by Paul Centeno
The crowd burst with excitement, craving to see the prince either get eaten by the giant or battered with its bare hands until nothing but blood would remain. Aarian, infuriated, bellowed louder than the cyclops. Experiencing such rage, his eyes gleamed with fire. His frail skin started bulging, gradually becoming replete with muscles. Then, without warning, the titan stomped its hoof on Aarian, squashing him.
Bloodcurdling expressions formed on the faces of many spectators. Others grinned at the sight, cackled, and roared in delight. They could even hear the smashed pieces of stone crushing, as well as flesh mashing and bones cracking. Earamathras snorted, turning away. On the other hand, Warlord Varkagorsa gazed at the horrid occurrence with a mystified countenance, as if he expected more. He eventually grunted and held his head up high, giving the impression that he knew this would be the outcome.
Just before Varkagorsa spoke, he and his fellow audience, as well as the emperor, heard the cyclops groan in an irritable tone. Little by little, his hoof was being lifted by force. To the crowd, this was impossible. Yet, to the emperor, it made perfect sense. The imperial dragon of Warenyth stared at a rising prince whose pulverized body was healing, deforming, and growing in size. His skin soon peeled off, and his outcries turned into demonic roars that frightened the cyclops.
“By all that’s hollow in Yunedar,” gasped Earamathras.
Aarian’s body transformed into a monster none other than Izabaldo who swiftly clawed the cyclops’ chest. He then lunged his fist into the rough skin of the giant, gorging out its heart. The titan fell to the floor lifelessly, slamming down so hard it caused an outrageous tremor.
“You dare challenge the might of an immortal?” exclaimed Izabaldo, his body ablaze, taller than the cyclops. “All of you shall die!”
Even though Izabaldo’s audience was a faction of ferocious savages, they immediately started to run away in terror. He spewed fire from his mouth, scorching a dozen trolls and orcs. Izabaldo then conjured massive fireballs from his hands and hurled them in myriad directions, incinerating a hundred brutes and setting the building on fire.
In the meantime, Varkagorsa dropped his sword and stared blankly at the blazing demon. Earamathras, however, spread his wings and flew down, blasting Izabaldo with a breath of frost so powerful that his flame dissipated for a brief moment. At that precise moment, Earamathras clawed the demon’s chest and took off to the sky.
Izabaldo looked overhead, scowling at the imperial dragon. When his flames returned, he grew boney wings that stretched out and joined Earamathras in the freezing sky. Upon doing so, the cold gripped him, reducing his fire. Still, he pursued the ancient dragon until they met face to face beneath the greenish-blue aurora.
“Your time is at an end, Earamathras!” exclaimed Izabaldo, lava spewing down from his fiery mouth.
“I haven’t given up hope yet, Izabaldo,” retorted Earamathras.
Titans from an age long forgotten battled in the sky. Between slashes of claws enchanted with the earthen strength of Yunedar and the blazing swipes of an insidious inferno manifested by one of the most powerful demons, the firmament above Niratredam looked like it split open. Claw-shaped fissures sizzled throughout the heavens accompanied by a firestorm that looked as though stars were falling. Together they fought viciously while flying, striking each other with all their might between iridescent clouds.
“Your attacks are futile,” said Izabaldo monstrously, cackling. “You forget that I am immortal. You will never defeat me, old fool.”
“I don’t intend to,” responded Earamathras, flying higher.
The demon furrowed his fiery brow, wondering what the dragon meant. Though, by the time he started to realize what Earamathras had meant, it was too late. The icy winds weakened him, followed by a swipe of the dragon’s tail. Earamathras struck him so hard that he propelled thousands of feet down, smashing through a glacier and onto the frozen icescape.
Shortly after, Earamathras descended next to Izabaldo’s stock-still body that lay sizzling in an icy crater, his deadly flames doused. Examining him warily, the imperial dragon snorted and flew back in the air, perching himself atop one of Warenyth’s watchtowers. He remained there for a while, patiently observing Izabaldo to see if he was truly unconscious or pretending just to trick him.
“Now the rest is up to you, Prince Aarian,” said Earamathras on tenterhooks. “Either you prove to be yet another pawn of the demons or their downfall.”
In the meantime, Aarian fell into a dream state, finding himself in a realm of hellfire. By now he’d become used to experiencing this nightmare. He was fed up and wanted to find a way to end it. He rose to his feet and scouted the mountainous, volcanic region that had a scorching sky. Far across the rock-strewn landscape, he spotted a bright light. It was much farther than the radiance he’d come into contact before.
Then, gazing sidelong on the ground he stood upon, he saw Izabaldo who seemed to lay unconscious. For the first time he appeared weak. This gave the prince an advantage to sprint over to the source of light. Meanwhile, the demon opened his eyes and hissed, quickly standing up and spotting Aarian running toward a glowing beam. Izabaldo grimaced, stomping after the prince.
“The light cannot save you,” said Izabaldo, gradually catching up. “You have performed admirably for a humyn. But, like all mortals, you must die.”
“Not yet,” said Aarian, running at a swift pace.
Drawing closer to the light, Aarian felt stronger. His neck wound started to heal, the new patch of skin showing no trace of the demonic glyph. Little by little, he was beginning to doubt the belief he’d grown up with. Instead he began to embrace what Earamathras had told him. It was hard to believe, but without the nine-pointed star on his neck he felt healthy. In addition, he continued to recover and regain his strength by approaching the illumination.
In the distance he could see a figure within the light. This being stood as tall as Izabaldo and resembled a demon. Yet there was something unusual about it. Perhaps the main difference was that Aarian felt no hostility toward it. He only felt tranquility radiating from the being that levitated within the radiance.
“Betrayer!” roared Izabaldo.
“Yes,” said the demonic figure of light calmly. “I was once a traitor to my people. But no more. Never again shall I betray them.”
At long last, Aarian breached the region of illumination. Izabaldo was just inches away from grabbing the prince but staggered near the radiant-covered boundary that belonged to the demonic being of light. At that exact moment, ivory beams emitted into Aarian whose body was filled with magical power. Aarian, finally feeling at peace with himself, embraced the rays that illuminated his eyes, returning them back to their natural blue hue. Then his hair changed from fiery red to blonde. The pigment of his skin was also no longer pale.
Blessed by the light, Aarian turned and fixed his eyes on Izabaldo’s. He didn’t even say anything to the demon king. He simply absorbed the rays around him, conjured a sphere of holy light, and hurled it at his nemesis.
“No!” shouted Izabaldo in defiance, wounded by the blast. “Impossible!”
“I am not a mortal anymore,” said Aarian, staring at Izabaldo confidently. “I am blood immortal.” Just then, he leaped out of the radiant boundary and pressed his gleaming palms against Izabaldo’s wound. The demon bawled horrifically until his essence was consumed into Aarian. “I am the Dralekar.”
That instant, the peninsula of hellfire diminished, replaced by a landscape of consecrated ground. Taking a deep breath, he turned around and faced the other demon whose ivory-glowing body and horns showed both humyn and elven glyphs of magic, none being the nine-pointed star that was once thought to be sacred. The demon smiled warmly at him, reaching out to hold his hand.
“You’re a demon,” muttered Aarian, accepting the feminine hand. “Can it be that you are Xen?” When the radiant being nodded, Aarian went on, “I can hardly believe it. But how can you be a demon?”
“Not all de
mons are evil, Dralekar,” said Xen.
Aarian raised his eyebrows and said, “I wouldn’t want to get used to hearing people call me that, divine Spirit or not. I only announced it to Izabaldo to infuriate him before consuming his soul.”
“Those words were indeed ahead of you,” said Xen. “It is not always wise to play with fire. But you deserve the precious title, Prince Aarian.”
“Thank you,” he said, bowing. He looked around awkwardly and then turned back to Xen as he went on, “I have much on my mind...it’s overwhelming.” He took a deep breath again and asked, “Have you been trapped here for millennia?”
“Not trapped,” answered Xen. “I chose to stay here. And do not worry; the other demons dare not enter my domain. They fear the power of light as much as they fear death. Izabaldo was beyond arrogant and, as you can see, he failed miserably. This victory is a testament to the fact that you have what it takes to defeat his legion.”
“Why me?” he inquired.
“Dralekar always existed in the fabric of time and space,” said Xen. “He only needed the correct constituents at the right time to manifest in both the physical and spiritual realm. And as of today, at this very moment, he has manifested. You have manifested.”
Aarian found this knowledge and insight difficult to take in but nevertheless nodded. “I am curious...you mentioned the spiritual realm. You mean hell, right?”
“You may find this hard to believe,” she began, “but this is not hell. This realm is one of many links to it, though. When you sealed the demonic rift, you unconsciously created a magical link to the spirit realm, allowing demons to haunt you. Izabaldo, the demon king who had come through the rift before it was sealed, saw this as an opportunity to possess you and use your body to become immortal in the physical world. Interestingly enough, it back fired on him. Now he bows to your every whim.”
“I see,” said Aarian pensively. “There’s only one problem I have with everything that’s happened.”
“Which is?”
“Prophecies,” spouted Aarian. “Revelations. Visions. Any of the like; I absolutely hate them and find them to be unsettling. You see, I hate the idea of destiny or fate. I want to believe that I carve my own path. I want to believe I’m Dralekar not because someone proclaimed this thousands of years ago but because I was strong enough to become a Master.”
“You don’t need to believe in the prophecy, Prince Aarian,” said Xen. “The prophecy already believes in you. Whether you’re a believer, the prophecy is like a life of its own. For countless eons it has permeated, waiting for its destiny to unfold. But, if you wish it,”—she noticed the irritated look on his face and exhaled softly—“you can see it differently, such as forging your own path.”
“Is that so?” he said suspiciously. “Then what’s next if you’re so wise and all-knowing?”
She sighed and responded calmly, “I may be a divine Spirit, but I certainly don’t have all the answers. I am simply able to, at times, touch the fabric of time and see into the future—or at least what may be our future.”
“Now that’s better,” he said.
“You are Prince Aarian,” she said. “Yet you are also the Dralekar. You have the freedom to choose whatever path you want in life; however, I implore you to rise up and vanquish the vile demons once and for all.”
“Oh, believe me, I intend to do that,” he said with new fervor. “But first I have some unfinished business to take care of in Lar’a’dos.”
“I figured as much,” she said.
“Saldovin Keldoran must pay for his misdeeds,” he said crossly. “It’s because of him that the world is in peril.”
“He is one of the factors...yes,” she said. “After you remove him from power, however, you’ll need to deal with Izabaldo’s legion, particularly his demon lords. The eight of them may soon enter the realm of Yunedar.”
“What do you propose?” he asked.
“Having the Spirit of Izabaldo within you and successfully enslaving him has given you a strength that will make them tremble,” she said with assurance. “If you have gained full control of your demonic strength, you will have a chance to overpower one. However, if you fight more than one at a time, it is possible for them to harm you. Challenging several immortals at once is not only foolhardy, but it may also cost you your life.”
“That’s not what I wanted to hear,” he said in dismay.
“It is nevertheless a fact,” she said. Seeing his disturbed face, Xen added, “Do not trouble yourself with such thoughts, Prince Aarian. For now you need to adapt to your magic and deal with Keldoran. If you’re able to master your demonic power and vanquish him, then I believe that the eight demon lords will be in for quite a surprise when they confront you.” She paused for a brief moment. “But, as I said, do not worry about on this right now. What you need to focus on is returning to Yunedar.”
Aarian examined the mainstream of light where Xen levitated while he asked, “Is there a way out of here?”
“I will assist you,” she said meditatively. “Simply close your eyes and envision yourself returning to your body. Lie down if it makes you feel better. Allow the perennial light of my everlasting Spirit and the dark soul of Izabaldo to embrace your essence of existence. Within the balance, you shall find your way back to the world of the living.”
“All right,” he said, lying down and closing his eyes. “I’ll try my best to follow your wisdom.”
“I have faith in you, Dralekar.”
Aarian couldn’t help grin upon hearing her call him by that special title. He didn’t want it to get to his head; yet he truly started to fall in love with the primordial concept. Just then, he felt a tingly feeling run up his spine. In fact, it tickled him. He felt pressure in his chest—a throbbing pain. Then it dissipated as he took deep breaths, contemplating on the light and darkness within his body. Such darkness and light were the constituents of his soul. And so he embraced both his rage and compassion, unifying them. Then his everlasting Spirit vanished, returning to his healed body in the icescape of Niratredam.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
GUARDIANS OF XEN
Opening his eyes, Aarian found himself staring at Earamathras and his swarm of gargoyles, orcs, werewolves, trolls, and ogres. Among them was Varkagorsa, absurdly teary eyed. As soon as the prince stood up, the throng prostrated before him. Even the emperor bowed, and that certainly wasn’t something Aarian had ever expected.
“You are the Dralekar,” boomed Earamathras emotionally. “After all these thousands of years, I have finally found you.” He sighed heavily and added, “Now I can die in peace knowing you are truly real.”
“Don’t you dare die on me yet, dragon,” said Aarian. “I have need of you and your army of sava...warriors.”
“I am at your disposal, Dralekar,” replied Earamathras, bowing again. “And my swarm is yours to command.”
“This is almost too good to be true,” said Aarian.
“What shall you command of us first?” asked Varkagorsa, still prostrating and refusing to show his face.
“First, you and your brethren can rise up and treat me as a companion and comrade-in-arms,” said Aarian, shivering. “Second, I’d like someone to get me back to Warenyth so I don’t freeze,”—a few of the throng laughed in grunt-like tones—“and third: prepare for a war unlike you have ever known.”
A celebration erupted in the icescape bordering the emperor’s kingdom as the legion of orcs, trolls, gargoyles, ogres, and werewolves returned to their fortress. Earamathras, meanwhile, allowed Aarian to ride on his back, bringing him back to Warenyth where it was warm and cozy enough for him to plan. He started developing a strategy on how to invade Lar’a’dos and retake the capital city that Saldovin Keldoran had ruthlessly raided and captured. It would not be easy, he thought, but he believed in himself and he had an army of his own to make it possible.
Over the next few weeks, Aarian joined the orcs to help forge weapons and armor. He was certainly no artisa
n like Olwe, who was once believed to be the greatest blacksmith in the world; however, the orcs were more than willing to show him the process and teach him. Within one month, he became quite talented in crafting various weapons and fashioned a talon-hilted sword. At this time he felt ready to produce armor for himself that would be worthy of the title: Dralekar.
And so he gathered titanium and gold ore, smelted them into ingots, and brought them to an anvil in one of the many blacksmith chambers in Warenyth. Between forging, bending, and welding, he spent a whole week crafting his suit of armor. Combining the protective plating of titanium accompanied by a gold-colored tint, he produced what looked like an indestructible suit of armor worthy of an immortal. All he had to do at this point was equip the new armor.
“Let’s see how it fits,” he said to himself.
He proudly placed each piece on himself. The sabatons covering his feet were decorated with glazed lames. His greaves had glyphs of Xen etched into it. The thick pauldrons he placed over his shoulders were wrought like majestic wings; yet they weren’t too heavy or wide. His helmet was the face of a fearsome gryphon, the visor shaped like a golden beak. The gauntlets had claws jutting from the metal knuckles. And his breastplate depicted two sidelong gryphons crossing talons. After equipping his armor, he sheathed his sword and grabbed his golden shield, embossed with the face of Scar.
“Showtime.”
Leaving the blacksmith chamber, he made his way up a spiral staircase in a watchtower and crossed a bridge leading to a stronghold. From there he made his way to the central fortress where the emperor resided. Nearly every orc and troll he passed bowed before him. Though they couldn’t see his facial features, the armor he wore made it clear that he was none other than the legendary Dralekar. After traveling thirty minutes—the kingdom was that big—he entered the emperor’s chamber.
“Impressive armor,” said Warlord Varkagorsa, bowing. “Much better than that flimsy moonstone elf garbage I first found you in.”
