Lum likewise began crying and screaming for them to stop and to leave Lilliandra alone. An orc held her in place, facing Lilliandra as the little girl struggled to free herself.
“Curse?” H’ruk shouted. “You are cursed! I curse your god! He is weak! Worse than that! He is un-orc! He is worthy of nothing! I curse your flesh in the name of Grot! Be eaten alive! Scream! And deny your god!”
Lilliandra screamed with all her might as her skin from head to toe broke out in a mad infestation of writhing worms. Lum was held in place, her eyes held open, forcing her to watch as the horde of maggots consumed the flesh from Lilliandra’s bones.
Gash raged. And in sudden freedom of movement, he drew his axe from its holster on his back. In movement so fast, even he did not have time to comprehend his actions, he closed the distance between himself and H’ruk, swung his weapon, and decapitated the full-orc. He then turned to Lum’s captor and froze as he took in Trogla’s aged form. Her face was hard, feral, as though she had endured some great hardship and had grown callous because of it.
She stared at him and Gash found himself unable to simply strike her down. H’ruk was a simple matter. The full-orc had made plain that he was not changing his mind from the corrupt thinking of orcs as somehow superior to all other creatures. His cruelty was easily explained. But Trogla…
“Why?” Gash demanded, lowering his axe in a violent manner. “Why, Trogla, you do this?”
Trogla’s scowl did not change. And suddenly, it was as if Gash, Trogla, and Lum were the only beings in existence. For a long, lingering moment, the two orc-kins stared at one another. At long last Trogla moved and Gash tightened his grip on his axe as he saw her move her hand slowly to the hilt of her sword. She drew it just as slowly and, keeping her eyes on Gash the entire time, raised the blade and proceeded to slit her own throat in a slow, deliberate stroke. Gash would have stopped her, but the paralysis again took him and he watched in horror and helplessness as blood spilled forth from the wound and the female orc collapsed onto the ground.
Gash stood there, staring at Trogla’s body in shock and despair until his eyes were drawn to Lum’s quivering form. She stood still staring at Lilliandra…or rather, what remained of the light elf. Gash immediately stepped in front of Lum to shield her from the view.
The girl was quivering as though she was having a seizure. Her eyes were wide and unblinking. Gash held her close, attempting to calm her nerves by the sheer embrace of his arms. His world was falling apart around him. He struggled to hold on to his sanity as well as anything that was still stable. His embrace, he realized, was as much for his comfort as it was for hers.
“We will be safe,” he muttered. “We will be safe.”
His eyes were shut tight as though such an action would force the world around him into stability. He tried to make sense of what was happening, all he could think about was the pain and the grasping for some sanity in the madness that surrounded him. He couldn’t fathom why things were like this. He could not understand how…
Amidst his contemplations, he felt Lum go slack beneath his embrace. In panic, he drew back and looked at her. Her eyes were glazed over and half-lidded. Her mouth hung open slightly.
“Lum!” he said, shaking her. “Lum! Do not go! Lum!”
The girl was slack in his arms and would have collapsed to the ground were it not for Gash still holding her upright. Tears of fright came to Gash’s eyes as he viewed her head lolling backwards. Her mouth moved ever so slightly and Gash could hear a faint sound. In movements that belayed his mad desperation, he cupped her head and brought her mouth swiftly to his ear. Her whisper was barely audible, but there was no mistaking her words.
“Gash. Help me. I’m falling. Help me. I’m so scared…”
Her words trailed off and Gash pulled back and looked at her in distress. Her mouth had stopped moving and she hung, practically lifeless.
“No!” he said, shaking her violently. “Don’t go! Lum! Don’t go! Don’t go! Lum, don’t go…”
His mad cries melted into sobs as the two of them sank to the ground, Gash weeping in utter despair upon her chest. He lay there, his heart rent greater than it had ever been. How could he bear this weight? The orcs had betrayed him. Mara was gone. Lilliandra was gone. Lum was gone a second time. He was alone. He was utterly alone. And he could not bear it.
How? The question came, How could this happen? How could the Godking, whom Lilliandra claimed to be filled with all goodness and light, have allowed this to happen?
Lum’s words came to him then.
“I thought he loved me,” she had said.
Was it all a lie? Was this god not actually a god of love as his herald had claimed? Lilliandra had suffered the curse of Grot. Had her god not been able to protect her? Was he, in fact, an impotent god, no more sovereign than any normal being? Or did he even exist at all?
These questions circled in Gash’s head in a dizzying bombardment. Confusion and doubt overtook him. He cupped his hands to his head.
Is there truth? ANY truth? Or is simply whatever façade one chooses to believe in that-
“Stop!” Gash shouted, reeling, his hands gripping his head so tightly, he thought his skull might crack under the pressure. “Stop now!”
He stood and forced his eyes open in an attempt to look for his assaulter. Desperate for relief from the questions that tormented him, he desired to find an external source to attack. The moment he ceased his shouts, however, the voices returned stronger and more debilitating, crushing his will and sending him falling to his knees once again, his eyes again beholding Lum’s lifeless, wide-eyed form.
What truth? What truth is there? There is no truth! There is nothing that can save! There is nothing that is true! There is only belief! There is only-
“There is truth!” Gash shouted. “There must be truth! There MUST be!”
The voice returned again, beating on his consciousness with relentless fury, questioning truth in all its form, in all the circumstances the half-orc had experienced. It tore at his memories, his understanding, everything that made him who he was, everything that he could identify as stable…fact…truth. His mind reeled. His soul cried out. Desperate to escape, his mind reached out to the most saleable truth he knew: his redemption and the Godking who had authored it.
And suddenly, it came to him. The words Lilliandra had spoken to him when she spoke of the Godking.
The Godking is truth and in him is no falseness at all.
He began to speak them aloud. The very sound of them seemed to not simply beat back the voice as before, but to cut through it, as a sword slashing through an enemy’s defenses.
“The Godking is truth and in him is no falseness at all.”
His mind began to calm, stability returning to his thoughts.
“The Godking is truth and in him is no falseness at all.”
He dared to open his eyes. Lum’s body lay there as before. Yet the sight stung him less and instantly, he knew it to be false. This only furthered to harden his resolve as he realized he had, this entire time, been under assault by the one he had come to this place to destroy. He began to shout the words as he stood. The world around him seemed, ever so slightly, to lose color and darken. A glimmer caught the corner of his eye. He looked down to see his axe lying on the ground beside him. Its edges keen with a white shimmer. Squatting down, he picked up the weapon and hefted it. Strength and purpose flowed through him.
He continued to quote the words Lilliandra had spoken to him as he thought upon their meaning. His mind continued to clear. The false world around him continued to fade. He remembered where he was and where he had been before this place. He was not in the Cursed Land. His surroundings faded into darkness. He was in the realm of Grot, sealed inside by his own hand. He had come here to defeat and destroy the monster and free his kin from Grot’s claw. Lilliandra, Mara, Trogla, H’ruk. None of them were here. Lum had not come here to die a second time or live an eternal torture. He was here alone. He…
and his prey. His eyes were drawn around behind him and he saw faintly, a distance away, the cloaked form that seemed to haunt this realm. Determined, he started towards the creature, his mouth still uttering the words, though not as a chant to ward off evil or some spell of a wizard, but as a declaration of truth and a reminder to himself of the power of the Godking.
Though his earlier attack was still fresh in his mind, he was not hesitant about attempting it again. He now knew it was not him who would save his people, but the Godking. It was he who willed Gash to will and to do. And only by his strength could the monster be defeated and his influence over Gash’s kin be broken.
As Gash made his way towards Grot, a low growl came forth from the hood. It resounded all around him and rose in intensity until it became the deafening roar of some feral beast spawned in ancient days and born of a strength unfathomed by mortal men. Gash gritted his teeth, hardening his resolve as he continued forward. He was reminded that he could, and very likely would, die in his attempt to kill the monster.
So be it. He resolved. For Trogla. For H’ruk. For his clan. For the rest of his kin. Indeed, for the whole of Sylrin, and, yes, even for Grak, he would give his life if somehow by the hand of the Godking, he might gain victory and forever free his kin of this demon’s influence.
The edges of his blades still gleamed with the white light. The realm itself seemed to shake with the monster’s roar. Gash knew he only needed to get close enough for one, good strike. He held his axe out to his side in preparation for a strike and broke into a run. He was already very close. He would be within striking distance in only a few steps. He saw movement from within the shade. He began to bring his weapon around. A gnarled claw emerged from the ragged cloak, the same as it had before. Gash did not even try to stop his momentum. He was upon the creature before he could blink, his axe nearly completing its swing.
In the flash of a moment, many things happened: The air shook with the force of a blast. Gash’s ears pained him from the sound of it, yet he felt none of its impact. As it sounded, however, a brief image flashed between him and Grot. The image, which was so quick Gash wondered afterward if he had imagined it, was that of a man easily twice Gash’s size. The man was dressed all in white and his skin and hair shone like a bright star in a sea of pitch. The only other two things Gash could make out about the figure were that his back was turned to Gash, and he held before him a large shield.
The moment passed and Gash’s swing completed. His blade sliced through the creature as though he was made of jelly. Gash’s momentum, which carried him past the creature’s right side, was suddenly halted as he felt his axe catch on something. Before he could turn to look, he was yanked back towards the creature. His body turned to face him and his momentum stopped as he felt terrible pain punch through his chest. He looked down. What looked to Gash like a gnarled mass of green tissue at least an orc’s bicep in diameter sprouted from his chest. It was attached on the other end to the upper half of Grot’s Torso which otherwise hung limply from one side of his lower torso where the axe had not cleaved completely through.
Another growl emitted from the hood. Gash felt the pain increase as something spread from the tendril into the area immediately around it. Gathering what little strength he had, Gash pulled the axe from Grot’s torso, and brought it slowly up. With every effort he had in his arms, he brought the blade down hard into Grot’s upside-down head. The heavy head of the axe cleaved through Grot’s hood and struck the unseen ground beneath it. The ground split where his axe struck. The crack, glowing with an orange light, grew, lengthening and widening at an exponential rate until a great chasm had opened up. Gash looked down into the chasm, upon the precipice of which he stood entangled with Grot’s twisted form. His mind was fading. His limbs felt weak as the strength ebbed out of him. He managed to comprehend that the chasm was, far below, filled with a sea of flame.
A low growl entered Gash’s ears. Weakly, he swiveled his head to see Grot’s body seemingly coming back together of its own accord. He had a faint impression of the thick limb in his chest writhing and moving, though all feeling was fading from him. Gash struggled to think, but he was so weak, his thoughts so scattered. From somewhere in the jumble, he perceived the thought that he should not let what was happening continue. He swiveled his head back to the chasm and through the haze, determined what he must do. With his last ounce of strength, he leaned towards Grot’s torso, clumsily wrapping one arm around each section. He then let his weight and momentum carry the two of them forward, over the edge, and into oblivion.
XIX. End
“Little Pila.”
Mara wearily looked up into the face of her uncle. Her eyes felt raw, her body ached with exertion. The stone beneath her legs upon which she sat felt cold…so very cold.
She had been crying. She was aware of that much. No, not crying. She had been bawling her eyes out. Her attackers had kept their distance, seeming to delight in her anguish. A moment ago her tears had ceased and she felt weary beyond all reckoning.
“It is time to give in,” her uncle continued. “You are weary, so very weary…”
His words seemed to almost enchant her. She felt her limbs going limp. Her head drooped. Her sadness and terror melted into numbness. Her consciousness threatened to fade into a sea of forgetfulness. Yet, she feebly fought to stay conscious. She knew she was on the precipice of that dark pit. Any moment she would be pulled over the edge. Yet something kept her, something…not herself. It was that same sense- no, a person. It was a person. How she knew she could not say, but there was a consciousness barely discernible at the edge of her awareness holding her back. It was this person she realized that had warned her of the false claims of the Kru-iss on her first encounter with them and what emboldened her to confront them with the truth.
Truth.
She determined that’s what this consciousness was, its entire being was filled with it. She realized it kept her then and she knew it was keeping her now. Perhaps even now, it could save her. Her numbed mind reached out for the consciousness, straining for it with all her might. But no matter how much she strained, she could not reach it. There had to be a way to reach it, to access it.
Truth.
What did she know that was truth? She thought about her people’s gods. That had already been proven false. She thought about her father. He had been a pillar of truth and righteousness…until the Kru-iss came. She thought about Durin. Her brother had never been false with her, but he held no beliefs. His truth was nothing beyond earthly life. He was proven false, or at least wrong, by the beings that now surrounded her. At last she thought of Gash. He had been more true to her than any she had known. She thought of the others, of the knights, Trogla, H’ruk, Grak, the dwarves, Lilliandra, Marian-
Her mind snapped to realization. Those in her life who best represented truth in her mind had a common link in the god they worshipped. Gash had spoken little of him. Indeed she had never seen him perform any ritual in which he actually worshipped him. But he had said some things. Marian had as well, and the two seemed to be in agreement. The both of them seemed to know, by Gash’s recounting of his missing days, the lady Lilliandra. The three most solid people in her life shared the same belief in the same god. She knew it to be true. When she thought of the consciousness, somehow she knew it and the consciousness confirmed it. Perhaps, she thought, it was the consciousness that compelled her with the truth and it was not her at all. She would not at all be surprised. She had always been a fool.
Her uncle’s voice rang in her ears and she realized he was spelling out her doom. Mara determined that if this god was the source of all truth and was indeed what had kept her from the abyss, then only he could save her fully from it. And so, not as before as one attempting to grab hold of something, but in pleading humility, she reached out with her mind to the consciousness.
If you are real, if you are truth, if you can save me, please save me, I beg of you.
Almost immediately, she felt stre
ngth returning to her limbs. It was very little, but it was enough to rouse her from her dazed state and edge so slightly back from that dark precipice.
She raised her head and saw through the legs of her uncle the clear light of day shining through the open doorway. Determination rose within her. A mirthless grin spread across her face. Perhaps she could not beat them. But they still would not have her.
In a flash of movement that she would have thought beyond her at that point, she was on her feet and ramming into her uncle who stood only a few feet from where she had been sitting. He went down, his hand letting fly Mara’s staff. Mara caught it and went into a roll. She rolled right over her uncle’s body, rolled to her feet and made a mad dash for the open doorway. Desperation drove her. Hope filled her. The world shook with her footfalls. She could feel her rasping breath and hear it in her ears. Every sensation was magnified a thousand-fold as she pushed herself to her limits. Three quick strides and she would be free…forever free.
The end of a staff entered her field of vision. She raised her own staff to counter. But she was too wreckless, too tired, too slow. The vision in her left eye went black as the staff connected. Pain shot through her head and she felt herself spinning…and falling. She thought perhaps she had made it to the doorway. Everything was confusing just then. She thought perhaps she would continue to fall until she was free of them forever. But the sudden impact of the stone floor destroyed her hopes and cast them to the ground. Despair threatened to drag her back into its clutches.
No. NO! They will not have me! I will make them kill me.
Weak, but as defiant as ever, she pushed herself to her feet and, in a mad rage, swung her staff at the nearest figure. Her strikes were slow and sloppy. Her focus and accuracy waned. Her shots were repeatedly blocked or parried with increasing frequency. At last, one of her swings, meant to be a strike to the side of a figure’s face, was countered as the end of a staff slammed into her chin from beneath, rocking her head back. From that point forward, she was on the defensive. Swings and jabs came her way in continuous succession. She managed to block a few, but many connected, often consecutively. Blow after blow connected jerking her body and filling her mind with delirium. Her eye had swelled shut. She couldn’t see. Her limbs felt weak and ached from the strain. Her legs wobbled beneath her. Her steps stumbled. Her temper had burned itself out. She was so tired. She just wanted to rest…just rest.
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