SHADOWKNIGHTS: 3RD WARD
“To learn of Shamarus’ treachery is unsettling. The man was a formidable shadowknight. Such a pity. He gave himself to the enemy without hesitation. An unforeseen ambition.”
- Celamune Shadowmirth
A Letter to the 3rd Warden
Kale Warden,
There have been reports of dreadspawn activity festering within the Ahku’s Gleaming Abyss. By special orders of the Black Malice, you are hereby summoned to assess the driftlands and dispatch any threats endangering its region.
Confidence dictates your keen awareness to the origins behind this summon. It has been sometime since the incident in Gorahn and your retribution is just. In the event that the traitor is discovered, show no forgiveness.
May the strength of Umbra guide your blade.
- 2nd Arch Marako Skyek
Chasm of the Gleaming Abyss
The Driftlands of Ahku | Darkgear
Sometime during The Calamity Era
“Shamarus. What in the fuck have you become?!”
Naekwon bellowed at the wretched figure before him, no longer recognizing Shamarus Shadowmirth but instead a malevolent specter, a hex ghall, a being reborn from the abyss of darkness and death. The armored dreadspawn remained steadfast amidst the searing flames of his own darkra, his back turned in blatant disregard for the warden's words, as if the scalding fury that spewed from Naekwon's lips meant nothing to him.
He didn’t even care about the warring mass of shadowknights and dreadspawn clashing swords—killing each other above.
Instead of words, Grymzod turned to face the warden and tossed something through the fire. A helmet. A shadowknight’s casque. It skipped across the scorched earth with a heavy, metallic thud until finally stopping face-up. Right under the warden’s gaze.
The flow of his spiritus shook. He recognized what remained of Maetrius in an instant.
“Never liked him.” Grymzod strolled through the fire. His necrotic sword of obsidian and foul crystal rested over his shoulder as he came for Naekwon next. “Hated all of you. Especially you.”
The warden scowled. “And it’s that hate that will be your end!”
His casque’s faceplate materialized in a violent flash and before Grymzod could advance, Naekwon flaunted his ebonblade. A single shift of his sturdy frame and Grymzod banked left to slam his right fist into the warden’s faceplate. The blow rocked the core of his inner being. Falling back but not out. Shocked and stammering to regain poise, he shall swing his blade in retribution and sever the scourgra menace.
Pain ripped across his chest.
The nightmail of shadowknights repelled the evils of Hellion. Not tonight. Grymzod’s sword abandoned the blessings of Malice. Naekwon’s armor stood no chance. The second that necrotic blade ripped across his chest, pain. The warden screamed as he hit the earth. A dark cackle escaped the hex ghall’s dead lips as his foe scrambled to recover. He damn sure sprung to his feet quite fast. The recovery impressed even Grymzod.
It amused him even more when Naekwon quickly planted his hand over the wound.
A small, green light lit up there. For a moment.
Grymzod laughed. “As if a quick fix would sow that wound!” He advanced again before his mark could fully heal.
The clash came fast, blades locked in a bang. Grymzod’s strength was an unnatural burden, thick with strife, but the warden refused to submit.
“You’re already dead!” taunted Grymzod. Despite his rival’s faceplate, he found joy in knowing that Naekwon’s scowl blistered with fury behind it.
Their swords disengaged—only to clash once more. The hex ghall swung again, sharper, meaner, deflected by a swift ebonshield. In came the black blade, rejected by the hex ghall. Over and over, the hectic exchange of parries erupted amongst the chaos of the lava chasm.
One or the other must die.
They kicked off one another in an instant. Swords disengaged. Distance divided the two. Grymzod furrowed his brow at the knight. Naekwon, injured, protested death. He flashed his ebonblade anew, pointy end towards the enemy, both hands locked on the handle. He breathed. Then released. And glyphs of arcaenic light adorned the blade’s length, and he radiated in such a way that heat waves wafted off of him like a hot aura.
The last they fought like this was back at the trials.
“Okay.” Grymzod grinned and done the same. His aura was a ghastly green.
The two bent knees, down in a squat, feet planted in place, ready to dash. They charged forward. Darts in the wind. Swords rang. Sparks fly. An explosive clash of strikes and evades that turned into pure, sword-screaming anarchy within seconds. Naekwon skidded sideways. Grymzod held the slippery knight in his sight, but Naekwon soared in too fast and the frustrated hex ghall had to bounce back fast or forfeit every bit of his existence. Hot on his heels, Naekwon’s ebonblade went for the jab, but Grymzod, recalling his fated bout with his rival in the Nocturnal Abyss, shoved the knight’s blade aside, and advanced his own.
Grymzod rebuked him. Denying another slip in his assault. The kind that could end him on his knees, submitting to a warden he refused allegiance to.
Super quick, the hex ghall’s evil sword flashed as he came. The warden denied him and spun away unscathed. He was sharper than Grymzod’s fierce momentum. A tempo built on rage. And Naekwon angrily sprung forward, ebonblade swinging, and the mad Grymzod hacked at it, provoking the warden to retreat his blade, then swing again.
Mercy did not exist in the shadowknight creed. Not even a near-death strike, as the rite of the trials demanded. To sunder your own is to undo an enemy, for even the enemy could become your own.
Their gale of two swords had to end, eventually. Death awaited the fallen. At this rate, their dispute had truly emulated their skirmish at the trials. Each move of the foot. Every turn of the blade.
And it was quite clear that their hopes for killing the other eclipsed their own livelihoods deep within this great chamber of fire.
Until fate dictated the victor.
Like before—when a bloodstained Naekwon nearly sundered Shamarus, when he brought him to a knee with his sword, and Shamarus reached for that black shard on the ground and cast it across the fated warden’s right cheek—the undaunted shadowknight’s blade was less than an inch from Grymzod’s face. Only this time, the hex ghall paused mid thrust. He was down low and ready to spring. To end the warden in a single blitz of his blade.
None of them moved. Not yet.
Shamarus came a long way. Clan Shadowmirth raised him well. A shame that he turned.
The warden’s faceplate revealed his glare. “Why? After everything. Why?!”
Grymzod sneered back. His eyes scorched with disdain. “You can ask your father in the abyss!”
The two clashed again. Energies matched. Blood lusted. The traitor demanded the warden’s head and the warden declared vengeance on all that fell by the betrayer’s cruel blade. In their last moments, Naekwon had parried, then swiped his sword. The hex ghall jerked back. The ebonblade hummed as it relentlessly seared the air before him, leaving streams of arcaenic light in its wake. Grymzod snarled. Eyes on the enemy. The warden’s face exposed as he kept coming, pissing him off. He had to end this. To avenge himself. To cripple another of the Black Malice’s links. Another swing from the warden. Grymzod roared and sprung forward, sword swinging. Speed mirrored speed.
The time had come.
Naekwon hollered in his final advance, whacking the ghoul’s sword in one mad stroke. But Grymzod came back, hard, fast, frenzied. His sword of unspeakable death ate the air in its final blow. And Naekwon matched his wrath in one swift cut, pursued by a manic flurry of slices and dices violating the shrieking ghoul outright.
It was done.
Naekwon flicked his steamy sword to the side as Grymzod crumbled to pieces.
Sovereign Throne Chamber
Darkgear Citadel
5 nights after the Akhu Incident
“What did he tell you?”
Sovereign Malice may have a voice that can soften the woe of babes, though none were unwise to turn that sweet voice of hers sour, unless spoiled by the ones who imperil the planet. Doing well to shift her tone, she inquired of Naekwon’s encounter in a manner she would do with any close to her.
A friend first to her people, a world queen second. “Did he say anything of worth before his death?”
“No,” answered Naekwon. Malice stood before him and listened with Nuzu Onima and Shilieza Kale vigilant at her side. The two grand va’kari stayed on his face when he answered. Nuzu’s tranquil state, from her abysmal silence to that spirit-piercing look in her almond-shaped eyes, allured and bothered him, while Shilieza, his sister, resembled their mother: happy, wise, and far from stupid. “Only his devotion to Hellion. Dreadspawn are the product of darkrotic devices. Shamarus’ submission to nekrophaging was a diabolist doing—before his death. Again.”
“If only he gloated on who.” Shilieza, the bubbly grand va’kari that she always was and shall be, found awe in her brother’s bland report. She expected a villain’s last monologue to reveal some critical detail. Unfortunate. “Do they not honor their makers often?”
“The creature’s lack of superior was a front.” Nuzu’s guess caused her powerful voice to break her hushed reputation. For a bit. “The diabolist sources we have gathered point to Mulundi Khalisha, blackest of them all.”
“Sure. We all know Mulundi is not the only diabolist that can forge dreadspawn,” said Shilieza. “She was present during the birth of the ten clan-houses. Unfortunately, that means she got some old skin in the game—that elder-bitch knows exactly who conspires against our sovereign here.”
“His sole purpose was the death of Warden Kale.” Malice turned her attention from Naekwon, who stood like any soldier would, when Malice urged they be at ease, and she busied her eyes into the bright and colorful flowers sprawled wild and free across the throne chamber’s natural crystal formations. A therapeutic scene for eyes that have seen much war. “He decimated his own ward without a single thought of the consequences weighing upon him. I do not find his aspirations exotic. His deimons were too great to face, and instead of culling his conflicted ideas with you, he allowed them to ruin him—a common and fatal flaw with all who submit to the venoms of hate. Not Mulundi or Hellion will praise him for his follies. Believe that.”
It was best to meet the faces of envy than pity. Few possessed the fortitude to endure the successes of one’s rival and see it not as a bane, but a boon. All of Malice’s champions wielded their blades with honor and pride, while well in sync with the realities of the world they protect. Grudges of any kind proved a burden on the mind. Creating weakness. Flaws that Hellion can exploit. The Damned Queen’s dark gifts held the power to weaponise that resentment by plundering the mind and body until the flow of one’s spiritus soured. The ideal mold to shape Hellion’s dream.
And that was but a simple account on how hex ghalls were made.
“Black Malice. With your approval, I wish to further explore the roots of Shamarus’ insurrection.” Naekwon’s request planted a modest look on his sister’s face. Nuzu stared.
“An interesting request.” Malice turned her head, abandoning the chamber’s flora for a moment, to face him. Her own expression was a tad inquisitive. “Why?”
“The roots of Hellion run deep, as Prime Elder Odyn once said.” Naekwon hoped his reasons moved the world queen, a few had the privilege to do so. “Not to slight Clan Shadowmirth, Shamarus’ becoming a now dead sellout couldn’t have emerged out of nowhere.”
“Darkweavers and their cliques are the result of those deep roots. Heretics and their rebellions. Extremist behavior,” said Malice. “As for the Shadowmirths, I have absolved them of their predicaments. Not everyone is responsible for the transgressions of one. As for the darkweavers, consider them as part of your sources and you may find what you’re looking for. It has been a full five nights since the Gleaming Abyss event. I’m certain you’re more than well-rested to resume duties?”
Naekwon nodded. “I would have been ready after a single siesta.”
Shilieza chirped in the throat. “Sure you would.”
“Then so be it.” Malice calmly gave the command. “Do as you must. The enemy desires the destruction of Shadara. Your contribution to the fundament’s protection is unyielding.”
“Shadara is my home. To spite the nightrealm is to curse myself eternal.” Naekwon gave her a final bow. He knew where to start first in his investigations. “I appreciate you, lady sovereign.”
“I know. You are relieved, Kale Warden.” Malice smiled. It was a sincere one. Void of suspicion. Encouraging the warden to take matters into his own hands. Her eyes read his every initiative the moment she summoned him. His reasons were personal. “I’m certain you and Nuzu have somewhere important to be before you tend to your endeavors.”
The sovereign had motioned to the tall and silent woman stationed at her hip until Nuzu switched sides. She and her beloved had somewhere to be. Hopefully, Naekwon refrained from concerning himself with outside conflicts.
He coolly leaned into her and whispered as they left the chamber. “As silent as you are, it’s hard to believe that someone like yourself is incapable of holding water.”
Both the warden and Nuzu had departed. Malice stared beyond the geode chamber, with Shilieza the only woman in her presence, aside from the throne chamber’s floral radiance. Life surrounded them. They all had to ensure that such life persevered.
Whatever Naekwon sought after was no doubt another threat in Hellion’s poisoned web.
Malice raised her head a noble inch. Eyes were as thin as the subtlety of her smile. “He knows. I admire his determined nature.”
“He knows you know, too. Still decisive until the end.” Shilieza admired that of her brother most. Naekwon held a driven attitude even in the streets. Stubborn to a fault, and a pain in the Kale’s household. Rivalries were just petty squabbles then. Shilieza played a hand in his rescue from terrible poor decisions and the occasional lie to delay the inevitable.
This rivalry situation felt different. The Shadowmirths were also down for their world queen, an unwavering allegiance birthed from a line of power and fame in the mystic night arts. Any sort of rivalry was friendly spars or political skirmishes that ended in new, civil matters of the realm than senseless bloodshed.
Why would one of their own turn like that? It wasn’t politics and their spars made more sense with every memory of Shamarus’ resolve more anger than the passion of the fight. Shamarus was also born ephemeral, unlike his mystic kin. Also, the conspirator declared someone he never imagined spewing from a dreadspawn’s lips.
His father.
Malice encouraged Naekwon’s determination. He wanted none in his way. Not even her, the Black Malice. It wasn’t her place to know what Grymzod told him at the end.
The sovereign favored this for now.
“He’s buckled down since father’s passing.” Shilieza palmed her hips. The array of trinkets hugging her waist jingled. “Not sure what the old man told him. I rather not know. It surely straightened him up good, though.”
Malice flashed a faint smirk. “Indeed.”