by James Dale
“Go!” He ordered her, adding Compulsion to the command. The Horsemaiden turned her mount and retreated from the fray. There would be one less death on his conscience.
Protected by the Staffclave and surrounded by Horsemaidens, Anna was the first to reach the walls of Agash Thugar. Jack watched with pride and trepidation as his wife guided Iraesh to the gate and raised Siegebreaker above her head. Filled with Sunheart, he could sense the power of the renewed Highsword as it descended. There was a sound like a thunderclap as the blade struck. The gate shuddered but held, buttressed by the power of the Bloodstone that ran through the foundation of the walls. Jack reached her side as she struck the gate once more with a determined shout. The gate exploded with a concussion that sent shockwaves through the walls around it.
Agash Thugar was breached.
Although he knew she would be heartbroken for the remainder of her days, Jack once again summoned Compulsion and shouted, “Go!” He directed the command at Iraesh, not knowing if his wife would be immune to his will, filled with the power of Siegebreaker. As the Val’anna turned in obedience, Anna looked at him in anguish. Faendil had assured him she would live to bear their son. It was all that mattered to him.
“Go!” Braedan commanded again, this time throwing Compulsion as far as he could reach to the forces surrounding him. ”Protect the queen!” He looked one last time at his wife, his love, his life, and turned toward the ruined gate.
“Let’s go Eaudrueil,” he cried, urging the Val’anna forward. “Time to finish this.”
As soon as he passed beneath the wall, Jack threw up a barrier with Yhswyndyr so that no one would follow him to his doom. How long it would hold when he turned his attention to Graith, he did not know. He could already sense Anna had overpowered his will and turned Iraesh back to the fight. She was assailing his ward with Siegebreaker and someone, either Lady Ara’fael or High Lord Perigaen, was trying to force their way through as well. But this was his task. His alone. He also wanted to spare them the sight of the destruction he was prepared to unleash. Especially Anna. He wanted her to remember him as the man she thought he was, breaking the curse binding Bkomar, healing the wounded with a touch. He did not want her to witness the hurricane of death he was about to become.
Jack Sunheart and turned to face the Iron Tower.
A dragon barred his path, surrounded by a least a thousand grim’Hiru. They were unlike the grim’Hiru that had been in the Bergaweld or outside the gates of Agash Thugar. These were dressed head to toe in black armor, each one seven feet tall or better. Sunheart could feel the power of the Bloodstone coursing through them. It did not matter. Braedan had become the power of creation itself. With Sunheart infusing every cell of his body, boiling inside him like a sun about to go supernova, they were inconsequential. He turned his attention the dragon.
It was controlled by a Sorcerer of the Sa’tan who sat haughtily upon it broad, scaly back. Jack reached out his mind to the dragon and learned the identity of its master. Not just any sorcerer. It was Galen Severa, Warden of Gorthiel. All those months ago the traitorous Ailfar Spellweaver who had turned to darkness had looked down upon him as a worm. Today the roles were reversed. He was inconsequential as well. Before Severa could open his mouth to deliver some useless taunt or threat, Braedan hammered through his hold on the dragon like smashing a delicate wine glass with a sledge-hammer. The backlash from the shattering of his link with the beast knocked the Ailfar sorcerer unconscious from his perch and he tumbled to the ground in a quivering heap among the grim’Hiru.
The grim’Hiru shifted uneasily. Braedan ignored them and focused on the dragon. He pushed out his thoughts and probed the mind of the great beast. It was young for its kind. Perhaps only a few centuries old. Intelligent. Not some mindless reptile that only thought of food and reproduction. It carried dim, lingering race memories of snowcapped mountains far away across a great, trackless desert. Memories from far back in antiquity when the world was young and his kind were noble creatures, not feared by the Children of Yh, but living in peace beside them. This dragon had been stolen from its home long ago, when it was barely larger than a dog, captured by greedy, cruel men and sold into servitude at the hands of sadistic masters who trained it to hate and wanted to use its immense power for death and destruction. Braedan could have incinerated it with a thought, but he chose instead to preform one last act of compassion before embarking on his own path of death and destruction.
“You are Samael, from the clutch of Vorrath and Magrath,” Jack said, drawing from the dragon’s memories. “Galen Severa trained you. Not with love and tenderness, but held in chains and punished with magic.”
The dragon shook it’s horny, triangular head in confusion, trying to force Braedan from his thoughts.
“I am Great Lion,” Jack continued. “Slayer of Hae’adan Leviathan. Slayer of Strymag Souleater. I have no quarrel with the son of Vorrath Golden scale. If you will leave these lands and return to the home of your kin, I will set you free.”
“Set me free?” Samael asked, his question a roar that caused the grim’Hiru nearest him to cower in fear.
Galen Severa was struggling to his feet, attempting futilely to reassert his controlling link with the beast. Braedan reached out a mailed hand and squeezed his fingers into a fist. The Ailfar Spellweaver’s head imploded with a flash of white fire and the Warden of Gorthiel fell over dead. “You are free,” Jack nodded. “Go now and live. Oppose me and the last of the hatchlings of Virath and Yagorath will be no more.”
The dragon considered the offer for but the space of a beat of its tremendous heart, then roared in ecstasy at its unexpected emancipation. It drew in a breath and released a blast of fire that incinerated the body of Galen Severa and a score of grim’Hiru that stood nearest his remains. With a flap of wings the size of main sails, Sham’ael rose if flight and launched itself into the air, its roar filling the length and breadth of the surrounding valley, drowning out the sounds of battle.
The grim’Hiru that remained, fierce some though they were, the most cruel and depraved of their entire cruel and depraved race, turned almost as one and began a terrified rush to the entrance of Agash Thugar. Braedan was finished with offering mercy however. He swept Yhswyndyr before him and white flame erupted from the blade, sweeping across their retreating ranks. Their dying screams of pain were swallowed by the sound of holy conflagration. When Braedan released the flame, there was nothing remaining of the grim’Hiru but scorched earthe.
Jack dismounted Eaudrueil. “This is as far as you go.”
“You promised we would fight Red Slayer together,” the roan demanded.
“Underground is no place for Val’anna,” Jack replied reaching up to hug the stallion’s broad neck. “Go now…my friend. Live a long, fruitful life. I will see you again in the Grassland beyond the Sunset.” Using Compulsion on Eaudreuil was almost as heart wrenching as when he had used it on Anna, but he did so to save the stallion. “Go.”
Eaudrueil reared in anguish and turned from the coming fray.
His last friend now safe from what was to come, Braedan turned and walked calmly toward the dark opening of the Iron Tower. There were no more guards. Who would step willingly into the open of gates of hell on earth? Jack Braedan stepped inside. Filled completely with the power of Sunheart, he shone like a miniature sun himself, dispelling the darkness with purifying white light. The infrequent torches lining the dark tunnel burst into flames at his passing, burning to ash as they were consumed by the fury of the vengeance he carried inside himself. With each step he took deeper into the bowels of Aghash Thugar, he recounted all that had happened to him and to those who had suffered at the hands of Graith. Soon the very stone around him began to crack and splinter, unable to withstand the power emanating from him.
At the first intersection he encountered, a looming figure barred his path. Although it was wrapped in oppressive darkness like a shroud, Sunheart knew him. Dabominog, Black Knight of Hell. Before the fall and swear
ing traitorous allegiance to Yh’gar, his name had been Azaelil. He had been one of the twenty-four Captains of the Host of Heaven. Of the Seven Dukes of Hell Graith had set free with the Bloodstone, only Abmongaryon the Destroyer was more powerful. With eyes grown beyond human sight, Braedan saw easily through the shroud that surrounded him. The demon was dressed in black armor that sucked in all light. In his right hand he held a broadsword forged from metals found only in Heaven. In his left he carried a whip that danced with dark flame. His face was fair to look upon, but his eyes were two obsidian pits.
“Alone, Son of Man?” the demon asked with a voice that would have seared Braedan’s soul if he had not been protected by Sunheart. “I had hoped your bitch would be accompanying you. I was going to make you watch while I raped her. Perhaps we should wait? Even know she has almost succeeded in breaking through the barrier that bars the way to her pleasurable death.”
“Begone Azaelil. Return to your cell in Ul’gog’rond and await your day of judgement in chains,” Jack replied calmly. “Or…stay,” he continue, assuming The Lion Waits. “And be burned from existence like the Souleater. It matters not to me.”
Dabominog’s reply was a flick of his wrist. His whip snaked out faster than human eye could follow and coiled around Braedan’s waist. Even protected by Sunheart, his Ithelmere armor was scored by the flames and Jack felt the searing pain of the Dark Knight’s lash. But he brushed the pain aside with a thought and hurled Yhswyndyr like a spear at the demon. The Highsword streaked toward its target like a bolt of lightning, impaling the demon through its black armored chest and pinning it to the stone wall of the tunnel.
His scream of pain shook the Iron Tower to its foundation.
Braedan walked up and grasped Yhswyndyr’s hilt. “Burn then,” he said with disinterest, and incinerated Dabominog with righteous fire. When the fallen angel that was once Azaelil, Captain of the Hosts of Heaven was ash and dust, Jack withdrew Yhswyndyr from the stone, healed himself, and continued into the bowels of Agash Thugar.
Braedan stalked the dark passageways of the Iron Tower, dealing out death and fire like an avenging angel. A na’Ghomari appeared, and was incinerated with a thought. A grim’Hiru patrol led by a monstrous trull in rusty armor foolishly sought to bar his path. They too burned. Down and down he went, letting Sunheart guide his steps until at last he came to the entrance to Graith'ak'thal, throne room of the dark-King. He stretched out his and the stout wood and steel door exploded into splinters and molten metal and he stepped boldly inside.
A dark, oppressive shadow sat on Horak’Angst. Graith Halbar, the Bloodstone was suspended from a chain around his neck, pulsing like the beating heart of death. Like Braedan, the dark-King had filled himself to the bursting with power. Without Sunheart, Jack would have been driven to his knees, his soul stripped away. Flanked on either side of the Angry Chair was a pair of demons. Sunheart named them. Morgaamal and Urioch on the left. Aryogrim and Haazraq the Silent was on his right. Standing at the front was Abmongaryon the Destroyer, dressed in armor the color of dried blood with a black sword in each hand.
Braedan took all this in an instant. “Good,” he nodded. “Everyone is here. Any last words before I burn your miserable souls to dust?”
The shadowy figure on the throne laughed with undisguised mirth. “I think perhaps, you have forgotten about someone Son of Bra’Adan.”
All his focus had been on the dark-King. All his defenses had been geared toward protecting himself against the Bloodstone until he could kill Graith and destroy him once and for all. Too late, Jack heard movement behind him. As he turned to face the threat, light exploded in his head then everything went black.
Heat. He could feel heat. Like standing too close to a roaring bonfire. But it was the smell that brought him back. Thick. Coppery. Blood. There was only one place in Aghash Thugar where blood flowed and fire burned. The Temple of Gol’gar the Sa’tan. Braedan struggled to open his eyes. His head pounded from the blow. Fierce and jagged pain lanced from the back of his skull to behind his eyes. If not for his helm, he would likely be dead. Finally he forced open his eyes. He was in the alter room of the temple as he’d guessed.
“Ah, awake at last.”
Graith was standing in front of him. He was no longer shrouded by darkness. The fallen Hiru Lord was as Braedan remembered him from that day in the Temple of the Sword. Fair of face but haughty and arrogant. There was no trace of weakness in him as there had been that day. It was immediately obvious whatever strength had been drained from him during his long dormancy had been completely restored since they’d fought. It was obvious as well he was completely consumed by the madness of the Bloodstone. Madness? It pure, unadulterated evil Braedan saw in his eyes. The Bloodstone pulsed as it hung from the chain around his neck. Waves of power surrounded it like heat.
“I was afraid Lord Kiathan had perhaps been…overzealous when you struck you,” he smiled. “He still harbors you a small amount of ill will for robbing him of the Ivory Throne. Come Kiathan, say hello to our guest.”
Kiathan Ellgaer stepped from behind him and joined the dark-King. If it was evil Braedan saw in Graith, it was certainly raging vengeance he saw in Kiathan’s dark eyes. The look of hatred on his face was murder incarnate. “Welcome to Agash Thugar,” Ellgaer snarled. “Or welcome back, I should say.”
Behind the pair was the alter where the dark priests had sacrificed the young girl and Kiathan had defiled her corpse. Behind it was the fire. Braedan slowly became aware of his surroundings. He was strapped to a cross made of thick stone. He had been stripped of his armor. Yhswyndyr…was gone. Somewhere below? No matter. He could feel the slightest sense of it. Like a faint ringing in his ears. He tried to focus on Sunheart, but doing so made him ill. Was it the blow he’d suffered or the presence of the Bloodstone so near blocking him from its power? It was of little concern. The link was still there, however tenuous. All he needed to do was goad Graith into killing him. It would serve the same purpose.
“Is that what you have planned for me?” Braedan asked, motioning weakly with his head toward the alter. “Gonna rape my corpse after, Kiathan?”
“Oh Jack, I am not going to kill you,” Graith laughed quietly. “I know you hoped for some grand, glorious battle. You swordsmen are such hopeless romantics. No. Your fate will far less heroic. But no less painful I am certain. You see,” he continued, moving close enough to whisper in Braedan’s ear. “I know our secret. Did you think, bearing the Bloodstone for eight hundred years, I would not have learned its one weakness? Though I am surprised you learned it so quickly,” he remarked with something that resembled…respect? “Ljmarn did not discover it until just before he let me go to my rest. The High King,” he laughed derisively, “embodiment of virtue, Defender of the Light, Chosen of the Son, let me live rather than end his own life by killing me. No Jack, I am not going to kill you, or let you valiantly sacrifice your own life. You will be my guest here for a long, long time.”
“Let me kill him,” Kiathan snarled. “It will not endanger you My Lord.”
“What would be the fun in that?” Graith laughed. “He’d miss all the festivities we have planned. No. No epic death for Jack Bra’Adan. Nor will he grace my master’s alter in ritual sacrifice. That…I will save for someone else. Perhaps your Annawyn? I have sent the Destroyer to fetch her, but even he is having some…difficulty. She has taken to Siegebreaker quickly.”
The dark-King looked up, as if peering through the stone to view the battle taking place above them. “She may actually defeat him. She is filled with such…passion. No. No alter for her. Gor’dreuil will be my queen in the new world to come. I almost turned her once. What will she do to if I threaten your life? Or the life of your son?” the dark-King smiled playfully, seeing the look of horror on Jack’s face. “Oh yes, I know of the young lion growing in her belly. Gor’dreuil will be my queen and your child my…adopted son? Perhaps he will be a Dreamwalker like his father? If so, the Lord of Shadow can turn him once I loosen
the constraints of his prison again. When you…pass on, naturally of course, after a long miserable life in your old cell, your turned son can take up his father’s sword and then…then oh, such a force we will be! Powerful enough perhaps to even ascend to Heaven and throw down the Creator?”
“No,” Graith decided. “No alter for Gor’drueil. Perhaps the Spellweaver? I promised her to Galen Severa, but then…well. That is no longer a promise I have to keep. Yes. The Spellweaver will be fitting meat to celebrate our victory.”
“Speaking of your victory My Lord,” Kiathan said quietly.
“Yes, yes, let’s go end this,” Graith nodded. “You should be proud, Jack. They actually think they are winning. I cannot wait to see the look on their faces when I emerge from Agash Thugar and not you. Their despair will delicious. Be a good boy and wait here for us? We will not be long, I promise. Then we can start in earnest on making you welcome in your new home.”
“Before you go,” Jack said quietly. “I have another secret for you.”
“You have another secret?” Graith laughed. “How delightful. What is it? That the Jharkirin has returned with his Tears? No, you couldn’t know that. He has only just arrived. He has recovered their full strength somehow. Still, they will not save you. He cannot save you. Nothing can save you now that I have separated you from Sunheart. So yes, go ahead and tell me your secret, but be quick about it. I have much to do today.”
“It is a small secret,” Jack sighed. “But it means all the difference in the world.”
“Tell me,” Graith said, for the first time showing unease.
During all of the dark-King’s taunting, during his gloating monologue and his musing on how he would turn Anna and their unborn son, while he had been dreaming of his ascent to Heaven and overthrowing the Creator, he had not noticed the change in Braedan. The blow to his head had temporarily dimmed his link with Yhswyndyr. It had not been the Bloodstone, despite its nearness or how it filled Graith. Though still painful, his head had cleared. The link to Yhswndyr had been restored. It was time to fully accept his fate. The Burden of Stones.
