by Robert Day
Whatever tasks there were, these people seemed to know what to do and began to move away, though the woman who had followed the first man through the Portal shifted up to him. She had removed her own helm, revealing beautifully serene features, slender yet strong with blue eyes like crystal water. Her hair was long and straight, darkened slightly by perspiration, but its hue was predominantly golden. She was tall, though still she came only to the man's chin.
“I fear Vighor is becoming restless, Sha'kar.” She spoke while watching the receding form of the dark- armored warrior, a frown crossing her pretty face.
The man, Sha'kar, nodded imperceptibly, though the watcher saw it. “He feels we have erred in deciding to relocate our people. He thinks those who are slain are weak, and we must press on discovering new worlds and knowledge. We have what we need. We are not murderers, but he feels all others must bow to our superiority. It is hard for him, Silmarel.”
The woman nodded agreement and turned to him with a smile that was full of love and affection. “Come, we have a city to build.”
The two turned, but where they went the watcher did not see, as once again time accelerated.
Many dark armored figures stand in a large cave, its location a mystery to the watcher. There is no light in the room, though he can see as if it were daylight. A dozen warriors stand at the large entry of the cave, beyond which there is a vague glimmer of daylight.
Four figures stand at the far wall of the cave, and instead of swords they carry slender staves of dark stone with large diamonds set on their ends, clutched in large claws of some creature. One of these men the watcher recognized as Vighor, looking only slightly older than he had previously.
There is a tense silence around the room as the watcher waits, and finally Vighor speaks. “This is the culmination of five hundred years of work for us. If we are successful today, we will have all the power we need to destroy Sha'kar and his family, and lead the other factions in war across the universe. We will not be denied!” There was urgency in his voice that made the watcher think he was mad, but he calmed quickly as the four began a low chant.
Tension in the room built as the chanting continued, slowly building to a crescendo that had the four almost shouting. As they went, the diamonds atop their dark staves began to glow an arcane red, until they were like miniature suns. At the peak of their chant, they stopped and turned towards the wall and unleashed the pent up power of each staff, accompanied by words of command. Like red lightning, the staves exploded, sending bolts against the stone that continued for several moments, creating a blinding ambience, until finally each staff was drained, Vighor's last of all. When the light had faded, the watcher saw on the wall where the magical energy had struck was a large arched section of smooth black, looking both solid and permeable.
“It has worked,” breathed Vighor with a dry, tired voice, though he drew his dark sword with a crooked smile, his action copied by the twenty warriors who stood around him. The dozen guards at the doorway were already armed, but did not move as Vighor stepped towards the black archway.
“Let us make our intentions clear. These Demons will serve us or we shall wipe them out like we will all those who oppose us.” So saying, Vighor stepped into the dark substance, which gave way and wrapped around him like mud as he pressed through. His warriors followed until the room was empty save for the dozen who remained to stand guard.
Time passed again, but the watcher was returned to the scene of the cave, the guards still there as if no time had passed at all. There is darkness beyond the exit, and the dark Portal stands unmoving against the far wall.
A dim light appears then beyond the Portal, looking pale and wan before it breaks the dark surface, bathing the room in light that has the guards turning sharply, anxiously. Vighor steps through the Portal, however, clutching the diamond tipped staff radiating the light, which he quickly quelled. There was no other movement from behind him, and the guards give slight mutters as they realize Vighor is the only one returned. He appears unhurt, however, and is smiling as if just completed a major victory.
Yet his appearance alarmed both the guards and watcher. He appeared more frail than he had before entering the Portal, his face narrow and emaciated, his dark eyes sunk slightly, though they retained their cold touch along with an inner fire that could have been pleasure, or anger. His armor was torn and rent, two greaves ripped away and his helm missing, and when he pulled his sword free, it was bladeless, shattered a hand above the hilt.
Yet still Vighor smiled.
“We have been successful, my Ji’Ta’Har brothers. The Demons are willing accomplices in our scheme, and will help us dominate those who oppose us.” The watcher doubted the truth behind his words, for obvious he had been in battle, and his other warriors were most likely dead seeing as they did not return, but the guards appeared pleased and unconcerned by the losses.
“Come. We must create more Portals so our accomplices may join us.” Vighor exited the cave with his companions, though several remained, their duty yet unfinished as they wait for the Demons to come through.
Shift and change of scene.
Sha'kar stands over a golden cot, inside which sleeps an infant, his face serene and uncaring. Sha'kar appears older and more worn, his face set in a frown despite the light in his eyes. There is movement off to the side as the female he had spoken with back on the empty plain enters, her face also grave, yet she also smiles as she looks down at the infant.
“I must leave, Silmarel!” whispers Sha'kar, not wanting to wake the child, and Silmarel frowns, though there is resignation on her face.
“Be careful, Lord Cal'Tor. There is much resting on this meeting, and Vighor will do what he can to prevent it if he finds out.” The worry in her voice was evident, but Sha'kar merely holds her briefly and smiles at her before turning to leave, casting one final glimpse at the child. His child. Then he is gone, and the watcher knew then that it would be the last time Silmarel would see her husband.
Another shift. Another scene. All familiar now to the watcher, both eager and reticent for what would come.
Sha'kar stands atop a mountain, this one lush and looking down upon a land that was not his own. This was Kil’Tar, verdant and serene.
Sha'kar concentrated briefly but gave no sound, yet when he looked up again, he searched the skies as if he had given a call and expected an answer. It came quickly, a huge winged shape in the distance that approached faster than the wind.
It was a dragon, bulking far larger than the man as it reared back and settled onto the mountain before Sha'kar, the warrior showing little concern for the batting winds and taloned claws above him, nor did he clutch at his sword hilt. One taloned claw seemed to be holding some lengths of pale ivory material.
The Dragon was pale green in color, its chest a light grey, and its scaled body reflected the morning light like thousands of tiny mirrors. It regarded the man before it cautiously, but without fear, and a mutual respect seemed to pass between them.
“You have come a long way and risked much, Kay'taari!” The Dragon's voice was booming, yet Sha'kar held firm under it, like a rock before a thunderstorm.
“There is more than my health at risk, Lord of the Skies. You know this as well as I. Have you thought on our first meeting?”
The dragon was silent for a time before answering. “We have met in council and decided that although this threat is great, it is not for us to become involved unless it directly threatens us.”
Sha'kar seemed to bridle at this statement, but he nodded grudgingly after a time. “As it will, eventually, and where both of us combined may have won, you will also fail, as will we.” He made to turn, but the Dragon's voice halted him.
“That is not to say we cannot aid you, Kay'taari.” Sha'kar turned as the dragon lowered the pieces of ivory, which now appeared as lengths of curved horn, similar to those that adorned his head, though longer and smoother. “These are the horns of the Father of our kind, kept for a time of great
need, which this is. Take them and fashion them into weapons that will aid your cause. You will find them invaluable.”
Sha'kar took the horns and bowed deeply to the Dragon, who gave a snort and was airborne again, returning from whence he came. Sha'kar also turns and begins to walk away, towards a Portal of light that forms before him. He enters it, and is gone.
And the watcher is back on Kara’Tar as Sha'kar exits a large building, seeming to spring from the ground itself. It is atop a wide mountain from which steam billows like a large chimney, and the watcher knows it is a volcano. He no longer carries the two Dragon horns, and he appears tired, though in his hands he carries a lance and a sword, both of which appear of the same hue as the Dragon horns.
He has not gone far when several forms appear around him, clad in the dark armor of the Ji’Ta’Har family, Vighor amongst them holding a new sword and grinning mockingly at Sha'kar, who raises the Dragonsword defensively.
“You cannot hope to gain the upper hand that easily, Cal'Tor. Hand over the weapons and you may return to your family, else they will never see you again.”
Sha'kar remains silent, though he does not move, showing his intent.
Vighor merely laughs coldly, the noise sounding hollow as it echoes over the barren land. “So be it. The weapons will be mine, and you will die, but know that already we have Portals on this new planet of Kil'Tar, a place where we can tap all the essence we need. Your efforts have been worthless, Kay'taari.”
Sha'kar scowls. “You are Kay'taari also, or have you forgotten, Vighor? This is not who we are.”
Vighor's eyes only harden at this and his mocking smile deepens. “We are Kay'taari no longer, father. We are the Ashar'an, newborn from a dying race, who will have the universe as our playground.”
The watcher reels at these words, but has no time to think on them as the warriors close on Sha'kar. As they do, the Kay’taari lofts both sword and lance into the air where they disappear, but at the same time, it leaves him defenseless and vulnerable as half a dozen swords descend upon him - Vighor's first and most hate- filled as it slices through his armor and into his chest.
“You have only given your family a false hope, Sha'kar. They will die as you have, and yours will be by far the most painless.” Once again he cackles maniacally and then they are gone, leaving the bloodied and torn body to the elements.
A battle of epic scale covers the jagged landscape below as the Watcher glides low on silent and invisible wings. It looked as if the battle is only just beginning, though already the ground is littered with many unmoving and writhing forms.
The watcher is then amongst the carnage, but an invisible spectator, mindless of the nauseating smell but not of the sounds of screaming and dying men, or the vision of twisted and rent bodies.
Those of the Kay'taari are there, gleaming armor and weapons long since darkened with the thick blood of the Demonic Hordes that cover the ground around them like vermin. The watcher has seen a few of these before, though again he cannot recall where, but there are others far worse. Some tower easily twice as high as the Kay'taari, wielding weapons of pure flame or darkness, while there are those whose skin are as stone, impervious to all but the toughest of attacks, even against the magically imbued qualities of the Kay'taari weaponry.
Then there were those Demons who flitted through the carnage like specters, some tall and shadowy with the form of silent assassins, others wearing the darkest of cloaks and weaponless, but wherever they went, death was their companion as Kay'taari screamed and died, though valiantly.
Then there were the Ashar'an, easily recognizable by the dark armor or weaponry they carried, and they matched the ferocity of the Demons as they battled those they hated most.
Magic sizzled through the air like swarming insects as balls of fire and bolts of lightning and darkness tore through ranks, often indiscriminate from the Ashar'an, who saw the Demons as pawns and the Kay'taari as foes. Darkness covered some areas like small globes that reflected the sunlight, and the ground even shook and split apart a few times, sending everything nearby flailing to the ground.
The watcher saw the battle was lost for the Kay'taari already. The Demons were enough to outnumber them at least five to one, and the Ashar'an were their equal in number, as well as in strength both physically and magically.
The Watcher comes to a rocky peak, atop which a lone Kay'taari cuts a swathe in the Demon and Ashar'an ranks like a lone grass cutter battling against ever- growing crops of grass. He wears the star- emblazoned blue tabard of the Cal'Tor family, and his armor is the same as had been worn by Sha'kar, indeed, the watcher sees the figure resembles Sha'kar in many ways that he had to be his son.
And in his hand he wielded the Dragonsword as if it were alive, the blade seeming to sing as it cut through foes at every turn, while in his other hand was another sword that was not as effective, but served to parry many strikes that would have left a warrior with one weapon wounded or dead. After a time, he lost this sword, pulled from his tired and bloodied hand by a dying Demon, at which point he began loosing magical bolts into the circle of foes around him, face set in grim determination, yet his eyes were crying the tears of a shepherd having to put down his most prized sheepdog through illness.
Then a press of Kay'taari are there just as the young man is being overwhelmed, and during a lull the young man is approached by another of noble bearing and stature, as the ring of Kay'taari keep them from harm. Dark bolts and sheets of fire reflect harmlessly off an invisible barrier around them.
“Your mother has ordered the jump to Kil'Tar. The rods are ready. Give the call, Astan-Valar.”
The young warrior clutches at a golden rod held before him, for a time seeming to forget about the carnage going on around him, though his eyes flinch with every Kay'taari scream or cry of pain. With a brief nod he whistles shrilly, the sound carrying easily over the din of battle for those who could hear it, namely the Kay'taari. The Ashar'an were capable also, and though they did not know what it meant, there was sudden caution among their numbers.
The warrior who had given Astan-Valar the Rod had disappeared, shimmering into nothingness while clutching at an amulet encircling his neck. At the sound of the whistle, those who were able copied this action, also shifting into non- existence as they teleported.
But Astan-Valar could not leave his kin to fight while he employed the power of the Rod, so he tucked it into his belt and stepped forward to meet a new wave of Demon and Ashar'an that pressed a group of nearby Kay'taari, who wore the Red Tabard of House Harradin. Astan-Valar struck with blinding ferocity, his sword an invisible weapon as it tore through the ranks, momentarily freeing them from melee. He shouted a command at them, and as a whole they teleported after the others to Kil'Tar.
This left more enemies and fewer companions, but Astan-Valar had made his decision, despite the orders of his mother. He would activate the Rod with his dying strength if he had to, but would not do it and leave while there were those who needed his help.
And so, the son of Sha'kar moved through the battle like a vindicating deity, no blade or talon seeming to touch him, though the blood that covered him could have been of his own or many others. His arm never tired and magic coursed from his hand as constant as a sun's rays. Greater Demons he confronted and slew, sending moments of panic and mayhem through the massed Demon horde, all the while helping others to make their way to safety. Often he was momentarily too late, the dying form of a companion greeting him through a press, spurring him to even greater strength and effort.
Yet the Watcher knew there was one he searched for in the melee: Vighor, the Lord of the House of Ji’Ta’Har, he who slew his father. He called for the murderer to show himself, but his challenges were unanswered by Vighor, whom he did not know was on Kil'Tar.
Then, with strength wavering and the oppression of the tide of enemies carrying him along, he gave another warning whistle before tearing free the Rod at his side. The golden length felt cold in his hand, and t
he watcher saw him sigh as he lifted it skyward, and then with great force propel it into the ground at his feet. There was a distant groan, as of thunder, and the ground gave a great upheaval around him, throwing Demons and Ashar'an as if they were leaves before a wind, yet he was unmoved, and the rod remained firmly in the rocky ground.
Then he was gone also, fading like twilight to the oncoming night as the blue gem atop the rod began to glow. The watcher viewed this with curiosity and expectation, looking around as Ashar'an also blink out of sight, while Demons mill around searching for prey, some even turning on the Ashar'an in their frenzy.
But it did not last long as light absolute engulfs everything in an instant, followed by the approaching boom of thunder that grows in volume, drowning the cries of Demon and Ashar'an only for the time it took them to die, as the world around them exploded, and the Watcher was gone.
Another battle. Or was it the same? The watcher did just that, and as he grew closer, it took him only a moment to see it was a different one, less tumultuous, but bloody and ignoble nonetheless. Ashar'an and Demon battled Kay'taari, yet this time the land beneath them was green and lush, or at least had been before the blood of thousands was spilt upon it. In several places, there were patches of red snow where earlier it had been the white of a fresh fall. A tall mountain peak rose like a watcher also, giving the one who did watch a strange feeling of home.
Whether it was coincidence or meant to be, the watcher was once again confronted with the figure of Astan-Valar battling a press of dark figures. Once again he seemed to shine from within the sea of darkness, a living light that gave hope to those around it. His sword was a blur as it wreaked death at each swing, no matter what stepped before him.
Yet again the Kay'taari were outnumbered. Not by as many as the previous battle, but it would not be long before the weight of numbers saw them fall rapidly.
