In A Time Of Darkness

by Gregory James Knoll

  The Surrender Of Invalidity

  A dozen questions passed through Graham’s mind, “How?” was the only one he spoke.

  His answer came from Samsun as he pulled the axe from his back, Grahamas tensed, but the man only removed the jewel from the middle and let the weapon fall to the side as if it were useless. Squeezing the emerald in his hand, a flare leaked through his tightened fingers, a green smoke enveloping him. Both Grahamas and Ristalln continued to back pedal until they made their way to the group.

  Finally the smoke dispersed, revealing a much smaller, shorter man. Long black hair, wild dark eyes, and thin lips that turned into a painful grin. A deep, lasting scar started at his jaw, dragging diagonally across his face, draping over his nose until it ended under his eye on the other side. Grahamas, still, did not recognize him. All until he saw the mask the man was placing over his features. A simple, flat design with two square eye slits and holes for the mouth, a bend drawn down the middle from top to bottom—splitting the mask into two halves: one black, one white.

  “Estophicles…” Grahamas whispered and even Idimus seemed somewhat surprised, pushing a glance back to Gerin and Kalinies, but the two only responded with a shrug.

  “I’m…flattered,” he spoke, yet it sounded like a hiss coming through the visor.

  “I fought you in Tarnel,” Grahamas locked on the others as they began to draw behind Estophicles. “And Samsun was with me…”

  “A mirror, Champion,” he implied, drawing a long, black rapier from behind his back. “A deception to keep you off guard,” a giggle came from him, like that of a demented child, “And it worked…”

  Idimus stood behind him, to his right: Gerin and Drogan, to his left: Kalinies and Estechian—who looked nearly the opposite of his brother Estophicles. Estechian had long gray hair and calm, bright eyes; his face was clean, mark-free, and uncovered. He wore a black traveler’s cloak about his shoulders and in each hand a long dagger. They all seemed to be taking their time, watching the situation before they made their move. Still cautious, Kalinies had slowly begun to weave his hands and chanting softly.

  “Graham…” He heard a whisper from behind him, knowing it belonged to Elryia. “What now?” Then he heard the click of Lanyan’s crossbow, Merial drawing her knife, and a soft murmuring from Jeralyle.

  “Leave,” he whispered. His hand moved over hers, “All of you.” He turned his head to speak, now to the entire group, “I will draw them off long enough for you to escape.”

  He felt Elryia squeeze, “Grahamas…no. They’ll kill you.”

  He snapped his gaze back—the King and his followers drawing closer. “I will die if anything happens to you,” his eyes softened and he begged her, yet she stood firm.

  “Then we will die together. I am not leaving you,” she sharpened her stare, but a soft smile played at her lips.

  “Nor am I, Champion. I have not waited this long to be reunited with you, just to leave,” the Knight drew his blade.

  Grahamas was losing time and no one in the group agreed to leave. Idimus and the others were spreading out and closing in. Estophicles was still in front, behind him Kalinies in a hypnotic trance. Aside from the Wizard, each warrior had their eyes set only on Grahamas: the King seeking dominance, Gerin looking for revenge, Drogan pride, and Estophicles ascension. All sought only his blood now.

  He could not argue with Elryia, or any, and knew if he tried it would provide Idimus and his allies the distraction they were waiting for. Grahamas was left with only one option. “Then…We fight,” He began, scraping his sword from the sheath “as long as we stand.”

  “That’s what I hoped you would say, Graham.” The Champion could feel Ristalln shift, and whisper only to him. “If you were ever able to tap into that strength and speed you battled Nwour with—now would be a good time to do so.”

  But how? He knew what caused it. It was duty. It was his fear of his home destroyed—the people—that was the catalyst. Potentially losing the thing most important to him. If he died, if he could not stop Nwour, all was lost. The dragon would sear its way across every inch of land until nothing was left. That was the last thought in his mind that day. But Highlace was gone. Then slow and strong, a hand slipped under his left arm.

  He remembered.

  Remembered what had made him so driven—so inspired. It wasn’t Highlace. It wasn’t the bricks of the castle or even his place in it. It wasn’t a title or prestige that he clung to. It was love. It was a love for the people, for his king, and his duty—for honor and valor. He had lost his kingdom, his home, but in its place he had found something far more valuable and important to him. He had discovered something he loved even more.

  Her.

  “When I’ve finished with you, Champion,” Idimus echoed, “I’m going to torture every single person in your little group.” The King turned his skull-shaped helmet towards Elryia, “Especially your pretty little girlfriend.” A few amongst his band grinned, some chuckled.

  And something deep inside Grahamas snapped.

  All the rage he felt when his King was slain, his people murdered, everything evil and corrupt that had haunted his dreams all crashed back. The years spent in the cold, the lifetimes wandering, countless hours obsessing of revenge, and now the man who had caused it all was standing a mere twenty feet away from him.

  The thought of him ever getting his hands on Elryia, ever hurting her in any way was what the Champion would not tolerate.

  And everything…went…black.

  Slowly, Grahamas’ right hand slid up, resting on a tree as a fire burned in his eyes, his breath growing heavy—guttural.

  “And when she can take no more…” Idimus continued, “Then I am…”

  The King’s sentence was cut off by a loud crack. Every gaze—be it friend or foe—turned to Grahamas to see him shoving his right hand forward. The tree he was leaning against, a massive timber five feet around and four times as high, splintered at the bottom, then hammered forward. Gerin was forced to leap out of the way to avoid being hit. The King, however, was not fast enough and could only watch as the oak crashed inches in front of his face.

  Idimus, for only one second, turned back to look at the fallen lumber in complete shock. When he faced forward, Grahamas had managed to move the twenty feet in that brief moment, laid Estophicles on the ground, and was now standing right in front of him. Neither the King, nor anyone in either group saw him move—not even the second fastest amongst them: Ristalln. In a panic, the King reared back with his sword but a quick hand reached out and locked on his wrist before he could even think about bringing it forward.

  “Your time is over Puppet King,” Graham snarled, growling out the words. His grip tightened, metal crunched and screeched as Idimus’ armor bent, broke, and crimped down around his wrist, digging into his flesh. He cried out in pain, only making Grahamas squeeze down harder.

  The King’s advisors went to aid him, but the fallen tree blocked half of them and the others were too far away; unable to reach him before the Champion could end it. Grahamas raised his blade, preparing to drive it into the chest of the helpless King. Before the fatal blow fell, Grahamas stopped as the sky grew dark and a loud, high-pitched howl corroded the air.

  Above him—covering the sun—flew a large dragon, spitting fire and searing his way through magickal barrier that surrounded Sharia. Its large leathery wings flapped once then tucked against his back. With a thud and a roar, it landed on the ground several feet from the Champion; on its back a slender, hauntingly pale woman with white hair and black bangs slid off.

  “Valaira…” Grahamas growled, pinching the King’s wrist one final time before raising his foot and kicking Idimus square in the chest, shoving him a good distance away. He now had other dangers more pressing. Valaira was not the only thing that he recognized and his gaze turned to the leathery, half-rotting face of a black dragon; the black dragon.

  “Champion… It’s been too long,” a long, forked tongue flicked out
as it spoke.

  “Nwour,” he snapped, “You’re dead. I know. I was the one that made you such.”

  The dragon leaned forward, large thick scales on one side of his head, the other nothing but bone with small flaps of flesh barely clinging to it. Two dirty, yellow eyes with thin pupils scanned back and forth. Most of Nwour’s body was rotting along with his head. A good portion of the spines that went down his center were cracked, broken or chipped. The membranes in the wings had been pierced in every section and most of the scales torn or eaten away. The horns along his back—those resembling the sharp rocks of Kaldus—were half gone. The Dragon seemed as though he would fall apart, but remained the most fearsome thing the group had seen.

  “He’s free Grahamas,” Valaira said, dragging her hand down one of the sporadic patches of scales still on the creature’s body. “Free from the cold, dark place you sent him,” she smiled, “He wants vengeance. And he will have it, the moment you give me H…” but a quickly fired bolt driven into her chest ceased her words. Lanyan—at the front of the group—flicked his wrist and locked another into the chamber, prepared to shoot again.

  Valaira wore a look—not one of pain, or even shock—simply boredom. Harboring the same expression, she wrapped her long fingers around the bolt and wrenched it free. Once removed the wound sealed as though it never existed, and Valaira tossed the projectile aside. When Grahamas focused on her as well, Nwour saw his opportunity.

  Elryia and the group moved to help, but it was too late. The moment they stepped out, the dragon’s head snapped down—mouth open and wrapped around Grahamas. Then, only a flash.

  Nwour paused, his eyes flicking back and forth, as though he expected something.

  “Well?” Valaira slapped him playfully on the front leg. “What are you waiting for? Chew him up before he stabs you.” Nwour chomped once and then again; from his mouth came the sound of metal screeching and breaking, Valaira immediately placed a hand on his side and looked around. “Wait. Stop. Grahamas wasn’t wearing armor.” Her gaze narrowed and Nwour’s grew curious, “Spit him out,” she ordered. Nwour did as he was ordered, bowing his head and opening his maw. Rather than Grahamas, Idimus oozed out, his armor broken and crunched with several holes from where the dragon’s molars drilled into it. “Hmm,” Valaira stated, a scowl growing on her face, “That’s interesting.” She moved from him, looking idly about. The rest of the group rushed to aid their fallen leader, bewildered as to how he entered that predicament in the first place. Valaira however, was not. She knew exactly who was capable of such a trick. “Naughty Lornya,” she growled, knowing they couldn’t be too far. “Where did you hide them?” she rushed right passed the King—seeming uncaring of his plight—and leapt on Nwour. “Up! There’s still time to find them.”

  Thumping his heavy wings, his body rose. His head dipped and he sailed south while Valaira stared down, hoping to catch a glimpse of them.

  But they were much further away than she knew, and in the opposite direction.