Oblivion: Part Five of the Redemption Cycle

by J. R. Lawrence

  Neth’tek watched him go for a moment, and then turned around and pushed into his own tunnel, forcing himself to hold his breath and pull himself forward through the awful stench that filled the whole sewer-like-passage. It continued for several yards until opening up to a damp corridor just large enough for him to stand upright.

  The corridor was circular. There was a large pit carved in the middle that dropped down into blackness like the watering hole above them, and Neth’tek cautiously stepped up to its edge and peeked over. Behind him, he heard a sound like stones scrapping against one another and creaking, and half turning to investigate, he was stunned by what he saw.

  An angular figure that hunched forward as it walked toward him, dragging an iron sword that was chipped along the edges of its blade and laired in rust. It could not be mistaken for anything other than what it was; a walking skeleton of a man, a burning red light glowing from the sockets of its eyes.

  As it raised its blade in both skeletal hands over its skull, Neth’tek whipped out one of his scimitars and blocked it just overhead. Its mouth dropped open, releasing a shrill screech that sent shivers throughout his already chilled bones.

  But Neth’tek pulled his second blade from its scabbard and punched it in the nasal cavity with the pummel. The skull rocked backward on its shoulders, locking in place with a horrid snap. With one more blow, he knocked the head of it off and stepped back, half expecting the whole thing to topple to the ground.

  The skeletal body only stumbled as it lost focus on its surroundings, however it did not lose the force that drove it toward him. It swept outward with its sword, not aiming at anything in particular, but searching for Neth’tek among the darkness that took it.

  Neth’tek stopped the sword mid-swing as it passed again, and with his other blade he slashed at its ribs and spine. His blade cut straight through the old bone, severing the thing in half, and it fell over into pieces on the ground. He was unable to celebrate his odd victory, however; for just as this one fell, another came up from the side and pulled on his arm.

  Neth’tek turned his elbow up and hit it as hard as he could, knocking it backwards and into the pit behind him. He saw several more of these unholy warriors pull themselves from the moss that covered the walls, and make their unsteady way toward him. Some carried swords, others axes, and a few of them even had bows and arrows made of old petrified wood.

  They looked at him with those glowing red eyes, a sense of some power linking their minds together as one, and made odd clicking sounds to one another as they approached. They crept forward, coming in from all angles to surround him and trap him against the pits edge. Neth’tek’s heel dipped into the hole behind him as he inched backward, and nearly losing his balance he realized that they’re intent was more than just to kill him, otherwise those dead archers would have stuck their arrows into him by now.

  They wanted him to fall into the pit.

  Whatever reason that was for, Neth’tek wasn’t about to give up so easily.

  “I’ll take you with me, if that’s what you want!” Neth’tek growled, and he charged for the nearest of them, slashing at it from a dozen different angles.

  Bones shattered, and skulls went rolling across the uneven stones of the floor, as Neth’tek ducked this way and that, cutting through each one of them and dodging their clumsy attacks. An arrow hit him in the back, though, and he staggered forward into a shield made of rotting wood.

  Using his momentum, Neth’tek pushed against the shield, smashing the unsuspecting skeleton into the wall. Its old ribs were crushed, its legs breaking off as he hit it with all the force he had.

  The skeleton made an odd screech as he pinned it, but he did not pay any attention to it. He channeled his fear into aggression at that moment, and all else that happened became a blur to the nimble fighter; smashing into the remainder of them with his blades twisting this way and that, blocking here and jabbing there, parrying there and thrusting here.

  Catching two blades that had fallen toward him from either side, Neth’tek kicked his leg up and snapped the head off of the skeleton in front of him. The skull rolled through the air before cracking against the far side of the pit, and then tumbling down into the mysterious depth below. Turning his wrists down, his swords brought both of the skeletons’ weapons to the ground before slashing upward, cutting through their spines before slicing the skulls in half up the middle.

  He spun forward, cutting off the heads or slicing through the ribs of those that came in about him. Neth’tek dropped his shoulder and ducked under the swing of another of them, and then slammed forward with all of his might. The skeleton was lifted from the ground and carried over the edge of the pit, dropping straight down into the blackness with a screech.

  Neth’tek turned and battled those who came in again. There seemed to be more and more of them coming out of the shadows each time he cut one down, and now there were three times as many of them as there had been in the beginning. But the warrior didn’t care. He only cared to destroy each and every one of them, no matter how many it would take or the amount of time it was going to cost. His energy and stamina were forgotten. Aggression was all that drove him now.

  With a cry of defiance, Neth’tek began cutting through them once more. But as he took a step into them, a hand grasped his foot from behind and held it fast. The dead were crawling from the pit itself now, the rumor of the battle spreading quickly throughout the dungeon, and one of them held onto his ankle as it pulled itself upward from the darkness.

  Neth’tek turned to slash away the arm of the skeleton, but as his attention left those in front of him he was immediately doomed. They sensed his distraction and pushed forward as one, their shields raised to create a force he could not withstand.

  His aggressive emotion was replaced by fear as he felt them push against him all of the sudden. He tried to turn, losing his sword as he grabbed at one of them to steady himself on the brink of the fall, but was too late to save himself.

  He slipped off the edge of the mossy pit, taking some of them with him in his fall into the darkness.

  *****

  Dril’ead met a similar fate as his brother, having followed his tunnel to a room just like the chamber Neth’tek had found himself in, a large pit leading down into an eternal blackness. When the skeletons emerged and began pushing him toward its opening, though, Dril had retaliated with an effort to get back the way he had come, shouting a warning to come back from wherever Neth’tek had gone. But the skeletons had pulled him back and dragged him toward the pit, though that only awoke the ranging fire of the warrior passion that had driven Dril’ead on to survive for decades of his life.

  He used brute force against their numbers, ripping out their ribs and tearing the skulls from their spines. Dril grabbed one by the arm as it thrust its sword at him, and tore the thing from its body. He reached forward with his other hand and grabbed its skull and pulled it to the ground, fighting off the others with his other arm as they came in around him.

  He squeezed the skeletons skull so hard that it cracked, nearly bursting in his hand. He was grabbed from behind by a dozen others and pulled toward the pit, but he never stopped kicking or punching, tearing as many of them apart as he could before reaching the edge of the hole.

  Dril pushed the last one that held him into the hole, having broken the others to pieces, but was met from behind by the remainder of them. He felt himself pushed off the edge, and was falling down into the darkness. Closing his eyes, he accepted this as his end.

  But this end would only be the beginning.

  16

  The Fall of Grindle

  Milstrom looked out from Grindle’s battlements, his expression distant as he examined the icy world before dawn. Duoreod had left prior to midnight, earlier than he had imagined the young king would go. Perhaps he had received a message from his captains in the Silver City. Had things gone ill for the defense of their kingdom? Duoreod had said little, so perhaps it was nothing.

 
; But Milstrom couldn’t help but worry. Something, anything, could go wrong. The thought came as a chill under his skin.

  The morning appeared calm, though, as he stood up high on the city walls and could hear the whinnying of their horses in the courtyard below. A guard passed him on his route along the parapets, and stopped to follow Milstrom’s eyes back into the city yard.

  “The animals are unsteady,” said the guard, “I’ve heard it said by the husbandmen that they can sense the presence of things that we cannot see.”

  “You mean to say they feel something drawing near?” Milstrom asked the guard, looking at him with an expression of concern.

  The guard was hesitant to reply, but he said, “You feel it too, don’t you?”

  “I feel something,” said Milstrom, “although I have no idea what it might be.”

  They both looked out at the snowy world before the walls, the frozen river under the causeway. It sparkled with the rise of the first light of the day, a dull grey but full of hope.

  *****

  Minarch crouched in the snow, looking at the city from a safe distance out of sight of the guards who had been reported to be stationed on the walls. He had his black cloak wrapped firmly about him, the hood pulled over his head to keep the freezing wind out of his face. The instructions that his mistress had given him were precise and straightforward. Take the city by whatever means necessary and leave none alive.

  She was not in a particular mood for prisoners, it would seem.

  He looked behind him and held up his hand, and with his fingers extended made a cutting motion toward the city. Some thousand or so of similar black clad persons emerged from random places in the snow behind him and moved forward.

  Minarch took his bow from off his back and slipped along the surface of the snow with them, staying as low as was possible, almost burying himself in the cold powder. As he went he focused his mind, removing any emotion that could cloud his perception. He had been taught that thought in battle was a weakness, even trained to remove any form of anger or sorrow so that there was only balance.

  He could not pity the ones he was about to destroy.

  *****

  From out of the blank sheets of white came a black arrow, hitting the throat of the guard at his side. Milstrom ducked down to avoid any more arrows that might come, and caught the body of the guard as he collapsed to the ground. He looked at Milstrom wide wide, grey eyes that were full of fear and panic, even confusion. Milstrom put his hand to the guards face in an effort to calm him, and offered a prayer to the First Born to comfort the soldier.

  “I... I didn’t... even see,” said the guard, and he choked on the blood in his throat.

  A second later the life in his eyes were gone, the light that had given life to all beings. Milstrom closed his eyes for a moment of silence for the guard, and then looking up he screamed as loud as his lungs would allow him, saying “Stand ready! We’re under attack! Stand ready!”

  Those in the courtyard immediately dropped what they were doing and ran for their weapons, some shook awake by their comrades or dropping their breakfast back into the pot hanging over the fire. Each platoon Milstrom had organized them into gathered at the voice of their captain and marched toward the gate, two of the already organized groups locking the restraints that held it closed.

  Milstrom got to his feet and headed for the tower he had come up through. He unsheathed his sword from his side as he went, but before he could get to the doorway he was met by a figure clad all in black. For a moment Milstrom stood confused, the stranger having moved so fast he hadn’t seen him scale the wall with superior agility.

  The dark ranger tossed his bow down and unclasped two daggers from his belt, and spun into action before Milstrom realized what had happened.

  But he was able to dodge backward, bringing his sword up to deflect several of the swift strikes that came one after the other almost by nature. He turned sideways, avoiding a forward thrust from one of the daggers, and swept forward at his head with his own blade. The ranger ducked under the blow and came up behind Milstrom, slashing him across the back with one of his daggers.

  Stumbling forward behind the blow, Milstrom barely stopped himself before stepping off the side of the battlement. He spun to the side, missing another swing from the rangers sharp knife, and came around beside him. Behind him, though, he heard another of them swing himself over the wall and land on the icy stones.

  He cursed under his breath as he had to drive the one back before turning and fending off the second, keeping on his toes. And so he went from one to the other, turning this way and that, jabbing and thrusting, parrying attack after attack. He managed to glimpse other black figures climb over and land in the courtyard, engaging the troops down there.

  He scored a lucky blow on one of the rangers, slashing his arm as he swung his knife between the two of them. The ranger stepped back to examine his wound, but leaped back into action almost instantly. Milstrom’s back stung from the cut he had received, but he fought back with as much strength as he had ever had in his prime.

  At last he broke through one of their defenses, slashed him across the throat, and then kicked the other backwards and off balance, leaving him just enough space and time to slip in and drive his blade through his heart. They both fell on the parapet, but Milstrom knew the battle couldn’t be over yet. It was only beginning for him, and for these dark rangers.

  He watched as a group of Adya were cut down by these swift assassins, guarding the crank that activated the gate. Realizing the problem this was, Milstrom was forced to act quickly, and he leaped off the battlement and landed in the courtyard some fifty feet below with a headlong roll.

  “To the gate!” he shouted for whoever was within hearing range, or able to act on his command. However, all about him his troops were in intense combat with the enemy, and from the looks of it were falling by the dozen.

  Taking a sword from one of his dead, Milstrom charged the rangers standing ready to open the gate. He’d have to do it himself, risk his own life for his men. It’s worth the risk, he decided as he ran, both swords held out to either side. For my country and my king! I swore to defend this fortress, so defend it I shall!

  They saw him coming, seven of them in total, and three of them lifted their bows with the arrows drawn back to their heads. The courtyard between him and them was bare of any obstacles he could have hidden behind, but it didn’t matter. Milstrom realized he had to keep moving; for even as they prepared to destroy him he saw the others turning the crank and could hear the subtle creak of the hinges in the gate slowly drawn opened.

  All three arrows came at once. Milstrom dove into a roll, and heard them whistle just inches over his head. When he came back onto his feet he saw them draw arrows back once again, this time ready for whatever he was about to do. And one fired, forcing him to dodge to the left, and then the other fired, forcing him to duck to the right, and then so on and so forth until he was kept so busy he realized he had stopped running altogether.

  He threw his worries behind him and charged them head on, an arrow thudding into the armor in his side. It broke through just enough for him to feel its point, but not far enough for it to pierce his skin. The next one, though, was certain to hurt him.

  But as it came toward him he slashed it in half with his sword, turning the blades over in his hands to cut this way and that as they came speedily toward him. One of the rangers dropped his bow and drew daggers, rushing toward him to finish him off. But Milstrom jumped, dodging an arrow aimed at his knees, and lunged forward with both swords. The ranger dropped onto his knees and slid beneath him, slashing up with his daggers.

  Milstrom pulled his knees up under him and rolled through the air, coming down on his feet just in front of the archers. He cut this way and that, parrying their thrusts and ramming his blade into the chest of one of them before cutting the throat of the other. He turned and was engaged by the other who spun round, throwing a kick at his head, and slashing thi
s way and that with more speed than he had ever seen before.

  He was thrown backwards by the hit, but came up ready for the next series of thrusts and swings. The ranger went for his legs first, and Milstrom jumped back just out of reach, and cut downward with his sword. However, the ranger was too swift and spun to the side and came around beside him, jabbing at his ribs with his daggers.

  One of the rangers left the four others at the crank to join the battle, and by now the gate was partway open, allowing a harsh wind to blow in on the battle taking place in the courtyard. It spread up to the three sections of the city Duoreod had taken note of during his stay in the fortress, the rangers splitting and going up either of the stairs leading to the central fort, the enormous complex built into the mountain itself, in an attempt to flank the Adya archers positioned up there.

  As the gate was opened, though, a monster suddenly burst through. A huge werewolf, its fur black and its eyes red, charged the Adya fighting in the courtyard, practically tearing through them like a river splashing over a rock bed. The screams filled the air tenfold, a sound Milstrom hadn’t heard in a long time. But It only fueled his rage, and ignoring the cuts that his distraction had cost him he punched the ranger in the face and drove his blade through his abdomen. The other ranger who had left to finish him off was cut down in a heartbeat, the chief guardian no longer willing to spend time parrying their attacks.

  He bled from several wounds in his side, but it did not stop him. The gate was open enough for more rangers to come pouring in, and with them came more horrid creatures, spawns of the Lesser Realms and creations of The Watcher. Werewolves, horgs, darklings, and all things that they had been battling since the dawn of time and the War of Shadow and Light.

  He grabbed one of his soldiers by the arm and pulled him close to his face, the soldiers own expression full of horror and surprise. “Whatever you do, whatever any of you do, do not stop fighting and do not leave the gate unguarded! Tell the others!”