by Dan Gillis
As the two remaining foes regarded each other, the heavens broke down upon the area. The drizzle made way for a torrential downpour, which soon saturated the small wood. As if from a cue, the remaining lone Gnarel drove toward Zyr in a fury that rivaled the storm. It threw the spear with terrible accuracy and force. Being caught off guard the monk leapt backward, deflecting the spear to his side with his palm. The spear point struck into the ground and the shaft quivered for a moment. It was neither the storm’s distraction nor any lack of readiness which put Zyr on the defensive. Simply, the creature had not shown any sign of aggression previously, in the limited time he had to observe its behaviour.
He followed the movement of the creature. Weaponless, it had moved to its fallen clansman after the failed attack. It rolled the larger beast over and withdrew the wet blade swiftly. Zyr marveled at the actions of the strange animal. It had chosen rashly for an all-out attack, which lost the Gnarel its spear, and now it would fight with an unfamiliar weapon? Perhaps it felt a degree of fear and was reacting out of panic. What puzzled Zyr more was how the creature had shown no evidence of actual prowess in combat. Its physical presence was of no apparent comparison to its war brothers; so why was it here? It stood slowly, hefting the blade and snarling in warning. Zyr marveled as he prepared for an attack; ‘what is it hoping to accomplish?’ he mused to himself. It was hardly a blade warrior by the way it held the weapon.
Then, in the space of a small moment, all the mystery became clear in an amazing display of cunning which awed the stalwart monk. The robed Gnarel dropped to its knee and placed a claw upon its fellow. There was a quick exchange of energy, of life essence, and the Gnarel suddenly collapsed. Zyr's mind sparked in instant awareness; Alacritor weaves. In the place of the primitive Ashori, the once dead warrior Gnarel snatched up its sword and hurled itself toward Zyr. Swinging the jagged blade with furious strokes, it pressed the monk, who dipped and darted his body to avoid each potentially lethal blow. Rain was pounding upon the combatants, yet both bodies moved lithely through the pools of water and torrent sheets which assailed them. Zyr’s mind was still processing what had just occurred; the smaller Gnarel had sacrificed itself for the larger. It had pushed the weaving beyond the safeguards without a thought of self-preservation. He felt that he never really understood these creatures.
The warrior struck out with its shoulder which was set with spiky bone protrusions to impale its enemy upon. Zyr twisted his body to avert the attack and then reached up and grabbed hold of the great horns of the Gnarel’s head. Then he launched himself up and over the Blade Warrior while grasping the slick bony shafts. He twisted his body around sharply as he cut through the air and rain, and heard the familiar grind and crunch of a crumpled spine in his ears. Releasing the horns, he turned his head, the body of the Gnarel lay a second time upon the ground in a twisted abnormal way. “You better stay down, my friend,” the monk said as he began to stand.
He had a fraction of time to react, but somehow Zyr narrowly averted a blade from penetrating his ribs. It skittered across his chest, ripping flesh and tearing his pectoral muscles. Gasping in pain, he clutched his wounded chest, searching through the cursed downpour for the source of the attack. It was all but impossible to see now; between the rain which came so thick and hard and the lack of light. All this, combined with the constant echo of the rain in his ears (like thousands of hands joined in ovation), created a sensory state of deprivation. The best the wounded monk could manage was to await another attack. It would appear his enemy was relying upon senses other than sight or sound. Another attack came, this time to his abdomen. Zyr struck downward and broke the haft of a large spear; the healer’s spear! Still holding his chest, he sprung forward and came across whipping his body around with a knotted backhand fist to the temple of the crouched Gnarel. The blow stunned the already weary beast, and was followed up by two swift debilitating kicks to the Gnarel’s vital points. The beast fell helplessly to the ground, groaning savagely. Zyr pressed his boot to the neck of the dying Gnarel and mercifully ended its life with a quick twist of his leg.
The monk shook his head in anger, water spraying from his brow. ‘When will I learn not to underestimate the enemy?’ he thought in chastising tones. He thought the strange healing beast had incapacitated itself. It was a ruse to draw his attention away. The Ashori-tar Gnarel must have made its way over to the spear it had cast away earlier, while he was preoccupied. He certainly could not have seen it move through the rain. The monk contemplated his enemy as he surveyed the bodies, blurred by wet darkness. They were fearless and cunning and had caught him at a moment of opportunity. Standing in the rain, while his blood mingled with his foes’ upon the ground, he honoured the departed warriors in a moment of silent regard.
A strange sensation was suddenly gnawing at his mind. He wasn’t sure of the cause, but the feeling was growing steadily deeper and heavier. It was a feeling of dread and weariness that he had never before experienced. He struggled with his will; it became weary from carrying heavy burdens. Somewhere in his brain a small seed was spreading roots of wicked dissent. Surely, it would be easier to give up, rest this weary body … you cannot win this war, Mihyl. A cloud was settling over his rational mind, suffocating and entrapping the spark of life. Zyr rubbed his temples slowly, feeling the great weight of responsibility and the seductive thoughts crushing his will into dust. ‘Perhaps … it would be easier to …’ Zyr slowly fell to his knees with his head bowed in defeat. His broken mind began to dim just as a great black veil settled over the surrounding area.
Far beyond the monk’s hearing, terrible cries of anguish were lost in the downpour and rain. A great mist more deep and palpable than any fog fell upon every living thing. It swarmed and swirled around every soul. Gnarel and human alike wailed in misery and despair. Slowly, the voices were being silenced one by one, in brutal agony. Being separated, no being in either group was aware of the great slaughter that was commencing among them. The darkness was consuming their wills and eventually their very lives. With every cry of despair, the great gloom seemed to grow ever more terrible and profound.
Shien stumbled about in a dull stupor. He collided with a tree trunk, and then slipped to a knee upon the watery ground. He was unsure about what to do, or what to think. A great war was commencing in his mind. The side of his rationality was utterly perplexed and employed logic as its great ballista in the mental struggle. ‘This cannot be! It is all wrong! Come to your senses!’ Equally strong and relentless was the opposing thoughts which hammered upon his mental fortress as a great battering ram. ‘Fool, you cannot see, hear or sense anything! Stop this foolish struggle! Be still … just a little longer … all this will pass …’ He gripped his head and cried out in anguish. He could not bring his thoughts to any certain cohesion. Yet, somehow through all the chaos came a sound that broke the struggle. It was an enchanting and profound whisper that pierced through the raucous turmoil in his mind. In all its power it was strangely melodic and haunting …
“Awake! Awake! Ahtol has come!”
Shien slowly stood as if bolstered up by an unseen mighty arm. He felt his body moving, guided slowly through the wood. The war slowly ebbed in his head. He sensed something deep within his soul strengthening his resolve, causing his legs to move steadily and swiftly through the wood. Finally, he saw something in vision or in mind, which one he knew not. Two burning lights, one searing red and the other a brilliant white, parting the sea of shadows. The Spirit of Vyn-shi! Though the darkness clawed at the bright intrusion it recoiled at every attempt. The brilliance shone out like a beacon and Shien moved slowly toward them. As he came up next to the dazzling radiance, his hand raised to cover his eyes. From utter blackness to a luster beyond the noon-day sun! Now his whole body was illuminated by the glow. Shien stooped down slowly and slipped his fingers through the counterguards. His whole being became consumed with the energy flowing from the two swords. His legs quivered as he made to stand erect. The darkness was alive and all-co
nsuming trying desperately to choke the very life from his lungs, yet the power of the Vyn-shi was on him, within his whole frame. Trembling, he felt his right arm raise the fiery standard through the murky cloud above his head.
All at once the Heart of Kuros began to beat. Beginning slowly at first, it gradually grew quicker and stronger. Shien felt the thumping sensation from the tip of the hilt to the deepest recesses of his soul. With each pulse, the rapier gave off a tremendous burst of scorching red energy, which spread outward from the weapon in great ripples. The shadows retreated from the washes of flame and fire, and tried in vain to regroup after each pulse. Shien stood in awe at what was transpiring. It was as if his soul was linked to what was occurring. The flames never harmed his body, but slid over his skin like a breeze.
As the pounding fury of Kuros dispelled the darkness and illuminated the area in red hues, Shien saw the terrible cost of the weapon. The land lay barren and scorched in the crimson light; where neither a tree nor blade of grass stood above the ground. A blacked wasteland remained; the fruits of the wrath of Kuros. The blade called Isil lay still and firm in his other hand, content to let its counterpart’s fury swath paths of destruction across the land. So this was the secret of the Spirit of Vyn-shi. It was terrifying and breathtaking all in the same thought. As the shadows dispersed, the sword replaced its thundering fury with a brilliant red aura that cast everything in a crimson hue. It was then that things began to move very slowly, almost as still moments in time.
Shien saw something move in the corner of his eye, a blurred motion which swept toward him rapidly. He turned his head slowly to see what his soul was reviling. A horrific form filled his vision. Looming before him just off the ground was a creature beyond description. Illuminated in Kuros’ red glow, it appeared to be draped in black liquid shadows. Ghastly slick and almost tar-like, the shadows dripped in bead trails off its massive black form. Its towering shape was somewhat humanoid, with great black arms which hung outward from its body. A gleaming and twisted blade flowed up the sleek right limb, from clawed hand to shoulder. Its head was a mass of flowing strands, thick and vine-like. They twisted and curled through the air riding on winds of dark energy. The most soul-wrenching sight was the deep red orbs that lay within the tangled mass of black filaments. They were a gateway to a void of misery and torment, now fixed horribly upon the lone fighter. Shien felt that without the cooling wind Isil was forming around his psyche, he would easily slip into that hateful searing void. The rapier handle felt reassuring in his grip.
The demonic creature lunged toward him in a fluid and graceful motion, while shadows trailed in its wake. Shien moved faster and lighter than his body had ever permitted. He stepped in alongside the enormous creature, stabbing and slicing with Kuros in blazing motions. The monster twisted and stretched its body in an exquisite spiral, deflecting the flaming blade across the razor surface of its limb. The two combatants moved apart and then engaged again in a heartbeat. The demon’s arm danced in a flurry of motion in which Isil was employed for a solid and remarkable defence. Shien marveled at his precision in battle. He did not feel his body being controlled, but rather a perfect union had been forged with the weapons, bypassing the usual limitations of response and reaction between body and brain. It was if a direct link from his mind to the rapiers gave him power to move his limbs as swiftly as the speed of thought. That was fortunate, as the demon matched him in every movement. The battle had become pitched, an intricate and deadly sweet ballet. The mêlée spanned all over the scorched ground with neither combatant giving way. Shien wondered what fate had in store for him, as he contemplated the eventual limitations of the human body. How long could he go on? He stretched his thoughts briefly outward to the unseen voice and pleaded for any assistance. The battle raged on with increased fervor, demon and man in fragile deadlock.
“Shien, be ready!” It wasn’t the same voice he had heard earlier. It seemed an eternity since he had heard another’s voice; he had thought he was the only one left. Yet, there was the monk, clearing the low rise just to the south in a dead run. Zyr’s body was churning and swirling with pure white energy, equally as brilliant as Kuros’ red aura. The demon did not falter and immediately adjusted itself to meet the monk’s attack. Zyr weaved large crackling patterns of pure alacrity which surged from the ground and entwined about his outstretched arms. Shien had not eased his assault, and with renewed determination, focused his every thought to move his body faster. They could end this!
Zyr came upon the demon swiftly, joining in the perilous dance to which Shien was engaged. The nimble healer navigated the seas of combat despite the flashing of rapier and demonic blades. The great black fiend screeched in frustration as it was forced to defend against the unyielding assaults of its enemies. It dared not be struck by either the monk’s hands or Shien’s formidable blades. The two mortals were pressing harder and harder while each moment was as fine crystal, so delicate and clear. One slip would mean the end for either side.
“Now!” Zyr bellowed as he snapped the two energy weaves free of the Root simultaneously. Shien sensed the plan and responded within a fraction of a thought. The shadowy lithe frame slipped clear of the monk's twined alacrity strands, its body elongating to impossible heights as the great threads surged past. Kuros thrust passionately forward, its will thirsting for impact. The great fiery weapon sliced through the midriffs of the shadows, flames scorching and searing in a great conflagration. Ghastly screams filled the air as the black specter writhed and thrashed upon the purifying pyre of Kuros. Zyr sprung powerfully upward to the head of the demon and drove a pulsing hand through the many lashing tendrils and seized its skull. The other hand he stretched out as shimmering threads snapped to his call from the Root. Radiant streams of energy coursed the shadowy form like silvery veins, all at the monk’s command. It sank to the earth screaming and convulsing.
“Curse you, impotents! One more - just one more!” It cried out in mighty discord.
Shien had thrown himself clear of the thing as it sunk slowly to the ground. Leaning on Isil he wheezed from exertion, watching the impossible play in its final act. The monk perched atop the demon’s shoulders, hands thrust downward around its head as his face was turned heavenward in great pangs of exertion. Relentless power coursed now like great white rivers through the whirling shadow and across the ground. The demon slashed in vain at the monk, but Zyr would not relent. As it repeated its previous lament, the monk’s voice echoed through the air in reply. “Be gone! Cease your thirst. The blood-price is paid!” The great shadow was diminishing, slowly gathering into a mighty spinning vortex above the demon. It shook its head in violent protest, but the monk held firm.
“No, I won’t yield to you again!” it screamed defiantly.
“Withdraw, I say!” the monk’s voice came more forcefully, and if possible, the great streams of power came more potently, causing the monk to gasp in great agony. The vortex swirled faster and faster and funneled downward into the rift the monk had opened upon the shadow’s brow. The strange entwining of dark and light energy rushed downward with the force of a gale wind until in one great moment, all was calm. No power was felt, all force had been extinguished. Kuros slumbered.
Shien stood slowly and shakily. He was unnerved by the great transition: a whirlwind of power beyond reckoning to complete and utter silence. He shuffled awkwardly toward Zyr who still remained motionless, hunched over a form on the ground. In a daze, Shien barely reckoned that the land was illuminated by the stars once again, while the moon had passed on. With weapons in hand, he stumbled to the monk’s side. His senses were still adjusting from the overwhelming surging of power, yet his ears detected an unexpected sound. Zyr was weeping audibly, his head bowed over the form upon the ground. Falling to his knees, Shien released Isil and moved to brush away the tangled hair of the shadow’s fell minion. He prepared Kuros to strike, but it too fell from his grasp.
Firah’s face glowed white pale in the heaven’s light.
The Blight
THE EXPECTANT SUN was transforming the horizon from black to deep blue shades. In the first morning light Tey’ur surveyed the destruction around him from his saddle. His grey eyes took in all the land, while he drew in his cloak around his armoured frame. The chill of the night still lingered and the mail contracted the cold. His graying shoulder length hair spilled forward as he leaned over rubbing his mare, Calista, with the leather undersides of his gauntlets. He shifted in the saddle; it had been hours since he set out to recover the ill-fated recon unit. The Gnarel had baited the guild hall and the White Guard had responded. Yet he could not fathom what would cause such devastation. The barren land, scorched to the very roots stretched for miles and miles.
This whole area which he had roamed for all memory was once a lush and vibrant land. It was a mark of dedication to the service to the Order which was situated in southern Mehnin. Throughout the south-lands thriving forests spilled into rolling plains and endless waving fields of grain. Creatures small and great filled the scene with a variety of colour and joy. Some of his fondest memories were the in the quiet times, in solitary walks through choruses written and performed by the wind and grass, the carefree cricket and jubilant sparrow. It was a lovely memory - a stark contrast with the blight that lay before him now. He had to determine the sheer size of the disfigurement upon the land. Sounds from the company pulled him from his thoughts - there would be time for such things later.
