The Wielder of Death Magic

Chapter 792: The Great Collapse [6]

“Sure it does,” said a stranger from within the pile of identically dressed fighters. They ambled through, pushing aside said fighters, who returned clicks of the tongue and less amicable glances – glared Igna, then smirked, “-the name’s Oat, I’m a mercenary from the Empire, sent to guard the advance party,” the outline cleared as the distance closed. Igna kept a nonchalant regard whilst the tired fighters breathed sighs and complained in mild whispers. The leader of the march, an elf, waited with arms crossed.

“Are you the Prince of Arda?” he fired, the height stood shy short of the average of the current crowd. There was a cuteness inherent to small things, and the newer addition, Oat; was a proud owner of scars.

“Aren’t you too short to be in the army?” This chapter is updated by novelenglish.net . Fire(.)nᴇt - novelenglish.net . bin

“Heh, pathetic, being looked down upon by my adversary is nothing new.”

“Right,” Igna postured in the ‘lightning-strike,’ stance, hands-on Orenmir’s scabbard and sight set on a massacre.

“Don’t ignore me,” fired Oat, *I call upon the weapon granted to me by the gods, summon forth, Xe.* a cleansing golden glow shimmered above, coincidentally being eye-level to the observing bystanders, “-face me in stride,” he oriented his spear downwards, the aura shifted in favor of one tightly guarded, “-shall we dance?” he dove, ignorant of the opponent’s power or skill, the attacks targeted vitals spots.

‘He’s skilled,’ the longing crimson pupils analyzed every bit of the fight, from feet to hands – from breath to the blinking, ‘-very skilled actually,’ Oat took the advantage and used the reach to stray from Igna’s reach, attacking from a distance. Spears have always been the better partner to a sword, especially in a tight match of skill, ‘-he’s a summoner, calling upon a weapon that bears a consciousness. They’re a rare breed,’ he blocked and sidestepped along the narrow path. *Woosh,* the blade halted at Igna’s cheek who was pushed to the brick of the thin path; tiny rocks fell, ‘-barely,’ he gasped and lowered the stance, ‘-can’t react if I go faster,’ he lunged with the Lightning strike pose, unsheathed the blade and sliced Oat’s underarm, the latter narrowly dodged, spun to face his foe with a trembling heart, ‘-fast,’ he thought. A short click marked the swords sheathed, “-good, you dodged,” commended Igna.

.....

“Don’t underestimate me,” the spear shifted in color – the golden glow of its birth enveloped the weapon fully. It channeled into Oat’s arms, flowing ever so likely to veins towards the heart, *thud,* a beat and he blinked, *thud,* the energy flowed through his limbs and body – the pupils lost any sign of recognition.

“Right people,” voiced the elven leader, “-wrap around them, we’ll follow Oat’s lead.”

‘I forgot about them,’ he rose his guard, ‘-pests,’ branches cracked under the heavy stomps, they pushed into the adjacent tree line without care for the flora, stepping over flowers and plants, some took to the foliage where they dwelled, unholstered their bows and readied their arrows, “-ready to fire,” said an archer.

“Wait for my signal,” said the leader, “-what will it be, Igna. The fight was never fair in the first place,” he laughed, “-tis as the master-planned.”

‘Planned?’

True it was; the landscape swaps from dark to a tenderly lit abandoned log cabin south of the Liberthan plains. A landmark and refuge for the cold winters, thunderstorms were very common in said area, and the plains, the vast meadows interspersed by groves and dirt paths, “-an old hunting house,” said Arlah.

“Where are we?”

“At the mouth of the plains,” he peered outwards of a mossy glass window, “-see to our right, the path goes on into a dark forest; that’s the Hallowed walkway.”

“Pardon?”

“Hallowed walkway comes from tales of travelers being traumatized to death by unseen entities, tis also the start of Noctis’s hallow, the massive land controlled by the elusive nightwalkers.”

“Arlah, I want to know more about the war,” said Ania with her fox ears brightly up in attention. Footsteps upon the rough terrain heeded the strategist’s guard. A hooded figure passed the blurry window, Arlah slowly inched towards his bow and silently drew an arrow, the figure gave two large strides which buckled the wooden stairs and tapped the door, “-it’s me,” said a familiar voice.

“Tigul,” a relieved gasp escaped, “-you scared me half to death,” he made for the handle and dropped the arrow inside the quiver which shuffle the sticks.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” the hood flew backward, “-was forced to take the sneaky route out. The King wasn’t happy about not having a plaything,” the door locked behind – he threw the hood over a dusty table to the side and made for the fireplace, “-you seem well,” he said to the girl.

“I guess I am,” she replied sharply, “-Arlah, the war...” her eyes narrowed into impatient taps against a bear-rug. Tigul leaned on his palm, threw an overhead glance towards Arlah, ‘-what’s with this chick?’ articulated noiselessly. Two brief shakes of the head returned as a response, “-the war, yes, I forgot,” they gathered and he gave a summary of her story.

The general took time to digest the information, “-sorry to say, Igna will die tonight.”

“What is he talking about?” inquired Ania in a strained pitch which cracked at the ‘-he’ part.

“Don’t yell,” returned the strategist, “-you’re in the enemy’s camp. Have you forgotten what happened a few hours ago? Luck would have it, Tigul and I have no greater loyalty to the king, we serve only ourselves and are here to help the elven kingdom as proud members of the dark-elves tribe. What Tigul referred to was the scouting party we sent; it’s a trap,” he unrolled a map onto the rug, “-see this part,” he pointed at the narrowed path leading towards Solta marked by an ‘X’, “-here’s the ambush location. They’ll meet Igna there based on the geography and the count’s undeniable intellect, he’ll choose a place which is very advantageous to him. By all means, the fighters look like common foot soldiers,” to which he shifted a tad to the left of the ‘X’ “-the trees are tall and perfect for archers, especially elven arches. War is a game of information exchange. There’s also Oat, the Guardian Saint of Lucifer’s Western Sect, the Saint of the Spear.”

“How strong is he?”

“Very strong. The church is ranked as follows; God, Angel, Saint, Pope, Arch Bishop, also known as the Paladin, Bishop, Inquisitors, Priests, Emissaries, and Devotees. Saints are the first most powerful entity a living being can acquire since Angels and Gods above what we know. Among the saints are four cardinal saints, guardians of North, South, East, and West, each is reportedly strong enough to take an army of thousands on their own. In the current war, Oat is our strongest piece, and he was sent to defeat Igna Haggard in an ambush.”

“In other words, the plan was made to defeat your cousin, Igna, who you’ve never met. Listen, Ania, I’m sorry about what’s happened to your parents, it’s sad. Forget meeting a member of the Haggard dynasty, they’ve fallen from grace in the past few weeks.”

“What am I suppose to do then... sit around and wait for the next freak to come after me, no thank you,” she kept a firm frown, “-no way. Mother and father went on about how strong Staxius Haggard was, I believe in my heart of hearts the nephew will be as strong, they wouldn’t have died without a purpose, I don’t accept it, I won’t accept it.”

“Too far, Tigul,” reprimanded Arlah, “-leave her to her own devices, we have no say in another person’s belief. We’ll watch the war unfold from warm cushion seats.”

‘Right, no need to say more,’ exhaled the general, ‘-she’s hard-headed and you’re stubborn. I’m right to say Igna has no chance against a saint. For the love of God, they rank above heroes – the church, our underhanded benefactor. Declaring war on the whole continent was foolish, Prince, I dare to see thee unite the kingdom, I for once, have my pride as a leader to uphold.’

Flashes, loud pants, metal against metal, frequent whistling of arrows, ‘-he’s so strong,’ gasped Igna, the body held many o’ wounds, each healing at their own pace, ‘-the more I fight, the sharper and faster he gets. Those damned elves, they’ve blocked the paths into the forest – I have to face this beast on a narrow walkway, one false move, and I’ll be in the depth of the valley. Blood and sweat flowed from his head, wrapping around his jaws and dropping onto the ground.

“Are you done?” he swiped his spear to the right, “-Count Haggard, he who dared declare war against the whole continent, where’s the bravado.”

“I got you now,” said an archer who fired at Igna’s face.

“Enough,” the hands snapped at the projectile, “-you’re being a nuisance,” said a cold glare through the blinding foliage. The bowman fell onto his bottom, the leaves shuffled ‘-he knows where I am ...’ Igna broke the arrow and dusted his shirt.

‘I hate to reveal anything before a servant of the church. What can I use, no realm expansion? Perhaps the powers of my vampiric blood?’ he scanned, ‘-no, he has protection against dark intentions. What are my options, summon my army?’ the thought process froze, ‘-why am I thinking of useless methods,’ he gripped Orenmir tightly, ‘-this is the weakness I have to crush, the indecisiveness which I acquired from the shared thoughts. I must destroy the reluctance, believe in my body, most importantly, believe in Orenmir,’ the blade reacted, a darkened mist emanated ominously, same as dowsing cold water on hot metal, a slow, methodic rise of steam. “Oat,” he said, “-I’ve had enough playing around – I’ll meet thee in stride.”

“No more interference,” he cried to the leader, “-this battle is between the Count and me, I will have none of it.” They blinked, the bodies teleported – metal against metal, flashes, ‘-who is Oat?’ the blade grew heavy, Orenmir’s bloodlust manifested in bodiless heads screaming across the wood – few unlucky souls took the blunt anguish of the restless prisoners. In more ways than one, the battle wasn’t Igna versus Oat, no, it was the Holy Spear of Pete against Orenmir, Igna’s cursed sword. Skill levels were matched, and for the first time, their battle was fought purely on skill and physical attacks. The stronger Oat grew, the smoother moved Igna, ‘-my body,’ he dodge, leaving garish footmarks on the pathway. Volleys of the attack met equally by countless parries,

‘An opening,’ thought Oat, ‘-not a trap either,’ the mind flashed through the assessment, ‘-the fight is over,’ he drew Igna to a downward swing, the instant Igna rose his hand’s Oat thrust from the seemingly disadvantageous position, ‘-Ancient-Arts of Pete’s Spear; Rraph,’ the weapon teleported through Igna’s cognitive abilities, *-clash,* they retreated, ‘-he understood my intent,’ panted Oat with wide-eyes, ‘-a fearsome man,’ he gasped, ‘-too late, my spear made contact,’ he smiled.

‘God damn it,’ he fell on one knee, “-an attack with intent to destroy my magical element. Wise choice.”

“You think so?” they breathed heavy, “-killing is never the answer, would have been a shame to lose such a skillful swordsman.”

“Oat, you’re very strong,” he clambered to a stand by sticking Orenmir into the ground, “-the last strike was meant to disable my enhancement and win the battle without taking a life.’

“Doubt I could have killed an immortal being,” he smirked, “-then again, the Spear of Pete is the perfect weapon against never-aging monsters. Look at your wounds, they’ve stopped healing.”

‘He’s right,’ vision fazed in and out, ‘-I’m at my limit. A truly amazing battle. Still have to fight the army, better grit, and bear the pain. He hit my element,’ *woosh,* he barely missed Oat’s visage.

“HOW CAN YOU MOVE SO FAST!” he parried, ‘-what’s with him...’

Igna threw a macabre stare over his shoulder, “-my magical element has already been destroyed,” the crimson pupils gleamed, “-the true battle starts now.”