In A Time Of Darkness

by Gregory James Knoll

  * * * * *

  Elryia had prepared for this day to be like any other that had occurred over the past month. That they would start out having breakfast with everyone else; a number that had almost doubled with the addition of over a hundred dwarves.

  Then after eating, that large group would split into four smaller ones and train like always, adding to the wonderful progress each had made. Lanyan had taken a month to get each rider comfortable enough to charge and hold, turn and trot while using only their weak hand. Their strong one was used for their sword, lessons given by Ristalln for them to use on horseback and the dwarves to on foot. The Knight, after a month, had brought them past control, focus, speed. All the things that Grahamas had instructed originally—the way it had always been. Now, he was on to teaching them basic techniques such as parrying, blocking, when to strike, where to look for an opening, and how to use it. But the most imperative and useful thing he taught them was how to charge, maintain the balance and grip on a weapon, even hitting something full force. Often, he ran drills, having the dwarves run back and forth along their training ground, only to plow full long into the targets posted on the back end. It was a useful teaching, but it only seemed to enrage the dwarves. Not a day had past where they left even one pillar still buried, driving them down from pure anger. It was something that amused Ristalln.

  Something that inspired Gort.

  He had struggled at the beginning, his first few days spent quietly and awkwardly as though he was out of place, even though he was closer to his home than anyone. On the seventh day, when he saw the other groups being led back and forth, and the frustration it would cause, he used the same technique on his own. Intentionally choosing a training circle for all his pupils, one that was much further from the others and farther than need be. Yet he did not run them, he walked, keeping them in the tight-knit group that Rhimaldez had trained them to have. He would take his time leading them to the circle, and it seemed so intentional that Lanyan, Ristalln and Elryia all asked him why. His reply was simply "I'm dealing with dwarves mostly, and needin' ta teach them to be aggressive. Nothin' makes a dwarf angrier than havin' to walk long distances in the open.”

  When his group arrived on his ring, he would taunt or goad them, never wavering until they wanted to tear the beards from their face. But more often than not, they took their infuriation out on him, using any method they could—grappling with him, swinging their fists or even biting—to try and best him. Some got close, but none ever could. It seemed rough, and albeit rudimentary, but it worked. At least for a week, until they realized that his antagonizing was intentional. Another three days had passed before Gort revealed what truly drove him and why he was often so emotional when it came to fighting. Not one said it, but watching them, Elryia knew that was enough to inspire them to draw upon their own life experiences to help them.

  It had been that way every day since, and as El pulled from the tunnel and into the training ground, the sun shone on her, warm and inviting. Her stomach full and mind eased, she took in a deep breath, planning on it being just another normal, beautiful day.

  "YOU STUBBORN DWARF!"

  "YA OVERBEARING ELF!"

  Elryia stopped, and her once radiant smile turned into a curious smirk, watching as Sarahlya stomped off to the right side of the field, Gort trudging over to the left and Lanyan coming right down the middle.

  "What... happened?" Elryia asked, trying her best not to chuckle.

  Lanyan huffed. "Sarahlya's upset and Gort can't understand why."

  "What upset her?" Elryia asked, peering around to watch her.

  "Gort did. He's trained every other elf except her and she's taking it personally."

  "Shouldn't she?" Elryia shrugged.

  "She should, but it's not in the way that she believes and he's fine with letting that go on. You know Gort. He won't explain things until he absolutely has to. In all honesty, I agree with his decision not to train her."

  The woman fell a sharp look on the Elf. "Lanyan, why would you agree with that? We need him to teach everyone to fight."

  "I know, El but it's for the best."

  "How?"

  Lanyan stepped closer and lowered his tone. "He's supposed to be aggressive and full of rage. And it's hard for him to do that when he's around someone that makes him giddy and fluttery."

  Confusion now toppled over on the young woman's face. "Fluttery? Gort..." She looked over at him, then to Lanyan to get verification.

  "Aye."

  She needed more. "That Gort?" She pointed.

  "Aye. He's been like that since the very first night. Only, he can't tell her that. He didn't tell her anything. Hence the argument."

  El dipped her head back. "Ah. And that's why she's frustrated."

  "Very."

  Elryia giggled, but it faded. "I agree with it, but I'm a touch worried about her."

  "Don't be." It was Lanyan's turn to laugh.

  "No?"

  "El, in all honesty, I think if it came down to it, she would put Javal in his place."

  "Truly?"

  Lan nodded. "I think that's why Gort's so smitten with her."

  "Hmm.” El gave her one last glance. “I still feel guilty for leaving her out though. You'll keep an eye on her, aye?"

  "Of course." A smile lingered, but a sudden noise cast off any expression and turned his ear to the sky.

  "What is it?"

  "A falcon..." The Elf turned up harder, and straightened his head. His mouth was aimed at the sky, two of his fingers on either side to allow him to force a shrill whistle out. Moments later, a tiny black speck in the sky circled and descended, growing larger with each foot it fell. Wings spread out, flapped, the now visible falcon circled one last time before landing on Lanyan's free forearm. "Varalis’ falcon..." He whispered, his free hand untying the note stuck to its leg.

  "What does it say?"

  "They've found four. One at Hensah, two near Tarnel and one outside Laruze. All of them dead and all killed in the same fashion." Lanyan's face turned quizzical as his hand dropped to his side. "Just as you thought."

  "Aye...only wish I knew why."

  Lanyan looked at the bird that clung to his forearm. “I can have them ask the town members if they saw anything."

  Elryia nodded. "Please do."

  He bowed and moved to catch up to Jeralyle so he could borrow his quill and write a response. She breathed a sigh, hoping that Lanyan would shed at least some light on this rather strange occurrence, realizing this day may not be as normal as she had initially thought.

  "Good Mornin' Lass."

  Elryia was so deep in thought that Javal's booming, gritty voice from behind her forced a jump. "Good Morning, Your Highness." She turned with a smile to see the black-bearded King walking out of the tunnel, a rather large object wrapped in cloth slung around his back. "It's a beautiful day, no?"

  "Aye. It's hurtin' my eyes." He grinned and winked. "All goes well?"

  "Same as usual. So, yes. Well."

  "Good. Have ya seen Gort around here?" His huge head raised and twisted.

  "He's leading his troops off to the far... far end."

  "AH!" Javal sounded frustrated. "I suppose I be making the same walk then." One that he began, but tucked a massive-yet-gentle hand under her arm. "Come keep me company. I have something I want ta give him." She nodded, following along willingly. "Yer doing a good job with them. Ya all are. I have faith that on that battlefield my dwarves will be in trusted hands.”

  Elryia bowed at the compliment. "Thank you, King." But her face did not show the same discernment.

  "Ya do na trust ye will do well?"

  "I trust in everyone's ability to lead them. Most have been there, I have not."

  Javal squeezed her arm lightly. "No one's born a leader, El. They're made. And each one had a first battle. Trust a dwarf that's seen his share, ye're going to do fine."

  The young woman smiled, that comment leaving her—at least for now—without another worry.


  When the long walk for them was finally over, both found Gort not in the ring where they thought, but on the outside, judging a squabble between two others. When he saw the King, he left his duties to meet the ruler and save him the rest of the walk. "Come ta fight, eh?"

  Javal reached out at clasped the forearm of the oncoming Gort. "I actually may take that offer, but it's not why I've made this drastic walk. Over tha past month I've watched ya fight and turn these bunch into warriors, and over tha past years I've seen you struggle with your own loss. I think it's time I gave ya this. Ta help ya avenge it." Once Javal had released his grip on Gort's arm he used it to pull the long, slender item from his back. "This has been passed down from generation ta generation. In times of old, Kings would give it ta their greatest warriors before they went into battle. It only seemed fitting that I grant it ta ya now." Javal pulled the cloth to reveal an item that Gort had heard stories of, but never actually seen.

  "Krend..."

  "Aye, the Battle Hammer." The shroud now fully removed, Gort's gaze fell on the equipment named after the greatest weapon-smith known to Forgas, a dwarf that had created it some centuries years ago. Though it was called the Battle Hammer, it was only partly true. The handle was long, thick, melded from a blackened steel with remnants of the original silver cast out in slits that resembled lightning sparks. The butt molded into a sharp point, the top split into two parts. One of a large-headed hammer, the end a damaging flat square a foot in both length and width. The other a long, thin blade of an axe, nearly two feet in length. Both the flat of the hammer and the razor edge of the axe a polished silver, beyond it the same dark steel of the handle. The weapons were connected to the pole by two pieces of thick, rounded metal, a long square slit between them, leading to the pole that came to a sharpened point that went several inches past the two weapon’s tips.

  "I..." Gort smirked, obviously trying to cast his expressions of appreciation and honor off, but they overwhelmed him, and he bowed before Javal as he took the weapon. "Thank ye, Javal."

  "Ye've earned it." He said, gladly handing it over.

  Gort gripped it, turned it and felt the balance, dipping his head to his King one last time. "I appreciate this." He said, more of a whisper then turned back to his group of dwarves. "Who wants ta help me get use ta my new hammer?"

  Elryia had never seen dwarves run away as fast as she did that day.

  “It seems as though it’s the day for gifts.”

  El heard the voice behind her, and instantly she lit up, spinning around to face it. “Lor!” She squealed and charged to embrace her.

  “Ely.” She hugged back. “It’s good to see you. How are things?”

  Elryia finally loosened her grip, and cast her gaze around. “Everything is coming together, better than we ever imagined. How was your journey?”

  “Wearing, in more ways than one.” Her eyes reflected sadness temporarily, and her head lowered. Two weeks prior she had went to Elryia and the rest of Light’s Awakening to advise them of a short absence. Though she would not say why exactly, she implied that it would lead her back to Sayassa.

  Since Grahamas, none had ever considered going back there or even mentioned it. Before Lornya even left, they all had recognized the pain registered on her face. Yet she was adamant so they all knew it to be important.

  Looking at her now, that same belief was re-affirmed by Elryia. “I know, Lor.” She soothed, pushing her hand to the woman’s shoulder. She did not want to pry about where the Goddess had been, but a single question lingered—one she did not want to ask, but needed an answer for all the same. “When you were in Sayassa…did you...I mean, Grahamas, is he?”

  Lornya looked almost ashamed. “I am sorry, Elryia. Though I traveled there I could not commit to going in.” Her gaze lowered to meet the young woman’s. “And it was for that reason I did not, only took what I needed from the surface.”

  Elryia wasn’t sure if the answer made her feel better or worse, but accepted it regardless. “I suppose…hope, one day we’ll both be able to face it.”

  The Goddess smiled gently and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Aye, but we will always miss him.”

  Though it was the truth, it was one she did not want to linger on longer than the moment she already had, and instantly averted the subject. “We have missed you as well. A certain Knight especially.”

  Without fail, the Goddess brightened. “I am crushed to know I’ve affected him so.” And the coy smile played further, inspiring one in Elryia as well. “Was he terribly distraught?”

  “Undeniably so.” Elryia could not help but giggle.

  Lor chuckled, then held out a hand with dancing fingers. “Come. Let’s find him and ease his tormented soul.”

  As El gripped her waiting palm, she glanced across the massive field, of which Ristalln was on the other end. She silently cursed the Dwarf for opting to put his training ring so far away, but stepped forward all the same.

  As they walked, Lor casually looked about, studying the different areas. “You’ve done well, Elryia. He would be proud.”

  She blushed and bowed her head slightly. “I have done things as he would. His story has inspired a good many of our troops. All, in fact. But the rest of us have decided to do something to help remember him.”

  The Goddess focused her idle gaze on the young woman. “You seem as though you wish to ask something of me.”

  With her free hand, Elryia tucked her hair behind her ear. “I do…actually. Do you recall Grahamas’ tree in Loruze?”

  “I do.” Lornya squeezed her hand a bit tighter.

  “And could you re-create it…here, I mean?”

  She could not help but laugh. “You believe that to be within my power?”

  El blinked. “It’s not?”

  “It is.” Lornya toyed, leaning in to whisper. “I just don’t like to brag.” She repositioned herself. “I would be honored to.”

  “Thank you.” She stated.

  Lornya was set to ask what they had planned, but could see the other woman’s reluctant nature and held off. “Anything else to note since I’ve been gone?”

  Elryia shrugged slightly. “No, aside from Gort having a crush on an elf.”

  “What?!”

  El managed another smile. Then, without indication, a thought struck her and she snapped her head over to glare at Lornya, tugging on her hand. “Did you have something to do with that?”

  “Me? Sway Gort? Ha! Now that is something beyond my power.” She winked. “Regardless. I just guide people in that direction. It is they who…” She stopped mid-sentence and stared off across the field. “…oh.” Came her whisper, noticing the sword ring now only ten yards away.

  In the middle, batting away swords of three separate dwarves was Ristalln—bare-chested, his blonde wavy hair untied and draped all about his shoulders. He twisted to his left to parry one strike and caught them in the corner of his eye. He pulled even further and raised his head, his face erupting in the classic grin, gazing longingly.

  He remained smitten and distracted—all until the dwarf on his right took advantage and knocked him on the side of the head with his wooden sword.

  The orange-haired dwarf raised his arms in victory, the others around him cheered and Ristalln went cross-eyed and held his temple.

  Lornya burst into a fit of laughter. “So charming…” She confessed and Elryia could not help but react the same way.

  The Knight whipped around to glare, and all dwarves quieted instantaneously. Once he was sure they would not attempt another sneak attack, he turned his smiling face towards Lor and Elryia, heading out of the ring.

  While Elryia believed they would rush to each other and embrace, they held—quite possibly out of respect for her—and stood apart, shifting nervously and granting only brief eye contact.

  “Greetings, Knight.” Lornya dipped her head slightly and bent her knees in a subtle curtsey.

  “Greetings, Goddess.” Rist grinned slyly and lowere
d his head to match hers. “How did your journey fair?”

  “Well, thank you.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” He raised, straightening himself while his feet continued to shuffle.

  Meanwhile, Elryia gazed between the two, anxiously awaiting either to move to the other, but it seemed they would only carry on with polite chatter. Though they would never say it, Lornya and Ristalln remained tactful about their relationship for El, and the dozen dwarves now watching them intently.

  Unable to help it, El chuckled when she saw them, and stepped away from the two. “I’m going to see if they need anything.”

  “Thank you, El.” Lornya smiled at the obvious excuse. “That would be extremely helpful.”

  “Appreciate it, Ely.” Ristalln replied, and she nodded in reply before making her way to the ring.

  Once she had distracted the dwarves long enough, Lornya seized the opportunity and grabbed the Knight by the hand. “Come.” She bade. “I have something to give you.”

  Though he made the attempt, the lurid expression shown through. “Most certainly.”

  “Not that” she swung at him “but you’ll like it just as much.” She turned and headed towards the empty side of the fields, unable to tell if the following scoff came from Valliant’s feet or his mouth.

  When they were away from prying eyes, Lornya spun the Knight so he was facing her, embraced him and kissed him lightly. “I missed you.” She stated, drawing back.

  “And I you.” He closed on her, and stole another peck.

  With a smile, she reached behind her back and held. “But it was worth it, I hope.”

  “Aye? What was?”

  She winked, pulling her hand out, revealing a vial—much larger than that she normally carried—made of glass. Its surface was iridescent, shifting from blue, turquoise and finally green, with a smooth surface until the neck, where oak leaves had been carved all the way to the bulb-stopper.

  Inside it was a heavy glowing emerald liquid that sloshed when the bottle moved. “I wanted to get you something, and realized only lately this is the one thing you do not have.”

  Ristalln’s eyes expanded. “Is that wine?”

  “Better.” Lornya giggled and shook her head, while the Knight’s expression quirked. “Do you trust me?”

  “Implicitly.”

  “Good. She leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Close your eyes and tilt your head back.”

  He nodded, almost giddy, and obeyed her request. Once he had, Lornya stepped back and whispered again—this time to the ground, waving her free hand over it. The dirt broke beneath her feet, the sharp tip of a leaf pushed through and the rest followed, a strong, wide ivy platform that wormed under her stance, its vine cork-screwing out to raise the Goddess up.

  Once she was towering over Ristalln, she pulled the stopper off the vial, turned it so the lip hovered over the Knight’s forehead. Slowly, like an emerald sap, the liquid made its way out, stretching down without ever detaching from the bottle. When it made contact with the Knight’s flesh, it flared a bright green, seemingly taking on a life of its own. It pulled from the vial completely, twisting and turning, bubbling up in certain areas, then falling as though it was breathing. It expanded, stretching to cover the Knight’s face, then ebbed along to envelop his neck and shoulders. The more it shrouded, the quicker it moved, now almost rushing as it worked over his torso and onto his arms and legs.

  Once every inch was coated, the liquid shifted again, slowing and beginning to harden, cracking noises given off in random places.

  Then all was silent.

  The ooze—all over—flared once more. It was so intense, it took even Lornya by surprise, who shielded her eyes. When it faded and she opened them again, her gift had finished forming: one of a kind armor built from the mists of Sayassa.

  “This…” Ristalln gasped, looking down, his voice echoing out of the helmet—a plate from his forehead to his mouth, forming a V shape to protect his face. The bottom end pointed past his chin, the other two over his ears and past the back of his skull. Two slits formed for his eyes, six holes for his mouth. “It’s incredible.”

  He held his hands out, admiring the gauntlets first. One large plate covered the back of his hand that rose in the middle, giving it two even sides that sloped down towards the edges. It started out square at his knuckles, but sharpened and came to a point near his wrist. Another tip met the first to make contact with bracer. In the same style, the arm plate spread out to wrap all the way around. When it reached the elbow the outer edge curved away from his arm, shaping into a crescent, angling towards the bicep plate where the same design continued. A much larger curve wrapped around his arm, sharpened high above his shoulder and turned to line over the torso piece—a smooth, single unit from front to back that embossed on the front and sides. Two covered his pectoral muscles—large squares with defined lines, that almost resembled the face of a boulder. Directly in its center was a diamond-shaped gemstone that glowed brighter than the rest of the armor.

  “You made this?” She could hear him gasp from underneath the helmet.

  “Aye.” Her smile at his fascination was evident. “A mix of the Mists and the land I watch over.”

  The Knight moved, taking a few steps and getting used to the feel, the emerald armor shimmered, translucent images washing over like the veins in a leaf. When his legs bent, the armor pulled into two pieces: the shin guard, which curved near the face in the same form as the top. Another point—this one straight—raised over his knees. When he straightened his legs, it fit into the triangle shaped outline of the bottom thigh plate. The top was the same strong, lined square as the torso. “I’m just amazed. I wish I could hug you.”

  Her dark red lips curled up. “Place your fingers on the jewel.”

  The Knight’s head lowered to stare down, planting them over the emerald. “Like so?”

  “Aye.” The Goddess nodded and watched as the leaf lowered her back to the ground.

  Ristalln held for less than a minute. The armor flared, then began softening. As it had when it was poured, it began to shift and pool, creeping along his skin; only this time in reverse. Miraculously, the entire liquid fit into the tiny crystal, which now became a pendant around his neck.

  The Knight, back to normal, looked stunned. When he finally recovered, he rushed to the Goddess, embracing her as tight as he could. “Thank you.” He kissed her, then picked her up off the ground. “Thank you.” Kissing her a final time before he realized his actions may be uncouth. However, she laughed and returned the gesture all the same. After he set her down, he examined the pendant again. “Incredible…” He whispered. “And I simply need to follow the same process to put it on again?”

  Lornya nodded, eyeing the jewel. “Aye. It’s only one of its many unique properties.”

  “It’s almost like…” A wave of sadness washed over his face.

  “…Radiant Hope.” She held the same emotion, and crawled into his arms. “I miss him.”

  Ristalln held her, pressing his chin to her shoulder. “As I.”

  “How is Elryia?” She asked, almost afraid to.

  “Focused. Partly for him, partly because I don’t think she wants it to catch up. If it does, though, she always has us.”

  “Always.” Lornya pulled away slowly and faced the ring. Elryia was still there, keeping the dwarves busy with simple magick. “Speaking of which, she asked I re-create his tree.”

  Ristalln wrapped his arm around her waist and began walking with her. “Aye. We’ve decided on a tribute for him, temporarily for now. El thought that would be a good idea, and we’ve all added to it over the past week.”

  “I would be honored to.” She squeezed a little tighter. “Tonight?”

  “Please, aye. We were waiting for you to return so you could be part of it.”

  “Thank you.”

  Ristalln winked, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek, idly tracing his fingers over the pendant. “Thank you.”

  �
��Most certainly, Love.” She reached up, running her hand through his hair.

  He pressed to kiss her a final time, then turned towards the sword ring, distracted by the incessant cheers from the dwarves, encouraging Elryia to make her tiny flames bigger and more destructive.

  “Do you suppose we should save her?” Lornya pondered.

  Ristalln expressed disappointment. “If we must, but I was hoping to see something explode.”

  He winked and walked forward, prepared to continue training.

  As the day wore on, Lanyan sent the falcon off and returned to his Cavalry. Gort slung his new hammer every direction he could while Sarahlya remained on the opposite side, though each would occasionally look over at the other. Ristalln continued teaching his chosen soldiers the sword and Rhimaldez taught structure. Everything seemed in order. Yet the closer the sun came to vanishing from the sky, the more the nerves set on Elryia. As it had happened every night, the group would gather for dinner and after, one would share a story about Grahamas. Most came from Ristalln, several from Lornya prior to her absence, a few more recent from Jeralyle, Lanyan, Gort and Rhimaldez. Until tonight, Elryia had not shared one. For her, it was far too painful. But tonight was different. Grahamas’ memorial had swayed her—strongly—to speak of him. And while that was her most powerful reason, something else lingered in her head as well. She worried that she was growing detached from the group, and Javal's words earlier had reminded her that all looked to her as their new found leader, and she had to start living up to her position. By not inspiring them as the others had, it was possible they would lose trust in her. That was the one thing she could not afford. So tonight, despite her pain and her emotions, she would honor them with one of the countless things Grahamas had taught her.

  She sat to eat with them, listened as they shared their own stories, and remained quiet as they finished their meals. But when silence existed amongst all, and most eagerly awaited their new found tradition, Elryia stepped up to begin.

  "Good evening, everyone. I hope that your day was not too hard..." She half-smiled, struggling for a way to start. "I know that I have not spoken about Grahamas yet. It is not that I don't have things to share; I just could not find the strength to talk about him. But over this past month, in watching all of you train so vigilantly, it's reminded me that I, too, need to be strong. In his loss, I had forgotten that, even though it was he who first taught it to me." A sigh exited, and her head bowed long enough for her hand to raise and wipe away a tear. "When I was younger, my parents were murdered by one of Idimus’ main advisors, Kalinies. And for a year I held on to a blinding hate that threatened my very sanity. Though Grahamas did his best to help me, I could not let go of my obsession for vengeance.” Elryia shifted, looking between those she knew well and those she was just starting to know. “One night, I decided to act on it. I knew Grahamas would never let me, so I planned on running away while he slept." Elryia actually managed a watery smile. "It seemed like a good idea, but I forgot how well he could hear, and Graham was waiting for me outside despite my stealth. We fought. He argued with me to stay and I got angry with him, wondering why he would not want to punish the man who killed my parents right alongside me. In frustration, I tried to walk away from him. It was then he told me one of the many, many things I will never forget. That justice is more important than revenge. And that if I were to kill Kalinies that day, I would most likely have died as well. I would have lost myself to the hate and bitterness, a place where I may not have been able to come back from. If I murdered him, I would have been no better than he. I couldn’t see that, at least not initially. I only had the pain, wandered in it. I may still have been there if it weren’t for him.”

  El paused, her gaze easing as she turned it towards the sky. “Grahamas always had a way of inspiring me, and reminding me of the true meaning of strength. Anyone can do what they want, but it takes someone of resolve to do what is needed. That person can put aside their own feelings to do what's right. Grahamas lived that way every day of his life. He spent every moment doing what was needed, existing only for his duty and never regretted it once, I imagine, even as he passed." She allowed her words to set on them while trying to calm her own emotions. "And I see in you that same strength. I know you have fought hard, and that you will continue to do so. I will be honored to battle alongside you that day. And I promise to try and keep that same strength, and help you all to keep it as well." With that, Elryia placed her eyes on Lornya. “Lor, if you would please.” The young woman bowed and stepped away, revealing a large empty patch of dirt in front of the camp.

  Upon her request, Lornya stood then glided her way passed, dipping her head. The Goddess did not say anything prior, only knelt before the empty soil and brought two fingers to her crimson lips. As they traced away from the kiss, her breath chased them, fueling a soft, green glow that surfaced, then placed them on the ground. The radiance lingered long after her hand expanded, working its way into the soil. The ground writhed and rumbled but remained solid. It wasn’t until her free palm pressed down, did the soil actually break.

  From it, a tiny green bud rose up, wavering against the wind as a curly vine helped it ascend. Within minutes, that had doubled in size, tripled in height. The bud had split, forming into two leaves, then separating into four.

  Lornya stepped back at that point, and watched with the rest. In what would take decades normally, now only took minutes. The vine parted on one side and grew horizontal. Further down a sibling split occurred on the opposite, while its top continued to multiply leaves. The once bright green of the outside grew darker, hardened, and indentations drew down it in random areas, following the curve of the stem, which was now reaching towards the sky—taller than most members of the group. Its side counterparts continued their journey, one straight out, the other curved—not as direct—upwards.

  The leaves expanded further on the top and bloomed on the sides, canvassing three times the size of their trunks—which now were a dark brown, and covered in years worth of layers.

  The top end twisted one last time, cracking as it did, and settled several feet above even Ristalln. From Elryia’s stance, the tree stood directly in front of the moonlight, blocking most so that it was outlined in soft, white streaks, giving off the illusion that the tree was glowing, its leaves shimmering a final time at the abrupt stop.

  Everyone spent a moment in silence, and appreciation before Elryia bowed graciously to her. “Thank you, Lornya. It’s perfect.”

  The Goddess returned the gesture, a single tear gliding down her cheek. “My pleasure, El.” She whispered, sliding her palm down the face of the tree. “It is my tribute to him.”

  One by one, each member of Light had given one in their own way.

  Lanyan stepped up first, laying down the original hammer Grahamas had him use to begin his training. Gort followed suit, and although his tool was that of a smelted chunk of metal, it was shaped into the design of a plum. When a somber, saddened Jeralyle took his turn, he placed upon the edge of the tree’s roots a journal—one only half-finished—with the Mage’s dazzle-eyed impressions of the Hero. Merial had woven a large, circular wreath, one mixed of wild flowers, ribbons and smooth Oakwood branches. In the middle was a charcoal drawing upon golden parchment of the man and his relentless grin.

  Rhimaldez took this opportunity to give Grahamas something he wished he had prior, but did not have the chance. He had removed many things from Kaldus, in particular a scroll—the original decree claiming Grahamas as Champion. Because of his interest in the legend, the Captain kept it. Because of his respect for the man, he was willing to part with it now.

  Instead of making a tribute, Ristalln opted to return something. When his opportunity came around, he knelt before the tree, said a silent prayer, and placed Grahamas’ old sword against it, a newly added inscription reading down the blade: A True Friend, A True Warrior, A True Hero. When Ristalln stood, he lowered his head, sighed and whispered “Travel Well, old friend. Safel
y and swiftly.” The Knight then looked upon the last remaining member of Light’s Awakening and smiled.

  Elryia rested a hand on his shoulder as he walked by. She had thought of this night and her memento to him since they had decided on it. El had many things she could have placed, and told one of hundreds of tributes. None of that seemed to fit. Though she had not completely accepted this as saying goodbye, she wished to do something special. Something few had heard, yet every time Grahamas had, it moved him; brought him to tears.

  A song.

  Intensified by her haunting, clear tone. Inflected by her emotions and longing. Driven by her hope and need to inspire.

  Though nerves wracked her, and every stare in the camp was now upon her, she stood tall, gazed upon the tree while drawing in a breath to begin.

  Guided was your land

  By your hope and your honor

  Held safe by your strength

  Never to waiver nor deter

  All of your life

  Was gallantly given to them

  You held to a creed

  Even until your very end

  For Freedom

  When your Kingdom was lost

  You joined them in sorrow

  Yet you kept holding on

  For that Golden Tomorrow

  Your reasons were selfless

  Driven by nobility

  Remembering them all

  For peace, for serenity

  For Freedom

  And so you’ve directed me

  With the same goals and same drive

  Sharing the guidance

  That will last my whole life

  I’ll lead them as you would

  To the future you sought

  I promise we’ll remember

  All, why you fought

  For Freedom

  The tearful Elryia gazed on the tree a final time, lost in the temporary silence, eventually to bow her head.

  It started with one elf applauding, then another. A dwarf’s cheer broke through, to be out-done by a second. Eventually it erupted into an all out appreciation from the crowd, an even stronger reaction from Light. Ristalln—whom had closed his eyes during the song—opened them, now misty, and mouthed the words “Thank you”. Gort turned away to hide his emotions, Lanyan bowed and like the Knight had earlier, said a prayer. Jeralyle held tighter to Merial, strangely looking both sad and energetic. Lornya sashayed over, embraced Elryia tightly, and spoke “For Freedom, Ely. That was beautiful.”

  Then others began drawing closer. Some shook her hand, hugged her or knelt before the tree.

  What had initially started as appreciation for Elryia’s song eventually mixed amongst the rest of the group as overall morale. Soon they were talking, sharing stories and asking questions. At first, Elryia was slightly overwhelmed; a sentiment that faded once she determined what went on around her. Elves were speaking with dwarves, new acquaintances acted like old friends and though it happened too fast to be definitive, El swore Sarahlya had winked at Gort. They were becoming a unit—maybe even friends—and Elryia could hope for nothing more.

  The young woman spent some time in their company, but was determined not to let the night get away from her, though she wondered if she would spend it actually sleeping. It had been the first time since he left that she focused so intently on her memories of him. They often simply forced their way in, and she recalled them everyday when he was with her, but this was different. She had actually pushed herself to bring it back, rather than cast it out, despite how much pain came with it.

  As she made her way to the solitary corner, she chuckled to keep from weeping as she had done so many nights. For in the story she told was the strength she needed to tell it. Her fear had subsided, as did her anxiety. But there was one emotion that grew stronger. And as she laid herself to the ground to stare up at the sky, it continued to develop. When her eyes finally shut, she could only whisper it into the night.

  "I miss you..."

  The Fated Day

  It was the first night in over two months that Elryia had not slept. Anxiety and anticipation had made sure of it. Three days had past since they left Forgas and headed southwest towards the Elysian fields. Of those three nights, even with such a large group traveling at once, she had managed rest. But as the sun broke down the night before, El knew it would rise on that fated day and she could not ease her mind or even slow it enough to shut her eyes. After three months, despite all her preparations and resolve, doubt had set in.

  They were prepared. There was no question. In ninety days, Light's Awakening had trained every last person to be great soldiers, even better than many in Gerin's ranks. Despite how far they had come though, there were only two-hundred and seventy four to fight. The army they were facing had a hundred on them, most on horseback. It was a numbers game, now. Perhaps it was always such.

  El had hope that it wouldn't be so overwhelming, and a part of her still clung to the belief that heart would outweigh odds. If she didn't, she never would have led them here. Though the closer they drew, the more overbearing that thought became.

  "They're over that hill." Lanyan whispered once he rode to her. "I can hear them."

  Elryia nodded, slowing as she looked back a final time. First to Jeralyle and Merial, both with swords in their hands and armor wrapped around their torso. Then to Ristalln, Lornya and Rhimaldez, guiding their two hundred dwarves—a number separated into eight groups and seven lines. In front of them, the elves—all sixty four—riding in one long line. Leading them were Lanyan on his steed, Gort and Sarahlya on foot, Gnert on his GOmobile, now fashioned into a portable catapult. The handle bars had a U-shaped beam attached to loose rivets. The bar spread out and around Gnert as it went back at a downward angle then came around to latch behind his chair. That connected to a cable with a soft leather handle which draped over Gnert's shoulder. At the meeting point of the two sidebars another pole pointed towards the back wheels, at the very end strung another cable and tied to a leather sling.

  It had only taken him a month to build, and another two to perfect its aim. Using the targets that Ristalln had set up, he loaded the sling with mid-sized rocks the dwarves mined for him, an ammunition he carried in two leather satchels hanging on both handle bars. Strange as it looked, though, Elryia was impressed. As small as he was, he still managed to find a way to do his part. In essence, everyone did. She could still not help but wonder, as they came to the top of the hill, if it was enough.

  "Are you ready?" Lanyan asked, raising his hand to stop those behind them.

  "Aye." Elryia turned, first her body then her horse. "Everyone ready?"

  Most nodded, a few “ayes” resonated out of the army. She believed them. Inspired, El rode on. Behind her, Lornya turned to Ristalln to wish him luck, but was suddenly struck curious. "Are you smiling?"

  "No!" Though the brief hint of a grin still glimmered. "No. Just happy I finally get to use my gift.” He gave one last wink, before his fingers found their way to the pendant about his neck, pressing down on it. A light flared, and the living entity made its way out from his chest, covering his arms, legs and eventually his head. A final glint was cast off, and the armor took on its hardened form. “Thank you.” Came his hollow voice.

  Lornya could only chuckle and shake her head. "I love you. You know that?"

  "Aye. I love you back. You know that?"

  The Goddess smiled, leaning over to kiss his helmet. "That I do."

  Aside them, Jeralyle and Merial were not quite as excited. "Nervous?" Merial gripped her sword, nodding her head. "Aye. Me too. Would you like if I were to say something inspirational?" Again a solemn nod. "Remember your bar." For the third time, Merial's head rose and fell in agreement, this one given with a playful grin.

  Gort and Sarahlya were the next up the hill, and Gort could not find any more excuses to keep his secret. "If I do na’ get the chance ta tell ye, I'm sorry I didna’ train ya ta fight. I had my reason."

  The stern, blonde-streaked e
lf turned to him quickly. "You best not say that because you plan on dying. I don't, Dwarf."

  "Nor do I!" he huffed. "I only mention it because after this, ye'll go home and so will I."

  "Good. Well then ease your guilty conscience and do not feel bad about your lack of training. I didn't need it." Her eyes were cold and cruel as usual, but her ascending lips gave her away. As she realized it, she headed back to her brother without another word.

  "I like her..." came a voice behind the Dwarf. Now that she was out of his view, it made room for Javal to enter. The King was dressed in his battle attire that consisted of a sterling silver helmet covering half his face. Two long wide slits for his eyes, in between a thick plate covered his nose. The top was adorned with two lengthy black horns that curled out and then up, in the middle of those a tuft of black horsehair tied with a red and gold band that stuck it completely vertical. The same silver of the helmet wrapped around his forearms as bracers, and strapped to his chest. Gripped in his massive, calloused hands was his own battle hammer, a weapon as tall as he with a worn and scratched head. Beneath the slit for his eye, he winked at Gort, matching the look of anticipation he wore on his face.

  They all appeared ready and Elryia took a deep breath, a moment and one final thought given to the sky before she rode on. "Freedom, my Love. I hope you found it."

  When she headed over the hill, the initial sight of Gerin’s army sent her stomach spinning, and when Lanyan followed he was impacted with that very same sickness.

  "El..." Lanyan whispered. "That does not look like a cavalry of only a hundred men..."

  "No, Lanyan.” She stated, almost a gasp. “It's far more."

  Twice that, and double what they had expected and trained for. Her mind raced, her heart rate followed, and across the field, despite his disfiguration, the General seemed to smile. "What now..." She panicked, expecting Gerin to charge right away. Even after the last had ridden into view, he stood and waited, allowing her the first move. Perhaps even he was wondering if she would make it.

  "El. If you are going to make a decision you best do it now."

  She knew what he spoke of, even though he would never say it. Lanyan wanted her to decide, make the choice to run or stand and fight till the bitter end. Ristalln, Rhimaldez and every other member of Light would. But there were others to think about, ones she turned to look at. She had come to know them over the three months. Sarahlya and Javal, Varalis and Tanea. El would fight to the death; she could not order others to. She tried to cast it off, shifted to face Gerin, who sat across the field, waiting patiently—and oddly, for those who could see him, he looked disappointed. Perhaps he knew what she was considering.

  Lornya and Ristalln seemed to as well. "El..." The Goddess crept a gentle hand over her shoulder. "We'll fight. You know that, but there's no shame in saving lives.”

  It was true, but she could not decide. Fear kept her from riding forward, pride from running back. Mentally she was trapped. Physically, no better. Everything she had taught them, shared with them she had lost in that moment. Heart, morale and hope washed away, leaving an empty space for doubt and despair to creep in. She knew it would not stop with her. Others around her began to feel it as well. The once tight-knit group that had ridden here inspired seemed to break apart. Elves twisted nervously on their horses, dwarves quieted, and the once energetic Knight seemed darkened—even beneath the steel. In a strange way, El felt as though they had lost, and the battle had yet to begin—if it ever even would.

  Then a jerk from Lanyan's mount stole her attention. His face suddenly going grave and pale made her realize the worst was yet to come.

  "What Lanyan?" She whipped around. "What is it?"

  The fear soaking his expression answered before he could utter a word. "We're trapped El. There are horses coming. Hundreds of them."

  "That's why he didn't try anything. We walked right into it." The young woman angled towards the General, and something inside her snapped. Sighing long and hard, the disappointment settled on her again, then the fear. Not for herself, but everyone else. She did her best to try and calm them—make them believe there was a way out, but other elves began to hear it, and soon became so overwhelming that all did. Some faced forward, others back, and all the while Elryia kept her eyes locked on Gerin. There were too many in front, and more coming up. They could not fight them all. Their only chance now was if Elryia could reach Gerin. If she could kill him it may cause enough confusion amidst the others to give them the hope they were looking for. Only, she had to get through Estechian and Drogan to do it, the two strongest now guarding their General.

  "El..."

  She would only get one chance. Her magick was stronger now than it ever had been, but it would still take an extreme effort on her part. No longer paying attention to anything else around her, her mind focused as her fingers flicked at her sides, soft haunting whispers exiting her lips.

  "El..."

  Others may be able to get there faster, drive through with more force, but she would not ask that of any. She led them here, and she would make sure she led them out.

  "EL!"

  She was snapped back by Lanyan's voice, a sharp, but oddly serene tone. Her focus had drawn, but she refused to take her eyes off the General. "Yes, Lan?"

  "Those don't look like Gerin's troops."

  "What?" Elryia finally broke away. She had to. Her gaze fell along a line of men on horseback—two hundred strong—all riding perfectly straight. Their attire was not the red tunics and black sashes of Gerin's soldiers. These were dressed in black leather pants, un-designed shirts of the same color that buttoned down the middle, all but the top three latched. The corner folded across the left, revealing a royal blue fabric shaped in a triangle across the right. Each held an iron spear braced against their hip and swords sheathed on their belt. Not one wavered, each expressing the stern focus of seasoned soldiers.

  Now searching for a better view, Elryia turned fully and pushed through the group—most of which had faced that way as well. The last person pulled from her line of sight, and now clear, she could see every one of them, as well as what was leading them. Elryia's next reaction was shock, so stunning she could feel it crawling along her flesh.

  Directly in the middle, riding several feet in front was the myth that she had believed in when she was young, the whispers that existed among them now and the rumor that Varalis had verified.

  The Golden Dragon.

  Only, it wasn't anything of the sort. Elryia could now discern it was not a creature, but a large man, adorned in golden armor, a royal blue cape chained around his neck trailing behind him, riding atop a brilliant gray stallion with a white mane. El could not make out the details, but she could see where its name stemmed from. Its helmet—as opposed to typical crowns or slit visors—was a replica of a dragon's head, a wide, long mouth with sharp teeth wrapped around the edges. Above the maw, two semi-circle bumps with holes for nostrils. The bridge of the face had tiny ridges down the middle, leading to narrow, sharp eyes. Behind those, four horns—two along the head, perfectly straight, coming to a point that went perpendicular to the ground. Next to those on the inside, two smaller, curved horns aimed at each other.

  When he was twenty yards away, his golden, gloved hand raised, prompting every soldier to come to a perfect stop and wait patiently. Elryia stared as he made his way along, riding around the north end of the troops. He was still too far for her to make anything out, yet she still watched and wondered so intently that she failed to see Ristalln ride up next to her.

  "El..." He stated, catching her eye. "Those soldiers, their uniforms. They’re Hig..." The Knight's concentration and voice was broken by the loud whinny of the Dragon's horse, and all faced to watch him charge—alone—across the field. "What is going on?" But Elryia could only shrug and stare.

  Behind them the soldiers remained stern and still, but all eyes were watching the Dragon's journey, which ended directly in front of the General. And there he held for
a moment, until his two hands raised to pull off the helmet.

  None could see his face, but those with good eyes could see Gerin's. On it resounded fear, and for a brief moment excitement. Words were obviously exchanged before the rider placed his helmet back. Immediately, Elryia turned to Lanyan knowing that he heard. "What did he say?"

  Lanyan shook his head, not quite understanding but repeating it regardless. "Massive defeat."

  It took a moment to register, and not even fully until Ristalln's next comment cemented the now fluttering, faint hope in her heart. "El...those uniforms. They're Highlyian."

  When the rider came back across, he went directly to her. Now she could see the shape of his armor—the golden, frozen flames that rose up around his arms. She knew. When she gazed upon the symbol that burned the same on the armor as it did on his bicep, she could now guarantee who was behind that mask.

  True.

  But he removed it all the same, and beneath it the bright green eyes, handsome face and flawless smile they all knew.

  "Grahamy?" She whispered first, but Ristalln and Lornya, Jeralyle and Merial—eventually everyone else—gasped the same thing. It was evident now.

  Grahamas The True was alive.

  The Champion had returned.

  A thousand questions rushed through her mind, most being variants of “how”. But none of it actually mattered. He was here now. As she had when she believed him dead, she broke—unable to control her body or her emotions, the ten feet between them was closed. First by her charging horse, then her leaping off of it, a beaming face and eyes filled with tears.

  The Champion barely had time to dismiss his armor before she crashed into his waiting arms. Hugging him as she laughed then cried, burying her head in his chest and whispering his name over and over. But before she could kiss him as she so desperately wanted, he pulled back holding her face in both his hands, his own eyes watering as well. "Listen to me..." He began. "I crawled my way out of an unimaginable pit, I fought my way through Sayassa and death itself, all to tell you one thing." He turned her face gently to him and kept his eyes locked. "Everything you are I love, with everything I have." She sought to tell him she loved him back, but most of her words were lost against his mouth, space no longer existing between his and her own. After a long, perhaps inappropriate kiss and cheering from more than half the soldiers, Grahamas held his intense look on her as he finally pulled away. "Come...let's win this war." She nodded, and Grahamas rode her back to Feiron, picking her up to place her upon him. He kissed her one last time, then raised one hand to ask the soldiers to part. Once they had, he waived his own troops on, the men falling into single file to ride through the gap and fill in the front and middle of Lanyan's cavalry.

  Grahamas used that time to hug Ristalln, staring almost envious at his armor, then embracing Lornya, Merial and Jeralyle. He shook hands with Lanyan, Gort and Rhimaldez. Even managed to pat Gnert on the turtle-shell helmet. Finally, he held in front of the group and recalled Hope. Yet he left the helmet off, turning back to the dwarven King, one who had helped and supplied them with so much. "Javal... For Freedom?"

  The King, skin electrified as hope resurfaced in him, turned his eyes upon his dwarves covering the field, each one of them as ready to fight as he. "Aye. For Freedom."

  Grahamas rode up to pick out a random elf from the crowd. "For Freedom?" He asked again.

  The elf replied in a boisterous tone. "For Freedom!"

  On Graham went, to both random soldiers and members of Light's Awakening, asking of them the same question "For Freedom?" until every one of them was shouting the same answer. He would ask it one last time, quiet and serene as he settled next to Ristalln, a smile matching that he imagined the Knight to have. "For Freedom, old friend?"

  Ristalln nodded with pride and turned his horse forward. "Aye, for Freedom.” He gazed out upon the field, and the looming battle. “I've been waiting a long time for this fight."

  Grahamas chuckled, finally riding up next to Elryia to face the General across the field, who now tried to steady his mount. The Champion reached out and squeezed her hand as he always had. "I missed you." He whispered before bringing his hands to the helmet and placing it back on his head.

  Behind him the cheers continued, almost loud enough to drive him deaf, and he straightened his arm, held up his hand to quiet them. But it would only last a moment, long enough for them to hear one thing; a word to break down the non-existent wall that held them back, the wall that they now strained against. All seemed quiet and calm, but each twitched and crouched, and the only sound heard was steel against a sheath, Grahamas drawing out a brilliant silver and golden blade, raising it high above his head.

  "For Freedom, Fate?" He asked of her.

  "For Freedom, True." Only he heard the whisper.

  And then she fell, once pointed at the sky she was now directed across the battlefield as Grahamas spoke the one word that would set them all—including Gerin—free.

  "Rage!"

  Upon A Pale Horse

  In the two-hundred years that Gerin had spent dreaming of this war, of preparing for it, he had taken nearly everything into account. He had increased his numbers from a tiny group of vagabonds to a sizable, trained cavalry. He had spent years searching out the finest weapons and every day teaching each how to use them. Gerin had pushed them to the limit, even harder these last six months, all to organize them for what lay ahead. Before today, he believed he had.

  Yet as he watched the opposing army blaze across the battlefield without a shred of fear in any of them, heard their cries for freedom, saw the hope that drove their steps, he realized he had been missing a very crucial element all this time. The one thing that was going to destroy him.

  Heart.

  He had never even considered such a thing. In truth, he had done the opposite and robbed his soldiers of it. Relentlessly training them, threatening them and even ending some of their lives to inspire the others. He hoped it would make them stronger. It only made them tired, broken and in no shape to fight a war of this magnitude. Their soldiers fought for their life, his fought for fear of their lives.

  For some, that was not enough. A handful broke away at the sight of Rhimaldez, even more at the appearance of Grahamas, and what was once a strong, stern force was now a dwindled brigade who could barely keep their horses straight. In two-hundred years, it was not what he ever imagined, but it was far too late to turn back now. His pride would not allow it. His hope had blinded him, for he knew no matter what happened in the end, he would be set free.

  So on he ordered them, while waiting behind for the one man who could do so.

  The now smaller line drove its way towards the much thicker cavalry opposite them. Grahamas unit filling out the very front, led by the Champion and Elryia, behind them a line of elves, firing short shots that caught several dozen of Gerin's soldiers. They halted when there was no longer space between them, and the two armies crushed together. The sounds of terrified horses, screaming soldiers and cracking steel echoed through all. Grahamas’ line held strong, and for a moment, Gerin believed they would completely engulf his warriors, but they resisted, fanning out as not to let the much larger army around. Within minutes, Grahamas’ line was slowly chipping away at the opposing side, but were still kept from advancing. 

  With a nod to Drogan, Gerin sent out his first line of soldiers to provide back up to the cavalry. "Get around them." The General communicated as the new Captain found his place amongst the back line, guiding them across the battlefield. They did just as Gerin had ordered. They met the back of the riders, but like molten lava poured over ice they stopped abruptly, only to ooze over the edges.

  In seeing this, Graham slashed upward to lay one soldier down, and swung tight towards his left to slow another oncoming warrior. It gave him pause long enough to turn towards the dwarven King and his best warrior. "Javal, Gort. Foot soldiers coming around."

  Both recipients of the message nodded and split. Javal took two g
roups to the right, Gort led two to the left to bleed around the elves in the same fashion and stop the soldiers at the pass. "Come on, dwarves! It's time to earn yer keep." Javal hollered as he charged, meeting the first group of Kaldus troops. The front six unlucky enough to be leading encountered the King's massive hammer swung in a horizontal arc, a blow that sent three flying back, the other three to the ground. The onslaught paused the remaining soldiers, and Javal’s follow-up attack—a horizontal swipe—swung wide. The instant the war hammer halted, a few of Gerin’s troops advanced—unknowing of how fast and easily the king could wield such a massive weapon. As soon as the weapon’s original strike stopped, Javal’s torso jerked and its motion was reversed, going now from left to right, catching one of the soldiers in the side, a second felt a blow to the temple and a third and final had the hammer’s blunt end target the back of his shoulder. From the strength and angle, the attack hurled him behind Javal’s unit.

  The King’s orange-bearded advisor was on him. Before the toppled soldier’s body had completely settled on the ground, it was pinned there by the other’s blade.

  Capitalizing on their momentary disarray, Javal turned to his unit, tapping first his right forearm, then his left. A signal used in the mines when words would not cast over hammers. It was a simple instruction given by the mining dwarf to clear the way. In order not to be hit by the impending swing, the bracing dwarves would draw back, only to rush in after the miner had completed his arch and support the tunnel.

  Many a times, the dwarves had to think quickly to avoid a cave-in and certain death, so their response was rapid when they saw the motion. Six total—three on each side—waited patiently for their King to swing one last time. It was an attack that rendered no victims—only a diversion—but as soon as Javal halted all six ran around, momentarily obscured by his massive frame and met the staggering foot-soldiers. Two victims fell to their swords, one by a rock-hard shoulder driven into his solar plexus, two more by fists and one by a seemingly unbreakable forehead from the King himself.

  The remaining mountain warriors spread out and circled, coming to meet any stragglers who attempted a coup—but the many who still wanted to fight had lost their footing, more than a dozen pushed into the cavalry’s fray.

  On the opposite side, Gort met the second battalion of equal number. Not to be outdone by the King or anyone else, he started by swinging his newly acquired weapon vertical to catch the first soldier across the top of the head. Once it hit the ground, he yanked it up and to the right to tear across the chest of two more with the axe end, then down to his left to clip two more across the side of their face. With that blow landed, he spun both his body and his weapon all the way to his right to fell three more. It created a gap and a commotion long enough for Gort to order his troops. He had tried many ways to enrage them, and most had worked, but almost all could not be used safely on the battlefield without causing them to lose focus. Only one in the countless methods Gort established would work, and he now tugged it from his belt: a tiny, red ribbon that Almri had worn in her hair; one of the few things he carried with him.

  He took the few seconds he had to stare at it, recall the emotions he held when she died, and the rage that burned within him that day. He wrapped the ribbon around his hand, and held—though he echoed fury—long enough to command the others. “Now, warriors. Yer mementos.” He cried out, with a grain and anger in his voice few had heard. “Remember tha fallen!”

  Each reached to their belt, and pulled out an item that held some value to them—be it a pendant of a lost wife, a bracer of a stolen son, or a lock of hair off a prematurely buried father. Gort had intentionally chosen those who lost someone when designing his unit, and was counting on their pain and loathing to play their part.

  It did not fail him.

  It was far from pretty—or even organized—but in those few moments Gerin’s soldiers held, they saw on the opposite side nearly fifty dwarves with grime on their face and a ferocity in their eyes.

  Gort was first to lead the charge. Turning Krend horizontal, he drove forward and extended his arms, one soldier catching the staff in the ribs, another took the oncoming end, and the final had the axe grind into his stomach. But the Dwarf’s feet kept pushing, his legs continued to pump and the first three were driven back into another waiting four. Behind him his comrades let loose, some leaping over others to attack a soldier they couldn’t readily get to without fighting through their comrades. Others drove their shoulders into the legs of a charging enemy. They kicked, elbowed, swung their fists in every direction and put their entire bodies into the fray. Most of Kaldus’ foot-soldiers buckled to their massive strength, several were tossed to the side or straight into the air, and even more were trampled under the insurmountable weight of three hundred years of oppression.

  The line threatened to break in a matter of seconds. In fear, Drogan commanded the third regiment in. Grahamas worked his way through the line of cavalry, one soldier met with a quick jab to his gut by Fate, another an uppercut to the chin and a third a downward slash across his chest. He had seen the latest push, but before it could concern him, the Goddess spoke up. "I'm on it, Grahamas."

  "We're on it." Ristalln nodded his helmet before kicking a gutted soldier to remove him from his blade. Instead of going forward as the Knight assumed they would, Lornya drew back to a clear part of the field. With her eyes closed, her hands draped to either side of her horse, palms facing the oncoming enemy. "What are you doing?"

  Lornya responded "Just watch" with a smile. Beneath her fingertips, tiny fractures appeared in the earth, from them sprouted long vines growing towards the sky. Her gaze opened and flashed forward, hands following, the ivy tumbled over and down, digging into the dirt a second time. It fed into the ground, growing with every inch that ripped across the field, spewing dirt and grass in its wake. The stem was now twice as thick as it had been, and the lines crept their way up to the back end of Grahamas’ army. The Goddess turned her arms out and the dirt immediately cornered around the soldiers and along the empty area to either side of them. Once they had passed by the warring first lines, Lor's slender, long hands faced forward and the two streams of dirt curved in again. Only a few feet before they reached the soldiers, Lornya's limbs flung skyward and on the far opposite end of the field erupted two massive, adult oak trees in a matter of seconds. Soldiers haphazardly walked right on top before it extended, when it had they were launched through the air flying back almost to their starting point. Others were too late to slow their onslaught and charged directly into them. The few that managed to re-direct themselves around were pelted with rocks to the head--courtesy of a grinning, sniffing Gnome in a turtle-shell helmet. Lornya smiled back at him, before drawing her palms even further out, two more holes cracking, vines growing from them right next to the others.

  "You're too far away." Ristalln sighed. "It takes away all the fun." But she heard him chuckle before working forward to the melee, turning to give her one last request. "Don't hit me with one." The thought had never occurred to her, however now she was very tempted. With angst she allowed Rist to work his way on to the front lines where Grahamas, Elryia, Merial, Jeralyle and Lanyan all fought in a tight circle. The Elf making good use of his crossbow, often blocking oncoming blows with his sword, then burying a bolt into the soldier point blank before they could react, clicking over another round and launching it into a distant target before they rode up.

  Any and all that had not been hit by the eight trees Lornya had dispersed filled the second charge. Gort and Javal had moved their troops outward to hold them off, and their numbers were almost evenly matched. Each dwarf battling—and winning—against seasoned soldiers. Most dealt with one, some two. It was only Sarahlya who had more. Five total surrounded her, stalking and waiting to strike. Gort had wanted to aid her, but Lanyan—who had kept an eye on the Dwarf’s back—was watching cautiously but not moving.

  "This is madness." The Dwarf spat, raising his hammer's handle horizontal
to land an oncoming sword. "We should be helping her." He sidestepped and turned the head of the weapon towards the solder and cranked forward, driving it into his face.

  "No." Lanyan said, firing one bolt then another to the chest of two distant soldiers before lunging forward and impaling his sword into the guard Gort had stammered. "I want you to see this."

  Gort grumbled, but followed all the same, idly battling off soldiers as he kept his eyes locked.

  The five spread around her tauntingly. Her streaked hair now pulled back in a ponytail to drape over her small, pointed ears. No longer in her usual olive vest white shirt and black leather pants, her attire was one seamless black outfit. The sleeves were missing and the blouse went around her front, over her shoulders and wrapped around her throat, the back almost completely devoid of fabric, cut into a diamond shaped opening that fell to the small of her spine. It covered over her hips and down to the middle of her thighs, where her usual black laced boots began.

  Unlike other elves, Sarahlya didn't use a bow or a sword. Her weapon was a four foot black bo staff, with silver studded rings on each end and two directly in its center. "Gentlemen...I give you the chance to withdraw now and spare yourselves." She twisted and moved the staff forward so that it was perpendicular to the ground.

  "Ha." Muttered the center soldier. "We're not scared of a little girl."

  She sighed. "Have it your way."

  The first soldier advanced and the surveying Gort still wished to help her. Yet what happened next occurred so fast, he didn't have time. He barely saw it.

  The first soldier had cut down at an angle, a move that was caught when she raised her bo. The clang prompted her right foot to cross behind her left. She spun on her heels to turn her back to all five, as the bo went with her to turn around the blade’s sharp end to its dull side. Now pressed against the back, she shoved her bo forward and down, forcing the already moving blade even further where she curved it to the right, into another soldier’s thigh. When it embedded she yanked back with her right arm, landing the tip against the cheek of the third soldier. Once contact had been made, she pushed her right hand forward and down, prompting the opposite end to raise and catch the middle soldier—blade still buried—right in the throat. She leveled it out again, one hand twisted forward the other back then pulled both apart. The staff unlocked, separating into two parts, from the ends that were once together, foot long blades on each unsheathed. The elven woman continued to draw her arms out, stretching them as far as she was able, flicking her wrists to jab the tips into the stomach of both soldiers on the outside. The blades were ripped out a second later and she spun them in her hand, bringing her arms back towards her body and down to her sides to go behind her, sticking the closer two soldiers. Her arm raised and elbow bent, the staff's blunt end slid past her head to crack the final soldier directly between his eyes. As the five fell around her, she could only smile at Gort and Lanyan, who watched her intently.

  Gort gaped and held only an unblinking gaze on her. Once it passed, he realized she was being honest when she said no training was necessary. Gort could have smiled. He probably should have bowed, but in watching her demonstration his only response was to make one of his own, now even more desperate to impress her. He only had three soldiers to do so with, and he knew it would be far less graceful.

  Seeing how quickly Sarahlya disposed of her soldiers, the three were leery of attacking Gort one at a time. With a nod from the middle brunette soldier the three rushed him simultaneously. The guard to Gort's left aimed a horizontal strike directly at his abdomen. In response, the Dwarf leapt back a step, turned his shoulder to the right as the other attacker stabbed forward. His hammer raised and caught the blade of the brunette man as he swung down at Gort's head. Caught between the axe's edge and the handle, all the Dwarf needed to do was spin the weapon counter clockwise and the sword was locked. It was then wrenched free as Gort pulled down hard to his side, clipping the knee of the right shoulder. On impact, Gort reversed his motion to go up, twisting yet again so that the mallet's end bashed against the middle's chin. Hand high above his head, Gort swapped, tossing the weapon from right to left hand, that same arm dropped a moment later once it had a certified grip, and the final soldier felt fifteen pounds of metal crash onto the top of his head.

  Gort had even impressed himself and sought to search out Sarahlya’s approving gaze, but they were rushed by a second wave, and he lost sight of her as his attention was given to his own survival. The elven woman had watched the encounter—so intently—she failed to see another soldier—a massive man almost seven feet tall, with dark red hair—mix between the ranks, allowing him to broad-side her before she could respond, sending her hard to the ground.

  As he stood over her, his blade raised up and spun to angle down at her. "You have skills, little girl, but those won't save you."

  She reached for her staff as the weapon came down, but a hammer whirled above her and landed between the brute’s eyes with a resounding crack before any harm came. Behind her a gruff voice hollered "Aye, but she's got friends that will!"

  As the man went cross-eyed and crumbled, Sarahlya leaned her head back to see Gort, another small hammer in his hand, ready in case the first had not done the task. It was tucked onto his belt as the giant hit the ground, and he crossed over to offer a hand to help her up.

  One she took, wearing a curious look on her face. "Friends? We're friends?"

  The moment she stood, Gort immediately released her hand. "Eh? No... not... I didna mean me. I just... others that would have stepped in had I not."

  "Mmm hmm." Her skepticism was evident. Her eyes narrowed, but for the first time in the three months he had known her, she smiled directly at him.

  The onslaught had slowed, and Gort let the moment linger, but eventually his gaze found Grahamas and Elryia, verifying they did not need help in dispatching the members of the Cavalry.

  From what he could see, it wasn’t necessary. Elryia rode on his right, Ristalln on his left, matched by Jeralyle and Merial. Gerin's mounted troops were slowly dwindling, and intentionally drawing back as waves of fire sent by Elryia threatened to sear them. Her hands worked non-stop in front of her, flicking her fingers out towards the soldiers, launching claws of fire. After, her second hand followed, blasting cold. In one fluid motion the first trailed behind it, lightning her third choice. Each continued in a rhythmic dance six times over, catching most soldiers in any one of the several spells, the rest scattering. Any that remained were dispatched of by Ristalln, Jeralyle and Merial. The three were in a tight-knit triangle, led by the Knight, using his quick swordplay to throw soldier’s off their game, where his two counterparts would take advantage. Merial’s skills were the better of the two, from obvious, unyielding practice. When the group came upon an injured solider, she and Ristalln would take over to allow Jeralyle the time to tend them, then continue back to the line.

  With an energetic push from all five the Cavalry’s line had broken and behind it Grahamas saw Drogan battling six different dwarves and holding his own.

  The Champion turned to where Rhimaldez held, the back line giving support in case any happened through it. "Rhimaldez." Grahamas momentarily slashed again, not keeping his attention away for an extended length of time, but it was long enough to see the Captain's eyes draw up. "Drogan." Graham flicked his head. "You want to kill him?"

  True had apparently remembered that of all the people in Idimus’ kingdom, Rhimaldez hated Drogan the most. "Aye, very much so."

  "Then have at it." Grahamas nodded to Jeralyle, Merial and Ristalln, asking them to ride back and take the Captain's place. Once they had, Rhimaldez rushed around the right side, lunging out to bury Wind Chaser into an oncoming Soldier's gut, then flicked his wrist to shove him into a creeping second. As he charged, a third fell victim to his ducked head and massive horns, a forth was cracked straight in the mouth by the steel shaft of his spear.

  He had made his way around the main battle to find Drogan a
t its back, still dealing with now two of the remaining six. It only took a moment for the Minotaur's red eyes to find Rhimaldez and he buried his massive axe in the stomach of one dwarf and shoved the other aside to line up with him.

  Rhimaldez remained where he was. Javal, Gort and Sarahlya stayed with their dwarves, while Lanyan, with his cavalry, were holding the foot soldiers back, clearing a very wide path and open space for the two Captains to square off—one on one.

  Blaring red eyes stared, a froth-covered snarl demonstrated without a hint of dismissal. The ex-captain hated Drogan, but the Minotaur held the same emotion for him. As Drogan tensed, and wrapped his callous hands around the leather handle of his axe, Dez seemed to sink further and further into serenity. "You don't have a Wizard to protect you this time.” He spoke—almost whispered—as he stalked around his successor.

  "I don't need one." He barked.

  "Good. I'm glad to see you've made peace with death." His words were followed by him loosening his grip on the spear with one hand and turning the other, shoving the tip forward. It drew right up to Drogan's nose before he had a chance to react, but Dez stopped there. It was simply to catch him off guard, to draw him in. Drogan was stronger and more aggressive, but Rhimaldez would battle him with something he knew the other didn't have—intelligence.

  The Minotaur blinked before reaching up to swat it away, then returned both hands to his axe and lunging forward. It reached high above his head as he took to the air, then Drogan crashed both his axe and body, aimed directly for the other's chest. Rhimaldez’ response was to bring his spear—horizontal—up to catch the handle of Drogan’s axe on the shaft of his spear.

  Surprisingly, Drogan didn't pull back to strike again, instead he stepped forward with his left foot and pressed down, trying to antagonize him with a show of strength, and then best him with it. Which he would have, but Rhimaldez had nothing to prove, so as the Minotaur came forward Rhimaldez stepped back, spinning to his right, pulling the spear towards his own shoulders. The shaft caught the under hook of the axe and brought it forward, and Drogan with it. The Minotaur's momentum was too spurred to be halted and he stepped straight into Dez’ leg sticking straight out, forcing the Minotaur over, gasping for air when the boot planted into his abdomen. "You try too, hard. You always have."

  Just as Rhimaldez predicted, Drogan straightened, now enraged. With even more fury he foolishly came at Dez with the same attack. This time he didn't block it, rather turned his shoulders to let the double blade slip right by him. Again, Drogan was too over-zealous to stop and his weapon bit into the dirt. A simple twist of Rhimaldez' shoulder launched a left hook into his exposed head.

  The blow stung his pride more than it did his hard head, and anger doubled over in his mind. No longer thinking, his rage sought him only to bring harm no matter what the cost, and in freeing the axe he charged, hacking again. Drogan heard the clang of steel but pursued, jerking back to drop it again, then a third time. Rhimaldez back-pedaled, his hands becoming numb from three straight blows, the fourth finally driving him to his knees; the spear from his hands.

  Drogan laughed, and reveled in what he believed to be certain victory. But he took far too long in raising the ax, and Rhimaldez extended his coiled legs and drove his head into the other's stomach before he could bring the weapon down. Both tumbled, the axe falling from the Minotaur's grip as he sprawled his hand out to try and brace himself. His back landed hard, the weapon spun out several feet from him and Rhimaldez used his weight and the force of gravity to bury his horns even deeper.

  Not even a second was given to allow Drogan to regain the breath that had been knocked from him before he felt a huge white fist land on his jaw line. His retaliation was to send an uppercut against Rhimaldez’ chin. He reeled back, but it was done too late and a glancing knuckle clipped the edge. He went much further than Drogan expected, and another moment was lost as he claimed a foolish victory, thinking Rhimaldez was knocked out. That absence of retaliation made way for another strike from Dez to land as he lunged forward moments later, his hands clasped together to crash against the other’s brown, furry chest.

  The Minotaur snarled and struggled to stride back, barely managing to bend his knee and hold Rhimaldez at bay as he swung again. Drogan used the knee and Dez’ momentum to slide even further, but not before he stuck a straight jab right into his nose, then a kick to his gut with his free leg.

  Blood trickled from his nostril but Rhimaldez pursued, lunging forward to lead him closer, further over Drogan's knee. Down the blows rained, a hook from his left hand, a cross by his right, both that landed straight on the other's face. It was the backhand crushed straight against his jaw line that finally caused Drogan enough angst to bring both his knees up, placing his feet on the hips of Rhimaldez. He managed to strike the ex-captain with a glancing elbow across his cheek, stunning him, allowing him to extend his legs and use his feet to force Rhimaldez off and tumbling down the field.

  Unfortunately as Rhimaldez tumbled back, he somersaulted twice, then came to his feet. In his hand, the spear he dropped. A smile crept across his face, as both he and Drogan turned their eyes to the axe laying on the ground.

  The Minotaur didn't think things through. It had never been his strong point. When he saw his axe, he did not remember Rhimaldez was faster than he. He did not consider that the distance could be closed by Wind Chaser based on where he currently stood. When Drogan noticed his weapon, he immediately reached for it, only to have the spear drilled through his hand a second later. He snarled and gripped at his right wrist, writhing in pain. When he tried to pull it free, Rhimaldez only drove it deeper.

  He was trapped, and Rhimaldez held him with Wind Chaser only long enough to allow him to pin the wrist down with his massive boot. A final snort exited Drogan's mouth as the spear's serrated edges were yanked free. The Minotaur struggled but a second foot pressed down against his chest. "This..." Rhimaldez began, raising the now free spear high above his head, the sharp point aimed down "is for anyone you've ever hurt." Drogan's blaring red eyes expanded with rage, then for a final moment, fear, before falling completely silent as Wind Chaser embedded itself in his chest. Rhimaldez held to verify.

  Silence.

  He gave him not a second thought as he freed his weapon and turned his attention back to the foot soldiers in front of the cavalry.

  Upon Drogan’s fall, the remaining army panicked, most lost what little morale they had, and those who remained to fight were overcome and engulfed by the dwarves.

  Far across the battlefield, Gerin remained with the last section of Kaldus’ army: Estechian’s elite cavalry—the grey-haired man at the front of the breach formation, shifting nervously.

  “What are you waiting for?”

  Estechian felt the voice pound into his mind, and whirled around to face it. “Your orders, General.” But his voice cracked when he spoke, and Gerin immediately probed his mind.

  In it he found fear for his life and the insurmountable odds he was about to face. Est was riding to his death. He had sixty-men left, and in rare instances that number could stand against four hundred, but not these sixty. Like all, they had frayed. They were weary and broken, as was he. In a small recess of his mind, Estechian was hoping that Gerin would signal the retreat.

  “My apologies, Commander.” The General tried his best not to let his voice sound joyously twisted. “Keep Breach formation, and try to break through.”

  “Of course, Sir.” He spoke, but it came out almost as a whimper. “Onward, soldiers.” He called. “Stick close to me.”

  The Commander headed out, agonizingly slow, two soldiers at his back, behind them four. And the long line of sixty-men made what most feared to be their last ride.

  With a clear gaze, Grahamas saw their approach the moment it began. Things around him had dwindled, and he took advantage of Elryia’s unyielding distractions to spot Lanyan. The Champion faced a choice, now. His troops had lost very few members, and could easily trample over the impe
nding unit. Or, he could leave it in the hands of the Elf and his warriors, help Lan earn even more stature amongst them. For, perhaps, one day he would lead them.

  “Lanyan!” Graham hollered without a second thought, or doubt they would succeed.

  The Elf raised his left arm to block a strike, and held his opponents arm in the air to provide him enough space to fire two bolts into his chest. Once he had raised his leg up and kicked the other off his mount, he turned towards the voice. “Aye?”

  Graham nodded towards Estechian trampling over the fields. “Take him, and we’ve all but won.”

  For a fraction of time, Lan considered it, looking between his cavalry—fifty strong—and Grahamas’ of nearly two hundred. But it dawned on him why, after he saw the motivational nod Graham gave him, and flicked one back.

  The elves had remained close-knit since the battle began, Lan gave a shrill whistle to command their attention. Once he had, Grahamas followed suit, releasing a call of his own—almost like a roar from under his helmet—raising Fate high into the air to point at the sky, circled his arm twice, then lowered it to stick horizontal to his right. His troops let out a war cry and began shifting methodically, working their way back and to the left to mix in between Lanyan’s. Most elves had two, even three soldiers to fill the gap. When the line was secure, they drew out to follow Lan’s long ride around the front.

  Unlike Estechian, Lanyan charged in, his troops flowing into a single line behind him and circled around to find themselves on the other side. Once they were clear half filed in to ride next to Lanyan, the remaining tucked behind them on their left.

  Despite Gerin’s orders, Estechian broke formation when he saw what he was faced with, and called his soldiers up to ride side-by-side. When he was only twenty feet away, he stopped entirely, thinking victory—at least with them—was inevitable. “How foolish that they send so little a number to dispatch us.” He called out.

  In those few seconds, Lanyan’s group had centered themselves, and held, readying their swords, tightening their free hand around their reigns—their horses as taut as their riders, seemingly from nerves. “Cross formation, friends.” He whispered, entirely ignoring Estechian’s taunt. “Let them come to you.” The elves tensed, and the back row eased slightly to the right so little space existed between they and the front riders.

  “Your General is seasoned,” Estechian muttered, dropping his right hand and opening his palm, trying to do so idly, hoping the other would not suspect it “but foolish to allow you to come out here alone to face us. These are the best swordsman in the entire army.”

  “Hold…” Lanyan whispered, one hand around his blade, the other his crossbow—no indication he was going to give orders.

  “So very foolish…” Estechian muttered one last time, and flung his open hand forward to inspire his troops on.

  Each kicked their horse into a run, circling around their commander to meet the stationary elves.

  “Hold…” Lanyan said a little more emphatically. They did so, the opposing army ten feet away, then five.

  Estechian’s warriors nearly met Lanyan’s head-on, halting at the final second and implementing their attack. Most on the frontline raised their blades to slash down, a few with room swung horizontally, and the remaining pushed forward with the tip of their blade.

  Yet before contact was ever made—in that brief moment of preparation—Lanyan hollered “Dance!” for all his warriors to hear.

  They yanked on the reigns, and their tense horses jerked back, far enough to match the second line.

  Most of Kaldus troop’s blows simply missed, but a few unlucky riders were so startled by the move, they tumbled forward and off their mounts. Those who remained were met by the back line leaping up to meet them. Horses reared, and many took a hoof to the chest, or face. Other elves trotted to the side of their enemy, and buried a sword in their side.

  The second line maintained, working their way in and out, twisting around other riders where need be, using their horses as they would a blade to draw close and strike a blow. Several hit, and when one did not, they shifted back to lead themselves from danger, only to be replaced by a member of the first wave behind them.

  So quick they were, many of Estechian’s soldiers did not have the time to switch sides before they were struck.

  Estechian’s nerves set in when he saw half of his division fall within a matter of minutes. He began ordering the others on, even shoving them forward, to fill the ever-growing gap. All the while, he was drawing further back.

  On they went, only to be met by the shifting, confusing tactic. Many tried to establish a defense. Some tried to match the elves earlier coup, and reared in reverse—a blind attempt that only made things worse, leading them into one of their own soldiers, and both toppled in the crash. Others tried to angle sideways, but in their haste, turned towards their opponents with their weak arm. If they were lucky enough to swing their swords, they were batted away effortlessly—as though held by the arm of a child. Those who shifted the correct way initially exposed their back, allowing a second elf an open target to their lung or kidney while they were trying to dispatch of the elf facing them. A small number attempted a full escape, going wide to the right or left, and every one was struck with a bolt in the back from the Elven leader.

  As the final three soldiers fell, Lanyan made his way up to Estechian.

  “Better swordsman, aye.” He grinned tauntingly as the commander back pedaled. “But we’re far better riders.”

  The Elf yanked his sword out, and raised his hand to have his troops hold, staring into the eyes of the last man standing.

  Within them, he saw genuine fear. A complete lack of hope. And, for only a heartbeat, he gazed upon a scattered, dominate echo of madness.

  From that, Lanyan believed Estechian would charge. But he did the opposite, turning his horse too quickly for the Elf to close the gap and raced off.

  Lan gauged him, then pulled up his left hand to aim down the sight of his crossbow. Yet when he cranked his wrist, nothing clicked. He tried the other direction, and still silence. In the melee, he had lost count, and used his final bolt without realizing it. He made the attempt to reload, but when he pulled the box from his satchel and attached it to the weapon, Estechian was beyond even Lanyan’s impeccable aim, disappearing into the trees and oddly—laughing.

  “Damn…” he whispered, but turned a smiling face to his elven companions. “Well fought.” He bowed to them. “Truly, well fought.”

  Many responded with the same motion, but a few looked to the end of the battlefield, upon a waiting Gerin.

  Varalis came forward from the group, staring at the General. “Should we head on?”

  The Elf glanced first at Gerin, then to the opposite side where Grahamas was chipping away at the final members of Kaldus’ soldiers. “Nay. We will let Graham finish this.”

  Varalis nodded, then eased back to allow Lan to ride through. Others cleared the way, and the Elf tried to strike the attention of their leader.

  Yet they did not immediately recognize it. Elryia had the better view, but was using her focus for the task at hand. Most of the soldiers around her were either smoldering or frozen, but a few remained that she needed to deal with. Her hands were stretched to her sides as a frost swirled about, so fine it seemed almost like a mist. She allowed it to linger before she spoke " Nayasta Sadama" and pressed both palms forward. The clouds streaked down a straight line, and for every soldier it passed, it crept into their mouths. Each grabbed at their throat, their breath taken, and in the same line the mist followed, one by one the soldiers—five in total—fell to the ground. When three rode ahead to take their place, her hand aimed at the ground. "Ertha aronus" As they raised up, so did the earth below the troops, spitting them with dust and huge chunks of dirt. It was only a momentary distraction, but long enough for Grahamas to leap his horse forward and lunge Fate into one's unguarded gut, then another, finally slashing upward across the third's chest who fooli
shly took time to rub his eyes.

  The soldier toppled over, leaving the way for El to stare across the field. "Grahamas?" She turned her gaze to the Champion, but her hand remained forward to spit out a stream of fire towards two side-by-side soldiers far off in the distance. "Lanyan.” She nodded.

  Graham ducked to the left as a blade whipped past his shoulder. He shoved his right arm forward and Fate found her way into the attacker's torso. He yanked her out, then slashed out further to his right to fell the rider beside him. Now that he had the chance, he followed her eyes. Lanyan was victorious, for which Grahamas gave him an appreciate bow, but his head turned and motioned further down the land. Graham searched, and discovered what Lan seemed so anxious about. "Gerin..."

  "Why is he just staying there...” El pondered “he's not leading his troops."

  Graham shook his head slowly. "That I do not know. His entire destiny has been this war. I can't believe he would not involve himself in it."

  Elryia tried to read the look on his half-face. "Perhaps he no longer cares."

  "Possible. In Sayassa he was a completely different person. He even tried to save me." Graham stated, moving up slightly.

  Elryia followed, responding "I got that same feeling when we saw him after. So then what is he even doing here?"

  Grahamas knew. He didn't have to see the General's blank stern eyes, or his tight, impatient stature to realize such. "Vengeance. He wants to redeem his loss." The Champion rode ahead further, then turned back to see first his regrouping soldiers and her bright, captivating blue eyes. "I love you."

  She smiled, knowing he was going to say that and knowing he was going to ride on. "I love you. Be careful."

  Grahamas’ nod said he would. Turning forward he led his way through his own troops. Once free of them, he stormed across the field, driving around Lanyan and his elves, giving one more bow as he passed, eventually to steer around Lornya's trees. He had crossed two-thirds and kept his eyes on Gerin the entire time. The Champion took in a deep breath and clicked his helmet off. His face now visible, he shifted to give one last look to Elryia and a wink, hoping she would see. Her smile verified she had, and he returned the helmet.

  His attention was now given fully to Gerin, only ten feet away from him and sliding from his horse.

  "Grahamas The True." Gerin began, reaching behind his back to draw out both blades. "Of all the things I have imagined happening this day, I never thought I would see something of this nature. I wonder how you survived that fall."

  Grahamas removed from his mount, focusing upon the gleaming, intricate blade in his hand. "It's... complicated."

  As well, Gerin's eyes turned to it, then on the war behind him—a war the General was losing. Yet in that, he found nothing but peace. "It always is. Have you come to end this? Your victory now is almost certain."

  "Something that does not seem to bother you.” Graham paused, staring intently. “You've spent your whole life preparing for this war. Why do you suddenly not care?"

  The General turned his head. "It's...complicated."

  The armor's dragon head bowed slowly. "It always is.” He cast one gaze to the overwhelmed, obliterated army of Kaldus, then placed it upon the General. “Are you ready to end this?"

  "Aye. I didn't think you rode all the way out here for a discussion."

  "Nor I imagine you've waited over here to have one."

  The General shook his head slowly. "No. As you stated, I’m ready to end this. So let us."

  Grahamas—for a moment—seemed hesitant, almost even remorseful. “You know it will not be the same as the last time.”

  “Aye. One of us will fall. Permanently.”

  “In addition to your soldiers. That seems like a lot to put on the line.”

  The corners of Gerin’s eyes twisted up, the lines adorning them defined. “Aye, but I’ve just got to know.” For a brief moment, one that faded too quickly to focus on, the General felt fear of this man. “Let us see how good you really are.”

  Without another question, Grahamas accepted.

  The blades that Gerin once held were dismissed, tossed idly to the ground as if to make a point. Upon his defeat, his longing for this fight, he was fueled by hatred and vengeance. But as time past and he began to see holes in the kingdom he served and the life that he led, he wanted to defeat Grahamas for another reason entirely. He wanted—after two hundred years of searching—to finally find honor.

  Grahamas apparently had the same thoughts, first dismissing his major advantage in the form of the brilliant gold armor that protected him. He then gave one last look to Fate before sticking her tip into the ground, raising two fingers of his free hand, moving them back and forth to inspire the General forward, as he did that day of their first encounter. "Come on."

  So the General obeyed, lunging out, arm extended in a right hook. The sudden charge and Gerin's increased speed nearly caught the Champion, but Grahamas stepped up, bending his left elbow and turning his fist towards the sky to catch the blow against his forearm and bicep. The swing from Gerin was only a distraction not an attack, so as Graham stopped the right, he was hit with the left, a jab straight into his stomach. The General was stronger, he was faster than when Graham first fought him, and he was forced to bend from the blow. Gerin then inspired him further. The hook he threw was still pressed to Grahamas' arm, and the General took a step forward to wrap it around further, until his hand found the back of the Champion's head and pulled him down. As he yanked, he lifted his back leg up and bent, his knee aiming straight for Graham's head.

  Long before he could bring it to his face as he intended, Grahamas placed his free palm on it. As Gerin's balance wavered, Grahamas took his own step ahead, first between the General's legs then wrapped his right around Gerin's left. With his right hand still on the General's knee, Graham shoved his flexed arm forward into his chest and Gerin's planted leg buckled as he was swept out.

  His legs gave. Gerin's back hit the dirt. The breath rushed from his body but he rolled and was on his feet before Grahamas had advanced further. He met the Champion with a hard right jab, one that Graham turned from the moment it struck. Yet as his head twisted, so did his shoulders and the General caught a raised spinning elbow on the side of his face. The General answered right back, bring his right knee up again, this time it embedded into his side. The blow connected, Grahamas grunted and then caught a quick left uppercut on the chin. As he reared back, he took his elbow with him, the opposite end of it smacking the other side of Gerin's face.

  Both leaned out, Grahamas, body twisted to his right, and Gerin's left hand high in the air from the uppercut. But before a gap existed between them, Gerin managed to lower it, landing a ridge hand on the Champion's collarbone. A move Gerin regretted. Graham’s hands were too close, and the chop had barely registered when the Champion reached down with his right hand to lock onto the forearm, his left raised with a palm towards his elbow, and Gerin had to turn his whole body so that his arm twisted with him to avoid it being broken. Instead it just bent at an awkward angle, but allowed him to wrench it free and take a step away.

  Grahamas smiled, rubbing his collar bone as Gerin pumped his arm back and forth. And both bowed in appreciation of one another before the second onslaught began. This one started by Grahamas and a long, straight jab from his right hand, one that had brushed against the General's nose as he back pedaled. That was the only contact it made. When Graham's left extended in the same manner, it never touched. The General retreated from a third right, this a hook that scraped near his cheek. Another jab aimed for his gut, one that landed. Grahamas had gained on him and Gerin could not move quick enough. The General had forgotten how fast he truly was, and now realized that if he wasn't going to be able to draw back from his attacks, he would have to meet them head on. So as Grahamas’ left cross came forward, Gerin stepped to the side—but forward, and he took most of it, hoping that another would not immediately follow, giving him time to get inside. When it didn't, he got passe
d the Champion's impressive reach to land an attack of his own. First, a left hook as he spun from Graham's blow. It connected, Gerin continued to spin while taking a huge lunge forward, and he had made it all the way around when he extended his right arm, the outer edge of his hand chopped against the Champion's spine. Grahamas was launched forward, but in his lunge, his leg extended and pressed square into Gerin's sternum.

  The Champion snarled, Gerin growled in his head and both whipped around again to face each other once more. Gerin lunged out, both arms arcing wide and coming together around the Champion. His palms were flat and aimed at the side of Graham's head, an attempt to box his ears. But as Grahamas had done with Gerin's very first blow, he raised and flexed his arms, catching both on his biceps. Graham would not give him the chance to counter this time and he yanked his arms out first to shove Gerin's helplessly away, then the Champion reached out and latched onto the collar of the General's shirt, his head to follow. He pulled Gerin forward, his face went the opposite direction. Gerin taught himself to react to many attacks, and this was the one he had focused on the most, as Grahamas had first used it to defeat him. So as Graham came forward, Gerin dug his heel into the dirt to stop, then let his knees bend and allow him to fall back. Gerin latched onto the wrists of the Champion. Their heads never touched, but Graham pursued, until Gerin's back was in danger of hitting the ground as it did at the start of the fight. That, however, was exactly what the General wanted, and as he tumbled back, he kept grip on both the Champion's wrists to take him with. The moment his shoulder blades met the dirt, his leg extended, foot shoved into Graham's mid-section and the Champion flipped from the momentum.

  What Gerin thought was that Graham would land flat on his back as he now was, allowing him to capitalize. What actually happened was something Gerin could hardly believe. As the Champion flipped over, his body went further than anticipated and Grahamas landed—instead of on his back—safely to his feet. From there Gerin was forced to scramble back to his own so he wasn't left vulnerable. As he stared, Grahamas stalked around, frustration settling on Gerin. "Unheard of..." The General thought. "How can you possibly be this good?"

  Grahamas seemed to be smiling. "I've had a long time to practice."

  Before him, Gerin could once again see his vengeance slipping away. As it had in Idimus’ chambers, it enraged him, spurring him on in a violent frenzy.

  It was far from graceful as the first struggle had been. It was nowhere near technical. The finesse that had been there initially faded entirely, replaced with a brutish, blatant onslaught. Gerin's emotions charged him forward. As he leapt he clamped his hands together. As his body descended so did his clenched fingers to land on the Champion's chin. It was harder than expected, but Grahamas didn't even stammer, thrusting his right hand up into the bottom of Gerin's jaw. The General stammered, but swung regardless, a wide right hook. Dizziness mucked his vision, the attack slow and uncalculated so severely Gerin knew it wouldn't land. To his surprise, he felt his knuckles impact against Graham's temple. Gerin didn't have time to focus on it completely, but in his mind—with the Champion's speed—he could have easily dodged it. Yet, he did not. He only spun from it, turning all the way around and extending his arm, landing a vicious back fist at its completion.

  Gerin blinked, the strike leaving his ears ringing and head blurry, but he countered, leading forward and clutching his right arm to his left shoulder to deliver an elbow to Grahamas’ jaw. This was just as weak and slow as his first attack, but it hit all the same, and the Champion seemed to take it with pride.

  Now realization set in on Gerin. Grahamas was trading with him intentionally. The Champion saw his rage, yet he stood up to it. He could not begin to fathom the thoughts that were coursing through his opponent’s head, but somewhere deep in the recess of his mind, he felt some strange kinship. As the fight furthered on, Gerin was driven by his honor, by vengeance. But Grahamas was in fear of losing something as well—the people's chance at freedom.

  As Gerin fought, Grahamas came back harder. He took every blow and stood up to it. Now matter how hard he was hit, he refused to back down. It was that same courage he held in his eyes, that same fearlessness that he exuded when he fell in Sayassa. For the first time in his life Gerin had actually admired something in someone else, even as he was struck with a left palm to his nose.

  This had almost fell Gerin unconscious, but he held on, hammering a jab straight forward. The fist was aimed for the Champion's nose, but his blurry eyes and somber haze had left it on Graham's chin, ending the last bit of strength and clarity the General had.

  Even after all his training, all his conditioning and strength exercises, Grahamas was still too fast for him, and far too strong. It was almost inhuman.

  Gerin had lost...again.

  Yet that fact did not trouble him so as it had the first time. He actually found peace in knowing that someone so valiant, so noble had defeated him. Aspects of a personality he had always adhered to but never really attained. As Grahamas drove his palm forward straight into his chest, as he tumbled back to the ground, the air left his body while thoughts entered his mind. Visions of Shayanne and the Mist, of his image reflecting that of Grahamas and the strange woman telling him how much he admired the Champion. He had not known it then, and he was not sure how she did, but such was true. He honored the Champion more than he ever had his own King.

  "Do not hold regret, Gerin." Grahamas said as he stepped up, placing his feet on either side of his torso. "Your vengeance has only burned for three months. Mine for three hundred years."

  "No lament, Champion. I have only peace."

  Grahamas bowed in recognition before reaching back and behind himself. By some unseen force, Fate yanked from the dirt, spun tip over handle twenty feet into Graham's waiting grip. "Well fought, Nightmare." The blade raised high above his head.

  "Well fought, True. You are forgiven for what you must do next." Gerin took a deep breath. He closed his eyes. "Now... set me free."

  Grahamas allowed one of his own, gave a moment of silent appreciation in his mind—one Gerin heard regardless—and drove Fate down, straight into the General's chest.

  He did not even react, only lay silent. Grahamas removed Fate and bowed his head, taking this chance to say a prayer. A warrior wishing another a safe journey, wherever he may be headed.

  And in those minutes, three pairs of far off eyes only watched. They had not intervened. As everyone had, they heard rumors of the war, but unlike the King they struggled their way out to verify. Just as Elryia, Gort and all others, they never expected to see Grahamas. Nor, had they expected him to carry the very same legendary blade they sought.

  "That..." Valaira stated, wearing upon her porcelain face an expression that neither Carsis had seen in four months, or Estophicles in four years: Fear. "That is Fate." She sighed. "Though now that he has found Hope and the power grows within him and Elryia, I do not know how we will ever get it."

  Carsis didn't show one emotion on his stern face. When he spoke he seemed unemotional, almost dormant. He had changed since that day on the island. His hair now completely black, minus a strange purple tint that showed itself only once in a while. His eyes soulless, uncaring, and almost in a trance, as though something had taken over him. "We won't need to." He began riding towards the west. "Come."

  "Where are we going?"

  "To visit the King." He marked, scowling at Grahamas before he turned fully.

  They were gone; the Champion never saw them.

  After his prayer, he called upon Hope once more, mounted his horse and turned back towards the fading battle.

  The two-hundred year prophecy had come to pass. The General had fulfilled his destiny. Gerin had led his troops—his very Kingdom—to a defeat so massive that only one amongst his unit would survive. One who would later write about that fated day. Time would twist and skewer his tale almost beyond recognition, though the legend would remain the same.

  That of a rider upon a pale horse
, and the Hell that followed with him.

  Let Toll The Bells Of Unity, Let Intone The Beginning End

  Peace echoed through the land.

  At least, for now, they knew it would last. Word had spread to every town, been heard by every ear of the valiant battle fought for Freedom. Hope that once had lain dormant for so long now bloomed. Each of the companions that had struggled for years—some centuries—traveled into their new found world.

  Lanyan returned home to make amends with Rasonius and his people. Javal brought his dwarves back to their dark, dingy caves and celebrated with each one that had fought, drinking for three nights straight. Gort and Sarahlya visited both, first to Mt. Forgas then Sharia and the two began bonding—finally—with a Gnome in company the entire way.

  Merial and Jeralyle had traveled to Davaina as escort for Rhimaldez and to begin the first steps towards rebuilding her bar. The Knight and the Goddess were the only two that had set no destination, simply riding where their horses took them, seeing the same world they had known, yet now under the veil of a long awaited tranquility.

  Each had their own agendas to fulfill and their own homecomings to celebrate. However, one month after that fated day, they gathered again on the Laruzian plans. It was here that Grahamas first began his life as Champion, and it would be here that he began his new life with Elryia.

  And it was just how he had dreamt it.

  An aisle made of white rose petals with pink tips. On either side rows upon rows of chairs, within them guests such as Javal and Rasonius, Varalis and Tanea, now closed off by long white sashes strewn all the way down to the altar—directly in front of the Champion’s tree. Over it a large, ivory pagoda with a draped cloth of the same tone that hung between the four top corners. Along each of the banisters were carvings, written in Highlyian, all stating the same pledge: This bond, be it eternal.

  On the left of the altar, several feet in front of the last row was a group of elves, three sitting—one with a flute, another a harp and the final with a tambourine—and one standing, her hands folded neatly in front of her.

  Underneath the canopy, atop the wide altar with three steps leading up was Lornya, directly in the center. Her hair was down around her bare shoulders adorned in a slender, tight lavender dress. To her right was Merial, Sarahlya, Starrlana and Ramia, each in the same golden dress and soft crimson sash around their waist.

  To the Goddess’ left was Ristalln, Jeralyle, Gort, Lanyan and Rhimaldez, each wearing the black slacks and ebony button up, folded blue corner shirt of the old Highlyian uniforms.

  Each and every one turned to watch Grahamas as he walked down the aisle. The Champion's hair was tight behind his head and his face was clean-shaven for the first time in months. He wore the same suit as his groomsman, but the triangle across his chest was a brilliant white, and in the sheath at his side, Fate.

  As he approached and stepped upon the altar, he returned the bright smile given to him by Lornya and Merial, then took his place in front of Ristalln, his attention to the aisle he had just walked down.

  On cue, the elves to their left began playing a soft melodic tune, the standing elf humming softly.

  As stern as Grahamas appeared, his heart fluttered as he she came around the corner and began walking.

  It was not exactly as Grahamas dreamed, but flawless none the less. Her hair was waved, pinned back tight behind her head where spirals of all sizes spun down like golden, wafting clouds. Her bangs straight and framing her angelic face, held by a thin, feathered band that cascaded the transparent veil down to cover just below her mouth. Beneath it, her dazzling, dancing blue eyes began to water.

  Her shoulders were bare, minus the back of the veil that hung behind them. The dress she adorned was sewn into two pieces. The first a tight, silk fabric that wrapped around her torso. The top hem fell two inches from her collarbone an inch wide, looping lace. Beneath it a white bustier that curved over her hips and laced in behind her back. It attached to a skirt that held tight to her form, right before the knees then shaped into a free flowing white gown over her feet. Her hands clutched a bouquet of white flowers as she flowed down the aisle, all standing to watch as she made her way to the altar, handing the flowers to Merial, and standing opposite Grahamas, who undoubtedly had a tear in his eye.

  With a wistful gaze, Lornya placed her attention towards the crowd. "Thank you everyone. You may be seated." As they sat, both Grahamas and Elryia turned towards the Goddess, both inner hands lowering as they reached out for one another. "We have gathered here today to witness the joining of two souls, Grahamas Onmar Rhivaldeon and Elryia Ilsey Mezian. If for any reason this union should not be placed, be it stated now."

  Silence.

  Lornya bowed gently and gave her focus first to Grahamas. "Grahamas, please begin by sharing with Elryia your solemn vows."

  The Champion, wearing a wide unwavering smile, turned to his left as Elryia faced her right, both hands now placed in the others. "Elryia." His voice was stern and commanding as usual, but it had the same serenity it always did when he spoke to or of her. "Since meeting you, not a day has passed where I did not want to be by your side. Since the first time I saw you, I have wanted to protect you. The first smile from you I ever viewed I knew I wanted to make last forever." He let go of her hands and turned back towards Ristalln with an open palm. The Knight withdrawing from his pocket a thin, golden band to place in it. One which Grahamas slid over Elryia's left ring finger. "That is my vow. That from this day forward, I will do everything in my power and beyond it to always be there for you. To always protect you and to always make you happy. I promise to love you, more, everyday for the rest of my life. With Everything I Have."

  A single tear trickled down Elryia's cheek as her grip tightened on his hand and Lornya's attention turned upon her. "Elryia, please share with Grahamas the vow you make to him.

  "Grahamas." Her fingers ran over his knuckles. "I love you. That is my vow. That I will forever. It matters not what we face, we will endure it together. No matter what burdens we encounter, we will carry them together. All the joy I know we will feel, we shall embrace it together. I promise, be it whatever the future holds, I will always be with you. For all my life, I will honor you. For all my life, I will cherish you." As Grahamas had, Elryia turned back to retrieve from Merial a thick golden band, one that she placed on the left hand of the Champion. "For all my life, I will love you."

  Behind her, Sarahlya smiled, Ramia bent slightly to look across at Rhimaldez, Starrlana sighed and Merial wept. Those on Grahamas’ side remained stern, all except a normally stone dwarf who suddenly became desperate to hide his sniffling.

  Even Lornya was unable to hide her dampening eyes as she looked between them. Once again they faced her. "By the rings you now bare, and the vows you have promised, before Yavale and these witnesses I now decree you Husband and Wife. Grahamas, Elryia, you may now certify your bond, as equals, with your first kiss."

  In all the years she had known him, Elryia had never seen such a grand smile on his face, had never felt his strong, sure hands tremble, or his eyes to show such a light that seemed it would never end. Today she did. "As equals.” That smile, though it seemed impossible, grew even further, finally hearing it said. Truly believing it. “I love you." He whispered as her arms slid around his neck, his about her waist.

  "As equals. I love you." She returned his gaze and grin before her mouth met his, prompting the crowd to applaud and cheer.

  After their lips broke, Elryia turned to first hug Lornya, then Merial. Behind Grahamas, Ristalln patted him lightly on the shoulder. "Congratulations, old friend."

  "Thank you, Valiant." His gaze went back, giving the Knight a wink before his eyes flashed on Lornya. "You're next."

  At first, he only chuckled. But when his stare also drew to the Goddess and the insinuating, teasing action, he suddenly grew very nervous.

  "Ladies and Gentlemen," Lornya said, finally breaking the stare. “I present to you Sir Grahamas a
nd Elryia Rhivaldeon."

  Both felt a jolt of elation hearing the words announced for the first time and stepped down, walking back along the aisle. Arm in arm they strolled, behind them Lornya raised hers and from both sides of the crowd butterflies of all colors—red, blue, gold and silver—fluttered out and circled them as they ambled. Far in the distance, bells from Loruze’s town center rang out—five in total to symbolize commitment, unity, adoration, their promise and their love.

  Each continued on, with the audience behind them, to celebrate in Loruze with food caught by Lanyan and Ale supplied by Javal. The banquet lasted well into the day, every guest taking the time to congratulate Elryia and Grahamas properly. Jeralyle and Merial—both misty eyed—danced until they could no longer stand. Lanyan seemed as close to Rasonius as he ever was, as they included Starrlana and Sarahlya to share drinks with Gort and Javal, barring some tiny squabbles on what to put in their glasses. Ramia never found her way out of Rhimaldez’ embrace, Lornya constantly worked her way into Ristalln's. Gnert circled around the dance floor constantly, examining the strange, rhythmic moving of everyone's feet. Through it all, Graham and El never stopped staring at each other.

  All was at peace.

  The reception lasted until the sun faded. When it ended, El and Graham stayed in a small cottage far off from the rest of the village, where they finally fell asleep deep in the middle of the night.

  One dream that had dominated Grahamas’ mind had been fulfilled that day, and in his slumber he found the other—one that plagued him—return in its place. Finding him again on the top of the tower, as though he had never left. His body seemed controlled, only not by himself. He approached skeptically to the high, black throne. On the other side, the clicking echoed in his ears, the horns twisted and turned. Far on the ground, stretching further than he could see, strange creatures remained. Some with horns, some with humans torsos and animal legs. All were seemingly waiting for orders. Grahamas could only sense their direction would come from whatever sat in the throne. Instinctively the Champion reached out to have it face him, but it spun quickly before his hand ever touched.

  In it, where he thought he would find a monster or demon, was nothing of the sort. Only a pale, hauntingly adorable little girl, with bright blue eyes, black lips and curly hair to match. Covered in an ebony dress with a white lace front and purple bow tied around the collar. On her tiny swinging feet were dark crimson buckle shoes. In her hands she clutched a torn, ragged stuffed doll. On closer inspection, Grahamas found it to bear a striking resemblance to Carsis. Grahamas drew curious and stared, the young girl smiled wickedly innocent at him as her legs continued to kick.

  "Hello, Grahamas." She giggled, turning her head as she stared up.

  "Who are you?"

  "You don't remember." She pouted, but her gaze grew intent. "No, I suppose not. One day, you will though." The girl twisted, then beamed again. “For now…We Are Chaos.”

  Again, Graham blinked, this time taking a step back as a spider crawled from her toy directly into her cuff. Another had pulled from her collar and skittered across her face into her hair. "What do you want?"

  She smiled once more, but this one dark and the furthest thing from childish. "We want you, and all those in this sick decrepit world..." Her hand rose up so that her palm faced him, and with two fingers she waved in the other direction, prompting the demons behind her to turn and march off "to die."

  From her eyes, a dim, purple light flared. One that leaked out her mouth and nostrils, growing so bright that Grahamas shielded his eyes.

  When he opened them again, he was staring at the ceiling of his cottage. He breathed, hard and ragged. After such a dream, one that seemed so vivid and real he could not possibly get back to sleep. He lay there, unmoving as to not disturb the young woman that had her arm sprawled over his chest, trying his best to calm down. Which he thought he had. But the softer and slower his breathing became, the louder it seemed in his own ears. He turned to Elryia, believing it hers, but she was silent, and this noise was much further.

  Before he lay down and attempted to focus on it, he kissed the top of her head. The instant his head hit the pillow, his ears locked and discovered he was right. The sound was further, though now drawing close, from outside their very cabin.

  "...Graha....mas..."

  That was enough to make the Champion pry from Elryia's hand—as gently as he could—and place his clothes back on, leaning down to take Fate in his grip. He pulled to the door, waiting. Now he could hear chains rattling, footsteps in the dirt and a faint voice calling out.

  "Grah....amas."

  "Be careful, True." Fate whispered to him.

  "I will." He yanked the door open, taking in one last vision of Elryia before he headed down the road to find who was calling out to him. Then, what struck Grahamas was not fear, but amazement. "Savados!" He believed at first he still dreamt, but it was too clear. There, toiling down the road as real as any, was Highlace's historian, a man even older than he.

  He was not the calm, well kept elderly scholar Grahamas remembered. As he stepped into the light, he appeared as ragged as his breathing. His clothes a dark, dingy brown stained with blood in more than one place. His gray and black hair stuck up in random places, and it had not been cut in a long time. Upon his wrists and feet the chains Grahamas heard, in his side and his shoulder, arrows.

  When he saw this, Grahamas rushed to him, catching him before he hit the ground. "Savados..." He laid him down, cradling him above the dirt.

  "Champion..." He whispered, turning to look at him, and Grahamas now discovered another change. His once brown eyes were now a thin, undefined milky white that never quite locked on the Champion.

  "Savados...what happened? Where did you come from?" Graham checked the arrow in his side, then in his shoulder. With a worried look, he glanced back to the cabin. He hated to wake her but he may have to.

  "Idimus... he burned my eyes... kept me locked in Kaldus and forced me to cast Endless Days for him. He wanted it for himself." The old man's hand felt and searched for Grahamas’ palm, and into he slipped a small piece of parchment. "He'll... never get it."

  "Blind? How did you find me?"

  "Whispers, Grahamas. Those..." he coughed "from Tallvas and Fate."

  Even now, he could feel him slipping. His breathing had shallowed further, and Graham could hear his heart weak and faded. "Savados hold on. I'll get you help."

  The man drew Graham's attention back. "No, there's no time. I came...not to give you the spell, but to warn you. There's... evil, Grahamas. Darkness. It sleeps, but not forever."

  "Lathlogar?"

  "No... he is only the beginning. This is far worse.” He clutched Graham’s hand tighter. “You must... stop it. You... are the only one who can..."

  "How?"

  The man's eyes grew wide, mouth gaped, drawing in a breath, one which would be his last, and spoke his final words. "Fate... and her Sister."