Chapter 8 The Faceless Ii

• Sandro freezes to the spot as he watches Rebecca fall to her death, her hands wrapped firmly around Beatrice's neck. All around him, chaos erupts as the screams of werewolves in pain and the sound of flesh ripping from bones rend the evening air. The air grows thick with dark mist as the faceless increase in number, their ethereal screeches sending a shiver up his spine.
• He comes to himself right as a faceless dove for the watchtower, coming straight towards him. Sandro makes for the doors and shuts them behind him quickly, causing the faceless to smash violently into it. The wooden door shudders on its hinges but doesn't break, and Sandro runs down the steps leading into the hallway. Halfway down, he comes to a screeching halt. All around him are bodies of his pack members, or at least the pieces left of them, littered about the hall. The faceless rip the bodies apart, making low groans of satisfaction as they unfold their feeding orifices from within the folds of their stomachs and begin to feast. There was no saving any of them now. Not one wolf had survived.
• He takes a careful step backward, and then another. There was a hidden corridor that led to underground steps at the left wing of the castle. If he could get to it without drawing the attention of any of the faceless, he could make his escape.
• He takes another step back, and a faceless, mouth buried within the bowels of a carcass, looks up abruptly. There was no use trying to walk quietly anymore. He dashes for the corridor, a pack of faceless in his wake.
• He struggles to hold his breath as the dark, shadowy mist begins to surround him. His heart pounds as he runs faster, the lever to the corridor only a few feet away. Just as he reaches out to grab it, his feet leave the ground as a faceless picks him up and takes flight. He screams as its claws dig painfully into his shoulders and the mist drifts into his lungs.
• A hundred lifetimes lived, a thousand painful memories woven together, slam into him as he struggles against the creature. The pain rips through his soul; it feels as though his spirit is being separated from his body even as the faceless take turns tearing into his flesh. A never-ending torture, for his skin knits back as quickly as it is being shredded, only to be shredded all over again. He attempts to fight back. He kicks and throws his fists, but it is of no use. The pain is too much to bear. Memories long forgotten, long buried, claw at him from the inside as teeth and talons gouge him on the outside. Weak and bloodied, he gives up. The faceless tear into him with more vigor, their frustration growing with each wound that heals. They toss his body, grown limp and unconscious with pain, among themselves, attacking mercilessly, gouging out his eyes, breaking his ribs, tearing his flesh into pieces until, tired and demoralized, they throw his body down and fly eastward as one, headed for the elven kingdom.
• It takes a few minutes for Sandro to awaken. He jerks up with a yowl of pain as his bones protest in agony, still in the process of knitting together. He is covered in blood from head to toe, but there are no wounds on him, not anymore. He turns on his stomach and tries to get a bearing of his surroundings. He glances up and sees the watchtower looming a few feet away. Just beneath it, the bodies of Beatrice and Rebecca lie in a bloody heap. He drags himself across the ground. Beatrice couldn't be dead. She was immortal just as he was.
• On getting to her, he pushes Rebecca's body off, and sure enough, Beatrice lay intact, her chest heaving slowly in time with her heartbeat. Rebecca's body on hers had shielded her from the onslaught. The Faceless had attacked the body unaware of Beatrice's underneath.
• Sandro drags himself up with difficulty. His bones feel weak, his soul raw, but he feels his strength returning slowly. He hefts Beatrice up into his arms and takes one last look around at his fallen domain. He throws his head back into the sky and howls, mourning the loss.
• “I wasn't strong enough,” he whispers to the air. “Of what use is immortality without power?”
• His resolve to find the potion of transition becomes even higher than before. He walks away with Beatrice in his arms.
• Anir:
• A soldier bursts into the chambers just as the sound of loud horns split the air.
• “They're here! The faceless! They're upon us!”
• Chaos ensues as the elves panic and run for safety.
• “Your Majesty, we must get to safety,” Commander Jorah says as he walks with purpose into the chambers.
• “Safety? I will stand with my people. The rest of you,” he motions to the council members, “Quick, go into the verdant keep and shut it from the inside. Do not open until I say so.”
• They obey without protest, and the king marches with Jorah down to the palace gates.
• “Your Majesty. I implore you to reconsider.”
• “You will do no such thing, Jorah. I will hear no more of the matter.”
• All around the city, elves flee to the verdant keep or hide in bunkers beneath their houses built for this purpose. Within minutes, the city is as a ghost town, and not a moment too soon as the first faceless appears on the horizon.
• “Men! Stand your ground! We have prepared for this day,” Commander Jorah shouts, and the soldiers obey, rapidly forming a crescent-shaped line in front of the palace gates. More soldiers position themselves at the top of the castle walls, flaming bows and arrows drawn. Other faceless appear, and then even more until it looks like a massive dark cloud is barreling towards the city at a great speed.
• “Dear Goddess,” a soldier whispers in fright.
• “Stand your ground. The goddess is on our side! No matter what happens, do not let them get past these walls or anywhere near the Heartswood. Let's send these bastards back into the void from whence they came!” Commander Jorah declares, lifting his sword.
• With a shout of determination, the soldiers attack.
• The disciples tremble as they hear the commotion erupt around them.
• “Do not lose focus,” Sheila whispers urgently. “You, stand over there. You, over there. None of you move no matter what happens.”
• Sheila places the disciples at strategic positions around the silver gate marking the entrance into the Heartswood. She takes up the front, standing as a first line of defense, her staff in one hand and a ball of fire in the other. The Queen must be protected at all costs.
• The soldiers release flaming arrows at the horde of the faceless. It doesn't kill them, only slows them down. At Commander Jorah's directive, the elves throw magical orbs at the faceless; this gets them down and buys them more time.
• “We can't kill them,” a soldier yells out in despair.
• “We only have to wound them enough to scare them off,” King Elian yells back as he hacks away at one of the creatures.
• A protective, clear mist surrounds the battlefield, preventing the soldiers from inhaling the shadowy mist from the faceless but as the battle wears on, the mist begins to fade and lose its power.
• A primal scream rends the air as the first soldier to inhale the shadowy mist goes down in pain and is soon covered by a cluster of faceless feeding hungrily. Very soon, soldiers begin to fall left and right and the first of the faceless beings breaks through the soldier ranks and into the castle.