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In the epic final struggle against the sorcerer, Angus McFife realized he had been impaled by the knife of evil. He decided to make the final sacrifice. He would end his own life by descending into the raging volcanic fires of Schiehallion.
It was hot, so searing hot. His armor did nothing to cool him down, on the contrary.
The metal seemed to sear his skin even through the fabric beneath.
His hammer, too, the only thing that kept him going now, was getting too hot to bear.
Angus coughed, the air too stuffed, flowing through his lungs like thick, toxic liquid.
If he didn’t make it, he would just perish here, suffocated by the fumes.
His destiny had already been written long before he was born.
He would die here, and after him, there would be peace.
A cramp ran through his chest, the pain too great to take standing. Angus fell to his knees as agony burned through his ribs. He coughed, feeling tears pool in his eyes.
Every movement worsened the tearing sensation just below his solar plexus where the knife had lodged between two armor plates. Not a lethal wound, but in this case, all the same.
Angus fought himself back to his feet by pure force of stubbornness.
The hammer was getting hotter and hotter, but he could still hold it for a little while longer, distracting himself from the pain in his chest that wanted to paralyse him.
The ledge was right there. Only a few feet.
The mountain rumbled, as if daring him to fulfil his duty, a hungry beast ready to devour him. The shaking was too much.
Angus dropped the hammer, his palm red, skin burned to a dry, tense foil, ready to split.
He groaned, trying to suppress a cough as he dragged himself forward, his eyes set on the ledge even as his vision blurred. The dreadful knife would fall with him.
Zargothrax would lose, once and for all.
The glow of the lava was blinding, the toxic fumes taking his breath. Angus closed his eyes. He didn’t need to see his destiny to find it.
He fell.
Something took hold of his collar, dragging him backwards so abruptly his neck cracked. The impact of his back against the stone wall let the knife dig its evil teeth deeper into his chest, but his scream was only a faint gasp. The unseen force dragged him backwards, back over the ledge.
Zargothrax’ minions! They had to wait for Angus to be turned by the power of the cursed blade!
He tried to break free, thrashing and pulling with all the strength he possessed, to no avail. The battle and the hostile environment had weakened him too much. But that did not mean he gave in. He was a McFife, after all.
„Let go, wretched fiend,“ he rasped.
With his feet on steady ground again, he could fight back a bit easier. He turned, his armor burning into his skin, and grasped for whoever was holding him back. His fingers found the familiar sensation of fabric, and he tore at it with all the strength he had left. If he had to take someone along, so be it.
He was running out of time, soon the knife would overtake him-
A hand grabbed his throat, dragging him backwards, towards the exit and away from the ledge. Angus tried to break free, to loosen the grip around his neck, but the fingers were like steel claws. He dug his fingers into the hand, desperately digging his heels into the stone, writhing and kicking despite the pain. He needed to do this. It was his destiny!
„Will you hold still, you thrice–damned, thoughtless fool!“
Angus froze. Looking up, he met the grey eyes of Ralathor, former hermit, now commander of the DSS Hootsforce.
He’d lost his hat at some point, the ponytail more or less disbanded, his hair a tangled mess, soiled with soot and the gods knew what else, streaks of dirt and sweat on his face.
And he looked very, very angry.
Angus was too stunned to fight back when the hermit dragged him out of the volcano, with a strength much greater than his slim body let on. Outside, the air was cool, despite the smoke hanging over the battlefield.
„You got him?“
„Obviously.“
Angus wanted to fight back, to argue, but he was getting weaker and weaker. Any time now the blade would break his will, subdue him to its dark powers-
„Hold him down.“
Strange, the hermit had always been stern, but not this rude-
Angus shrieked when the blade was pulled out in one swift motion. His chest exploded in pain, taking his breath. Black spots danced in front of his eyes.
When his vision returned, he looked into two faces: one was the hermit’s, though a hermit so furious Angus did not WANT to look at him for too long, for fear of tipping Ralathor over the edge just by virtue of existing. The other one was the Hootsman‘s, who seemed more amused by the entire situation than anything else.
„I need to go,“ Angus rasped. He tried to get up, just to have the barbarian‘s big hand on his shoulder push him back down. They’d opened his armor and Ralathor was busy pressing a cloth on the wound, his jaw clenched so tightly he had gone entirely white.
„Don’t worry kid, we’ll take it from here,“ the Hootsman assured Angus.
„No!“ Angus managed to get up, pushing Ralathor back. „In a moment, I’ll be corrupted. I need to end this.“ He managed to slip from the barbarian‘s grasp, staggering to his feet. The entrance was right there. He’d make it. It was his duty.
And if he had to physically fight his way there, he would, not even Ralathor would stop him, no matter how hard he tried to hold him down-
„WILL YOU HOLD STILL ALREADY?!“
Stars exploded in front of his eyes. Angus held still
His head was spinning and it took nearly a minute until the numbness in his face turned into actual pain. He blinked up at a sky clouded by smoke. Why was he lying on his back again?
„Now that was not necessary-“
„NOT NECESSARY?! YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE IS NOT NECESSARY??? THIS GODSDAMNED MORON THROWING HIMSELF INTO A VOLCANO THAT‘S WHAT‘S NOT NECESSARY!“
Angus blinked tears from his eyes, the left side of his face tingling, to meet the gaze of a positively FUMING submarine commander.
Ralathor fixed the prince in a gaze alight with fury. „Just to be clear,” he snapped, stabbing a finger at Angus’ face, “if you as much as twitch again I will personally tie you up and drag you back to my ship like the absolute IDIOT you are, get it?“
Angus opened his mouth to protest, but the Hootsman gave him a warning glance. „But the Knife-“
„Oh spare me with the fucking Knife!“, Ralathor groaned. He wrapped a bandage around Angus‘ wound, soaked in something that burned worse than the fires of the volcano. It effectively stifled anything Angus may have wanted to say. Perhaps that was on purpose.
„If you’d come and talked to me I could have told you I can reverse the spell before it gets you! I’m a godsdamned sorcerer, for fuck‘s sake!“
„You’re-“ Shock numbed his tongue. He’d suspected, yes, but-
Angus stared up at Ralathor in amazement and horror alike, finally putting the pieces together. The runes, the necklace, the blue shimmer that sometimes surrounded him.
Ralathor wasn’t listening, eyes glowing a deep blue, finally not bothering to hide it any longer. „But no, instead of acting like you have even a shred of COMMON FUCKING SENSE, you decided your best course of action was to THROW YOURSELF INTO A FUCKING VOLCANO! I‘m surprised you made it here alive at all at this rate! Angus the first was already not the brightest candle on the cake, but YOU, you really take the cake for DUMBEST MOTHERFUCKER IN HISTORY.“
Ralathor took a few deep breaths to collect himself, brushing his hair back with one hand. Nobody dared to speak. Even the Hootsman was silent, stunned at the outburst.
„I’m sorry,“ Angus squeaked. He felt like a kid again, being reprimanded by his father for doing something thoughtless. That had happened a lot in his life.
„Let’s get him out of here,“ Ralathor growled. He got up, dusting off his pants, and picked up the Knife of Evil that lay uselessly on the floor. „I’ll get rid of this and get the hammer. Bring him to the ship.“
„Okay.“ Even the Hootsman knew better than to argue with Ralathor when he was in such a mood. The barbarian picked Angus up like he was no heavier than a doll, carrying him away from the volcano. They left the stone path behind in time to escape the burst of lightning raging over the volcanoes flank, as they did with the infuriated screams and curses.
Angus closed his eyes, giving in to his exhaustion, and prayed, prayed to the gods - the Hootsman included - that when he woke, Ralathor would have regained his composure.
Because otherwise, he may just have preferred the raging volcanic fires of Schiehallion.