Брюс Корделл - Oath of Nerull

He concentrated on the pattern, weaving it with new variations of color and complexity. The combinations thrilled him. A few greens, some purple. It was a sight to behold.

The red-mask who hadn’t stopped hesitated when he found himself suddenly alone. Glancing around, he saw the gnome at the edge of the room. Nebin shrank back, frantically sputtering a spell of shielding as the cenobite charged him. The spell triggered just as a fist rocketed toward his face. Nebin squealed, his magical shield flared blue as it deflected the blow, and the red-mask yelped in pain over his broken knuckles.

“You know not who you face!” roared Nebin, trying to make himself sound intimidating as he groped for a scroll of staying, or his wand, or anything that could disable the attacker quickly.

The cenobite laughed grimly, then swept his leg out parallel to the floor, neatly tripping Nebin. The floor met the gnome’s face with a sickening jolt. Nebin scrambled to roll over, and half succeeded before the red-mask struck again.

His hands whirled too quickly for the gnome to follow. Before Nebin really understood his peril, he was struck four times. For him, the battle was over.

Brek Gorunn swore. The damned slug was just looking at him. The dwarf gritted his teeth, anticipating anything.

It piped, “Flee, priest, unless you would die in a place where your pitiful god will not hear your screams.”

As it spoke, the creature’s eyes flared red. A compulsion washed over Brek Gorunn, pushing him to drop everything and flee to save his life. Gritting his teeth and groaning with the effort, he fought the urge. A cleric of the Dwarffather would not be bested by such a miserable trick! Brek had walked in many deep places of the world and faced real terrors unafraid; he would not run now, demon or no.

A red-mask hammered him from the side; the dwarf barely deflected the blows with his iron shield. Behind the cenobite lay Nebin’s crumpled body. The dwarf looked away from the demon slug. There would be time enough to deal with the fiend after he showered the monk with the Dwarffather’s “blessings.”

The magical oil seemed almost to guide the hammer on its own and multiply the force of its blows. Instead of grasping the weapon by its handle, he gripped the stout leather thong and whirled it like a sling. The shrieking hammer was like a hurricane, threatening death at the slightest, glancing blow. Now it was Brek who advanced and his foe who was suddenly uncertain.

The red-mask impressed Brek with his bravery by deflecting the first three hammer blows, but deflecting a whirling hammer with a hand or elbow has its price. The cenobite tried to regain the initiative with a flurry of counterattacks, only to learn too late that his wrist and elbow were already shattered.

The dwarf growled from beneath his beard, “Your death god is weak!”

He pounded the sentiment home by bashing the man’s face with his shield. Its clang against his skull was the last sound the cenobite ever heard.

Brek spun around, wondering where the abyssal child had gone.

Three cenobites lay senseless at Ember’s feet. Three more maneuvered to renew their attack against her, calling out instructions to each other as they circled. Behind them, Sosfane watched, her eyes glittering. Ember had no time to wonder why Sosfane waited. The three cenobites rushed her with perfect timing.

Defiantly yelling, “For the Hand!” Ember pivoted on her heel and thrust her palm into the first red-mask’s neck.

Cartilage parted under her ferocious blow. Someone clubbed her but she feinted away, drawing her attackers on with her movement. Doubling back with a cartwheel kick, she caught a second under the chin. The impact was enough to hurl him backward, unconscious.

The last monk paused, taking stock, as Ember completed her cartwheel. More cautious with his own safety than his former compatriots had been, this one adopted a defensive posture. As Ember advanced, the cenobite retreated, step for step. Reluctant to expend time she might not have, Ember coiled her body, then thrust herself forward with both her fists out and together. Her full-body blow caught the last cenobite squarely on the chest. Ribs snapped, and the man fled, clutching his chest and gasping for breath.

Then there was only Sosfane. Ember knew that her friends still fought all around her, but it was the cult leader who represented the real threat.

She called out, “Are you afraid to face me, witch?”

The silver-haired woman smiled as she said, “You are a prodigy of my old Order and Kairoth’s student. I’ll enjoy killing you.”

The sentence was barely complete when Sosfane leaped a dozen feet through the air like a bolt launched from a crossbow. A lethal high kick was aimed directly at Ember’s chest. It would have struck her down if not for Loku’s Bracers, which of their own accord, lifted Ember’s arm and deflected the attack! Ember looked into her foe’s eyes from a distance of barely a pace.

“Your order? The Enabled Hand never trained a foul creature like you!”

Ember kicked twice; both attacks were met by the woman’s flashing wrists.

Sosfane laughed and said, “I was a star pupil! Kairoth himself taught me the Order’s most guarded techniques. The old fool didn’t know I was also learning the secrets of the death god, Nerull! I reopened this temple years ago. Since then, I’ve been bending members of the Hand to Nerull’s will, a few at a time. Some had to be forced, but not all. You would be surprised at how many were keen to join.”

As she spoke, her hand crept into her sash. It lashed forth holding a small kama, its daggerlike blade tipped with a reddish liquid.

She jabbed at Ember, but the monk flipped back and kicked the kama from the tattooed woman’s hand. It clattered to the ground, far out of reach.

Breathing hard, Ember exclaimed, “No one by the name of Sosfane was ever trained in the Order!”

“Adeva Silverhair was the name I used,” said the woman, raining a flurry of blows on Ember. “But I am Sosfane, a disciple of the death god. “And when I’ve killed you,” she gloated, “I shall feast on your flesh, in Nerull’s name!”

They were upon each other again, trading blows, kicks, blocks, and throws too swiftly for any eye to follow. Training and instinct guided their hands and feet.

Ember stood toe to toe with her nemesis, and she knew Sosfane was beating her. Despite all her skill and noble purpose, Sosfane was simply more excellent. She was not really hurting Ember, yet.

Both knew the forms, the attacks, and the defenses. When Ember struck with shi kune, the stunning fist, Sosfane countered with makee, the blocking fist. Ember’s yup ju mok, the hammer fist, was defeated by Sosfane’s pal moke makeei, the outer forearm block. Ember could find no way past Sosfane’s defenses, and her own were likewise impenetrable. But Ember was growing tired. She had already fought seven men before facing Sosfane.

Again they drew apart for a heartbeat.

Sosfane said, “You are a high student of the Order, but your skills are stagnant. Nerull could teach you more…as he taught me.”

Sosfane seemed to levitate into the air for a moment. Ember gasped—it was soo jik so gee, the vertical stance! This was far beyond her own skill—maybe even beyond Elder Kairoth’s.

Sosfane unfolded from her superior aerial position, striking out with the side of her foot like a tornado brushing the ground. Unable to block, Ember took the full force of the blow. She tumbled and fell, feeling crippling pain shoot through her.

If there was ever a time for a hero, she thought, that time was now. Ember slipped a hand into her tunic and pulled out the vial she purchased at the Wizard’s Hoard. She pulled the stopper with her teeth and gulped down the magical elixir.