, turning to a fine blue powder that blue away in the soft wind.

The Draconian paused, staring at his hand in wide eyed bewilderment. Zechariah didn't understand what was going on, but that only served to his advantage for, rather than standing in confused awe at what just happened he dashed forward suddenly and struck out against the Draconian. It's training took hold however, and it shook itself out of it's stunned confusion quickly, though not quick enough to avoid Zechariah's attack. Instead, it raised it's arm in defense, and Zechariah slashed upon a large wound across the monster's forearm. Although he had swung with all his might, he was dismayed. A solid blow, and surely an effective one but it did not cut nearly as deeply as he felt it should have. The Draconian's scaled skin was tough.

Stepping back, and clasping it's arm, the beast quickly continued it's retreat as Zechariah pressed his advantage. The beast raised it's flame encompassed hand again summoning more fire forth but, as before, it faded quickly to a blue dust. Crying out in rage, it raised it's arm against Zechariah's attacks, earning several more cuts across the arms as it fumbled for a sword at its side. Although the beast managed to draw the blade, after having suffered cuts to the arms, and clearly not being as adept with the blade as with...whatever demonic sorcerery he was trying to wield...Zechariah swung his blade one handed in a series of arcs that Nawfa had taught him. Although not nearly as proficient as she with a blade, having caught the Draconian by surprise and gaining several early hits, gave him the advantage he needed as he cut the Draconian several more times. Seeing it about to try to fly away, Zechariah threw himself forward, and slammed his shoulder into the beast, tripping him in the soft sands and sending him to the floor. Not able to effectively raise his sword while on the ground, nor fly away, Zechariah struck the beast again and again, in a fury, blood being flung across the sands and Zechariah as he hacked at the beast, beyond incapacitating it, beyond defeating it, beyond killing it, he continued to hack at the bloody butchered body, lost in the adrenaline and fury of battle. It wasn't until several moments after the beast had stopped breathing, that Zechariah stumbled back, eyes wide, heart racing as he saw the butchery he had just moments ago reveled in. However, before he was able to ponder the horror of the situation, he heard the sounds of combat coming from beyond the dune beyond. Gathering his breath, he charged up the dune, racing back towards the caravan.

November 2nd, 2020

Cresting the hill, Zechariah saw the definition of chaos. Four Draconians flew overhead, raining chaos down upon the caravan, while four had landed around the camp. Two of the flying ones wielded spears, providing aid to the grounded units while the other two flying ones wielded bows, attempting to slay fleeing caravan workers, but primarily occupied with dealing with Zaki's archers. The four on the ground, wore metal vambraces on their left arms, and expertly wielded clubs in the right. The lancers and archers would kill whoever was necessary. They would take the rest prisoners. They were all very sparsely equipped, geared specifically for their roles only, and they worked well and in practiced sync.

Not knowing what he was doing, for he was certainly no fighter, Zechariah dashed down the dune. As he drew closer, he saw Nawfa leading her horse through the chaos, approaching one of the Draconian brutes as he laid into guard after guard, batting aside blows with his vambraces and bring his club down in brutal strikes that were as likely to kill as to knock unconscious. There were already three bodies laying by his feet. Zechariah put everything he had into running, sprinting as fast as he could across the ground. Ahead, he saw Nawfa engage the brute, nimbly striking, and dodging in her dance as she wove her skills in combat. But the brute held his ground. His armored left hand was quick to deflect her strikes and though he struggled to catch her, she was far smaller than this opponent and one blow would signal her defeat. Then, descending quickly from behind her, came a lancer. Her skill as a Dustmen Elite served her well, for she was aware of her surroundings at all time and managed to duck the strike, but, defending against two opponents, of this caliber, was nearly impossible. The Lancer landed behind Nawfa and stabbed his spear at her, she batted it aside, and side stepped a blow from the brute, before pressing forward towards the lancer. The lancer changed his grip and began wielding the spear as a shield, better for close combat, and held his ground, unleashing a flurry of strikes at Nawfa, forcing her to keep her attention upon him, and she was painfully aware of the brute behind her. Her eyes wide, knowing she was losing. Before even crying out, the brute heard Zechariah's footfalls racing towards him, and turned surprised but not unprepared at Zechariah's arrival. He grinned confidently as Zechariah charged him, and set his stance. Feet apart, club raised high above his head, ready to strike, left arm across his chest, ready to block. Zechariah cried fiercely as he charged in. 'Duck the blow from the club, feint left, strike right.' A simple strategy, but an effective. Zechariah charged in. The club began to descend, Zechariah ducked and feinted left...but something was wrong. The club never descended. The brute had his own feint in mind, and as Zechariah dodged a blow that was never coming, the brute stepped forward, and slammed his gauntleted fist into the side of Zechariah's head, knocking him off his feet and slamming him to the sands in a heap by the brutes' feet.

"Where is Yimposh?" The brute hissed in Utan, raising his club up in a two-handed grip, to crush Zechariah's head.. "How did you survive him?"

Zechariah head swam and his ears rang as he lay in the sand, stunned. Pain was coursing through his head, down his spine, into his shoulders. He was sure something, somewhere, had fractured. He could hear the beast above him talking but couldn't make sense of the words. Looking up, he saw the brute raise it's club above it's head, and Zechariah saw death standing before him, wings spread wide. Suddenly, blood blossomed from the brutes side, and was flung out in a wide arch, coving Zechariah in a fresh painting of red. The bruit roared and stumbled as his side held a wide and deep cut, right between the ribs. Looking around, Zechariah saw something he had never expected. Zaki, in a low crouch, leaping forward expertly swinging his blade. He slashed the inside of the brutes leg, pressing the advantage of it being off balance from stumbling. With it's wounded leg, the brute falls to one knee, and as it tried to raise it's club to defend, Zaki deftly cut the neck of the brute, it's hot blood squirting from the gashes as it fell. Then Zaki immediately stepped passed the falling brute, and stepped beside Nawfa, engaging the lancer.

"Go!" Zaki shouted at Nawfa.

"No! I have to help!"

"GO!" He roared. Nawfa hesitated for just a moment, and then disengaged from the lancer, leaving Zaki to fight on his own. She leapt up onto her horse, and then began to gallop away. She looked at Zechariah as she road past, anguish and guilt on her face as she galloped away into the growing darkness.

"Nawfa?" Zechariah called in confusion. "Nawfa!" But she didn't turn, and didn't slow down.

The sound of human cries drew his attention back to the caravan, and though his body hurt, and he was scared out of his mind, Zechariah picked up his sword again and rushed to aid Zaki...who took the butt of the spear in his ribs, audibly cracking his ribs. In the short bout against Nawfa, the Lancer had not only held her at bay, but had also incapacitated several others around him. He spun in a fury of wide arcs, relying on his superior strength to knock people away, to break arms through shields and to lay waste to the humans around him. Zechariah felt a rush of air behind him, and turned just in time to see a Draconian spinning through the air, as his foot collided with the side of Zechariah's head.