Chapter Text
The Knights of Gwyn, who now numbered three, continued the Last Dragon War from the mighty citadels of Anor Londo. They had won two great victories, but the curses of dragons had brought them two defeats as well. Lord Gwyn was pleased with their progress, but the Court was not.
When Ornstein travelled down to Izalith, the city of the Witch, her daughters, and the fire mages, he was denied entry. Where the Knights went, so too did the Everlasting Dragons, and so great was the fear of a further curse that even the Captain of Gwyn’s Knights was turned away.
When Artorias travelled down still further to the Tomb of the Giants, the mausoleum of the dead, he was denied entry. Though Gravelord Nito feared no curse, he did not abide the living in his still and quiet realm, save his servants, and so came forth to meet the Wolf Knight under the shroud of night.
“Much have I heard of your deeds from the dead,” rasped the Gravelord, all shadow and bone as he clambered from an open grave. “Much have I heard of your triumphs and your failures from those towns the Everlasting Dragons even now set alight in their fury. They are keeping my Gravetenders busy and for that I thank you.”
Artorias bowed and clutched his shield tighter, for although the Gravelord was not much loved, he was respected and acknowledged by even the other Great Lords, for his domain was death. Artorias spoke with the one Lord even mighty Gwyn would one day bow to and knew himself the lesser. “If that is pleasing to your Lordship, then I am glad to be of whatever service I can,” he said carefully. “However, by brothers and I seek an answer to the quandary of the dragon’s curses, for each one has been calamitous and I would not wish another upon this Age. You, of all the Lords are most learned in this art, for all curses stem from the three most basic, the Curse of Life, the Curse of Want and the Curse of Death. What say you to our predicament?”
Nito rattled his bones in mirth and the skeletons around them rose to join the Gravelord in a rare moment of whimsy. “Knight Artorias, your companions have all fought honorably in defeating the Everlasting Dragons, but they are hardy creatures, and it will be difficult to kill one before it can speak its last. Your solution, then, is to not fight honorably, if fighting honorably will lead to more curses.”
Artorias was taken aback and not a little insulted, but he did not wish to anger the Gravelord in his own domain, so he bowed in thanks and departed the realm of the dead with all haste.
When he returned to his brothers in sun-kissed Anor Londo, only Gough remained in good spirits. He had returned to the causeway and brought back the very bones of Glaurung, in the traditions of his people. With them, the Blacksmith God forged Gough’s armor and a great many arrows, so the Deceiver’s talons could pierce his brethren even in death. Now helmed, the Giant busied himself fashioning a ring of his own as the two smaller Knights debated.
Artorias was firm in his support of the chivalric honor the Knights had stood for thus far. Before the discovery of Gough, had they not been wandering champions of the common folk? Had they not halted the corruption of petty nobles and kept safe the virtue of many a maiden on the roads? Did they not stand for courage, loyalty to Gwyn, as well as their feats of strength and wisdom?
Gough murmured his agreement and Ornstein set about his rebuttal with a small smirk.
All of what Artorias had said was indeed true, but ideals in this case must retreat before reality. For every ballad that sang of Artorias’s brave rescue of Dark Sun Gwyndolyn, so too were there bawdy tales that circulated in the taverns. For all their victories great and small, feats of arms and famous armored figures, there were corners of the realm they had not visited, evils unmet, and the curses of the Everlasting Dragons loomed large over their quest.
Their arguments were interrupted by a knock at the door of their tower and the appearance of a trio of short women clad in blue robes and white porcelain masks. The bowed and spoke as one, voices echoing off the walls of the Knight’s tower.
“Our Lady and Mistress of the Lord Gwyn’s Blades requests your presence tonight at the Court of the Dark Sun. She has much to discuss with you.”
The women bowed and sank back into the shadows, where they disappeared entirely.
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The Knights of Gwyn arrived at the Court with a certain amount of trepidation and no small amount of suspicion. Dark Sun Gwyndolyn was as courteous as ever but professed no knowledge of Lord Gwyn’s Blades, an ancient and secret society of warriors. As Ornstein spoke with the Lady-Lord of the Moon Court, the other Knights were swarmed by admirers and well-wishers and though Gough shook as many hands as he could and Artorias dodged a great many lady’s favors, they were overwhelmed beneath the tide of well-wishers.
Amidst all the commotion, Artorias spied a small girl garbed in white about to be trampled underneath the crowd of feet. With several swift steps, he spirited her out of the press with all the swiftness and poise of the Wolf. Soon, they were rooms away and Artorias set the girl down with an honest apology for spiriting her away from the fine proceedings of the Night Court.
“Oh, that’s perfectly alright,” said the girl with good cheer. “The Court is normally so empty, but when I heard the Knights of Gwyn would be there, I simply had to see them. There are all sorts of rumors about you, you know. I hardly know what to believe.”
Artorias grinned and allowed himself to relax, even though he was sure Ornstein would doubtless be furious with him. “Well, now I am most curious, Little One. What do they say about us?”
“They say the Lion can travel leagues in a single bound and that you can change the shape of your soul into a wolf. They say that before the Curse of the Giants, Gough actually had a hawk’s eyes put into his head, as they were the only ones that could match his aim. They say you are as honest as the day is long, and Captain Ornstein’s temper is as short as the Furtive Pygmy.” At that, Artorias laughed out loud, and the sound of his laughter echoed through the halls, though he was brought up short when he saw the girl scowl. “You are very noisy for a wolf, sir Knight. People do sleep here, you know.”
“I’m sorry,” Artorias apologized. “I only found it amusing, the gap between what people think of us and the reality.” The girl’s expression took on a strange quality as she smiled and led him further into the corridors by the hand.
“You will find a great many things in the gaps between what people think and the reality Knight Artorias. Even in Anor Londo.” She gestured towards a door at the end of the hall and the Wolf Knight was filled with a strange sense of foreboding. He realized he had no idea how to return to the Night Court and how very far away he was from his brothers. What’s more, he only had his greatshield, for his sword had fallen into the vast ocean weeks ago and he had been too embarrassed to ask the Blacksmith God for a replacement.
With a deep breath, Artorias calmed himself. Even if this little girl was an enemy of some sort, she barely reached his knee while he had swelled into a Knight of Gwyn three times her size, if not four. His armor would protect him from any danger. He looked down at the girl with more caution than he’d shown before, only to be greeted by a beaming smile. “Come on, silly! I found something nice in that storeroom that Lord Gwyndolyn said you’d want back!”
“You’ve spoken with the Dark Sun before?” asked Artorias, his mind aflame with possibilities.
“Well, I told you the Night Court is normally so empty, I’m one of the few people who show up, so they talk to us sometimes. They craft such wonderful illusions, you know.”
Suddenly the door was in front of him and the girl was underfoot and at the slightest push the Knight of Gwyn toppled forward into the storeroom floor with a crash of armor and the tinkling laughter of the little girl.
The white robe was discarded as Artorias scrambled into a crouch. “I said you were as honest as the day was long, Knight Artorias,” said Lord’s Blade Ciaran, leaning on his sword, “But we’re in the Night Court now.”
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After a short but embarrassing fight that saw a fully armored knight flipped into the air by a woman a quarter of his size, Artorias reluctantly conceded defeat. While she was short, Ciaran was far from a child. When her father had sought to marry her to one of Allfather Lloyd’s many sons, she fled to Anor Londo and the Night Court. Once there, she had pleaded with the Dark Sun to give her a place to serve Lord Gwyn. After a minor noble had attempted to assassinate Lord Gwyn, he had formed the Lord’s Blades to protect him in ways the Silver Knights could not and Ciaran led them from the very first. As a mark of his esteem the Sunlight Lord had granted her a golden blade that spun with a fragment of his own sunlight, even in the depths of night or the darkest pit. With it she had protected their Lord of Sunlight and had even retrieved Artorias’s own blade from the depths of the ocean.
When he asked her how she had done such a feat, she would only smile a small secret smile, twirl her blade, and say she would tell him one day. As Artorias tested the edge of the blade and found it as unmarred by the sea as the day it was forged, Ciaran imparted her news. Lord’s Blades across the realm had sent crows to her tower, warning of some vast pestilence seeping from the caves beneath Carim and it had driven the nation to its knees. Additionally, not one but two Everlasting Dragons had made their lair in the aeries above Vinheim, drinking deep of the magics Seath had taught the humans, so the Knights of Gwyn had to answer both challenges.
Alone or together, the Knights of Gwyn could not defeat one dragon before news reached its kin and prompted the destruction of one of Gwyn’s kingdoms. Thus, a strategy was formed between the shadowy Lord’s Blades and the the Golden Lion of the Knights. One of the Knights would follow Gough to Vinheim and rally the mages to defeat the nesting dragons, while the other would accompany Ciaran into the depths of Carim and drive out the foul stench of the Everlasting who could only be Pythos the Rotten.
On the division of labors, there was yet more argument and even the eternally patient Gough tired of the bickering as the Knights and the Blades made their way down from Anor Londo and into the Kingdoms of Man. For such tiny warriors, the Blades proved every bit as loud as the Wolf or the Lion. “May Allfather Lloyd protect that poor fool who must ride alongside Ciaran,” he muttered, hidden away beneath his helmet and if his companions heard him, they did not comment.
It was to his great surprise then, that Knight Artorias volunteered to join the Lord’s Blade on the road to Carim, for he had many questions and their meeting had answered but a few. Captain Ornstein was pleasant enough company, so Hawkeye Gough saw no need to complain and they parted in good company. Lady Ciaran, however, had a great many things to complain about, especially the humans who most felt the sting of her golden tracer.
Artorias at first took her blandishments in silence, as he was no longer truly human. But more and more, her Ciaran’s words were just a bit more barbed, just a bit more poisonous, and though a wolf’s fur may protect it from many nettles, even it will snap at an annoying hornet. Now the arguments were interspersed with Artorias’s questions for though he had travelled far and wide in search of the Everlasting Dragons, Ciaran had been to even more places still. She had crossed the sea and seen strange and wondrous beasts beyond description. She had accompanied Princess Filianore to the Ringed City, where the Pygmys dwelt, but when he pressed her for more, she only smiled in a secretive mien and said she would tell him one day.
More and more, the Wolf and the Hornet began to see one another as two sides of Gwyn’s bright crown. One side, wrought in splendor and beauty for all to see and one side functional and plain, its service constant and rarely remarked upon. However, the nature of the split had proved to be uneven, for the much loved Artorias was not especially handsome, but his kindness made him so. In contrast, the Lord’s Blade was a great beauty, though she hid her face behind the porcelain mask of her order, and her voice remained harsh and uncompromising. But little by little as they made their way down to Carim, the southernmost of the Kingdoms and furthest from Gwyn’s sight, they began to understand. In ways both great and small, each left their mark on the other.
They arrived at Carim to find the city emptied and its inhabitants waiting in the outlying towns and much aflutter at the coming of such noble personages. The Duke and Duchess offered their own lodgings to the Knights, but Artorias and Ciaran declined as politely as they could. Artorias was concerned the dragon, hearing of their arrival, would take the initiative and march on the town, causing a great many deaths, while his companion simply was accustomed to sleeping in less comfortable climes. And so, both sat on a high ridge overlooking Carim, as silent and foreboding as Nito’s graveyard while they contemplated the battle to come.
Toxic fog was visible even from this distance as it coiled and swirled around the cave entrances beneath Carim, but while both Knights were mighty indeed, neither would survive the caverns unaided. Ciaran had removed her mask so Artorias saw her slight pout as she spoke. “If we are to have any hope of defeating this beast, Sir Artorias, the most obvious solution is to remove the gases. I myself have used a great many poisons, but a fog like this is beyond my expertise. Look there at the entrance, see how it refuses to dissipate, despite the breeze.”
The wind rustled through the branches of the wilting trees below and caused Ciaran’s hair to drift to the side, which she absently tucked behind her ear. Artorias was beginning to notice things like that, drawn as he was to his companion’s spirit despite all their arguments, but he mastered himself enough to continue. “I have seen nothing like this in my travels, but perhaps…” he trailed off as a thought struck him. “Carim is a treacherous city, is it not?”
“Yes, I have been called here many times to attend to matters for the Lord’s Blades, so I am familiar enough with the city. The caves were never a concern until now.”
“Could there, perhaps, be passages connecting the two?” asked Artorias, hand on his chin as he stared at the rooftops. Sewage drains, hidden escape tunnels, the like?”
“More than can be counted, Sir Knight. Locating the one we need would take weeks, even with my knowledge of the passages and even then, we still might not be close enough to defeat Pythos before his Rot takes us.”
“What if we simply opened all the routes? Gave the toxins so many avenues its influence would be lessened within the caves themselves?”
Ciaran looked impressed as she used Artorias’s bulk to pull herself to her feet. “Would that my sisters had your insight, Sir Artorias. Then even this calamity might be behind us within the week.”
“It still might, if we work together.” The Knight smiled and offered the diminutive woman his free arm, which was nearly half the width of her torso. (This was less to do with Artorias’s size than Ciaran’s petite stature, a fact she would berate him for on many more adventures.) Still, she took his arm in hers, as neatly as any Lady of the Sun Court and slid her mask back upon her helm. “As long as you don’t get underfoot.”
“Now, what was that expression about the pot and the kettle?”
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The two Knights had taken two score of the citizenry and set them to the task of opening as many of the passages as Ciaran had written down, which proved to be a colossal task. Many of these “volunteers” had a history of thievery and sported the scars or missing hands that screamed their profession, but Ciaran’s quiet words marshalled them as effectively as Captain Ornstein’s barked orders. Still, many of them succumbed to even the weak fumes that reached above into the city and two more fell into the green fog, never to be seen again. Such was the price of war, and they paid it without complaint.
The Wolf Knight found himself reluctantly impressed as he forced his gauntlets under a wooden trapdoor and put his back into the movement. With a creak and a groan, the wood gave way and flew back to reveal a rectangular hole in the Duke’s bedchamber. The murky greenish-black fog within began to crawl upwards, eager for more space to spread Pythos’s Rot. Artorias moved away with some speed and clambered up to the tallest tower of the palace, where the Lord’s Blade was marking off more and more areas on her map with a feather quill. “Two more, perhaps, and the Rot will have dissipated enough for us to attempt an assault. My thieves are already on the job, and then they will quit the city.”
“So should we, at the rate it’s spreading. I wonder if, perhaps, we are not creating two more problems by solving one?” He couldn’t see her face, but the tilt of her head spoke of curiosity more than skepticism. “Sir Artorias, at this rate, using your brain will become a habit instead of a surprise. By all means, enlighten me.”
Artorias swept his greatsword out across the city before resting it back on his shoulder. “If the fog does not dissipate with the dragon’s death, then we have condemned this city to ruin, even if the people have survived. Even so, your coterie of thieves now has knowledge of the many systems beneath Carim, which will only invite further trouble once we depart.”
“The city is a strictly secondary concern to us, Sir Artorias. Frankly, if they were forced to rebuild in a more favorable clime, I would call it a public service. As for “my” thieves, as if I own them, well, the rise in crime rates should remind the Lord of Carim to pay his taxes more promptly next year, lest I return on a rather more personal mission. If he is still too willfully arrogant to consider this, we shall remind him at the close of our campaign here.”
Artorias planted his weapons in the flagstones and crossed his arms as he glared down at the woman. “I am not here to intimidate a duly elected Lord of Gwyn’s realm. Such duties fall outside the remit of a Knight of Gwyn.”
She didn’t even look up from her map as she replied. “Considering a Lord’s Blade is now one of your number, I believe your duties have now been expanded considerably. Put this aside for now, I would not have our battle fouled by such distracting thoughts.”
Artorias shoved aside his objections and pointed at the descending sun. “Was your intention to use the cover of night as well? Sun or Moon will make no difference in those caves and I would prefer to be well-rested if we yet have the time to choose our approach.”
“Choosing our approach…Perhaps there is some merit in that claim Artorias,” she said softly. Ciaran’s mask was expressionless as the black eyes of her mask locked onto his own soft brown ones. Any further justifications Artorias had built in his mind for the habitually argumentative Lord’s Blade suddenly faded like morning mist. Something rose within his chest, some small spark of his greatened soul, as it fluttered closer to the surface of his being. He reached a hand up to his armor instinctually and started when he saw Ciaran had done the same. She broke their gaze immediately but lingered before striding away without another word. As she departed, Artorias felt the flame within his soul dim once more, returning to its position beneath the surface and felt a mix of relief and regret as his companion departed. Perhaps once he returned to Anor Londo, it would be best to consult with the Princess Gwynevere, if he sought to unravel the mystery of women.
That night, they both began to regret not accepting the Duke’s offer of shelter, but for entirely different reasons. Artorias, despite himself, found the chill of the night only heightened by the winds that swept across their ridge and brought his furs closer to himself, to no avail. He may have been lauded as the Wolf Knight, but he had no fur to speak of. Perhaps the thieves, who had retired to the village below, had the sense of it, despite their dishonor, so he pondered the Gravelord’s words to him on the subject. For her part, Ciaran found her mind restless and fouled by the same distracting thoughts she had warned her companion of several hours earlier. Well, perhaps not the same distracting thoughts… She was surprised to find she now looked upon the Wolf Knight with some affection, perhaps even favor. The long months riding at speed down the countryside, arguing over morality and honor over campfires, had slowly changed into stories of their travels. When he moved suddenly, whether unbalanced by a stone or to catch a falling child gazing at them from a tree, her hand no longer leapt to her weapon. A Lord’s Blade should trust no one, should expect treachery from every corner save the Gods, yet she had come to trust him. Tomorrow, they would put that trust to the test, or die in the attempt.
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Gwyn’s sun rose to find both his Knights already strapping on their armor and devouring a meagre breakfast. Though they each noticed the other’s exhaustion, neither commented on it. Ciaran, because she thought Artorias would be irritated, and he, because the Hornet often kept odd hours, and Artorias was determined to minimize any “disquieting thoughts”. They travelled down in a companionable silence until they reached the open mouth of the cave, which loomed large enough to accommodate even a being of Artorias’s bulk rather easily. For a while, they stood there, neither Knight wishing to break the silence, but knowing they must, yet fearing the consequences. A soft whine came from the entrance and both Knights readied themselves for battle, only to see a wolf, small and weakened, stumble from the darkness and collapse in front of them.
Artorias, of course, immediately began chanting a tale of Healing, his greatsword held before him, but Ciaran grabbed his hand. “We’re going into battle against an Everlasting Dragon, and you wish to spend valuble energy healing the wildlife? Art thou mad?”
He gave her a disappointed look and sighed. “Art thou blind, to ignore such a portent of Lord Gwyn’s? Thou spent many a moon berating my own wit yet take leave of your own at this late hour? We must see what this wolf can tell us, if it is the omen I suspect.”
The Hornet Knight threw up her hands and stepped back. “My sword for wolves and wyrds! Pythos-“ She was cut off as the wolf opened one eye and growled. Not at her, but rather, at the name. Artorias was continuing his prayer, but she could feel the vindication flowing from the set of his shoulders, though she could not see his face. Ciaran sighed and pulled her mask off as she crouched to look the wolf in its golden eyes. “I must be taking leave of my senses, listening to you.” The wolf was beginning to look more alert as the golden healing magic swirled around its body and it sniffed at her tentatively. “What news have you of Pythos the Rotten, beast? We seek its destruction in the name of Lord Gwyn. Even you must know that name.”
Though its hackles raised at the mention of the Everlasting Dragon, by the time her question was completed, so too was the spell. The beast slowly found its footing and looked down, testing each paw and finding they supported its weight. Immediately it moved to sniff at its rescuer and, upon finding him sufficiently pleasing, nuzzled his kneeling form until Artorias chuckled and straightened up. Both Knights were shocked, however, when the wolf grabbed Ciaran by the scruff of her neck, and bolted into the caves, with Artorias in hot pursuit.
She could have easily ended the creature, but to kill an emblem of her companion, and one he had just revived from near death would bode ill indeed. It would certainly destroy whatever bond was beginning to form between them and Cairan found herself strangely reluctant to do so. So the Lord’s Blade brought her legs up and somersaulted over the wolf’s head until she now rode it down the tunnels. She heard a guffaw of laughter from behind them and looked back to see Artorias somehow keeping pace with the wolf, even with the tremendous burdens of a sword and shield. She blushed furiously behind her mask but pointed imperiously forward. “On then, Omen of Gwyn, bring us to the Everlasting Dragon, so that we might unmake him forevermore!”
The wolf moved through the tunnels, turning away from sheltered passages where the smog still lurked and leaping across gaps in the rocky caverns as they moved deeper and deeper beneath the Earth. Soon, it became so pitch black even the wolf’s eyes could not pick out the walls, though it clearly still knew the way. When Artorias ran headlong into a wall, the wolf finally slowed down to a walk and turned back to lick at the Knight’s helmet, to much sputtering. Ciaran contented herself with a soft smile she was glad her mask yet hid and drew her Golden Tracer. At the sound of the sword, the wolf unceremoniously dumped the Lord’s Blade to the ground and now it was Artorias’s turn to jest, and hers to bandage wounded pride. Still, the fragment of sunlight Lord Gwyn had imbued in the blade provided enough light for them to see.
Artorias hefted his greatshield and took the foremost position, with his companions guarding his back. “A curious sort of sword for an assassin, Lady Ciaran. Would’st thou prefer something more befitting your order? Your tongue alone could slay a score of mortal men, I am sure.” She kicked at his armored thighs, to little effect and with no real heat. “It must be obvious I am Gwyn’s messenger, lest squabbling Lords and corrupt merchants think me some common cutthroat. The masks, this weapon, they all serve as a reminder that Lord Gwyn’s light pierces even the deepest shadows.”
Artorias nodded. “Would that your maxim holds true today, Lady Ciaran. May the Gods be good.”
She repeated the benediction as they moved deeper still, past the bodies of three other wolves scattered across the tunnel in various states of obvious agony. If this was an omen, Gwyn wasn’t being subtle about it. Perhaps the Firstborn, then. Still, neither of the Knights remarked on the corpses and their own wolf only paused a moment at each. In that early Age, even the beasts paid respect to Gravelord Nito.
Finally, they arrived at the resting place of Pythos the Rotten, and he was foul indeed. Great plumes of poisonous dark green gas belched from lips so wide they split his skull nearly in twain. Any skin, fur, or scales it had once possessed had sloughed away long ago, whether from the bolts of Gwyn’s lightning, the Witch’s Fire, or Nito’s disease. The curse of the First Dead labored against the vitality of the Everlasting even as the Knights watched in awe and disgust. Sinew, moss, and a few emaciated muscles shriveled away from yellowed bone even as it sought to cover the dragon anew in strength. Ragged talons scraped gouges in the stone as leathery wings pockmarked full of holes sought to raise Pythos from the earth. However, it was useless. He was too old, too rotten, and too heavy with toxin to fly anymore. He was almost pitiable in his decrepitude, save for his wickedness.
Artorias’s massive shield and sword glowed with a soft silver light as he brought them to bear while Ciaran’s tracer spun enchanting circles around her. The wolf simply bared its teeth, but Pythos only laughed. “At last, the Knights of Gwyn seek me out. I had wondered if Carim would be enough to coax you, but this city is so foul, I could not resist its luxuries.” It sighed as if sinking into a warm bath, but poison fog merely wrapped around its body, hiding the greater part from sight. “Such wickedness and greed, such selfishness and poison, in this city that the ‘Gods’ pretend to protect.” Pythos emitted a crackling laugh similar to Lord Nito’s. “Now, at least, I can destroy one of you before the other ends me. But I wonder,” it said mockingly, with an eternal skeletal grin, “can you kill me, knowing the potency of the curses my brothers have placed upon you already? I am not so sure.”
Ciaran streaked forward in a line of light, twisting aside as rotten claws smashed into the spot she had been about to step into. “Killing you before you curse us should be easy enough. You pretend to be Everlasting, but there are still quite a few less of you than I remember from my youth.” She made to scamper up the dragon’s arm, only to cry out in disgust as Pythos’s form decayed and rebuilt itself around her, threatening to drag her inside the beast if she lost her footing. The dragon spun around, its wings casting great gusts of poison across the cavern, but the mists parted around Artorias’s greatshield effortlessly. He looked down with surprise to find the wolf was crouching behind his greatshield as well, its eyes filled with meaning. Artorias thought about the Lord’s Blade, about Gravelord Nito, and made his decision. Your solution, then, is to not fight honorably, if fighting honorably will lead to more curses.
He handed his greatsword to the wolf, who stared at it as the massive blade leaned against sleek grey fur. “Whatever manner of creature you may be, I have no doubt your heart is pure despite this foulness,” he said. “Now, take my blade, and guard my Lady. I shall finish the Dragon, no matter the stain to my honor.” Artorias thought of Cairan, thought of that little flicker of his soul that had risen to meet her own, and it responded to his call. With a breath, it was in his hand, then he pressed it into the wolf’s chest with a sigh. He had expected to feel lesser, to feel weakened as he gave part of himself to another creature, but he could still feel his soul, as whole as ever. The wolf blinked, looking as surprised as he felt, then grasped the sword in its teeth and hefted it over its shoulder in a decisive gesture. Artorias strode away from the wolf without a word, heading towards Pythos’s back as Ciaran and the wolf charged its infinitely more dangerous front.
It went against every faces of his being, who he was as a man, as a Knight, but he grasped his shield in both hands and sank its pointed end into the dragon’s rotten haunch. He heard shouts of anger, disgust, then, a yelp that chilled his blood as he saw the blue and gold form of Ciaran’s form fly across the space, trailing gold-flecked blood. Artorias nearly leaped to catch her, abandoning his greatshield, but his soul pulsed in response as the wolf spat his-no, their sword onto the ground and leaped to catch the stunned woman before she collided with the cave wall.
Soon enough Ciaran was once more perched on its back and the sword was cutting away at the Everlasting Dragon, who ignored the minor wounds. It bent to peer at the creature, though how a dragon could see without eyes or a nose was beyond comprehension. “You are a curious little thing,” it grumbled as it reached out with a claw. “You survived my arrival yet returned with these foolish Knights. I wonder how long you will-“
Artorias drove his shield down, shattering the dragon’s spine in an explosion of bone and it snarled as its hindquarters fell away to collapse to the ground. The dragon turned its head again and again, but Artorias was directly behind it, climbing up the rotten spine in its blind spot. Vast wings beat franticly as Pythos, now lightened, lifted from the ground to slam into the rocky ceiling with such force the buildings of Carim far above, shook to their foundations. Artorias was driven down through the dragon’s flesh and into a nest of nightmares.
Ciaran saw silver light flashing in front of her and she frowned behind half her mask. That wasn’t right. She was supposed to have a full mask, and a golden sword, not half a mask and a silver one. She came to her senses fully as a massive claw swooped over her head and ducked down reflexively, grasping at-soft fur?
A yellow eye glared back at her and the Lord’s Blade came to her senses even as her hands wrapped themselves in the wolf’s fur and a massive greatsword swung up in a diagonal arc to block the second talon. Sword. Where was her sword? The tracer’s golden glimmer was a lantern in the darkness, illuminating the massive rear section of Pythos, which was already beginning to drag itself towards its front half. Well, she couldn’t have that. Cairan rolled off Artorias’s wolf smoothly into a running start and ignored the explosion of stone behind her. The dragon’s hindquarters turned, seeing her approach and swung all the way around, spinning its massive tail in her direction. She brought the Golden Tracer up and braced against it with her entire body as the dragon used its own momentum to carve its tail clean off.
Black fluid spouted from the stump of the appendage, leaking all across the floor and turning the rocky floor into treacherous footing. Still, Ciaran saw something glint in the darkness as Pythos turned back to her, roaring in anger and sending a wave of poison towards her, with Artorias’s greatshield nowhere in sight. Knowing it was useless, she charged forward, grasping at whatever glinting thing she’d seen in the light of her Golden Tracer and found her hands wrapping around a bone. She swung upward with both hands and the wave parted cleanly around her without even an eddy in the air.
There was a moment of silence as Pythos and Ciaran stared at one another in astonishment. He spat another wave, then another, and each time her arms rose and fell, dissipating the toxin without effort. With effort, she turned to look at her left hand and gasped. Her Golden Tracer was a fragment of sunlight and its effortless hypnotic movement caught the eye, but the black, bone-encrusted, glistening blade in her hand seemed to absorb the light around it. Small puffs of toxic smoke drifted from the hilt and over her hand harmlessly as she held it up, a wicked grin on her face to match Pythos’s skeletal one. “Thank you for this generous gift, Pythos the Corrupt. I suppose it is only fitting I use it to kill you, after all.”
The blades danced in her hands and Pythos snarled in hatred as she advanced on him. “Foolish assassin, even in victory you steal what was the pride of the Everlasting! Can an Age of Fire be built upon so many corpses and still prosper? Even the Gods must fall in the end.”
Ciaran disappeared from the dragon’s sight, so quick was her movement. She must not allow him to speak another word. One foot launched the petite woman off a corroded claw, the next redirected her off the side of his tenuously connected vertebrae, and the last ascent found her directly behind the dragon’s neck, exactly where Artorias had been. Pockmarked wings made to flap, but Cairan was faster and the swords severed the dragon’s head from his long neck in a single unbroken line. The gold and the black swords hissed as they passed through corruption and physical flesh, each one giving way before the power of two Ages combined.
The instant his head began to fall, the rest of Pythos’ body began to disintegrate and Ciaran slid down the side to gain some distance. But the head was still grinning at her, with fiery eyes and a skeletal grin as it continued to speak. “I curse you-“
A massive greatshield exploded from the disintegrating dragon in a fountain of rot as it came down on the head, over and over. The point of the shield shattered the lower jaw, the heavy center of the shield shattered the horned crown, and a pair of silver boots ended even the possibility of a sentence. Artorias stumbled out of the remnants of the Everlasting Dragon and wrenched his helmet away as the remnants of Cairan’s porcelain mask shattered along with her customary reserve. Why tell him some day, when she could simply tell him now? The Hornet dragged the Wolf down into a kiss and suddenly being covered in dragon guts didn’t seem so horrible.
The wolf was unamused, but they emerged into the sunlight of the late afternoon to a crowd of Carim’s citizens, who shrank back at the truly foul stench emanating from the two Knights. Or perhaps it was the wolf at their side. Nontheless, the rabble melted away to reveal the Duke of Carim, holding an embossed scroll with Gough’s hawk as the signet seal. Ciaran broke it and looked up at Artorias in naked shock.
“Captain Ornstein has fallen.”