Chapter 177: A Promise to the Dead #176

It was already night time, and the calm weather that had graced the duel’s beginning had long since disappeared, replaced by a violent storm that howled across the sea.

Dark clouds churned overhead, their bellies lit by intermittent flashes of lightning, and rain fell in sheets, lashing against the waves and the spectators alike. The wind howled, whipping the sea into a frenzy of white-capped waves that rose and fell with a fury that seemed almost alive.

High above the raging waters, the spectators could still make out the fight only thanks to the orbs of magelight floating in the air, cast by the mages aboard the ships. Their pale, steady glow cut through the storm’s darkness like beacons, illuminating a spectacle that had become something far more primal than a mere duel.

The fight, however, could barely be called that anymore.

Torin’s entire body was covered in blood—his own and Garran’s, mingling together in a crimson sheen that glistened under the magelight. His left arm hung limply at his side, the shoulder dislocated, the hand useless.

A huge wound started just below his neck and reached all the way to his abdomen, a ragged gash that seeped blood with every shallow breath. The bone on his right leg was showing, white and stark against the torn flesh, and besides that, no part of his body had been spared from lighter injuries and wounds.

His face was a mask of bruises and cuts, one eye swollen nearly shut, his lips split and bloodied. His spear was floating somewhere along the waves, and his shield was broken beyond repair.

Still, he stood in the air with shaky legs, his boots barely holding the frozen platform beneath him. In his right arm, he held the neck of Garran, the Bannerless Knight, whose injuries were even worse.

The knight’s armor was a wreck of torn steel and shattered leather, his greatsword long since lost to the depths below. His face, exposed and pale, was streaked with blood and rain, and he could do nothing but glare as Torin’s grip tightened.

Torin spat a mouthful of blood to the side, then let out a bloody cough that expelled more blood than he wanted to see. The rain washed some of it away, but more followed, staining his lips and chin.

He quickly gathered his bearings, forcing his focus back to the knight in his grasp.

“You’ve already lost,” he declared firmly, his voice hoarse and rough. “Admit your defeat. Now.”

Garran said nothing. His pale eyes, sharp and unyielding, simply continued to glare, burning with a defiance that seemed to have no end.

Torin sighed, the action sapping a good chunk of what little energy he had left in his body. His grip tightened over Garran’s neck, his fingers pressing into the flesh, but there was no real force behind it.

“I don’t know what Armand promised you, or what you’re trying to achieve,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He coughed, another mouthful of blood spilling from his lips. “But I do know that dying by my hands has done none of the bastards I’ve killed any good.”

Again, there was no response—just that unyielding glare, burning with a fire that seemed to have no end. Torin’s face darkened, his patience fraying, but he maintained his composure, forcing himself to stay calm despite the storm raging both around him and within him.

He looked down at his own body, which was a map of wounds. Then he looked back at Garran, his voice low and ragged.

“You’ve put me through a great deal of suffering.” His words came out in gasps, each one costing him a fragment of his remaining strength. “The only reason you’re still alive is because you don’t seem like the kind of man I can kill without losing sleep.”

His magicka flared, and the world itself seemed to react. The waves grew more violent, crashing against each other with renewed fury. Thunder began to fall like rain, the sky splitting open with deafening cracks that shook the very air.

The magelights flickered, straining against the tempest.

“But I can live with a day or two of restless sleep,” he continued, his voice hardening, “and that’s all your death would amoun—”

Torin had to swallow the rest of his sentence as Garran raised his arm feebly—a slow, desperate motion—and punched him in the face. The blow was weak, barely more than a gentle caress, but it was enough to break through the last of his patience.

His face twisted in anger, his eyes blazing with a cold fire. He was utterly exhausted, barely standing, and his patience was running dangerously thin.

“I won’t ask again. Admit your—”

Again, he was interrupted by another feeble punch, this one landing against his jaw.

The thread of patience Torin had been clinging to finally snapped. His hand tightened, and Garran’s neck tilted unnaturally to the side with a sickening crunch. The knight’s body went limp, his eyes still open, still glaring, but now fixed on nothing.

Torin looked at the lifeless corpse in his grip and sighed once more. The breath took all his remaining energy with it. His legs grew weak, and he fell to one knee, his body screaming in protest, but he held on to Garran’s body, refusing to let it fall into the water.

He watched as several boats disembarked from the queen’s ship, their oars cutting through the storm-tossed sea as they headed toward him. He gathered his strength, forcing himself to stand, his legs shaking beneath him.

Slowly, painfully, he began to walk down, Garran’s lifeless body still gripped in his arm, his boots barely holding the frozen platform beneath him.

When his feet touched the boat, Torin finally let go of Garran’s corpse. The body slumped to the bottom of the vessel with a heavy, wet thud, and Torin collapsed beside it, his legs giving out completely.

He groaned, the sound raw and ragged, as he recalled his spear and forced himself to turn his head toward Armand’s ship.

The vessel was already sailing away, its dark silhouette growing smaller against the storm-torn horizon. No boats had been sent to retrieve Garran’s body. No attempts to recover their champion. Nothing.

Torin turned back to the lifeless body of the knight, and his expression grew complicated—a mixture of anger, frustration, and something that might have been disappointment.

The rain continued to fall, washing over Garran’s pale, still face, and Torin’s voice came out in a hoarse whisper as he let go of Skaldrfong, allowing it to fall onto the boat’s deck.

“They didn’t even… spare so much as a glance… your way, you poor… dead fool.”

His vision began to fade as the boat began to paddle back toward the queen’s ship. The waves continued to crash against the small vessel, rocking it gently, and to Torin, they felt strangely soothing.

He turned his gaze to the rainy sky, watching the clouds churn and the lightning flash in the distance.

“I doubt a man… like that… would bother to keep… a promise he made… to a dead man.”

Just as his consciousness began to slip, the sound of a very loud horn sounded from the horizon. Torin’s eyes, barely open, struggled to focus as he turned to investigate. What greeted him was the sight of a giant longship, manned by equally gigantic figures veiled by the darkness of the night.

It was heading straight for Melisande’s ship, its prow cutting through the waves with terrifying speed.

Destruction spells began to fly from the queen’s ship, streaking toward the longship in a blaze of fire and light. But they all dissipated upon hitting an invisible barrier around it, fizzling out like sparks in the rain.

The crew of the longship remained untouched, their massive forms standing in silent, menacing rows.

The last thing Torin saw was Qasim walking up to the bow of the queen’s ship, his broken sword raised high. Light began to coalesce in place of the broken blade, forming a shimmering edge of pure energy. The Redguard’s silhouette was stark against the storm, his posture steady, his purpose clear.

Torin grinned bitterly, his voice barely a whisper as his vision darkened.

“Here he goes again…”

And then his consciousness fully slipped away, the world fading into black as the storm raged on around him.

The boat continued to rock gently as the storm howled overhead. The distant sounds of battle—shouts, spells, the clash of steel—faded into the background, muffled by the rain and the waves.

Torin lay motionless, his body a ruin of wounds and exhaustion, his breathing shallow but steady.

Qasim stood at the bow of the queen’s ship, his blade blazing with light, his eyes fixed on the approaching longship. Behind him, the crew and the nobles watched in stunned silence, their faces a mix of fear and hope.

The massive vessel loomed closer, its giant occupants beginning to stir, preparing to board.

The battle was far from over, but for Torin, it was the beginning of a long, dark rest.