[center][h3]Part Three: Horik of Eskand[/h3][/center][hr]
Few were the people who knew of King Horik's true nature, for had more known, perhaps they would not have called him 'Horik the Lean' quite so mockingly. Indeed, the gargantuan figure tore through the common sellswords, foaming at the mouth and roaring like a beast. Even blows that were blocked broke the arms of those who blocked them. People were thrown dozens of meters through the air and you could tell which had the Gift and which didn't by how they landed. 

Whoever was commanding these people was smart, however, because, after less than a minute of this unholy massacre, they regrouped wordlessly and changed tactics. The skirmishers closed in close to the King's men, leaving little opportunity for him to attack without harming his own people. The magusjaegers remained hidden in the trees, but they shifted their fire from the behemoth of a man who'd been deflecting their bullets back, using them to find the assassins. Instead, they focused on his honour guard, and a couple of figures dropped immediately. 

One of their first targets was Marlijn Vaanse, but she was not there for long. Heart thudding in her chest, the youth grabbed a hold of the light and vanished from view. Normally, moving quickly and trying to maintain invisibility was impossible for her, but the darkness and chaos helped. She didn't need to be too precise. Instead, she made for her brother's position, letting her veil of shadows fall away and drawing all of the heat and metabolic energy from a dying horse. She knew the animals. She knew when they were suffering, and this one was finished. She took the gift of its life and turned it into death, unleashing Wyvern's Breath on the nearest two enemies and Owain. Of course, her brother wasn't stupid. He drew from her fire, creating a freezing aura around himself and launched his own fireball. A roiling ball of orange, it roared into the trees and set them ablaze. "Let's see you hide now!" he bellowed, stoking the flames, spreading them. [i]Oraff-Zept, forgive us,[/i] Marlijn prayed in her head. [i]It is to preserve life that we take it.[/i] 

Desmond, called 'Catulus' ('Young Wolf' in Avincian) in lieu of a last name, was one of the few who had stayed mounted, wheeling his horse about with the practiced hand of a sellsword. He exchanged fire with the enemies in the trees, bullets arcing, jumping, and zipping, but had little success. He was fundamentally at a disadvantage in the open, while they fired from cover. Then, he noticed Owain's fireball. It hit the trees and gave him an idea. As the Eskandishman stoked the flames, so did [i]he[/i], pausing his gunfire. It was not long before this tactic paid dividends. Most magusjaegers were about stealth above all else and, robbed of that, were easy targets. As they poured out from the burning forest, he took out one, then a second, and then a third in succession. Their bodies thumped as they hit the ground. He winged a fourth, who screamed. Desmond grimaced, resighted the enemy, and put her down for good. Then, the easy part was over. Those with RAS levels high enough for illusion magic in the dark began to fade. So a shadow game it was to be. He would find them before they could find any of his allies. Lives depended on it. 

More importantly, Desmond needed to find whoever was coordinating them, doing such a good job wordlessly moving them around like pieces on a chessboard. His experience told him that it was likely an internal chemical mage, and those were very dangerous targets. As he started to reach out with his senses, looking for the telltale agglomerations of energy that denoted magic users, things took a turn for the worse. A Tan-Zeno, overwhelmed by bullets from multiple directions, let one through and fell. The sellsword could see Anesin Bjelke, with whom he'd shared a class or two, rush over in an attempt to heal him, but then there were other problems. A freezing wind whooshed across the trees, quelling the flames and deadening the smoke. Someone or some[i]thing[/i] hurled King Horik backward, unafraid of his immense power. Desmond was a practical man. He knew that he couldn't tangle with whatever monster was capable of doing that, but there was a subtler figure at work here, equally as dangerous, and something needed to be done about them... [i]quickly[/i].

This was something that the convoy's lone Paggonian, Karim Nazeri, a youth who looked like he'd seen combat once or twice before, agreed with. In truth, his appearance didn't make him a soldier, but one would've been hard pressed to recognize that based on his skilled deflection of the new volleys of bullets and knives that came his way. Everything metallic that approached him went careening away and, slowly but surely, he built up a charge that people around him on the battlefield could tangibly [i]feel[/i]. The air hummed with electricity and it arced and leapt from his fingertips. Karim was no killer by any stretch of the imagination. He was a plain, good old-fashioned Paggonian merchant's son, but mortal danger tends to make [i]moral [/i]danger fade to the back of one's mind. Desperately, a pair of sword-wielding figures hurtled towards him, their movements enhanced by kinetic energy, trying to stop what they knew was coming.

They were too slow.

As if he were some Thunder God of yore, bolts of lightning leapt from Karim's fingertips and pounded the attackers. They screamed and writhed, their bodies going stiff and burnt, and dropped - smoking - to the ground. Next, he turned his attention to an area of the trees where he'd noticed a lot of fire coming from. Stalking forward, gathering energy, he brushed off the sting of a bullet graze, grunting in pain, and unleashed a second torrent. Electrical power, scorching, arcing, peeled off of him in waves, sweeping through the nearby forest. Invisibility doesn't help when there is nowhere to run. Assassins tumbled from branches, convulsing and shrieking, and Karim had held back. He wasn't a killer. He was a protector and these men might live were they wise enough to stay down and surrender. He opened his mouth to give them a warning, still fairly charged up and ready to unleash should he have to, but that was when King Horik was hurled like a ragdoll. He noticed Desmond looking too, and then Marlijn Vaanse was there, materializing seemingly out of nowhere. 

"Gentlemen," she panted, looking haggard and exhausted, "I hope you're not thinking we should join that fight. We'd be worse than useless. We'd be a liability." Her eyes darted between them, and then she winced and focused, calling up a stone from the ground to deflect a bullet. "There is someone else here: a controller of some sort. We need to reach him. We need to stop him." 

But it would all be for nothing if the King didn't win his personal duel. Anesin, scion of House Bjelke from the deep spine of Eskand, had remained by her King's side. She had done so, openly, as a Blood Mage and received no reproach. She had pulled from living beings - pulled the life and existence from them to fuel her magic, and unleashed hellfire that nearly matched the King's own. Yet, still Horik's power was greater. She had felt it at the start and felt it now. [i]He must be a mooncaster,[/i] she realized, but whoever this was who'd appeared before him, who'd caught him off-guard and flung him aside like trash... [i]this woman is inhuman.[/i] Even standing near her was draining. There was... an [i]aura[/i], one could almost call it. It was heavy and oppressive. It drained Anesin of energy and will. It made her head pound and body ache. [i]Internal Chemical Magic.[/i] Her movements felt sluggish. They cost more energy and had less effect. [i]Offensive Kinetic Drawing.[/i] 

Dressed in a white and blue cloak, with an owl mask covering her face, she dodged King Horik's murderous attacks with a nimble, mocking ease. In return, she bashed him telekinetic shoves. She uprooted rocks and trees from the ground and hurled them at him in a growing maelstrom. Horik roared in challenge and frustration and Anesin could feel a massive intake of energy. The air grew colder. The sky seemed momentarily to dim even further. It took her a moment to realize what he was about to do and, drawing a wrecked carriage to nothing, she filled herself with energy and bolted away.

"Everybody back!" She screamed, grasping a couple of the injured with threads of energy and pulling them along with her. Then, the sky exploded. The force of the shockwave knocked her clean off of her feet, singeing her hair and skin, and she used the Gift to keep herself from burning alive. Debris, plants, and corpses pitched and tumbled back from the epicenter and she blinked, flash-blinded and deafened, as a towering mushroom-shaped cloud rose hundreds of meters into the sky. [u]King Horik...[/u] she thought, guts turning to ash. He had sacrificed himself for his people, to take out that... blue woman, whoever she was, or [i]had been[/i], for surely no human could've survived such a blast.

Anesin stumbled to her feet, a dull, numb thing. Her hands were burnt and shaking. She would need to heal herself, and others too, she knew. She blinked furiously and her eyes watered. Dirt and ash rained from the heavens and the massive cloud grew still, blotting out the light of the moons. Then, she felt it, unmistakably: energy - massive, [i]abominable [/i]energy. The sheer force of it was like nothing she had ever experienced. In the center of an enormous crater stood Horik Vinderborg of Oleften, Berserker King of Eskand. Dirt was still falling from the sky and the air around him glowed with energy. His great beard was seared and singed, still smoking. His clothes were a tatters, his massive chest and the runic tattoos across them exposed as he stalked forward. Anesin's heart leapt.

And then, it stopped.

It lasted only a second. She felt something grip her inside and she knew fear. The pain was barely recognized before it was over.

Volto Azzuro, the one they called Triste, cast the girl's body aside, body language and voice alike disinterested. She turned her gaze upon the King of the Eskandish. He was more powerful than they'd told her. This was a real fight, but the child had gotten in the way and, sadly, the only way to get her [i]out [/i]of it was to end her young life. "You didn't think a parlor trick like that would really work," she sneered, "did you?" 

King Horik's eyes went to the body of his countrywoman. She'd been brave and capable, young and beautiful. [i]Too brave, though[/i], he thought somberly. In time, but for the eagerness and foolishness of youth, she might've grown into someone great. Now, because of this blue witch, she and a half-dozen others would be nothing. "You will suffer for what you have done here," he growled, drawing from the power of the four moons. Had the fifth been up, he would've cast her aside like the dirt that she was. "By the Old Gods and the New, I will break you slowly. The Poets will pen tales of your suffering." In one fell swoop, he drew everything from the smoke, the ash, and the residual heat of his mighty blast. It burned inside of him, he drew in a great gulp of air, opened his mouth almost inhumanly wide, and breathed fiery death. 
[hr][hr]