Sunset of Lantonne

by Jim Galford

  Not far away, Therec had crashed onto a landing and was groaning, pulling the staff to his chest as he tried to stand. Farther down the staircase, Nenophar lay facedown and still on a badly damaged section of steps.

  Mairlee fell down the middle of the circular stairs, surrounded by rubble that had also fallen from atop the keep. While Ilarra watched, the woman’s form buckled and changed, morphing into the huge dragon Ilarra had seen earlier and nearly filling the middle of the tower. With the added size, the dragon managed to catch herself on the walls with her claws and stop her fall, even as she was battered by the falling stones.

  Looking around, Ilarra stared in dismay as Therec slowly crawled onto his knees and began looking around while Nenophar lay still and Mairlee stopped where she was, panting for breath far down the tower’s center. Mairlee was too far below to help either Ilarra or Nenophar, and even with magic, Ilarra doubted she could get a visual angle on Therec. Even as she struggled to free herself, Ilarra saw Therec’s attention lock onto Nenophar’s prone body.

  Closing her eyes to push aside distractions, Ilarra sought any flicker of strength or knowledge that might help her. With no real wall left between herself and the Turessians under Dorralt’s control, she began seeing through the eyes of others who were carelessly allowing any of their brethren to see what they witnessed. It was a form of gloating, showing off how the war fared near them.

  Many of those eyes were looking across the thousands of zombies that clawed at the walls of Lantonne, but others were seeing cities far away. She could see dark-skinned elves being battered against the walls of the underground cities by a Turessian that laughed at their attempts to stop her. Through another’s eyes, she witnessed a hundred or more dwarves corralled in a room with a pool at the middle and no other open door to escape through, into which hundreds of slavering pale-skinned ghouls came, hungry for blood. In yet another Turessian’s sight, seemingly endless forests burned with magical fire while the Turessian laughed at the animals trying in vain to flee for safer places to hide. Still another Turessian was in what appeared to be an underground crypt, angrily smashing old stone coffins with Turessian markings on them that contained nothing.

  Then, among all the rage, all the need to exact an unspoken debt on the living, Ilarra found two distinct minds reaching back to her. Unlike the others, these two fought against their hatred like she did, though she could feel they had already been lost to Dorralt. These people were marching with the other Turessians, but they longed to be free and still retained a shred of who they once were. The moment she found them, both latched onto her, feeding her strength and pulling back to themselves her will to stay free.

  The stronger of the minds probed Ilarra’s thoughts, forcing to the surface images of Therec and the dragons. The mind was a woman’s, and unlike the rest of the Turessians, her anger was subdued until she passed over Ilarra’s thoughts of all Therec had done and his betrayal of the city. The woman pushed Ilarra harder, silently demanding to know for certain that Therec was under Dorralt’s control.

  The second mind perused Ilarra’s memories briefly but followed the lead of the woman’s efforts. Whatever the woman dredged up in Ilarra’s mind about Therec, the second Turessian also studied briefly. Unlike the woman, this Turessian was calm, giving Ilarra nothing. She could not even be certain whether it was male or female.

  “Get up!” the woman’s voice screamed in her mind. “Confront him! I need to look into his eyes.”

  “I can’t,” whispered Ilarra, still feeling the agonizing pressure on her leg. “I’m too weak. Dorralt took everything.”

  “Not everything. He can pull magic from all of us, but he can only control a few at a time,” replied the woman, calming somewhat. “You’ll have the strength you need to get up. I cannot guarantee much else. Let me speak and there may be a chance yet.”

  “Who are you?”

  The woman’s presence in Ilarra’s mind seemed to smile or give the impression of sad humor. “Get up, Ilarra. I need to talk to Therec before it’s too late. My son and I are giving you all we can offer without drawing Dorralt’s attention to us.”

  With great effort, Ilarra opened her eyes again and sat up. Looking around frantically, she saw Therec had descended what was left of the stairs and now stood over Nenophar, smiling wickedly. She did not have long.

  Ilarra dearly wanted to try and free her leg in the hopes it might heal itself, but there was no time to struggle against the rock that pinned it. Instead, she concentrated on the space between Therec and Nenophar, hurriedly working through the symbols and patterns in her mind to solidify the air between them. With an almost tangible pop, a glass-like barrier sprung into existence directly in front of Therec.

  Looking around for who had cast the spell, Therec spotted Ilarra and smiled up at her. “I thought you would have given up by now,” he told her, tapping at the wall with his staff. The gentle rapping created large cracks in the surface. “You’re another of my puppets, Ilarra. You’ve already danced to my orders without knowing it. Resisting me now is more than pointless. Give up and take a nap until I am ready to deal with you.”

  The other Turessians in Ilarra’s head began scratching at her thoughts, pulling themselves to the forefront. Though she heard herself talking, the words that came out were not ones she had chosen.

  “Therec, you betray all you stood for,” she yelled down at him. “You swore to me you would bring honor and respect to our people by your actions. This is not the man I knew. You were better than the rest…better than I was.”

  Therec’s face became wrinkled with confusion as he stared at Ilarra. “You know as well as I do Therec is a bystander,” he replied, no longer even paying attention to the magical wall. At last, Nenophar began to stir. “What are you getting at, Ilarra?”

  “Fight him, Therec!” the voice using Ilarra’s mouth went on. “He’s controlled both of us more than once. I know you can hear me. You were trained to fight spirits that could possess the living. Use that against him. You are a preserver and one of the strongest members of our clan.”

  Therec watched Ilarra for a long time, the puzzled look on his face not budging until Nenophar began to get up. Sweeping the staff through the magical barrier—which shattered and vanished—Therec struck Nenophar in the upper chest, hurling him backwards down the steps.

  Taking his eyes off Ilarra, Therec studied the older red dragon that had begun climbing up the interior of the tower by digging her claws into the walls. In another step or two, she would be able to bite at him. “He does want to fight,” Dorralt said through Therec, smiling slightly as he created a magical wall like the one Ilarra had used to block the dragon’s ascent. “I have to give you credit, Ilarra. Something about that trite speech made him really want to push me aside. Not that he can, mind you.”

  Ilarra still could not make herself do anything, the anger and determination of the other Turessian held her firm as Therec began climbing up what was left of the. The man took his time, picking his way up the broken stairs, while the dragon below roared and clawed at the magical barrier, gradually cracking the solid air. More than a floor below where Ilarra lay, Nenophar had gotten back up, but he was moving slowly and blood covered much of his face.

  Therec followed Ilarra’s gaze and chuckled, stopping perhaps ten feet from her. “You worry too much about the dragon. They are certainly weaker in their human form, but he’ll still heal if I let him rest. The ancients thought they were gods for a reason. Once I hang the head of a dragon on the Turessian high temple, I think that belief will finally be cast aside and the old gods forgotten.”

  “Therec, this isn’t you,” Ilarra pleaded as the words flowed through her from the other woman. “I agreed to let you go so far south believing you would be safe there. Die with dignity, my husband!”

  Therec’s body stiffened and he shot her a dark glare, his cheeks trembling. “Shut your mouth, Ilarra,” he shouted at her, advancing several more steps. “I may not be Therec, but I know
who his wife was through his memories. Stop this senselessness.”

  Ilarra lowered her head, feeling entirely like the puppet of the other woman, even though she was sure she could have resisted if she wished to. She had to believe the woman had a better chance against Therec, if she truly was his wife. “I wanted you to die without speaking to me again,” Ilarra heard herself say sadly. “I prayed you would grow old and find a wise man’s death in the south. Every day Dorralt controlled me after I died, I wept at the thought that you might be found and subjected to the same fate. I believed then I could hide what I had become from you and stay the woman you knew before you left and spare you this…and the knowledge of what happened to Ourin.”

  Therec stumbled and would have fallen down the steps if he had not caught himself on the wall. Using the staff in one hand and the wall to prop himself with the other, he stared down at the dragon, fear and dismay clear in his eyes. “Our son,” he said softly, muscles in his face twitching spastically. A battle more fierce than the one with the dragons appeared to be raging inside his mind and body. “They killed Ourin, too?”

  “They did,” answered Ilarra, seeing the boy’s brutal death flash across her thoughts. She could not help but shed a tear as the pain the other woman felt came to her as well. “Once Dorralt turned him, he was made to kill his friends. Then, he went to the slave camps and murdered everyone. I have done even worse, my love. If you still lived, I would beg you to come home and destroy me, but you have your own fight to face.”

  Tears ran freely down Therec’s face, and his arms and legs shook as he strained against convulsions—likely Dorralt’s attempts to regain control. “Salda, you always were stronger than I was,” Therec whispered, sliding down the wall to sit on the shattered stairs. “If you’ve fallen, there is no hope for me…”

  The voice of Salda was abruptly shoved aside and the calmer thoughts of the second Turessian came forward. Instantly, she knew him to be Ourin, Therec’s son. The calm was deceptive, covering deep-felt rage and a need to fight. The boy was strong-willed, but he struggled against the same feelings Ilarra did with the influence of the Turessians.

  “Father,” she said firmly, barely recognizing her own voice. “Despair is not one of Turess’s teachings. We face our foes head-on. We think through all our people have learned, and we strive to be better than those before us. The ancestors are memories to be cherished, or destroyed once they no longer can be cherished. You taught me that. You were a preserver, the highest order under the council of Turessi. It was your duty and right to crush those who would raise the dead as tools rather than symbols of bygone days. Find a way to destroy the undead that controls you and destroy yourself. Bring honor to our family.”

  “I can’t,” mumbled Therec, dropping the staff and clutching at his head. “He’s too strong. I can’t keep control over my own body for long.”

  Ilarra felt her chest tighten with grief, but the child continued, “If you can’t do your duties as a preserver, you are no longer my father. The clan has never accepted failures or those weak of mind and neither will I.”

  That seemed to cut through Therec’s mourning like a jolt. The man raised his head slowly, the tears already stopped, though his cheeks glistened. “I don’t have to be stronger than him,” said Therec softly, picking up the staff. “I only need to be smarter than him and take away the tools he needs.”

  Therec stood up, no longer even looking at Ilarra as he walked past her up the stairs toward the broken section of the tower, where the sky was visible. He stopped on the last intact stair, closing his eyes as he faced the open air, the wind fluttering his clothing.

  “The staff Turess held as he led the lost people to victory over their oppressors,” he said, holding the staff horizontally in both hands as though he were offering it to someone. “He chose to use it as a standing threat against any who would attack his people. Four pledges from creatures that may as well be gods were burned into this simple piece of wood. Any one of those pledges could be used to conquer much of the known world in the wrong hands, and that is exactly what Dorralt intends to do.”

  Opening his eyes a little, Therec smiled. “Mine are the wrong hands, so long as you continue to vie for control, Dorralt. I give you nothing.” Whirling the staff, Therec slammed it into the stone floor with a boom that echoed through the tower’s central shaft.

  Below, Mairlee stopped her attack on the nearly broken wall of magic to look up.

  Nenophar stopped climbing the steps, intensely watching Therec.

  “I don’t have the power to destroy the staff, and anywhere I send it, he will find it in time,” said Therec, turning just enough that he could look at Ilarra. “Thank you for letting me speak to my family one last time, Ilarra. I know what I have to do now. Denying the enemy a weapon is as important as a victory in battle. The world will curse my name for generations, but I spare them far worse fates.”

  Touching some of the engraved symbols on the staff and using a voice that seemed to cut through every other noise, Therec said, “Air, earth, fire, and water…I call to you to honor your promises to Turess. You will each do one thing for me, as you pledged so long ago, and then never again serve my people, no matter who calls.”

  The winds whistling through the broken tower came to an abrupt halt, silencing the keep. The only sounds were the crackles of stones shifting and the faint scrapes of the dragon’s claws on the walls.

  “You are now at war with the undead army,” Therec said, tapping his forehead against the staff. “That is all I ask. Do this and you are free, never again to be controlled by mortal man.”

  For long seconds, nothing seemed to happen. Then, Ilarra began to hear the distant sounds of battle change into screams and shouts outside. Whatever was happening, Therec could see it from where he stood, smiling sadly as he watched the city below. The pressure of both Dorralt’s attempts to exert control over her and Therec’s wife and son faded away abruptly. Pain overtook her senses as she became acutely aware of the stone still lying on her broken leg.

  “I’ve done all I can,” Therec told Ilarra, eyeing the staff before tossing it aside. “There is nothing left here for Dorralt. He will go elsewhere, but not before he tries to get revenge on the city. I’ve not saved anyone here, I’m afraid.”

  She struggled against her pinned leg, trying to make it move, but she was still weak from Dorralt stripping her of her magic. She could feel he had stopped siphoning it away from her, but it would be hours before she was at full strength again.

  Therec looked down at Ilarra from his perch on the broken wall. “Nenophar will be able to help you once his current form mends itself sufficiently. Dorralt showed me enough about him to know he genuinely tried to help Turess, so I believe he will help you. He cares about mortals. Perhaps too much.”

  “Therec, we need to get out there and fight the Turessian army,” Ilarra pleaded, then realized Therec’s skin had paled. The veins in his neck had darkened within seconds, almost as black as the tattoos on his face. “Therec?”

  “Dorralt is upset,” he explained, holding up a hand to examine. “From what I was able to learn when he took over, I would say I am dying. There is no magic left in me, and no way I can help you anymore, Ilarra.”

  Behind her, Ilarra could hear Nenophar stumbling up the steps, but she could not force herself to look away from Therec. Soon, cracks opened in his drying flesh, though they did not bleed.

  Therec seemed entirely unbothered by the wide gashes opening in his skin, saying almost to himself, “I saw many of the lost prophecies of Turess in those last minutes when Dorralt took over. He had them all this time, hidden away from the council and anyone else who could have helped. Still, there might be hope yet. I have to believe those stories Turess told on his deathbed were true, even if Dorralt tried to stop them from coming to pass. This war can be won if we don’t lose sight of the prophecies.”

  “What prophecies, Therec? What did he see? What do we need to do?”

  Turni
ng to answer her, Therec’s attempt to speak came out an airy wheeze as his throat crumbled away, leaving a gaping, bloodless hole. He touched his neck, then gave her a sad smile and shrugged. His hands began to turn to dust, trails of ash falling away with even the slightest movement. Bowing his head politely as he had on the day they had met, Therec’s body began to entirely fall apart, collapsing into a heap of bones, ash, and clothing.

  Ilarra could not find words or thoughts as she stared in hopeless shock at the remains of Therec. The man had fallen under Dorralt’s control, making all he had done no worse than what Ilarra was capable of. He was what she would be, soon enough. Either a pawn in Dorralt’s games or a pile of ash when he grew tired of her. Any hope that might have existed in the prophecies was gone with him. Nenophar had spoken of them but seemed to know very little.

  She was so wrapped up in the dust blowing away from the bones in the wind that Ilarra did not notice Nenophar at her side until he had already pulled the large stone block off of her leg. The pain flooding into her leg snapped her out of her contemplation and forced a scream from her lips even before she realized what was happening. Falling backwards, she clutched at her knee, as far down her leg as she dared touch, knowing how bad the rest must look.

  “Ilarra, look at me,” Nenophar insisted, squeezing her hand and positioning himself so she could not have seen her leg if she tried. “The pain is an illusion. You need to ignore it if you’re going to heal.”

  The pain was more real than any Ilarra had felt in a long time, letting her know just how weak her body was. She could not see any blackening of her veins or paling of her skin, but she doubted there was enough magic left in her to restore her leg. The agony of it all made it impossible to concentrate.

  Tightening his grip on her hand, Nenophar put his face near hers. “You don’t die here, Ilarra,” he told her, sounding concerned enough she knew he doubted his own words. “Not here, not now. There is much to do yet for both of us. Cling to your life.”