Kargaroth

by Mark B Frost

  “He left yesterday,” Kinguin answered, “headed for Revian.”

  “With an army? Have hostilities already resumed? Wait, how long have I been out? I haven’t missed something major, have I? Where is Kulara? I need to know troop positions.”

  “Lord Atheme,” Aveni interrupted, “we need you to slow down for a moment and listen to us. This is not about Revian. It is about Abaddon.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “He has the sword,” Kinguin responded.

  Atheme’s face turned pale and he stumbled back a step, regaining his composure by leaning against the nearby wall. “You told me it was gone. That it would never be seen again.”

  The Lord Archmagus lowered his head, and his voice. “We have all had our failures, I fear.”

  “Abaddon has gone to end the war with Revian on his own,” Aveni continued. “He has not taken an army with him, only Kargaroth. We would consider this a blessing, but we fear by the time he returns his soul may be beyond salvation.”

  Atheme nodded. “I agree. If I wanted us to use Kargaroth to solve our problems, I never would have sealed it away. As much as I hate to defend Revian, Abaddon must be stopped.” He turned and began to storm out of the room.

  “Wait!” Kinguin shouted. “Where are you going?”

  He stopped and turned back with a look of determination. “This is my fault. I’m the one who told him of the sword. I never dreamed he could find it, but he has, and now I have to stop him. I don’t know how yet, but I’ll find him and I’ll put an end to this.”

  “You must think this through more clearly,” the herald insisted. “You cannot fight him. We need to call a meeting, put some heads together and consider our options.”

  “I am not afraid of our Destroyer. You may forget, but I trained him. I have defeated him before and will do so again.”

  “With respect, my lord,” Aveni said softly, “he did not have Kargaroth when you bested him.”

  “His mysticism has made him a natural suitor for the sword’s power,” Kinguin added. “The limits of Kargaroth you were familiar with no longer seem to be in place. Abaddon’s abilities are now peerless, far beyond anything we’ve imagined. We’ve got to think this through carefully.”

  Atheme stared at each of them in turn, considering their words. Their analysis seemed solid. He was barely a match for Abaddon on his best days, and he had seen the powers of Kargaroth firsthand. If his old friend had awakened another level of the sword, any chance of victory seemed fleeting at best.

  But Atheme was a Lord Councilor who had taken many risks during his tenure. He had sworn long ago that if any of those risks proved to be a fatal mistake, he would bear the weight himself. Even as he felt the sickening turn of fear developing in his gut at the thought of the upcoming battle, he knew the course he had to take.

  “Not this time,” he answered simply, and took his leave.

  Kinguin wrung his hands for a moment, then turned to the Cardinal. “Have we sent our Lord Councilor to his death?”

  “I fear I do not know the answer,” Aveni responded. “May Pecoros save us all.”

  * * * * *

  When Atheme stepped outside of the Chamber’s front door he found Relm standing nearby. He grimaced, hoping he could extricate himself from her without explaining what was happening. As he reached her and she turned to him, he was taken aback by a pair of silver eyes he had never before seen.

  “Relm?” he asked uncertainly.

  “Serene,” she replied.

  He looked to the ground, his mind racing. “Sinjuin Serene? The Saint of Pecoros?” He looked up, and she nodded in response. “Were you sent here to stop this? Were you sent here over Kargaroth?” He rubbed his forehead. “But you didn’t. Someone stopped you, robbed you of your memory, and we found you alone in the Sarin Plains. That’s why your heraldry was so advanced. That’s why you were looking for the lord in red. Because I was the last wielder of Kargaroth.”

  She smiled, ever impressed by the man’s quick mind, and for a moment Atheme could see the Relm in her. “You’re going for Abaddon, aren’t you?”

  “You must not try to stop me.”

  “I won’t. I have brought you something. Come.” She led him around to the side of the building. There he saw a creature roughly one and a half times as big as a peist, with a dark grey skin and huge leather wings. “It’s a wyvern,” she explained, “but a special one. It’s of Kinguin’s own breeding, the only wyvern to date with the intelligence necessary to make a reliable mount. It will allow you to catch Abaddon. I’m sure Kinguin would not approve of its use, but should anything go wrong we’ll have to trust he can make another.”

  “Thank you, Relm,” he said swiftly, then leaped onto the creature’s back.

  She handed him a bag of supplies, then his sare and a Morabet. “Atheme, you cannot hope to win against Abaddon. You have to reason with him. Get him to give you the sword willingly.”

  The Lord Councilor placed his weapons at his side and secured the supplies, then responded, “I will do whatever must be done.” He whipped at the reins around the wyvern’s neck, and the creature instantly hopped into the air.

  “Wait!” Serene shouted as he rose into the sky. “There’s more! There’s more about Kargaroth! Atheme!”

  But he was already beyond earshot, as the winds whipped past him and he began to fly south. He understood Relm’s objections, as well as those of Kinguin and Aveni, but he could not listen to them. He could not consider the possibility of failure. He had to remain resolved and focused on the task ahead. He angled his mount west toward Revian, taking note of a huge crater to his south. The wyvern gathered aerial speed quickly, and soon Atheme was moving so fast that he was forced to erect a barrier in front of himself to keep from being blown off.

  He cleared his thoughts, blocking out the conversations with his friends. He had sworn long ago that he would do what must be done, if the time came. Though he had dreaded this day much of his life, he would not shy away from the moment.

  He would kill Abaddon Daemon.

  Chapter 24.

  Knight of Hell

  Atheme gently guided the wyvern to the ground, slowing for a landing. The creature responded sharply and plopped softly onto a grassy knoll. The rider hopped off his mount and began hunting for Abaddon’s footprints. After a moment he found them a few yards away, and used the tracking skills taught to him by Calvin to gather information on his prey.

  The footprints were unnaturally light, which likely meant that his quarry was running at a swift speed. This made sense to the Lord Councilor, but told him nothing new. Abaddon only had one day’s lead, and Atheme had now been traveling for over a day and not yet caught up with him. A peist moved several times faster than a human, and the wyvern several times faster than a peist. He should have easily overtaken the man, but somehow had not.

  The footprints were too light to tell him how long ago they had been made. He stood, stretched his back, and looked over at his wyvern. The creature was exhausted, and had allowed itself an opportunity to lie down and start munching on some grass. Atheme smiled and reached into his knapsack, fishing out a small slab of pork. He tossed it to the beast, letting it land easily within reach of its snout. It quickly gobbled the morsel up, then looked to him expecting more.

  He instead took a seat and leaned up against the reptilian wing, patting his mount lightly. “There, there. You can rest for about an hour. After that, no stops until we catch up.” He looked at the midday sky. They were already on the other side of the Tepindus, and by the time they reached Abaddon they would be within Revian borders. Atheme was not sure what to expect when he arrived. He was still an enemy to the country, but his first priority had to be to incapacitate Abaddon before he could use Kargaroth. If he arrived to find the man entangled with Revian soldiers, it could be difficult to determine the proper course of action.

  He set a time-delayed spell to wake him in an hour, then leaned back and
slept. An hour later a sudden pop awoke him and startled his wyvern. He quickly calmed it, then mounted and took once more to the air.

  * * * * *

  Tarkan Izarll stepped through his front door and breathed in the fresh midday air. It had been a rough week for him, but the pleasantness of the day made him think that things would start to change for the better. The old man was a Senator to Revian and had served his nation loyally for decades. A few years ago he had held a say in anything that happened across this countryside.

  That was before Ditarr Courel had begun snatching up authority. Ditarr was a young nobleman, with a capable political mind and captivating charisma. But as far as Tarkan was concerned, he suffered from one major character flaw—he was young.

  Ditarr had implemented drastic changes in legislation, continuously gathering more power to himself. Tarkan had stepped up as an antagonist to these actions, but Ditarr found strong support among the youth and they had rallied to him.

  Then Ditarr began speaking of war. He talked of the superiority of the peoples of Revian, and how the warlike nature of the easterners had subjugated the continent and cast it into chaos. He proclaimed that it was time for the west to step up and assume authority, to teach their superior way of life to those who did not know better.

  In response to this Tarkan had launched a new campaign, rallying supporters and arguing that a “war to end war” was illogical. His cause had been futile. Ditarr eventually assumed military authority and dismissed the leaders of the Senate, writing them off as too inefficient for wartime politics. He promised they could resume control of the country once peace had been restored to Itrius.

  So Tarkan had come home to the small border town of Baird. To his dishonor, he found that his eldest son, Jerrick, had become one of Ditarr’s cabalists and headed up the party’s faction in Baird. Since the elder’s return, father and son had argued ceaselessly over every possible issue. Yesterday morning boundaries had been crossed, tears shed, and last night apologies had been issued. It seemed to represent a turning point, and for a moment at least, things between Tarkan and Jerrick were civil again.

  He wandered over to the bench in front of the house and had a seat. He had once enjoyed watching the canyon for travelers and rovers who occasionally drifted through, but no one was allowed to cross anymore. He thought it was an unfortunate sign of changing times in Revian, and blamed Ditarr.

  Jerrick claimed that the war was going well, and they could expect the east to be subdued within a year. But Tarkan had his own information networks deep within Revian’s hierarchy, and knew more of the truth than he cared to disclose.

  The truth was that the war had never been in worse shape. Little more than a year ago it had seemed that victory was within sight, as Revian’s border grew deep into the east and the oft-disputed territories had become stable provinces under their jurisdiction. Then, Felthespar responded. Ditarr had often talked of the eastern capital as bloated and overblown, relying on the strengths of fear and reputation rather than true prowess. For a long time it seemed he may have been correct, until Revian had at last earned the mighty nation’s attention.

  As Felthespar turned its eye and focused on its western border, Revian began to suffer loss upon loss with alarming consistency. It was as though the nation had only been toying with them, holding them back with one arm while dealing with other matters, until the moment it truly entered the war. Tarkan heard rumors of a warrior of incomparable merit, known only as The Destroyer, and his insatiable quest for the lives of the honest soldiers of Revian. In only half a year, Felthespar had driven Revian’s army out of its lands and back beyond the Gorge.

  But they held Felthespar’s full attention now, and the war machine showed no signs of mercy. A fresh army was sent marching behind The Destroyer himself to breach the Gorge and conquer Revian’s lands. As Tarkan had promised, Ditarr’s efforts had only brought the wars of the east home. They had received word of the reprisal from their spy with enough time to cut off the canyon. Once again Felthespar had responded to this mercilessly, killing all of the defenders and collapsing the walls of the canyon itself in a huge landslide. Even while holding every advantage Revian had suffered a resounding defeat, losing an entire legion.

  The news of these events had been easy for Tarkan to come by. It had been nearly impossible to gain access to information about the second invasion. More soldiers from the east had attacked Revian from their western borders. How the easterners had gained the west was still unknown, but the government could only assume they had underestimated Felthespar’s naval power. One of Revian’s two capital cities had almost been overtaken before reinforcements could arrive, and further hundreds of soldiers were said to have lost their lives in the attack.

  Tarkan had been petrified by this news. Even after its victories, Felthespar showed no signs of satisfaction. Now that it had begun they would never allow the war to end. They would continue to breach Revian’s defenses until the land itself was under their rule, like all others. Ditarr had been right about one thing: the easterners were a warlike people. As Tarkan grew to realize this, he worried that Revian’s own soldiers, no matter how disciplined, would never be able to match the savagery of their enemy.

  He was stirred from his reverie by movement from the direction of the canyon. A large dark man walked through nonchalantly, then headed swiftly toward the city.

  “That’s odd,” the westerner muttered. “I wonder why the guards let him pass.”

  Though he was still a good mile or so away, Tarkan rose and prepared himself to go greet the man. Certainly if he had been let through the canyon, he must be an ally. The old man hoped to snoop out some information on matters beyond the Gorge.

  Just then, Jerrick stepped out to offer his father a good morning. He turned and saw the big man approaching as well. “That doesn’t seem quite right, does it?” he said.

  Tarkan chuckled at his son’s creased brow. “What’s a matter, boy? It’s just one fella. Worried about something?”

  “Of course not. It’s just, as the magistrate of this border I should have been notified of anyone who was to arrive from the east. A mistake must have been made.”

  The man had come close enough that more of him could be seen. He walked with a steady pace, his body flowing forward as if propelled by another force. With his right hand he held onto the hilt of a massive broadsword, balanced easily on his shoulder. The blade was clean of blood, but that was the only feature of the man that did not give Tarkan cause for concern. On his hip another broadsword rested in its scabbard, and a hook-like design could be seen close to its hilt.

  He gave the approaching figure a long look, then whispered softly to his son, “That’s a man that’s seen many a death in his time. His face is empty of all kindness. I reckon he’d kill you or I without a moment’s regret if he had cause.”

  Jerrick rustled his shoulders. “I don’t care who he is, he cannot pass through without my authority.”

  He stepped from the porch and moved to intercept the man. Tarkan wanted to stop his son, but knew it would only lead to more fighting and he would never change the youth’s mind. The boy was as stubborn as the father, two cuts from the same cloth.

  The man halted as Jerrick stepped into his path, and looked up with dark, hooded eyes. Tarkan was barely close enough to hear the words being exchanged.

  “Hold there! Identify yourself as friend or foe. You have entered Revian, and may proceed no further until you have been cleared by the local magistrate, in this instance myself.”

  The man stared without reaction for a few seconds. Tarkan began to wonder if he spoke their language, when he responded, “I am foe.”

  Jerrick took a step back, caught off guard by the blunt statement. “Then,” he finally managed to sputter, “you must leave immediately or I will have you executed.”

  The volume of the man’s voice increased slightly, echoing through the city streets in a foreboding manner. “Neither angelspawn nor hellspawn know a force
which might subdue me.”

  “Do not make this difficult with arrogance!” he snapped in response. “I am not a man of war myself and do not wish to see anyone die today. Out of mercy, I will allow you to go home and leave us in peace!”

  “I do not bring peace, no more than I bring war. I bring only the end. You number among the blessed, for you will be the first to taste it. Prepare yourself for oblivion, if such a thing is possible.”

  With that said, he lifted the sword from his shoulder and leveled it out, pointing it at Jerrick’s chest. Both Izarlls were paralyzed where they stood. A smile spread on the man’s face. “Cruelty Wave,” he spoke, and the sword flared with an unnatural red flame. That flame turned into a gust of wind that swept through Jerrick’s body. Tarkan’s son’s scream filled his ears as this energy lifted the young man and slowly burned his skin away. Tarkan tried desperately to dash forward and stop the madness, but his body would not respond.

  Layer by layer Jerrick’s flesh was stripped down and incinerated. Skin, muscle, even organs were destroyed with meticulous malevolence. Tarkan could not tear his eyes away, and watched until nothing remained except for a blood-soaked skeleton. Then that too disintegrated, and nothing remained of Jerrick Izarll.

  The monster turned next to Tarkan, whose face was flooded with agony. The foreigner’s long dark hair began to rise as if caught in a wind, and it seemed as though his body itself expanded. He turned his sword and stretched it out to his right, then declared, “Die for the sins of your leaders. Death Wave.” He swung the sword fiercely around to his left side, and a thin black ray shot forth and struck Tarkan’s body.

  The old man was dead long before his body fell to the ground.

  * * * * *

  Atheme looked into the canyon beneath him. He was passing over the landslide he had created, and could see that while attempts had been made to excavate the area, little had been accomplished. He dug his heels into the wyvern, urging it to go faster. He was tired of the chase and anxious for the upcoming confrontation.