by R J Hanson
The blade passed through great steel armor, and then deep into dwarven flesh. The fallen champion grinned at Battarc and then moved to withdraw its blade for another attack. Battarc felt the white hot of the black blade eating at his chest from the inside. His anger burned hotter.
Battarc dropped his axe and grabbed the blade with both gauntleted hands, holding it fast in place. The Lesser Shrou Demon panicked and focused his attention on retrieving his blade from the injured foe. Eight dwarven blades sunk into the demon’s skin, muscle, and organs. Unholy bones were crushed and black soot poured out of eight large gashes.
The hapless creature continued to work to free its blade. Blood began to run from both of Battarc’s hands and trailed from his lips down his red beard. The demon roared in anger and finally ripped its sword free from the dwarf. Battarc’s chest was torn open and half of his right hand fell free from the end of his arm.
The Lesser Shrou Demon hauled its sword high into the air and then toppled to the ground, where its body began to burn heretic symbols into the snow and earth beneath.
Battarc collapsed to the ground then, next to the smoking demon. Whit rolled him over and stuffed his shirt into the bloody hole in Battarc’s chest. Kullen, pup in his arms, ran for the barn.
“Don’t bother with that now, boy,” Battarc said over the flow of blood that frothed at his lips. “I am done. I die without shame. The Tall Walker’s wife and son are safe.”
Battarc seemed to relax then as though all tension and strife flowed out of him. Whit’s face gave away no emotion except for the tears that welled in his eyes.
Then Whit and the dwarves ran to the home to check on those within. One of the dwarves saw a fallen knight in the yard whose right arm had been cut cleanly from his body. The unconscious man was bleeding to death, and quickly. The dwarf ran for the house, returning shortly with a shovel full of coals from the fire. He applied the coals to the stub of the limb stemming the tide of red.
Kullen raced to the barn to check on the animals within. Once he was sure they were safe he moved to the house with his pup, Travelin’ Jack, trailing behind him.
The full glory of spring was in the air and upon the land. The dwarves, unconcerned about winter’s cold bite, had managed to complete the foundation for the rest of the house. A tired and road worn knight rode into the front yard of his home. He was followed by three fellow warriors.
Claire stood in the meadow just beyond the front door of their home. She stood where Roland had promised his love to her and she to him. She stood with her son, Octavion, in her arms. Roland’s weary eyes looked upon the vision of his wife and home and new life was breathed into his breast. He dismounted and ran to them.
Roland took Claire and Octavion up in his great arms and lifted them a few feet into the air. The purity of joy in his face made every bit of her sacrifices worth it to Claire. If more people knew this joy, this love, she thought, there would be no war.
“Sir Roland, I would like you to meet your son, Octavion,” Claire said with tears of love in her eyes.
Roland could not have prepared for the absolute, the complete, feelings of devotion that immediately assailed him. His bond of love with his son was instant; unbreakable. His heart overflowed with love, joy, and pride. He would wrestle the UnMaker himself for this beautiful woman and their child.
“Come!” Roland called to the others. “Come, meet my son!”
Eldryn, Ungar, Tindrakin, and Kodii rushed to gather around them. Shouts and cheers erupted from the group of friends and even Kodii smiled when he said, “Tribe.”
The small group was greeted with a grand welcome and a remarkable feast prepared by Harriette’s skilled hands. Lady Clairenese recounted the story of Sir Fynyll’s ‘visit,’ and of the Lesser Shrou Demon. Sir Roland’s initial reaction would have been easy to predict. He had most of his armor back on before Claire was able to stop him.
Clairenese told of Battarc’s brave efforts and uncommon valor. At his grave site she spoke of his severe injuries and warrior’s sacrifice. Claire showed Ungar the stone coffin that made up the corner stone of the foundation.
Eldryn had learned a little of the written dwarven language. He could just make out some of the engravings on the side of the stone. May His Strength Secure These Walls.
“It’s a dwarven custom,” Ungar explained with an expression on his face as hard as the stone. “If a dwarf dies building a structure or defending it, his body is made a permanent part of the construction. The old ones say their strength and will lives on in the stone.”
Clairenese explained another knight arrived to check on them and he had collected Sir Fynyll who had not regained consciousness. Claire also explained that she told the knight Sir Fynyll had come to the home for a visit. She also told him of how Sir Fynyll had lost his arm in protecting her and Octavion from the demon that had been sent by Daeriv.
“Both statements are technically true,” Clairenese said in answer to Roland’s curious, and furious, look. “I saw no need to make open enemies of Sir Fynyll and his friends with accusations about the man.”
“I will kill him,” Roland said flatly. “I will go tonight and kill him whether he stands or slumbers, I will kill him.”
“That is the way of politics, my love,” Claire whispered. “It is as it must be. He is without an arm now and is not the sort to recover well from such an injury. His health will be fine, but his will is broken. The only threat he poses to us is as a victim of your blade. If you kill him and are labeled a murderer then what would become of us, Octavion and I?”
“And if he moves against us again?” Roland said with the muscles in his neck and jawline flexing.
Lady Clairenese had done all the story telling and talking she wished to do.
“I am tired, dear,” Claire said. “Please, for me, think on what I have said. Think on the future of your wife and son.”
The following morning found them all at breakfast. Now Claire demanded details about Roland’s still healing injuries, Eldryn’s condition, and the outcome of the march north.
Roland told a grand story of the long trek into the north and of the battle that ensued. He told them of how Eldryn had struggled with fever for several days after the battle and how Lady Angelese stayed by El’s side. It had angered Sanderland considerably, but Angelese seemed the only one with the touch of healing that could abate the infection. Roland noticed the bit of a scowl in Claire’s expression when he mentioned Angelese, but nothing was said of the matter.
Eldryn and Tindrakin returned to Skult to serve as they could and heal as they must. Whit, Kullen, and Clowie listened to the tale with unwavering attention, as did the dwarves. When his tale was done, Roland took Octavian in his arms and Claire by the hand. They walked to the glade in front of their home to watch the sun rising over their fields.
Somewhere in the dark reaches of Lawrec Fynyll’s wounds, and his heart, festered.
Epilogue
The Lion Unleashed
“You may follow me to victory against the one that shamed you, or you may die, right here and right now,” Daeriv said into the heavy dark that surrounded him. “If you follow me you will obey me without question.”
Engiyadu detected the almost imperceptible sound of a small crossbow. Engiyadu’s sleek, single edged sword struck from its sheath like a viper from its coil. The magnificent steel blade was back within its scabbard before the dark elf’s head struck the floor.
“Well, one of your companions has made his decision,” Daeriv continued, his tone unchanged. “What will the rest of you decide?”
More than twenty drow came from the darkness of the deep cavern. Their numbers had decreased severely after Maloch left them. Fighting for the position of leader within their own ranks had threatened to wipe this coven out completely.
Now they were offered the chance to fight someone other than their brethren. Now they were being offered the chance to exercise their revenge on the boy that had come here and done so much damage
.
“You can control Elvvleth?” A slender drow asked as he stepped from the shadows.
“That has been your trouble,” Daeriv said. “No one can ‘control’ such a creature. One must establish a relationship with a dracolych. Not ‘control’ it.”
“Then you have our loyalty,” the slender dark elf said. “It would be worth our devotion just to see someone loose a creature such as Elvvleth.”
Daeriv, flanked by Kyhn and Engiyadu, stepped with calm satisfaction through the dark corridors and hallways of Nolcavanor. They were followed by twenty-four very nervous dark elves.
“Lord Kyhnneare, you have the token?” Daeriv asked.
“I do,” Kyhn answered.
Lord Kyhnneare, oldest of Lynneare’s children and only male child, handed Daeriv a strip of cloth torn from one of the Warlock’s old cloaks. This strip was soaked in Kyhn’s blood.
Daeriv made his way through the shadowed passages without err and finally arrived at a heavily enchanted door. The stone barrier sealed the lower levels of this once great city into a large, magically bound, prison.
Daeriv read the words inscribed on the portal and spoke them in a language that was ancient even to the immortal drow. As he read, he smeared some of the blood over the huge doorway. Hours slide past but the time did not serve to relax the onlookers. Daeriv’s concentration did not wane nor did his chanting falter despite the increase of power and complexity through the passing moments.
Fate on high looked on with dread in her heart. She, better than any other, understood the workings of destiny. However, it made this evil horror no easier to bear.
Stones grated upon one another as a mystical and mighty jail was unlocked. Daeriv, again flanked by his two body guards, started down the steps of the cavern. A son had betrayed his father in much the same way a priest had betrayed the Father of Time so many eons ago.
This night great evil would be done. This night the mighty Elvvleth, legendary dracolych and mount of the gods, would be stirred. This night the only creature under the heavens with the strengths of a dragon and the powers of a vampire would be freed from his prison that had bound him for so long.
This is not the end. This is not the beginning of the end. This is the end of the beginning.
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-R.J. Hanson
