Kargaroth

by Mark B Frost

  “You!” he spat between grinding teeth. “You cost me everything! You’re responsible for all of this!”

  Kulara scrambled to his feet and turned to face Stratas with Dual Blade uplifted. “I must admit, I am rather proud to take that credit.”

  Stratas drew his mace and pointed at the grinning General in rage. “I will tear you limb from limb.”

  The man backed a good distance away from Stratas and sheathed his Dual Blade, then gave a nod. “Alright. Have at you.”

  Impressive, Stratas thought to himself. Based on our last battle, he discerned the range of my lightning whip. He’s clever. He still had his most powerful trick left, however. He took the steel ball from atop his mace and, with a mighty sling, sent it flying over the General.

  Kulara took a running jump and snatched the ball out of midair in his left hand. “Idiot,” the Cainite snarled as he pointed the short pole. Reacting instantly, the greyscale soldier reached into his shirt and drew another ball of some sort, a huge red one, and threw it into the path of the mace’s energy. For reasons Stratas did not understand, the mace latched onto this new orb and quickly pulled it to the staff. As soon as it came into contact, there was a tremendous explosion throwing lightning in every direction. The Lord Commander was blown away with a pain so severe he nearly lost consciousness.

  This second orb was the Flash Mine that had been confiscated from Myris. Kulara had never thought to return it, and in his last encounter with Stratas had thought of good use for it. The Lord Commander himself had admitted that his weapon was of simple design, so Kulara suspected it would latch onto any orb with similar Cainite enchantments. His theory had proved catastrophic for the Cainite lord.

  Stratas looked down at his right arm, which now ended at his elbow. The entire right side of his torso had been badly shredded, and the bandages he kept wrapped around him had been disintegrated, causing his twin sabers to be blown away. He looked up at Kulara—who was also struggling to his feet, injured by the same blast—and gave a tearful scream of agony. The Felthespari commander was surprised to see his adversary lose his composure so drastically. Unarmed and bleeding badly from his severed limb, Stratas charged recklessly with a blood-curdling roar.

  Kulara drew his Dual Blade and held it in front of him. Showing no signs of self-preservation, Stratas ran right into the blade, letting it stab clear through his stomach. He gave Kulara a wild punch with his left hand. As fist met jaw a red glow surrounded his forearm, and the punch turned into a fiery explosion in the General’s face. He flew backward in a scorching haze, releasing his Dual Blade by mistake, and lay on the ground covering his face.

  Stratas had gone into a berserk rage. He viciously tore the Dual Blade out of his own torso and dashed over to Kulara, then began wildly swinging it at the man’s chest and stomach, shouting, “Die! Die! Die!” The enhanced blade sliced through Kulara’s armor and barriers and soon he was lying in a pool of his own blood. Once the beset man’s arms dropped from his face and his body went limp, Stratas recovered himself and stumbled back.

  He stabbed the Dual Blade into the ground and leaned his remaining arm on it, breathing heavily and drooling his own blood. “You were good,” he said without contempt. “But I had to see you die. I have outlived every man that I have hated. I couldn’t let you be the exception.”

  Passing knights saw their fallen General and let out cries of dismay. The Cainites, in turn, saw the condition to which their Lord Commander had been reduced and also began to lose heart. Neither side intervened, however. None felt it was their place.

  News of the loss soon reached Cildar and Myris, who were fighting nearby. Myris hopped onto the Dragoon’s peist and they charged their way through the melee. Meanwhile, Stratas had recovered enough strength to be certain he was going to survive. He unearthed the Dual Blade and gave it an inspection. “This is a marvelous sword. It will make an adequate replacement for my mace, I do believe.”

  “I think not,” a hoarse voice responded.

  Stratas let his gaze drop to see that Kulara had risen to his feet.

  “No! I killed you!”

  “I promised...” Kulara’s whisper could only barely be heard over the sounds of the battle.

  “What?”

  He took a few steps closer. “I promised a man... a friend. I promised him that I would have his sword when he returned.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Kulara straightened his back and held his hands out in front of him in a boxer’s stance. This time when he spoke, his voice was clear, and pierced the air. “That sword in your hand! I promised him I would return it!”

  At this time Myris and Cildar broke through the crowd and came into sight of the two chieftains. They quickly dismounted and examined the situation. Kulara was more black and red from his own blood than grey from his uniform, and Stratas was a pretty match. “You Onion Knights take a lot to kill,” the Cainite said, and began his dash forward swinging the Dual Blade.

  Myris moved to cut Stratas off, but Cildar quickly shot a hand out and seized his cloak by the neck. The Cain came to a sudden stop with a slight gurgle, and the Dragoon pulled him back. “You must not, my friend. What was it you said to me once, long ago? ‘You would ignoble his sacrifice’.” Myris stared at his friend for a moment, then gave a somber nod and rubbed his own throat.

  Stratas struck a blow with the Dual Blade at the General’s head, hoping to end him quickly, but it was not to be. Kulara sidestepped and delivered such a resounding right cross to the sword that it was torn from the man’s hand and sent flying away. Then he immediately lay into the Cainite commander with a left hook, right straight, left body shot. Out of desperation, realizing that he was completely outmatched physically, Stratas tried once more to use Cainite weapon magic on his own arm. This time was not as successful as the first, and his left arm exploded in a cloud of flames and blood. He collapsed to his knees and stared down at his two amputated limbs, and began screaming once more. Kulara reached to one of the sheaths at his side, drew forth his Morabet, and with a vicious cross slash sent Stratas Ezul’s head rolling across the ground.

  With the duel decided, the two councilors headed over. “General, how badly are you hurt?” the paladin asked.

  “Not sure. But I won’t go back to the city. I have to see this war end with my own eyes. I have to see us win.”

  Cildar wrapped an arm around him and supported his weight. “Wouldn’t you rather live to see times of peace again?”

  Kulara gave him a devilish grin. “Naw. What good am I in peace times? If there aren’t going to be any more wars, it’s a good time for me to die.”

  “There will be plenty more wars for you, friend,” Myris assured.

  Cildar nodded in agreement. “If you want to die in battle, that’s fine. But you’re not going to do it while I’m around. Myris, can you keep the Cainites away from us for a bit?”

  “You forget to whom you speak.” He gave a signal with his left hand and Children of Cain began surrounding their location.

  The Dragoon laid Kulara gently on the ground and began casting healing nets over him. “I’ll just give him a quick patch job, and we’ll stick close and make sure he doesn’t exert himself too much.”

  “Fair enough. Oh, and Cildar.”

  “Yeah?”

  “If you ever grab me like that again, I’ll kill you.”

  Cildar looked up in surprise at this, and the two friends exchanged a smile.

  * * * * *

  Tomir Dakami sent waves of destruction into the Onion Knight ranks, occasionally killing a few Cainites in the process. He was not particularly worried about slaying his allies. The way he saw it, they would probably get themselves killed regardless. He was trying to find the archer responsible for destroying his siege towers and killing most of his sorcerers, but so far had no luck.

  His search was interrupted when a wave of ice came crashing upon him. Sensing the magic well before it reached him, he used a powerful spell to bl
ow a hole in the ground and let himself fall into it. The wave of ice passed harmlessly over his head. He next caused a pillar of earth to lift him high into the air, where he looked down on his attacker. It was the young mage girl he had encountered before.

  He hopped from atop his pillar, using a wind spell to slow his descent. He landed softly on the ground and gave her a jovial smile. “Good to see you, my dear. At our last meeting I was about to kill you, when we were rudely interrupted.”

  “You mean before you were confronted with a superior mage.” Lathria dropped into a low crouch, holding her staff above her head.

  “Superior mage? Madam, I am mystic. There are no mages superior to me, only equals. And you’re not even that, I fear. I owe you your death, but I’ll make you an offer. If you can kill me before you empty out all of your spell matrixes, then I won’t kill you.”

  Lathria gave a twisted grin. “Gee, how generous.”

  “Come, come. I won’t wait all day. I have others of your kind to kill.”

  She began unleashing matrixes at a furious rate—drawing spells from both her own matrixes and those of her staff—and sent them flying at Tomir in a dizzying rush. Dozens of keywords flew from her mouth at astonishing rates, and it was evident she had been preparing for this confrontation.

  Anyone else would have been lost in the storm of energies coming at them, but Tomir simply shut his eyes with a smile and began countering the spells. Fire against fire, ice against ice, bolt against bolt, he matched every one of Lathria’s spells with a spell of exact intensity. It was easy for him to see her actions on the Asterian plane, and just as easy to mimic them.

  This mirrored battle raged for several minutes, Lathria demonstrating that she was indeed a mage of impressive caliber. Yet as Tomir had assured, there could be only one outcome. Soon her spirit tired out and she collapsed to her knees in exhaustion. He gave a friendly nod, then raised a hand and gathered a powerful spell to strike her down.

  “Wait!” she shouted.

  “Please, my dear, you’re not going to beg for mercy now, are you? I offered you terms and you accepted by way of your actions.”

  “No. It’s just, I still have one matrix left.”

  The mystic halted his attack and stared closely at her Asterian umbra. Indeed, one small matrix was still attached. “I’m not going to let you off on a technicality like that. Do you think I’m going to let you live for as long as you don’t cast your final spell?”

  “Of course not,” she answered with bated breath. “But I’d like to use that spell. I think I can defeat you with it.”

  He let his hand drop and gave her a long stare. “It is a very weak spell. I don’t see how you think it can succeed where all of your best have failed.”

  “But you will let me try, won’t you?” she asked softly with a grin.

  He returned the grin and gave a bow. “Of course. Do proceed.”

  She reached under her blouse and drew forth a large sheet of parchment, which she laid out on the ground in front of her. Tomir strained his neck and took a couple of steps forward. “Now what are you doing? This isn’t part of the agreement.”

  Lathria held up her forefinger and a tiny sliver of sparking ether appeared at the tip. “Haven’t you ever heard? If you’re going to cheat, cheat death.”

  She touched her finger to the parchment and the rune structure drawn on it flared to life. The parchment burned up in an instant, but the reaction was set off. All of the black ether in the immediate area was sucked to the location of the rune with a ferocious rush, then thrown back out with even more intensity. Nothing in Morolia was affected, but the Asterian plane was cast into chaos, ethereal land and air both shredded.

  None of the humans had enough of an imprint in Asteria to be affected by this, but Tomir felt as though he had been thrown in six different directions simultaneously. While the mystic stumbled about, Lathria released her final matrix. “Telaric de-liminnicun!” A brilliant light spell shot from her hands and latched onto Tomir’s face, blinding him and clinging stubbornly. He tried gathering power to cast a counterspell, but his Asterian spirit was only barely intact. Fortunately the unstable ether currents caused the spell to fade quickly, and he recovered his vision just in time to see a thrown Moragam fly through the air and embed itself into his chest.

  Lathria rose to her feet and brushed herself off. “You may be a mystic, and mystics may be the superior race. But it still just takes one well-aimed blow to kill a man. I’m more than just a mage. I am a knight.”

  Tomir was dying fast and he knew it. There was one thing he had to know first. “That spell, the one that did that to the currents... what was it?”

  “It was a prototype to our Flare technique. Like Flare, it draws all of the Asterian ether in the area to a single point and then releases it. But unlike Flare, it never actually transfers the ether into the Morolian plane. Ancient mages couldn’t understand why it had no effect they could see, so they abandoned it and chronicled it as a failure. I was fortunate enough to stumble across it in my studies since our last meeting. I realized what was happening, as well as what it might do to a mystic. The effect is brief, but now we both know that it was enough.”

  Tomir gave her a final bow, then kissed his hand and blew it to her. Having no strength left to make a final cheerful goodbye, he fell over on his face and sighed quietly away.

  Lathria approached him and removed her sword from his body. She gave a prayer for the dead, struggling to find contempt toward the friendly Cainite. Then she took the Moragam and dashed into the nearest group of enemy soldiers, feeling a renewed respect for the old-fashioned way of killing.

  * * * * *

  Cyprus Galahe had found Brakken Chardoch.

  Ever since finishing his training with Cildar, he had hunted for the Cainite brawler in every battle and skirmish he had participated in, always without success. It was nearly impossible to find a single man in a crowd of thousands of screaming, killing, raging lunatics. Today was Cyprus’ last battle with the Cainites, his last chance to find Brakken and settle the score. It was the last he would need.

  Whenever Brakken fought, common soldiers cleared the vicinity, fearing to come too close to his devastating fists. It was by searching for this clearing that Cyprus finally located his quarry. The human weapon was locked in a battle with Karice. She struck at him repeatedly with Flamberge, Brakken blocking her blows with his bare forearms or opened palms. It was an impressive sight, Karice wielding a blazing six-foot flame with speed and accuracy, striking a blow every second. But Brakken’s body had endured intense magics from both the inside and out, and Flamberge simply did not have the power to overcome his immunity.

  Shortly the brawler grew bored of her futile assault and snatched Flamberge between his palms. He pulled it forward, throwing Karice off balance, then gave a twist, released the blade, and delivered a straight punch to her right shoulder. She was sent spinning through the air and he turned his back to her. Upon seeing Cyprus waiting, he took a step forward and gave a deep bow, holding his arms open wide.

  “You’ll forgive me if I don’t remember your name. You weren’t important to me. Yet, it would be a tremendous favor if you would run along and fetch your brother Cildar. I ache to challenge him once more.”

  Cyprus removed his cape and tossed it aside. “You’re no match for Cildar. He’s already proven that. I will suffice as your opponent.”

  Brakken snorted. “I seriously doubt that. We fought once already, and I remember nothing remarkable about you.”

  Choosing to argue with actions rather than words, the Military Councilor dashed forward, tacking a course slightly to the left. Just before he reached the Cainite he began spinning his body to the right, and held his fist high until the last second. When he was halfway rotated he released his punch, a powerful left haymaker to Brakken’s jaw. Cyprus was moving so quickly that he was forced to follow through with the attack, spinning all the way about and falling back in a clumsy fashion.

&nb
sp; The attack was a sound one. Brakken, expecting nothing of consequence, fell three full steps back and had to reach up and rub his aching neck. “Ah, you did not lie, knight. You will indeed suffice as my opponent.”

  Cyprus’ clumsy recovery had given him a sudden idea. He remembered words of advice from his brother when they were children, playing a strategic board game with small glass figurines. Remember, there are two ways to play—you can play the board, or you can play the man. Most people play the board and make the smart move. But there are times when the smart move is not the best move, especially if a lesser move will befuddle your opponent. Cyprus knew that in straight combat he was still no match for Brakken. If he could not play the board and hope to win, he would play the man.

  He held his fists up in front of his face in a foolish-looking manner, and began leaning slightly to one side as if lame. Brakken gave the man a sad smile and a confused shake of his head, but nonetheless charged forward and began throwing punches.

  Cyprus literally fell out of the way of these punches. If Brakken punched high, he fell to his knees and rolled over on the ground, then shot back up and sloshed side to side as if intoxicated. If Brakken punched low, he spun in a dizzy circle and fell back on his opponent, leaning there for a second before stumbling forward a few steps and turning around with his arms flailing. The brawler could not figure out any intelligent ways to deal with this ridiculous technique, and the speed of his attacks was cut in half from mere confusion and disorientation at his foe’s apparent madness.

  This reduced speed was enough for Cyprus to keep up. He knew the secret of a good punch was to put your body’s motion into it, to rotate with the attack. So occasionally while executing one of his maniacal spins, he would lash out with a deceptively focused punch. After a few minutes of fighting like this, the Cainite had taken a dozen blows sufficient to kill a lesser man, yet still had not directly landed a single punch of his own.

  Brakken had of course seen through this technique immediately, but he was unwilling to admit that such a simple ploy could stump his personal fighting style. He was confident that if he toyed with Cyprus a while longer he could figure out a counter-technique. Or, more likely, the man would make a stupid mistake, a move barely too slow, and he would collect on it. But when several more minutes passed and neither of those things happened, he grew tired of the game.