So they fled, fighting from behind cover when they were reached and beating the horde back, before retreating again, the horrors pursuing. Then, fatefully, on the second level they tarried a moment too long and a splintered spar of wood from an upturned table, speared through Wulf, digging deep into his side. It was a vicious wound. The big man grimaced, it was the first time that Yarlae had ever seen him show pain and the sight unnerved her more than she had thought possible. He pulled the spar free and launched it into the nearest foe. Black ichor erupting as the improvised weapon smashed into the fiend’s face. An unsteady retreat followed.
After that, there was little thought of fighting. Wulf’s strength waned, he was losing blood, growing weaker, his torso slicked with gore. With his prodigious might gone they could no longer try to barricade the way. Their flight became headlong, doors would have to hold the foe back best they could. Yarlae half dragged him up to the third floor, though she knew this was not something that she could continue to do, Wulf was just too big. Wulf had come to the same realisation. As they got to the second room on the third floor he stumbled, coughing violently. Yarlae reached for him but he warded her off with a hand, looking up at her with a beard flecked with bright blood.
"Leave me, girl, I am done." He leaned heavily on his warhammer and coughed again. The sound of splintering wood came from below. The constructs would be on them again soon.
"Go! Fear not lass, they’ll not take me easily. There is life in this old dog yet!" He rose unsteadily and picked up his weapon in one hand. The strain showed on his face as he hefted the hammer.
“Begone! Grant me this end I beseech thee. Mark my words, I'll give a good account of myself. They’ll not pass me unbloodied. I task you, hunt down the puppet master of this evil. Put one of your arrows through the fiend’s eye." Yarlae didn’t point out that she had no arrows left. Her gilded bow had been nothing but a cudgel for some time.
Wulf turned, breathing raggedly. A warrior making his last stand.
There was nothing else to say. Yarlae left the man to his inevitable death.
****
Wulf was true to his word. By the time his bellows had ceased, Yarlae had reached the fifth level. Loathe as she was to admit it, she moved a lot faster without the old wounded warrior slowing her down. She swiftly outpaced her pursuers, her lithe form vaulting and leaping, darting from room to room. As she ascended she fancied she could FEEL the dark magics at work. There was an oppressive aura that increased as she negotiated the floors of the tower, getting closer and closer to the pinnacle. At the eighth level it was overbearing and actually painful, a pressure that assaulted her mind. She must be close.
And indeed, it was on the ninth floor that a faint green glow could be seen, emanating from the outline of a closed door. Apprehensively she edged the door open, tensing every muscle, ready to respond to whatever threat lay in wait.
There was nothing. The glow was actually coming from above. There was a small hole in the ceiling with a ladder leading up to the green luminescence. Her superior hearing picked up feminine muttering. For sure her quarry. Her bow was battered and bent, the fine elven gilding tarnished and dull. Though it pained her to discard the weapon she set it quietly on the floor, drawing her dagger instead. Silently she ascended the ladder, peeking above the upper floor.
The room was dark, oppressively so. Where the previous levels of the tower had been lit to at least some degree, this level had but one source of illumination. A green orb floating above a stooped figure some eight feet away. The figure was the source of the muttering.
"Yes, this one will be mighty indeed. Much better than the last lot, mind you, we will need more stock soon, another town perhaps, the last was disappointing, the next will be better, always better. Improved, superior yes. We take the best parts, make something better from the sum of the parts. Assembly, yes, so many options, so many choices! Need more, hmmm. This leg, no, this one. Yes, that looks good."
The muttering continued, she rambled without pause, without breath, making little observations, remarking, commenting ceaselessly. Yarlae listened to the woman for a moment but it soon became clear that nothing of use would be gleaned by further observation. She stealthily left the ladder, crouching low, shadows all around. Half dozen steps and a quick strike, that was all it would take. She strained her ears to try to detect the sounds of her pursuers below but there was nothing. This was disconcerting but she couldn’t worry about that right now. Her target was just ahead. Four steps away, three…
“Bah, some of these parts are too old, too used. Barely usable at all, need more fresh meat, hmm maybe this arm? Yes, that will fit. No, that’s too burnt, that one is too mangled. Hmm this one? No, not that one. Need more stock, need more parts, aaah how about this one, how about… YOU?“
Yarlae was but a step away, suddenly the green orb flared, momentarily blinding her. She made to strike but was somehow stuck in place, unable to move a muscle. The mysterious figure turned to face her would be assassin, displaying a wolfish grin. She was stunningly beautiful. Fresh faced and with pale grey eyes which flashed with malice.
‘Yes, you. Young, powerful. Imagine what we could make with you my dear.’ Her grey eyes flashed again as she beheld Yarlae’s rising form. She assessed the half elf predatorily. Yarlae matched her gaze. There was something familiar about that face…
Yarlae was stuck fast, no matter how much she strained, her muscles taut. She fought the magic, the charm on her breast flared as it tried to combat and dispel the sorcery being used on her, a scream formed on her lips but she could not give voice to it. . The spell broke and there was a moment of surprise on the Fleshmancer’s face as the dagger plunged toward her heart.
Yarlae’s strike was arrested, a hand wrapping around her wrist, slowly forcing the dagger back. She yelped as her arm was bent unnaturally, forcing her to drop the weapon. She looked up into a snarling face, suddenly she understood why the sorcerer had seemed so familiar.
Markas regarded her balefully from the shadows. There was none of his smarm or trademark sneer. His features were slack, expressionless. It was his face but it wasn’t him, or his body. His head had been grafted onto a hulking torso, with huge arms and disproportionately small legs. He had been turned into an abomination, just like the rest. And the woman… a tear ran down Yarlae’s face as realisation took hold.
It was Vasilya. Not entirely, the features were merged, morphed with someone else's, but there was enough of the young mage there to be sure. The sorcerer had stolen her flesh.
“Yes“ purred the fleshmancer, her purloined features lit by the orb, green as emerald. “Your young friend was not much use as a warrior I am afraid, and her meagre magics were far inferior to those that I wield. But her youth was… pleasing and my work does take its toll upon my...flesh.”
“You, on the other hand….. “
She reached forward and yanked the charm from Yarlae’s breast.
“Well, you won't be needing this at least.”
Yarlae winced as the totem was taken from her, then at a nod from the Fleshmancer the monster wearing Markas’ face struck her a savage blow and she knew no more.
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