Outside the Cycle - Act XII

I might make these intro jokes a permanent thing... but am I really that cruel?

Your mother's so fat even Demon can't throw her.

Why did Slark fall over?
Cause he was imbalanced.

Act XII: Taken by the Plague

The night was soothing, calm and cool, the sky perfectly clear. The waxing moon bathed Slom in pale light, and the stars sparkled amidst the velvet canopy. The highest spire of House Avernus was an astronomy, built by Lord Kayle d'Avernus two hundred and fifty years ago. It was here that Abaddon now stood, gazing longingly into the sky and thinking deep thoughts.

Now is the moment, he told himself. There had not been nearly as much preparation as he would have liked, but that could not be helped. It was now or never. Not only that, but he was still needed at the Ancient War. He had sworn to assist Arash in the endgame.

Yet it was not Arash he thought of most, but Lanaya. I have fallen for her, he realised suddenly. How he wasn't sure - they had all of nothing in common. He was noble while she was bourgeois at most, regal where she was horrifically shy, and while she was attractive, she could not match the inhuman perfection of the Avernus trueborn. Yet something in her had touched him like no other person had before.

He had tried hard to banish all thoughts of her as he had worked to undermine Lycos Banehallow's rule, but he would be done here soon, and then return to the Ancients. Peace seemed so far off, yet Arash had assured him this was not so.

Arash. He cannot be trusted. This was just common sense. Oh, his goals were noble enough, but if ever a person embodied the phrase 'the end justifies the means', it was the Psychomancer.

Tomorrow House Avernus would return to its rightful place, and his allies would take their share. Lady Vanessa Outridge had told him of the tournament Lycos was holding in his own honour. Egotistical fool. The scarred wolf's guards would be relaxed due to the celebrations, which was all the opportunity he needed. You thought to keep me out of this, Ambry? Did you think me unable to field a champion, or was this just another insult?

Anticipation raced through him. Lord Blackforest and his alchemists had assured him all was ready. Overhead, the sky seemed to grow incandescently bright.

Sleep eluded Abaddon as he moved from the observatory to pace the castle. Autumn had well and truly set in, and the days were only growing shorter and colder. This would be the last tournament Slom saw before the spring bloom. He wondered if they would still celebrate Diretide with the Ancients fallen. It seemed pointless.

Yet we must keep some things to remember this war by, he thought. It is too important an event to fade away.

Exhaustion finally took him, and he collapsed asleep on the throne of Avernus. His dreams were filled with fire and fear and bloody retribution, mad laughter racing through them.

He woke gladly, and his household was already active, paying no heed to the lord on his throne. Abaddon was filled with a sudden rush of loyalty to them. They profit from this as much as I do.

Rising groggily, he made his own preparations for the upcoming tournament. After dressing into his formal wear for tournaments and other such occasions - a set of robes, half cloth, half battle plate - he paid a visit to Vanath.

"Are you prepared?" he asked the youth, whose face was literally white.

"I'm too young to die," Vanath replied shakily.

"It's just a tournament, not even to the death. You'll be fine," Abaddon assured him, but the half-blood didn't look convinced at all. The Lord Avernus clapped him on the shoulder reassuringly before leaving to meet the other lords who had fielded champions.

The horse he rode out of the castle was as pureblooded as himself, blessed by mist, the latest in a line of steeds bred for the Lords of Avernus. She would return with him to the Ancients when this was over.

The ride seemed shorter than it actually was, but more like that was just anticipation. He was the last to arrive, he realised; the Lady Outridge was waiting for him at the gate.

"We are all inside," she told him in silky tones. "And most eager to hear what you have planned."

"Alas, I cannot tell you so yet. If one of us is captured with the knowledge, then the plan is in shambles. I need you to promise me your swords come the moment."

"You have mine," Vanessa replied, "but I cannot speak for the others."

"I shall speak to them," Abaddon stated before entering.

Long ago, a number of Lords of Slom had pooled together their resources to construct a grand arena, which was the locale of nigh every tournament and contest since that day. It had seating for well over five thousand, and six upper viewing boxes for the nobles. Lycos had taken one entirely for himself and his House, and Abaddon was surprised to see exactly how many there were of his blood. House Banehallow was as extensive as had been promised.

Samael Blackforest inclined his head courteously as Abaddon entered his box reserved for him and his allies, while Lords Astan Vantresor, Vikaryn Ashkarai and Dane Whisperreed turned to hear what he had to say. The Lord of Avernus repeated the words he had said to Vanessa Outridge earlier, and they seemed to accept them. The six lords made small talk as occasion demanded until Lycos Banehallow stood up and declared the tournament open. By then, the scions of all twenty-two Houses of Slom had arrived, and the stands were filled with soldiers and civilians alike.

The first rounds flashed past quickly. Vanath d'Avernus won three rounds easily, as did Iren Outridge, Lady Vanessa's son. Lord Blackforest's champion was quickly eliminated, and as the competition grew fiercer the scions of Whisperreed and Vantresor fell by too.

In the interlude before the eighth round, a messenger came for Abaddon. "The Lord Banehallow requests your presence," he was told.

There was no way to refuse such a summons. Despite his misgivings and intense mistrust of anything Ambry, Abaddon bid a temporary farewell to his allies and followed the messenger to the other box, Mistblades behind him.

Lycos looked pleased when Abaddon entered. "Lord Avernus. I am glad you could accept my invitation."I thank you for the honour, but wonder why you called me?" he asked in reply.

The wolf gestured to a seat. "Sit. We have much to talk about. You have not met my sister, Iris Banehallow, have you?"

"I have not had that pleasure," Abaddon affirmed. The lady in discussion smiled, yet the canine features of her family were just as prominent in her as on Lycos. Her face was sharp, her eyes a piercing green, and the only word Abaddon could think of to describe her looks was dangerous.

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance," she told him.

"As I am yours."

Lycos clicked his fingers at a servant. "Refreshments, if you please." The servant bowed deeply and left to carry out his master's commands.

When he was gone, the wolf spoke to Abaddon. "Have you reconsidered your allegiances? The Ancient much misses your presence."

"This again? I have no desire to participate in the war." It wasn't technically a lie.

Lycos frowned unhappily. "I regret that I had to wound your House so, but it was the most effective way to convince you to return to the Dire. Your former companion has done so without such provocation."

Abaddon jolted upright. "What do you mean?"

"Arash, I believe his name was. He returned to the Dire Ancient recently, with a prisoner in tow. The Templar Assassin, I do believe. Either way, she was Radiant. Since then he has very diligently carried out the Ancient's will."

He betrayed us all, Abaddon thought. Arash had played them all like fools. Had he fabricated the entire story? This thought was overtaken by another one, which burst suddenly upon him as he realised what Banehallow had said. Lanaya! What has he done to her?!

"Is Lanaya - the prisoner, I mean, alive still?"

Before Lycos could reply, Iris Banehallow burst out laughing. "Oh, now I see your reluctance," she said mirthfully. "Love clouds judgement, hmm?"

He didn't reply.

"It will never work, Abaddon," Lycos assured him. "You are Dire, she is Radiant, and a commoner besides. She is as unfit for you as possible."

He was right, of course. Through his haze of confused emotion, Abaddon saw that. Surely he could think of an excuse or a justification?

The crowd roared suddenly as Iren Outridge was hurled off his horse by the lance of Azor Banehallow, who was claimed as the son of Iris Banehallow and second in line to the House. The Banehallow box erupted into cheers, but Abaddon only clapped politely, his thoughts completely on his former companions.

The day clocked on into the afternoon, until the numbers were drawn and Vanath was pitted against Azor Banehallow. Lycos laughed as this was announced.

"There goes your chances, Abaddon," he smirked.

Thrice they rode against each other, lances splintering each time. Upon the fourth time, Azor lowered his lance and slammed into Vanath's shield with the lance, sending the Avernus tumbling to the ground.

Vanath rose quickly, drawing his sword. Azor leapt down to resume the melee. Azor struck first, blade sweeping down in a crackling arc, but the strike slid off Vanath's sword in a shower of sparks. He counterstruck, sweeping the blade around, and Azor leapt back to avoid being gutted. They traded hits in a flurry too fast to follow accurately, and then disengaged, circling each other warily.

"To first blood," Lycos reminded the combatants. Azor snarled and leapt out, narrowly missing Vanath who swung his own blade around to deflect the hit. Banehallow crossed his weapon downwards, crashing into a sideways swipe from Vanath. Azor whirled away and struck with an overhead slash-

-and as he moved to parry, Vanath froze, the sword falling from his fingers. Azor's weapon struck his skull, splitting it open. Lycos' nephew staggered back, horrified, and the crowd rose to their feet, gasping in shock.

"What happened?!" Lycos snarled, whirling on Abaddon. "He just knelt there-"

The Lord of Avernus was sitting down unmoved, completely calm except for a huge smile on his face. "His time was up."

Iris looked horrified. "How can you cast aside a relative like that?"

Abaddon gave her an incredulous look, springing the trap. "I'm not related to a ****nculus, am I?"

And then it began.

Around the arena, House Banehallow's warrior began staggering, collapsing down. From the stands, a volley of arrows flew into the arena. Azor was caught in the crossfire and riddled with wounds. He collapsed, his blood pouring out and staining the grounds. The corpse of the ****nculus posing as Vanath d'Avernus had already decayed into dust, and the real Vanath emerged alongside Samael Blackforest.

"Mistblades!" Abaddon snapped, rising to his feet and drawing his weapon. Iris leapt towards him, but was cut down by a sweep of the nearest Mistblade's weapon. The other two disposed of Lycos' two wolves and other family, and the arena erupted into chaos as the forces of six Houses turned against Banehallow. Throats were cut, men eviscerated, and blood spurted across the stands. The screams of the dying polluted the air.

"How?" Lycos begged. "How did you do this?"

Abaddon grinned viciously. "While you were absorbed in your own magnificence, I was working. You have the alchemists of House Blackforest to thank for the chaos down there - I got them to poison your troops as they were distracted by the tournament, and from there it was easy. My own and allied Houses are now disposing of the wolves and then we shall restore order."

Visibly shell-shocked, Lycos Banehallow cast his gaze across the bloodsoaked arena. Already it was calming down. "I will not stand for this," he said.

Abaddon shrugged. "You have no choice, I am afraid. Seize him."

"No!"

The Mistblades did not pause, but Abaddon waved his hand at Lycos' cry and they backed off. The wolf glared at him with eyes mad with grief.

"Lord Abaddon of House Avernus, I hereby challenge you to single combat. To the death we shall fight. Here and now, our grievance shall be settled."

"Challenge accepted," he replied smoothly. There was no way that the lycanthrope, older and grief-stricken, could defeat him. This was a last desperate move for no gain, just to spite the House that had undone him.

They armed themselves and met on the green. Lycos wielded a huge heirloom greatsword, Abaddon his mist-blest runeblade.

Lycos attacked first, hacking mercilessly without any concern for his own well-being. Unfortunately, his strikes were vicious enough that Abaddon did not have any opportunity to riposte back. The wolf tired quickly, though, and his attacks slowed, and first blood went to the Lord of Avernus, whose blade carved a shallow cut along the Lycan's torso.

His anger will lose him this, Abaddon knew. Lycos realised it too, as he narrowed his eyes and relaxed his stance to a more sustainable duellist's stance.

They clashed again, swords hissing in the air and snapping into each other. One, two, three, four, five and they backed off simultaneously, breathing heavily.

Without warning, Lycos struck, a huge overhead blow that crashed towards Abaddon's head. He raised his own blade, parrying it easily-

-and the runeblade shattered, shards raining down. Abaddon barely rolled away in time, and Lycos laughed heavily.

"This is how it ends! The House Avernus dies with you, lordling!" He charged to finish his foe. Abaddon counted to three, and with the jagged end of his weapon in hand, lunged.

Lycos stumbled back, gazing down at the hilt protruding from his chest. Abaddon rose with pained motions, and the wolf fell down.

"Gaze at the ruins of your House, Ambry!" he snarled. "For today, it is not mine who dies, but yours."

"You… have only met… the messenger," Lycos said with great effort. "Your darkness… shall be overshadowed by one far greater. The tidings… are dire."

And with that, House Banehallow ceased, and Abaddon was left to ponder the aftermath.
_________________________________

She was even more perfect than he remembered.

Shendelzare let out a triumphant screech, her wings - her beautiful, unbroken, glorious white wings - spreading behind her. Dragonus gazed upon her, unable to do anything else even if he wanted to.

She landed, striding with impeccable grace around the room. "We must be swift," she urged. Shendelzare took a deep breath, apparently savouring the action itself. With great reluctance and greater force of will, he drew his gaze away from her and drew up his staff. He wanted her, but that was not feasible, at this moment.

His queen moved around, getting back the feel for her new body. "I have missed this. Missed you, Dragonus."

"Zare…" he whispered. She drew in a ragged breath, a single tear falling down her cheek.

"Where is my sister?" she asked.

"Follow me," the Skywrath Mage said. "I must warn you, if anyone knows of what we do, the usurper must only think of it and my powers will desert me."

"The magics of the Skywrath Mage serve only the throne," she completed his thought. How he loved her, even more so at that moment, reunited after too long spent apart.

With silence they left his wing, and towards the throne they soared. They had hardly made it a hundred steps when Dragonus turned a corner and found himself facing a contingent of lances.

"Far enough, traitor," Ahoren Bladewing, captain of the guard, hissed at him from behind the lance pointed at the mage's heart. Shendelzare shrieked as arrows rained down from hidden crenellations, driving her to the ground. Dragonus whirled to defend her, raising his staff and calling upon an arcane storm amidst the room.

Nothing happened. His Zare whimpered softly past the arrows embedded in her new body. Hopelessness overtook him, and he fell to his knees beside her, cradling her in his arms.

"Take them both to the dungeons," Ahoren commanded. "We already know what the queen's judgement will be."
__________________________

Agony ripped through Lanaya, and she jerked over onto her back, contorting from the pain. Her half-healed wounds were pulsing with red rage, and she howled for nobody to care.

Yet, as her suffering did not cease, Lanaya's cries slowly faded, and something inside her, something dark, took her. Pain faded, and what was left was a relentless hunger for more - her pain, the pain of others, eating her inside. The ache of longing devoured her inside, and she twisted, moving into positions no mortal was meant to move in. The stiches holding her together ripped, and blood erupted out onto her shirt.

She stopped, and laughed. It was not a sane laugh, not a laugh that promised anything good, but she understood. She understood! She reached into herself, and caressed her thread, drawing up to the lines where it connected to the threads of others. Lanaya moved her thoughts to the line of Slithice, the Naga Siren, and plucked at it. The pattern hummed, and she moved out, and saw everything.

Her brain fractured into agony, and again the assassin screamed, clutching her forehead as it rose from within. She ripped at her shirt, baring the wound that Arash had inflicted days - years? Months? It was all the same - ago. Lanaya plunged her hands into her torso, acutely feeling her flesh part and revelling in the sensation. She drew her bloodied hands out, and began to draw on the walls with the red fluid. Slowly, the pattern took form, archaic symbols of people coming into focus.

And as she let the whispers take her, Lanaya laughed.