Maffe
The thunder and the wind were playing games now, one rising when the other fell and then both sinking into bottomless rumbles of abomination. And then the thunder would rise again, shaking the mountain itself as a fleeting blow of colorless light split the sky above, and the wind would clamber to race the sound to the very heavens. The whispers tied all of the rumblings, howls, and screeches together as one raucous, foreboding melody of desolation.
Durven was just rousing himself out of his paralysis and deciding to retreat a ways down the mountainside to consider what his next move should be, but all at once the chanting whispers stopped. Durven's eyes were cold from having stared unblinkingly into the icy wind, but he took no notice as they flickered to the far end of the cobbled area. Two neon red fires had shuddered to life within two iron braziers mounted on the cliff's face, at the shoulders of a jagged, looming black doorway that Durven had failed to notice before. Even as he watched, he realized that the entire circle of Witch-folk was surrounded by skeletal, black pillars upon which were situated these braziers, which now pair by pair were lighting with ruby colored flame. The bloody light illuminated the haggard, wilted forms of the inhabitants of Jovandur, which now were still, statuelike, black cloaks flapping in the wind as their incorporeal bodies shifted in and out of existence. Durven ducked low in the event that one of them should be watching the lights as they found their way to his side of the cobblestones, but they appeared to be preoccupied.
A figure was emerging from the shadowy tunnel's mouth, erect and contrasting with the other demons' postures. The thing strode with a swagger, and yet at the same time was displaying a terrifying aura of confident grace. As it emerged into the braziers' light, which seemed to be dominating that from above, Durven could see that it looked to be a man, slightly less transparent and mistlike than the others. He too was draped in black robes that rippled in the gusting wind from the northwest, but unlike those adorning the outer edge of the cobbled area, he wore splashes of crimson on his person. His robes were hemmed with rubies that sparkled dangerously in the darkening light, and a single sash of red split his clothing from shoulder to hip. Upon his brow he wore a similarly colored turban that wound around his murky head, and below it there gleamed two silver-lighted eyes. Durven felt his heart chill at the sight of them, and though there was no indication that the thing had a nose, a singular gleaming scar shattered the calm stillness of the face, twisting into a kind of grotesque smile.
Durven's attention remained riveted upon the figure as he approached Maffe's inanimate form, though he desperately wished that he could bring himself to turn and fling himself hurtling down the hill. Gravel grumbled beneath his weight as he involuntarily let out a half-moan of barbaric terror, but the wind whisked the sound away before it could be heard. He feared for Maffe, of course, and what might become of him in the hands of the Witch-folk, but he primarily feared for himself; his obligation to his friend, however, and perhaps if he looked deep enough inside his quaking heart he would find his sense of duty to determine what the Witch King might be planning, prevented him from fleeing just yet.
The crimson-clad man stopped in front of Maffe, and though the semi-transparency of its face disregarded any attempt at orthodox expression, Durven thought that the demon's gaze seemed slightly softer than would be judged appropriate. The dwarf seemed diminutive standing before it, and the effect was only strengthened when Maffe lowered his head in a bow. After a moment in which nothing stirred save the dry brush in which Durven found solace, the creature's silver mouth opened and it uttered something that Durven could not understand, though its voice was saccharine even through its masculine hints. It folded its hands behind its back and began pacing around Maffe, who raised his head.
When the dwarf spoke, it was in his own gruff tone of voice, but the words were not his own. Durven's breath caught. "You forget, my lord Sallmunik, this dwarf speaks not the tongue of our people. Forgive me, my lord, of his inability." Maffe lowered his head as if in shame, and the crimson demon, Sallmunik, faltered for a fleeting moment in his stride.
He resumed his slow, thoughtful walk, completing a full circle around Maffe; the sound of his footsteps, if they were even audible, was lost in the shivering howls of the wind. Durven's eyes tracked the demon as he halted before the dwarf, and he felt an arrow of icy trepidation lodge into his heart as Sallmunik spoke. "It is truly you, then," he murmured, and the arm of his black cloak extended, shifting around a semi-corporeal body. As it did so, a wispy hand materialized at its end, and Durven's gaze hardened as the transparent fingers licked at Maffe's jawline. The dwarf's head tentatively turned upward once more to look the crimson shadow in the eye, and at this Sallmunik's hand pulled away slightly as realization dawned in his silver eyes.
Maffe remained silent even as Durven fought down hysterical breaths; what were the soulless brutes preparing for his friend? And what was the meaning of the demon's irregular behavior? The prospect of Maffe being caught between these two revenants reunited, helpless at the feet of a being of Jovandur and surrounded by a platoon of several more... How is it that they do not notice me? Durven wondered, stealing a glance around the clearing. The shadowy figures were still, cloaks flapping in the breeze, and again Durven deemed he sensed a brief increase of temperature.
Sallmunik's head tilted tenderly, and he dropped his arm to clasp it behind his back. His blood-red sash rose and fell as he sighed. "My dear Jerra," he whispered, the sound melodizing with the wind and thunder, "I have prayed night and day that I might glimpse your face again. Alas, the bitter end of Shnak-Rae! Your time there was too fleeting, elapsed too fast; there has never been a greater desire in my heart than to see both you and the Shnak structures restored. And yet..." His mouth contorted into a bitter grimace. "When at last I lay eyes upon you, yours is the face of a dwarf."
Maffe nodded once, then flinched visibly, releasing a groan that was consumed by thunder. Durven's despair lessened as the hope that his companion would escape the hold of the spirit spiked, though his hopes were just as soon dashed as Maffe shook himself and squared his broad shoulders. Sallmunik simply watched the possessed dwarf emotionlessly. When again the thing inside Maffe had regained its grasp on its host, though the dwarf was shaking and sweat beaded on his forehead, it spoke: "Again, I implore you to forgive me, my lord... He was the closest at hand. The other would not be aroused, though I daresay that he is conscious now. The dwarf fights valiantly," it added with a hint of amusement.
When again there was movement after a tense, hollow second of silence, Sallmunik's appearance was divided, shattered, as the demon lord traversed a few paces away from Maffe and Durven's line of sight was torn through a ragged bush. The demon's hands were still clutched behind his back thoughtfully, but his resounding voice betrayed a hint of impatient frustration. "And where," he hissed, his head turning away from both Maffe and the concealed Durven, "pray tell, is this other?"
Before the stuttering dwarf could take advantage of the momentary pause in Sallmunik's speech, the demon whipped around and bared his silver, unseen fangs. In the swirling eddies of air around him, his black and crimson clothing billowed, and his fingers had extruded from his fists to form grappling claws of shadow. When the clouds above spat electricity and Sallmunik advanced upon the frozen dwarf, Durven could not reprieve himself a single, throaty moan. However, the demon seemed to be deaf to it; instead, he growled down at Maffe, "Did you think not to slaughter him, that he might not discover our King's plans, that he might not witness the awakening of Blancslieth?"
Something in Durven's mind fought its way into the fray of terror and incomprehension that flooded his head, but he could not seem to catch sight of it. The sound of the name resounded, even behind the frenzied anxiety at the mention of the Witch King's "plans;" were the Witch-folk arising within their tunnels? What could they hope to accomplish against the combined might of the Centaurs and the Dwarves? And yet that name, Blancslieth, it carried with it power enough to decimate even the most stalwart defenses.... And yet Durven could not quite derive its meaning from the depths of his memory.
And then all of those thoughts were banished when one corporeal sentence found its way into his consciousness, draining the life from his limbs: Those demonic monsters speak of me.
"My lord, I... I- There was- The human..." the Wraith's host stammered, and Maffe's thick fingers contorted into fists several times before he was able to reply: "My lord Sallmunik, again I implore your forgiveness. The human posed no threat to an empire so great as ours; this was my reasoning. Was I wrong, my love, in my assumption?"
A granule of dust whirled through the wind and into Durven's eye, and he was forced to blink and squint through the murky haze of water that appeared in the dust's wake. For a moment, there seemed to be no change in Sallmunik's poise, inexpressive though it might have been, and then a distant rumble of thunder broke the trance. The crimson demon slowly untensed, seeming to deflate as he relaxed into his inky black robes. In a moment, he was merely a shadow of the wrathful devil that he had been. "Of course not, dearest Jerra," he whispered, his smoky fingers coming up to flicker over Maffe's cheek once more. The demon sighed, and the dwarf appeared to loosen. "Nothing can hinder our King now. It is simply a question of the task's simplicity, which, my dear, can be affected by mortals."
The duo allowed the roar of wind and storm to consume the mountainside, which disappeared into the gray, flashing vapors high above. Durven's stomach tightened, and his thoughts writhed and coiled in his mind, but he could not seem to understand them through the hulking shadow of the demon's prophecy. His fingers were numb though his legs were alive with adrenaline, shrieking at him to escape before it was too late and he was captured alongside Maffe. This was the very reason that he could not run just yet; his dwarf friend was possibly still sentient. And if what the demons conversed about was true, then Durven's loyalty would not waver yet.
He was paralyzed anyhow.
The thunder and wind were only growing stronger, but the eerie stillness of the black creatures surrounding the cobbled area lent the elements an eldritch, hallowed sound. It was raging chaos narrowly restrained by the thunderheads' chains. The hair on the back of Durven's neck raised; the chains, he could sense, were about to snap.
Sallmunik sighed again, then stepped back to peer down into Maffe's eyes. His hand came to rest upon the dwarf's shoulder. "There are limits, love, to even the mightiest of empires, but I rejoice to inform you that this day is not one that we must fear. No mortal horse can outrun Jovandur's wolves, if indeed this human has a horse." He paused, but the belittled form before him remained wordless. The crimson demon lord continued, "Nevermind; he is already dead. Now, my dear, are you ready to join our brethren within the Void? Can you sense Blancslieth's mightiness stirring beneath your feet? Are you prepared to be consumed by the beast of yore?"
Blancslieth, Durven demanded mentally. What is this Blancslieth...?
"Yes."
The spectator pressed himself into the earthy mountainside, squinting through the twigs of the bushes that segmented his vision into shards. His curiosity was being overcome by his trepidation, but he was determined to at least spectate until either the Witch Folk's scheme was wholly revealed, Maffe escaped, or Maffe was dead. Even the thought of such an abomination ending the dwarf's valliant life was enough to release chills down Durven's spine. He clenched his numb fingers into fists, granules of dirt clutched within his grip of steel. He could feel every pulse of his heart within his head and palms.
There was a gentle stir of movement within the demanding scratches of the clouds and the maniacal cackles of the wind, and Durven's attention shifted back to Sallmunik. The demon had straightened, his eyes softening as they illuminated the specks of dust swirling by his smoky face. His eyes were riveted on Maffe, seemingly searching for something. His sash fluttered in the shrieking breeze, becoming more and more blood-like as the crimson fires extinguished within the braziers stationed around the area. Durven's eyes flickered around the cobbled area, following the sputtering lights, locating the trails of smoke that were whisked away into the raging black eye above. The black robed forms of the Witch-folk were as inanimate as bones, and Durven's heart chilled at the sight of them. A moment passed, and all of the braziers were ominously dark.
Sallmunik sighed, and though the sound was overcome by a hearty scream of the wind, Durven could see his shoulders rise and fall. The demon reached deep into a fold of his robes, and his voice rumbled over the breeze's whisperings: "Know, Jerra, how fortunate you are that I might do this for you, and do not forget. There are those of the Shnak structures that are ensnared in Time's vicious embrace, and they will not rest until the Void itself does." Sallmunik's hand gradually was revealed, and Durven's throat constricted when he saw that the demon held a scintillating, luminescent golden dagger. An inconspicuous shudder ran down the length of Maffe's stout body.
And yet the thing possessing the dwarf managed to choke out, "I understand, my lord, and I fear that I cannot find so expressive of words to thank you that I might wish." Maffe's head dipped slightly again, and Durven made himself swallow repeatedly in an attempt to unravel the knot of dread in his throat.
What business did this Sallmunik have with killing his friend? With killing the being inside his friend? Durven understood the thing to be a Wraith, one of the denizens of Shnak-Rae, remaining animate only through the power of the dark magic that was released when Shnak-Rae fell. Perhaps the undead fiends of the Shnak structures could only find the afterlife by some means of even more impressive magic? But what was this Blancslieth that the demon kept referring to, and how did it bring the whole ordeal together? Whatever it was, Durven reasoned, it would be infinitely more powerful and threatening than the Shnak structures' magic, otherwise the Wraith could not be killed by it.
His tangled thought process was severed cleanly in half when a thin sliver of silver lacerated Sallmunik's lower face. A humorless smile, preceded by lugubrious words that were dismal and portending through the ringing of the thunderous storm: "You shall find equitable words beneath the Void's eye, I daresay. Farewell, my love." And then a violently contorting tendril of golden light shot from the dagger's tip, boring into Maffe's head.
There was barely enough time for Durven's mouth to snap open, parched and noiseless like a desert corpse, before the dwarf uttered a muffled shriek, threw his head back, and raised his hands to claw at his burning, golden eyes. And then the dagger flashed lightless, the golden glow dissipated, and Maffe dropped lifeless to the cobblestones.
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