A thunderous roar suddenly assailed his ears, one that shook the very ground beneath his feet. All around him, The Evil stopped in their tracks, paused, and then began backing away with smiles on their faces. There came another roar, answered by yet another.
It cannot be. More of them?
Because of their insular nature, the Warkin clans were rarely united in any sort of common cause. Ilgard had not been surprised to find Warkin fighting for the Dark Powers, but he could scarcely believe more of them remained than what the Artan had already slain. Very slowly, he turned to look and see.
Twelve dragons—twelve of them!—were advancing onto the battlefield as Aerisians and The Evil alike made haste to clear them a path. One, ducking its head, snatched up a fleeing Ranetron in its jaws. Not to be outdone, the dragon on its left did the same but succeeded in catching a scrambling deathcat instead. The massive cat was a mere toy in comparison to the much larger brute, and it yowled in pain as the serpent flung it cruelly from side to side.
Ten Warkin handlers for each dragon marched beside their enormous companions, shouting out a battle song in their native tongue. Their swords were held at the ready before their faces, and they were scantily clad, wearing horned helmets, loincloths, boots, and heavy fur cloaks only. However, it was not them, or even their dragons, the Simathe feared. In the midst of those handlers and their dozen dragons, completely encircled by them, was One Ilgard recognized instantly as being a far greater threat than all the rest combined.
It was a figure, taller than a Tearkin and black. Utterly, awfully black. Ebony clothing swathed It from head to toe, a dark veil hid Its face, and a persistent cold wind swirled putrid air and bits of dead things about Its colossal form. The only weapon It held was a staff as thick as the Simathe’s upper arm and twice his height. Atop this weapon was a Ranetron’s head. The hair was matted with blood; there was a torn, bloody hole where the mouth should have been, and only empty sockets for eyes. Who this unfortunate fellow was, Ilgard didn’t know: he suspected the man was a prisoner, tortured and killed and now displayed as a means of intimidating Aerisia’s few remaining soldiers.
The ploy worked. Those anywhere near Its vicinity who hadn’t already fled did so now, their helpless cries spawned from the deepest wells of terror. All warfare had ceased as friend and foe alike gaped in unison at this unholy apparition. From where he stood, a good distance away, Ilgard could feel Its strength: consuming, enveloping, too powerful to comprehend, much less believe.
The warrior-lord glanced down at the sword in his hand. Suddenly, it seemed small and insignificant in the face of so much power—Dark Power—before him.
The Artan
It was the warmth which first attracted his attention. Prince Kurban, lord of the towering Tearkin, felt it upon his back: a very great warmth like the heat of a summer day. He might never have turned to look, however, if the spectacle at which he was staring along with everyone else on the battlefield hadn’t come to a dead halt. Both the Warkin and that massive black creature in their midst jolted to a stop, staring past Kurban at a sight by which they were utterly transfixed.
Was that fear he detected in their manner? Fear on Dragonkind faces? Surely not! He’d feuded with them off and on for years and had rarely, if ever, seen the Warkin betray fear. Who or what had the power to make Warkin afraid and this personification of Evil itself stand still?
Prince Kurban turned to seek the answer to this strange riddle.
Ilgard, the Simathe High-Chief, was the first to look and see. At once, he knew the vision meeting his startled eyes was one he would never forget. One that would burn in his memory, undimmed by time, for an eternity to come.
Atop the brow of the low hill between Shayle’s gates and the field of battle over which they fought was a magnificent stallion decked in trappings of white leather and gleaming silver. Mounted upon this animal was a figure that appeared created of pure light. Although he was tempted to shield his eyes as so many others were doing, instead Ilgard squinted, peering into the depths of that light, so he might know who…
As clearly as his own name, he knew her then. Light surrounded her, poured into her, was her. Immediately, he stripped away the shields he’d sustained throughout the past hours, shields forged against their Joining bond, shields meant to keep him from knowing the moment of her death. He had to fight, and grieving for her was a distraction he could ill afford. Now, there was no longer a need for such measures, and he opened himself up. Awareness of her crashed over him, stronger than it had ever been before. Ilgard stood motionless, permitting the sweet wave to suck him under.
Gasps and cries rose from all around. Torn between the presence of the Dark One and this figure of light, no one knew which way to look. The enormity of what was happening was inescapable. Witnesses to the scene might not understand it, but they knew it was a great thing, a thing never to be seen again.
The white stallion atop the hill danced backwards a few steps, but pressure from his rider’s knees brought him to a standstill. Gracefully, she swung one leg over his side and dismounted. The animal paused to nuzzle her arm and then was gone, flying back towards the city. Hannah Winters, child of Earth and Aerisia’s Artan, was left alone.
Nature itself seemed to have been awaiting this moment. Slowly, slowly the sky had brightened, changing from a midnight blue speckled with stars to morning shades of gold, pink, orange, and lavender. There was an instant between transition and fullness. Then, in the space of a heartbeat, the sun was up, and morning had arrived.
She stood there now in that moment, sketched in light against the city of Shayle for a background. Absolute silence reigned on the battlefield. The wounded did not cry out, and the animals made no noise. Even as the sun came fully awake, the just past full moon still hanging in the morning sky did the same. Its brilliance could not be hid, even by the brightness of day, and suddenly both the sun and the moon were shining directly upon her.
It seemed all the light in the world had met in her: that she was the conduit through which they flowed. The intensity of such pure sunlight and moonlight made her burn with fire and flame. No one, not even Ilgard, could gaze at her in that instant for fear of being blinded. Behind him, the Simathe lord heard the dragons roar, loudly and fearfully. Even that awful sound was somehow muted and insignificant in the face of what stood before him.
Waves of light danced about the Artan in languid circles. When they finally dimmed enough that he could look upon her, the warrior-lord saw how this light sharply defined every line of her face, hair, and clothing. She was radiant as the sun itself and beautiful as the moon. She was the Powers of Good brought to life, shaped into visible form.
As if to prove this, the ground at her feet melted into a frothy river of silver and gold, sunlight and moonlight. It streamed down the slope of the hill and swept across the plain of battle. All of Aerisia’s wounded and dead over whom it washed were instantly healed or brought back to life. However, when the river touched any wounded among The Evil, they were slain. Neither could those who had been brought back to life by the Dark Powers for this day, this battle, withstand her magic. Soon as they were touched, they turned to stone that crumbled into powder and was blown away by the wind. None of them escaped.
Still that river of light crept on, not stopping until it reached the outer edges of the battlefield and the forest bordering it. The only place that remained untouched was the circle of earth on which stood dragon, Dragonkind, and the black creature in their midst. It looked an island of darkness in a sea of light, but that island held, even as the Artan began to descend the hill. Her movements were steady and sure. Neither carefulness nor carelessness marked her manner, only the calm assurance of a person knowing precisely who she was and what she was about.
Soldiers parted for her like waves, allies and enemies alike allowing her to pass unmolested. She walked right by Ilgard and turned her head a little, her eyes meeting his for a fleeting second. Never had her mismatched eyes of green and brown, physical herita
ge of two worlds, been so lovely. They shone as the rest of her shone. Through their bond he felt her reassuring him. He felt her resolution, her lack of fear, and stood amazed by her valor. He stepped toward her, but she’d already moved past, going on to meet the dark figure.
She was going to fight It, that creature. His lady was going to fight It. Could she win? Despite this vast outpouring of her magic, that figure of Evil was equally overwhelming. Already the river of silver and gold washing over this ground of death was fading. All that remained was the pool of light on which she walked. It was no larger than the island of darkness on which the Dark One perched. Nor was it any smaller. It was the same. Was it as equals, then, that she and her foe would meet?
Finally, the moon had waned and the sun risen. To all appearances, the sky was as it should have been and the day normal. Except for the Artan: the light streaming from her had not diminished in the least. She was still as strong as she’d been when she first appeared. This gave the Simathe High-Chief hope… until, with superior arrogance, a huge deathcat with bloodstained jaws and long, lethal claws came padding out to intercept her. Its yellow eyes seemed to smile, and its mouth displayed sharp, pointed fangs as it split its jaws, roaring in her face. But for all its ferocity, the massive beast struck no pang in the Simathe’s heart like the rider on its back.
Even from a distance, the High-Chief could differentiate the features of the one Cistweigh for whom he had searched relentlessly these past few days. The one whose life he craved more than any other in Aerisia, even the Dark One, Itself. He’d not seen the creature until today, this very moment, and now found himself too far away to do anything except leave him in the hands of his lady.
Jonase leered down at the woman facing him. This time, she returned his gaze boldly, with no trace of the terror she’d shown at their last meeting. He was taken aback by her indifference, and even a little unnerved, but he would not show it. In his mind, this woman belonged to him. Today he would finish what he’d started in the forests of Treygon. He would break the prophecy, and afterward she would bow to him, begging for his tender mercy.
“We meet again, my lady,” he said. “Your face is ever a welcome sight.”
“I wish I could say the same about yours,” she replied calmly. Too calmly. “You haven’t lost the last of your three lives, Jonase? Were you waiting for me to take it?”
The callousness of her tone set the creature on edge. She ought to be frightened or angry that he lived, but clearly she was not. Warning bells clamored in his mind, and he felt a ridiculous urge to withdraw. Sensing its master’s mood, the deathcat he rode slunk backwards a few steps, its head hanging low. It would no longer look her in the face, and Jonase, to his dismay, found himself having difficulty doing the same.
She pressed closer, matching the retreating deathcat step for step.
“Are you afraid, Cistweigh? You should be. Do you know who I am?”
Was it his imagination, or was the light surrounding her, flowing through her, intensifying? Her eyes blazed so fiercely he could hardly meet them.
The Artan.
Suddenly, the being neither living nor dead knew what he had done. He had tried to destroy her, the Artan of ancient prophecy, and had failed. He’d attempted to cow her into submission and had failed again. He’d been a fool—a complete and utter fool. He cast a desperate glance over his shoulder at the Dark One, calmly observing the scene from behind a wall of Warkin. The Cistweigh’s purple lips worked, forming a plea for help. Surely his master saw what was happening. Surely his master would come to his aid!
“Jonase, Jonase, look at me, Cistweigh.”
The sheer authority in her voice forced his attention back to her. What he saw when he looked into her eyes terrified him more than the Great One ever had. He wanted to scream, to flee, to cower, to beg her for mercy, to do anything except obey her commands.
Raising a hand, she beckoned to him. “Come here, Cistweigh.”
Although his mind rebelled, his body obeyed. He climbed stiffly from the massive deathcat that whirled, bounding to freedom as soon as Jonase’s feet touched the ground. Those same feet carried him onward to meet this woman who held all the power in the world with which to crush him. When their faces were mere inches apart, she allowed him to stop.
“I was almost yours, once. You remember, don’t you, Jonase, how you tried to rape me that day in the forest? I was so afraid of you, and you relished my fear. You fed off it. You would have kept today from happening if the Simathe High-Chief hadn’t stopped you.”
Wrapping himself in his final shreds of courage and bravado, Jonase shook his head. “I remember that day,” he sneered. “Aye, Lady, I did take pleasure in your fear. I would have taken my pleasure in you, as well, had I not been prevented.”
She gave him a scornful look. “You know why, don’t you? Because I was born to free Aerisia of beasts like you. Prophecy demands I do it; legend promises I will.”
How he wanted to shrink from the coldness on her face! False courage held him there, coloring his next statement. “Prophecy can be broken.”
“Not by you.”
Her fingers closed about his throat, and he screamed aloud as light, pure light, burned his flesh. It seared and scalded, scorched and scarred his skin unmercifully. Although he struggled violently to free himself, those fingers only clutched him tighter until he dangled limply in her grasp, gasping for breath.
“You shouldn’t have done it, Jonase. You never should have tried. You should’ve known better.”
He made no reply. There was nothing to say. Because she was right, and he was about to die.
She dragged him closer, so close he felt her breath on his skin. “I don’t care if this is your third life or not, Cistweigh,” she hissed. “I promise you it’s your final one. You’ll never hurt another woman again.” She blinked once, then, “Goodbye, Jonase,” she said.
The next thing he felt was his body hurtling through space, careening through the air, shooting for the clouds. He never reached those clouds, however, because something hard and hot and violent blasted him. Jonase’s body exploded into a million pieces, pieces raining to the ground in bits so small no one could have found them had they cared to take the trouble to search.
The Encounter
Once the Cistweigh was gone, she was left alone. Alone to face dragons and Dragonkind and the terrible Dark One in their midst. Out of sheer instinct, Ilgard started to go to her, but something stopped him.
This is her time, instinct cautioned. She is better equipped for this fight than you.
Which was unquestionably a full reversal of roles. However, she had been born the Artan, not him. So he stood back, not wanting to distract her, watching her do what she was born to do.
Despite her isolation, she gave no impression of being afraid. The wind stirred her white dress and long hair, whipping brunette strands about her face and tangling silver-trimmed skirts about her ankles. She stood aloof and immobile, calmly waiting for them to come to her.
Which they did. Slowly and without the impudence that had marked the late Cistweigh’s approach. Instead, carefulness marked their steps. The dragons did not roar. The Dragonkind sang no song. One serpent dared to breathe a ball of flames, but she threw up a blocking hand and the fire struck an invisible shield, exploding into nothingness. Another bent its small head upon a serpentine neck, blowing its sulfurous breath directly in her face.
Too close, the Simathe lord thought, feeling his muscles tense and his hand tighten on his sword.
He could not forget the toll killing the other dragons had taken upon her. But his lady seemed to have, as woman and monster studied each other with unwavering gazes. They were at an impasse, it seemed: neither wanted to be the first to look away. A Dragonkind warrior, seizing the opportunity, growled a challenge in his native tongue and charged, sword ready. The Artan did not spare him a glance. Formed from nothing save her own mind and magic, a keen-edged metal disc was flung from her fingertips. It wh
izzed through the air and caught the Warkin mid-stride, slicing his naked, muscular torso in half.
Nor did it stop there. Whether by accident or on purpose, it flew on until it struck the shield of a nearby soldier. Glancing off that, misdirected midcourse, it darted upwards. The dragon never saw it coming. The disc sliced neatly through the animal’s neck, cleanly severing head from body and ending the deadlock as the serpent’s head crashed at the woman’s feet.
Seeing their allies fall in pieces on the ground was enough to make the remaining Warkin fall back. Now, nothing remained between the Artan and the Dark One. The entire world held a united breath, the Simathe High-Chief with them. Both Aerisia’s army and The Evil watched silently, with no more warring between them. They knew the outcome of this battle, of Aerisia’s very future, no longer rested with them.
The Dark One was the first to speak, Its voice rumbling, rough, grating. Few bystanders could discern Its words, for It spoke in a tongue so ancient it was unknown to most Aerisians. Ilgard knew it, having some acquaintance with a number of obscure languages, but what was truly mysterious was that his lady seemed to know it too. When she replied, it was in the same language.
“So it comes to this, does it?” the Dark One asked. “Despite all that I and mine have done, still you live to face me this day.”
“Yes,” she affirmed solemnly. “Yes, I am here. I am here to face you—to face you and defeat you. To kill you.”
“Fool!” the Dark One spat with a contemptuous laugh. “None can kill me. Are you truly ignorant of this?”
“Perhaps none have dared before, but today… I will.”
The black wind stirred the veil covering the Evil One’s face. “You know my tongue,” It said at last. “You speak it well. The words flow like music from your mouth.”
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