Dark Sahale

by Sam Ferguson

  Njar nodded. “And then we attack, with full force.”

  The other satyrs paced back and forth, whispering words to spells and practicing their sword strikes. Njar could sense their nervousness, but he did nothing to quiet them. Better to let them be nervous for a while, as fear could be a powerful motivator, if harnessed appropriately.

  They waited while the sun began its descent in the west. Orange and pink hues lit up the clouds as if by fire. The puddles of water below reflected the beauty, but Njar did not allow his focus to be turned from his task. He scanned for the slightest anomaly. As the colors of the sky began to turn to red and purple hues, Njar saw the telltale wavy lines rising from the valley below. It was subtle, like a mirage one might find while traveling, but unmistakable to the experienced satyr.

  He raised his right hand and uttered the words of a revealing spell. A massive, silver bolt of lightning streaked down from the clouds and dashed itself into the mirage with a great clap of thunder. Immediately following the thunder was a high-pitched shattering sound, as though a great window had been blasted apart with a metal rod. The waves disappeared from the land to reveal a simple, round tower of black stone.

  “Not exactly what I expected,” one of the warriors stated.

  “Do not be fooled by the simplicity of its design. This tower has been the death of thousands,” Njar said. He then turned and smiled at the warriors beside him. “However, I should note that not one individual from those thousands were satyr. I have been here before, and I know the way. Stay with me, and we will win the day!”

  The satyrs raised their weapons and their fear melted from their faces, replaced with determined gazes that emanated with power and courage.

  “Come on, we don’t have much time before he will be able to repair his spell.” Njar rushed down the hill, with the warriors close behind him.

  Once they reached the valley floor, they began running much faster. The grass whooshed around them with each step as the knee-length blades swiped their furry legs. They leapt over a brook to land in marshy grass and lilies, but they were nimble animals capable of traversing many different types of terrain without slowing down or losing their footing. The mud and muck sucked in with each step, trailing grime and pungent black goo behind their hooves. The acrid smell of death and decay assaulted Njar’s nostrils, but he ignored it, as did the others.

  Ahead and to the right, an arm bone reached up from a puddle of murky water. Bones continued to snap and pop into place as a skeleton rose from the liquid. Njar whispered a spell and a blast of lightning struck down from the sky and obliterated the skeleton, sending bits of flaming bone all around the puddle.

  Two more creatures rose up, but Njar had chosen his companions well. Magic fire consumed the skeletons in an instant, and the group did not so much as slow their pace as they continued through the pitiful defenses guarding the outer part of the marshy valley.

  Another skeleton rose from the ground several yards off and prepared to hurl a javelin, but Njar sent a blast of blue fire at the creature, exploding its skull and knocking the rest of the bones to the ground.

  “On the left!” one of the warriors shouted.

  Njar turned to see a massive snake making its way toward them with unearthly speed. Each of the satyrs managed to dodge the gargantuan serpent’s attack, but Njar had to dive head first into a thick puddle of black water and sticky mud. The grit and grime rubbed into Njar’s fur, but he didn’t have time to clean himself. He could hear the snake turning around and heading back in for another attack. The thing was at least thirty feet long, and nearly as thick as a tree trunk. Njar quickly pushed himself up to his feet. The ooze clung to his skin, creating a string of slime between his fingers and face as he wiped the muck away from his eyes. The snake was hurtling toward him, but the other satyrs launched into action. They blasted it with spells and hacked at it with scimitars and halberds.

  The snake died as quickly as it had appeared.

  The ground trembled then as something squirmed beneath the surface. Njar stared at the ripples in the black water for a moment, trying to understand what was happening. Before he could react, a second snake burst out from under the ground, shooting through a black puddle and taking one of the warriors down with its massive fangs. Only the dead satyr’s lower legs stuck out from the snake’s mouth as it continued to emerge from the hole in the ground.

  A second satyr rushed in, but the snake turned its plate-sized, yellow eye on the satyr and the warrior was turned to stone.

  “Basilisk!” one of the other warriors shouted.

  Njar quickly averted his eyes from the massive monster. All of the satyrs turned and fled, knowing that to look into the basilisk’s eyes meant a quick and unavoidable death. Njar sprinted for all he was worth, heading still for the tower. As he did so, he called out instructions to the others. “Summon dartwings!”

  He wove the spell in the air with his fingers, but he didn’t dare stop to see his creations. Small, cat-sized creatures with small, leathery wings appeared with each utterance. Their blind, white eyes would render the basilisk’s main power useless. The dartwings each shrieked terribly as they sensed the basilisk’s presence. Njar could hear the beating wings tear at the air as the dartwings launched their assault.

  He had never before fought a basilisk, but he knew enough about dartwings to understand that the two creatures were mortal enemies. The satyrs summoning a horde of dartwings was somewhat analogous to desert tribes in the south using a mongoose to slay a cobra. The dartwings would tempt and taunt the powerful basilisk, all the while remaining unharmed by the basilisk’s eyes, and when the moment was right, they would strike and kill the monster before devouring its carcass.

  A mighty hiss erupted behind Njar, and several dartwings shrieked and screamed. He had to fight his urge to turn and look, knowing that even a passing glance of that deadly basilisk’s eye would mean his demise, but it was difficult. He had always wanted to see a battle between the two creatures.

  Fortunately, the basilisk was entirely consumed with fighting the dartwings, and Njar was soon rejoined by the other five surviving warriors.

  “We have to hurry,” Njar said as he pointed to the tower. The wavy, mirage-like lines were rising from the ground again, obscuring his view of the tower. Njar called upon the lightning once more, but a strange shield around the tower flashed into view, stopping the lightning in the air several feet above the tower with a horrendous thunder-clap that almost ruptured Njar’s eardrums.

  More skeletons rose from the murk and muck, but the satyrs dispatched them with relative ease. Off in the distance behind them, the screams of the basilisk became more frenzied and pained.

  A gray cloud gathered around the top of the tower, sucking the wind toward it and making a loud, humming sound as it gathered strength.

  “Watch out!” Njar shouted as he noticed the magical assault forming above them. He strengthened his wards around the group just as a hail of fire and ice rained down upon them. The blocks of ice shattered against an invisible shield and the fire spread out across it, hissing and smoking in desperation as the satyr’s magic kept them safe.

  A large group of skeletons, clad in rusty armor and holding broken, but still deadly, swords and axes, rose up between Njar and the tower. The undead creatures clanged their weapons on old, decaying shields and opened their clicking jaws in a silent yell of defiance. Had any of the monsters actually had voices, Njar was certain they would have sounded quite menacing, but as it was, their futile attempt at a rally cry served only to embolden Njar and his warriors.

  “Nothing stands in our way!” Njar shouted.

  All of the warriors began weaving their hands in the air as best they could without sheathing their scimitars. Lightning, fire, and other spells flew toward the throngs of skeletons before them. Bones and armor shattered upon impact. Smoke rose from the ash piles and sparks exploded from broken bits of metal and charred bone.

  The skeletons ran forward. There must
have been two hundred of them, but the spells cut into large numbers with each strike. The satyrs ran forward, undeterred. The skeletons were reduced by two thirds before the two groups clashed at the base of the tower.

  Njar spun and took the head off of three skeletons before leaping up into the air and pummeling a fourth with his solid hooves. The skeleton’s armor bent inward, and then the ribs cracked and shattered. Njar came down with his sword, splitting the skeleton’s skull in half, and then he sent another round of lightning through the enemy force. Blue and green fires erupted through the enemy as the other satyrs worked not only their scimitars, but their magic as well. Within seconds, the skeletons were defeated.

  The satyrs erupted with a cheer, but Njar held a hand up to quiet them.

  The skeletons had been a buffer, a diversion to buy Dremathor more time.

  Several dark figures were wriggling up from the ground at the base of the tower. A few more were oozing out of the stone wall itself, forming into shape only after slithering between the cracks in the mortar.

  “Wights,” Njar said.

  “Terramyr help us,” one of the warriors exclaimed.

  Njar sheathed his scimitar and held his hands out, palms down toward the ground.

  “Protective circle!” one of the warriors called. As Njar knew they would, the others formed a defensive buffer between him and the forming wights. They would buy him whatever time they could, so that he could perform his spell.

  “Mother Terramyr, giver of life and progenitor of souls, hear my words,” Njar spoke as he used his power to reach down into the ground. As his energy moved down into the earth, another force rebuffed him, pushing him away. As he had expected, the very ground around the tower was cursed. “Mother Terramyr, giver of life and progenitor of souls, hear my words!” Njar repeated louder. “I call upon you…” Njar’s words stopped as he realized that the words of this spell were not why he was attempting to summon the world’s energy. The original spell called upon Terramyr, and her energies, to help restore balance, but that is no longer what he was after. Njar sought justice. Njar sought an end to all evil. There was no more place in his heart for merely struggling for a harmonious balance.

  Evil was not a natural force, like death, which could be balanced against an equally natural force such as life. Evil was not the counterpart to good, but the absence of good. One could never strive for balance between something and nothing. There was only the massive void, threatening to swallow everything in its darkness. Evil had to be destroyed, pushed out of Terramyr, and replaced with good.

  “Mother Terramyr, I call upon your strength to enact justice!” Njar shouted. He pushed his powers deeper into the earth, reaching down into the ground and fighting through the forces struggling against him. He had to connect with the power that lay deep below the surface, and bring it up to aid him. In Viverandon, such a feat was easy, routine even. He could use the power to restore dying flowers, or heal the sick in his home. Here, however, Dremathor’s blight had scarred the land, and made it dead. The very ground refused to yield to its master.

  The wights attacked. Their screaming and wailing was matched by the sounds of scimitars slicing through sinew and shattering bones. Magic exploded around him, but Njar did not so much as open his eyes. He trusted in his warriors and focused all of his energy on reaching the heart of Terramyr.

  “Grant me the power to bring justice!” Njar shouted over and over again.

  Something brushed against his back and he heard the dying grunt of one of his warriors, but still Njar drilled deeper with his magic, searching for Terramyr’s response. The other warriors shouted spells and commands to each other. The wights continued to scream and hiss.

  “You cannot win,” a voice said as a cold, deathly wind floated across Njar’s face. “This is my home, the seat of my power. You couldn’t even stop me at the Pools of Fate.”

  Njar ignored the taunt and focused harder on his magic. He pushed everything he had deep into the ground. Columns of green energy flowed from his hands and pulsed downward into the murky ground.

  He smiled when he heard the shrieking dartwings enter the fray.

  “They’re attacking the wights, keep up the pressure!” one of the warriors shouted. The sound of claws tearing at flesh joined in the cacophony of battle. Njar called out to Terramyr once more, begging her for power. With his eyes closed, he did not see that she was already responding. At his feet, around the two columns of light, blue and yellow flowers were beginning to spring forth and bloom as Njar drove the curse out of the ground.

  Something sharp scratched Njar’s leg and he felt his right calf go numb. He cried out and almost fell, but shifted his weight to his left leg just in time.

  “Terramyr, Mother of all Living, HEAR ME!”

  Something took hold of Njar’s energy. It seized it, and then squeezed hard. His body jerked forward, nearly toppling to the ground as he struggled to maintain his spell. Then there was a feeling of great swelling. The ground beneath his hooves rose upward and trembled. The wights screamed as the satyr warriors shouted rallying cries and pressed the attack. The dartwings were silent now, likely slain by the savage wights. Njar’s focus remained on his spell. He had to reach Terramyr’s power. It was the only thing he knew capable of clearing the wights and granting him access to Dremathor.

  A mighty, deep rumble churned the ground and then there was a massive explosion. It was not a physical explosion, for the ground did not erupt or break apart, but there was a great ball of green energy that expanded outward from Njar’s position as quickly as a burst of lightning and as hot as a rush of magma. The wights shrieked and then were obliterated. The tower cracked and crumbled, and the very sky flashed white as if lit by the brilliance of three suns, chasing away the incoming darkness of night.

  Flowers and vines grew up from the ground, snaking over Njar’s hooves and out from him in a wide radius until the entire valley was cleared of the murky marshes and healed with lush, beautiful land.

  Njar, breathing heavily, fell to his knees. A vine with white flowers grew from the ground and covered the scratch on his leg. Instantly, the feeling came back to his leg and his strength returned to him. To his horror, all of the satyr warriors, save one, had been slain by the wights. Their broken bodies were covered with vines similar to the one that healed his leg, and then pulled into the ground.

  “They shall be remembered,” Njar said. He looked to Rajeh, the one remaining warrior, and saw the satyr’s wounds. He had been paralyzed. His left leg was broken in two places, and there were bite marks on his chest and shoulder. Blood streaked down his furry face, but the satyr only smiled.

  “I am honored to have been a part of this,” he whispered.

  Njar looked to the tower and felt a surge of power rush through him. “Your part is not yet done,” Njar promised.

  A nest of vines slithered out, growing over Rajeh’s body. His wounds healed and he gasped as his lungs took in a great breath. The vines stood him up, and he found himself whole and ready to fight.

  “What shall two satyrs do to me?” a voice cried out over the now lush and flower-filled valley. “You have broken my tower, but I still live!”

  Njar rose to his feet and stared as the rubble of black stones was pushed away from the pile and Dremathor stood, apparently unhurt.

  “I had hoped I was incorrect,” Njar said as he surveyed Dremathor. “I had hoped that my visions at the Pools of Fate were wrong, and that you had remained dead, with your honor intact.” Now, seeing Dremathor in person, Njar knew for certain who it was. He had the same dark skin, the brown, hate-filled eyes that Njar had seen the first time they had met in person, and he was very much alive. He even wore his customary red silk robes and a pair of green velvet shoes that had long, up curled toes that peeked out from under the robes.

  “You should not have doubted,” Dremathor replied. “I have returned, and I am not to be done away with so easily. Now, one of us must die.”

  Njar nodded.
“Justice shall be served this day,” he said. “Then I shall restore Nonac, and your efforts shall be for naught.”

  Dremathor laughed wickedly. “Nonac! The old tree is dead already.”

  “No, it fights your disease.”

  Dremathor shook his head. “Silly satyr, always so sure of yourself and your visions that you fail to suspect that someone else might have the upper hand. There was a traitor in your midst, and while you have come here to assault my home, I let you deal with my servants while I finished my assault on yours. Viverandon has fallen, and I have feasted upon the souls of your kin.”

  Njar trembled with rage. “No! I was just there! Nonac lives, and you lie!”

  Dremathor sneered. “Silly goat. You once helped me die to ease my pain.” The shadowfiend held his hands out wide. “Let me return the favor.”

  “NO!” Rajeh shouted and rushed forward. The satyr slashed through Dremathor and the robes fell to the ground, empty.

  Dremathor’s laughter echoed over the valley. “Your friend is right, enough talk.” Dark clouds rolled in from every direction, dispelling the light Njar had brought.

  “We need more help,” Njar muttered. As if in answer to his plea, four areas on the ground began to glow a bright, vibrant green. From the dirt rose a sprout in each area. The four sprouts grew fast and strong, thickening and multiplying as they reached twelve feet in height. Then they branched out and formed arms and legs. Atop their wooden heads, a pair of satyr horns grew out, and the faces of those who had fallen to the wights grew from the wood and smiled at Njar.

  “We are here, Njar Somoricliar. Mother Terramyr has heard you.”

  Njar turned as shouting erupted from far off behind him. Two more tree-like creatures emerged from the ground, one pulling a basilisk fang from his shoulder, and the other shaking off flakes of gray stone.

  “You have an army, Njar, allow me the same courtesy,” Dremathor’s voice called. The clouds thickened and black lightning struck the ground in several places around the ruined tower. The black stone from the rubble was pulled out toward the black lightning, and formed into strange creatures of stone, bound together by magic.