Emancipation

[Magus]

The thick haze and the ensuing confusion it caused served Magus well; the men were breaking formation, separating from one another in the inky blackness of his Miasma. Although they hadn’t begun to suffer from the sickness that made up the more deleterious effect of the unnatural haze, it wouldn’t be long.

Orders and shouts of panic were drowned out by shouts and hoots from those locked away in the cells, banging away at the bars. None of it mattered; the only thing he needed to focus on was escaping this place.

Magus crept up near another of the guardsmen who had stepped just a little too far from the others and raised his blackjack. This one wore plate-mail and a helmet, but the back of his neck was exposed all the same. He swung it down but the guard saw it coming and blocked it – but he’d done so with both hands, dropping his sword in the process.

The wizard snaked his leg around the guard’s and planted his heel into the back of the man’s knee, forcing him to fall on it. The armor posed a problem for Magus; he couldn’t simply beat this man into submission.

He grimaced as he clasped his hands on the guard’s forehead and chin. With a sharp twist and sickening crack, the armored warrior collapsed. The Fiendlord hadn’t wanted to kill anyone, but nobody had seen it, and anyone could have done it – so long as he left no evidence of magic on his victims.

He picked up the fallen man’s sword and stepped away again. The men seemed to collect themselves and form up along their barriers. The commotion settled down enough that Magus could pinpoint the voice of one man who shouted orders at the others. He told them to hold the line and to keep a lookout for anything in the shadows – and told them that they were likely dealing with the spell-caster who had just arrived.

Magus breathed a sigh; he supposed it was fairly obvious that he was involved. Too bad; his error meant they all needed to die. He just hoped there’d be someone else who wasn’t quite this clever – or clever enough to keep his damn mouth shut – to serve as a witness.

For now, though, he would just wait. He watched them; some in plate armor, some in leathers. Archers still lined the over turned tables, barrels, and whatever else they’d cobbled together to block their escape.

Magus picked up the axe from the guard he’d struck unconscious, and then slowly made his way toward the fortifications, arms full. They’d clumped together now, and seemed to be succumbing to the Miasma; they didn’t seem nearly as vigilant now, and it was a breeze to climb over the makeshift fortifications unnoticed and sneak back down the stone steps from which he’d come.

His haggard entourage awaited him at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at him with earnest expressions.

“I’ve made them weak,” Magus said. “Sick. But there’s a lot of them. Archers and swordsmen, as well as other less competent men-at-arms.”

The wizard handed a sword to Waylon. “I collected these,” Magus declared, passing the axe to the dwarf and the club to the so-far silent, dark-skinned man. Magus looked up at the gigantic one who had yet to be armed. “I’ll make you something more appropriately sized. What kind of-”

“No blade necessary,” the hulking, veiny, pale man rasped. “Wasn’t necessary for what I did to get locked in here in the first place. Won’t be necessary now.”

Magus nodded. “When we go up the stairs, you’ll see a thick fog. I’ll make it disperse as soon as you step into it; you’ll be totally exposed, but your enemy will be disoriented and feverish. The condition won’t last, so we need to do as much damage as possible to them as quickly as possible before the effects fade. Incapacitate or kill them; it doesn’t matter.”

The wizard turned and strode back up the stairs and into the haze without another word. The guards were noticeably ill and some had broken rank to try and escape. One had actually been foolish enough to climb over the fortifications and come toward Magus, shambling away from his comrades.

Magus was happy to relieve the imbecile of his responsibilities by driving his knee into the man’s gut, doubling him over before wrenching the sword out of his hand and spearing it through his gut and out his back. Before freeing his blade from the dying man’s torso, he turned to see his de-facto soldiers blindly stepping into the Miasma.

“They’ll be right in front of you,” Magus hissed. “Keep your eyes open.”

The deadly Fiendlord tore his sword free from the gurgling guard and charged ahead, slipping into the realm of the in-between just as the Miasma cloud suddenly dissipated, revealing four escaped prisoners and about a dozen nauseous, feverish, armed fighters.

As Magus leapt over the barricades, the armed escapees charged them in slow motion. The wizard ran past the armed welcoming committee – again – and spun on his heel after passing by the trooper furthest back from the others.

He leapt back into the material plane, slashing his sword across the man’s back, cutting him down instantly. He lunged forward and plunged his blade into another of the sluggish and feverish guards, twisting it up and eliciting a sputtering cough of blood from his freshest victim.

The gigantic convict Magus had liberated led the charge, racing toward the fortifications toward the guards. Sickly and nauseous, the crossbowmen fired bolts somewhat haphazardly, but a couple pierced him in the chest and shoulder.

Neither bolt seemed to faze him, however, as he drove his good shoulder straight through one of the overturned tables, propelling it through the air like it was made of cardboard. Like a rampaging gorilla, he clamped his palms over the faces of two of the prison guards and lifted them right off the ground right before slamming them both headfirst into the stone floor.

Waylon darted out from behind the hulking killing machine, swiping his sword at an armoured soldier who parried the attack and slashed at him, only to be staggered by the dwarf’s axe which suddenly found itself buried in his side. Waylon beheaded the man with another swipe before leaping deeper into the fray.

Although the more deleterious effects of the Miasma were quickly wearing off, the guards had been taken by surprise and were flanked. It wasn’t long before the rest of them were butchered like the others, until just one remained.

The quiet prisoner jammed his club into his throat and then struck him across the face, dropping him to the floor before bludgeoning him again and again until the man was nothing more than a badly pulped corpse.

The five of them took a moment to collect themselves, huffing and puffing in the midst of the gruesome slaughter they had just perpetrated. Blood and gore was splatted everywhere; bodies lay contorted in haunting displays of death and agony. Not a single one had survived the brutality.

“Goddammit,” Waylon muttered.

“Yeah. What a mess. All these people,” the giant sighed, gazing upon the devastation they had wrought. Magus could see genuine regret in his eyes. And shame. He felt it too, but he pushed it out of the way. It was a necessary evil; it had to be done.

“They were gonna cut us all down; we could nay do anything about it. It’s only right that we get out of here and do it quick, afore we get too bloody sentimental,” the dwarf spat.

“Indeed,” Magus agreed, retrieving a set of keys from one of the fallen. He tossed them to Waylon. “Set everyone on this floor free; let them arm themselves and lead the way out of here. We’ll reduce this place to total chaos. It will be impossible for them to spare enough resources to look for us all.”