Nightslayer - Chapter Fifty-Seven

The battle had started badly and was growing worse by the moment. Chaos and confusion ruled the field – fed by a furious, lighting and wind filled storm that had blown up as soon as the first wave of monsters had struck – and friends were just as likely to kill one another as they were to kill an enemy. Garrold went everywhere he could on the field to lend aid, often doing no good beyond killing a few monsters or enemy troops, and the effort was taking its toll. Not even the focus granted by the Shining Circlet was fighting the exhaustion off, entirely, and Garrold knew that it would only be a matter of time before he would no longer be able to fight, at all.

A cry went up from the left flank of Garrold’s army, and, when he looked, he saw the glow of amber light that told him what members of the Order of Catharzen who were present had been engaged by Abominations. Would they be overrun? Who could say, though the tide of the battle, thus far, seemed to indicate that, in time, even they would either be forced to fall back or face total annihilation. Of course Garrold knew what a loss here, meant – far, far more than the crown of the Kingdom of Voranar being placed on Baron Vabarn’s head – but there just no longer seemed any way he could win. And to compound it all, no Demon Lords had appeared on the battlefield, yet. If – and when – that happened, the loss that had already grown inevitable would only become that much more agonizing. How many of my men will I have to see become thralls? Garrold wondered. Or will I be spared that horror by being turned into one before any of them?

Garrold saw the approaching eight-legged, twelve-eyed monster too late. He raised his sword to try and defend himself, knowing at once how futile the effort was, and was saved at the last moment by a well-timed fireball cast by Stevan, who had raced up from somewhere on Garrold’s right. “Gotta watch your flanks, Your Grace,” Stevan said, his face almost unrecognizable through the layers of blood and grime. “These things won’t give you a second chance.”

“So I’ve noticed,” Garrold said. “Have you seen Robert?”

“Not lately,” Stevan said, glancing briefly over the battlefield. “But I think we’d both know if something had happened to him.”

Garrold knew Stevan was right, of course. Garrold had no idea what happened when a mage died, but he knew that, had he been killed, he’d no longer have been able to sense Robert’s magical presence, which he still did. It was just moving too much for him to locate. Had Robert, Garrold wondered, already learned how to use the darkness to travel? It had taken Garrold three days to learn that, and that was only after the unnatural darkness that gripped the land had fallen. “We’re losing, Stevan,” Garrold said.

“Oh, don’t say that, Your Grace!”

Garrold looked at him. “You know it as well as I do. The Torvaran Empire ends here, now, before it even got a chance to get back on its feet. We’re finished, Stevan.”

Stevan didn’t say anything for a time, looking around at the chaos that surrounded them, then turned his eyes back to Garrold. “Well,” he said, “be that as it may, Garrold, don’t you think it would still be better to make a fight of things? Show these bastards that we’re not going to back down, even when all the cards are against us? I mean, isn’t it better to die, here, now, rather than in the days and weeks to come when our army has already been beaten and broken?”

“You’re probably right. I’m just worried about what will happen if one of the Demon Lords shows up. You know what that will mean, don’t you?”

Stevan nodded, then reached up to cast another fireball over Garrold’s left shoulder. “We’ll just have to hold on for the Nightslayer, then,” he said. He looked at Garrold. “He is still coming, isn’t he?”

Garrold could still sense the Nightslayer’s presence, but that presence hadn’t moved since the battle began. He wondered what that could mean. Had something waylaid Thaddeus? And what about the . . . other . . . presence Garrold felt? What was that? And how was it hurtling toward the battlefield so quickly? Whatever it was, it would arrive in a matter of minutes, and whether it was friend or foe was anyone’s guess. “I don’t know,” Garrold said. “Something’s coming, though.”

“I sensed that, too,” Stevan said. “What do you think it is?”

“I wish I knew.”

Hel stood on a slight rise on the western side of the gorge, smiling to herself as the battle progressed. The army of the man who had proclaimed himself Magister of the Torvaran Empire was close to collapse, and, now that the Risen – what the backwards people of this world called Abominations – had joined the fight, its total annihilation was at hand. Hel didn’t know what she would do once the battle was done – the Baron had proved himself to be interesting, and bedding him might even turn out to be enjoyable, but he was in no way someone who could take Magus’s place – but she still had hopes that, even after the slaughter was finished, the Nightslayer might still turn up. That would prove the more interesting challenged, and, if she was able to turn him, then Magnus would become obsolete.

But what about the other presence that she felt, the one that, even now, was hurtling toward the battlefield? There was something maddeningly familiar about that presence, something that reminded Hel very much of two people that, eons ago, she had once known. It even, in a way, reminded her of herself – after all, hadn’t she, at one time, been of the same race as the men who had called themselves Geoffrey and Aaron? That couldn’t be possible, of course. Geoffrey and Aaron, after the death of the fools they’d been allied, with, had locked themselves away in the Void, which had left no one but Hel, herself, with any connection to the cosmos as it had been before the Cataclysm. So what was it she sensed? And, once it arrived, what challenges – and, no doubt, temptations – would it offer her?

“A beautiful evening, isn’t it, my dear?”

Hel turned to face Magnus, surprised that she hadn’t sensed his arrival. Equally surprising was the fact that, when she saw him, Magnus had dropped the flames he normally haloed his head in. He usually only did that in private, where only Hel’s eyes would see him, and, though her eyes were the only ones that saw him, now, it was still something of a shock to seem him so unmasked. “Hello, Magnus,” Hel said, keeping her voice level so as not to give away her surprise. “It’s not evening, you know?”

“With this darkness that’s fallen” – he gestured at the sky – “it’s always evening, now.” Magnus smiled. “You didn’t sense my arrival, did you?”

Hel said nothing.

“Not that I blame you,” Magnus went on, coming over next to her. “I can sense whatever is approaching, too. That can’t be the Nightslayer, can it?”

“You know it isn’t,” Hel said.

“Yes,” Magnus said, “but what is it? I sense an aura of . . . divinity . . . about it.”

Hel had sensed that, too. Not even the fools that had made up the last Divine Council had seemed as godly as whatever it was that approached. And doesn’t that make you feel uneasy? “Nonsense,” Hel said. “I’m sure it’s just an anomaly. Dealing with it should not be a problem.”

“You don’t sound so sure about that, my dear. Tell me, are you afraid?”

Hel made the fire in her eyes blaze, which made Magnus take a step backward. “Don’t push me, Magnus!” she hissed. “You know what will happen if you push things too far. Or have you forgotten who made you?”

“Of course I haven’t,” Magnus said. He lowered his eyes, and Hel sensed genuine remorse coming from him. Yet another surprise, she mused. His feelings for me must be deeper than I thought. What a pity for him, then. “Forgive me, Mistress.”

Hel made no reply, turning her gaze back to the battle that raged on the other side of the gorge. Only moments remained before whatever the divine presence was arrived, and Hel was disturbed to find that she was, indeed, afraid. Was it possible that what was coming would be as strong as she was? And what did it mean if it was? Had something finally happened to allow beings like herself – and like the cowards Geoffrey and Aaron – to reemerge? Was another power at play in all this, something that had kept itself hidden through the ages?

“Excuse me,” a new voice suddenly said, and Hel didn’t need to use her powers to know who – and what – it belonged to, “but am I interrupting?”

Magnus hissed, and Hel turned to watch him lunge at the newcomer – an Eltaran wearing armor as black as the night that surrounded them, holding a cruelly curved, flame-wreathed sword in his hand. As Magnus lunged, the Eltaran held up his hand. Magnus froze in place, and Hel knew that, somehow, the Eltaran had essentially taken him out of time. Physically, he was still there, but time no longer passed for him, and wouldn’t until the Eltaran released him. Or until I do, Hel thought.

“Fancy trick,” Hel said. “I haven’t seen anyone else pull that off in a long time.” She smiled. “Now, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure. Who might you be?”

“My name is Aylander,” the Eltaran said, “and your tricks, I’m afraid, won’t work on me.”

Hel made her smile more seductive. “Oh, won’t they?”

The Eltaran – Aylander – blinked, then chuckled and shook his head. “Very nice,” he said. “But, I’m afraid you just aren’t my type.”

Hel frowned. “Who are you?”

“Just someone who has come here to undo everything you’ve started.”

“And I suppose you intend to kill me?”

“No.” Aylander grinned. “That privilege I intend to save for my brother.”

“But what if my tricks, as you called them, work on him? After all, I haven’t met a Nightslayer, yet, who I wasn’t able to turn.”

“Yes, but you haven’t met my brother. I assure you, he is most unlike any of the others you’ve turned. He has a will of iron, and a constitution to match.”

“I’m sure.” Hel smirked. “He is, though, still just a man. Now, do you intend to keep talking, or did you come here to do something?”

Aylander grinned, again, and in the light cast by his flaming sword, his eyes glittered. “Oh, I already have.” And then he vanished. And, with his vanishing, Hel found herself unable to do anything as she watched the battle she had initiated shatter before her.

A pause fell over the battlefield. In the days, months, and years that followed, no one would be able to say exactly how long the pause lasted, but all of them who survived would agree that it did happen, and that, when it was over, the world changed forever. When the fighting resumed, the change, at first, seemed small and gradual, but it quickly grew into a firestorm where one out of every ten men left alive in Garrold’s army – and even some in the Baron’s army – suddenly found themselves able to wield magic. Torrents of magic were released in every direction, and the surviving units rallied around those who unleashed it, most of whom did it on nothing but instinct, alone, and would, after the battle was done, succumb to the enormous physical drain such an act wrought on those who had not been trained or given the proper focus.

Those lucky few amongst the new mages who survived – and there were a few, though, even if there had been none, that would not have meant the end of those who could use magic – claimed to have been blessed by the Gods Above, who had, for reasons of their own, chosen to intervene at just the moment when things had been their darkest. This wasn’t all that far from the truth, though only one god – a new one – had given the blessing, and had only been able to give it because he had arrived before the tide of battle could no longer be turned. But this new god wasn’t just the new God of Magic – just as no true god ever had only a single aspect – and it was his additional role as the new God of Death that proved to be what truly broke the power of both the Baron, and his Demon Lord allies.

Out on the far right of Garrold’s army, Wilem fought with an ever-dwindling number of other monks, clerics, and ordinary soldiers against a horde of Abominations the likes of which hadn’t been seen on a battlefield in over a thousand years. The Abominations ranged from Liches, to Ghouls, to Vampires, and there just weren’t enough members of the Order of Catharzen remaining on the field to turn them back. Wilem was exhausted, and knew that the other people he fought with couldn’t be faring any better. With each passing moment, as more and more people either fell to the Abominations, or joined their ranks, the temptation to give in to what seemed more and more likely to be the inevitable grew. And, if Wilem did allow himself to give in to that temptation, he would at least spare himself the pain of being forever separated from Niela, who had joined the Abominations’ ranks not long after the attack had begun.

It should have been me who was turned, not her! Wilem thought, not for the first time, swinging his staff in barely enough time to beat back the charge of a pair of Ghouls. If, for some strange reason, he managed to survive this battle, he would never be able to live with himself. Not with the look of horror he’d seen on Niela’s face the instant before she was touched haunting his memory. No, no matter what happened, Wilem had to make sure he either died, or became an Abomination, himself. That didn’t mean sacrificing the lives of those who fought with him, though. There was still time for them to escape, and Wilem could buy them even more. But, he wondered, if he did buy them that time, would it really be doing any of them any favors? After all, any people who managed to escape this battlefield would only be having their inevitable fates postponed, which might be viewed as a greater cruelty than letting them face it, here.

A newcomer suddenly appeared on the battlefield. This newcomer was dressed from head to toe in black, with a cape the same color billowing out behind him. In his hand, he held a wickedly curved sword – Wilem thought there was something scythe-like about its appearance – wreathed in flame, and he radiated a presence that went beyond the magical. Wilem had felt this person’s approach prior to his arrival, but he hadn’t known what to make of it – had, in fact, tried not to think of it at all, as what he sensed disturbed him greatly. Now that the person had arrived, however, Wilem found he didn’t feel disturbed, at all. If anything, he felt suddenly invigorated, and he noticed that a number of the soldiers who fought with him seemed to stand up straighter, their blows against the creatures that assailed them growing surer and more forceful.

Wilem wanted to ask the newcomer who he was – even from this distance, he could tell that, whoever he was, he was Eltaran – but there was no time. And then Wilem noticed a curious thing. With this stranger’s sudden appearance, the horde of Abominations that had been advancing on Wilem’s group had paused. The majority of them, Wilem saw, were looking at the newcomer as if uncertain what they should do, and some of them, he saw, seemed to be genuinely afraid.

“BRING FORTH THE ONE WHO COMMANDS YOU!” the newcomer bellowed. “FOR I WOULD FACE HIM!”

The Abominations milled about as if unsure of what to do. And then the air shimmered. When it had finished, the Baron – summoned, it seemed, against his will – had appeared on the battlefield before the newcomer. Wilem watched what happened next with a strange mix of amusement and apprehension.

“You are the Necromancer who controls these creatures?” the newcomer asked.

“I am,” the Baron said. “And who are you to ask such a thing? Who are you to have me summoned here?”

“Who am I?” the Eltaran hissed. “Who am I? I, my dear Baron, am Aylander, the God of Death. And you have committed the worst kind of blasphemy by raising these creatures and using them to kill.”

“But, but, Adarion is the God of Death,” the Baron spluttered. “And he is dead!”

“Indeed, Adarion is dead. But his mantle has been passed on to me.” The Eltaran – Aylander – gestured at the front of his armor, which bore a stylized image of a scythe. “Do you not recognize his sign? I ask you again, Tymothe Vabarn, Baron of Blanchart. What right do you have to command the dead?”

“They’re, they’re mine! Mine!”

“No, Baron,” Aylander said. “They are mine. Your power is broken!”

All at once, many of the Abominations collapsed to the ground and faded into nothingness. A few of them remained standing, including Niela. Aylander waved his hand at the Baron – encapsulating him, it seemed, in a spell that made it so he couldn’t move – and walked over to the few Abominations that hadn’t collapsed and disappeared. He addressed Niela.

“You were turned, weren’t you, Sister?” Aylander asked.

“I was,” Niela answered. It was painful for Wilem to hear her voice, which was devoid of all life.

“I am sorry that you were,” Aylander said. “It was not yet your time. Tell me, did you have a reason for carrying on, Sister? Do you have a reason for wanting to return to the world of the living?”

“I did. His name is Wilem.” Niela paused. “And I loved him.”

“Then you shall love him, again, Sister Niela.” Aylander waved his hand. All at once, Niela’s expression changed. No longer was her expression dead, her skin pale. She looked as she had before the Abomination had touched her – blessedly alive. “Go now, and be happy.”

Niela looked confused for a moment, then caught sight of Wilem. She ran across the battlefield toward him and threw herself into his arms. Both of them cried as they embraced. Over Niela’s shoulder, Wilem addressed Aylander, the God of Death. “Thank you!” he shouted. “Thank you!”

Aylander smiled at him, and was gone.

The tide of battle had turned. Gradually, the Baron’s forces began to retreat, confronted, as they were, by forces they had not expected. The Baron – feeling more impotent than he had the day he had come into Garrold’s audience chamber, despite the fact that he still controlled a great deal of magic – returned to the opposite side of the gorge and fled into his tent. Those of his forces that couldn’t make the return journey over the gorge were annihilated. This, however, did not meant that the battle was truly over. The Baron still controlled a sizable force of soldiers that were bolstered by magic users in the Twisted Sword Priests that remained. They could still retreat to the Royal District, where they would no doubt be bolstered by whatever forces were still there. It was true that they had lost at the Gelevan Gorge, but there could be other battles, other places where they could still prove their dominance.

Then, the Nightslayer arrived.