by Ben Hale
“Welcome to my prison, Taryn Elseerian,” Draeken exclaimed, his voice rough and sinister.
Taryn didn’t respond, his eyes searching for a way to get to him. Drawing his mother's sword, he shifted it to a bow and sent an arrow across the space. Imbued with magic stronger than stone, the arrow still glanced away from Draeken and sunk into the wall a few feet away.
Behind his chains, Draeken laughed, low and mocking. “I’m afraid your weapon is not strong enough. The very bindings that keep me imprisoned prevent such weak attempts on my life.” His dark eyes flashed with humor. “You are running out of time boy. My army is set to destroy the pathetic gathering of races, and by sunset today, they will be destroyed. I will be free at last.” Madness cast a shadow on his features as he spoke of his freedom.
Taryn did his best to ignore him, and scanned the walls for some way to reach his foe, but there was nothing. He would have to jump to the bottom of the pit and see if there was any way up the opposite wall. Taking a few steps back, he sprinted forward. Placing a foot at the edge, he leapt up and out, holding his breath as he fell through the hot, sulfuric air. Slamming into the bottom of the pit with tremendous force, he felt a flash of gratitude for the strength of his dwarven heritage.
Rising, he looked upward and saw the column went all the way to the sky. Recalling the fire giant's words about the exhaust vent, he was still surprised at its diameter. Dropping his gaze, he began looking for anything that would help him reach his target.
“You aren’t the first to stand there,” Draeken said, “and you will die just as easily.”
Taryn finally looked up at the Lord of Chaos. “Don't count on it.”
Chuckling darkly, Draeken waved a hand. “I am not out of tricks yet, fool.”
Next to Draeken, the churning portal of magic condensed and dropped to the prison floor like a drop of water, bursting into a swirling fog of energy. Then it began to rise and congeal.
Gathering into itself, it began to shape into a person. In seconds, it became the very thing he’d seen in Siarra’s prophecy . . . himself. Standing at the exact distance he stood from the center of the circle, the dark image of himself looked at him with black eyes. The expressionless face and the dark eyes were the only difference between them, right down to the ready stance and drawn weapons.
Taryn took two cautious steps forward, and the thing mirrored his own movements exactly. Enthralled with the disturbing view of his dark self, he almost didn’t hear the low mirthless laugh. Reluctantly he met Draeken’s cold gaze.
“Now you face a singular choice,” Draeken said, “Unique in history except for that fool Lakonus. If you kill it, it will kill you, and doing so is the only way to close the portal to my army, banishing them for another ten thousand years. You will save the races of Lumineia, but I will survive. Or, you can choose to save yourself, and depart this place. I will even grant you the lives of your two remaining friends battling above.”
Taryn’s heart clenched, his mind leaping to Liri.
"Even if you could reach me," he gestured to the corridor that Taryn had entered from, "the exit is on the opposite side. In addition, the chains that bind me are infused with supreme magic. To kill me would break them, and the release of such energy would ensure your death. Either way, Azertorn is even now about to fall, so time is not your ally.” Draeken’s lips curled into a sneer.
“What will you choose, hero?”
Chapter 32: The Power of Peace
With only his enormous shield and sword, Tryton picked up the pace, speeding through the dim corridor on his way east. Behind him, Kaber and the other nineteen he’d chosen matched his gate. In near silence, the group of rock trolls raced through one of the escape tunnels of Azertorn, trying to reach War before the city fell behind them.
Less than thirty minutes ago, Tryton had been summoned to meet with Commander Braon. Leaving Solus in command, he collected his best trolls and departed the battle. Pausing only to wipe off the copious amounts of fiend blood, he rushed to the command center. Instinctively he knew he would not be returning to fight with his brothers. That is why he’d left Solus in command rather than Kaber. Although Kaber had always been a better warrior, Solus displayed the marks of leadership. Level-headed and smart, he could continue Tryton’s legacy if anything happened to him.
Striding into the elven home, Tryton followed the elf guard to the command center, feeling an odd mixture of emotions as he went to meet the leader he’d pledged his life to. Although he’d heard after he'd arrived that the commander was a boy, he was still surprised when he ducked through the doorway into what had once been a grand dining hall. Pulling up short at the view, he heard the gasps from the trolls behind him.
Dominating his sight, the walls and ceiling displayed a vista from high above Azertorn, making him feel as if he was in the top of the great tree in the center of the city. To the right, the fiend army stretched to the southern horizon, and to the west, north, and east, one could see the top battlements, crawling with defenders.
Tearing his eyes from the scene, he noticed a long, rectangular object shimmering and flickering. Moving points of light flowed like water through the enchantment, but the damaged sections made it difficult to see what it was meant for. Then he noticed something familiar, and he realized it was a map. In a flash of understanding, he knew all he needed to know about the commander.
The room had been chosen for the view, and the map and been created so he could watch the battle. Coupled with the telepaths they were using to coordinate the army, it demonstrated a genius of rare quality. Only a brilliant strategic mind could have united the races in such a fashion—all while giving himself a way to see and talk to his forces.
But he was still stunned to see the body that carried the mind.
Only three people stood in the room. One elf, a guard, stood to the side, eyeing the trolls. A human, dressed as a commoner, stood near the map, his expression wide as he looked at Tryton. Last, a human youth—who couldn’t have been more than fifteen—met his gaze without flinching. Dressed in wrinkled clothes that hung on his round form, commander Braon appeared exhausted. Dark circles cradled his bloodshot eyes, and the fatigue lines marred his features. Unkempt hair shined due to lack of care—but the eyes radiated with determination.
In a voice that invited obedience, the young man addressed him with a short bow. “King Tryton. Forgive me, but there is little time for pleasantries. Our entire line is going to buckle, and the fiends have already begun to divert the river that keeps them at bay. Within the hour, the river that protects us will run dry.”
“And we will be overrun,” Tryton said, ignoring the rumble of irritation from Kaber.
Braon flashed him a tired smile. “Correct, so I will be perfectly clear. We have held out this long for a variety of reasons, but now, there is nothing left. We have lost over six hundred thousand soldiers, and the survivors are beyond the limits of their strength. There is nothing that can save us, and no strategy that can delay our destruction—”
“Are we going to listen to this boy?” Kaber interrupted, taking a step forward to stand next to Tryton. “I doubt he could even wield a human weapon.”
Tryton opened his mouth to respond, but Braon beat him to it. “If you doubt my words, then strike me down, and see for yourself. The city will be overrun according to my words, and our world will perish, because of you.” His words were light, but echoed with the ring of truth.
Kaber, despite his swagger, reluctantly fell silent, causing Tryton to suppress a smile. “As you said, Commander, there is no time for pleasantries. You brought us here for a reason. What is it?”
Braon turned to the map beside him and shifted the view away from the city. As it glided to a halt, he pointed. “This is the last general of the fiend army. If he is slain, I believe it will disrupt the attack.”
“Where is he?” Tryton asked, his eyes narrowing at the prospect.
“Do you remember the knoll near the Lake Road? You would ha
ve passed it on your retreat into the city.”
Tryton recalled the flat-topped mound and nodded.
“War is standing on it, and an escape tunnel from the city lets out behind it.”
Tryton’s brow furrowed as understanding lit his mind. “You want us to surprise and kill him.”
“If you can,” Braon bobbed his head. “But I won’t lie to you. The moment the fiends know of the tunnel, they will use it to get in. We will have to seal it behind you.”
Tryton considered the mission, but in reality, the choice was an easy one. Die with his men when the river drained—or die fighting the enemy general. Either way he knew the end—but if he and his elite trolls succeeded, some of his clan might survive. His thoughts turned to his father, who had lived and breathed for the heat of battle. Gifted with his father's skill, many had thought Tryton would follow in his father's footsteps to war, but there had been a difference that few had seen. From birth, Tryton had had fought for a single purpose, to prevent war.
“Get us to him, and we will kill him.” Tryton said.
Braon nodded to the elf guard. “Rokei will lead you to the knoll. Good luck.” As Tryton turned away, Braon paused to add, “King Tryton, I cannot express our gratitude enough that you and your people have come.”
Tryton knew what it felt like to send someone to die, so when he looked down at the youth, there was respect in his eyes. “Win this war, Commander Braon, for all of us.” Then he turned and followed the elf from the room.
Now he raced behind Rokei, heading for what he knew would be his final battle. In minutes they had skidded to a stop next to a set of stairs.
“As soon as you are through,” the elf panted from the run, “I will close it behind you. There will be no way back.”
Tryton bobbed his head. “Give me thirty seconds to get ready.”
Drawing his sword, he snarled at his elite trolls. “We, who are the flesh of war, we train for life—”
“—To fight to the death,” they finished, drawing their own weapons.
Fiercely proud, Tryton gave his final order. “Set up a perimeter around the knoll. Keep them off me as long as you can. If I should fall, Kaber will take my place.”
As one, twenty massive rock trolls raised their weapons. Turning back to the elf he said. “Open it.”
Launching himself up the steps, he led with his shield. The darkness split as the portal opened, and Tryton burst on the surface with a roar. Sounding the call of his people, he blew through the surprised fiends before they knew what had hit them. In seconds, the rock trolls materialized behind him, cutting black bodies down before they could rise to defend themselves. Working together like a single, supreme warrior, the rock trolls spread around the mound and set their backs to it. Waves of fiends launched themselves at them, and died by their hands.
For his part, Tryton swept through the few fiends in his way, charging to the top of the stone. Stepping onto the flat surface, he dodged a strike from the remaining kraka. Effortlessly spinning past him, he plunged his massive sword into its back. Even as the body hit the stone, he rose to face the general of the fiend army, who was already drawing his weapon.
Like two titans of war, they squared off. Tryton took advantage of the time to evaluate his opponent, trying to ignore the ringing sounds of battle as his trolls kept the horde at bay. War carried no shield, but his sword was even bigger than Tryton’s. Black and red lines veined the barbed sword, pulsing with magic. Spiked armor of burnished steel covered every inch of him, and its helmet yielded no glimpse at the wearer. Standing at well over twelve feet, the fiend general towered over Tryton. For the first time in his entire life, Tryton prepared himself to fight someone bigger, stronger, and more powerful than he.
He charged in a burst of speed.
Crossing the twenty paces in seconds, he feinted to the side before leading with his shield—but War wasn’t fooled. Leaning forward, the general braced himself to take the blow, and didn’t even budge when Tryton smashed into him. Tryton rolled to the side to avoid a lightning overhand chop—and missed losing an arm by inches—before swinging his own weapon at his enemy’s back, but War was no longer there.
Dashing after him, Tryton swung his sword with all his might. The moment War deflected the strike, Tryton stepped in and attacked with his shield from the left side. Backed by years of training and enormous strength, the upper edge of the shield crunched into the general’s head, denting his helmet and staggering him back.
Driving forward, Tryton tried to press his advantage, but the blow only appeared to infuriate his opponent. War's sword impacted his block with an ear-splitting ring. The attack sent chills reverberating throughout Tryton's body, and he almost thought his own weapon would break, but his greatsword's unique magic held up to the attack.
Before Tryton could move, War launched himself into a flurry of strikes, swinging his sword with a speed that took Tryton’s breath away. Despite his best effort, the fiend's weapon got past his guard several times, leaving him bleeding in multiple places by the time he managed to dodge away and re-set his defenses.
But War didn’t give him a chance to breathe. Thundering after him, he kept up the relentless attack with a fury. Tryton fought back with every trick he’d learned, every technique he’d ever used, and every ounce of power he possessed, but it just wasn’t enough. Time and again, he was left on the defensive, and each time, he felt the dark greatsword cut his flesh. Even though he managed to block the mortal strikes, he just couldn’t block them all, even with his shield.
Seeing an opportunity, he flicked his weapon up, deflecting the dark sword high. Darting forward, he once again shield bashed his enemy’s head. This time, he put as much force as he could muster into the blow, grunting as the shock of the vibration settled into his arm. As before, the attack sent War back a step.
For the first time, War emitted a sound. A screeching roar echoed from the armored behemoth, and when he attacked, it was with a speed unmatched by anything Tryton had ever seen. War’s wrath descended upon him, blasting through his defenses and cutting him again and again. Tryton danced and spun, trying in vain to ignore the energy seeping out of him.
Tryton deflected with both his sword and shield, retreating and turning to stay on the mound. Although his opponent's anger gave him even more strength and speed, it allowed openings, and he took full advantage of them. One strike came too fast with his full weight behind it, so Tryton ducked and stepped forward, sending his greatsword into War’s side. The fiend sidestepped, yet still received a glancing blow—but the sword merely scratched the shimmering armor.
Frustration coursed through Tryton as he desperately sought an opening. How could he get past the creature’s armor? Every blow he managed to land scarcely made a dent.
And time was running out.
Already, he could hear the battling of his trolls begin to diminish as several of them were slain. In moments, the last of his strike force would be gone. Knowing he had no other option, he took the next chance to smash his shield into War’s helmet once more—but this time his enemy was ready.
Tryton deflected the black weapon and stepped into War’s reach, bringing his shield up to hit . . . but War ducked under the blow and stepped to the side, bringing his weapon across Tryton’s midsection, cutting deep.
Flesh split and troll blood gushed forth, causing Tryton to suck in his breath through clenched teeth. He tried to lift his shield to block the next attack, but he could barely lift it off the ground. War strode forward, reversing his sword so he carried it with left hand. Closing the distance fast, the general leaned back and smashed his fist into Tryton’s shield. Powerful energy blasted in every direction, shattering his shield and sending him tumbling backward. Landing in a heap twenty feet away, he struggled to stay conscious as he heard the heavy footfalls stalking him.
Growling against the pain, he fought his way to his knees, his mind drawn to the memories of the hundreds of battles he’d fought, and the numerous fri
ends he’d lost to war. Deep down, he hated the act of killing, despite his skill in doing it. Taking the life of another, even in battle, was something he abhorred. But unlike the rest of his people, he had never fought for the glory of victory.
He fought so his people did not have to live by the sword. He fought so their children could be raised with more than just a blade in their hands. He fought so life could be lived, rather than ended.
He fought for peace.
Groaning, he came to his knees, tasting blood and dirt. Bleary eyed, beaten and bloody, he tightened his grip on the hilt of his weapon and waited, not entirely feigning the urge to black out. Swaying with the loss of blood, holding the gash in his side, he listened to the clinking of armor approaching until the footsteps vibrated the stone beneath his hands.
Finally the steps stopped next to him—and Tryton stuck. Adrenaline dumped into his veins as he raised his head and launched himself off the ground. War’s sword was raised high for the killing blow, and even though he tried to bring it down, it was too late. Tryton bellowed his roar and smashed his shoulder into the general, feeling the bite as several of the spikes plunged into his arm and chest. Surging forward, Tryton knocked War off his feet.
Even as his enemy fell, Tryton raised his greatsword . . .
War’s body struck the stone ground in a brutal crunch of metal and rock—and in the same moment Tryton’s sword pierced his chest. Plunging downward, Tryton drove his weapon through the powerful armor. Every ounce of his weight and remaining strength went behind the blow, and the sword sunk through War and into the stone below.
Tryton, his last vestiges of energy spent, collapsed. His eyes on the dark sky above, his thoughts turned to his wife, Kythira, and their single son, Kell. Knowing his wife, she had safely led the rest of their people into the far northern mountains. When his mind turned to his son, he felt a deep pride. Young and quiet, he had no doubt that his skill, given time, would surpass even his own, and he felt sadness that he would not live to see him achieve such a prowess. With the blood seeping out of him, Tyrton just wished he could have had more time with them, especially his son. It had been several weeks since he’d seen him, but even though Kell had gone with the quest to vanquish Draeken, he felt oddly close to him.
