by Nesa Miller
“Any minute now,” Wolfe whispered, hands over his ears.
Silence. There were no sounds of clashing swords, no grunts of effort, no barrage of insults. All they heard was their own excited breathing. Tentatively, each one raised a head, lowered their hands from their ears, and looked at each other. One by one, heads popped up from behind the wall.
Inferno and Dar stood several paces apart, puzzled expressions on their faces, each with a hand extended in front of him. Inferno conjured fireball after fireball, only to see each one sizzle and implode before he could release. Dar whipped the winds into a maelstrom of destruction that would spin like a fury for a moment, then wobble and fall like a top that had run out of momentum.
Dar lowered his hand, chuckling. “It appears we have been outmaneuvered by someone much wiser than either of us.”
Inferno shook his head, lowering his hand. “Aye. Me wife knows us better than we do. Guess we’ll have to sort this out the old-fashioned way.” Pain was evident in his face as he bent over to regain his sword.
Dar had had enough. “Inferno, there is no need for this.”
“I need to do this for me girl. She’ll nigh be free until yer dead.” He brought the blade up, struggling to move in with a series of slashes. “Her blood’ll clear, and the stain on her chest’ll fade. She can move on, start a new life.”
Dar sidestepped Inferno’s weary attempts, answering with a few glancing blows. The men continued until neither of them could stand or lift their blades.
Inferno stumbled back, his shirt drenched in blood and sweat, dropping his sword to his side. Dar sat hard in the dirt, looking every bit as haggard as his counterpart.
Inferno looked over at Dar. “As soon as I get me second wind, demon-”
Spirit, on her knees, suddenly appeared between the two. Her body trembled as she held up Etain's Nim’Na’Sharr.
“She’s gone, Dar…by Midir’s hand.” She collapsed. The sword shifted from her grasp, standing tall in the dirt next to her prone form.
As Linq and the others rushed down the hillside, Inferno ran to his fallen wife, cradling her in his arms, gingerly touching her burnt clothing. “What’s happened to ya, love?” he asked, brushing the hair from her face.
“We should get her to the house,” Linq said.
“Aye.”
His clansmen helped lift her, ensuring she was safe within Inferno’s arms.
Elfin and Wolfe, who had gone for water, left the buckets at the wall and met the advancing group. Wolfe rushed ahead to open the front doors of the castle.
A bolt of lightning made several in the group jump. Elfin looked up at the darkening sky. “Where’d this come from?”
Linq eyed those around him. “Everyone get to the house.”
“It’s not safe out here, Linq,” Elfin argued, ducking at the flash of another lightning strike.
“I’ll be fine. Go!” The elf watched the others hurry away. Assured they were safely inside, he ventured to the wall, gazing out toward the estuary. Dar was there, on his knees. Linq had no answers as to how Spirit came to have Etain’s sword, other than she had to have been with the girl.
He recognized the Krymerian’s handiwork, understanding what such a gift from the big man meant. Dar had dared to love again. Linq hoped this wasn’t the end but, at this point, he wasn’t sure which way it would go. He was only certain of one thing. Dar would search for Etain and bring her back. Linq lowered his head, saying a prayer for the Krymerian lord and his lady.
In the lounge, Inferno laid his wife on the sofa. “A cool cloth and a blanket. Now!” he barked.
“Aye, sir,” Zorn and another clansman disappeared to do his bidding.
“How is she, Inferno?” Wolfe asked, lurking behind his chieftain.
“Where’s she been?” Elfin circled round to the other side of the sofa.
Inferno smoothed the hair from her face. “I don’t know, boys.” He caressed her lips with his thumb. “Wake up, love. I need you to talk to me.” He lifted her hand to his heart. “Os gwelwch yn dda fy cariad. Deffro (Please, my love. Wake up).”
Zorn returned with a cloth in a bowl of cool water. BadMan spread a blanket over the sleeping Spirit. Inferno would not leave her side or accept anything to eat or drink. “Not until she opens her beautiful eyes and speaks to me.”
The clan dispersed throughout the ground floor to await news of their fallen mistress. A few speculated on the absence of the Krymerian. Some considered him callus and hard-hearted for having not checked on Spirit’s well-being. Others commented on the crystal sword they had seen in her hands. Many echoed the same questions Wolfe and Elfin had asked.
Zorn, Wolfe, and Elfin prepared a meal. Linq went upstairs to check on Faux, who remained asleep.
Later in the evening, Spirit’s eyes fluttered open. She touched Inferno’s bowed head. “You all right, love?”
His head snapped up, eyes round as saucers. “Fy cariad (My love), yer awake. Sut wyt ti (How are you)?” Tears glistened in his eyes as he caressed her cheek.
“A little banged up, but fine otherwise.” Tears came to her eyes. “If it weren’t for our lass, I’d be roggered and dead now. Me poor girl.”
“Tawel yn awr. Rydych yn gartref diogel (Hush now. Yer home safe).” Inferno held her tight, letting her cry into his shoulder. Struggling to keep his own tears in check, they finally slid down his cheeks and into Spirit’s soft brown hair. “It’ll get sorted.”
“Dar must be stark raving,” she sobbed. “He’ll go after his brother and we’ll lose him, too.” She pulled back, frantic, glancing around the room. “Don’t let him go, love. It will be the end of him.” Her gaze came back to her husband. “For Etain’s sake, you must stop him.”
“Mi hardd feinir gwallt brownach (Me beautiful brown-haired lass), ya know I have no sway over the man.”
Linq, having overheard her last words, came into the room and kneeled next to Inferno. “He is already gone, milady.”
As soon as Spirit appeared with Nim’Na’Sharr in her hands, Dar did not move or utter a sound. Left alone, he stared at the crystal sword, trying to make sense of what it meant. Gone? How could it be? Tears filled his eyes. She cannot just be…gone. He crawled to the blade, kneeling before the iconic symbol of his love. He reached out, but could not touch the sword. It would make it all too real. “Etain.”
He had to touch it. He must touch it. He reached out once more. The memories of the blade would tell him everything. Holding Nim’Na’Sharr tight to his chest, he rocked back and forth, tears falling. His heart felt like a wound in his chest.
The sword was cold and, worst of all, silent.
“I have failed you, my love,” Dar whispered in anguish. “Even my greatest creation could not protect you.”
The happiness of the last few days, the warmth of their love, dissolved into a cold knot of hate.
“Midir.”
His face went blank, void of emotion. Nim’Na’Sharr filled the sheath across his back.
Ba’alzmon spoke to him. It is time to be the Fuer grissa ost drauka (death bringer), to bring death to your dark half and any who stand in your way.
Dar’s hand clenched the hilt of the bloody sword. “Aye, it is time.”
A transformed Dar appeared on a darker plane. The spawn at the gate seemed unaffected by the appearance of another demon. Midir had so many working for him, it was easy to lose track. However, on second glance, a spear halted the new one at the gate. “No permission, no enter.”
The self-declared Fuer grissa ost drauka growled, grabbing the demon by the head. Dar’s fingers curled, nails digging into the soft flesh. The pathetic creature screamed, struggling against his fierce grip. With a loud crack, the guard convulsed violently, yet his reaper continued squeezing until the skull burst with a sickening pop. Dar tossed the body aside, then shattered the gate with a mighty blast.
“Where are you, brother?” he called out. “Come face me now or, by all that is Kaos, I will tear this castle ap
art!”
Buer fledglings from the lowest demon class, their eyes glowing bright green, skin the color of filth, rolled from the castle gates on their five legs. The obvious leader spoke. “Master gone.” He signaled for the others to form a tight circle around the invader. “You no leave…” He gave Dar a genuine smile, sounding rather pleased with the situation. “We kill.”
A troop of two-legged horned demons joined them, forming an inner ring. They held round shields chest-high, casting an eerie sheen over the trespasser, the points of their spears aimed at his heart. The Buer demons fanned out, allowing another set of horned demons to form an outer ring. This group threw their spears to the ground and placed hands on their swords. A soft rhythmic chant began as the two circles slowly moved in opposite directions. They kept the circle tight, moving with Dar as he moved.
“Give me your master and no one need die.”
A strangled sound came from the Buer demon. Judging by the gleam in its eye, Dar took it for laughter. “We give quick death...to you.”
Dar’s chest heaved, his jaw muscles flexing. The chanting increased in speed as the circles moved faster. Dar glared at the lead demon. “Give me your master.”
“We many. You one. We win.”
Dar laughed, hearing Ba’alzamon’s whispered desire to be unleashed, longing for the taste of demon blood.
“You laugh?” The leader narrowed his eyes. “You understand dance of death, mongrel?”
Dar stripped off his shirt. “Let me show you a new step.” The fury from his heart poured into the black blade. In return, the storm of the sword’s thirst for blood thundered through him. The circles accelerated, the chanting becoming more feverish, their weapons whirling faster with each turn.
Heedless of the danger, he pulled the magic of Ba’alzamon into him, feeding his hate to the point of sickness. Taken over by the malevolent nature within the blade, his muscles flexed, glistening with sweat, yet he held the leash on the bloodlust, locating a quiet place of focus. He would need it to defeat this legion of death.
Be a feather, not a rock, a voice within him urged. Unleash the Kaos. At the center of the moving circles, he brought the gleaming black blade to his forehead.
“Ba’alzamon, be true this day.”
In his stillness, he saw the first come from the left. Float in the wind of the storm. Dar spun with the attack. Letting the demon sweep past him, he coasted with the press of the charge, the magic of the sword guiding him. The attacker tumbled to the ground.
Instantly, another came in, twirling his spear. Dar spun as the assailant passed, splintering the shaft in two. The demon turned, raising the speared half of the broken shaft. Dar lashed out, slicing it in half again.
Another charged from behind. A foot to the chest threw the demon back. Dar struggled with the increasing need to release the death bringer. Dead demons would tell no tales and, right now, he needed information. Using the flat side of Ba’alzamon, he slipped through the pressing throng, striking the back of a head here, using a foot to trip an advance there. The faster they came, the faster he reacted, the magic of his sword feeding off their energy. Fluidly, he moved among the attackers, splintering spears when he could, trying to disarm them instead of killing. It was imperative he find out the whereabouts of his brother.
“Stop before it goes too far!”
Yelling at the demons was a mistake: the distraction allowed a spear to infiltrate his flowing defense. He felt the warmth of his own blood running down his side. Spinning his blade, Ba’alzamon whistled through the air, lopping off the hand attached to the spear. The resulting scream was female. Surprised, he looked back. Would it have made a difference had he known? No. They were as deadly as any male.
First blood fed the rage. The need to kill boiled up within him, making him thirsty for more. With great effort, he managed to master the fury. Dar glided like a phantom, conserving his energy as he moved. All the time, Ba’alzamon whispered for release.
The outer ring, which had continued circling as the inner one led the attack, stopped. With swords whirling, they assumed the advance. Those with spears stepped back as the outer ring came forward. Dar knew any hesitation on his part would prove fatal. Instead of waiting for their attack, he took the fight to them, shattering as many blades as possible.
Hot pain flashed through the flesh over his ribs. Although Dar did not see the blade, he moved by instinct, receiving only a shallow cut instead of a killing gash. Ba’alzamon’s magic leapt to his defense. He could no longer contain the fury. It was time for the Fuer grissa ost drauka.
The night erupted in a warm mist of toxic blood. Only conscious of Nim’Na’Sharr in his left hand and Ba’alzamon in his right, primal screams filled the air as he sliced through the throng. Disembodied heads tumbled. Body parts flew. Blood sluiced over the ground. Horrors melded together into one continuous killing rampage.
No blade could touch him. He countered every strike as if he had seen it a thousand times before, knowing from which direction it would come and how to defend. Two came at him from opposite sides. Nim slit the throat of one, Ba’alzamon piercing the other’s heart at the same time.
The slaughter continued until no more challenges met his blades. Rivulets of blood coursed down his body, dripping off the ends of his lowered weapons. Bits of demon flesh clung to him. Dar surveyed the carnage, torn between disappointment and satisfaction. There would be no exchange of information, but the bloodlust was quenched. Perhaps it was what he needed before facing his dark brother.
He turned at a slight movement behind him. A demon holding herself up with one hand, the other missing, staggered to her feet and pulled a knife from her belt. Dar remained deathlike in a cocoon of magic, watching her come for him. Ba’alzamon, singing its death song, whipped up, impaling her through the heart. Baring her blood-streaked fangs, her gaze locked with Dar’s. She collapsed to the ground, her last breath gurgling away.
Dar stared at the female demon. He appreciated her final act of loyalty, no matter how misplaced. Their sacrifices would go unnoticed by Midir. He placed a boot on her chest, freed his blade, and stabbed both Ba’alzamon and Nim’Na’Sharr into the ground. He faced the black fortress.
“There’s no one left to protect your miserable ass. Return her to me. Now.”
Silence answered his demand. The fury rose inside, but he knew losing control again could prove fatal. His death would ensure Etain’s path to a dark future, meaning the end of the Alamir and everything for which he had fought. Instead, he channeled the rage to strengthen his determination and returned Etain’s crystal blade to the scabbard on his back. The black blade of death returned to its master’s hand, ready for what may come. With a resolute stride, he entered the gates, not stopping until he was within the walls of the castle. He called for his brother. This time, he heard the scramble of the remaining demon minions fleeing to avoid Dar.
In the main hall, it occurred to him he was wasting valuable time. Rather than call out again, he turned his search within and reached out for Etain. Nothing. He reached out again for his incorrigible brother. His senses confirmed neither were in this realm.
Dar walked outside, faced the castle, and raised his hands. The fortress began to tremble and heave. Cracks spread through the stone façade, making the walls shift and crumble. Screams of those inside blended with the rumbles of the disintegrating building. Soon in ruins, rubble littered the ground, shrouded in a fog of dust.
The tormented reaper vanished.
Outside the door of his lost love’s home, afraid to enter but fearing not to, Dar placed his hand on the knob. Never had an inanimate object provoked this much anxiety. He turned the handle and gave the door a little push, letting it open on its own.
Please be here... Tell me it’s only a nightmare.
Inside, photographs on the mantle drew him into the room. One, in particular, caught his eye - Etain laughing with friends. Tears his vision as images of her face filled his mind. The love shared in their sho
rt time together, the laughter, their undeniable bond.
“I let my petty quarrels get in the way. Inferno is not the enemy.”
He moved into the kitchen. Seeing the table overturned, he set it upright. His fight to remain strong proved futile. Hot tears streamed down his bloodstained face.
He trolled through the house, coming to her bedroom. The mussed bed raised the fear of what may have happened. Noticing the partially packed bag relieved him of that fear, and he rummaged through it. Shirts, undergarments… Nothing much of interest, except…
“What’s this?” A glint of silver had him digging deeper. Just as he grabbed it, he dropped it back into the bag. “Ouch!” He licked the line of blood on his palm. A bit more cautious, he reached for the item again. Once brought into the light, he saw it was a journal. The unusual binding of silver seemed to shimmer at his touch. Inside, he found a name scrawled in a childish hand. Etain Rhys. Dar thumbed through the pages, but there were no further entries.
Then he spotted the torn shirt on the floor. The book forgotten, he picked up the leather scrap and breathed in her scent.
How far did you take it, Midir?
Visions of Ba’alzamon embedded through Midir’s heart threatened to resurrect the bloodlust. Dar forced himself to walk back to the living room. This time, he saw the pool of blood in the center of the room. The light of his life extinguished at that spot. The Fuer grissa ost drauka sank to his knees, reduced to a sobbing child. He placed his hand over the mark he had shared with his love, finding some comfort that it remained with him, swearing he would never love another.
“How many times must the quenching of your thirst for blood be at the cost of my happiness?”
A sobering thought suddenly worked its way through his grief-muddled mind. He looked at his chest, noting the mark was directly over his heart. However, Etain’s lay more to the left, extending down onto her breast, the tips of the flames dipping down to the pink tip.