Only for the second amulet to detonated in a sphere of pure force, its shockwave carving a crater into the snow. Splinters of ice and dirt hung suspended for a heartbeat before raining down. The explosion sent Arieus skidding backward, his leather footwear plowing twin trenches through the slush.
A high-pitched whine filled his ears, drowning out the battle, and a warm trickle of blood traced a path from his nostril to his lip. Across the crater, The Weaver panted now, sweat beading on his brow. His once-pristine robes were torn and stained with dirt and flecks of his own blood.
The twin amulets hanging from his chest pulsed weakly, their glow dimmed to a sickly looking flicker. Their finite power was dwindling with each expenditure.
Arieus didn't waste time. The snow erupted beneath his feet as he surged forward again, his cleaver gleaming with fresh hunger.
With a bone-shaking roar, the Krag war-chief closed the distance and swung his cleaver in a brutal slash aimed to bisect the mage at the waist. The Weaver barely managed to throw his weight backward, tumbling from his saddle in an undignified, flailing heap.
The beast, a prized Courser of the Southern Marches bred for both speed and steadiness, screamed in equine terror as the cleaver carved through the air where its rider had been, the displaced wind itself seeming to howl in protest.
The horse, panicked by the near-decapitation of its rider, reared up with a terrified whinny, only for Arieus to pivot his lead foot mid-swing and bring the cleaver back in an upward slash.
The blade sheared through the beast's chest, ribs splintering, blood spraying in a crimson geyser, that painted the snow in grotesque artistry. The horse collapsed, its dying thrash nearly crushing the Weaver as he scrambled frantically to his feet.
"Welcome to the ground below," Arieus smirked as he gaze upon the human's pathetic form "Let's see how well you fight on your feet."
The Weaver's lips curled into a snarl. His fingers danced, and power seemed to gather around his chest pulsing and hazy.
"Kürõß- Måñïpúlåtïøñ-
A storm of ember-hot projectiles erupted from his outstretched palms, each no larger than a coin but burning with the fury of a forge. They streaked toward Arieus like a volley of miniature meteors. The Krag warlord twisted his body, letting the first few projectiles glance off his armored pauldrons, sending molten droplets hissing into the snow. Then, with a speed that defied his massive frame, he swung his cleaver in a wide sweep.
The blade caught the remaining firebolts mid-air, the sheer force of his swing dispersing them like scattered coals, their heat dissipating into the frigid wind. The Weaver's eyes widened in disbelief, no one had ever cut through his manipulations before.
Arieus didn't give him time to recover. He lunged, his cleaver descending in an overhead strike, the edge filled with lethal intent. The Weaver barely managed to raise a hand, his amulet flaring as a translucent barrier of condensed wind solidified between them.
CRACK!
The cleaver struck the barrier with enough force to send minor shockwaves rippling through the air.
The ground beneath them trembled slightly, frozen roots hidden below snapped, snow vaporized from the sheer kinetic energy. For a moment, the two forces held..then, with a sound like shattering glass, the barrier broke.
The Weaver stumbled back, his robes fluttering like the wings of a wounded bird, his face paling as Arieus pressed forward, his cleaver already rising for another strike.
------
Elsewhere on the battlefield, the main line of Krags and knights clashed in a frenzied, grinding melee. Steel met steel in ringing impacts, war cries, and death screams. Banners bearing the sigil of the human lord lay trampled in the bloody snow, their once-proud colors now stained with gore.
Gurok, locked in his lethal dance with the Kuros-wielding knight. He parried a vicious slash aimed at his neck before countering with a full-bodied shoulder-check, his pauldron slamming into the breastplate.
The human grunted, taking just a step back, his boots sliding through the churned muck of blood and snow. The knight recovered swiftly, his blackened greatsword humming with a dark, draining aura as he retaliated with a series of rapid cuts.
High, low, a feint to the side, each one trailing shadows that seemed to cling to the air and sap the warmth from Gurok's limbs. Gurok growled as he was forced to give ground, his arms burning under the onslaught.
"You're strong, beast," the knight sneered. "But strength alone won't save you."
As he said this, the Knight Commander's eyes flickered for a fraction of a second toward the distant, fight between Arieus and the Weaver. A fatal mistake.
thunk!
Suddenly, out of nowhere, an arrow with black fletching punched through a gap in the knight's backplate, the steel-headed tip burying itself deep, causing the knight to gasp, his stance faltering.
Gurok laughed as he seized the opening, swinging his heavy battle-axe in a devastating uppercut. The knight, his reactions slowed by the surprise and pain, barely managed to angle his sword down in a parry. The strength granted by Kuros was the only thing that saved him from being split in two, but the sheer, raw force of Gurok's blow still sent him stumbling back, his boots skidding uncontrollably.
Gurok spat a wad of blood onto the ground, his tusks flecked with crimson. His entire body ached under the relentless assault; The knight's enchantment was sapping his stamina, draining him like a leaky wineskin. The weight of each of his movement growing heavier.
"I agree.. strength isn't enough," Gurok growled, hefting his axe high, his muscles bulging for the kill. "But with a little help from a cunning fox… then even blessed men like you can die."
The knight tensed his teeth in fury his gauntleted hand reaching back to snap the arrow shaft, leaving the head embedded in his flesh. His fingers tightened around his sword's grip until the leather creaked. "Then come, beast. Let me dispatch you properly and find the archer who dares strike from behind."
------
Arieus pressed his assault relentlessly. The Weaver, now bleeding freely from a deep gash on his cheek and another on his forearm and his robes shredded and slick with both his own and that of his horse was rapidly exhausting his final reserves. His breath came in ragged, as he backpedaled, his fine leather boots slipping on the ice-glazed stones and the entrails of the fallen. His fingers twitched as he reached out to weave.
"Kürõß- Måñïpúlåtïøñ-<ãír>- Rüptūrê!"
A thunderclap of compressed force exploded, hurling snow, blood, and the broken bodies of nearby combatants aside like discarded dolls.
Arieus braced for it, his boots digging deep into the snow as the shockwave slammed into him, threatening to fling him back. Yet he did not yield. He leaned into it, every muscle in his legs and back straining, his cleaver planted deep in the ground before him, his head lowered and his tusks bared in a feral grin.
When the winds died as suddenly as they began, leaving an eerie circle of silence in their wake, he grinned, mocking the Weaver's attempt. "Is that all?" he taunted, wrenching his blade free. "I've seen young village shamans make better use of Kuros before a feast. All I see now is a mess. You're just a child playing with fire."
The Weaver's eyes narrowed, anger battling with his fatigue. "You speak as if you understand the arts, beast."
Arieus answered with a lunge, his cleaver becoming a crescent of of death. The Weaver barely twisted aside, the wind tearing at his robes as he manipulated the air to propel himself backward, putting a few yards of distance between them
"Ha! I understand enough," Arieus said, chasing rapidly slashing again forcing the Weaver to leap backward once more. "Weavers and shamans of renown control the wild energy of creation, Kuros, with ease and grace."
He took a step forward, his presence immense. "But you...you lack all grace. You treat it like a hammer to a nail."
The Weaver landed lightly, his robes billowing as his fingers danced.
"Kürõß- Måñïpúlåtïøñ-
A lash of flame, searing white-hot, materialized and streaked toward Arieus's face. The Krag war-chief choose to meet it head on. His cleaver swept up, the sheer force of his swing splitting the fire whip apart, the flames dissipating into embers.
"Predictable," Arieus sneered, not even breathing heavily. "You have the technical skill to weave Kuros like a craftsman, to mold it, to command it even, but still you lack imagination... You see only the fire, the wind, the force. You are a slave to the literal meaning of the words you chant. A slave to your own limited mind..."
"..I pity you"
The Weaver's face darkened. "What do you mean by that, beast?" He tried to steady his breathing, his fingers trembling as he gauged the remaining charge in his amulets.
"Do you even know what the price of manipulation," Arieus continued, feinting before suddenly dropping low and reversing his grip into a spinning, scything slash aimed at the Weaver's legs. The Weaver's amulet glowed dimly, barely managing to summon a gust to deflect the blow upward, but the transferred force still sent him skidding back, his heels dragging uncontrollably through the snow.
Arieus laughed, the sound devoid of warmth. "How many charges do you have left in those pretty stones, weaver? Two? One? None?" He advanced, each step a measured "You weave Kuros to create these phenomenal displays of power," he continued, his voice calm and measured, like teacher lecturing a failing student.
"Maybe that made you think you were indestructible, above the concerns of mere mortals. But you seem to forget the first lesson: for every power, there is a price to be paid." He hefted his cleaver, point aimed at the Weaver's heart. "Your stamina is the coin. And you, Weaver, are running out."
He charged again, this time without taunts, his cleaver becoming a black blur of a series of relentless, crushing blows, high, low, a thrust disguised as a slash a storm of steel that sought to overwhelm the mage completely. The Weaver was about to be sliced into pieces, his defenses in tatters, when a brave, or foolish, knight lunged from the surrounding fray, his longsword slashing at Arieus's exposed side.
The Krag war-chief blocked the blow with an almost lazy flick of his wrist, the force of the parry shattering the knight's sword, and then sent the man flying with a crushing backhanded blow that crumpled his breastplate.
But it gave the weaver time to expend another desperate defense.
"Kürõß- Måñïpúlåtïøñ-<ãír>- Wïñd Bärrïër!"
A wall of screaming, solidified wind erupted between them, ripping up the ground at its base. But Arieus didn't stop. He slammed into it without breaking stride, his cleaver held before him, its edge carving through the gale like a ship's prow through storm-waves. The Weaver's eyes widened as the Krag warlord forced his way through, step by step, the unnatural winds tearing at his furs and armor but failing to halt his advance.
"You are not..." the Weaver gasped, his mind refusing to accept the reality before him. "You cannot be.... mere Krag...."
Arieus's cleaver came down in a devastating overhead strike meant to end it. The Weaver with a surge of adrenaline, threw himself into a desperate roll, the blade embedding itself deep into the frozen earth. Before Arieus could wrench it free for the killing blow, the Weaver, on his knees, clapped his hands together with his last vestige of strength.
"Kürõß- Måñïpúlåtïøñ-<ãír>- Vøïd Slïcë!"
An invisible blade of hyper-compressed air, silent and deadly, slashed through the air toward Arieus's throat. It was a perfect, undetectable attack.
Yet, at the very last possible instant, the Krag warchief seemed to sense the disturbance in the air, twisting his head letting the lethal edge graze his cheek instead of decapitating him. Blood welled from the clean, precise cut. A single crimson line tracing his jaw, but his feral grin never faded.
"Close," he admitted. "Your best yet. But still quite limited."
The Weaver's body trembling from exertion and cold. His amulets were dark, now nothing but dead stones their stored power utterly spent. He had nothing left.
"You can't kill me," he rasped, his voice cracking with desperation and fear. "I am a Sage under the Lord of these lands. He will not forgive this transgression." His eyes, finally wide with terror, locked onto Arieus, finally seeing his own mortality reflected in the Krag's pitiless gaze.
Arieus stood over him, the smile still plastered across his face. "You? A Sage?" He barked a short laugh. "Don't make me laugh. If you were a true Sage, I'd already be dead. His voice was laced with amusement as he took in the Weaver's form.
The Weaver began to shake uncontrollably, his fingers clutching at the empty, air as if searching for a weapon, that wasn't there.
"Please," he begged, his voice breaking, tears mixing freely with the blood on his cheeks. "Don't kill me. I have...I have so much left to learn, so much left to do..."
Arieus's smile never wavered. "Who said anything about me killing you?"
The Weaver blinked, confusion etching lines into his bloodied face.
With a sound like a wet fruit being split, an arrow burst through one side of his skull and out the other, punching through bone and brain with surgical precision. His body went rigid for a moment, then slumped forward, lifeless. The snow beneath him turned a deep, dark crimson, a grim halo spreading around his fallen form.
"You are already someone else's prey," Arieus finished, his words falling on deaf ears.
His gaze pierced through the chaos of the battlefield, his eyes narrowing as he unerringly tracked the shot's origin... there, amidst the swirling melee near a broken wagon, Dana lowered her bow, her form already melting back into the fray.
"Pity," Arieus mused aloud, looking down at the freshly made corpse. "We were having such a lovely conversation."
Then he turned, the moment of reflection over. His cleaver rose like an executioner's blade, and he began to move, cutting down any knight foolhardy enough to get in his way. As he strode toward the battle between Gurok
and the Kuros-wielding knight. The sound of clashing steel and the scent of blood filled the air
"Time to end this farce."