"Adzel Chapter VI" by John H. Blackham

Chapter VI

            “They’re coming!” cried the young boy, eyes wide in fright as he came running up the dirt path to Meldin and Kithrus, who were standing just inside the doorway of the small Inn. “The Omrigians are coming! They’ve taken the bridge and they have dead things with them! Oh, please, you must stop them!”

            “Slow down,” Kithrus said in a soothing voice, kneeling to look the boy in the eyes and placing a hand on his shoulder, “and take a deep breath. Now, as best you can remember, how many were there?” The boy did not relax despite Kithrus’ reassuring tone and manner, but remained wide-eyed and terrified. He kept glancing over his shoulder desperately, as though expecting to find some beast charging at him from behind, to run him over.

            “I…I don’t know,” he confessed, “but…there were…I think there were three Dread Knights, and…” tears began to roll unnoticed down his face in his utter terror, his face nearly as pale as those of the Dread Knights themselves, “they have at least twenty dead with them…I saw…I saw Jeffery…and I was afraid…he turned his head -- it was grey and pale-like, no blood in it at all -- and saw me…but…he had no eyes…they killed Jeffery.” Kithrus could do nothing but embrace the young boy as he plunged himself into the tall knight’s arms and burst into tears, half of terror and half of grief. Kithrus turned his head as the boy went on like this to Meldin.

            “Gather the men,” he told him, “inside the Inn. We’ll leave as soon as we can.” Meldin said nothing, but nodded and raced off to do as he was bidden. Kithrus looked down at the boy when he finished, and put a hand on either shoulder.

            “I’m sorry,” the boy said, “but…I’m so afraid. When Jeffery looked at me…with those empty holes…and smiled…”

            “No, Dirhem,” Kithrus said softly, “don’t be sorry. If I saw what you’ve just seen, it would haunt me a great deal more than it will you. You’re very courageous, to have kept your wits about you long enough to run. A grown man would have stood in shock until he was killed; you’ve just shown, once again, that you can do what any man can, and more. Now, just go inside the smithy and tell old Edna to lock up. Stay inside, and bar all windows and doors. Don’t worry: we’ll take care of you.” Little Dirhem looked up at the man who then gave him a warm smile, and withdrew from him, bidding him haste and luck. He departed into the Inn, into the brightly-lit common room.

            The room itself was bare and lacking of ornament of any kind, with only a table or two and a large fireplace on the far wall, though it could hardly be described as empty. Nearly fifty men stood, grim and silent, and girt beneath their robes in black chain mail. They each looked as harmless as an old travelling peddler, their armour hidden beneath thick, brown cloaks which were drawn about them as one would to protect himself from the wind; though Kithrus, wearing similar armour and a matching cloak, knew that thrust through every belt loop was a deadly broadsword, forged of celestial iron by the uncannily talented apprentice, Dirhem Eredane.

            “At least three Dread Knights though undoubtedly more, at the Bridge,” he told them, needing no introduction or even preliminary speech, but cutting directly to the reason he had assembled them. “Ivan, Meldin, and I will head the first group; Godric and Malagent will lead the other. My group will directly assault the knights from the front and attempt to slay their dead slaves, while the second group crosses the River on our boats, and engages the Knights. While they are distracted, the dead will be confused and without command, which will allow my group to aid you and slay them. We haven’t much time; go now!”

            Ivan Hroll was very much surprised to find that there were indeed no more than three Dread Knights, and why, he couldn’t help but wonder. No three Dread Knights could completely control that many dead slaves -- there were at least thirty, not twenty dead men and women with them. Jeffery, Dirhem’s cruel old master in the art of blacksmithing, was certainly one of them, bulging muscles exposed through torn skin, blue and mouldy-looking. The Dread Knights themselves were sitting in a three-man circle, staring one another, but doing little else. They did not even seem to realise that there were perhaps twenty-five men charging at them clad in mail beneath their robes, broadswords drawn and battle-cries rising in their throats.

            The dead things with them, however, did see them, and began to form a small ring of defence around the Dread Knights. This, Ivan thought to himself quizzically, was quite unusual behaviour; it was almost as if the dead were controlling the Dread Knights who had summoned them!

            It was the dead, hulking Jeffery who leapt out with surprising agility, given his decomposing body and presumably stiff joints, and caught Kithrus in the face with a large, clammy fist. Kithrus seemed stunned by the blow, and stood quite still for a moment before Meldin beheaded the blacksmith’s corpse with a great sweeping of his sword. The body did not bleed (for there was no blood left in it at this state of decay), and the head hit the ground near the bridge with a sickening thud, and rolled into the defiled waters below the wooden bridge, carried away in the current.

            In that time, the entire group of Robesmen had forced the ring of dead men and women backward, some into the river, which swept them away as well, and some tripped over the bridge to the Dread Knights, who were still sitting, apparently oblivious to the battle raging around them. In their retreat, they took no notice of the other twenty-five Robesmen charging from behind; though they charged with stealth, running with bent backs, and swords slipping silently out of their sheathes, unlike the first loud and open assault.

            The living corpses were then trapped upon the bridge, as the second group of Robesmen drove them from the farther shore and back over the bridge toward the first. They swept through the dead with their blades flashing in the sunlight as they ripped through the reeking ranks of the undead. The dead did not have a chance to react to their utter decimation, for it all happened so quickly that few were even aware of the fact that there ever had been a second group of knights. Acrid smoke rose from the smouldering shells left behind from the twice-dead band, and the sickly sweet smell of fetid meat filled the air.

            The energy of the swift battle lingered in the air, and each man heaved for breath, being exhausted from so much quick movement wearing close to thirty pounds of cloak and mail. Some removed their cloaks to allow air to reach their armour and hopefully cool them off, though they quickly replaced them under Meldin’s cold gaze: it would not do to allow a passing Arcateelan guardsman see a band of fully-armed Knights of Gomthul standing about in the countryside, unchecked and covert as they were.

            The three Dread Knights still lived, however, and pressed at the neck of each was a long, curved blade that the Robesmen used for interrogation, and each blade was held by such a Robesmen, each guarding one of the Dread Knights. Kithrus seemed to have recovered by this point, and approached the three kneeling foes, looking down at each in turn. Something seemed awry, for none spoke, nor did anything but breathe and stare blankly ahead.

            “You will tell me, perhaps,” Kithrus asked them in a low, but firm tone, “Why you are here?” There came no answer to his query. “I asked you a question, upstart,” he hissed at them, and knelt to meet the eye of the nearest one, smiting his face with a gauntleted hand, “Answer me.” The pale Omrigian seemed to notice neither the sudden pain nor the bold streak of blood blossoming on his cheek for a moment, and then finally turned his cold blue eyes to rest uneasily upon Kithrus.

            “We… wish no… quarrel with you,” the Dread Knight choked while his flowing face was stained crimson; there seemed to be something wrong with him as he spoke, as though he hadn’t the strength wrap his tongue around the next syllable. His breath came in high-pitched gasps, and his eyes seemed to be having trouble focusing, the pupils dilating in the sunlight. “We only… wish to… return.”

            “Return to where,” Kithrus demanded, his voice rising, “Where are you from?” To his surprise, the Omrigian actually smiled at this, twisting his pale and harsh features into a disturbingly unpleasant visage, blood dripping onto his black tunic from his chin.

            “We… are from the world beyond… we wish to return to your world,” said the Dread Knight. This earned a second slap from Kithrus, causing another stream of blood to begin to flow.

            “You speak nonsense,” Kithrus told him, “and you try my patience. Explain to me why you are here, and what you intended to do with your dead slaves.” The Dread Knight, for the first time, focused his eyes intently and unsettlingly on Kithrus.

            “The fools,” said the Omrigian, “toying… with power they do not understand… they meant to enslave us… use us as a resource… the Great One overpowered them all… broke through the spectral curtain that held him back… he… is coming… we must get away from here… must return to whence we came… we must escape his thrawn gaze… you have not seen him, you do not know,” his speech was quickening, as were his rattling, ragged breaths, eyes focusing yet more intently upon Kithrus’ face, “Leave us here… let these bodies be cloven and cast into a cold stone bier beneath the earth where we stand… free us.”

            Upon this last phrase being spoken, his eyes rolled into the back of his head, and his jaw fell open. The sallow head fell limp, and the body did likewise, collapsing face first into the wood of the bridge. The rattling breaths came no more to him.

            Swagg awoke with a start, cold sweat beading upon his brow as he sat, now quite awake in his benighted room. His eyes were open wide and staring into the blackness before him, until he muttered something about old memories and hoisted himself out of his bed. He stumbled across the wooden floor and found his way to the window. He took in a deep breath and pulled back the curtains to let the wan moonlight spill into his room. The storm had passed, he realised, as the clouds did not blot out the moon, though there were a number of thick patches of black blanketing the night sky.

            He strode with heavy eyes toward the table near his bed, upon which sat a draft of fine ale, which he quaffed quickly to fight the demons out of his mind, and he lay back down upon his bed, willing himself a more pleasant night’s sleep.

*          *          *

The old mines were about as dark as any subterranean environment could be, but it was not the lack of light alone that set the Narthazelians’ nerves on edge. The caverns were too quiet, too dead. The mines were supposed to have been cleared of any deserters of the war and tribes of criminals and exiles almost fifty years ago, so this feeling as to be expected; despite this, there was something beyond the feeling of dead, a feeling that some force was at work that should not. This was naught but a feeling, and no feeling had ever done any harm, they knew, but they could not shake it off despite this knowledge.

            It was Godric who had taken charge in Swagg’s absence, and after travelling for days with no light but that which streamed from their leaking torches in the endless darkness filling each corridor of the empty mine, he halted the company and advised that they all set up camp. They followed a small corridor a while longer until they gave up and followed Godric’s advise. No fires were lit, for if they had been, the smoke would have filled the corridor with nowhere to escape, and choked them out. The air was stale this far down the mines, though it was still breathable; they were reassured by this, for that fact suggested that there was an open shaft nearby.

            Finding the shaft would be difficult in this maze, Godric thought to himself as he huddled down in a large blanket with his wife and their three children, sitting away from the rest, making up the end of the long line of villagers clogging the hall.

            “After three hours,” he told his family, “we’ll make for the open shaft. From there, we can find our way through the mountain pass and into Arcateele.” His wife nodded with a weary neck and rested her head upon his shoulder; his children were already fast asleep. He let out a long sigh in mourning of his forced lifestyle, of fleeing from an enemy which stalked them like wolves. How long the prey could elude the pack, he could not say, save that he would extend that time as long as he was able to prevent anything contrary to that from happening.

            None of the villagers, however, felt the eerie presence of the shade creatures lurking just outside the torchlight, the writhing shadows fleeing like water from the light of the flame, so quickly that none did see them. The torches were put out after the company came to a halt and taken to rest. Softly and deftly did the creatures advance upon them, making no sound upon the dank stone tunnels with whatever mode of transport they used. Like a swarm of vermin did they weave their way through the unsuspecting masses of sleeping villagers, and in the cold darkness they clamped their multi-layered jaws around the necks of their slumbering prey and with hallow fangs injected sedative venom into their bodies.

After this feat was accomplished, they began to drag the deep-slumbering bodies of their captives one by one through the labyrinth of tunnels, down hidden paths and forgotten shafts, travelling with greater speed than one would imagine possible with the weight of their victims in their arms or slung over their shoulders.

At great length they came to the end of a great tunnel, at which was visible a faint, shimmering blue light, illuminating the chamber beyond. As they entered, they hissed at the light stabbing their eyes from below, for in the centre of the great chamber hewn of stone was a vast lake, stretching from one side of the chamber to the other, lit from below the oily surface by radiant spheres lurking in the unknown depths of the pool. Teal light cascaded across the walls, but did not reach the roof, which was hewn so high that it was not visible from the mouth of the tunnel. At the far end of the chamber was a like tunnel-mouth, and connecting the two was a thin tendril of stone left to separate one half of the pool from the other.

This tiny bridge did the creatures of shadow cross, their prey in their foul clutches, into the tunnel beyond, which quickly became a rough stairwell rather than a tunnel at all, descending into the most ancient black depths of the mountain, unseen by mortals for many a millennia. Down they sped, down, down, further and further still, stopping for neither a breath nor rest, ever descending the lightless tunnel for what may well have been hours, or days.

The further they went, it seemed, the colder the air felt to the skin of Godric, whose mind was only vaguely aware that anything had happened at all. That tiny part of him which was yet conscious was telling him to cry out, to alert the others; but it felt like some strange force was calming him, relieving his anxiety. Indeed, it seemed he heard a voice in his head, soothing and calm, reassuring him that there was no need to bother the others. He smiled gently as the icy grip tighten on him and the flight of stairs suddenly levelled out, and let himself drift into his beloved, deadly sleep.

So it was that the creatures at length reached the bottom of the ancient stairwell, and found themselves, at long last, in their lair: the Great Tomb of the Ancients. The hall was vast, vaulted ceilings held intact by thick pillars lining a path through the centre; in the space between each pillar and the next was a cold stone bed. One by one and with unparalleled care, they draped the body of each villager upon each earthen bier and allowed their hall in this way to be filled once more. The bones of the previous occupants of the beds lie piled in greasy, burnt heaps along the sides of the chamber. There were there no rodents to feed upon the carrion, for no rat could survive down in the Tomb of the Ancients.

            “Master,” stammered the flanged voice of the shade from the furthest end of the chamber. From the side opposite the shade came a terrible, cackling laugh, causing the shade to shrink back in fear and hatred of its master and captor. Burning jaws lit a halo of light around his master’s mouth, the hellish gateway which served as the only anchor for its power in this world. Through that mouth could a spirit be forced into servile banishment from this world, the shade knew, back into the world of bitter retribution from which it had been saved, saved by that same mouth.

            “Slave, you know as well as I that I know what I am about to tell you,” The jaws twisted surrealistically as they spoke, the flames flickering as if carried by a strong gale of wind from behind, and then reversing and blowing the other direction, continuing the pattern every minute, never failing. The shade shuddered as it realised that it was in fact witnessing the mouth breathing, blowing gusts of energy from the Spectral Realm and sending back deep breaths of the air of this world into the next.

            “Yes,” the shade admitted, cursing itself for its stupidity and hastily adding, “My liege.”

            “Silence, dog,” hissed the flaming maw, spitting orange sparks as it did so, “and bring me a worthy subject from among the rest. Return unaccompanied, as you arrived.” The shade cringed at the insult, yet from within it burnt a searing hatred that it could not swallow. It had endured these taunts and bullying for too long. It would return, with the Master’s prize, and unaccompanied; then it would lash out with strength it had not before dared conjure from its largely untapped well of power. It could already feel the flaming jaws being rent to pieces in its spectral claws, crushing the draconian flame and forever averting the thrawn gaze he dealt upon them with eternal mercilessness. These dark deeds it brooded on as it left its Master’s chamber and set out to retrieve a worthy subject from the rubble of captured villagers. Perhaps, it mused, the subject would be a great deal more worthy than the Master expected.

            Godric’s heavy eyes flickered open quite suddenly. He could see naught but inky blackness all around. He closed his eyes again: he could hardly tell the difference. Confusion swept over him as he attempted to sit up. He found he could barely due so, a strange disorientation weakening his surety of which direction was up, down, left, or right. He felt cold as well -- had he not fallen asleep wearing a blanket? And his wife, and children -- were they not with him as he slumbered? He reached out an uncertain hand, and felt around him. His arm stretched forth into the black void, feeling neither a stone floor beneath him, nor a cavernous wall behind him. His wife and children were certainly nowhere nearby.

            “Catherine,” he whispered in a worried voice into the darkness which beset his eyes, “Catherine!” His words were met with no answer, at least none that he could hear. “Catherine!” he said, louder this time, “Where are you?” Again, there was no answer. He vowed to himself that come what may, he would keep his wits about him, and not let himself panic. The urge to cry out in desperation for his family was great, but not so great as to force him to do so. He bit it back, and shoved the panicked cries into the back of his head. “The village I spent so long trying to build, burned to the ground two days ago,” he moaned in overcharged despair, his shaking voice rising, “My best friends lying dead in the fields that Sanadred burned, and now… now I have lost my family.”

            “You’ve lost nothing,” came a voice like a burst of wind from behind him. His heart skipped a beat, and he let out a shout in surprise.

            “Who are you?” he cried, his breath coming quickly. There came a momentary silence.

            “My Master wishes an audience with you” said the voice like a flanged gale, “and I have come to bring you to him.”

            “Who is your Master?” Godric said in less frightened tone, though he felt no better.

            “You know him already,” said the voice, “And he knows you as well. He feared you then; now it is your time to fear him. Now, ask no further questions. Ready yourself: there are many who are more powerful than you who have not survived an audience with him.” The voice trailed off in a suggestive tone, as if expecting a certain answer. Another moment of silence passed.

            “What do you mean?” Godric asked in a suspicious tone. While he may have been confused and frightened, he was not without sense.

            “You know of what I mean,” The voice replied in an intense whisper, “The swords forged given to you by the Hunter of the Shadows, the swords of celestial iron! Gird yourself with your celestial blade, and together we can cut the Master from his black throne!” At these words, Godric stiffened. He did indeed remember the swords, and the purpose they held. Memories flooded his mind in a torrent of pain, fright, death, and undeath. Memories of brandishing his unearthly blade against waves of dead sinew and bone, memories he had spent the last twenty years trying to forget. And now, he thought, the dead have returned to haunt him.

The connection was finally made in his mind, clicking like two missing pieces in a puzzle: it was the dead they had driven out of the land of Arcateele which had done all of this to his village. The dead which the Omrigians claimed to have obliterated long ago. They had tracked down every last Robesman, and found each of them settled in the same town, and then waited until their defence was at utter ease. Then they had struck, burning all that was in their wake, igniting all that was dear to them and laughing ruefully as it burned. Alas, he thought, the dead have returned for revenge.

            Then it would have been that fear would overtake him; that he would give in to the urge to panic and lose his mind to the darkness around him, yet this is not what happened. His family, lying about him when he had slept: now gone, likely burned with the rest of his life. The fire which had in two days sent his life into ash ignited in his soul, and the cold of the room left him. He wished nothing more than to do any harm he could to these dead which had done exactly that to him. He wished to kill the voice which spoke into his ear, mocking his helplessness, and burn whatever life it had found in this world as it had burned his.

He still had the otherworldly blade, having hid it from the thieves who occasionally plagued his village. He had strapped it to his back under his cloak before he had set out, not daring to let his wife or fellow Robesmen see it. He thrust his trembling hand to his back, and with a small sensation of triumph, he found it was still there. He wrapped his hand around the handle, easing the blade out of the sheath an inch or so. He took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. He counted down slowly from five, and instead of letting out the air in exhale, he roared and leapt to his feet, jerking the sword from behind his back and letting it swing in an arc of his head.

The blade glowed brilliantly with the fury of the heavens as he swung it, the light stabbing a jagged arc the thick blackness that had gathered around him; the sudden light nearly blinded his overexposed pupils, though in his anger he paid it no heed. A shriek filled his ears as wind howling though a broken tower window, and he was granted a brief image of the shaft of pale flame in his hands tearing through the neck of a shadowy form. It seemed to resemble a hybrid of human and wolf, legs bent backward and a hunched back, though he saw it no more as the shriek was suddenly cut off and the brightness of his blade dispelled the illusion entirely.

All around him, the room filled with similar screaming and wailing, being fully illuminated by the solar blade he bore. Shadows, it seemed, writhed like water across the floor and walls, search for a means of escape but finding none. Translucent figures like the first he had seen flitted like a splash of water away from him, from his sword which slew the dead which had returned to life. It was only then, when the room was lit from within, did he see that he was no longer in the mines at all, but a great hall, the ceiling so high that even the light of his sword did not reach it. The walls were far enough apart that they could have held the entirety of the village of Narthazel in them, made to seem smaller by the great pillars which filled the room, forming a gargantuan pathway from one end of the chamber to the other. At the far end he could see a tall iron door, wide enough for twenty men to walk through abreast, and tall enough to dwarf Swagg’s inn. Upon the door were two knockers, far larger than him, and twice as thick. It was obvious that it would be impossible for any but a power a thousand times greater than that which he himself possessed could open the door.

It was only then, as he beheld the majesty of the hall in which he had been imprisoned, did he realise that he had not noticed the stone biers which lay between each set of pillars, black in colour and polished to shine like silver. Upon each of these lay the slumbering body of one of his company, each unharmed and beset with a peaceful expression upon their features; he realised that he must have awoken in the dark upon one of these beds, and sure enough, he turned about to find a bier empty of all but the pouches which had slipped from his belt. Behind these beds, he noted with a sudden wave of horror and nausea, were heaped piles of human bones, tinted golden by his luminous blade, charred in many places and yet neatly cleaned, for not a scrap of clothing or flesh hung upon the bones, every last rib and finger perfectly intact. Some skulls, he could see, were noticeably inhuman, for vivid distortions -- like a ram’s horn or eye sockets large enough to house three normal eyes -- twisted each one.

Shoving aside the instinct to become violently ill, he rushed to the side of the bed of polished stone lying across from him. Sleeping peacefully on it was none other than his wife.

“Catherine,” he cooed, nudging her shoulder gently with one hand, “Catherine, please wake!” Yet her eyes did not flutter, nor did her breath hasten to announce her awakening. Suddenly, it occurred to him that she was not breathing at all. “Oh no,” he moaned in anguish, and opened her mouth so as to force air into her lungs; yet as he did so, he was tossed from his feet by a giant shadow streaming like a waterfall of darkness from Catherine’s open mouth. Though he had stumbled, however, Godric did not let the sword slip from his grasp: his hands held so tightly that his knuckles ran white, and any attempt to pry his hands apart would have come to no avail. He watched the shadow with fear and loathing, watched as it flew like a cloak underwater around the room, paying no heed to the celestial light of his blade as the others had. It swooped down like a hawk diving for her prey and stopped before him, and it began to form a familiar shape.

The blackness spun and twisted slightly, but in a moment or two, what it bore resemblance to was unmistakeable. Before Godric stood what appeared to be a man made of black cloud, smoky hair trailing out behind it. The edges of the figure began to solidify, and in moments, it no longer resembled a cloud, but a tall block of wood carved into the shape of a man and painted deep sable; then the colour began to fill it. In a moment or two, Kithrus stood before Godric, his body naked and his skin smooth and young. This was no longer the man of fifty-seven that he had shared so many trails and experiences with: this was a demon of shadow which took the form of old friends, of which Godric felt certain. Upon Kithrus’ pale chest was an angry red scar, stretching from his breast to his navel, jagged and infected. Kithrus smiled.

“My old friend,” he said in a voice that dripped with smoothness and practiced guile. Godric was not amused.

“Friend no longer, fiend,” he cried, and swung the great blade around in a mighty slash aimed at Kithrus’ neck. How shocked he was, then, when his adversary caught the luminous blade in one bare hand, an inch from his neck. A smile stretched across his face, though it seemed strained and false. From the edge of the blade that Kithrus held, Godric could see a tiny tendril of smoke rise. An eye twitched on his face, and his expression became sour.

“You cannot know what I have had to endure,” said he, “and do not expect me to try to tell you. All you ever need know is that I have suffered; thrown from one torment to the next in punishment for letting you escape. Now,” he threw down the edge of Godric’s blade which he held in his hand and spat upon it, “I will endure no more. With your capture, Godric, a portion of my task will be complete. Now come: the Master wishes an audience with you, and he will not be denied.”

“I think not,” Godric replied coldly, and jerked his sword away. With a cry, he lunged toward Kithrus, bringing the sword around and high over his head for a great overhead strike. Before Kithrus could use Godric’s forward energy to topple him, the sword had already come down with tremendous force upon his head. There was a blinding flash of light, and the smell of acrid smoke filled the air. Godric was blasted halfway across the chamber and landed with a cry that echoed richly in the looming roof. He lifted his head in time to see Kithrus’ smoking -- but otherwise undamaged -- form reach for his chest with a tense hand. Sword still clutched in his hand, he swung viciously at the hand, and was rewarded with a shrill scream from Kithrus, who fell to the stone floor clutching what was left of his limb.

“You fool!” cried Kithrus in agony, frantically trying to numb the pain of his mutilated hand. With baleful eyes he watched Godric as he stood, holding the sword high for both threat and ease of use. He began to advance on Kithrus’ fallen form, and in only a few moments, Godric was near enough for Kithrus to lash out like an animal and knock him flat on the ground. The sword flew from Godric’s now-open hand, and both of them began to grapple at one another in effort to reach it. For a time, it seemed that Godric was bound to win, clad in his travelling armour as he was while Kithrus was naked and unarmed. Kithrus held his neck in a headlock when Godric delivered a sharp elbow to his unprotected abdomen, causing the ghost-man to double over in pain. However immortal he may have played himself up to be, thought Godric, he certainly had a mortal body. Why, then, was he vulnerable to pain now, he wondered, and not when he was bristling with arrows barely two days before? He vowed to discover this after he had won, he decided, so returned his attention back to the battle.

While Kithrus was weak from the blow, Godric broke free of his arm and delivered two sharp kicks to his head, earning two cries of pain and a glorious sight of a bloody mess of a face. With great excitement, Godric snatched the blade from where it lay, a small distance from where the two of them had been fighting, and rose to his feet, pointing the tip of the celestial blade at Kithrus’ crimson-stained head. The man who looked up at him now, completely at his mercy, did not seem to resemble the fair-haired and smooth-faced demon that he had come to hate so dearly in the past few days. He looked far more like his grizzled old friend, the wrinkles back at the edges of his eyes and lips. He seemed almost pathetic now, lying naked and defenceless; Godric had already forgotten that it was because of this man that his wife lay dead atop a stone bier behind him.

“So,” said Kithrus, panting, “Are you going to kill me now? It would do no good: I would simply have failed my task, and be sent back to hunt you.”

“What do you propose I do?” Godric asked through gritted teeth. The energy he had spent in the battle began to catch up with him. His chest was heaving, and despite the cold of the chamber, he was sweating profusely. He added, “I will accept nothing but your utter defeat.”

“Oh, you’ve already achieved that,” Kithrus assured him, not making any move to stem the steady flow of blood from his nose and mouth, “Can you not see me laying at your feet and suggesting alternatives to killing my mortal form?”

“You’ve suggested nothing,” Godric said, “Except that I don’t kill you.”

“Because my death would be pointless: I am defeated either way you choose to deal with me, but I can be of great use to you if you let me live.”

“I am not about to make deals with my enemy’s lieutenant,” Godric told him coldly. At this, Kithrus laughed, blood now dripping down his pale front.

“But I’m afraid you have little choice,” Kithrus said, gesturing around the chamber, “For you are trapped here without me. You cannot open the door to the north, nor can you ascend through the shaft to the south to escape. The room is filled with servants of my Master, though they are hiding from the,” he paused, and shuddered before continuing, “Bitter light… of your sword. And my Master himself lies in the depths of the Tomb, at the end of the stairwell which lies on the other side of the north door. He is aware of your capture, and was waiting for you to speak with him. He sent me to fetch you when his dead slave failed to return to him with you. I can… help you.” Godric was not sure he understood, though he did realise his plight: he was trapped here without an escape, and he was also in the den of his enemies.

“Are you suggesting,” he asked the fallen Kithrus, “That you betray your Master to aid in my escape?” Kithrus smiled.