Chapter 54 – The Arsonist and the Necromancer

  Palmira froze in place, eyes darting between everyone in the alley. Despite the flames crackling about her feet she found herself unable to move, as if they’d somehow forget about her if she didn’t draw any attention to herself.

  The Drowned-Man she was chasing wasn’t much better, his mismatched eyes locked onto the holy woman with an unholy fervor. One eye shuddered with fear, while the other smoldered with rage. Neither was capable of looking away.

  Before them the time mage Zeitn—the elf who’d started all of this and who had attempted to kill her specifically—stood across Rosalina the Priestess, his head cradled gently in her hands. Blacked flesh cracked beneath her fingers as she gazed upon him, before with a small sigh of contentment she finally stepped away.

  The second she let go he fell to his knees, the elf’s corpse prostrating before her as though in a twisted effigy of prayer. But such only lasted an instant before gravity caught up and the body fell over with a meaty ‘thunk,’ what little remained of his skull still flickering with holy flames.

  The smell of burned flesh suffused the alleyway, and the familiarity of it almost made her puke.

  Rosalina turned to them then, a kindly smile carved across her face. Her red hair poured like bloody waterfalls down her neck, holy flames flickering and fading up her scalp like the souls of carps desperate to become dragons. For the first time her eyes were now visible—or rather, her lack of them. Two endless dark pits burrowed into her face, small in size yet dominating in their emptiness. Like twin black holes they sucked in all light around them, the Priestess hoarding it all for herself alone. Just above her burning crown the silver moon hung low, perfectly haloing the woman’s head as though the Goddess herself were proclaiming for all to bear witness the arrival of a saint.

  John the Drowned-Man stood stock still across from her. His scimitars shook from how tightly he was holding them, and the expression on his face couldn’t be described as anything but terrified. And yet no matter how much he wished otherwise, he could not flee.

  The bloated eye in his skull locked him in place, binding him in ways he no longer had the ability to fight back against.

  “You…” he whispered, his voice garbled and unnatural. Blood pooled between his teeth. “You should be dead. You killed you.”

  Rosalina tilted her head, the simple act alone sending Palmira’s heart racing. Her fingers tensed on her staff as the woman gave her a glance, before turning back to the corrupted man before her.

  “Oh, Nytheloph, is that you?” Rosalina frowned, an expression so unnatural on her face it looked as though her skin was cracking from how it twisted. “Speaking through puppets again? For shame, that you do not visit me in person,” she tutted, taking a step closer.

  The Drowned-Man took a step back.

  Or he tried. Palmira stood behind him, Morte held ready to burn him to cinders the moment he got close. The only reason she hadn’t yet was because she was far more scared of Rosalina than she was of him.

  “Besides, you of all beings should know a lich doesn’t die so easily,” she continued, taking another step forward. At this point if she reached out she was close enough to touch John’s face. “To him, death was merely a… transformation. A changing of this into that. And is that not the same for all of us? That we all are mere caterpillars, waiting for our day for the beautiful butterfly that is our soul to hatch? To join the angels flying free in the heavens?”

  “…What has he taught you?”

  “Many things,” her frown inverted, an expression of fond reminiscence coming over her. “Old King Aethric taught me many things. As did Lord Cadaver, General Verfall, and Magister Imputresco.”

  Palmira heard Morte swear quietly. “I know those names,” he murmured softly. “Those are the names of all the most infamous liches in history. …Liches who, despite their long reigns, never once ruled simultaneously. Goddess, is she really saying…?”

  “I learned from them all that what we call ‘death’ is not so clear cut,” she raised a finger, divine flame dancing beneath her perfect nails. “We are but souls piloting the temporary flesh granted to us by the Goddess. Skin and tendons and bone, all lovingly crafted to serve her purpose. A purpose which she can so easily alter.”

  The words cut through the fear in Palmira’s mind, and despite not knowing why her eyes couldn’t help but fall on Rosalina’s staff.

  It was much longer than Morte, its shaft nearly twice the diameter with small bumps running up and down every few inches. Atop it a blinding divine flame burned, the silver flames chasing away even the barest hint of shadow. Below it was not otherwise decorated, a humble staff fitting for a holy woman, the only color afforded it a pale bone white.

  “That’s a spine,” Morte whispered, awe and terror alike coloring his tone. And, perhaps, a little schadenfreude. “She killed the Lich-King and turned his spine into her new staff.”

  Then she felt it. A presence suddenly seeping into the air, following with it the taste of stale water and the smell of rot. Like a great beast roused from its slumber something arrived, dark and ancient and big.

  “…The All-Seeing? So you yet live?” a voice thrummed in her soul. Weathered and rasping, yet with an underlying elegance which betrayed that it had once been something far grander. Like the husk of an ancient palace after smoke and flame hollowed it out. Even reduced, it still deafened her thoughts. “No, that is not surprising. You always were a coward. But perhaps cowardice has its merits, if my situation is anything to go by. You might yet outlive us all, you damned rat.”

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  John choked, his putrid eye throbbing in a way that hurt her just to look at. Blood mixed with puss into an orange goop as it ran down his cheeks. What little remained of him looked terrified.

  What little remained of him was snuffed out.

  “How pathetic, Lich-King,” the words were forced out, far more stilted than before. Blood flew with spittle as they tore themselves from the Drowned-Man’s lips. Even so, there was an undercurrent of fear in the Demon Lord’s words. “To be reduced to such a state, enslaved by an Enemy. Were I in your position I could not bear the shame.”

  “No, I imagine you couldn’t,” his presence groaned like the creaking of a sunken ship nestled on the edge of the abyss. It felt like at any moment it could fall off and drag the rest of them with it. “Someone like you could never handle the suffering you demand of others. Always the parasite, never the host. It’s a wonder you can bear anything at all.”

  “…” the skin of the Drowned-Man’s face tore from how deep a frown was forced upon him. “…How is this possible,” the Demon Lord growled, “that your pathetic Goddess has not abandoned you. How can you still wield her powers whilst you consort with one of her most hated enemies?”

  “Hm? Isn’t the answer to that obvious?” Rosalina smiled, her tone so self-assured that none could gainsay her. “My Cause is the Goddess’ Cause. Need there be any other reason?”

  Then she placed her burning finger on his bloated eye, the digit digging deep into the rotting flesh.

  Instantly his whole body ignited. Scales and flesh and eyes alike all burned in holy flame, a corrupted soul purged from existence itself. And locked as he was between powers so much greater than him, John the Drowned-Man was not even allowed to scream.

  As the ash that was once a person fell from her finger, Rosalina finally turned to Palmira

  “Now that that’s all taken care of,” a wide smile overtook her face, though it was not directed at the girl. Instead, it was directed at her staff. “I can finally greet you properly! You ran away so quickly earlier I was barely able to recognize you.”

  The air roiled as the Lich-King dragged his attention over to them, the disks of his spine seeming to shudder as he did so.

  “…Hah…it has been so very long, hasn’t it boy? Haha… what could you call this if not fate?”

  “I’d call it Karma, personally,” Morte spat back, a bitter hatred boiling beneath every word. “But even this is too good for the likes of you.”

  “Now now, don’t argue you two,” Rosalina chided them, stepping closer. Palmira, startled out of her horrified inaction stumbled back, trying to keep as much distance as she could between them. “Oh? Why are you running away from me? Ah, don’t tell me I’m really that scary? I don’t think my heart could take that.”

  Palmira wet her lips, trying to find something to say. But all that came out was a quiet croak.

  “Ah, really?” she tapped her cheek, looking a bit embarrassed. “You need not worry, child, truly. As a Holy Woman, it is my duty to offer salvation to all children of the Goddess. You are safe from the Demons with me.”

  “Yeah, no, keep your fucking distance kid,” Morte snapped, an order she was all-too keen to obey. “This woman is absolutely crazy.”

  “‘This woman…’ my teacher, do you not recognize me?” she frowned, sounding genuinely hurt.

  And Palmira couldn’t help but blink, because teacher!?

  “…I’d like to say no, not anymore, but unfortunately that isn’t the case. Of course I recognize you. But just because I knew you once doesn’t mean I’m going to let you come near my apprentice as you are now! Not when you’ve clearly been corrupted by the Lich-King!”

  “Corrupted…? Ah, I suppose it might look that way, from a distance. But you need not worry, I’m as pure as could be. That’s not to say he didn’t try, though,” she stroked her staff with a giggle, her elegant fingers running along his vertebrae. “He whispered secrets into my mind, of arts cruel and lost alike. And as he did he seeped into my body, slowly replacing my soul with his. Drop by drop, cell by cell, he thought himself so powerful, corrupting a hapless priestess with his dark powers.”

  The Lich-King groaned. It was a sound of pain. It was a sound of pleasure. It was a sound no mortal soul should ever have been able to make.

  The fact that it was a mortal who had forced him to make it was all the worse.

  “He didn’t realize that while he was corrupting me, I was corrupting him,” she whispered, her expression nothing less than rapturous. “And now he’s seen the light. Now he’s seen my light.”

  Then the Priestess snapped back to her, eyes searching. “Tell me, girl, have you seen my light?”

  Palmira blinked, swallowing heavily. “…Your light?”

  “The light of the Goddess, of course,” she spread her arms wide, silver flame pouring off her staff and into her open hand. “That divine light which leads all mortals, be they human, elf, or other. That light which follows us everywhere, day or night, which delivers us all to Heaven. …So long as we never stray from its righteous glow, at least.”

  “That…” the girl didn’t know what to say to that. Rosalina’s words weren’t wrong, but the way she said them, the way she phrased them… “I don’t think those are the same things.”

  Saying that, she realized almost the second the words left her lips, was a mistake.

  The Priestess froze, her dark eyes locked onto her. “I see…” she murmured, disappointed. “With him as your mentor, I assumed you’d understand… No, no! What arrogance I must be displaying!” she shook her head, frowning apologetically. This did nothing to make Palmira feel better. “I’m sorry, child, I shouldn’t have been so presumptuous! But worry not! It is the duty of a Priestess to enlighten the uneducated in all matters of faith.”

  Rosalina brought her staff forward in one hand while the other pressed against her chest. Her eyes narrowed in determination, and the cracks in her skin began shining all the brighter.

  “And as the only woman of the cloth in attendance, that duty naturally falls to me!”

  “Did you hear that?” the Lich-King whispered in the back of their minds, crowding out their thoughts with his own presence. “Of course you did, you know in your heart of hearts that it is true. All will learn to accept the Lady’s Light. One way, or the other.”

  “The first lesson is simple, my friends,” her smile stretched from ear to ear, a crescent moon pushing back against the gloom of the night. The silver flame above her staff erupted, so blindingly bright she was forced to look away. “For the Goddess demands repentance! And though ignorance is no excuse, through suffering all sins may be atoned for! So oh wretched heathen, bow and be reborn beneath the divine light of our Lady!”

  This, Palmira knew, was very bad.

  Though her legs shook she brought her staff to bear, her own red flames appearing wholly inadequate compared to the Priestess’ Divine Fire.

  But she had lived her whole life making due with what little she had, and though the stakes had been raised it seemed that wasn’t about to change now.

  In a dirty alley under the light of the Goddess, Palmira prepared to fight for her life.

  years and while it hasn’t all come together exactly as I wanted it I still think it turned out pretty well.