Ashyla laughed, a dull, hollow taunt that broke the Captain’s will.
Crawling across the ground, Captain Osann reached for his slaughtered wife, but he could not bring himself to touch the limp corpse. He looked up to Ashyla, his eyes dull and devoid of their former light. He was a broken man.
The weight lifted from Andromeda. With a furious scream, she charged at Ashyla, her halberd appearing in her hand. Hissing wildly, she swung her halberd at the target’s head in a wild attempt at vengeance. No one deserved such a horrible fate.
Ashyla jerked back, avoiding the deadly strike. As the halberd passed, Ashyla reached out and caught the halberd in her grasp. Andromeda tried to rip her weapon free, but it was futile. She hissed at her target, her eyes two toxic flames of hatred, and she began to fade into the shadows. But a thundering voice inside her head froze her in place.
You think you can escape, my dear Andromeda? Deny it as you might, you know the truth. Your struggle is meaningless. No matter what you do, you will never be able to save them all. No matter how powerful you become, sometimes you will only be able to watch as the ones you love perish before your eyes. There is no resisting it, child. The poison has already set.
Andromeda tried to argue, but her thoughts were dominated by the taunting voice. Two emerald fires appeared in her mind, incinerating any thoughts of resistance. The voice grew harsher, a low hiss that cut through her very being.
Accept the truth, child. There is no fighting it. Your lust for power can only result in one outcome. Despair. And not just for you, but also for the very ones you wish to protect. But …
An image appeared of Andromeda looming atop a bloody mountain of corpses, her halberd raised to the shadowy sky, and a black flicker of light shining behind her eyes. The corpses were not undead. But before Andromeda could comprehend the shadowy image, it was gone, leaving her desperately trying to retrieve it. Instinctively she licked her lips.
Such power…
The voice inside her head applauded her, and it grew lighter, and more soothing.
You see, my dear Andromeda, there is a place for all…
The emerald fires within Andromeda’s mind flickered away, and the gentle voice faded out, leaving her alone with her torn thoughts. She did not know what to think anymore. Ashyla released her halberd, and Andromeda stumbled back, lost her in mind.
Andromeda violently shook her head, her emotions a ravaged jumble.
She lies.
Ashyla smiled, and she turned away, her black skirt flowing about her like an inky orchid. She strode away, her cascading braid waving behind her. Andromeda gazed after her, her mind swirling with turmoil. Andromeda shook her head, desperately attempting to regain her clarity.
Suddenly, a furious cry thundered from behind her. Whipping around, she saw the companions grimly stalking towards Ashyla, the broken Captain at the lead. His greatsword drug in the ground behind him, yet his eyes shone for only one thing. Revenge.
Brushing her doubts away, Andromeda rushed over to them. Ro looked down at her, worry shadowing his face, and Margaret gave her an encouraging nod. Andromeda did not meet their gazes.
The others marched behind Captain Osann; their faces ruthless. They would strike down the dark Goddess. Fasto’s bow was held out, and the two gnomes marched side-by-side, blue and purple alike, their hands raised and ready to unleash a devastating torrent of spells.
“Halt,” the Captain growled at Ashyla, his determined stride unwavering. His voice grew stronger with every passing step. “Halt,” he repeated, his glare burning into Ashyla’s back.
Ashyla paused, and she turned back, her glare matching the Captain’s. She sighed. “My dear Osann, you never do learn. Even illusions can kill if you believe in them.”
The Captain did not answer. He merely continued his determined march forward.
Ashyla shook her head in disappointment. “It’s a shame, really. You had so much potential.” She shrugged, apparently unconcerned. “So be it.”
Ashyla waved her hand, and the forsaken ground in front of her began to crack and quake. A massive, armored hand burst through the cold earth, its black armor adorned with jutting spikes and symbols of death. With terrifying strength, the hulking being ripped itself up, effortlessly breaking through its earthy tomb. The dust settled, revealing a mighty dreadknight now standing upon the forsaken ground. Its black cape flowed behind its bulky shoulders like a waterfall of darkness, and its inky greatsword radiated in an aura of deathly frost. Yet the dreadful gaze bound the companions in place, two icy chasms of death billowing out from underneath the crowned helmet of shadow. Even the unflappable Captain faltered under the dreadknight's vile glare.
A sharp sense of terror cut through Andromeda’s mind, and her thoughts were thrown back to the fateful day at the prison. She shook her head in a vain attempt to clear the memories.
Ashyla laughed for one, final time, and her glare turned harsh and unforgiving.
“Just remember, child, you made your decision,” she said. As she spoke, her body began to crumble into butterflies, and fly away in the still air. The last thing the companions saw was her two emerald eyes, gazing upon the unseen watcher in the shadows.
The Captain turned to the companions; his face tight with desperation. Behind him, the vile dreadknight began its solemn march, its greatsword ready to smother any signs of life. He ignored it.
“Listen to me,” he panted, his breath coming in short gasps. “Run! You have to run. I’ll try to hold off this dark monstrosity for as long as I can.” His voice trailed off, but he shook his head, regaining his composure. “Listen. Cross the river, and head south through the mountain pass. There you will come across the shores of a great lake, I will try to meet you there. Now go!”
Not waiting for their response, he turned to meet the oncoming dreadknight. He raised his greatsword out before him. Its blade shone pure and clean, with not a sign of any blood. But before the companions could ponder at the blade, it erupted into a furious flame. Andromeda watched with horror. She wanted to rush after him, wanted to strike back against the Shadow, but she could not.
No matter how powerful I become, sometimes I will only be able to watch as the ones I love perish before my eyes …
A surging rage filled her stomach, and her heart felt as if it were made of lead. Yet it was this weakness that gave her strength. No, she could not save them all. But she could damn well fight for the ones she had. Yes, there was a place for all, but hers was not at the side of that monster. She had a place. She had something to fight for.
But the pain …
It was never easy.
The Captain gave one, final glance over his shoulder, his eyes shining with life. The dreadknight towered over him, its icy greatsword clashing against the Captain’s fire. The Flame against the Shadow. There could only be one victor.
“Run!” the Captain commanded, turning back to the dreadknight, his flaming sword held high like a shining beacon of hope.
And so, they ran.
Chapter 8
The two Shadowfriends marched through the forsaken land. One was frail and thin and wore light armor. The other, the fresher of the two, was still bulky and strong, and donned a heavy plate mail. Around them, night hung thick like a shadowy blanket. They hardly noticed, as the night was all they knew. Ahead of them, there was a ruined village hidden among the surrounding hills, out of sight. Yet they knew it was there. They had traveled this path many times before.
They were summoned not hours ago. For what, they could only guess. To ask too many questions is a quick route to an early death in the Shadow, especially for Shadowfriends — the lowest of the low in the Shadow.
The thin Shadowfriend sighed. How he yearned to gaze upon the purifying light of the sun once more. How he dreamed of basking in the warm embrace of the Light, away from the endless abyss of the Shadow. How he wished to hear the musical sound of his name being spoken once again. The Shadow cared little for names. They were worthless, mer
e objects that were to be discarded like filthy waste. And he had made his choice. He was a traitor, ridiculed even by the groveling cultists. He had long ago forsaken his Inner Fire, and his name, to the glory of the night, and there was no turning back.
Better this than to be dead.
So be it. He had made his choice.
The robust Shadowfriend at his side had only recently succumbed to the Shadow and was still optimistic about his situation. He would trot along merrily, his mind filled with the promises the Deathspeakers had given. Promises of power and wealth. They were all empty. The only fulfilled promise was survival. Even so, that could all too easily be broken.
What a fool.
The thin Shadowfriend snickered under his breath. Many a time had he been witness to a Shadowfriend falling to the wicked blade of a cultist, or the flanged mace of a Deathspeaker. Yet still he survived.
Hardly.
He was nothing more than a loose tatter of skin and bone. The Shadow had not been kind, and there were many nights where he would go hungry or was beaten by a mob of cultists. Yet his promise still held true.
Better this than to be dead.
The two Shadowfriends marched on, not daring to say a word to each other. Making friends was never wise, as sooner or later, they would become nothing more than another rotting corpse in this land of decay. Their mission had brought them together, and that was enough.
As the night wore on, they finally stumbled across the ruined village. It was nothing more than piles of destruction strewn about the rolling hills. Any signs of life that once lived there had long been scrubbed away with the relentless comb of death.
Entering the devastation, the thin Shadowfriend studied the surrounding shadows. They were not alone. Cloaked cultists emerged from among the fallen buildings, their hollow eyes mocking the pitiful Shadowfriends. The thin Shadowfriend paid them no mind. He had long been hardened to their contempt. His burly companion, however, eyed the cultists with a wary gaze. His hand kept reaching for the longsword that hung at his side — but he dared not draw it.
The thin Shadowfriend pushed forward with an iron determination. His business was not with the cultists. He had a mission; he was summoned here. Reaching out, he tugged on his companion’s shoulder, urging him forward. To fight was to die.
What a fool.
Not caring whether the other heeded his call, he continued his steady march.
The center of the forsaken village opened around him like the sprawling bones of a broken rib cage. Dust and debris cluttered the ground in a cold graveyard of destruction. The ruined buildings hung over the square, limp and lifeless. At one point, this had been the center of trade in Anland. Those days had long passed, leaving not even a trace of their grandeur.
At the center of the fallen square was a large boulder. The frail Shadowfriend trudged toward it, his companion following cautiously behind. That was the designated rendezvous location. Yet no one was there.
Typical.
The Shadow cared little for promises. Sighing, he unstrapped his worn blade, and laid it to rest on the boulder. He would wait, for to do anything else would be to die. Crossing his arms, he leaned upon the rock in a silent vigil.
He could not tell how long he rested upon the boulder. There was no way to read the passage of time in the hollow night sky. No stars. No moon. Just an empty void. Countless cultists darted past, their sneering comments melding into one senseless blur. The thin Shadowfriend gazed out into the darkness, lost in his own thoughts. His burly companion shuffled about at his side, impatiently awaiting their orders. Soon he would learn, or he would die.
What a fool.
As the thin Shadowfriend’s thoughts were dancing amid the shadows, two purple flames opened before him, tearing him back to reality.
At last, the Deathspeaker had arrived.
The Deathspeaker was a shadowy cloaked figure. Skulls and other symbols of death swirled around the inky robe in gray rivers of thread. Its face was hidden under the drooping hood, yet two, vile purple eyes burned out from the darkness, searing those unfortunate enough to gaze upon them.
The frail Shadowfriend stood up, respectfully not meeting the Deathspeaker’s raging glare. To do so would be to chance death. The other Shadowfriend grumbled under his breath, but he settled as the Deathspeaker turned to him.
“There has been a slight … disturbance in our plan,” the Deathspeaker hissed in a thin, snake-like voice that cut deep into the Shadowfriends’ living flesh. The thin Shadowfriend strained his ears, for the screech of two metal blades would be more pleasant to hear. He knew not of what plan the Deathspeaker spoke, but he did not care. “The one known as Captain Kirk Osann has failed, and you must take his place.”
“Captain Kirk Osann?” the built Shadowfriend started, but he was silenced by a harsh backhand from the Deathspeaker. Blood began to drizzle from a torn lip, and the Shadowfriend spat on the ground. He remained silent.
“It doesn’t matter,” the Deathspeaker continued, an irritated undertone seeping into its voice. It was never wise to anger minions of the Shadow.
“There is a group of companions, a group of Sparks, that must be removed.” The Deathspeaker paused, and its voice grew low and harsh. “The Sister has placed utmost importance on this task.”
The thin Shadowfriend flinched, and his eyes opened wide with shock. The Sister. No Shadowfriend, or cultist, or even Deathspeaker had ever spoken with the Sister. Rumors hold her to be a most beautiful woman with ebony hair and rosy lips, whose very glance can steal even the heartiest of souls. Her sword cut deep, yet her words cut deeper, twisting you about until you could not tell friend from foe. Yet those were only rumors. None knew the true power of the Sister of the Shadow. And the frail Shadowfriend cared little to discover it.
All blood drained from his face at the thought, and his right hand trembled unsteadily by his side. There would be no failing this task. His burly companions stiffened at the mention of the Sister, and suddenly the Deathspeaker’s mission seemed most interesting.
“Head north along the road, beyond the mountain range. Search the west, there you will find the group,” the Deathspeaker hissed. “Kill them all. Use the name of the Captain. The Shadow will guide you.”
The thin Shadowfriend nodded slowly, his eyes still respectfully dodging the flaming, purple gaze. “Of course.”
But his companion was unsettled. “Kill them?” he mumbled quietly to himself.
No doubt this was the first time he had been tasked with killing a Spark. The burly Shadowfriend glanced up to the Deathspeaker, defiance plastered over his face.
“But why, can’t we just —”
Before he could finish, the Deathspeaker’s pale hand shot up to his chest. With a crack of power, a dark lance of shadow burst forth from the outstretched hand, piercing the obstinate Shadowfriend. The thin hand closed, and the shadowy lance grew and darkened into a razor abyss. The Shadowfriend tried to scream, tried to call out, but he died before the breath left his lungs. The vile lance disappeared, and the Deathspeaker lowered its hand, its eyes seething with rage.
The body collapsed to the ground with a hollow thud.
The Deathspeaker turned to the remaining Shadowfriend, its voice a burning screech. “Do I make myself clear?”
“Of course,” the thin Shadowfriend repeated. He dared not show any sign of nervousness.
Satisfied, the Deathspeaker turned away, and disappeared into the forsaken shadows, its black cloak billowing out behind it like a mournful river in the night.
The frail Shadowfriend sighed and glanced down to the body at his feet. It was never wise to make friends, as sooner or later, they would become nothing more than another rotting corpse in this land of decay.
What a fool.
Reaching out, he grabbed his sword, and strapped it across his hip. He turned to the north, and with a steady determination he began his trek across the desolate land.
He was never comfortable with killing Sparks, but he
had long ago made his choice. To fail would be to die. He had abandoned the Flame, and he must live with the consequences, even if it meant slaughtering his fellow brothers. He had made his choice.
Better this than to be dead.
So be it.
♦♦♦
Fasto’s feet thundered against the hard ground. His breath crashed hard against his lungs; each pant a desperate struggle for air. He had long since lost track of how long they had been running. He did not know where they were or where they were going. All he knew was that he had to keep running, and fast.
The other companions ran along beside him, unwilling to look back at the horror they had just escaped. How could they? Their entire world had just been thrown into an inky abyss. They could not know who to trust. They could not know who was right. They could not even trust what they were seeing, for without warning it could disappear into a swarm of infernal butterflies. And so, they kept running, with nowhere to go.
The land flashed past them, desolate fields and shriveled shrubs all blended together into a dull, gray tapestry of death. The bleak sun was falling to the west, and the black blanket of night was starting to cover the land.
The companions had lost the road they were traveling on, and only the Captain’s final orders gave them any sense of direction — south. While they were yet unable to see the wispy peaks of the mountains through the darkness, they knew they were there. They had to be.
While Fasto ran beside the others, his thoughts were still far behind them.
Why did butterfly lady attack us? She no evil. Fasto knows. She can be friend, but no. She attacked us.
Memories of her from the prison returned with a pure clarity. She came down in a rain of white light, sending brilliant lances of light to decimate the undead horde. A mighty bow appeared in her hand, and with a marvelous grandeur, a chromatic arrow streaked from the bow like a shot from the cosmos, cutting deep into the dark dreadknight. But then the butterflies came, and he awoke to Andromeda perched on top of him. Even still, Fasto rejected his thoughts, as if the very idea of Ashyla not being a tyrannical murderer sickened him. It was as if some lurking hatred from a lost memory was burrowing into his consciousness. When he had raised his white bow against the goddess, it had felt so … right.
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