Book 2 : Chapter 21 (Patreon)

Jungfrau, Nussegrund

Mallorn the Elf

An embrace of feathers and silk. Hands cupping his cheeks. A proud smile.

A voice, soft and lovely, whispering praise into his ears. A curtain of white hair spilling down onto him, tickling his nose.

“A magnificent slaying.”

A kiss upon his brow. Warmth in his chest. 

An axe in his hands.

—

He awoke relatively slowly, body flush with a numb pain that did its best to convince him to simply stay still and keep his eyes closed. The moment he noticed that, of course, his hand came up groggily to rub at the crust in his eyes and push himself up off the surface he was laying on.

There was the sound of talking as he pulled himself into awareness, a language of flowing, unstressed words with occasional nasal emphasis. It was strange enough to pull him further from his rest and crack open his eyes. 

The light was dimmed by the addition of some cloth canopy, and while the area was filled with scented candles and strong herbs, it was not enough to disguise the rolling sea of rot and death that hung in the air. A scent he recognized as the hordes of dead that he had charged through just recently.

“He’s waking up.”

A woman’s face dominated his view, upside down compared to him. She was caked in thin sweat, the occasional splash of blood and mud, and bore thin lines of exhaustion under her eyes. Despite that, she was beautiful, with long flaxen hair and warm honey-brown eyes set upon fair features and decorated with…

…long pointed ears. He stared up at her with a blank face for a few moments, reaching his hand up to lightly slap the sides of his pillow, gauntleted palm meeting something soft, fleshy, and covered in thin fabric.

There was a roll of manly laughter from various voices around him.

The elven woman’s ears flickered in amusement. “Mah- how bold!” She teased in a rolling elvish.

His head was in her lap. He snorted dismissively, pushing himself up and shaking his head to dismiss the last remnants of sleep from his mind. A dull throb of pain greeted him in his joints and chest, making his hand come up to grab his armored torso instinctively.

“My apologies. I could only heal you so much with the situation as it is…” The elven woman apologized from behind him.

He was under some sort of tarp on the edge of the stone walls of the city, a number of mannish soldiers with gambeson coats and slung crossbows were around him, looking with curious eyes and chuckling. 

Orrin was there, offering a hand down to him.

Mallorn grinned back and took the hand, letting the mustached paladin pull him to his feet. “Orrin, you big bastard, warn me before you throw me next time!” Mallorn laughed, punching the man in the arm. “I nearly died!”

“Ahah- apologies Sir Elf! I’m too used to working with Lir, he knows well my strength already.” Orrin patted himself on the breastplate, then gestured at the elf behind him. “Allow me to introduce you to the lovely Benedicia- she’s one of the companions of the Chosen Heroine.”

Mallorn glanced back at the woman, currently pushing herself up from the mat on the ground and brushing off her legs. Like all elves, she wore a distinctly provocative outfit- a kind of sheer black bodysuit covered in the front and back by a long straight tabard of yellow fabric that was decorated in a magnificent tree icon. The bodysuit bunched up at the neck, wrists, and ankles, telling him it was made from a kind of cloth material.

Currently, the outfit was littered with tiny rips, dustings of mud, and splashes of old blood. It spoke to a long period of struggle that he found himself vaguely appreciative of. Rarely does an elf look anything but annoyingly perfect. 

She took hold of an outrageously long club as she rose- sort of a fist-sized golden orb at the end of a man-length pole. Probably a staff of some sort. She smiled and nodded at him, brushing a lock of greasy hair behind one long flicking ear. “Hello Sir…?” A clear fishing for his name.

He was almost certain Orrin would’ve told her already. “Mallorn.” He greeted plainly, doing his best to be polite to the elf that was apparently friends with the person he needed to help.

Her ears flicked once, inquisitively. She maintained a kindly smile, furrowing her brows slightly. “Mallorn… I’m afraid I don’t recognize you from the capital, Sir Mallorn.”

“You wouldn’t.” Why were elves assuming that? This was the second time it’s happened. He glanced around, looking for his axe and finding it propped up against the stone wall. “Where’s Rayne and Marcus?” He asked quickly to the paladin, receiving a nod in return.

“Keeping an eye on the enemy- the dead stopped their waves of attacks once you felled that winged abomination, but they could resume at any moment.” Orrin shook his head with a scowl. “Marcus is why you were healed so expediently- lady Benedicia here was one of the two magicians keeping the army at bay, but Marcus’ arrival has given her and her companion some much needed rest and respite.”

“I believe your companions are speaking to mine, at the moment. Shall we go join them?” The elven woman asked, stepping up besides the two of them. She offered him his helmet, making him blink as he realized it wasn’t on his head. He took the helmet with a grateful flicker of his ears and slid it over his head, leaving the visor pulled up for the moment. 

“Not a bad idea.” He replied. Orrin nodded with a smile, turning and moving out to the edge of the cloth canopy.

Mallorn followed, briefly pausing as the soldiers around him saluted and grinned at him. A small smile grew on his face before he moved along, basking in the salutes that followed in his wake and the mutters that echoed around him. As they moved along across the battlements, more of the battered and weary soldiers stopped their watching or drinking or sharpening of weapons and clapped their fists into salutes. 

“That’s him- the one who-”

“Right out of the air, it was amaz-”

“Damn fine work!”

Open, honest praise. 

The warmth that filled his chest was only counterbalanced by the dull throb of pain in his body, reminders of the injuries he took in that reckless tackle of the bone-dragon. He made a note to not do anything too risky until he had gotten a day or two of rest. 

“How are you strong enough to throw me like that, anyways?” Mallorn asked with a flicker of his ears and a glance towards the boisterous paladin. 

Orrin glanced back before nodding and grinning. “I’ve been blessed, uniquely so, by not one but two kinds of strength-magic.”

“Two kinds of strength magic?” Mallorn replied with a note of curiosity in his voice.

“The first is my covenant with Sotha Sol, the Dogstar.” Orrin raised a gauntleted finger. “When Sotha manifested to battle with Void-Titan Kloolu in the seventh century, my ancestor Irrin was there to aid him. In return, he and his sons were blessed to experience great strength during the sun’s height so long as they maintained Sotha’s covenant. In the three hours of noon, my strength is three times as great.”

“That’s one- what’s the other?” Mallorn asked with some amusement. A covenant with a god wasn’t something he could replicate anytime soon, he didn’t think.

“Another one of my ancestors wooed a giantess, who gifted him an enchanted girdle that doubles the strength of the wearer.” Orrin clapped a hand against his breastplate with a smile. “I wear it under my armor at all times- so don’t think about trying to snatch it away from me, ahah!”

“Let me know if you find another one then, how about that?” Mallorn chuckled and nudged the man with his elbow, to which Orrin gave a bright grin and thumbs-up.

They passed through one of the towers as they talked, then another, and finally came within view of some familiar faces. 

Rayne and Marcus were there along the walls, staring out to the hordes of dead in the distance. They were talking to what looked like a little girl, young man, and an old soldier, flanked by guards in bright armor. Orrin raised his hand and called out. “Hail- Our friend is healed!”

This caught their attention. Rayne gave a little smirk as he returned the wave, a hint of tension in his shoulders. “Took you long enough, you sleeping princess!”

“How long was I unconscious?” Mallorn asked as he approached, suddenly reminded of that potential concern. 

“Roughly an hour, Sir Mallorn.” Marcus replied with a scowling nod, gaze fixed on the wall of corpses in the distance. “It is good that Lady Benedicia was able to heal you so quickly, the impact was harsh from what I was told.”

“I’m grateful that I was allowed to work my magics, Sir Marcus, it gave me an opportunity to rest myself.” The elven woman spoke up from behind him in a slightly amused tone. “Has there been another attack since?” 

“Not since that winged monster was felled, Lady Elf.” The old soldier declared with a shake of his head, stepping over to offer his hand towards Mallorn. It was then that Mallorn noticed the pair of dusky-grey cat ears with notches cut out of them that sat on the top of the man’s head. “Descan, Acting Commander of the Ad-Hoc Anti-Necromancer Legion.”

“Mallorn.” He introduced himself simply, taking the hand in a firm shake and nodding at the old soldier. “My companions and I heard the Chosen Heroine was in town, and came to offer our blades to her cause.”

“It’s a damn good thing you came then, because the Chosen Heroine was what assembled this adhoc legion in the first place.” The old catman nodded and growled at the masses of dead. “Almost as soon as we had assembled and drawn lots for who was in charge, this horde of shamblers rolls through one of our scouting groups and forced us back behind walls.”

“How long has the siege lasted thus far then?” Mallorn asked, lips pulling down into a frown.

“Today is the seventh day- were it a regular siege then it wouldn’t be so bad, but they’ve been grinding down our defenses with attacks since it started.” The catman shook his head. “This last hour is the longest they’ve gone without an attack so far. The Heroine, blessing on her name, and Lady Benedicia have been the only reason we’ve held out as long as we have. The attacks were hardest to repel while they were forced to sleep.”

“Why have they stopped, surely the loss of one dragon wouldn’t warrant a pause like this?” Mallorn asked, stepping forwards to the battlements and placing a hand on the stone, glaring out across the army of dead.

“It depends on how many resources they had invested into it- that much mana doesn’t come readily.” The little girl spoke up, making Mallorn glance down at her. Upon second glance, he could tell that she wasn’t actually a child. Rather, she was just a particularly short and petite young woman.

She wore an almost comically large witch hat, with a frilly cape-mantle with long puffy sleeves, a kind of leotard middle, a skirt that left her hips exposed, and curly-tip shoes. She was holding a gnarled wooden staff in both hands, and had to stretch slightly to look over the edge of the battlement stone. 

She raised her hand to her chest and gave a little nod- a tiny, barely-polite curtsey. “Morgan, witch and necromancer, companion of Chosen Heroine Mari.”

A necromancer? That was kinda interesting. He also noted the chosen heroine’s name. He reached down, offering his hand to take hers. She offered it, and he stooped low to give an official, professional peck on her knuckles. His hand dwarfed hers by an almost comical margin. “Mallorn, Lady Necromancer.”

She stared up at him for a few moments, before yanking her hand back like it had been burnt and tugging the brim of her hat low to hide her face. “N-Nice to meet you.” She mumbled from beneath her protective headware. 

“What was that about investment? I know nothing of Necromancy.” Mallorn asked seriously, returning to the previous statement.

“Necromancy is the art of conjuring a ghost and binding it to one’s will-” The young man began. A somewhat unobtrusive lad with messy black hair and dry looking eyes. He was cut off by the little witch speaking up and louder.

“Normally, it is easiest to compel this ghost to possess their own corpse, which also gives them an anchor in the living world.” The witch took over the explanation, the young man’s mouth snapping closed and expression turning disgruntled. Morgan continued without regarding him, nodding beneath her giant hat. “But one can also force it to possess a different shell- as in the case of these bone amalgamations we’ve been fighting.”

“Do they still require an anchor if they’re possessing a shell that didn’t belong to them?” Mallorn voiced the immediate question that came to mind.

“Yes- either in possession of the necromancer themselves, or among the many bones that went into the amalgamation.” Morgan replied with a note of approval. “There’s two methods to banish the undead. One can either kill their master, or destroy their anchor. If the anchor is destroyed, then the caster will need to conjure the ghost from the underworld again using a new anchor.”

“Our leading theory is that they are attempting to do so at the moment.” Marcus interjected with a firm nod. “With the destruction of that great winged monstrosity, they’ve lost a powerful soul and are working to rebind it before resuming their attacks.”

“They’ll also need a new shell for it to inhabit, won’t they?” Orrin pointed out, one hand brushing his mustache. 

“That’s something they could’ve made ahead of time.” Rayne shook his head. “There’s no reason to assume they don’t have a shell ready to go already.”

“No reason to assume they do either.” Morgan shook her head, stepping back down from the battlements and giving each of the much-taller people around her a serious look. “It’s harder for a soul to possess a shell that doesn’t belong to them- anything powerful enough to animate an amalgamation as big as that thing is going to be extremely difficult to bind. They’re probably stuck doing that now, I bet.”

“Now would be an ideal time to strike, but the Lady Heroine passed out almost as soon as you did, Sir Mallorn.” The old catman grumbled and shook his head. “Days of running back and forth to defend the walls finally caught up with her.”

“Do you have any artillery?” Mallorn asked, staring out at the waves of corpses, like a stinking field of rotten wheat. 

“We did. They targeted that for destruction first using that winged monster of theirs.”

“Let me have a look at them- I may be able to repair them.” Marcus declared, turning from the walls and looking to the commander.

“Ah, an actual warmage and not just a magician then?” The commander asked, turning to the greying man.

“Aye. I had to retire, but I remember how to assemble artillery well enough.”

The commander gestured at one of the brightly-clad soldiers, who saluted and turned to the warmage. “With me, mister Warmage.”

The two of them walked off. 

“You know, it’s good that we ran in like big ol heroes like we did, but there’s a problem now.” Rayne began with crossed arms, looking out across the hordes of dead.

“I can think of a few problems, but go on.” Mallorn replied in a slightly sassy manner, making Rayne give him an annoyed glance before the man scoffed and continued.

“We’re stuck behind these walls now. There’s nothing but death around us- and food and drink isn’t going to last forever.” Rayne had a tense scowl as he spoke. “That’s bad for us, obviously, but its also bad for the others.”

Rayne turned a serious eye towards him. “The other three and the womenfolk- they’re out there with the cart, coming this way without us to run back and report on the army of dead in the way. One wrong move and-”

“I believe in Lir.” Orrin interrupted with a decisive nod. “We’ve been through worse situations before, and his mind will guide them to safety. We don’t need to worry about them.” He laughed before continuing. “After all- they’re not the ones stuck behind besieged walls- ahah!”

Rayne frowned but didn’t argue, instead just sighing in a worried manner. “It’s- it’s not a good situation.”

“Lady Necromancer- you said that destroying the anchor or the master was the two ways to banish the dead, correct?” Mallorn asked.

She glanced at him, then nodded. “That’s correct.”

The sounds of commotion interrupted his next question, making him pause and turn towards the source. 

A set of boots running up stone steps, the clank of chainmail rubbing against itself, and heavy breathing. He stepped over, past Orrin and taking a somewhat protective position before the rest. Standing so that he was first between them and the doorway to the tower on the wall, which was the source of the commotion.

There were voices asking to slow down or stop, as well as laughter and heavy breathing, along with panicked exclamations from soldiers. He narrowed his eyes and one of his ears flickered. 

“Mallorn? What do you hear-?” Rayne asked, cut off as a figure exploded out of the doorway with a stumbling gait, tripping at the lip of stone and headed straight for the ground.

Mallorn reached out an arm and stepped forwards, the stumbling figure crashing against the limb and coming to a sudden stop.

A young woman with curly brown hair and bearing all the signs of horrible exhaustion. Blood and mud and sweat clung to her like a second layer of skin, and a ring of black circled her eyes. 

She slumped against the limb. More women dashed out of the doorway, coming to a stop as they saw him. 

Mallorn ignored them for the moment, raising his brow at the girl slumped against his arm. 

She breathed heavily against the limb for a moment, then pushed up, clinging to his chestplate to steady herself, gaze slowly rising higher and higher to meet his. Her eyes were bright violet, like the bloom of some rare flower.

She stared up at him for a few moments, breathing heavily with exertion.

“...H-hello.” She muttered.

“Hello?” Mallorn returned the greeting with faint bemusement. After a moment, he titled his head. “And you are?”

“...Mari…”

Mari…

Chosen Heroine Mari.

He smiled in triumph. Her breathing hitched.

“I’m glad to meet you, Mari. I’m Mallorn.”