An Army of One

One warrior stands against the unholy.

An Army of One

His ebony blade flicked out, managing to skewer not one but two of the rotting corpses before him. It was a testament to the power of his arm that instead of pulling his sword back out, he sheared sideways through the putrid flesh, nearly cleaving them in two. With the graceful flick of an elegant wrist, he brought the gorgeous blade whirling around to decapitate the two attackers pressing from his left, sidestepping a blow from his right at the same moment.

He kicked another foe, the impact of the blow staving in the cadaver's chest and sending him backward hard enough to bowl over several other putrid warriors. He danced left and right, weaving fluid patterns with body and blade, his lithe form twisting this way and that to avoid the weapons that thrust forth at him. His wings, darker than misery and spanning further than three men laid end to end, snapped outward to knock heads from shoulders and clear a circle of breathing room.

A screech echoed over the field and the massed army of unholy dead turned their heads toward their leader. The Lich raised a staff made from human bones and decorated with a human skull high over his head. Black fire dripped from his empty eye sockets and an emerald viper's tongue flicked between his fanged teeth. He screamed again, pointing at the lone warrior blocking their path.

The warrior stood in an easy stance his slender, pale fingers wrapped casually around the hilt of his graceful blade. Yet the strength of that grip was immense, time would end before he dropped his blade. He was clad simply yet elegantly in a long coat of silver-edged black, his wings mantled behind him like an enraged eagle. Thick strands of his silken blacker than black hair veiled his face, yet the Lich clearly felt the weight of his gaze, more piercing than any arrow.

Another scream sent the dead against the warrior again and three simple strokes reduced their number by six. But what was six to an army numbering thousands? They came at him like the waves of some rotting ocean, foul and bloated, their blades poisoned by long storage in rotting flesh. Yet like the waves of the ocean against the shore, they would shatter against his implacable defense, each attack costing them more and more of their numbers.

It was only a matter of time until he was pulled down, ground under the feet of the marching dead. Yet he fought on. His body was as supple and fluid as a viper's, as graceful and lithe as any dancer. He was fair and flawless, his pale skin unscathed and his skill defied description. He severed arms that reached toward him. He ducked under a blow and cut his attacker off at the knees. Then he brought his blade swiftly up and cut the next corpse in line from crotch to crown. He took off the lower jaw of the shambling hulk next to his bisected victim before driving his blade downward again and slicing it's chest open.

His ebony blade sang a song of vengeance and pain, shrieking in savage joy as it swung in a graceful arc. It swept through the torsos of seven undead as easily as it might cut through paper. The twisting runes etched down it's delicate length burst into dazzling flame that made the dead recoil with soft moans and bizarre shrieks. From his far off vantage the Lich screamed again, his fury mounting.

He raised his staff to the unholy darkness above, chanting in a language long ago turned to dust. Power the color of rot and stagnation began to curl around him, the stench of death and carrion riding high upon the air. Gangrenous lightnings chased across the plague-born clouds and the massed army of death let loose a collective wail, skulls tossed back howling.

With a last frothing scream, the Lich lowered his weapon and pointed toward the flawless figure barring his way. A sheet of venomous green magic ripped across the sky like Hell's own aurora, racing outwards to destroy all in it's path. The Lich grinned. Even if the warrior remained alive, all beyond him was lost.

The green wave bore down on the flawless figure, pressing before it a fetid wind. Then, with an echoing boom that deafened thunder itself, it collided against a wall of electric violet. The Lich wailed as his precious army, caught between the opposing forces, was erased from existence. His black sockets turned angrily to the warrior and he hefted his weapon once again...and froze.

He was staring full into the haunted, ancient depths of the warrior's violet eyes. Eyes that were the crown jewel of a flawless face, the face the most beautiful part of a perfect whole. He was ensnared, enraptured by an ethereal beauty that caused tears to run down his rotting cheeks. Slowly the warrior lowered his ebony sword, the tip of the blade resting on the earth between his feet.

"This ends now." That voice was rapture incarnate. Rich and golden, mellifluous and silvery. The only voice that could have matched the fair face and flawless form. It wasn't until that ebony blade bit deep into his side, those amazing eyes were inches from his ridged skull, that the Lich realized he'd been beguiled.

"No." He croaked, doubling over as the warrior planted a boot into his gut. The force of the kick, combined with the deep gash in his side, ripped the Lich in two. His legs stood unsteadily until the warrior calmly hacked them down, ignoring the torso of the Lich as it tried to drag itself away. The razor edge of ebony flicked out again, runes blazing, song a savage wail, and severed the Lich's head from his shoulders.

The Lich could only watch in horror as the warrior placed one elegant hand over where the Lich's heart should have been. Violet power surged down into the torso, which jerked and bucked under the purging force, before blowing apart. Slowly the warrior wiped a few errant droplets of ichor from his face. He shook his blade once, the Lich's blood that clung to it limned a graceful arch into the night, before sliding it home in the sheath on his back. Then, with a smile so glorious it was heart breaking to see it so empty of emotion, the warrior lifted the Lich's head.

"You have caused much trouble." Curiously enough he spoke not to the Lich but to the black diadem upon it's brow. Feebly, sensing his intent, the Lich forced his jaws to snap at the fingers that held it so easily. The grip tightened and, without seeming effort, the skull shattered and the Lich was no more. Only the iron circlet was left in his slim fingers.

It sang to him, reaching out with it's powerful glamours. It pained pictures in his mind, empires he could rule with it upon his brow. How noble. How stunning. He wore black as if it had been made for him, and maybe it had. He could lend the circlet more elegance than it had ever possessed and together they would be unstoppable.

"You neglect to mention that eventually you'd tire of me. That you'd seek to amuse yourself with your betrayal of me." The tone was empty, void of emotion. In his hands the circlet trembled. Some would have called it heartless yet it had more emotions than the one who held it. The warrior shook his head and flexed his supple wrists.

With a pained cry the circlet snapped in two. For a moment both halves writhed in his hand, like serpents suddenly come to life. Then they crumbled to black dust and were scattered by the cold, but clean wind that had sprung up. For a moment the warrior stood, surveying the carnage that surrounded him, before letting loose a sharp whistle.

Stepping out of the thinning night came a steed blacker than sin. It moved up to him gracefully and curved it's glorious neck, nickering to him. Inviting it's master to ride. Grasping a handful of mane, the warrior swung easily into the saddle and for a moment cocked his head, listening to the wind, before sending his mount into a gallop.

Long after he was gone the wind was still sighing his name.

 

Fallon.