Oblivion: Part Five of the Redemption Cycle

by J. R. Lawrence

  “Well, then,” said Neth’tek, “let us pass into oblivion. May songs be sang of this day, and tales told. The unity of the Adya and The Fallen, at the footsteps of doom, with redemption as our purpose.”

  And with that, he turned and started toward the walls of Grindle, Duoreod and Vexor, Hakal, Jakal and Mope, following in that order. It was a long trek through the snow, and neither of them spoke the whole way. Their minds were focused on the task at hand, the grey walls of stone rising before them, pondering triumph and doom and what would become of them. But fear didn’t once pass through their hearts.

  It was clear what Duoreod had said about the river between them and the walls of Grindle, although somewhat underestimated. It was a sheer drop, straight down into an icy abyss, and the hunters felt vertigo as they walked alongside it toward the causeway. They could see shadowy figures standing along the battlements of the fortress, could feel their eyes upon them, but neither of them moved or made sign to halt them on their passage toward the gates. In fact, as they approached the stone doors, they heard a loud creak that shook the icicles from above the archway, and the gates slowly parted.

  Double doors opened from before them, and standing under the archway to greet them was Minarch black bow, the ranger who had visited The Fallen on separate occasions. Vexor even recognized his presence, recalling the Sea Snake’s attack on The Praise not too long ago. He tensed visibly, and Neth’tek shot him a wary glance.

  “My queen awaits you,” he said, bowing before them and sweeping his black cloak out from behind him. Minarch stepped to the side, pointing one arm into the fortress as if giving them leave to enter.

  “Your etiquette is misplaced,” said Vexor as he passed the ranger, “We do not come to pay homage to your queen, as she would desire of us.”

  Minarch said nothing, but straightened from his bow and followed behind them. They noticed that the gates were not shut behind them, and Neth’tek looked about, examining the dark rangers and horgs, werewolves and goblins, that sat about or stood, leaning on bows or axes. They watched them hungrily, eager to destroy them where they walked up the first flight of stairs to the upper courtyard.

  Dark rangers stood in a line at the top of the stairs, blocking them from going any further; their faces hidden beneath black hoods.

  “You will wait until my queen arrives,” said Minarch from behind them.

  Neth’tek shifted, broadening his shoulders and straightening before the host of rangers. His companions came about on either side of him, hands resting on the hilts of swords or the fletching of arrows as they waited.

  But instead of appearing before them, they heard her voice from the sky above, booming like thunder from the clouded heavens. It was cold, yet powerful. Menacing, yet pleasant. “So, you have come to challenge me, have you?” said the Shadow Queen. “You should know that I do not perform such deeds unless the challenger is proven worthy of fighting one of my station, foolish child.”

  “We have come to offer you a deal,” Neth’tek spoke boldly, his voice echoing off the stones. “Depart these lands without further strife, you and all your servants, or face retribution before the wrath of the First Born!”

  The Shadow Queen laughed in response, the sound of it shaking snow loose from the mountainside, filling the whole valley with her voice. “Amusing,” she said, scoffing at him, “but vain of you to even try to stand against your doom. In the end, Doomstriker will decide, and the world will be shattered!”

  Duoreod put a hand to his head, moaning as he looked down at his feet and the snow covered stones. “It’s true,” he whispered, “Muari, please don’t let it be true...”

  “Alastra!” cried the Shadow Queen, calling to her priestess, “show The Fallen what shadows are made of.”

  Suddenly, Neth’tek was seized upon by an unknown force, and lifted into the air. He heard his companions panic and cry out as he was pulled forward over the heads of the dark rangers and toward the center of the courtyard, a slender figure appearing out of smoke before him, one hand raised toward him with the fingers extended. The dark rangers pushed against the others, keeping them from running to his aid, and the voice of the Shadow Queen sounded again from the sky with laughter.

  “May The Watcher behold your utter failure at my hands, and grant me power unlimited!” she cried aloud.

  “Neth’tek, no!” Vexor cried out, but was silenced by the butt-end of a bow to his mouth.

  Neth’tek was dropped from the air, and he landed on his hands and knees before the priestess of the Shadow Queen, Alastra Swildagg, the most evil of The Fallen of the Adya. He looked over his shoulder at his friends, and lifted his hand toward them for them to stop.

  “Not this time!” he cried out. “This time, it’s...”

  He was grabbed by the throat, his words cut short as he began choking, the firm grip of her hand squeezing his windpipe. “This time you die!” she hissed at him, as if finishing his sentence for him, and threw him against the ground.

  Neth’tek bounced off the stones and rolled into the far wall of the courtyard, his head smacking the stonework and the whole world spun beneath him. He put his hands down, attempting to lift himself onto his knees when suddenly he was hit by another force of magic, lifted into the air, and tossed against the same wall.

  “Stay down, Vulzdagg, if you want to live!” Alastra hissed at him.

  Neth’tek’s eyes opened at the mention of his name, and he looked at the priestess with a snarl slowly curling his lips. “You bite the basilisk,” he growled, and he tasted blood as it trickled into his mouth from his nose, “and the basilisk bites back!”

  33

  Out of Oblivion

  Eladrid Woodhaven walked from the grove of trees floating in the midst of a seeming void, stars twinkling all around him, blackness between him and the abyss of nothingness below. And yet he walked across it, as if floating, though his feet felt solid ground under them. What the place represented was beyond him, but the voice he had heard on the winds of eternity, that awful wail of despair and grief, seemed to foretell of the peril he and all his friends were in.

  “This place is oblivion!” he heard it say again.

  So this is it, then? The woodlander looked about for any sign of who might have spoken the words, but saw no one. This is Aldabaar as we know it? Nothing, save utter oblivion? Have we failed in the cause that was entrusted to us? Or, more possibly, have I failed?

  “Well met, woodlander. I see you have gained access to the void,” spoke a voice from beside him, someone he was startled to not have noticed earlier, and reached for his daggers as he spun about to face the man. However, his weapons were missing. The man, though, appeared unthreatening as he examined him; wearing a grey cloak, the hood cast over his shoulders, and a silver and gold tunic underneath. His hair shone with a brilliant golden light, and his eyes, more beautiful than Eladrid had ever seen, shone like the stars surrounding them. He smiled, putting out his hand to the woodlander in greeting.

  “Who... are you?” Eladrid asked, hesitating, and looked at the hand incredulously.

  “I am Hannari,” said the shining man. “Or, as I am sometimes called in your world, I am hope.”

  Slowly, Eladrid reached for his hand and took it, feeling the firm grip. “Hope,” he repeated, “Hannari... But how can this be? You are of the First Born, if I am not mistaken.”

  “You’d like me to begin from the beginning, wouldn’t you?” Hannari asked him. “Well, unfortunately time is against us. All I am allowed to say is that you are in one of the seven realms of the First Born, even oblivion – or the void – depending on which you prefer.”

  Eladrid shook his head, looking down at the blackness and stars below his feet. “Impossible,” he muttered, “I couldn’t have gained access to this holy realm!”

  “No, not alone you couldn’t have,” said Hannari, “which is why I was asked by my brothers to bring you to them. Or rather, at least the youngest of our order, Muari, the one you call beloved.” />
  “Muari be beloved,” Eladrid whispered.

  “Indeed,” said Hannari. “This realm, the one in which we now stand, is the resting place of Illuminari – or Doomstriker, as he is referred to in your world.”

  “Doomstriker,” Eladrid repeated, alarmed by the mention of the name. “But why would the First Born gather here? Do you intend to destroy Aldabaar?”

  “The First Born do not intend to destroy your world, but neither do they intend to defend it. We have done all we can to stay Illuminari’s wrath, but he has grown too weary of the wickedness of Aldabaar, even the continued existence of The Watcher on the world that he desires now to destroy,” said Hannari. “My brothers and I gather hear to see what Illuminari decides.”

  “Is this why you say ‘time is against us,’” Eladrid asked.

  Hannari nodded, and took Eladrid by the arm to lead him away where the First Born were gathered. “And as I said, Muari requested your presence before anything happens.”

  “What could he want of me?”

  “Know one knows save Muari,” replied Hannari.

  Eladrid was led through the black space of oblivion, naught but stars and Hannari’s presence to give them light. As they neared one cluster of stars, however, the woodlander realized that they weren’t stars at all. People, of all varieties of races and station, stood in groups conversing with one another. Some wore armor, others cloaks and robes rich with color. Their faces glowed with the same light that as Hannari, but were stern and serious as they spoke of important matters that Eladrid could not understand.

  As they passed one group of these people, Eladrid recognized the color of the garb they wore and watched them as he and Hannari went by. The purple cloak, the scimitars hanging from the belt, and the green and blue tunic over mesh armor was all too familiar for him not to take notice of. And as he looked beneath the hood of one of them, he recognized Dril’ead Vulzdagg.

  However, The Fallen was too distracted by his current conversation with one of his kind that he didn’t see Eladrid pass. But the sight of him gave the woodlander comfort, knowing he was in the presence of the First Born.

  In the middle of the congregation of all the inhabitants of the world was a man dressed in the likeness of Hannari, a grey hood pulled over his head as he looked into an orb of brilliant white light floating in the space before him. His hands were folded reverently, hidden beneath the cloak he wore, and as they approached he turned slowly and smiled at Eladrid.

  “Well, woodlander, I’m relieved you made it,” he said with a broad smile, although the tone of his voice felt weary and sad, “and in perfect time as well.”

  He half turned back to the orb, and pointed across the space to an enormous figure walking between the clusters of people, black and ominous. He wore heavy plated armor of the purest black, and would have melded into the background had it not been for the silhouette he cast against the twinkling stars, or distant people, the red flames that leaked between the chinks of armor. The eye slits burned red, and in one hand the massive specter carried a great sword rimmed with fire.

  “Illuminari has forged the blade of retribution anew, and approaches Aldabaar to deal justly with the servants of The Watcher.” Muari, the man speaking to Eladrid, faced the white orb before him and seemed to sigh with grief. “Good or evil, my brother will wreck all that comes in his path. I pled for the Adya, offered countless deals to sate his fury, but Illuminari sees too much of our former brothers’ presence upon Aldabaar... I fear he is correct. There is nothing more to be done but wait, hoping my chosen one will succeed in time to save his friends from oblivion.”

  “You mean Neth’tek Vulzdagg,” Eladrid put in, looking from Muari’s face and to the orb before them. He watched Doomstriker stalk slowly toward them, still well away but coming gradually closer and closer with each passing minute. “What of these here? Do they wait as well?”

  Muari nodded, looking back at those standing around them. “They are those who have already passed from Aldabaar and into our presence,” he replied. “They wait, like you and me, to see what will become of their world and their friends.”

  “And I am one of them, aren’t I?” Eladrid asked in a low voice, fearful of the truth. He had left his friends behind to perish.

  “No,” said Muari, and he turned and looked Eladrid in his green eye with his grey, “You are only here to hear my words and heed them. The time of atonement is done for you. All is forgiven. This time you must use your weapons, the gifts of Gutharri to preserve your life and defend others.”

  “But I’ve lost my gear,” said the woodlander.

  “No need to worry,” replied Muari, “all will be restored to you as it once was.”

  Eladrid nodded, looking at the orb. He began to recognize shapes through the brightness of it, places he had seen during his travels, a time that felt far away in his past. “How do I get back?” he asked.

  “Simply step into the light,” said Muari, gesturing to the light before them. “Do not be afraid of the light, nor give heed to the darkness. Your people need you, Eladrid Woodhaven.”

  Eladrid, on hearing his name, turned and looked at both Muari and Hannari. Their faces were stern, and yet soft. It was clear the love and hope that they offered to him, and he felt it warm his cold spirit as he stepped forward toward the orb, putting out his hand to block the light from piercing his eyes.

  He glimpsed Doomstriker just before vanishing through the portal, the fearsome spirit coming ever nearer to Aldabaar.

  34

  The Drake and the Basilisk

  Vexor kneed the dark ranger in the groin and rushed forward, slinging his bow around and launching an arrow toward Alastra. The arrow exploded between them, however, and he fell to the ground as an invisible impenetrable wall was thrown up in front of him.

  “Forget it, Vexor!” Duoreod cried at him, struggling in the arms of two rangers, “You can’t help him. Not this time, at least.”

  He watched as Neth’tek rolled to the side in time to dodge a blast of magical energy, and came up on his feet beside the priestess with swords in either hand. She swung her arm for his head, a lean blade gripped in her hand, but the agile fighter ducked under the attack and slammed into her side.

  Alastra evaporated into a cloud of smoke as he hit her, and Neth’tek passed straight through and stumbled off balance. She reappeared seconds later behind him, jabbing her blade into his back.

  Crying out in agony as the blade cut through his clothes and penetrated his skin, stinging him, but spun round and knocked the dagger to the side with one of his scimitars. The other sword followed behind the first, slicing upward and cutting several strands of her hair as she pulled away from the blade.

  The hair turned to smoke as it left her head, and she glowered at him angrily. “I’ll have your head,” she hissed like a snake, “just like so many of your people before you!”

  Neth’tek fumed, his face and eyes going red as he charged her, both blades spinning in his hands as he flipped round and swept a leg under hers. But as soon as Alastra tripped, she turned to smoke, vanishing before reappearing behind him, slashing at his back with her blade. He turned to face her, thrusting and parrying, but she vanished and appeared behind him again, endlessly repeating the process.

  Her blade came round and slashed at his right hand, cutting the back of his hand and tossing the sword into the air. It spun several times before coming down twenty or so yards from him, clanging as it bounced on the stones.

  Watching the blade leave him with utter dismay, Neth’tek failed to deflect the dagger as it cut upward and across his face. His feet left the ground as her other hand punched forward, powered by magical energy, and he was hurled into the far wall.

  “Foolish child,” Alastra mused as she stepped toward his crumpled body, struggling to get up from where he landed. “You think you can contend with the powers at my disposal? What power have you to challenge mine?”

  She stopped and laughed at him, mocking the way he
reached for his sword, lacking the strength to tighten his fingers around its hilt. Images of all the nightmares in his life flashed through his mind, then, her laughter bringing him down, the eyes of The Watcher glaring at him with amusement. And then a black arrow sticking from Dril’ead’s chest.

  Dril did not die only for me to fail, he thought as he reached for his sword again.

  Alastra put out her hand and a wave of energy slammed into him, pushing him against the wall and holding him in place as she stalked toward him, laughing cruelly at his helpless state. The blade in her hand flashed in the dim light of that part of the world, his blood shining on its edge. He could feel its sting just looking at it, could picture the blade ramming through his chest as it stole his life.

  Blood trickled into his eye from the cut on his face, blinding him.

  And then time seemed to freeze, and someone stepped out of the shadows to his right to stand between him and Alastra, crossing his arms and looking at Neth’tek with disappointment.

  “Is this the warrior I taught,” said an all too familiar voice, even Dril’s. “How could several years of my life be wasted on such a fighter as you, Neth’tek? Can you even call yourself a Vulzdagg?”

  Neth’tek choked, spitting blood from his mouth as he looked at Dril, still unable to move. But Dril spoke again, waving his hand to dismiss the thought. “It doesn’t matter, brother,” he said. “Don’t think that for one minute of your life you have disappointed me, or father, or even mother. We are all proud. After all, you are the child of the basilisk. Remember that, if nothing else.”

  “Dril’ead...” Neth’tek stammered, blinking the blood from his eye.

  “Where you place your feet is where you shall stand,” said Dril’ead, “And where you shall stand is where the enemy cannot touch you!”

  Time unfroze, then, and Alastra moved closer to him. Dril was gone.