Oblivion: Part Five of the Redemption Cycle

by J. R. Lawrence

  Ezila, Neth’tek plead, waiting for the spirit to come to his rescue, Ezila! Why have you forsaken me?

  No, Neth’tek Vulzdagg, she said in his mind, you must win this on your own.

  Alastra lifted the sword slowly, her hand still outstretched as she held him against the wall.

  Where you place you feet, Neth’tek heard Dril’s voice in his head say again, and he remembered how he was able to stand against the power of Ulchar that night in the well. You are the child of the basilisk!

  Neth’tek moved his leg and placed it under him, and then the other, his fingers wrapping firmly around the hilt of his scimitar as he slowly rose to his feet. He felt the pressure of Alastra’s magic pushing him down, but reminded himself that it was only an illusion.

  Alastra looked at him with surprise and confusion, an expression that quickly shifted to anger as she swung her sword for his head to finish him off.

  Instinctively, and hardly need to look through his half blinded eye, Neth’tek’s blade came up and caught the sword midway to his neck. He put out his hand toward his other sword, lying halfway across the courtyard, and cried out for it. The sword left the ground and came speeding toward him, just as Alastra stepped backward and kicked toward him.

  “You cannot win!” she screamed at him in frustration.

  He rolled below the kick and came up behind her, catching his blade and spinning round to cross both swords in front of him and block her downward thrust. She vanished immediately, but just as Neth’tek had anticipated, and he dropped onto one knee and turned, jabbing his blade through her chest even as she reappeared behind him.

  Her sword dropped from her hand over his head, and she staggered backwards and fell to the ground, his sword still in her heart. “That,” Neth’tek said through clenched teeth, stained red with the blood from his face, “is for Dril’ead.”

  He pulled his sword out of her body, and her head fell back and hit the stones, pale and expressionless as dead eyes stared up into the clouded sky. Neth’tek imagined she was looking for her queen, the one who had forsaken her to his swords.

  “Impressive,” said the musing voice of the Shadow Queen from above, “most impressive. You’d make a valuable asset to our cause, Neth’tek Vulzdagg.”

  “You dare suggest I offer my assistance to you?” Neth’tek bellowed at the sky, his heart bursting with sudden fury. “I know how The Watcher pays thanks to those who serve him, I have seen it with my own eyes! An example lies at my feet, and yet there are more. I was one of them, left alone when all had failed. You will fail! Doomstriker looms and will take you and all of your power from this world, and lock you in the High Tower with The Watcher, whom you praise so much!”

  The Shadow Queen was silent for a time, and then she spoke. “So be it. You have chosen oblivion with the rest of your kin.”

  He heard the monsters roar behind them, their shrieks coming out of the passageways and towers all along the fortress walls. The dark rangers pulled their bows back and aimed them upon Vexor and Duoreod, the three hunters jumping back and drawing swords as they saw the werewolves and horgs, and the goblins and other servants of the Shadow Queen come creeping upon them.

  “No,” said Neth’tek, “you have chosen oblivion.”

  35

  Mazar and Woodhaven

  Mazoroth led his clan out of the northern mountains of Narthanger and into the woodlands of Stonewood, the Mazar’s numbers having increased over the years to exceed ten thousand horgs. They swept through the woodlands, cutting down anyone who fell in their way, cunningly crafted swords and axes, hammers weighing over fifty pounds smashing through doorways and shields of all kind. The woodland outposts were no match for their numbers, and the woodlanders were forced to flee or fall dead at their feet.

  By the time word of their assault finally reached the Stonewood keep of king Diendor, the horgs had broken through the woodland defenses and slaughtered over a thousand of his people, leaving estates burning in their wake. Once before the Mazar’s had wrecked such chaos and murder among Stonewood, slaughtering an entire household of woodlanders before they were driven back into the mountains. The house of Woodhaven had fallen, and Eladrid, the last living member, had taken up a hunt that would end with Mazoroth’s death and the end of clan Mazar.

  Woodlanders positioned themselves in the trees above the horgs’ descent, and ambushed them from above as they passed below. However, archers from among the horg ranks turned fire upon them and dropped the woodland people from the branches, and merely smashed through the defensive line set between them and the heart of woodlandom.

  The last of the woodlanders fell before them, an axe thrust between his ribs, and the horgs ran him down as they continued on their way. However, even as the horg dropped the warrior, an arrow zipped through the trees and struck it in the side of the neck, and the horg toppled over and died on the earth.

  The horgs nearest to it looked in the direction the arrow had sped from and saw the woodlander, even the horg hunter, dashing through the trees toward them. He held his bow up, an arrow drawn back to his head, and fired into another of them. When that horg fell like the first, he tossed his bow to the side and unsheathed his twin daggers, leaping off of a log and flipping through the air above their heads.

  They swung their axes and jabbed their spears upward in attempts to strike him down, but the agile woodlander landed between them and drove his daggers upward and through their throats and hearts. He spun, kicking the legs out of the others, and stabbed one of them in the side. Already five of the horgs lay strewn about the earth around him, their blood soaking into the leaves and grass underfoot.

  A spear sunk into the earth just beside his right foot, and turning he saw others charging him with spears raised, and they hurled them at him. Eladrid rolled under the next toss and came up in front of them, driving his dagger into the horgs eye. He twisted, dodging a sword thrust toward his heart, and pulling the knife from the horgs eyeball he slashed the other across the throat.

  His foot came upward, hitting another in the stomach and knocking the wind from its lungs. He wrapped his arms around its neck as it doubled over and jerked suddenly, breaking its spine and stopping its heart.

  With those horgs falling behind him, Eladrid rushed upon the next wave of monsters, his energy only increasing as the excitement took his heart and propelled him forward.

  Arrows zipped by his head as he dodged around them, feeling his hair caught by some of the speeding shafts. One of the horgs ran ahead of the archers, an axe raised overhead, and slammed downward toward him. But Eladrid dodged out of the path of the blade and came up behind it, stabbing it in the back of the knee. It dropped onto its knee, screaming in pain, and he drove his other dagger through its neck and stopped its cry.

  He flicked his wrist and one of his daggers flipped toward the six horgs aiming their bows at him, and it stuck in one of their chests, forcing it backwards. The woodlander rolled as the arrows hit the ground behind him, just barely missing them, and then charged as they withdrew to reload their bows.

  Four other horgs charged him from the side, and he was forced to dodge left and hide in a cluster of trees as the arrows ripped passed him. He felt them tear his cloak, but he spun out from behind the trees and came at them again. However, he was intercepted by those who had come out of the forest to stop him, and was forced to engage in the open.

  It took a short time for the woodlander to defeat these four horgs, but before he was done another small volley of arrows cut through the grass around him. He took one in the arm, barely grazing his skin, but enough to draw blood. Grabbing the horg by the front of its leather vest, he rammed his blade through its neck. Before it fell, though, he looked at the patch that was roughly sewn into the leather armor.

  An M symbolizing the clan of Mazar, which meant only one thing.

  Mazoroth was near.

  He pulled his knife out of its throat and rolled on his back as more arrows cut through the air. The archers looked on
in fear as he charged them, no more horgs left between him and them, and they dropped their bows, or fired without setting a proper mark, and went for their swords.

  His blade cut through the first of them, slashing through the bow and arrow it held up at him, and driving into its neck. The second swung its blade for his head, but Eladrid ducked under the blow and cut its arm as it passed overhead. He slammed into the stomach of the one behind it, knocking it to the ground.

  Flipping over the downed horg, he landed beside one with his dagger in its chest, and pulled the knife free before rolling to the side in time to dodge the downward cut of one behind him. He moved like lightning, his blade thrusting forward and cutting out, slashing through throat and muscle until the last of them fell with his dagger in its eye.

  Turning toward the numerous horde of the rest of the clan, he drew his arm back as he prepared to throw. Some of those charging drew back on bowstrings as they set their points upon him, the others roaring and waving axes and swords overhead, throwing spears that fell just short of him.

  He spoke an enchantment as he threw his dagger, the weapon bursting into a streak of fire that ripped through the middle of their ranks, blasting the monsters to either side. At the end of the line of fire, the spell expired, ending with an enormous burst of flames that left an opening to their chieftain.

  Mazoroth brandished his mighty axe, stepping across the charred earth as the fire died away and the trees fell to the ground on either side of him. Eladrid could almost feel his smile as he stalked toward him through the path created, and he dashed forward to meet his foe head on.

  He leaped into the air, putting his foot forward and hitting the horg in the shoulder. Mazoroth took most of the blow, turning sideways and sweeping his axe out wide for the woodlanders head, but Eladrid dropped below the swing and rolled forward and passed him. He came up in front of a horg growling as it brought its hammer back, but too slow, the dagger of the woodlander finding its throat a split second later.

  He turned, jumping to the side as the chieftain smashed the ground where he stood, his axe burying itself in the earth, and then stepped forward and turned as he brought it back up and ready.

  “Quite the fighter, aren’t you, woodlander?” Mazoroth growled. “One would think you make yourself a one-man-army, as some say.”

  “I’ve had enough experience on my own to know how to hold my own in a fight against your kind,” Eladrid replied. He spun low as a horg came up behind him, and slashing its legs it fell to the ground next to him, and then he drove his dagger into its neck. “You’re no match for my prowess, horg scum!”

  “We’ll see about that!” cried the horg chieftain, and he stepped backwards as his axe lowered and then swung for the woodlanders head.

  Eladrid flipped back on his hands and then onto his feet, punching his dagger into a horgs chest as it ran next to him. The massive horg leaped forward, axe coming down in a heavy swing, and Eladrid danced to the side.

  Five or six horgs surrounded him, he wasn’t sure how many in the crowd that passed on all sides, and they laid their hands upon him to hold him still. But the nimble woodlander slashed their claws with his dagger, and twisted their arms as they reached for his.

  “Leave the woodlander to me!” Mazoroth roared at them, and those who hadn’t retreated with bleeding hands or stubs fell in rank with the others. “They have work elsewhere,” said the horg to Eladrid, “in the heart of your woodland. It seems your king is ill prepared for what we have in store.”

  Eladrid narrowed his eyes. “You underestimate the abilities we possess,” he said. “Your last mistake.”

  Mazoroth drove forward with his axe in response to his words, and Eladrid rolled backwards and out of the way of the weapon. When he came up he hit the blade, knocking it to the side and exposing the monsters front to him. But before he could drive his dagger into the chieftains heart, the horg lifted its foot and kicked him in the chest.

  Eladrid felt himself thrown backwards by the hit, and as he came down he didn’t feel the earth below as he had expected. Instead, he hit the side of an incline and rolled downhill for several feet until coming upon flat dirt. The horgs did not pass this way, he noticed as he climbed onto his hands and knees, his breath having been knocked from his lungs.

  The horg landed in front of him, dirt coming up and clouding around the woodlanders face and eyes. “Privacy,” said the horg chieftain, “just as I wanted.”

  Eladrid, coughing the dirt from his lungs and trying to blink it out of his eyes, sat upright and reached for his dagger lying on the ground next to him. However, Mazoroth brought his leg up and kneed him in the face, knocking the woodlander onto his back.

  He hefted his axe and brought the butt-end of it down into his stomach, forcing the air out of him again.

  “Pathetic,” said the horg, “just like your race... Just how I remember your family trying to fight back... Yes, I remember you now; the woodland child who was left behind to be haunted by their murder, to spend the rest of his days seeking his revenge. But only to find that the one he killed in payment was not the one he sought at all. A ruse, if you’d like to know; something to give you what you thought was hope. And every day since you’d fail to save these people. You failed to save that girl, and you will fail to save your own life.”

  Eladrid coughed again, groaning and rolling over, one hand pressed to his stomach. He could feel the ribs crack under the hit, the pain pulsing through his body with every beat of his heart.

  Mazoroth let him crawl onto his knees again, but grabbed him by the back of his cowl and lifted him from the ground. He turned him about so he could look the woodlander in his half open eyes, and hit him with the end of his axe again, but this time Eladrid grabbed the weapon by the heft and shoved it sideways into the chieftains side.

  Mazoroth bellowed a roar of pain and outrage as he felt the blade pierce his hide, and he dropped the woodlander as he retreated backwards and onto one knee, his hand feeling the blood dripping from the wound. Eladrid’s foot hit him square in the face, chipping his tusk and knocking him backwards against the slope.

  “Not so pathetic as yourself, Mazoroth,” Eladrid slurred as he raised both fists in front of the wounded monster.

  Mazoroth growled and tossed his axe to the side, dropping low and tackling him to the ground. They rolled momentarily, the horg coming up on top of him and punching him in the face, and blood trickled from the woodlanders nose and down the side of his face. But he caught the horgs next fist in his hand, and twisting it by the wrist he forced it backwards so that it bent against his arm, the bone snapping.

  The horg screamed, throwing its other fist at his head, but punched the earth just next to it. Eladrid spun out from under him, wrapping his arms around and behind Mazoroth’s head and neck as he pulled him to the ground. They struggled for a moment, the horg trying to break free of the woodlanders chokehold, and then he reached in the dirt for the dagger that lay beside them.

  Eladrid didn’t notice the horg grab the knife, but he felt the blade stab into his left leg. His grip loosened as he cried out in both surprise and pain, the wound immediately stinging him, and Mazoroth broke out of his hold and turned around, punching him in the stomach with his good hand.

  He rolled backwards and away from the horg, one hand grabbing the blade that still stuck in his leg. But Mazoroth grabbed him by the face as he prepared for his next act of torture. Eladrid noticed that the hairs on that arm were completely bare, and the flesh scarred from an old burn. He knew that couldn’t have been recent.

  Even as Mazoroth began tightening his grip on Eladrid’s throat, his claws digging into the skin, he pulled the dagger from his leg and stabbed it into the side of the horg where he had hit him with his own axe, the wound already tender. He knocked the horgs arm away from him and punched the monster in the side, and then hit it in the face, breaking its snout. But the horg, furious with pain as he was, elbowed Eladrid in the stomach and head-butted him in the face.


  He fell backwards and landed on his stomach, and the horg, holding the blade in his side to block most of the blood flow, started crawling on his side toward his axe. By the time the stars were clear of Eladrid’s eyes, warm blood sticky on his face and hands as he wiped it from his nose and mouth, Mazoroth was only an arms-reach away from the axe. He turned over and grabbed the horg by the leg, pulling him back.

  Everything blurred as the blood continued to seep from his wounds, the world feeling as though it tilted beneath him, but Eladrid somehow mustered enough strength to pull the horg away from his weapon. He reached up and took hold of his dagger in the monsters side, but Mazoroth kicked him in the face before he could pull it out.

  He rolled onto his back, everything going white, and let go of the horg. Mazoroth seized his axe and turned over, getting onto his legs and stumbling over to stand above the woodlander.

  “Try as you might,” the horg grumbled through broken teeth and snout, “but no one... not woodland or... or you... can beat Mazar.”

  He lifted the axe over the woodlander, staggering for a moment as his mind struggled to gain focus.

  “Watch me,” Eladrid mumbled, and he kicked the horg in the knee as hard as he could.

  They both heard the bone crack, and the axe came down just next to Eladrid’s head, cutting the strains of hair that were there. He sat up and grabbed Mazoroth by the arm and shoulder, pulling and twisting with all his strength until the shoulder of the horg popped from its socket. The horg screamed, falling onto his side and rolling away from him.

  Eladrid rolled onto his stomach again and crawled to the slope, using it as leverage to get onto his legs. He swooned for a moment, but caught himself, and looking toward where the horg lay he watched as he tried, but failed, to get onto its feet; his right knee broken by his kick.

  Eladrid staggered over to him, the world turning beneath him, and walked in a crooked line before standing before the chieftain of Mazar. He looked down at the horg, and then dropped onto his knees, grabbing the knife still stuck in his leg, and ripped it out.