ARC 7-Cursed Fates-81 (Patreon)

A noble is in charge of every aspect of the land they govern. They are charged with taking stock of the resources of their territory and allocating them to serve the best interests of the people.

That rarely happens.

Most of the time, the people are given just enough to keep them alive and stave off a rebellion while the rest is used to furnish the lavish lifestyles of the rich. A portion of that is used to protect said lifestyles, either from natural enemies or other nobles not content with what their own territories might offer, usually by funding the creation and maintenance of a knight order.

It used to be that knighthood was a distinguished honor. They represented the elites of any force, men and women who could change the course of a battle. In recent years, in no small part due to the efforts of the Grand Hall to expand the field of magic, the title of master covers a variety of fields. There are masters of communication magic, like the deceased Aurelius, who specialize in sending messages to multiple people and across vast distances. There are masters of cooking, cleaning, and performing arts who use their magic to better the lives of others. Masters of construction who can do the work of a hundred men when it comes to erecting walls or laying down roads.

In times before, there was only one kind of master. Masters of combat. Those who reached the pinnacle of martial and magical arts, then combined them. They were the swords and shields of humanity that ensured its survival through the upheaval of the Great War and fought the native manabeasts of Harvest for their new home.

Back then, knights were also part of the nobility, albeit at the lowest rung of the ladder. The title didn’t give them any power, but it was a stepping stone for the common man to work his way into the ranks of true nobles. It was even a respected method of doing so, unlike the “gold nobles” who buy their way to power, like the Guiness. Greasing the right hands was hardly something to be admired but none disrespected a man who fought titans for his prestige.

After Harvest was firmly established, the need for elite warriors plummeted. The reputation of knighthood became a tool, nobles dubbing their personal security forces as knight orders to endear them to the public and attract the talented amongst them who dreamed of bettering themselves through service.

However, as knights became more numerous, their standards became less rigorous. Some orders are more demanding of their members, but in general, anyone can put on armor and call themselves sir or ser regardless of their skill, temperament, or accomplishments.

The Teppin family’s knights, the Hounds of Glory, are better than most, as the lord can pick his forces from a pool of experienced hunters or the offspring derived from a well of talent, but they are nothing close to their predecessors. Certainly not strong enough or, by the saints, mentally prepared for an enemy like me.

With my all-encompassing vision, I can see the startled knights in front of me, stunned into inaction as the woman in front of them transforms into glossy purple ooze. I make no attempt to condense my enormous mass and so continue to expand until I tower over them and stretch wider than the road.

Behind me, Kierra, Aland and Bell move. The imp accompanies my knight as she sprints towards the guards behind us, engaging them before they can trap us in a pincer. My elf comes up behind me and crouches, waiting to take advantage of my assault. At the carriage, Geneva remains seated on the driver’s bench, defending the vulnerable Yulia while also in a position to assist wherever needed.

Seeing everything is in place, I put my inhumanness on full display. From my massive body sprout countless tentacles. I let them wave and snake through the air like the paper streamers that decorate vendor stalls during festivals, letting the men before me bask in their terror and confusion.

“The hell is that thing?!”

“Fuck me with a hot poker! If you can do that with a physical affinity, I’m a princess!”

“Saints preserve us. Is that some kind of titan?”

“Focus!” Sir Deckard shouts, his tone the only one steady. “I will tell you what it is. It’s an enemy and we will stop it. Signal the backline. I want to see a rain of arrows and a cycle through the elements. Find me something that will hurt this thing!”

His orders steady the men. That is until my unfathomable limbs take on a recognizable shape, the ends sharpening into points. They may not know what I am, but the experienced fighters can recognize weapons when they see them.

To their credit, the foul-mouthed knight releases two quick bursts of fire into the air while spouting a stream of admittedly creative curses, what I assume is the signal to attack, and none of the others falter. A small seed of regret sprouts in my chest. Seeing them reminds me of my own servants. Odd personalities united by odder circumstances, loyal to a fault and willing to stand against impossible odds for the one who gave them purpose. I’m sure we could have gotten along if things were different. It’s enough to make me wonder…

But not enough to stop me.

My many limbs stab at them. They are nowhere near as fast as I am in my prime form, my oozey self lacking the muscles needed to generate that kind of force, but my assault makes up in speed with saturation. The dozens of limbs may as well be a wall of death pressing down on them.

Amazingly, their first instinct is to fight. They weave through my many limbs, deflecting or blocking the attacks they aren’t fast enough to sidestep or duck, covering for one another to create gaps in my attacks. Sir Deckard is a true menace, each swing of his sword strong enough to cut through my limbs despite their deceptive density. His eyes blaze with magic and a green glow coats his arms. A physical affinity.

In answer to their signal, the knights waiting a distance away unleash their own attacks. The first is a rain of arrows. I don’t know what their plan was to launch such an attack without hitting their own allies before but that’s hardly a concern now that I’ve made myself such a large target. They couldn’t miss if they tried, I bet.

After the arrows is the first wave of spells. Fire, of course. It’s the most effective when hunting manabeasts, unrivaled in its potential for sheer destruction. Once the spells hit, there comes another round of arrows. Then another round of spells, this time spikes of ice. As Deckard ordered, the casters are cycling through the elements, trying to find my weakness.

Their heroic efforts are for naught. The casters are no titans and their magic is completely harmless. The knights and their swords manage to get past my many limbs and begin hacking away at me to no effect. I don’t bleed. I don’t even feel pain. The closer they get, the worse their situation becomes. If I don’t have to reach as far, I can make more tentacles with the same amount of ooze. Instead of dozens, they have to fend off dozens upon dozens of sharp limbs. They manage for a while, guarding their backs with walls of earth and using explosions of fire and wind to create space, but my assault is relentless.

“Retreat!” Sir Deckard calls when he notices that their efforts are amounting to nothing. Too bad for them it’s a lot easier to enter a web than to walk out of one. Anyone that turns their back becomes a target, meaning their attempt to retreat is slow, painfully so. And, as their exhaustion mounts and their magic is spent, they become sloppy. More of my limbs get through their defenses and their wounds mount. One of the knights goes down when a limb pierces his leg. Another, the cocky bastard not wearing a helmet, dies when a limb pulps his skull.

“RAAHHHH!”

With a roar of defiance, Sir Deckard’s magic shakes the ground. Giant spikes of earth erupt from the ground, piercing and pushing back my limbs, creating a corridor of safety, a clear path of retreat. The effort pushes him to his limit, I can tell that much from the grimace on his face, but the pain doesn’t stop him from grabbing his injured comrade and running for all he’s worth. Toward their backline, where the rest of his forces continue to throw anything and everything they can at me. The ranged assault intensifies to cover their retreat.

That’s when I start to move.

The barrage of projectiles cease as the casters turn their attention to halting my progress. The ground before me is riddled with spikes, frozen over, pulled apart, built upon, and blasted apart. Barrels are launched at me, the contents hissing and smoking when they touch the ground or clinging to me as they burn. It doesn’t matter.

This form is beyond mortal means and understanding. I roll forward, unstoppable and indomitable, crushing anything stupid enough to get in my way. The knights fall but I leave their bodies alone. Even if the thought of devouring people wasn’t utterly abhorrent, I wouldn’t want their forms stuck in my mind, reminding me of this mess every time I need to change forms. Their remains are flattened by my rolling mass, the brave knights turned to red paste and twisted metal.

My advance forces them to retreat, until there’s nowhere left to go. With the lord’s house at their backs, the knights make their final stand. Most of them. In the face of certain death, a handful lose their courage and break ranks, ignoring Deckard’s rallying cries as they run for the tiniest hint of survival. Exposing themselves to a new danger.

Fleeing prey excites the predator waiting in my shadow and Kierra makes her move, running after those that dare disgrace themselves. She is a blur of green magic, dark fur, sharp fangs, and metal as she tears them apart, the already exhausted knights as hapless as pigs raised for slaughter.

Their defeat is anti-climatic, the fate of all who try to swim in a river of raging currents. Eventually, their strength fails them and they drown. Even Sir Deckard, the best of them, dies a pointless death, several limbs piercing his by-then battered breastplate as he pushes another comrade out of the way.

When the bodies stop twitching, I change back to my prime form. I imagine I make an odd sight, a handsome naked woman, pristine while standing in the midst of bloody chaos. I try to step around the gore but soon realize that’s a pointless endeavor, instead doing what I can to hold back my disgust. It’s a bad day when the best thing on the bottom of my feet is blood.

Kierra lopes toward me as I reach the front door of the estate, her clothes hanging off her misshapen body. Within a few steps, her bulky arms and furred, bowed legs revert back to the usual visage of my beautiful wife, though her teeth are a little too large and pointy when she smiles at me. “How is it?” she asks, still panting with excitement. “Being unrivaled?”

“Boring and dirty,” I reply in a droll tone. If she hoped that this little outing would ignite my passions for rampant slaughter and brutality, she’s going to be disappointed. This is exactly the kind of senseless loss of life I wanted to avoid. But I can’t afford to be soft. Otherwise, I’ll have a repeat of today but against the whole of Quest, rather than one noble.

Her eyes, more gold than green in the bright light of day, stare me down, picking me apart, but there is no judgment there. She’s studying me, trying to understand me. A large improvement over her previous attitude of simply molding me into her ideal savage. “Hm,” she hums as a hand ideally combs debris out of her long, silver hair. I don’t stare too closely at what falls out. “Are we waiting for the pets?”

“Geneva is bringing Yulia and Bell is…detaining the guards with Alana.”

“We do not need them.”

“Of course we don’t.” We just slaughtered the Teppin’s house entire security force. No one but a mad man would deny us anything we want. But the snow bunny traveled a long way to be a part of this. It seems…unkind to leave her out of things. “I’m just generous to a fault.”

“My gentle conqueror.”

My wife sidles up behind me, looping her arms around my neck as she leans into me. One of her hands brazenly gravitates to my chest but I smack it aside. “Later,” I grumble. Really not the time for such things though I don’t blame her. Blood and violence has always excited her.

“Mm. I believe it is my turn,” she whispers into my ear before nipping at it. The words are almost enough to make me change my mind, but the steady clop of hooves pulls me back from temptation.

My carriage pulls up to the house. Amazingly, the horses pulling it don’t so much as whine as they step through the mess of dead bodies. Poor beasts probably have Geneva’s fingers knuckle-deep in their brains. I wonder if she does this to every horse we rent? If so, I’ll have to tell her to stop. Beasts of burden that remain calm under any circumstances are valuable. We aren’t hurting for crowns but I’d never say no to more.

The succubus is completely unbothered, of course. She wears her usual smirk as she observes the results of our battle, or rather one-sided massacre, but keeps her peace. Does she think I’m angry at her? Or is something like this truly so insignificant to her that it doesn’t warrant a comment?

Yulia is by far the most affected. She is hesitant as she steps off the carriage, desperately trying to hold a stern expression. It crumbles with every passing moment as her wide eyes flick over her surroundings. By the time she reaches me, she’s trembling.

“…how?” she asks.

I ignore her and reach for the cloth she’s carrying. A robe packed for just this occassion. Nothing fancy, just plain brown fabric with a belt to tie it off. Hard to have a civil conversation in the buff. “It’s enough that we won.”

“You don’t have a scratch on you,” she says with some awe.

“This isn’t anything new. You were at the March.”

“Once is a miracle. Twice suggests a pattern. Three times is truth and undeniable.”

“Yeah, well, let’s hope I don’t have cause for a third demonstration of what I can do.” I ignore Yulia’s heavy gaze as I walk up to the door, pulling Kierra along with me. I can hear the family on the other side, several pounding heartbeats gathered in one spot. Are they hiding? Waiting?

I pause, trying to imagine what they must be feeling. Then I knock, three strong raps on the door. “I am Lourianne Tome. The fighting is done and I wish to speak with Lord Teppin. No more harm has to be done today if you cooperate.”

There’s no response so I knock again.

“I know you’re in there. If all your knights couldn’t keep me away, a door will not fare much better.”

Still no response. I knock again, a little louder.

“I’m trying to keep this civil but it’s difficult when you keep me out here like a disobedient pet,” I snarl, frustration leaking into my voice. And still, they ignore me.

My temper, already stirred from my distaste for the whole situation, spikes.

I kick the door, just barely controlling my strength so that is only splinters rather than snaps.

“OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!”

Finally, one of the heartbeats leaves the others and approaches. It hesitates on the opposite side of the door but, thankfully for them, not for long. There is a faint click as the lock is undone and then the door swings open.