Beyond, a blackness darker than moonless night, a liquid, sucking blackness, covering the entrance.
Drun pushed at it, and his hand went through, and came back unscathed.
“Heed me, brothers,” he said, but not unkindly. “Do not follow me. We do what must be done.” His words were punctuated by a quickening of the beat — the wizard grew impatient.
“His heart wakes already. We will come back, fear not. We will win through.”
Roth did not look up as Tirielle stood before the blackness. Doubt assailed the beast. For the first time in its life, it understood fear. Its bravery was stripped away. The pain of loss felt to strong the bear. It stood, in agony, filled with indecision and fright. It watched her back as she moved forward. It could find no comforting words, no thought for others, as it always had. It was routed to the spot, fear crippling its strong limbs. So this was fear? It could not understand how humans could live with it. It swallowed the rahken’s heart, chewed on it. Its belly gnawed at it, as though its fear was eating its way inside to the out. But it stilled its face and held as calmly as it could. It would not allow Tirielle to see its cowardice, not come the last.
But she did not look back. Tirielle stepped through, followed by Shorn. No words of encouragement, no backward glances from the warrior.
Drun nodded to his brothers, laid a hand on Renir’s shoulder. “We will return, if we can. If not, get free. Follow my brothers, they will find a way.”
Renir clasped the old priest’s offered hand. “Make sure you come back, old man. You just make sure. And watch out for Shorn. He’s headstrong, you know.”
“I know,” smiled Drun. “I will bring him back.”
Silently, and only to himself, he added ‘if I can’.
Chapter Ninety-One
Klan Mard’s bare feet made no sound on the warm stone beneath his feet. He padded silently, his blood red eyes lighting the path before him.
He could not sense them — the Sard hid them from sight — but they had led him to the wizard. Finally, a test of his powers!
Excitement flowed through him, and he sought for control. He could not give in to his urges, not yet. He had to control himself. He fought down the power bubbling inside of him.
Gone were the worries of leadership. His soldiers could fend for themselves. He had handpicked them. They were the best. The battle was not his concern. Only finding the wizard, and destroying him forever, that was all that concerned him. Human mages these days were nothing. They did not know their power. He would face one, a remnant from ancient days, the one who had been powerful enough to dispatch his forebears, to banish them from Rythe.
How powerful could such a wizard be? It sent a delicious chill of anticipation through his body.
But as he strode on, and he could hear their voices even through the catastrophic rumbling of the mountain tearing itself apart, his mood darkened. He felt the anguish of his soldiers dying outside, their agonies feeding him. They had eluded him for so long. But no longer. He would wear their faces and grin back at them as they died. He would inflict such pain on them, such tortures, as he tore them apart. He would burn them, drive nails of pain into their souls, but never their faces. Those he would save. He would save them for his congregation. He grinned malevolently, evil in the red glow. The rock hissed and cracked around him. It boiled beneath his feet as he passed.
A gout of fire erupted through a fissure in the pathway. He walked on, unscathed. The strength of the ascension was coursing through his body. He was harder than stone, sharper than tempered steel. Nothing could harm him. He was invincible. Impervious to all weapons. Pain would feed him. Fear would give him strength. He would grow in power as he destroyed the Sard, took Tirielle A’m Dralorn’s face from her dying body while he held her in his power. He would make them all watch, hold them still, tear their life from their frail human corpses…
He raged, the rock around him melting and pouring into the tunnel. The mountain’s fire joined his own. Unseen, insensible now to all but rage, the caverns filled with molten rock and livid fire, burning, running downward into the heart of the mountain, a river of fire following in his wake. The heat did not touch him. He was stronger than stone. He was invincible.
He burned brighter than the fire. His whole body glowed red, terrible heat coming from him in waves. His pace quickened. He could hear them talking now, talking in low voices, though he could not make out what they were saying. How they infuriated him, with their petty worries, with their stupid mewling words…
His ambitions were greater. Come the return, he would stand above all others. He would rule beside his makers, teach the humans what true control was.
He raged. His power grew. He breathed in each death from his soldiers, luxuriating in their pain, bridled emotions barely held in check. He turned the corner, and they were there!
At last, taste my fire! And he lashed out with all his strength.
Chapter Ninety-Two
Roth’s fur caught fire instantly in that first, terrible blast.
The three barbarian warriors dived to the floor, flames streaking over their heads and hitting the rock, which plinked, cooling suddenly as the Sard’s latent energies flowed forth, meeting fire with sunlight, with growth and love and the beauty of full summer, nascent spring, and crisp, cool winters.
The Sard’s magnificent armour shone back against the fire, with a brilliant golden glow, and the fire from the terrible creature before them was met. They drew their swords, holding the fire back with some innate magic that only those blessed by gods could possess.
In the blink of an eye, Roth saw how beautiful they were, how pure, to hold back the simmering waves of hate and burning fire coming from the Protocrat before them. His power was immense — unbelievable. The rock around them was melting, and Roth could see molten rock pouring down the long tunnel behind him, but the Protocrat wizard’s fire outshone even than liquid, incandescent river.
A wall of flame held against the sunshine of the Sard, flowing, merging, pushing against each other. Roth’s fur crackled, the heat unbearable, and yet still it could not move.
Fear held its legs against the stone, fire raged all around it, but it was held fast in the grip of terror. Even now, it could feel its flesh sizzling. In its terror, it could do nothing. It watched the Sard battle, agony in its leathery hide, the smell of its own burning flesh strong in its nostrils…why could it not move? Why did it feel fear? It knew what it must do, yet it stood here dying a coward’s bright and burning death.
It watched, immobile, as the Sard moved forward as one. A wall of light against burning hatred, blood and fire and pain and anguish pouring forth in a torrent from the Protocrat. They did not waver. Take strength in that.
The Sard approached, and the first to strike out at the wizard was flung against a wall, armour clanging with the force of the blow, as though the wizard himself was made of steel. His fists were like hammers, smashing into the Sard, turning their blades aside with ease.
Then, as the contest began in earnest, the Sard pushed to the limit of their strength by the hideous apparition shrouded in flame, Roth heard a voice from the past, and echo in its mind.
‘You are the Sacrifice, my child. It is the wizard’s geas, the price we pay for our freedom, for our lives. You must do what you are born to do, but in the end, it will be hard on you. Remember all that you are, when the time comes and your fear turns you to lead. Remember your strength, and your heart…remember the love that others have felt for you. Do not let Tirielle die, Roth. In the end, I think you will understand.’
And it did. Its mother had known. It had listened to the words. This was the price it must pay. To die in fear. But it would not be a coward. Not at the last. It would not let Tirielle take the place that was rightfully its own.
Roth saw what it must do. This was not its battle. It did not matter if the Sard won or lost here. There was only one thing it could do. Finally, burning and in an agony it had never before known, it was time to face its fat
e. Time to face death.
It could still do what it must. Nothing could escape fate, not the mighty, not the weak. All must make sacrifices.
It took the only chance it could, toward the only end that it was ever destined to meet. Roth dived through the blackness, trailing flames, into the chamber beyond.
Chapter Ninety-Three
Shorn quailed at the sight of it. The behemoth was chained to the walls of a massive cavern, in chains of some silvery metal untouched by the passage of time. The chains themselves were immense — each link fully as thick as a man’s chest, stretching across the cavern, looped and fixed into holes in the cavern wall.
The heat was fierce. It scorched the skin.
Tirielle stood proudly before it, shouting to be heard above the din. Her face was fearless.
“Are you Caeus?” to her credit, Shorn thought, her voice did not waver.
Shorn could barely make out the rumbling words, the beasts language was so mauled by its massive jaw.
“NO. I ATE CAEUS. I AM ALL THAT IS LEFT.”
Shorn saw her hang her head in despair. He felt sorry for her. Perhaps she was not as accustomed to disappointment as he was.
It could have been laughing, but Shorn did not believe such a creature felt humour, or understood anything but slaughter. It was not built for peace, or love, or any of the light that made a human whole. It was alien and terrible, a monstrosity from out of time, a creature of nightmare and darkness.
The beast’s head reached the roof of the massive cavern. Dull green eyes stared myopically at the intruders. It howled, the whole cavern shaking, and renewed its struggle against its bonds. Shorn was knocked to his knees by the sound of the beast’s torment, dropping his sword and placing his hands over his ears, but his whole body shook, his bones ached from the rage of it, the plaintive cry of a millennium of anguish. Drun was on his knees, too, his light temporarily dulled.
They needed no other light, though. Around the monstrosity was a lake of fire, bubbling lava, with but one path forward — a path too narrow for the creature to take.
To defeat it, they would have to travel that one narrow path, know bravery beyond any other mortal. They would have to walk to their own slaughter. It would not come to them.
He walked forward, heart pounding a thousand times faster than the revenant’s, the creatures heartbeat that of the mountains, next to Shorn’s, stuttering along like a helting mir’s upon waking. If the woman could face it, though, he thought he could, too.
He took up his place beside her on the pathway and laid a hand upon her shoulder. Her head hung in despair, but his was proud. He saw the battle ahead. It was what he lived for.
But what terror could life hold for a man of war? He watched in amazement as the creature snapped free of one bond with a cry like thunder. It knocked both of them to their knees. He struggled against the wave of sound, and gained his feet, pulling Tirielle up along side him.
With a huge effort the revenant pulled with both clawed hands, straining against the last chain. With a terrible groan of breaking rock it came free. Trailing the chains, hanging in the lake of fire, it turned its baleful gaze on the interlopers.
The revenant finally free after aeons in tormenting chains, stamped a foot and issued its challenge. It lumbered forward as far as it could go, and with a snarl that shook the mountain clawed at the two of them.
They tumbled underneath the blow. Shorn took his sword in both hands and was instantly upon it. It towered over him. It did not see him roll between its feet, but felt the sting of his blade slicing into its ankle. It kicked out, one giant foot smashing Shorn to the ground.
The mercenary rolled from his fall and rose again. He winced at the pain in his ribs — it hurt worse than a kick from a horse. A rib was broken, for sure, but he did not have the luxury of licking his wounds.
The revenant howled in anguish, but what was a mere nick with a blade compared to an age of torment, a life in chains? It turned ponderously in the space it could, forcing Shorn to back away toward the edge of the lake. Flames lapped at his cloak. He was drenched in sweat from the heat — perhaps that was what stopped him from bursting into flames.
A massive, leathery fist came crashing down, as though the creature intended to squash him like an insect, but Shorn was rolling to one side and swiping as hard as he could at the inside of the creature’s wrist. His sword dug deep, and steaming ichor ran from the wound, splashing the ground where Shorn had been…Never stop moving. Shorn did not need to remind himself to move, to run and leap and strike where he could. He could not reach the creatures bones, but he could strike at tendons — he knew enough of the body to know where tendons hid beneath the skin, and what damage the severance of one could do to a man. This creature was no different. Its structure was the same, even though its skin was as tough as hide, thick and hard. It had claws instead of nails, two massive curving eye teeth and drooled fire, but what was it, if not an animal?
Even Shorn, attacking with all his fury against the beast, could feel its anguish. It knew nothing else but to fight. It spoke no more garbled words, but roared in incoherent rage at each stinging cut he made on its thick skin, smashed and stamped and bled fiery blood. The platform on which Shorn danced and whirled, on which the revenant bled, was sticky and dangerous with blood. One slip, one wrong move, and he would be squashed. There would be nothing left of him but bone and gristle.
He did not despair, though. The beast was slow, and it bled. If it bled, it could die. All things of flesh and blood died, in the end, if they lost enough blood. If he could just cut through the Achilles tendon…he slashed again, and was rewarded with a deafening howl.
He could not longer hear anything, but he could feel the heat, the burning in his broken ribs and his heart pounding against his chest.
It seemed like it had lasted an age, before he saw Tirielle standing before the creature on the pathway, head held proud, her arms wide in supplication.
“No!” he cried out, as he saw what she meant to do.
He would not let her sacrifice herself to the creature. There would be no death but the revenant’s here today. He ran, aching all over, covered in burning blood, and dived, crashing into her body as the revenant’s hand swept down to pick her up. How could he stand by while the beast tore her life from her frail body? How could he let her die for him, even though she did not know him?
They both tumbled to the floor, and Shorn looked up, pushing Tirielle away.
“None of us will die this day! Now get back!”
A fist smashed the path and he dodged just in time, skipping away from it and hacking wildly at the hand. He was rewarded as the tip of its finger fell free into the lake of fire.
He wasted no more time on Tirielle, but twisted inside and hacked through the tendon at the wrist. The beast’s cry was terrible, the pain in his head from the sound of it terrible and tangible. Then it swung its useless hand, and the bony ridges of its knuckles smashed into his back. His broken body flew through the air.
The last thing he heard before he tumbled into blackness was Tirielle’s shouting, somehow he could still hear (but dying, he thought, dying, as consciousness faded).
“Take your sacrifice, take me and let this end. I will die for him,” she shouted above its roar.
Perhaps it heard. Perhaps not. For Shorn, all was silent.
Chapter Ninety-Four
Klan’s snarl rivalled that of the revenant.
“I will pass!”
The Sard were uncharacteristically silent. But Typraille spared some energy for a grin both wide and, to Klan, infuriating. As his rage grew, so did his power. The Sard were now holding back Klan’s burning rage and a river of molten rock that was pouring around them.
Renir longed to escape, to plunge through the blackness behind him, where perhaps a cool death awaited him. But somehow, he doubted it. He imagined behind the Sard was the safest place he could be.
He was unused to feeling so useless. He could do nothing t
o aid the Sard. If their powers could not hold the snarling Protocrat back, then he would merely die a fiery death in moments. He glanced nervously at Wen, but both he and the Bear seemed calm, stoically accepting of whatever end might be in store for them.
Klan Mard raged, untouched by the molten rock pushing against him. It was as though the wall of flames that pour from his eyes was solid, and Renir realised with growing horror that the Sard’s heels were being pushed backward. They were being pushed toward the darkness between the ancient doors, and whatever lay behind it, toward the wizard.
If they went in, all would be lost…but then Roth had dived through. Perhaps…no, it was not worth the risk. To fail now, to fail at the last, when so many had been sacrificed.
Renir steeled his heart, and prepared to die. A voice from within calmed him with soothing, loving words. At least he would not be alone. He knew with surety that there was a certain kind of life after death. It brought peace to him.
He watched, as calm as his two remaining friends, as the Sard were inexorably pushed back toward the gate.
The Protocrat’s face was a rictus of malice, evil in the flesh, but he found himself uncaring, unworried. He was free.
Slowly, the Sard were losing, but the voice in his head gave Renir hope.
‘Know hope, my love. Even now, the tides of Rythe are turning.’
Chapter Ninety-Five
The beasts hand came down to take Tirielle, Drun watching in frozen horror, when tumbling through the blackness came a creature blazing with fire, elemental fury hurling toward the screaming revenant.
Twice denied the Sacrifice, another warrior faced the foe.
Roth’s hurtled along the pathway, leaping over Tirielle with a roar, onto the revenant’s outstretched hand. Its sharp claws dug into the swinging tree-trunk thick arm, and hand over hand it scaled the heights as though it were climbing a mountain.
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