by Mark B Frost
What?
“You can’t still be tired. Time to get up, old friend.”
I don’t understand. Who are you? Leave me alone.
There was a thud, followed by a sensation of some sort of pain. “Abaddon! Wake up, now!”
Is that my name? He’s talking to me. But who...
Abaddon opened his eyes and inhaled a sudden rush of air. His lungs came to life with a fiery sensation. His pulse started, pumping blood through his veins as his heart pounded. As the blood flowed through him he felt strength return and his muscles began to shudder with newfound life. He sat up slowly and looked around. He felt a need to speak, but all he could do was sputter.
“Now, now, easy. Not too quick yet.” A man wearing red moved over and put a hand on his shoulders, steadying him. Abaddon stared at the man. Tears brimmed in soft brown eyes, a head set with dirty red hair shook back and forth, and a light smile played on a bruised and scratched face. “How do you feel?”
He shook his head in return, but did not answer. The red-haired man’s face turned somber, then he stood and started talking to someone who had been standing behind him. Abaddon tried to look up and see the others around him, but he could not yet focus his vision.
Shortly he heard a new voice saying, “Forgive me, Master Tethen. By jump-starting his spirit in the manner we did, his memories will probably not be recovered. We can give him new life, but we cannot restore the old.”
There was more talking. He stopped listening and forced himself to think. It was a slow, painful process. He knew these people. He knew that he knew these people, but he could not prove it to himself. He could not bring himself to name even one of them. His vision started to get better, adjusting to the light of day, and he looked them over. There was the man in red, then a girl in a purple tunic and short skirt, followed by shredded black stockings. He stared at the girl for a moment, thinking how pretty she was in the sunlight, then turned his gaze. The rest of his company looked the same, monks in grey robes, funny pictures traced on their bodies.
He kept looking around, trying to find it. Trying to find what? He was looking for something. He could not remember what, but it was important that he found it. If he did not find it, then... something bad.
Then he saw it. Across the glade, discarded carelessly, leaning against a tree. Long, silver, beautiful, perfect. Not destroyed. His mind shuddered with pain. It was supposed to be destroyed. He had been trying to find it, but now he wished he had not. He did not want it to still be real, because... because...
His eyes suddenly narrowed and every muscle on his body snapped tight. Kargaroth had to be destroyed. Hell had to be stopped. His final mission had to be fulfilled. He started to say something, to make a protest to the man in red, when suddenly his mind erupted. He grabbed his head with both hands and began screaming, rocking back and forth and rolling across the ground.
Back he went, etching deep into the lines of his history. It was more than remembering, he was reliving. Every moment of his life, every memory of who he was, came in a swift painful rush, for he had led a life filled with pains. His final stand against the dark gods. The Lifeless Vortex. His farewell to Atheme. Traveling with the Saint Sinjuin Serene, fighting monsters he had never seen before. The monks and their training. A battle with a mythical water dragon. The long boat ride from Felthespar. Being saved by Aveni. Becoming the Hell Knight. Betraying his friends. Finding Kargaroth. Relm’s sacrifice. Seeking Cildar and Myris for help. Bringing Atheme back to Felthespar, wounded and dying. The last battle at Revian. Barkus, and their King of Shadows. Jegan, where Atheme first told him of Kargaroth. The ambush at Revian Gorge. His battle with Kinguin’s Automatons. Being elected Champion of the Knighthood. His long campaign against Revian, where he was first dubbed The Destroyer. The red dragon of Vantrisk. Arriving in Felthespar, and meeting his lifelong friend Atheme Tethen.
But his memories did not end there. Further back he relived, to years before when his uncle had helped him survive in the wilderness. His Uncle Yovess, who had been there for him more than his father had, who had taught him everything. His previous name, Ferallan Darmani. The day that his father died, in a horrible rush of power from Elzaniru, the King of Dragons, the supreme god—a horrible memory that the mind of a child had instantly locked out. Years earlier, in Felthespar, occasionally getting to fight and play with his father, but more often watching his father train the red-haired boy he had taken as his squire, the favorite that had replaced Ferallan.
And the day that his father sat him on his knee, reached across his back, and pulled forth his beautiful greatsword. Six feet of resplendent steel, untouchable by age or blade. His father had told him, “Ferallan, my son, with the proper training, I may someday hand this sword down to you. Do you think you have what it takes to wield it, to bear its responsibility?”
“Yes, father, if it’s what you want of me. I will not fail you.”
His father had given a lighthearted laugh. “You need not struggle so hard to please me, son. No matter what you do in life, I will always be proud of you. Here, let’s see if you can lift it, shall we?”
He had laid the tip of Kargaroth on the ground, letting the hilt balance on the knee across from Ferallan. It was meant to be a joke, so that the father could laugh and give the child a friendly tousle, encouraging him to try again in the future. But there had been no laughter. The small boy had reached forth with his child’s hands and seized the hilt. An aura encircled the sword and the boy’s eyes grew large. He had not been able to lift the sword, but it had slowly begun to slide itself closer to him, digging a deep scratch into the stone floor.
At this his father had snatched the sword up and shot to his feet, throwing his son to the ground, and dashed away without a word. Ferallan had cried many hours, not knowing what he had done wrong. Yovess had promised him it was not his fault, not something he had done.
With that final memory in place Abaddon came back to himself. He remembered Atheme, he remembered their journey, he remembered his life as a knight. But now he also remembered his own story. He remembered his father, the sage Calvin Darmani, Knight of the Heavens. And he knew that Kargaroth had always been there, always been a part of his life. The sword had always been bound to him.
He ceased his thrashing and lay still. Atheme, Relm, and Tenkahn were gathered around him. Atheme was asking questions, trying to get a response, but he kept delving into his new memories, reading his life over. He slowly pushed himself into a sitting position and looked around at his friends.
“Abaddon? How do you feel?”
“Why am I still alive? Where is...?”
Relm nudged forward and gave him a strong hug around the neck. He was surprised by this, but gave her a light hug back with his right arm. “The Hell Knight is no more, Ab. You beat it! Saint Serene couldn’t beat it, the gods in Asteria couldn’t have beaten it, even Elzaniru couldn’t have beaten it. But you did! You’re awesome!”
He gave a smile in spite of himself. “Relm Sarin. Though I hate to admit it, I have missed you.”
She sat back and gave him a soft smile. “Would you believe I never really left?”
He returned her smile and nodded slowly. “In fact, I would.” He turned to his other side, to raise his left arm and offer Atheme a handshake. Instead he found the arm bandaged tightly, and could not seem to locate where his hand or fingers started.
Atheme noticed his activity and carefully tied the arm across Abaddon’s stomach, where it would be easily supported. “You won’t be able to use that one for a while, I’m afraid. You plunged it into the ether pole to destroy the Hell Knight. It’s horribly disfigured. The monks here think that once they restore your mysticism you’ll be able to heal it.”
“The ether pole? My mysticism?” He looked around and realized they were on the far side of the Fenrir Forest, close to the Jagguron Peaks. “Where are the currents? Why can’t I feel anything?”
Atheme sat back and shuffled through a backpack, then threw o
ver a sandwich made from fresh supplies they had been given by the monks. “Here, eat this, get some strength. First of all, the currents are calm here again. The same reaction that destroyed the Hell Knight destroyed the Lifeless Vortex. That’s how Tenkahn and his men managed to join us. With the Vortex gone they can be in this area safely once more. Which is a good thing, because we would certainly have never made it back here without their help.
“As for your mysticism, that’s a bit more complicated of a tale. When Relm and I found you we fully expected you to be dead. We were surprised to even find a corpse. Yet as it turned out, your body was still alive. Relm has retained most of Serene’s powers, so using constant doses of our joint white magic, we kept you alive as we tried to slowly make our way back across the continent. When Tenkahn and his men found us he diagnosed you. He said that while your body had miraculously survived, your spirit had been torn asunder and your Asterian self had atrophied. As a final act of kindness toward us, they carved their own runes into your body. Using the human script as a temporary link to Asteria, your spirit was able to start healing itself.
“So finally you regained enough strength from both Asteria and Morolia to wake up. Though Tenkahn said you’d probably never get your memories back, so we are blessed there. Soon we’ll have to burn the runes off of you, so that your spirit doesn’t become dependent on them. Then with any luck you’ll start recovering your own potent powers once again.”
Abaddon looked over his right arm and indeed saw the same lightly glowing runes that decorated Tenkahn and his monks. “What was the outcome of the mission? How are you and Relm?”
“We’re mostly fine. We both had nearly all of our spirits sucked dry, so we’re only a mere fraction of our former power. As are you. It looks like you and I will be able to start our old training regimens from scratch, eh?”
“That could be a good thing. Maybe this time we can fight on the way home without nearly sinking the ship.”
Atheme’s eyes suddenly went wide with concern. “The ship! Relm, do you know Serene’s command to summon Yoshim? Can you activate the crystal still?”
She gave a calm smile and a nod. “Yes, Atheme. What Serene knew, I know. We are the same, after all.”
He settled back and relaxed. “Sorry. I guess that we’ve been through so much, I just expected another catastrophe.”
Abaddon gently rose to his feet and stumbled his way across the glade, moving to Kargaroth. Everyone was silent as he stared at the ancient sword. He gradually reached his good hand out, letting it hover a few inches away. Then he shot forward with a jerk and seized the hilt. The was no response from the weapon. No power flooded his body, no voices filled his mind. It was empty. Abaddon smiled and assured himself it was the sword that was empty, and not he.
He lifted it and carefully slipped it through his shirt and under the bandages that covered his body, binding the cold steel to his back. He turned and gave his friends a nod. “My Lord Atheme.”
“Yeah, Ab? What’s up?”
“I want to go home.”
“Aye.” He gave his most flamboyant smile, and also rose to his feet. “Relm, what do you say? Shall we go home?”
She jumped to her feet with a squeal of delight and launched herself into Atheme’s arms. “Yes sir! Let’s go home! To Felthespar!”
“To Felthespar,” the two warriors echoed. They turned their faces to the north, staring through the mountains that rose before them, and remembered happier times.
* * * * *
Leprue and Thian had struck a sort of strange companionship. Leprue, in fact, had taken to staying in the Ducall region and intermingling with the Cainite forces, ever a man of the people. This single act had helped negotiations along better than any amount of fear or intimidation ever could have. The Cainites genuinely felt that they had a friend in Leprue, and believed the old politician was kindhearted and really desired to help them. Since the Cainites feared most of the Knighthood forces and felt they could never trust Myris again, it was important for them to feel that someone with power and influence at the negotiations table was on their side.
So treaty after treaty had been struck. Both Kulara and Kinguin—who were overseeing the Knighthood’s side of things—had become quite annoyed with Leprue, who constantly insisted the terms were not fair enough for the Cainites. More than once Kinguin had lost his temper and demanded that all of the Cainites, starting with Leprue, be executed. Kulara begged the herald into tranquility, ripped up the treaty, then began anew.
Eventually a deal was settled upon. The Cainites’ foremost desire was new land, outside in the sunlight, to escape their mountainous exile. The Knighthood had promised to give them the “conquered” country of Revian. The Cainites did not wish to live under Felthespari rule, so the Knighthood had agreed to sell them the land and freedom from taxation, at a price. The Cainis Mountains would become the temporary property of the Knighthood, and for the next five years the Cainites would continue to mine them and give seventy percent of their earnings to Felthespar. But Atheme had given a full report on the condition of Revian’s countryside, so it had been argued that the Cainites were paying a very high price for a country that would do them little good. To remedy this, Felthespar had agreed to allow them live in the Ducall region for a full year, while Knighthood citizenry would teach them everything they would need to know about farming and livestock. In addition, Knighthood priests would make pilgrimages to Revian and begin purifying the land, and Knighthood merchants would start the processes of selling and exchanging goods with the fledgling nation.
Everyone seemed happy at last with this arrangement. Felthespar would be gaining a substantial wealth from the southern mines. The Cainites were gaining a land that would soon be healthy, livestock to populate it with, and the knowledge and experience needed to use both to their fullest advantage. Most momentously, they were each turning a feared enemy into a powerful ally. Several additional treaties were drawn up, detailing what each country agreed not to do to the other. Most of these were kept quieter than the main pact, and everyone seemed genuinely optimistic about the new turn things had taken.
After the negotiations had been settled the Cainite encampment threw a huge celebration. The Knighthood delegation had chosen to go back into the city and deal with legal issues, but the Cainites simply wanted to cut loose and forget their stresses. Thian embraced these ideas, encouraging the parties, and found himself more than once wishing that his friends Tomir and Hartik had not been engulfed by their ghastly war.
He and Leprue sat drinking a few flagons of poorly fermented Cainite wine, the first of many attempts that would follow. Leprue did not mind the musty flavor, and smiled at the scene of levity around him as he chatted with the young Lord Commander.
“It is good to see men and women laugh, Thian. But I don’t see many children about. Are they somewhere else in the encampment?” He suddenly remembered the tragedy of New Cainis and turned a shade pale. “Please don’t tell me that Kinguin killed them all back at your city.”
Thian’s face remained cheerful. “No. A vast majority of our people were left in the mountains, in Cainis. Mostly the elderly, and those men and women with children that refused to see them dragged into the war. There may be some difficulty in bringing them to accept the terms of our treaty, but since they were the people most against the war, I hope that is not the case.”
“I’m glad to hear that. But I must say, I’m surprised. I was led to believe that all of the Cainites were driven wholly by the ideas of revenge against us.”
Thian laughed at this. “That is the mythos that we try to perpetuate. Or tried, rather. While it remains true as a general rule, there are always people in any population who do not follow the ideas of the masses.”
“Like yourself.”
He nodded. “I never approved of the war. But I am a Phare, a chosen leader of my people. I have duties to be where my people go, and I would never neglect them.”
“I suspect you will ta
ke your country to great places, Thian Phare.”
“I only wish to someday have a country to call my own, Leprue.”
“And what would you call this country?”
He lapsed into thought for a few moments. “I think, Adonnis. An old Cainite word meaning, ‘the path forward’.”
“That’s a strange and interesting choice.”
“I once heard a wise man tell, ‘tend always to the present, and look ever to the future’.”
Leprue smiled at hearing his own words. “He must have been a wise man indeed.” He beamed into his mug for a bit, then raised it aloft. “To Adonnis! To the future.”
Thian also lifted his mug. “To the future. To our peoples.”
The two leaders drank bad wine and watched the sunset paint the sky with majestic fires.
Chapter 47.
Show Me Once More, the Lords of Felthespar
Jessandra Emle sat atop the city wall with an old spear and an empty basket. She held the spear in her arms as if it held some sort of significance, and stared at the southern horizon fiercely, her stubborn eyes demanding it to bend to her will.
The Cainite legions had left a few months ago, their year lease on the Ducall expired. It had taken the priests and Templars a long time to clean up the mess that had been left in the now grassy area, but it finally looked of nature again. Cildar had already made plans to start planting young saplings, and was confident they would see the mighty Ducall Forest raised again within their lifetimes.
From where he was doing some rounds in the courtyard below, the paladin noticed his wife atop the battlements. He motioned to Myris that he was heading up to her, and the Lord of the Cain headed on his way with a bow, agreeing to meet Cildar at The Camarilla later. Myris had changed back into his old black uniform—though he still did not wear a cowl—while Cildar’s new helmet had long been worn in and was now identical to his first.
In Atheme and Abaddon’s absence, Cildar and Myris had become the new legends of Felthespar. Young squires often hid out in places just to get caught by the veterans, and their sparring sessions had turned into the ultimate spectator event. After the end of the War of the Second Arocaen, Myris had been lifted into Felthespar’s Celestial Ranks as a Knight of the Moon, while Cildar had been elevated to the exalted position of Knight of the Sun. Vesovius himself had given the two war heroes a public speech, proclaiming they had, “Far exceeded all human limits in their achievements.”