The Fall of the Lion
- by Ardeth Silvereni

- Part Three -
The Fall of the Lion: Death of a Pride.

The air had a biting chill as the Army of Hope prepared to meet the Legions of the Nemesis. It was dusk, and the sky was the colour of blood.

I was on the hill, some distance away from Ottmar and Everard. If the duke wished to carry out his threat against me, this battle would have to be unusually brief. I looked around at the assembled forces. Soldiers in clean ivory armour surrounded me, equipped with swords and large shields. Too many of them were boys, a few years shy of manhood, and painfully inexperienced. Young and old stood side by side for Willendorf's - nay, Nosgoth's - last stand. I drew the Soul Reaver, avoiding their eyes when they gazed nervously in my direction. I had little obligation to them, despite my fondness of Ottmar, and if necessary, I would glut myself on their lives to sustain my own. This was a war, after all. I intended to survive it.

The battle was brief. Ottmar's encouraging call to arms was not enough to stop the inexorable march of the Nemesis. The Legions swiftly cut a gory path through the Hope regiments. Lord Aldous was cut down within minutes, and Lord Darrin - the king's cousin - was promptly dismembered when he tried to halt their eastern advance. He had tried to hold his ground with just two dozen men. Imbecile, as if the odds were not already stacked against him. There was no need to gift the Nemesis with his suicidal stupidity.

I would not make such a mistake.

... Would I?

The truth be told, as a mortal I had never commanded other men like that. Not that I had much reason or desire to, but it meant my leadership skills were untested. I realize now that the seed of an idea was sown when I saw Darrin hacked apart in front of me, one that would not bear fruit until several years later. Suffice to say, those skills have been tested now, at both Freeport and Provance.

I quickly lost count of the soldiers I killed. They came at me in throngs, no fervor so strong as that inspired by a madman. The Nemesis armies were fierce and showed no signs of subsiding. The Reaver let out an ungodly wail with each swing and greedily consumed their souls, destroying the fragile housings of skin and bone. The red Legion armour could not possibly blunt its raw power. Occasionally, other soldiers collapsed near me, and when they did, I refused to discriminate. I sated my thirst on warriors of Horde and Hope alike; the dying relinquishing their final moments to give me strength.

Perhaps an hour passed before there was a lull in the fighting, and I found myself temporarily without an opponent. I seized the opportunity to take stock of my surroundings, and the current state of play. Mutilated white-clad cadavers lay everywhere, missing limbs or heads, or gutted so their intestines became trampled underfoot. Other bodies were impaled upon stakes, as was common practice for the Nemesis forces. More than anything else, I recall the smells of that battle. As I progressed up the field, there was a nauseating stench of roasting flesh, rising from remains thrown into fires; there was the odour of sweat, and every few seconds the sweetly metallic scent of gouting blood overwhelmed my senses.

Ottmar endured far longer than most of his subjects. He acquitted himself well in combat, despite his age. As I got closer to him, I saw that Everard still lived too, twenty feet away, and engaged in a vicious duel. I was confronted by another two Nemesis soldiers. At this point, my magical energy was exhausted by the demands of the Soul Reaver, forcing me to change weapons. I dropped the blade for a moment, so I could grasp two flays and two implode spheres. In the periphery of my vision, I noticed that Everard had killed his foe, and was moving to aid his uncle. By the time I had dispatched my assailants, the duke was almost there. He was positioned perfectly behind the Nemesis soldier that Ottmar was fighting.

Ottmar was losing. He fell to his knees, and the soldier raised his serrated blade to deliver the fatal blow. Everard did not intervene. The duke, purposely delaying his strike until it was too late, watched his uncle crumple. He then decapitated the soldier. As I reached him, Ottmar was undoubtedly dying. A deep, ragged gash ran across his left shoulder; the carotid artery was severely damaged and probably the jugular vein as well. How ironic that my childhood schooling came back to me in such a way, that I could clearly remember the basic anatomy of blood vessels, when so much else - literature, history and the like - was forgotten. My poor tutor would have been horrified to learn how I benefit daily from that knowledge now.

"The Nemesis and his horde fall upon us, my friend." He said horsely to me, reaching out with a trembling hand. "I fear I can defend Nosgoth no longer. The Nemesis must be destroyed. For my daughter, Kain. For the world..."

Everard rushed to Ottmar's other side, pulling off his helmet and crying in an overblown display of mock grief. He took the king's fingers in his as if to comfort, whispering tearfully into his ear. I could not discern the words, but I suspected he was setting the stage for his accession. Who could question if Everard claimed he was named as Ottmar's successor in those last minutes? Not I. As I had acknowledged - before this battle even started - I could not compete with even Everard's limited popularity. No one in their right mind would take my word over his. I was disgusted by the spectacle, but I expected little else of Everard by now. I retreated a few steps away from them both as Ottmar breathed his last, and his glassy eyes rolled back, sightless.

"The King is dead," I muttered. "Long live the King..."

As if he had heard me, Everard turned his head in my direction.

"... Or not." I added with a smile.

Everard's skull was split apart from behind, by a soldier he had completely ignored. Even with a helmet, he would not have lived, but without it, I got to see the marvellous look of shock on his face. His mouth was stretched wide in a silent scream, and scarlet rivulets coursed down over his eyes. His arm lifted slightly, as if to feel for the wound, but it was far too late for that. Everard's body buckled under its own weight, and lay unmoving across Ottmar's cooling corpse.

The tide turned with Ottmar's death. I watched as the remaining survivors of the Armies of Hope fled to the safety of the forest. The battle had decided its victor; the fate of Nosgoth now lay in the Nemesis' hands.

The Lion of Willendorf had fallen, and for me, that brought about an epiphany, long overdue. I saw the court for what it had become - an obsolete institution surviving only on past glories. Everard's betrayal of his liege lord and uncle was the final proof. There was no integrity left, no nobility amongst the noble. Noblesse Oblige was a dead concept. Why was I surprised that Willendorf had come to this? Gripping the Time Streaming device tightly in my hand, I at last discarded the image of myself as a human lord. I realized I had been clinging to shadows, reluctant to reject my upbringing and embrace my curse.

Thus concluded the second of three events that steered me away from my mortality and old 'humanist' morality. The first, of course, was my vampiric rebirth at the hands of Mortanius. How harshly I had judged Vorador for his acceptance of our nature, and yet he is the only one in this whole twisted mess who ever spoke the truth to me - not half truths or outright lies. But do I flatter him and say his execution was the third watershed? No, not while he infuriates me with his cautious council as we plan to take Meridian. I will let Moebius' manipulations have that honour instead, and if he likes he may share his prize in hell with my Necromancer sire.

I let them both play me like a fool, those wizards of Time and Death. My confused dual memories reveal some results of the Time Streamer's meddling. In this altered reality, Ottmar did not die at the Battle of the Last Stand; it did not take place because the Nemesis was not there to instigate it. I still struggle to determine exactly what has changed, and what has remained the same, but it is ultimately irrelevant. How blind I was, yet I refuse to dwell on my folly, except to draw strength from the anger it fuels in me. It was that anger that saved me from an act of even greater stupidity...

I drew the Reaver, knowing that in battling the Unspoken - Hash'ak'gik, I presumed - I had drained my magic reserves to the point where the sword was near-useless. It was certainly no better than my Serioli iron sword, but who could blame me for wanting to end my life with it, this beautifully crafted, legendary blade?

Ariel, evidently once so pretty and adept in enchantments; what did she know of weaponry? It is impossible for one to turn the Reaver upon themselves in a dignified fashion - it is too long to be plunged into the heart smoothly like a dagger. Had she realized this, she may have guessed my decision and intention sooner.

"I will not." I shook my head and pointed the sword at her insubstantial form as she hovered expectantly in front of the Balance Pillar. My Pillar. "You said this curse would end, spirit!"

"I said there was no cure for death, Kain, only release" she replied softly. "I never deceived you, you deceived yourself... as you continue to do, even now."

"To hell with you and your damnable riddles! Damn you all, sorcerers!"

"You entertain a fantasy that there is another way out for you" she pressed, even as I swung the Reaver ineffectively through her fading ghostly shape. "But there is not. This is what you were called to do. Please, Kain! There is no other way to save Nosgoth..."

She reappeared moments later, sorrowfully trying to force my hand, pleading with me as I turned my back and walked away.

"Then it will not be saved." I said.

A flash of cataclysmic lightning - like the judgement of a vengeful god - rocked the clearing, and the Pillars exploded into fragments behind me.

Did she really think I would sacrifice myself for the world, for herds of verminous mortals that would not even know my name, let alone thank me for my selflessness? And if the Circle - Azimuth, Nupraptor, and no doubt the others - had hoarded power and wealth because their birthrights permitted it, then am I not the sole inheritor of this land? As the Balance Guardian, is it not mine to do with as I please?

I am not a human any more, and for that... I am thankful. Wielding the Soul Reaver, I am earning my own titles - I am known as a monster, fiend and demon - titles that better suit my dark existence. The sword's hunger resonates with my own, and I am forging my own nobility from the blood of these pathetic, pitiful mortals who think they can best me.

One day, they will all know me for their lord.