Days Of Light And Shadow (74 page)

Chapter One Hundred and Seventeen.

Iros and his riders found Y’aris in his quarters. But there was no sword in his hand. Nor did angry words spew from his mouth. There was no promise of vengeance from the warlord. Despite all his vaunted tales of heroism, Y’aris was as meek and submissive as Iros had expected. As the bards would sing, he could proclaim a good battle but not wage one.

Instead of fighting he was hiding. Locked away in a trunk at the foot of his straw bale bed, with bedding over the top of him. It wasn’t a very good hiding place. Even as a child Iros was sure he could have done better.

He was injured too. Someone had crushed his hand and cut off his manhood, actions that struck Iros as being very worthy considering all he had done. They’d also broken his legs so that he couldn’t walk. Or more likely so that he couldn’t run away. And despite all the tails of his bravery, Iros was certain that Y’aris would have run rather than fight. The only thing he didn’t understand was why he was naked.

It didn’t matter. None of it. All that mattered was that Y’aris would die. And then the war would be over and everyone could go home.

Iros nodded at the others and they quickly pulled Y’aris out of the trunk, and soon had the screaming, sobbing wretch wrapped up tight. He wasn’t getting away.

“You filthy utra!” Between his cries of pain and sobbing, Y’aris began screaming at them, at him and in some way it was almost a relief. Almost normal as it reminded him of all the terrible evil the man had done. Because it was hard to relate that foul, arrogant monster with the piteous wretch in front of him. It reminded him of what wanted to do. It was the same thing they all wanted to do. And there wasn’t a moment to lose. The evil creature had already lived far too long.

“On his back over the straw bales.” Iros didn’t have to say any more than that. The riders understood him perfectly.  Quickly they had the screaming elf on his back, arms and legs spread wide, and Iros had his longsword ready. Even Y’aris understood his fate.

“No! No! Please! I have gold.” He switched in a heartbeat from anger to fear, and Iros didn’t care. There was no amount of gold in the world that was going to stop him.

“You, grab his hair. Pull it tight.” The ranger did exactly as he ordered, and as Iros raised his sword for the strike he had a perfect view of the elf’s neck. All that he needed.

“Goodbye.” Iros smiled as he started his swing, and Y’aris shrieked like a little girl.

“Hold please.” Finell walked into the room and for some reason everyone stopped. Even Iros stopped in mid swing, just as he was about to sever Y’aris’ head from his neck, and he didn’t quite know why. He didn’t even know how. His arms just stopped swinging and he couldn’t seem to start them again.

All he knew was that a voice he had never expected to hear again, from a man he had never expected to see, had told him to stop, and he’d stopped. And that he still wanted to take Y’aris’ head. With everything he had he wanted to take his head. It wasn’t even about winning the war. It was just the overwhelming rage that filled him at the sight of the foul creature. And the undying memory of his prison. And his dead family.

“No!” Iros screamed his frustration and fury at seeing the black blood’s neck exposed and so very close.

“Please!” He begged the man. All he wanted, everything he had ever wanted, was merely a single swing of his blade away. He was so close. So very, very close. And Y’aris needed to die. It wasn’t so much to ask for was it? But the rage somehow just wasn’t enough to overcome the command, and his arms stayed stubbornly locked in place above his head. Why?

“Calm. Y’aris will die. But his death will have purpose.”

“Finell?” He turned to face the elf, sword still hanging stupidly in the air above him, while behind him Y’aris started laughing hysterically.

Seeing him standing there Iros suddenly wanted to swing his sword a second time. The anger and the hatred suddenly burnt within him as he saw his enemy in front of him. The man who had not only had him sent to that terrible dungeon, but ordered the deaths of his friends at the mission, and started the war that had killed his parents. But no matter how hot the fury within him burned, he simply couldn’t swing his sword. His arms simply wouldn’t let him.

“Once, but no more.” The once high lord faced him directly and for some reason Iros couldn’t look away. He was held by his stare. “Now I am a nameless servant.”

“I caused you suffering. I caused so much suffering to so many, and I am sorry for that. More sorry than I can ever say. And should I survive this day I will devote my life to making amends for those crimes. But now is not the time for that. It is not the time for vengeance either and I know your blood burns with the desire to kill him. As does mine. But now is the time to destroy an ancient enemy. To kill the demon. And I will need Y’aris for that.”

It was him Iros slowly realised, but not as he had been. His face was the same, his hair, no matter how messed up, still the same blue, everything about him was the same. And yet it wasn’t. His clothes were rags, his skin was covered in dirt and he was surprisingly thin. He had become a beggar by the looks of things. But that wasn’t what had changed. His natural arrogance and disdain for others had vanished too, to be replaced by what almost seemed like humility. But as profound as that was, it wasn’t what had truly changed either.

It was his eyes. His once blue eyes. Now they were golden. Completely golden. He had no whites, no pupils, no irises, only golden orbs hidden behind his eyelids. But more than that, they were glowing gold, glowing with a light that somehow seemed to pierce the darkness. That spoke of an authority he had never before had. Not the authority of a ruler with armies and laws. Not even the authority of magic as it burst free from him. It was the authority of something greater. Something that shone from him. Something like the divine touch of the Mother. He’d seen it before, several times, but only in the priests and elders, and only when they were in direct contact with whichever deity they served. Suddenly it seemed that Finell was serving the Mother. Even Saris recognised her presence in him, and she went down on her knees and lowered her head before him, something the jackal hound had never done.

But what did that matter? Iros still wanted to kill him. He wanted to kill both Finell and Y’aris. It was bitterly unfair that he couldn’t. Not only could he not swing his sword, but his arms involuntarily lowered and sheathed the blade. Exactly as Finell wanted.

“Please bind him hand and foot, and bring him with you. We need him alive and in the temple.”

It was madness. It was the last thing he wanted to do. That any of them wanted to do. And still Iros and the others did as he said. They put down their weapons and bound the screaming traitor to a thin pole that Finell had brought with him so that he hung from it as they carried him. And then they followed Finell out of the traitor’s quarters, across the open expanse of grass, and over to the temple. It wasn’t a choice. The only one of them who seemed to have a choice was Y’aris, and his choice was to either remain quiet, or to struggle frantically, yell and scream, and sob with terror. Needless to say Y’aris chose the latter. Maybe he knew what Finell was planning. But no matter what he tried, he wasn’t going to get away.

That at least Iros could make sure of. He only hoped that he died a truly horrid death.

“Finell, why?” Y’aris cried out the question as if he had some reason to expect the former high lord to be his friend, and even Iros was surprised. “I protected you.”

“You murdered my family! All of them! You destroyed my house and unleashed a plague of evil upon the people!  You left my cities in ruins and sent your armies to kill all the people of the world! Believe me if it were my choice and not the Mother’s I would have swung the sword myself. But it is hers and I obey.”

“You will die, and it will be a hard death. But in your dying you will free the people of a terrible evil. You will destroy your master. I pray that you find some comfort in that.” Y’aris obviously didn’t, and instead screamed and struggled at his bonds. But he would not get free.

Finell was so calm. That Iros didn’t understand. This man Y’aris - not really a man so much as a monster that walked as a man - had hurt so many so terribly. He had hurt even the former high lord. And every part of Iros wanted to plunge a sword into his heart. They all did. But not Finell, who if he had suffered as terrible a loss as he claimed, should have been just as angry. Or was it all a lie? Then Iros turned to him and found himself once more staring into those strange golden eyes. He so very much wanted to slaughter the elf where he stood, but he just couldn’t.

“Iros”, Finell said. “I have hurt so many people that I cannot even count their numbers. But none I think have I hurt more than you. And I am sorry for that. Truly. If there were anything I could do to make things right I would. There isn’t. But still I will spend my life trying.”

“But as terribly as I have hurt you, you have risen above it. And I praise you for that. You are the Mother’s child.”

“She forged you knowing that this war was coming and that she would need one such as you. A beacon of hope in the darkness. An example of everything it is to be a man. To do the right thing no matter the cost.”

“Now, I’m asking you to rise above once more. I know you want to kill me, many do. But  you also want to protect your people. And killing either me or Y’aris will not achieve that.”

“Though I offer my true apologies, I will not ask for your forgiveness. I have no right to ask it. I ask only for your help in bringing this one to the altar. It is only there that we may destroy the Reaver, and that we must do. He can never be allowed to return.” 

Iros believed him. He didn’t want to. He knew Finell had to be lying. He always lied. Still, he believed him. And in any case, he could do nothing about it.

So instead of trying to kill him, Iros nodded and together with the rest of the rangers he followed the former high lord out of Y’aris’ quarters and into the temple.

But still with every step they took down that dark tunnel he was thinking that maybe, just maybe he could try to draw his sword.

Chapter One Hundred and Eighteen.

The inner sanctum. The darkest of all the dark secrets of the temple. Trekor stood at the huge opening leading into it and stared.

It was vast. She’d expected that. A natural cavern surely a hundred paces long and fifty wide, while the roof was lost somewhere in the darkness above them.

And it stank of evil. It stank of blood and fear and piss as well. But above all that it stank of evil. She could feel it all around. A mantle of foul desires and hideous thoughts that covered everything. Demon taint. But never had she imagined it so strong.

Still she shrugged it off and held to the Mother’s grace. This was no place to allow fear to rule. Not when it already ruled here.

In front of them were the priests. Forty or more of them, guarding the altar with their bodies. Placing themselves between their master’s only point of contact with the world and them. For a moment she pitied them. Knowing that they stood there because they had no choice. Their master ordered it. And if they ran he would consume their souls then and there. But when they died, he would do the same. They truly were damned.

But they had chosen this. However they had come into the service of the Reaver and taken his blessing, they had chosen it. Unlike their victims.

“Leave! Or my master will destroy you.” One of them, the leader, advanced a couple of steps in front of the others, threatening them. But he was lying. He was hurling his fear at them. Not his faith.

“Child, don’t you know that you’ve already lost?” Trekor drew the wondrous mantle of the mother around her and held it close. Not only was it for protection and comfort, but the dark priests could see it. They could see the glory of the Mother in front of them, in the heart of their temple, and they knew her words were true.

“No!” One of the priests tried to deny it, but his faith was gone and everyone knew it. A heartbeat later he fell to the floor with a final shriek, dead. The Reaver had taken his soul and his life from him.

Others looked at him, staring in terror, and that was their undoing. They doubted. No priest could doubt. And so the Reaver took their lives and souls as well. And then it became a stampede. The priests screamed and prayed, and begged for mercy from a demon. There was none. And in their twos and threes they screamed their last and fell to the ground.

Then there was only one.

The last, the high priest she assumed, stood there and trembled.

“Run!” He tried once more to threaten them, but failed. His voice was quavering, giving the lie to his words.

“No child.” Trekor smiled sadly at him, and it was the end.

He shrieked, a sound so very similar to the one the abominations made, clutched at his chest, and fell.

And the war was ended.

There was silence after that. Lots and lots of silence. People stared at the fallen priests, wondering what had happened. What came next. Did they destroy the temple? Did they leave? And eventually the commander asked the question for them.

Trekor looked at him and smiled.

“Now we kill the Reaver.”