The Light of Endura

by Scott Zamek

  The others swung over the ledge one by one, Eyebold and his bear-like frame the last. Aerol said nothing. The enemy watch fires blinked far away, safely away, so he motioned forward and made northeast toward the center of the plateau. The land was burned and black, like the lands to the west. Giant boulders showed scars by fire, there were no plants, or grasses, or trees, and the rock ledges rising from the ground looked like giant slabs of brittle charcoal, ready to crumble into dust. Aerol followed the light, the distant light over the horizon, for though the land remained drenched in a kind of cancerous depression, the strange light seemed to offer hope. It drew him on; it defied the night; it dispelled fear and doubt and hunger.

  They plodded onward as the watch fires drew closer. Eyebold spotted torches in the distance and urged stealth. The boulders and ledges that had seemed a blight on the land, now became cover as Aerol made his way behind every possible obstruction to avoid being seen. Broadhurst and Lockley brought up the rear. They had refrained from using their new weapons for many weeks, lest the enemy hear the shots and descend in force. They had kept their powder dry—their limited black powder that was now down to but a few ounces. And the restraint had been difficult. But they knew things were about to change.

  Upon the barren plateau, scattered camps were pitched and watch fires burned in the night, and cavalry ranged freely across the flat land. Eyebold took the lead, using natural cover to make east without detection. They could now see the mysterious light more clearly in the distance, like a yellow globe casting shadows aside, and it drew them on. A round depression appeared behind a ring of debris, like a wide crater in the center of the plateau. Aerol crouched down behind the rim of the crater and looked into the circular valley. A massive army was camped below, a heavy guard of halfwraith and troggs, while lurking in the shadows, darting here and there and barely visible, at least one nightwraith walked among them.

  At the center of the valley, like the meteor that had formed the crater, stood a white marble temple. Aerol could see the grand marble steps leading up through majestic pillars high on a hill. From inside, a white light shone, and the temple glowed with it, and the surrounding land was illuminated as if a fragile beacon was set against the massive void of pressing darkness. No troggs or wraith trod on the stairs or walked in the temple. Perhaps it was the light that held them at bay, or perhaps it was merely luck, but Aerol knew: if they could make it to the stairs of the temple, the path was clear to the hearth that was said to rest inside.

  Aerol motioned for the others to prepare themselves. They said nothing; they could see the valley for themselves and knew what needed to be done: break through the army guarding the temple, make it to the stairs, and place the ember in the hearth. They hunched down, each to his own thoughts, then ate the last of their smoked meat. Ethreal packed her quiver with arrows, while the soldiers checked their powder and shot. Sergeant Broadhurst had been carrying an extra musket strapped to his back since the Far Mountains, and he had a feeling it would finally be put to use.

  They discussed a few last-minute strategies, but as they tensed their bodies for the dash to the temple, Aerol motioned them each down to a knee. The Far Rider studied his companions and saw they were all alert and ready, then he began to speak in a low and steady voice. “The light has withered in the west, behind dark skies, into murk and haze.” He looked them each in the eyes one by one. “Fell destiny’s hour has arrived, and we stand alone. All the world hangs with us—we succeed or die. We do this to restore light to the land. We do this to relieve the siege of Andioch and Bridgehaven. We do this so the darkness never reaches the gentle western lands of Meadowkeep—so we can return home, and it will still be our home when we return.” He paused and held his companions in his gaze. “Look to your bow or sword—be swift of limb and sharp of mind. The hour of our mission is upon us.”

  Aerol unsheathed his sword, crouched low, then slowly crept down the rim of the valley. Five others followed closely behind. Halfwraith and troggs were camped throughout the land, tents pitched in rows near the temple steps, but elsewhere the enemy was haphazardly scattered across the valley floor. Watch fires sent embers high into the darkness, while cavalry ranged, thick and wary, like evil denizens of the night. Aerol kept to the shadows, leading his companions through a narrow gap in the enemy ranks. He skirted the camps, close enough to see troggs and halfwraith bent over cooking fires, and close enough to hear voices behind tent canvas, the clanking of pots, idle chatter. And ever and again the shadows moved in the dim gaps between light and darkness, sweeping from one black crease in the valley to another. Aerol knew, they faced more than one nightwraith.

  The marble stairway neared. Aerol could no longer keep to the shadows; light cast off by the temple bathed the surrounding land in a yellow glow. He quickened the pace, but his spine quivered with a dread call in the night. A nightwraith rose up from behind, rose up to its terrible height, rose up as a dark shadow, and created a black dent in the darkness. Lockley and Broadhurst brought up the rear, and they turned to meet the advance. Aerol spun, naked sword held high.

  “Go!” shouted Lockley. “Get to the temple!”

  Aerol hesitated a moment, then wheeled around and sped toward the stairs. Filby, Ethreal, and Eyebold followed. The entire valley would be alerted now, and haste was their only salvation.

  Lieutenant Lockley and Sergeant Broadhurst stood, muskets at the ready. Lockley turned to his sergeant and his voice became calm. “Go sergeant. Get the ember inside the temple.”

  Broadhurst stood and raised his musket, ignoring the order.

  Lockley pulled the flintlock pistol from his belt. “Take the pistol.”

  “Sir . . .”

  “It’s an order sergeant.”

  Broadhurst took the pistol, reluctantly, but did not move.

  “You have your orders.”

  “Sir!” Broadhurst snapped a sharp salute, held it for many seconds, then turned and ran toward the temple, a musket held firmly in each hand and the pistol tucked securely inside his belt.

  Lockley turned and a great shadow descended upon him. He lifted his musket, aimed, and pulled the trigger. The hammer fell as a plume of smoke rose into the air. The wraith staggered to the ground, but rose up again and came on. Lockley threw his musket to the ground and drew his curved cavalry sword and it gleamed in the watch fires of the valley. He was no match, a mere man, but he remembered his soldiers in the valley of the Far Mountains. He remembered his captain, and all that was noble within the warriors of Andioch. He stood to avenge the dead, and felt the strength of ten. With a thrust of Lockley’s sword, the nightwraith gave back, and a deathly scream rose high into the dark night, and Lockley thrust again and the nightwraith stumbled . . . then rose up, and lifted his terrible sword and came down with the power of evil and darkness. Lockley felt a stinging pain and staggered back, then fell, and did not rise.

  The nightwraith sped on, trampling over Lockley’s body, and careened in pursuit of the ember.

  Aerol sped on. The troggs and halfwraith throughout the valley descended upon them in force. The temple steps neared, now blocked behind a curtain of enemy swords. Ethreal let loose her bow, and quickly, the center of the enemy gave way. Aerol rushed forward, sword held high, carving a path up the steps toward the temple. The enemy pressed in from either side, a dense melee of troggs and halfwraith and gleaming swords. Aerol pushed up the stairs and turned, his companions at his shoulder. Below, at the base of the stairs, a wall of enemy soldiers swelled toward the temple.

  A clear path now led inside the temple, and Aerol turned to flee. But a blackness appeared ahead, like a dark shadow swooping in from the very depths of the rotted world. Three nightwraith appeared on the stairs ahead, blocking the way. Troggs and halfwraith crept up from behind, ascending the steps like a unified hoard. Aerol stiffened to meet the nightwraith. “Go!” he shouted to Ethreal. “Get the ember to the temple!”

  Aerol descended upon the three nightwraith with a single-minded fury. H
e met one terrible blade, but another pierced his shoulder. Eyebold advanced and stayed another deadly blow, then another, until the Far Rider and the Watcher from the Far Lands became locked in a desperate chance to delay the enemy. Ethreal and Filby sped past the nightwraith and swept up the temple stairs. Broadhurst had joined them, and was close behind. Ethreal looked back to see Eyebold sweep his mighty broadsword through the air and fell a nightwraith. But another took its place, and Eyebold was driven onto his heels. Ethreal turned to Filby. “Take the ember!” She removed the crystal from her pack. It was still wrapped in cloth, the purest glow seeping through to light Ethreal’s face. “Take it into the temple. I will stay and hold the stairs.”

  Filby hesitated. He did not want to leave his friends.

  “Go!” shouted Ethreal, and she turned to face the coming tide.

  Filby turned and began up the stairs, then stumbled and fell. Sergeant Broadhurst grasped Filby’s collar with his bare fist and lifted him three steps forward. “Haste lad—I’m with you!”

  Ethreal looked down upon the fray and tensed her bow. Halfwraith and troggs were now careening up the stairs. Aerol and Eyebold were still locked in cruel battle with the nightwraith. The sound of Ethreal’s bow echoed down the marble steps and throughout the temple, and many troggs fell. Again and again, like a machine, the bow vibrated. The white stairs showed red with the fallen. Ethreal saw Eyebold’s broadsword fell another nightwraith, cloven nearly in half, yet two nightwraith still bore down on her friends. She loosed her bow without pause into the nightwraith, but they did not fall. A wraith sword came down upon Eyebold, and the Watcher stumbled. Then another, and Eyebold fell flat.

  Aerol was now challenged by two nightwraith, and though he struggled mightily, he could not reach his friend. He watched as Eyebold’s blood drained onto the stairs, joining with that of the other dead. The two nightwraith descended upon the Far Rider, and Aerol stumbled back. One wraith screamed at the taste of the Far Rider’s blade, but Aerol felt a piercing pain in his leg. The second wraith had found his mark. Aerol fell.

  Ethreal looked on, frantically pouring arrows down the steps at nightwraith and troggs and halfwraith. But the tide was too great; many slipped by her in pursuit of Filby and the ember. Aerol rose and swung his bright sword and tried to ascend the steps, but another thrust from the nightwraith sword pierced his chest. Ethreal watched in horror as her friend slumped down to his knees. He looked up and caught Ethreal’s eyes. She knew her duty. She turned and fled inside the temple to protect Filby and the ember. Behind, the life of the last Far Rider flowed crimson down the white marble steps.

  Inside the temple, Filby was standing, sword drawn and back against the wall, surrounded by halfwraith and troggs. Ethreal was still outside, but Broadhurst was there, just inside the entrance. He raised his musket and one of the halfwraith attacking Filby fell. He threw his spent musket to the ground, swinging the second into firing position. “Get to the hearth!” he shouted to Filby. At the far end of the chamber, a marble hearth stood, ornately carved and glowing with the last breath of light remaining in the darkened land. A gleaming crucible rose from the center, empty, ready to receive the ember.

  Broadhurst fired again, and another wraith fell. “The hearth!” He threw the second musket to the ground and ran forward. Filby struggled toward the hearth, sword drawn, and he stabbed a trogg and still tried to advance, but his way was blocked. Ethreal sped inside the temple. She reached to her quiver and drew out her last remaining arrow. A trogg fell. “Go!” she cried. But Filby could not move; many halfwraith still blocked his path. Broadhurst ran forward, then drew his cavalry sword. Ethreal’s sword was already naked, gleaming in the pure light of the hearth as she leapt to the fray. Filby inched forward, behind the raised swords of Ethreal and Broadhurst; behind the whirlwind of steel and blades. And troggs fell, and halfwraith fell, and the hearth came closer.

  The last wounded nightwraith swept to the top of the stairs, and Broadhurst turned. “Go!” shouted Ethreal, and Broadhurst rushed to the entrance of the temple to protect the rear. He drew the pistol and fired, and the nightwraith stumbled. The sergeant raised his sword in both hands, sweeping down with his wide arms. He stabbed the wounded wraith again and again, until no breath remained. The enemy vanguard was now filtering into the temple, but Broadhurst stood at the entrance to stem the tide. They came by twos, and the sergeant dispatched them. They came by threes, and Broadhurst knocked them down. They came by fives, and the sergeant gave back. “Best hurry mum!” he cried. “The wretches be at the door!” Then he felt his legs give way; a sword had found his spine. He turned to see Ethreal battling her way to the hearth, with Filby close behind, then he drew his last breath and slumped slowly to the ground.

  Troggs and halfwraith fell before Ethreal like so many leaves scattered in the wind. Filby’s sword found its mark as well, and he could see the brilliant hearth draw close, so very close. Ethreal gave a cry, clutching her shoulder. Blood drained along her arm. She tried to lift her sword but could not, so she grasped the hilt with her left and continued forward. No more halfwraith stood before them, while a mere handful of troggs gathered around the hearth in a last defense. But behind, the enemy began entering the temple four and five at a time, and they rushed on toward the fray. “You must do the rest yourself!” Ethreal cried, turning to meet the oncoming foe.

  Filby stepped forward and faced the five troggs protecting the hearth. He swung his sword and a trogg fell, but the others gathered around him in a circle. He could not advance. Ethreal’s right arm hung limply by her side. She raised her sword with her left and met the enemy advance. Twenty halfwraith were now inside the temple, and countless troggs. Ethreal felled many, but hindered, she stumbled backward. A blade found her leg and she buckled, then another blade fell and she crumbled against the wall. A sword had sliced through the muscles of both legs, and Ethreal could not walk. The warrior of Effindril propped her back against the wall and raised her sullied blade. “Do it!” she cried.

  Filby looked back and saw the plight of his friend, but he knew he could not go to her aid. The hearth lay ten feet away, and his task was before him. With doubled effort, he pushed on, felling a second trogg. Three halfwraith descended upon Ethreal, and she fought with the last parry of her sword. The wraith fell, but a blade found Ethreal’s shoulder. With a final effort, she removed the dagger from her belt and flung it toward the hearth. One of the troggs blocking Filby’s way staggered to its knees. “Do it!” she cried.

  Two troggs stood, facing Filby. Behind, a flood of halfwraith and troggs stormed into the temple. They descended upon Ethreal.

  With her left arm, she deflected a blow, but they were too many. Another sword found her shoulder. She tried to lift her arms but could not. “Do it!” she cried again, and again a sword cut through her side. She looked over to see Filby pressing toward the hearth, her last vision in a cruel and forsaken land, then slid down the wall and fell lifeless into a red pool of her own valiant struggle.

  Filby strained toward the light. He could see the brilliant crucible ahead, reaching up, waiting for the ember. The two troggs stood, their backs to the light of the hearth, swords at the ready. Filby could hear the masses rushing forward behind him, but he did not have the strength to look back. He held his red sword high and pushed on. The sound of steel on steel. Filby whirled, sending his blade through the air, sending a trogg to the ground. One last blade; one last trogg. Filby’s leg was bleeding. He hadn’t noticed, but it sent him to his knees. He thrust his arm upward, killing the last obstacle in his path.

  Filby reached into his pack and unwrapped the ember. The light that flooded the temple was so pure, so miraculous, that it almost made Filby forget where he was; almost made him forget about the darkness and the death and the growing pain in his leg. And then he heard the enemy, the advancing army sweeping toward the hearth, and he was reminded. He crawled toward the hearth and stretched his arm out, ember in hand, toward the crucible. An arrow flew from across
the room and stung his shoulder, and he dropped the crystal. Looking back, Filby could see the enemy upon him. A halfwraith lifted his sword and smote down, but Filby met the blow with his own bloodied sword.

  Again Filby lifted the crystal, stretching with all his worth toward the hearth. The halfwraith came on, sword at the ready. Filby’s hand reached the beckoning crucible, and he dropped the crystal into its long-awaited and rightful place in all the Five Kingdoms. He collapsed, spent and breathless.

  At first, the crystal glowed just as it always had, with a pure white light bathing the surrounding hearth. But then, a brilliance like none Filby had ever seen shot out, like an exploding star engulfing the entire temple, and as the light passed the halfwraith that was standing over Filby, the wraith burned into cinders and nothingness. The temple became a shining beacon of celestial light, and as the light expanded throughout the land, the dark armies were reduced to cinder or sent crawling to the dark corners of the earth. The evil minions smoldered and disappeared into wisps of white smoke, until darkness remained no more upon the land.

  Filby rose from his knees, and from far in the distance, somewhere high above the temple, he could hear the faint chatter of birds flying overhead. He looked around to see nothing left of the enemy but blood and ashes and cinders, and white smoke slowly smoldering toward the sky. Broadhurst still lay dead near the temple entrance, and Ethreal was slumped over against the wall near the hearth. Filby moved over to Ethreal and took her hand, then gently tilted her head toward the sky. Slowly, her eyelids fluttered, and she opened her eyes. “Is it done?” she asked, desperately weak.

  “It is done,” said Filby.

  “I told you that you were a Redmont.” Ethreal tried to laugh but winced in pain.