by Reaves, Troy
The ranger’s grace was apparent to all who witnessed his ascent into the limbs of the tree. Lord Silverwing's usual knightly bearing and restraint, always evident to even casual observers among his new companions, disappeared, as he violently ripped the wriggling form from the tree. The ranger looked deep into the bulbous eyes of the imp as he pressed one hand against its body. He seemed unaffected by the clawing members of the creature as he spoke in a voice little more than a whisper. “Remember this face, Keeper. It will be the last thing you know of this world or any other.” There was no warning as Silverwing formed his free hand into a fist and slammed it into the center of the staring imp's eyes, crushing its skull. The imp's body flinched reflexively with the force of the blow and moved no more.
“Good shot,” Fasurel's rough voice carried up from just below Silverwing at the base of the tree, causing the knight to turn his head to look at him. “Nothin' like a good bone crushin' ta vent ya angers. If’n ya thinkin' ya able, we got folks needin' tendin' Jus' need a moment meself to get clothed an' I be joinin' ya wit' those remainin'.”
Lord Silverwing noted the naked mountain man's makeshift loin cloth with appreciation for his modesty. “I guess that change is a terror on your armor.”
“It is but I keep spare bits in me pack. Jus' never know when you might need a extra pair a’ claws.” Fasurel shrugged, turning toward his supplies.
The sight that met Silverwing's eyes as the mountain man walked toward his replacement armor brought a wave of laughter surging through him, almost causing the knight to lose his footing on the branch where he was perched. A plump, shining beacon reflected the dancing light from one of the nearby fires. Fasurel responded to the laughter without turning as his exposed flesh adopted a healthy red glow that Silverwing was certain matched the mountain man's face. “Wot? Ya act like ya never seen a bare rear afore. Getcha out that tree an' tend to the others.” Silverwing did fall out of the tree then, landing with a solid thump that drew a laugh in return from Fasurel.
The healers among them, including Lord Silverwing, brought divine grace to bear, healing the most grievously wounded. The remaining two mountain men and Fasurel put their picks to work, digging a grave large enough to hold the rest of their fallen friends. Lord Silverwing spoke brief prayers over the remains, imploring the God of Light to recognize the sacrifice of each soul whose body was committed to the earth, and guide them safely home. Stones were then placed around the grave mound once the bodies were interred, each representing a different divine power to honor the beliefs of the dead. Time was taken to offer prayers individually and to let those who lived recover from the terrible battle.
Later the rangers and druids gathered in a loose circle near one of the central fires of their encampment as Lord Silverwing took account of the ones who remained. Master Stonecutter stood at the knight's side, once more wearing his sturdy studded leather armor. “I am a stranger among you, though I have patrolled woodlands of my own as many of you have for years. We were not prepared for such tactics from these creatures. The deaths that this failure allowed weigh on my soul alone. There were signs that I chose to ignore and I moved, with a lack of faith in the abilities of you all assembled here, to engage the creatures on my own. The mound where the dead now rest is testament to my lack of faith and wisdom. I will carry on alone into the desolate peaks. No more of you will be sacrificed for my folly. Collect your things and go home. Defend your lands and know that the evil that took place here will be avenged.”
The assembled rose as one, quietly forming a line with a space left in the middle, and faced Lord Silverwing. Master Stonecutter moved to the space at the center that had been left open for him. The rangers and druids bowed before each dropped to one knee, except Fasurel, who rose from his bow to speak for the group facing the knight. “Ya not be rid of us tha' simple. We knew what we were in fer when we came an' we will be seein’ it 'til the end. Ya can blame yaself if it ease ya mind, but we don’ see it tha’ way. We saved who we could an’ those we couldn’ are at peace now. More trouble comin’ so we bes take our rest an’ get ready to move fast in the mornin’” Fasurel waved away the others and moved to face Silverwing, the boots of the two men nearly touching. The mountain man's tone penetrated the knight’s heart with his next words. “Ya cannot be blamin' yerself for what happened as we shoulda all been more alert, and we coundn' done no more good wit' us dying all together here than we could losin' the ones that fell with us apart. The dead would not have us shamin’ them by not carryin’ on wit' ya. Go on and gather your arrows, as I think ya will need every one before it is over.”
As Fasurel finished speaking, Silverwing moved to the outer encampment where he had loosed his first arrows, noting as he went that the wolves still patrolled the forest. He could not help but wonder what his God intended for him, as he filled his quiver with the blessed arrows once more.
***
The passage opened abruptly into a vast cavern. Natural stone formations protruded at random throughout the demon’s sanctuary. A throne that stretched toward the roof of the cavern dominated the vast area, flanked on either side by a bubbling crater nearly filled with lava. The boiling contents of the craters provided the only light in the cavern. The rear portion of the throne was capped with a ram’s head carved from a black shimmering stone. The eyes were shaped with cut rubies and the fangs protruding from the ram’s jaw had been cut from ivory. The beauty of the workmanship was lost in the evil images that dominated the throne's arms and base. The arms were cut in images of carnal violation. A Tharnorsa pinned a human female form to the arm of the throne on the right. The demon’s fiery wings were drawn close to its sides and wrapped around the form of his victim so that only her head was visible. The left arm was a mirror image of the right with a succubus taking the Tharnorsa’s position. The creature's leathery wings engulfed the human male below her, once more leaving only the head exposed. The demonic heads each stared down toward their respective victims with matching expressions that appeared to reflect cruel ecstasy. The human countenances were arched backward as though their abused forms sought to escape the gaze of their tormentors. The faces of the possessed humans were the worst parts. They were locked in terror so complete it had given way to numbness as their minds shattered.
Father Tur'morival knelt before the giant throne where the Tharnorsa sat, never taking his eyes away from the blackened hilt that lay at the demon’s right hand. The hilt was decorated with intertwined dragons twisting around the handle, with their long necks curving outward to form the branches of the guard. The dragon's bodies were woven around nearly identical intricately cut crystals forming the center of the grip. Claws appeared to suspend each crystal at the top and bottom of the hilt. The crystals seemed to absorb the low light around them, as if offended by the illumination. “Must you keep that artifact exposed?” The demon's answer was immediate and the same as every time the two communicated directly. Heat surged into the priest's mind with the demon's ancient language, dark words blended into terrible images that would have driven most mortals mad with the slightest exposure. Father Tur'morival twisted his mouth in a rictus, enjoying the demon's mental touch.
It pleases me to see fear in your eyes on these rare visits. So much power in a mortal, and yet a broken sword's handle gives you pause. Yes, your fear tastes rich and is so much more delicious than the meager offerings of the orcs. As the demon touched deeply into his mind, searching for anything to twist the will of the man, Father Tur'morival pushed back.
The priest took only a moment to enjoy the shudder that traveled through the Tharnorsa's body before he spoke. “Do not toy with me, demon. I've no time to trifle with you. There is much to be done before our guest arrives. Where is Lord Silverwing now?”
The demon answered, though his displeasure at being pushed by the priest was evident as he leaned deeply forward. Father Tur'morival rose to his feet, taking a rapid step back as the demon's head came level with his own. That the Tharnorsa had taken the blacken
ed hilt into his hand did not escape his attention. The implied threat needed no words. I do not know where they are now but he is coming as we planned. That is enough to know. He will be surprised to see his old friend again, though I doubt he will be as pleased as I. You have news as well?
“Yes, the child comes to us following in his mentor's footsteps. The assassins have failed to take him once more. It seems the reach of the Black Hand may be great but their fingers are cut away far too easily. I will have to deal with their master sooner than I would have liked. Once the two knights are captured, we will have little use for the killers.”
You will move your followers against him. Mortals have such short sight. He would have been such a great ally, this Overseer, if you had allowed him free rein.
Tur'morival contemplated his answer before he spoke. “One who hungers so openly for power is never to be trusted. Have your dealings with me taught you so little, demon? I would think in your service to me you would have learned this much. Age has brought little wisdom to the Overseer, and that will be his undoing. Do not allow your own arrogance to be yours, Tharnorsa, as it was in the past. Faith is a powerful weapon in the hands of these knights, and I would have preferred to remove their weapons before bringing them here, but the failure of the assassins was anticipated and I have prepared. You will do what you have promised, and together we will destroy this world.” Father Tur’morival turned from the demon to meet with his chosen of the Crimson Order. Lord Silverwing would arrive soon, and this time there would be no mistakes.
The Tharnorsa drew back into his throne, replacing the tainted hilt on the arm to the right. As Father Tur'morival withdrew from the cavern, the demon took time to reflect. He remembered the last time he and Lord Silverwing had met all too well. The knight had dismissed him from the world despite the careful plans of Father Tur'morival, a fledgling priest at the time, yet full of cunning even then. The surge of divine power had left its marks on the demon from that encounter, even as the Tharnorsa had reincorporated into the Abyss. The Unnamed One had seen fit to allow the twin scars in the demon's great chest to remain.
The fall of the Knights of the Golden Dragon would have been complete except for the faith of Lord Silverwing. The Tharnorsa recalled his and Lord Silverwing's last meeting with no pleasure. The other keepers of the light had fallen, leaving only the archer to face him and the tainted knights that had served the demon so many decades ago. The black servants had sacrificed themselves to the holy warrior despite the demon's influence. What drove the fallen knights to do so still troubled the demon, though in the end it made little difference. The Tharnorsa understood nothing of honor and devotion, but he remembered pain well. Lord Silverwing had drawn the strength of his God directly into his blades, then driven both the illuminated blades into the demon's chest, taking the demon completely unaware and thrusting it into throes of agony that persisted even as his corporeal form in this mortal world disintegrated. The demon remembered the last thought he had sent into the Knight's mind as the tumbling blades of the holy warrior had flown toward him, ignited with golden light. Mere mortal, your God knows nothing of this place and you will not be given the choice to serve me, as were your petty brethren. I will find much pleasure in your torture before I feed slowly on your flesss... and still the Tharnorsa felt the bite of the twin blades buried deep into his chest. Yes, the Tharnorsa would take great pleasure in fulfilling his promise when once more Lord Silverwing appeared before him, returning the pain he had been caused tenfold.
Father Tur'morival was cunning for a mortal and possessed an evil soul that nearly matched that of the demon before him. The priest had used the fall of the Tharnorsa to his advantage. The demon's arrogance was outdone only by his desire for revenge against the knight that had defeated him, leaving him marred for eternity. Father Tur'morival had learned much from the Tharnorsa in the time they had communicated before the demon chose to aid him. The Unnamed One all the creatures of the Abyss served was remarkable in his cruelty and desire for chaos, and the suffering the Tharnorsa had endured in the Abyss at his Master’s hands had been without match. Father Tur’morival had found the demon all too willing to return to this world when the priest had reached into the swirling chaos, seeking the Master's scarred servant. Still the bargaining between the Tharnorsa and the priest had been long, and the price of equality with the entity had been dear for Father Tur'morival.
In the end, the Tharnorsa had committed itself into the service of the Master of the Order of the Crimson Night for the promise of revenge and the priest's aid in bringing the Crimson Night itself to fruition. Father Tur'morival's use of the demons against the Knights of Bella Grey had proven only a partial failure, and had given the priest the last piece to controlling the greater demon completely. He had summoned the demon, placing him directly into the Knight's stronghold with instruction to destroy the only weapon that could stand against him, but the demon had had other plans for his summoner at the time. The demon had become aware of the depth of Father Tur'morival's connection to him too late, and had been forced once more into the Abyss with only half his prize. Father Tur'morival had withdrawn his power, and the Tharnorsa was once more left to the tortures of its Master. The Unnamed One had given the demon reason to give Father Tur'morival the last thing the priest needed. The Tharnorsa had projected its true name into the priest with the hope it would destroy him, but father Tur'morival's studies were not in vain and he was prepared. Taking possession of the Tharnorsa’s soul had nearly killed the priest, channeling the demon's full powers into the soul stone, but the sacrifice had been worth it.
Loss of one's mortal flesh was a small price to pay for immortality when one's body began to wither. Father Tur'morival had found his body diminishing despite the strength of his increasing powers. Once he had taken control of the demon's soul and the power of the pure evil it possessed, the priest had remade his physical form. The thick scales that encased his weak true form gave him physical protection well beyond those of any pure mortal. There would be little challenge in undoing the young knight, despite what his visions had told him. The priest was certain his destiny was his own to make, as he had done so many times before.
Twelve priests of the Crimson Night Order awaited their high priest's arrival and knelt before his throne as Father Tur'morival took his seat. The seat of power for the order was unremarkable except for the two giant statues of Tharnorsa that flanked each side of the throne. Each obsidian figure held burning braziers with outstretched arms, lighting the humble throne of the Master in a wash of flickering light. Glimmering rubies that served as the eyes of the creatures shimmered in the darkness at a height just outside the light of the braziers' flames. The priests had learned quickly to remain at the farthest edge of the circles of light the braziers cast. Their master was not known for his patience with those that drew too near his seat of power. Marks burnt into the floor near the throne were all that remained of any brought before the Master after failing him. The inner circle had numbered many more priests in the past; some that had thought there was folly in the Master's plans or had felt another leader would better serve the Order. All these individuals, and those foolish enough to support these misguided followers vying for power, had been drawn from the Order and dealt with by the Father himself. No traitor left this sanctuary.
Father Tur'morival swiveled his hooded head to take in all the assembled priests. “The time has come, brothers and sister of the faith. Our old friend comes to pay his respects to our ally, and we want to make certain he makes it to the one that dwells beneath without hindrance. Those of you that are coordinating the welcome of Lord Silverwing will assemble your forces and take up the positions outside the keep as planned.” Father Tur'morival centered his hooded visage on the priests in front of him before continuing. “Lord Silverwing had a measure of luck and evaded capture at the hands of our returning forces. His forces have sustained a significant loss at the hands of the demon bloods and, though the remaining protectors are stronge
r in spirit for their loss, we should have little trouble dealing with the few that remain. Those of you not forming the reception party will remain at the walls of the keep. Prepare the missile troops at the walls to take Lord Silverwing at range, and alive. All his companions are to be slain. If Lord Silverwing is killed, I will take great pleasure in torturing the one responsible for the failure through several lifetimes. His soul is beyond my ability to recall into this world, all of yours, however, are not. You would do well to remember that and take the necessary precautions to ensure he is taken alive. Go to your appointed positions now.”
The priests rose as one, each in turn giving praise to their Master before leaving. Father Tur'morival extended a single finger of shimmering scaled flesh from beneath his robes, the deadly sharp claw at its tip reflecting the firelight from above him. “Father Ragone, remain here with me. I would discuss a matter of some importance with you before you go.”
Father Ragone turned to face his Master once more, pulling back his crimson hood as he did so. For twenty years, the priest had served Father Tur'morival. Father Ragone was instrumental in the construction of the keep that served as sanctuary for the Master, and he knew every inch of the stone that formed it. His personal troops of demon bloods had created the throne room that served as the Tharnorsa's quarters, and he had appeared before the demon many times in Father Tur'morival's place. He had no reason to fear his Master, until the other priests left the room.
