A Child's Tears

“Halt.”

Moira’s foot paused at the edge of the staircase landing. She had no intention to obey any command she heard in this place, but the voice was frail and matched what stood before her. Guarding this place alone, in a minimal linen loincloth, was a ragged, emaciated young man, barely more than a boy. His swarthy skin and seemingly impossibly thin frame made him look like a living shadow in the dim light of the braziers, and it was only how he shimmered, and how he leaned on his spear, that made him seem real at all. Moira soon realized the glimmers on his flesh were not droplets of sweat or blood, but instead they were shards of some gemstone permanently affixed to the skin of his shoulders and chest. Each one, the size of a fat pill, seemed applied by a cruel and uncaring hand: scar tissues raised around each as if it were a fresh wound. His face was severe, adding years that Moira knew didn’t exist between them, and it seemed to grow pained in tune with the pale glow of the pearl buried in the center of his forehead. His torso caved inward; his every bone seemed visible, and it was this skeletal guardian, this starved teenager, that now barred her path ever forward in this damnable Maze.

He leaned on a spear made entirely of steel, more for support than to seem casual, but his tired green eyes remained focused on her. He did not point the weapon at her, yet; she wondered if his frail body could manage it. By the Lady’s grace... what the Hell... did the Cabal do to him? Is he truly a guard, in this state? She sensed no evil from him; in a dungeon all but made from sadistic energy, his lack of malice was like a rip in a midnight dress. But the gems glittered with intent, and she knew better than to trust his appearance. “Who are you?”

His eyes slowly widened as he focused upon the girl: it was not that her hauberk was torn in places, showing off more of her left thigh and right breast than might’ve been appropriate, but rather something about her presence. It cut through the haze... and for those precious, fleeting spasms of consciousness, he could see a visible outline of power around her. It was calming; it reminded him of a sacred, wonderful time, long lost. Hope filled his heart, and his anorexic body stood straighter. Her beautiful face was... nostalgic. He loved her, he thought, and he struggled to hold on to why. “My Lady...” Moira’s eyes widened in surprise. “My name... is Assym Pemmaraj-urgh!”

He flinched as the pearl burned white-hot; he would've fallen to the ground had he not held onto his spear for dear life. His body jerked violently... and, by the urging of a will not his own, he hoisted his pointy crutch in his arms and shakily pointed its shining tip at the intruder. His starved muscles trembled with the effort until, by the menacing red glow of the rubies blasted across his shoulders and torso, his skin began to crawl. Veins, like worms underneath a rotting canopy of skin, grew pronounced against his flesh. His breaths came rapid and ragged. The veins multiplied unnaturally; his body was soon covered in pumping tubes in a horrible criss-cross mesh across his chest, face, and every limb until his appearance was horribly mutilated. His skin seemed to squirm as it inflated, and Moira took a step towards him, urged to heal him, or at least to try and destroy the gems-

The spear now pointed solidly at Moira's face, and his face became a mask of anger. “I am sorr... I... am... my name is Bookles, and you are not welcome in the Goddess' home.”

Moira looked into his miserable eyes; her hammer suddenly felt very heavy. This... this isn’t my enemy, nor is it some illusionary beast! I can’t... I can’t kill this person! Whatever the Cabal did to him, whatever it takes to reverse it... Lady help me, what right have I to **** my enemy's victim?! “Listen to me: Assym, was it? I will free you once I find your master... but I need to get through to do that-”

“I... can’t... let you,” he managed through gritting teeth.

“Assym, please listen to me-“

With an animal noise, the starved **** clicked his heels together as he snapped to face her at profile. His arms raised the spear like a pool cue over his chest, such that his eye and the length of his weapon followed the same line: directly through Moira's golden shield and into her heart. He would drive it there, if she let him.

But this is not what disturbed her. What made her hold her shield up and begin to worry was that she had only seen that stance once before: the fighting manual of the Sanatani Dervish, the warriors of the Order in India. They swore an oath to the Order's Truth over all religions, and each was a master of the sang, the all-metal spear that they could make sing the Lady's Hymn. He... He can't truly be one of them-! His spear thrusted into the shield to taste the proof of the Warden's station.

So began their terrible song.

The glass doors opened, and Juniluny faced the fifth floor, now demolished by a single intruder, with a twitching nose. Where the Hell did she go? She took stock of the mess left behind: the monsters of this floor, some of the strongest she had gathered, were the only ones she bothered to train beyond instructions to not eat each other. Each had followed their trained paths and, at one junction or another, met their grisly end at the invader’s hand. Her prized minotaurs laid broken, the dire wolves were piled up with shattered chitin and spines, and her boars, named after the cuts of meat she thought would taste the best if she ever became **** for a meal, were laid out with caved-in skulls. All the other thirteen beasts or abominations she employed were either missing or destroyed in some similar manner. Her shadow creep, a living shade “purchased” from Tara’s smuggling group almost a year ago, had barely any chances to prove itself before it now painted every surface of the staircase landing. Its essences in **** wouldn’t be worthless, but they’d net less than a tenth the price Juniluny paid in soul gems.

Following this trail of expensive horror, Juniluny soon realized her prey had already escaped to the next floor... and yet hadn’t progressed enough to trigger one of her alarms. Ah... that’s right. The one guarding this staircase is... hoo hoo... what luck if the Warden was the final guest to my humble hole--don't let it be anymore awful surpises!--and what luck that she chose this staircase...! Eager to see the results, she fled back to her elevator.

“She's going back up... and there's nothing else alive on this floor," Layla reported.

"What is your nose telling you... Galley?" John struggled to not think about her real name.

"This is humiliating..."

Layla blinked as she withdrew the upper-half of her face from the stationary tunnel in the air, but only long enough to glare at the giant, still-naked woman. Said nudist glared past the rim of the smaller tunnel she occupied with her nose. "Don't you want to protect your precious Warden?" Layla taunted.

John continued to sit cross-legged on the floor. Despite positioning herself behind him, Galley felt desperately self-conscious in her nudity... and in what parts of her were aligned with the back of his head. "S-She's happy," she huffed, forcing her voice to be even deeper, "and... Moira. She's closer, now."

John nodded without opening his eyes. "Tell me if this is closer."

The tunnels before the girls closed and opened anew, and Layla was the first to lean in. "Y-Yes! There's a huge aura... whoa... eh, I-I mean, that's probably the Warden's aura right over us, but it's to the far left of where this is facing. It looks like she's fighting someone else... someone twisted and ****?" She seemed to ask herself more than them. "They're moving around a lot... probably at one of the staircase areas, if the next floor doesn't have huge rooms."

"I can smell Moira more clearly now; I can also smell the one fighting with her. A teenage boy, full of anger. He barely thinks anything at all. She's... surprised and conflicted. She's feeling guilty about her enemy... and she's wounded." That strange, bewildering smell from John suddenly intensified; Galley shook her head as she almost grew dizzy from his fumes. A mixture of pain and panic filled the boy; there was little doubt of how much he genuinely cared for the Warden, much to the Hound's surprise. Why would a contract mage care this much about the Warden? Unless he...

Wordlessly, John continued to scour the floor--the fifth one, if Layla's was truly the bottom--and focused on trying to find whatever path got to the nearby stairs. I have to hope this works... just hang on, Moira... He winced as his vision blurred, but he couldn't stop now.

I... dance... by the song... of my... ancest- Kim's body surged against the machine and the restraints as it attacked her anew. Her barriers continued to fall apart; ever more of her was fed to the suckling crystal that fueled this terrible place. ... ancestors. But she remained. Her body was disfigured, but the wounds had closed; her muscles were slowly knitting back together, though she barely had any chi left to channel into them. The machine looked sturdy; it would take so much of her just to remove it, as she was now, but still she channeled energy into her left arm, repairing it before her aching lungs, her damaged right eye, or any of the heat-warped or stripped patches of her skin. Her left hand, with what energy she had remaining, surged against the steel ring that entrapped it.

The steel did not forgive. Kim thought she had run out of the tears that started to flow down her cheeks anew. I tolerate... pain... with their strength... The medallion slowed its spin, but she continued to meditate on her arm. The machine groaned as it prepared the next attack.

"By the light of the Lady!"

The man spun away, his head turned as the holy light filled the room. He ended the spin on his feet and with his spear already set to lunge at Moira’s feet. She dropped her shield to deflect only to fall for his feint; his spear sliced at her eyes, missing by hairs and instead cutting the bridge of her nose as she leapt away. The bones of her face rang with the metallic tune of his strike. He’s fast... damn it, he’s good...! She dashed forward and past the spear as it tried to cut towards her again. The top of her shield bounced it up and wild, forcing him to try and bring it in to defend himself; she bashed into his elbows and body before then, sending him a clean five feet away to roll onto his back.

Still the spear rang in his grip. Though not enchanted, his spear maintained its edge even after a dozen useless strikes against the Shield of the Golden Order.

He rode the **** and rolled over his own head, bringing himself back onto his feet by the time Moira found her footing. Blood leaked pitifully from the cut on her nose; it was already out done by some dozen wounds that she had closed before facing the only foe to challenge her. They had sparred now for almost a full minute, longer than any monster below had lasted. His defense, so long as that spear remained in his hand, seems impenetrable; her holy attacks couldn’t land on his flesh, and her every attempt to break his guard ended in ripostes as her grip slowly numbed from the vibration of meeting the shaft of his sang with her hammer's blows.

Her every attempt to brute **** through him, as she could with so many enemies of the Order, was matched by whatever foul magic now coursed through his body. He had mastered his technique; he now borrowed the strength of something more terrible than human. Lady guide me: this damned hammer is too slow! How can I overcome a warrior whose style I so barely understand? “The Lady bless me.” Her nose ceased to bleed, and all the places his spear had bluntly struck or injured no longer ached.

Her words stirred something in “Bookles.” A flash of intelligence in his eyes, a familiar glance from Assym... but the pearl screamed its pale light, and hate washed his true face away in another pulse of raised flesh.

The rubies glowed brighter on the poor boy’s body, and his limbs surged and pulsed in sync. Damn it... infused with dark works as he is, a smiting blow would... Worrying about killing the boy suddenly seemed a bit absurd where she had yet to land a telling blow.

But even now, the question of his style haunted her. Was she mistaken? Why would he be here and serving a Cabal witch of all things? With gritting teeth, he slowly approached as his spear took quick stabs into the air between them. The space was getting closed, but Moira had already let him press his advantage earlier; she couldn’t let him back her against the wall anew. She needed to try something new... and an old, silly trick from her training sessions came to mind. Would it work...? No, he'd never let his spear go- unless-!

She ran out of time to think. The spear nearly tapped her shield; she held her hammer high and behind her head for precious seconds as she retreated, counting her steps. The spear reared back as he stepped with her, eager to press her further, anticipating her every step backwards... but he failed to anticipate that the Warden of the Golden Rose, armed with holy arms in service of the world... would suddenly toss her blessed hammer at him like so much rubbish. Shocked, he narrowly dodged without withdrawing his attack... only to have her free hand now grip the spear shaft close to its head and pull it as he thrusted. The additional pull of a Warden’s might multiplied his own until his grip, and arms, were stretched out completely towards her. She stepped with it, making sure to get the spear’s length between them.

He squeezed the shaft, intent on pulling out. Her eyes shined with triumph; she would not let him. “In the name of the Lady!” Baffled, Assym watched as the spear glowed a brilliant gold. His hands, covered in false veins pumping cursed blood, recoiled from its awful, holy energy.

He tried to **** his grip back onto it; he was too late. With her body twisting **** into it, she stepped in with her explosive thrust, smashing the blunt end of the spear into the boy’s sternum and filling him with the Lady's wrath. A single, telling blow to slow him, and then she could-

CRACK.

Moira gasped as she felt his chest cave in. The network of veins covering him suddenly grew still, the pearl on his forehead dimmed, and all the rubies studding his torso exploded like a buckshot blast. “No-!”

The boy fell to his knees. Moira tossed the spear to the side and ran to the boy, her arm outstretched to catch him before he could fall forward onto his face.

She braced for his weight... and flinched when it fell into her arms. He’s so... light, like there’s nothing left of him... Moira gritted her teeth as she raised the boy’s head. His eyes had regained some awareness... and glistened as he smiled up at her. Praised be! “The Lady bless you,” she urgently whispered, planting her kiss by the pearl on his forehead. She kept her lips there, on the sweaty patch of dark skin, now dotted with his ruined blood; she held it there, waiting for the surge of Her blessing, of the healing energies to save him...

But the blessing did not come. Moira withdrew, wide-eyed and confused. She had the holy energy to dispense Her will, she was sure of it. But the holes left by the rubies continued to weep like a shotgun wound, and his blood, most of what remained of his tortured innards, continued to pool around his knees. “Why...? Why won’t...”

Tears welled up in his eyes; his body knew he was going to perish. But still he smiled up at her. “I... did not think... I’d see the young... Lady of America... again...”

“... The Lady of-?”

A memory from a childhood journey to the outskirts of Jaipur. A grinning Indian boy--a child soldier--being raised to one day guard the other child Warden of the Golden Rose. Moira had attacked him in her blind rage and he, amused by her bright red face, made her stumble into the fountain, ruining her hair and dress. The western Warden stared at him with her childish rage, but he grinned back at her with eyes that glittered like emeralds, and he held up his ceremonial spear with the exuberant pride of a child. Moira instantly hated the beautiful boy and screamed as much at him. He, before anyone else would ever dare... laughed in her face. “Laidee of Amerikan,” he taunted in his broken English.

That’s... that’s impossible. How...? “T... The Lady blesses you!” She yelled it again, kissing the ruined flesh of his forehead. But still his wounds remained.

The pearl cracked, and blood flowed from its wounds as if it were his flesh. The trickle of blood danced between the crags of his ruined face and down the bridge of his nose; their faces were similarly stained, now. He sobbed in her arms, his eyebrows wrinkled in pain, but he still **** his absurd grin. His eyes began to blur into milky white as his body grew cold in the Warden’s grip. “देवी ने मुझे आशीर्वाद दिया है मैं आज़ाद हूँ.”* Moira shook her head and thought to try again, to somehow pray harder, or to command the Lady's powers in another way-

His body stiffened, and he was gone.

The Warden remained on her knees, holding up the almost weightless corpse. His blood oozed wider until it touched the unguarded skin of her knees. It was already cool to the touch. The Warden remained there, silent.

Juniluny almost whistled aloud in appreciation. I guess Wardens can’t tell their slaves apart, huh? Maybe this one’s too young or stupid to recognize his technique, honed as it has been these past few years... or maybe they're just as bloodthirsty as I always figured they were. But alas! My precious little Order knightling, killed almost before I even got here! More waste, more loss... Snickerbottom tsked under her breath as she crept forward; her eyes watered and, as she drew near the corner of stone between the landing and the hall, her skin began to redden and blister until she finally stepped back. Gah! It hurts just to be near the holy cow! Damn her kind! No matter... her back is turned, after all, and only her shield and hammer are enchanted. I don’t even need my casting digits! I’ll finish the whelp in a single surprise attack. The Warden continued to cradle the corpse, unsure of what to do or say with her half-remembered dream. She muttered something under her breath, but Juniluny felt no danger as she prepared the hellfire blast in her mind. It would be weakened without its words, or without her fingers, but it would prove enough to kill a flat-footed teenager even at its lowest level... or at least injure an unguarded Warden. The excitement of testing her mastery under duress almost let the halfling forget her dire situation.

Without a syllable or anything more than a gesture, Moira and the corpse blossomed into molten-red flames.

[*“Devee ne mujhe... aasheervaad diya hai main aazaad hoon.” or "The Goddess has blessed me; I am free."]