Soulweaver 63: Tarkill (Patreon)

Aerion moved with a level of relentlessness she could scarcely dream of, slashing and slashing again in a vicious dance of death. Red tinged her vision. Red tinged her blade. It didn’t matter that her strikes barely got past the man’s absurdly thick skin, or that her energy reserves rapidly dwindled. All that mattered was that her enemies died.

And against anyone else, they’d have fallen long ago.

But she was not fighting just anyone. She was fighting Tarquin’s most prized bodyguard. A peak Emergence-Rank Blessed.

Even so, it was only a matter of time until he fell. She could feel it in her very bones—she felt it in her blood.

Her poison was killing him. Just not fast enough.

The brute of a man turned, ignoring her attacks, and when his fingers wrapped around Greg’s neck, Aerion felt something she never had in this state. For the first time during [Reave], her blood turned to ice. Not in rage, but fear.

She redoubled her attacks, striking with every ounce of strength her muscles could muster. With each strike, her body strained, but it mattered not. She had to end this man before he suffocated Greg.

It was as if she were a mosquito against an elephant. The man’s back was a criss-cross of red marks, but none of them lethal. None of them even large enough to slow him down.

Aerion’s strikes grew faster and more frantic. She ignored the pain that wracked her body with each jab, slash, and strike. She ignored the blood that ran across her own body. And she ignored her rapidly diminishing Essence.

Loaded with every morsel of energy Aerion had left, she crouched, lunged, and forced her dagger into the man’s exposed back. It penetrated deeper than it ever had, and at the last moment, she turned the blade, expanding the wound.

The Blessed cried out in agony, dropping Greg. Aerion celebrated her victory, but the battle was not over yet. She braced herself for the Blessed’s wrath, her senses hyper-aware of the haymaker that he was about to throw.

Except… It never came.

The brute didn’t even turn towards her. He simply crumpled to his knees, hands clasped firmly behind his head.

Aerion followed his gaze, and found… Not enemies.

Not enemies, she repeated.

Her eyes flicked to Tarquin. The root of all evil.

Aerion’s legs carried her closer to the enemy. The task was simple. He simply needed to die. Once his shoulders were separated from the head they supported, all would be well. All would be—

Tarquin shouted something. A plea. Begging for his life? No, begging his Blessed to protect him.

Yet the spirit of that warrior had been broken. He would help his master no longer. 

Aerion gripped her showersword. Her eyes never left his neck. She cocked her arm. A single slash. Tarquin had no Boon or Blessing. His neck would—

Tarquin’s expression shifted. The fear disappeared from his eyes, leaving only grim acceptance.

“My office. There’s a loose floorboard. That one is a deception. There is another floorboard underneath that one. Open it. You’ll find it worth your while. And more. Just… Just promise me you’ll kill every last one of them…”

Aerion did not reply. She couldn’t.

Tarquin’s gaze fell. “I suppose it was too much to ask…”

His shaky hands brought his dagger to his neck.

“Damn them all,” he whispered, before his dagger drew an arc across his neck, before falling to his side.

The slumlord’s body followed soon after, thumping against the ground.

Tarquin Arquilles would never move again.

Aerion rushed to his body clutched his shirt. With trembling hands, she ripped open the buttons, revealing her soulkeeper. The slumlord had worn it until his dying breath. Seeing it worn on such scum… Aerion cursed the dead man, but at least he’d made it easy to find.

She touched the beautiful mythril that glistened under the sunlight. After so long. At long last… They were reunited.

Wasting no time, Aerion quickly wore the pendant’s necklace, stuffing it under her clothing. The cold metal was a reassuring presence against her chest. One she’d missed for far too long.

She was… whole again. Complete. Perhaps a Cataclysm dungeon was on its way. She could deal with that. No, they could. After all, she was no longer alone. 

A thump from behind made Aerion whirl, but it was only Greg, slumped down on the ground. Not an enemy.

She saw the approaching guards. Not enemies. 

She whirled to Tarquin’s Blessed, who still lay kneeling, his fighting spirit vanquished.

No enemies. The red receded from the edges of her sight, and she suddenly felt weak.

The world spun, forcing her to brace against a wall to keep from falling over. She wanted to puke.

“Easy, lad,” a voice said from nearby. Aerion’s natural instinct was to recoil, but there was something about the voice. Soothing—friendly. This was not an enemy.

She looked up to find a warrior in full plate. The bottom of his full helm was retracted, allowing her to see his brown hair, brown eyes, and bushy mustache. 

“You’re… City guard,” she wheezed, trying to speak while keeping the bile down.

“I am. Strong performance, there, lad. I’ve not seen that level of ferocity in a good while. Now, please, rest. I’ve called over a Boonworthy to look at Greg, over there.”

Aerion frowned. “How…”

“How do I know his name?” The man said, cracking a shy grin. “Long story short, we’re coworkers.”

“O-oh…”

It was all Aerion could manage before her eyes rolled up and her consciousness left her. The last thing she remembered was someone’s arms catching her before she fell.

— — 

When Aerion awoke with a mild headache, the man was still around, and Greg was still out cold. Another warrior had his hand pressed against Greg’s leg, which was enveloped in a soft white glow.

“Oh, good. You’ve come to,” the man said. “I’m Philip, by the way. I work with Greg at Rogar’s forge. I take it you’re Aerion?”

Aerion nodded, gingerly getting to her feet. She looked down at Greg. “How bad are his injuries?”

Philip smiled. “Well. You truly are everything he’s made you out to be, aren’t you?”

Aerion narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“The first words out of your mouth were asking after your friend’s health. Not ‘Am I alright?’ or ‘What happened?’ or ‘What in the world are those meteors about?’”

“O-oh,” Aerion replied, her eyes flicking to the sky. “Well, it just slipped out. Don’t read too much into it.”

“Of course,” Philip said, but the lingering smirk on his face angered Aerion for some reason.

“He’ll be fine,” he said. “Took a few scrapes, but nothing our trusty Boonworthy here can’t mend. And you’re fine as well, by the way. Looks like you overextended your muscles in that bout, but we’ve fixed you right up.”

“Just don’t get into any fights for another day or two,” the Boonworthy said from his position next to Greg.

“Noted,” Aerion replied. “And, um… Is the world ending?”

“Not yet. I fear a Cataclysm dungeon is likely upon us.”

“I… see,” Aerion said, surprised to find herself oddly calm at the news. While everyone knew the Cataclysm was upon them, it was one thing understand the concept, and another entirely to see it in person. By all rights, she ought to have been terrified. Yet only cold acceptance filled her. Perhaps she’d simply been through too much recently. Perhaps she was ready to accept anything at this point. Or perhaps it would sink in later, when the true ramifications of this dungeon appeared. 

“Grade?” she asked.

“Emergence. Or so the higher-ups believe, based on the timing.” 

Aerion pursed her lips. “Then we’d best be ready.”

“Indeed.”

“Can I trust you to look after him?” She asked, looking from the Boonworthy to Greg to Philip.

“You can…” Philip said. “Though I’m a bit surprised. Do you have elsewhere to be?”

Aerion nodded. “I do. It pertains to Tarquin’s case, and clearing the Baron’s name.”

“Indeed, that does sound quite urgent. It also sounds like something we oughta handle. Are you sure about this?”

“Quite. It’s something I must do on my own.”

“Very well,” Philip replied. “We’ll wait here until you return or Greg wakes. Don’t be too long, now.”

“Thank you,” Aerion said, dipping her head toward Philip. “I won’t.”

— — 

Tarquin’s room wasn’t far. In fact, it was the room right at the end of the secret passage Tarquin used. The one that led into the alley they were in.

Retracing her steps, she emerged into the room to find it a scene of utter chaos. Bookshelves had been ransacked, floorboards wrenched open, and papers tossed about.

The City Guard had already been through here. Had they found his secret compartment?

Aerion’s stomach dropped. What if one of them had already found the evidence?

Dropping to her hands and knees, Aerion peered over the floorboards that had been wrenched up, and soon found the compartment Tarquin had mentioned.

Tarquin.

A wave of emotions flooded her. He’d… He’d taken his life. Just like that. Aerion hadn’t been in the mental state to digest it at the time, but now? Had she killed Tarquin? Aerion hadn’t killed anyone in her entire life.

No, the slumlord took his own life, she tried to convince herself. Tried—and failed. She’d been about to kill him. If Tarquin hadn’t slit his throat, she would have. Without a moment’s hesitation.

Bile came up her throat, but she forced it back down.

So what? He’d have been executed, anyway. Greg had said something similar, hadn’t he? That their path might require them to kill?

Aerion squashed those thoughts. 

“Focus, Aerion,” she muttered, searching the hidden floorboard compartment. She pulled up on the floor… and sure enough, found another, second compartment.

It was genius, really. Hidden floorboards were common. Hiding another underneath? Few would ever think to check for such a trick.

Inside was a rolled up piece of paper. She unfurled it.

No matter what trials awaited them, they’d succeed. Together. 

Her eyes scanned the contents of the scroll, and her heart that had only just settled down threatened to jump out of her chest again.

I need to tell Greg!