He landed on all fours, but his hands and feet were covered in shimmering black scales, with sharp talons sprouting from them. His body deformed, his skeleton rearranging, muscles and sinew stretching and growing. Leathery wings sprouted from his back, in moments brushing against the sides of the cavern. He reared up, towering over the spiny demon, his long neck arching back as he regarded it with loathing. His powerful tail slammed against the cavern wall, sending a cascade of body parts tumbling free.
The remaining imp squealed and tore off back down the cavern, faster than a fleeing rabbit. Slaazhal backed away, regarding him with sudden fear and respect.
“I knew that no elf,” it muttered.
Arron’s roar thundered in the cavern, reverberating throughout. Pebbles dislodged from the ceiling, raining down on him. He unfurled his wings and prepared to destroy the fiend that tormented them.
Slaazhal turned and fled. Its four legs skittered on the floor as it quickly raced away.
However, Arron was swifter. He lunged downward, seizing Slaazhal in his great jaws. Spines pierced his tongue and mouth as he grasped the demon by the tail, but he barely noticed. He whipped his head to the side, and the fiend crunched with bone-breaking force against the wall, impaled on a number of its own spines. Slaazhal squealed in pain and terror.
Arron took a deep breath, the stinking air of the charnel house roaring into his great lungs like a bellows. He unleashed a searing jet of fire, bathing the fiend in it. Slaazhal sizzled as its fluids and fat boiled, swiftly burning to a crisp on the wall.
His rage momentarily spent, Arron looked around for Endira. After a moment, the elf stepped free from the wall. He could sense the aura of magic from her psionic powers as she solidified once again.
“You are magnificent, Arron,” she said simply, eyes wide as she regarded him in awe.
“Are you well?” he asked. His voice had become a deep rumble, like boulders crunching together.
“I will survive, but I think it best we leave anon.”
“Aye. Get behind me—I will cleanse the filth from this place.” Arron wrapped his wing protectively in front of Endira and took a deep breath.
He unleashed a tremendous blast of flame over the horrific showcase on the wall. The remains of countless victims were burned to ash in moments. Again and again, he blasted the wall with his breath until the stone itself melted to glowing magma.
He moved deeper underground until reaching the cavern’s end. Barely noting the putrid lair, he purified it with another blast of fire. A sharp squeal marked the end of the fleeing imp from wherever it had hidden itself.
Finally, he was done. He moved back down the cavern to rejoin Endira, his talons tearing deep gouges in the stone. “Let us go and find Nera and the others,” he said. “I shall carry you.”
He lowered himself to the ground and extended one wing so Endira could climb atop his back. She had recovered his sword and dagger while he finished destroying Slaazhal’s lair. The elf nimbly hopped on his back and found a secure place to sit at the base of his neck. She held onto his spiny mane.
Arron swiftly moved down the corridor toward where he could scent a draft originating, smelling more strongly of sulfur and less of filth.
As he gained the edge of the cave, he sprang outward on his powerful hind legs. He plummeted downward for a moment before extending his wings. They snapped taut like leathery sails, and with powerful strokes, he soared upward into the red sky above, Endira clinging to his back.
He roared from the sheer exhilaration of flight—which he remembered from his earlier life prior to being tasked with his solemn duty. He could sense Endira’s excitement upon his back.
For the moment at least, the euphoria of the sheer abandon of flight numbed both the physical and emotional wounds of their earlier horrors.
***
“Surrender to me, mortals.” The voice boomed through the cavern, reverberating with a primal power, compelling them to drop their weapons and embrace their deaths.
Idrimel felt her will weaken, the desire to stop fighting powerful. The light from her holy symbol faltered, leaving the vezarun partially obscured in darkness. She lowered her mace and shield, and her grip slackened on her weapon.
Before she could drop her mace, Wyat stepped toward the fiend. He seemed unafraid before this overpowering opponent.
Perhaps that potion helped to boost his courage.
“Begone, fiend!” Wyat commanded. “Return to your lair in the stinking swamps of Cymrych! Why do you pursue us so?”
Wyat’s confident voice lent her courage, and ashamed, she realized she’d almost succumbed to the fiend’s wishes. She gripped her holy symbol tightly in her hand.
Her light blazed anew with a pure radiance, chasing the shadows away and revealing the fiend before them.
Xavulak was marred with hideous burns along the left side of his body from the pillar of holy fire Idrimel had unleashed on the land bridge. He walked with a limp, and the head mounted on his left horn was a shriveled, charred lump.
But fell power still radiated from the fiend. He stood nearly twice Wyat’s height, with claws like curved daggers and fangs a handbreadth in length. He clutched his massive flail effortlessly.
“Fool mortal, who are you to challenge me?” roared the fiend. “I go where I will! Your impudence will earn you unimaginable torment for the next thousand years!”
Evidently not wanting to banter with the creature, Wyat suddenly attacked. He leaped at the vezarun, easily six paces away, longsword lashing out. The surprised fiend stepped back, but not before the sword sliced a deep gash across his muscular, scaled torso.
Xavulak swung his fist at Wyat, meaning to swat him like a fly, but the big man’s strength and speed were enhanced by the potion. He hopped backward, hacking the demon on the back of the hand when he missed him. He then lunged inside, driving the sword into Xavulak’s abdomen. The blade only pierced a couple inches, the sword not strongly enough enchanted to deal a great amount of damage to the fiend.
The vezarun reared his head back and breathed a huge gout of yellowish-green vapors from his mouth at them. Wyat cried out, stumbling backward as the toxic gas burned his face and eyes. He fell to a knee, his sword ringing on the ground. He wiped at his eyes, coughing from burning lungs.
Idrimel called upon Sol’s might, saying a prayer of banishment. She pointed her mace at the fiend. Golden-white light shot out in a pure beam, burning away the noxious cloud and enveloping Xavulak.
But the light was held back an inch or two from striking the fiend. Gritting her teeth, she tried harder to will the light to shine upon the infernal beast.
Xavulak laughed. “Your god is weak, priestess, as is your faith! The Lord of Light has no power here.” His booming laughter rumbled, echoing down the vile caverns. “Surrender to me! I shall make your end swift, celestial-kin!”
Sweat rolled down Idrimel’s back, and she felt her light waver, much like her faith. He speaks truly—I have not the strength to project Sol’s light into the fell corners of the Abyss. Perhaps I am unworthy.
“Yes, accept it. Lay down your pitiful holy symbol and submit to me!”
Fear clouded her soul at the thought of losing her faith, her connection to Sol. Her light wavered further, and she nearly lost her hold on the spell. Her eyes were locked on Xavulak, his hideous goat’s maw turning into a sickening smile, red eyes mocking her.
“Don’t give in, Idrimel,” Wyat said. “Fight it! You are a Revered Daughter of Sol. This beast has no sway over you.” His eyes were swollen shut, face covered in red boils from the beast’s poisonous breath attack.
I must defeat this fiend and tend to Wyat. She hoped his blindness was only momentary. Her heart beat frantically in her chest as she strove to overpower the creature, but she wasn’t advanced enough in the priesthood to command the type of power she needed, if such a feat was even possible in the fiend’s own plane.
Her light flickered, on the verge of dying. The vezarun point
ed at her. She watched in horror as her holy symbol became red hot, singeing her leather gauntlet and melting to slag in her hand.
She gave a cry of pure anguish.
Wyat suddenly lunged blindly at the vezarun. His sword plunged into the fiend’s hip. He twisted, trying to free the blade, but it had lodged in the bone with his clumsy strike, blinded as he was.
Xavulak chopped downward, striking the flat of the blade. A small explosion ensued as the sword was destroyed, tendrils of magical light curling off it like smoke. The blade snapped off a handbreadth above the crossguard.
Wyat staggered back from the explosion, a confused look on his face, broken blade in hand.
Xavulak unlimbered his flail, arm cocking back to strike.
“Wyat, watch out!” Idrimel screamed.
The massive head of the flail whipped out, tearing through the air. It struck Wyat on the side, shattering his arm, crushing ribs, and launching him through the air. He landed hard on the floor, nearly ten paces distant.
“Nooo!” Idrimel rushed to his side, trying to fight back the tears threatening to flow at the sight of Wyat’s broken form.
“Foolish little plane-blessed,” Xavulak growled, obviously enjoying toying with them. “Your protector has fallen. It is just you and I now. Submit to me.”
Blood bubbled up on Wyat’s lips, and he convulsed beneath her hands, lungs clearly punctured by his shattered ribs. He clutched her hand in both of his. “You mustn’t lose faith. I know you—I’ve admired your strength from afar. You can defeat this fiend!”
“I can’t do it. Don’t leave me alone here.” She sobbed quietly, glad Wyat couldn’t see her weakness.
“You can defeat it… and you will! Your brother believed in you, as do I.”
She knew rationally that Wyat couldn’t possibly know that—he’d never met Athyzon, but the mention of her brother made the tears flow even harder.
“I’m too weak,” she whispered. “The fiend destroyed my holy symbol—he quashed my power like a mere candle!”
“Nay, you aren’t weak. I can feel the soothing radiance of your power.” Wyat coughed, and a gout of blood spattered her already-dirty surcoat. “Don’t attempt to heal me—you’ll need your strength to defeat him.”
Idrimel ignored the last of his words, focused on what he had said prior. He could feel the soothing radiance of power. Surprised, she realized her light hadn’t gone out with the destruction of her holy symbol. She could still see Wyat’s burned face.
In wonder, she held up Athyzon’s holy symbol, which she had carried around her neck since his death. It was a flat disc styled like the sun over a pair of crossed swords, symbolizing the martial nature of the Order of Paladins.
Golden radiance was emanating from it.
Athyzon, are you with me in spirit, my brother?
The demon was taunting her further. She could hear the rumbling voice from afar but ignored it. Instead, she focused on the soft glow of the holy symbol, a light guiding her out of the darkness of despair.
Hope sprouted anew in her heart. She placed her hands on Wyat’s chest. Words came to her lips, straight from her heart—afterward, she didn’t remember what she spoke.
Warm light flowed from her hands, spreading around them, insulating them from the darkness and evil. Bones knitted, and flesh wounds closed up. Wyat’s breathing returned to normal, and his eyes reopened, bright with wonder as they focused on her. After a few moments it was complete. He sat up, staring at her, his face filled with awe.
“I knew you could do it!” he said fiercely. He touched her cheek hesitantly then snatched his hand away, embarrassed. He rose to his feet and stepped past her. “May I?”
Idrimel was nearly as surprised as Wyat. She needed a couple seconds to see he was pointing at the greatsword Redeemer, which she still wore on her back, carried in Athyzon’s honor and forgotten until then.
She nodded, and he drew the sword with a pure ringing sound, like a clear bell.
“Wait, you won’t be able…” Her words trailed off as he strode forward again to face Xavulak.
She was about to warn him that only those of virtuous character could wield the holy sword, yet her warning was without merit. Wyat had a good heart—he couldn’t unlock Redeemer’s magic as a paladin could, but he had no difficulty wielding the powerful greatsword.
Xavulak’s face was wary now. She could sense… if not fear, then at least unease on the fiend’s countenance. That gave her courage, for he was frightened for good reason.
She grasped Athyzon’s holy symbol, again praying to Sol for protection. A warm globe of light surrounded her, driving away the fear and shadows.
Redeemer in hand, Wyat attacked. The fiend tried to back away, but the greatsword took a chunk from his thigh. A follow-up stab pierced deep into his ribcage.
The fiend roared in fury and pain. He lashed out with his claws, scoring Wyat’s backplate, but he stumbled away. The vezarun whipped the flail around in a mighty overhand strike. The warrior dove aside, and it shattered the stone, blasting a crater in the floor.
Xavulak whipped the flail back, sending the huge head twirling through the air overhead with a ghastly shrieking sound.
Idrimel advanced, moving right to flank the fiend while Wyat circled to the left. The warrior feinted, trying to draw the fiend’s attack. Xavulak faced him but then spun around with a speed defying his bulk, unleashing the flail in another overhand strike.
Before Idrimel could react, it struck her. Rather, it impacted the holy aura surrounding her. She was driven to her knees, but the protective shield held. The fiend didn’t fare so well. The head of the flail rebounded from the shield, and a recoil of light shot up the chain like a lightning bolt.
The vezarun shrieked as his hand was burned, and he dropped the flail.
Wyat took the opportunity to strike. He came in with a mighty sweep of Redeemer. The greatsword bit deeply into the fiend’s back. Xavulak staggered forward, ichor spewing from the wound.
Idrimel moved to attack the demon. He flinched back as her holy aura enveloped him. Her mace shone like a comet, trailing holy light from her protective aura. It slammed into Xavulak’s hip, crushing it. The vezarun fell, and she smote him on the head, breaking off one horn and crunching his skull. The tarred head rolled onto the ground, where Wyat kicked it aside. He drove Redeemer through his chest.
The demon gasped and clawed weakly at them. Idrimel drove the bottom of her shield onto his wrist, and the thick bone snapped. Everywhere she struck the fiend, a trail of sparkling golden motes covered him, bathing him in holy light.
Xavulak was screeching in agony as the holy power burned his unholy flesh. He twitched and flailed.
Wyat drew Redeemer back, aiming a strike at Xavulak’s neck, intending to hack the beast’s head from his body.
The fiend blurred and disappeared in a shadowy wisp like a cloud of smoke, which swiftly fled Idrimel’s light.
She let out a deep breath and sank to her knees.
“Is he destroyed?” Wyat asked, lowering Redeemer.
Idrimel shook her head. “Teleported back to his home, I think—gravely wounded but not destroyed.”
Wyat sat down beside her, Redeemer across his knees. “That was well fought, priestess.”
“I’m sorry for my weakness earlier, my loss of faith.”
He grasped her hand. “No need to apologize. I had faith in you, and it was well placed, as I knew it would be.”
Their eyes met for a moment, then Idrimel looked away, cheeks flushed. She avoided trying to make sense of what her heart was telling her.
“Let us find a way out of here,” Wyat suggested.
“Yes, of course.” She was relieved to be able to put her thoughts and feelings aside and focus on searching for a way out.
Chapter 15
“Are we in Achronia now?”
Malek opened his eyes, his concentration interrupted. He had been using his second sight more frequently, hoping to find some clue for
locating the Wall of Lost Souls. The group had been able to travel unmolested since their tragic losses at the land bridge, moving across the rough terrain and skirting the steep slopes of another volcano, which appeared dormant, fortunately. Old lava flows formed ridges of dark igneous rock across the plains.
Nera walked up beside him. She glanced at him questioningly before returning her gaze to scan the nearest ridge.
To Malek’s senses, the Abyss radiated sickly, corrupted earth magic that warped his second sight. But he had sensed something, deep in the ground beneath them, that made him think there were caves or tunnels underground.
Despite appearances, they were not as alone as they thought.
“I think this is still the borderland of Achronia. The tome speaks of the Wall of Lost Souls stretching from one end of Achronia to the other. We should know it by that.”
Nera took a sip of her waterskin, glancing back at the others picking their way up the blasted, rocky slope. “Damn. I’d hoped to have reached it by now.”
“I sense signs of life below ground. There must be a network of caves or tunnels down there.”
“Can you tell what type of demons or what their numbers are?” Nera studied the reddish dusty soil beneath their feet.
He shook his head slowly. “The corruption here distorts my second sight, so I don’t know how much I can trust my senses. But from what I can gather—many.”
“We’ll have to stay on our guard, then. Why don’t we climb to the top of that ridge and take a look around?” She pointed to one of the ridges of black rock a short distance away.
Before he could reply, they heard shouts of alarm. Rand, who had been scouting ahead a ways, was running toward them, holding his helm in one hand, his strung bow in the other. He was about fifty paces away.
“They’re coming! These awful spider-things!” The young man looked terrified, his face as white as spoiled milk.
Malek watched in horror as creatures swarmed out of a narrow crevice along the base of the ridge ahead. He was reminded of a time he had accidentally uncovered a spider nest in the cellar of Magellan’s tower when he was a boy. He’d gone down to bring up a sack of grain, and when he had moved the sack, scores of shiny black arachnids had swarmed out in every direction. Malek had never run so fast in his young life.
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