Drowning at Dusk Ch. 07 - Finale

She pulled her hand away from his amulet, closed her eyes, and placed her hand against his chest.

I yanked the amulet from around his neck. Not as something to loot and barter away, but as some small token to remember him by. Perhaps Xelari would take it eventually or she could give it to another of his comrades from their order.

I stared down at the little bronze amulet, recalling how unusual it had been when I'd first seen it. At the time I'd had no notion of the impact that mysterious organization would have on my own path.

Howls rose from the north and Kivessen shouted for us to mount up. Xelari lingered for just a moment and brushed her fingers over Terakh's forehead.

Given the casualties there were plenty of spare horses to go around. Once we were up in our saddles, Xelari turned and ignited the eruption-rune, sending a scorching spear of flame down at Terakh's body. It ignited in a heartbeat, the cleansing flames roaring high, leaving behind only ash, embers, and memories.

**

The next day our exhausted, spent band made its way along the road to catch up with Heroth's forces. Shouts rose from the vanguard of our battered force; fear blossomed and I reached for my sword, worried that somehow Heroth's troops had failed at the crossing, or that another enemy force had flanked through the forests.

A moment later I nearly wept with relief at the sight of some of the scouts that Orlac had sent back to Heroth, along with a dozen more of the city's knights. Among those knights were two healers who paused to press runestones to the worst of our wounds. Others passed out flasks of water and wine.

"What happened at the crossing?" I asked the healer as she waved a runestone over the wounds that Dazyar's music and Xelari's sorcery hadn't been able to mend.

"A swift victory," she said. "We stormed the bridge and our troops breached the fort within an hour. The bastards had a trick up their sleeve, though; they hid a few hundred barrow-walkers in the river. They attacked our assault forces from behind, but a few quick charges from Heroth's best lancers made short work of them. The crossing is ours."

"Another thousand soldiers are pushing south behind us," said one of the other knights. "They'll secure the road and then we can make another push to finish off Synrik."

"Synrik's dead," I said, managing a grim smile despite my exhaustion. "So are most of his ghouls and corpse-knights. Plenty of undead wandering through the forest, though; we'll need to finish them off before another death mage swoops in to control them."

"One way or another, we'll see it done," the knight said. "With the crossing secured, we have plenty of forces to spare to secure the forest."

"And I'll be right there with them," I said firmly.

"Esharyn," Xelari said, pressing her soft, bloody fingers to my elbow. "We have done enough. Synrik is dead. He lost the crossing. Let the other soldiers mop up."

"Aye," said the healer. "The last thing you lot need is another hellish ride through the forest. More than half of Heroth's men at the crossing never even saw action, given how quick the battle was. The fresher troops can finish the fight."

I scowled, for my limbs still ached with the desire to cut down more undead and finish off Synrik's minions.

"If you ride into that forest, I'm going to be right there with you. But I'm broken and spent. I'll be weak and vulnerable if there's another fight. Is that what you want?" she asked.

"No," I said with a long sigh, then accepted a flask of water and gulped it down. As I wiped the stray drops from my lips, I managed a smile and handed her the flask. "You always know the right thing to say."

"No," she said softly, her eyes distant and glazed over. "Not always."

We rested by the roadside for a time, absorbing the good news from the north. Mounted knights thundered past, many of them raising cheers and shouting adulations for our bravery. A few asked for the names of some of our fallen comrades, to use their memories as battle-cries for the hunt to follow.

I smiled at the thought of the names of Terakh and Varanthir serving as war-cries, the last sounds heard by Synrik's surviving mortal lackeys still hiding out in the forest.

Vast columns of infantry followed the cavalry. Judging by their fresh faces and untouched gear, they'd been in the reserve for the fight at the crossing. Some of our band looked upon them with envy or outright disgust, while others offered encouragement or advice on how best to slay the undead.

All I could do, however, was guzzle down water and rest my head on Xelari's shoulder.

We made camp not far up the road and rested there for a full two days, during which the grim mood barely improved. Survival was not the same thing as victory, after all, and we'd left a great many comrades behind in those blood-soaked woods.

At least the physical wounds had been vanquished. With several days to recharge their runestones, the healers among our little band been able to deal with the lingering injuries and seal up the half-healed ones that had already been partially tended to.

We'd all earned new scars. Not all of them, however, were borne upon our flesh.

As the sun descended, we prepared a simple meal from the rations given to us by another passing patrol. Hooves thundered from the north; a large column of armored knights approached, with one bearing the personal standard of the Lord-Protector.

Heroth himself rode into our ragged little camp. A freshly-healed scar adorned his forehead; scratches and dents covered his armor. He dismounted, wincing a bit and favoring his left leg, and looked over the assembled scouts and mercenaries. The scouts rose, bowing their heads, but Heroth dismissed the formalities with a wave of his hand.

"Brave souls, one and all." He glanced over his shoulder at the forest. "Brave souls among the fallen as well. Arkostead will remember them."

I wasn't entirely sure of that. Soldiers would remember their comrades, orphans would remember their parents, widows would remember their husbands, and strangers might only remember the names of those immortalized in song.

Most of the dead, however, would fade from the city's memory in time.

I knew that their deeds, however, would live on, even if their names didn't. Arkostead would endure, its streets safe from Synrik's undead scourge, its citizens free from the fear of being turned into rasping, ravening undead.

And Xelari's crusade against necromancy would go on.

"Who struck the killing blow against Synrik?" Heroth asked.

"Terakh of the Deathless," Xelari said.

A few of the Tombflayers murmured prayers for the orc's fierce soul.

"I presume he died after his triumph, then."

"He did," I said. "And his ashes rest within the forest."

"We will ensure he is remembered, then. A fort named in his honor. A grand statue commemorating his exploits."

Despite the grim topic I managed a faint chuckle, knowing full well that Terakh would have loathed such extravagant recognition. All he'd want was a few drinks in his honor and perhaps a verse in a jaunty tune about the battle.

After wandering among the mercenaries and scouts, offering his personal gratitude, Heroth paused before Xelari and gave the dusk elf a faint smile.

"Curious turn of fate, is it not? My steward thought you were an enemy of Arkostead, but his decision to send Esharyn after you ended up saving the city. Were it not for you two, we'd have been ignorant of Synrik's schemes. He might well have breached the city walls. Or worse. You have both have my eternal thanks."

He returned to his horse, presumably to join the hunt for stragglers in the forest. Once he rode off I sagged down onto a moss-covered boulder.

"I suppose you will be expecting your payment," Xelari said. "With Synrik dead, the contract is thus complete." She turned, her eyes distant and unreadable. "Unless you would like to agree to another contract. I'll have other work to do, after this. There are more relics to hunt down, so we can gather power to assail the essence of necromancy itself. And I'll need to uncover how Synrik learned about me."

I stared at her for a long, tense moment. My breath caught in my throat.

"No," I said.

Her vibrant eyes widened, shock and grief flaring.

I reached for her hand.

"I shall not accept any contract from you. But I'll be at your side all the same."

I reached into the pocket of my cloak and removed Terakh's bronze amulet, which I'd wiped free of blood the previous day.

"I've already served one sacred order. I told myself I'd never do it again. But you, the Deathless..." I looked out at the forest and the haggard survivors. "I hated this fight. But it felt...it felt like one worth fighting. This is a war that fills me with dread, but also purpose."

She reached down, clasping both of her hands around mine and the amulet.

"Are you certain? This is not an oath one easily walks away from."

True certainty was an illusion. Of course I had my doubts. A weak, cowardly part of me wanted to beg Xelari to just run away with me, to forget all about the great struggle and just find peace somewhere together.

But no fight had ever felt moreright than the one I'd been undertaken at Xelari's side. I wasn't sure exactly when the shift had occurred, though. Perhaps the choice always been simmering within my heart, only to finally ignite once Terakh had fallen.

No matter what path I took, I could not imagine myself going back to the life of an independent assassin. If I was to kill, I was going to kill men like Synrik. If I was to die, I'd rather die going up against the foul essence of necromancy itself.

"Yes," I said with a firm nod.

Xelari took a deep breath and rose to her feet.

She tapped my elbow and nodded towards the forest.

"Follow."

Together we departed, wandering for a few minutes until we were well away from the quiet murmurs of camp. We found a little glade surrounded by ferns and towering pines.

She took the amulet from me, drew her knife, and made a tiny slash in the back of her hand, then smeared the drops of blood over the claw-like marks upon the bronze.

"I, Xelari of the Deathless, beckon to Esharyn." Her cold and forlorn eyes met mine. "Do you answer?"

"Yes," I rasped, my heartbeat thrumming, the sounds of the forest fading away.

"Do you swear to forge your life into a blade against death itself?"

"Yes."

"Do you commit your life to the Deathless path?"

A deep breath. Doubt flared, then died within the storm of her gaze.

"Yes."

She lifted the blood-spattered amulet and affixed it around my neck.

"Blessed be the final death," she said.

A deep breath.

"Blessed be the final death," I repeated.

She smiled, blinked away a tear, and pressed both of her hands to my cheeks.

"Joy and sorrow entwined, Esharyn. A storm."

"Your storm, Xelari."

"Ours, Esharyn. Ours."

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and pressed her forehead against mine.

**

Two weeks later, I stood once more in the shadow of the Lord-Protector's tower, albeit under far better circumstances than my first visit. Instead of arriving there as a witness and prisoner, I was instead there as a guest of honor, one of many so-called 'heroes' of the battle against Synrik.

Alongside me stood Kivessen, Dazyar, and the Tombflayers who had survived the battle in the forest. For some reason Xelari herself hadn't wanted to arrive with us and had insisted on arriving in her own time.

The Tombflayers all wore matching uniforms: dark doublets, golden cloaks, fine trousers, and sturdy boots. The mercenaries had gotten themselves nice and cleaned up with fresh shaves and neatly-styled hair.

Dazyar wore the same blue outfit he'd been wearing when we'd met him; the color contrasted nicely with his dark hair and eyes, and he still had his trusty old fiddle strapped to his back. While the Tombflayers looked uneasy and awkward in such finery, the bard looked right at home.

Beaming, he clapped me on the back.

"What are we waiting for, friends? Let's go bask in glory."

I toyed with my belt for a moment, taking a bit to adjust to the unfamiliar outfit. I was wearing one of the finest damned ensembles I'd ever worn: expensive leather leggings, high-heeled boots that were impractical for anything but dancing or strutting around, a tight tunic that showed off my lithe figure, and a red vest that matched my hair, with a dashing half-cloak in the same color.

"Never took you for a zealot," Kivessen said, glancing at the Deathless amulet before allowing his gaze to drift up and down, clearly admiring the way my outfit clung to my athletic body.

"Just a soldier in a different sort of war," I answered with a smile.

Together we marched past the guards and into a grand ballroom, which was filled to the brim with nobles, merchants, guild-masters, and high-ranking knights. The surviving scouts from the battle in the forest rushed over to greet us. I barely knew their names and hardly recognized half of them in their fancy uniforms and without blood or sweat on their faces, but I nonetheless returned their embraces.

They were still strangers but we'd been through the fire together. We'd survived the carnage within the forest, broken the back of Synrik's army, and left behind countless fallen comrades. Such bonds proved to be quite strong, even though I knew little about each of them.

Patrigan approached, dressed in a rather nice velvet coat, a complete reversal from his usual dour outfits. He smiled and patted me on the shoulder.

"I know a fancy ball like this probably isn't your ideal way to spend an evening, but I'm glad you're here," he said.

"In my childhood I attended dozens of functions just like this one in Mrenhold. And a fair few during my...other career. Attending an event like this is almost a habit at this point."

Patrigan chuckled and I introduced him to the rest of the mercenaries and scouts. To my surprise, he welcomed Kivessen with a traditional meadow elf greeting and the two immediately switched to that singsong tongue, creating a sort of musical conversation.

I wandered off to get drinks with Dazyar, where Rowela intercepted us. Like her uncle, Rowela had abandoned her usual dour clothing for something brighter: a pale red dress that accentuated her slender form rather nicely and a necklace studied with little red gemstones. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun, showing off her high cheekbones.

"I honestly didn't think you would accept the invitation," she said, collecting some cider from a servant, while Dazyar and I went for cups of rich, dark wine. "I would think a rowdy night in some wretched tavern would be more your style."

"Oh, it most certainly is," I said, grinning. "But Dazyar and I have had plenty of fun in wretched taverns over the past few weeks. Time to change things up a bit."

As expected, the comment brought a fierce blush to the young woman's cheeks and she gave me a friendly swat on the arm.

"Don't embarrass me like that. There's a very handsome young man here I'm trying to woo and it won't help if your little japes keep turning me red as a beet."

"Oh?" Dazyar said, perking up and glancing over the crowd. "Who is this young man?"

"His name's Kelstan. Over there, near that courtier in the purple cloak."

The young man in question was a brown-haired, willowy fellow dressed in a blue naval uniform. He was rather handsome, but seemed a bit soft in the eyes for my tastes. Too untested.

"Allow me to be of assistance, then," said the bard.

"Gods, no. Please don't embarrass me any further..."

"Nothing to worry about, darling. I'm just going to go over there and tell him if that if he doesn't stop chattering away at dull courtiers instead of you, I'll sweep you away myself."

I snickered at that and downed half of my wine. The young woman's scowl deepened.

"Don't you bloody dare!"

"Then get over there and take him by the arm, Rowela. Why are you here talking to two boring people like us, anyway?"

Her scowl faded into a bashful little smile, then she leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Truth be told, I was hoping to inspire a bit of jealousy and make him flustered if he saw me talking to the two of you. Maybe goad him into actually asking me to dance."

"Games like that can certainly be fun," I said with a smirk, recalling the endless teasing that Xelari and I had inflicted upon one another. "But sometimes it's better to just be more direct. Tell him precisely how you feel, even if it's just that you want to dance."

Rowela looked back over at Kelstan. The young man glanced over a moment later, and the eyes of the two would-be lovers met. Dazyar and I both laughed while I gave the younger woman a gentle nudge.

"Go," I said.

Even as crimson blossomed across her face she marched across the ballroom towards the handsome lad.

"Ah, young love," said Dazyar with a sigh, taking a long sip of his wine and sighing contentedly.

His dark eyes swept over the assembled nobles and his warm smile shifted to something more somber, if not quite a frown.

"Gods, can you imagie Terakh's reaction to a party such as this?" he murmured. "Would have been quite the sight."

I smiled a little despite the painful memories of his fall.

"He would have grumbled endlessly about having to dress up, then he'd remember the free drinks and see all the pretty ladies in their finery, and he'd have had the time of his life. No doubt by the end of the night he'd have some well-dressed woman shoved against a wall somewhere."

After a soft chuckle, I finished my drink and brushed my fingers over the bronze amulet.

"Sorry," the bard continued. "Didn't mean to darken the mood. A bit of wine makes my mind wander, that's all."

"It's all right. One reason for a grand gathering like this is to remember the lost."

"And another reason is to drink the free wine," Dazyar said, downing his cup and reaching out for another.

I frowned over at the doorway, having expected Xelari to arrive by now. Something couldn't have happened to her, given that she was staying in the guest quarters within the Lord-Protector's tower. No doubt she was biding her time, or playing some new game with me.

The bards switched to a soft, catchy little tune that was perfect for a slow dance. Rowela took her beau by the hand and guided him to the floor, while Dazyar nudged me with his elbow.

"Up for a dance while we wait for our mysterious dusk elf?"

I nodded and followed him out onto the floor once we finished our drinks. He took me by the hand and settled the other upon my waist, ably guiding me across the floor to the soft rhythm of the song. Old instincts and memories kicked in; I'd danced this tune plenty of times during my privileged upbringing back in Mrenhold.

"What's next for you?" I asked, after I settled back into his arms after an elegant little spin.

"For now, my eyes are on Irza over there," he said, nodding to an orcish woman who'd been among the Tombflayer contingent: a tall, brawny woman with her hair in a long black braid. She'd fought like a damned demon out in the forest, and had killed a few undead that would have otherwise gotten their blades into my back during that wild fight against Synrik.

"Really? I didn't notice you two paying any attention to one another."

"During one of our nights on the march north, I played a song she quite liked. She came up to me when I was done and promised to 'ride me until I wept' if we made it through the fight. I intend to hold her to that vow."

I laughed, admiring the woman's figure and picturing the brutish woman pinning the wily bard down and having her way with him.

"If Xelari doesn't show up soon, I think I just might have to snag someone else for myself, too," I said with a faint little grumble.