“And no wonder,” she whispered to herself, continuing to stare at the boy’s dark form. “He now knows more about himself than he ever needed to know.”
She turned back toward the box, and only then realized with horror what she had done. The true abelaat stone had left her grasp, had left contact with her flesh. Its protection of her had ended.
She groped about on the ground, but the stone was gone. Looking up, she saw with fear that the abaton s lid was slowly cracking open.
And the blackness within it was enormous.
She couldn’t scream, feeling the life force already draining from her body. She couldn’t move, her body seeming hollow, like a stone statue, imprisoning her soul. And, though she knew the box’s lid was only open a fraction of an inch, she felt as though she were staring into eternity.
She saw everything, and nothing. She saw fireballs as big as Mystara itself, as big as a thousand worlds, hurling in reckless courses at speeds unimaginable. She saw nations spread like lichen across a barren rock, breaking it down into sand and soil. She saw worms boring through the bodies of the dead. She saw the color of pain and the shape of screaming. But, worst of all, in the roaring rush she saw the purpose of the evil abaton—she saw what Auroch would do.
“He’s coming back for Dayin!” she hissed through lips iio longer her own. She struggled to rise, but the box dragged her stony body forward. Her head struck its coal- black side and bone shattered like glass in her mind. Then Karleah saw another vision, a vision of Teryl Auroch coming down from the skies and taking Dayin into the abaton, back to the world of the abelaat.
Dayin—run! she struggled to say, but her body slid off her, like a robe of silk slides from the shoulders of a young woman. And then, solid and black and heavy as the sun, oblivion embraced her.
Jo and Brisbois cautiously picked their way through the catacombs beneath Armstead. They formed a vast network of naturally and magically carved caves that honeycombed the bedrock of the village. If Jo’s guess was right, the catacombs connected every site in Armstead, including the amphitheater. Finding the trunk that led to the amphitheater would allow them an excellent hiding place, and a post from which to guard the abaton.
As the two carefully made their way through the passages, Jo held up a small lamp she had found among the wreckage. The flickering glow of the lamp seemed to make the caves jitter and sway, and it cast evil shadows over Brisbois’s grinning face.
“I told you we could turn up something worthwhile, if we only looked,” Brisbois said, stepping carefully over a fallen column of stone.
“All we’ve found yet is ruin and corpses,” replied Jo. Although she knew Brisbois was right, she couldn’t bring herself to admit it to him. Peering ahead, Jo mentally retraced their steps, hoping they were still heading toward the amphitheater. The passage ahead narrowed, and cracks in the stone walls showed that the ground had shifted in the blast. “I think the connecting passage will be just after this section.”
“Lead on,” Brisbois replied with a leering, self-satisfied smile.
Jo pursed her lips, declining comment. She stepped cautiously into the tight corridor, leaning to avoid the dark jags of rough stone that protruded from one wall. Brisbois followed close after, too close, in Jo’s opinion. She could feel his hot breath on her back, and his hand occasionally brushed her side.
She turned in the tight space and scowled at Brisbois. “Back off, bondsman,” she said, intentionally lifting the lantern close to his face.
The man didn’t wince, a lascivious light in his eyes. He nodded, his gaze tracing out the ash-smudged contours of her chest and hips.
Jo’s eyes narrowed. She set a hand on his shoulder and pushed him backward. “Keep your mind on your duty, soldier.” Pivoting, she continued into the passage. She raised the lantern and turned sideways to squeeze between two boulders. As she worked one leg past the encroaching stone, she could feel his eyes still on her.
“I know now why Flinn fell in love with you, Jo,” Brisbois said luridly, “why he wanted you.”
A sharp retort died on Jo’s tongue as the caves shifted violently around her. The lantern dropped from her hand, and, with a shattering of glass, the flame guttered and almost went out. Jo frantically tried to pull her foot free from the boulders. But, in the shuddering darkness, she couldn’t find a handhold. Dirt fell from the ceiling in a choking cloud and billowed out through the passage.
“Brisbois?” Jo shouted, anger and fear and alarm mixing in her voice.
For one awful moment, she felt him, his body pressed next to hers, his hands groping along her sides, his lips rubbing hungrily against hers. She broke away, drawing a breath to scream, but a burning, biting vapor filled her lungs, and she spasmed with coughing.
“You’ll be an excellent prize, Johauna Menhir,” he seethed eagerly.
Jo lashed out with her fists, but struck only the stone of the passage. Although she flailed in both directions, her knuckles struck nothing.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the caves shook again. In desperation, Jo wrenched her foot free of the rock, drew her knife, and searched the cave floor for the lantern. After dragging across the shattered glass, her hands at last settled on the lantern’s handle. She adjusted the wick and the flame grew bright again. Lifting the lantern into the dusty air, she drew her knife, but the defamed knight was nowhere to be seen.
“Brisbois! You bastard!”
The amphitheater was lighted by an unholy glow as luminous vapors swirled thickly through it. The magical storm rose from the abaton and spiraled up into the black night above Armstead. Its twining mists reached like spectral claws up to the clouds high above and tore a hole in them, revealing the starry heavens. White-hot jags of lightning erupted through the center of the storm and danced in spinning circles across the devastated village. The ash that had settled on the charred ground lifted on the winds and filled the air like snow.
And, suddenly, Teryl Auroch stood in the midst of the storm, as calm as if he were standing on land. His face bore no expression, and, as he was lifted on the rushing winds, his piercing blue eyes settled on the campfire atop the amphitheater.
With a motion of his hand, Auroch awakened his son. Dayin rubbed his eyes and looked upward, shielding his face from the radiant mage. Then, lip trembling, he stood. Resignation hung plainly in his features, as though he knew in that moment what his father had planned, always had planned, since the moment of his birth.
The storm heightened, a moaning roar rising from the abaton itself. The charred remains of a blasted home collapsed in the gale, and rubble from the rock walls jiggled uneasily. Abruptly, fire erupted in the core of the vapors, flames that leaped to the very clouds. The sudden blast of heat sent winds howling and thrumming through the surrounding forests, bearing with them flocks of leaves, torn from their boughs.
The boy seemed mesmerized, unaware. He didn’t flinch as the crackling thunder shook the ground. He didn’t wince as the flames roared in huge, spiraling sheets from the box. Without expression, Dayin calmly stepped up from the earth, as though on an invisible stair, and walked to his father. The mage put his arm around the boy and held him close, as if to protect him from the ravages of the still-growing storm. Dayin glanced up at his father, the gazes of their brilliant blue eyes locking.
Jo burst out from the catacombs entrance just before the building above her toppled into the caves. She dropped the lantern and gripped Wyrmblight in a firm, two-handed grasp as she rushed toward the storm- swathed amphitheater.
“Karleah!” she shouted in fear, though the wind ripped the word from her throat. Leaning into the gale, she ran, stones sliding beneath her feet. Her legs slipped out from under her and she fell. Crying out in surprise and pain, Johauna gripped a charred root to keep from being blown backward.
Blinking, she stared into the raging storm. A blue-white column of mist rose from the amphitheater, its core blazing with fire. A shower of sparks and embers emanated from the storm’s heart, ra
ining down on the land around her. And there, at the heart of the storm, she saw Teryl Auroch holding Dayin.
“Dayin!” she cried, but the wind blew too hard for her to hear her own voice.
A tremendous pillar of light pierced the sky, stabbing at an angle through the heart of the storm and entering the abaton. The pillar had a beautiful, pearlescent glow. Teryl Auroch gently gestured his son to walk into the slanting light. Jo watched helplessly as the boy floated on the air, entering the glowing shaft without a backward glance. The mage shot Jo a last enigmatic look, then stepped in behind his son.
“No! Dayin!” she screamed. “Dayin, come back!”
Struggling to her knees, Jo lifted Wyrmblight, wanting to feel the four runes of the Quadrivial pulse and glow with heat. But the sword was dark and cold.
All was lost—Armstead, Dayin, Flinn, Wyrmblight . . . Jo didn’t even want to guess what had happened to Karleah and Braddoc. Auroch had defeated them. Brisbois had escaped. Honor, Courage, Faith, and Glory were dead, and Jo s heart was dead with them. Her pledge to Sir Graybow and herself—her pledge of mercy—rang hollowly in her ears.
Rising unsteadily to her feet, Jo grasped the blade of Wyrmblight and set the hilt firmly on the ground. Leaning the sword toward her, she placed the tip against her left breast and closed her tearful eyes.
“No, Jo, there is another way,” a voice said from behind her, a voice she actually heard, one she recognized.
Johauna Menhir whirled around, Wyrmblight clattering loudly to the ground. Her heart leaped. It was impossible. It was true. For a moment, the fury of the storm was nothing.
Standing in the blasted city, framed by the flames of the burning buildings, stood Flinn the Mighty. He was clothed in scintillating light, his armor blinding. His smiling face glowed with strength and health.
And life.
Chapter XVI
Involuntarily, Jo crumpled to her knees and buried her face in her hands. She felt suddenly unworthy, suddenly ashamed of her despair. Reflexively, she reached out for comfort to Wyrmblight, lying beside her. It was cold to her touch, cold with the taint of your unworthiness, the voice in her head told her. Only the stone in her belt pouch was warm and comforting.
“Rise, Johauna,” came Flinn’s voice from the brilliant light. “Your fear can wait. Now we must act.”
Jo’s eyes remained averted, and she trembled upon the ground.
“I said rise!” the voice commanded, its tone tinged with anger.
Slowly, Johauna stood, lifting Wyrmblight with her. “Oh, Flinn,” she breathed, her voice just audible over the storm. Still her eyes would not meet his. “I have missed you, so.”
“And I, you, my dear,” the radiant Figure said. He reached out gently toward her, cupping the side of her head in his hand. “Give me the sword, my love.”
“Yes,” she said, her heart pounding painfully. She turned Wyrmblight toward him, pommel-first. “You are an Immortal now, aren’t you? You have the power to set things right, don’t you?”
Flinn smiled a polite smile and reached out for the blade.
Only now looking him full in the face, Jo saw the way the wind blew his hair, and remembered riding with him in the days when they first had met. She remembered her joy when fighting side by side with Flinn the Mighty, hero of legend and song. She remembered the thrill that had traveled up and down her spine, and she wondered why she didn’t feel that same thrill now. The young squire suddenly withdrew the blade. “Promise me.”
Flinn’s brow furrowed, but he maintained his smile and still held out his hands. “Promise you what?” he asked, his voice resonant above the howling wind.
“Promise me you’ll save Dayin and kill Auroch and Verdilith and Brisbois.” Jo took a single step closer, fixing her gaze on the eyes of the man she loved. “And promise me you’ll never leave me again.”
Flinn let his arms fall to his side, the smile on his face quickly fading to an expression of deep pity. For a moment, it seemed to Jo that the man—the Immortal— might fall to his knees and beg forgiveness for leaving her to die all alone. But she understood in her heart and soul that whatever Flinn had become, through whatever fiery lands he had walked, he didn’t need her forgiveness for any act, past or still to come. He was beyond guilt and innocence now. Though he stood resplendent before her, Flinn would never truly be the same man she had once loved.
“Johauna Menhir,” Flinn said gravely, “I promise to do these things. And I promise that even death cannot separate us now.” He raised his hands again to accept Wyrmblight.
Jo lifted the heavy blade without hesitation, pushing it forward into Flinn’s arms. The runes of the Quadrivial blazed brightly, almost angrily, in the hands of the glowing creature. Johauna gazed at it with awe, guessing that whatever holy essence was used to create the sword, the blade knew when it was in the hands of its wielder.
Flinn gripped Wyrmblight with both hands, the perfection of his body reflecting the brilliant white radiance of the pillar of light, which seemed now to be drawing the mists and winds into it. Jo watched with fascination as every muscle contracted with power—more power than any mortal man could wield. She felt hypnotized, staring at his graceful, muscular body, and all other thoughts fled her mind: she forgot the destruction of Armstead, the disappearance of Karleah and Braddoc, the abduction of Dayin. None of these things were important any longer. Flinn was back from the dead, and she knew he would set things right.
“What would you have me do, Johauna Menhir?” Flinn asked, his arms slowly lifting Wyrmblight above his head, as if to strike Jo down. She did not move, but stood entranced. “What would you have me do? Shall I travel to this other world to retrieve Dayin, kill his father, and ensure the abelaats never return?”
Jo nodded slowly. “Yes,” she said above the winds.
“Shall I smash this pillar of light and destroy the abaton?”
Jo nodded again. “Yes.”
“Shall I find Karleah and make her your equal in youth so you may share your lives as closest friends?”
Jo s head dropped to her chest. “Yes.”
Flinn placed the tip of Wyrmblight under Jo s chin and lifted her head to face him. She felt the metal on her flesh as the storm winds buffeted her, as the crackling lightning split the sky.
Her love had returned from the land of the dead.
He would set things right.
“Shall I take you as my one true love, above whom I will place no other?”
Jo said nothing. She moved forward, letting the edge of Wyrmblight caress her skin, drawing a thin line of blood across her check. She felt no pain, only the joy of being closer to Flinn. She raised her arms and clung to him, daring to hold him close, embrace him, feel the power beneath his once-dead flesh. His heart beat loudly in his chest and his breath was hot.
Jo gently parted her lips and looked up toward Flinn’s face. With a trembling hand on the back of his neck, she pulled his lips down onto her own, tasting what she had longed to these many months. The kiss was a gift of forgetfulness, purging her mind of all that had past. As long as he held her close, as long as she clung to him, she would never feel pain again.
“Jo, dear,” he whispered, huskily, pulling back from her. “To stop the wizard, I must regain all of my life force ”
Jo staggered backward a step, staring doe-eyed into her lover s face. She wanted to continue the kiss, so safe a haven from the maddening storm.
“Wyrmblight,” Flinn continued, “holds a small part of my soul. I must release it if I am to stop Teryl Auroch”
Jo gave a vague nod, her eyes blank. “I remember. You spoke to me.”
“Yes. It is as I said to you. To release it, I must break the blade. But to break the blade, I need you to will that it be broken,” Flinn replied. He knelt, digging the tip of Wyrmblight into the ground and laying the great length of the blade across his bent knee.
Jo nodded again. She blinked as if to clear her thoughts and looked to see what Flinn was about to do.
>
“Desire it to be broken, Jo. You must abandon your faith in Wyrmblight, or my soul will never be freed,” Flinn explained. “I must destroy Wyrmblight ”
Jo’s limbs felt as heavy as stone. Her mind, whirling in a haze, believed Flinn when he said he must break the blade. But her heart screamed at the thought; if Wyrmblight was the soul of Flinn, it must not be destroyed. It had been her source of guidance, her source of hope in the dark times since Flinn s death. She had wielded the blade against Verdilith and nearly slain the beast. She had listened to its wise counsel to have faith, not abandon it.
Flinn s fist came down on the blade. A shower of sparks arched from his knuckles and were drawn into the insatiable w inds. The four runes of the Quadrivial flared brightly at the man’s touch. Flinn s fist came down a second time, and his expression twisted with pain as his hand rebounded from the hard metal. The runes flamed again, sending shafts of light into the air and into Jo’s dazzled eyes. The blade cracked across its width at the third blow, and the Quadrivial blazed once more before it went black.
Jo staggered back another step, feeling the pulse of the abaton’s pillar of light. In the pearlescent glow, Flinn seemed huge and monstrous as he raised his fist for the final blow. Anger twisted his face, and, in his eyes, Jo saw something she had never witnessed before in the man she loved.
Madness.
Flinn would never have destroyed Wyrmblight. He would never have made the runes of the Quadrivial go black. You will be an excellent prize, Johauna Menhir. The words of Brisbois echoed in her mind.
“Not Brisbois,” she murmured, incredulous. Jo screamed her rage and lunged forward. She grabbed the hilt of Wyrmblight, yanking it from the glowing creatures grasp. “For Flinn!” she cried, running the blade through the mans heart. Coruscating bands of white light streamed from the wound.
D&D - Mystara - Penhaligon Trilogy 02 Page 27
