by Jeff Inlo
Ryson realized the true power of the algors at that moment. The sling was no longer a crude weapon of minimal effectiveness. For a hook hawk to be hit by one stone was possibly nothing more than an annoyance or a deep bruise—a laughable defense—but to be hit by thousands at once was bone crushing destruction. Guided by a common goal, the algors released their projectiles as if following the frantic guidance of one conductor. It was an avalanche of devastation that didn't roll down a mountainside, but flung upwards in the simultaneous release of the sling cords.
The stones formed a rainstorm—a tidal wave—of flying missiles. They darkened the skies, not to the same extent as the attacking birds, but certainly far beyond Ryson's expectations.
What's more, the algors seemed to understand the consequences of the tight flying formations of their enemy. They aimed for the monsters highest in the air and at the ones at the center of the flocks. Those that fell crashed into birds below or behind, causing further havoc in the ranks. A chain reaction of mayhem exploded through the cluster of attackers in such a fashion that taking down one bird meant the destruction or disabling of several more.
And this was just the first volley. Ryson understood the algors were prepared for a long battle. They reloaded and fired again, and more monsters fell from the air.
The delver turned on his speed once more and carefully watched the ebb and flow of battle. In these early stages, the fight was taken to the invaders. The predators fought against flying projectiles and made little progress toward reaching their prey. Ryson could do little more than observe and hope the battle would remain that way.
Unfortunately, both speed and numbers were on the side of the winged monsters. Algors were forced to reload, swing and release. Too much time passed between each volley, and eventually a great number of twisting hook hawks and swirling spin vultures fell upon the algor lines.
Some algors were yanked from the ground and pulled into the air, but most were simply sliced open where they stood. Talons clasped and ripped at algor scales. Beaks jabbed and tore. Powerful wings knocked many off high ledges. Casualties quickly mounted.
The algors dropped their slings in unison, but then broke into two separate and distinct groups. The first group, the majority, turned their attention to fighting off the flying menaces with clubs and spears. They readied their weapons just as the full breadth of nightmare birds dropped from the sky like a collapsing tent of twisted feathers.
As the mass of invaders that once darkened the skies draped over the sand and stone, the algors fought desperately against superior numbers as well as superior fighters. The slim form of the algor did not translate well into melee conflict. They swung their clubs and jabbed their spears with valor but with only marginal success. Whereas a sharp claw or jagged beak could incapacitate an algor with one swipe, it took several blows of a club or stabs with a spear to drop a single hook hawk.
Spin vultures—powerful flyers with bodies of great bulk—could plow through the algor lines. As their flight path took them in swirling patterns along the ground, they crashed into their victims with great force. Once they landed, their massive beaks swung back and forth like a battering ram on a pendulum. Thick claws grasped any algor nearby and tore the poor victim into shreds.
As the fighting continued, the second group of algors—a smaller portion of algors representing slightly less than a quarter of their total number—moved to their injured comrades. Utilizing the healing power of the magic they could temporarily hold, these algors set upon saving the fallen. Wounds closed, bones mended, consciousness was restored. They worked feverishly, helping every algor that could be saved. Only the ones that had passed the threshold of death remained upon the ground, but they were few. Even algors savagely torn apart that still clung to a small spark of life were revived, and once restored, they rejoined the fight.
In this, Ryson found more optimism. The algors were outnumbered, but their wounded could return to battle. The same could not be said for the enemy. The fallen dark creatures remained in heaps on the desert floor, dead or disabled. Over time, the algors might just offset the superior numbers, and perhaps even overcome the viciousness of their adversaries.
The battle, however, had just begun. Hook hawks, spin vultures, and razor crows were just the first wave. Baannat had also sent ground forces to the desert and their appearance caught the attention of the delver.
A staggering number of shags crested over a tall dune in the distance. Despite being territorial creatures that would attack their own kind, the giant upright monsters of powerful limbs, matted fur, and sharpened fangs charged across the desert like a well-trained army. They maintained close ranks and moved with clear purpose. They would reach the frontlines of the battle in mere moments, or so Ryson thought.
The delver raced forward to meet the charge, hoping to divert and distract them by cutting through the center of their ranks with his blinding speed. He could not hope to halt them completely, but he could certainly delay them.
As he raced to the top of the nearest dune, he reached a strategic position that overlooked a low lying ravine. The first line of shags rambled to the bottom of the gorge before the delver. When they hit the leveled ground, it exploded before them.
Hundred upon hundreds of sand giants rose from loose sand and dirt. They took hold of the stunned shags and dispatched the astonished creatures with ferocious savagery. Even the largest and most powerful shags could not match a sand giant's strength. The carnage was beyond description.
The shags, however, continued forward, moved by some unseen hand that urged them onward despite their losses. It was a sickening strategy, but one not without merit. As dead shags piled up around the sand giants, many of the stone titans became confused and even trapped within the mass of corpses. Their efficiency waned as they struggled to battle the seemingly endless rush of fur laden monsters.
Many of the shags charged over the tops of their fallen brethren and leapt safely over the sand giants as if knowing their fight rested not with animated rock but with the algors that waited beyond the next dune.
Ryson watched this turn with growing dread. The true moment of his involvement in battle had finally arrived. He could not have these shags reach the algors unchallenged. He needed to do more than distract them. He had to stop them.
Even with war blades in each hand, he instinctively wished to pull the Sword of Decree from its sheath on his back. The sheath, however, was empty... the sword back in some cave in the dark lands. He would not be able to use the magical energy of the sword to burn the very essence of his enemies. He would not be able to encourage their retreat with the threat of its glowing blade. He would have to rely on the sharp edge of plain steel and the death he would deal.
A heavy burden fell upon him, a decision to make, but it was already made for him. Where was the choice? None existed.
He removed the regret he knew he would feel from his mind. He focused on the charging shags. He would kill as many as he could. He didn't want to... the thought sickened him. He swallowed hard and resolved to save as many algors as possible. He raced toward the hairy beasts in a blur of furious motion.
The weapons twirled in his hands. They became spinning blades of death. He struck without hesitation and moved to kill as quickly as possible. Cutting through the long line of rushing shags, he left his own number of staggering casualties. He would not look back on the dead and dying monsters, only forward on those that dared to move past him with the intent to kill the algors Ryson vowed to defend.
As he accepted his role in this tragic battle, Ryson became a killing machine, his part in the fight irreparably sealed. The choice of joining the struggle was no longer a question. The choice had been made. One day he might regret it, and just as the dwarves sought to restore their honor, he might seek some kind of redemption. Within the struggle, however, such considerations became irrelevant.
Back and forth across the sand, he intercepted every shag that managed to break past the sand giants. Ig
noring the heat of the day and the shifting, unsteady ground, Ryson blocked everything else from his mind. He ignored the screeching shrieks of the hook hawks behind him and the murderous howls of the shags still in the distance. He fought off fatigue, fought off fear. He focused completely on his own part—became part of the battle, part of the struggle.
The number of shags that Ryson had to dispatch slowly began to diminish. Sprinting over greater distances to reach his next target, the delver placed greater attention on the algor creations that served as the front line.
Pressing through the shag carcasses, the sand giants continued their assault. Though their movement had for a time been slowed, they pushed away the dead and began to move more freely. Stepping forward and beyond the carnage that had once blocked their path, they met the continuing shag rush with indifference to the blood thickening upon the desert floor.
If there was any solace, Ryson began to sense an end to the conflict, and he believed they actually had a chance to win with minimal algor casualties. He and the sand giants effectively countered the shag threat and the algors had proven they could stand against the aerial assault.
In fact, the number of shags began to decrease dramatically. They faltered against the sand giants, and those that made it past could not outmaneuver the fast moving delver.
Soon the sand giants were left to chasing a few remaining stragglers. Many of the stone sentinels stopped all movement as they scanned the terrain before them, but found nothing but empty rock and sand. They were creations of a single purpose—to defend the algors against aggressors. The grounds around them, however, were now all but empty of such invaders.
With no more shags breaking past the sand giants, Ryson turned his attention back to the algors. He could see some of the sandstone cliffs behind him and realized that the number of winged monsters had dwindled as well. He marveled at the situation.
Could they have already won?
Just scant moments ago, such a possibility seemed out of reach, and yet he could not deny the scene before him. The shags had been decimated by the raw power of the sand giants. The flying dark creatures could simply not overcome the algors' ability to restore health to the casualties they inflicted. The threat was not only dwindling, it was disappearing completely.
It seemed to Ryson that magic had again won the day—magic placed in the stone statues that created animated warriors and magic that healed all but the dead algors. The energy had been used in different ways, and although it allowed creatures of nightmare to invade the land, it also helped repel them. There was a benefit to the energy that flowed across the land, and if that was so, maybe it could also be used to defeat Baannat once and for all.
At that moment, however, Baannat was still a threat, still hiding in the dark realm looking for ways to cause pain and suffering. His army was defeated, but he was not. The ghoul still had his objectives and his targets. It seemed he lost in the desert, but the delver knew the ghoul would not simply give up. Ryson thought of Linda. It was time for him to return to the north.
It was in that same moment the ground rumbled.
Chapter 24
"Interesting battle out in the desert, don't you think?" Baannat asked. "Oh, I forgot, you can't see it, can you? You really can't see much of anything. How is that for you? You're used to seeing so much, aware of so many things. And now, all you can see is me? That must be difficult for you."
Baannat deliberately needled the trapped wizard, but he spoke the truth as well. The ghoul knew the extent of Enin's confinement, understood the restrictions on the wizard's awareness. Where Baannat could utilize the incompleteness of his own existence to reach out from the emptiness of a new realm of nonexistence, he knew such connections defied his rival.
These truths hounded Enin, left him grasping for absent hope. The space that enveloped his consciousness served more as a tomb than a place to explore. His lack of any physical attribute amplified his misery as his consciousness simply existed in a gray hole of nothingness. He could see Baannat, though not with his eyes. His mind simply registered the closeness of the ghoul. Beyond that, he was surrounded by unmoving shadow. His consciousness existed in emptiness—nothing more.
The ghoul, however, took shape and form in the shadows. His lack of total substance in the physical world allowed him certain advantages in a realm that lacked solid composition. Baannat could interact with nothingness.
"Is it painful for you? I know it is. You might be beyond certain things, like eating and sleeping, but you're not beyond pain. We've already established that."
That much was also true. Despite being separated from his body, the wizard was not shielded from pain. It was not a surprise. Certain feelings rested not within physical properties, but within emotional conditions.
Enin focused on controlling his emotions as these were all he had, all that was left for him to experience the grayness around him. He had spiritual awareness, but he was locked away from the spirit world. Back in the dark realm, his physical existence remained intact but totally blocked from his consciousness. He could think, and he could feel, but not with his fingers or hands or any other part of his body. He could only feel with his emotions.
He had not yet lost the wisdom of his experience and he understood that under his current circumstances, these emotions would be his weakness. Baannat had already inflicted pain on his consciousness by tearing at it with claws that found purpose in an empty existence. Even as the ghoul could slash at the wizard, it was not physical pain that resulted, but emotional anguish. Fear held greater power than a blade in a realm that lacked true substance.
The slink ghoul chuckled, as if he could sense Enin's thoughts.
"You don't wish to talk to me, brother?" Baannat pressed.
"You still call us brothers?" Enin finally responded. "You used to call us brothers because you saw us as equals in magic. That is clearly no longer the case. I am now separated from the magic and you are a mere shell of your former self."
"And you don't see the connection that remains between us? I am not whole, and now, neither are you. We still remain brothers." And Baannat cackled with laughter.
"Fine, we're brothers," Enin muttered.
The ghoul's laughter abruptly stopped as he tilted his head in confusion at the wizard's spirit.
"You give up so easily now? Why? Because you no longer have any power? Are you now just going to give in to all my demands?"
"Not all of them," Enin replied with as much courage as he could muster.
"You still wish to hide the location of the woman from me?"
"I will not offer it freely."
The slink ghoul considered the meaning behind Enin's words.
"What must I pay?" he asked.
Enin considered the request, and surprisingly, he made an offer.
"Release me and I will tell you exactly where she is," he stated quickly.
The ghoul sneered in disgust.
"Once I will release you, you will not tell me anything."
"There is a way you can guarantee my response. We can make the pact binding with a spell of your own magic, a spell that binds us both. I tell you where she is and you immediately return me to my body. A spell pact would guarantee my honesty and I would know you could not back out. Surely you would allow me this?"
Baannat almost agreed, but then caught himself.
"Very good. You almost had me there. Yes, you would tell me. You would even reveal the truth, as the pact would force it, but then I would have to release you, and what would you do? You would be back to the all-powerful wizard you can be. Then what? You would streak toward her and move her once more. You would have kept your bargain and still managed to save the woman and yourself. No, there will be no spell pact on this. You will tell me. It's just a matter of time."
Enin didn't wish to agree, but deep within, he knew the ghoul was probably right. His ploy was easily detected by the ghoul, and that was all he had left—bungling attempts at deception. He had fallen from
his lofty perch of magical power.
Baannat disregarded the wizard as he once more gazed past the veil and into the land of Uton, into the desert.
"I have some good news for you," the ghoul noted. "The algors are actually doing quite well. Strange creatures, these tailless lizards. Looking at them, you would think they would die easily, but they cling to life and they cling to each other. They have this unending sense of... belonging. At the same time, most of them wish to discard their connection to the community. Right now, I can sense most of them would like nothing more than to walk off alone into the desert, but they won't."
"It is important to belong," Enin offered. "I doubt that's something you would understand."
"Oh, they belong, but then again they want to be alone. Isn't that interesting? They seek solitude, they seek independence, but they just won't give up their little hole in the desert. I think it's almost adorable."
Adorable?
A strange word to be used by the ghoul. Nothing about Baannat could ever be confused with adorable. Cruel—certainly. Twisted—absolutely. But there was nothing remotely close to adorable within the slink ghoul.
As Enin considered such inane observations, he realized just how desperate his situation had become. There was nothing he could do. It went far beyond being caught in some trap. He fought against the mind-numbing grip of emptiness. It was as if he could stare into his own hollow grave and realize that an eternity of pointlessness would swallow his thoughts.
Enin found the situation maddening. He couldn't do anything. He simply floated in the nothingness of nonexistence. He wondered how long he could last under such circumstances, how long before insanity took his mind.
Maybe that was the answer. If only he could be sure he would lose all his memories, he would have embraced madness in an instant. Unfortunately, he might hang to a shred of reality, and if he did, he would end up releasing Linda's location. He would fight against that, and so, insanity would have to wait.
