Tweet of the Day: Female Warriors in Fantasy
Pruvincia do Sarausa, Regione Siciliana, Repubblica italiana, 14 July, 02:00 hrs +2 GMT
A fog rolled in through the narrow streets of Syracuse.
A mind fog.
A fog of war.
A fog designed to heighten fears and confuse the sense. A literal witches brew of malevolent air spirits and psychic manipulations.
A rock smashes against my forehead.
Owen gripped my shoulder, “I’m here.”
A warm wave pushed the memory aside. The rest of the squad was outside the city limits. Owen could not keep them cloaked, protect them against the effects of the fog and detect the enemy at the same time. I could feel the strain on his nerves even through the warm veneer of confidence.
“Wisps,” he whispered. He pointed down at the street.
From our vantage point on the flat roof I saw the glop of light rip open the curtain of fog as it floated below us. I caught a glimpse of an enemy soldier. His skin strained under taught muscles, almost to the point of ripping itself apart. The demon possessed beast, once a man, walked naked with nothing but a series of metal and obsidian plates seared into his skin. Behind him came a procession of grey hooded figures. The mages the partisans told us about. They only left the protection of Mt. Aetna at night under the cover of the fog. The night invited its own terrors which the fog sculpted, accentuated and propagated. The demon knocked on the door on the house opposite to us.
I unsheathed Excalibur. Distinct heart beats reverberated in my ear.
One, two, three…four….
Owen pointed to the mages, “The one in the…” but was cut off when the mage looked directly at us.
Owen vanished and reappeared on the street below, twin daggers sunk deep into the wizard’s chest. The daggers were a gift from the Conclave that allowed him to manipulate time but at a cost. They turned seconds into minutes, minutes into hours and hours into days. Their magic would pull him out of time, but if he waited too long, when he came back, all that time would catch up with him. With a push of Air, I jumped from the rooftop and landed behind the demon soldier. Excalibur slashed open the beast’s torso. The leader pulled a ornate silver gilded matchlock from his robes and fired. The bullet hit me in the chest, then rolled off, deflected by a coat of enchanted maille, another gift from the Conclave. Still, it always hurts when someone punches my tits. The gunman stared at his gun incredulously then slumped to the ground. Owen stood behind him, bloody blade in hand. Owen disappeared again. A dark form hurled itself at me from the fog. I parried the attack with a push of Earth under a nearby car. The beast slammed its head into driver’s window of the tiny two door. The high pitch grind of ripping metal made my back teeth hurt as the thing pulled itself back and ripped the car door in the process.
Before me stood an eight foot werewolf with midnight fur and yellow eyes. It yelped at a series of gashes opened in its skin. His eyes darted about, wild with pain and hatred. Owen materialized at the beast four o’clock. It was the opening I needed. I wrapped the fog around myself and with another push of Air jumped into the sky. The beast howled as steel ripped flesh. A fountain of blood gushed from the stump. I spun and slashed again. The werewolf’s head rolled off into the fog. The body of the necromancer, free of the beasts spirit, collapsed into a bloody heap.
With the mages dead the fog dissipated. We escaped before reinforcements arrived. Word of the night’s deed would spread and with it, hope for the partisans.
And fear among our enemies.