Siege State

The battle for Wayrest raged. Tens of thousands of orcs pressed against the walls. The defenders atop them rained skills down upon the surging masses, trying desperately to throw down the siege ladders.

The corpse of a siege orc lay strewn out below them, gently smoking. Watchmen flickered about the remaining one, engaging it in a deadly dance. Its lumbering movements were easy for them to avoid, but more than one fell, mangled beyond recognition, as the Idealist orcs defending their living siege engine fought back.

Fifty thousand orcs had come to destroy them. Three rents lay in the army: one from Scriber’s device, another from the blood dragon’s breath, and the third from the dragon crashing to its death. The rents were closing as orcs rushed to fill the gaps, wriggling back together like cuts scabbing over under Healing.

The great bulk of the army pushed against the wall. Fifty thousand, screaming, howling, bloodthirsty orcs bent on tearing down their walls and slaughtering. They made a hot, dense, thunderous crush. Their collective breath and sweat caused a thin mist to hang over the army, their collective stomping and shouting made even thinking difficult.

In the centre of it all, Tom and Val circled, slowly, prowling, waiting for their chance. Between them, the Great Smith stood proud, unconcerned. His massive frame towered over every other being on the battlefield bar the siege orc. He turned, shuffling slightly, using only the most empiric of movements, always managing to keep both Val and Tom in view.

His impressive musculature was relaxed, but Tom knew the surprising speed the Smith could move with. Even more dangerous was its strength. With a single, almost dismissive backhand, he had broken Tom’s neck. It carried no weapons, but between its horrifyingly strong skills and its outrageous physical attributes, it didn’t need them.

They would have to be exceedingly careful if they hoped to come through this fight alive, and yet, they could not afford to waste time dragging it out either. Every moment the Smith remained alive was more human lives lost, more pressure placed upon a city under incredible strain. They would have to take risks to end this quickly. They had no other choice.

Both he and Val communicated wordlessly, the connection born of thousands of hours of moving and fighting together proving their worth. When the moment came, they would take it. Tom had no doubts or hesitation about their coordination.

The stalemate continued, the Smith holding a red barrier shield skill between himself and Val, silently stepping to ensure they could not complete their entrapment. Val Spat Venom onto the shield as its cooldown allowed, Tom doing the same with Agony.

The Smith seemed unconcerned. He knew Val would be casting Love you to Death on it too, though the skill had no visual cue. Tom had to wonder what skills the Smith had to seem so unbothered by their damage. Did he have some method of mitigating the damage, or was his health and regeneration simply enough to shrug it off? Either way, they needed an opening, so that they could tip the fight in their favour.

Their chance came a moment later. There was a great cheer from the walls, soundly slightly reedy from so far out, as the Watch finally managed to drag down the remaining siege orc. Though they were the main threats to the wall, the defenders would still be hard pressed with the army itself. They had brought a huge amount of siege ladders, and it seemed for every one they destroyed two more struggled to rise in its place.

The Smith’s eyes flickered towards the commotion for a split second, and its next step was not quite as long as the one before it. Val immediately capitalised on the inattention.

She quick-stepped back the way she’d come, and breathed a cloud of green venom. Tom burst into action as well, speeding up and sliding further around behind the Smith while Val attacked.

The Smith brought his shield around, trying to interpose it in front of Val’s skill, but Tom cast Hush and it stuttered and failed. It winked out, and the cloud of acidic venom engulfed it. A small grunt was the only indication of any pain.

Val pounced, pushing after her own venom cloud and striking at the Smith with her thin sword. Tom menaced it from behind with his axe, stopping it from retreating.

As Val struck out once, twice, scoring deep cuts on its left arm and chest, Tom darted in and chopped at its knee.

The Smith stepped smoothly forwards, and brought his knee up into Val’s gut. It seemed a casual action, but she flipped backwards, and the top of her spine and head slammed into the sod. Tom’s axe whistled past the Smith’s knee, missing it by an inch.

Tom was stunned. Had the Smith planned that? It seemed as though he had, waiting until they pounced and then trying to finish one of them off. The huge creature stomped on towards where Val lay on the ground, and Tom’s heart lurched in his chest.

He rushed forwards, then suddenly caught himself, pulling up short at the last instant. The Smith pivoted, and his massive hand sailed through the air right in front of Tom’s face. If he had halted any later he would have had his neck broken again.

As it was he lashed out at the Smith’s shoulder, and was rewarded with a deep gash. The Smith, seeing Tom had avoided his ploy, gave a small, dissatisfied hiss. The beast’s eyes flicked back to Val, and he started towards her again.

There was a flash of light from her hand as she crushed a miracle mouse, and she rolled out of the way just before his great foot stomped on her head. Tom managed another cut to its lower back while it was distracted.

Val regained her feet, and the pair began layering their skills onto the Smith again. This time, Tom noticed the slightest hints of emotion on its face. It wasn’t quite annoyance. Impatience, maybe? In either case, they finally seemed to be making headway.

Now they needed another opening. Tom met Val’s eye briefly, then decided to use one aspect of his skills he had never used before. He adjusted his grip on the haft of his axe, preparing.

Several of Sere’s bodies flitted downwards, barely visible in all the commotion. They moved fast, wings tucked, diving straight at the Smith.

As they struck the mana in each flared, and for a split second before they impacted, they elongated, turning a deep pink, becoming a streak of colour seemingly painted on the world. Each sparrow-streak converged into a wickedly pointed tip.

As with all of their other attacks, the Smith barely registered the sparrow-spears’ impacts. Tom was not banking on it; each sparrow sacrificed this way did only low damage. But they did achieve their goal. The sparrows, diving from on high, in the chaos of the fight, distracted the Smith again for a split second.

Tom engaged once more, swinging his axe at the Smith’s leg. Val was half a second behind him. Tom cast Wild Eagle Strike, the side of his cycle skill he usually only used as a long range finisher, but it had one other effect, and it was crucial in this situation. It caused a low duration fear debuff, just enough to allow them to disengage again unscathed after their attack.

The Smith seemed frustrated now, snarled at them as they pulled back. Val’s sword had punched deep into its shoulder. Though the flow of blood from it was already noticeably slowing, its left arm seemed injured, and no longer had its full range of motion.

Tom grinned at Val. The Smith was slightly slower now. Whether it was the damage finally piling up, or Tom’s aura contributing, it was making a tangible difference. Not a massive one, but a difference all the same. He began to send to Sere, organising another round of sparrow-spears.

Val’s eyes widened. He only just caught it. A movement the Smith made, trying to keep itself from being directly between them, became a solid step towards Tom. He immediately tried for distance, and fetched up against a hard surface behind him. He was trapped.

He glanced backwards, and saw the Smith had put up his shield behind him. Tom’s hair sizzled where it touched it, but his armour protected the rest of his body.

The Smith lashed out with a front kick. Tom saw it, fast as it was, and tried to move, but with the shield constraining his movements, he could not avoid it entirely.

The foot crashed into his chest, and he felt his ribs snap like twigs. Pain flared bright, hot and white in his mind. He slumped as the Smith swung the shield around to block Val, who had charged it when she realised what was happening.

The Smith backhanded him again as he fell. Tom’s body folded almost in two, the wrong way. He was insensate, barely conscious. His body felt cold, numb. Blackness threatened his vision.

He could make out Val, throwing everything she had into an assault on the Smith. She sprayed him with venom, danced with every iota of agility and training she could eke out of her Idealist body, all to try and save him. He was out of miracle mice. There were too few orcs directly nearby for his aura to heal him. And the Smith was standing above him, too. As soon as Val gave it even half a second’s respite, it would stomp him to death.

He watched Val pitch her everything into the attack. Even as he felt himself slipping away, he was overwhelmed with emotion for her. This woman, exiled to the Hunters for having Hate, had shown him nothing but kindness and generosity. She had been patient with him, had been stern with him, and had guided him.

Tom watched her vicious assault against the Smith, and she was an avatar of Hatred. And yet, the warm, cheeky woman was risking everything to save him. She was the embodiment of Love, too.

With a monumental effort, as the blackness closed in, he gave back. He cast Hush, and then once more, the barrier dropped.

Tom saw surprise again on the Smith’s face, and felt great satisfaction. As the blackness claimed him, he heard Val scream a single word.

“NO!”

Tom jolted back to consciousness. It felt like he had had a bucket of ice water thrown on him after a ten hour sleep. Everything seemed too bright. Nothing seemed to fit together. And then pieces floated into place.

His mother’s face. She was kneeling above him. Her hands were clasping his head.

Pain shivered through his body. It was ebbing away. His bones were making grotesque sounds as they knit themselves back together inside him.

The Smith, his visage terrifying, for the first time full of fury, rage at being denied. Rage at his mother, for the expression on her face as she gazed gently down at her son. The son she had not done enough for, the son she had finally broken free of her old life for, the son she had awoken from a life of suffering to follow and help. The look on her face was pride. Pride for herself, that she had saved him. Pride for the man her son had become.

This was the antithesis of the Smith’s Ideals, the bright, shining side to the Pride he weaponised to lay humans low.

Tom caught Val’s horrified expression, as she tried desperately to bring the massive orc down.

It was not enough.

As Tom’s body mended itself, dragged back from the brink by his mother’s Healing, the Smith turned. Val slashed at its broad back, and it took a single step. She screamed, hurling skills at the orc, but the Smith was inexorable.

Tom watched his mother stare at the Smith, defiance writ plain on her face.

Then he kneed her in the head, and her face crumpled inwards, enchanted shields shattering.

Tom’s mind refused to process it. He watched as the Smith stood over him, and though his body was healing, he still felt numb. He looked at his mother’s broken corpse, and it seemed as though the world stood still.

In unison, two wisps flashed. His own wisp strobed pink as anger and hatred and pain wracked him, fused and boiled in him, scoured him, until it felt like he would burst. Then again, brown, as a hard, unyielding calm descended upon him.

From where he lay, he saw Val’s wisp, hanging in front of her shoulder. It flashed, but not like his had. A warm, honeyed yellow light shone powerfully from it, so powerfully that for a moment it became a single colour. It looked like pollen struck by lightning. Then the yellow settled into a comfortable ring, sitting in between the crimson core and vibrant green halo of Val’s wisp.

The Smith had killed his mother. Val had manifested an Ideal. Now, they would kill it. It was simple. He just needed to stand.