He had to be defeated, for the sake of Diamoad’s tortured soul if not for Duoreod’s.
He drove his sword into the back of a stooping monster of some nature he could not distinguish, as it bent over the helpless people of Heinsfar, but continued forward even as it tumbled to the ground. More came between him and the city, snarling and swiping at him with their long claws.
Duoreod swept out with his sword at the same time, severing hands and limbs, tossing their corpses to either side on his trek to the fallen gates of his city. He cried out as something chomped on his leg, and looking beneath him he saw the face and arms of some creature of the Lesser Realms climbing out of the ashes themselves, tearing at his legs with razor sharp talons.
He swung his sword down, and the head of the monster rolled away, leaving it limp half buried in the earth. But as he turned forward again, he came face to face with a giant lizard upon which sat the general of the Urden’Dagg, his purple cloak flowing in the wind. In one hand the warrior held a long spear, barbed at the end, and in the other was a round shield emblazoned with the glow of the fires surrounding them.
“So here you are, prince of the city of doom!” the general exclaimed as he looked down upon him, and the lizard-like creature growled and dug all six of its legs into the earth, eager to feast upon his carcass. He laughed, mocking him where he stood surrounded by the fire that was destroying his home. “Can you see your doom, prince of nothing? For there will be nothing left of this world for you to be lord over when the Urden’Dagg is done with it! The Adya are doomed to perish in this fire, returned to the gods who had long since forsaken them... Tell me, where are thy protectors now, Fallen?”
Taking pleasure in the downfall of all Duoreod had ever fought for, the fire of Duoreod’s wrath was only fed with those words, and it burned inside of him, roaring to a crescendo that would tear apart all else in his mind at that moment.
He set his jaw, gripping his sword even harder, and said between gritted teeth, “They are here!”
*****
Andril came to his last arrow, and stopped. He had to make this shot count. All about him, the servants of the Urden’Dagg had broken through the line of his defenses and were coming swiftly upon him. Shutting his eyes, he accepted this as his end.
“Better to die standing,” he said aloud.
However, before the foremost of the monsters could fall upon him, a sword swept out and slashed it across the throat, throwing it to one side, and the blur of a spinning blade moved all around him until they had been swept back.
Milstrom stood with his double blade resting on the chest of a slain werewolf, and looked sidelong at Andril. “Come, man, we have a city to defend!” he cried out. “To the gate we must go, before any more of these foul creatures make their way further into the city!”
Andril nodded, weary of the continuing battle, and followed Milstrom down the street littered with corpses of Adya and monster alike. Fire devoured the houses and citadels, its roar overcoming even the screams of the fearful and the dying.
“This place is a hell, Milstrom!” Andril cried out from behind the chief guardsman.
Milstrom said nothing, but continued forward with his weapon held to the side in one hand, the blood on its blades shimmering in the light of the red flames one either side of them. The heat of the flames cooked them, but they were too determined to allow such a thing to slow them down.
Ahead of them a soldier of the city came stumbling out of the smoke, coughing blood and ash from his mouth. He put a bloodied hand up to hail them as they were about to pass, and Milstrom stopped to inspect the heavily beaten Adian warrior. Blood caked one side of the Adian’s face, his eye swollen shut and his ear little more than a bloodied stub on the side of his face.
Resting his blood stained hand on Milstrom’s shoulder, the young fighter struggled to catch his breath, cough out the blood from his lungs, and speak. “In the valley... I saw... Duoreod, lord... Duoreod!” he managed to say between coughs.
“He yet lives!” Andril exclaimed, he hope renewed.
“Perhaps,” said Milstrom, “But how can we be sure?”
“I don’t know,” Andril replied, “But somehow I can feel it is true, in my heart... I know it to be true!”
The wounded soldier stepped back and looked into the black heavens. “By the grace of all the First Born, go and meet him on the field of battle! Hope remains!” he said without strain, almost as if he had been healed from his ailments just for that brief moment, and then collapsed to the earth to rise no more.
“What are we waiting for?” Andril pressed, pushing past the stunned guardsman, “Duoreod may need our aid!”
“Indeed, I believe so!” replied Milstrom, and they hurried out of the city and into the valley of ash and fire.
*****
Diamoad, the Urden’Dagg, watched all as it transpired in the wreckage of the city below. He saw Milstrom’s rescue, and how the two Adya made hast to where they met the wayward warrior in the burning streets, and even heard their words. He looked out into the valley, the hell where he had abandoned Duoreod to almost certain doom.
“Impossible!” he roared, furious. “This time, brother, I will make certain that I have your head in my hands when this day is done!”
And he leaped from the top of the cracked pinnacle and soared on wings of doom to the valley where the friends would meet, and there finish what he had started.
“By the blood of our father, Duoreod, I swear one of us will meet Doomstriker this night of doom!” His voice could be heard like thunder for miles in all directions.
*****
Neth’tek loosed an arrow into the chest of an Adya as he fought the Followers of the Urden’Dagg as they came upon him from all angles. He had spun this way and that, lifting a shield here to block, thrusting his sword this way to drive its point into the heart of his wicked kinsmen. But now he stumbled, looking down at the arrow protruding from his chest with a puzzled expression.
Slowly, and solemnly, the knight of the silver city slipped to his knees and let go of all that held him on this damned earth. Neth’tek could almost feel the soul escaping the corpse as it went, and it fed the hungry bow, and the bow demanded more.
Neth’tek hurried after the others, searching for more prey, more souls to feed to his ravenous bow. Death was on their dinner table this night, and the servants of the Urden’Dagg feasted hungrily upon it. All that had once made up the warrior of the branch of Vulzdagg those many years ago, all the statutes that his father tried to teach him in the short period that they were allowed to be together, were gone.
Neth’tek was hardly Vulzdagg now. He no longer deserved the title of warrior of the basilisk as Dril’ead had come to realize; that what really mattered wasn’t how many lives were ended on the point of your blade, but how those many lives were ended on the point of your blade. This was doom, an everlasting hell, damnation for all who took the matter in their own hands and expelled of all that did not deserve of death in the end.
He gladly shot arrow after arrow into the fleeting Adya. Their screams fed his blackened heart, excited him. It was terrible for the Adya to see, and even some of his comrades looked at him in wonder at how well he killed them, and wished in their hearts that they could have such glory as he.
But in the end, as they would regretfully realize, such glory was a lie.
It was all a lie!
Neth’tek stumbled back as a light blasted his tender eyes. He threw up an arm to shield them from the blazing green glow before him, and wondered what such magic this was that the Adya had conjured up. But as he looked about at his fellow fighters, he noticed that they seemed unaffected by it, or didn’t notice it completely.
“Neth’tek Vulzdagg, what have you done here?”
Neth’tek said nothing, but looked at the wondrous being in awe before him. At first he didn’t recognize her, but soon recalled the spirit being of Ezila that was given to him.
When he did not answer, she contin
ued saying, “You have done grave things these past days, things that will spell doom upon you if you continue this way. Heed the council of thy friend. This war, it is not yours to fight.”
“You mean Vexor Hulmir?” Neth’tek asked, and he looked down at the bow in his hands, “We are as much the enemy as the Adya, perhaps?”
“Take warning, child, for I shall not come to thee again concerning this thing. I am allowed but one visit to warn thee that this is not where you belong. Find your meaning, even your purpose in this world. Do not fight wars for those who fight only for their own gratification and revenge. These are abominations before the eyes of the First Born, creations of The Watcher in his High Tower, whom thou art serving at this time. I tell you now to stop, to go your own way, and fight your battle against evil for those who are less fortunate than you. Now, it is for you to decide...”
“Wait! I have questions!” Neth’tek reached out toward the light, but it was already gone by the time he had spoken, and he was once again on the battlefield.
It felt as if before his mind had been clouded, filled with so many thoughts and matters, twisted to be linked to the will of a single being, rendering him thoughtless. But now, his conscience was clear, and he was awakened to the happenings around him.
He dropped the bow to the ashes at his feet, turned around and walked away. Tears came to his eyes as all the screams came back to him, the helpless faces of those he had murdered in past weeks.
“What have I become?” he wondered as he walked, and didn’t dare look back at the destruction left in his wake.
*****
The basilisk snapped at his head, but Duoreod ducked to the side and brought his blade over his head. He swung it down over the neck of the beast, cutting into the flesh beneath the hard scales that had once served as protection over it. With the blessing of the first born upon him, no armor, no matter how strong, could withstand his blows. With two hefty blows with the sword, he smote off the head of the beast, and the whole of it writhed in pain before crumbling to the earth beneath the general of the Urden’Dagg’s army.
“Fool,” growled Lord General Kalliboar as he rose from its corpse, a long heavy sword in one hand and a mace in the other. He tossed his spear to the earth and stepped up to Duoreod. “Now, you will know the power that the Urden’Dagg possesses!”
He swept at Duoreod’s head with the mace, and then followed through with a lunge at his stomach with the long sword. Duoreod spun out of the way of each blow, swiping with his own sword. Kalliboar was equally agile and evaded each of the cuts and jabs from Duoreod’s scimitar, and returned a swing each time one was given.
The Lord General of the Urden’Dagg then ducked to the side, kicking up at the same time to land a blow on the bottom of Duoreod’s jaw. He stumbled back, stunned for a moment, but Kalliboar slashed his leg and slammed the butt of his mace against his chest.
Duoreod tripped over his own feet and landed flat on his back. His head swam momentarily, and looking up he saw Kalliboar leer over him, grinning with wicked delight.
“So ends the reign of the house of Drelus,” the warrior said.
*****
One arrow left, he reminded himself as he drew the arrow to his head, must make it count!
With a tense breath of ash-filled air, he released the string of his bow, letting fly the arrow to penetrate the shadowy figure stooping over Duoreod’s helpless figure as he lay in on the earth. It struck true, the shaft sticking out of his left shoulder, throwing him off balance just long enough for Duoreod to regain his composure and drive the point of his sword through the throat of the warrior.
He cast the corpse to the ground as he got to his feet, and wiped the sweat from his brow.
“Andril, be wary!” Milstrom cried aloud, though not soon enough.
A heavy blow landed on the shoulders of the Adian smith, knocking him to his face, and with a sweeping blow to the side the Urden’Dagg threw Milstrom several feet back from where he had been standing, to lay unconscious and unable to offer further aid.
“Duoreod, fool of an Adya!” screamed the wrathful Diamoad as he stooped down, grabbing Andril from the back of his neck and lifting him from the ground. “Watch as I strip you of all that you hold dear! First your father, than your people, and now your only friend...”
Duoreod looked on, stunned by what was about to happen, hardly able to comprehend it. Andril looked him in the eye, even from the distance they were from one another, blood running down the side of his face from his many wounds, fear and uncertainty in his grey eyes now shrouded in the darkness around them.
The Urden’Dagg grinned with glee as he brought the ebony sword back before driving it forward, through the heart of Duoreod’s truest companion. Andril only grimaced, the blood draining from his face in an instant, but Duoreod’s heart screamed in absolute agony at what he beheld.
Holding him for a moment on the point of his sword, the Urden’Dagg proclaimed to the entire world, “Behold the plight of Duoreod of the Silver City! You are doomed, even as he is doomed...” and then he tossed the limp body to the side.
Duoreod peeled his eyes from the corpse of his friend and looked Diamoad in the face, his heart boiling over the top with uncontrollable rage. Oh how he wanted to plunge his sword in the heart of this vile thing!
He screamed, then, and charged with his sword in both hands. Diamoad welcomed him from where he stood, putting his arms to either side and exposing his front to Duoreod’s blade. Leaping into the air for the last five steps, Duoreod cried out and slammed his sword down with all the force he could muster. However, Diamoad swept his own blade up at the last second and deflected the attack, and then stepping to the side he came at him from behind.
Duoreod ducked and rolled away, coming up just out of reach of the massive sword that Diamoad had swung at him. He closed in as the weapon passed harmlessly by and slashed this way and that, always meeting a defensive thrust from his adversary, but also knocking him off balance each time.
Finally Diamoad stepped inside Duoreod’s own defenses and slammed his elbow into his nose, breaking the cartilage and blood spilling down the front of his face. But Duoreod paid no mind to it. All he felt was the pain of losing his best friend, all he could see was the creature that had taken everything from him.
Duoreod slammed down on Diamoad’s sword as it came in at him again and again, using all his strength, forcing the weapon back until it was about to fall from the hand of its wielder. But Diamoad stepped back to recovery his grip on it, his expression becoming concerned as he realized he had underestimated the power that Duoreod possessed.
Such power, rage and sorrow mixed together into one grand emotion of absolute strength, was being unleashed now. But Diamoad, the Urden’Dagg, greatest of the servants of The Watcher, would not allow such power to defeat him. He breathed inward, sucking in the hot air about him, the smoke from the fires he had created, the charred flesh, bone, screams of death, and pulled it behind the force of one massive blow.
He roared as he brought his sword above his head, sweeping down to crush Duoreod beneath him, the puny Adya that had allowed weakness to creep into his being over the last hundred decades.
However, in that very moment, the power of The Watcher in his High Tower betrayed the Urden’Dagg. Duoreod dropped under the blow and slashed with his sword, cutting the hand that held the sword aloft.
The roar of Diamoad became a terrible scream of agonizing pain, and he dropped to his knees beneath his brother. Looking up at him in disbelief, he clutched at the bleeding stub that was the end of his arm.
Duoreod knelt before him, putting a hand on the armored shoulder of the Urden’Dagg, and looked into his eyes. They were red, filled more with wrath rather than pain and grief. Not the eyes of his brother, still.
He drove his sword through his chest, between the plates of protective armor, and punctured his very heart. Tears wetted his cheeks as he did so, and he said in a whisper hardly audible, “I free you from this pri
son, my brother!”
The end of his blade cracked through the back of his plated body, crimson blood glowing on its point. The air in his lungs abandoned him, and Diamoad sighed as he felt his life slowly draining from his mortal body.
Pulling the blade out of his chest, Diamoad fell backward into the ashes. He stared into the smoky sky, his eyes burning with the salty tears, clearing them from the cloak of darkness that had overcome his soul. Duoreod watched with astonishment as the armor and the wings, the demonic form that had overcome his brother, slowly melted away with the draining of his life and his blood.
Diamoad reached out for him with his one good hand. “You... Now I see... You are my... I’m sorry, Duoreod!” he grimaced as he fought the blanket of death slowly being drawn over him. “Brother, please forgive me! I knew not what I had become... please, you must...”
Seeing Diamoad once again for who he was, as his brother and friend like in times past, Duoreod let his sword drop from his hands and he took Diamoad by his outstretched hand.
“Of course, Diamoad, you are my brother,” he said softly. “You have my forgiveness! Now take mine.”
Diamoad let his head sink into the ash, and released what air was left in his lungs. And just like that, he was gone. The Urden’Dagg was no more, and in the end Diamoad had returned.
Duoreod continued to clutch his brothers’ hand, tears running freely down his face and onto the bloodied chest of his brother. Diamoad’s face looked at peace, and that gave him a sense of relief that perhaps, in the life after this terrible war of shadow and light, life and death, he had found his peace in the warm company of their father and the halls of the First Born.
Epilogue
Right from Wrong
The world, as they knew it, was gone. The land once lush with life was blazing with fire. Scouring the earth were thousands of Darkling’s, monstrous creatures, their skin ebony black that shone off the firelight. They were angular, had long thin limbs and sharp faces, and the claws on their fingers could tear through the strongest of armor. Their eyes were large and red, blazing like the fires accompanying them. Adya and Darkling intermixed on the battlefield of blood and flame, silver and black surrounded by the bright orange-red of the fire. Tearing flesh, spilling blood; screams, moans, and defiant roars of outrage hung in the gloom of the hot air. Meanwhile, though, The Fallen pulled back to the foothills to view the fight more carefully. And there Neth’tek Vulzdagg stood, alone.
War of Shadow and Light: Part Three of the Redemption Cycle Page 12