A Flutter In The Night (Kyrn's Legacy Book 1)

by Michael S. Gormley

  Brailen didn’t hesitate, drawing his own and meeting the scarred man in the center of the roof.

  Gulor rushed forward, to Abellia. But the necromancer had paused in his channeling and extended both hands to the charging orc. Gulor found himself frozen by the necromancer’s grip, and he fell to his knees.

  Lord Daen stepped slowly closer. “A full reunion,” he snickered. “It has been entirely too long. Elder Nylah and Magmi the Great,” he mocked. “If only you’d brought your son,” he said to Magmi.

  Kyrn, keeping his head facing the necromancer, let his eyes drift to the old wizard, and he could see the red glow of his cane beginning to brighten. “Fallen from another order, I see,” Magmi said. “Perhaps you’re not contrived for such high positions.” He spoke only to mask the slow rotations of his cane in his hand.

  “Not fallen,” Lord Daen argued. “Reborn, one might say. The Black Order has wasted precious time in its revival.”

  “And you’re to see that it’s renewed,” Magmi speculated.

  The necromancer dropped a trinket to the ground, only a small, silver stone. But, as it landed, the air below his extended hand rippled and the mirror now stood before him. He turned his attention to Kyrn. “Make this easy on your sister,” he said calmly. “Hand over the amulet.”

  Kyrn gained his footing, as he watched a metal gauntlet grasp the mirror’s edge, extending from within. The Black Knight pulled itself from the portal.

  A small creature followed, its green skin decayed and dull. It scratched across the sandstone roof with its sharpened claws, a thick, slobbery liquid hanging from its fangs. The demon lifted itself from the ground with its two black, shredded wings.

  “Grizlok!” gasped Biddledur.

  “A demon!” said Syonne, though her voice seemed filled with intrigue.

  Not least, a second Black Knight pulled itself from the gateway mirror.

  “It’s all he wants,” Lord Daen reminded Kyrn, as he watched the half-elf clench his glaive with each heavy step of the Black Knight.

  The steel of Alathain’s blades chimed against Brailen’s elvish sword. Their feet intertwined atop the sandstone roof in a beautiful dance. Neither the golden-haired elf nor the scarred man let their gazes separate. Alathain let his twin blades attack together, one high, one low. Brailen back-peddled softy, elegantly parrying Alathain’s perfected methods. When the second blade was slapped away, Brailen pushed forward, sending Alathain defensive. Like this, they waltzed along the rooftop.

  With the necromancer’s attention divided, Gular let out a deafening roar and broke free from the necrotic grip. He felt as if the muscles in his swollen arms tore within, but still he forced himself to his feet, sending a heavy fist into the Black Knight’s chest. He felt it dent, felt the knuckles of his hand shatter, and the knight fell sideways to a knee.

  Kyrn came in swiftly, not wasting a single moment. He brought the glaive down over his head, striking it through the Black Knight’s neck. He felt the glaive connect, felt it collide with the ground. As the Black Knight rose, Kyrn even saw a smoldering red line around its metallic neck.

  Even so, the Black Knight stood. It lifted its square sword and, with one quick strike, tore an open wound across Gulor’s chest. When the orc fell to his back, the knight turned back to Kyrn, extending its hand.

  Grizlok stood behind, snickering and bouncing in the air. It rubbed together its stubby hands and let out a disgusting laugh. Kyrn caught a flash of blue through the corner of his eye, and Syonne dashed full-impact at the demon. Shaking off the surprise, Grizlok sunk its rotting claws into the elleinor’s arms, and they spiraled through the air.

  Kyrn found his hand brush across his chest. He felt the amulet beneath, the wings flicker wildly. He knew the necromancer had the second piece already, but without the stone, Kyrn wasn’t sure how much he’d accomplish. The growing vortex proved enough. The Black Knight stopped progressing when it saw the half-elf grasp the amulet, Kyrn noted. He slowly pulled it from beneath his leather vest.

  The coarse winds slapped his fraying braids across his face, mixed with the stinging rain. The chiming clack and clang of Alathain and Brailen continued under the night sky. He looked at Magmi at his side, and the old wizard softly closed his eyes and muttered under his breath. It had to be done, Kyrn knew. And they had no more time.

  He ripped the chain free from his neck and looked at the necromancer. His cheeks were thin and pale beneath his dark hood, and Kyrn caught a flicker of his dark red eyes. The half-elf turned to his sister and smiled.

  Kyrn dropped the amulet before him.

  Before it smacked the ground, Kyrn flicked the butt of his glaive, releasing the anger he’d left within, and the amulet dashed higher overhead.

  Skoval soared in swiftly, obeying his master’s hushed words.

  Kyrn kept the momentum of the king’s glaive in full spin, and when it had fully circled back around, he thrust it through the Black Knight’s heart. The armor heated bright red, it’s gaze of nothingness falling from the amulet to the half-elf before him. The armor turned to dust, carried away with the winds of the storm.

  ***

  The necromancer bowed his head and shouted a sharp, dark language. Before Magmi’s bird could gracefully clamp the amulet, a bolt of lightning spat from the green vortex and erupted around the bird and the second half of Mayhlan’s Bane.

  “Skoval!” the old wizard cried.

  Kyrn had never seen Magmi move so quickly, his chin held high, eyes wide beneath his pointed, grey brows. He watched Magmi follow the bird’s descent, catching Skoval softly before he collided with the temple’s roof. When the half-elf’s eyes drifted back to the necromancer, he stood still. Both arms stretched out before him, one half of the amulet held in each.

  Kyrn ducked and skirted past the second Black Knight. He dropped low and slid on his back to where Syonne and Grizlok battled in the rain-filled skies, nearly colliding with the young half-elf.

  The Black Knight turned, sword held high, and brought it down only seconds too slow, slashing the sandstone as Kyrn rolled aside.

  He was back on his feet before even he realized. He heard the chiming steel on steel as he remembered Brailen’s teachings. Clear your mind, he said to himself. And, again, he let his fears bleed into his glaive. Through the corner of his eye, he saw the necromancer smash his hands together. The scarab had found its home.

  Thunder clapped above, even before its lightning bolted from the glowing clouds. A surge of wind blew, so strong Abellia’s shackles were broken, and Kyrn, still sprinting towards her, caught her as her body dangled over the temple’s edge. He pulled back hard and they fell to the rooftop.

  Kyrn’s ears rang. Alathain and Brailen lay upon their backs, both collapsed from the wind. Their blades were nowhere in sight, not that Kyrn could see. Gulor lay near the rooftop hatch, where they’d arrived, his blood so dark it looked black in the night, flowing from his chest, soaking into the sandstone like a waterfall reaching the sandy shores. Magmi knelt beside the fallen orc, cradling the ruffled mess of Skoval, blackened from the explosion above. Kyrn saw Nylah standing at his brother’s side, head bowed as he swirled his own cane before him.

  Still, through the chaos around him, Kyrn heard nothing more than the high-pitched squeal in his ears.

  “Find her,” the voiced hissed in his head, echoing again and again. “Lose her.”

  Kyrn squeezed his sister tightly in his arms. He brushed her blonde hair back, her eyes closed lightly. He planted a quick kiss on her forehead. “Not today,” he whispered.

  The half-elf placed Lady Abellia gently on the sandstone and rose to his feet just in time to see the necromancer twist the amulets into place and the winds pick up even more. The necromancer’s hood was flung from his head, revealing the gaunt, bald head beneath. Continual streaks of lightning crashed into the roof, scorching and shattering the sandstone.

  The necromancer’s eyes rose to meet Kyrn’s. “Kiirlouuth!” Lord Daen shouted over the stor
m, and green arms of mist spiraled down from the boiling clouds above, embracing the necromancer. His feet rose a few feet from the ground, and the skin on his body crackled and boiled. The skin that formed the Dark Lord fell from his bone like overcooked meat, and was gone with the storm. Lord Daen’s skeletal head cracked back into place, and his red eyes shone brightly.

  Kyrn first felt the slash upon his back like he lay upon a flame. He looked up to see the Black Knight raising his blade for a second strike. The half-elf raised his glaive, bracing firmly for the powerful blow.

  Nylah’s voice was too quick, however. “Back to the Darkness!” he shouted over the heavy rain. A pale-blue mist dripped from the end of his cane, seeping slowly into the fallen bird’s open beak.

  Skoval only twitched, at first. Then with a spastic flapping of his wings, Magmi the Great stood quickly, throwing the bird back into the air. Another bolt of crimson flared from the old wizard’s cane, and, this time, his brown bird caught it mid-flight, crashing into the Black Knight.

  The warrior of the Dark stumbled forward.

  Kyrn picked himself up from the ground, rapping the end of his cane ferociously against the Black Knight’s back, sending him back through the mirror’s open portal.

  Alathain had regained his footing, twin-blades back in hand. Kyrn had seen him only as a shadow, first, and Brailen scooted quickly away on his back, darting his head back and forth in search for his elven blade.

  “Brailen!” Kyrn shouted.

  When Brailen’s pure-blond hair flicked with the sharp turn of his head, the king’s glaive was already in the air, dashing towards him. The blue lights trailed behind, but they faltered and faded as it distanced itself from the ancestor of Ezroch. Brailen caught the glaive, twisting it quickly to swat away Alathain’s ceaseless attacks.

  Though, to Brailen’s surprise, Alathain’s attacks weakened. Then, they stopped entirely. Alathain’s eyes drifted past the golden-haired elf now, looking far out over the edge of the temple’s rooftop.

  Kyrn saw it happen. He saw the scarred man’s attacks slow and halt. He watched as his elven companion stood slowly, and stood side-by-side with the Dark Lord’s mortal warrior.

  ***

  Before he realized he’d moved, Kyrn stood beside Brailen and Alathain. They looked out over the edge of the roof, not realizing the toes of their boots hung from the edge. The storms were strong and the rain fell heavy on the grounds. To the east, where’d they’d stepped from the Sea Maiden, Kyrn saw the jungle line like a dark shadow against the coast. In between the temple and the jungle, the grasslands swayed with the storm, rippling like an ocean of green leaves.

  One after another, shadows began to fill the plains, sprouting like black flowers in the grass. An ambush, Kyrn thought. Then, he remembered Gulor before. It wasn’t an ambush, not entirely. There’d been no soldiers hiding in the grasses to help advance the necromancer’s agenda. “Orcs,” Kyrn whispered.

  They were not lying in wait, but in death.

  The shadows that arose closest to the temple began slowly scaling the sandstone siding. Kyrn could see them clearly beneath the glow of the convulsing void overhead. A large orc, missing an entire arm, scaled the temple with ease. The flapping mess from where his arm once attached to his bodied flickered and oozed in the wind. His eyes glowed red as the necromancers, staring hungrily across the rooftop.

  Kyrn slowly lifted his head. The shadows still rose in the grasslands in every direction. An army of the dead, falling into the temple. He turned back, finding the necromancer on his feet. His black cloak was now tattered and torn from his incantation. He looked through Kyrn with his hollow red stare. Beneath Lord Daen’s robes, his white ribs peeked through. The joints of his knees, fully exposed to the weather, cracked and popped as he hobbled towards the still shimmering mirror.

  Kyrn fell into a full sprint, quicker than Brailen and Alathain could turn their backs to the approaching, risen army. Lord Daen hadn’t taken his eyes off the young half-elf, and Kyrn saw his bony fingers reach out towards him. He knew he was so much quicker than the decrepit, collapsing skeleton of the Dark Lord, but still the necromancer crept closer to his mirror.

  Kyrn realized then that he was within the Dark Lord’s necrotic grasp, upon his knees. He watched as Lord Daen began to run, and he could see the exposed leg bones of the Dark Lord splintering under the pressure. First, his hand faded through the mirror, disappearing like the other had.

  The Dark Lord had raised his army, and he was retreating behind his Black Knight.

  Syonne skidded on her back across the sandstone roof, claw marks over the entirety of her blue body. As she saw Grizlok flying towards his master and the mirror, the elleinor forced herself off the ground, and struggled to flutter her wings.

  When half of the Dark Lord’s body had vanished through the mirror, Kyrn felt the crippling force dissipate around him, and he stood. He’d only started to sprint when he saw the necromancer’s hand, stretched out behind his back as he ran, clutching the fully-assembled Mayhlan’s Bane. Kyrn knew he’d never reach the portal in time to stop the Dark Lord’s escape, but he could shatter the mirror behind him.

  Before the fallen king’s amulet disappeared into the mirror, Kyrn saw Abellia’s wide eyes staring at him. As she lunged through the air, she flew past the mirror, landing on her back.

  As Kyrn passed her, not able to slow himself as she fell, he saw the blue lights of Mayhlan’s Bane clutched to her chest.

  “Brailen!” Kyrn shouted. He’d seen the golden-haired elf underhand the king’s glaive back in his direction. Kyrn, one last time, dropped low to the ground. He spun on his heel, swung full-circle, no weapon in hand. When the half-elf had spun around, he swung his arms like he held his glaive. Before his hands passed his head, his weapon fell into place, lit anew with the light of his ancestor, and Kyrn smashed the mirror.

  With the king’s glaive stretched out in front of him, the long, curved blade buried an inch into the roof. Kyrn saw the necromancer’s silver gem lying at its side. He’d escaped, Kyrn knew.

  But Lord Daen was locked in his realm.

  ***

  The clashing steel came from behind Kyrn once more. Turning, he saw Alathain’s twin blades meet with the golden-haired elf’s, as they both cut down the risen orc atop the temple. “Abellia,” Kyrn gasped. “Get to the elders.”

  He watched her crawl towards the old wizards.

  Along the edge of the temple’s roof, hands and limbs, stubs and torsos alone fell over the top. Some were bloated from the rains, large and wide. All were bloodied and torn. Even as they swung their axes and spears, their eyes showed they remained lifeless.

  “Magmi!” Kyrn shouted across the roof. “End this!”

  Magmi stumbled as Abellia fell weakly into his arms. “The stone, Master Kyrn!” he shouted. “Bring me the stone!”

  Kyrn quickly twirled his glaive over his head, cutting down the risen orc before him. Though it sunk the half-elf’s heart with grief to think of him, Kyrn was glad Gulor wasn’t here to see the defilement of his fallen people.

  Their boots hardly touching the ground, Alathain and Brailen circled Kyrn in opposite directions. The scarred man’s twin blades formed a protective shield around Alathain, deflecting and slicing as they flashed under the glow of the necromancer’s remnants in the sky. Brailen spun his elven sword, gracefully swapping between hands as he swatted away the sluggish attacks of the Risen.

  Syonne still battled with the demon nearby, but her wings allowed her to fly circles around the demon, outfitted with his hole-filled wings. When they flew low, Grizlok slashing frantically at the speedy elleinor, Syonne gave him a quick kick to the chest and, pushing off, flipped backwards through the air. “Biddledur!” she shouted.

  But he was ready. Oh, for how long he’d been ready! Biddledur leaped from the ground, out from behind the safety of Nylah’s cloak. He was no fighter, that he knew. But how he despised that demon. The halfling latched on to Grizlok’s back, one arm a
round the goblin’s neck. His arm began to burn, and he could hear the demon’s acidic breath wheezing from his mouth. Still, Biddledur held tightly.

  He struggled to pull the small dagger from his belt, but when he did, one quick swipe ended Grizlok’s grimace forever.

  The rejuvenated orcs began piling atop the roof. The grasslands were vast and wide, Kyrn knew. They’d soon be overrun.

  “Biddledur,” he shouted, seeing the halfling land upon the ground nearer to him.

  The halfling tossed Kyrn his pack and scurried back to the wizards’ sides.

  Kyrn fell to his knees, pulling loose the drawstrings on his pack. He ripped the box from the leather bag and held it in his bloodied hands. His travels flashed before him: Gulor’s village, the Grey Sea, the sand wastes, and Castrolyl. He saw the tomb of the fallen king in the Crystal Caverns. This was his sacrifice, Kyrn thought. Kyrn glanced at the king’s glaive lying next to him, and he wondered if Mayhlan Ezroch had knelt in the same manner, many years ago.

  “The stone!” Magmi shouted again.

  Kyrn looked up from the engravings on the box. “I can’t,” he said softly, the wind blowing away his words. “Syonne!” he shouted. Before he could instruct her, the elleinor had already known, and she snatched Mayhlan’s amulet from Abellia’s shaking hands. She flew briskly back, landing at his side, and placed it in his hands.

  The half-elf rose to his feet, taking in a deep breath. He smiled at Abellia, watching the old wizard hold her in place. He blinked wildly to clear the tears forming over his hazel eyes. “I love you,” he whispered to her.

  Kyrn felt the wooden latch release as his thumb flicked upwards. The lid snapped open, and the so familiar symbol glowed wildly against the red fabric of the inside. He quickly draped the amulet around his neck and grasped the Stone of Ezroch.

  Its wooden container rattled on the ground.

  He stared vacantly, mesmerized by the key-like symbol.

  He heard the grunting before him, but he found himself frozen. Magmi had asked for the stone, willing to fall fighting the Darkness. Kyrn wouldn’t let that happen. They’d come this far following him. This was why he’d outrun the Darkness for so long, why he’d found Syonne and the king’s glaive; the half-elf was destined to fall as his ancestor had.