“What is wrong with him?” asked Vilmos, indicating the solemn figure of Amir.
“He is troubled, that is all; it will pass,” replied Noman.
“Eat, Vilmos, eat. We have much work to do, many studies to review,” urged Xith. “Did you forget your promise?”
Vilmos frowned and returned his attention to his plate.
“What do you think will come of it?” asked Amir, making the long trek back to the table with slow precision as he spoke, “I mean, what will it all bring, for I can sense nothing but futility. It seems that the past will repeat itself and I cannot swallow the weight of it. I will not let it replay master, I can not.”
Noman smiled, a generous smile that the newcomers were beginning to equate with the guardian’s twisted sense of the just and the unjust.
“No single person can hold the weight of such a burden in the palm of his hand and be expected not to buckle beneath it, yet—” the savvy guardian paused purposefully, gripping clenched hands into tight fists, and all eyes turned to meet his unwavering gaze, especially those of the perceptive boy, “— yet, if we all perform a simple feat, such as twisting our hands at the wrist and turning them palms up and fingers spread wide—just like this—”
Noman demonstrated.
“We can reach out—go ahead, reach out—and intertwining our fingers, one within the other, we can lock them together and thus we can all, leaving no single one without his share, bear the weight of the burden. None of the united will buckle under the shared weight.”
As Noman finished, his voice trailing off and fading into echoes that wandered the hall, the air seemed alive with energy; and by way of the link of hands that circled around the table, it surged through the collective group. Upon later reflection, that one fleeting moment would be the shaman’s fondest recollection of the time spent within the mystical city, and the spell of bonding woven in that same instant would cling to the hearts of the other listeners with an equal sense of affection for a long, long time. Yet even the influence of such potency could not protect the ill-fated group from what happened next.
“Master, they come!” yelled Amir as he drew his sword and leaped from the platform where the group was seated to the large open floor and then back again in a single, fluid seesaw motion.
As if in answer, the walls and ceiling of the chamber imploded, sending debris cascading in all directions. Noman quickly managed a defensive barrier, a great magical shield, and most of the debris fell harmlessly away. Open to the night sky, the chamber was a gaping hole of emptiness that gazed up into the dark night sky, and with the darkness came a bitter cold that swept through the chamber. A figure stood apart from the others, away from Noman’s protective shield, gathered in a shimmering shroud of light that shifted and fluttered as if it were a part of the very air that the figure breathed. A few moments passed, no more than a collection of sporadic heartbeats for the onlookers, but it became clear who the figure was; and it wasn’t shock or dismay that traversed the many deep-set lines stemming from forehead to chin but fear, simple fear.
Beneath the protection of Noman’s magical dome, the four watched and waited. Amir had his sword held at the ready, Xith yanked in the energies from around him, shaping the wild magic to his own whims, and Ayrian flexed his wings, preparing to act on his notion to launch into the sky. None of the four could have predicted what was to occur next, not even the wisest among them who had seen the many paths the future held and followed the many turnings. A new branching had broken from the main path moments before. The dark shapes stirred in the night sky, shifting amongst the stars, moving closer until they blocked out the light from above as they clustered around the fallen roof. The whole chamber became enshrouded in shadows with the exception of the glowing figure and the translucent barrier Noman maintained. A new path was being shaped.
“Here me, O Dark Ones! You shall return to your masters either in defeat or victory this day, but let it be known that I, Dalphan, the Wanderer-Reborn, He that in his madness was once Rapir the Black, dissolve the dark pact with his brothers. My spirit will not rest until you return to darkness and then, only then, at the last shall I return the watcher to the gate—for all time.”
The warning not heeded, the servants of the darkness continued to descend from the sky. They were not ready to return to the void, and no single being would make them return without the cost of their dark lives. In their eyes, the four mortals before them and one who had once been a favored son were no match for a dark army that cried out at its own rebirth. Mrak, the wraith king, came to the fore, his shadow-like face seeming oddly saddened—if sadness was an emotion such creatures were capable of feeling. Dalphan motioned for the others not to attack as Mrak approached.
“Why, master?” came the raspy, whispered voice, “The plan was flawless.”
“I am not what I once was. I have changed. I remember the past, and I cannot let it be replayed. Leave now, my friend, and I will spare your life. There are places in this world as yet untouched and they could be yours.”
“I cannot,” said Mrak sadly, “The world of darkness and the world of light feed off of one another. Where there are souls I must go. You know this—and yet you entreat with such folly.”
“You must!” the other disagreed.
“I am sorry,” said Mrak, his features growing cold and rigid as he spoke. Mrak pointed a long sinewy finger down at Xith and Ayrian, saying in the same raspy, half-whispered voice, “I should have claimed your spirits when I had the chance!”
Mrak ascended back into the ranks of the servants; and poised there behind his kind, he looked down with true sadness at his old master. He was sure he would not endure this night, yet he was also sure his master would not either.
In waves, the creatures of darkness and dread descended like a grave blanket to the floor of the dome, with the more powerful wraiths lingering at the rear. Although his thoughts fixed on a distant figure, Amir rushed to cut off the first such group, hags of the night, creatures with corporeal bodies, pawns of darkness. He was lightning with his sword, lashing out repeatedly, ripping clean the rotting flesh from the beasts; and each time he struck, one of the creatures fell. He surged forward through their ranks, cutting a straight path towards the one who waited for him. The trapped soul within the hag was different from those of the wraiths or the other dark beings gathered before them, for it was not entirely twisted and bent towards evil ends. With the corporeal form the soul was offered a place of refuge from torment and within this form there remained bits and pieces of what had once been individual discernment, and this caused them to both fear and greet the return to darkness with an unsettling expectancy that chilled Amir.
Dazzling clashes of cobalt and vermilion light filled the chamber and reflected from the remains of the once proud walls as energies struck opposing magic shields. Only through deep concentration that required all his will did Noman maintain the shield against the combined onslaught. The masses, hags of the night, demons lesser and greater, specters and wraiths, continued to pour in through the broken dome crowding hungrily into the large space overhead and onto the floor of the dome. Behind them all, even behind the wraith king, far, far out, looking on, floated the nameless beast, the marshaler of darkness, mortal adversary of Amir the White, right hand of Sathar the Dark.
As each new wave of assault opened, it created another hole in the shield Noman continually replaced and refortified. Noman cringed and shrank back with each new bombardment. The cloistered demons were the heavy-handed dealers of magic for the dark forces; their shelter was largely the masses of their brethren crowded before them. A few among them did maintain protective barriers, but these were the lesser among them. They struck out with the forces of fire and negation, energies only they could interweave. From under the protective umbrella of Noman’s shield, Xith struck back with his own offensive, causing even greater clashes of magic to rock the chamber. He understood the life force the demons held and the powers they tapped, and he used t
his to his fullest advantage. The demons of the beast always struck out when their powers reached the maximum; and as they prepared to release this massive amount of force, Xith attacked, dulling the release and usually destroying the recipient in the process. Yet as one disappeared, another would take its place. Closer and closer the hordes of death pushed. Xith’s hands were a frenzy of scattered movements, tossing out a wave pattern of energy around them, hoping to hold the creatures at bay until his friends could all react. Ayrian had paused only a moment to seek the wildness from within. His talons became rapiers that tore through the opponents, his wings beat at the air, dancing him in and out of the ranks of the beast; and he quickly pursued Amir, until the two were poised directly in the midst of the enemy ranks.
“I gave you the chance to leave. You should have taken it!” said the wanderer as he appeared next to the startled wraith king.
“Master NooOOOOoooo,” came the strangled cry from Mrak as he perished, instantaneously. The mighty wraith king had fallen like a child as Dalphan had devoured the negative energies of his life.
If there had been observers looking down from the gray canopy of the night sky, the great, domeless hall would have seemed a bowl filled with black pearls amongst which twinkled cheerless sapphires and hapless rubies, yet there were no such observers looking down. And to those that looked up, the hall seemed a shambles of fallen stone; and obscured by the dark horde in front of them, the gray sky was of little consequence. Each burst of evil, red against the protective shield that shimmered in ever-dwindling shades of yellow, brought evident pain to his face as the gifted guardian strained under the energies; and when he could no longer withstand them, the shield faltered for an instant and Noman fell to the ground in exhaustion.
“I cannot keep it up much longer under this pressure,” he shouted to Xith. “You must eliminate the attacks to our rear!”
Expeditiously, Xith diverted his energies, and the change appeared to work, the shield strengthened and Noman sighed in relief. The beast and Amir locked eyes but could not close in on each other. Amir had waited centuries for the day when he would gain his revenge, as had the other. Amir increased his assault, wielding his blade with greater speed than he had ever attained before, and its edge, lethally-hewn, claimed many of the dark in the heated moments that followed. Having a difficult time keeping up with the pace Amir set, Ayrian was being pushed backward and downward by the horde of wraiths around him. The area he had been maneuvering in closed; and he was forced to the defensive, blocking and parrying, waiting for a moment when he could make a new thrust.
Behind the lines of wraiths a new force loomed closer. The hideously disfigured faces were the cause of Noman’s agony and the reason his shield was growing less stable with each passing second. The magic of darkness was second nature to such creatures; they enjoyed a good fight and watching puny men squirm under their might. Their magic was black and evil, and extremely potent. Energies odd and ancient created explosions that rocked Noman’s shield and sent him to his knees in recovery. This was the magic of the shadow demon, an ancient kin to the greater demons of the nether plane.
The marshaler of darkness and the grim warrior locked eyes again as they moved toward each other. Ayrian saw Amir’s destination and became frantic; he had to stop him before they engaged one another. Amir’s strength was needed elsewhere; the Beast could wait. Ayrian pumped his wings wildly. Raking one of the hags with his claw, he sent it tumbling into Amir, sending them both for a fall to one of the lower platforms. Dazed only for an instant, Amir stood and then he did a thing that momentarily surprised the eagle lord; he used hidden powers to carry him upward into the fray.
Noman’s shield disintegrated as it was struck by blow upon blow, and he fell to the ground in agony. Fatigued and drawn, Noman recovered his feet. This time, it took considerable effort for him to restore his thoughts and reconstruct the protective shield. He wheeled around to face the demons as they stalked closer from the skies above; and raising a hand to them, he cursed their name. It was as the mystic did this that a spontaneous realization came to him—there were reasons for this dark night’s visitation other than ending their four lives—under the strain of the battle, the thought slipped away.
A thunderous explosion broke through the cacophony of battle as the wanderer’s rage struck one of the lesser demons, shattering its paltry shield with one passing thought; with the next he annihilated it. He set upon the greater and lesser demons each in turn; none could stand singly against him, and they were forced to turn their combined attentions toward him, leaving Xith and Noman with a moment’s breathing space. Ayrian could no longer keep Amir and the Beast apart; their courses were set, and without the warrior’s support, the wraiths closed in on his lone form. Fully encircled, Ayrian was too heavily engaged to seek them out. He now had his own concerns; yet in the distance, he heard them, the clang of steel striking steel resounded, adding a fresh, new sound to the din of the battlefield and, although Ayrian could no longer see either of them, he knew they battled because he could hear the tremendous blows.
Repeatedly Amir thrust out with his double-edged blade, the attack and counter-attacks made with the greatest dexterity and skill that he could manage. Whereas at first the creature could only hold his ground as Amir set upon him, the Beast seemed to feed off his attacks and grow stronger as Amir grew weaker. Now Amir was having to defend as often as attack and this confounded him. A presence edged closer and closer. Amir felt it approach in his mind. Yet just as the dark creature prepared to lash out at him from behind, it moved away. The Beast nodded his head in an onerous gesture and Amir understood—this was their fight; alone they would either be victorious or be defeated.
A gaping hole appeared suddenly in Noman’s shield; he could see it in the image he held in the window of his mind except that he did not know how it had come to be. A pristine bolt of electricity that raised the hair on the back of his neck as it struck through the opening, nearly slicing his head off. He sighed heavily in relief; it had missed him. He quickly worked to restore the gap in the shield. The intensity of the concentration blurred his sight, and he did not see the shaman fall to the ground beside him. The bolt had caught his companion full in the chest, and the pain caused him to writhe on the ground and scream out. Arms that sought to lift crumbled beneath onerous weight, legs that should have hastened their support to their faltering companions went limp, and the stench of burning flesh flooded into air that had already been stagnated by a number of pungent odors, yet the resolute man did not succumb; he struggled, he resisted, he cried out.
Reacting to the screams, Ayrian turned about abruptly, folded his wings and dove. Driven on and sustained by the arousal of the magic within him, the shaman, obviously disoriented, found the tenacity to stand. He did so with apparent grogginess and sluggishness, motioning for Ayrian to find the source of the attack. From his vantage point, Ayrian quickly found it; the shimmering outline of the darkest of the forces of evil huddled all by itself in the corner was easily spotted. He had thought the dark ones fought with too much bravery; usually they held a cowardice in their eyes, and now that he knew the source of their bravery, he would end it. The shadow was too deeply involved in the melee to see the precipitous approach and the Gray Eagle Lord gained this advantage as he struck the creature from behind. Yet his talons had little effect on it; and hungrily it turned to look at him, raking him with cold, efficient claws as if to swat away a bothersome bug. The eagle lord’s knee-jerk response was a high-pitched squeal that erupted from deep within him, the last sound to come to the field as the clamor of confusion and discord suddenly ebbed, and the arena grew seemingly still. Disconcerted, Noman looked up in awed surprise from his meditation, yet for the weary shaman the unsettling lull brought an unexpected repercussion—he staggered and fell, stumbling at first to his knees and then slipping to his haunches. He would rest a moment then rejoin the battle.
Perplexed by the stillness, Noman scoured the dark skies above them, sea
rching futilely for a thing he would not find. Momentarily he fixed on the forms of Amir and the nameless beast; he knew the joy Amir must be feeling at the waiting’s long end. Still, their fight was not the reason for the sudden shift in balance of power. His focus moved gradually to Ayrian and when he saw the shadow he understood, or at least he thought he did— the shadow demons had finally been summoned—the guardian was surely absent from the great gate, a thing that needed to be corrected if the forces of good were to survive. Ayrian had felt the icy hand slice downward and reach inside him, pulling with it in its retreat part of the energies of his life. A numbness radiated outward from the wound, tingling his clawed hand as it reached it, and then his whole winged arm fell limp at his side. Furious, knowing his time would be soon with only one arm to hold the shadow at bay, the proud lord, unwilling to accept defeat, lashed out more fervently, hoping he could lead the vile creature to where Xith could attack it, thus making it pay for its dark deed. Yet he did not know that the shaman was too weak to defend himself. All hope seemed lost, the forces of good would surely perish in their weakened state; and for an instant it seemed as if the dark forces were reveling in their sure victory. The ancient diviner was growing weak and his powers were near exhaustion; the powerful shaman was dreadfully wounded and might not be able to return to the battle; and the Gray Eagle Lord had just been dealt a crippling blow. Yet it was just then, when the battle seemed so near an end, that its outcome was forever changed and uncertainty returned to the field.
Complete In the Service of Dragons Page 7