79th of Ash, 120 Continued from here.
Arkash had meant to terrify the human that rested on the stone table before him. The young rathor spewed threats and dark promises alike in an effort to incite terror in the ratty man's last moments. Instead of fear, he found something he could relate to. Dresden, or Chitters Two, had accepted that his death was coming, and made no effort to fight Arkash.
The human exhaled, then laid down. Arkash hesitated. Wasn’t he supposed to despair? Scream and beg? “Do it then,” the human spoke while he laid there. Did he not care if Arkash killed him? His brother? His idolized terrorist?
“Youe’re no’ gonna stop me?”
The man shook his head and exhaled deeply. “Masta’s all done, washed up. He thinks yer all ‘e needs, that ‘is job’s done. If ye killed us both, ‘e wouldn’t care.”
Arkash understood then, Dresden had lost all hope. He’d known he wasn’t making it out of the path he followed alive, it seemed as though he’d known for a long time. No one else would accept death so easily. The rathor dropped his deathly stalk and approached the man before he came to rest at Dresden’s side on the hard stone table. His festering wound burned in Arkash’s nostrils as if to light some dormant instinct to attack the man. Arkash’s beast preyed on the weak, and an infection was like a ringing dinner bell to his senses. Still, he didn’t oblige those thoughts. Not yet.
“Call for him, then,” Arkash managed with decent common. That was something he’d picked up there at least, Malafor had beat proper pronunciation into him.
“You’ll kill him?”
Arkash nodded.
“And me?”
Again, Arkash bowed his head.
After a moment’s pause, the human screamed at the top of his lungs. Arkash lifted his javelin and drove it through the man’s sternum in a hard push of his bodyweight. The bone shattered, and the spear pierced and crushed Dresden’s heart. The human began to choke and sputter as he twitched on the table, then met Arkash’s eyes while the spear remained lodged in his chest. A brief smile claimed his features as a streak of blood ran from his lip, and the light faded from his eyes.
Arkash hadn’t known someone to welcome death so easily. But he supposed that if one was infected with little to no hope of recovery, one would gladly embrace the gaining creep of the end. After a moment, Arkash pulled his javelin free of the man’s chest, then moved to the darkened corner of the room, where he lowered into a crouch and aimed his rifle at the threshold of the door.
His spear rested at his side while he aimed, and the sound of approaching footsteps met his ears. In a mad rush, the withered mage entered the room and focused his gaze on both the chest, then his murdered henchman. Arkash watched curiously as the mage began to pull some sort of energy from the open wound of the man’s corpse, and formed a ball of blight.
Arkash shook his head, aimed his rifle, then gently squeezed the trigger as he exhaled. The resulting boom struck Malafor with such force that he was knocked into the wall of the room with a cry of pain and surprise, but he still lived. In one breath, Arkash allowed the recoil of the gun to leave his claws and gripped his spear before he sprung at the old man from the shadows, and drove the point of the weapon upward into the mage’s chest. There, he held the man’s weight while Malafor coughed and sputtered, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth. The old man gripped Arkash’s shoulder, then looked down to the blood spear he’d been impaled by, and grinned.
“Well done…” Spoke the old man with a weak voice. Arkash furrowed his brow as the terrorist’s grip on his shoulder weakened, then reeled. Malafor didn’t use his Mentalism to attack Arkash. Why not? Didn’t he want to strike down the rath that had taken him? But no, Malafor was content to know that his successor would make good use of the gift he’d imparted.
Arkash was quiet when the man’s hand fell from his shoulder and his head fell limp against the wall. That was it, Malafor and his henchman were dead. Chitters remained, but Arkash could probably escape before the man returned; the hike up and down the mountain was a long one, so he had time. With his scalie brow furrowed, Arkash withdrew his spear and allowed the man to fall to the floor. With a deep sigh, Arkash looked to his blood spear, then cast it to the ground with a dull clatter. The material was almost akin to stone in terms of texture and hardness, but Arkash paid it little thought.
He looked down at the man, then kneeled to search his person. On his body, he found a small brass key and pocketed it. He held little sympathy or sentiment toward the terrorist and looted his corpse freely. All he had on him was that key, however. A glance to Dresden saw Arkash follow through by searching his body too. As expected, there was nothing of value there. With a sigh, he collected his rifle and shouldered it before he moved to the threshold of the door, and walked freely through the system of tunnels. He was following the sickly scent that clung to the old man and eventually found his chambers.
Freely, Akash walked in and looked about the simple room of raw wooden furniture, complete with bedding. In the far corner was a brass-framed chest, sat beneath a crude bookcase. He briefly wondered if Chitters and Dresden had crafted all the furniture of the cave themselves or if they'd lugged it all up the mountain. It ultimately didn't matter, so he walked by the bed and took a knee by the chest. Producing the key he looted, he slid the slim metal into the box and clicked the mechanism open. With his other claw, he lifted the lid to behold what was inside: a large, leather-bound book and a small box.
He first collected the box, and pried it open with his claws to peer inside. It was the needle Makafor used to stitch wounds shut. A tool of necromancy? Arkash shut it, then looked about the room briefly. It would surely sell well, even if Arkash didn't know how to use it. He needed a bag to carry his loot with but found nothing in the immediate area. With a sigh, he set the box aside and brought the book from the chest with a heave. A sigh saw him catch his breath as he squeezed the leather binding. It didn't feel right, or akin to any leather he'd felt before. human skin? he wondered as his claws ran over the feature-less cover, then gripped the edge.
What he found inside was endless scrawlings in common, written in what looked and smelled to be blood. With a sigh, he flicked through a few more pages and found more of the same before he closed the book. He couldn't read common, vithmi was the only language Cojack and Liu were literate in, and it was, therefore, the only language he learned to read and write with as a hatchling. He needed someone to translate it for him. But, was it worth his time? It had to be. Malafor wouldn't lock it up for no reason, would he? The book interested him, regardless of what its contents could be. So, he lifted it from the ground and pushed it to the bed.
A grunt saw him climb to his feet before proceeding to look about the cave. He walked as though he owned the place, with little care for the click of his claws against the stone. It was strangely comforting to know that he was the only one alive there, such knowledge put him at ease.
Inevitably, Arkash stumbled upon the pantry. There, he ate and drank his fill of various dried fruits and meats. Steadily, he recovered from the three starved days with needed, albeit meager nourishment. He wondered while he rested if Chitters would return with more food, or if the supplies he was fetching were purely to restore his brother. He sighed at the realization: he'd destroyed another family. As the fed rath sat up, he looked about the room and returned to his feet. From one of the raw wooden cupboards, he collected a woven sack. That would have to do for his bag, he decided.
Soon enough, he returned to the master bedroom and stowed the leather book in his bag. Atop it, he set the grafting needle and looked about the room some more before he tied the neck shut. After slinging the sack over his shoulder, he proceeded to the source of the nearest burning scent, which was an open brazier. There he warmed himself until the cold had been purged from his bones, then proceeded to the scent of fresh air, and took to the open slope of snow. He was free, and with his freedom, he carried a new gift. He was a mage now; an extra-illegal sort of mage.
Image source.
