In Frost Square

Leighton fled through the alleys and back streets away from the citadel. Suddenly every corner was a turn in a labyrinth, taking him closer to the sounds of battle. The Outcast troops and their half-breed, mutant allies were streaming into the city now, the Northmen had broken, only their berserkers remained – and those were being slaughtered on the battlefield or in the streets by those… abominations the Thaumaturgists had built. The militia had surrendered or fled. As evening descended the cramped streets Leighton was forced to take were choked with the smell of gun smoke and the alchemical compounds the Outcasts were using in their chemical-powered repeaters, all tinged, even here, with the copperish reek of blood.

His mind raced, he must escape the city, flee to… it didn’t matter where to. Just away. Maybe he could find some of the Northmen, accompany them, seek refuge… The thought of the Wyrm-worshippers halted him in his tracks. He looked around and realised he had emerged into what was once Heroes’ Plaza, now Frost’s Square. The Wyrm statue that the Northmen had erected in place of that of General Grey loomed over him. He cursed under his breath – he had been heading south! If anything he was in more danger, though for now the square looked silent, the running battles seemed to have passed through here already, and moved on. A misty pall of smoke floated heavily just over the ground, and the smell of flint and chemicals and blood was even stronger here. Now he looked he could make out dismembered bodies – mostly militia and fanatics; his gut curdled in fear – lying about the place. Discarded weapons lay about, repeaters, flintlocks, swords and halberds and a few of the cruel pole-arms used by the Northerners. Leighton picked his way through the devastation cautiously, trying to stick to the lengthening shadows; the sun had sunk beneath the rooftops, and a sickly crescent moon hung low in the opposite half of the sky.

He began to recite one of the Wyrm prayers he’d picked up; “I give thanks the blood of others’ paves my way. That the weak are culled that the Strong and Cunning may live. That…” He trailed off, the chant gave him no comfort, and the statue looming over him seemed merely malicious and alien. His forehead creased – the statue…

His foot clunked against something heavy and metal. It was a chunk of cast iron, veined and scaled, like the flank of some great lizard beast. Its dull metal barely reflected the sparse light. The administrator looked up, eyes bulging, tongue feeling heavy and spongy in his mouth. There was nothing wrong with the statue above him, no imperfections or pieces missing; certainly nothing the size of that chunk that rested against his right foot. It was silvery and deadly beautiful in the evening stillness, silent whilst in the city districts around them the fighting raged sporadically, rifles cracking and throats screaming or shouting.

If anything, it was too perfect.

Its surface reflected the light too brilliantly.

The patina of its weathered metal was gone.

Its eyes were closed. They had been modelled open; the Wyrm’s baleful stare.

Leighton struggled to maintain control of his bowels. His heart hammered against his rib cage, trying to escape. He tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry. Tears started to encroach on his vision in the corners of his eyes, all he could see clearly was the bulk of the statue in front of him, its eyes closed as if in slumber.

He reached his hand out slowly, noticing how the fingers trembled and shook. He needed to touch the monument, make sure it was really dead metal, that it wasn’t some demon. Or that, hope upon hope, it was a hallucination, some phantasm of the mind.

The eyes slid open, gazing directly into Leighton’s own. They washed over him, illuminated from within by a green-blue-white light, cold and unfeeling. All the man could see were those two shining orbs. He thought he heard a scream, shrill with fear, and realised it had come from his own mouth. An impact against his backside alerted him to the fact that he had tried to back away, and had fallen. Nothing existed except for the statue’s unceasing gaze, its mouth of grinning, sharp teeth.

The statue stepped forward, sinewy and lithe. It flowed off of its pedestal and advanced on Leighton.

Mercyyr, former vassal to Tethys, newly of the First metal elementals, stepped forward. His quicksilver body reformed itself as he moved, forming two, smaller legs, a more human head, arms, a torso, hands, feet (not claws) and a human mouth. On a whim he retained the sharp teeth, scaled down to fit into his human mouth. His smile remained fixed, his eyes still gazed, shining green-blue-white, at the small man before him. He stood there, a picture of mortal perfection in brilliant metal, naked and calm. His face was finely shaped, his body had the appearance of being well muscled. Yet there was no texture. When the human looked at him all he saw were his own reflection and that of the desolated square behind him, distorted by the creature’s physique.

“Are… Are you the Ormr?” The man stammered.

Mercyyr laughed deeply, yet with a whispering after-note. As he spoke, his voice was something like silk falling lightly over a blade, or the rush of the sea in the distance. “No, mortal, I am not your adopted god. I am no-one’s god.”

“Please!” Pleaded Leighton. “Please, I’ll serve you, give you whatever you want!”

Mercyyr laughed again, not unkindly. “And what do you think you could do for me? Or offer me?” He asked. He shook his head. “No, I have seen what you and yours have done to this city. My allies and I have come to extirpate the sickness you represent. I do not pretend to understand the workings of your mortal mind, but I can see that it, and your soul, are diseased, twisted. The creature you serve, or aided in your own self-interest, will bring only suffering. To all sentient things. I cannot let you live.”

Leighton shrieked and tried to run. He heaved himself up and around, skittering away towards the nearest alley. He slipped on blood and viscera as he fled, nearly tripped several times on bodies or rubble or equipment. Suddenly he fell, landing face down. It was too sudden to fling out his hands and break his fall. His jaw cracked hard against the cobbles, he felt more than one tooth chip, tasted blood. Then he was being dragged backwards, across rough cobbles and a body or two. He felt himself hoisted up into the air, dangling upside down from a large, metallic fist. The quicksilver man had grown, standing over ten feet tall, bulked out correspondingly and significantly less human. His mouth was still filled with sharp, carnivorous teeth, but the smile was more mournful.

“I never like killing dumb animals.” Mercyyr said, as his other fist closed over Leighton’s skull.