by K L Reinhart
Maybe we can do this, maybe . . . Terak’s heart jumped when he saw the awesome resilience of his friend.
But the numbers were still against them, the elf knew. Stacked against them in fact. The Brechans had lost their crossbows in the flight between the Benuin and The Lady of the North, and so it was just up to Hergist–the Brechan with the most battle-magic–to counter the curses of the eight cultists, as Falan and Bella engaged singularly.
Dammit! Terak saw that the Hexan had stepped closer to the blade, using the threaded power of the remaining two orbs alone as he reached for it.
“Ach!” The elf heard a shout, a human shout, and one that he recognized. It was Lord Falan, now at close quarters with four of the cultists as Bella charged the other group with Hergist backing her up.
Fool! Terak thought. Four against one!?
Falan had never been trained by the Enclave’s Chief Martial. In his hands, he held just one long knife and, just a fraction larger, the broken shard-blade that had been his fine longsword, splintered on the face of the grimoire-reading statue, far behind.
But a mixture of desperation and courage lent speed and skill to the young lord’s limbs. Terak was already dodging curse bolts to run to his aid as he saw Falan flicker his long knife to block one of the cultist’s own swords–whose edges glowed a deep red with bale-fire–as he stabbed the broken shard-blade toward another.
Falan’s wild attack caught at the man’s side, spinning him around with a grunt of pain, but not killing him.
The red-bladed cultist thrust, and Falan half-stepped, half-jumped out of the way of the searing blade. But that was only two of the four cultists, and Lord Falan was suddenly surrounded.
Terak hit the group like an Everdell wolf, low and savage. With that momentary, frozen-time awareness that came with long years studying the Path of Pain, Terak picked the hamstrings of the back of one cultist’s legs for his first strike.
Won’t kill. Will incapacitate, the super-cold thoughts of a trained assassin informed him.
“Argh!” The cultist collapsed to one knee–and although he grunted, Terak still heard the man mumbling his ritual. Who had trained these people!? The thought flashed through Terak’s mind as he ducked under the swing of the bale-fire sword, to thrust upwards with his own blade.
The blade found the man’s torso and bit against the leather cuirass that he wore. He staggered backwards, still mumbling his malefic words, as one hand clutched at the bottom of his armor where blood was already starting to well.
Not enough to disembowel or kill, but will impair concentration and hamper movement, Terak advised himself as he jumped forward to join Falan in the center circle.
An angered shout at his shoulder, as Falan’s splintered blade found a home in one of the cultist’s thighs. But his opponent flung himself backward, ripping both his own flesh and Lord Falan’s broken long sword out of his hands.
Sweet Stars! That incredibly still and focused part of Terak’s mind thought. The rest of his body pivoted to trade blows with the wounded red-blade and the fourth remaining cultist.
How can a regular human use their own wounds to their advantage? Terak thought. It was almost as if they had training in the Path of Pain—
“Ugh!” Suddenly, Falan was staggering forwards. The cultist who Terak had hamstrung had lunged, still on one knee and with the other leg awkward beside him, to scrape his own blade across Falan’s lower back.
“No!” Terak reached out his free hand to shove Falan’s shoulder, pushing him out of the reach of the final healthy cultist, as the elf spun, and delivered a perfect roundhouse kick to the limping cultist’s cheek. He felt a crunch and heard a snap of bone and cartilage, but the elf had no time to admire his handiwork as he turned back again.
Two cultists now stood before him, still chanting, and each one side-stepping to attack the elf from opposing sides. One was red-blade, and the other was the as-yet unhurt cultist. The one who had used his own thigh to disarm Falan had staggered to the floor, his blood-loss overcoming him.
Ixcht. Ixcht. Ixcht. Terak weaved his lone shortsword in front of him as he stood over the body of Falan. If only he had a second weapon. If only they had more soldiers.
“GRACKH!” There was a sudden, almighty roar of orcish pain that was so staggering that it caused a flicker of distraction through the group. Terak saw the fading flash of green light from the terraces above, and the climbing Vorg came tumbling down the rock slope, the front half of his entire body smoking.
The Hexan has a pain shield . . . Terak knew. He had seen one of them before. He had crawled through one before, in the Loranthian Shrine.
A slight sneer of victory from the still-healthy cultist as their attention swept back to each other. Falan was coughing and groaning underfoot, and Terak had two chanting cultists in front of him to kill.
The elf had no idea what was happening with the other group of four that Bella and Hergist were fighting. He had heard grunts and shouts of pain–but anything might have occurred.
We’re going to die. The thought flashed through Terak’s mind, and his cool Enclave training allowed him to assess that fact calmly and without fear.
So, if I am to die, I must die well!
The healthy cultist stamped out with a boot as Terak dodged to one side, but the elf knew just what the plan had been: To force him into the reach of the bale-fire blade. And Terak didn’t mind. He allowed himself to be so pushed into harm’s way with every wide sweep of the healthy cultist, as the red-bladed, wounded cultist lunged.
Terak knew that there was a moment in the economies of combat, a brief moment of hesitation before action, which then became total commitment to the strike. The assassin had not only been trained by the Chief Martial, but also the Chief External, how to recognize and gauge those moments.
Red-Blade hesitated, and Terak shifted his weight to one hip.
Red-Blade committed, and Terak moved, allowing his weight to carry his body to one side.
But Terak had called the actions too finely, and he felt a scoring line of fire skitter along his ribs. He hissed in the agony, but would not allow his body to react or flinch as he turned, bringing one hand down to clamp over the cultist’s own gloved hand holding the burning blade and to pull.
It was a near-perfect throw, with the red-bladed cultist overbalancing as his arm was pulled forward and the weight of his body slammed into Terak’s hip and back.
The elf bucked, and the cultist rolled over one side of Terak’s body, still with his magically-fired blade outstretched—
To plunge straight into the chest of the approaching other cultist, not so healthy anymore.
“Urgh!” Both cultists slammed to the floor, and Terak turned to finish off Red-Blade with a savage swipe of his shortsword, turning to see who was next.
Then he saw that it was apparently going to be the Brechan Lieutenant Bella, who had already suffered much in this journey. She was surrounded by three of the remaining cultists under their singular floating orb of magical power, with Hergist dead behind her, a snarl on her face as she held her longsword out at them all.
15
The Path of Pain, a Return
“Terak!” The elf was already tensing to pounce at Bella’s adversaries, when he heard a hiss of alarm from his side. It was Falan, standing and now with his broken shard-blade in one hand and the glowing, red-tinged flame blade in his other. The human lord had apparently enough of his own magic to be able to use the artifact, the elf saw.
“Go. You have to stop the Hexan. I’m too injured . . .” Falan growled at him as he stalked past, toward the three chanting cultists.
What!? Terak thought for a moment. Perhaps the human lord hadn’t seen what had happened to Vorg the Unwanted, or perhaps Falan himself could see no other way of dealing with the Hexan and the end of the world.
And, after all, I am the assassin, the elf thought as he turned. The words of his training echoed through his skull as he raced toward the terraces of rock th
at swept up the stairs.
“Only the hard paths of pain teach. Only pain sinks into the marrow of our soul and remakes us.”
And, as Terak jumped over the form of the stilled Vorg, his eyes closed and mouth open and bleeding, with his black-iron armor still smoking from that terrible curse-magic, Terak knew that there was now no other path left to take.
The purple-white light of the Hexan’s magic had diminished now that there was only one orb left hanging over the fighting Bella and Lord Falan. But that didn’t mean that there wasn’t enough light to see by, as the elf ran up the first shelf of rock to the next.
Terak’s face was lit by a strange green-tinged light that had started to accumulate around the Ungol Blade itself. He could see it up above him, two more terraces to where the Hexan was reaching toward it, making small, pawing movements in the air as if to coax and encourage it from its enchantment.
The Hexan stood tall for a human, with the same sturdy cloak and robes of the others as they had pretended to be expeditioners or explorers for the distant Fifth Family of the Elves. The human had thrown his heavy hood back from his simple ochre robes and leather jerkin, revealing his dark hair and fine, sharpened features. The human sorcerer appeared completely transfixed by his purpose, heedless of the chaos behind and underneath him–and the many of his followers who had so far died for his cause.
Terak’s free hand, the other holding the shortsword, slapped onto an outcrop of rock, using it to swing himself upwards and out, to land skittering across the grit and scree of the next terrace. The human sorcerer and the bewitched blade were just on the next level above–Terak was going to make it! He started to hunker low, holding his blade ready at his side—
“Ach!” For a sudden terrible pain to sweep through him. It was so powerful that it lifted him bodily from his feet, sending him flinging backwards down the second terrace to land heavily on his back with a painful scrape.
Ixcht! It felt like all of Terak’s blood had started to super-heat, and all of his nerves that threaded through his body had started to catch fire . . . The elf’s muscles cramped and bunched in spasms of agony.
This was worse than the curse-shield that had protected the Loranthian Scroll. Far worse. For a second, it was all that Terak could do to blink away tears at the green-tinged distant ceiling, mouth gasping like a fish.
But pain is the teacher. Pain is the guide.
The elf mumbled, pushed himself over on shaking arms and attempted to raise himself up. I can do this. I know pain. I am born of pain.
This time, the elf could only stumble-jog forward, back into a line of hurt that seemed to shimmer in the air this time, as if it now sensed the intrusion.
Once again, Terak’s body felt like it was in a raging inferno, and once again, the elf felt his knees start to buckle, his limbs give way under the onslaught.
No. The elf screwed his eyes shut. No. Pain is only a sensation like any other. Like pleasure or joy or worry or cold. Only a sensation.
He took another staggering step and then another.
“Hss!” Again, that wave of torment, but this time it was worse.
I can’t do this . . .
This is too much . . .
The elf’s body, never large or well-built, tried to tell him again and again. Who was he–barely eighteen or nineteen summers old at his last reckoning–to think that he could survive this? That he might be strong enough to face the powerful magics of the Hexan?
But, then again–who else was there?
Terak took another step. And another.
I have been trained by the best.
Another step. He was nearing the ascent to the third and the final terrace. Another step, and another wave of near-crippling pain.
Look to your body! Look to your pain! Look! The austere training of the Black Keep rallied against the onslaught. One who chose to walk the Path of Pain was taught how to be uncompromising in the face of bodily maladies–and the only way to truly do that was to understand them. The elf looked down at his body with eyes that felt like they were melting from his skull.
To see that his body was still hale and still whole. His skin wasn’t burning. It wasn’t bubbling and peeling from his skin.
This is an illusion. Just an illusion. The elf clung onto the thought. It was a powerful one, admittedly, but as soon as he understood that, he also understood just why the Hexan had protected himself with such a curse. It was a way to deter any interference with his ritual. Perhaps, it was also a simpler magic that wouldn’t require much exertion, as well.
Well, I’m not here to make things easy for you! The elf gritted his teeth, adding momentum and determination to his steps. Somehow, the pain that washed over and through him appeared to lessen as his will grew.
And then the null felt real pain, the awareness of the skittered line of fire along his ribs where the burning blade had caught him. It wasn’t incapacitating though–it was simply sharp and fresh, and Terak could use it to sharpen his wits.
I am Terak Vardalion, chosen by Mother Istarion to be trained at the Enclave of the Black Keep! he told himself, over and over, as his steps slid forwards once again.
I am the only elf ever to be admitted to the Black Keep.
He was almost at the collapsed jumble of rocks that led up to the third terrace. He still felt as though his skin was being flayed and his blood boiled, but there was also a cold, quiet part of him that knew that this was all an illusion.
And illusions are just mere tricks! He told himself. They weren’t courageous. They weren’t strong, as he had to be during his training, putting up with all of the punches and kicks and slaps and somehow even worse, the dirty looks and the slurs of both his senior Brothers and Sisters as well as his fellow trainees.
I can do this. I will do this, he told himself again and again, as his vision doubled and blurred, and his hands touched the stone walls of the climb.
“Ach!” Terak gritted his teeth in the agony, as he forced his fingers to clamp on the edge of the rock, smashing them against it as hard as he could to provide some real pain. Something that he could really measure himself against.
Climb, elf! He berated himself, impersonating the old Father Gourdain, the Chief Martial of the Black Keep. Terak felt a curl of hatred rise through his soul at the merest mention of that human’s name. The Chief Martial had been a harsh taskmaster and a bully at the best of times, but he had seemed to take extra care to single Terak out and prove to every other novitiate just how small and weak the lone elf was.
That lone elf used that hatred to inspire him to climb upwards, proving to the memory of the man who might even be dead by now for all Terak knew–that Terak Var, or Terak Vardalion, or Worm was able to do everything that a human could do. And, by the Stars above, Terak swore that he would even try to do it better!
“Oof!” Terak’s hand slid onto the topmost ledge of rock and pulled himself over to inexpertly roll–to suddenly find all of the illusory pain gone, as suddenly as it had arrived. But his body still shook and quivered from its memory, and the elf still had his very real and natural hurt to contend with as he forced himself to one knee, and then to his feet, to raise his face to the Hexan, sword ready.
To see the green light suddenly wink out around the Ungol Blade, and for the Hexan to reach forward and grasp it with a shout of terrible victory.
16
The Lair of Grom
“Ha!” the Hexan’s long form pulled the black-metal broadsword, almost two-thirds of his height, back to where he stood, brandishing it with both hands in the air.
It has to be now! Terak threw himself forward toward the sorcerer, as the ground started to shake and quake. The terrace was sloped just a little upwards, and the elf’s thighs ached as he broke into a desperate run.
The Hexan’s back was turned. The assassin’s eye was already picking out the spot that he would strike, up under the shoulder blade which would doubtless cause the sorcerer to drop the eldritch weapon.
An
d then? A moment of doubt as the ground shook once more, and the rock scree at the back of the cavern started to bounce and shift downwards in stony ripples and waves.
Their plan had been to somehow overcome the Hexan and force him to close the Blood Gate. But how? How would they ever get a man so totally devoted to the god-spirits of the nightmare realm to give up the secrets of their undoing?
But, as Terak’s eyes glared bright and sharp, he knew that he would settle right now for just seeing the man dead. Perhaps that would be enough. Perhaps that would end the total devastation of their world.
“grrr-RRRGHH!”
But there was a new sound, a groan of the bones of the earth as if the entire mountain was protesting this sacrilege. Terak saw the Hexan falter slightly, one foot sliding backward. A glance of confusion crossed his face.
The sorcerer was only a matter of feet away. Terak could leap–one wild swing would be all it took—
But the Hexan was turning. His wide and astonished blue eyes suddenly found his approaching assassin. He started to squint in fury at the elf who had somehow survived the secret chambers inside the Palace of Araxia to hunt him down to here.
Terak leapt, flinging his arm and the shortsword it carried outwards.
The Hexan started to draw the Ungol Blade across in a killing arc.
But before either of these blades could meet, there was an explosion of force and power and rock.
Grom, the ancient god-spirit of these places, the same primal spirit that the Fifth Family of the elves had tried to warn Terak and the others about, burst from his slumber under the rock scree.
“Ai!” Terak let out an involuntary cry of shock as he felt his body hit flying rocks, smashing into a river of rock chips. His nose momentarily filled with stone dust.
