by Jeff Inlo
He almost gave up, almost turned around and sped out of sight. He would be leaving the algors, but maybe it was the best thing for them as misfortune seemed glued to his every action.
Ryson, however, did not turn away. He held his ground and hoped for some miracle. He and most of the algors had survived so far. He clung to hope that they could find a way to win again. Optimism was becoming more difficult for the delver, and though he grasped at it momentarily, it was quickly dashed when the stone guardians charged the monstrosity.
To their credit, the sand giants-created with one singular focus-ignored the newcomer's horrific appearance. It mattered little to them. Emotions could not bend their will, fear could not distract their ultimate objective. They were created to defend the desert, to attack invaders of any size. They marched toward the thrastil as if it was just another shag. They marched toward their doom.
The thrastil wasted little time on the stone sentinels. Though it grabbed several in its jaws and crushed them into dust, it found no taste for the rock that made up their bodies. With no desire to feed on crushed stone, it turned its other weapons against the giants. It used its claws with incredible success and efficiency. One swipe of a mighty pincer destroyed four or five at a time.
The spiked tail also took its toll. Though the poison of the creature could kill an entire legion of the most resistant dwarves, it was the bone crushing mass of the appendage that was most effective. The spike might have been able to penetrate the strongest metal, but the sheer power behind each thrust simply obliterated any sand giants in its path. The devastation was monumental.
The sand giants ignored their fallen brethren. Though their mission was clearly futile, they continued to assault the thrastil with the full intensity of their limited consciousness. Many attempted to take hold of a lower leg and upend the monster, but most were simply swatted away as if they amounted to nothing more than dust balls in comparison to the mighty beast. Those that tried a frontal attack upon the creature's head were pounded into rubble or crushed into debris.
Moving with agility that seemed impossible for its size, the thrastil used all eight legs to its full advantage. It scurried left and right, forward and backward, maintaining its balance despite its oversized head and massive jaws. With speed that defied logic, it trampled over the remaining sand giants in the gorge, leaving broken pieces of rock in its wake. With nothing between it and the sandstone cliffs, the horror turned toward the algor sanctuary with obvious malice.
After witnessing the raw power of the creature, Ryson wasted no further time. He sprinted to the front lines of algors, those in the sand behind the last dune that separated them from the thrastil. He called to them all.
"We have to go!"
The algors did not respond as Ryson had hoped. Instead, with the last of the hook hawks eliminated, they took hold of their slings once more and prepared to fight off the next menace. Not a single algor broke ranks.
As the beast's head hung close to the ground, all that was visible to the algors on the desert floor was the massive tail that curled up into the sky. Quickly, however, the thrastil propelled itself up the side of the last dune and the sinister face came into clear view.
The algors looked upon the massive reptile head with surprising curiosity. The similar reptilian features clearly caught their interest. Certain qualities, however, were not comparable, and the algors appeared to have disdain for the creature's enormity. It was almost as if the algors saw the thrastil as a representation of their greatest fear.
The algors could come together and match the thrastil in size and focus as an army, but they could always return to the multiple solitary beings they longed to be. The thrastil lacked such ability. It was not a collection of smaller parts. It was a single entity that could not break apart into individuals-not an army coming together as one, joining in consciousness for a single purpose, but a massive being shackled as one vicious element for all eternity.
The thrastil, however, showed no such distress in its inherent nature. It concentrated on less philosophical concerns. The beast fully raised its entire body above the dune and looked down upon the algors in the sand. Its crooked smile seemed to widen as it paused to stare at the huge number of prey before it. As if the sand giants left a bad taste that could be quickly remedied by a new meal, the monster salivated.
Ryson ignored the macabre scene. He pressed what he saw as the inevitable truth upon the algors.
"Slings and spears aren't going to work against that. You can't win."
"We will not leave!" the algors answered in unison. The determined response carried across the desert like a crash of rumbling thunder. It contained defiance, but Ryson saw no victory in futile resistance.
"You don't have to leave. Just move back. There are dwarves waiting underground to help. Maybe they can beat this thing."
Every algor appeared to turn its head toward the delver. As if he just insulted them all, they glared at him, and yet again, responded together.
"No! We will fight as one. We are not dwarves, dwarves are not us. We fight as one."
Ryson found no shame in bringing up the dwarves. He didn't care if the algors blamed him for consorting with a race they saw as the enemy. There were larger concerns at the moment-one of which he blurted out.
"You're going to die."
"We will die as one."
Ryson realized he could not argue with them. There was no dissension in their viewpoint, even in the face of the thrastil. The algors were in complete agreement. They would not allow the dwarves to fight their battle. He could not, however, allow them to simply commit suicide.
"At least get back in your caves, all of you. Try to wear it out. Give yourselves a chance! Don't just stand there and die. Find a way to survive!"
The algors suddenly appeared uncertain-distracted. They looked once more upon the thrastil standing on the heights of the last dune. They might have been unwilling to accept any assistance from the dwarves, but they were not so adamant in denying the candor of the delver. If they did not retreat, they would certainly die, but retreating to their caves did not mean retreating from battle.
They finally broke, but they acted as if they had suddenly lost their unity. Their lines dissolved into disorganized masses of movement, but thankfully, they headed toward the cliffs. They climbed the walls and entered the caves of their sandstone home. They would not flee into the desert, but at least they gained some semblance of cover.
Ryson looked back over his shoulder at the thrastil that seemed to watch with detached curiosity. It appeared almost indifferent to the retreating movements of the algors, as if this maneuver changed nothing. The outcome would be the same.
The delver faced his own dilemma. What should he do? He couldn't hope to fight such a creature. What could he do? He could distract it, but for how long? And was that sensible?
Sensible or not, he sped off to the southeast, closer to the thrastil but away from the algor shelter. He called to the monster to get its attention, waved his arms, and prepared to move like lightning.
The thrastil eyed him, but only for a scant moment. The monster peered directly into the delver's eyes, almost seemed to recognize the tiny creature before it. It did not completely disregard Ryson, but showed absolutely no desire to attack. It lifted its head up from the ground and glared at the sandstone cliffs.
Stepping deliberately forward with all eight legs, the thrastil bypassed the delver, but showed clear diligence in avoiding Ryson, as if it did not wish to risk stepping on him. Once within reach of the elevated rocks, the beast sneered into the caves at the lower levels of the cliff wall.
Ryson could hear the whir of swinging slings echoing through the tunnels. He knew at least some of the algors were not seeking sanctuary deeper in the caves. He gave them credit for their courage, but couldn't help but question the sanity of the attack.
A surprising barrage or rocks flew out of the tunnel entrances as if the cliffs were spitting out pieces of its own self.
Clearly, the algors had regained their cohesion, although a few spears flew out with the wave of stones. Perhaps this had more to do with the limited space within the caves then a handful of algors showing a streak of independent thought. Unfortunately, the spears had no greater effect than the rocks which simply bounced off their intended target.
The thrastil appeared more annoyed than angry at the response and certainly not injured. Rearing its head back slightly, it opened its massive jaws and then thrust forward with the full force of its body. Its mouth slammed shut just as its teeth met the rock. An enormous portion of the wall disintegrated on impact.
As rock and sand crumbled down on to the ground, the thrastil moved back slightly to review the debris. It immediately focused on several wounded algors that had been ripped from their dens. The jaws snapped quickly across the desert floor, devouring all algors whether still living or dead.
Ryson watched in silent agony as the thrastil skittered over to another section of unbroken rock. Once more it crashed its jaws down upon the algor sanctuary, destroying an even greater number of tunnels and dens. More algors fell helplessly to the ground. Those that could move tried to flee, but they could not escape.
The delver felt more than helpless… he felt trapped in anguish. He looked down upon the blood stained war blades still in his hands. He knew they were useless. They might have slashed through hundreds of shags, but they would not even scratch the hard shell of the thrastil's body or penetrate the thick scales of its head. He could try for the eyes, but that would be pointless suicide. There had to be another answer.
He thought of the dwarves again and perhaps there was some slight hope. So what if the algors didn't want help. He did. He wanted all the help he could get. The dwarves might be able to tunnel beneath the monster and trap it somehow. It was the best plan he could form.
He was about to race toward one of the tunnels when a strange voice called out to him.
"Ryson Acumen, stay where you are."
The delver did not recognize the elder man who stood behind him in the desert, and he had no idea where he came from. The stranger seemed to have just appeared out of thin air.
"Who are you?"
"My name is Jure. I've been working with Holli in Pinesway to protect the eastern plains from invading monsters." He nodded to the thrastil. "Against creatures like this."
"Are you a spell caster?"
"I am."
"Can you help us? I was going to try and reach the dwarves, maybe together…"
"I believe I can handle the situation."
"Just you?Against that?"
"It has weaknesses. You have to believe that."
Ryson didn't know what to believe, but he didn't want to waste time talking.
"I'll believe whatever you want, just do what you can to stop that thing."
The sorcerer stepped past Ryson and moved deliberately toward a monster no sane individual would even wish to see, let alone get close to. Jure, however, revealed no fear, no hesitancy in confronting the beast. It was not insanity that pressed him forward. It was necessity and certainty. He had power, and he was right, the creature did have weaknesses, weaknesses that played to Jure's strengths.
He considered his surroundings for only a moment. He was back in the desert, back in the land where he took refuge from his natural ability. Jure's command over water remained his true strength. The desert was a dry land, but not completely dry. Even as sand and rock overwhelmed the landscape, water could always be found, either far below the surface or high in the air. Even in the far distance, beyond the horizons, the water would follow Jure's desire. It would come to him if it was needed.
He believed it would be needed. In that, he was almost certain. The thrastil was not a beast that would grasp reason. Still, Jure wanted to be absolutely sure that there was no other choice.
He called to the thrastil, but not with a raised voice. He muttered words in very low tones just under his breath. He brought his hands over his head and pointed them to the sky. A perfect circle of pale blue energy flew from his finger tips, up into the heavens and out of sight. In but an instant after the ring disappeared, the sky flashed and a thin, jagged line of lightning streaked down toward the monstrosity at the sandstone wall. It was a simple spell, small in power, more light than storm-a tap on the shoulder. It gained the thrastil's attention.
Jure stepped forward as the monster glared down upon the spell caster. It clearly did not appreciate the interruption. It turned quickly upon its skittering legs and its eyes narrowed even further. Jure ignored the threatening stance and offered but one chance to avoid the destruction that he was spinning in the back of his consciousness.
He spoke with words, but only to give his thoughts forceful meaning. He directed those thoughts into the mind of the beast.
"I can create a portal, but you must use it to return to your realm, and you must use it now. Will you leave?"
The thrastil did not even hesitate to consider the proposal. It flung itself forward with mouth open wide, jaws ready to scoop upon the interloper and then grind him into paste.
The spell was already on Jure's lips and he cast it with greater speed than the thrastil could move.
The water came from everywhere at once, but it all focused on the creature's open mouth. It poured down like a giant waterfall from the skies, it gushed like a geyser from broken holes in the ground, and it rolled in like the incoming tide over the tops of the dunes. It struck with such force that it instantly knocked consciousness from the creature. Even as the monster rolled backward onto the ground, the water continued to flow. The pressure kept the giant jaws open and the water poured into the creature with no mercy. The thrastil drowned before it ever regained consciousness.
With his task complete, Jure turned his hands upright and refocused the spell. The flow of water ceased. The skies turned back to a crisp, deep blue and the ground became still and quiet. Water flowing in from the north and east turned back to their original sources. The remaining liquid that flooded the desert floor around the dead thrastil rose up into the air and quickly dispersed in a giant rainstorm where raindrops flew outward from just above the ground as opposed to downward from the sky.
Ryson-rather amazed he was still dry-stepped up to Jure with obvious gratitude.
"That was impressive," the delver acknowledged.
"Water remains my strength."
"No argument here. Thanks for stopping that thing. I didn't think anything could."
"As I said before, there are always weaknesses." Jure would have liked to speak further with the delver. He knew of Ryson Acumen, knew of his friendship with Enin. There was much to discuss, but once more, he felt a need. This time, it was back in Pinesway.
"I don't mean to leave you so quickly, but as I said, I have been working with Holli. It seems the battle has ended here but now focuses in Pinesway."
Ryson, although he could not sense the same magical pull as Jure, still felt the pull of responsibility. He thought of Holli and wanted to lend any assistance he could offer.
"Do you want me to come with you?"
Jure smiled. "Your willingness to help others is not overstated, but I believe you have other concerns. You can't be everywhere at once. Good luck to you."
The sorcerer waved his hands to create another spell of transportation and his body was whisked off to the east in a flash of pale blue light.
"Gone, just like Enin," Ryson acknowledged to the empty air, and then he did think of his greatest concern.
Linda.
If the battle was indeed over in the desert, it was time for him to return to the mountains. There was nothing preventing him from leaving. He could join her and the cliff behemoths, and they could wait out the end of the struggle together.
With a clear objective in mind, he rushed over to the cliffs and raced up the ledges. He entered the tunnels in order to offer a final report to the algors before he simply left them. He did not feel he had to address them all. A small group w
as enough.
"The thrastil's dead," he announced, and then he offered his opinion of the situation even if it wasn't required. "Seems as if we got help when we needed it most, even if you didn't want help."
"We did not want help from the dwarves," several algors responded in unison, as if to justify their decisions.
"But I guess help from a human wizard was okay?"
A single algor stepped up to Ryson, but she seemed to speak for them all. Every algor in the tunnel remained silent, simply stood focused on the delver.
"You think we were wrong to turn away the dwarves? You think we should have simply accepted their aid?" The algor shook her head. "We could not. Why did they want to help us? Because it was honorable? Or was it because they thought it might allow them to forget? If you wish us to forgive them, we may yet one day do so, but it will be our choice, not theirs. You cannot always earn redemption by your own deeds and that is why they were here."
"So you can't right a wrong?"
The algor seemed to sigh and then proclaimed what the algors wanted.
"You can tell the dwarves they may leave our desert now."
She said nothing further. She and all the algors ventured back outside to bury the dead.
Ryson did exactly as she asked. He informed the dwarves the battle was over and when they headed back to their underground cities, he returned to the surface and raced back to the mountains.
#
Lief saw the battle in the desert, not with his eyes, but with a spirit's awareness. He also heard the words of the algor and he placed them in context with his own situation. He was there to help the delver. He believed that with all his soul, and yet, was that why he had really returned? He knew there was something to be learned from everything he witnessed, something that still eluded him. It was, however, within reach. He could sense it. He believed when Ryson found the right path, Lief would find his.
Unfortunately, doubts still haunted the elf, doubts about where the struggle would lead and where it would end. He knew the delver was tiring of the conflict, losing faith in everything he had ever done. That was wrong, and Lief knew it. He would help Ryson see that, but then he thought of the algors again. What if the delver didn't want his help? What if he refused just as the algors had refused the aid of the dwarves?