Pestilence: Rise Of The Pure Undead-Chapter 343: Fear The Night : Loyalty

"Little ghoul… Where are you?" Bough spoke in his usual tone, giggling like a schoolgirl as he held up the terrific weight of tons of earth and stone bearing down on him, Vwoldtnir had not attempted anything fancy, and done the usual thing he always did when fighting anything, which was not something he did very often even though he was a gravelord.

He buried Bough alive, piling up stone and dirt on top of him, but the shieldmaster was not giving in, even managing to lift his shield up even as more and more weight was stacking up, groaning alongside his shield, ignoring the ghoul lord as he crawled in front of his visor once more, repeatedly erupting with his blinding light, ribs squirming, the teeth inside the throat grinding against one another.

The copper knight’s eyes felt like they were on the verge of rupturing, and he took it as a challenge, not paying his agonising arms any heed, Bough free one of his hands, holding up the weight with a single one for multiple seconds, not giving in as he pried Vwoldtnir off of his face, the lord’s potent claws digging into the nigh unbreakable suit of armour.

Once again, the knight’s eyes and sight were preserved, throwing the ghoul away, feeling invigorated by the even greater pain radiating from his ocular globes which dripped down his face, down onto the neck, deep into his brain, numbing his senses, his thoughts, but it was not a problem, Bough’s was a simple man with simple needs and intents, even if smarter than he might let on, muddling his mind could not impede upon his will, which was to crush, to stomp, to stampede, to pulverise the enemies he was pointed to.

And with naught but his incessant wish to prevail using brute force, he gave another push, lifting the rocks and dirt in the air, bending his knees, jumping up against the debris, managing to blast through and get his feet back above ground, finding the previously filled to the brim battlefield completely empty, even without being capable of seeing anything, Bough could tell that all undeads had marched into Tamaris, only those remaining within the forts and other constructions nearby were left around, apart from them, Bough was left alone with the ghoul lord.

Something warm was travelling over his arms, his feet and ankles felt cold, all results of his struggle moments ago, his muscles had been strained to their limits, eyes sore and bulging out of their sockets, the shieldmaster stood tall still, Vwoldtnir emerging from the ground a small distance away, the gravelord was basically unhurt however, his nimble body resistant to crushing and shock, not to mention that like all undead lords, he could easily regenerate any damage.

Bough was not a treasure trove of tricks, he carried a big and heavy shield, wore a big and heavy armour, and that was pretty much all, it complemented his special constitution created through an inborn ability, he was meant to take all damage and fight similarly sized adversaries.

None of the gravelords were good opponents for him, all were fast, all were powerful, Vwoldtnir was perhaps one of the worst options however, which was most certainly why he was there in the first place, the ghoul lord had been supposed to oversee the progress of the underground assault, but it had gone exceptionally well, so the lord had emerged and freed the Ir’Houwl and Ourlon from their duties.

Diving into the solid soil, basically swimming through, he engaged in a hit and run tactic, the shieldmaster had to be careful to not be trapped underground again, he would most certainly not manage to brute force his way out again, using his shield as a shovel, flinging rocks at high speeds.

The ghoul twisting his body in ways that would make a contortionist jealous, avoiding all attacks, claws digging into the ever-regrowing suit of armour, never managing to draw blood, the flesh beneath was somehow even tougher than the armour and refused to bleed even when damage was inflicted.

’Mmmmh… That is definitely my loss…’ giggling to himself, he drove one knee against the ground, a loud slam reverberating as he brought his right fist in front of his face.

Vowing upon his pledge to Agilulf Wanneck, once called Roitelet, commonly referred to as Merchant King, the Tamarisian king was known to his two most faithful knights as the Copper King, and once, the original copper knight, although bearing his colours, neither Bough nor Pierre-Ornée had followed in his footsteps.

But when necessary, they could call upon their oath, and if their loyalty was sufficient, the pledge shall respond.

The gravelord moved back, sensing something coming and indeed, from high above, without any of the usual signs of one, a bolt of lightning fell from above, without thunder, coated the armour and shield of copper with its sparks, a mantle of electricity that stimulated the damaged muscles of the shieldmaster.

"Ah! You want my head little ghoul?! Then claim it!" stomping the ground, a circle of lightning spreading outward, Bough’s every attribute were enhanced, for how long, even he did not know, nor did he care, slamming repeatedly into the ground, sparks of electricity following every single attack.

The mantle coating Bough prevented Vwoldtnir from latching onto him.

Even from a great distance, the shieldmaster’s jubilation could be clearly heard, but it did not reach as far as the royal capital, the undeads were laying siege upon it, scaling or flying over, trying to break through the sturdy gates, Ir’Houwl stepped inside, being the first minor lord to make it here, the rest overseeing the progress of troops, Ourlon, who should have been standing beside her had stopped a while back.

Skeletal hand upon the hilt of his blade, sword still sheathed, he faced a warrior in much the same pose, looking straight at one another.

"I shall honour this warrior’s want for a duel" he had said to Ir’Houwl, she had wanted to dissuade him but he had no specific orders at the moment, so there was no making him budge from a duel between another Tochian.

The undead swordsman thanked Vwoldtnir in his fossilised heart, he stood face to face with Ohrn, in this crushed expanse, around them laid the remains of a small village, the cadavers of its inhabitant already consumed by the royal miasma.

Fingers tapping upon the handles of their weapons, the skeleton spoke first.

"I am Ourlon, in the name of King Nitok, my blade I wield" he presented himself, showing that he did hold some respect for his adversary.

The elder’s gaze did not shift.

"I am Ohrn, in the name of Lady Syklon, my blade I wield" he reciprocated.

"So you are a student of hers?"

"A follower rather, I am not skilled enough to pretend to be one of her pupils"

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"Really now?"

They exchanged a few words, remaining perfectly still.

"Are you not going to use your signature art, Sir Ourlon?"

"Duel of true skill? That is only for fights I know I couldn’t win otherwise, and besides, it is no longer my signature art… I did not have the occasion of displaying it against a proper opponent for a long time, don’t worry, I won’t do anything petty like revealing its name or nature…"

"...Let us demonstrate our blade skills, and our arts!"

And with this, both moved from their position, appearing where their opponent had just stood a moment ago, back turned to one another, a strand of Ourlon’s ancient black hair fell to the ground.

A light cut appeared upon Ohrn’s arm, frozen for an instant, he fell to one knee, using his blade to support himself as he caught his breath.

He was fine.

"I would not find it petty at all actually" the elder smirked at the undead, who chuckled for a moment.

"What a brazen old man, I don’t usually enjoy talking during a fight, but it is only a matter of entertainment, I suppose… Very well, I was able of deciphering your art myself, so let me tell you about the creation born out of my oath to Luminary Nitok" extending his sword arm to the side, showing his chipped, pale blade in its full glory.

"I call it, ’Pseudo-Death Blade’, every strike it land, will cause the living to die for a split instant, so fast that it takes no toll upon the body in fact, but as you can attest, it is rather disorientating, and to boot, if I slash the same living enough time, no matter the time in between each individual attacks, they will die for good no matter the state of their body" Ourlon graciously explained, but it was not like their was a good counter, the only way to avoid it was to not get hit at all.

Both got back into position, blades now out of their sheath, once more, they clashed.

Ohrn trying to decipher the conditions required for the undead’s art to be effective, simply striking was much too less for such a potent reward, Ourlon simply needed to get into position to strike again after one slash to keep the enemy perpetually defenceless, or to simply land a mortal wound immediately.

Sparks flew, and so did the elder’s blood, barely scratched.

’Lady Syklon…’