In A Time Of Darkness

by Gregory James Knoll

  * * * * *

  Grahamas' initial start within Sayassa was one of confusion and deception. He had no landmark to follow, no defined beginning or end to label. It was all simply a mass of clouds that had a mind of their own, ones that would do everything it could to confuse him and escort him astray.

  Now, it was the complete opposite. Sayassa was intentionally leading him along. The moment he stepped through the door, he wondered if it would take him directly into a new area. It did not. Once he crossed the threshold, the fog broke, raising from the floor and arching into a rounded ceiling, then separated from side-to-side to form the tunnel he now walked down.

  He had been doing that for what seemed like hours, without any progress. It only twisted and turned, leading him further on with no end in sight. It had occurred to him this may be another of Sayassa’s deceptions, and even though he had traveled this far he considered going back, or walking out. His hand had pressed against the mist several times to do so, but it was not like what he first encountered. The clouds that surrounded him were hard as stone, and did not give, nor break and drift around him. This was not meant to confuse him or disorient him, this was to trap him, leave him with only two choices: back, or forward.

  He chose forward—simply on faith. He continued his trek for no better reason than he hoped he was progressing, but with every step his confidence was beginning to wane. All until—at the end of the tunnel his eyes caught a faint glint, one much brighter than the clouds, a brilliant white piercing its way through everything else. From the distance he was at, it looked only like a tiny window. As he drew closer, the square shape grew in size, prompting him to increase his pace. Every step seemed to expand it. It was only when he was directly before it, when it was as tall as him and twice as wide did he stop. It was a doorway leading out, and his desire to charge through it was overwhelming, but the light was so brilliant, his eyes so unadjusted, he could not see through to the other side. He only saw a blanket of shimmering white, sharp edges framed defiantly against the thin beams drawing down and painting the ground before him.

  "I wish I had my sword." He muttered, raising one hand in front of his eyes to partially block the glare, the other drawing back at his waist then behind his body, ready to strike anything that may be waiting for him on the other side.

  But what he found, instead of angst and aggression like he believed, was one of the most peaceful environments he'd ever experienced in all his years. The light that broke through the doorway was a direct result of the sun—or he believed to be an illusion of it. It cast down upon a smooth, wide trail made of soft, untainted soil. Not a foot or horse print could be seen, even from his own boot. Each side, after the ten feet of the trail, contained wild flowers as high as his waist, growing against the edge of the road, but never breaking through, decorated with purples and blues, reds and yellows, stretching a hundred feet, perhaps even two, down the path. Trees—beautiful elms and strong oaks—mixed in sporadically, touched with the first signs of rebirth, their leaves a vibrant mix of orange, yellow and chestnut brown. A gust—be it natural or otherwise—echoed across the scene, releasing the leaves from their holding then wisping them away, twisting them across the valley in a sun-fire cyclone, finally allowing them to settle yards away as a blazing blanket for the flowers.

  He pondered if he had been removed from Sayassa. This seemed far too peaceful compared to what he encountered earlier, and he recalled Lornya saying that Fate was not in the mist, but beyond them. Perhaps this was the world she spoke of, the one she had not seen. It was true that she did advise him of the three trials—one courage, one wisdom and one faith—but possibly when he faced the spirit claiming to be Tallvas he accomplished all. The courage for him to battle a man he believed to be his mentor, wisdom to see through the deception and faith to destroy it. But Grahamas knew deep down it would not be that easy, the test was only one, but which was a question the Champion couldn't answer. So he increased his pace, hoping that he would find more clues.

  He had tread past countless rays, walked over thirty-feet and like the window had earlier, something far off in the distance caught his eye. This was not a perfectly framed door. This one had a shape, a thick, strong chest, broad shoulders and defined arms. This was a figure. One tucked deceptively behind one beam, almost completely shrouded.

  Grahamas slowed, again wishing he had his blade, or at least something to defend himself. Yet, as his approached, his uneasiness faded when he saw a white, furred hand lean out from the darkness, in its massive grip the pole of a spear.

  "Rhimaldez..." The Champion whispered to himself, at first calm, but overwhelmed with dread. For Rhimaldez to be here, that would mean he...

  Graham shuddered, trying not to think such a thing, instead drawing off his first experience. Perhaps it was only an illusion, a deception used by the mist as Tallvas had been. But as more of whomever it was stepped forward, Grahamas came to realize it wasn't Rhimaldez at all.

  On the one forearm that came out, long defined black stripes streaked across, covering the bicep, over a white fur. As the wide shoulder came into view, the end of a sleeveless leather shirt appeared, draped by long white hair that spread thick. Grahamas knew now, even from this distance, it was not human and his pace stalled, his nerves coming alive.

  He stood only twenty feet from it. The shadows were not thick enough to hide it entirely and Grahamas first set his gaze on a pair of yellow eyes with black pupils, large and round, below each another black stripe. White fur grew across a long, wide nose with a black cross stamped on the front, marking the outline of the nostrils. One single black line slid down to define each whisker-covered cheek and met the maw. The mouth was opened only slightly, two sharp thick fangs showing from the bottom. Two half-circle ears adorned the top of his head, then twitched slightly, mostly likely from the Champion's approach. Wrapped around them, covering the entire head and growing down over the sides was the same hair that covered its shoulders. A thick mane that wavered and moved only slightly as the creature took a step forward into the light.

  "It's a..." Grahamas began, but could not end his statement, only because he didn't know for sure. He was not entirely in shock, because he had seen Rhimaldez enough times to almost be used to it. This creature slightly resembled him. The wide, strong body of a full grown man but an animal’s face and head, though this was a lion, a white one with the stripes of a tiger.

  The Champion drew another hard breath, and took an uneasy step, suddenly searching the ground for anything he could use as a weapon, but the thing took another stride out, and spoke. "Do not fear, Champion. I am to bring no harm to you..." His voice was deep, and oddly serene.

  Grahamas was still weary, keeping his feet planted for the time being. "I hope you are not offended if I don't entirely believe you..."

  The mouth opened again, and the tips of its black-lined mouth curved up, the two white fangs now in full view. "I would not imagine so after the... greeting you first received in coming here. But you have passed the first test. Sayassa has now accepted you, and it has sent me as your guide for the next trial."

  "Who are you?"

  "My name is Vlaros." He bowed, and his white hair tumbled for a moment down in front of his face. His free hand raised as his head lifted to smooth it back.

  "Well met..." Grahamas bowed as well, but never took his eyes off the creature. "Now... what are you? Another product of Perticus?"

  The first response brought Vlaros' head forward, this one directed his head back as laughter—more resembling a roar—came from his throat. "Perticus... hardly. I was created long before he was even born. But his inspiration for the creatures he's created in your world was derived from us. You see, just like Urvagh twists and turns life forms, so does Sayassa. Ones who see fit to wander in here, which are not many, sometimes remain. And so many years spent within, countless spirits mixing with one another, both animals and humans, they are bound to get crossed sometimes." It made sense, and Grahamas nodded that he a
greed, but kept several yards between he and his apparent guide, an untrusting look in his eyes. "Champion, I assure you again, I am not to bring you harm." In an attempt to ease him—as a gesture of faith—Vlaros knelt and laid his spear upon the ground. "You have already passed the trial of courage. No more battles lay ahead, from me or anything else within this realm."

  Grahamas first eyed the spear, then the guard holding it, finally taking a cautious step forward, then another. "Well then, Vlaros, what trial is next?"

  "Your wisdom is to be tested now." Vlaros retreated slightly, turning his body as his hand raised, directing Graham's gaze.

  A third step allowed Grahamas' eyes to adjust even more, and behind Vlaros was an item that Graham was very familiar with, something consistent through his youth and just recently had returned to—though this one was exponentially larger than anything he was used to. He first recognized it by the golden, feathered woman adorning the edge, her eyes closed in peaceful respite yet still resonating a hidden courage. Grahamas scanned her once, then twice. It was an exact replica of the board he was used to—as he imagined the other side would be—yet from what he could discern she was nearly thirty feet high.

  Vlaros followed Grahamas to the board, the Champions neck eventually reaching the point where it had to strain up to still see the top. “I am to play, then.” Such a question would seem utterly silly to him if he were anywhere else. This, however, being a land of deception and mystery Graham did not readily accept his instincts.

  Vlaros only roared in response, raising his hand to glide gently over the cheek of the golden statue. “That is one way of describing it.” The guide bowed and stepped back, Grahamas followed, unsure of what he meant by his final statement and seeking his answer.

  It came in the form of a strain, the sound of tired old metal awoken for the first time in ages. When Grahamas looked back at the board—the source of the disturbance—he bared witness to the eyes of the golden female opening. Beneath the metallic lids was something almost human: gentle sea green eyes, their very outer edge blue, like the vision of an expanding ocean. She stared, soft and peaceful, leaving Graham almost hypnotized only to be shaken out by another sound of aching steel. Slowly and stoically her left hand pulled away from her body, golden fingers still welded together stretched out, gliding their way down to finally settle on that unblemished trail.

  Vlaros nodded to the stable hand. “If you would…”

  Grahamas was no more eager to endure this trial than he was the last, and given his past experience he imagined this would not be a simple game of Kingdom. For as peaceful as legends and myths had made Sayassa out to be, Graham was finding a far different version. Yet on he stepped, without an ounce of hesitation, knowing the trial would come later and by taking this golden-hand journey he was simply inciting it.

  The woman eased him up to the edge of the board, back line, where she smoothed into a stop and held long enough for him to walk off. A final creak echoed as she reverted back to her original form. One final look was given to Vlaros, who once again dipped his head.

  “Good luck, True. This will be a far greater test than that which you have already endured.”

  Grahamas breath rushed in, again he was left with confusion all from a simple statement. It would only worsen as the Champion turned his eyes back to the board. In that instant, he felt the entire atmosphere around him change as he cast a gaze across the white, divided ground. A weight implemented itself on his brow, the sensation of an object touching his flesh and frantic hands raised to discover a crown, eyes lowered to play upon his clothes—now befitting royalty, a bright blue robe and golden trim, white shirt far too billowy for that of a peasant and velvet trousers held by a glimmering rope about the waist. “I truly am to play…” He whispered, knowing full well that he was King in a game he merely played from afar.

  To his left a bright, almost blinding light flared, the smoke it left behind wafting away to reveal beneath it a castle, twice as tall as he, with one brilliant tower in the middle.

  It was apparent now what he must do, but that did not tell him how. When he attempted to reach out towards the castle his hand would not extend passed the line of his own space. Trying to walk out created the same resistance. “How?” Grahamas muttered.

  “Simply think it,” came the response from his back and the Champion turned to face it “and all pieces will obey your command.” With one final bow, Vlaros stepped as though he was too leave. But at the final moment of his departure he turned, wearing an apologetic, regretful look on his face. “I am sorry, True. That is the only help I can grant you. And please, do not stall.”

  As though on cue the very outer edge of the once peaceful valley erupted into flames. The once twirling, gliding leaves turned to raging, glowing embers. Screams echoed throughout, black shadows twisted up from the burning backdrop, clawing at the edge in desperation to escape their fate earlier as though Grahamas was on the outskirts of a distant battle. As fierce as the fire was it held, pressing against an invisible bind much like Graham’s hand had. Something deep within his soul told him that it would not be long before the twisted scene broke through, found its way to him.

  He flicked his gaze, trying to dismiss the cries for help, and pictured the castle—as it had when he faced Ristalln—tucked safely away in the left corner. Stone scraped against stone as the castle hurled towards its destination, stopping abruptly in the place chosen for it.

  One by one, more light sprang up. The first across the playing field, crimson red revealing the opposing castle—in front of him, three spaces down from the back line, one to the left.

  The onslaught continued, first on his own side. White light now instead of blue jutted up in random areas. The first flared directly to his right and left behind Grahamas’ Queen. As beautiful here as she was in his own world, with elegant blonde hair down to her shoulders and vibrant blue eyes that spoke courage and compassion: Elryia. He knew it was an illusion, knew that the violence surrounding the land was closing in on him but he could not help but stare, his blood racing when she turned back to smile at him.

  Four spaces over to his right the white flashed again and Grahamas cast his eyes upon a very defined—albeit much smaller—Nallar, holding the same stature as the piece of the same title. Ristalln came next only a heartbeat later, placed directly in front of the castle, still wearing that defiant grin. Jeralyle was cast to the far right corner, Lanyan three up and five left from he, riding a brilliant golden stallion. Merial followed at his left, the brown-haired sage two blocks away from the golden line and pressed against the edge. And finally Gort, oddly at Graham’s left side.

  The Champion allowed one final look around before his gaze was ripped away to yet another explosion and the fire raging even closer—now some fifty feet away.

  “Be strong, Grahamas.” Ristalln inspired.

  “Aye. We’re with you.” Elryia whispered, the obvious desire for her to reach her hand out evident.

  The Champion nodded, assured and stared well beyond them to the other side, waiting patiently for the opposing force to appear.

  These did not rise as his had, rather in one jarring, glorious flash. In an instant it was over and the back line was dominated by eight looming figures.

  Only one was truly clear to Grahamas, he in the far left corner. A blaring, purple scar across his left cheek, black sinister eyes to match his slick hair, covered from foot to neck in ebony armor protected by giant saw blades.

  Yet, he had no crown. And, again, though an illusion Grahamas could not help but discover some small amount of joy—an emotion that registered on his face.

  “What are you smiling at, Champion?” Idimus bellowed, obviously wishing to break from his bind and charge across the field.

  Grahamas simply turned his head, his expression growing wider. “The fact that you’re not King…” he chuckled. “Not even here.”

  That, however, bade the question: who was?

  Grahamas
scanned the line, saw the ash gray hair of Estechian on a black mount and found the cavalry, the silver framed black robes of the Kalinies to discover the Wizard. On he went passed Gerin and Estophicles to finally settle on the man directly in front of him. Beneath the crown, hair a dark purple. His eyes now lacked any compassion or even life, making him look far different than when Grahamas had traveled with him, but he still knew the face.

  Carsis.

  “Why” he whispered, unable to remove his stare “are you King?”

  “Because, Champion,” the haunting, elegant voice echoed from Carsis’ right “I am Queen.”

  Grahamas finally turned and saw her. Valaira. The one woman he came here to destroy, directly to the King’s left, leaning—as though bored—against the invisible barrier that kept her in place.

  It wasn’t surprising in the least, almost what he expected but Grahamas could still not dismiss the cold, intense stare given him by Carsis. He knew better of it, but for a single moment it seemed so very real.

  Again the field around the board ruptured, this time close enough to rattle the ground below. The silence was broken by screams of agony, people—or spirits—calling out.”

  “Help us, Grahamas…”

  “Save us…”

  “Save us…”

  He dismissed it, tried his best to focus, catching a glimpse of Nwour on his far right before Valaira’s porcelain hand extended, drawing back his attention. It held, danced at her waist then drew away, gliding up from ground to sky. At her feet, at all of theirs, a tiny black mist followed the path of her hand, swirling around the lines of their spaces, raising up well past their heads to create the shroud.

  Grahamas recalled where everyone lay but it was an exercise derived in futility, each piece shifted with another. Slow at first, so that Graham could still determine who was who but they crossed faster against the back line, changed direction too quickly, finally to all meet in the center square, then spread out like looming black thunder clouds.

  Upon seeing that, he had given up trying to identify them and instead opted to play the game the way he knew how, turning his attention to his own team now covered with the same shroud but for he it was thin, almost transparent so that he could still know. As the opposite side had, El, Ristalln and the rest raced to different areas of the board, back and forth at dizzying speeds, all to finally settle against the back wall. He looked upon each with hope and pride, taking one final moment before he began.

  Before, however, the fires rumbled again, blazing towards him, covering another five feet, amplifying the screams.

  “Grahamas…don’t let us die…”

  “You must free us…”

  “Free us, Grahamas…”

  “So torturous this place is…” Graham muttered. Now, it was close enough to feel the heat, the fire burning only twenty feet away. And by the timing of the changes, he assumed he had the same number of minutes. It typically took him that long to devise a strategy and place his pieces. Now, he was asked to win in that.

  It was possible. Difficult, but possible so long as he played the same way he always had—defensively. Only this time, much faster. He began by thinking Gort to the far right side one away from the edge, up to the golden line. The Dwarf bowed quickly, tugging a hammer from his belt and tossing it from right to left, stalking his way to where he was ordered. No sooner was Gort settled when he was met with an opposing piece. Lanyan was next, three to the left of Gort but still on the line. The Elf clicked his crossbow into a ready position, dipped his head to the Champion before hurling it back, whisking away his golden locks that covered his vision and inspiring the horse on. It was the Champion’s goal to create a line that hopefully could not be broken. If he was right and Carsis faced him head on, that line would hold and Graham could guide Elryia to their castle while at the same time leaving them unable to reach his.

  So far, it seemed to be working and another piece shifted to block Lanyan. Another mental command and Merial was assigned her place the same as Lan had been with Gort, three spaces to the left. The gentle Sage expressed a rage and anxiousness as she leapt from one square to the next, finally to settle against the golden line.

  Matched again.

  The final space, a single block from the left edge was occupied by Jeralyle, the young Mage beaming and racing onward—only after a rather friendly wave was given to Graham. Win or lose, that area would create at least some defense directly to his castle. And as it had been the three moves prior, Jeralyle was confronted by a black shroud directly in front of him.

  Now only Ristalln, Nallar, Elryia and he were left.

  Grahamas shifted his thoughts first, dragging himself over to stand vigilantly against his castle’s wall. Next, he projected his thoughts to Elryia who abided and found her way tucked against the corner in the same manner as the original Queen had done in the battle with Ristalln, sashaying the entire way, smile growing the closer she came to him, flicking a wink before she settled, occasionally casting her head back to reassure him with a gaze.

  The Champion watched the far left piece from Carsis scrape up, drag along the entire board, weaving in and out to avoid the other players. He imagined it would again take Elryia head on. It, instead, went two spaces below her and tucked directly behind, threatening the wall of his castle. So the Champion brought forth the most valiant man he knew to stand guard, Ristalln bowing before he charged over, matching what Grahamas believed he would in reality; straining against the binds, desperate to fight.

  Again, the fires echoed and roared, the heat unbearable, the lines of it so close to be defined, licking their way towards the board, engulfing the once beautiful landscape and turning it only to ash.

  “Grahamas…you’re running out of time…”

  “You must release us…”

  “Release us, Grahamas…”

  Graham breathed, cast off the distraction and turned his attention to Nallar, commanding him only one space over on El’s right. The dragon obeyed, his massive wings flapping once, then twice, before his movement began, a plume of smoke exiting his nostrils when he was situated—the final black cloud placed directly in front of him.

  The Champion allowed one final breath, and a last glance to the impending fire acting as Ristalln had, struggling, desperate to work its way closer. He faced back to the board and finalized his decision, hoping that he had done enough. That his front line would hold, that his castle would remain protected and he could use the final fifteen minutes to guide Elryia.

  Yet fifteen became ten, all too quickly. The land could no longer withstand the blaze that threatened it. This time he heard the rush of the flames, the cracking and searing of a dying world around him. He looked, but immediately cast away to save his eyes from blistering and his hair singing. The sweat sprouted almost immediately to soon gush from his forehead and trickle into his eyes. The last glimpse Graham caught was the shadows, countless faces pressing through the fire in utter agony, stained and charred flesh, gapping mouths begging for help.

  “You’re running out of time, Grahamas…”

  “You must win….”

  “Must win…”

  He only hoped he had. In seconds, he would know.

  Far off to the right, it began. The once black shroud that covered the pieces dissipated one by one. The first being that in front of Gort.

  Immediately, the Champion’s faith died.

  Gort could not win this battle. None could. Before his white wall, Carsis stood—eyes still soulless and bleak but a tiny, prideful smile on his face. To his right, against Lanyan, Valaira. Next to her Nwour and finally Estechian. Nearly all of the highest ranking officers stood to defy Grahamas’ one defense, one chance at winning. They would all win, and thus create a line Grahamas could not pass in the time allotted.

  The sword Carsis held raised high above his head, ready to strike Gort down once he was revealed.

  Only, when the cloud faded, it wasn’
t Gort. Grahamas himself was face to face with the dark king.

  His eyes expanded, his mouth cast open but no words immediately formed. He only twisted his vision to look at the castle, then back to the Champion. “How…” What could very well be described as fear echoed throughout his face, and the once powerful sword dropped down lifelessly. “You were to be guarding the castle.”

  Grahamas tightened his own grip. “And how would you know such a thing?” The Champion’s gaze sharpened, but lips crept up. “No, you do not need to answer nor do I need to wait for one. You saw it. Or, at least you believed you had, what I wanted you to in order for you to be led into my trap. You were reading my thoughts all along. I fabricated them.”

  The King opposing the Champion grew pale as one by one he revealed his remaining players. Opposite Valaira Elryia stood, defiant, hands dancing at her side, ready to cast her out. A rage burned in the eyes and the soul of Nallar against his decayed, dark brother.

  But before Grahamas could reveal his final piece, the ground about him rattled, the rush of heat struck him so hard it nearly shoved him over. Five minutes left. Yet, despite all that the Champion kept a hard gaze drilled into Carsis.

  Oddly enough, he was smiling once more. “I am not sure how this came about, but you’ve still lost.”

  Five minutes became four, and the fire shoved again, a strain and shattering sound as the rage broke through. Voices and growls, whimpers and pleads.

  “Grahamas help…”

  “Please, Grahamas…”

  “…please.”

  A sick, twisted expression played on Carsis’ face, seeing the anxiousness that stained Graham’s demeanor. The man laughing, before he uttered the reality. “Even if it’s your Cavalry opposite mine that would simply force a stalemate. And you’ll never make it to my castle before this blaze claims your life.”

  “You’re right, except for one thing. It’s not my Cavalry you face, but Ristalln.” With the words uttered, Grahamas turned and flicked his eyes down, casting off the veil covering his Knight, raising his sword, face expressing a knowing smile.

  “Then you lose…” Carsis roared again. “The Cavalry holds a higher rank, a higher number.”

  “Have you forgotten the rules? Look at the situation placed before you. All of us a mirror image except for the last, which will be the deciding factor.” Carsis still seemed as though he did not understand, so Grahamas put it in terms he was sure the other would. “The Knight protects his King.”

  “No…” He whispered, realization setting in on him.

  “Aye.” Grahamas marked, feeling the weight about his arms free amidst another shatter, the wall of flames closing in, now utterly suffocating. “Yours a total of twenty-six, mine a total of twenty-nine.”

  Far in the distance Carsis heard the cry of Estechian fall, the piece finally assuming its illusion-like state, the frame of the gray haired mine shattering into a thousand tiny pieces—as though a mirror was broken. Nallar unleashed a blazing stream for flames, Nwour shrieking and bellowing before the image faded. Elryia, with a nod, thrust her hands forward releasing the spell she had built up, a mass of frost from one hand, arcs of lightening from the other. A mix of ice and sparks grabbed hold of Valaira, wrapping her and constricting her before both flashed away.

  Carsis and Graham turned back to face each other, the Champion’s arms raising of their own volition, casting the sword high. “Your time has passed.” Graham uttered before driving the blade down, burying it deep within the King’s chest.

  Instead of fading as the others had, Carsis simply wore a look of hate and rage. Even when all the other pieces drifted away, even after the colors returned to normal Carsis remained—shock evident on his face.

  “How…” He whispered, clutching his chest the moment Graham had wrenched the sword free. “How could you possibly have known about your thoughts?”

  Graham, though he knew it only to be an illusion, one that appeared frighteningly real, felt compelled to answer none the less. Only, he didn’t have one to give. “I could not say.” A realization crossed the Champion’s mind, his face as puzzled as Carsis’. “I simply…did.”

  Carsis dropped to his knees, and once more that look—the very genuine look—of disgust and abhorrence dominated before all the color drained. His skin once very real now hardened, cracking in several places as stone replaced flesh. His eyes lay still, the expression on his face now permanent, losing any semblance of actual emotion—seeming now only a statue overwhelmed with anger. As though a thousand years had passed in a matter of seconds, the form decayed and crumbled, a gust casting away the now ash remains of the fallen King.

  Grahamas held for only a moment, watching first the dusty cloud fading away then allowing a breath and glance over to the edge of the board where the wall of fire—only a foot away—died, leaving behind the once glorious garden.

  And far beyond him, located at the other end a tiny light pierced through the air, one line ripping up another down to eventually expand out, gleaming so brightly Graham could not know or see what lay on the other side but he moved to it regardless, both fear and excitement rushing through his veins. Once he had entered fully, the light—the doorway further into Sayassa—closed.

  Grahamas had passed his second trial.

  Well beyond the mists, in the world Grahamas had left behind, much further than the influence of the illusion should have reached, Carsis rode on to Hensah. His body remained still while his mind shifted violently between that which he knew and a twisted, fragmented dream of the events that had taken place. Only brief glimpses found their way, forced into his psyche, but the last image that surfaced before Carsis was hurled back was Grahamas driving a sword into his chest.

  And deep within his soul, the tiny ember of a memory long since buried began to surface. A vengeance and hatred, well beyond that for Jeralyle, burned.