“What more did he say?”
The man blinked his bright green eyes. Iscarius reached for the door’s handles. “Before you go in… he knew about our rebellion from the beginning. I don’t know how, but he knew we were attacking tonight. He knows you’re coming.”
Iscarius nodded. “Perhaps he still communes with the Forgotten.”
Mithaniel moved his rag away, frowning. “What if he does? The Forgotten rarely speaks to us anymore. What if he still speaks to Abaddon? Are we doing the right thing?”
Iscarius bowed his head at this. He exhaled and pushed on the doors.
The throne room doors burst open. Iscarius split the doorframe, peering intently through his hood into the dark hall before him.
Towering windows formed the walls. Fourteen columns held up a lofty vaulted ceiling, each pillar adorned with a torch that did little to hold back the gripping cold. Iscarius tightened his grip on his sword and stepped into the throne room.
The place was quiet. This high up, the winds were strong, pushing and sucking at the massive glass panes. Iscarius’ boots clicked on the polished black marble, each footfall sounding up into the unseen roof.
At last, he reached the end of the long throne room. A stepped dais spanned the width of the hall and melded into the wall. The dais formed a throne at its apex; a single, solid, elegant sculpture. And there he sat.
The tyrant of Tarsha hung like a lifeless statue. He sat in silent disregard to the man’s approach. Iscarius stopped a few yards away and looked up at the purveyor of Tarsha’s sorrows.
Baroque plates of black cerebreum covered Abaddon’s hulking frame. Ridged, articulated gauntlets adorned his hands. Massive pauldrons perched atop his shoulders where a mantle of gray silk was pinned. A lofty helm of cerebreum crowned with seven horns rested against the back of the throne.
Abaddon was a force. Like a hurricane or a thunderstorm, his presence threatened to ravage and destroy, to wipe away all existence. All else seemed infinitesimal before him. The air seemed to weigh down around Iscarius, suffocating and crushing. He was the Destroyer, the bringer of genocide and destruction. He was despair. He was power. He was death. To defy him was to know hopelessness.
And that was exactly what Iscarius intended to do.
“I knew you would come,” Abaddon said at last. He spoke with a raspy voice, one that had lost its warmth long ago. An ancient, knowing voice.
“Then you know why I am here.”
“I do.”
Iscarius raised his sword to Abaddon. Every torch in the room flashed a vivid blue. “I have come to kill you….”
Abaddon nodded, the dark voids in his helm transfixed on him. “I knew this day would come. I have prepared to meet my fate.”
“You will pay for your crimes, Abaddon. The dead will be avenged tonight.”
“I have played my part. Now you must play yours.”
Iscarius watched the tyrant in frustration. “My part?” He shook his head. “No, mere ramblings of a dead man. Stand and fight me! Face the fate you claim to seek!”
Abaddon remained silent for a moment. “So be it.” He then stood from his throne. He rose like a black spire, casting shadows in the blue hue of the throne room.
Abaddon lowered his hands to either side of the throne and lifted two mighty weapons, a sword and axe of black cerebreum.
Abaddon inhaled slowly, his breath rattling in his helm. The torches crackled in the silence.
Suddenly, they lunged. Their weapons crashed in a scream of metal. Weapons flashed in a dizzying cloud as the two clashed back and forth before the dais.
Iscarius parried an axe strike and brought his sword close to his body. He blocked a sword blow and jumped back as Abaddon’s axe whistled past his face. The massive blade seemed to rip the very air with each swing, sending wind beating against Iscarius.
He threw his palm forward and sent a column of wind at his opponent. Abaddon swung his axe into the blast, reverberating the wind back toward Iscarius. Iscarius leapt around the blast and lashed out.
Abaddon swung his axe and hooked his foe’s sword in the beard of his blade. He swept the sword away and slammed an armored boot into Iscarius’ chest. Iscarius shot back, breath squashed from his lungs, ribs searing with pain. He turned in midair and sent claws of lightning racing for his opponent.
Abaddon drove his weapons into the blast and pushed through the crackling bolts to swing at his foe. Iscarius landed in time to dodge the attack but Abaddon moved in, sword whistling in a blur. Iscarius barely blocked the blade, beaten back blow by blow.
Iscarius allowed himself to be driven up the dais steps and then flipped off the stairs. Abaddon turned and blocked a flashing bolt of light. The light bounced off his cerebreum blade and crashed into Iscarius, launching him across the hall.
Abaddon twirled his weapons as he ran. The torches that lined the room snapped to life and curled out to form great, feeling hands. They gathered in a colossal conflagration, the flames shifting to a brilliant white. The sea of blinding light and fire rushed past its master and descended over Iscarius.
Iscarius rose to a knee and threw a hand above his head. The fires raged around him, impeded by some unseen force. He rose to his feet, flames circling like rabid dogs.
The two began a brutal clash of steel, fire churning around them. Iscarius leapt away from a stab and raised his hand. The flames rolling overhead turned a deep blue and amassed as one solid form. The cobalt tide smashed to the ground and melded with the flames of white, swirling through the hall in a colliding ocean of colors.
Abaddon charged through the incoming fires, smoke and embers billowing harmlessly off him. He spun his weapons and sent waves of fire toward his opponent.
The flames surrounded Iscarius and leapt up his legs as he ran, seeking to pull him down. He kicked at the claws of white and blue that swirled up him, and they blasted back as if struck by a hammer. Yet they persisted, tearing at his legs as he fought to free himself from their grip.
Iscarius stopped and waved an arm. The fires rebounded as if struck by a shield. He held out his hand and a web of shadows rushed forth, sweeping the flames aside. The black left a trajectory of smoke in its wake as it careened toward Abaddon.
Abaddon split the blackness with a bolt of light that flashed toward his foe.
A ball of light formed before Iscarius’ open palm. Wind and light exploded between them, propelling both men back several yards. The throne room fell instantly dark.
The fierce gale roared through the throne room and shattered every window. Fires spilled through the windows and returned the room to its silent embrace.
Iscarius crashed into the door and slid down its length. He crumpled to the ground and blinked away the spots in his eyes. Abaddon soared across the hall and landed on his throne with a grace incongruous to his bulky armor. Iscarius crawled from the ground and stumbled to his feet. Abaddon jumped from his throne and the two sprinted toward each other.
Abaddon bound into the air and stabbed his weapons into the ground. A guttural boom echoed throughout the hall. The floor lifted about him, rippling outward like waves in water. The walls behind him shivered before shattering. The columns cracked and crumbled, their broken remains falling in shambles to the floor. The floor behind Abaddon collapsed.
As the floor continued to cave in on itself, a great crevice shot toward the surprised Iscarius. He jumped as the crack sprang forward, and, with a flick of a hand, drew several slabs of stone toward him. He landed on a chunk of debris as the floor split beneath him. He weaved his way up the floating debris with Abaddon close on his heels.
Iscarius bound off a final slab and landed among the rafters. Abaddon landed on a nearby beam. The two leapt from beam to beam, soon reaching each other to begin another ruthless flurry.
Lightning and light and fire erupted between them. Iscarius launched a web of lightning. Abaddon threw his weapons into it and sent it rebounding. Iscarius dove to another beam and hurled a wave of fire. Abaddon leapt through
this and threw out a lightning bolt of his own. Iscarius dodged, the air sizzling against his face. He jumped forward with a spear of light. The two met in a clash of light and shadow.
Abaddon brought his weapons down with tremendous force. Light fractured and Iscarius shot back from the powerful blow. Abaddon jumped over him and their blades met with a terrific crash that sent out a pulse of wind. The gust smashed into the roof, tearing rafters from their mounts and raining rubble over the combatants.
Iscarius flipped away from the falling wreckage as Abaddon gave a great swing. A blade of shadows clawed outwards and split the rafters. Iscarius managed to land safely on a floating chunk of stone, rubble from the roof and rafters pounding into an unseen shield around him.
Abaddon arced across the expansive gap and fell over his opponent. Their swords struck a chorus of steel. Wind exploded from every strike, ripping apart the roof, beams, and walls.
Then, half the throne room collapsed. The floor caved in and brought the walls with it. The throne vanished in the crumbling dais, and soon half the floor fell into the abyss. The walls followed suit and the rafters finally bowed, sending mountains of debris freefalling to the distant earth.
With this, the East Tower crumpled. It gave a final heave and collapsed into itself. The tower buckled and it disintegrated in a kind of slow-motion free-fall before crashing into the ground with a devastating explosion.
The air shook from the force and rattled in Iscarius’ ears. Debris hurled hundreds of feet into the air, tossing up a mountainous storm of dirt that crawled across Andred for miles. The plume rose high into the clouds and shot dust around the two combatants as they fought.
Iscarius jumped past an attack and ran along the wall, pulling a bit of rafter toward him with a lash of air. Abaddon leapt for him but Iscarius’ sudden weight on the rafter sent him dropping, Abaddon sailing overhead. Iscarius rolled from the rafter as an axe still managed to swing for him. He pulled a chunk of roof forward and rode it in a slow spiral down. Abaddon fell over him and a clap of wind flicked Iscarius away. He landed on a passing slab of stone, sword raised to block. Abaddon jumped. Iscarius leapt aside, cerebreum blades whizzing by his face. He landed against a bit of wall and rebounded for his opponent.
Abaddon blocked the attack with both weapons, but the blow threw him off his feet. Iscarius dove after him and swung again. Abaddon threw his axe out in defense but Iscarius smacked this aside and struck him in the breastplate.
Abaddon shot toward the floor, crashing through falling debris. Iscarius lurched back and sent several tendrils of black lightning sailing toward his foe.
Abaddon swung his weapons as he plummeted, deflecting the lightning. A column of shadow knocked his axe away and sent him spinning. Iscarius leapt from stone to stone, sending blast after blast of wind, light, and lightning at his downed opponent.
Abaddon smashed into the marble floor. Lightning leapt around him and swallowed him in a lethal blackness.
Iscarius bound off a final hunk of stone and raised his weapon as he descended over his enemy.
A gauntlet lifted from the plume of smoke. Invisible chains rooted Iscarius to the air. Like a thousand tendrils, tiny threads of air pulled and pushed, constricting and crushing. He struggled to free himself from these strange bonds but he was pinned like a rat in a snare.
Abaddon rose from the smoke. He threw down his hand and Iscarius slammed into the ground as if yanked by an invisible whip. His head struck the marble, nearly cracking his skull. Abaddon stepped forward with fingers lowered. Iscarius writhed in agony as smoke began to curl from his body. His clothes melted from an unseen flame. His flesh pulsed and congealed beneath the remains of his clothes. His bloodcurdling screams echoed in the hall as he thrashed across the floor.
Iscarius rolled over and peeled his face off the floor. With all the strength remaining to him, he lifted himself from the ground. Abaddon stepped back.
That single moment of indecision gave Iscarius a precious chance. He bolted from the earth and grabbed Abaddon by the shoulders. The invisible flames ensnared them both, sending smoke billowing as they grappled across the hall. Abaddon grabbed Iscarius by the throat, thick, armored fingers crushing his windpipe.
Iscarius screamed into Abaddon’s face until the air popped from his lungs. He wavered, and sagged in his foe’s hands. Abaddon slammed him to the ground like a rag doll.
Abaddon kicked him in the gut with a weighty sabaton. Iscarius pitched back, sprawled out on the marble, gasping for air. Abaddon retrieved his nearby sword from the ground and stepped toward Iscarius.
Iscarius lay against the cold marble, blood trickling through the cracks. His vision faded to black.
He had failed. So many decades of careful planning wasted. So many lives lost and taken, all for nothing. Tarsha would wilt and die without him.
Who else but him could make the hard choices, to do what must be done?
Abaddon straddled Iscarius and brought his sword overhead.
Iscarius rolled past the would-be-killing blow and thrust a hand up. Abaddon blasted back across the remains of his hall and rolled to a stop. His sword bounced over the edge of the hall and disappeared out into the night, spinning in its fall toward the earth.
Iscarius sprinted toward his downed opponent and tossed his hand to the side, a whip of wind snatching his abandoned sword from the debris. He arced over the hall and caught his flying sword. He landed beside Abaddon, his backsword nestled beneath his helmet.
Abaddon looked up at him through the smoke and dust. His head hung over the edge of the hall, the steppes of Andred thousands of feet beneath him. He leaned back, a sigh hollow in his helm.
“It is finished,” Iscarius breathed.
“So it would seem.”
“Tell me, before I kill you. Why did you do it?”
Abaddon laughed coldly. “I did not have a choice.”
“There is always a choice. You waged a genocide for four centuries. You killed millions of innocent people! You did all of that because you had no choice?”
“That is why.”
“There is always a choice!” Iscarius propped a boot on Abaddon’s chest and grabbed his helmet. He pulled off the ancient helm, revealing what lay masked for four hundred years.
Abaddon’s face all but glowed in the starlight, gaunt and cold like a corpse. His face was worn, tired, yet it seemed ageless despite the wispy webs of hair and sallow skin. He gazed up with blind eyes long since clouded gray.
“You’ve become so powerful,” he breathed, “yet you are still so naive. You could never possibly understand why I did what I did. Now, do it.”
Iscarius stood in shock at the tyrant of Tarsha, a blind, decrepit man defeated at his feet. He managed to stammer, “I do not need to understand it to know that what you have done is wrong. To think I once justified it, that I fought for you, fought for the Forgotten. I will atone. Starting by killing you.”
Iscarius lifted his sword. Abaddon laughed at this. He grinned and aimed his blind eyes up at his killer. “You will never truly kill me.”
“We will see about that.” Iscarius swung his sword, parting Abaddon’s head from his body. His head fell from the throne room and plummeted into the night.
Iscarius exhaled at this and dropped his bloody sword beside the body of Tarsha’s tyrant. He sagged with exhaustion and pain, nearly collapsing to the floor. He managed to keep his footing for the moment, standing on the edge of the throne room.
He gazed out over the clouded heavens, flecked with specks of coruscating starlight. The clouds gradually parted to reveal the full face of a vibrant moon.
The world was free at last from the tyrant of Andred. The Forgotten’s genocide was over.
But the world would need order if it were to have peace, and true peace could only be bought with blood. At last, he could reach out and take what was his, his divine right.
Tarsha.
For Iscarius, the war had only just begun.
Beginnings
>
“The arzecs have been quiet for a long time,” Aren said, fidgeting with his reins. “People have to rebuild eventually.”
“Aye, the rumors have to be true. Who would have thought they’d rebuild Andaurel?” Silas grinned. “Most places destroyed by the arzecs are just left to the dust.”
Joshua grinned. “Aren’s right, people need to rebuild. They seek structure in the chaos. Worrying about how many chickens they can take to market keeps their minds off everything else.”
Silas smiled again. “We’ll have a home again… I don’t remember what that was like.”
“Our home is our barracks.” Cain frowned, eyes locked on the hills ahead. “Our home is the sword. We can’t afford to think about anything else. We’re only passing through; we’ll just buy some food and fodder and be on our way. We have a long road ahead of us to reach Meurig.”
“I still don’t see why they’re sending us all the way out there,” Silas growled. “So some scouts reported a few arzecs, who cares? There’s arzecs everywhere. Why do we need to ride across the whole damn country just to investigate a single sighting?”
Aren shook his head. “Don’t you find it odd that arzecs have been seen coming out of Angeled though?”
Cain opened his mouth to reply, but as they reached a hilltop the sight beyond struck him silent. Andaurel shone in the fading light. The town was almost as he remembered it—the neat, wattle and daub homes, the golden thatched roofs, the swept dirt and cobble roads, the great blades of the mills spinning lazily in the south—picturesque and peaceful.
But it was not the same, of course. The palisade wall ringing the town was much taller and thicker and its gates were now strapped with iron. New construction blossomed, threatening to burst free of the wall. The palisade surrounded the hill to the east of town where they played as children, its trees long since cut for lumber. The well in the north where Cain and Aren nearly drowned learning how to swim was much larger now and covered with bars. The graves to the south, where those not burnt to ash were buried after the raid long ago, were covered by a large stable.
A New Reign Page 3
