Death Rises

by Brian Murray

  Then, Dax was gone.

  CHAPTER 23

  WEEKS EARLIER . . .

  ZANE, DAX, AND THADE left Thade’s home to gather the Rhaurien army and take it to Kal-Pharina, leaving Gan-Goran alone with Tanas. Rayth had left the house earlier to try and reach the Kharnacks. Tanas, with his four friends, had travelled to the Realm of Yallaz’oom. But when the others returned, Tanas remained in his death trance, his breathing shallow and his pulse weak. Gan-Goran had decided to stay with Tanas, for he knew the man would be a key in the up-coming battle.

  Soon after Zane and the others left the house, Gan-Goran was informed that the queen, her daughter, Aurillia, and Cara would be travelling back to Teldor. He was told a local couple would bring food to him and if he wanted anything, he just had to ask. Gan-Goran watched the party leave the valley and returned to the cave. For several days, there was no change in Tanas’s condition and the old man started to fret. Not knowing what the warrior faced in the dark realm, he concluded he had only one option. He knew that now would be the best time to do what he must do. He did not know what would happen, but he uttered Death’s real name.

  “Slayer,” whispered the old magic-master. Initially nothing happened, so he repeated the name again, but this time louder . . .

  ***

  In one of the dungeons, deep in the Black Palace, in Yallaz’oom, the silver-clad warrior stopped, lowered his swords, and slowly turned. Footsteps sounded, rhythmically slow and steady. Breathing began; slow, deep even breaths. The warrior raised his two swords and waited. Suddenly, two red eyes blazed in the blackness that surrounded the circle of white light. The silver-clad warrior stepped backwards as the eyes bore into him. The man materialised into the circle of light with his two swords drawn. The man stopped before the silver-clad warrior, crossed his swords before his chest, and bowed his head. Slowly, a smile grew on the man’s face as he sensed the fear in the silver-clad warrior.

  Suddenly, the silver-clad warrior leapt forward. The man did not seem to move, but he had. As the silver-clad warrior passed in mid-air, slashing and hacking, the man calmly swayed to one side. In a blur, he leapt, spun, crossed his swords before him, and slashed outwards. There was no clang of metal against metal. The man landed and held the same casual pose. This time the man had his swords crossed before his legs. This time the man’s swords had blood dripping from them.

  The silver-clad warrior landed past the man, and turned to face him. The man had his back to him. The warrior frowned. Then he realised. He dropped his sword and grabbed his throat.

  The man suddenly moved again. He spun and at the same time raised his swords. Both blades scythed through metal, flesh, sinew, muscle, and bone. The man stopped spinning and stood in the same relaxed pose. Behind him the warrior’s hands and head bounced clear when his body crumpled into a bloody heap.

  The man raised his swords and roared in triumph. He turned and the silver-clad warrior’s corpse began to blaze brilliant white. The man stepped forward into the light . . .

  ***

  Tanas’s body convulsed. His back arched and he let out a long sigh. Gan-Goran moved to sit next to the blind warrior. Suddenly, the warrior’s eyes blazed open. They were red. His hand shot up and encircled the old man’s neck.

  “Who dares summon me?” boomed a voice from Tanas, but not his voice.

  Gan-Goran tried to speak, but the vice-like grip around his throat stopped words from escaping.

  Slowly, Tanas’s body rose into a sitting position and the man repeated the question.

  “Who dares summon me?”

  Gan-Goran tapped the man’s hand locked around his neck and the man turned his head and looked at the old magic-master. He slowly released his grip. Gan-Goran coughed, spluttered, and gulped down air. The old man regained his composure and looked into the red eyes. He saw so much anger and hate there that he shivered. “I need to speak to Tanas.”

  “Speak,” boomed the voice.

  “You were close to death and this was the only way I could get you to come back. Let me speak to Tanas. I mean you no harm. Look at me, I mean you no harm.”

  “We have met before, old man. You are one of the two.”

  “That I am,” announced Gan-Goran, who was a twin—his brother, Naats Flureic, was the Darklord. Their paths had separated many hundreds of years ago. Gan-Goran watched intently as the warrior’s red eyes reduced in intensity. Slowly, the eyes lost their red glow as the bloodlust left the warrior’s body.

  Tanas cocked his head to one side and let out a sigh. “Good to be back, old man,” he said, smiling.

  “Well, I had to meet your other persona, but I needed to get you back.”

  “Where is everyone else?”

  “They have gone. They mean to face the Dark One at Kal-Pharina,” informed Gan-Goran, looking at the concerned expression on Tanas’s face.

  “They will not survive if they face him alone. Only one can stand against him and the Blade of Yallas.” Tanas sat very still and thought for a long while.

  “What will you do?”

  “You know the answer to that. Only one can face him and that is I. But I need to summon an army.” Tanas thought for a while longer, then a smile grew on his face. “The Dark One will be getting reinforcements from his realm. There must be a portal here that opens to Yallaz’oom. You must take control of the portal.”

  “Then what?” asked the magic-master.

  “Then I will bring an army through the portal to aid my friends.” Tanas closed his eyes and when he opened them again, they were lustrous red. His voice deepened and rumbled like thunder.

  “Go, old man, and find the portal. You will be able to sense the foul magic. Be ready and I will bring aid,” boomed Death’s voice. Gan-Goran nodded and watched Tanas’s body slowly fade, then disappear.

  ***

  Gan-Goran left the cave and walked to the house of the farmer who had been sending him food. He told the farmer he needed to travel and would be gone for a while. The farmer arranged for the old man to have a pack of supplies and gave him an old, swaybacked mare. Gan-Goran thanked the man and his wife for their kindness, then set about on his journey. He left the valley and travelled to the east. He camped in a hollow on the first night and lit a small fire near a cliff face. The old man sat cross-legged by the fire and closed his eyes. He concentrated and recalled a spell in his mind. His soul was released and he walked the Paths of Time.

  He flew back along the Path of the past. It would be easier to find what he sought on the single Path of the past rather than in the vastness of the futures. Flying the futures was like walking through a never-ending maze in a fog—each fork, each branch would be a subtle change in the present, thus a different future. The complexity of the possible futures on the Paths of Time still confused a magic-master like Gan-Goran. Only with an infinite amount of time would it be possible to see all of the futures from one present event. The futures from this time become overlapped, entangled into a mist of confusion. If someone found all of the possible futures, it would be a waste of time as the event would already be in the past. A long time ago, Gan-Goran decided it was not worth even contemplating the possible variations in the future. He would let the future, for better or worse, takes its own course.

  The old magic-master wandered along the Path until he found what he was looking for. He gazed down at a scene in a large angular hall. He pulled back from the scene and looked down at the sand-coloured fortress on the edge of the Steppes. He looked out to the west and saw the remains of Evlon. He knew where he would be travelling to and closed in on the scene again. Within the hall stood the Dark One, Gan-Goran’s brother the Darklord, and three warriors clad in silver armour. Gan-Goran floated close to his brother and peered into his hood. The old man was instantly disgusted by what he saw. The young man he had known was gone. Now within the dark depth of the hood was an evil old man with malevolence dancing in his eyes. Gan-Goran felt pity for his brother, but he knew he had to stop his evil. Gan-Goran heard his brot
her say, “Master, I feel a presence.” He turned and watched the Dark One raise the Blade of Yallas. Gan-Goran did not hear the spell, but his spirit was thrown from the fortress.

  The old man returned to his body and shivered. He added more fuel to the fire and warmed his hands. He felt tired, pulled out his blanket, and slept. The next morning was bright, crisp and clear. Gan-Goran stretched his old aching back and cursed when he heard a series of grinding sounds from his spine.

  “An old man should not be cursing like that,” came a voice from the undergrowth.

  “Who’s there?” asked Gan-Goran, craning his neck round. Two men emerged from the shrubs. Both men were tall and lean. One of them had a black patch over one eye and both searched the hollow for others.

  “What is an old man doing travelling on his own?” asked the man without the eye patch.

  “That’s my business,” snapped Gan-Goran, rising to his feet.

  “Well, well the old crony is game, Riol.” The man with the patch laughed.

  “So, you two intend to rob an old man. Well, I have no valuables and I am on crown business.”

  “Oh,” said the man without the patch, pretending to shiver with fear. The man named Riol smiled a gap-tooth smile.

  “The old man is on business for the crown. Well, we’re on our own business. Now let’s have your valuables.”

  “Like I said, I do not have any,” said the magic-master, taking a step backwards.

  The two men stepped forward closer to the older man. “I don’t have time for this. Just give us your valuables and you will live. You have no choice,” said the man with the patch.

  “Oh, but I do.” Gan-Goran did not wait to be attacked. He lifted his right hand and recalled a spell in his mind. The air started to charge and buzz. The two men stopped walking towards Gan-Goran.

  “What’s he doing, Kal?” asked the man without the eye patch. Before the man could answer, a blue bolt of lightning-like energy jumped from Gan-Goran’s fingers and hit the other man square in the chest. The man was lifted from his feet and flew back into the undergrowth. The man without the patch watched as his comrade flew across the hollow, landing with a thud snapping small shrub twigs and branches.

  “Now, I would be on my way if I were you,” hissed Gan-Goran, pointing his hand at the other man. The man looked into Gan-Goran’s eyes and did not like what he saw. Numbly, the man nodded and walked backwards to his friend. The man tripped over his friend’s leg and landed on him. Riol helped his friend to his feet and they disappeared into the woodlands. Gan-Goran did not waste any time and quickly packed his camp. Within minutes, he was in the saddle on his swaybacked mare and travelling to the east to the Glass Mountains.

  For several days, the old man travelled towards the Glass Mountain, then rode through Single Tooth Gorge. He decided it would be better and safer if he travelled northwards around the great woodlands, known as Dashnar Forest. His mare plodded at a gentle pace that did not jar the old man’s brittle bones. Mounting and dismounting had proved a problem and the old man laughed each time he had to climb into or out of the saddle. Luckily, the horse was old and Gan-Goran was sure she knew his problem and would remain still. On one occasion the old man literally fell from the saddle, landing on soft moss. Gan-Goran was sure the mare began to laugh at him, nodding her head. Regardless of this, the old man liked the beast.

  Gan-Goran gave the outpost of Ubert a wide berth. He did not want to visit the place of slaughter. The outpost was the first place the Dark One and the Dread had attacked when they returned to the realm of mortals. He continued his trek towards the Steppes, reaching Evlon, a couple days south of Ubert. Again, the man did not enter the dead town. The Darklord and the Dark Brethren had attacked the town of Evlon. This had been the Darklord’s first atrocity, killing all of the men, women, and children. Only two people had survived the slaughter—one was Baron Chelmsnor and the other the town’s smithy, Gammel.

  Gan-Goran skirted around the edge, then entered the town near Gammel’s burial place. The former smithy having died in Teldor seeking revenge for this family’s murder. He stopped there for a while and thought fondly of the former smithy with his blazing ginger hair. The old man had liked Gammel, and he was upset when he heard of his death. But Dax had completed the man’s mission and avenged the death of Gammel’s family by killing the Dark Brethren’s general, a man named Polalic. After saying a silent prayer, Gan-Goran rose and walked his horse from the eerie town.

  The old man left the town and travelled south eastly to reach the edge of the Steppes. After stocking up on water, he entered the arid lands. Gan-Goran camped on the Steppes, lit a fire, and wrapped his blankets around his bony shoulders. Only now did the old man think of the problems he faced. It seemed so simple in the cave.

  “You must take control of that portal,” Tanas had said.

  Almost certainly the portal would be guarded, so how could the old man take control of it? “One step at a time,” Gan-Goran whispered aloud. Tomorrow night he would reach the fortress and then he would decide what to do. The old man stretched out on the soft sandy ground and slept fitfully.

  The next day was sweltering hot, but Gan-Goran made his way slowly towards the fortress. At dusk, the old man reached the colossal building. He tethered his horse and looked at the tracks. There were human tracks going into the building overlaying those of beasts travelling away to the southeast. Gan-Goran hoped the men were still in the fortress. He walked swiftly into the fortress and crossed the massive courtyard. Then he heard sounds of battle ooze out from within the building. He quickly made his way to the steps and climbed them. He entered the darkened building . . .

  ***

  . . . The axe-wielders continued to take the fight to the beasts and pushed them back. Step by bloody step the axe-wielders fought on, making their way slowly towards the large double doors and the great hall. After hours and hours of fighting, the men turned a corner and could see the doors again. Many of the axe-wielders had fallen during the push. The beasts, the Talon Hunters and Shadows, had swarmed over the men time and time again. But these men fought for lost comrades and for honour, and they would not give ground. Captain Badu had been in the front line many times and had received some minor injuries. The men had rallied around on one occasion and pulled the fallen captain clear of the fighting. He had lost his helm hours ago and crimson-stained bandages covered a long cut on his forehead.

  Captain Badu issued the order to attack and another group of ten axe-wielders charged the beasts, hacking and chopping at their foul bodies. The axe-wielders had lost nearly one hundred and fifty men battling back. Gan-Goran was never far from the front line and helped the fallen men with their injuries. All were tired, but they had a mission—they had to penetrate the great hall. Captain Badu called his men back. They were only twenty strides from the double doors. He turned to face his remaining force.

  “Men, our goal is only a few strides away. You’ve been the best of men. I could never ask for anything more from you. You have fought with honour and I’m proud of you all. We must make one more push and then we’re there. Are you ready?”

  “Yes!” bellowed the axe-wielders.

  Captain Badu gazed over the remnants of his force and a smile grew on his face. He lifted his axe and shouted, “Axe-wielders!”

  The surviving axe-wielders raised their axes and roared, “WE!”

  “Let’s go,” called Captain Badu and he led the charge towards the double doors. The axe-wielders hacked, slashed, and killed without remorse or mercy any beast that emerged from the doors. Badu was the first man to reach the doorway and peered in. The beasts had backed off and gathered at the far end of the room. He looked over his shoulder and beckoned Gan-Goran forward. The old man walked forward. He took a deep, calming breath, then entered the hall without pausing.

  ***

  The Darklord laughed when Gan-Goran entered the hall. “So they sent you, my brother. They think you can defeat me. Do they not know I have already beaten y
ou?”

  Gan-Goran looked toward the front of the hall where the cackling laughter came from. “Brother, you cannot win.”

  “Ah, but you are exactly where I want you. My friends here will kill you and your soldiers.”

  “I do not think so,” hissed Gan-Goran. “Your evil will end today.” The old man lifted his hands and blue bolts of energy leapt from his fingers and hit the Darklord. The hooded figure was lifted from the dais and sent sprawling backwards.

  The Darklord rose slowly to his feet and smiled inside his hood. “I see you have learned some power, brother. But like the first time we fought you cannot, you will not win.”

  The Darklord raised his skeletal hands and black energy leapt from his fingers, flying towards Gan-Goran. The old magic-master raised his hand and quickly whispered a spell. A blue haze cloaked the old man and the black bolt bounced harmlessly away. The Darklord screamed in anger and added extra power to his next attack. The air charged with static and hairs on both beasts and men stood up. The hooded figure stabbed out with both hands and more streaks of black bolts flew, hitting Gan-Goran’s hazy blue shield. Several of the black energy bolts crackled against the shield. The old magic-master started to sweat under the onslaught as he concentrated on his magical shield. The black bolts kept coming and a fracture appeared in the hazy blue defence. Gan-Goran braced himself. A lick of black lightning hit the old man and sent him flying backwards. He clattered against the sandy stone wall and landed in a dusty heap.

  The Darklord laughed as more and more black bolts jumped from his fingers, striking the huddled old man. The Darklord stepped forward, continuing his assault. Behind him, the portal shimmered into existence. In the far corner, Gan-Goran screamed in pain. The streaks of lightning covered his body, circling him in pure agony with steam rising from his skin.

  Captain Badu and two other axe-wielders charged the hooded figure. The Darklord stopped firing at Gan-Goran and turned his attention to the men. Smiling wickedly in his hood, he fired at them. The three men were lifted from the ground and their armour clanged noisily when they slammed against the far wall. The Darklord laughed again.