The Children of Isador

by Sam J. Charlton

  The moment both of them had tried to deny had come.

  They tasted power and became drunk on it. Jennadil and Adelyis stepped over a precipice that could not be returned from. Together, they wielded a power greater than the forces of nature combined—but it demanded their souls as payment.

  Jennadil felt Adelyis’s fingers tighten around his own and he squeezed back in response. Pure energy exploded from their fingertips and sliced through the air like a thousand sharp daggers.

  The sounds of Tarzark screams now punctured the air, drowning out the sounds of the dying humans. It was a terrible, unnatural sound and it chilled the blood of all those who heard it.

  The tide had turned.

  ***

  It had all gone gloriously, catastrophically wrong. Never had Grull imagined the Orinians would have discovered a weapon such as this; such a deadly, destructive power. He gaped as some invisible force tore his warriors and sorcerers to pieces—and for the first time in his life, King Grull of the Tarzark Kingdom knew fear.

  By some miracle, he escaped death.

  He clawed, bit and crawled his way out of the fray, blindly clambering over the dead and stabbing anyone or anything that got in his path. His survival instinct took hold. Grull did not think of the glory of death in battle, or of trying to save anyone but himself. He was a survivor and a purely selfish being; and this was what saved him.

  He staggered away from the battleground and left death behind. A few stragglers followed their king. Grull led the retreat down through the smoking city. By the time he reached the Market Square and the great gates, nearly two dozen Tarzark followed at his heels. There was only one sorcerer among the survivors. The rest had fallen before the palace gates.

  Not slowing his pace, King Grull ran from the citadel and headed east across the Endaar Downs, towards Hammer Pass. Falcon’s Mount was a dark, smoking shadow against the horizon when Grull dared to stop to catch his breath. Bent double, his breath coming in ragged, painful gasps, Grull looked back at the city that had been so close to being his—should have been his.

  Fury consumed him.

  None of the other Tarzark who had survived dared to speak to their King. They sensed his rage and kept their distance. It seemed incomprehensible that Falcon’s Mount had been so close to being theirs, only to be ripped from their grasp.

  Grull glared at Falcon’s Mount, noting as he did so, the smoke wreathing the city. His army had caused serious damage that would take many months to repair. He ground his teeth at the Orinians’ victory but consoled himself at the thought that Morgarth Evictar and his minions had also helped bring men to their knees. Upon his return to Hull-Mutt, Grull would plot once more to invade these lands—he would never give up. He would find a way to defeat the Orinians and their wizards and then he would exact slow, cruel revenge for today.

  He would make them pay.

  Grull cast one last baleful glance at Falcon’s Mount before turning his back on it. Before him rose the serrated peaks of the Sawtooth Mountains. Beyond those mountains lay Hull-Mutt and a stony wasteland, where very little besides the Tarzark themselves could survive. It was a bleak, hostile home but never had a place seemed so inviting to Grull and his two-dozen warriors.

  They left their humiliating defeat behind them and set off at a brisk jog towards the Sawtooth Mountains, not stopping until they had reached the safety of Hammer Pass.

  ***

  Lassendil Florin did not recognize his sister when she entered the palace courtyard.

  Like a two-headed beast, the witch and wizard swept through the archway, cutting a swathe of carnage through any Tarzark they encountered. A pulsing blue flame surrounded Adelyis and Jennadil. Their faces were unnaturally pale, their eyes black. Lightning bolts erupted from their outstretched hands. An invisible fiend raced ahead of them, tearing any living creature it touched to pieces.

  Despite himself, Lassendil shrank back from Adelyis. She did not see him, and neither did Jennadil. They appeared to be in a powerful trance of some kind and they paid no heed to their surroundings; intent only on killing any Tarzark who did not already lie dead within the palace walls.

  Lassendil, Gywna, Taz and Will had been on the verge of succumbing to the onslaught of Tarzark when a violent explosion had rocked Falcon’s Mount. Blood-chilling Tarzark screams soon followed. The noise distracted the attacking Tarzark and they turned to investigate. Lassendil had used the moment of reprieve to staunch a bleeding wound on his right thigh, and had just finished doing so when a wild creature—that was and was not Adelyis Florin—entered the courtyard.

  Now as Lassendil backed up, he saw his companions did the same. Adelyis and Jennadil were not themselves and it was unwise to distract or attempt to stop them. Around them, those Tarzark trapped inside the courtyard howled and scrambled to escape, before an invisible giant ripped them from their feet and dashed their brains out against the palace walls or cobblestones. Blood and gore splattered, dismembered corpses slumped to the ground—and the witch and wizard moved on heedless of the destruction they left in their wake.

  Lassendil flattened himself up against the wall next to Gywna; watching his sister pass by, no more than two yards from where he stood. She looked at him and then through him with soulless black eyes. Lassendil felt his skin go cold.

  For the first time ever he was afraid of his sister.

  Adelyis and Jennadil swept from the courtyard and entered the palace. Shortly after, more Tarzark screeches echoed out from within. Regaining his composure, Lassendil glanced at Gywna, acknowledging her properly for the first time in days. Her round face was chalk-white, and her hazel eyes enormous. She looked back at him, wordless. Nearby, Taz and Will were also visibly shaken. Taz was actually trembling. Magic did not exist among the Gremul and the forest dwellers feared and avoided it at the best of times.

  Will Stellan’s face was bloodless. The Orinian was suffering from his injuries. He could no longer stand up straight and was bleeding profusely where his old wounds had split open. His gaze followed Adelyis and Jennadil across the courtyard.

  “It’s the ‘enhancement’” Will moved away from the wall once Jennadil and Adelyis had disappeared. “What’s it done to them?”

  “It’s consuming them,” Gywna replied, her voice shaking.

  “They will kill us all!” Taz’s voice rose in panic.

  Lassendil looked back helplessly at his three companions. He could offer no comment on what he had just seen. “We must find them—before they tear the palace down to its foundations.”

  Lassendil led the way across the sea of Tarzark corpses lying thick over the Orinian dead. The ground was slippery with gore and Lassendil felt bile sting the back of his throat at the sight and smell of it. He was relieved when he reached the steps leading up to the palace’s main entrance, and the others were close at his heels as he sprinted into the palace.

  An eerie silence now hung inside the great stone walls. The dead lay everywhere. The Tarzark had done a great deal of butchering before Adelyis and Jennadil had stopped them.

  Now, chunks of Tarzark carcass lay everywhere. Lassendil averted his eyes from the dreadful scenes. However, they had to follow the trail of carnage if they wanted to find Adelyis and Jennadil. They picked their way across the slaughter, through the network of cavernous corridors up to the first floor.

  Once again, they encountered a disquieting stillness. The four companions readied their weapons. Lassendil’s stomach was now roiling but he forced himself onwards. He dreaded what awaited them.

  Half way across the palace’s third floor, not far from Lord Fier’s personal chambers, the trail of Tarzark body parts stopped. No living Tarzark remained in the palace to slay.

  Amongst the last of their slaughtered foe, Adelyis and Jennadil lay unmoving on the cold marble floor.

  Lassendil rushed to them and saw upon kneeling at Adelyis’s side that she and Jennadil were no longer touching. The terrible ‘enhancement�
�� had left them but more than just the magic had gone. Lassendil searched for Adelyis’s pulse and found none.

  Lassendil’s cry shattered the ghostly quiet. He clasped his sister to him but her body was heavy and cold in his arms. This was how he had held his father, after the Morg had shot him full of arrows. She was just an empty shell of dead hair, skin and bones—Adelyis Florin was gone.

  Grief ripped through him like a jagged, wrenching blade and Lassendil Florin felt the world spin around him, out of control.

  Gywna slid to the ground next to Jennadil Silverstern’s prostrate form. Tears blurred her vision while, opposite her, Lassendil sobbed over his sister’s body. Jennadil’s eyes were closed and his skin was like white, blue-veined marble. They had just been starting to understand each other, she and Jennadil—and they may have even become friends if given the chance.

  Stifling a sob, Gywna reached out and touched his skin. It was so cold that she fought the urge to pull her hand away. Finally, she felt for a pulse on his neck and was about to remove her hand when she felt a faint flutter under her fingertips.

  “He’s alive!” she shouted.

  Will Stellan was at her side in an instant. He reached over her and felt Jennadil’s pulse for himself.

  “He’s dying,” he whispered. “His pulse is faltering. The ‘enhancement’ is taking him.”

  Gywna looked down at Jennadil’s face and was about to give in to tears as well when an idea came to her. “If magic is taking him then maybe it can bring him back!”

  Instinctively, Gywna knew what she must do.

  She reached for her Wraith Sword. It hummed as her fingers fastened around the hilt. She took hold of Jennadil’s left hand and wrapped his fingers around the engraved hilt before wrapping her own around the sword’s blade. Pain lanced through Gywna’s hand. The blade cut into her palm but she did not release her grasp. With her other hand she kept Jennadil’s fingers fastened around the hilt. Gywna gasped, her hand burned as if she grasped a hot coal.

  The Wraith Sword vibrated and throbbed like a living thing.

  At first, the wizard did not respond—and then she felt Jennadil’s hand slowly begin to warm under hers. Gywna glanced back at Jennadil’s face and saw life returning to his cheeks. His breathing became faint but noticeable.

  Will checked his pulse. “I don’t believe it! His heart beat grows stronger.”

  Finally, the throbbing in Gywna’s palm became unbearable. She let go of the Wraith Sword’s blade with a cry. Blood poured from Gywna’s hand and nausea flooded over her. Will made a bandage from the hem of Jennadil’s cape and wrapped it around her palm. Gywna leaned against him and was grateful when his arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders.

  Gywna noticed for the first time that Taz knelt next to where Lassendil cradled Adelyis in his arms.

  The Gremul’s head bent towards the ground in a wordless gesture of grief. Gywna looked up into Will Stellan’s face and saw the sorrow etched in deep lines there. He was still a young man but life had left its mark on him. The disfiguring scar down his left cheek pulsed like a silver snake. Gywna remembered what Jennadil had told her about Will and Adelyis. Gywna was young and in many ways, naïve about the ways between men and women; but the look on Will’s face was impossible to misread.

  Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, Gywna reflected upon life’s cruelty. The world cared nothing for the plight of mortals.

  Will’s body shook from the effort he was making to stem his grief. Gywna could not bear to see such suffering in a man who was not accustomed to crying. She wanted to take his sorrow away but she could only comfort him. She had saved Jennadil but it was too late for Adelyis.

  Gywna gently reached up and wrapped her arms around Will. Her action removed the last of Will’s restraint. He buried his head in her shoulder and began to cry.

  ***

  When Myra came to, she was surprised to find herself alive.

  Her head felt three times its usual size and there was something heavy pinning her to the floor. She could feel her pulse beating in her cheek where it pressed against the icy stone. For a few moments, Myra was too scared to move; afraid she would find one of her limbs missing or part of her body paralyzed. Eventually she tested her left arm, and then her right, before flexing each leg and finding she could move them both. She wriggled out from under the great weight pressing her down, realizing as she did so that it was the headless corpse of the Tarzark who had been about to skewer her.

  It had all happened so quickly. From the moment she and Dael had descended from the tower, the Tarzark had set upon them. Dael had handled himself easily with a sword but Myra had soon lost sight of him. A hacking mob of Tarzark had swallowed him up, leaving Myra to fend for herself.

  She had known from the first that she was no match for these beasts, but fear and the survival instinct made her difficult to kill. She inflicted little damage on the Tarzark. The clumsy swipes of her sword connected with nothing but air and she was not close enough to any of them to use her dagger. They roared with ridicule and toyed with her. Terrified, Myra darted, jumped and ducked while they slowly closed in. Eventually, they had trapped her in an alcove. Enjoying her terror, they took their time frightening their victim. Since she posed no real threat, they could afford to play with her for a while.

  Finally, Myra found herself pressed up against the wall, her sword trembling in front of her, with nowhere to go. She screamed to Dael for help, but no help came. Myra shrank back against the wall and waited for the death stroke to fall.

  Then it happened.

  Blue light had suddenly exploded just beyond the alcove. The Tarzark turned from their prey and snarled at whatever had interrupted their kill. The cerulean light detonated once more and this time the air shook.

  Myra had no chance to see what this new menace was before an invisible claw picked her up and threw her against the wall. Myra’s head had struck stone then and she knew no more.

  Now, as Myra crawled out from underneath the dead Tarzark, she saw the ground littered with dismembered corpses. The offal smell of death and the sight of congealing blood and entrails were too much for Myra. She turned away from the carnage and threw up the contents of her stomach. Then, still gagging and retching she picked her way through the dead.

  It did not take her long to find Dael. He was pinned under a pile of three Tarzark. Myra cringed at the thought of putting her hands on the lizards, but she pushed aside her revulsion and concentrated on freeing Dael. With great difficulty, Myra pulled the beasts off the bounty hunter. Alive, an adult male Tarzark stood well over seven feet tall and was twice the weight of an adult Orinian male—dead it was like moving a huge sack of rocks.

  Myra had expected Dael to be dead, but although he was unconscious and his left arm was slashed down to the bone, Dael breathed still, albeit shallowly. Myra Brin sat back on her haunches and surveyed the slaughtered Tarzark around her. She frowned, not understanding why she and Dael still lived while the Tarzark had not. She had seen nothing of their attackers save the eerie blue light. Myra’s skin still crawled at the memory.

  “Dael?” Myra reached down and slapped his face gently. When he did not respond, she slapped him harder.

  The bounty hunter groaned. His eyes flickered open, unfocused at first before his dark gaze settled on Myra. “You’ve been waiting to do that,” he croaked.

  Myra laughed; a nervous, high-pitched sound that she smothered immediately. She and Dael should have been dead.

  “My arm.” Dael’s voice was hoarse as Myra helped him to his feet. It was a nasty gash and needed the skills of a healer. Myra tore the remnants of Dael’s shirtsleeve free and wrapped it around the wound in an effort to staunch the bleeding. Dael let out a strangled cry and beads of sweat broke out on his dark skin. His eyes rolled back in his head and, for a moment, Myra thought he would faint.

  “Sorry.” Myra let him lean against her until the wave of pain subsided. “I
don’t think that helped.”

  Dael shook his head. Regaining his composure, the bounty hunter looked around him, his eyes widening as he took in the bloody scene.

  “Did you see who did this?” Myra asked as they wove their way down the corridor. They took care not to step on the dead, although it was nearly impossible.

  Dael nodded. “It was the wizard, Jennadil and an Ennadil witch. They were surrounded by a halo of blue flame.” Dael paused as they reached the end of the corridor and turned onto the main thoroughfare. Before them, Tarzark bodies carpeted the ground. He and Myra stopped for a moment and gazed, awestruck.

  “What kind of magic could do this?” Myra whispered, her voice hushed as if she expected to wake the dead.

  Dael and Myra started down the wide corridor, making their way to the entrance. Oppressive silence surrounded them as they left the palace and descended the stairs to the wide courtyard below. The dead had been mostly Tarzark at first but the closer they got to the courtyard, the more Orinian soldiers they discovered. The Tarzark had inflicted serious damage, and would have taken the palace had the witch and wizard not stopped them.

  Outside, the light was fading as a chill day was ending. Myra shivered and wrapped her arms about her, gazing down on to the courtyard. A few surviving Orinian and Ennadil soldiers moved through the square. Helping the wounded, they moved mechanically and stiffly; their faces drawn and bloodied. Lord Aran Fire was among them. He was drenched in blood and his face sagged with exhaustion.

  Myra looked across at Dael and caught his eye. The guarded expression he wore reminded Myra of the first time she had seen the bounty hunter. Then, as now, the man of Tarantel wore an inscrutable mask.

  Myra did not pity the Tarzark. Their deaths had been violent but then so had their attack on Falcon’s Mount. If they had not been stopped, the City States of Orin would have fallen to Grull and his brethren. However, victory had come at a high price.

  So much death and violence—so much blood spilt to defend their home. There were few Orinians left alive inside the city to enjoy the triumph. Falcon’s Mount would be in mourning for a long time to come.