Hubris - 57. Battle Greaves

A half crescent moon was high in the sky by the time Crowe’s house appeared in sight - he still had difficulty believing it was his even after a month of living there; it's the first thing I’ve ever truly owned. But even my life in Caldreath is not truly mine.

A terrible mixture of guilt and fear twisted in his belly. Guilt that he had left Barghast on his own for the whole day. Even as a voice told him that such was the price of war, he reminded himself they had never spent more than a few hours apart. Not by choice. Fear that there was not a light on in the house. Not even a single flame.

His mind spread into chaos before he could stop its unraveling. What if Barghast had finally done what Crowe had always feared he would do? What if he's finally left me? What will I do then? What reason will I have to fight?

The thought jump started a blinding clawing panic that threatened to claw its way out of his throat. He called the lycan's name, shoving the door open enough to slam it into the wall with a deafening thud. He might have put a hole in the wall of their new house, but he didn't care. What's the point in having anything if I don't have Barghast?

He banged his thigh on something hard - the table. He heard something crash with the sound of shattering glass - the base full of wildflowers he’d picked the morning before. He cursed. Just as he reached for his rod, he felt the presence of something watching him. He wasn't alone after all. He felt a hot breath brush against the back of his neck, ruffling his hair.

“Barghast…”

Before he could turn around, he felt the air shift. It was the only warning he had before he was seized and hauled into the air as if he weighed nothing. It was a true reminder that if he wanted to, the lycan could easily hurt him. Could kill him. Some would say killing was what lycans had been put in this world to do…the same could be said of practitioners; the Theocracy certainly thought so. But lycan's were quicker. They could see further, hear better. They were larger; they had teeth; they had claws…

All this vanished when he heard the sound of something tearing. It was his robes, and Barghast ripped Crowe free of them with a single yank of his paw. Cool night air against his bare skin. Naked. Vulnerable. A growling beast above him. Warm drool dripping down the back of his neck and spine like oil. He hung suspended, held only in place by the barbarian, who seemed intent on doing whatever he wanted to the practitioner whether he wanted it to happen or not.

Crowe should have been afraid and perhaps he was a little. But there's also a thrill in being claimed in such a way, he thought as they passed from the kitchen into the sitting area. For someone to want you so badly they just might eat you. And this is how I must pay for keeping the beast hungry and waiting: with my body.

At the same time Barghast sat on the couch, making it creak in protest, he buried his snout in the cleft between Crowe's rump, expelling a yelp from the practitioner that was both surprise and pleasure. But not fear. Not true fear. He knew he was safe in the paws of the lycan who would never do anything to hurt him.

Barghast growled hungrily, pushing his tongue into his prey, the needle tips of his teeth grazing against Crowe's milky flesh not hard enough to hurt, only to elicit groans of the utmost pleasure.

“Barghast,” Crowe moaned. “I’m sorry…I’m sorry I made you wait…”

Barghast lifted his head with a whine before pulling the sorcerer up into a sitting position, skinny thighs shelved over his much broader, more muscular thighs. Once the Okanavian was able to speak, his voice came out between a whimper and a growl. “You were gone so long…hours and hours and hours…”

“Barghast, I know I was gone longer than I meant to be, but it hasn't been a whole day…”

“It feels like it's been a whole day,” the lycan growled. His teeth flashed in the dark. His hackles stood on end. His grip on the practitioner wasn't crushing but it was a close thing; it was absolute and there would be no getting away from it until the Okanavian was done with him. It would be a long night.

“...a whole day of wondering when you're going to come home. A whole day of wanting you and not being able to have you. I know what you said earlier this morning, that others need you, and perhaps it is selfish of me to say but I need more. I need you all the time. I’ll never stop needing you…”

“I need you.” Crowe reached through the darkness with both hands until his fingers sunk into the lycan's fur. “I always have.”

Barghast leaned forward until his cool snout pressed against the sorcerer's nose. Something hard and warm and sopping and pulsing pressed against the soft skin of the herald’s rump. “Kiss me. I need to taste you. All of you. My beloved, you are so delicious. I wish you could feel the way you make me feel.”

Their lips brushed, gently almost cautiously at first. Strange that this should feel like an re-exploration of one another. That a few hours away from one another can feel like miles apart. What am I becoming? What is this town turning me into? The thought vanished from Crowe's mind when Barghast pressed his paw against the back of the practitioner’s head; pressed him deeper into the kiss. Barghast shifted him up a bit more so that his legs were wrapped snugly around the lycan’s hips. Crowe gave into the Okanavian's desires. Only in these moments when they were alone was he ever truly free.

He reached back, guiding the sharp tip of Barghast’s cock to the entrance of his hole. It pulsed with life. With need. He gave it a squeeze, making Barghast snarl. He continues to drop kisses along the length of Barghast's muzzle, gnawing gently on his chin. Each response he worked out fueled him. There was one thing the lycan was wrong about: It's not only his job to give me pleasure; it's my job to pleasure him as well. And pleasure him I will.

It always took time and care to take the lycan inside. Everything about him was large. In the throes of passion he could just as easily hurt Crowe as he could in rage. So the barbarian helped him, gently gyrating his hips as inch by inch Crowe took him inside. After a time Barghast would pull his cock out and lay Crowe across his lap to feast hungrily on his hole; then they would resume. Minutes turned into an hour but the sorcerer no longer felt tired. He’d found his second wind. His skin buzzed, nerves sparking like fireworks. His head fell back, dark blue eyes catching the candlelight.

“Gaia, help me,” Barghast groaned once Crowe could feel the swell of his knot pressing against the practitioner's hole. “You are so beautiful. You will never stop being beautiful to me, my beloved. It is impossible. If anything you only grow more beautiful to me with every passing day…every passing moment. You're delicate but strong. Gentle but fierce. Your eyes contain both ice and fire. How could I not love you? How could my heart and my cock not ache for you with need? With absolute longing?”

“I want you inside me,” Crowe crooned. “I need you inside me. All of you…”

Crowe bounced faster, pushing his rump against Barghast's pulsing knot. The Okanavian took him into the kitchen where he stepped carefully around the broken glass. “Your rump, even after all the times we’ve made love, is so very small and right…”

“I trust you. You can't hurt me. You can't.” Crowe trembled with desperation. He twisted his fingers through the fur along Barghast's fur. “There is nothing you could do to hurt me. Please. Please.”

“Okay,” the lycan huffed. The air inside the house smelled thick with the smell of his musk. It made Crowe feel pleasantly dizzy. “But I will be very gentle. Very careful.” He set Crowe on the edge of the table. The wood felt cool against his clammy flesh. He shifted his legs slightly, rewrapping them with renewed strength. Slowly Barghast pushed against him until there was an audible pop.

He was in all the way. The practitioner loved the feeling of being so completely full. So completely taken. No one had ever made him feel the way Barghast made him feel. The love he’d felt for Bennett had been a boyish love built on foolish dreams and fancy; such a love was surely bound to be false. Not the love Barghast and I have for each other. Our love is strong. Our love is enduring.

Barghast pointed his head up at the ceiling and howled, cupping Crowe´s ears in his paws at the last second. His paws shielded the practitioner from the sound, but the rest of Caldreath might not be so lucky. The lycan bucked against him now, hips slamming into his, matted fur tickling his flesh. Crowe moaned in time with his growls. The sorcerer could feel his knot swelling within him, could see the slight bulge protruding from the center of his abdomen. He could feel the knot heating up like a boiling cauldron. Soon it would overflow and what came forth would fill him as only his lover could.

¨I´m close, twin o´rre, so close,¨ the Okanavian whined. ¨I don't want it to stop. I don't want the pleasure to ever stop. I want to remain like this forever. Until the end of this Iteration…so that we are joined as we enter into the next.¨

¨Me too,¨ Crowe gasped- The table shifted beneath him, protesting at its being bounced around so rudely, its owners oblivious to its pain in the throes of their passion. ¨I never want to be apart ever again. Release yourself. Release yourself into me!¨ He was mad with passion, his eyes white and blazing with mana, with emotion. The air began to shift and crackle around them, a soft wind stirring through the house, blowing back the curtains from the windows. ¨Fill me…I'm hungry for you. Hungry as I've never been for anyone. There is no one for me but you…Cum into me!¨

With this Barghast came. He howled again and this time he did not shield Crowe´s ears from the sound. Could not. Warm wetness flooded Crowe´s belly, shooting up into him. Barghast wasn't sure how much time passed before the flow of his seed tapered off, but by the time he was finished, the practitioner collapsed onto the table. Exhausted. Spent. He knew the Okanavian could go again, but it was another way in which they were different. The sorcerer simply didn't have the sexual stamina he did.

Once they were both able to catch their breath, the barbarian scooped the herald into his arms as if he were little more than a babe. His knot was still inside Crowe, stuck like a cork in a bottle. It would be hours before the knot’s swelling went down enough for it to pop out. The practitioner didn’t mind. It made the pleasure of their lovemaking last longer.

He didn’t remember falling asleep. He remembered sitting back on the sofa, stretched across Barghast’s lap. He didn’t need a blanket because the lycan kept him plenty warm. This is bliss, he remembered thinking. This is what life was truly meant to be. In being together we find our splendor.

And then he was being jostled awake, Barghast whining his name.

“Crowe - wake up!”

The practitioner’s eyes snapped open. Instantly he felt an immediate dread he’d foolishly hoped he would never feel again. “What is it?”

He climbed to his feet, peeling himself from Barghast’s sodden lap. The knot had popped out. His rump was sore, but in his alarm the pain was forgotten for the time being. He would pay for their passion later.

Before the Okanavian could answer, the door shook under the blows of a hammering fist. “Practitioner!” Rake screamed through the door, his voice raspy and afraid and slurred from drink. “Get your ass out here!”

Crowe cursed, yanking his robes on; with a wave of his hand his blasting rod soared into his outstretched fingers. No rest for the aggrieved, he thought. Barghast joined him, dressed in his tunic made of buffalo skin, his rifle swinging at his side.

Crowe undid the latch and pulled the door open so hard, he felt the brass knob bang into his hip. The pain was a small thing when he saw the look of wild-eyed fear in Rake’s narrow face. The man smelled of sweat and spirits, his breath rank. “They're here!” he shouted. “They're coming?”

“Who?” Crowe heard himself gasp, though he already suspected the answer. “Who is coming?”

“Torchcoats!” Rake was already walking away, gesturing impatiently for the practitioner and lycan to follow.

Crowe did follow on legs not made of wood. I’m not ready for this! a far younger, far more vulnerable part of his mind cried. But it was happening. There was no denying the summer heat in the turgid night air or the insects that buzzed past his face or the stars that burned overhead like faraway diamonds. “Are you sure? Surely Drajen cannot be here already! Gyrell said he was weeks away…”

“It is not Drajen, merely a small army winding their way through the trees. The guards on patrol on the tower of the church spotted them and sounded the alarms. You will soon see.”

Winding their way through Caldreath's streets, the air was charged with the clamor of its frightened villagers. They conglomerated before the church, dressed in black, with torches in hand, their eyes wide and teary eyed. Crowe was not the only one not ready to face the reality of war again. The black stink of their fear colored the air as Rake, Barghast, and he shouldered their way through the crowd. Patrolmen in charge of safeguarding the town attempted to gain control of the chaos, divvying out commands and threats to throw those who did not listen into cells at the center of the town. Those braves souls who were not caught up in the panic - souls more brave than myself - wielded hammers and planks of wood to barricade their homes against the inevitable onslaught.

Loras stood at the top of the flagstone steps, dressed in her battle garb. She scowled when she saw the trio mounting the steps. “It's about time!” she growled at Crowe through gritted teeth. “Time is of the essence. We have but a short time to prepare for battle. Come to the top of the tower with me so that you may see the threat we face…”

Before Crowe could reply, she turned around, her heels clicking on the stone. Her armor reflected the light of tonight's full moon. The journey to the top of the tower seemed longer than ever. A thought nagged at Crowe during the long ascent: He remembered how he made a similar journey in Vaylin, winding up the steps of a tower in the ancient necropolis. Deja vu clouded his mind. All that's happened before is happening again. We are but slaves to the cycle.

Several guards stood at the top of the tower. Burning flames cast flickering light on their grizzled faces.

“They're getting closer, Commander!” a tall guard growled in a deep voice. He pointed at something in the night, narrowing his eyes down to slits. “Do you see them?”

It was Crowe’s turn to squint. It didn't take him long to spot the motion the guard spoke of. The tower stood high above the trees. High enough that he could see the snake of torchcoats winding through the trees, marked by the silver torches on the back of their armor.

“Monad, help us, they have cannons! There are twice as many people as we have…over a thousand! Damn us to the Void!” Rake hissed. Beads of sweat dripped from his furrowed brow. “How could the Mother let so many pass through the trees?” He rounded on the commander, his eyes wide and petulant, like that of a frightened child.

“Because just as our belief and growing numbers feeds the power that makes this town possible, so does spilling the blood of those who would thwart us,” Gyrell said. Her voice rang not with fear but determination. And the hunger to spill torchcoats blood. Crowe recognized it because he could feel the eagerness to do the same beating in tune with his heart. Like thunder in the blood.

Gyrell turned to him, her eyes flashing in the firelight. “It is your time to rise, practitioner. It is your time to lead them. They need to hear your voice. They need to be bolstered by your courage. Think of all I taught you.”

Her words made everything inside of Crowe freeze. Everyone on top of the tower had turned their gazes to look at him now: the guards; Rake and Barghast who now stood at his back, resting a paw on his shoulder.

It's too soon. I’m not ready.

But what choice did he have? The job of being herald had always belonged to him…whether he wanted it or not.

                                       …

When he reached the top of the flagstone steps, he looked up at the sky to find Metropolis sitting atop the horizon. The mob of frightened villagers had stopped their begging and clamoring, pointing at it with whispers of awe. The city shined, a beacon of white in the midst of a black sea.

“Yes!” he shouted, both comforted and elated by the sight of the Eternal City. “Look upon the great city and know that one day you will walk through its halls…”

Many faces turned around to face him with the word, “herald!”, exiting their lips in a breathless whisper. He was reminded of the exaltation he'd felt as he watched the Inquisitor burn, salivating at the aroma of burning flesh and hair.

“Look upon the city and know what it is you are fighting for. To reclaim the home that has been stolen from our people time and time again!” His voice rang through the night like a gunshot, full of power and confidence.

“For many an Iteration we have been denied our birthright - the right to walk the glittering streets of our true home. The Theocracy will do everything in their power to keep us from achieving our goal. They have thwarted us one night too many. Let's not let them thwart us another, shall we?”

Heads nodded in his direction and cheered in approval. More villagers appeared, armed with rifles and staves that glowed with Monad’s fire, their eyes burning with the same white fire Crowe felt burning inside his own eyes; others carried pitchforks, kitchen knives, and hatchets. The people of Caldreath would fight even if the only weapons they owned were their own hands. He could feel the tension in the air continue to unravel as he bolstered their courage with his words. Words that came to him naturally as they’d never come to him before. Barghast handed him a water canteen. He drank from it greedily until water sloshed down the front of his robes. With nothing more to say he began to thread his way through the crowd.

They followed him, silent but ever present, their footfalls grinding soundlessly into the summer soil and the reedy song of crickets. Gyrell remained on his right, Barghast on his left. Rake and the guards adorned in freshly boiled armor followed at his back; anyone capable of wielding Monad’s fire took up the middle, with those more vulnerable taking up the rear. In the space of an hour the town of Caldreath had changed into something unrecognizable. Barricades had been erected in the middle of the street; trenches that had not been there moments ago had been dug into the ground. Orders were given out in sharp barks and hoarse whispers.

Barghast's eyes burned with excitement; it had been weeks since he'd last spilled torchcoat blood.

Crowe could already hear the thunder of hooves. At any second the first torchcoats would come into view and the battle would begin. It would be Crowe and Barghast’s first battle with a real number of allies. We’re not alone anymore. This time I have a small army at my back.

Already the thunder of horse hooves galvanized the thick night air. Voices shouted. The torchcoats were not trying to hide their passage from their opponents. Because they don't feel the need to. They think this is a battle they’ve already won because we’re nothing but savages to them. They don't know we have the backing of an Architect. This mistake - their hubris - will be their undoing.

He held a clenched fist up in the air the way Gyrell had shown him - the signal for those armed with rifles to hold their fire. Only when he made the chopping motion were they to attack. This will be my first time leading a battle. I hope I have what it takes.

The first of the torchcoat riders bounded into view, the mounts rendered in black. The riders did not appear to be separate entities, but made the illusion they were one with their mounts, a new species of creation that had not been seen before. Banners flapped in the wind like leathery bat wings.

“Now!” Rake hissed as the first volleys of fire were unleashed from the enemy; somehow he had moved up to the front of the line. Fist still clenched in the air, Crowe grabbed Rake’s arm before he could stand and seal his own fate. The first rounds pierced the barricade, throwing splinters and the burning spice of gunpowder into his face. It must have been Monad's own watchful eye that saved him from meeting his own death, for he’d been too busy yanking the man back down into a crouched position.

“Just another second! We still have the element of surprise.”

He didn't know if there was any point in trying to speak, only lead with action when he didn't quite know what action to take. The torchcoats’ mounts were closing the distance quickly, the crash of their hooves growing ever more deafening and the sound of breaking glass everywhere. Somehow there was enough time to trade a glance with Gyrell between one round of fire and the next. She rewarded him with a nod of approval, so he must have made the right call.

Everything told him he hadn't made the right call. His blood had turned to ice in his veins. His mind howled for him to act now, act now, act now before it was too late! He was drowning in the reek of human and horse sweat, horse shit, and the reek of his own fear.

Barghast tipped. “Twin o’rre! They’re almost on top of us!”

He shoved the fear - all of it - into his rod. White fire crackled from the runes, eclipsing the front of the street. At the same time he unleashed his fury on the rider but moments from colliding with the barricade, Crowe bellowed, “NOW!”

The villagers of Caldreath unleashed their own fury at the herald's cry. Their fury combined made the town look as if it burned from within - as if it might disappear in the blink of an eye. The first column of torchcoats were obliterated from view. Mama ripped furrows in the ground, ripped the ground from beneath the torchcoats’ mounts. Burning embers pelted those who were helpless below. Crowe threw himself in top of Barghast to shield him from the blast as much as his feeble body would allow. With a grunt of effort, he formed a dome of mana around them before the resounding shockwave could rip them apart.

Crowe felt the ground rock beneath them. He heard shouts and curses of fury. The barricade was completely gone, little more than a pile of sticks. Through the haze of smoke that thickened the air he could see the buildings which had been damaged in the blast were repairing themselves. Windows sheened with freshly formed panes; walls that had collapsed raised themselves. The town healed itself even as it came apart. Like Monad’s people, Caldreath would not crumble in defeat.

Bullets sliced through the air. They sparked against Crowe’s shield, against the ground. Barghast Rose up from his crouched position with a snarl. His rifle bucked in his hands.

“Stay with me!” Crowe barked through gritted teeth. The blue of his eyes were hidden behind Monad’s white fury. His sweat-sheened face was so pale it almost appeared gray. A hatred he didn't know he harbored for the torchcoats boiled in his blood. A hatred that went to such depths it frightened him.

“I’m right behind you, twin o’rre!”

With the lycan’s promise made, the practitioner charged into the fray.

The stampede horses racing towards them filled the narrow streets of Caldreath. A big mistake Crowe thought as his side pummeled them with returning shots of mana and gunfire. He ducked to the side, narrowly avoiding being crushed by a massive horse. He unsheathed his blade, slicing into the rider’s leg in a single fluid motion. Hot blood splattered his face; some of it soaked his tongue with the taste of copper.

The rider fell from the steed. With a bellow, it careened towards its own peril in the colliding maelstrom. Hatchets and pitchforks and knives stabbed the air with blind fury; into the horse who’s only sin had been to carry its rider into battle. Its agonized shrieks were silenced by the mindless cries of Monad’s people as they struck out at whatever unfortunate soul got in the way.

Crowe and Barghast pushed towards the front of Caldreath, opening a path through the torchcoats. For the practitioner things were happening far quicker than he could have ever anticipated. And yet his body seemed to steer itself over fallen debris and lifeless corpses. Monad, help me, there are so many bodies! What war he had seen had been nothing compared to this. Already the cobblestones beneath his feat were slippery with spilt blood.

A horn wailed in the night, but from which direction or which side, he could not say. It took all his concentration to shield Barghast and he from harm as they fought.

“Twin o’rre!” Barghast barked.

He fired at something in the sky.

The practitioner looked up just in time to see a lit stick of dynamite soar towards their face.

No! he thought.

In his fear his magical sphere of protection fell around him like the crystalline strands of a spiderweb. With a growl of determination, he reformed its shape at the exact same second the dynamite exploded. Flames licked along the outer layer of the dome. Light crackled. The air sizzled and smoked. The impact of the explosion breached the wall, flattening Crowe and Barghast to the rubble-strewn ground.

For a moment disorienting darkness prevailed. Only the war would not let him rest. Chipped stone pelted his face, sliced his lower open so that this time the blood he tasted was his own. But who can tell the difference? All blood tastes the same whether it was your blood or the blood of another. Someone tripped over his leg. He watched the unfortunate soul try to get to their feet only to fall back down following the flash of a bayonet. It occurred to him that he should do the same lest he suffer the same fate. He managed to raise himself on his hands and feet when Barghast appeared. Together they ducked behind the bulk of an overturned wagon.

The lycan brushed his hair back from his face. His muzzle moved but his words were lost on Crowe. Lost in the maddening roar of battle and death.

A streak of mana cut through the smoke, drawing their attention to the end of the street. Loras stride out of the gloom. Her hair had come unbound so that it curled around her head like a veil. Her face was streaked with soot and blood; whether it was her own or someone else's Crowe could not say. She did not move as one who was injured, though a large dent had been punched into her breastplate. Her eyes, no longer green, blazed with white fire.

She lashed out at the torchcoat foolish enough to advance towards her with a bayonet. Their blades clashed, sparking in the dark. The runes carved into the pommel of Gyrell’s sword burned with Monad’s holy fire. Gyrell lashed out with another kick that sent her adversary stumbling back, opening him up to a fatal blow. Her blade pierced his chest plate, pushing out through his back, soaking it in crimson. Two more torchcoats charged into the breach to avenge their fallen comrade. Gyrell’s sword flashed twice with a mighty shriek. “Where is your whore Elysian when you need her?” she spat as she kicked aside her crumbling ashes.

She dropped into a crouch beside Crowe. “Shake it off, herald,” she sniffed. “You don't have time to lick your wounds.”

Crowe hated the tone of disapproval audible in her voice, but most of all he hated his reaction to it: He nodded, climbing once more to his feet. Who are you to think you’ve changed? a voice taunted him in the back of his mind. You're still the foolish farm boy who aches for the approval of others?

“What did I tell you about winning battles?” Gyrell asked him before taking a long swig from her flask.

Crowe struck another torchcoat down with his rod. He fucked. The wagon shook under the onslaught of bullets that pelted the wood; a few more rounds and it would turn to dust like everything else. “Cut the head off the snake and you win the battle; everyone else will lose their courage and fall.”

The commander grinned at him. She passed him her flask. “So you do listen. You heard the horn, right?”

Crowe nodded, pulling a healthy swig of aether wine from the flask. “Yes. I wasn’t sure if it was ours…”

“It isn't. The horn belongs to the fool who gives out the orders to these zealots.”

As if to prove her point, the wailing of a horn cut through the night followed by the deep bellow of a man's voice.

The snake, Crowe thought.

“Let's go find the snake and cut off it's head,” he grunted.