by Greg Curtis
At least the task looked like a simple one. Enter the temple, kill the priests, destroy the altar. How hard could it be? After all the army was gone, and they had priests of their own with them. And while the temple was huge, it was still not as large as the battlefield they’d just crossed.
Taking a comforting breath Tyrus raised his hand to give the command. Before he could give it however, he was interrupted.
“Hold please. We will take the lead.” Tyrus was surprised by the call, and more surprised still when he saw who made it. The black clad watchmen, fifty or sixty of them at least, most of them wounded, some of them badly, were heading for the temple door. And with them were half a dozen elven women, all injured, one of them completely naked, and carrying blood stained weapons.
“But -.”
“It is our place.” The place for the man was actually the healer’s tent in Tyrus’ view. For he had blood seeping down his side from an open wound, and more blood trickling down his face from a head wound. Yet he was only lightly injured compared with many of his comrades. Several of his companions were actually hopping into battle with missing legs. Injuries that should have killed them, that had left them crippled, and yet they were still intending to go in to battle again.
“It is their place Commander.” The witch Trekor Aileth spoke softly in the quiet air, and in agreeing with them gave the broken watchmen enough time to reach the temple doors. Huge iron doors set into the stone were simply wrenched out of their frames by the watchmen before they threw them to the ground.
Tyrus stared in shock at the doors. That sort of strength just wasn’t normal. But before he could even think about asking they had started entering the darkness inside the temple, and he had to order his men to follow.
Inside it was dark. More than dark, it was pitch black, and though he looked for them Tyrus couldn’t see any torches on the walls. He couldn’t even see brackets for them. How did the priests find their way down through the place, he wondered? Fortunately his men were carrying plenty of torches, and Ericus, the priest of Silene, seemed to have a magic that made the stone glow. They weren’t going to be blind as they hunted down the enemy inside the temple.
The air though, was far more threatening. It was dry and stale, and filled with the stench of decay. Every breath came with the promise of a long painful disease and a horrible death.
Though the temple was a huge pyramid of massive stone blocks above them, the passage to the heart of the temple led down through a small mountain of carved rock. And that troubled him. It was almost as though the massive pyramid was merely a cover for the true temple. And that as large as it was, the temple was far larger. Suddenly it seemed as if one of his guesses had been wrong.
At least the path was easy enough to remember being a series of passages and right turns that spiralled deeper and deeper into the bowels of the earth. Here and there along the way down, they came across doors leading to side rooms, and the crippled watchmen pushed them open to see what was inside. For the most part they found nothing.
Occasionally they came across an abomination or two lurking in the side rooms, but the watchmen made short work of them. A screech and then a few short thumps and bangs was all it took, and then they marched on down through the darkness. Say what you would about the watchmen and their terrible injuries, they seemed to have no equal when it came to battle.
And then they came to the first chamber and it wasn’t just one or two abominations waiting for them, it was scores. And they weren’t alone.
There was no warning. Nothing to tell them that there was trouble ahead. All they knew was that the passageway suddenly widened out to become a huge hall, and the light from the torches reflected off the whites of eyes in the darkness ahead. Lots of eyes. Then the battle was joined, and as far back as Tyrus was he could barely even see what was happening. But he could hear it.
He heard the screeching of the abominations as they rushed into the attack, and the cries of the men and women as they were met head on. He heard the dull thuds as heavy weapons buried themselves in soft flesh, and the somewhat more liquid sounds as badly broken bodies hit the stone floor. He heard the blood chilling chanting of dark priests as they called on the power of their demon. And then he heard Ericus.
“Silene meyer bor passa. Aswa!” Just as the words ended Tyrus was blinded by the light as the priest of Silene sent his goddess’ glory streaming in, and he desperately tried to cover his eyes. But there was nothing that could keep the light of the goddess of light from his sight. Certainly not the mere flesh and blood of his eyelids or arms. But no matter how badly it blinded him it was far worse for their enemies.
The enemy priests stopped chanting and the abominations started screeching furiously. The watchmen however, were completely untroubled by the light and they went quickly about their business. And then by the time the light had passed and he could see again, even if his vision was filled with strange colours, the battle was over and both the dark priests and their abominations lay dead, their bodies mangled and cut into tiny pieces.
The battle was over. It took Tyrus a moment to understand that. Even as he struggled to make his way past the others to the front to see the battle’s remains. But when he did get there he knew.
There were only bodies left. Hacked and slashed into in pieces. Dismembered then burnt to black and ash. But they weren’t all abominations and priests. One of them at least was theirs. Sadly, when Tyrus could see properly again he recognised the dark stained robe of one of the women even if he couldn’t see her head, and knew that one of their own had fallen. To a soldier like him it was unthinkable that women should be fighting, but worse than that, falling in battle. Being torn apart by foul monsters. The elves had some strange ideas about life.
“Priests, can you offer some prayers.” Normally he didn’t have much call for the clerical. Mostly they just seemed to get in the way. But this didn’t seem like a normal time, and their magic was proving useful. “No one should die unblessed in this dark underworld.”
“They did not die unblessed commander.” Trekor Aileth was suddenly beside him without him even realising; it was amazing how quiet she could be despite her size. “The blessings of the Mother flow through them all as they fight the demon.”
“But we will have some light in this darkness.” Ericus was standing some distance from them, in the very middle of the underground hall, with his staff held high above his head. Tyrus barely had the chance to close his eyes as he realised what was coming next. It wasn’t enough.
The priest spoke the name of his goddess and instantly lit up like the sun. And then with a few more words a ray of that unbearable brilliance shot for the ceiling and started eating its way into the stone.
Tyrus covered his eyes with his arms again. They all did. But still he could see that impossible light tearing through the stone above their heads, and he knew what the priest was doing. He was carving a channel to the sun. He was opening the vault up to the first rays of sunlight it had ever seen. What began as a narrow channel widened quickly into a tunnel as the priests was joined by his brethren above.
Surprisingly quickly that small channel had become a tunnel as wide and as tall as a man, and the sunlight was streaming in. The sunlight illuminated the entire cavern. An effect that Ericus added to a moment later when he turned around and cast his magic into the floor, somehow transforming the dull grey stone into a rounded mirror. A mirror that reflected the new light in all directions, shining even into the darkest and most distant parts of the cavern.
“Silene, aswa.” Thanks given to his goddess, the priest turned and walked to him, his work done.
“Commander, my friends above us are even now creating a globe of focus that will take the light of the sun and the moon and the stars from wherever it shines and send it down here. Soon this dark vault will never know darkness again, and will become a sanctuary should we need one.”
“Good. Thank you.” Those few simple words seemed completely unworthy of t
he gift the priest had given them. He had brought light to the darkness. But what else was there to say? Still Ericus seemed happy enough with what was said as he nodded and wandered over to stand with the other priests as they waited to move on.
It was then that Tyrus finally understood that this was never a battle of swords and cannon. Not even one of magic. It was one of the gods. Of the Divines as they fought a demon. He, his soldiers, all those who had fought and died, and even those who had somehow been transformed into those hideous abominations, were like pieces in a board game. They were simply being moved as they were needed. But now, the final battle was upon them, and the pieces were not enough. Now the players would show themselves.
He swallowed nervously, as he realised that he was no longer in command. That he never truly had been. And that he had no idea what awaited them.
Then, taking his courage firmly in both hands, he gave the order and they marched on into the darkness.
Chapter One Hundred and Seventeen.
Iros and his riders found Y’aris in his quarters. But there was no sword in his hand. Nor did angry words spew from his mouth. There was no promise of vengeance from the warlord. Despite all his vaunted tales of heroism, Y’aris was as meek and submissive as Iros had expected. As the bards would sing, he could proclaim a good battle but not wage one.
Instead of fighting he was hiding. Locked away in a trunk at the foot of his straw bale bed, with bedding over the top of him. It wasn’t a very good hiding place. Even as a child Iros was sure he could have done better.
He was injured too. Someone had crushed his hand and cut off his manhood, actions that struck Iros as being very worthy considering all he had done. They’d also broken his legs so that he couldn’t walk. Or more likely so that he couldn’t run away. And despite all the tails of his bravery, Iros was certain that Y’aris would have run rather than fight. The only thing he didn’t understand was why he was naked.
It didn’t matter. None of it. All that mattered was that Y’aris would die. And then the war would be over and everyone could go home.
Iros nodded at the others and they quickly pulled Y’aris out of the trunk, and soon had the screaming, sobbing wretch wrapped up tight. He wasn’t getting away.
“You filthy utra!” Between his cries of pain and sobbing, Y’aris began screaming at them, at him and in some way it was almost a relief. Almost normal as it reminded him of all the terrible evil the man had done. Because it was hard to relate that foul, arrogant monster with the piteous wretch in front of him. It reminded him of what wanted to do. It was the same thing they all wanted to do. And there wasn’t a moment to lose. The evil creature had already lived far too long.
“On his back over the straw bales.” Iros didn’t have to say any more than that. The riders understood him perfectly. Quickly they had the screaming elf on his back, arms and legs spread wide, and Iros had his longsword ready. Even Y’aris understood his fate.
“No! No! Please! I have gold.” He switched in a heartbeat from anger to fear, and Iros didn’t care. There was no amount of gold in the world that was going to stop him.
“You, grab his hair. Pull it tight.” The ranger did exactly as he ordered, and as Iros raised his sword for the strike he had a perfect view of the elf’s neck. All that he needed.
“Goodbye.” Iros smiled as he started his swing, and Y’aris shrieked like a little girl.
“Hold please.” Finell walked into the room and for some reason everyone stopped. Even Iros stopped in mid swing, just as he was about to sever Y’aris’ head from his neck, and he didn’t quite know why. He didn’t even know how. His arms just stopped swinging and he couldn’t seem to start them again.
All he knew was that a voice he had never expected to hear again, from a man he had never expected to see, had told him to stop, and he’d stopped. And that he still wanted to take Y’aris’ head. With everything he had he wanted to take his head. It wasn’t even about winning the war. It was just the overwhelming rage that filled him at the sight of the foul creature. And the undying memory of his prison. And his dead family.
“No!” Iros screamed his frustration and fury at seeing the black blood’s neck exposed and so very close.
“Please!” He begged the man. All he wanted, everything he had ever wanted, was merely a single swing of his blade away. He was so close. So very, very close. And Y’aris needed to die. It wasn’t so much to ask for was it? But the rage somehow just wasn’t enough to overcome the command, and his arms stayed stubbornly locked in place above his head. Why?
“Calm. Y’aris will die. But his death will have purpose.”
“Finell?” He turned to face the elf, sword still hanging stupidly in the air above him, while behind him Y’aris started laughing hysterically.
Seeing him standing there Iros suddenly wanted to swing his sword a second time. The anger and the hatred suddenly burnt within him as he saw his enemy in front of him. The man who had not only had him sent to that terrible dungeon, but ordered the deaths of his friends at the mission, and started the war that had killed his parents. But no matter how hot the fury within him burned, he simply couldn’t swing his sword. His arms simply wouldn’t let him.
“Once, but no more.” The once high lord faced him directly and for some reason Iros couldn’t look away. He was held by his stare. “Now I am a nameless servant.”
“I caused you suffering. I caused so much suffering to so many, and I am sorry for that. More sorry than I can ever say. And should I survive this day I will devote my life to making amends for those crimes. But now is not the time for that. It is not the time for vengeance either and I know your blood burns with the desire to kill him. As does mine. But now is the time to destroy an ancient enemy. To kill the demon. And I will need Y’aris for that.”
It was him Iros slowly realised, but not as he had been. His face was the same, his hair, no matter how messed up, still the same blue, everything about him was the same. And yet it wasn’t. His clothes were rags, his skin was covered in dirt and he was surprisingly thin. He had become a beggar by the looks of things. But that wasn’t what had changed. His natural arrogance and disdain for others had vanished too, to be replaced by what almost seemed like humility. But as profound as that was, it wasn’t what had truly changed either.
It was his eyes. His once blue eyes. Now they were golden. Completely golden. He had no whites, no pupils, no irises, only golden orbs hidden behind his eyelids. But more than that, they were glowing gold, glowing with a light that somehow seemed to pierce the darkness. That spoke of an authority he had never before had. Not the authority of a ruler with armies and laws. Not even the authority of magic as it burst free from him. It was the authority of something greater. Something that shone from him. Something like the divine touch of the Mother. He’d seen it before, several times, but only in the priests and elders, and only when they were in direct contact with whichever deity they served. Suddenly it seemed that Finell was serving the Mother. Even Saris recognised her presence in him, and she went down on her knees and lowered her head before him, something the jackal hound had never done.
But what did that matter? Iros still wanted to kill him. He wanted to kill both Finell and Y’aris. It was bitterly unfair that he couldn’t. Not only could he not swing his sword, but his arms involuntarily lowered and sheathed the blade. Exactly as Finell wanted.
“Please bind him hand and foot, and bring him with you. We need him alive and in the temple.”
It was madness. It was the last thing he wanted to do. That any of them wanted to do. And still Iros and the others did as he said. They put down their weapons and bound the screaming traitor to a thin pole that Finell had brought with him so that he hung from it as they carried him. And then they followed Finell out of the traitor’s quarters, across the open expanse of grass, and over to the temple. It wasn’t a choice. The only one of them who seemed to have a choice was Y’aris, and his choice was to either remain quiet, or to struggle frantically, yell an
d scream, and sob with terror. Needless to say Y’aris chose the latter. Maybe he knew what Finell was planning. But no matter what he tried, he wasn’t going to get away.
That at least Iros could make sure of. He only hoped that he died a truly horrid death.
“Finell, why?” Y’aris cried out the question as if he had some reason to expect the former high lord to be his friend, and even Iros was surprised. “I protected you.”
“You murdered my family! All of them! You destroyed my house and unleashed a plague of evil upon the people! You left my cities in ruins and sent your armies to kill all the people of the world! Believe me if it were my choice and not the Mother’s I would have swung the sword myself. But it is hers and I obey.”
“You will die, and it will be a hard death. But in your dying you will free the people of a terrible evil. You will destroy your master. I pray that you find some comfort in that.” Y’aris obviously didn’t, and instead screamed and struggled at his bonds. But he would not get free.
Finell was so calm. That Iros didn’t understand. This man Y’aris - not really a man so much as a monster that walked as a man - had hurt so many so terribly. He had hurt even the former high lord. And every part of Iros wanted to plunge a sword into his heart. They all did. But not Finell, who if he had suffered as terrible a loss as he claimed, should have been just as angry. Or was it all a lie? Then Iros turned to him and found himself once more staring into those strange golden eyes. He so very much wanted to slaughter the elf where he stood, but he just couldn’t.
