The Sword of Shadows

by Adrian Cole

  The warriors were watching the Peace Monk, expecting him to perform this miracle. But the dark man had guessed correctly: Torruvas did not possess the secret. Without it, he was impotent. The monk could not speak. He could not meet this challenge.

  “To the hill, then,” said the Voidal, not waiting for an answer. “Have your men bring the body of the little man.” He rode through the confused ranks of the warriors and on up the hill towards the temple. As he rode, he shouted to the skies. “Elfloq! I know you are there. Bring Scyllarza and Orgoom. We go to the temple.”

  No one dared to prevent the Voidal’s entry into the temple. He felt the dormant power of the place quivering as he dismounted and his feet touched the earth floor of the inner court. The weight of centuries hung from the walls, an antiquity beyond imagining. There had been a battle here, millennia gone by, but he could smell the blood from its excesses as if freshly spilled. In the cool shadows of the walls he waited for Torruvas and Renegorn to join him. One of their warriors, eyes filled with fear, had brought the Babbler’s corpse. The Voidal nodded for him to put it down beside him.

  “None of my other companions are to be harmed. I know that two of them are not pretty to look upon,” he added with a grim smile. “But they are not the demons you fear.”

  Even so, Orgoom and Elfloq’s arrival caused near panic among the gathered warriors, but they held back from them. Elfloq was relieved to be able to perch near his master, himself clearly terrified by the hostile glances of the army. Scyllarza attracted almost as much unease, for as she dismounted her eyes fell upon the fallen Babbler and her snarl was more demon than woman. The men of the temple drew back, their faith wavering.

  “The Dark Gods have done this,” the Voidal told her as she bent down and gently touched the cold brow of her squire. “The Sword of Oblivion was in him.”

  She frowned. “But why? What did he know? He shared everything with me.”

  The Voidal took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “There will be an accounting,” he assured her. “Bury him here. Time harries us.” He could feel her fury vying with sorrow, welling like a storm.

  Brother Torruvas was studying the creatures that had invaded the temple. What have we done? He asked himself. Can they be our salvation? Are they to battle evil with us?

  Renegorn was at his shoulder, echoing his thoughts. “If we are wrong about these demons, Brother, it is the end for us and this world.”

  “Aye. But he gave us the chance to flee. Should we? I have spent a lifetime preparing for this hour, but I fear for our world. Humanity may have seen its last dawn.”

  Renegorn stood in silence for a long while, watching the woman opening the earth to receive the body of the fallen half-man. Then, as if something had snapped within him at such heresy, he strode forward, hand on his sword hilt. With a swift blur of movement, the Voidal turned to him and put his hand over the warrior’s. Renegorn could not move, the grip of the dark man impossibly strong.

  “No,” said the Voidal softly. “Save your killing blows for what is coming. The Babbler would not have harmed you. Let the earth have him. We are none of us diminished by his burial here.” He released Renegorn and turned away from him, and with an arm about Scyllarza, began the climb up the stairs of what remained of the tower. Orgoom, glowering at the warriors, sickles open, followed Elfloq.

  Torruvas was again beside Renegorn. “I am certain that he could wipe us all away in a stroke. That he has not done so suggests we are powerless against him. And he is immune to the powers of this temple. We are in his hands.”

  Renegorn nodded. “Very well. I will prepare the men for battle. The gods know, they are utterly confused.”

  Above them, the Voidal spoke to Scyllarza. “The Dark Gods desire this battle. It is why they snatched the Babbler from these people, who would have used him to revoke me. He did this once before, on Alendar.”

  She was taken aback by his words. “The Babbler —?”

  He nodded. “I would not have told you. But he had the secret from the Crimson Priest. The Dark Gods would have had a hand in that. Feed your anger on them. The little man served you alone. And with his passing, the Dark Gods bring on this battle. They must be sure of victory.”

  “Then must you do this?”

  “I will never be stronger, unless I win back the last of my powers. I can only attain them through the Sword of Shadows. I am sick of wandering through lost dreams! Yes, I must do this. I will begin it!” He stepped to the edge of the wall and flung open his arms to the sky. He closed his eyes and from his lips there came a stream of strange incantations as he invoked the first of the Thirteen Seneschals of the Dark Gods, the keepers of the swords. Spells sang and burst, while unseen beings sped across the back of the unfurling winds, hissing and cursing, the clouds forming mouths that hurled obscenities down upon the terrified warriors below.

  At last the Voidal shouted a name aloud. “Come from your dismal lair, Khadwhaan, bearer of the Sword of Light, maker of suns! Rouse yourself and face me!” No sooner had he cried this than the skies grew bright and fiery as though a dozen new suns burned there. Great clouds of shimmering gold burst like surf across the hills, reforming themselves into a tall figure. It held up a sword that shone like fire, the Sword of Light: as the figure raised it, brilliant light streamed from it so that the warriors in the army were forced to turn away, hiding their faces. Those who were not quick enough to avert their eyes were instantly made blind. But the Voidal laughed and held up his open palms, receiving the streams of light. They sank into the black gloves as if into deep wells and were lost in their darkness.

  Khadwhaan stood like a statue made of burning gold, faceless and volcanic, but the Voidal was not deterred. He felt the powers in the earth beneath him running up into him as light met light and he turned the rivers of fire back upon the blazing figure. For long moments the struggle endured, until Khadwhaan wavered and then burst into a million fragments, a scintillating cloud of embers tossed to the skies, blotting out the sun as a false twilight spread across the world. The Sword of Light fell to the hillside and struck point first, quivering for a time until it fell still, its light subdued.

  The Voidal called to Scyllarza, who had shielded her eyes from the glare. “The Thirteen are now twelve. Khadwhaan is dispersed. I was right to test myself here.” He looked out at the distant sword, which seemed to mark the Seneschal’s grave. “Elfloq! Fly out and retrieve the Sword of Light! Fear it not. Only I can empower it now.”

  The familiar muttered and grumbled, certain that he would be in serious danger, but nevertheless he flew over the hillside and tugged at the buried sword. It came away easily and he took it to his master. Then began the next invocations as the Voidal pursued his war against the Thirteen.

  Within moments the second of the Seneschals had burst up from the earth like a pillar of livid anger, for this was Envargoth, wielder of the Sword of Dispersal, and he smote into the army, pulping a score of men at a stroke, squashing men and steeds like flies, tearing huge chunks of stone from the temple. The claws of this furious Seneschal reached out and dislocated everything they touched, but the Voidal used his power to draw the strength of Envargoth’s weapon upon himself. At first all the power in that awesome blade raced for the very heart of the dark man. It struck there in a concentrated beam of screaming madness, but it was as water pouring into a canyon. In moments it had spewed back, fountaining in a spray that thrust Envargoth backwards. As the Seneschal crashed to the earth, the ground opened and curling fingers of darkness reached up and pulled him down into his grave, smothering him and leaving only the Sword of Dispersal on the waterlogged grass above. Elfloq retrieved it nervously, but its power seemed spent.

  After this came silence as the elements drew back. The Voidal, weakened by his efforts, went down from the tower to survey the havoc that had been wrought amongst the men. Many had been torn apart and the sounds of the wounded were terrible to hear. Renegorn confronted the dark man angrily.

  “This i
s insane! What use are mortals against the legions of hell?”

  The Voidal drew breath. “Forgive me. But your people have not died without purpose. This hill contains the powers of the ages. But even those powers are not limitless. Tell your men and the Peace Monks to pray. Each and every incantation against these Seneschals gives me strength to oppose them. This war is not for your world alone, it is for the omniverse itself.”

  “This terrible darkness that is gathering,” said Scyllarza. “These Seneschals are a part of it?”

  The Voidal glanced up at the curdling skies. He had no answer.

  Instead he went back up to the top of the fallen tower, to begin anew. Moments later there were shouts and screams down among the warriors and Elfloq fluttered above their ranks in amazement, for they were fighting themselves. Several dozen of the men had gone berserk and were hacking wildly at each other in the press. This sudden madness spread so that the mass of soldiery began heaving and shrieking. It was the work of Azlomec, who held the Sword of Madness that had once been buried in the Voidal’s vitals. Now the Seneschal was churning up the warriors, reaping through their chaos, a crimson harvest. Hundreds of them fled from the inner temple, screaming, eyes bulging, while outside there were scores of slithering horrors coming up from the valley, monstrosities conjured up by Azlomec to shatter the sanity of all who looked upon them.

  The Voidal searched the stone stairways of the temple and saw a laughing phantom, a ravening monster that was vomiting out spells and curses. The dark man rushed around the inner walls to confront it. Azlomec turned upon him the vilest of countenances, seeking to rip out his mind with his most hideous aspect, but the Voidal’s hands reached out inexorably and closed on the frightful head. They squeezed and heaved, crushing its screaming form and ripping it from the neck, dashing it against a wall, where it burst in a last sizzle of sparks. The noise from the warriors below ceased as many of them collapsed. Few of them rose again, either dead or mindless.

  Torruvas came to the Voidal’s side, face white with horror. “We should have left! We should have done what you asked! For months we have culled the Open Lands to bring this army together, and for what? To have them wiped out to a man? How does that serve us?”

  The Voidal breathed heavily, the conflict exhausting him. “Go if you must. But there is no protection outside. The Seneschals will break your world into pieces. All that can save you now is the power within the hill, and what powers I have.”

  “But…what of those outside? The families —”

  The Voidal looked away, saying nothing.

  Fresh cries of horror up on the battlements snared his attention and together with a group of warriors, he went up to see what had transpired. They looked across the slopes to discern a seething army of demons cavorting and leaping towards the temple, unleashing fire arrows and handfuls of scalding embers at the regrouping defenders. “This is the work of Yssussquot,” said the Voidal. “Keeper of the Bane of Demons. Every one of them that he has ever chained up with the sword, he has unleashed.”

  “They are countless!” cried Elfloq and Orgoom grunted in shock. The Voidal called to his familiars and Scyllarza and went down the slopes to meet the capering army. Scyllarza, who had wrought havoc among these creatures on Alendar, drew her sword eagerly. Orgoom opened his sickle fingers in readiness, while Elfloq flew overhead, uncertain how to aid in the defence. Between them, this small company formed a circle, drawing the demon assault, but none of the monsters was able to penetrate the mesh of death that awaited it. As he fought, the Voidal laughed, Scyllarza too, and from the temple and its grounds the last of the monks and warriors watched as the incredible carnage began. As each demon was smashed down, it rose again, but only to turn upon its fellows and rend them.

  Not until there were tall heaps of demon slain did the battle end. Then the Voidal dragged from the ranks of the enemy one huge and bloated demon, Yssussquot himself. Orgoom sliced this vile hell-beast into a dozen pieces, tossing the chunks of flesh out into the last of the demon horde, where they burst, dispersing the demons for a final time.

  After this, Cerudis, bearer of the Sword of Winds, smote the temple in a storm that pulled down two of its walls, crushing scores of warriors, the damage awesome before the vent of the Voidal’s anger wrapped itself around the Seneschal and negated his power. Zerrizzan, holder of the Sword of Fire, attacked, flinging his flaming bolts, making a great pyre of both living and dead, until he, too, was engulfed in his own flames as the Voidal reversed the flow of his power. As Zerrizzan turned to ash, Elfloq brought his sword to his master. There were now six of them, bundled up like tinder on the battlements. The Voidal called a rest for the night, collapsing into Scyllarza’s arms. But he could not contain the flow of powers he had loosed. They would appear when it suited them now.

  In the night there came a new attack. By the scarlet moonlight, the warriors saw a grim frost forming rapidly, hardening and becoming a sheet of white ice. Men shivered and wrapped themselves tightly in their pelts, until at last the cold became so oppressive that bones were heard to snap and crack. “Umecal is here!” cried the Voidal. “Keeper of the Sword of Ice.”

  His own sword became like a torch and he raised it aloft, searing away the great spears of icicles that had sprung up everywhere in the temple. As he drew upon yet more power from the hill, he ran outside to see a tall steed, seemingly carved from ice and upon its back the laughing figure of Umecal, pointing down at him with a glass trident. The Voidal rushed under the trampling hooves and smote upwards with his molten blade. Umecal shrieked in agony as the blow shattered both his horse and him. The ice became water, sluicing away into the earth, only a few wisps of steam trailing up into the night sky to mark his passing.

  In the dawn that followed, there was another attack, one of terrible noiselessness, for this was the work of Maakadur. Men could neither speak nor hear, for the Sword of Silence tipped them once more towards madness. There were less than a thousand survivors from the hell-frosts of the night, the walls of the temple now split apart and fallen. The Voidal knew that the power in the hill was being sucked away, its reservoir emptied. Yet he would use it all, and the lives of these people, to win the Thirteen swords and his soul. He was committed, and the Dark Gods were wavering.

  He let forth a great cry that rocked the very heavens, like thunder across a world, splitting apart the wall of silence that Maakadur had set up. The noise ruptured the ears of numerous warriors, but when reverberations died down, the Seneschal had broken apart.

  There was little time to recover, for soon afterwards Taliphor, keeper of the Sword of Stone, began his assault upon the temple. The earth split and opened, swallowing great pieces of the shrine and raining huge boulders down from the sky. Again the Voidal redirected the power of the Seneschal, turning Taliphor into clouds of dust that swirled like a sandstorm before settling back into the cracked earth. The dark man sagged down on to a rock, weariness threatening him. He realised just how much he had taken upon himself. He had triumphed this far, but would he have enough reserves of power left to complete the task? The temple was almost flattened, its tower no more and there were but a handful of the warriors left alive. Scyllarza looked spent and the two small figures of Elfloq and Orgoom were huddled up like birds sheltering from a rainstorm.

  Renegorn lived yet, though he was covered in his own blood, his sword broken. “The world is dying, dark man. Have you not done enough? Must the last of us perish here?”

  The Voidal stared moodily at the shattered earth. “There are four Seneschals left.”

  “There is a small amount of power left in this hill. Do you know that Brother Torruvas and his Peace Monks are all slain. Can you not leave us to rebuild? It was foretold that you would either be our saviour or our destroyer. Look about you! All is death and destruction! We are destroyed! Can’t you understand that?”

  The Voidal stood up. “I need the last of the power. To give up now would mean defeat for all worlds. You must understand that. T
his conflict is not simply about your cinder of a world. Victory here frees countless others. Men die here, but mankind survives.”

  Renegorn could not contain his frustration and fury any longer. “Then may the darkness claim you!” he snarled, lifting his blade. But before he could use it, something gripped him and shook him, a dark, unseen force. The dark man realised that another of the Seneschals had joined the fray. Renegorn dropped his weapon and began to tear and claw at himself, ripping with his fingers, pulling strips of flesh from himself. The screams brought Elfloq and Orgoom, who saw madness loose again among the warriors.

  “Xengoye,” the Voidal told them. “The Sword of Pain.”

  The remaining warriors were crying out, defenceless against the invisible shafts of pain. Renegorn fell to the ground, his body broken, shaken like a straw doll, his bones twisted. Something leapt upon the back of the watching Voidal and flung him to the earth, but the dark man rolled over and put the Seneschal between himself and the floor of the temple. The shadow-shape that was Xengoye tried to break free, but the power under the earth rose up into him like heat from a sun, charring and searing, so that his own pain was beyond all that he had meted out. When he was no more than a husk, the Voidal stood up and tossed the Sword of Pain to Elfloq.

  Now no more than a few score of the warriors remained alive, too dazed to look up, ignoring the bodies of Renegorn and the monks and all the other countless fallen. Scyllarza gazed at the carnage with a sorrowful shake of her head. “We are seeing the death of this world,” she breathed.

  “You see the handiwork of the Dark Gods,” the Voidal told her coldly. “They wanted this. You know well enough how they use me.”

  “But you sought this confrontation —” She stopped, seeing the look of anger on his face, the confusion.

  Elfloq, who had gathered up the swords, interrupted them. “Master, have we not done enough? Can we not leave now?”

  “There are three swords left. I will have my soul, Elfloq. I have not come this far to be frustrated again. And besides, I cannot put an end to this. It is inexorable. Already it begins anew.”