by Joseph Lallo
“I can't stand it. It is agony! What do I do! The energy!” Ivy screamed in her mind as she struggled.
The flow of stolen energy had been growing exponentially, and Ivy was approaching her limit. Until now she'd done her part, passively letting the energy that the others could not handle seep into her soul, but now she was full to bursting. She'd learned nothing of focus, nothing of discipline, nothing of cordoning off energy within her soul and reserving a piece of her mind for thinking. The energy permeated her. Every cell of her body and every nuance of her soul dripped with it. The others had been watching within their linked minds, concern building but tasks of their own to see to. A solution had been prepared from the beginning, held back until now due to the very real threat that it might cause, but the time had come.
“Ivy,” said Myranda and Ether at once, each bracing herself. “Open your eyes.”
The malthrope did so. A single image entered her mind. Ether was a barely visible, perfectly transparent crystalline form within a shaft of light. Myranda was almost hidden behind strips and strands of mystic energy that orbited her as she formed her spells. Directly in front of her was an undulating, untamed tower of twisting energy. Shapes never meant to be seen whorled across the surface. The corners of her eyes contributed half seen struggles between Myn and more of the very beasts she'd fought in the valley. At the very limits of her vision, there was nothing at all . . . only a complete, unbroken wall of white. She turned her head, taking in the wonder and horror of the wall. The poor creature's mind never had a chance.
When the fear took control of her the others had to direct a part of their minds toward a spell to augment their strength enough to keep the struggling creature from slipping from their grasp. The brilliant blue aura around her rivaled the wall for brightness. The mystic load tipped in her direction as her soul dumped its reserves and feasted on theirs in an all-consuming attempt to escape the chaos by any means necessary. Her voice rose into a scream of terror that rang loud and clear in even in the distant capital.
#
Thousands of residents in the Northern Capital shuddered at the sound of the sudden shriek as they stared in silent terror at the wall approaching. Deacon's face alone wore an expression beside that of abject horror. It was plastered with a look of wonder and fascination.
“What is it?” Caya managed when she found her voice.
“It is . . . the end,” Deacon replied.
#
Lain charged toward the wall. The air around him tugged and pulled. It was alive, almost with a mind. It was something a wizard was trained to feel, but one needed no training now. The distortions were real. Reality was turning and stretching, warping in the mystic heat of the furnace of energy a stone's throw away. He ignored it, along with every instinct in his mind save one. His eyes were in agony as they locked on black form against the whiteness of the wall. It was moving swiftly, just ahead of the rippling chaos. Whatever it was, it had no details, like a vaguely human void cut out of the universe. It was unrecognizable, yet it was unmistakable. It was Bagu.
Gone was whatever human form he'd had constructed when he first came to this world. What was left was the black as midnight essence that had festered within it, his true form. What might have been arms extended forward, twisting what might have been fingers into arcane positions. A voice that came from nowhere was uttering syllables no mouth could form. If the blight on the landscape had eyes, they were focused intently on the circle of heroes just visible as a nexus of energy past the next rise. He was on the cusp of completing a spell that would shatter the circle, and the Chosen within it.
A blade swept through his immaterial form, the carefully selected and etched runes of its surface reacting with the unnatural energies. There was nothing to cut, yet the sword made its mark. Bagu cried out and collapsed to the ground. Lain stood over him, placing the tip of his sword in the center of what should have been the demon's back. The air around him swirled and churned. Around the pair, a glimmering shield rose up just in time to absorb a bolt of energy bursting from the wall just steps away.
“Stop!” pleaded a voice that mixed with Bagu's own tones with a fractured, echoing chorus of others. “If you destroy me, you destroy yourself!”
The wall reached the dome of magic and flowed over it like the ocean flowing over a pebble. The energy of the shield buckled but held, albeit tenuously.
“You would destroy my world,” Lain replied.
“Wait! Your world is lost already! The wall cannot be stopped,” the form struggled to say as the protective shield pressed closer. “Join me! I can take you to one of our worlds. You could rule a kingdom. A whole plane of existence! I can give you anything you desire! Death is nothing for us! I can restore your race!”
Lain hesitated. Among the still echoing voices, some turned again to the eldritch words of the spell he'd interrupted. Lain drove his weapon home. At once all of the voices united in a single cry of pain. The shield vanished. The wall swept in.
Myranda, Ivy, and Ether suddenly felt the wave of energy crest, as though a vast portion of it had been sloughed away. A final mad surge of power seemed to roll over itself, the wall nearly spent. They redoubled their efforts. Ivy's fear raged. Ether drew in and poured out untold amounts of mana. Myranda's mind was focused entirely on the spell pressing against the wall. The thunder of beasts trying to escape the approaching cataclysm rose to a roar. Myn forced them back until the area between the heroes and the wall was completely covered with them. The bulging edges of the wall threatened to surround them. The light was fading, the fringes of the wall dropping like a curtain. There was the wail of wind rushing to replace where the energy had been. The three fought to hold their focus. Each was ready to break, but still they held. Just a few moments more. The last of the wall slipped forward, a whisper away from Myn. Just a heartbeat more . . . Darkness.
An eternity might have passed in that darkness. The three linked minds were snuffed out like candles when the energy gave out. The rumble and wail was replaced by a deafening silence. The blinding light was replaced by a dense blackness. One chaotic extreme had shifted instantly to another. The tightly coiled souls relaxed. The horribly taxed bodies collapsed. The only sound was a long, heart wrenching wail of sorrow that could only have been Myn. It was a mournful sound of pure sadness, but it only just reached their minds. They hadn't the strength or will to care. They had nothing. If this was death, it came as a friend.
Myn had taken to the air. In a frenzied burst of anger, the dragon had utterly destroyed every beast that might even venture close to her friends. Now her eyes were fixed on the weak glow of street lanterns in Northern Capital. She flew with a heavy heart and a set mind. There was only one creature in the world left who she trusted. He could do many things she didn't understand. Like Myranda, he knew magic. Like herself, he cared about Myranda. If anyone could do something, it was he. And he WOULD do it.
#
The fact that Deacon was standing in front of a large group of people helping Caya to calm them and assure them that the worst was over made little difference to the dragon when she arrived at the capital. She darted out of the air, snatched him up, and headed back to the battleground.
“Myn! It is wonderful to see you! I am so glad you've survived . . . though you may have hurt my credibility with the townspeople,” he said.
He struggled for a moment to try to get to the dragon's back, but it quickly became clear that she had no intentions of carrying him anywhere but tightly clutched in her claws.
#
The faint glow of dawn colored the eastern edge of the sky by the time Myn reached the battleground. Deacon's eyes widened at the sight. There was a vast, roughly heart-shaped chasm. No bottom was visible, just an infinite well of blackness. Its edges were straight, as though they had been carved with great care, and yet, this failed to be the most astonishing sight. That honor was bestowed to what waited within the chasm. It was a galaxy of small islands. Some stood rigid and still. Other
s drifted like icebergs in the sea. They ranged from barely the size of a carriage to hundreds of paces across. Nothing held them aloft. Even more bizarre was their variety.
Many were simply the same icy gray rock that made up the landscape, cleaved free and floating of its own accord. The rest represented a spectrum of impossibility. There were magnificent forests populated with trees that should not have had a chance to grow in such icy weather. There were clumps of earth that looked to have been shifted entirely to silver and gold. One island spouted a river with no possible source, dumping it as a long waterfall unto a large lake that rippled blissfully unaware that it had no banks. On some of the larger islands, dense thickets of foliage rustled with the motions of animals that no world had ever seen before.
Jutting out toward the center of the sea of impossibility was a narrow, tapering crop of untouched land. At its very end, motionless about a mystic circle, were three of the other Chosen. Myn landed and dropped Deacon. The wizard got to his feet, still dizzy, and approached them. Myranda, Ivy, and Ether were motionless, but weakly alive. Standing in the center of the circle was the staff Desmeres had crafted. Where once it had been immaculate, straight, and true, now it was gnarled and blistered like an ancient tree root. His own crystal and the one that Desmeres had provided, remarkably, seemed to have survived whatever gauntlet the tool had been put through. Plucking it from the earth proved difficult, as its tip seemed to have been fused into the center of the circle, which had a vaguely glassy look to it now. Finally he pulled it free and breathed a sigh of relief as clarity and focus worked their way back into his mind. A few words and a few thoughts brought Myranda to consciousness again.
Her eyes fought to focus, finally coming to rest on Deacon. A moment later Myn pushed him aside and stared into Myranda's eyes. Before the girl could speak, a tongue like a rasp dragged across her face. Myn then placed her head gently on Myranda's chest. The freshly awakened wizard scratched at her dragon.
“Are you . . . “ Deacon began.
“See to the others,” Myranda interrupted.
Deacon nodded and turned to Ivy. A similar application of magic brought her around as well. She managed to sit up, looked around, and then looked to Deacon.
“Did we do it?” Ivy asked, blearily.
“Of course,” Deacon answered.
“Oh, good . . . I'm going back to sleep,” she mumbled, leaning back to the ground.
“You've certainly earned it,” Deacon admitted.
Finally he turned to Ether. This might be a challenge. The shape shifter was completely rigid, her expertly crafted beauty now locked in a form composed entirely of the very same type of crystal affixed to the end of the staff. He pondered how best to undo such a change. He knew any number of spells designed to restore the proper form of a being, but for a creature such as Ether every form was equally proper. He ruminated on the possibilities. Finally he reached down, touched her on the shoulder, and passed a bit of his own strength to her. The form stirred and slowly began to shift to flesh again. Deacon smiled proudly.
“Where is Lain?” Myranda asked, Myn helping her to her feet.
The answer came as a mournful gaze. Myn padded to the edge of the outcrop and stared down what had once been the mountainside. A short distance away, floating above the yawning chasm, was a patch of rock. Driven into the stone was a sword, Lain's sword. Beside it, scored into the stone, was a pair of footprints. A blackened shadow stained a silhouette around the sword's base. Aside from a few shreds of cloth and a few drops of blood, it was all that remained of the assassin and his final target.
“It can't be . . . “ Ether whispered.
“It isn't, right?” Ivy said, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and staring at the evidence incredulously. “This is . . . this is like the other times. When Myranda died . . . right? He's . . . he's coming back, right?!”
“No . . . no he . . . “ Ether stuttered, another new emotion spilling over her. Sorrow.
“Fate has made its choice. Lain's life for our world,” Myranda said sadly, consoling Myn with a hand on the neck. “He began his life hated. In life he came to earn the hate, becoming what the world believed him to be. In death he's earned redemption. In death, he is truly a hero.”
The remaining Chosen took their place atop Myn and the dragon slowly plodded along, picking up the stone form of Myranda's father from its place behind the mystic circle before taking to the air. Ether remained for a time, eyes resting painfully on the sword. She stood perfectly still. In all of her existence, she had always had complete control over her form, body and soul. So long as she had the strength, if she wanted to do something, she would do it. If she did not, she simply didn't. A pain deeper than any she had felt before sliced through her, and she could not put it aside. Thoughts of the things said and unsaid seized her mind. Unwanted and yet at the same time cherished memories asserted themselves. When she was finally able to pull her eyes from the scene, a tear trickled down her cheek. She did not wipe it away.
#
The days that followed were tense. A generations old war is not ended in a single stroke. Even before the orders reached the front, though, combat had reached a temporary halt. Without the will of their masters to drive them, the nearmen would no longer fight. The weakest of them collapsed with a flash of light and a puff of dust. Others crumbled limply to the ground. Those blessed with some semblance of a will of their own dropped their weapons and fled. By rights, the Tresson force should have swept over the broken remains of the Alliance Army, now composed of what few human soldiers remained at the front. Ironically, the very thing that had threatened to destroy the Alliance, and indeed all of the world, is what held the Tressons at bay for a time.
The southern force was not without its wizards. They were a small but well trained and above all wise part of the military. The sheer intensity of the unexplained power that had erupted from somewhere deep within the heart of their enemy's land had convinced them that, for now perhaps, caution was in order. Clearly they were in possession of a vast power, one that should be carefully assessed before they continued hostilities. By the time the first troops were readying themselves to take advantage of the virtually unprotected battlefront, flags were being raised requesting parley.
For the first time since the very earliest days of the war, diplomats met. Discussions began, but progress was slow. The truth of the five generals and their treachery was slow to spread, and even slower to be accepted. Much of the blame for the continued hostilities and lack of negotiation fell on the shoulders of the Northern King. In time, concessions from each side were made. The first was that King Erdrick III be removed from the throne. It was a fate he stoically accepted. Leaders of Tressor were adamant that his line never again be allowed to rule, and that his successor not be chosen from the military. For those who witnessed firsthand the liberation of Northern Capital, an event that would be known for generations as The Battle of Verril, the list of suitable replacements was a short one. The crown was offered to two individuals. One of them accepted.
#
It was the day of the coronation. The actual crowning had been a small, solemn ceremony, witnessed by a small group of royal officials and clergy members. Now was the grand banquet, the celebration of the crowning and the traditional introduction of the ruler to the public. Assembled in the still scarred Northern Capital were representatives of the oldest and wealthiest families of the Alliance and, for the first time in over a century, a small delegation from the Kingdom of Tressor. They now found themselves carefully sorted among the tables of the Castle Verril's enormous banquet hall. The elite of the kingdom sat nearest to a broad dais at the head of the hall. The chief among them occupied a coveted seat at the table itself. Each had been carefully introduced, and now all eagerly anticipated the arrival of the guests of honor.
For the honor of doing the introductions, the highest ranking officer of the military had been sought out. So much of the power of the Alliance Army had been derived directly from
the generals, their defeat had left the chain of command in shambles. Only a handful of individuals had been given any positions of power, and most had either been nearmen, or had abandoned their position for fear of sharing the blame that had been heaped upon the generals. Finally, a young elf by the name of Croyden Lumineblade came forward. He had been a minor field commander, but had steadily ascended the ranks, and was currently the only remaining member of the Alliance Army willing to admit to a rank higher than lieutenant. There were rumors that his estranged mother had in fact been one of the five generals, but the lack of detailed military files and his own silence on the issue left it unproven. He now stood before the dais, parchment in hand. On it was a very precisely written list of titles and instructions.
“Silence, please,” he requested. “as I announce this evening's guests of honor.”
Conversations hushed to an excited whisper.
“Announcing, Heroine of the Battle of Verril, Guardian of the Realm, the great elemental, Ether,” he spoke.
There was a smattering of polite applause. Ether was known, by name alone, to be one of the others involved in the battle, but she'd not been seen since. Indeed, if not for the application of the title of Guardian of the Realm, an honor greater than knighthood and just beneath royalty, Ether might have received no reaction from the crowd at all. The shape shifter walked toward the dais and coolly surveyed those in attendance. After judging them, she altered her gown, transforming it into a masterpiece carefully envisioned to outshine the best the nobles and aristocrats had to offer. This sent a wave of impressed whispers and a second round of more genuine applause through the crowd. She took a seat near the end of the dais.