Into the Abyss (The Nightslayer Trilogy, Part 2) - Chapter Five

Tymothe Vabarn, Baron of Blanchart, stood at the window of his chamber in the castle of Valewind and watched the men train in the courtyard. Not all of the men he saw were Telvan – some bore the almost ghostly pallor that marked the people of Orogrod, while others had the slanted eyes of Velestar, or the darker skin tones of lands further to the south – but they all seemed to be doing a remarkable job of working together, of putting aside any differences they may have once had and recognizing each other as people striving toward the same goal. Tymothe found the sight of such union disturbing – no duke, baron, or king in the last five hundred years had ever succeeded at inspiring such a thing, but now, after only a few short weeks, Garrold Hilstren, a man who wouldn't be in the position he was except through unhappy chance, had. His lands should be mine! Those troops should be mine!

Fifty years ago, Duke Paulus Vilar had, along with almost half the population of Telvany, succumbed to the plague known as the Red Death. At the time, there had been no one of direct lineage to take his place, and it had seemed that Telvany – which, even then, had been the largest and most prosperous duchy in the kingdom – would become a part of the Barony of Blanchart, with Tymothe's father as its new lord. But then the monks of Catharzen – who had always been almost as meddlesome as they were useful, but never enough to be considered a threat – had announced that House Vilar did have an heir. The heir – Garrold's father – hadn't been of direct lineage, which meant that, traditionally, he shouldn't have been allowed to become duke. The monks, however, made such an impassioned petition to the king that the king had acquiesced, naming Garrold's father Duke of Telvany and preventing Tymothe's father from nearly tripling the amount of land he held. The decision had sent Tymothe's father into such a fit of rage that his heart had given out, meaning that Tymothe had been named Baron of Blanchart the same day that Jasen Hilstren – a man whose friendship Tymothe still sometimes missed, despite everything that had eventually come between them – had been given his ducal coronet by the king.

If none of that had happened, however – if Jason Hilstren had never become Duke of Telvany, and Tymothe now held the lands that were Garrold's – would Tymothe be the one building an army, now? Would he be planning a war against the king – a king who, despite his oaths, he'd never really felt any sense of loyalty toward? Tymothe didn't know, and, because he didn't, the scene taking place outside his window became all the more galling. And wouldn't it gall him even more if he decided to swear fealty to Garrold – to the whelp who reminded Tymothe so much of how his father had been at that age that standing in the same room with him was almost more painful than he could bear? Standing there, looking out the window of a castle that, had things gone just a little differently, would have belonged to him, Tymothe found himself wishing he had died years ago, and that all these questions – all these problems – would have been those of his heir.

“That's quite a set of spells that have been placed on you, Baron. And cast by your mother, no less. She must have been a very impressive woman.”

Somehow, the voice didn't surprise Tymothe like he thought it should have. Had he been expecting it, then? It was possible – no one had ever been able to tell him all of the things the spells his mother had put on him before she died were meant to do. Turning away from the window, Tymothe looked at the person who had spoken – if a shadowy figure wreathed in a halo of flame warranted the title of person. Tymothe, despite understanding who – and what – it was that had joined him, found that he wasn't frightened. If anything, he felt resigned. It was almost like he'd been waiting for this meeting for a very long time, and that, now that it had come, he just wanted to get it over and done with.

“Has my time finally come, then?” Tymothe asked.

“That depends,” the Demon Lord said. “If you are wondering if the time has come for you to die, I'm sorry to disappoint you by saying that it hasn't. However, if you are wondering if the moment has come for you to finally seize the glory that has always been denied to you, I can say that, as long as you make the proper choice, it has.”

“The proper choice? And what would that be? All I want, my Lord, is to be free of the concerns of this life, and if you are not here to grant me that, then I ask you to be gone.”

“Do you, now? Baron, do you know how dangerous it is for you to ask that of me? To ask that of your king?”

So he wasn't speaking to just any of the Demon Lords – he was speaking to the Hidden King, himself. Of course, that didn't actually matter, as, when it came to the subject of a person's soul, all of the Demon Lords were said to be equally dangerous. Tymothe found he still didn't care, however – being a thrall to the Hidden King would still mean that the concerns of his mortal life would be behind him. “I understand what could happen, and what probably will,” he said. “It doesn't matter.”

“It should. You see, my Lord, if I decide to make a thrall of your soul, you will never know any rest. Your whole existence will become nothing but pain and suffering. Is that what you truly want, Tymothe? Is it?”

“Perhaps it's what I deserve.”

“And what of your people when you are gone? They will have no one to lead them. Your barony will be no more. When your mother placed those spells on you – particularly the one that has maintained your health and vitality – do you think that's what she wanted? For her son to simply give up, for him to abandon both himself and his people? She wanted glory for you, Tymothe. Glory that can still be yours, should you choose to join me.”

“Join you? As what?”

“It seems that, after a few recent events, my forces in this world need someone to lead them. I want that someone to be you, Tymothe.”

Tymothe frowned. “What of King Lyrian?”

The Hidden King snorted in derision. “Lyrian,” he said. “Why Atraxos ever thought he could be useful is beyond me. Devin Lyrian, Baron, is quite dead, and so are all his heirs. His throne, and all that comes with it, can be yours. And then, together, you and I can unlock everything your mother gave to you before she died.”

“What did she give to me?” Tymothe asked. “All I know is that she cursed me with an unnaturally long life and the inability to produce an heir.”

“Oh, Baron, she gave you more than you can imagine,” the Hidden King said. “Much, much more. Will you join me?”

An image suddenly flashed through Tymothe's mind, an image of him standing before the kneeling form of Garrold Hilstren and looking into his eyes in the moments before beheading him with his sword. Those eyes were the eyes of a broken, fearful man, and Tymothe found himself wanting very much to see them in the flesh. Perhaps, when the time came, he could even make Garrold beg for his life.

Tymothe dropped to one knee before the Hidden King and bowed his head. “My sword and my life are yours, Great One,” he said.

The Hidden King's laughter filled the room.

Into the Abyss (The Nightslayer Trilogy, Part 2) - Chapter Four

The Baron was late. Sitting on his throne in Valewind's great hall, Garrold stared across the room at the doors that should have opened fifteen minutes earlier to permit the Baron's entry, unaware that, as he stared, the index finger of his right hand had begun to tap an impatient rhythm on the arm of the chair. Why was the Baron – who had arrived at Valewind the previous evening – forcing him to wait like this? After all, didn't the man have a reputation throughout the kingdom for an almost absurd dedication to punctuality? Did he intend for his lateness to be a show of defiance? If so, Garrold couldn't help but think how childish such a show would be, especially since, so far, Garrold had given the Barron nothing to be defiant about. I could have the men bring him here, Garrold thought. Despite giving Garrold a measure of satisfaction, doing that wouldn't help anything, however, and, right now, Garrold needed all the help he could get.

At last, the doors at the other end of the hall opened, a herald – one of the Baron's, as Garrold only ever used the monks as court heralds – announcing the Baron's presence as the short, round, bearded man stepped through them. Garrold – who had never met the Baron, before, and only knew him by what he had heard of him – disliked him on sight, as he carried himself with an air of such overblown pomposity that, to Garrold, he resembled nothing less than a strutting, preening peacock. If the Baron hadn't been so overweight – even to the point of growing short of breath as he approached the throne – he might have been able to pull off the act, but, right now, he wasn't fooling anyone. Which, Garrold found, made him feel a twinge of pity for the Baron, who obviously wanted so very much for everyone to see him as something he probably hadn't been in a very long time.

“Greetings, my Lord Baron,” Garrold said once the Baron had come to a stop at a somewhat less that respectable distance from the throne. “You honor us with your presence.”

The Baron gave a slight bow. “Thank you, Your Grace,” he said. “Though I must say, were it not for the disturbing reports I've heard coming from Telvany, I would not be here, at all.”

“Oh?” Garrold said. “And what reports would those be?”

“That you've done no less than take up arms against your king. That you've proclaimed yourself Magister of an empire that no longer exists. In short, Your Grace, I've heard things that would make any rational man think you've taken leave of your senses and gone mad.”

“I see. And is that, Baron, what you believe?”

The Baron didn't answer right away. “I don't know what I believe, yet,” he said at last. “But I can say that, from where I stand, I see things that make me uneasy. Not the least of which is the crown you're wearing. Not the coronet of a duke. A crown. Can you tell me the meaning of that, Your Grace? And of the troops I saw training outside?”

“Before I do,” Garrold said, “let me ask you a question of my own. When was the last time you heard from the king? Was it, perhaps, when he issued the decree against the Order of Catharzen?”

“It may have been.”

“I see. Did you follow that decree, my Lord?”

There was a rustling of feet against stone as a number of monks emerged from the shadows of the great hall. The Baron glanced nervously to each side, and sweat appeared on his brow. Garrold had to force himself to keep from smiling. “There's no need for alarm,” he said. “They're simply as eager to hear your answer as I am.”

“N-no, Your Grace,” the Baron said. He licked his lips. “Following the king's decree would have meant the loss of the realm's greatest loremasters and healers. Such an evil would be unconscionable.”

Garrold did smile, this time. “I'm pleased you and I were in agreement on that point. However, since you did not follow the king's decree, doesn't that make you as much of a traitor as you seem to think I am? The last I understood, failing to follow a king's decree was as much a capital offense as raising an army against him.”

“So you are raising an army!”

“Of course I am! And, yes, I've declared myself Magister of the Torvaran Empire. You see, my Lord Baron, King Lyrian's done something far worse than just go mad. He's allowed himself to be influenced, and perhaps even corrupted, by the Order of the Crimson Serpent, one of the most evil forces ever known. And I have to stop him.”

“You have to stop him?”

“Yes,” Garrold said. “But it would be better if I could have your forces on my side to help.”

The Baron's eyes narrowed. “But, if I pledge my forces to your cause, wouldn't that mean swearing fealty to you?”

“For the time being, yes, but, once everything is settled, we might be able to make other arrangements.”

“And what about the others who've sworn to you? Are you prepared to make other arrangements with them, as well? Once, as you say, everything is settled?”

Two other duchies – Orogrod and Velestar – had sworn fealty to Garrold over the course of the last two weeks. That wasn't supposed to have been made public, however, and Garrold wondered who the Baron's sources were. “Once King Lyrian and his benefactors have been defeated,” Garrold said, “I will consider anything up for consideration. Even freeing people from any oaths they may have made.”

“Difficult to hold power that way, son,” the Baron said.

“Perhaps, but maybe it isn't power than I'm after, either.”

“What else is there?”

“Peace. Prosperity. Perhaps, even, an end to suffering.”

“Noble ideals, Your Grace. But noble ideals hardly ever last for very long.”

“They lasted for more than two thousand years, once.”

“And even then crumbled to dust. Your Grace, I find that, as of now, I cannot yet give you an answer to your request. I must think on this discussion and confer with my people. Give me two days, and then we shall meet, again.” The Baron glanced around, again. “But, maybe, in a more private setting?”

Garrold nodded. “Very well, my Lord. In the meantime, the hospitality of Valewind is yours.”

“My thanks, Your Grace.” The Baron bowed – a little more deeply, this time – then turned and walked out of the great hall. Garrold noted with distaste that, as the Baron departed, he still carried himself in the same self-important manner as he had when he'd arrived.

“That went well,” Wilem said, stepping out of the shadows behind the throne.

Garrold snorted. “It could have gone better,” he said.

“True, but at least he's willing to think about it. Baron Tymothe of Blanchart isn't known for taking the time to think about things he isn't already at least partly ready to agree to.”

“I suppose.” Garrold looked at his brother. “Did Father ever have any dealings with him?”

“Yes. They used to be the greatest of friends, in fact.”

Garrold frowned. “Used to be? What happened?”

“The Baron loaned Father some money, once. It was right after Mother died, and, at the time, Father hadn't understood it was a loan. When Father made no effort to repay the Baron, Telvany and Blanchart very nearly went to war.”

“Did Father ever repay him?”

“Not to my knowledge.” Wilem looked at him. “Not that he ever really had a reason to. You see, I saw the letter he wrote Father when the money was given. It was never intended as a loan.”

“I knew he seemed like a petty little man,” Garrold said. He looked at the doors of the hall. “If only we didn't need him.”

“Yes,” Wilem said. “But we do. We need them all.”

Into the Abyss (The Nightslayer Trilogy, Part 2) - Chapter Three

Aylander watched as the black sword took shape in his hand. Even once it had fully solidified, inky tendrils continued to stream from it, swirling and curving away until being reabsorbed by the nothingness they had sprung from. Except they, and the sword they came from, hadn't sprung from nothingness, had they? No. What they'd sprung from had been the essence of the Abyss, itself, coaxed into their present, visible form by nothing more than Aylander's own will. There was nothing magical about what he'd done – he'd simply thought about what he had wanted, and it had appeared in his hand. A part of Aylander was disturbed by this – especially by about how easy it had been to do – but the rest of him found it exhilarating. He wondered what other powers the Abyss had bestowed on him, and also wondered if they would fade once he and Zoe had found their way out. My magic would never compare to this. Never!

“Where'd that sword come from?”

Startled, Aylander's concentration slipped and the sword vanished. He turned his head to look across the fire – conjured, just like the sword, from the essence of the Abyss by nothing but his will – at Zoe, whom Aylander hadn't expected to be awake for hours, yet. “What sword, my lady?” he asked.

Zoe frowned at him. “I swore I saw you holding a black sword in your hand, just now,” she said. “It had tendrils, like ink, coming off of it, and it felt wrong, somehow.”

Aylander smiled. “Doesn't everything in this place feel wrong, somehow? Isn't that why we're trying to find a way out?”

“It does,” Zoe said, “and it is. But that sword . . . I don't know, Aylander. It seemed worse than everything else, here. Couldn't you feel that? What would make you conjure something like that?”

Aylander didn't answer right away. What had made him conjure the sword? While it was true that he had been without a weapon since having his body restored to him, was that enough to make him conjure something that had felt so twisted, so evil? Only it hadn't felt twisted and evil to him while it had been in his hand, had it? In fact, hadn't it made him feel powerful? Powerful enough, even, to maybe take on Thaddeus? What am I thinking?

“Aylander?” Zoe said. “Are you all right?”

Aylander looked at her. “I'm not sure,” he said. “This place is seeming to have an effect on me. A terrifying, yet intoxicating effect.”

“You were a Twisted Sword Priest once, right? Like Novar?”

“I was.”

“And you saw what this place did to him?”

“Yes.”

“It's probably starting to have the same effect on you.”

Aylander looked away from her and into the fire. “You're probably right,” he said, dismayed that the cleansing – the scourging – Thaddeus's sword had given to his soul hadn't been able to entirely erase Atraxos's touch. Maybe it did erase it, though, he thought. Maybe my Eltaran heritage is enough for this place to have an effect on me. Maybe.

“Can you fight it, Aylander?” Zoe asked.

He looked back up at her. “All I can do is try, my lady.”

“Promise me you won't conjure the sword, again.”

I can't promise that, my lady. “I won't conjure it, again. You have my word.”

Zoe smiled. “Good. And enough with that bloody 'my lady' stuff, all right? I'm Zoe. Your sister-in-law.”

Aylander chuckled. “My sister-in-law, who also just happens to be a Sorceress, as well. But, very well. Zoe it is.”

“Don't you forget it, either.”

Aylander raised an eyebrow. “Now, that's highly unlikely, don't you think? If there's one thing in this life I'm liable to never forget, it's what your name is.” He grinned. “My lady.”

The flat look Zoe gave him lasted only for a moment before she was laughing. Aylander laughed with her and – for right then, at least – everything was all right. Aylander knew it wouldn't last, though. As long as they were here, in the Abyss, nothing could ever be all right for very long.

Some time later – trying to say exactly when was a meaningless exercise in this place – Aylander extinguished the fire and they set off, again, through the flat, gray nothingness that was the Abyss. Silence surrounded them on all sides – not even their footsteps made any sound as they touched the ground – and there was no breeze on which any smells could be carried. Because of the unvarying terrain over which Aylander and Zoe traveled, there was no way to tell how far they went, nor any sense of which direction it was they moved in. Neither of them spoke, which, Aylander found, soon began to add to the oppressiveness of the silence. That was what this place was supposed to be, though – oppressive in both its emptiness and in its silence – and so he did nothing to break the tension.

A glance at Zoe showed that she was feeling much the same way, though the strain and weariness showing on her face seemed greater than that which Aylander felt. In some distant, abstract way, Aylander knew he should have been feeling similar strain and weariness, but he didn't. In fact, it seemed, as more time passed for him in this place, he was growing more and more used to it. No longer did the wrongness of this place make Aylander feel physically ill, like it had when he'd first arrived. No longer did Aylander feel like he had to keep himself separate from this place, and he knew that, in time, this place would become as much a part of him as any other place ever had been. Would that be a bad thing when it finally happened? Though he wanted to say yes, he wasn't so certain, any longer.

There was no need for Aylander or Zoe to eat or drink while they were in the Abyss, and they stopped only for brief moments to rest. It was during one of these brief rests that Aylander first caught Zoe looking at him suspiciously. The look only lasted for a moment, but Aylander was certain he'd seen it. He said nothing about it, however – neither of them said anything about anything, continuing to hold their silence despite the fact that they were resting – and, after a while, they continued on, traversing the endless, flat, silent plane that was the Abyss.

Aylander's thoughts turned suddenly to Thaddeus. What would happen once he and Zoe were reunited with him? Certainly, it would be a happy reunion for Zoe, but what would it be for Aylander? Aylander wasn't the same as he had been before being pulled into the Abyss – the Abyss had made him powerful, and he sensed that that power was continuing to grow – and he was no longer certain he wanted to go back to the way he had been. Somehow, Aylander understood that, even if he left the Abyss, he wouldn't necessarily have to give up the power the Abyss had granted, but, if he didn't, what would that mean for him? Would he go back to being something Twisted, like he had been before being ensnared by Thaddeus's sword? And, even if he did, would that be such a bad thing? Twisted doesn't have to mean evil. And evil is such an abstract concept, anyway.

“All right, Aylander,” Zoe said, finally breaking the silence between them. “What's on your mind?”

Aylander looked at her. “Nothing of consequence,” he said.

“If the look on your face is any indication, I find that hard to believe.”

Aylander stopped and turned to face her. “What look would that be?”

Zoe hesitated before answering, and Aylander thought he saw a brief flash of fear in her eyes. For some reason, he found that brief flash pleasing. “You look like you're thinking about killing someone.”

Only my own, dear brother. “Not at all.” Aylander forced a smile. “It must be the oppressiveness of this place. Perhaps we should keep talking in order to keep ourselves distracted from it.”

“Maybe . . . maybe so.” Zoe looked around. “Gods Above, we need to get out of this place.”

A thunderous roar suddenly split the sky. It had come from a distance, but was still incredibly loud.

“Was that what I think it was?” Zoe asked, looking off into the distance ahead of them.

“A dragon?” Aylander said. “Yes, my lady, I'm afraid it was.”

A dark speck had appeared on the far horizon. As they watched, it grew closer, ceasing to be a speck as more and more of its features came into view. Winds, pushed ahead of it by the flapping its great, leathery wings, began to buffet them, and it roared, again, deafening them and nearly forcing them to the ground. Getting back to their feet, Aylander and Zoe started to run. Aylander knew it would do them no good, however. No one could outrun a dragon.

Into the Abyss (The Nightslayer Trilogy, Part 2) - Chapter Two

Thaddeus was being stalked. The presence of his stalker – a minor Demon Lord, and not one of the Seven – had been tickling the edges of the heightened awareness his magic granted him for days, now, and it amazed him that he had yet to be attacked. What was his stalker waiting for? Was it possible that, despite the fact that it had had more than enough time to ready itself for a battle with Thaddeus, it was afraid? Or had it been ordered to hold back and observe Thaddeus's movements, gathering intelligence that could be reported back to the Seven before a larger, more coordinated attack could be unleashed? Either way, Thaddeus felt he was ready for whatever came, and even found that he was beginning to grow impatient, that growing impatience making it more and more difficult for him to keep acting before his stalker did. I can't allow myself to do that, though, he thought. Doing that may be just what they're waiting for.

Right now, Thaddeus was in one of the Halls of Twilight, probing it – as he had probed the previous six – for anything that might allow him to break through into the Abyss. There seemed to be nothing for him to find, however – as in the previous six Halls, the magic that had been used to construct this one was so dense that even an experienced Spellbreaker would have been hard pressed to locate where one spell ended and another began. And was breaking one of those spells even the right thing to do? What if it caused the entire Hall to collapse? Would that cause a chain reaction that lead to all of them collapsing? Thaddeus knew he wasn't strong enough to deal with the aftermath of something like that. But how else was he supposed to rescue the people he loved?

Thaddeus froze. His stalker had grown closer, and he sensed a nervous energy coming from it, a feeling that it was readying itself to pounce. Drawing his sword, Thaddeus turned a slow circle, trying to see if he could catch a glimpse of the creature he was sure was about to attack. He saw nothing but the stone walls of the Hall, however, which no doubt meant the Demon Lord had shrouded itself in an invisibility spell. “You wish to attack me, and yet you hide,” Thaddeus said. “Do you truly fear the Nightslayer so? If all of you fear me as much as you, then dealing with you will be hardly a challenge, at all.”

“You are distracted, Nightslayer,” a hissing, snakelike voice answered, seeming to come from everywhere at once, and suddenly Thaddeus sensed the presence of not one Demon Lord, but three. “Your thoughts stray from your appointed task. Do you not understand how weak this makes you?”

The words stung, as Thaddeus now understood that the three presences he sensed had always been there, waiting for him to make the first move. Because he hadn't, and because he hadn't even been aware of the other two Demon Lords, he would now be forced to fend off an attack that came from three directions at once. Could he do it? Probably, but he would rather not have. I have to strike first if I'm going to win this thing. Doing anything else leaves me vulnerable. Leaves me weak.

Fueled by a sudden, white hot rage, Thaddeus unleashed a burst of force in all directions. It hit all three of the Demon Lords, shattering their cloaks of invisibility and causing them to stagger. They recovered quickly, however, and counterattacked in tandem – one from in front, the other two from behind. Thaddeus leaped into the air and somersaulted over the one that charged from in front, swinging his sword in a wild arc that trailed blue fire as he landed. The swing missed, but the magic that accompanied it threw the Demon Lord, shrieking, to the floor. Ignoring their fallen comrade, the other two leaped over his prone form and unleashed a torrent of magic at Thaddeus. Thaddeus was able to get a shield up, but not before some of their magic hit, buffeting him and knocking him backwards. He kept his feet, however – he wasn't sure how, as the pain from what had struck him was worse than anything he could remember – gripping his sword with both hands and brandishing it at his attackers with a grin that, had he been able to see it, Thaddeus would have found more than a little terrifying. “Is that all you've got?” he asked.

All three Demon Lords were on their feet, now, the one Thaddeus had struck with the burst of magic from his sword – obviously still a little worse for wear, based on what Thaddeus could sense – now standing behind the other two. As Thaddeus watched, black swords that trailed threads of darkness like ink appeared in their hands, and, all at once, Thaddeus understood that, if any of those weapons so much as grazed him, he would be dead before he even realized what had happened. Using his magic, and the amplifying abilities of his own sword, Thaddeus felt he might have been able to defeat one Demon Lord armed with such a sword, but, right now, he faced three. It doesn't matter, he thought, not even realizing how reckless his line of reasoning seemed. If I live, or if I die, I will give them a fight any who survive won't be quick to forget.

“Begone from here.”

The voice was cold, like ancient, creaking ice, and immediately made Thaddeus feel more afraid than he could ever remember feeling, before. Normally, he would have wanted to turn and see who it was that had spoken – whoever it was was behind Thaddeus, even though his magical senses told him no one was there – but, right now, all he wanted to do was flee, to run so far away that, whoever the speaker was, it would take him so long to find him that, by the time he did, Thaddeus would have long since died and turned to dust. Thaddeus couldn't move, however – he was, quite literally, frozen in place, though he knew not by what magic or spell – and it seemed the Demon Lords were similarly incapacitated.

“You are invaders, here, fouled by the chaos that lies between the planes.” These words were addressed to the Demon Lords, though hearing them spoken made Thaddeus feel no better. “Begone, I say, or you will face the fullness of my wrath.”

The wrath of whatever being spoke in that cold, ancient voice would be a terrible thing to behold. No one in their right mind would ever want to witness such a thing, and, as Thaddeus watched, it seemed this even held true for the three Demon Lords, who, as one, turned and fled. Once they were gone, whatever held Thaddeus relaxed, and, slowly, he turned. What he found himself facing was a tall, bulky creature that seemed to be made entirely of ice. In each of its hands, it held identical, scythe-like weapons – each of them also made of ice – and it regarded Thaddeus with eyes that blazed with blue fire. Though it had to be magical, the creature gave off no sense of magic, or of life, or even of substance. Thaddeus could see the creature. He'd heard its voice. And yet, despite all of that, it was like it wasn't even there.

“I should have commanded you gone, as well,” the creature said. “I sense the touch of darkness on you.”

“Why . . . why didn't you?” Thaddeus asked, the cold in the air making his breath steam as he spoke.

“Are you not the Nightslayer, then?”

“I am.” Thaddeus didn't like the lack of confidence he heard in his voice. Where had that come from? Was this creature really so frightening that it caused him to doubt himself?

“You do not sound certain,” the creature said, “though who am I to doubt you? Tell me, Wanderer, why are you in these Halls? What is it you seek?”

Wanderer. Thaddeus was no Wanderer. He was whole, now. Himself. Wasn't he? “Not long ago, two people who are very dear to me were ensnared in a trap and pulled into the Abyss between the planes,” Thaddeus said. “I seek for a way to reach them.”

“Why seek for them when your duty is to combat the Demon Lords? Did you not swear an oath that you would combat them above and before all else?”

“I did.”

“Then does not seeking for a way to reach your friends bring you into conflict with that oath?”

Thaddeus hesitated before answering. “I don't know,” he finally said. “I feel I may need them in order to fulfill my oath.”

“What if they are dead?” the creature asked. “If you need them to fulfill your oath, would not their deaths make that impossible? And, if so, would that not then make you an oath breaker? Would that not then prove you to be a false Nightslayer?”

“I am not false!” Thaddeus said. “I will fulfill my oath to combat the Demon Lords, but I need my friends. They are a part of me, and I am incomplete without them.”

For a long time, the creature said nothing, staring at Thaddeus with its blazing, sapphire eyes. “Indeed you are,” it said at last. “Thaddeus Alvarem, I cannot tell you if your friends live, but I can tell you that, without them, you will not succeed in your task. That must not be allowed to happen. And so I will cast you from here, and into the Abyss. You will not be able to return, either to these Halls, or to the plane from which you came, unless you find them.”

“What if they're dead?” Thaddeus asked.

“Then pray that you join them before the Abyss consumes you.”

Thaddeus had a feeling, then, of being lifted off his feet and thrown as if off of an impossibly high cliff. The feeling lasted only for a moment before he lost consciousness, not even giving him enough time to scream.

Into the Abyss (The Nightslayer Trilogy, Part 2) - Chapter One

The first mistake everyone made when they talked about the Abyss was claiming that it was empty. While chaotic and largely without structure, it was far from empty – a fact that, during her time here, Zoe had had to learn first hand. Thinking about it, it was this lack of emptiness that had allowed her to maintain a hold on her sanity, but, if she didn't find a way out of the Abyss soon, she was certain that she would eventually lose even that meager hold. The Abyss was not meant for people like her – who it was meant for was a question she would rather not think about, as she had met such a person, and was currently his prisoner – and the longer Zoe remained here, the less likely it became that she could ever go back to being who she was supposed to be.

“Thinking about escape, again? Or, perhaps, dreaming of rescue?”

Zoe's captor was the Twisted Sword Priest that had been flung into the Abyss when she'd broken the transit spell he and Atraxos the Black had attempted to use to travel from the Guardian's dwelling to the Mountains of the Moon. He had found her not long after Zoe had woken up here, and had somehow been able to manipulate the chaos around them to fashion a prison in which Zoe's magic was shut off from her, leaving her helpless. Zoe had no idea how long ago that had been – the passage of time had no meaning, here – but it had felt like an eternity, and there was no sign that it would ever end. Unless, of course, she became like him, which she was sure would be what would happen once her grasp on sanity had been lost.

“So what if I was?” Zoe asked, not liking how weak her voice sounded. “We both know neither will ever happen.”

Zoe's captor – his name was Novar, and when he moved, he seemed to trail black smoke that whirled about him as if it were alive – came over to her, crouching down so that his eyes were level with hers. “Then why torture yourself, Sorceress?” he asked. “Why must you continue to cling to things that are no longer within reach when it would be so much easier to give in to the power of this place as I have?”

“If I did that, I'd become like you,” Zoe said. “I could never live with myself if I did that. It would mean betraying too much.”

Novar chuckled and shook his head. “You do understand that neither of us should be alive right now, don't you? Being pulled into this place should have killed us. But it didn't. We are still alive because we're different. We're meant for more. Give in to the chaos, Sorceress. Join with it. Revel in it. Let it make you the goddess you were always meant to be!”

As always, there was temptation in his words. Giving in to the chaos like he suggested – like he pleaded – would bring an end to more than just Zoe's worry about her sanity. It would bring an end to the pain, the pain Novar caused with the implements that hung from the gray, stone walls of the prison, some of which still bore red stains. Every time Zoe refused him, he used those implements on her, and he knew just how to cause her the most pain. The wounds he inflicted healed after each session, but the memory of them remained, and that only enhanced the pain when the time came for him to reopen them. But Zoe could not let herself be broken. She could not!

Knowing it would only lead to another round of torture, Zoe mustered all of the defiance she could and said, “Fuck you.”

It was the first time Zoe had cursed when speaking to Novar, and the Twisted Sword Priest sat back on his haunches, blinking in surprise. Then he grinned, his mouth full of unnaturally sharp teeth. “Later, perhaps,” he said, standing and moving toward the wall, where he took down a blade he had used once before to flay the skin off of Zoe's left arm. Zoe shuddered at the memory – the pain had been unbearable – and then kept shivering, terrified at the thought of what part of her Novar might remove the skin off of, now.

From outside the walls of the prison came a sound like thunder. Frowning, Novar tilted his head to one side, and even Zoe found herself straining her hearing to the limit, hoping against hope to hear the sound – no matter what had caused it – again. When the sound came, again, it was much closer, and the walls of the prison shook. Then one of those walls – which wasn't really made of stone, but, instead, out of nothing but solidified chaos – exploded inward, the force of the explosion throwing Novar against the opposite wall and causing him to lose hold of the cruel, curved blade he had intended to use on Zoe, which clattered to the floor in front of her. Zoe, who suddenly found she could move, bent down and picked up the blade, then took a staggering step toward Novar, who had been knocked unconscious. Not once did she look to see what, or who, had broken into the prison from outside – that didn't matter, at the moment. That didn't matter at all.

“Stop, Zoe!”

Zoe did stop, but not because she wanted to. All she wanted to do was take the blade she held in her hands and use it to chop Novar into pieces, then hope those pieces would reassemble so she could do it all over again. An intense magical spell had seized her, however, making it impossible to get any closer to the Twisted Sword Priest. She could still move in any other direction, just not toward Novar. Zoe turned her head to look at who had spoken. “Let me go,” she growled, surprised at how powerful she felt after feeling so weak only a few minutes earlier.

“And let you butcher him?” Aylander said. “You aren't a butcher, Zoe. At least, you weren't, and I sincerely hope that that hasn't changed. Put the blade down.”

“He tortured me, Aylander,” Zoe said. Hot tears burned in her eyes and she was shaking. “He tortured me!”

“I know he did, and I am truly sorry for it. But butchering him will not change anything he did to you, and could be just the conduit this place needs for its chaos to take you away forever. I can't let that happen. For your sake, and for Thaddeus's.”

Thaddeus! How long had it been since Zoe had seen him last? For that matter, how long had it been since she'd last seen Aylander? It seemed like a lifetime ago. Zoe looked down at the blade in her hands, then dropped it with a sob. Aylander was right. She was no butcher, and she couldn't let herself become one if she ever wanted to see Thaddeus, again. And I have to see Thaddeus, again. He needs me.

Zoe gestured at Novar. “What about him? He's become a part of the Abyss in a way I didn't think was possible, and might even grow to become more dangerous than one of the Demon Lords.”

Aylander smiled. “No need to be concerned about him. I erased his mind. Even if he does become one with the Abyss, he will no longer have any force of will. Which, in essence, means he will be no more dangerous than any other creature that dwells here. Now, come. We need to leave.”

“Where will we go?”

“Away from here. Perhaps we will even find a way out, or make it easier for Thaddeus to find us.”

“Is he looking for us?”

“I have to hope so,”Aylander said after a slight pause. His eyes met hers. “It's the only thing keeping me sane.”

As she left the prison with Aylander, Zoe realized her hold on her sanity had grown stronger. Not only was the Abyss not empty, she was no longer alone within it. And there was the hope that, somewhere in another plane of reality – maybe the one they had originally come from, maybe not – Thaddeus was alive and searching for them. Find us, my love, Zoe thought. Find us.

The Divided Knight - Epilogue

Summer had come at last to Telvany. Normally, this was Garrold's favorite part of the year, full of festivals, tournaments, and many other reasons besides for him not to spend the majority of his time holed up inside the walls of Valewind. This year was different, however. No longer was Garrold just a duke – he had named himself Magister of a reborn Torvaran Empire, meaning he was now in open rebellion to a kingdom his family had served faithfully for more than three hundred years, a kingdom that, if everything worked the way he hoped, would soon become part of the lands under his rule. Garrold still didn't know what to think about all of that – or what to think about the revelation that he was a mage, and a powerful one, at that – and the crown Wilem had presented him with earlier, today, wasn't helping.

The crown, which, right now, sat on the mantle above the hearth in Garrold's study, was made entirely of a crystal that Wilem claimed was unbreakable. The Order of Catharzen had had the crown in its possession since the fall of the Old Empire, protecting and preserving it in the hopes that, one day, it might again be worn. It was called the Shining Circlet and, according to Wilem, would provide Garrold with a focus for his powers when worn. Garrold knew he needed that focus – without training, and without the use of spells as a buffer, the wild magic he commanded would, one day, consume him unless he had some kind of secondary focus – but putting the crown on also meant that everything he'd started would become more or less permanent. Garrold wasn't sure he was ready for that to happen, yet. He wasn't sure he would ever be ready. Father didn't start out wanting to be Duke, Garrold reminded himself. He made a good one, though. Who's to say I won't make a good Magister?

“It's intimidating, isn't it?”

With a start, Garrold turned away from the hearth. A tall man, dressed from head to toe in black, with a longsword strapped to his back and radiating an almost overwhelming sense of magic, stood where no one had been just a moment before. At once, Garrold knew who the man was – hadn't he been sensing his presence in the world for days, after all? – but he still found himself wanting to deny his existence. The Nightslayer was just a legend. Legends weren't supposed to just walk out of the stories they were in and start talking.

“I don't think we've met,” Garrold said.

The Nightslayer smiled. “We have, now.” He grew more serious. “Thaddeus Alvarem at your service, Your Grace.”

Garrold raised his eyebrows. “At my service?”

“Yes, Your Grace. The Nightslayers have only ever served, and I pledge my service to yours. I will help you in any way I can.”

“I'm grateful,” Garrold said, and while still a bit unsettled to be speaking to a creature of legend, sincerely meant it. Having the aid of the Nightslayer might even mean Garrold didn't have to do anything, at all. That would make things too easy, though. I'm sure there are things he can't, or won't be able, to do for me. “Can you fight my war for me?”

Thaddeus smiled and bowed his head. “Unfortunately, Your Grace, I can't.” He looked back up. “I can, however, help you win it.”

“How?”

“While you fight King Lyrian and the Order of the Crimson Serpent, I will fight their masters. Fighting them – keeping their attention on me – will make your war that much easier. It will also keep you from losing it before it's even begun.”

“Who are their masters?”

“I think you know, Your Grace. I think you can sense them the same way that I do.”

“The Demon Lords?”

“Yes.”

“Gods Above,” Garrold breathed. He looked at the Nightslayer. “Can you fight them?”

“I am a Nightslayer. I must.”

“But you'll be alone.”

“Just because I am alone, now, doesn't mean I always will be.”

“Who will help you?”

“People I trust,” the Nightslayer said, eyes fixed on Garrold. “People I love, even. And, perhaps, even some people I have yet to meet.” He gestured at the mantle. “Put the crown on, Your Grace. I think you will find that, intimidating as it is, it suits you.”

And with that, the Nightslayer vanished.

Garrold turned back to the hearth, eyeing the crystal crown on the mantle. Reaching out with his magic, he lifted it off the mantle and guided it into his hands. It was warm to the touch – pleasantly so – and, as Garrold watched, started to glow with a faint, violet light. He placed it on his head, and, when he did, it felt like it had been made for him, like it had always been meant for his head, and his head alone. All at once, Garrold's worries about the path before him vanished. He was Magister. Now, all that was left was to take back that which was his. To remake that which was destroyed. For you, Resey. For you, my love.

The Divided Knight - Chapter Thirty-Three

Thaddeus opened his eyes. Above him, gray clouds scudded across a dark sky, and, all around him, a bone-chillingly cold wind wailed. The sound of the wind reminded him of something – another sound he'd heard recently – but he couldn't quite put his finger on exactly what. Turning his head, Thaddeus saw his sword, and also saw that the stone surface he was laying on had an enormous crack running through it that would soon cause half of the platform to break off and crumble down the side of the mountain. Platform? Mountain? Why were his thoughts so muddled, and how come his chest ached?

With a groan, Thaddeus turned on his side and reached for his sword. And then he paused. Where were Zoe and Aylander? And what about the wyvern they'd been fighting? The wyvern hit me, Thaddeus suddenly remembered. That was why his chest ached, and why he'd lost his grip on his sword. The wyvern had been able to hit him because Thaddeus had tripped something during one of his attacks – a trap that Thaddeus had only recognized when it had been too late to do anything about it. The wyvern had been the trap's bait, and, ultimately, also one of its victims, being pulled out of reality and back into the Abyss not long after the trap had sprung. But what about Zoe and Aylander? Had they taken hits like Thaddeus's? Were theirs worse?

Taking a hold of his sword, Thaddeus used it to help push himself back to his feet. The platform cracked and shifted under him, but – for the moment, at least – continued to hold. Looking up at the side of the mountain, Thaddeus saw the iron doors of the Gates of Eclipse had swung closed. Reopening them would be fairly easy – all it would take was the right amount of magic, enhanced by the properties of Thaddeus's sword. It would be too late, though, when he got them back open as, by then, Atraxos would have already obtained the Amulet. But would it be? Hadn't Adarion told him that, in the larger scheme of things, Atraxos was ultimately irrelevant? I have to get to him before he uses it, though. I have to.

Raising his sword and leveling it at the Gates, Thaddeus began to summon his magic, and that was when he remembered why the wail of the wind sounded so familiar. Zoe had screamed when the trap containing the wyvern had sprung. Her scream hadn't been one of pain, however – it had been one of terror. She'd been caught in the trap along with the wyvern. So had Aylander. And, like the wyvern, they both had been pulled into the Abyss, a condition that had only become possible once Thaddeus had lost his grip on his sword. That had broken the link they'd shared, making Zoe and Aylander vulnerable to both the wyvern, and to anything affecting it.

All at once, reopening the Gates of Eclipse no longer mattered. Zoe and Aylander – who, when they had all started out, had been little more than good friends, but who had, over the course of just the few days they had been together, become his family – were gone, lost in a place that, even as powerful as Thaddeus had become, he could never hope to reach. What was he supposed to do, now? How could he go on without them? Did he even have a choice? Of course I do. I could walk away right now, but, if I do that, I doom everyone. And what if, should I go on, I'm able to find a way to bring Zoe and Aylander back? Didn't Adarion imply that me making the choice to go on would allow me to be able to save the ones I love? Can I really turn my back on a possibility like that?

His mind made up, Thaddeus refocused his attention on the Gates, summoning his magic and sending it forth from his sword in a blast of blue light. When Atraxos had closed the Gates, he had locked them with an additional spell on top of that which already sealed them, and when Thaddeus's magic touched it, it tried to fight back, nearly causing Thaddeus's magic to be reflected back at him. Thaddeus staggered but, with the help of his sword, he was able to keep the magic from springing back, slapping Atraxos's spell against the Gates, which caused it to scatter. From that point, reopening the Gates was child's play, and, with a groan of iron hinges, the doors sprang apart, flinging themselves back against the mountain. The impact of the doors against the mountain caused the platform Thaddeus was on to splinter and begin to crumble, but he hardly noticed as he used a further burst of his magic to leap up toward and through the now open Gates of Eclipse.

Thaddeus raced down the tunnels that burrowed into and under the mountain. Magic – more than he had ever felt before, and of a type so old that to call it ancient would still have been an understatement – boiled around him, calling to him, wanting him to lose himself inside the heady flow of it, but Thaddeus ignored it, his only goal, now, to take up the mantle of the Nightslayer in the hope that doing so would give him a away to bring his family back. Stopping Atraxos and the Demon Lords had become secondary concerns – if Thaddeus could, he would, but saving Zoe and Aylander came first. And what if Zoe and Aylander had been killed by being pulled into the Abyss? If it came to that, Thaddeus would deal with it, then. Worrying about it, now, was counterproductive, and would only slow him down.

Thaddeus found Atraxos waiting for him in a curiously spartan room that, based on what his magical senses told him, was the source of the growing power that had surrounded him since passing through the Gates of Eclipse and into the mountain. Atraxos was sitting with his back to a glowing, marble archway, a small, black, metal cube on the floor before him. When Thaddeus entered the room, Atraxos looked up and grinned. “Hello, Thaddeus,” he said. “I've been expecting you.” He indicated the cube. “There's something, here, I need your help opening.”

The cube was obviously a box, and the box apparently contained the Amulet of Adarion. Why did Atraxos need Thaddeus to help him open it, however? Thaddeus probed the box with his magic, which, he found, was sealed by a spell that made it impossible for one person to open. “So I see,” Thaddeus said. “What makes you think I'll help you?”

“Because we both want the same thing. The Amulet is in this box. Help me open it, and all you will need to do is overpower me in order for the Amulet's power to be yours.” The fires in Atraxos's eyes flared. “If you think you can, that is.”

Thaddeus had to help Atraxos open the box, of course. Once the box was opened, it no longer mattered which one of them used the Amulet – the Sundered Halls would open and the Demon Lords would be free. And so would Adarion, who had somehow escaped the fate of the rest of the Divine Council and sealed himself away, waiting for the moment when the right person – the person who would be able to make the impossible decision, and, therefore, be worthy of the title of Nightslayer – came along. It amused Thaddeus that Atraxos still dared to think he had the upper hand, but then, after all, Atraxos – who was a fool, just as, it seemed, he always had been – had no way of understanding the truth of the situation.

“Let's open it, then,” Thaddeus said.

For a moment, Atraxos looked puzzled – why had Thaddeus agreed to help so readily? – but then, his attention shifted to the box. Thaddeus focused his attention on it, as well, and there was an audible click as the spell which had sealed it was undone. A seam appeared in the box's surface, and then the top slid soundlessly aside, exposing a white glow within. The glow was mesmerizing, and it took an effort of will for Thaddeus to pull his eyes away from it. Atraxos took a few seconds longer to look away, and, when he finally did, the flames in his eyes seemed a little dimmer, almost as if the glow had leached some of his power away. For a long moment, Thaddeus and Atraxos stared at one another, and it was all Thaddeus could do to keep himself from smiling.

“What, no move? No brazen attempt to seize the Amulet?” Atraxos asked.

Thaddeus said nothing.

“The key to godhood itself lies before you! Don't you want it?”

Thaddeus said nothing, and did not move.

“Perhaps the glow of the Amulet has addled your mind? It nearly did that to mine. A pity if you succumbed to it. I had hoped you would offer me more of a challenge.”

Atraxos reached into the box, taking the Amulet into his hand and drawing it out. To Thaddeus, the Amulet resembled a glowing pearl. It was beautiful, and, again, he had to force himself to keep from being mesmerized by its light. Atraxos made no such effort, and stared at it with an expression of rapt awe. And then the light of Amulet went out, leaving an object in Atraxos's hand roughly the same size as a marble, and which no longer gave off any kind of magical sense whatsoever. Thaddeus smiled, then.

“I don't understand,” Atraxos said. He shook the Amulet. The Amulet remained dark. “I don't understand!”

The archway Atraxos had his back to stopped glowing. The darkness within it began to contract in on itself, smaller and smaller until it was nothing more than a black pinprick, and then there was a brilliant flash of blue light. Deafening thunder followed the flash, and then there were figures emerging from the archway. The figures were black silhouettes wreathed in flame, each of the silhouettes largely human in appearance, and when they had all emerged, there were seven of them. Wrongness – similar to, but also somehow different, from that which had radiated from the drakes and the wyvern – seeped from these figures like a rank miasma. There could be no doubt who the figures were – the Demon Lords – and the one who approached Atraxos, now, the one whose silhouette was taller than the others and whose eyes blazed like twin furnaces, had to be none other than the Hidden King, himself.

“You have served your purpose well, Atraxos,” the Hidden King said.

“Purpose, Great One?” Atraxos asked.

“Yes. You freed us. And, for that, you have my eternal gratitude.”

“It . . . it was an honor, Great One.”

“Oh, I know. Our tools are always honored to serve their purposes.” The Hidden King raised a hand toward Atraxos. He clenched the hand into a fist and made a sudden, twisting motion to one side. Atraxos gasped – Thaddeus couldn't tell if it was in surprise or pain – and collapsed to the floor in a heap. “And they never seem to understand when their usefulness has come to an end.” The Hidden King looked over at Thaddeus, flashing him an infernal, burning grin. “Your turn, now, I think.”

“Unlike your tool, Magnus, Thaddeus Alvarem's time has not yet come.”

An eighth figure had emerged from the archway. This figure was that of an elderly man surrounded by a faint, blue glow. He wore a long, black robe and carried a staff with an odd, blade-like crook on one end. Walking with a slight limp, and using the staff like a cane, the man crossed the room to stand beside Thaddeus.

“So you do still live, Old Man,” the Hidden King said. “I knew I should have gone after you, myself.”

“Yes, very foolish of you not to. But then, weren't you always a foolish one, Magnus?”

“Why must you insist on calling me that?”

“It's your name, isn't it?”

“Not any longer.” The Hidden King stepped toward them and raised his hands. “And this time, I won't be so foolish.”

Adarion – for that was who the eighth figure had to have been – tapped Thaddeus on the shoulder with his staff. All at once, time seemed to stand still, and then everything went dark. The darkness lasted only a few moments before Thaddeus found himself standing inside a circle of white light. Outside the circle, the darkness lingered, but out of that darkness, images began to emerge, images that rushed toward Thaddeus and then broke around him like water breaking around a boulder in the middle of a river. The images showed Thaddeus the march of time – he saw the dawn of creation, the formation of the Divine Council, the naming of the first Nightslayers, and the rise of the Demon Lords. For a normal person, the torrent of images would have been overwhelming, and more than likely would have driven them mad. Thaddeus was able to weather it better – he was even able to process most of it, and understand why he had to see it – but knew that, without Adarion's presence and aid, he would have eventually lost his grip on sanity, as well.

The last thing Thaddeus saw was the most shocking of all. Toward the end, the Divine Council had been betrayed by the Nightslayers, and the resulting conflict had nearly torn the cosmos apart. Rifts – one of which had opened here, inside the Mountains of the Moon, and had allowed the people who would later be known as Eltarans to cross into this world from another plane of reality – were torn open in the dimensional fabric, so many that the only way to stabilize things had been to connect them all by creating a series of pathways called the Halls of Twilight. The Halls of Twilight were soon found to be the perfect trap for both the Demon Lords, and the Nightslayers who followed them – Nightslayers who, by that point, had become Demon Lords of their own. Those parts of the Halls of Twilight that became prisons were soon renamed the Sundered Halls, and it began to seem that, through them, the Divine Council would finally be able to restore at least a semblance of peace.

The final sealing of the Sundered Halls never happened, however – a last push by the Demon Lords had left all the Divine Council save Adarion dead, and Adarion had only escaped at the cost of his own Divinity. Giving up his Divinity, which had unleashed an incredible amount of magical energy, had placed a barrier between the Halls of Twilight and the rifts they connected, and had also placed in the minds of people the impetus and will to maintain those barriers until someone worthy of being named Nightslayer again emerged. Through this act, both the True and the Order of Catharzen had come into being, and it had been their actions – both direct, and otherwise – which had, at last, brought Thaddeus here.

The flood of images ended. Adarion stood before Thaddeus, now, regarding him with eyes the glowed an icy blue. “You have come far, Thaddeus Alvarem,” he said. “You have made the decisions that others could not and proven yourself worthy. However, one further decision – perhaps the most difficult of all – now lies before you. Will you, to the sacrifice of all else, take up this burden?”

“To the sacrifice of all else?” Thaddeus asked.

“Yes. All else.”

I will not give up on the ones I love. “I will,” Thaddeus said.

For a long moment, Adarion said nothing, his expression unreadable. And then, “Very well. I name you Nightslayer.”

And then Thaddeus was back in the room, with the Hidden King standing before him and ready to strike. Beside him, Adarion collapsed, dead, to the floor, the last of his strength – of his Divinity – sacrificed to naming Thaddeus the Nightslayer. At first, Thaddeus felt no different, but then the Hidden King struck, hurling a blast of magic at him that should have incinerated him. Raising his hand, Thaddeus caught the blast, and then sent it hurtling back. The Hidden King almost wasn't fast enough when he flung himself out of the way.

“Flee!” the Hidden King bellowed. “FLEE!”

There was a flash of light and a clap of thunder, and when both had passed, the Demon Lords were gone.

Now that the immediate threat had passed, Thaddeus was finally able to take stock of everything that had changed. Largely, he still felt as he had before, but there were differences – such as his sense of how much magic he could draw on, which had increased exponentially. And it wasn't just Arcane magic he could draw on, anymore – Life magic, it seemed, had been opened to him, as well, and, without any training of any kind, he could already see ways in which it and Arcane magic could be blended together. Looking down at himself, Thaddeus saw his clothing was different – he was now dressed from head to toe in black, his tabbard replaced by a knee-length coat with shimmering silver embroidery winding its way around the sleeves in subtle but intricate patterns that Thaddeus somehow knew only he – or someone very much like him – would be able to understand.

Unsheathing his sword – which he had no memory of returning to its scabbard – Thaddeus examined the blade. Nothing had changed about the sword, but Thaddeus found he could now read the runes on its surface, runes which spelled out the word Lightgiver. Thaddeus also became aware of a new bond he now shared with the sword – it had become well and truly his. Anyone else who tried to use it – unless they had Thaddeus's permission, or if they were bound to him by ties of blood or love – would find their souls taken from them and cast into the Abyss. Death, Thaddeus sensed, was the only way this bond could be broken, and there was even something – something elusive that he could just barely touch, and which reminded him of the tap Adarion had placed on his shoulder with his staff – that could make it stronger.

Returning his sword to its scabbard, Thaddeus took turns examining the bodies of both Atraxos the Black, and Adarion. Atraxos's body looked like it had been burned, his clothes reduced to ash, his bones scorched and blackened. No sense of magic came from the corpse, and with a quick probe of Life magic, Thaddeus understood that Atraxos's soul had become the Hidden King's thrall – which meant that, as long as it remained whole, the Hidden King could draw on it to fuel his magic without having to tap into his own personal reserves. This was how all of the Demon Lords fueled their powers, and the more thralls each of them had, the stronger they were. The Hidden King was the strongest of all, and all of the souls that were his lived in torment, begging to be released.

Adarion's body no longer looked like that of an elderly man. All of the years had gone from it, and the expression on its youthful face was serene and peaceful. As Thaddeus watched, Adarion's body began to glow, the glow growing brighter and brighter until, just when the glow should have become blinding, it faded away. When the glow faded was gone, the body was, as well. Taken by magic, Thaddeus realized. “May your slumber be restful and your days peaceful, Great One,” he said, his voice hardly louder than a whisper, the blessing one that was almost as old, he realized, as time, itself.

Rising, Thaddeus turned to look at the archway the Demon Lords and Adarion had emerged from. The archway had become a tunnel that stretched back and back, further and further away until it no longer looked like a tunnel, at all. That tunnel was one of the Halls of Twilight, and, if he'd wanted to, Thaddeus could have walked down it and come out in any other plane of existence connected to it. He wouldn't have been able to use it to rescue Zoe and Aylander, however – they were in the Abyss, the emptiness between the planes, and it was possible that they weren't even alive at all, any longer. By becoming the Nightslayer, Thaddeus had sworn to forsake all else, but he was sure that not even Adarion had expected him to live up to the letter of that oath. He would find Zoe and Aylander, but he would also fight the renewed threat of the Demon Lords. Neither task was, in his mind, mutually exclusive of the other. They couldn't be, because Thaddeus understood that, alone, his chances of fighting the Demon Lords without becoming one himself were all but non-existent.

And so Thaddeus Alvarem got to work.