Prologue: IV

Conclusion to the prologue. As usual colorful description in the works.

                                  

 

The Chaos Unleashed: IV

 

  The earth still occasionally tossed and turned in sporadic jumps with unearthly force, even after moderations coming from the unbalanced use of the power had ceased its countless backlashes. The world seemed to move slowly in a disconsolate way, as if in extreme torment. The wounded and the dying throughout the world still cried out from the horrors that they had borne witness too in unspeakable numbers. For untold generations would the terrifying, fear invoking, unimaginable reminder of what had happened be spread.

 

    The telling of mountains coming apart like long dried bread would haunt the world, along with the memories of the world’s vast oceans being swallowed whole by gargantuan rifts torn into the oceans floor. All would find their vestiges in myths and legends. The great lakes of the world along with other wonders were vaporized within seconds, along with all in them.

 

    All together these things happened over disjointed intervals with the oceans reappearing in places that had never before been touched by such an abundance of water, or places that had not had such water in thousands of years.

 

   In some instances entire nations where swallowed by super-sized tsunamis, swept aside within a breath. Mountains roared up from the earth to towering heights being carried along by escalating up surges of earth spurred on by ever-intense earthquakes. Entire cities buckled under the violence, the countryside’s devastated. From the newly formed mountains spewed forth lava and billowing black clouds of ash; drawing with them searing heat. The clouds of ash and smoke where spread upon the winds, and in time would darken the world. Lava flows ran unchecked throughout the lands wrecking everything in their path. The flows stretched for miles, the very air seeming to dance with fury.

 

    Rivers poured forth red with the blood of thousands of people and animals, bodies clogging the waterways, piling high like driftwood. The waters boiled and swirled with steam rising high into the air.

 

    Innumerable other strange and unbelievable things were also taking place throughout the world, a world that had suddenly gone mad. A once Utopian world was being torn apart with the speed of lightning, the peace of a thousand generations shattered, never to be witnessed again. The sky was blackening taking on a reddish cast, the very colors of the Misrule of Chaos it seemed. The sky was streaked; it seemed to weep for the violence being wrought upon the world.

 

    Thunder and lightning flared and crackled incessantly across the sky illuminating it and making the ground rumble. Inky black rain fell in large fat droplets that quickly led to flooding of a mass scale. Rain had been the one constant since the world had gone mad.

 

    In one part of the world, a part also experiencing the upheaval, a lone jagged streak of lightning hurtled down into an ancient grove of trees. The trees, known as Gray Oaks, where as wide as several wagons placed side by side and rose seventy feet or more into the air; they where well over a thousand years old. The lightning bolt was so charged with energy that it sundered many of the trees as if they were mere twigs. The tree’s came apart though they had been reinforced with power-wrought earth power. It seemed that nothing of this Age was to be left unsullied.

 

    Thunder once again rumbled across the sky as thousands of streaks of lightning shed light upon a megalopolis that stretched for miles in all directions. The city was bordered on all but one side by a forest to match the size of it; on the side left untouched by the forest was the great harbor known as the Jewel of Jewels. Soaring high over the city at its very center stood a magnificent palatial residence that gave off a faint white glow. To the trained and cultured eye it was clear that the palace was made from white marble esconce stone, that being the reason for the glow.

 

    Several rivers flowed from the forest around and into the city, all converging upon the palace. The rivers came in through power-wrought aqueducts, usually being purified as they poured in. Now they flowed sluggishly, glistening with a dark brownish-red sheen. The city could be said to be in the eye of the storm if such was possible.

 

    The once evenly surfaced highways leading into the city were now warped and torn, as if by some horrendous force that had come through in a whirlwind of violence and destruction. Huge stones protruded from the roads where they had risen from the earth and gigantic holes left gaping maws elsewhere. The once overpopulated routes of travel where now devoid of any signs of life. Carts and Eil-cars piled high with personal belongings where tilted or lay smashed on the blasted ground. Other materials lay scattered over the ground, being blown here and there by the wind.

 

    Despite these visible signs of flight no forms of life could be found, of the living or the dead. Now and then steam and muffled sounds-like screams, human screams-came up from the holes in the earth. The steam billowed up into the darkening sky drifting off into the forest.

 

    As lightning flared across the sky followed by the deafening roar of thunder, the lightning cast an unnatural eerie light upon the forest once known as the Day’ardan. The forest once consisted of three forests-the Pera, Datarc, and Ardan-all woven together, crackled and hissed as it burned. At one time in the not to distant past the forest had been home to millions of plants and animals of every variety. Now all of the plants and animals had either fled, died, or where slowly being consumed by the fires that burned ever on. Hundreds of these conflagrations where slowly burning towards the heart of the vast forest. Most of the fires had been set naturally, but a great deal burned with an unnatural heat and fury. Windstorms fed the fires hungers and they burned on.

 

    Instead of hampering the fires, the black rain seemingly added fuel to them. Their where no longer streams or rivers to halt the fires, aside from the four major rivers, and they flowed sluggishly. The earth had swallowed the rest of the waterways during the initial and seemingly endless stages of earthquakes and upheavals that ravaged and reshaped the world.

 

    They’re where no people around to put out the fires and very little animal life left to flee the woods. Like the roads leading to the city, the forest was preternaturally silenced. All there seemed to be in the world was the crackling of the fires, the howling of the winds, and the constant rumble and flash of thunder and lightning. The roads where clogged with fallen trees and other debris.

 

    Forked lightning cast a dead pallor over the city with its massive walls standing out in stark contrast to the dark void around them. The walls of the city where made entirely out of tragan stones---one of the rarest stones in the world, known for it’s durability. The walls could only have been shaped with such stone with the use of intense concentrations of the power, and even then it would have been a difficult and tedious task. Thus it seemed almost impossible that there were great rents in the walls.

 

    The Eastern, Southern, Western, and Northern gates were wide open and did not have a single guard posted at them. The Eastern and Southern gates were sagging on their ornate hinges and just inside of the city at these locations the streets where jammed with carts, wagons, coaches, carriages, buggies, and other visible signs that people leaving in sudden haste had decided to abandon. Unlike the outside of the city, which was morbidly absent of bodies, people lay scattered in the streets by the thousands. Most had expressions of terror and unimaginable pain etched on their faces, and many had the look of total surprise.

 

    Some of the bodies seemed to have been slashed smoothly in half, as if by a red hot knife cauterizing as it went, some burned to a crisp, leaving the air heavy with the sickly sweet smell of burning flesh, others seemed to have melted on the spot; there flesh in liquid pools, many had missing heads, a number of them had been seemingly flayed of flesh and drained of their blood like someone or something had spent a great deal of time doing it. Most had experienced even more horrid deaths.

 

    The vast majority of the dead were near the Northern and Western gates. Both were closest to the world renowned Library of Eschelus---the Library of World Knowledge. The garnished silver and gold doors of the famed library had been blasted to shreds. Books, manuscripts, and other priceless works were scattered by the millions to the four winds. Smoke poured forth from inside of the library as it slowly burned.

 

    For the most part, both of the gates were lacking the chaotic clutter that clogged the other gates. Despite piles of bodies in places the streets were still intact and no refuse could be found. The spiraled fountains on this side of the city still spouted crystal clear water, while those elsewhere poured forth jet-black water that on occasion came out in congealed masses.

 

    Fast moving fires that burned through even fireproof materials, as if being willed by unordinary means, were gutting the crystalline-like buildings in this part of the city. Buildings on several streets had collapsed despite wards having been placed on them as precautionary measures long before. The towering golden palaces with their numerous minarets and towers had all been reduced to rubble, the district of merchants leveled and reduced to an incendiary ball of flames, and University Street looked to have been stumped flat by a giant.

 

    The heart of the city---the Empherial Palace---seemed to be the only place to escape the damage. The streets and areas leading up to the palace seemed to be worked in blood. The outer walls surrounding the palace had been splashed with blood, as if a hose had been turned on; some of the blood reached as high as the very tops of the walls.

 

    Those who managed to survive in the city prayed without hope for the Creator to protect them in their hour of need. They found shelter wherever they could find a dry spot, the rain seemingly burning through clothing and flesh. They dared not move for fear of losing their lives, and they all stared blindly in the direction of the palace. The screams coming from the palace had ceased abruptly less than an hour past. They where all aware of the city being gutted by the fires, yet none where prepared to put their lives on the line to fight them. The cries of the wounded and the less fortunate fell upon deaf ears.

 

    Even as absolute disorder reigned supreme and anarchy torched the world, there was at least one man who seemed to go on as if nothing was amiss. Up in the Palace of Lights---third floor, if one wanted to be precise---Tars Andracar Ariesus Marin Drak sat upon a large four-poster bed and scratched his prematurely graying beard. It was ragged and singed for the most part, running wild and uncombed, so unlike the carefully groomed man he was known to be. He wondered what was being prepared for dinner, his mouth watering at the possibilities. Glancing over at the high arched windows alongside the sliding doors that led to the wide balcony he could just make out the small bars of light that streamed weakly into the room. He was sure that the sun was setting, even though it was rather difficult to tell with all of those dark clouds obscuring the sun. The light that did manage to break through had an unappealing color to it. Was it his imagination, or did the rain really look like dark thick ink pouring down?

 

    Lost in his own thoughts he mused over the steady pounding of the rain, the constant crash of thunder---which amused him to no great end---and those annoying flashes of light that kept popping up. His mood bordered on a deep and spiritual meditation. In the back of his mind was a strange voice that whispered and nagged incessantly that this was not how normal weather patterns took place. That voice was starting to anger him. Why did it not go away and leave him in peace?

 

    It was not his responsibility to deal with any aspects of the weather. That was for the Serai Mar to take care of. Why was the voice bothering him and not bothering them? A mere child could fix a simple storm like this. It was not as if the world was coming undone.

 

    He sighed resentful that he had been given so many responsibilities. Damn those weather masters. Now he would have to give those fools a damned sermon on their responsibilities. Damn them! He wouldn’t put it past the Assembly to find a way to lay the blame on his shoulders. They already seemed to relish heaping all the wrongs of Creation at his feet. Why did he even put up with them? He could run this world without their petty interferences!

 

    He clinched his hands and snarled aloud. Patience was a virtue he sometimes preferred to go without. It was time he started enforcing the rules of conduct. It wouldn’t look good at all in the public eye if everyone got to do whatever he or she wanted whenever they wanted to do it. And to hell with those idiots trying to form that church of theirs. The ungrateful lot! How dare they try to hide it from him. It was insolence and treason to say he was in league with the Dark One. He stood half a step below the Creator Himself! If there was any infallibility in this world, it resided in him.

 

    Their audacity lent credence to the contempt he held for them. They, not him, where the ones in league with the Dark. He’d give a speech in the Hall of Words that would set them and the rest of the world on fire. He was tired of playing the part of the nice guy. Everyone was jealous of all he had accomplished. No matter what he gave or did for them, they continued to be ingrates.

 

    His eyes blazed with a murderous light before they died. With a sigh he rubbed tired eyes. With a hand to his beard he scowled. At the first chance he would rid himself of it. Why Maryana had insisted he grow one was beyond him. Was she too plotting against him? He frowned angrily. Damn them all! Was the entire world lined against him?

 

    No! He waved his hands as if to ward of such thoughts. Never Maryana. Surely he could entrust his life to her! She was his life. He would never doubt her, but the rest…! They were suspect. By the Creator, why was it so hot? This had to be the work of the Serai Mar. Did they think to strike against his commands?

 

    Not for the first time he found himself wishing they where not the youngest Giata. It seemed that all the hot heads gravitated to them. He stroked his eyebrows thoughtfully. One thing for sure was that they couldn’t plot collectively against him. They fought too much amongst themselves to put up an effective challenge to him. Still…it was wrong to underestimate them. Now that he thought about it, why did all the misfits go to them? Yes, they could be a threat. He would toughen up their requirements thereby limiting their strength and influence.

 

    Gales of laughter poured forth from him. None could hope to stop him. He was the Creators Hammer against the Dark. As he looked upwards at the ceiling the weak light made his eyes seem to shine a reddish-gold with the look of a wild animal. He held too much contempt for his supposed councilors to expect them to put the Serai Mar in their place. He didn’t trust them either, but that was neither here nor there. Maybe he would even get to the bottom of some of those mysterious fires that had been breaking out. Young people could be so reckless. Why was that?

 

    He focused on the deplorable state of his room and gasped in outrage. The place looked like a whirlwind had come through. Damn their eyes! If those witless jackals thought this would cow him then they had another thing coming. If they thought to humble him then a rude awakening they would find. Maryana would be on his side. Who else would he be able to trust? The rest where all suspect. His face hardened as rage wracked his brain. It was not like he needed any of them. He was the Drahkin!

 

    “I am the Drahkin!” he howled defiantly.

 

    A bout of dizziness hit him causing him to clutch desperately the beds posts to keep from falling over. What was wrong with him? Did they try to poison him? He hoped the Creator seared away their eyes. They wouldn’t dare go against him. He was the hope of the Light! He put the fear of the Light in the Dark One himself! No one could hope to stand in his way. No one!

 

    He threw back his head and howled with laughter. He had to grab his sides to keep from tipping over as tears poured forth. Despite another bout of momentary dizziness he smiled. There was no need to worry about any of them trying to take him out. Just trying to come up with the people with the daring to trash his rooms made him burst into more laughter. The laughter stopped abruptly when a blinding headache struck. It passed quickly leaving him with a grin that bordered on the maddening.

 

    Ah, he was not even sure if he cared to find the perpetrators of such a terrible act. Come to think of it, why was he settling for what everyone else had? He should have bigger, more lavish rooms, perhaps an entire wing to himself. After all, without him they would be nothing.

 

    “Maryana would certainly find this amusing,” he murmured thoughtfully.

 

    She would have a fit if he didn’t include her in such a momentous decision. Perhaps he would present it as a gift on her naming day. Did they not have something coming up to celebrate? Probably not. He never forgot an important occasion, especially with all the vultures circling around him. He grimaced with dislike. Besides Maryana was always there to help him if he allowed something to purposefully slip his great mind. She had a scalding sense of humor at times that quickly brought a person up short. He smiled in amusement thinking of how many times she had humbled him and other members of the Council with her political abilities and keen insights.

 

    “Knowing her like I do,” he grumbled, “she would not hesitate to sharpen her tongue against me. Even if it was in front of Satal and the others.”

 

    Satal. Could he trust the man? Dare he trust a man as skilled in orations as Satal could be? Argh! Maryana drove him crazy with her teasing and pranks. He had never been witty enough or clever enough to counter her ways. Now that he thought about it, the fact that she excelled so well in so many subjects was, to put it frankly, on the side of suspicious.

 

    He stood up straight and flexed aching muscles. Wearing a frustrated smile on his face, he walked over and righted an overturned table, picked up some clothes---they would pay for soiling his good clothes---put away a couple of books---they where lucky he had no time for reading anymore---as well as doing a half dozen other things to straighten the place up. He toyed with the idea of calling in one of the palace servants to do the rest of the cleaning, but rejected that idea in disgust. He refused to be like Aramar, the youngest member of the Council. That young upstart needed a servant to do anything.

 

    Besides…. could he truly trust the servants anymore? No doubt they too had turned against him. Light sear their bones to ashes! He’d do this without any of them. And he would succeed!

 

    When had he, Tars Andracar, Lord of the Blessed Light and the Dawn, Protector and Bringer of the Sun, needed help for anything? The answer to that was obvious. He had always relied on himself to get anything done the right way.

 

    Reaching down, he picked up a mini portrait of his beloved Maryana. He gazed at it lovingly, the fire in his eyes, the wildness, dimming a little. He had always been fascinated by the way her beautiful green eyes slanted ever so slightly, the vivid sea green of them as much as the tilt of her eyes clear evidence of her El~Vinyn heritage. He pondered the way her hair cascaded down her shoulders in multiple beaded braids; her full dark lips seemed to beckon him, even from the portrait. With a dreamy twist to his mouth he sat the portrait down on a table.

 

    Should he explain to her about the accident in Ke’cark-mor? He honestly didn’t think that many of her people had been killed. Shaking his head hesitantly, he grabbed the portrait and hung it up on one of the walls. The rest of the mess was not so easily dealt with. He tired of picking stuff up and righting things. It was slow work cleaning up something that his political enemies had trashed. The more mundane things had always confounded him, even as a child. There was no question about it, using the power no matter the job was far easier---and it saved time.

 

    Taking a slow---almost arrogant---breathe of air, he cleared his mind of all impure thoughts and embraced the power. For some reason it had become difficult of late to get at the power. At times he had to almost force it. He felt the warmth and basked in the glory of the power. It brought a half smirk to his face. With the power Cres’alan he felt he could literally do anything! He could feel it flowing all around him, could see the shimmer of it dancing in the very air that he breathed. Without hesitation he took control of it. The power had never felt so good.

 

    With such power his senses seemed to blossom with a thousand nuances of expanded awareness and the capabilities that came with them. He could almost taste the power as it swirled around him. With such power, he fancied that he could make out the distinct roaring of the river Peronia, as far out as it was compared to the other rivers. With the help of the power it seemed that the howling of the winds was right in front of him. With such raw power coursing through him he could spell the bar of soap that lay somewhere under the bed. Looking down at the carpeted floor, he could see the smallest shards of the glass in vivid detail. He through back his head and laughed. Who could stop him? The thought flashed through his mind dismissively.

 

    Now he would start off with a small amount of the power. Nothing fancy at this point. Perhaps he would gather up this damn glass and repair the swan vase that had been on the nightstand. Wait a second, he thought, his eyebrows climbing. What in the six continents was he doing with a swan vase? Maybe Maryana had slipped it into his room when he had been absented. Or…could they be up to something? They had yet to be subtle, so perhaps now they were reduced to being so. There was certainly a great many of them who could be as sneaky. Ha, the joke would soon be on them!

 

    With a wry shake of his head, he settled down to wrap a tiny amount of air around each piece of broken glass. From the smallest slivers to the biggest shards, he wanted to make the vase like new, when he felt a subtle shift of the power that transfixed a look of horror upon his face.

 

    Something was wrong with the power. It seemed to be warped and twisted by a darkness that was intent on death and devastation. The blessed feeling that he had experienced moments earlier was quickly replaced by one of terror, as the power suddenly surged through his body, causing him to spasm uncontrollably.

 

    The power threatened to overwhelm him and to rend his body. He dropped to his knees then toppled on his face letting out a howl of agony as the power forced its way out of him and lashed out violently at the walls. Sweat seemed to pour from every pore of his body as he fought for control. The power overcame his every effort to hold it in; it felt like acidic poison working its way out of his body, making a part of him want to release it. It seemed to liquefy everything in its path, sickening him, making him vomit onto the carpeted floor.

 

    The Lord of the Dawn focused all thought on closing off the flow of the power. His headache roared full force as he gritted his teeth and concentrated and reducing the power coursing through his body. With the last of his strength, he managed to steam the flow and to release the tie to the power.

 

    Gasping for breath he crawled over to the wall nearest the doors leading to the balcony and sagged against it. He shook from the fear and bewilderment of the moment. Gathering up his remaining strength, and after taking deep breathes; he crawled on his hands and knees until he was directly under one of the windows. He pulled himself up and took several deep breathes of air that came in through the now broken glass.

 

    He scowled darkly. They had to have had a hand in this! He was sure of it. Why wouldn’t they leave him alone? Why wouldn’t that damn voice leave him alone? He didn’t need any of them! Why didn’t the air seem right? He frowned, his mouth tightening in a stubborn line. That was a ridiculous thought. Since when did air have any feeling? Well, Maryana had said that he had an extremely overactive imagination. Maybe she was right yet again.

 

    He chuckled softly. His wonderful Maryana; the Sun of his life. She would certainly try to tan his backside, if she ever found out that he had trouble with such a paltry amount of the power. The giggles caught up with him this time. Maryana trying to spank him? That was worse than absurd!

 

    Still shaking with the giggles he stood up on wobbly legs to get a better look out the window. His good humor was cut off abruptly and his jaw slackened when he saw what the outside world looked like. To his amazement it seemed that the far off Peronia River had somehow done the impossible and along with the other rivers had joined together to form a flood plain around and throughout the city. Even the forests seemed to be inundated by the waters. The very walls of the city seemed to be scarred and ruined as if by unearthly force.

 

    This could not be! Avernon Cavor was the immortal city, one of the wonders of the world. Had they not worked on the walls years ago, even though they where impervious to anything? Why were the damn levies not being opened? Did he have to do everything?

 

    For that matter, why weren’t the Meis Relai out stopping something that even a group of children could control? Ah, could they be trying to prove a point to him? They wouldn’t dare! For some odd reason, an image of several of his peers swimming in the rivers amidst the chaos and their laughter flashed in his mind. He shook his head irritably. That was impossible.

 

    He looked out upon the golden, crystal-spire city and gazed upon the rolling clouds of smoke billowing from many of the buildings. He wondered offhand if the rivers would be able to rise fast enough to stop the fires from spreading further.

 

    Several of the more ornate buildings located nearest the palace had scorch marks characteristic of some of the more nastier uses of the power. Surely no wielder in his or her right mind would deliberately bring such wanton destruction, he thought outraged. It was absurd to even think it was possible, though he could think of a few who would stoop to such. What could he say when so many plotted his downfall?

 

    He muttered angrily under his breath. He would show them all! He frowned in bewilderment as a grove of Arvidian trees crackled and burned. The fire easily consumed the highly prized trees, as if with a wanton hunger spurred by the chaos. Now how had that happened?

 

    The sky, an ugly scarlet color with black smeared across it, was beginning to develop storm clouds. The clouds seem to be gathering randomly across the sky at incredible rates of speed.

 

    He shook his head in an attempt to clear it. Had the world gone mad? In all of his long life he had never seen anything like what was going on outside. The Weather Masters would pay dearly for this one. He would personally see to the demotions of each and every one of them to Serai Amar. Damn Jacar Tabul! That fool was in charge of them; therefore he would need to be humbled properly. How dare he let things run so wild.

 

    A satisfied smile upon his face, he pulled out a cloth from his right pocket and wiped spittle from his mouth. Still on shaky legs, he took one last look out of the window before he tried to close it. He scowled when he remembered that the glass had been broken. Well, no matter. Cleaning his bedroom was the least of his worries now. He stumbled and lurched his way over to the bedroom door, turned to look at the mess, and scowled when he noticed that several of his blue Ascralion silk shirts had been torn to shreds. Who in his right mind would tear up shirts worth a small fortune? A fool surely. The Pai’tak governor of Arelar had bestowed the shirts to him as a Gifting Day present.

 

    Tars Andracar sighed. He hadn’t really liked the man anyways. He was always full of himself. He gasped when he saw the painting of Maryana that he had just hung up so carefully. It had a hole burned through it over the left breast right where the heart would be. He shivered uneasily and shook off the thought that it was a sign.

 

    So they thought to trick him with such gimmicks? With his lips curling in disgust he shoved aside a priceless red and blue Argaric carpet and knocked over his gilded study chair. Straightening his shirt he ignored the scorch marks on the walls and coolly opened the door. Puffed up with self-importance he stepped into the living room.

 

    His eyes narrowed with suspicion when the room turned out to be sparkling clean. It seemed that his enemies wanted to lull him into a false sense of security. He was game. He would play along with them until the right time came, and then he would crush them.

 

    He regarded the room with a dubious expression, before marching through it with a determined frame of mind. He nimbly kept his balance as earthquakes began to make the room shake. The quakes hardly registered in his confused and clouded mind. Opening the ornately carved and gilded stehl oak door he stepped into the hall and drew up arrogantly.

 

    His eyes darted up and down the hall betraying his bewilderment before he closed the door softly. There was no need to let anyone who didn’t need to know see that his enemies were striking against him indirectly. Their cleverness would all be for not. He locked the door for good measure, his hands moving over the symbols carefully. He turned around to take a better look at the hall and recoiled in horror at the rubble that lay upon it.

 

    Obviously the servants were doing a particularly poor job at keeping the palace clean. They where in league with his enemies, he decided with a scowl. The hall looked far worse than his bedroom, was his next conclusion. Wide enough for a Chilvarik Knight command to go through in full ceremonial bearing ten abreast with room to spare, the rubble was piled high to the ceiling in several places. The rich and colorful tapestries that lined the hall on both sides where mostly torn and ripped, with many of them sagging to the floor or lying in piles upon it.

 

    Intricately carved sculptures showing some of the famous people of the Age lay shattered on the floor. He was outraged to see that a bust of him laid amongst those shattered. Parts of the walls where scorched and burned from fire, while some sections of the walls where missing entirely, making grooves in the walls or showing the insides of rooms beyond.

 

    He looked up and down the hall repeatedly; expecting someone to come forth and explain to him just what was going on. They are very sly, he cautioned himself. What a fiendish plan they had laid out for him! But he was on to them. Oh, yes he was. Now where was that damn shaking coming from? Perhaps he was coming down with something. Had they done something to him? If so then he had an ace up his sleeve for them that would make them all howl!

 

    He strained his eyes, listened very carefully, and slowed his harsh breathing to concentrate on picking out any unusual noises. His eyes narrowed with contempt when it crossed his mind to use the power. With enemies this stupid, what need had he of the power?

 

    Through wide telr’is he could see flashes of lightning and hear the boom of thunder racing across the sky. Black rain poured steadily from the storm clouds. Had the storm season come early? They sometimes had a difficult time controlling it when it did. He was stumped as to why he could not make out the noise of other people. Besides the thousands of servants and the Meis Relai who lived in the palace, hundreds more visited and stayed at the palace each and every day.

 

    Complaining under his breath he decided to walk further down the hall. Maybe then he would meet up with other people and proceed to get to the bottom of this mess. Perhaps he would start off at the lower levels and work his way up. Ingrates. That was what they all were. He sidestepped the fallen statue of some famous forgotten bard, and stalked pass rich tapestries whose images no longer made sense to him, and sagging paintings of long dead Meis Relai. A black mood was starting to descend on him when still no one showed up. He walked up to one of the doors determined to get to the bottom of this insolence.

 

    His eyebrows shot up in surprise---and with some curiosity, he admitted to himself---when he noticed a circular hole the size of a babies balled fist in the exact middle of the door. His fists convulsed with sudden suppressed rage. Damn them! That was an expensive and rare wood used for the door. His enemies had no artistic comprehension.

 

    He burst into the room and hopped easily over two liveried palace servants. They where dressed in the crossed white and gold of the higher palace servants, the Storoika. Both of the servants where young girls who had yet to reach their first ceremonial naming days, there lives snatched from them suddenly. The two girls were alike enough to have passed for twins, both having blue eyes and blond hair. Neat little holes where above both of their hearts, the holes no bigger than small copper coins. Oddly enough, they showed with a blackish glow despite adequate lighting. A look of complete surprise marred the girls’ expressions.

 

    Tars Andracar hardly noticed them through his increasingly clouded mind. Besides he was too busy gawking at the room. The room looked like it had been gutted by a small fire with intense heat, and he could feel the power had been used. Everything in it had been reduced to ashes, or into lumps of unrecognizable objects. He shuddered involuntarily and wondered uneasily who had been in the room.

 

    So they thought to lead him like a stray dog, did they? Looking out onto the balcony through the partially missing balcony doors he could see clearly that the sky was turning an ugly bruised black. Thanks to his genius no one had been in the room when his enemies struck. He hurried out of the room, remembering to step over the debris in the doorway.

 

    He spent the next five or six hours wondering the numerous halls, all the while marveling at the wholesale destruction that he saw. It seemed that no longer would his enemies be comfortable working in the shadows. Now they sought to challenge him openly. At times he passed all manner of bodies, most in the white and blue of lesser servants, and a couple of times he even stumbled onto fellow Meis Relai. Most of the Meis Relai lay awkwardly against walls, as if slammed against them by some great force.

 

    To Tars Andracar’s increasingly befuddled mind it all measured as just more debris to get by. Did they really have to destroy the palace just to get at him? Why didn’t the voices leave him alone? They where always whining and spitting out gibberish. Could they be against him as well, or did his enemies plant them just to try and make him look crazy.

 

    Just when he was on the verge of giving up on his search and about to go get a stiff drink, his aimless wondering led him to a well-lit room that was…. cavernous to say the least. The floor was tiled in some kind of dark blue with no designs, and at the far side of the room were two large doors. At the side of both doors where two stone statues of gryphons, fierce in their look, while seemingly guarding the way. Both doors had the decorations of the sub symbols of male and female Meis Relai: the golden eagle of the dawn clutching a flaming rod of the female half on the right door, and the mythical, leaping dragon of the male half, shooting flames out of its mouth while clutching a rod with its serpentine tail was on the left door. A great crystal hung from the ceiling without anything appearing to hold it up. It shown with a disorienting greenish-gray which made him shade his eyes.

 

    Tars Andracar stopped at the entrance to the room, and stared suspiciously at the crystal. Was it against him as well? They all are, the voices whispered softly. He shook his head momentarily confused, before righting his train of thought.

 

    Perhaps everyone awaited him beyond the doors. They had certainly better remember that he had forbidden major meetings outside of it on pain of treason. He wanted to keep a close eye on these “meetings”.

 

    He stared at the door wondering what to do. “Perhaps,” he mused aloud, “they have all come to their senses and seen fit to put all the power in my hands.”

 

    He looked around the room mulling his thoughts over. “Or…they could be hatching more plots against me,” he muttered. His thoughts filled with rage. “Then again…” he mumbled, his thoughts suddenly cheerful, “they could be finalizing last minute preparations for the wedding.” If it is about the wedding then they should have let me in on it, he mused.

 

    Maryana would have a fit if he were late to another of these damn wedding sessions. “I can’t run this world and deal with such,” he grumbled. He quickly searched the room for a mirror. It would certainly not look good if he went in looking scruffy, now would it? He spied a floor length mirror just outside the room in the hall, and wondered darkly how he could have missed it. Hurrying to it, he ignored the foolish pastoral paintings that lined the hall and the other rich hangings.

 

    “Better go in looking my best,” he murmured. Tugging at his dark blue Ascralion uniform, seeming not to notice the filth covering it. He raced over lines in his mind of what he was going to say. Bending, he brushed off his knee-high boots and tightened the laces just a tad. Maybe he should have shined them before he left the room. Once again standing straight he admired himself in the mirror. What caught his eye was the premature gray in his dark black hair, along with streaks of silver. He sighed, almost sadly, at the thoughts of a youth that he had never been allowed to fully enjoy, he hardened himself. The world held no place for dreamers.

 

    His gray eyes where blood shot and had an uncanny golden tint to them, but he figured a good nights rest would cure that. Those lines of worry on his face were a bit of a nuisance to him though. What did he have to worry about? Oh well. He dismissed that as something too unimportant to worry over. Finally nodding his head in satisfaction, he strolled back into the room and walked up the carpeted way to those doors.

 

    He traced the ancient dragon of the male half of the power and pondered it’s meaning. He was pleased that it brought no emotional reaction; both symbols seemed to be able to elicit such reactions. A good reason not to trust them either, he supposed. Now that he thought about it, there was a…chill running up and down his spine. Almost as if there is trouble on the other side, he mused.

 

    Shifting his feet uneasily, he glanced at the eagle. Since the day of his conception his life had been dedicated to the service of all Meis Relai, and yet…he found himself longing for those few times when he had been able to distance himself from all things Meis Relai. It was curious to say the least. To be thinking this way at a time like this was not like him at all. Shrugging he pushed the doors open and strutted into the very center of all that was power.

 

    “Maryana!” His voice resounded across the great hall. “Maryana, my love! I’m here!” And on time, he thought smugly.

 

    The controlled smile on his face slipped when his voice echoed unanswered through the hall. Lips pursed with suppressed fury, he came dangerously close to sulking. This was getting downright ridiculous. The damn hall with the She’vin Rays of Light high above in all their splendor, and with the six Chairs of Dominion for all to see the might of the peoples keepers, seemed to be as empty as the rest of the palace. Now he was getting suspicious of it all.

 

    Face hot and pinched with resentment and…paranoia, he was definitely getting mad. Surely they didn’t run from a flood! Any number of them could handle anything short of the Creator! He stepped over the prone bodies of two Meis Relai---smoke from a power-wrought attack still rose from their bodies---and looked at the room darkly.

 

    The sweetly sick smell of burned flesh did not seem to bother him. Perhaps it was because he was too busy trying to figure out which of them were plotting against him at this very moment.

 

    He stalked past row upon row of seats in the great hall, walked up a flight of stairs, and came upon a round table made of Vorken oak. Muttering under his breath he walked around the table, skirting the body of a dark-haired woman. The woman had a look of shocked disbelief and horror upon her face and…what would seem to be compassionate understanding, if such could be read upon the face of the dead.

 

    Throwing his hands up in disgusted resignation, he found himself slumping in a chair of gold and white with Rhunes running down the sides of it. It was the chair of the R’elai Sharai, he realized with surprise. The chair of the First amongst Equals, the chair of all, he thought. None had been seated in the chair in more than a thousand years. It was rightfully his.

 

    Crossing his arms and puffing up with self-importance, he propped his boots on top of the sacred table. Any other day that would have sparked uproar for even him, but this was not just any other day. Might as well make myself comfortable, he decided. It seemed that everyone else had turned craven because of a little rain. He wondered where everyone went. This was highly irregular and outside the normal procedures. Perhaps he’d make this a treasonous act. That would show them all. He could not be left in the dark! Everything depended on him.

 

    Playing with his shirt, on the verge of becoming bored with the entire charade, someone finally showed up. A blinding flash followed a sound like metal grating on metal severely as a Vor’gate chopped a hole into nothingness on the opposite side of the table from Tars Andracar.

 

    Out stepped a man wearing cloak and armor in the death red of a High Lord of Chaos. Tars Andracar had averted his eyes when the first tingling sensation of the Vor’gate had been felt. A Vor’gates first light was known to cause temporary blindness in people. Besides the richness of the red somehow caused his eyes to throb painfully.

 

    “Ah,” the stranger said in a deep, satisfied tone. He looked Tars Andracar up and down before nodding to himself. “It is clear that the Vaneym has yet to take you as it did the rest of the fools who chose wrongly.” He gazed at Tars Andracar again. “Not completely, that is. But, oh yes, it is working its way through you.”

 

    The stranger ran his hands over the table. “Even those thrice cursed gray eyes of yours burn with the gold. I must say I like that, though it is a side effect, I have been told.” He said the last with a reproachful look.

 

    Closing the Vor’gate, which had a field of slate gray ice and billowing clouds behind it, the man took a seat in the chair almost exactly opposite of Tars Andracar. The chair was marked with half as my Rhunes, was a tight fit, but the man managed to appear comfortable in it. He looked across and sneered at Tars Andracar.

 

    Tars Andracar wiped an absurdly comical smile off of his face, and tried to appear solicitous. It was sad that such a young man could have such poor taste in the color of the cloth he wore. Today’s youth…just out of control. The least I can do is be nice, he said to the voices as they chanted a litany of death and destruction; things that did not exist in this world. They could be found in the history books, of course, so maybe he was onto something.

 

    “Pardon me, sir,” he began with a polite smile, “but would you care for refreshments or perhaps something to snack upon? The servants should be setting up the dinning hall about…” He glanced quickly at the great clock on the south wall “…right now.” He chuckled suddenly and uncontrollably finding some humor in the situation.

 

    “Shadow take you!” the man said. His eyes narrowed contemptuously. “You bloody, stupid fool.” The man came to his feet smoothly, clicked and removed his red serpent-crested helm, and dropped it onto the table with a careless twist to his mouth.

 

    “You know Tars,” the man said, his lips curling in disgust at the name. “You really should stop playing these cheilshen games. I? I come here…to dine? I think we know the truth of that. This is over.” He eyed Tars Andracar with a half smile upon his face. “I have come for you, as I swore these many years past. Did you think I would forget?”

 

    Tars Andracar wiped drool from his chin and crossed his fingers. What in the world was this man babbling on about? Toying with his shirt he gave the man a placating nod. He had learned, with Maryana’s insistence, to humor the guests.

 

    “I’m sorry, but-“ he flashed a winning smile “-I’m sure you know the rules. I’m truly sorry.” He really did have genuine regret in his voice. Some of these rules really did need to go. “At this time I just can’t make any exceptions to the rule. You’ll need to arrange an audience like everyone else.”

 

    He whistled a little tune and winked at the stranger. “If you like, you can wait here with me. Maryana and the rest…” He tried off and his eyes narrowed. No doubt they plotted against him even now. How dare they! He looked back up at the stranger and he smiled again.

 

    “They should be here at any moment. We are ever curious of new people, so consider it all forewarned. That lot can talk, and they will not hesitate to talk you into the ground!” He lowered his voice slightly. “Tell you the truth, it can really get a touch boring around here, if you aren’t careful.”

 

    The strangers’ eyes strayed to the figure of the dead woman, and then back up to Tars Andracar. “For your sake, you had best not have gone as you seem. Not completely, that is.” The man looked the room over, his face set in a dark mask, except for his lips, which twitched uncontrollably.

 

    “Tell me, Tars…,” the man began with a small smile, “do you remember me? Or should I do something to…jog your memory?” His hands clenched, as if in anticipation.

 

    Before Tars Andracar could ask the man what he was droning on and on about, another Vor’gate slashed into being. Out of this one stepped a man dressed in light bluish-gray silks with a flowing fur-lined cloak dyed the same color as the silks draped over his shoulders. The man closed the Vor’gate seemingly unconcerned, though he did seem to be braced just in case. The man raised a hand to the intricately carved mask that he wore in the shape of a gargoyles face. The eyes of the mask seemed to flash a grayish-green.

 

    Tars Andracar eyed the new stranger with some amusement. Now he is what a strutting dandy would look like, flashed through his mind. He dismissed the man and turned his attention back to the first stranger. Now what had they been discussing? That damn red was really starting to get on his bad side. Seeing the twisted look the man kept giving him made him frown. If the man had not been such a stranger he would have said the man held a deep and bitter grudge against him. Preposterous. Must be my imagination, he reasoned. Now that he thought the matter over, it seemed the man did seem somehow familiar. The thought slowly worked its way through his clouded mind.

 

    He bent over momentarily with the feeling that he was going to vomit. Fortunately it passed quickly. Mustn’t embarrass myself, he thought. He was positive he had never seen the man before. Should he ask him? If he did know the man, it was rather impolite not to remember him. Perhaps his enemies had brought in someone who bore a resemblance to someone he knew in an attempt to embarrass him. He doubted they could be so clever. He definitely wasn’t crazy, which was for sure.

 

    “You’re not the…D-Dark B-Betrayer…?” He clapped a hand over his mouth and looked down at the table as if lost. What was a Dark Betrayer? It was an amusement of some kind no doubt. He didn’t know where he had gotten such a ridiculous idea, but…something else welled up in his clouded mind.

 

    “Bro--?” He cut that off quickly. He didn’t have a brother. Strange memories, half clouded dreams, kept tugging at his mind. The voices clamored to be heard, screaming over each other, making his head pound fiercely.

 

    He shook his head, as if it would banish such. It had to be the work of those who opposed him. The fiendishly clever b******s! They had stooped so low as to try and plant false memories amongst the real. Now that he was on to them, he wanted to play it out a little while longer. He suddenly felt tired. Damned tired. It has to be these goddamn surprises, he reasoned.

 

    “Mars,” he said, blinking in confusion at the word.

 

    The man in red stared balefully at Tars Andracar with certainty. “I’m glad that you can remember that name….BROTHER.” There was no touch of warmth in such words that you would normally find in a person speaking to one of his blood. There was only hatred.

 

    The man shook his head angrily and clenched his fists. “How you, of all people, could wear the mantle of R’ elai S’ anai is beyond thinking. After all I did they could dare deny my right! It belongs to me!” A half smile came to the mans face. “You know I wasted away half my life trying to achieve what was so carelessly given to you.” The smile twisted into a sneer and he bean walking towards Tars Andracar.

 

    “To think that it was you who defeated me at the Gates of Terag Tern!” Incredulity crept into the mans voice. “You who knew and cared nothing for the Marshal arms! I was humbled at Deres Mar because of you mad gamble, which you only managed to pull of with that light-cursed luck of yours. We could have all been finished off the coast of Levalry. Did you realize that, dear brother? But no! You had to let your skewed view and insane ideas of a world that could somehow still attain peace cloud your judgment. Now look how far you have fallen. Look! Why let me---“

 

    “Be silent, Malius,” the other man said exasperated at the ranting taking place in such a sacred place. “I don’t think he even understands the basics of what you are going on about. The Great Lord certainly did not send us here for the express purpose of you airing out your petty complaints. Let the past remain in the past and rejoice instead, for we have won.”

 

    Malius flashed a challenging look at the other man. “You just don’t get it, do you, Sath? Stay out of this. It has nothing to do with you. Don’t you have a city to raze and people to torture?”

 

    “So, there is going to be two additional guests!” Tars Andracar said cheerfully. “Would the both of you prefer to head towards the dining hall? Or better yet,” he said brightly, clapping his dirt-smudged hands together, “would you like some Chigon tea before dinner?” Lowering his voice, he advised confidentially to the two men-both glaring at him oddly enough-to show that he liked them, “Don’t eat the Blue Avelia Pie. It hasn’t tasted quit the same since our Maester Cook retired the year before.”

 

    Sath fixed his gaze on Malius. “He is as out there as a Marlasian trading captain. What do you propose to do about that?” He kept a watchful eye on Tars Andracar and did not bother to hide his mocking tone. “I must admit that the Vaneym is slower in him. Grevor did his job well. Yet, judging by the color of his eyes, he is in the advanced stages.”

 

    Malius glowered darkly at Sath. “I can see that.”

 

    Sath shrugged his shoulders and carefully removed his mask. In the poor lighting of the room three long scars on his face, snaking from his left ear towards his lips, took on a sinister look. The scars, gifts from the Dark Lord himself, could not be healed, and could be seen no matter the illusion used.

 

    “We can end this quarrel here, Ma-Malius, whichever one you are in the mood to go by.” He gave Malius a dark smile. Rolling up his sleeves, his eyes glittered with anticipation. “I for one have been awaiting this day from the very beginning. One less of your blood would help. Two less would I count as a blessing.”

 

    Tars Andracar muffled a laugh. He was intrigued by the interplay between the two strangers. What they where chatting about seemed more like high fantasy to him. Definitely outside the realms of reality, he decided. His stomach growled and he glanced down at it. When was the last time I ate something, he wondered. Drumming his hands against the table he hummed an old favorite, “The Old Man and His Drunken Cow”. It had a nice rhythm to it.

 

    “Shut up you damn fool!” Malius shouted. His concentration had been disruptive by the idiot. He looked at Sath again and sneered. “This is not the time to squabble like old maids with too much time on their hands.” With that said, he dismissed Sath with a hand wave and turned his attention back on Tars Andracar.

 

    “Our Lord has won, Drahkin.” He eyed Tars Andracar as if gazing at a puzzle. “You are no Drahkin. It would have been wiser to come with us when you had the chance. Now you will die like the gutless coward I have always known you to be.”

 

    “Remember, Our Lord wants him.”

 

    “Either way he will die,” Malius said with a shrug. Rubbing his hands together he examined Tars Andracar. “I don’t want him suffering without knowing what he is suffering for.”

 

    Sath arched an eyebrow at Malius. It wasn’t bad suggestion, he grudgingly admitted to himself. Still…this was not in the plan.

 

    “Perhaps Tars isn’t the only one who has lost his mind,” he said with a twisted smile. “You want me to hold off the Vaneym?” he asked, giving Malius a skeptical look. “I have not healed another since I walked over to the Blessed. My skills have been channeled into other directions.” He finished that with a short, harsh laugh.

 

    Malius crossed his arms. “Who cares? Can you do it or not? Let us bring out the psychologist in you.”

 

    Wrong branch fool, Sath wanted to say, but he managed to keep it to himself. He would go along with this slight change in the plan. What harm could it do? Beside, he had been meaning to try out a few newly found skills on one of the mad men. Why not try it on the Drahkin himself? Licking his lips unknowingly, he came up to the still humming Tars Andracar and placed both hands on his shoulders.

 

    Leaning close to Tars Andracar, he whispered, “I’m going to make sure that it hurts like never before.”

 

    Tars Andracar twisted around some so he could get a look at what the man was trying to do. Maybe the guy needed some help. He could only guess at what was being done. Maybe the man was an entertainer. Light only knew that the palace needed one. Both of the men had been spouting nonsense as far as he was concerned. Maybe they where going to do something exciting.

 

    “Hurry up.”

 

    “Shut up so I can concentrate,” Sath snapped.

 

    Focusing, he unlocked the way to the power. On the outside of the…shell, or barrier the Great Lord had set up for him, he thought he could feel the heat of the Vaneym and its death-wielding effects. At times he wondered at the twist the Great Lord had given to the Vaneym. Why had its virulence been spared for the women? What plan was being woven? Hastily such thoughts where pushed aside. With the power in his grasp, he felt close to being on level with even his Lord. Almost. Working quickly, he wove the variances roughly, looping them in and around Tars Andracar. The reactions of the Drahkin would be interesting to see, he thought.

 

    Tars Andracars’ face contorted in agony. A pain that was beyond pain seemed to grip his body and contort it. His mouth opened in a silent scream. Instead of coaxing the body’s natural abilities into healing the body, the flows met the Vaneym and simply used the body as a means to an end.

 

    He dropped to the floor gasping for breath. His head was driven hard against the floor as spasms racked his body. Painful memories began to slowly pour forth making his body twist and turn as if being hit physically. This time the memories could not be driven away. His bruised and battered mind could not stem the tide of memories as they surged forth. Slowly he was forced to recall the years of unrelenting warfare in which no quarter was given or asked for.

 

    He looked up at Malius and flinched. His eyes flew to the cautiously backpedaling Sath and sadness struck him. His red-gold eyes glistened with unshed tears of sorrow, remorse and a deep, bitter resignation.

 

    “Mars. Lucar,” he said, his voice rough with emotions. “How have we sunk so low?”

 

    Malius laughed derisively. “It is good to see that you are recalling so much, dear brother. I was beginning to think that I would need to do the healing.” He rubbed his left arm and scowled at Tars Andracar. “Mars Drakus is no more. Remember once when you named me the hunter, Nehamin’Roi? That was in Sereas long ago. You named it in jest, but now indeed, I am the hunter.”

 

    Sath snorted.

 

    Malius gazed at Tars Andracar and twirled the bottom of his cloak. “Tell me, Tars,” he said, anger leaping into his eyes, “can you feel the madness and mania coursing through your body?” He chuckled darkly. “Don’t fret. The healing is only a momentary freedom. No need to get excited over it.”

 

    Sath kept a guarded eye on Tars Andracar and gave Malius an exasperated look. If necessary he would V’ert instead of opening a gate. He did not care for Malius’ gloating nor did he like the steel he could still see in the eyes of Tars Andracar. The war was over, so could it be the madness returning so quickly? He did not plan to stay long to see what the Drahkin had up his sleeve.

 

    Tars Andracar chanced to catch a glimpse at the body of the female Meis Relai not far from his feet. Shock raced through his body. Time seemed to stand still, and he let out a terrible inhuman cry of anguish. Outside thundered roared with such intensity that it shook the palace.

 

    “My God,” he moaned getting to his knees and crawling over to the lifeless woman. He closed his eyes as he felt his world die. There was nothing to live for and it seemed he felt a part of himself die in that moment as well. His beautiful Maryana. Dead. Tears flowed down his face mingling with the filth covering him so that the tears blackened. Closing her eyes, he turned his dark gaze on the two men.

 

    “You…b******s!” A myriad of emotions played across his face and his mind choking his voice. “Why? Why did…why did you have to do this? You killed her!”

 

    “Don’t flatter yourself,” Sath said with contempt. He held as much of the power as possible as he prepared himself for what was to come.

 

    Malius clutched the table with both hands and laughed mockingly. He ran a gauntlet-encased hand through his pure white hair. “I really do wish that it had been me.” He sighed as if with real regret. “Alas,” he began with a mocking smile, “Bringer of the Blessed Light, it was with your own hands that your precious Maryana died by.” He took satisfaction in the horrified disbelief on Tars Andracars’ face.

 

    “No words, dear brother? No matter. I’m sure that the Vaneym played a central part in it. But…you did kill her regardless of the extenuating circumstances.”

 

    Sath traced one of the curves on his mask before glancing at Tars Andracar. “I would imagine that you are responsible for most of the deaths in and around the palace. That is, of course, if one of your disciples did not start and you came along for cleanup.” How the Great Lord had affected such a twist in the Vaneym was beyond his knowledge, but not for the first time, he was thankful to be with the Blessed.

 

    “It is in many ways ironic,” he continued his eyes upon the rafters. “No doubt you found a way to kill those near to you as well as others who held a place in your feelings.” His eyes narrowed when he saw the smirk on Malius’ face. “The Great Lord brought that on you specifically, Drahkin. I have even heard that the Vaneym can give certain gifts…”

 

    That was puzzling. Another thing to store away for greater understanding. Yet another was Malius. How had he survived the fall of Seg Awey? Was the Great Lord protecting him? If that were so, it would be uncomfortably close to favoring him.

 

    Tars Andracar, face contorted grotesquely, gently laid Maryana onto the floor. He brushed her hair back and felt the tears hot on his cheeks. How could he have done this? Lords sake, he was the one who deserved death! He deserved worse than death! Staring with despair at Maryana, his fists clenched and unclenched. Spasms of nausea wracked his body from the held in grief he felt. He cast a bitter eye upon the two men.

 

    “We are doomed,” he spoke hoarsely. “You two don’t even realize it. How many of you have damned your souls?” Swallowing the lump in his throat and steeling himself, he made it to one knee. “We have fought on opposite sides for so many-“

 

    “Years?” Malius and Sath spoke at the same time. They eyed each other in measuring ways. Sath gave a short smile that failed to warm his eyes and step away giving Malius the floor.

 

    Malius arched an eyebrow in bemusement at Sath, and then gave a mocking smile of his own. “As I was saying, Tars, you still fail to understand the scope of what we are doing. I’ll leave the majority up to your damnable imagination, but you will understand what I am saying.” He glanced at Sath and rolled his eyes at the amount of power the man held. Such foolish fear of Tars!

 

    “This…war,” he continued, “according to our Lord, has been waged since the beginning of time. Reminds you of some of the more far fetched Kevockian tales, eh? Due to the Creators trickery and deceit, it has taken our Lord thousands upon thousands-perhaps tens of thousands-of years to gather his Lords of The Chaos. It could have been done much sooner, but He savors his wins as is accorded him. One would think that you, of all people, would understand that. You are the Drahkin after all! The Shadow, as you and your ilk so foolishly name us; have triumphed over the weak and the timid. The Koreor Books turned out to be wrong and false.”

 

    “No!” Tars Andracar cried out. “The -books…they are not wrong!” He had sacrificed everything for this world. It could not end this way! “You are the one who is mistaken, Mars!”

 

    Quickly opening himself up to the power, he tried to form a Vor’gate. The power surged through his body trying to crush and overwhelm him. It tried to use sheer force and brutality to erase him from existence. It proved too much for even him to handle.

 

    “Too much,” he gasped releasing his grasp of the power. He had to forcefully shut himself off from it, as it seemed to make a play for him again. Collapsing to the floor dry heaving, he curled into a tight ball trying to hold off the pain. Defeat hung over him like a dark winters night, and he could feel the dull, empty ache knowing at his soul.

 

    Sath permitted a small triumphant smile to play across his face. “Lord of the Eastern Dawn,” he said with contempt. “You have failed most miserable, Tars. Did you think you could casually embrace the power without the Lords shield? Why did you even bother to try?”

 

    He attempted a sympathetic look but failed at it. Dropping to one knee to look Tars Andracar directly in his eyes, he grabbed Tars by his hair. “Give up. Beg me to take you to Him for your salvation. Perhaps in time you may rise to being a footman of mines.”

 

    Tars Andracar jerked his head making Sath release his hair. He wiped his mouth shakily with the back of his sleeve and gathered his scattered wits. His face twisted in anguish when his eyes fell again upon his beautiful Maryana. He gritted his teeth, drawing comfort from the whispers in his head. His duty to the people of the world would not let him die so easily without one last try. No matter how desperate it would be.

 

    Gritting his teeth, he tentatively reached out for the power. He grasped it forcefully, wrestling for control. He was somehow, through sheer will and determination, able to control it. He could here the amused murmurs of the two men as they expected the power to overwhelm him yet again. A roar was building in his head drowning out all but a few thoughts. Holding onto the power, he bent the power to his will, his hatred stemming the tide. He realized with terror that he could feel the oily taint of the Vaneym. It was a seductive, heady feel, and it seemed to chant death. It seemed to chant his death.

 

    Tars Andracar shuddered. If he hesitated at all then the power could…He didn’t intend to hesitate. Never again, he vowed. The Vaneym seemed to beat and batter at his concentration, trying to break him and bend him to its will. He clenched his teeth to stay focused, holding off a cry of rage and pain. Quickly now, he thought.

 

    Faster than the blink of an eye, he forced open a Vor’gate, and with a desperate lunge propelled himself through it. He ignored the stunned looks and closed the Vor’gate.

 

    The Vor’gate led him to a wide-spaced room seemingly carved out of a bluish crystal. The very floor seemed crafted of the same material, and in the middle of it was a sight to behold. In the middle of the room a sword appeared to be suspended in the air. It seemed to be held up by nothing. The sword was almost as tall as Tars Andracar letting off an eerie reddish-white glow.

 

    Tars Andracar found his eyes drawn to a corner of the room and he recoiled in horror.

 

    “Antros…Tanicux,” he whispered, choked with emotion. He shuddered uncontrollably. Both men lay with their eyes staring in the direction of the sword. Parts of their bodies where missing, seemingly sliced away smoothly and carried off.

 

    Tars Andracar fought away the madness that threatened to overwhelm him. Had they dared to use the Gail Storm? The question rocked him. It had been forbidden at all cost! The two men he had most trusted. And they had killed each other going for the sword.

 

    He closed his eyes for a moment to steady him, and drew a ragged breath. O my Creator, forgive me! Maryana! Even though the Dark One had twisted everything and had brought such calamity upon all, he refused to absolve himself of the guilt. Because of his arrogance and self-assurance countless thousands had died, and now thousands more would die. That made him worse than any Shadow Servant could ever be. He had damned and destroyed the world.

 

    Wiping away tears angrily, raking a cold hand through his hair, he crossed the crystal floor with a purpose. He came before the sword and gazed in wonder at it. He tingled from the cool touch of the wards woven around the sword. Wards that had been in place for many years, as much for his good as for the rest of the world, shimmered and glowed. With the sword he could do things that even in this Age could only be imagined. It had been due to such temptation that he had placed the sword in such a place as this.

 

    The sword had strange markings on it called Rhunes. Ancient writing that swirled around the sword in spirals. Words that roughly translated said:

 

Let He Who Shall Wield Me

 

Know No Darkness And Be

 

The Lord Of Light

 

    Tars Andracar sighed deeply. He gazed with sad wonder upon T’al Cavor. Truly the Sword of the World’s End, he thought with despair. He could feel the power pulsing through and around the sword. Thoughts flashed through of his head of what the Vaneym was doing to the others. Could they be even now ripping the world apart? Grimacing he reached up and grasp the sword.

 

    His face darkened with pain as he sealed his own death by breaking the wards. It didn’t matter at this point; he was a dead man anyways. The sword felt lighter than a feather in his hands.

 

    He roared defiance and the crystal dome shattered as he raised the sword high above his head. The sky above the dome shown clear as a midsummer’s day, bright and seemingly peaceful. If he had not been through the nightmare, he would have thought the last years but a fanciful dream. Taking another deep breath he began to chant and focus.

 

    In his despair he hoped that in the years and centuries to come people would forgive him for what he was about to do. In his contempt and blatant disregard of the enemy he had overlooked the knowledge and cunning of the foe. For that it would be necessary to kill thousands of people to stop the Dark One from being victorious.

 

    Willing the power-Vaneym included-into the sword, he began to shape and bend it. With the chants flames began to leap upwards and danced around him. The flames gave off an unearthly heat no more than singing his clothes before turning into liquid flames. The sword went from a reddish-white to a dark blood red, then the sword turned the pale translucent color of ice.

 

    The crystal floor heaved and tossed around him, yet the floor beneath him stayed untouched. The very air solidified into ice, freezing parts of his clothing, yet he willed more and more of the power into the sword. The fire and ice intertwined with one another, melding together seamlessly. The sword altered between the blood red and deep salmon silver. Molten light blazed down from above into the sword as more and more of the power was willed. The sword glowed clear as it drank in the power.

 

    When he could bear it no more, Tars Andracar released the power. He hurled it with all his will and need at Me’tr Guol, the very heart of the Dark Ones might.

 

    “May the Creator forgive me,” he whispered.

 

    The world darkened…or so it seemed as T’al Cavor released the power. The earth buckled and exploded, mountains collapsed, rivers where vaporized, forests decimated, and the land changed forever. All came in the wake of the power hurled by the sword. Whole villages, towns and cities vanished or imploded along with millions of people as the blast made its way to Me’tr Guol. It struck at the center of the towering mountain known as the Shadows B’yor.

 

    The impact resonated through Tars Andracar as he thought of Maryana one last time. For a moment-a brief one-he thought he saw the Creators hand reaching out for him, before the counter attack of the Dark One struck. The attack obliterated the area coming with enough force to flatten the mountain range and forest that surrounded the dome.

 

    As the smoke, dust and debris settle a crater more than six miles wide and as long could be seen. In the middle of it stood a mountain that seemed to rise forever into the sky. Lava still poured and gushed from the newly made mountain. Of Tars Andracar Ariesus Marin Drak and the sword there was no sign. The world seemed to be at a shocked standstill, waiting perhaps for something else to happen.

 

    Two V’or Gates slashed into view less than a mile from the crater. Malius stepped out of one with a sour frown on his face. Sath stepped out of the other with a carefully fixed smile on his face.

 

    “Well, he did have a flare for the dramatic,” Sath offered dryly. He surveyed the bleak and desolate landscape and shook his head. “Is this what the Great Lord had in mind?” he mused aloud. If so, then it was possible that it had not ended. He was not sure if he liked that.

 

    Malius simply shook his head in frustrated anger. “How dare he turn around and use the sword at this hour of the game!” he raged. “It had to have been planned from the beginning.” Wonder was creeping into his voice. “How dare he!” Spit flew from his mouth at being denied his due yet again. He looked at Sath with resentment.

 

    Sath kept a frown off of his face. Fool! There was no way Tars Andracar could have planned this. He was just the master at seizing upon the opportunity at the right time. He thought of pointing that out to Malius, but decided against it. You couldn’t calm the fool once he started ranting and raving.

 

    Instead he offered a mild smile. “It would seem we have reached a stalemate this go around.”

 

    “So it would seem,” Malius growled.

 

    They left the area with the newly formed mountain still pouring forth its molten lava.

 

Author's Note

Any help is appreciated.