‘A shield spell,’ the elf explained. ‘You’re not the only one with tricks, Cursed One.’ He eyed the sword with caution, ’though that weapon may prove to be a nuisance.’
From the corner of his eye, Kairos saw another burst of light. He turned, expecting more enemies, but it was Althea hoisting her mana lance, the crystal spear tip shining a brilliant blue. She moved in on Hargonnas’s flank.
The elf spun around to face his new threat, but upon seeing her, he threw this head back and laughed.
‘I had grand plans for you, sweet Althea. It was only that clod who had to die.’ He sighed. ‘Such a waste.’
Althea faltered upon hearing her name. Even Kairos paused, wondering how Hargonnas knew her. They had never met. Or had they?
Hargonnas removed his wing-crested helmet. Long blond hair cascaded down his shoulders. He flashed a charismatic smile to Althea, and for a moment, Kairos discovered that he resembled nothing of the cruel elven captain that killed innocents. Instead, he looked like the charming tailor who worked the clothing booth and sized their uniforms.
‘Stephon?’ Althea asked in disbelief, her mana lance wavering as she processed what was happening. ‘Is that you?’
The elf laughed again. ‘Oh my. That look on your face is splendid, dear Althea!’ said the elf with a bow. ‘Stephon Hargonnas, former captain of the Grimaldi Flying Squadron… Until this bloody fool escaped my grasp, that is,’ he said with a maniacal gleam in his eyes. Then he turned to Kairos, ‘Now it’s time to die, you cursed bastard!’
‘You want us to die?’ Althea asked, confusion and fear etched on her pallid face. ‘But you were always so friendly.’
Stephon Hargonnas’s eyes narrowed to lethal slits. ‘I was never friendly, Althea. I was merely tolerating you disgusting humans. Living among your kind has convinced me that Alban would be much better off if you were all wiped out.’
With a sardonic sneer, the elf cast a single, circular glyph. Althea and Kairos’s every nerve ending filled with searing pain. Stephon laughed at their strangled screams. Althea collapsed to her knees, and the mana lance rolled from her limp grasp. Kairos managed to stay on his feet. He took a step towards Stephon, preparing to attack with Murasa.
Althea swiftly cast a glyph to free herself from Stephon’s spell. It must have taken all of her remaining mana, for she tried another spell only to produce tiny sparks of light that trickled harmlessly from her fingers. She fell to her hands and knees and glanced at Kairos, and realisation sparked in her eyes.
‘T-that spell!’ she stammered. ‘He’s a necromancer!’
That meant nothing to Kairos. He was fighting off the throes of torment coursing through him, and concentrating on his foe before him.
Stephon ignored her, the lesser threat, and yelled at Kairos, ‘How is it that you’re still even standing?’
The pain throughout Kairos’s body was slowly receding as Murasa drained the spell, but the pain in his shoulder intensified. He now watched the elf warily, knowing that he was not as invincible as he had once thought. Murasa, the sword, had limits. A well-aimed, powerful spell would end this fight instantly.
The elf put his hand, now glowing with a sickly indigo light, into the folds of his cloak and withdrew a mass of shadow. Tossing it on the ground between them, Stephon spoke in an unfamiliar language, its staccato pace flowing easily from his tongue. The shadow unfolded and stood. It was humanoid – dwarven – in shape, with glowing silver eyes.
Those eyes peered at Kairos, and he took in a sharp breath.
‘Watch out!’ Althea cried. ‘It’s a shadow spectre. Don’t let it touch you!’
The warning was unnecessary. Kairos took one look at those silver eyes and knew that the spectre’s touch would harm him more than a sword or spear ever could. There was suffering in those eyes, a silent plea to end the torment. And a hunger for living soul.
He circled the spectre, staying out of its reach. His wounded and aching body was at its limit. His earlier fight and the gruelling journey through the night from Shatteraxe had drained him beyond fatigue, and now the blood loss from his shoulder was weakening him by the moment. His legs felt sluggish. His wound throbbed.
The shadow spectre slowly approached.
Out of the corner of his eye, Kairos saw Stephon casting another glyph in the background. He tore his gaze away from the elf as the shadow spectre reached for him. He jumped back, barely avoiding the spectral hand.
A jagged boulder caught Kairos squarely on his chest. He was grateful for his armour, as it protected him from the brunt of the attack, but it knocked the air from his lungs and sent him staggering backwards. The shadow spectre swooped in as the elf howled with mad laughter.
Stephon Hargonnas had timed his spell perfectly. The boulder had distracted Kairos enough to divert his attention from the deadly creature. The spectre stretched out its ethereal hand and grasped a hold of Kairos’s left forearm, which was hanging limp from his wound. Kairos’s right hand brought up his sword, Murasa, and caught the shadow spectre on what was supposed to be its body. A normal sword would have passed through it; Murasa did not. The shadow spectre gasped a breathy whisper as the blade bit into it. The light in the silver eyes winked out, and the darkness around it transferred into the sword.
Kairos sank to his knees, agony overloading his senses. He clutched Murasa with his right hand to blot out the pain and squinted his eyes shut. It took all of his willpower to open them, and once he did, he recoiled in horror at the sight of his left forearm. It was charred where the shadow spectre touched him, and the blackened wound was spreading towards the rest of his arm. He could feel himself rapidly growing weak.
Stephon stood, his face once more a wicked smile. He sensed victory. ‘I will make you suffer,’ he said. ‘But first I will kill Althea like that human wench in Milbrooke, and will scalp her all the same!’
Kairos was pale as tried to stand. He looked at his mutilated arm, unable to fully grasp what had happened. His arm burned with an icy pain. His grip on Murasa weakened.
He looked up at the elf, his vision becoming dimmer by the moment. They stared into each other’s eyes with hatred. Vengeance clouded Kairos’s mind. He shook his head to clear it. He had to focus.
‘No!’ he yelled. ‘I’ll never allow you to harm another person again. I’ll avenge the Einar, the people of Milbrooke, and Farina.’ With that, he leapt forward, Murasa held out before him.
Hargonnas laughed as he traced a glyph. The earth exploded in front of Kairos, sending a clod of soil raining down on him, followed by a series of jagged rocks pelting him like a hailstorm. He fell back.
Despite his courageous vow, Kairos could feel his strength and stamina fading quickly. The wound from the shadow spectre now reached his shoulder, and it took all of his willpower to hold onto Murasa and stand.
‘Get closer!’ Murasa’s voice commanded.
Kairos tried once more to close the distance between him and the elf, so he could deliver the killing blow. Stephon nimbly backed away, he was quicker, fresh for battle, and powerful. Kairos held out his sword, hoping to draw more mana from his opponent.
Stephon Hargonnas was no fool. The elf knew that the sword absorbed magic, so he directed his spells away from it. Instead, he used his magic to assail Kairos with physical objects, such as dirt and rocks. The elf even uprooted a large sapling and flung it at Kairos, nearly striking him and laughing maniacally all the while.
Kairos knew the elf was toying with him. He had to defeat Hargonnas soon, otherwise he would succumb to whatever injury the shadow spectre had inflicted upon him. It hurt to breathe. He was almost dropping his sword, and would not be able to swing it much longer. Was this the end? Pain and despair all but consumed Kairos. In the end, Stephon had far more power and experience in battle. Even with the godly might of Murasa, Kairos could not defeat him.
‘Kairos, now!’ shouted Althea, lifting him from his bleak stupor.
She tried to plunge the mana lance into Stephon’s b
ack, but his magical shield repelled the attack and threw her off balance.
The elf’s cry of outrage echoed among the trees as he turned his attention on Althea. He drew a quick glyph that sent her sprawling onto the ground, paralysed with pain. Another glyph brightened his face with an orange glow, giving him the appearance of a fiery demon of the Netherworld. This spell would end her life.
‘Kairos!’ she shouted. ‘Help me!’
Althea’s cry penetrated Kairos’s despondency, and he rushed forward to save Althea. Stephon saw him coming and spun around to redirect his spell toward Kairos.
The elf began to smile, his malicious face hideous with glee at the prospect of incinerating Kairos.
But the moment of distraction had caused the elf to miscalculate, for he had forgotten to include the presence of Murasa in the equation as he loosened the scorching spell. Kairos raised his sword, channelling all of the anguish, pain, loss, anger and despair he had harboured since he had crossed the sea, and directed it towards the elf. He would avenge the Einar and Farina, even if he died in the process.
Stephon’s magic burst forth in a large wave of flames. Kairos raised his sword, expecting to die in the attack. But he planned on taking the elf to the grave with him. He hurled himself at his tormenter.
Murasa’s blade snuffed out the flames, smothering and inhaling them. It hummed with a white glow as it feasted on the spell, penetrated the elf’s magical shield like it was a wall of fragile glass, and punctured the black leather encasing his torso. Kairos felt no resistance when the sword plunged into the elf’s mid-section, splitting flesh, guts and bone. The sword continued travelling until the hilt pressed against the black leather of Stephon’s suit, the blade protruding out of his back.
The triumphant smile had left Stephon’s face. His icy blue eyes pierced Kairos with cold fury and hatred. In one final effort to bring Kairos down, the elf lifted his hand to trace a glyph. Kairos released Murasa and grasped Stephon’s casting hand, crushing it. The spell fizzled away in trailing sparks of light that flowed towards the sword.
‘You cursed human!’ the elf spat. He tried to speak some more, but blood gurgled and bubbled out.
The elf continued to struggle. Even as he was dying, his power was shocking. But his struggles weakened quickly. Kairos watched Stephon’s eyes as the shards of spells the elf had woven around himself were drawn into the blade.
‘You killed the innocent and defenceless,’ said Kairos, his words laden with fury. ‘You took many loved ones from us.’
The sword glowed brighter, drinking the life essence within Stephon. Wrinkles began forming in the elf’s face as the skin began to wither away. His cheeks sunk into his face. The flowing blond hair faded to white.
‘You will not have a proper burial,’ Kairos continued in a low voice that only the elf could hear. ‘You will be carrion for the vultures while your soul will live a cursed afterlife within Murasa.’ Stephon’s eyes bulged out in abject terror, his throat burbled something incoherent. He looked up at Kairos, his eyes pleading. Just like Farina’s.
Kairos held his gaze and twisted the blade until the elf’s eyes turned milky white, his skin grey and shrivelled – like an empty husk. His leather bodysuit hung limply from his dead form.
Kairos extracted the blade, which seemed to hum pleasantly, as if its thirst were quenched. The dried- up corpse pitched forward, held together only by the leather bodysuit. Kairos wiped the bloodstained blade on the black leather as best as he could, but could no longer hold the weapon, dropping it in the grass. With the last of his strength, he staggered towards Althea who was recovering from the effects of the elf’s spells.
‘Althea,’ he said, breathing heavily. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’ll be okay, but you…’ She paused, casting a horrified glance at Kairos’s blackened left arm. ‘The shadow spectre touched you.’
‘I may be in need of some healing,’ he said, managing a wan smile before collapsing.
* * *
Althea cast the healing spell one last time for the night. Blue tendrils of energy wound their way over Kairos, seeping into his skin and soothing his fever. His body, tense and trembling, now relaxed in a peaceful slumber. Althea pulled the blankets over him.
They stayed at the inn in Chendre. How Kairos had lived through a shadow spectre attack was a marvel beyond her expectations. He had fainted, on the verge of death, after the battle with Stephon. His skin was sallow, and his life’s blood was weak. Althea had drawn as much mana as she had dared from the surrounding nature for her healing spells, but it wasn’t enough. She was losing Kairos fast.
In one last ditch effort, she had muttered a prayer to no god in particular and cast the spell to draw the mana. To her astonishment, mana surged into her, coursing through her veins. She had looked around in wonder, wondering where it all came from. Surely all of the plants in the entire area could not provide such a wealth of magical energy. Then she saw that the sword was gleaming nearby. She had not pondered why at the moment. For all she could tell, the mana was enough to stabilise Kairos. She had accepted it as a miracle. It was another miracle that he had managed to get up and trudge along, sword in hand, back to Chendre.
The town had fully recovered from the effects of the plague. Upon seeing Kairos in his diminished state, the villagers had grown concerned, expecting another calamity. Once Althea had soothed their fears, they had been more than happy to assist Kairos towards the inn.
For the next several days, Althea worked day and night to heal and tend to him. He tossed and turned in a restless sleep, speaking in the strong dialect of his homeland. She could make out some of the phrases: he spoke of his father, and of someone named Thylar. At the height of his fever, he screamed the name of Hargonnas. At intervals he would sob, apologising to someone named Farina. Or he cried, begging his father for mercy.
Seeing him in his pathetic and vulnerable state made Althea’s heart ache for him. She did not know that he carried such torment within his soul, and watching his anguish made her sad.
She stayed by his side, barely eating anything. The innkeeper, a robust woman of later years, took sympathy and offered a hand, even cooking meals for Althea and changing the bowl of water every few hours for their room. A few of the other villagers – grateful for Althea’s help with the plague – attempted to help, but Althea politely refused, stating that Kairos needed time alone. Althea spent her time praying to any god who would listen, for few ever survived being touched by a shadow spectre. She did not even want to imagine what horrors would occur if the blackness had completely taken over Kairos’s body.
During the evening, the innkeeper returned with a vial of amber-coloured liquid. She held it out to Althea. It looked like a standard healing tonic.
‘What’s this?’ Althea asked.
‘A healing tonic,’ the innkeeper replied.
‘I’m aware of that, but where did you get it?’
‘Someone from Valour Keep was passing by and got wind from the villagers that Kairos was ill,’ the lady said.
Althea grew suspicious. After the fiasco with Stephon, she was reluctant to trust anyone. ‘Who?’ she asked.
The innkeeper shrugged. ‘He wouldn’t say, and I didn’t get a good look at him. But he said it would help. He seemed like a nice lad.’
Althea was not convinced. She cast a few quick spells that could determine the most common agents used for poison, but detected no trace of anything harmful. From her studies, it looked like a standard healing potion. Her mana was low, and she had exhausted the nearby plants to their limits. She dared not cast another healing spell, and Kairos’s condition was still critical. She stared at the vial, swishing the amber liquid around. It was worth a chance at this point.
She funnelled the contents of the vial into Kairos’s mouth that night, massaging his throat to get him to swallow. Nothing happened, but he continued sleeping.
The next morning, Kairos’s fever broke. He had survived. He awoke and sat up slow
ly, looking around bleary-eyed. Upon seeing her, his lips formed a weak smile.
She wrapped her arms around him and tried to suppress a sob. She held him for a long time, and finally she pulled back to look at his face.
‘You look horrible,’ she said with a smile. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Hungry,’ he croaked from the dryness of his throat.
For the first time in a while, Althea started to laugh. For once, everything was going well. Kairos even started to laugh himself, but laughter quickly devolved into a series of coughs. Althea fetched him some water and they sat in silence for a long time.
‘We succeeded,’ Althea said, breaking the silence. ‘We’ll become Mana Knights upon our return.’ She managed a warm smile. ‘And to think, you’ve done it all without a trace of mana.’
Kairos no longer smiled. ‘You assisted me with the air elemental,’ he said. ‘Won’t that disqualify me? Disqualify us?’
Althea shrugged. ‘If that’s the case, then it was worth it. I could never live with myself if I hadn’t helped you.’
Kairos nodded solemnly, but said nothing. Althea tried to search for any hint of an emotion, but could read none.
‘One thing that bothers me though is why Stephon wanted you dead,’ Althea said with a shudder. ‘And what sort of plans did he have in mind for me?’
Kairos’s face darkened, the festive mood shattered in an instant. ‘Let’s not dwell on such things, Althea. That’s the past now. We won. We’re alive. That’s all the matters.’
‘You’re right,’ she said, trying to banish the disturbing memory away. ‘We must leave for Valour Keep soon. Otherwise two fortnights will have passed, and our efforts will be for naught.’
Kairos nodded. ‘Right. But first, let’s eat.’
* * *
There was a sombre air at Kinclaven Citadel that evening.
‘Absolutely no visitors,’ was the message Malus’s steward told all comers, who included a diplomat from the Salforian Royalty, a prince from Dvergar, and even a baron from as far south as Numidia. They were all supposed to dine together in the citadel’s great dining hall, which provided the most splendid view of the mountains. Some of the guests took offence, but what could they do about it? No one dared complain to the Dark Lord. Everyone knew that the ‘walls had ears’ in the citadel, and if they felt any ill will, they wisely kept it to themselves.
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