The Sword And The Dragon (86 page)

Pael, with Shokin’s might behind him, had reached through the power of Ironspike’s defenses, had reached into Mikahl’s soul, and started to blacken it, but something had happened. Shokin was yanked from him, for a terrible, soul-wrenching moment. 

Pael clung to the demon’s power with all he had, but it was still slowly slipping from his grasp. Some power beyond reckoning was drawing Shokin away from him. Through the skittering of his good eye, he saw the boy coming for his flesh. 

What to do? He latched onto the demon’s essence, and cast another destructive spell, but it wasn’t to be. Icy blue steel bit into his neck. He saw bright, sapphire shaded rubble, then the dark starlit sky, then after a crazy whirl of darkness, his vision came to rest. 

He saw the bloody, spurting stump of a body, clad in black robes trimmed in sparkling crimson tears, and knew that he was seeing his own headless corpse. What was worse than watching his life’s blood pumping from his body, while his brain slowly died, was that his soul still clung to the demon’s essence, and the agony of it ripping free from his consciousness lingered, until he finally faded away into nothingness.

Mikahl wasn’t satisfied that Pael’s egg-like head was sitting several feet away from his body. He judged where the wizard’s heart should be, and fell to his knees as he drove Ironspike through it. Such was the force of his thrust, that the cross guard of the hilt slammed into Pael’s back, as Ironspike pinned him to the earth.

A deep, thrumming vibration erupted from the ground there. Mikahl felt it, and let go of the sword. He rolled away, and crumbled to the earth, naked, save for the tatters of his robe. 

He had expected Ironspike’s power to quell when he let go of the hilt, but it hadn’t. It vibrated and pulsed so deeply, that the earth trembled beneath him. Mikahl made to scoot away from the demon-wizard’s body, and immediately felt the depths of his injuries. He had to fight to stay conscious, as the thunderous low end of Ironspike’s symphony rumbled through the earth beneath him.

A golden column of light began to twist upward, from the sword’s hilt. The intensity of it grew, and started to swirl its way up into the sky, like some giant corkscrew. The underside of a bank of clouds caught the illumination, and then parted, so that the glowing shaft could pass beyond their pillowy mists. 

Ghost-like forms of men, with haunted expressions on their stretched and twisted faces, came streaking by, making great whooshing sounds as they went. They were being drawn towards Ironspike’s hilt, as if they were soapsuds spinning around a drain. Once they were sucked into the sword, they were sent spinning upwards into the heavens. Four of them, five, and then ten. A score now. And thousands more. There were so many of them, that the air shimmered around the skyward beam of light, a cyclone swirl of ghostly souls. 

A great relief tried to wash over Mikahl’s pain, but couldn’t quite manage the task. It was even painful for him to close his eyes, but he closed them anyway and all at once he slipped away into unconsciousness.

King Jarrek nearly dropped Queen Willa, when he saw the shaft of golden light pierce the distant darkness, and reach up into the very heavens. From the castle grounds below, he heard the cries and shouts of the soldiers who were defending the last bit of ground between the enemy, and the people huddled in the palace.

“They’re falling!” one yelled.

“The dead are dying,” another added dubiously.

“It might be a trick! Where’s the wizard?”

“It’s no trick, look!”

Screams of joy and anguish, along with cries of pain and loss, rang out through the ranks of Blacksword soldiers. The angry shriek of a wyvern came howling out over it all, as the beast shot out of the huge depiction opening overhead, and sped away as quickly as it could. No longer bound by the demon-wizard’s will, it had no reason to risk the proximity of so many humans. A few arrows trailed up after the dark scaled creature, but none of them found its flesh.

King Jarrek let Queen Willa down to the rooftop as gently as he could manage, and then ran to the parapet wall. As the undead soldiers fell, he saw a white, misty form shimmer up from each of them, like so much smoke. Then, as if caught up in the gusts of a magical wind, they were swept away, toward the base of the swirling tower of light. Entire clouds of misty souls went tearing through the ruined city, on their way toward the sword’s judgment. The sight was as breathtaking as it was unnerving.

The guard at the stair landing had come up out of his hiding place, and stormed the roof screaming. “The castle is clear! The dead are dying! The dead are…”  

His voice stopped suddenly, and his face contorted into a look of sheer panic, when he saw Queen Willa lying there on the deck. He was overcome with relief, when he knelt down beside her, and saw her eyelids flutter open. 

“The dead have died, your Highness,” he said softly. “The night is won! I – I – I’ll call for a healer.”

A sudden surging sound, similar to that of raindrops hitting a tin roof, drew everyone on the tower top’s attention. Over the corpse of the Master Wizard Targon, a misty cloud formed and peeled away audibly before it shot away in a flash.

“Is it true?” Willa asked King Jarrek. 

His front half was aglow with radiance from the golden light that held his attention fast.

“Aye, milady,” he answered in that Western way, without turning away from the scene before him. 

His voice was full of awe, and reverence, but still tinged with deep sadness, and regret. 

“I hope that it’s time for the kingdoms to unite again, because without help, I’ll never be able to free my people from the Dakaneese slavers. And King Ra’Gren, and that Westland wench, cannot get away without paying for their part in this.”

Mikahl felt something scratching on his stomach. Then, he felt a slight ball of warmth nestle down there. It was soft, feathery soft. He didn’t open his eyes, for he knew what it was. The soft cooing sound he could make out, over the supernatural din transpiring around him, could only come from one source: Talon. 

Ironspike had healed the bird after all, or maybe the hawkling had just been stunned. Either way, Mikahl found that he had never felt safer in all his life as he did right then. 

Lying half naked and weaponless on a death-strewn battlefield, there was no one else he would rather have watching over him. 

Feeling safe and secure, it took only a fleeting moment for him to fade completely back into oblivion. There, his partially healed, and newly traumatized body, dragged him back down into the same comatose state that Vaegon had found him in when he had placed the replenished sword in his hands.

The part of Shokin that had escaped the Nethers wrenched itself free of Pael’s body, and went tearing across the land, towards the Seal. 

No one saw it, or heard its screams, because it had no physical substance, and could make no audible sound. It was there though, and clinging to it desperately, was Pael’s vile soul. 

Over the farmlands of Middle Seaward, then across the rich grazing plains of Valleya, the formless entities went. Over the edge of O’Dakahn, the Dakaneese cesspool city that was now overcrowded with Wildermont slaves, the demon essence and its ghost-like parasite, continued on. Then, across the nearly deserted marshlands, where the Zard, and other denizens of the swamp used to live before Shaella had led them into Westland. Flashing up into the Dragon’s Tooth Spire, they flowed past Hyden Hawk and the dragon. Then, they were pulled with rude force, down into the molten crystal that was coursing through the carved symbols that made up the Seal. 

Pael’s soul was rejected, and left behind, but Shokin’s essence was drawn to its other half, with a violent intensity. Soon after it had passed the barrier, the molten crystal corroded the symbols away completely. The power of the Seal was no more. The once smooth and polished face of it was left nothing, but a pocked, and indistinguishable ruin. 

Pael’s soul was not demon kind, nor was it substantial enough to even be considered evil anymore. In the world of demons, souls, and spirit essences, what was left of Pael would be considered more or less a gnat, or a pest.  It tried to enter into the young man crouched against the pile of stones, but could not. It started at the lazing dragon, but the great predator’s heat warned it away. As the hissing puddle of liquefied stone finally began to cool, Pael’s pesky spirit darted out of the dragon’s lair, and went searching for something familiar.

Gerard Skyler scratched at the sharp, bony protrusion that was growing out of his elbow. His other elbow had stopped itching a while ago. The dragon’s yolk he had drunk to replenish his bloodless body had changed him, changed him from the marrow of his reforming bones, out to his thick plated, slime covered skin. 

The darkness of the Nethers was so potent, that he couldn’t see himself though. It was a blackness that the eyes could never adjust to, but Gerard didn’t need, or care to see what was happening to him. He was on a stairway that spiraled down – forever down, and getting to the bottom had become his passion. He drifted in, and out of consciousness, sometimes waking in mid step, sometimes curled in a shivering ball on a landing that bore no door. He always woke in that blackness, and when he did, he would start plodding downward again, as if his destiny lay at the bottom of the shaft.

Shaella spoke to him sometimes. Her soft voice soothed the pain of his twisting bones, and hardening flesh. When she was in his head, the part of Shokin that Pael had left behind would stop its endless screaming and babbling to listen. His boiling insides would cool, and his dizzy confusion seemed to organize itself into a relatively pleasant train of thought. When Shaella was with him, Gerard Skyler found a way through the swirling chaotic transformation of his mind and body. It was the only time that he wasn’t hungry, afraid, and lusting manically to reach the bottom of the shaft.

When the other half of Shokin slammed into Gerard’s elongated skull, his head filled with visions of chaotic destruction, of undead armies, and falling castles. Had the yolk he had eaten not hardened his mind and body so well, he might have died on the spot, from pure shock. As it was, he relished the distraction from the emptiness around him. He somehow isolated the two halves of Shokin in his brain, and he observed them curiously, as they carried on a psychotic single-voiced argument, that was as entertaining as it was disturbing.

The two halves of the once mighty demon eventually began trying to rejoin, trying to become one again, but Gerard wouldn’t let them. He would permit them to confer and conspire, but he would never let them combine back into one. 

Instinctually, he knew that if he did, he would lose any part of him that was still his. Somewhere in his mind, he knew he was still Gerard Skyler. He might be covered in spikes, hard bony platelets, and greasy slick skin. He might have nearly tripled his body mass, and formed into some sort of monster, but he was still somewhat Gerard. His brain told him that even though he was trapped on the seemingly endless stairway, that he would find the power to lead legions once he reached the bottom. 

The old crone had told him so. Sometimes, he heard her old cackling voice, cutting over the demon’s chatter, to remind him. He began to leech bits, and nuggets of knowledge, and power, from the two halves of the demon, and use them to his advantage. Already, he knew that there were other ways out of this place. Part of Shokin had seen them described through Pael’s eyes, in the texts the fool wizard had kept in his tower. It was Shaella’s tower now, and since he could talk to her sometimes, ideas were already forming.

Gerard nearly stumbled, and fell, as the stairway abruptly ended on a smooth hard surface. The floor was cool on his clawed feet, and all around him, he felt the presence of dark things. Some were alive and hungry, some were merely spirits, and some were just evil intentions. Everything else was prey. 

As he stood there, on the strange level plain, he felt them cringe away from him, and withdraw. They were afraid of him, of what he had become. He knew that they had no reason to fear him. He was barely alive, so very weak, and hungry. He was glad they were cautious, because he needed to rest. As he settled, he felt something out there, in the empty space, something darker, and more intense than the other things. This form didn’t know fear. It was a hunter searching for prey, but it moved away, to chase after something else, and left Gerard to his rest.

He sat on the bottom step, and closed his eyes. The back of his lids were far brighter than the Nethers around him. He hoped Shaella would come to him soon. He loved her. He did his best to picture her in his mind, and fell into a deep slumber, dreaming about her. 

The dream was ruined though, when the two halves of Shokin suddenly stopped squabbling. When Gerard woke, he was famished. He needed sustenance. Oddly enough, it was part of Shokin that whispered to him where and how to safely feed. 

Both parts of Shokin knew that Gerard wouldn’t survive this dark place unless he grew stronger, and if Gerard didn’t survive, neither did they. They needed his consciousness, because it was the only place that they still existed. Even though they were back in the Nethers, Pael’s powerful binding spell still coupled them to Gerard completely, and thoroughly, for all eternity. After gathering that Gerard had access to the world of men, through Shaella, and the Spectral Orb, neither part of Shokin did anything other than scheme.

General Spyra himself rode out with an attachment of honor guard to retrieve Mikahl. They had to sit on their mounts patiently, and wait until he stirred though, before they could actually give him a hand. Talon wouldn’t let them near him. The hawkling stood vigilant guard, with his chest swelled out proudly, and a fierce look in his eyes. None of the men, or even the General, dared to test the bird.

It was well past dawn, when Mikahl finally managed to sit up. Only then, did Talon take to the air, and wing his way back towards the castle. They wrapped Mikahl in a cloak of purple and gold, and helped him to his sword, but once it was in his grasp, it charged away all of his pain.