Chapter 23
Ash, the Drunken Avenger
The Final Chug burned all Ash's insides raw.
Turned the whole night sky from pitch dark to bright violet. Filled with milky stars. Hazy white glittery mist.
The cobble beneath his back jabbing him. Jagged pokes against bruised ribs and spine. The chills washed away with burning sweat.
The lampposts still dim but now more than clear. Their artistic curve. The walls, despite being splattered by blood, clearly depicted the fruits and fun this city was meant to be. The splashing wine that should be the only liquid staining the stone walls. The broken boards from hawker stalls as unwelcome a sight as the corpses collapsed over shredded ratty mats.
As unwelcoming as all the shuttered windows all completely dark. The doors closed and obviously barred and locked form the other side. The residents shivering, utterly silent, hoping the darklings outside wouldn’t shattered their flimsy wooden defenses.
Wouldn’t add them to the corpse count.
The fact that the Darkest Fourth still stood here. linger at this very spot. The exact extent if this darkling’s power unknown, for the last Darkest Fourth in the last war had destroyed whole kingdoms through enslaving the rulers through perfumes and evil counseling, counseling the forced barbaric games whose natures were never spoken of, even now, in the grim hope they would be forgotten, they wouldn’t ever be repeated.
Right now, the Final Chug demanded he stand up. Boot on cobble. Shoulders tall.
And draw his saber.
Fight for those who were now corpses around him.
Save all those civilians trapped inside the maze of buildings. Hidden by Snow at the cost of her life. Given a chance to live by Felix's determination to slaughter as many of the invaders as possible.
Even crush their commander general at the cost of his own life.
Ash no longer needed the lampposts to see. The milky moonlight might as well have been sunlight at noon.
The fiery liquor inside him powered Ash to his feet. Boot on cobble. Shoulders tall.
Saber drawn.
Because any decent soldier knew what they had to do now.
Even if Ash was never a decent soldier, his duty burned through his blood like fiery acid. Flaming at the fact Felix and Connie deserved to live far more than he ever did. Of all the people to die last, Ash wasn't the one meant to survive. In fact, everything he did was practically a death wish.
And now his saber would deal death to a certain lycan who so richly deserved it.
Yet the Darkest Fourth merely sneered at him.
Pointed her claws at him.
Ash charged at her. His boots pounding the cobble. Cracking it. Each step a swift zip closer.
Till only steps away.
“A strength empowerment,” said the Darkest Fourth, “Pathetic.”
Then turned her palms up. Fingers up. Her jasmine stink all too clear.
Ash's blade pointed at her chest. Ready to rip through that blackest of hearts.
Only two steps away.
“Arclight,” she said.
The world sizzled. Baked like the air in an overheated oven. Tingled like the touch of a bronze door knob after walking too long on a scrappy wool rug. His whole body tensing for the inevitable strike of deadly magic.
Yet nothing struck.
Until Ash lunged that last step.
A crack and a swoosh.
She gasped when he pressed the blade against her throat.
“Can you revive them as they were?” asked Ash. His voice so quiet for the raging currents roaring through him
The gape of shock. Her stiff pose.
“I –” she stuttered.
“Then die,” he said.
“Wait!” she cried. Falling backwards. Bump. Right on her evil rear. Palms up above her shoulders. “I surrender! I'll swear to be your purren! Just –”
Ash pressed his blade against her throat again.
“Swear to speak the honest truth,” he said.
“I swear to –”
“A proper oath!”
“I, Jasmine Winters, swear to speak the honest truth to you,” she said, “And serve as your devoted, loyal, and faithful purren for life if you spare my –”
“You murdered your own daughter!” he said, “Can you revive her and my other companions as they were. Yes or no?”
The raw bitter fear coming off her answered Ash's question right away.
Until a chuckle rang out behind him.
“She can't,” said a voice as creamy evil as milk mixed with blood, “But I can.”
* * *
Ash swung around. Cracking the cobble again. The patter of blood on his boots wrenching his insides at the knowledge of whose it was, of what could of been if he had put the obvious pieces together quicker.
Hadn’t been too drunk from all the liquor to recognize Snow for who she was.
To guess the vandread Amber was likely some kind of copy. A genuine copy, probably, but a copy, nonetheless.
The taps of the Darkest Fourth running away clear in the new silence. Her stink, her wyrming namesake even, still fouling the humid air. The tall walls cramped like a deep tunnel echoed those claws scratching the street, scratching her ears with his idiocy. A corridor within a deep chasm, filled with a roaring river of bitter regret, as bitter, as sour, as whole bottle of priceless wine vinegarized, then mixed with the finest of ales turned very, very bad.
The dark sky overhead, with its glittery milky haze, not a sprinkle of hope.
And the new enemy was definitely far worse.
A dozen feet beyond Ash. Centered between the vandread Amber's body and a brightly painted wall. Right between two lampposts. Civilian corpses nearby.
Not even Snow's spells could of hid the survivors here. Not behind closed shutters or doors. Without a single light on.
Because here the darkness would only turn against them. The way every bit of darkness here swirled about, so subtle, like a bit of translucent cloth caught on a twig deep in a silent yet rapid stream.
Because there stood the tall gaunt wizard that called himself the Soul Magus.
Pale deathly skin. A body of wiry brawn that dared try to match Felix's. His chest bare except for a crisscross of black leather and a huge ruby implanted in the center. His trousers and buckle as dark as his darks.
Black coals within a cruel arrowhead face and fiery red spike of hair.
And the monster titled the Darkest Third.
The Soul Magus jerk his right palm up. The stink of the dankest mausoleums, then of makeshift graveyards after a heavy rain, suddenly fuming the night.
And Felix clambered to his feet.
Except his eyes … a black oily goo spewed out and formed two small smacking mouths. Both too much like grotesque misplaced antenna.
“The rest of the city,” the Soul Magus said, “All those who have died.”
He jerked his left palm up.”
A scrap rang out behind Ash.
He leapt away.
Now Gordack stood. Looming his nine feet. With only his black fur on him.
Except for the saber protruding from his chest. A Paladin blade that could cut through anything easily. Now slowly sinking down to the ground, cutting through dead flesh that quickly knit itself back together.
And that same black goo antenna mouths out of his eyes.
“They all will join Felix and Gordack as my newest creations,” said the Soul Magus, “As will you, Ash La Puska, when you die.”
Gordack slashed his massive claws at Ash.
He ducked. Sliced off the limb at the forearm.
A clean cut.
Then jumped back. Cracking the cobble hard. Clearing a few feet away.
Except the cut … the forearm and arm were now connected by an extension of black goo.
Gordack attacked with both claws now.
Paladin training, grinding thinking response into unthinking instinct, now unclear on the next response.
Ash hesitating a critical instant
Until Captain Cole's training kicked in. Training that covered unplanned, the uncovered.
In this case it might one thing – the ratling's huge size, get in close.
So Ash leapt in. Dodging the huge claws.
The cracks of Felix's boots nearby, a warning of his other enemy nearby. Perked his ears to listen harder. Listen for the swoosh of a blade, the crackle of fabric over swiftly moving body.
While Ash sliced through the ratling's thigh.
Then its side.
And tail.
The black goo rushed to connect them.
Its smell as biting as a blacksmith's furnace. With a few corpses thrown in for good measure.
Its sound as mushy as mushroom crushed together.
When the corner of his sight spotted Felix. That wall of dark brawn.
Ash ducked under the brawny fist.
Slicing it clean off.
The crush mushroom sound revealing the futility of it. The biting smell confirming it.
So Ash swerved around.
The Final Chug burning his body. Burning it away. Giving him strength to fight harder.
Faster.
And let him charge at the Soul Magus. Cobble shatter at every step. Wind battering his body, his clothes. Each split moment speeding him closer, closer, closer. The pale gaunt wizard sneering at the futile gesture. Hand wringing, uncaring.
The fire inside Ash burning away his life, definitely, for certain.
But some things were worth dying for.
When two roars ripped out from the side.
Two tentacles of rolling flames. Cracking against cobble and stone wall, consuming lampposts and corpses.
And directed by the old bag of wrinkled himself. Standing a few lampposts down from the Soul Magus.
But his eyes – the black goo antenna.
And whipped the flames at his son.
* * *
The shutters themselves crackling nearby. Shuddering at the heat, at the intensity of the winds. The walls chipping. Blood and paint peeling. Searing Ash’s own mouth with a bitter coppery taste.
But not unlike the crazy obstacle courses Captain Cole threw at his son. Full of random pits disguised with anything from branches to piles of ragged clothing, heaps of iron bars and rugged thorns to climb over, or swinging spiked logs, wobbly bridges, and worse.
Forget the ridiculous stuff during a Paladin's apprentice days. Like freezing one’s ass off on mountain peaks. Where a team made a path through a wall of snow, where dry socks could make the difference between sickness and health, where drenched with too much sweat could kill, force some undressing and redressing regularly to prevent clothing from icing over.
Ignoring that extra magic involved. Detecting the subtle cracks and lines to signal where magic hid an entrance, a foxhole, or threads.
So a few good steps, cobble cracking even louder, and Ash dodged the worse of the flames.
Even if it seared his skin raw. Slowed his progress to a crawl. Stone slashing through his boots. Cutting his legs. Flame and flying rock ripping at his clothing, his flesh.
When a huge dark forearm grabbed his waist.
Another his free arm.
Then his leg.
Crushing them.
Dragging him back. Away from the Soul Magus.
Those black coal eyes as glinty evil as the blood red ruby on his chest. Its glint too bright for the milky moonlight. Its glow too clear in the darkness.
That smug smirk. Palms raised and ready to clench victory.
So Ash did what every instructor told every swordsmen never to do.
What no sane Paladin ever did either.
What even Captain Denzel Cole told him never to do.
But Ash was a drunk idiot at the core. The Final Chug was called final for a reason.
So he threw his saber. As hard as he could. Aiming it as best he could.
Which made the Soul Magus hesitate.
For a moment.
Long enough for the blade to plunge right through his ruby.
His howl cracked through the air. Cracked louder than the cobble did underneath Ash’s boots.
And ended with his ruby shattering. The crackles splintering through the night itself. Causing the swirly darkling to suddenly stop. As if the rapid stream with the translucent cloth suddenly became a murky sluggish lake.
While the blade buried deep in his chest.
The black goo and the bodies it animated, the Earth Wizard, Felix, and Gordack, they all collapsed to the ground unmoving.
Freeing Ash again.
Another moment to finish this.
He charged. Only a few more steps. Only a couple before he could end this nightmare once and for all.
When he reached for his saber's hilt, still buried in the Soul Magus’ chest. A single yank out, another swing could kill –
The Soul Magus snatched Ash’s neck.
Squeezed tight.
Yanked him off the ground.
Lift him way above that cruel arrowhead.
* * *
So far above the torn gooey road, the shuttered window ruined, the walls with peeled paint and blood, the melted lampposts, and Ash's meek hand only able to clutch, to pointless pry against the Darkest Third's steel grip.
The stink of furnace fading from the stench of corpses. The heat of the night no longer so humid.
Starting to become cooler again.
Chilly.
The Soul Magus kept his long arm extended. Keeping Ash far away. So far he couldn't hope to deal a finishing blow, a strike at that arrowhead head, even if he wished to, even if he had the strength to.
Not with his fists at least.
Those thick arms of his enemy held more than enough muscle to default anything Ash could pound at it.
“You will die slowly for that,” said the Soul Magus, “To delay my plans … I will make you into a best creation yet. One that will rival all of Chemarin's corpses together!”
Ash’s legs already trembled, as if gushing fumes from the Final Chug running out of fuel. His feet wobbled even worse than his knees. Even a kick to his shoulders would require too much effort at this rate.
The muscles packed thick, broad, and hard there, it could easily deflect the shredded boot anyway.
Not much strength left for anything. Maybe two serious blows.
If that.
Better make them count.
“Even … Amber?” rasped Ash. Not bothering to use her correct name, Snow. Not reveal he figured out the truth.
Since if she were alive, was in his place, she'd scheme up a clever plan at this point. A completely complicated bizarre plan that in the end seemed completely obvious.
A good finale, as Amber insisted, always needed an impossible victory. A hard task. Even for a talented playwright like Amber. Easier to go with tragedy. Kill off everyone. Yet plausible but impossible success … unrealistic no matter how you put it.
Yet it was always much more inspiring.
Especially outsmarting the brawny brain villains.
Ash, unfortunately, wasn't as clever.
Or quick thinking.
“The vandread,” said the Soul Magus,” A useful trap.”
“Really?” asked Ash.
“A trap,” said the Soul Magus, “That was all.”
The Soul Magus refused to bring his arm closer. Let Ash see that victorious sneer up close. Prevented Ash from striking at his head.
Right now his boots might reach his chest wound. But the saber was already buried in as deep as it would go. It wouldn’t slid down while the Soul Magus had enough strength left to magically counter the blade’s edge.
So a solid random kick there, or anywhere on his torso, would do much good right now.
“A pretty amazing trap,” said Ash, “She was just as clever, creative, and crazy as the real thing. It …”
His tongue tripped his mouth. All because his dizzy wobbly head couldn't keep up. His skin decided to blister, scream in pain didn't help either. A body fried to a crisp … well, he wasn't finding another fight anytime soon.
His vision was so bad by now he could barely make out the chipped painted wall behind the Soul Magus. It did seem a bit too bright behind the wizard though. Very blurry too.
But the pale bastard's cruel sneer and coal eyes … still visible. His pale brawn too. A bit blurry.
But visible.
“Was merely a trap,” said the Soul Magus, “Built from a corpse killed by a lycan assassin. Mind and body.”
“So …” said Ash. The words stabbing his sharper than all the shards and claws in all of this dying city combined. “The vandread was a genuine duplicate of Amber? Did she even know it?”
The chuckle matched the evil grin reaching those dark eyes.
A chuckle so loud in the sudden silence.
“Exactly,” said the Soul Magus, “A genuine duplicate of your lost beloved vixen. One that believed she was the original and thought she had been human. Thought she was dragged from the pits of hell. But that foolish vixen's soul wouldn't be worth the price her demon master would demand for it. A perfect copy, however, with the right memories, that required a much cheaper price. The original was unnecessary as long as the copy remained ignorant.”
His body couldn't match the agony Ash searing his own soul. That he failed Amber twice. As the vixen Snow, and as a copy. Because a perfect copy of Amber was, in fact, Amber – or Snow, this name thing would soon get confusing. But still, he should have found a way to save her. Just like Felix and Connie.
Just like Penny.
Even that vicious nutcase Mandy.
Originality was overrated, as Amber always said.
Yet Ash could barely manage a whimper.
And the chance for two Ambers, well the original could keep the name Snow and the copy stick with Amber, they would of loved to compete against each other. In their own bizarre way. Two Ambers fighting over him – if his cheeks were already fried to an aching crisp unable to even feel the air, they would of warmed a bit.
“You're wrong,” said Ash, “Amber would of loved knowing. Both of them. They –”
The Soul Magus squeezed his throat tighter.
“Fool,” said the Soul Magus, “For all men have a weakness for the right beauty –”
* * *
“Exactly,” said the Darkest Fourth. Her voice close and behind Ash. The tip of a blade jabbing his back. Cutting a touch into it.
Right behind his racing heart.
That jasmine stink returning with reinforcements of the all the corpses she was responsible for in this city. If so many lampposts nearby hadn’t been destroyed by the undead wizard’s flames, Ash probably could of made out the Soul Magus better against the all the peeling paint and blood that had peeled away from the stone wall.
The fat Ash could still feel the tip of the blade against his back, even though his body could no longer feel the chill, or the humidity, or the heat, or whatever the temperature of the night was tonight. The taste of biting copper in his mouth drowned out the aftertaste of the liquor that almost saved him.
Almost saved Chemarin.
If only he could sigh, but his lungs felt too weak to bother roughing up the horribly silent night before these two darklings little boastful rants of utter victory.
“Faking my defeat,” she said, “So easy yet it fooled you completely. Now you both are utterly helpless.”
The Soul Magus snarled at the vixen bitch behind Ash. Lowered him to better shield himself. The blade jabbing his back slid in a bit more as it got reoriented by its holder.
By Ash's calculation, the cobble was now a couple feet below his boots. Assuming he wasn't too far off.
Not a safe assumption. Backed by plenty of experience.
“Truly foolish, vixen,” said the Soul Magus. Raised the palm of his free hand.
And a ball of black gooey flame swirled bigger and bigger above it.
“If your despair is sincere enough,” he said, “I may revive you with a body befitting your ugliness.”
Tentacles popped out, wiggling out of the black ball.
As Ash’s sight suddenly grew darker. Blurrier.
Then moans erupted everywhere. Nearby. With sound of massive moldy mushrooms mushed together. And the same stink.
“Mercy?” said the vixen, “Ha! Only my daughter Scarlet has ever proved herself worthy of it. And you have not.”
But the Soul Magus chuckled again. Louder. Deeper.
“You yourself haven't earned it either,” said the Soul Magus, “Right Snow?”
“What? She's –” said the Darkest Fourth.
Then gasped.
And a scream. Cut off.
His sight black. His body numb.
Only enough energy left for one last desperate move.
Yet the blade vanished from his back. A crack ringing out a moment later.
“Ash?” asked the one voice he never expected.
Snow, her voice similar to her role as Amber, though.
And a tiny stream of extra energy burst through him. A despair hope.
“Holy shitwads,” she said, “Ash, what happened to you? You look like a goat's ass after it prancing in a thorn patch while pooping every leap of the way. And that smell … how in the hell do I smell you so well. Everything so well. I – holy fuckwads on a shitter. My body. It's covered in white fur. With blue highlights. And ears … oh dear hell in a cell, I merged with that horrible fox lycan, didn't I?”
“More like returned to your real body, it smells like,” said Mindy, “The bodies of the vandread and Snow are gone – see? Judging from your scent, your face’s expressions, this new body matches you more than its previous owner's. So does the expression of your body. Maybe you need more time to remember things right … I still expect you to stick to your purren –”
A huff rang out that could only come from Penny. The cracks of her boots coming closer.
One last chance.
One quick calculation.
A guess. A gamble. Double or death.
“Okay, more importantly,” said Penny, “Why the hell are we suddenly alive? Perfectly healed too. Don't tell me the pale bastard about to kill Ash did it.”
And everything he had left.
“Of course I did,” said the Soul Magus, “So you could all kill your precious Ash slowly and painfully until I am satisfied. Then you all shall serve me properly for eternity as living undead –”
“Exactly,” said the Darkest Fourth. Whose furry legs suddenly appeared behind the Darkest Third. As if an invisible mist suddenly lifted. Revealing the pale stone wall behind the Soul Magus was, in fact, some kind of haze that now vanished, replaced by a dark stone wall painted and splattered with blood and peeled paint.
The tension in the Soul Magus’ chest – likely some sword was in her hand. Its blade pointed right at her rival's heart, probably.
And gave Ash the moments gather his strength for one last strike. A double whammy.
A quick desperate move.
“Faking my defeat twice, faking an oath,” she said, “So easy yet it fooled you completely. Now you both are utterly helpless and my minions, my own daughter lives again.”
A gamble.
“Really?” asked Ash, “That's a relief.”
Then nailed the Soul Magus' groin with his right boot.
Powered with all the fire left in his body.
The Darkest Third howled a squeaky squeal. Every bit of horrible smoothness in his voice gone. Shredded with any dignity the evil bastard might of had left with this victory.
A second kick, powered by every last bit of his inner fire’s fumes, and Ash slammed the Soul Magus back into the Darkest Fourth.
Freed himself of his grip.
While she screamed. Till cut off by her rival’s bulk smashing into her.
Turning into a bloody gasp.
So the blade through the now shattered ruby had cut all the way through both of them.
Good.
Only the gaunt wizard’s magic kept it from sliding down before. But not now, Down to his hips. Down to the hazard zone all males similar to humans had.
Cutting both the wizard and the lycan behind him, judging by their gasping screams.
Until they ended with a cough. Loud and wet.
Jackpot.
* * *
Ash fell. Crumbled against jagged cobble. His body positioned awkward. Too weak and aching to better itself.
The taste of this victory was a bit too charcoally and dry though.
Especially with his vision now completely dark. Even if the lampposts were light to full strength. With the moon adding its milky light. Or just throw in the sun for good measure. So what if it was nighttime? He could imagine the sun rising anytime he wanted to.
It didn't matter that he was dying charcoal. Never to see the sun again.
Or see the people behind those closed shutters light up with hope. With relief.
A fleshy thump erupted nearby. Certainly the Soul Magus. Dead. The saber must of pierced his heart. Putting the ruby in front of his weak point. Probably added some extra impossible to cut magicked metal around it for extra security …
A classic mistake in plays.
But not in real life.
The best armor around the most important weakness? Common sense and practical in real life. So someone like him, focused on practical real-life stuff, would never consider broadcasting it a bigger weakness than armoring it up.
Nor would any normal fighter. Like Captain Denzel Cole.
Then more wet coughs erupted from the woman. Weaker. With moans. Sinking toward the ground. Stopping a bit later.
But not the stink of fresh blood.
Ash didn't need to guess the identity of the bitch.
“Mom?” gasped Snow, “Then who, when, a fox lycan?! Really? Since when was I … don't tell me … some soul leaping, merging, or whatever weirdness is messing with my memory … ugh. Don’t tell me I’ve got follow through with every oath I made during a play. No wonder lycan never appreciated –”
The Darkest Fourth growled. Wet and gurgling. Rasping. Too bad he couldn't see her expression. Add in some gloating for good measure.
“You useless idiot!” she rasped, “Falling for that human boy when you should of killed him! Your first mission as the Darkest Second, ruined, spoiled, by –”
“Wait, wait, wait!” exclaimed Leo, “Not quite right there. Yes, my Amber Honey, and my duplicate Snow merged with the original Snow, and you, Angela Snow, got fully kicked back into your original body. But … what was I talking about? Oh yeah, I remember ... oh no. Oh yeah. Oh no. Oh – ACK!”
“So, Leo,” said Snow. Her lycan growl very lycan.
Ash resisted the urge to congratulate her on it. Breathing was hard enough as it was. His whole body going numb – even the pain vanishing – not exactly as helpful as he would like. His verbal abilities couldn't be much better.
Meaning it was too late for a long decent deathbed soliloquy. Since if he was going to die at this point, might as well do it with style.
No. A quick catchphrase approach will have to do.
His mind blanking that instant – his sigh came out a rasp.
And he ran out of air for another raspy sigh when he realized he missed Amber's follow up to her lycan growl.
Sucking in more air proved slower and harder than it ever should.
Not many breaths left then.
“No worries, Amber Snow,” said Leo, “That’s your real name. Now you’re in your real body again. So memories should be returning shortly and completely and very, very – ACK!”
Another very lycan growl from Amber.
Better leave a good deathbed catchphrase for the Amber in this world or else the duplicate Amber now in the next world would scold his ass off.
Or whatever get scolded off in the afterlife.
Yet he blanked again.
But didn't sigh afterwards.
Good. An improvement.
“Ash!” screamed Leo in his ear.
Ash jerked. Well tried to jerk. His body simply twitched. Sort of. Better than outright ignoring him.
Another improvement.
“I'll fix you up or a price,” said Leo, “Throw in a few physical improvements. Like enhancements your durability. Maybe a few power ups. That sort of thing. In exchange, let's say you owe me a favor. Or two. Deal?”
From the intensity of the kitty bat's voice, the cat was definitely sitting on his head. Probably resisting the urge to nibble and lick his sweet charcoaled body.
Both deserved some credit.
And Amber definitely negotiated this deal with her newfound – or newly recovered – lycan growls for help. So better not waste it.
Ash said yes. His throat emitted some gargled scratchy grunt.
Then refused any more air. In or out.
“Excellent!” said Leo, “Just close and eyes and go to sleep. When you wake up, you'll be all better.”
His eyes were open?
What –