Chapter 55. Defeat

rigit awakened to the sound of shattering glass.  Instantly alert, she climbed to her feet, scanning the twilight dimness of the cave frantically.  Armand stood braced near the jagged entrance, his hands grasping the coarse rock while his legs flailed forward.  His finely chiseled features were an agony of rage and fear.  Magenta energies danced over his curled shoulders.

“Hide,” he gasped, “He has come for me and I cannot resist him much longer.”

Brigit grasped the neck of the last remaining bottle, realizing Armand must have already cast the other at their foe.  She pushed past him, determined to fight.  There was no where to hide.

“No!” he called to her back, “You cannot fight him directly!”

“You did when you saved me,” she called back, her booted feet crunching over shattered glass as she pushed down through the narrow opening, steeling herself for combat. 

“No!” he cried, “Do not go to him needlessly!”

His plaintive cries only served to ignite her protective instincts.  Brigit clenched her teeth in an effort to remain angry.  It was difficult not to dwell upon the helplessness and fear that had ruled her under the demon’s control.  Flesh and blood enemies she could deal with.  The supernatural, however, she could happily leave to magi.

Yet Armand was overcome and he was far too proud to ask for help.  He had already attacked her once, and judging by what Ashekoroth was capable of, she sensed that it was better to face the demon alone now than have to face both of them together later.  And by the gods, Armand did not deserve this.

“Brigit, no!” he called to her, “He has regained his strength.  Save yourself.  Please!”

Right.  She could run, but there was no where to hide.  Fighting was all that remained to her and, as luck would have it, one of the things she was trained to do.  Ashekoroth had flesh.  He might not bleed or breathe, but he did have vulnerabilities that went along with having a body.  All she had to do was splatter him with the contents of the bottle and then use the jagged glass to cut him up.

She staggered down the rough corridor, unconsciously holding her breath as the sickly sweet odor of the demon reached out to her.  Swinging into the jagged defile, she blinked as actinic light flooded the darkness and outlined the dire figure of the demonic man.  Ashekoroth’s pale eyes glinted in the unnatural glow and his pale visage was an expressionless ivory mask.  His black swathed form filled the narrow passage.

“Bow to me,” he said coldly, easily entering her mind, “You are already defeated.”

“That worked while I was drunk!” Brigit snarled, drawing back the arm that held the bottle.  Fear gripped her now as she remembered how easily he had overcome her in the cell and the feel of his vice-like grip on her throat.  But she had a weapon now.  Not a great weapon, not her preferred one, but it would do.  And he was alone.  There was no lightning flinging elementalist to back him up this time.

When Ashekoroth made no move to seize her, Brigit uttered an enraged roar and charged, her red hair flying behind her like a tattered banner.  With the bottle held high, she swung it around with brutal accuracy, the glass connecting with a damp crash to his pale temple.  A rank splash of fluid scattered amid green shards of glass and she howled a cry of victory as the jagged remnants of the bottle lay clutched in her hand like a crude dagger.  The man made no sound, only reeled away under the blow before rising stiffly to face her again.  This time the foul liquid had no visible effect on him beyond evoking fury. As she danced lightly forward to drive the shattered glass into his face, he grasped her wrist in one fluid motion and twisted her about, using her own momentum against her.

He pinched the nerves and tendons in her wrist, forcing her to drop the bottle’s shattered neck as he flung her chest against the jagged wall of the passage and pressed his chill weight upon her back.  Snarling with rage, she stamped uselessly on the arches of his feet and used her remaining free arm to drive her elbow into his liver with a vicious rabbit punch that would have felled any ordinary foe.  But he had her, both of her arms now, and he twisted them painfully until she feared her shoulders would be dislocated.  Brigit grew still, gasping ineffectually against the coarse stone as tears of rage and grief stained her rose petal cheeks.  The sickly sweetness of his perfume overwhelmed her.

“Now you know that I cannot be defeated by ordinary means, warrior.  See how weak and puny you are.”