The conclusion to "Body and Soul." or maybe the middle, depending on how you look at it. Enjoy.
Part 3 of Body and Soul
Seven days later.
The caves of Frankál were located some hundred miles away from the city, and several villages had popped up nearby, most notably the merchant town of Fleeton. The caves, to the local teenage population, were a grand hideaway, where they could run off to for hours without adult supervision. The younger children regarded the caves as haunted, based on the effects of echoing drops of water.
One cave in particular stood out, as it was situated near a large forest. An oak tree, larger than all other trees, stood near its entrance. As the group went past, they could not help but feel awe at its widespread boughs, casting long shadows from the sunset and blanketing the area in darkness.
The three men stopped at the mouth of the cave. We are here at last, said the monk. You two go in, and try to find the book. I will stay here, and divert the Akhorim if they come.
Azmodan spoke. Very well. We will meet you here when we are done. Jack and Azmodan plunged into the cave, a chill wind blowing at their backs. The first thing they noticed was the definite lack of light. Thankfully, Jack had been intelligent enough to bring a torch along from on of the villages they had passed along the way, and lit it.
The two walked down the corridor, listening and watching. The tunnel twisted in every direction at once, it seemed, and from every direction came the sound of running water. I wonder whats down here, Jack said.
Whatever it is, itll be dangerous. If the old monk wasnt going to take it on with a dozen students, it was tough.
Well, lets just be careful, then. The two emerged from the tunnel into a wide room. Its only distinguishing feature was a small trapdoor in the center of the room. Well, what are we waiting for? Lets open it. Azmodan knelt down, nodding. He placed his hand on the latch and lifted it. It dropped down into a shaft about two feet wide, but the darkness obscured all further details save a rope trailing down into the gloom, held by an iron piton.
Azmodan turned to Jack. So, who goes down first?
Nine men stood in the clearing. Two men wore the traditional red robes of Akhorim Inquisitors, and four wore varied colors, ranging from dark green on two, to two others adorned with yellow and orange. These were the subordinates to the Inquisitors. Two men wore chain shirts, covering their torsos with many links of interlocking steel and decked out with many weapons, javelins, swords, bows, and all.
And one man, completely shaven and dressed in simple white, stood locked in chains and held by the armed men. Nearly a dozen dead bodies lay on the ground around him.
Tyrniall spat in disgust. He had traveled here with more than fifty members of the Dragon Guard and nine other magi. Now he was down to his aid, Ketlig, their four supporters, and these two warriors. All because of that damned druid, that blasted monk, and now this whelp. He was mad, and eager to see this man die. But not until he revealed the location of his comrades.
Tyrniall was a tall man, nearly six feet in height, and his fellow Mage-Priests had regarded him as the most athletic in their numbers for the past ten years. His hair was brown, wild and flowing, and his eyes were milky white, bearing the painful reminder of the Test of the Inquisitors.
Ketlig shared that reminder, but he was nowhere near as fit as Tyrniall. He was almost a foot shorter than his direct superior, but his paunch almost made up for the loss of height with gain of weight. He was not fat, really, but he was lacking in the area of muscle. His hair was blond, short, and curly.
Tyrniall strode over to the monk. Why are you here? he barked.
I come to fulfill the request of my dead master. I come to stop you. My fellows wait inside the cave for you. I am the least of their number, nearly fifty in all. They will destroy you.
You lie! The old man had only fifteen students, that much we gathered before I killed him, he said with a sneer. You will tell me this before I am through with you.
It does not matter. We will destroy the book before you can make me break, that much I am certain of. The monk smiled back at the Mage-Priest.
Fool! Do not mock my power! Tyrniall stepped forward and gripped the monks head in his hand. He called on his inner power, melding it into his desires, and projected it into the monks body. The monk felt an alien presence enter his body, fighting off his soul and dominating his mind. Then he felt no more.
Ill handle it, Jack stated. When Im down, I will call back up to you.
But you only have that sword. What if whatever is down there attacks you?
Jack laughed. Remember, friend, even a small sword like this is enough to defeat overconfident fools. Id think after all these years down here, the things had plenty of time to be overconfident.
Azmodan smiled, a tear coming to his eye. Then go, Jack, and may whatever God there is be with you.
With a nod, Jack shoved the torch into his belt and began to let himself down. He went nearly fifty feet, the light from the torch revealing many jagged spikes on the way down. Azmodan was left in the darkness.
Jack went farther, and the light disappeared. Azmodan bent over curious. What was happening?
The Mage-Priests gasped. What Tyrniall had just done was held by the Akhorim as a sign of one destined to enter the ranks of the black-robed temple guardians, and eventually rise to where he would be in contention for the white robes. Tyrniall smiled, as he knew this, too. Speak, monk. How many are with you?
Two. A hunter from the Cheswick army, and a villager we rescued from the Dragon Lords army.
Ha! Tyrniall turned to his comrades. This fool meant to stop us with just himself and a couple of poor fighters! He is an idiot! The others didnt see much humor in Tyrnialls statement, as they had lost a dozen soldiers to the monk alone. Tyrniall saw this and turned back to the monk in disgust. I want you to take these two soldiers into the cave and kill your former companions. Tyrniall had to word his phrase carefully to prevent the monk from killing his men instead.
I will, master.
Good. Now go. He nodded, and the two men took off the monks chains.
Jack! Are you all right? Then, a bright light flared up.
If he is, he will not be for much longer. Azmodan recognized the voice as that of the monk.
He stood up and turned, saying, Why are you here? I thought you were guarding the.. He caught off as he saw the two men wearing the symbol of the ReAkors elite fighting unit, the Dragon Guard, and carrying swords and torches. Why the Hel are they here?
Now you die, Azmodan. The monk stepped forward, as Azmodan took the spear from its resting place on his back. He held it in front of him, trying to keep the monk back.
Is this some kind of joke? he asked quizzically. Then he saw it. The monks eyes were a dull white color all around, like pools of milk. The monk grabbed the spear just below the point, stepped in, and punched Azmodan in the chest. The force of the blow nearly knocked the wind out of him, and he went to the ground, minus a spear. What are you doing, man? He gasped for air.
The monk came on, and Azmodan dove to the side, hoping to attack the Dragon Guards. The monk kicked out, crushing something in Azmodans body and sending him flying. Something cracked inside his body, he knew not what.
As he staggered back to his, he sensed the breathing of one soldier just behind him. Calm down, monk. I am not your enemy. The monk stepped forward again, and Azmodans foot lashed out and struck the Guard in his knee. The man went down on the other, and Azmodan spun, punched him twice in the face, and took the saber from his motionless body. One thrust later, and the soldier had considerably more breathing space. Specifically, from a hole in his lungs.
The other guard rushed forward, dropping the torch and holding his sword with both hands. Azmodan met his charge, parrying the blow. He blocked the mans next strike with the blade, and brought his foot down on the mans instep. The man grunted in pain, and ceased to grunt as Azmodan plunged the saber in.
He turned back to the monk, bloody saber pointed out. Stop this at once.
The pale look in the monks eyes flickered, and returned to normal. His mouth strained to speak, and his body could not move. The only way to stop this.... is to kill me. The Akhorim.. the monk shuddered, Have bound me. They are outside... kill them... avenge me.
The eyes reverted to their possessed state, and the monk came on with renewed vigor. Tears in his eyes, Azmodan thrust, straight to the heart.
The monks hand whipped out, knocking the blade aside. He punched with the other, sending Azmodan sprawling once again. He could not get up fast enough this time, and the monk was on him, grabbing him from behind, crushing the life out of him. He struggled to breath, but air would not reach his lungs. He tried to crawl away, the monk still on him, but only succeeded in tripping over one of the dead guards. He tried to smash his load against a wall, but could not summon the strength to move.
His eyes caught the sight of something gleaming on the mans belt, and reached out to grab it. It was a dagger. With the same hand his shoved it backwards, into the monks chest. The pressure let off, and the monk tumbled to the ground, his eyes back to normal.
Avenge... me...
Ketlig stood at the entrance to the cave, just to its right along with two other magi. Tyrniall, along with the other two, waited behind them. What does he think is going to happen? We should just go in there and finish the job.
We would be vulnerable in there, Ketlig. The same gasped as Tyrniall said this. Out here, our magic can strike down any who would intervene. In close quarters, such as that cave, steel reigns supreme. But be quiet; someone walks.
Ketligs amazement at Tyrnialls newfound powers was extinguished by the fact that a man clad in the Dragon Guards armor and holding a bow. What happened? Did they die? His words pierced the evening sky.
The man did not answer. In a split second, an arrow appeared in his bow. Another split second, and the same arrow appeared in the throat of a green-robed priest.
He turned to Ketlig, nocking another in the process. He fired it, and the Inquisitor felt a sharp pain as the arrow slammed into his stomach, ripping open a hole. He sank to the ground, moaning, and all the world went black.
Azmodan smiled. Barely two seconds, and two Magi were down. The rest fled to the woods so that they would not have to face his fury. Still smiling, he drew and fired another arrow, this one spiraling straight into a yellow-robed mans leg. He dropped the bow, and drew a dagger as he ran forward. He hurled the blade with all his might at the downed man, and smiled grimly as it pierced his skull.
Ahead of him, in the trees, he saw a man in green mouthing the words of a spell and moving his arms in slow circles. He too a javelin from his back, drew his arm back, and scored a hit that went through the mans two forearm bones and into his side. He screamed in pain, only stopping when Azmodan smashed in his neck with his fists. He had only the saber and two daggers left, now. He drew the sword and charged right into the forest.
He caught a glimpse of a man in orange, trying to hide from his wrath. Coward. Azmodan struck him down with his blade. He turned, looking for more targets, when the hair on the back of his neck stood up. His experience in Frankál told him what to expect next, and he hurled his sword into a trees trunk some feet above his head.
A stream of brilliant blue lightning shot out from the trees, aimed straight at him. The electricity shone like a beacon in the evening sky, lighting the forest and casting new shadows against the branches and twigs. At the last minute, it turned up and dissipated into the steel blade, sparks shooting from the bolt. Azmodans hair stood on end, as though it were stiffened by the shock. Air smashed into where the lightning had passed, and a thunder clap nearly knocked Azmodan senseless with its smash of sound.
Good, very good, a mocking voice said. That cannot save you now. Orange fire exploded from the same place, and Azmodan dodged, his skin burning and singing from the heat of the thing. The fire disappeared in the underbrush, and bright flames shot out, licking bushes, trying to consume the forest.
Azmodan ran out of the dense mass of trees, looking for his bow. He would need it against this man. He saw it lying on the ground, and dove to grab it. A ray of pure energy, glistening white and red and orange and blue all over, passed over where his head would have been without the roll. Azmodan silently thanked his combat training, as the ray sailed into the rock face, boring a hole through its surface while leaving only scorch marks and rising smoke to tell of its flight.
He completed the roll, bow in hand, nocking another arrow. In the forest, he saw a large boulder, perfect cover against this Mage-Priest, wherever he was. He ran along the hard ground, not watching the path as he went. If he had, he would have noticed the pebbles on the ground beginning to glow bright yellow, the same yellow one seen in the first sideways glance at the sun.
And then, sound filled the air as the pebbles exploded. He leaped into the air purely as instinct, and gritted his teeth in pain as the shards sank into unprotected flesh. He hit the ground with a jolt, burning agony coursing through his body, and ignored it. He rolled over to the cover of the boulder and staggered weakly to his feet.
Azmodan regained his footing, and dashed out from behind the boulder, and saw a ball of flame spring from the trees. He shot his arrow off into the general direction, but couldnt tell if he had hit anything. The ball exploded in a shower of flames.
Fire, the giver and destroyer of life, ate through the air as a pack of hungry rats devours grain. It lapped at saplings, turning them into ash. It touched full grown trees, burning off bark and peeling away branches. The huge oak burned, its funeral pyre sending huge drafts of smoke into the once clear night sky and sending smaller fires to consume other trees. Azmodan fell, his legs gripped by grasping vines, conjured from the earth by the malevolence of his opponent, whose sharp, piercing laugh brought pain to his ears.
And the great oak, mighty of all trees for centuries uncounted, fell. Its burning hulk crashed down, the sizzling bark smashing into the boulders top. The tree miraculously hit the crown of the gray boulder with a loud, sudden crack. Azmodan thanked the Gods for his salvation, and struck at the vines with his sword. They came off, mercifully, and he once again took up the bow and ran behind the boulder.
This time, he scrambled on top of it, struggling for footing all the way. He reached the tree branches, and jumped up. He came to the top, where he had a good view of the battlefield. The smoke from the branches hurt, clogging his lungs and burning them at the same time. But it would not matter, as he saw the Mage-Priest, and one shot would be enough to end the fight. He placed an arrow to the string, and drew his fist back to his shoulder.
Ketlig was in agony. The impostor had shot well. He ripped the arrow from his side and tossed it away, his mind forming the patterns for a healing spell. The words and gestures that beginners used were of no use to him, now that he knew that the secret to magic was the soul, not any external forces. It was a secret that told that a Mage-Priest was ready to join the ranks of the Inquisitors. Some grasped the concept immediately and learned to do almost anything with only their minds. To some, it never came.
The magic worked within Ketligs body, repairing damaged tissue and replacing lost blood. In moments, he was able to stand again.
The first thing Ketlig saw was the fire. Flame shot from dozens of trees, and smoke billowed everywhere. The stench of burning flesh, fur, and wood reached him. He choked for a while, only stopping when he noticed the danger Tyrniall was in. He was walking around the felled oak tree, and was unaware that the man had an arrow pointed at him. Ketlig grasped his inner power, and began to manipulate the winds.
As the man released the arrow, a series of wicked crosswinds came into being along the arrows path, knocking it aside. They then turned to blow the smoke and flames in the mans direction, blinding him. Tyrniall turned toward the commotion and summoned another fire ball, projecting it toward the man. He sensed the assault at the last second, and dove to the ground some forty feet before the explosion happened, doubling the flames on the tree and spreading the fire faster.
Ketlig tied off the wind spell, not caring for the well being of the forest. He dashed toward the tree, ready to lend assistance.
Tyrniall slowly moved around the boulder where he had seen the man drop. He had unsheathed the saber that he kept from his days in the Dragons Legion, ready for any attack. So, it was no surprise when the man jumped him from the side, with his sword regained from the charred tree. He blocked the first blow and responded with a thrust , which the man barely parried, and a grin, which he barely kept from provoking him into outright rage. The man slashed furiously, and Tyrniall deftly slapped the blade away each time. He smiled again, and formulated a spell in his mind.
Flames shot from the cross piece of his sword, wreathing the blade in red fire. He slashed at the mans face, and he dodged it, while rolling away to safety. Tyrniall sensed a disturbance behind him, and grinned when he saw it was only Ketlig, his robes flapping in the conjured wind. He held a spear constructed purely out of the force of gravity, its point and haft ready to smash any who touched it besides its creator. Glad to see you are alive.
Very much so. Lets dispose of this fool. They advanced on the man, blades flying in all directions, in the complicated rhythm of sword play. For each thrust, a parry, and for each slash, a counter slash. The man had to work twice as fast as the Akhorim. He wisely kept his own blade away from Ketligs spear, as if he had fought Mage-Priests before and knew their tricks. It was no matter. The man was already tiring.
Tyrniall slashed at his leg, the flaming blade scoring a mark upon him. The man howled and rolled away under the tree.
Tyrniall smiled and nodded to Ketlig. Together, they manipulated magic to push the massive trunk away. It fell to the ground with a massive crash and started to roll. What branches remained on it were quickly snapped off by its own weight. The man was on the other side, and would have to escape somehow. With the way the trunk was picking up speed, it would not be by running.
Tyrniall turned and said, Spells. You cover left, Ill take right. Ketlig nodded, and they waited.
Azmodan ran from the rolling trunk, his mind racing. He was wounded, and if he ran to the sides, the Akhorim would be waiting to cut him down. So he ran.
And then he saw the ditch. It was fairly shallow, maybe only two feet deep, but the edges were steep, and it was concealed by underbrush. He jumped down into it, and drew his last two daggers. And waited.
Tyrniall and Ketlig waited, too. But their waiting was rudely interrupted by the man springing up from the ground and flinging two daggers. Too late, Tyrniall recognized the mans plan. As the blade meant for him sailed through the air, he moved his sword up and batted it away. Is that the best you can do? He shouted. That was pretty feeble, wasnt it, Ketlig? Ketlig? Tyrniall glanced over to see a knife protruding from Ketligs stomach.
Second... time... today, he gasped with a smile. In the next instant, Ketlig fell over dead.
Tyrniall let out his breath, and charged the man, who had drawn his saber again.
They met in the middle of the charred field that marked the destruction of fire, both the fire from the enormous flaming log and the fire from Tyrnialls spells. Where once there had been a forest, there were now only embers and emptiness. They fought there, for minutes uncounted. They danced the dance of death as it was meant to be danced, never thinking, never pausing, only acting by instinct, training, and reflex. The dance of death allowed for no mistakes, no mercy. And then the first mistake happened.
Azmodan went for the kill, his saber darting forth in the wind. Tyrniall breathlessly parried it, sending it high in the air. Azmodan forgot his training and sought to turn it into a killing blow, a powerful slash from above. His hopes were ended when Tyrnialls blade of fire sank into his stomach. He took pleasure in the sound of fire burning human flesh, and raised his sword for the finish. You will die here.
But at least I will take comfort in knowing you will die here with me, the man responded with a slight smile. Tyrniall puzzled over these words.
Moments later, Azmodan lapsed into unconsciousness with the pleasurable sight of the Mage-Priestss head being eaten by a large, brown bear.
Azmodan woke to find himself in a small wooden structure he assumed to be a hut. At the foot of his bed sat a man clad all in black. Who are you? Where am I?
I am a member of the Order of Shadow Druids. It is I you saw all those days ago, killing the leader of the Akhorim. You are in my home.
How long have I been like this?
Nearly two weeks now. You have been under a great deal of stress.
Azmodan shot up in bed. Where is Jack?
I am sorry to have to bring this news to you.
What happened? Is he dead?
When you began to talk of his mission in your dreams, I sent some of my followers to keep a lookout for him. He has not emerged fro where we found you yet. We fear the worst.
What do you mean we? And why did you save me.
One question at a time, please! The man exclaimed with a laugh, before returning to his serious tone. I rescued you because, as a druid, I did not take kindly to having a forest burn down, especially with such a majestic tree outside. I found you there. Miraculously, the Akhorim had not punctured any major organs, and the wound was cauterized, so you did not bleed to death. So, I brought you here to recover.
What if the wound had been fatal?
"I would have left you to die. Nothing personal, its just the way of nature.
And who is we, again?
Myself, my students, and the comrades of your monk friend. They were on their way to help with the destruction of the Necronimicon.
I see, Azmodan stated. Were they successful?
No. They found a cavern with three bodies, including their friends, which they took care of, but there were no other exits from the place.
What? Did they check the trapdoor?
You must have had a fever. There was no trapdoor. Azmodan was struck speechless. They are here now.
Fourteen youths, all with shaved heads and dressed in white, entered the room.
Greetings, Azmodan, one said.
Hello, I guess. The room was uncomfortably silent, and uncomfortably crowded. Your.. friend... mentioned something of a reward.
The monk spoke again. The greatest reward we can give you is to allow you to study our ways. Will you accept?
I guess so, he replied with a chuckle. I always wanted to know why not having a name was so important. By the way, what did you do with the body?
Cremated, of course. The monk and Azmodan smiled. Meet us at the port of Frankál in two months time, if you wish to learn.
Ill be there.
And so Azmodan studied with the Order of God, learning their ways and teachings.
The war with ReAkor ended with Kal Set Zats retreat from Frankál late that winter. Azmodan began giving his morning devotional with the monks. The Butcher of Frankál was found dead in his palace in the capital, whether it was murder or suicide was undetermined. Azmodan forsook his former weapons and took up the garb of a knight. Frankál was rebuilt, in even more glory than before. Azmodan took the name of Brother, giving up all others.
Ten years passed. And the knight was given a quest.
But for now, a different story, of the same place, but a different time. Five years from the end of the war, when swords were melted into plowshares and homes rebuilt, another rebuilding was taking place, in the same field where the one formerly known as Azmodan had battled the Akhorim.
The Druid of the Shadow, the caretaker of the region, walked the field. Already grasses and shrubs had taken root, and small creatures made their homes in the meadow. But most interesting to the Druid was the place where the great oak had been uprooted. Springing from the soft dark earth was a sapling, a beacon of hope in a former wasteland. The Druid strode over to the tree, and stroked its branches lovingly. A man from behind, a Druid of the Order of Life, spoke out. So, brother, it seems your project went well.
Yes, it did, brother. And do you not agree that it is better than what your magic could have created?
If slower is considered better, fine. But the magic of my Order could have had the great oak itself here years ago.
But what would it be then?" The Duid of Shadow asked. "An aberration, artificial, unnatural. The beauty of nature is in its nature itself, springing fresh from the womb of the earth. The fire that rampaged here was not a destroyer, but merely a refresher, to renew the earth with revitalized soil. And is that not a noble thing? Who are we to try to prevent the past? Who are we to disturb nature's balance?
"But you stopped the Akhorim from burning it in the first place."
"They were out of control, a firestorm in dry season. It was necessary, Mother Nature could not fix it herself."
So brother, are we to wait for nature to fix all wrongs? What of the power hidden here?
The Druid of Shadow paused. Yes, even that will wait for time to end it. Even that death will have to wait for its rebirth."
(This message has been edited by Celchu (edited 05-14-2002).)
