Mage Tank

Iridius waited in the throne room’s antechamber, his platinum blade gripped in both hands. Its six-foot length exuded a penetrating heat as he channeled his patron’s gift through the blade, the Lady’s power a never-ending font of strength. He muttered his devotions, stoking the fire of his invocations until they were as deep and scorching as the Plates themselves.
There was only one path to the Stonelord, and he was its champion.
Iridius had fought c’thons before. He’d slain a fair few, and he knew their ways. His helm was an absolute shield against the insanities they afflicted, the holy energies in his blade one of their most potent weaknesses, and its razor’s edge a close second. C’thons were monstrously strong, but their flesh was easily parted while in the first layer. Their overreliance on their bodies was a fatal flaw, and one that Iridius meant to exploit.
A bead of sweat ran down Iridius’s polish, evaporating before the moisture could make it farther than an inch from the pore that had released it. Even through his cinnabar armor, Iridius could feel the death trap around him pressing in on his body. The pure, essence-drenched topaz that made up every inch of the antechamber was burning through its reserves at maximum output, flooding the room with splendorous light. No spot of dark remained, and even the champion’s own shadow had been banished by the inescapable bright.
It was blinding, with heat enough to reduce what sparse finery that once adorned the room to less than ash. The pressure it exuded was enough to crush a normal man to dust, and would have given even Iridius pause, had he not been bloodbound to its exclusions. The fiend tearing its way down from the highest dungeons would have no place to hide, no shade from which to launch its attacks, nor would it be able to rely on its blistering speed under the combined
of the topaz and Iridius himself.
That’s what Iridius believed, anyway.
Iridius studied the horrid thing as it seemed to study him in return. At first glance, it appeared a mass of feathered tentacles as so many c’thons preferred, but beneath the cephaloid head and behind the writhing mass of feelers was a more humanoid body than he’d come to expect. It was still a monstrous thing, a mockery of bipedal anatomy. Its arms were too long, and its fingers held too many joints. Its sickly green skin was so thin as to be nearly translucent, stretched taut over dense musculature covered in thick, pulsing veins.
Most curiously, a jagged ivory crown sat atop its bulbous head, its palisades coated in shifting, shimmering blue. Iridius didn’t know what to make of that, strange as it was to see such a thing on a c’thon, but it mattered little.
Iridius raised his blade a crack, prepared for the fury the c’thon would unleash the moment it realized that his mind was an unassailable fortress. However, rather than attacking, the creature tilted its head slightly to one side and spoke.
it asked.
Iridius narrowed his eyes and debated whether the question was some sort of trick. C’thons were nefarious beings, twisting their words and promises ever to their own advantage. Still, Iridius would not besmirch his honor by attacking an enemy willing to engage in a dialogue. The Lady demanded as much. Of course, the Lady’s benevolence was tempered by pragmatism. He would strike at the slightest hint of hostility.
“I am,” said Iridius.
Iridius nodded. “Such is my duty.”
The c’thon appeared to consider this for a moment.
it asked.
Iridius looked over the being again, wondering if he were truly speaking with a c’thon.
“We
serve the realm,” said Iridius. “Even the Stonelord must bend to her needs.”
“Carve your words. Do you claim the Stonelord has betrayed his throne?”
The c’thon raised a hand, and Iridius tightened the grip on his weapon, but the creature merely made a slow, ponderous gesture as it studied the walls and ceiling.
The monster flexed its fingers, languidly drumming each talon along its palm before its eyes returned to Iridius.
Iridius spent a moment puzzling out the c’thon’s question.
“Groundless indictments,” said Iridius. “The word of a c’thon is poison.”
The creature raised a hand, as though to make a promise.
“That promise is little more than gem-studded blackmail,” said Iridius.
The c’thon made a deep purring noise.
“I will not stand aside,” said Iridius. The request was so outrageous, he felt no need to elaborate.
The c’thon intoned.
The creature stroked the feelers sprouting from its face like some kind of gruesome beard.
Iridius was dumbfounded by the back and forth. “A conscience?”
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The c’thon’s feelers swayed.
“What manner of question is that?” asked Iridius. “Of course not. I wield the Lady’s holy might. No malefactor could do as such.”
The c’thon paused to think.
“More outlandish accusations.”
“Absurd.”
“How could you
know any of that?”
“My duties do not often take me to the higher levels.”
“That sounds dubious.”
“C’thons are a plague upon the world, and their deaths should be celebrated.”
Iridius’s blade flickered, and the champion’s eyes went wide.
“Enough with your games, c’thon,” said Iridius, his blade flaring back to steady life. “You’ll not trick me nor cause my faith to falter. You will either surrender now or die by my blade. Make your choice.”
The c’thon’s dark eyes studied Iridius’ weapon. It reached a hand behind its tentacles and drew out a greatsword as long as Iridius’ own and twice as thick. An aura of frost coiled around it, hissing as it fought against the heat of the essence-rich topaz.
The c’thon raised its sword and gave him a bow.
The champion fought back another wave of bafflement. No c’thon wielded weapons. No c’thon
“Very well, Shog’tuatha. My name is Iridius, but
this isn’t a duel.”
“Yes. You are invading my homeland and threatening to kill my sovereign. It is a battle between mortal foes.”
The c’thon made a motion that seemed to be a shrug.
Iridius began to scoff at the idea of a c’thon comprehending such a thing, but choked on it when his knees threatened to buckle under the fierce
that slammed down onto his shoulders.
“Wha–” he groaned, struggling to keep his sword raised.
The c’thon Shog’tuatha reached into its feelers again, drawing another massive sword, this one made of dark blue bone. Then the beast drew a pair of bardiches, one dripping with blood and the other burning with white-hot flame. Next, he pulled out a sabre and rapier. He pulled weapons from his tentacles one after the other like some kind of parlor trick, handing each off to a different tentacle. Shog’tuatha took a few practice swings, and Iridius’ eyes couldn’t even follow their arcs.
Finally, the monster was holding eight different weapons, one in each twisted humanoid hand and six in its feathered tentacles. Iridius blinked, and the c’thon had crossed the antechamber to loom over him.
Iridius gasped, fully comprehending his error.
The pressure rose, and the champion fell to his knees.
“Shit.”
*****
A pair of essence-washed and reinforced tungsten doors warped inward and flew off their hinges, smashing into the guards on either side. Shog was in the center of the throne room before they touched the ground.
A hundred men and women crowded the hall, their minds declaring themselves as members of the empire’s elite guard. A hive of the odd chimeric insects Shog had encountered higher up crawled all over the walls and ceiling, filled with screaming bloodlust. Shog could taste Nha’thubo’s corruption on all of them.
The guards drew weapons with the speed of a languid dream, and the insects fell towards him with all the haste of drifting leaves.
Shog cut the air a hundred times before the first guard’s sword had cleared its scabbard. The room thundered as sound and pressure became Shog’s blade, scattering his hundreds of foes into pieces. Where the hair-thin waves bisected his enemies, bone and carapace split and shattered into a thousand razor shards, erupting from the flesh to slice through the victim’s nearby allies.
When the tungsten doors landed, they were joined by a rain of ten thousand cuts of meat. All but two within the throne room were dead. Even the Stonelord had become an unrecognizable pile of viscera upon his throne.
As the throne fell to pieces atop its Lord, Brood King Nha’thubo was revealed, a mass of rolling eyes, peering around the chamber. His slick limbs were ever waving through the air in search of thoughts to seize. He’d avoided the attack by phasing out of the material plane, but now he slowly faded back into existence. The Brood King’s ability to become incorporeal at will was a trait that had been the death of many a c’thon.
the Brood King’s voice slithered into his mind.
Shog wrapped Nha’thubo in his tentacles, having no interest in listening to the tyrant. Nha’thubo’s body became ephemeral once more, but Shog had long ago learned how to wrestle with specters. His feelers held tight as Nha’thubo began to panic. The Brood King tried to savage Shog’s mind, but Shog had been granted something called a ‘cooldown’ by the System, one he’d taken for this very moment. For a few seconds, his mind became unassailable even against the overwhelming potency of a Brood King specialized in flaying the wits from his victims.
Shog didn’t need an entire few seconds. He wrung the spectral Brood King in an instant, twisting the c’thon who’d tormented his brood for all of Shog’s existence into a glorified puddle.
Nha’thubo’s corpse retook its physical form in death, splattering to the ground, and Shog searched through the gore for the mana fiend’s core. He swept it up into his feelers, then swallowed it whole. Soon after, he felt the authority of a Brood King well up within him, and his business in this world’s first layer was done.
Shog looked around the throne room, tentacles stretching out to take the cores large enough to be worth eating. He scanned the limbs and weapons of the dead with a discerning eye, finding little worthy of his notice. The Stonelord had an ornamental arming sword that Shog initially dismissed, but soon noticed that an ancient power was buried beneath its gaudy metals and jewels. He tucked it away, believing one of his allies could uncover its secrets.
Shog turned and hovered back out to the antechamber, where Iridius lay clutching at his stump of a shoulder. Shog considered the man’s severed arm and the blade he’d wielded, but decided to leave them behind. They were too steeped in Holy energies for his liking.
The fallen champion looked up at him with a burning hatred, and Shog nodded back in approval. Losing a limb was a good way to build character, and Shog congratulated himself for showing such restraint while he hunted for Nha’thubo. Iridius seemed to be an unforgivable idiot, but likely not ‘evil’.
Everyone and everything
he’d killed here had certainly been evil. Even those enslaved by Nha’thubo had to accept the power the c’thon offered, which mortals would surely believe to be wicked.
Shog considered that those types may have been evil-adjacent.
He was still trying to define the term. They were morally questionable, at the very least. That was probably good enough.
Shog stroked his beard, revisiting his cost-benefit analysis, trying to decide if putting so much thought into things like this was really worth it. He beseeched the Eye to take him back to the third layer of his homeworld, and this dimension’s Sam’lia granted him passage.
As reality began to transform into thought and dream, Shog continued to reflect on his actions, and he mused on how much
it took to be a hero.