Land of Madness

by B T Litell

  Lightning flashed through the tumultuous sky, and ripples of thunder crashed across the expanse, barely loud enough to cover the sound of the giant worm shrieking before it sank back into the ground. Once more the ground rumbled as the worm passed somewhere underground, unseen and unheard. How something could travel under the ground without moving more than a few grains of sand was beyond Týr’s ability to contemplate.

  “What is this place?” Týr wondered aloud.

  “This is a world that is neither a realm for the living nor the dead. The sand worms are some of the few things that claim this world as their own. Does this place bother you?” Vor’Kath responded.

  “You’re the only thing in this world, or any other, that bothers me,” Tyr answered swinging his sword at his enemy in a diagonally downward slash.

  The two fought for what felt like another hour. Their swords clashed and sparks flew as Týr’s steel blade struck the dark blade wielded by his opponent. The sparks fizzled and burned out before they reached the parched ground. As the fight went on, both slowed down, exhaustion once more taking over. Vor’Kath lifted his sword and brought it down, giving Týr the opportunity he had been wanting. His knife flashed and struck the Vor’s right arm, slicing deep, though not as much as what had been inflicted upon Svenka. Vor’Kath released his sword, which vanished once it was no longer in his hands, and a shrill wail emitted from his hood as he clutched his wounded arm. Týr stood back, his sword and knife ready, and caught his breath while he could.

  Suddenly everything grew dark. A massive shadow appeared and took over the light that had been there a moment before. It hadn’t been much light, as it seemed this world was trapped in a perpetual state of dusk, but now there was even less light. Týr could barely make out the shadowy outline of Vor’Kath, still clutching his arm, a little over two meters away. A deep voice suddenly boomed out from the depth of the shadows that had formed. The voice forged a terror deep inside Týr that he had never before known. A fear harder than the very armor he wore.

  “Vor’Kath, you are weak and have failed me once again. I rescind my offer and the powers I have granted you. Finish this mortal and perhaps I will reconsider our arrangement,” the voice pealed like a deep bell. Once it finished speaking, the shadows dissipated like fog in mid-morning sunlight.

  “You! You have cost me everything I have worked for. Do you understand who you have disbarred me from? Can your mind even consider the awful reality that is Kalathan?” Vor’Kath questioned, as he still clutched his wounded arm. His hand glowed briefly before he let go of what had once been a wound.

  It’s not fair fighting someone who can do that, Týr thought to himself. It really was an unfair situation, fighting a Mage from another world who could heal wounds that were inflicted during battle. But this was Týr’s lot in this life, he supposed. He had been the one that rushed through the portal in the sky to seek his revenge against the bastard soul, if Vor’Kath had a soul, that had killed his sister. Time to finally put an end to this.

  Týr held up his sword and knife, ready for the next round of their inevitable fighting. Vor’Kath once more reached out his left hand and his sword suddenly appeared in his hand. Every time Týr saw that happen, he thought it was a neat trick, jealous that he couldn’t do something like that. Týr took a step forward, slowly moving his right foot. His left foot moved to his left, an attempt to circle around Vor’Kath and strike from the side. This was quashed as Vor’Kath pivoted to follow Týr’s movement. The two moved in this battle dance for a few more moments before anything else happened.

  Vor’Kath attacked first this time, something that hadn’t been common during this entire experience, and his sword became a flash of blackness in the air. Týr caught the blade with his sword and deflected it to the right with a quick motion of his blade. This readied him for another strike, though he stepped backwards, wanting his opponent to move in. His knife was deadly at close ranges, and the Vor was too far away for him to plant his late sister’s blade between his ribs. Again. This time, Týr would finish the task if he got that type of opening.

  Vor’Kath brought his blade back to the ready quickly and stepped forward, taking Týr’s bait. The former thief only had to wait for the Vor to make a mistake. One mistake is all he needed for everything else to happen as he planned. His revenge was so close he could feel it. The dark blade came across in a slash, from left to right, which Týr dodged easily. He was not as prepared for the follow-on slice, from the top to the bottom. The blade, its edge sharper than a razor, sliced through Týr’s arm, just above his leather gauntlet. Stinging, agonizing pain instantly followed the creation of the wound. Something about that blade was unnatural, for sure. A blade that sharp should be able to cut through flesh without it hurting.

  Týr felt his arm growing warm and wet from the blood that doubtlessly gushed from this new wound. Before he could react to the slicing motion of the blade, it flashed forward, catching him in the stomach. The blade’s edge, thin and flat, passed right through the chainmail armor that Týr wore, and he could feel it turning inside of his abdomen. He didn’t need to see Vor’Kath twisting the hilt to know that’s exactly what was happening. After a brief turn, the sword was removed and Týr slowly fell to his knees; his sword and knife fell to the sandy dirt beneath him. A soft thud sounded as they bounced slightly in the dirt. A small cloud of dust accompanied their landing. Noe on the ground, he felt nothing but defeat and shame. He had failed, and he knew it. He was only alive still because the wretch wanted something from him.

  Kneeling in the sandy dirt, the world around him spun. The ground seemed to tilt and lurched forward as Týr fell the rest of the way to the ground. Vor’Kath stood over him, his sword still in his hand. Fury sparked in Týr. He had come so far, done so much. Yet everything he had done was for naught. His sister’s killer was not dead. And now he lay on a foreign world’s soil, bleeding on the ground, fighting the darkness that closed in around his eyes. The darkness started to set in, then faded away, replaced by fury. Anger. Hatred. All focused on the dark being standing over him. He would defeat this monster. He would not accept defeat. Not this easily.

  With every fiber of strength left within him, Týr pushed himself onto his hands and knees. He slowly rose from the ground and saw a fresh stream of blood pouring from the ghastly wound in his stomach. His breaths came in wheezing spurts. He pushed himself back and sat on his feet as he looked up at his opponent. His head flopped backwards, supported only by weary muscles in his neck. He grabbed his stomach and applied some pressure to the wound, though he knew it went all the way through his midsection and would kill him soon. He attempted to stand but his legs didn’t respond to his wish.

  “You are a pathetic, worthless excuse of a warrior. And you will die as a warning to Drendil that I am not someone to reckon with. I will bring Drendil to its knees and laugh as your world collapses under my reign,” Vor’Kath spat.

  “We…are far from Drendil now,” Týr managed to say through the agony in his stomach.

  “You’re only alive now so you can make the trip back there. As I said, you will die as a warning to that land of children and the untrained who claim titles they have not earned,” Vor’Kath assured his prey.

  With that, Týr heard a portal open behind him. It was a familiar fhisk sound that reminded him of someone throwing lantern oil on a fire. Vor’Kath released his sword and raised his foot. With minimal force, he pushed Týr backwards, through the portal. There was no ground behind him. He was falling toward the ground. As he fell, he turned and saw Shemont, far below him, growing rapidly closer. He saw the darkness start to close around his vision again, something he nearly embraced as he knew what would happen when he reached the ground. The air rushing across his skin felt ice cold, and he could feel his face and neck beginning to tingle as he fell. He passed through a cloud which felt more wet than he expected, and he saw the ground was closer than it had been before. As he fell, he felt like his speed picked up until the city below him w
as hurtling faster toward him…