Abominations and Ancestors (3/3)
The snow clearing spun. Bouts of fire erupted from the earth, turning the snow into steam even as hot fissures cracked in the earth and spat hot magical death. They weren't quite Master Snorri's certainly, but there were many, many more sprouting. Perhaps the best argument, in fact, for why it had had to be a really elder Runesmith at least for this particular problem and not just a thane or adventurer with an ax to grind.
Because for all the abomination was turning itself into a maelstrom of magic, it was struggling, intrinsically, with the fact that she repelled magic, by her nature, fortified with the training of a Runesmith and then twice fortified with Luneghal, among many other artifacts and talismans that burned with an inner light so bright it seemed to light the clearing itself. The Brynwand itself shone bright as the forge in the frigid night, the prismatic light glinting off the frozen snow like gems.
The Brain was both more and less insidious than its compatriots. On the one hand, it had returned to the brute force strategy of the Stomach, throwing away the Heart's attempts at psychological warfare in favor of tossing magic around like a drunken beardling tossing around paper after falling.
On the other hand, for one as far as she could tell the Brain was quite simply a better wizard than the Stomach had been, and more cunning too. The first thing it had done was neutralize Guzzazi Zhuf, a burst of syllables and magic that had made the thing spark and twitch, the hearthstones gleaming for a moment before dulling even as she cried tears of blood, felt her ear drums burst and spat out the last meal she'd had before coming out her to kill this thing.
On the other hand, judging by the way the thing had screamed in agony, Thungni, at least, was none too pleased with the thing daring to peak at His wisdom, and the ring was not broken.
A part of her was proud enough to say it simply can't be broken period, and even the most humble part of her, the one most willing to acknowledge her weaknesses, her failures, also has to acknowledge that anything breaking the ring would be a bit more of a lightshow than the relatively simple dulling. Runes did not work that way. With the amount of energy put into the forging, there would not be a clearing, particularly after such a sloppy destruction. Thungni could futz about with that rule, the Brana were maybe careful enough with magic for it, the Elves possibly, but this thing?
No.
So at the least it would work when the thing died, and it had wounded the Brain even merely being disabled, an acceptable trade.
On the other hand, a swathe of her other anti-magic talismans, prepared over a lifetime, had popped in multi-hued sparks that burned to look at, rings carved from bone, a belt buckle (good thing she had a spare), a necklace, marks of a lifetime simply gone, a simple wooden figure carved by her son.
The thing had to die for that alone.
The bouts of fire that were spewing out of the ground followed the path of least resistance, and so with Lhunegal they were forced away, bolts of light launched at the Brain in retaliation. The visions of terror seemed mostly to make the thing fight harder, all the harder, an almost respectable stubbornness, if the thing wasn't a disgusting cannibal and murderer anyway. Spellspite didn't seem to be working on the thing, and Fjolla had a sneaking suspicion why on that account as well: it was simply casting a different spell each time.
Her inner monologue was interrupted as she slapped her palm down, covering the earth. A moment later a vent of super heated water spat out at high pressure exactly where she had covered, only just stopped from drilling through her through the magic of the Rune of Warding.
Another trick in the thing's arsenal. There seemed to be no end to its capacity to shape the environment to its whims, and it was hidden somewhere Fjolla could not find even as it was all around her. The steam was less potent than the fire, but could arise anywhere; the fire was the stronger, but following the path of least resistance meant she'd need to be herded into it.
The Brain did not speak, at least.
On the other hand, the meaty gurgling that filled the air was far from music to her ears.
On instinct she whirled around and slammed her ax into what a knife of ice, not worthy of Brana but they could weigh her down and they seemed to fill the air constantly.
An endless assault, slowly dragging her down. She had scored the beginning victory by searing the thing with Thungni's rage for its desire to steal, but there had been few victories since.
But that victory had given her one crucial advantage, aside from the pleasure of hearing the predator scream.
She slammed her boot down and grinned as she heard the ice and mud and dirt start to break, weakened by the battle.
It gave way, and she landed hard but in control on rough, uneven stone even as rock and ice and mud and bodies and meat fell all around her, a gaping chamber perhaps as large as a living room in the usual dwarf's home.
The Brain was before her, and where the Heart had been crystal and the stomach flesh, the Brain was...other. Almost metallic it seemed, though there was a goopy, black layer of blood dripping it from it, connecting it to the walls. It was seated in repose in the middle of what almost looked like a fire pit, perhaps twice as tall as she was, but thin and gangly, and seemingly made of strands that connected to the walls. It was black, like obsidian, and seemed to reflect the light of fire and torch and who could even tell what else around. But it was not fit to run, leashed as it was by the meaty strands.
"StOp." Its voice was unwholesome, untested, raw, as though it did not speak vocally often.
She advanced, ignoring the thing's words and raising Lhunegal, ready to use it to dash the thing apart and smash it into bits if necessary.
"I have integrated your spite into my very nature."
She continued to ignore the cretins' words, advancing on the abomination.
"Strike me down, and you will die."
She grabbed another necklace, marked with the Rune of Regeneration and the Rune of Warding (see if the lizards could play her the same way twice), and grinned a savage grin. "I'll take that bet."
And indeed, as she struck the first time she felt her ribs pop, only to immediately knit back together.
The second time glimmering Rune light protected her.
The third time she felt her hand crack, the regeneration slow but sure.
Sure enough for her to take up Lhunegal a last time and put it through the thing's top pseudohead.
And by the time she exited, to be met with thanes, the wounds had healed as though they were never there to begin with.
