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

 “The darkness is beautiful, isn’t it?” Aylander suddenly asked.
    Thaddeus looked at him, at first wanting to ask him why he would say such a thing, but then realizing that there was, indeed, a hint of beauty in the darkness that had fallen over the land while they’d been gone.  “I suppose it is,” Thaddeus said, turning his gaze back to the view ahead.  “At least in part, anyway.”
    “It gives me the creeps,” Zoe said from her place on Thaddeus’s right.  “It’s evil, and it shouldn’t be there.  Who knows what kinds of things it’s hiding.”
    “It hides nothing from me, Lady Zoe,” Aylander said, a hint of wistfulness in his voice.
    Thaddeus frowned and cast a sideways glance at Aylander.  Was that a smile he saw on his brother’s face?  Not that there was any real reason he shouldn’t be smiling.  Despite how perceptive she was, and no matter what powers she had at her command, Zoe couldn’t always be right about everything, and Thaddeus was fairly sure, just then, that her judgement of the darkness was more than a little hasty.  Thaddeus’s frown deepened.  Why, he wondered, was he so sure about that?  And when was the last time Zoe had been wrong about anything?  Thaddeus shook his head and refocused his attention on what was before him.
      They had emerged from the Abyss somewhere in the northern part of the Royal District.  Somewhere ahead of them–Thaddeus thought it might have been in the vicinity of the Gelevan Gorge–magical forces were gathering, surely marking a place where a battle was about to begin.  Reaching the battlefield would be easy–riding the darkness would, Thaddeus sensed, be almost as simple as riding the light–but, even if they did that, they would get there too late.  Thaddeus was sure a Demon Lord was present on the battlefield, and, if they rode the darkness–just as if they rode the light, or the wind–the battle would be all but over once they arrived.  Without the trio of he, Zoe, and Aylander, the battle would be lost, and Thaddeus had no idea how to get them there sooner.  Surely, they hadn’t emerged from the Abyss just so they could be late to the battle that might decide the fate of their world?  How, in any possible way, could that be right?  Unless we were never meant to win the in first place, Thaddeus thought, wondering immediately where such a fatalistic notion had come from.
    “Is there any way we can reach them in time?” Zoe asked.
    Thaddeus looked at her.  “I don’t know,” he said.  “If we ride any of the elements–even the darkness–we’ll get there too late.”
    “Do you know of any way to travel faster?”
    “No,” Thaddeus said, feeling the helplessness of their situation clutch at him.  
    “I might be able to do it,” Aylander said.
    Thaddeus looked at him.  “How?” he asked.
    Aylander looked back at him.  “Don’t you know?” he said.  “Can’t you feel it?  It’s the darkness.  It’s awakening something in me.  Something more powerful than I’ve ever known.”
    Thaddeus thought he could feel something.  He didn’t know what it was, or where it came from, but it made his magic swell, made him feel stronger than he had since his powers had awoken.  It called out to him, wanting him to seize it, wanting him to use it in any way he saw fit.  But what would happen to him if he did?  Could Thaddeus stay true to himself if he gave in to what he felt?  Thinking about it, Thaddeus realized that, back in the Abyss, he had felt something similar, something that called to him, imploring him to seize it and do with it whatever he felt he should.  Back then, he’d been able to resist it, but now, Thaddeus found himself having to exert a great deal of will to do so–a great deal of will he wasn’t sure how long he could expect himself to exert.  And would it really be so bad if he gave in?  Who would it hurt if he did?  And wouldn’t it help him?
    “I can feel it, Thaddeus,” Zoe said.  “You can’t give in to it.  Not fully.  It will corrupt you if you do.”
    Thaddeus looked at her.  “But it will allow me to do so much,” he said.  “I can save us all, and more besides.  No one will have to suffer.”
    “No, Thaddeus,” Aylander said.  “She’s right.  This power can help you–it can make you stronger than you ever imagined–but it isn’t for you.  Your path and mine might be similiar, but you have to make a different choice.  All will be lost if you don’t.”
    “But I’m the Nightslayer!” Thaddeus said.  “By rights, the power should be mine!”
    Zoe put her hand on Thaddeus’s shoulder.  Thaddeus tried to pull away, but Zoe’s grip tightened, strengthened by a sudden, white-hot rush of Life Magic.  “Thaddeus,” Zoe said.  He looked at her, but had to look away from her eyes, which glowed with dazzling, amber light.  “Do you trust me?”  
    Zoe was Thaddeus’s wife.  He loved her more than life itself, and had for more than twenty years.  How could he not trust her?  “I-I don’t know,” he said.
    “I would never do anything to hurt you,” Zoe said, the grip on Thaddeus’s arm shifting from white-hot to soothing, comforting.  “I only want to help you become what it is you need to be.  You can’t let the power that’s been unleashed corrupt you, Thaddeus.  You can’t.”
    “But who will wield it if I don’t?” Thaddeus asked.
    “I will,” Aylander said.
    Thaddeus looked at him.  “Won’t it corrupt you, too?”
    Aylander smiled and shook his head.  “No,” he said.  “I gave in to it already, Thaddeus.  Back in the Abyss.  It didn’t corrupt me there, and it won’t corrupt me here.  And do you know why?”
    Thaddeus stared at his brother with wide eyes, but said nothing.
    “Because you forgave me, Brother,” Aylander said.  “You and Zoe both.”
    “It’s stronger, here, though,” Thaddeus said.
    “I know.  But that hardly matters.”
    The relative calm and quiet that had surrounded them since their return from the Abyss was broken by a sudden gust of wind.  It came from the north, and, when it struck, the strength of it rocked Thaddeus back on his heels.  On the wind were carried two distinct smells, neither of them pleasant–sulphur, and the stench of decay.  That wasn’t what prompted Thaddeus to seize hold of his magic, however.  It was the chorus of unearthly howls and wails that followed in the wind’s wake.  As soon as he heard it, Thaddeus’s eyes flared blue, and his sword all but leapt into his hands.
    “What is it?” Zoe asked.  Thaddeus glanced at her long enough to see her hands had begun to glow.
    “Monsters, my Lady,” Aylander said.  A wickedly curved, black sword–did Thaddeus think it might have shared kinship with a sickle?–wreathed in flame had appeared in his hands.  “Sent by the Mother, herself.”
    Light suddenly exploded all around them, Thaddeus not needing to look to know Zoe was the one who cast it.  Once cast, it didn’t waver, some of it shining out a bit into the darkness.  Shapes began to appear as they entered the limits of its glow, shapes which ran, loped, and crawled across the ground.  The light reflected off what must have served the shapes for eyes, showing up in shades of green, red, and gold.  The light didn’t deter the shapes’ approach in the slightest–not that Thaddeus had expected it to–and, the closer they came, the more monstrous they grew.
    “Sent by the Mother, herself, huh?”  The wryness of Zoe’s tone caused Thaddeus’s lips to curve upward in amusement.  “Sounds like fun.”
    And then the monsters were upon them.

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

The Baron stared at the Sword Priest named Edrend in disbelief.  “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” he asked.  “That we should retreat before battle, here, has even begun?”
    “Not retreat, my Lord,” Edrend said.  “Redeploy.  Our power base is much more consolidated closer to the Royal District, and troop movement will be easier.  It will also take our enemy’s forces longer to reach us, seeing as how the bridge over the Gorge has been destroyed.  We will have more time to prepare.”
    “I see,” the Baron said.  “And are you taking magic into account at all in regards to these concerns?  I burnt that bridge as a symbol, knowing full well that Garrold would be able to replace it with little effort.  And he’s not alone, anymore.  There are at least two other mages in his camp, now, and, once the battle starts, even more may be revealed.  If we withdraw, no matter how well consolidated things are closer to the Royal District, it will give Garrold’s forces that much more time to prepare.  We need to strike them now, Edrend, while they are still comparatively weak.  Can’t you understand that?”  He narrowed his eyes.  “Or is there something you aren’t telling me?  Some other concern that is, shall we say, more personal in nature?”
    Something flickered in the Sword Priest’s otherwise dead eyes.  “I don’t know what you mean, my Lord.”
    “Oh, don’t you?  Were you not the one who led the last, abortive strike on Telvany?  Were you not the one who was bested by a mage who had only just come into his power?  Tell me, Edrend, does the prospect of facing Garrold a second time really fill you with so much dread?”
    The Sword Priest said nothing.
    “Silence won’t save you, my friend,” the Baron said.  “After all, you already know I can sense your fear.”  The Baron stood and moved to the table beside his chair, taking the pitcher that sat on it and pouring himself a cup of brandy.  “That fear disgusts me, Edrend,” he said as he took a sip.  “And it disgusts me even more that you’re allowing yourself to feel it.  What does someone like you, one of the most senior members of the Order of the Crimson Serpent, have to fear from a boy like Garrold Hilstren?  Tell me, do you know why it was that Garrold bested you the last time you faced him?”
    The Sword Priest still refused to speak.
    The Baron took another sip of brandy, then set his cup very deliberately down on the table.  “It’s because you forgot what you were,” he said.  “You’re a mage, Edrend, and all you could think of using against Garrold was your sword.  A sword he took from you and snapped over his leg like it was a twig.  Do you know what Atraxos would have done to you if he’d returned and learned of your humiliation?”  He stepped from behind the table and moved to stand directly in front of Edrend, using his magic to make himself appear taller than he actually was.  “Do you?”
    “He would have killed me, my Lord,” the Sword Priest answered.
    “Indeed,” the Baron said, “and you know what that means for someone who is already undead.  The suffering would have been an exquisite thing to witness.”
    “Do you intend to kill me, my Lord?” Edrend asked.
    “I should, but I want to give you another chance, instead.”  The Baron grinned, still using his magic so that he could look down at the Sword Priest.  “Besides, killing you wouldn’t allow you to continue wallowing in your humiliation.  I want you to use the memory of that humiliation as your incentive, as the force that will drive you to do better.  And let your fellows share in that memory.  For, if any of you fail me, I promise to make what Atraxos would have done to you look light in comparison.  Do you understand me?”
    “I understand, my Lord.”
    “Excellent.”  The Baron returned to his normal height.  “You may go, now.  We attack in two hours.”
    “Very well, my Lord.”  The Sword Priest saluted and left the Baron’s tent.  
    “Pity,” a sultry, feminine voice suddenly said.  “I was hoping I’d get to see him suffer.”
    The Baron turned.  Standing behind the table where the pitcher of brandy sat was one of the most disturbingly beautiful women the Baron had ever seen.  She was clothed sparingly, with lush, distracting curves, and pale skin.  Hair the same shade of black as the darkness outside hung to her shoulders, and her green eyes glittered under heavy lids.  When the Baron first saw her, he was sure she was shorter than him, but that impression vanished so quickly, with the woman suddenly seeming to match his height, that he wouldn’t have been able to swear to it.  The woman smiled at him–a smile that, at the same time, made his heart skip a beat, and cold sweat to stand out on his forehead–stepping around the table and walking up to him.  As she approached, the Baron saw the reason her eyes glittered–flames danced in each of the woman’s pupils, marking her for the Demon Lord that she was.
    “Edrend may still prove himself a useful tool, Mistress,” the Baron said, his voice suddenly hoarse.  “Only fools discard the tools they might need.”
    “And you’re no fool,” the woman said, still smiling her unnerving smile.  Had she somehow grown taller?  She must have, as the Baron found himself having to look up at her.  “Isn’t that so, Baron?”
    The Baron was too afraid to answer.  The woman’s smile grew teasing, and she reached out to trace a finger down the side of the Baron’s face.  It was all the Baron could do to keep from shivering at her touch, and his trousers had suddenly grown uncomfortably tight.
    “Wise of you not to answer,” the woman said.  “Though you need have no fear of me.  So long as you don’t . . . disappoint me.”
    “As I swore to the Great One, so I swear to you, Mistress.”
    “Of course,” the woman–who had to have been Hel, the Queen of Demons and ruler of the Underworld–said.  She stroked the Baron’s face, again.  “Of course.”  She turned away from him and sauntered back to the table, pouring herself some of the brandy.  Facing the Baron, again, she took a sip and said, “You’ll be pleased to know I’ve come to help you.  And to know you need not worry about the Nightslayer appearing to spoil things.”
    The Baron was relieved by the news.  A part of him had been afraid that, for his first battle as their new Necromancer, the Demon Lords would leave him to carry the fight on his own, a test to see how well he would do, and whether or not he would survive.  And then there had been the problem of the Nightslayer, who the Baron well knew had returned from wherever he had gone to.  The Nightslayer–who, until the Baron had been approached by the Hidden King, had been nothing more to him than the subject of a children’s game–frightened him, and seemed to have no small effect on the Demon Lords, either.  To hear the that the Nightslayer wouldn’t be coming for this particular battle made the Baron feel a little better, though it did leave him curious.  “How did you accomplish that?” he asked Hel.
    Hel smiled again, taking another sip of brandy.  “I’ve sent some of my children to waylay him.  It’s likely they won’t survive the effort, but that hardly matters if it keeps the Nightslayer from getting here and having an effect on a battle that will be largely one-sided without him.”  She sipped, again, then raised her cup a second time and downed the rest of her brandy in a large gulp.  Replacing the cup on the table, she went on.  “Oh, and about the help I promised you.  It’s already been deployed.  Which, I’m afraid, moves the time-table for your attack up a bit.”  Her smile turned teasing, again.  “Sorry about that.  I abhor waiting unnecessarily, though.”
    The Baron thought he had a good idea what sort of “help” Hel had deployed.  More of her children–monsters she could summon at will from some shadow realm only she seemed to know about, and that only she had any sort of control over.  Legend said Hel’s children could only be destroyed by the most powerful of magics, and that, in only the span of minutes, they could rip a small army to shreds.  The Baron returned Hel’s smile, his previous unease at her presence now all but forgotten about.  “As do I, Mistress,” he said.  “As do I.”

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

    Wilem returned to his tent not long before what would normally have been sunrise.  Just as there hadn’t been for the last five days, there would be no sunrise, today, however–a fact that, with each passing day, made Wilem more and more uneasy.  Wilem’s unease wasn’t just caused by the unnaturally persistent darkness–which was bad enough by itself–but also by what suspicions he had about it.  Some of those suspicions had already been confirmed by the spontaneous magical awakenings of Stevan and Robert, which, though they would have eventually happened, anyway, seemed to have been hastened by some external force.  Was that external force what Wilem thought it was?  A sudden heightening of the world’s natural magical field?  If it was, and if that heightening coincided with the advent of the endless night which had taken hold, the implications were disturbing, indeed.

Sister Niela was waiting for Wilem when he reached his tent.  She was sitting on one of his folding camp chairs, and had brought an earthenware jug and two wooden cups with her.  She smiled at Wilem as he stepped inside and settled onto the only other available seat–his cot.  “Time for that drink, already?” Wilem asked.

“A lot of people are going to die, tomorrow,” Niela said.  “Maybe even us.  I didn’t want to waste any more time.”  She popped the cork from the jug and filled the two cups, handing one to Wilem.

Wilem looked at the cup, and was surprised to see that what Niela had filled it with was what the country folk called liquid lightning.  “Where in Hel’s name did you get this?” he asked.

“Now, now, Wilem,” Niela scolded playfully, “let’s not swear.  I bought it off one of the soldiers.”

“Have you ever had any of this before?”

“No, but I’ve heard amazing things about it.  And don’t worry.  If it makes us too drunk, I can heal both of us.”  She took a swallow from her cup, then coughed.  “I think.”

Wilem took a drink of his own.  The liquor was harsh, but also surprisingly good.  He looked at Niela and shook his head.  “You really go all out when you decide to break an oath, don’t you?”

“And why shouldn’t I?  This could be our last night this side of the grave.”  Her smile grew more mischievous, and, even in the darkness, her eyes seemed to twinkle.  “I intend to enjoy it to the fullest.”

Wilem cleared his throat and looked away, his cheeks growing hot.  Niela chuckled and reached out to him, placing her hand over his.  “Don’t be shy, Wilem,” she said.  “No one but us will care what happens here, tonight.  Not even the Gods Above.”  Wilem looked back up at her, and when he did, her brow creased in a slight frown.  “You’re not afraid you’ll regret breaking your oath with me, are you?”

Wilem smiled.  “Not at all, Niela,” he said.  “It’s just that, well, you’ll be the first woman I’ve ever been with, and that makes me a little nervous.”

Niela looked at him for a moment, then laughed.  “That’s all right,” she said.  “You’ll be the first man I’ve ever been with!”

“And you don’t think it’s weird, sleeping with someone you’ve known since he was a boy?”

“You aren’t a boy anymore, Wilem.  You’re a man.  And a very handsome one at that.”

Wilem smirked.  “Even though I’m bald?”

Niela grinned.  “That’s the best part,” she said, taking another drink.  She didn’t cough as hard, this time, and the twinkle in her eyes seemed to grow brighter.

Both of them were on the cot not long after, their drinks forgotten as they discovered other, more pleasant things.  Afterward, as they held each other, enjoying the feeling of being in each other’s arms, Wilem said, “I’m afraid, Niela.”

“I know,” Niela said.  “So am I.  This darkness is stirring forces the world hasn’t seen in a very long time.  That’s why so few of the Order are here.  Those who didn’t come are waiting and watching, hoping against hope that, whatever the night brings, they’ll be able to contain it.”

“The Nightslayer will come,” Wilem said.  “I’ve sensed his return to the world.  Surely he will be able to do something.”

“He’ll be able to do much.  There’s no doubting that.  But will he do enough?”

“What do you mean?” Wilem asked, though he was sure he already knew.

“The Unnamed Prophecy,” Niela said.  “You know it as well as I do.  You know it mentions the darkness, and the return of the gods.  You know it speaks of the growing chaos we both feel, and how only the one who holds the Seven Points of Night can bring rein to it.  Is the Nightslayer the one who holds the Seven Points?”

“I don’t know,” Wilem said.

“Neither do I.  No one does.  No one even knows what the Seven Points of Night are.”  She was quiet for a time, then said, “Wilem, why haven’t we ever shared the Unnamed Prophecy with anyone?  Maybe, if we had, one of them could have given us the answers about its meaning.  Were we that afraid of admitting our own ignorance?”

“I don’t know, Niela,” Wilem said.  “The Unnamed Prophecy has always been the most unsettling piece of lore known to us, and not just because of our lack of understanding.  After all, its fulfillment could mean the end of the world.”

“Of all worlds,” Niela said.

“Yes.”

“Hold me, Wilem.”

Wilem pulled her in closer, and he felt her own embrace grow tighter in return.  Niela felt good in his arms, and he never wanted her anywhere else.  A sudden stab of anger passed through him.  Was this the gift the Gods Above had given him?  The chance to sleep with the woman of his dreams on the eve of his own death?  None of this is their fault, Wilem thought.  Not even if they actually exist.

“Are you all right?” Niela asked.

Wilem met her eyes with his.  “As long as you’re with me, I will be,” he said.

“I’ll never leave your side,” Niela said.  “Not if we die, tomorrow, or a hundred years from now.”

They kissed.  “Thank you for coming to my tent to share a drink with me,” Wilem said when their lips finally parted.

Niela smiled, her eyes once again twinkling.  “Thank you for letting me share the comfort of your bed.”

Wilem chuckled.  “It’s not a bed, silly woman,” he said.  “It’s a cot, and it’s not very comfortable at all.”

Niela giggled.  “Silly, am I?” she asked.

Wilem grinned.  “Only in the best possible way.”

They made love, again–to Wilem’s surprise, it was better the second time, even if they were confined to his less than comfortable cot–then fell asleep in each other’s arms.  Outside, the new day–such as it was–had dawned, and both of them knew that the battle would break soon.  Until it did, however, nothing mattered but the time they had, and in his sleep, Wilem smiled. 

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

 

Garrold had gathered the darkness around himself to keep from being seen. He knew this wouldn’t keep his magic from being detected – meaning that, even while he was hidden from sight, he could still wind up as a target for the Baron, or for one of his ever-growing number of magical lackeys – but it did give him the freedom to move among his own troops without disturbing them. Aside from the members of the King’s Guard who had defected to Garrold’s side the night he had proclaimed himself Magister, his army was a pretty ragtag bunch, but, based on what he saw, they had taken to what training they’d had in the last few weeks well, and Garrold had no doubt that, when the battle with the Baron finally broke, they would not fail him. That still meant that most of them were likely going to die, though, and for a man – and a cause – they, as yet, had little reason to believe in.

Oh, Garrold was certain the unnatural darkness that had fallen frightened them – it scared even him, and he was a mage – but was that darkness enough for them to believe Garrold was the right man to fight and die for? And what of the growing number of magic users Garrold sensed in the Baron’s ranks? Some of those, he was sure, were Twisted Eltarans like he’d faced, before, but what about the others? Where had they come from? And why hadn’t Garrold’s forces gotten more of their own? While Garrold was sure he could do much to hold back the magical torrent that was sure to come when battle broke – particularly with the help of the clerics and monks who had accompanied the army, here – he knew he couldn’t face it alone. Without at least another mage or two to back Garrold up, his army would be annihilated. Or worse, if one, or more, of the Demon Lords happened to show up. The Gods Above only knew what would happen, then.

Garrold came to a sudden halt. Three new magical presences – one of them familiar, yet far away – had entered his awareness. The two closest ones were right here in his camp, and, though he had never sensed them magically, before, Garrold even thought he knew who they might have been. He laughed at the thought – and then again when a group of soldiers standing near him jumped at the sound of laughter coming out of nowhere – then dashed toward where the presences were, his magic allowing him to cover the distance in a matter of seconds. When Garrold arrived at where Stevan, Robert, and Wilem stood, he had all but forgotten the cloak of darkness surrounding him. He remembered it very quickly, though, when Robert looked right at him, grinned, and said, “Evenin’, Your Grace! Burn your shoes in any fires on the way here?”

Garrold’s cloak of darkness – through no will of his own – suddenly collapsed. It was only after it was gone that he realized it had fallen due to what, had it come from an enemy, had been a magical attack. A magical attack from Robert! “Robert?” Garrold said. “How did you do that?”

“He’s a mage, Your Grace,” Stevan said, then conjured a fireball in the air above his hand. “And so am I. Your brother says I’m a Pyromancer.”

“Indeed,” Wilem said, his grin larger – if that was possible – than either Stevan’s or Robert’s. “And Robert’s a Farseer. Only the best disguises will work on him, and darkness is no obstacle, whatsoever.”

“Wilem says I can also do things with people’s minds,” Robert said. He looked at Garrold and frowned. “It must have been someone like me who wiped your memory.”

“Wiped my memory?” Garrold said. “What in Hel’s name are you talking about?”

“It’s all right, Your Grace,” Robert said, his frown deepening. He raised one of his hands. “I think I can restore it.”

“Robert!” Wilem said. “Stop! You don’t-”

Wilem’s warning came too late. All at once, intense pain – worse than he could ever remember feeling, before – filled Garrold’s skull. He couldn’t scream, though, or do anything else but stand there, his eyes bulging, his mouth hanging open, certain that, any second, his head would burst like a melon. Strangely, even as much in the grip of pain as he was, a part of Garrold’s mind was aware that, had he been paying better attention, he could have stopped whatever was happening. The consequences of stopping it might have been disastrous for Robert – in fact, Garrold was all but certain they would have been – but it could have been done. If I survive this, he thought, amazed that he could still think about anything other than the pain he was in, I have to start being more observant.

Abruptly, and without Garrold’s head bursting, the pain ended. Garrold still couldn’t move – he was still very much in the grip of whatever spell Robert was using – but the pain was gone, replaced, instead, by a sudden, uncontrollable rush of what Garrold slowly came to realize were memories. The memories would have driven him to his knees if he’d been able to move – how could he have ever forgotten Stevan and Robert, two of the finest, if still flawed, people Garrold had ever known? – and then the anger came. Anger at his father. At the mage who had been tasked to erase his memory – and who had, unknowingly, instilled in Garrold the inherent fear and distrust of magic he’d been forced to overcome in order to become Magister. Magic should never have been used on Garrold they way it had been, then, and, at that moment, Garrold resolved that it never would be, again. No longer could magic be used to alter someone’s mind – not even if that mind belonged to an enemy – without at least their knowledge, if not their expressed permission, as well.

The rush of memories began to slow, and Garrold felt Robert’s spell start to relax. He relaxed it more gradually than he had implemented it, and, as it faded, Garrold thought he could sense a bit of the other man’s chagrin at his impulsiveness. Using that same conduit, Garrold sent Robert a pulse of reassurance, and of gratitude. The smile that appeared on Robert’s face was all Garrold needed to know that the pulse had been received.

“Are you all right, Brother?” Wilem asked.

Garrold looked at him. “Not really,” he said, referring mainly to the anger he still felt at what had been done to him, and what Robert had been forced to undo. “But I’m getting better.”

“Do you remember us, now?” Stevan asked.

“I do,” Garrold said. “And I swear to both of you, I will never forget you, again.”

“That’s good,” Robert said. There was a touch of wry amusement in his voice. “I’m pretty sure a person’s mind can only stand so much scrambling and unscrambling, Your Grace. I’d hate to make you a vegetable by having to do that, again.”

Garrold chuckled. “So would I, Robert. So would I.” He looked at Wilem, again. “So, since it seems Stevan and Robert have specialized magical talents, I have to ask. Why don’t I?”

“That’s because you are an Archmage,” Wilem said. “You can do a little bit of what every other mage can do, and more, as your Spellbinding abilities have already shown. Archmages have always been very rare – not so much as Battlemages, but almost. If things hadn’t turned out the way they have, there is almost no doubt that, one day, you would have led the Conclave. Now, however, you will lead something greater.”

“Provided we survive the battle that’s coming.” Garrold looked at Robert and Stevan, then smiled, again. “Which, now that I know what you two can do, is a little more likely.”

“Haven’t you always known what we could do, though?” Robert asked.

“I didn’t for a long time.” Garrold grinned. “And, now, I know you can do more than drink like a fish and cheat at cards!”

Robert looked stricken. “Your Grace!” he said. “I never cheated!”

“Sure you didn’t, boyo,” Stevan said.

“Shut up, you!”

Garrold laughed. As he laughed, though, his thoughts turned to the other magical presence he’d felt, the one that was still so far way. He’d felt that presence, before, of course. It was Thaddeus, returned from wherever it was he’d disappeared to. Thaddeus was coming this way, and quickly, but Garrold still feared that the man who called himself the Nightslayer would not get here in time. And what if something waylaid him to make sure that he didn’t? Don’t let it keep you long, my friend. I fear my men and I will need you before all of this is over.

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

Stevan had never imagined himself as a soldier in service to a great cause, and it had never even occurred to him that he might have had it in himself to be a leader. But here he was, a Silver Shield to the Magister of the Torvaran Empire, leading troops he, himself, had helped train onto a field that, in the hours and days to come, would mark the place where, after far too long, the forces of evil and oppression would finally begin to be driven from the land. It surprised Stevan to find himself thinking in such terms – hadn’t he, at one time, almost wound up, at least somewhat, an ally to those forces, a dabbler in petty crime and not-so-petty thievery? – but, now that things had progressed as far as they had, he could no longer imagine himself thinking in any other way. Stevan, though he had yet to be tested by combat, was proud of what he’d become, and had sworn an oath – to himself, and to whatever god might have been listening – to never again be tempted by the baser things in life. I’ll still drink and chase women, though, he thought as he watched his troops settle in to their camp on the eastern rim of Gelevan Gorge. But probably not as much.

“It’s quite a sight, eh, Stevan?” Robert asked as he rode up beside him.

“You can say that, again,” Stevan said. He looked at the man who had been his friend for as long as he could remember. “Never thought something like this would happen to us, did you? Back when the Old Duke caught us trying to break into the castle, I mean.”

“I’m still surprised he didn’t have us hanged,” Robert said. “By rights, he should have.”

“It was Garrold’s doing, I’ll wager,” Stevan said after the two of them had been silent for a few moments. “He’s always been one for mercy, and the Old Duke knew how close he was to us. If Garrold didn’t put in a good word for us back then – and I know he’ll never tell us if he did or not – then the Old Duke must’ve known how much it would’ve hurt his son if he had to watch his friends being hanged.” Stevan shook his head and laughed. “Gods Above, we were stupid in those days, weren’t we?”

Robert nodded. “The Old Duke may not have hanged us, but he punished us for it, all the same,” he said. “Unpaid service as Garrold’s personal guards, and exile if we were ever again seen mingling with him in any other than an official matter. That was the hardest part, really. Garrold was the best damn dice player I’ve ever met, and I’ve never met anyone who could even come close to out drinking us the way he used to.” He looked at Stevan. “Do you really think the Old Duke had one of the Conclave come and wipe Garrold’s memory of us?”

Stevan shrugged. “Can’t see any other way he would have forgotten us so completely.” He smiled. “It was nice when he started paying us, wasn’t it?”

Robert chuckled. “Yeah, it was,” he said. His mirth faded. “At least until we became Silver Shields. I feel like I’m robbing him, anymore.”

“You could give a part of it to charity,” Stevan said. “That’s what I do, anyway.”

“Harder to buy drinks and women with it if I do that,” Robert said. He grinned at Stevan. “Guess I’m not quite as pure as you yet, eh?”

No, Stevan thought. But your conscience has certainly grown. He grinned back at Robert. “Guess not.”

The two of them fell into a companionable silence. Stevan kept his eyes on his troops, watching as they took up their positions, making sure everyone he saw followed his training as closely as could be reasonably expected. Once the battle broke – tomorrow, or the next day, or, maybe, even the day after that – Stevan felt his men would do their best, but he was also sure that not everything would go smoothly. There were cowards and shirkers out there – to think there weren’t would be more than a little naive, especially for someone like Stevan – and he knew all of them were unnerved by the night that refused end. He, himself, was so bothered by it that his hands had started to itch – a gnawing, bone-deep itch that made him have to keep flexing his fingers inside his gloves, which really did nothing to affect the itch, at all.

“Hands itching, again?” Robert asked.

“Mmm,” Stevan muttered, nodding, not at all surprised Robert had seen his hands moving in the gloves that were as black as the night that surrounded them.

“It start before we arrived?”

“Yeah.” He looked at Robert. “How’s your head?”

“Pounding,” Robert said. “Everything looks real bright, too. Just like usual when I get anxious, I suppose.”

“Ever talk to one of the clerics about that?”

Robert laughed. “No more than you’ve ever talked to one about your hands. Their magic might be healing magic, but I don’t want it touching me unless I’m dying.”

“I know what you mean. Robert, why do you think we’re still so afraid of magic? We serve a mage, after all.”

“Garrold might be a mage,” Robert said, looking at Stevan, “but he was our friend long before he ever figured that out. Magic stole him away from us. Magic that was used on him without his permission. No one should have the power or authority to do that to someone else. Now, I know what Garrold’s said about not allowing anyone to do anything like that, anymore, but – even though I do trust him to keep his word – I can’t help but wonder. What if this war changes his mind, Stevan? What if it makes him more worried about what’s expedient instead of what’s right?”

“Wilem would never allow that,” Stevan said after a brief silence. “He’s the one who encouraged Garrold to name himself Magister, after all. Wilem wouldn’t have encouraged something like that if he thought Garrold would ever allow himself to fall back into the Conclave’s old patterns. Garrold’s going to be different, Robert. I know he is, and not just because he used to be our friend. Something about all of this just feels right, somehow.”

Robert was silent for a moment. Then he smiled. “It does, doesn’t it?” he said at last. “Maybe you’re right, then. And maybe we should stop being so afraid of magic.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

Somehow, Wilem had arrived with neither Stevan, nor Robert, noticing his approach. Stevan looked at the monk – who, despite his baldness, was almost the spitting image of his brother – and said, “You heard that whole conversation, didn’t you?”

Wilem smiled. “Most of it. Could I have a look at one of your hands, Stevan?”

Stevan flexed his right hand – Gods Above, but the itch was maddening, and had almost begun to feel like burning – then pulled his glove off and handed it out to Wilem. Wilem stepped forward and took the hand in his, leaning forward as he studied it, almost as if he were examining some kind of exotic gem. Stevan almost asked how Wilem could see anything in the low light, but then he felt the slight tingle of the monk’s magic on his skin. He nearly pulled his hand away, but was able to hold still – now was the perfect time for Stevan to stop being so afraid. At last, Wilem let Stevan’s hand go, and, when he looked up, there was a mischievous gleam in his eye.

“How long have your hands bothered you when you were nervous?” Wilem asked.

Stevan frowned, and, though he moved to put his glove back on, found he suddenly no longer wanted his hands covered. “I don’t know,” he said, pulling the glove off of his left hand, and then tucking both of them into his belt. “Since I was a boy, I think.”

“Try conjuring a fireball,” Wilem said.

“What?” Stevan and Robert said at the same time.

“Just what I said. Stevan, imagine a ball of fire appearing in the air above your fingertips. Picture a small one – at least for right now – and concentrate on the image as hard as you can. If I’m right, what happens next should really come as no surprise, at all.”

“But, I’m no mage!” Stevan said.

Wilem smiled, again. “Are you sure about that?”

Stevan looked from Robert, to Wilem, and back, again. Robert – predictably – looked confused. Wilem’s expression was nothing but expectant – and, maybe, just a little smug. What if, as mad as it sounded, he could conjure a fireball? Would it make his hands stop itching? Since taking his gloves off, Stevan’s hands already felt a little better, but they still itched, and the itching made them feel restless. He flexed them – the old habit, which, as always, did nothing – then shrugged, holding his right hand out with palm up and fingers curled. Almost as soon as Stevan pictured the fireball in his mind, one appeared in the air above his hand, its flames mere inches from the tips of his fingers. He stared at it for a moment, less surprised that he felt he should have been, then laughed. The itch in his right hand was gone.

“Holy shit,” Robert breathed from beside him. “You’re a mage, Stevan! A fucking mage!”

“And not just any kind of mage,” Wilem said. “You’re a Pyromancer. It means you have a special affinity for fire.”

Stevan made the fireball disappear, then conjured another one with his left hand. The itch in that hand vanished just as it hand in his right, and for a moment, he sat, entranced by the flames that danced above his fingertips. Hadn’t he always liked fire? Hadn’t it always somehow called to him? And then he frowned, a memory he hadn’t thought about in a long time bubbling suddenly to the surface. I burnt the cottage down. I almost killed Mother! Stevan dismissed the fireball and raised his hands to his face, weeping.

“It’s all right, Stevan,” Wilem said, his voice soft. Stevan felt the monk put his hand on his shoulder – which shouldn’t have been possible, since Stevan sat on a horse, and Wilem was afoot. “It’s all right.”

And it was – almost. But Stevan had still burnt the small cottage he’d shared with his mother down, had almost killed her – and himself – in the fire he’d started, and all because he couldn’t get his hands to stop itching. I need to remember, he thought. This gift can be dangerous. Stevan felt Robert’s hand on his other shoulder. He took his hands away from his face, blinked, and looked at him.

“He’s right, mate,” Robert said. “I don’t know what you remembered, but, whatever it was, it’s all right.”

Stevan smiled shakily. “You’re a good friend, Robert,” he said. “You always have been.”

“He is,” Wilem said. He was still standing on the ground in front of Stevan’s horse, so, whatever Stevan had felt from him, it had been because of his magic. “I’m sorry the two of you had to lose Garrold the way you did.”

“The past’s the past,” Stevan said, surprised at how philosophical he sounded. He cleared his throat. “So, Brother Wilem, you helped with my hands. Do you think you can do anything for Robert’s head?”

Wilem looked at Robert and grinned, the mischievous gleam back in his eye. “Perhaps,” he said.

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

The Sprite had never been Horace Alvarem, of course. While it had been expedient to make the intruders think he was – and child’s play to reconstruct a younger version of the man they had called the Abbot out of the images stored in their memories – the time had come, at last, for his true nature to be revealed. Though he knew the intruders couldn’t harm him, it still wasn’t something he looked forward to revealing. The probability that their reactions would be negative was quite high – none of these three people liked being lied to, which was entirely as it should have been – and negative reactions, no matter what form they took, were never a pleasant thing when they came from people you had begun to grow fond of.

Some Sprites – particularly those birthed from the souls of dead Eltarans – had more free will than others, but the Sprite who watched over the three intruders as their minds were returned to their bodies was not one of those. Oh, he had enough free will to understand that, despite what the Masters had told him, the intruders weren’t really intruders, and had also been able to intuit on his own that this wasn’t the first time a Sprite had been given a duty similar to his. In fact, he suspected he was just the latest in a very long line, and hoped that, once his task was completed – a task he had no other choice but to complete – he would be given freedom. But what if he wasn’t? What if, as a part of him was beginning to suspect, there had never been any other Sprites who had been given this particular task, and that, each time, it had been him who’d carried it out, only to have his memories wiped afterwards so he could do it all over again? Again, though, given his nature as a Sprite, he had no other option but to do what the Masters told him to do, consequences be damned.

“You needn’t trouble yourself, young one,” a voice – the voice of one of the Masters, themselves – suddenly said. “This time will be the last.”

The Sprite looked at the Master who had spoken. It was the first time in a long time he had seen one of the Masters in person, and it took him a moment to realize that the person who had appeared beside him was not, despite his outward appearance, human. The Master smiled at him, then reached up to push the spectacles he wore back up his nose – a gesture so human that it made it even harder for the Sprite to remember how powerful of a being the Master actually was.

“Have I done this before, then, Master?” the Sprite asked.

“Many times, child,” the Master said, “and always well. We are sorry we had to erase your memories each time, but you would never have been able to fulfill your duty if we hadn’t. Your mind would have been too full of distracting questions and doubts, and you also would more than likely have chafed under the knowledge of how we had used you. That couldn’t have been allowed.”

“But why?” the Sprite asked. “I am a Sprite. I live to serve you. Any questions or doubts I may have had would never have stopped me from doing what needed to be done.”

The Master chuckled. “Don’t be so sure about that. You have as much free will as any Sprite. How could you be useful to us if you didn’t? We don’t want mindless slaves, after all. We had enough of that when we created the Dragonkin.”

“What happened to the Dragonkin, Master?” the Sprite asked.

“The same thing that happened to everything in this place. The Cataclysm was worse with them, though, and mainly because of how mindless we made them.” The Master was silent for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “We could have killed them, of course, instead of letting them roam the wasteland we left behind. In fact, we probably should have, given their propensity for being able to escape. They were our children, though, a part of us, and we couldn’t handle the pain of knowing we wiped them out.”

“What will happen to me once my task is complete?”

The Master looked at the Sprite. “You’ll be freed, of course. Back to becoming one with the power of this place. Never again will anyone conjure you, or anything like you, into existence. Your time will be over.”

“I’ll be dead, then?”

“Nothing ever truly dies, child. All energy is eternal, never being created, never being destroyed. In that way, you will still exist, just as everything does once it’s passed beyond the veil of perception. Now, will you be aware of all of that, living on as a spirit or ghost like people have told stories about almost since time began? I can’t say. You might. Personally, I’d like to hope that you do.”

“The magic Lady Zoe uses,” the Sprite said, “Life magic. It says that I will live on.”

“Indeed it does,” the Master said. “But that is also a reflection of her belief, which, for someone like her, is a powerful thing. In her world, the afterlife is a very real thing, and is even a place where people can be brought back from against their will. You, however, are not necessarily a part of her world. Her rules may not apply to you, to what will happen to you. They could, of course – her beliefs may be, in some form or another, the truth – but it’s equally likely that they don’t. Either way, though, once your task here is complete, you will be free.”

“I’m not sure I want the kind of freedom that makes me forget who I am,” the Sprite said after a few moments of silence.

“And who are you, then, child?” the Master asked. It wasn’t a spiteful question. There was genuine curiosity in it.

“I am me,” the Sprite said. Whatever that meant. “And I don’t want to be forgotten.”

The Master took his spectacles off for a moment, rubbing his eyes. Then he put them back on. “I’ll make sure you won’t be,” he said.

“Is that a promise?” the Sprite asked.

“It is. No matter what happens, once your duty has been fulfilled, I will make sure you are not forgotten.” The Master looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. “No other Sprite has ever asked for something like that before,” he finally said. “Are you sure you don’t have a name?”

“If I did, wouldn’t one of you have given it to me?”

“We never named any of our creations. Not even the ones we gave free will to. Only Eltaran Sprites had names, and there were never very many of them.”

“Then why would I have a name?”

“Because we didn’t make you. After the Cataclysm, we found you here. And you volunteered for the task that’s been yours ever since.”

“That’s impossible.” The Sprite tried to sound more sure of that than he felt. The Master’s words had disturbed him, and he could feel thoughts – memories – that couldn’t have been his own stirring at the edges of his consciousness.

“That’s what we thought, too.” The Master took his spectacles off and placed them in the breast pocket of the jacket he wore. Looking at him without the spectacles, the Sprite was struck by how familiar he seemed. By how much his face looked like that of someone he not only knew, but knew well. And then the Master smiled. “Tell me your name,” he said.

“Kevin,” the Sprite suddenly blurted, and knew that it was true. “I think my name is – was – Kevin.”

“I had a brother named Kevin, once,” the Master said. His smile turned sad, his gaze growing unfocused. “Or would have, had things turned out differently.” He refocused his gaze on the Sprite. “Goodbye, my friend,” the Master said, and then vanished.

“Were you just talking to someone?”

The Sprite looked at Thaddeus, who had just come up to stand by him. “What? Oh, no. Of course not.”

Thaddeus looked at the Sprite for a moment, the expression on his face saying that he wasn’t convinced. He didn’t say anything, though, and turned away as both Zoe and Aylander returned to consciousness. Though they all seemed to share the disorientation that came from waking from a deep and restful sleep – something that they still should have found unusual, given the nature of their magical abilities – none of the three seemed to be surprised that they were still in the ruined building they had fallen asleep in the night before. After a time, Aylander turned his attention to the Sprite and, with a thoughtful frown, said, “You’re different, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean?” the Sprite asked, trying to feign innocence.

“What he means,” Thaddeus said, “is that you aren’t the same as you were before we went to sleep, last night. And there’s no point in denying it. Even I can see he’s right, and my abilities aren’t the same as his. What happened?”

The Sprite didn’t answer right away. What would they do when they found out the truth? I’ll never know until I tell them. “Very well,” the Sprite said, sighing. “First of all, I need to tell you that, even though I look like him, I am not, and never was, Horace Alvarem. I needed all of you to trust me without divulging my true intentions too early, so I created an approximation of how Father Alvarem looked as a young man from the impressions of him I read inside your memories. I hope you can forgive me for that.”

“That depends,” Thaddeus said. “What were your true intentions?”

“To bring you all back here, to this city,” the Sprite said. “We are very close to the Void, here – I know you all understand what I mean – and my Masters needed to be sure about you. And, since you’re all still here talking to me, it can be safely assumed that you passed their test.”

“So you were a lure,” Aylander said. It wasn’t a question. “Bait for a trap.”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“It would only have been a trap, though, if we’d failed,” Zoe said. “Am I right?”

“Yes, my Lady. I am very pleased to see that you all passed.”

“We haven’t necessarily passed, yet,” Thaddeus said. “We need to get back to our world before the Demon Lords amass too much power.”

“Their power has already grown in your absence,” the Sprite said. “I fear they’ve found someone to take Atraxos the Black’s place.”

“Another Necromancer?”

“Yes, and a powerful one, at that. Even now, the forces of the newly reforged Torvaran Empire march out to do battle with him, but, without the three of you, their fight will be for naught.”

The three of them shared a look. Zoe said, “We were told that we would know the way back and wouldn’t need any help. But I have no idea what we’re supposed to do.”

“Neither do I,” Thaddeus said.

“I might,” Aylander said. He addressed the Sprite. “You’re the way out, aren’t you?”

“As long as we’re here, in these ruins, I am,” the Sprite said.

“Whatever you have to do to get us back,” Zoe said. “You won’t survive it, will you?”

“No, my Lady. I was told, though, that I wouldn’t be forgotten.”

“If you can get us back,” Thaddeus said, “I promise you that you won’t be.”

“And I will ease your passage to the afterlife as much as I can,” Zoe said.

“Is there an afterlife for me, then?” the Sprite asked.

“My friend, if Lady Zoe says she can ease your passage to it, you can trust that there is,” Aylander said.

The Sprite looked at the three of them for a moment, then focused his attention on Zoe. Had he been in the presence of a Sorceress before? He was sure he had been, but, as Zoe suddenly smiled at him, he realized that, never before, had he been in the presence of someone like her. Zoe cared about protecting life above all else, which also meant shepherding it through the sometimes painful transition that was death. Her magic, which, as the Master had told the Sprite, was shaped partially by her beliefs in how it worked, told her that there was an afterlife for all creatures – even those that were not necessarily a part of her world. In order for Zoe to be able to help him, all the Sprite had to do was make a leap of faith and believe in her magic as she did. It shouldn’t have been easy for him. And yet, it was.

“Are you ready?” Zoe asked.

“Yes, my Lady,” the Sprite said.

“Then let’s go,” Thaddeus said, and drew his sword – the runes on its surface glowing blue – from its scabbard.

The Sprite looked at Thaddeus, looked at the sword – the Sign Universal was unmistakable – then nodded.

“Look at me,” Zoe said.

The Sprite looked at her. There was a flash of amber light, followed in quick succession by one of blue. And then Kevin was looking into the smiling faces of his parents, who reached out and gathered him into their arms. Thank you, Lady Zoe, Kevin thought, no longer even sure he remembered who it was he was thanking. Thank you.

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

Lighting flashed in the distance, throwing a line of craggy mountains into silhouette. Aylander sat on the ground beside a fire burning inside of a ring of stones. Two rabbits on skewers sizzled above the fire, but, somehow, Aylander understood that they would never be done cooking. Not that he was hungry. In fact, after all the time he’d spent in the Abyss – which might have only been a few days, or could have been years – Aylander wasn’t sure he even remembered what hunger felt like.

“You don’t have to eat if you don’t want to,” the man who sat across the fire from Aylander said. Though he looked human, there was a feral, almost wolfish quality to his features, and the faded blue clothes he wore were of a style Aylander had never seen, before. The man smiled just as there was another flash of lighting, his lips pulling back to reveal unnaturally sharpened incisors. “Me, on the other hand? I’m starving.”

“Where am I?” Aylander asked.

The man chuckled. “Oh, come on. That doesn’t matter, does it? What you really want to know is who I am. Isn’t it?”

“You’re one of the Old Ones,” Aylander said.

The man threw back his head and laughed. When he brought his gaze back down, Aylander saw that the fire was reflected perfectly in his otherwise featureless black eyes. “Excellent guess, Aylander! Truly excellent!” He reached over and took one of the skewers, biting into the underdone rabbit that Aylander. “Did you know, though?” the man said as he chewed, juice – and blood – dripping down his chin. “I’ve got a name. Would you like to know it?”

“What is it?”

“I’ve got lots of names, actually. Nyarlathotep. Maerlyn. Flagg. Walter.” The man laughed, again. “You can call me The Walkin’ Dude. Or the Hard Case, if you like.”

Aylander had heard one of those names, before – Nyarlathotep. Nyarlathotep was a trickster demon from Eltaran mythology, a creature that took great pleasure in causing as much chaos as it could. That it also happened to be the name of one of the Old Ones – Aylander refused to think of them as the Gods Beyond the Gods, as true gods wouldn’t abuse their power as much as the stories said the Old Ones did – didn’t surprise him in the least. “What do you want?” Aylander asked.

The Hard Case had finished his rabbit, and all trace of juice and blood on his chin had vanished. Then he reached for the second skewer. He didn’t take a bite of the second rabbit right away, however. Instead, he studied the skewer thoughtfully for a moment, then said, “I want to know what makes you so special.”

“What do you mean?”

The skewer in the Hard Case’s hand suddenly vanished, and he was now dressed in a hooded black robe. The glitter of reflected firelight stared out at Aylander from under the man’s hood for a long time before he answered. “You didn’t give in,” he said at last. “Why?”

Aylander knew what the man meant. “I almost did. My friends pulled me back. They showed me why it was wrong.”

“Your friends? Don’t you mean your family? That’s what they think of you, anyway. And why did what they did matter? You’re Eltaran. Not only that, your soul is Twisted. Or was, at any rate. There is no way you should have been able to avoid the temptation of power.”

“Who says I avoided the temptation?” Aylander asked. “Maybe I simply decided to use the power in a way no one ever had, before.”

“Maybe,” the Hard Case said, “but how long can you keep it up? That power can make you all but a god. You know that. And it won’t leave you once you escape from the Abyss. If anything, once you take it back to your own world, it will be even stronger.”

Aylander smiled. “I think I can handle it.”

“Do you? Once upon a time, my people thought they could, as well. We almost destroyed the entire cosmos as a result.”

“Only almost, though. What kept you from finishing the job?”

It was a long moment before the Hard Case answered. “I don’t really know,” he said at last. “Cooler heads must have prevailed, I suppose.”

“Cooler heads,” Aylander said. “Cooler heads who still had all that power. They saw what they were doing, though, and stopped themselves. They even tried to stabilize what was left, didn’t they?”

“You already know the answer to that. You wouldn’t be here talking to me if they hadn’t.”

“The sign on my tabard. Adarion’s Sign. The Sign Unknowable. You gave it to me, didn’t you?”

“We did.”

“Have you ever given it to anyone, before?”

“No. Though the one who preceded you could have been given it. He was worthy enough. The time, however, was not yet right.”

“Why is the time right, now?”

“Because the end is finally coming. Because, one way or the other, once this is all over, there will once again be balance.”

“Whether the Demon Lords are defeated or not, right?”

The Hard Case poked at the fire with a stick that had suddenly appeared in his hand. “Yes,” he said.

“And what if they win?” Aylander asked. “Will that matter to you? Since you gave me the Sign, I have to think that it will.”

“We’re not sure,” the Hard Case said. He looked at Aylander. “And that frightens us.”

“You trust me to wield my powers, don’t you?”

The Hard Case laughed. “Trust you? I wouldn’t go quite that far. However, because you didn’t give in, and because you believe that you won’t, we decided to take a leap of faith. Please don’t prove us wrong.”

“You do know that Thaddeus was tempted by these powers, too, don’t you?”

“Of course. You are with him, though. As is Zoe. You balance each other. You make each other complete. This we’ve already seen. Our leap of faith wasn’t just for you, Aylander. It was for all of you.”

Aylander was silent for a time, staring into the fire. In the distance, lighting flashed again. There was no thunder. “I will do what I can to make sure your faith in us is not misplaced,” he finally said. He looked across the fire. “I swear it.”

“Don’t lose faith in yourself in the process,” the Hard Case said. “Or in your family. Though you have more tools than you did, before, the road ahead of you will not be an easy one.”

“Can you tell me what the Sign Unknowable does?”

The Hard Case – who, again, looked like he had when their talk first began – smiled. “Many things,” he said. “I could tell you what, and how many, but those are things you’ll have to learn for yourself. I will tell you, though, that it is the perfect counterpart to the magical arts you call Necromancy.”

That sounded intriguing. “How perfect?”

“In every way. Farewell, now, Aylander. And good luck.” The Hard Case grinned. “Eat something good for me when you get back.”