Whipping the razor back in the opposite direction, ignoring the heavy clanking of weapons being readied behind him, Andrew nearly decapitated the turning guard. His free hand dipped to the first guard’s belt, snatching at the hilt of the dagger — wincing and feeling a bit of himself dying, his fingers blackening at the contact as the iron’s sterile sanity rubbed against his chaotic nature — he jerked it free and shoved upward with it, burying it in the wound he’d already created and forcing it through to emerge from the creature’s eye.
Spinning, holding the razor out in front of his eyes as his dreamself drank deep of the dying Orc’s lifeforce, Andrew immediately put it to work and tethered their spirits to him as his features shifted into his true visage. Now wearing the hellish harlequin’s face, he sketched a salute as he surveyed his opposition.
There were fewer than he’d thought — apparently that central malevolent force, or perhaps remnants of previous inhabitants, had clouded his assessment — but the half-dozen fomori forming a rough line before him still appeared dangerous enough. Four were armed as the two he’d already killed, but the two in the center were much larger, had two eyes and full hands rather than the mutations evident in the others, and were hefting heavy mauls. From the stench and quiver of fear that they sent through him, Andrew could tell the heads were made of pure iron.
“An maith la do duine digeanta.” A good day to die, indeed. At least he’d be taking several of these pricks with him, he thought. Keeping the razor before him and willing that the bean sidhe forming behind him should prepare their own weapons, he made a beckoning gesture with his free hand. The two with mauls began to advance on him, their mates closing in behind them.
Andrew tensed back on the balls of his feet, preparing to launch himself in a bundle of manic energy, but stopped — as did the Orcs — as a harsh and guttural sound, more cough than word, came from behind the soldiers.
The two with mauls shuffled to either side, providing Andrew with a line of sight to what lay behind them. An altar of some sort, draped with gold and green silk, atop which sat a hideous-looking statue made of onyx. It’s shape reminded him of what he’d thought while in the stone throat of the stairwell; carved in the semblance of a monstrous centipede with dozens of mouths, the blasphemous icon was two feet tall and three wide, seeming to radiate malicious energy. Standing behind it was a creature that was the spitting image of the fomori immortalized in stone in the square above; three eyed and nearly an equal mix of pig and man, this one wore thick robes that matched the altar’s draperies. It grunted out the phlegmy sound once more, and started to advance.
When it stood merely three feet from Andrew, it curled one side of its mouth, revealing rows of fangs behind the protruding tusks, and hissed.
“Tuatha. You dare?”
Andrew lowered the razor, his grin blooming once more, revealing his jagged bear-trap teeth. “I dare much, fomori. Surrender yourself, and maybe I don’t kill all your friends.” He paused, then dropped a wink. “Maybe.”
The priest — if that’s what it was — raised its hands, green liquid fire dripping from the fingertips and wreathing the thing’s lower arms. Andrew could feel something like a funnel forming in the air, a shaft of negative emotion coming from the blasphemous idol on the altar and moving towards the priest. The other Orcs were dropping to one knee in apparent reverence, their heads bowing.
Andrew saw his opportunity; he leapt towards the priest as it thrust one hand towards him, the fire jetting forward from the palm and toward the place Andrew had been a moment before. Andrew felt the burst of flame singe him as he jumped; in response he flicked out with the razor, severing the priest’s still upraised other hand and snatching it from the air.
Twisting as he fell, having executed a tidy somersault over the priest’s head and now standing before the idol, Andrew dropped another wink and executed a mock bow. As the priest’s scream of pain and indignation began to rise to the rafters, Andrew hooked a finger into the exposed tendons of the severed hand, placed it around the centipede statue and pulled the tendon, forcing the dying fingers to grasp it. Andrew wanted it, wanted it desperately, but didn’t want to touch it himself.
The response was immediate; even with the intermediary of the priest’s flesh, burning pain burrowed into Andrew’s mind, creating hissing sibilants that were almost words, almost demands. Hefting the thing into the air, he was gratified to see them all backing away from him even as the priest fell to its knees, arms upraised and stump dripping ichor to the floor, wailing.
“No! Galluk’ur will not serve such as you!”
Andrew’s heavy brows arched upwards. “You think not? Your false god whispers to me. Tells me that you’re washed up, a failure.” His grin widened further, looking as though it sought to wrap around the back of his head by this point. “It knows that we are the gods here. Too bad you forgot that, fomori.” Diverting part of his mind to converse with the spirit inhabiting the idol, Andrew gave his commands… and was instantly gratified as all six of the guardian Orcs burst into flame, screeching of their burning demise not in pain or fear, but ecstatic exaltation.
Andrew knelt before the priest, setting the idol in front of him with the hand still attached to it — fused to it, Andrew saw, the fingers having run like wax and sealed themselves to the curves of the centipede — before placing the straight razor against the priest’s thick, jowly cheek.
“Now, false priest and fallen god. It’s playtime. I want you to scream for me.”
The priest made a gargling sound in its throat, pursed its putrid lips and hawked a hard knot of slime at Andrew’s face. Andrew, with the priest’s ill-minded gift dripping down his pallid features, appeared unperturbed as he drug the blade down the Orc’s cheek, leaving it hanging in a bloody flap.
He was rewarded with precisely what he’d hoped for, feeling his strength return and his connection to the thing within the idol grow stronger still as he savored the hatred and terror in the priest’s scream.
“Yes. You’ll scream for me. And every scream, every sob, every single drip or drab of fear that you express… only adds to my strength. You and yours are finished.”
Andrew raised the straight razor again… and went to work.
Hours later, the Rose Guard of Morrigan stood watch over the stone slab that marked passage from the Overhollow to the depths of the Underhollow. They had remained since the Orc’s incursion, having followed the beasts as they fled with their captives — the supposed hero, one of Lady Falloth’s handmaidens, several members of the guard and other staff — but none having been willing to pursue into the haunted halls below. It had remained quiet since then, though all of them worried that another assault could come — must come — and some were even advocating bringing the fight to the beasts.
When they heard the sounds — as though a large number of men were marching in full battle gear — they lowered their shields and crouched behind them, sweaty hands tightening on sword hilts and spear shafts. Those grips loosened only slightly as they saw the supposed hero, now clothed in little more than rags but otherwise apparently none the worse for wear, practically skipping through the gate. He was carrying a large stone figure of some kind. As the guard captain titled his head and started to cry the other man to a halt, he saw what lay behind Andrew and could do nothing but gape.