FictionPress.com - let the words flow| FictionPress.com - let the words flow |
| Home Just In Communities Forums Beta Readers Dictionary Search | Login Register Extras |
Darkness was the first impression that came upon him as he crossed the threshold. It was not darkness of the visual kind, but of the type stemming from utter malice and depravity. It was also cold, despite the dozen or so torches all along the walls. The rankness and the evil vibes in this chamber were cloying.
The sight of Kandaar standing next to a massive, empty throne blanked out everything else for a moment and made his heart speed up. Arms crossed before him and eyes downcast towards the floor, the scribe did not notice Mithrandos’ entrance, and the captain quickly took in his partner’s condition.
Even from halfway across the room he could see the tension in Kandaar’s shoulders. A large, ugly bruise marred his left cheek, his uniform was dirty and disheveled, but otherwise he seemed uninjured. What worried Mithrandos, though, was the dark magic spell that bound his companion’s legs to the ground. Unarguably, this was the Queen’s doing and would necessitate a counter-spell. And that would not go unnoticed.
He was also puzzled by the strange, metal contraption around Kandaar’s throat, the meaning of which eluded him. Was this the Queen’s way of marking her quarry?
While nonchalantly moving to the side, Mithrandos counted eight slovenly, dirty men with brutish faces lounging around. Two huddled in a corner, talking, a few played what seemed to be a card and dice game, one appeared to be asleep on his feet while leaning against the wall. Another mercenary was sharpening his dagger on a whetstone while another one nearby was picking his teeth with his knife. Only one of the henchmen was close to Kandaar, and he only cast him a fleeting glance every now and then while sipping from a metal flask, confident in the Guardian’s immobilized state.
Queen Deshaara was nowhere to be seen, and that suited Mithrandos just fine. He had not come here intent on a confrontation with the Mistress of Evil; Kandaar’s safe and quick retrieval was paramount.
“Hey, you!”
Mithrandos turned towards the voice, careful to keep his face blank. The minion near Kandaar was moving towards him, a scrutinizing look on his face.
“Who are you?” he snarled. “What do you want?”
“Message for Queen Deshaara from the scouting post at the southern border,” Mithrandos growled back at him from under his hood, and out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Kandaar’s head snap up at the sound of his voice. He forced himself not to let his eyes stray that way.
The mercenary held out his hand. “Well, as you can see, the Mistress is not here, so you might as well leave the message with me.”
Mithrandos shook his head. “Not a written dispatch, and it is for the Mistress’s ears only.” He folded his arms, pretending stubbornness. “Therefore I will wait.”
“You might be waiting for a while, then.” The henchman shrugged and regarded Mithrandos with a dismissive glare before he retreated to his previous spot and his bottle. Mithrandos was left to stand around, and after a moment he felt it safe enough to meet Kandaar’s eyes.
Storm-grey orbs stared at him in complete bafflement. Mithrandos feigned dispassion, but inside he burned to touch Kandaar, to reassure himself that he was whole and all right. He restrained himself, however, and instead allowed only the briefest reassuring smile to flicker across his face before he turned in ostensible search of a spot to sit down and wait.
In the process he surreptitiously moved closer towards his partner. His plan was to get close enough to Kandaar to break the spell that bound him to the floor, then teleport them both out of this despicable place, all before the guards would have a chance to prevent their escape. It could be done; all that was needed was enough speed to…
The perception of a presence behind him washed over him an instant before the euphonic voice reverberated through the chamber.
“Welcome to my domain, Guardian. How wise of you to answer my summons so promptly.”
Much to his own chagrin, Mithrandos flinched, then tensed. So close…
With a deep breath he turned around to confront his adversary.
Seemingly clad in darkness, which turned out to be a long garment of black leather, Queen Deshaara stood not five feet away from him. Close enough to touch or to stab with the dagger he still held concealed. But Mithrandos did not indulge in the illusion that the Queen would be that easy to kill.
Instead, he locked eyes with her, and her lips pulled back to show perfectly white teeth in a demonic grin. “So we meet at last.” Black orbs regarded him intensely from a much younger face than he had expected from this ancient enemy of Ithrandar.
She stood erect and tall, her bold, taunting poise conveying a total conviction of her supremacy, and Mithrandos could feel the evil coming off her malignant soul like poisonous splinters that seemed to pierce their way into his core.
She looked him up and down with a gaze that was derogatory and bemused at the same time.
“Your speed surpassed my hopes, Captain, but your disguise was for naught,” she said. “I have felt your presence from the moment you stepped foot into my mountain. But to arrive here clad as one of my men...how dishonorable.” Mockingly, she drawled out that last word, and Mithrandos’ eyes flashed.
“Not that you would know anything about honor!”
Deshaara merely laughed. “Who needs honor when I can achieve my goals through black magic and cunning? And the fact that it has brought you here is proof of the success of my ways.”
Mithrandos held her black gaze. “I know it is my life you want in revenge for your son's demise…”
At the mention of her offspring, the Queen let out a hiss. “Oh yes, I will have my revenge, Guardian, and it will be twofold,” she said menacingly and began to circle him slowly. “First I will see you provide me with what I need to bring Luthien back to life, then I will watch as he kills you with his own hands - and this time he will complete the task.”
Shock made Mithrandos’ eyebrows shoot up nearly to his hairline. “Resurrect the Dark Sorcerer?” he said incredulously, unknowingly echoing Kandaar’s exclamation from earlier.
Smugness painted the Queen’s face. “Precisely. All is arranged, and all that is missing is the final ingredient – you.” Another circling ensued. “You see, Guardian, every time you shared your bodies, every time he took you, he left not only his seed but a part of his essence as well. Even now, after all this time, I can feel it in you still.” She waved a long-nailed hand in front of him in emphasis. “I will extract these remnants of his life force from you together with your memories and feelings for him, and all this combined will bring about his second life.
“Of course it will drain and wither your soul, and your body will not endure this for long, but I trust you will live long enough to lay eyes on my son in all his youthful glory once again. And it shall be the sight of his face you will take into the shadowlands with you.”
Rocked by these revelations, but too much of a seasoned warrior to let anything show on his face, Mithrandos tightened his fingers on the grip of the hidden dagger while he icily regarded his ageless foe.
“I will have you know that I shall not surrender without a fight.”
“A fight?” Deshaara threw her head back, black hair cascading down her back while she laughed. “There are uncounted numbers of my loyal servants within this mountain, Guardian. How long do you think you will be able to stand against a never-ending wave of blades?”
“It is not your army I challenge to battle, Deshaara, but you. And if I emerge victorious, my companion and I shall be free to go.”
Mithrandos enjoyed a moment of intense satisfaction as he watched the Queen’s superior demeanor change to surprise, then quickly morph into anger. “Your arrogance is astonishing, Guardian,” she hissed. “The Queen of the Evil Powers does not barter. I take what I want! What makes you think you can set terms, and such audacious ones at that?”
Mithrandos took pains to keep his tone casual. “Because I shall leave you with only two choices: Either accept my terms, or…” Cutting himself off, he suddenly flicked his wrist and disappeared, leaving behind only displaced air where he had stood a moment ago. The Queen started and whipped her head around, but by the time her questing gaze fell onto Kandaar, Mithrandos was already standing behind his companion, one arm around his waist, the long dagger now drawn and pointed straight at the scribe’s heart.
And her prisoner never flinched.
“…we both perish.” The captain’s voice was flat and determined, betraying no emotions. “And in order for your plan to work, I will be no use to you dead.”
The blade looked long enough to pierce through both bodies, and the tall Guardian held it with a steady hand. It was even angled to make up for the slight height difference between them. Yes, with enough power behind it, the weapon would deliver instant death to them both with one thrust.
Queen Deshaara saw both the trust and acquiescence in the dark-haired Guardian’s eyes as well as the iron resolve in the face that looked at her from over the scribe’s shoulder. Her voice lost a touch of its confidence. “You would choose death for your lover?”
Surprisingly, the reply came from Kandaar who put his hand over Mithrandos’ and the dagger hilt and said, “No, we choose death together.”
An icy stillness descended over the throne room, and the tension was as dense as water as the Guardians and the Mistress of Evil stared at each other. The silence went on for a long minute, and just as Mithrandos was reluctantly readying himself to follow through with his threat, the Queen finally moved. Cradling her chin between thumb and index finger as if preoccupied with deep thoughts, she tilted her head, breaking the stalemate eye contact she had maintained with the captain so far.
“The Powers of Darkness would normally not adhere to such pitiful values as honor,” she said, spitting out the last word as if it were poisonous. “But your challenge - it has been untold eras since someone had the nerve to confront me. I must admit, it is…intriguing.”
Mithrandos was unimpressed by the admission. “So do you accept?” he asked simply.
As a reply, the Queen snapped her fingers, and immediately one of her soldiers, a greasy-looking brute with a badly set broken nose, arrived at her side, carrying a box of highly polished mahogany. From it she extracted an oblong gem identical to a Guardian saber crystal in every aspect but one; this one pulsed with a dark, malicious energy.
“I accept,” she said, “since it will greatly please me to make you experience the awesome powers of the Force of Evil.”
And with a flick of her wrist she summoned her weapon, an impressive blade of gleaming black steel, the pommel of its hilt fashioned in the form of a serpent’s head. Blood-red gemstone eyes caught the light and glittered with inanimate malice as she raised the sword, gazing at it for a long moment with something that could almost be called affection before she pointed it at Mithrandos and Kandaar.
“Insolent fool. You shall pay dearly for your brazenness, for no weapon of any cursed Light-warrior stands a chance against the Black Blade!”
Eight assorted smirks, snickers and head nods from her guards accompanied her exclamation.
‘We shall see about that,’ Mithrandos thought as he lowered the dagger and stepped out from behind Kandaar. The scribe’s hand shot out, however, curling around Mithrandos’ arm. He did not speak, only his intense gaze begging Mithrandos to reconsider, but it was too late, the challenge had been issued. All Mithrandos could do was to put his hand over Kandaar’s to squeeze it with as much reassurance as he could muster before he moved on to meet his adversary, discarding his black cloak along the way. The shabby dark clothes underneath began to lighten and transform until, by the time he stood before the Queen, he was once again clad in the uniform of the Guardians.
The Black Sorceress never took his eyes off him while he produced his weapons crystal from his pouch.
“At your leisure,” Mithrandos said, assumed his fighting stance and summoned his sword.
All the while, Kandaar was left to stand next to the throne, still firmly bound to the floor and silently cursing his helplessness. With his heart hammering punch after punch against his ribcage, he could do nothing but watch while the man he loved faced off with the very embodiment of Evil. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides with sharp-edged anger and dread – until he saw Mithrandos’ weapon.
His companion was brandishing an unfamiliar sword, and Kandaar's eyebrows rose in puzzlement at the sight. He knew Mithrandos' Guardian saber quite well, and the blade the captain was currently holding was not it. Through his bewilderment, a spark of hope flickered in him; something was going on, a plan he was not privy to, but for now all he could do was to trust in Mithrandos.
At the foot of the throne stairs, Mithrandos took a few steps sideways, initiating a slow circling instead of an immediate attack, and from the widening smirk on his adversary’s face he deduced that Deshaara assumed this tactic to be an act of wariness or stalling. He left her to that belief and kept his eyes on her while with his peripheral view he took in the positions of the individual guards. Still the original eight; no other reinforcements had entered the throne room, but that situation could change at any moment.
Two close to Kandaar, a few by the entrance, the rest scattered along the walls of the chamber. No real safe position for him to stand without having to at least partially turn his back at no less than two of her minions.
Not good.
The Queen moved in sync with him, and when she passed a brightly burning torch, the reflection of the flame made her eyes appear alight with hellfire.
“It is a pity you will most likely be dead by the time of my son's re-awakening,” she said, then jerked her head into Kandaar’s direction with a sardonic grin. “But I shall not greet him empty-handed; your pretty plaything over here will make a nice welcome-back present for Luthien.”
Suppressing his rage at her taunt, Mithrandos gripped his saber tightly and remained silent, letting his glare speak for him. To let his anger take over now would be dangerous, since it dulled the senses and precluded caution. And he knew that this was exactly what the wicked woman was aiming for.
But this battle had to be fought, no use in delaying the confrontation any longer. The moment Mithrandos meant to jump into action, however, two things happened simultaneously. The Queen’s coal-black gaze flickered to a spot beyond his shoulder at the same time as Kandaar’s alarmed voice reverberated through the chamber.
“Mithrandos, watch o…”
Mithrandos pivoted, saw a flash of steel and jumped just in time to avoid being skewered by the sword of a guard creeping up behind him.
Instinct took over; he thrust out his hand, and the soldier was catapulted clear across the room by a bright beam of magic. By the time he turned to face the Queen again, five more of her mercenaries were gathering behind her.
“I should have known better than to believe you would fight honestly,” he cried out to her in outrage, but Queen Deshaara merely leaned on her weapon while her foot soldiers stepped around her to slowly converge upon the captain in a rough semi-circle.
“As I said, your code of honor does not apply here,” she said with an icy smile.
Two attackers leapt forward, keeping Mithrandos from bestowing upon her a few less than honorable designations, and he kicked the first one squarely in the crotch while he raised a magic shield to deflect the second minion’s sword thrust before he plunged his blade into the man’s side.
While the first soldier fell moaning to his knees, clutching his crushed manhood, Mithrandos pulled his sword from the second attacker’s side, whirled around and ran the weapon’s pommel against the kneeling ruffian’s nose. From the resulting sharp crack he could almost picture the man’s sinus bone being rammed straight into the brain.
The mercenary fell backwards like a felled tree where he lay without the slightest twitch, and Mithrandos did not waste time checking for signs of respiration. This man needed no more air.
Three more opponents remained, but those were now hesitant, bloodlust apparently having given way to wariness at the display of their comrades’ quick fates.
Having thus gained a few precious seconds of time, Mithrandos’ hand darted into his weapons pouch. He knew that Kandaar’s attention was on him, so he quickly summoned his own Guardian saber from his crystal and tossed the blade at his companion across the few yards that separated them.
Kandaar reacted promptly; he elbowed the guard next to him in the face before he caught the sword and brought it down in an arch towards the startled mercenary in one smooth motion. While the guard went down, clutching a cleaved shoulder, Kandaar swung the blade at the stone around his boots. He was not worried about hurting himself; this was a weapon of The Light, after all.
The stony crust not only broke, it literally disintegrated upon impact with the sword, and then he was moving, stumbling forward just in time to leap out of the way of a spike-studded club swinging towards him, wielded by the mercenary Mithrandos had thrown across the room a few minutes ago.
He ducked and brought his blade up, catching the arm of the henchman. The man screeched in agony as his limb was severed cleanly just below the elbow. Kandaar whirled around, ready to leap down the stone steps to come to Mithrandos’ aid, but a big, burly figure stepped into his view, obstructing the passage towards his companion.
Features twisted with hate and with a sound somewhere between a hiss and a snarl, Crooked Nose came at him, his sword raised and ready to strike.
Deshaara’s cold eyes were focused on him with predatory intent as she sneered, “Do not make the mistake of assuming that there will be any rules in this battle, Guardian. Luthien may have been compromised by years of Temple training in that respect, but I have no such hindrances. You have no inkling of what you are up against.”
And suddenly, half a foot from the captain’s face, the Black Blade burst into flames with a suddenness and intensity that had him reeling back with a yelp of surprise, barely in time to avoid his hair and shirt catching on fire.
The Queen gave him no respite, however; Unaffected by the flames and the heat, she came after him, brandishing the infernal sword, and all Mithrandos could do was to repeatedly dodge out of the way of the tongues of fire leaping for his face. She was quick and ferocious, giving him no clear chance to bring up his sword.
Mind racing, Mithrandos glanced around as he retreated another few steps; he could not let her back him into a corner. With a wordless cry he kicked at the burning blade, using the momentum and a jolt of magic to propel himself backwards in a reverse somersault to bring just enough distance between them for a riposte.
He was about to charge when a cry from the direction of the Queen’s throne made him look, revealing Kandaar’s dismal situation; the greasy-haired brute was towering over him, hacking at him with a broadsword nearly twice the size of his Guardian saber. By equally evading and parrying the thrusts and strikes, Kandaar was holding his own, but the fury of the minion’s onslaught kept him too busy to launch any effective counter-attacks. As their blades crossed once more, the unwashed rogue threw a punch at the side of Kandaar’s head, unbalancing him, then pushed his advantage with a hard strike that sent the scribe’s weapon flying out of his hands.
Mithrandos started for his partner, but the Mistress of Evil blocked his way.
In addition to her sword, the Queen also used magic liberally to keep him at a distance, rings of dark power pulsing from her hand, but desperation provided Mithrandos with extra strength and speed and he soon closed the space between them once more.
Which brought them uncomfortably close again, their faces mere inches apart, and it gave Mithrandos a clear view of her eyes. Concentrated evil was looking back at him, the root of chaos and hate reflected in those hard, black depths, and it seemed to reach out to him, intent on pulling him down into an abyss from which there would be no return. He felt as if a coat of ice was covering his soul, and for just the briefest of instants he froze.
The Queen took ruthless advantage of his hesitation; shifting her grip on the hilt of her sword, she freed one hand, and - in the blink of an eye - her fingernails elongated and transformed into thin blades of steel. With a snarl she lashed out at his throat.
Perhaps his reflexes were sharpened by the adrenalin surging through his system, or maybe it was an automatic reaction, but Mithrandos managed to bring his arm up, and the razor-sharp claws sliced through his sleeve and bit into his upper arm instead.
The pain seemed to tear not only through his flesh and muscle, but seep all the way into the marrow of the bone beneath. Mithrandos cried out in agony, but resisted the instinct to press his hand over the wound; bloodstained fingers would not provide the firm grip he needed on his weapon for the remainder of this battle.
The Queen grinned widely, reveling in the sight of first-drawn blood, but she was also enough of a warrior to push her advantage.
Before the blond Guardian could raise his sword again, a powerful burst of energy hit him dead on. Mithrandos was sent flying backwards until his back collided with the rock wall with such bone-rattling force that the torch nearest to him was dislodged from its sconce and tumbled to the ground.
White-hot needles of pain shot across the entire length of Mithrandos’ scar, and once more he couldn't stifle a cry - although the wound had healed long ago, the scar would nevertheless always remain more sensitive to contact than the rest of his back.
Somehow he retained his grip on his sword, but darkness crept up on him from the edges of his vision. Taking as deep a breath as possible, he ignored the seductive pull of unconsciousness, knowing that if he succumbed to it, he would never wake up again.
He shook his head to get the ringing out of his ears and regain some clarity of mind.
When he tried to rise he found that he couldn’t. Apart from the pain, he felt uncommonly drained, more so than he should have been from the battle, and he briefly wondered whether this was the Sorceress’ doing. Had she used her dark magic to leach some of his physical and magical energies from him?
Looking up, he saw Queen Deshaara walking towards him, and even from a few yards away he could see the hard shine in her black eyes gaining a triumphant glow until they were luminous with a lust for violence. The thought of impending victory clearly electrified her.
He would not make it to his feet before she reached him, which left only one other option…
The Queen came to a halt a few yards from him and took a moment to regard him with a look of utter disdain.
“You lose, Guardian,” she said. “Evil has triumphed, as I knew it would.” She rammed the tip of her blade into the ground beside her with enough force so that the steel quivered but remained upright.
With his shoulders hunched excessively low and his breathing just a little heavier than necessary, Mithrandos watched from under hooded eyes as she raised her arms slowly, dramatically, summoning power for the final blow.
‘You may be ageless, but you are not deathless,’ he thought grimly as he waited for the right moment to make his move. He remained slumped over in ostensible submission until she closed her eyes to concentrate her magic before he shifted his grip on the sword's hilt, raised it like a spear and hurled it towards her with all his remaining strength. The sword shot forward, and suddenly...
LIGHT!
The instant the blade pierced Queen Deshaara’s flesh, a flash of unimaginable brightness erupted. Mithrandos squeezed his eyes shut, but the light stung his eyeballs even behind his closed lids.
In the throne room, all movement came to an instant standstill; the Queen’s remaining henchmen threw up their hands in a futile attempt to shield themselves from the brilliant illumination. The ones who saw Mithrandos’ blade ripping into their mistress shrieked in shock.
Looming over Kandaar, Crooked Nose’s back was turned to the spectacle, but he seemed to sense what had transpired and turned in alarm. Temporarily blinded like all the others, Kandaar nevertheless seized his opportunity and dropped to one knee, groping for his lost sword. The moment his fingers found the hilt, he swung upwards, aiming on instinct alone. The blade bit into flesh and Crooked Nose’s cry of dismay turned to one of agony.
At the same time Kandaar felt a strange vibration against his throat. His hand shot up and grasped – skin. The metal collar had vanished.
Queen Deshaara, Black Sorceress and immemorial leader of the Evil Powers, had been cleanly run through by the blade of the First Crystal of The Light.
Still standing, but with a look of utter surprise and disbelief on her face, she looked down at her stomach where the sword was embedded up to the hilt.
Her eyes found Mithrandos’. “Impossible…how…?”
Straining against the heaviness still invading his limbs, Mithrandos sat up, then leaned against the stone wall. “I know you thought no weapon can destroy you, but you were wrong. Meet the First Blade of The Light.” The blond warrior’s voice was even, but his face was chiseled into hard lines, his eyes two orbs of cold jade. “Your reign ends here and now, witch.”
“Legend,” she whispered. “This blade…just a legend…”
“Rest assured that it is not.”
And thus, the Queen’s end began at the point of impact: from her pierced midsection, a gray stain began to form which quickly spread across her torso and abdomen, and the expression on her face changed to one of genuine fear.
“No, it cannot be!”
She reached for the grip of the weapon, but hissed in pain when the flesh of her fingers instantly blistered upon contact.
“NO!”
By now the grayness had expanded to her arms, legs and neck and was creeping over her chin into her face, petrifying her horrified expression while her body began to sag and fold in on itself.
Rooted to their spots, Guardians and henchmen alike stared as the Queen of Evil dissolved into ashes before their eyes.
The three remaining ruffians were still standing wide-eyed and slack-jawed, gaping at the heap of dark, dust-like residue that used to be their leader. Kandaar looked past them to see Mithrandos trying to scramble to his feet, but his legs wouldn’t support him and he dropped to his knees, clutching his gouged arm.
He leapt over Crooked Nose’s body, but before he could reach Mithrandos, the world began to shake. All around them the ground, the walls, the ceiling trembled. First dust and pebbles, then larger chunks of rock broke free and rained down around them, some of them crashing into the ground way too close.
Kandaar grabbed his faltering companion under his arms in an attempt to maneuver him out of the way of the rain of stone, but instead Mithrandos twisted in his grasp, gesticulating wildly towards the mound of ash where the First Saber of The Light lay, reversed back to its crystal form. “The sword, Kandaar, the sword…”
Kandaar relinquished the captain’s body just long enough to dash across the few yards towards the flaky remains of the Queen, grasp the luminescent gem, then reclaimed his supportive grip around his companion once more.
“Can you concentrate?” he cried over the quickly escalating nose of falling rocks. The affirmative nod he received in reply was confirmation enough. He wrapped his arms around Mithrandos, and they dematerialized from the throne room just as the roof caved in.
Out here, the ground was shaking as well; men were pouring through the mount’s entrance gate in a blind panic. A few unfortunates who stumbled and fell were ruthlessly trampled into the ground; no one came to their aid.
A few feet from the Guardians’ position, a pitiful-looking bush was growing, and they scampered to crouch behind the meager foliage which really offered no suitable cover. They had to move on lest they be detected by the enemy.
Peering over the tips of the bush, they carefully surveyed their surroundings, assessing the best possible escape route. Kandaar’s gaze was drifting over the still-collapsing enemy stronghold where the Dark Sorcerer’s body was hopefully being crushed beyond any hope of reconstruction when Mithrandos’ arms suddenly tightened around him in a crushing embrace.
“I was near out of my mind with worry about you,” he murmured into the side of the scribe’s neck.
Kandaar hugged him back fiercely. “I am sorry, so sorry.”
“Don’t say that.” Mithrandos turned to gaze into his companion’s face. “None of this was your fault. I am just so glad to see you unharmed.”
“But you are not.” Kandaar’s eyes went towards the captain’s bloody sleeve. “Let me see your wound.”
“Just a few scratches...” Mithrandos waved it off, but Kandaar took gentle hold of his arm with a hint of reproval in his eyes.
"Mere scratches would not leave blood dripping from your fingers," he said, and while Mithrandos eyed his bloodied hand, he tore the slashed fabric in two, exposing four nasty lacerations that ran across the captain's bicep. Blood was still oozing freely from them. With quick fingers Kandaar ripped the sleeve into strips and tightly wound them around the gashes. The bleeding stopped, but it did not take long for the makeshift bandage to take on a red tint.
“We need to get you to the House of Healing to have this - ”
The rest of the sentence died on his lips when he spotted multiple movements at the periphery of his vision. Mithrandos had apparently noticed the same, for he stiffened. The two warriors looked around, but the sight was anything but encouraging. They had been spotted.
Mercenaries were closing in on them from three sides. They came running from the mountain’s main entrance or crept from a nearby drainage channel while others simply materialized a few yards away with weapons drawn.
Mithrandos and Kandaar were quickly surrounded by dozens of surviving minions of the Evil Powers - and murder was blazing from the eyes of every one of them.
Without the need to convey their intentions to each other they rose, positioned themselves back to back and summoned their sabers. Grim and silent they readied themselves for the inevitable attack as the ring of enemies slowly tightened around them.
Behind Mithrandos, Kandaar's voice was rough but steady, and the captain could picture his partner’s storm-grey eyes flashing with grim determination. “At least we die under a blue sky - and together.”
Guardian sabers are wielded most effectively when used two-handed, but Mithrandos nevertheless released one hand from the weapon’s hilt to reach behind him, feeling for Kandaar’s arm. As if anticipating the touch, Kandaar did likewise, groping backwards until their fingers found each other and intertwined.
“I shall see you in the shadowlands,” Mithrandos said. “I love you.”
“And I love you. Do not make me wait too long for you over there,” was Kandaar’s response, and Mithrandos loved him all the more for it.
Neither warrior could afford to take his eyes off their opponents, for their enemies would have seized the opportunity if they were to take even one brief look at each other. So they spoke with their backs turned. They heard each other, though, and that was all that mattered. Mithrandos squeezed Kandaar’s hand, felt the answering pressure, then resumed his two-handed attack position. One more deep breath and he was ready. A calculating numbness came over him as he surveyed his nearest attackers.
A variety of weapons were aimed at him: swords, daggers, clubs, even a mace or two.
If he was quick - and lucky - he could take four, maybe even five, with him.
He took a few swings at his closest opponent, cutting him down and keeping the next ones at bay, but the blood loss from the injury was beginning to finally take its toll on him. His arm felt numb, and he just barely managed to block the next attacker’s slash. Mithrandos retreated a few steps while the mercenary raised his weapon for another attack, too close to strike out at or to evade…
Suddenly a strange sound cut through the air, a noise between a whirring and a high-pitched whine, and Mithrandos’ opponent froze, his mouth opening in a silent scream as from the center of his chest appeared the bloodied head of an arrow. The ruffian looked down onto the steel and wood sticking out from his torso with an expression of disbelief before his eyes went vacant and he toppled over.
Blinking in surprise, Mithrandos looked up; at the crest of the incline where the Cursed Forest began, a wave of white poured forth from the concealment of the tree trunks. At least a dozen Guardians, led by a familiar burly figure, charged down the short hill, and battle cries mixed with sounds of steel on steel as the forces of Good and Evil clashed together.
Mithrandos and Kandaar suddenly found themselves shielded by their fellow soldiers. They shared a look that was both disbelieving and exhilarated, when the familiar grin of Eliathar, clad once again in Guardian-white, greeted them.
“Good to see you both alive and well, my friends.”
“Eliathar! I asked you to go back and you agreed,” Mithrandos exclaimed, but the intended retort fell short of sounding genuine and the impish grin on Eliathar’s face only widened.
“Aye, but I never said how far.”
A loud rumbling noise made them turn towards the Black Mountain. A safe distance away from them, the canting mountaintop had dislodged several huge boulders that were now rolling down its side and crashing into the ground on the far side of the entrance gates, burying men, foliage and trees alike beneath their enormous weight.
Eliathar raised an eyebrow at the spectacle, then gave Mithrandos a look. “Whatever you did in there, you must have done it right.”
Before he could say more, two mercenaries threw themselves at them and Eliathar slashed at them with necessary ruthlessness. They fell with barely enough breath left to issue their final cries. By now a host of dead or fatally wounded minions stained the grass all around the little company of warriors, but more adversaries kept coming.
Suddenly, the ground trembled once more. This time the loosened boulders were tumbling down a slope much closer to the Guardian’s positions, making both the warriors of The Light and their opponents scramble out of the way.
“I think this is a very fitting moment to take our leave of this wretched place,” Eliathar yelled over the thunder of the avalanche of approaching rocks.
“By all means!” The eager reply came from Kandaar and Mithrandos simultaneously, and both captains went to wave their arms in a gesture to fall back, a command their soldiers gladly followed.
The retreat was quick, since the Guardians were not hindered by casualties or any severe injuries. Before the second wave of onrushing ruffians could reach them, the entire company vanished into thin air, leaving behind a battle field reverberating with the enraged cries of the remaining servants of Evil.
Before he knew it, the weary warrior found himself sitting on a cot in an examination room, Eliathar blocking the door and the Warden pushing a vial filled with liquid into his hand.
“Drink. It will restore your strength and repair any internal damage you may have sustained.”
Mithrandos downed the medicine, then grimaced. "I see some things remain unchanged. This brew tasted bad back in my era!"
"Why change a good thing when it works?" the physician said with a crooked grin while he carefully removed the bloody bandages around the captain's arm, then leaned close to examine the injury. When he reached for a crock of salve on the examination table, Mithrandos groaned inwardly; the next few minutes would not be pleasant.
A strained noise escaped from between his tightly clenched teeth as the healer administered the ointment, his fingers digging into the cot’s sheets as the magic-infused medicine seeped into the open wounds, fusing the slashed flesh and muscle back together. By the time the pain ebbed off a few minutes later, he was sweating from the effort of keeping his body upright and from shaking.
More than anything Mithrandos wanted to escape into sleep, but he could not rest, not yet. The Master of Healing had barely re-wrapped his arm with fresh bandages when he already moved to slide off the cot. “I should check on how Kandaar fares…”
A firm hand on his chest stopped him. “What you should do is rest, Captain,” the physician said. “Your companion is in good hands, do not be concerned.”
“But…”
“I concur with the Warden.” Eliathar, who had been leaning against the door jamb, pushed away from the wooden post and approached the cot. “You need to replenish your strength. But if it eases your mind, I will check on the welfare of your scribe for you.”
Mithrandos’ gaze traveled between his friend and his physician, but the dual stern expressions did not invite further discussions. Too tired to argue, he acquiesced and simply nodded.
“Aye, it would.”
“Good. Unlike you, he was probably listening to the advice of his healer and is already sleeping soundly.”
Mithrandos shifted, leaning back until he was stretched out on the cot. "I only need a few moments of respite," he mumbled wearily, eyes already drifting shut. “Would you…”
Eliathar rolled his eyes, mouth quirking. “Yes, I will let you know how he fares,” he said. “But while I am out, I will also take the opportunity to return what you have borrowed from the High Wizard, since the good mage must be eager to have it returned to him as soon as possible. I am sure you agree.”
Silence was his only reply, and one look confirmed that Mithrandos was fast asleep. Eliathar grinned, took the blanket from the foot of the cot and draped it over his fellow captain.
"May The Light guide your dreams, my friend," he mumbled and retrieved the First Crystal from Mithrandos’ pouch before he retreated from the cubicle and strode down the hall to check on Kandaar.
An hour later, when Mithrandos’ eyes finally fluttered open, he was still sitting in the same position.
“Mithrandos,” Kandaar’s voice was not louder than a whisper while he squeezed his hand, and Mithrandos smiled as he propped himself up on his good arm, green eyes tracking across his companion’s face.
Kandaar did not mind the scrutiny, for the Master of Healing’s assistant had done a good job; the big yellow-purplish bruise on his cheek had almost completely disappeared, and the few scrapes and cuts that remained were visible only upon closer inspection.
“Aye, I am well,” he said after a moment, forestalling what he knew would be the inevitable first question out of his lover’s mouth, and Mithrandos gave a low chuckle.
“Yes, I can see.” He tugged on their still entwined hands, but Kandaar was already up and leaning forward, and their mouths met for a long overdue kiss. Mithrandos clung to him as tightly as their somewhat awkward positions allowed while he kissed him with an urgency that sent a wave of joy right into the center of Kandaar’s heart. He wrapped his arms around his companion and parted his lips to deepen the kiss.
Today was a day that would forever be marked in the history scrolls of Ithrandar, but at the moment that particular thought was furthest from Kandaar’s mind. Instead, he relished the relief that came with being back within the safety of the Temple of The Light and the familiarity of his love’s warm, breathing body in his arms.
A surge of pride went through him; they had survived the Black Mountain and had made it back safely - more or less unharmed, but most importantly, together.
Most likely there would be nightmares for a while, maybe not even solely for him, but as long as they had each other to hold on to and draw comfort and strength from, they would be all right.
When he had enough breath to speak again, Kandaar pointed towards the ceramic pot and mug left on the bedside table by a healer’s assistant. “Tea?”
Mithrandos shook his head. “Nay, love; today I think I need something stronger.”
Kandaar smiled. “I thought you might say that.” He bent down to a spot on the floor next to his stool, and came back up holding an uncorked bottle of grey stoneware out to him. “The kitchen master said that this was a most excellent vintage.”
“How did you…”
Kandaar shrugged, trying unsuccessfully to hold in a mischievous grin. “After today, you are Ithrandar’s greatest hero, and as that you will not be denied something as easily procurable as a bottle of the temple’s best vintage wine.
“Oh, and by the way, you can probably guess who will be required to record your epic battle,” he added.
Mithrandos’ reaction was expected; his face scrunged up at the mention of his now renewed hero status and the groan that escaped his throat was heavily tinged with misery.
“No, not again! Could we not keep this whole thing quiet somehow?”
“With an entire company of Guardians having witnessed the collapse of the Black Mountain?” Kandaar shook his head. “Too late.”
Mithrandos moaned again, let his head fall back against the wall and rubbed at his eyes with the palms of his hands. “Oh, spirits! Pour me a big glass, then; I will need it.”
“No glasses; it was hard enough to smuggle the bottle past the Master of Healing.” He rose from his stool, scooted up next to Mithrandos on the cot and simply held out the jug to him. “Hey, you have slain the Queen of Evil; you will be forgiven this temporary lack of etiquette. Drink up.”
They spent the better part of the next hour passing the bottle back and forth between each other and talking in low tones. Kandaar told Mithrandos about the ambush in their house and the ensuing events inside the mountain, leaving out only the part of Crooked Nose’s menacing threat.
Mithrandos in turn recounted to Kandaar his sinister findings on their kitchen table, the subsequent council with the High Wizard that resulted in the revelation of the First Crystal, and his ill-attempted first effort of finding him in the maze of the mountain’s tunnels.
And although he had assured the High Wizard of his discretion in the matter of the Crystal’s existence, Mithrandos was not worried about a breach of trust, knowing that the secret would be as safe with Kandaar as it was with himself.
When the last drop of wine was drained from the bottle, Mithrandos slipped a hand behind his companion’s neck, drawing him close to kiss him once more.
"Let's go home,” he breathed against the scribe’s lips when they drew apart. “I am eager to leave this place, and also in dire need of a bath."
Kandaar cast a look at the cot on which they sat. "You should rest some more…"
"Perhaps, but I would like to do so in my own bed. Our bed. With you."
Refuting that argument would have never crossed Kandaar’s mind.
Thorough and lavish kisses were placed on every exposed body part while hands roamed over heated skin, touching, caressing, loving.
Kandaar drew the leather thong from Mithrandos’ ponytail and tangled his fingers through the golden mane before he gently rolled his companion onto his back, covered his body with his own and touched his fingertips to Mithrandos’ cheek with a look of such profound affection that the captain’s heart swelled in his chest. They shared another soul-searing kiss before Kandaar slid down Mithrandos’ body and proceeded to share his love with hands, mouth, and heart.
When Mithrandos was ready, Kandaar reached for the little pot of fragrant oil on the bedside table, then gently slid inside the warm, willing body.
Throughout their entire lovemaking session, their gazes, dark with desire, never wavered from each other, even when they climbed the precipice to their culmination and finally took each other over the edge.
Afterwards, they remained entwined, just breathing together. Kisses turned more languid and hands moved over arms, shoulders and chests to comfort and reassure rather than arouse.
The trials and tribulations of the day could not be kept at bay, however, and a pleasant heaviness quickly engulfed them both. Before long they fell asleep; Kandaar to the rhythmic thumping of Mithrandos' heart under his ear, and Mithrandos to the steady sounds of his lover's breathing and the buzzing of the night cicadas beyond the bedroom window.
The tall figure stood still like a statue at the top of the sloping hill. Behind him, the dawning sun cast the first red rays over the land, and in their wake he scanned the area before him. His eyes took in the ruins of the Black Mountain, the cadavers of the mercenaries from yesterday's battle still spread out across the meadow, almost all the way to the edge of the Cursed Forest. All was still, not even a single crow making its way among the bodies.
For once, he wore no uniform, but was clad in a simple blue tunic and grey pants of soft cloth, long blond hair loose for the breeze to play with. He wore his weapons' pouch on his belt, but he did not expect to have to draw a blade.
If Kandaar knew he were here, his companion would surely be upset at the needless danger he was subjecting himself to. But the day had barely begun; Kandaar was still fast asleep in their bed, and Mithrandos would be back and beside him again before he awoke.
The throbbing in his arm had not allowed him much rest; an hour before daybreak, he had finally given up on any more sleep and slipped out of bed.
It wasn’t just the injury that had kept him up; there was a restlessness inside him that refused to be stilled by anything other than a first-hand view at the reason for his lingering disquiet.
He had not come here seeking confrontation; he only came to look, to convince himself that the surreal-feeling events from yesterday really had taken place. But one glance at the peak of Black Mountain, now canted at an unnatural angle that bespoke the destruction within, and all the other visible evidence of the internal collapse of the Evil Forces’ seat of power now slowly undid the invisible iron bands around his chest.
The Dark Mistress and her nearly resurrected son were gone, the root of Evil finally plucked from the soil of Ithrandar.
For a few more minutes he kept watching, searching for signs of life. There were none, but he knew that didn't mean anything. The surviving minions were still there, hiding, licking their wounds, but sooner or later, they would re-emerge - leader or no. They were part of this world, after all; they would always be there.
They didn’t worry him anymore. The Guardians could deal with them, he could deal with them.
Life in Ithrandar had never been and would never be completely peaceful, but it had unarguably changed for the better.
One last look before he turned and walked away from the visual remnants of Evil, a part of his old life for way too many seasons, and moved purposefully down the hill and towards the future; the modest house in the Temple village and the beautiful man still asleep in their bed. His companion for life.
THE END
