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“Gideon!” The angel screamed. With a beating of its wings, it burst into the sky, the rush of air knocking Ifan backwards onto his buttocks.
“You can hurt it, Ifan! You have to stop it before it kills us all!” Fendrick crawled away impotently, trying to make more distance between himself and the now airborne Warren. After a few more feet, he collapsed in pain, unable to continue. Hey, if he doesn’t win, you’ve at least got front row seats to the end of the world. A dumb smile streaked across Fendrick’s face as he watched Ifan clamber back to his feet.
Ifan wondered why the angel had shouted the name of Telric’s messenger. What he had assumed was its own name. Unable to waste more time musing about that, he gazed up into the sky, watching the angel hover overhead. White energy danced at its fingertips as it pressed them to the wound on their chest. The skin coalesced once more, binding the hole together. The skin returned to its pale white, leaving a stark indicator of Ifan’s attack on the blood-stained angel.
“A Warren or a Warren’s flesh puppet? That we would find ourselves in this situation after all those millennia spent together, sibling. I will not lose, this day or any other, to you or any who stand in the way of the Weaver’s machinations.” The angel plucked a feather from its beating wings, and with a wave of its hand transformed it into a magnificent spear. Another feather, infused with the Warren’s magic, took the form of a small, ornate buckler. Wielding both, creature brought the spear to its chest.
Ifan plucked an electric dagger from the air with his left hand, complementing the lightning spear already sparking in his right. He had fought weapon wielding flying foes before; beastmen from the south; half bird half men that plagued the mountainous regions of the continent. In all of his engagements with them, their tactics always remained the same: non-committal attacks from the sky, maintaining their advantageous distance when possible. Tiring battles normally clinched by creative use of the Divine Breath. While it seemed his opponent had his own magical trump cards, Ifan had to face that his only option was to fall back on his experience and hope for the best.
The Warren collapsed its wings, plummeting from the sky and reaching harrowing speeds. As it reached Ifan, it opened its wings and jabbed its spear forward through the air, the shaft being parried by Ifan’s own. As the spears connected, the Warren quickly ascended once more, flying out of range of Ifan’s riposte.
Ifan smirked. It may be an angel, but its tactics are rudimentary. He knew the next attack would afford him an opportunity to retaliate, provided the angel continued its predictability.
Thron snarled at Gideon’s vessel. These humans are too naïve. Despite all he has seen, he believes I’m a one trick pony. I am sure he has some deception planned, as the others have before him. I hope the lineage you have chosen doesn’t disappoint me, Gideon. Thron’s left hand collected energy, hidden behind the surface of the conjured buckler. A miniature celestial body, on a far smaller scale than Thron’s previous attack, gathered within their palm, the energy dancing with excitement. Collapsing their wings once more, Thron dove down toward Ifan, spear first, and prepared to unleash the spell on their opponent.
Ifan readied his spear to parry the attack once more, watching carefully where Thron placed their own. As the Warren approached, and they thrust their spear, Ifan nimbly batted the shaft aside, into a flourishing side-step. Bringing his electric dagger upwards, he prepared his counterattack. But the angel’s palm flashed out from behind its buckle, revealing the star and its brilliance.
Ifan panicked as the star shot out of the angel’s hand toward him. His attempt at a counterattack left him wide open and the ball of energy careened into his chest. It exploded with a burning heat and knocked Ifan backwards. The size of devastation was tiny relative to the previous time Ifan witnessed this spell, but he couldn’t argue against its efficacy. It had torn through his light armour, and in an effort to reduce the potential damage, he had to remove his concentration manifesting his weapons of electricity and quickly redirect the energy to protecting his body. It worked, but the angel began taking advantage of his lowered defences.
Thron swept in, still hovering about a metre or so above the ground and struck out with their spear. Ifan dodged desperately, the spear head missing his flesh by millimetres. A downward strike towards his shoulder was avoided by a swift bend backwards. Ifan fell onto his hand but used the momentum to spring backwards, kicking out at the Warren’s spear.
With reactions bordering on foresight, Thron placed the buckler between Ifan’s foot and their spear, successfully defending the attack.
Ifan found his footing despite this, and with a fumbled step backwards, he created the space to manifest his spear and dagger once more. He blocked another sweeping aerial attack from Thron. The heat of battle had made the Warren act by instinct, and as they flew upwards to regain distance, Ifan was finally able to mount his counterattack.
Raising his dagger once more towards the winged foe, Ifan let a bolt of lightning spring forth from its tip. The energy snaked towards the Warren, and before they could react, it struck their back, causing them to lose their balance and tumble to the ground. Ifan’s spear sprung forth like a viper’s head, striking towards the downed foe.
Thron rolled away with barely a second to spare, as the lightning spear bored its way into the dirt alongside them. They could feel the electricity dancing off of the tip, the weak discharge causing their wings to twitch involuntarily. Before another attack could find its way towards the Warren, they released a blinding flash of light from their palm.
Ifan’s eyes snapped shut to protect themselves, and his arm shot up to cover the light that still bled through his eyelids.
Their distraction a success, Thron pushed themselves to their feet, panting with adrenaline and the beginnings of fatigue. Casting magic was an energy intensive process for a Warren, and the large flashy displays they’d already used were taking their toll. But Thron knew this must also be the case for Gideon’s vessel. A human, casting Warren magic, would find themselves tiring far sooner than a Warren themselves, or at least they hoped as much. Thron readied their spear but struggled to muster the energy to fly away at a speed that wouldn’t mean finding themselves on the end of another lightning bolt. To think I’d be caught out by techniques my sibling perfected. Of course their vessel would fight like Gideon, for all I know they’ve taken direct control.
With the light gone, Ifan’s eyes adjusted once more to the early morning glow of the rising sun. The angel came back into focus, panting, stood on the ground a few metres away. Am I winning? Ifan shook off the pretence of success, realising his own breath had become laboured and his muscles ached. I guess we’re more equal than I thought.
You can win. You must.
That voice again. He felt a warm familiarity from its soothing tones ringing through his mind. Determination struck, and Ifan felt a second wind; readying his spear and dagger, he stalked around the Warren, keeping two weapons’ lengths between them.
“For what purpose would you cause all this destruction? You laid waste to miles of my country, killed thousands of innocent civilians and countless other lifeforms.” At the edges of the crater, Ifan watched as the sea water rushed in. He could see that the water was just about reaching the three of them, the seafoam lapping at Fendrick’s back. “If the holy scriptures are to be believed, you are one of Telric’s messengers: an angel. But what angel would genocide Telric’s children and destroy His land?”
“Telric? What lies have you humans spun in the millennia since the calamity? What stands before you is the manifestation of the Weaver’s Will. All this, They created. You are but livestock, fit only for the energy you provide to Eden’s core.” Thron’s voice was pointed, suffused with rage and distrust. “Your keeper and I are Warrens: the shepherds of Eden, the Weaver’s divine children. You humans have perverted Their creation, sapping the planet’s energy for your own selfish gain. Without your putrid intervention, countless other worlds should have already been birthed from the power provided by Eden’s burgeoning wealth of energy. Trillions of lifeforms have been denied existence by your arrogance.”
Ifan struggled with the information laid out before him, unsure of whether he should trust his foe, even with their angelic appearance. “So it is the Weaver’s Will that all these people died today? That my friend was murdered by your hand?”
“That it is: you humans sealed your fates years ago when you opened the Wells. Your continuation can no longer be suffered by the planet.” Water lapped at Thron’s feet, its cold wetness cleaning the blood-soaked surface of their skin.
“If a God would sanction this wanton destruction, then I cannot abide by his rule!”
“The blind arrogance! You are Their creation; without the Weaver you and your kin would never exist! Their Will is tantamount to life itself, and a single sheep shall not stand in its way. That you would tolerate this fool’s conceit, Gideon, means you are truly lost! When I kill you, my conscience shall be clean!” Thron gripped their spear and charged toward Ifan, closing the gap with remarkable speed.
Ifan blocked the attack with his own spear, the electricity discharging on contact, sparking the space between them. He could see the Warren’s expression: screwed up eyes and a snarled mouth, coated in his fallen countrymen’s blood.
The two became locked in a flurry of attacks, both stabbing and swinging at each other with expert precision. The smell of burning flesh filled the air as the tip of Ifan’s spear glanced Thron’s skin, but Thron’s own success was shown in the blood spraying from the numerous cuts on Ifan’s body. Dropping to a squat in a desperate attempt at an attack, Ifan planted his spear into Thron’s shoulder. The Warren winced in pain, quickly stepping backwards to create space.
They stared each other down, both exhausted from the exchange of blows. Blood trickled from innumerable cuts on Ifan’s skin, and black, sizzling flesh could be seen all across Thron’s once immaculate body. Through blurry eyes and pants, Ifan summed up his own status.
My right arm took the brunt of the damage, clearly they are trying to disarm me or weaken my spear-arm. But they also caught my sides, not to mention this gash on my cheek.
Ifan touched his face with the back of his hand, wiping away the blood pouring from the wound. He could barely feel it due to the immense quantities of adrenaline coursing through his body.
Thron placed their hand to their shoulder, covering the wound with their buckler. Hidden from view, they began sealing the puncture site with their magic.
Ifan spied the Warren’s intent, and with a thrust of his dagger, sent lightning coursing towards them.
Thron cursed, spinning to one side to avoid the magic, and having to give up their attempt to heal their wound.
He’s damaged my spear arm… At this rate I won’t be able to defeat him. I won’t forget this betrayal, Gideon.
Thron looked to the pillar of stone holding Angharad, Rhian and Kolt. A thought, a way out, struck them. “Sentimentality is a curse, you know,” Thron smiled to Ifan, their twisted intent lacing their tone. Holding their spear upwards, they pointed it towards the near unconscious Fendrick. With their other hand, they produced another miniature star in an open palm, clearly visible to the pair of them. “The mutant, or the ones you so valiantly saved from destruction? Or simply attempt to kill me, forgoing all of your allies? The choice is yours, human.”
Ifan understood the dilemma set before him immediately. His hands shuddered on the ephemeral hilts of their weapons, the decision weighing heavily on his conscience. He looked at Fendrick. His face was screwed up, his head shaking in frustration. Ifan closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the comfort of indecision.
“Well?” Thron flashed their teeth, their face wrinkling with a disturbing intensity.
Opening his eyes once more, Ifan glanced at the pillar with his friends, and back to Fendrick. He’d made up his mind. Gripping his weapons with an unshaking determination, he prepared to carry out his choice.
“Time to decide!” Thron hurled the spear toward Fendrick, and with a flick of the wrist sent the orb of light whizzing through the air at the stone pillar.
Ifan dashed forwards, and in a flash of white and explosion of force, released a wave of energy from his body. The air quaked, and in the ensuing burst and boom, Ifan tossed his lightning spear towards the stone pillar.
The spear struck true, blasting straight through the stone, and collapsing the pillar. Angharad, Kolt and Rhian tumbled to the ground in a heap, falling amongst the rubble. Thron’s weapon was thrown off-course, disrupted by the billowing winds created by Ifan’s spell. Its head bored itself into the ground a few centimetres from Fendrick.
Thron was blown backwards and lost their footing, stumbling to remain upright. In an instant, they understood Ifan’s intent. With a collapsing of their hand into a fist, the conjured star exploded above the girls.
Ifan heard the blast ringing in his right ear as he thrust his dagger into Thron’s stomach. With a wrenching motion, Ifan cut Thron’s abdomen towards their chest, hoping to reach their lungs and heart.
Thron stopped his hand, gripping hard at his wrist.
“Seems I’ve learnt a thing or two from watching you humans work. Such deception is unbefitting a Warren, I suppose.” They coughed, and blood trickled down their lips, landing on the struggle of hands.
“Ifan! Their skin! You need to move!” Fendrick shouted.
Ifan saw Thron’s skin bubbling. His eyes glowed an intense white, and in an instant, the electric dagger burst, releasing shockwaves, and discharging energy up Thron’s body and hand, causing them to release Ifan’s wrist. As the pressure gave way on his arm, Ifan tugged himself free and turned to run, diving away as far as his feet could carry him.
Thron began to laugh, and in a stifled cough, mired in blood, called to Ifan, “Well done, Gideon!”
Ifan crawled away, hoping to avoid the Warren’s attack. But it never came.
“They’re… getting away.” Fendrick said.
Ifan turned over, and spotted Thron, tens of metres above, flying away on weakened wings.
They’ll be back. Their hatred is yet to be quelled.
The disembodied voice in his head stoked his frustration. Ifan felt the weight of his failure press him to the ground. Tears rolled down his face and into the already damp dirt below. His neck was stiff, and his body and mind refused to move to acknowledge Thron’s final gambit. Placing his hands to his ears he sobbed into the floor. Finally mustering up the courage to witness his lost friends and allies, he looked to their bodies.
The explosion had incinerated them.
