He struck hard. The Sythian Witch would swear for that last instant of her life that she had blocked the blow, would swear that there was no way it got past her, and smashed her face, and….
Brandis stood in awe. Gods we’re going to die we’re going to die watch out for that staff watch out for that tail we’re going to die we’re going to… live?
So much was undone, suddenly. The power of the black gems faded; the scorpion faded back to mist, then to nothing. Maxian sprawled to the ground, Myrwyn dumped lifelessly. Boldric screamed triumph, then fell over. Antonius just gaped. He’d never fired a shot, and suddenly, their hopelessness was changed to victory.
Vercinius and Maxian worked quickly, minding the wounded. But one wounded was beyond hope. Maxian grabbed the body of his comrade in arms, checked her vital signs. “She is gone! Vercinius, can you help her? She is gone!”
The priest checked her carefully. She was gone.
The spark of life was fled, but…
He still had a chance. Swiftly, he pulled a small phial from his belt. The liquid within both at once had purple and silver sheen, rarest of magic draughts, entrusted to him for this mission – the Tears of Mortiana. “This draught may – MAY – bring back the dead. Pray to all the gods of the Church of Light that it works in time.” If Commander Varus, hanging in the background, had any reservations about using this on the Caeldyn woman, he kept them to himself.
Vercinius administered the draught; it poured like smoke or light more than liquid, and Myrwyn was still unmoving.
A glimmer of light, faint, escaped her. Then her body spasmed, as the horrid sound of joints and bones RENDING back into place startled even the battle-hardened folk present. Myrwyn coughed blood, shook once, and BREATHED. Then she laid back, still. Vercinius seemed the only one pleased at the outcome, quickly calling on his god and forcing the last of his reserves into her.
“She will live. She will live.”
Brandis simply knelt by and held the bloody hand of his friend, helpless and exhausted.
EPILOGUE
The remaining Emorian strike team beat a hasty retreat from the Sythian base. The wounded who could not walk were carried; the dead were burned on a hasty pyre, their valorous souls commended to the gods for their part that day. Two fabulous black gems, faintly pulsing with power, were swaddled in sacks and cloths, safely in tow. The gems slept, their horrid power dormant for now. If a jewel could be sentient, perhaps these would be content to bide their time and wait… It sensed power from its procurers, and sensed just a bit of taint from one or two as well… It would have a chance to show its charms, and perhaps shime again as it did… and the dark might of the Demon Scorpion might yet show its face under a different master – an Emorian one…
Finis
![:]](http://www.enworld.org/forum/images/smilies/devious.png "Devious :]")
) and I was glad to see them pull it out at the end.
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