Welcome to the Sword of Lithra

Hello, and welcome to the Sword of Lithra, a serial fantasy story with new segments every Saturday.

- New to the story? Start at the Beginning.

- Want to catch up quickly? Read the Quick Start.

- In-depth details about the world of Nadra can be found in the Tome of Nadra.

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The latest post is directly below.

Treachery – Short Story

It was gone.

His greatest work. Gone.

•••

Two travelers approached the building. The first was a man, perhaps thirty, with dark brown hair and a confident air. His companion was younger, black haired and quiet, perhaps eighteen or twenty. Anticipation was easy to read on the older man’s face, relief at the end of a long quest, with bright prospects lying ahead of him. The youth seemed apathetic almost, compared to his companion, but a flicker of interest crossed his face as he took in the scene before them.

Nestled amongst the pines was a small, rustic lodge, dwarfed by its neighbor, the blacksmith’s shop. Dark wooden pillars supported a simple roof that bristled with chimneys, belching smoke and ash. Even pouring rain, as it was now, the smithy was stiflingly hot, and the sharp chink of hammer on metal blended with the patter of the incessant rain. A rather redundant sign hung in front of the building, bearing the blacksmith’s symbol of hammer and anvil.

The two men dismounted, and the older man strode forward, each step on the cobblestones throwing up a spray of water. Stepping into the spacious but cluttered workplace, he looked the blacksmith square in the eye and said:

“Greetings, Kalrag Forgemaster. My name is Lithra, and I have a proposition for you.”

•••

Where was Resca? He hadn’t seen his apprentice in hours. Perhaps he knew where his missing masterpiece had gone.

•••

Another sheet of paper was crumpled, torn, and finally set fire to, flames leaping from the fingers of the irate enchanter. He’d known it would be difficult, but this spell, this incredibly complex web of enchantment, was proving somewhat more difficult than even he’d anticipated.

Still, the vision hung before him, the ideal of the perfect weapon, the deadly tool, a powerful force for good in the world, to carry his name, and his legend, long after he was gone. It drove him forward, even after weeks of hectic rewriting and planning, and he would not settle for anything less than that ideal.

Kalrag certainly had no time for idleness either. It was a long ride to Quarryvale, and he’d made dozens of trips over the course of the weeks. Sleepless nights were passed as wagonloads of ore were processed and refined countless times, all of his equipment checked and rechecked, and all things set out to perfection.

Only Resca was left without work to do, and he wandered aimlessly for days. He lacked Lithra’s intense devotion to his project, and although learned in the enchanters arts, he had too little experience to offer much help to his mentor. He certainly wasn’t any help to the blacksmith.

He kicked at a rock despondently, gloomy thoughts churning through his head. Lithra was a good teacher, he could not deny that, and he was fortunate to be apprenticed to one of the most skilled enchanters in generations. Still, he was restless. He wanted glory, and, although he would not admit it to himself, he wanted power. This business with Lithra’s sword was impeding his progress, who knew what he might have learned in the time it took to accomplish this project?

He tried to be patient, but there was little to distract him from the resentment he felt. But there were still many long, empty days ahead of him.

•••

If this is some kind of joke, Resca, there will be trouble, and plenty of it. His student, and his sword, the two most important parts of his life, were gone, and even now dark suspicions were creeping into his thoughts.

He saddled up and rode for town at a gallop.

•••

At last the great work had begun. All the materials were ready, and Lithra had finished his preparations. Dozens of papers now held the perfect spell, every section checked and scrutinized endlessly.

The enchanter and the smith peered into the chunk of metal that would soon become the testament to their strength, the epitome of their craft. So much potential lay there, and they would not rest until the sword was perfect.

Both men made a final check of their equipment, Lithra ensuring his pages were legible and in order, and Kalrag making a few last adjustments to his forge, confirming that all was in order to transform this iron into fine steel.

Grasping the metal with his tongs, the blacksmith shoved the metal into the forge, and the enchanter began the first of many long chants to come.

•••

Resca tossed his fifteenth galestone into the heap. The resulting pile was worth a small fortune, but Resca didn’t care. Thunderstones, descrying charms, magical rings, all worthless. All boring to him. It wasn’t a challenge anymore. He longed for something more, some new power to master, like the safeguard spells, or advanced spellcasting techniques, anything would do.

But his master spent all his time working on his precious sword, and collapsed exhausted into his bed each night as another stage of the construction was complete. Boredom fueled thought, which together formed desperation and resent.

Master and pupil had always gotten along well, but there was always an air of professionalism between them, one which Lithra hardly noticed, but it irked Resca, and the loneliness distorted that slight distance into fantasies of cold neglect. The respect that both felt for one another dwindled in his eyes, and his thoughts began to turn to darkness.

•••

How could he do this? Certainly they hadn’t been as close over the past weeks, but patience was a large part of becoming an enchanter, and he’d thought Resca had learned that long ago. He had been surprised at his pupils absence during the spellcasting portions of the forging, he might have learned a great deal.

But the work was finished now, and Resca had betrayed them on the very day he was to enter the final stages of his education? He didn’t want to believe it, but the heaviness in his heart told him otherwise.

•••

Kalrag pulled the white-hot sword from the belly of the furnace, sweat racing down his face, and soon disappearing into his impressive beard. The dull monotony of the enchanters spell wove through him, lending a rhythm to the constant blows of his hammer. Lithra’s voice was becoming hoarse, but he was not about to let mere bodily weakness stop him. They were so close to the end now, just another hour or so and the final shape of the blade would be complete.

Many long spells had been completed now, infusing unearthly strength and resistance into the metal, forming invisible but powerful spells to the sword, the incorporeal inextricably bound to the physical.

•••

Resca watched from a dark corner of the forest, unnoticed by Kalrag or Lithra. He was too far to hear anything but the relentless clang of the hammer, but he didn’t need to hear, only to see. There was a light in his teacher’s eye that he’d never seen in all their lessons, a zeal lavished on his trael cé phai sword that he’d never shown to his own apprentice.

Resca was too enveloped in his dire thoughts to consider things from his teacher’s point of view. As Lithra saw it, his purpose as a mentor was not to befriend or raise his students, merely to provide them with the tools they required to excel on their own.

And although he valued his students greatly, this sword represented the greatest work he would ever accomplish in this life, one by which he would be judged and remembered for centuries. He’d spent years in service to King and country, it was time to spend some of his attention on himself.

But this reasoning was lost on Resca, and the resentment soon fell into jealousy. At that moment, he stopped planning his future, and began plotting.

•••

It was a simple equation, but the conclusion was unbelievable. His sword was gone, his apprentice was gone, and a horse was gone. The Quarryvale gossip was teeming with tales of the young, sword-bearing rider that had swept through town like an avenging demon, snatching supplies and racing off as if a dragon was chasing him.

And he was right to flee. He has far worse than a dragon on his tail.

•••

At last the final blade was complete, gleaming in the soft flickering light of the lanterns. It was polished to a fine luster, sharper than the north wind, deadly, elegant, powerful. The blade was roughly three and a half feet long, not including the handle, large enough for two-handed wielding, light enough for one. A shallow fuller tapered smoothly down the blade, lessening the weight and providing a useful path for his additional spells.

The rest was mere child’s play for a man of Lithra’s talent, but of course great care was taken here as well. Days were spent rounding out the final details of the sword. A molded wooden grip was added next, covered with diamond-shaped black leather pieces. A simple, conical silver pommel completed the weapon’s physical construction. Spells of preservation and strength were laid on each, ensuring that the sword would survive for generations before requiring maintenance.

Then came the external spells, dozens upon dozens, layered in and through one another to form an intuitive whole. Spells that would summon fire, electricity, ice, enchantments of his own design. When in motion, the sword would accelerate upon contact with an object, using the same principles as the Galestones. This provided the effect of phenomenal strength while still allowing the wearer to swing at normal speeds.

And finally, when every combat useful enchantment he could muster had been completed, Lithra reached into his traveling pouch and pulled out the small wooden charm that he’d carried for so long. Years ago, he’d bartered a trade with an Elvish mystic, in anticipation of this day. The charm allowed him to manipulate and store memories, although only with the subject’s consent. For years, he’d sought out the greatest warriors and tactical minds in the North, and one by one, had duplicated their memories and knowledge of war into this charm.

He held the simple wooden talisman over Sa’Lithra, and began to chant. His sword would be complete this night.

•••

There it was, lying in front of him, metal softly shining in the moonlight. It was irresistibly alluring to Resca. Throughout the long weeks, jealousy and spite had twisted him, revealing his true colors. He wanted power, and there it lay.

Should he take it? A month ago the answer would have been no, but now he was not so certain. Lithra, ignoring his own apprentice, to make this sword. Looking at the weapon on the table, he could almost understand the appeal. It was a work of art, he could tell, he could feel the thrum of power emanating from the sword. Disillusioned visions of grandeur flashed before his eyes, long-held and unshared beliefs about the fall of government rising in him, and Sa’Lithra was the key to his dreams.

The world would unite under one banner again.

His.

He gripped the sword, felt the knowledge flow through him, and left.

•••

He was gone, he was really and truly gone, and he took the sword with him. As much as he wanted this to be a bad dream, it was not. He had no idea what had possessed Resca to steal his sword, but if he was willing to do so, doubtless he would attack his former teacher to keep it.

What had he unleashed? A weapon even he could not stop, not without the proper tools. His mind raced as he considered a course of action. He must forge another sword, quickly, before Resca could wreak too much havoc. One which could stop the thing he’d made.

Things, he corrected himself. The sword was not a force of evil, it was a tool, and somehow, he was sure he was responsible for what Resca had become. He had to stop his pupil, no matter the cost, regardless of what he would have to sacrifice.

•••

Two weeks later, Lithra set out after his treacherous apprentice. The new sword had been finished, a hurried masterpiece, the balance and counter to Sa’Lithra.

He called it Avenger.

Dominion – Short Story

Capori, year 689

The question hung in his mind, repeating itself over and over. He’d heard a thousand variations in his lifetime from the well-meaning to the outright cruel.

You know you can’t control the cattle. Go get the goats.

Bare feet thudded into soft sand, and his breath was already running ragged.

Go home, little boy. We hunters have work to do.

It wasn’t his fault he was so short! Why must they treat him like this?

The desert is an unforgiving home, Dhefri. There is no room for weakness here.

For years he’d put up with it, but now he could take no more. His aunt had asked him to help lift some water jugs. He had done his best, straining till his fingers ached and sweat rolled into his eyes and his legs began to wobble from the stress. He managed to lift the heavy urn a few inches, but inevitably it came crashing down, spilling the precious liquid into the thirsty ground.

His aunt turned a forlorn gaze towards the rapidly vanishing water, then at him. Then she said it, finally putting into words the underlying message he’d heard all his life.

Aren’t you good for anything, Dhefri?

Shock flitted across his features, and he bolted, running, running, as fast as his legs could carry him. Finally, he collapsed in a small ravine, unwelcome tears coursing down his cheeks. Distraught as he was, he still remembered to lick the salty drops as they fell. Water was too precious to be wasted on tears.

He drew deep, rasping gasps, trying to regain his composure as well as his breath. The sun was dying, twilight beginning to creep over the sands. Dhefri finally calmed, sat back, and began to assess his life.

He didn’t even know whether they would come looking for him. His mother had died giving birth to him, and his father was indifferent at best, and usually ashamed of his weakling child. If he returned, he’d be subject to ridicule and scorn beyond even what he’d already endured.

No, there was only one thing to do. Dhefri was strong, if not in body, then in spirit. Half the boys in the village would have given up hope long ago, had they faced his challenges. All that he needed to do was to show them.

Yes, he would prove his value.

•••

Dhefri plunged his head into the swift flowing water, enjoying the luxury for a moment. He could not delay long. The water was too shallow for the cracadya, but predators loved to target a drinking animal. He had been on the move for nearly a week now, making his way throughout the savannah, avoiding the sandy stretches.

He found water where he could, and ate whatever roots and berries he could find. But he had his eye set on bigger game. By day, he stole across the plains, moving through the tall grass, as silent as the night wind, using his small size to his advantage. At night, he slept in whatever unoccupied hole he could find, large rocks forming a barrier against the hunting beasts of the darkness.

He had never felt more alive.

He had made himself a spear, whittling away at a stick, and binding his sharp flint knife to the pole with tough plant fibers. He was ready.

The long nights, alone save for the poignant cry of the yereha, had been revelatory ones. He had come to realize that he needed to prove his worth to himself just as much as to his village, and Dhefri was determined to do so.

The fateful day came nearly a month later. Dhefri felt as if he had become an animal himself by this point, a part of nature, feeling it flowing through him, each minute detail revealing a unique and vital information. The normal hunting party stayed out for a week, he’d been gone four times that. The other villagers must have given up on his chances for survival by now, but he was far from beaten.

Before him lay his intended quarry, the rhinocera. It was a prime male specimen, perhaps five tons. He intended to bring back its horns. Even the metal spears he had heard of would have difficulty piercing the beast’s hide, his primitive spear stood no chance. He had only one chance, a direct strike through the eye. His life hung in the balance, but that mattered little. If he could not do this, he had little reason to continue living.

Dropping into an easy crouch, he dug his bare toes into the soft ground, getting a feel for his surroundings. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, savoring what might be his last taste of the hot desert air. Insects danced frenetically around him, a hawk called out above him, and Dhefri’s eyes snapped open.

He was the hunter, there was his prey.

Bursting out of the tall grass with surprising speed, he charged directly towards the lumbering gray behemoth. But unlike the nimble gazalla or the panicked tenefri, the rhinocera do not run from danger. They run towards it.

The midday sun was the sole, silent witness to the strange scene. Two thousand pounds of muscle and bone bearing down on a small, gangly youth, both equally determined to each others demise.

The thunderous sound of the beasts footsteps matched the beating of his own heart. Closer and closer came the colossal beast, every second, every footstep bringing it nearer. For the next few seconds, a young man’s fate hung in the balance, and fate answered the call.

At the last possible second, Dhefri leapt to one side, and with every ounce of strength in his body, drove the spear towards the rhinocera. The shaft splintered and cracked as it met impervious hide. Devastated, Dhefri rolled to one side, out of the path of the murderous animal.

By all accounts, the boy ought to be finished. But even now, unarmed, battered and bloodied from his daring leap, there was still a bit of courage. A spark of destiny, as his people said.

There was no running this time, just a steady, purposeful stride towards either fantastic victory or glorious defeat. The rhinocera had lumbered on, and was just now beginning to turn and search out his quarry. He did not see Dhefri until the last second, when the small boy strode up to the animal, and possessed of an urge he did not fully understand, placed his palm on the creature’s armored side.

What came next was an experience unlike any he had ever experienced. A sensation flashed up his arm, rather similar to the tingling he felt after his arm had fallen asleep, and then a rush of sensory information flooded into his senses. Suddenly, he had two pairs of eyes, four ears, six legs. Was this death? wondered a detached part of the boy’s brain, when a crazy thought entered his head.

I am the rhinocera. The more he experimented, the more support his theory gained. He could see through its dim eyes, smell scents he had never noticed, feel the enormous bulk of the animal, the strength of the beast flowing through him. And yet that was not all.

He could still feel a slight pressure on his side, and realized with a start that it was his own hand, and that curiously enough, he could still feel his own body, faintly, like the memory of a dream, but it was there, becoming more noticeable the more he thought about it.

A hope entered his heart greater than any he had ever imagined. If this was happening, then there was only one conclusion. He was a dominator.

•••

The gargantuan gray behemoth slowly ambled into town, carrying on its back a diminutive but confident rider. Most of the village was still asleep, hiding from the cold of the breaking dawn, but Dhefri knew there would be at least one person awake, and he intended to find her.

A few early risers were roaming the streets, all shocked into speechlessness as they caught a glimpse of the impossible sight. Out of the corner of his eye, Dhefri noticed one of the boys who used to torment him emerging from his tent, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Dhefri raised his spear and pointed at him, a menacing scowl filling his features. Terrified, the boy nearly fell back into his tent, convinced he was having a nightmare. Dhefri allowed himself a small grin before returning to the business at hand.

He turned a corner, and there she was, drawing water from the well that was the heart of the village. His aunt, Serri.

The rhinocera let out a stentorian bellow, and Serri turned around in surprise. She froze instinctively at the sight of the animal, motionless save for her dropping jaw at the sight of its rider. She had been certain Dhefri was dead, and she knew it had been her words that had done it. Now she was afraid for her life. If by some miracle the boy could not only survive on his own for months, but tame a rhinocera, then who knew what he might do to her.

But instead, the enormous beast took a few cautious steps and delicately lifted the water jug with his horn. A small smile lit Dhefri’s face as he slid down the side of the animal, careful to keep one hand in contact.

“Well, Serri,” he said simply. “It appears I am good for something.”

•••

Months passed in the blink of an eye. Dhefri had suddenly become an integral part of the community. Those who had looked down on him solely because of his stature, or lack of it, now welcomed his presence with open arms, and those who had genuinely despised him could hardly ignore the valuable service he provided.

Villages with dominators tended to prosper, and Dhefri’s home was no exception. Dhefri rode out with hunting parties often, capturing and taming dozens of animals. Powerful rhinocera, milk-giving tenefri, even leperra, the hunting cats, gave way under his power. Multiple times, he was called upon to defend the village from the roving destroyers of the plains, khirota, serar, even the gigantic scorpions that lay in wait by the oases. One touch and they were his.

He was constantly fascinated by the extraordinary variety between the animals, how differently they saw the world. The simplicity of a scorpion, the cunning of the leperra, the nervous agitation of the gazalla. And men. There was an experience he’d not be anxious to repeat.

Life in the desert was difficult, and villages required strong leadership. As such, Capori law allowed for any adult male to challenge the chief at any time. Provided the challenger could defeat the current chief in trials of wisdom, strength, and combat, he would assume control of the tribe until such time as he was beaten.

Although this system was intended to stay inside a community, there was nothing to prevent an enterprising young wanderer from challenging for control of any tribe he felt like. They called such wanderers leonadas, after the juvenile leonas who behaved in much the same way.

A headstrong youth had come into the burgeoning town one evening, spirits high, and seeking a challenge. However, the young man, though strong, was no thinker, and was comprehensively defeated by the experienced chief in the trial of wisdom. But the interloper was filled with fury, and in a fit of rage tried to murder the chief in his own home. Dhefri was forced to control him.

At first he thought something had gone wrong. Where was the rush of sensory information, the new perspective that always came when seeing the world through different eyes? Quickly, though, he found he was in control of the body, but was shocked at just how fundamentally similar they were. This almost could have been me, he thought. Dhefri had always believed men to be radically different from one another, but now, taking hold of this interloper, he saw for the first time how similar they were. The smallest differences in circumstances and beliefs could produce an amazing spectrum of individuality, and it shocked him how similar he was to this, an attempted murderer. He could feel the pulsing rage pouring through the strangers veins, understand the frustration and hunger that drove him to murder, and it frightened him, because his attack was completely understandable. The realization suddenly struck him that though mistakes might be made, everybody makes what they consider to be the best choice available. And again, it was those small, almost trivial differences that determined ones outlook, and thus their decisions. It was a startling glimpse into the soul, both the strangers and his own.

He made the leonada drop the knife, hating that he had to force him to do it, and disengaged. The man was quickly subdued and ridden out of town, left to the mercy of the desert. A death sentence, in all but name. Dhefri spent many days in contemplation, and finally vowed never again to subjugate another human being. He simply didn’t have the right. That promise was kept for ten years.

•••

Thick dark robes stood at a stark contrast to the endless beige of the south, instantly marking the man as a foreigner. He didn’t seem to care how much he stuck out, in fact he almost seemed to enjoy the attention. A livid red scar wound its way up his neck, inflamed by the hot winds of the deserts. After he had attracted a suitable crowd, he dismounted, and in stilted Capora, demanded to see the chief.

He arrived promptly. The chief may have been aging, but his intellect had held his position safe for years. But something about this stranger sent shivers down the old man’s spine. He glanced at the sun, giving its curse, and blessings, to the land. It would not be a bad day to die, the old chief decided. But still, no foreigner would be chief of his village as long as he had anything to say about it.

The scarred stranger wasted no time on greetings or verbal sparring, choosing instead to spit at his enemies feet. To waste precious water in a show of spite was one of the greatest insults in the south, and its meaning was clear.

Give way or perish.

The old chief looked his enemy in the eyes, slowly contemplating what he saw there. He spat back, confident and deliberate. The challenge was accepted, with equal malice.

•••

The stranger had cheated, and Dhefri was going to kill him. The stranger had held his own in the trial of wisdom, and his youth had carried him to victory in the trial of strength, but the dark-robed stranger had used some sort of devil spell on his weapon, and Dhefri would break his oath before he stood for this injustice. Cold rage swept through him as the chiefs blood spilled out on the sand. He had shown his resolve once, he would do it again. Just one touch, and the stranger was finished.

He moved quickly through the crowd, blessing for once his lack of height, as it would keep him hidden. Dhefri snuck around the victorious stranger, until he was directly behind him, then made his move.

Quick as a flash, the stranger whirled around, catching a young girl and holding his sword to her throat.

“I’d heard there was one of your kind here.” he said, his voice high and nasal. “How kind of you to show yourself.”

Dhefri’s eyes narrowed in anger, but there was nothing he could do without endangering the girl. She whimpered softly, before the foreigner jostled her into silence.

“Now, I won this little contest by rights, and nothing you can do is going to change that. Now, either I claim your word of honor not to touch me, or she dies here and now. What say you, dominator? he asked, twisting the last word into a sneering insult.

Dhefri had no choice but to consent. He couldn’t live with an innocent girl’s life on his head, and if he refused, the stranger would quickly kill him as well, using that cursed piece of metal he called a sword.

And so, the stranger left, and similar scenes played out across the south, villages and clans falling before his blade, the man in dark robes subduing the South, always followed by the man in the light robes. Then he was gone, back to the north, but Dhefri knew better than to hope his absence was permanent.

Only a few years later, the man returned, and called all the South to war, massing the tribes into a single army, beguiling them with visions of easy conquest and fertile lands of the North. Challengers were killed instantly. Wild beasts and endless streams of men were piled on ship after ship. He fit nearly a third of his ill-gotten army on those hastily constructed ships, plenty for his purpose. And then they set sail, leaving orders to build more ships, and await his summons.

The orders never came.

•••

Dhefri lay dying on a strange and unfamiliar battlefield. At least one thing about this cursed war had been true, the land was rich and vibrant beyond his wildest dreams, drowning in clean water, but everything else from the man they called Resca had been a lie. There was no easy conquest, only an army waiting for them. They’d beaten back the khirota, the sythnus, their own warriors, everything the South could throw at them. All for nothing but to die in some alien land in a war. Thousands of men, dozens of dominators all lost, because of one man’s hubris.

An enormous concussive blast ripped through the ground, driving dirt and shrapnel into the dying dominators wounds, but he was to far gone to care. For a long time, he’d had only one wish, to see Resca dead. A lost horse wandered nearby, perhaps searching for its rider. Dhefri lay completely still, oblivious to the commotion around him. The mare plodded closer, and Dhefri struck, grabbing it, pouring his consciousness into it, as much as he could manage.

Dhefri, as the steed, took off, galloping at what seemed to him to be a phemonal pace. The horse seemed remarkably intelligent, as well, but it was difficult to be sure of anything this close to death. He was looking for one thing. Finally, he saw what he was searching for, Resca, battered and damaged, blood streaming from half a dozen wounds, poised over a still form in now-dingy white. A young boy was coming from behind, hoping to attack the cursed enchanter. The horse gave a whinny of alarm. Resca could not win. He couldn’t be allowed to. But he was helpless to intervene. Unless….

Dhefri reached deep within himself, searching for the courage he had found when facing the rhinocera for the first time. One last act of defiance, Dhefri would show his value.

And so it happened that a diminutive man, half dead, found the strength to attack a crazed and armed enchanter with nothing more than the body of a small mare. It was a hopeless gesture, but not a useless one, as that one second of distraction provided the opening the young boy needed. The air exploded into a fractal kaleidoscope of light, and heat, and Dhefri knew in his heart Resca had been defeated.

So similar, just a few steps, one wrong choice, and I might have been him. But I’m not.

The horse barely managed to escape the blast as Dhefri slipped into the last sleep, in peace at last. He had lived well, he had died honorably, and his people were free of the tyrant. It was all he could have asked for.

For the final time, Dhefri had proved his worth.

Transcendent – Short Story

He had controlled fire, lightning, ice, wind, motion, light, even gravity, but none of these compared to the force he wielded now, the force that ruled over all others.

Willpower.

As an enchanter, he had been aware of that presence from the first moment he had discovered his powers, that near-infinite force that slept behind the workings of the world. That strength that breathed the winds, made the stars shine and the tides flow. A well of will from which all creatures drew at birth, some more deeply than others. Whether it was the Gods or not, he was powerless to judge, he knew only that it was there, giving life and resolve to the world.

It was forbidden to speak of the presence, although he could never fully put into words why. It was simply part of his calling as an enchanter. All creatures had will, but without the enchanter’s gifts, there was no way to bring it to bear on reality other than their own bodies. He could provide a path, form a way for inner strength to transform into other things. He was a sculptor of will, an artist of the elements, blending one with the other, placing the physical under the control of the mental. Magical strength was simply a matter of resolve, he had seen several strong-minded children overpowering men many times their size in spellcasting, through sheer strength of will. In magic, the body was nothing, the mind was all.

But even the most determined mind paled next to the unimaginable will from which it came. But he was an enchanter, he could shape will, transform it, and, when the situation was dire, he could channel that incontestable power. Transcendency.

Syllables burst from his lips, familiar from a thousand repetitions. He could not allow his enemy to tap that strength before he could counter it. He increased the speed of his chant.

“Veda ei ketri donimas a venei saluras kilases ei serri ei quadat…”

It was a mantra, phrases to help him focus, using words to focus the images in his mind. That was the reason Kostra was made, the language of enchantment, precise, unambiguous. The language had been passed down for hundreds of years, since the first enchanters had sprung from Nevinian stock, and unlike the languages of the North, it remained pure and uncorrupted. It was an exact language, with unyielding syntax and precise structure. Unlike the work of the Elvish mystics, the enchanter’s spells could not be open to alternate interpretations. Kostra had no words for ‘mostly’ or ‘sometimes,’ or ‘maybe.’ Instead it had percentages and values and rules to be followed, and one word out of place could bring the whole enchantment to crashing ruin.

But the old man was a master of it, and not a single syllable was spoken out of turn. He felt the heat rush through him as the otherworldly will burst forth upon the world, it was all he could do keep it in check, his will bending the will to his wishes. Blazing spectral fire burst into existence around him, raw energy bleeding into the world, sending luminous white tendrils swirling around him like ghostly whips.

His vision fell back, revealing the workings of the world, the fabric from which reality was made, and saw his enemy there, pulling on the same forces, but bathed in wrath, his mood manifesting itself as a crimson glow. He could feel the power of the chant booming through the earth, colliding with the echoes of his foe’s words.

Another phrase was added to the tuneless chant, and gravity slipped away, powerless before his augmented strength. His nemesis did the same, and two men faced each other, righteous anger against avaricious rage.

Resca, and Lithra.

Swords were drawn, masterpieces of forging and enchanting both. For weeks on end, Lithra had toiled over his sword, taxing his mind to the limit, rewriting, reworking, and refining the spell, dozens of pages worth of material that had to be recited flawlessly, with perfect timing. Weeks of metallurgy and heating and hammering into a single piece, a single weapon. Sa’Lithra.

It burned with crimson fire as it flashed into the sunlight, for it had been designed to channel transcendent energy, an extension of the enchanter himself. Even now it broke his heart to see his greatest work in the hands of a traitor, but he dispelled the thought. To lose focus while transcendent would be disastrous, he walked a narrow path between losing control over the will, or being consumed by it, losing himself in its pull. Either one would spell death to him and the rest of the North.

But Sa’Lithra did not go unchallenged. Avenger flew from the scabbard into his outstretched hand, gleaming with incandescent flames. This sword had been made for one purpose, to counter Sa’Lithra. Avenger had been endowed with only the most basic of spells accessible to normal men, its true power lay in the hands of a transcendent being, and it was now being put to the test. His other hand gripped his newly made staff, the crystals atop it humming with energy.

There was the slightest pause as teacher and pupil glared at one another, able to see one another in perfect detail, despite the distance between them. Below them, two armies rushed towards one another, a sea of pale lights through his supernatural vision, stars to the blaze of Resca’s sun. Novels could nave been written about the glares that passed between them, but the look only lasted a second. Just as the armies first crashed upon one another, they sprung into action.

The ground warped and blurred as he flew forward, pushing and pulling at the threads of reality, propelling himself exponentially faster, until thought and sound fell away behind him. The air ruptured in his wake, trailing his unbroken chant behind him. He leveled Avenger directly at his equally fast-moving opponent, and braced for impact.

A crash like the end of the world, a boom like a mountain had fallen from heaven, a flash like two lightning bolts had struck one another, two transcendent beings colliding in rage. The explosion blew the air itself backwards, stealing a breath from the enchanters and blasting a shock wave around them, crushing hapless soldiers of both sides as it struck the ground.

Sa’Lithra and Avenger made their first contact, two indestructible edges grinding against each other, streams of transcendent energy breaking against each other, vibrating the combatants to the core. A fraction of a second later, the turbulence threw both men violently backwards.

Lithra was hard-pressed to regain control, old age working both for and against him as a keen mind struggled to control an aging and shaken body. Wracking his brain, he wrenched the otherworldly will back under his control. Despite the stress, his chant had continued unabated, as natural as breathing after long years of practice.

Resca seemed to be taken aback by Avenger’s strength, and Lithra took heart. But not for long.

Existence was changing in response to Resca’s commands, altering reality through sheer force of will, and a streak of lightning coalesced from nothingness. Lithra shoved himself to one side, and the bolt arced past him, mere inches away, before flashing downward to earth itself, incinerating some unfortunate soul.

Resca began to spin as well, and the duelists entered a deadly circle. Lithra responded to lightning with fire, and a pillar of flames burst from the void. With a brief command, Resca collapsed the air just underneath the flow, sending the fiery column spiraling around the vacuum and sweeping across the ground. Lithra abandoned the spell just in time to counter the golden wave of a force attack.

Freeform spellcasting was a dangerous prospect, unpredictable and unstable. The pathways enchanters construct require stability, and are nearly always cast upon a suitably sturdy object that can withstand the stress exerted on them. Many an enchanted item has broken under extreme pressure, and spells cast upon the air last only seconds before falling apart.

But freeform casting offers a flexibility that hardbound spells cannot match, and both enchanters were using to full advantage, twisting and transforming spells at the last second, keeping each other off guard. Raw elements flashed through the air between the enchanters, ice, lightning, fire, force, countered and deflected endlessly in a fast paced game of reflexes, as both enchanters spun around the spiral of death. Lithra did his best to steer the fallout away from his struggling allies below him, but although in most cases he succeeded, he had neither the time nor the strength to control every attack.

But the frenzied swapping of spells was not productive enough for Resca. Deflecting Lithra’s next lightning bolt, he suddenly tightened his loop of the circling pattern and cut directly towards Lithra, Sa’Lithra swinging in a deadly arc. Reacting with the speed of a snake, Lithra dove towards his foe, driving in underneath the arc of the blade, and robbing Resca’s stroke of power. The treacherous pupil barely had time to block Avenger’s thrust, and a shuddering crash again boomed through the sky.

Student and master spun through the air, trading dozens of magically enhanced blows, mindless of their course, intent on only the duel and the chant that drove it. Red and white tendrils lashed against one another angrily, as both swords beat on each other. A sudden burst in propulsion by Resca lent a new dimension to the swordplay, as Lithra raced after him, Avenger cutting vicious arcs behind his fleeing prey. The chase rapidly picked up speed as Lithra desperately tried to overcome his target, intent on ending this madness.

The monotonous spiel was picking up in intensity, as both combatants reached deep within themselves, finding the strength for ever increasing speed. Suddenly, Resca let fly a single word, and whirling to face his tormentor, stopped dead still. Lithra barely had time to bring Avenger to a defensive position before Sa’Lithra’s lethal blow came directly at his head, whistling as it cut through the air. The swords locked, and before Lithra could utter a single syllable, Resca pulled them both into a dive, plummeting towards the ground.

Lithra began a quick spell that would force them apart, but the last word escaped his lips approximately half a second before they impacted. Resca was positioned above his mentor, intending to smash him headfirst into the unforgiving ground, but Lithra’s hasty spell skewed their path sideways, twisting them into a rough, but more survivable crash.

Dirt and rock sprayed into the air like water as the pair plowed through the earth. For the first time, the chanting ceased, rhythm lost in the impact. Fortunately, the force exuded by the transcendent enchanters cushioned their blow enough that they survived.

Resca drew a deep breath, while Lithra lay sprawled out across the freshly excavated ravine, having received the worst of the impact. Both men struggled to reclaim their strength as well as their senses. Resca began to chant softly to himself, beginning the return to transcendency, and raised his sword overhead for a killing blow.

Three things happened in the next instant. Crimson fire burst into life as Resca reclaimed his transcendency, and slashed Sa’Lithra downward. But there was still life in the old enchanter, and with a speed born of desperation, the previously unused staff in his left hand was thrust directly at his Resca’s heart. Vaguely golden crystals glittered brightly in response to Lithra’s next command.

“Avai.” he said, drawing deeply from what power he still held, and the world shattered into a million pieces of glass.

His crystals were a rarity of nature, one of the few instances where the will-that-was showed itself through non-living means. They were a tremendous repository of power, and when broken, existence shattered with it. The effect was brief, while reality pieced itself back together, but it was enough.

Light and sound fractured around them, white light bursting into rainbow flares, and when things returned to normal, Resca had been blown back more than a mile. Lithra quickly resumed the spiel, and felt strength return to him. He rose once again, and the battle resumed.

But the pace had slowed, both were tiring, the frenzied swapping of spells had now slowed, seeming almost lazy compared to the earlier attacks. Again they charged past each other, releasing another deafening, but decidedly smaller crash. But for all Lithra’s intelligence, the vigor of youth was lending Resca the edge, and Lithra was forced to detonate another crystal in order to keep him at bay.

As tired as they were, both enchanters had to reach deeper and deeper into the unconquerable will in order to maintain their strength. As they drifted eastward, their auras grew in response to the pull. Lithra and Resca clashed swords once again, determined to finish this battle. Swords were wielded with terrible ferocity, lightning and fire washing over the blades as the struck time and time again. A terrible grin came over Resca’s face as he realized he was gaining the upper hand, and Lithra desperately defended. His chant began to falter as his concentration waived under the relentless blows, and both his remaining crystals were soon broken in short succession, bearing Resca back under the sky-shattering blows.

It was not enough, Resca was winning, and he knew it, coming back after each blast with a vengeance. Resca poured all his power into one final blow, and Lithra’s power was broken.

A falling star crashed to earth.

Resca watched as his long-time tormentor smashed into the ground, displaced energy blasting a crater into the soft loam and sending a shockwave racing through the earth. The hunter descended on his prey, gloating over his victory.

Lithra was struggling to his feet, holding Avenger in both hands, staff discarded to one side. A few feet above the ground, Resca released his hold on transcendency before it could consume him, and dropped lightly to the earth.

Dust hung thick in the air, falling slowly to the ground as the enemies entered the last duel.

But you know the rest of this tale…

The Ruin of Triel – Short Story

The Destruction of Triel - A painting depicting the ruin of that fair city - Artist unknown

Rebels swarmed the city of Triel like ants that had discovered a carcass, and indeed, the city was dead. A dozen factions had risen together, putting aside their differences in order to take the city. The royalty had fled to the stronghold of Cuaph, where they were already preparing for the inevitable siege, but that day was a day of celebration for the revolutionaries. Pillaging, looting, and copious drinking took place throughout the night.

Three soldiers, in particular, were especially heavy drinkers. Rumor had it the army would stay put for at least three days, and so Alcierre, Syvan, and Quori saw no reason to skimp on the drink.

They were simple men. Alcierre and Syvan, two Chiarian farmers who had heard of the daring revolution of Iryx. Upon seeking out more information, a rebel recruiter had waxed eloquent on the wonders of democracy, the power of the people, and the freedoms they would enjoy if they were willing to fight for this cause. To Alcierre and Syvan, this had amounted to ‘no taxes’, and they had signed up on the spot. Only Quori seemed to have any idea what he was fighting for, but fighting appeared to be the only thing the burly Saartan cared for in the first place.

The three of them awoke in an abandoned side-street, clutching stolen heirlooms to their chests. They immediately set off in search of alcohol on the theory it would counteract their massive headaches. They found a small keg in the broken remains of a tavern, and quickly split it open, spilling half the contents on the floor. They each drank deeply from the cask, soaking their beards as they guzzled the cheap ale. Hangovers forgotten in the wash of drunkenness, the inebriated trio stumbled off into the streets, just sober enough to keep an eye out for officers.

For most of the morning, the three wandered the streets of the conquered city, exaggerating their bravery in battle, ransacking the deserted dwellings, and clumsily tossing their rocks at any cats that crossed their path. Eventually, the drunkards came across their fate, standing in the middle of the road.

Two silent figures stood before them, male and female in form, simple robes of dark gray, matching their skin. Bonded Dark Ones are a very rare occurrence, an anomaly in the otherwise solitary race. Although the human mind cannot comprehend the ways of the Dark Ones, the affection showed between a bonded pair is evident.

“What’s this?” slurred Quori in broken Salliae. “Get out of road, imbecile.”

The pair remained motionless, eyes closed as they swayed slightly. The two held hands. Quori scowled, confused, and waved his spear in their general direction.

“I say move, now move!” he barked. No response.

“Do you think they’re deaf?” asked Syvan, the least inebriated of the group. “Or maybe they don’t know Salliae?”

“I think they look like Karodans,” spat Alcierre. “What do they think they’re doing here?”

“No, no, Karodans are brown. These two are grayer than that.”

“Who are they, then?” Alcierre challenged. Quori took a step closer, spear at the ready now.

“I think they might be stormwights. You remember the stories? Dark Ones?” Syvan answered. Alcierre blinked as he searched for the memories through his addled brain, but quickly gave up.

“Can’t recall that I do. Wait, what’s that buzzing?” Alcierre asked, shaking his head as if to dislodge the sensation. Syvan could feel it too, now that he thought about it. Slightly more sober than the others, he even thought he could hear some sort of message behind it. Something about the course of nature…

While the Chiarians had been talking, Quori had been slowly advancing on the Dark Ones. He stared into the face of the female one through bleary eyes. She looked normal enough to him, if her skin hadn’t been slate gray. Her eyes opened unexpectedly, and he stumbled backwards, dropping his spear on the ground.

He couldn’t look away from her eyes. They were deep, and dark, but beneath the surface was a thunderstorm. The sunny cobblestone street faded away as her gaze filled his vision, somehow becoming impossibly large. There was lightning there, and stormclouds, billowing and flowing through the endless skies. Memories of rain and hail and nature leapt into his mind unbidden, somewhat muted by the ale he had imbibed. He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something deep there, deeper than him or any man that ever lived.

The trance was broken as his companions hands reached to lift him up. Quori angrily slapped their hands away, leaping to his feet as best he could, and whipping out his long-handled Saartan sword. The sudden sense of insignificance frightened him like nothing else he’d ever faced, and he had to do something.

“It is witchcraft!” he cried, rage rising within him. He lapsed back to his native tongue, cursing her vehemently. The Dark Ones merely stared at him expressionlessly, complete serenity on their features. This only infuriated the Saartan more. He charged forward, swinging his warriors weapon before him. Syvan, remembering the old tales, rushed forwards to stop him, but Alcierre stepped into his way.

“Let him do it,” he scoffed. “Witches or wights, I don’t like them either way.”

“Wait!” Syvan called. “You don’t know what you’re doing!”

Quori whirled around, staring defiantly at Syvan. “You protect witches?” he demanded.

“No, but-” he began, but was interrupted by Alcierre.

“Do it!” he said. “Before she puts a curse on us!”

The female made no resistance as Quori turned and plunged his sword into her stomach. Quori drew his sword back, surprised at the lack of blood, and the Dark One fell to the ground, her hand slipping out of her partner’s. She calmly drew a final shuddering breath, and closed her eyes for the final time.

No emotions showed on the male’s face, but a bitter cry of agony swept through every mind in the city, piercing through even the muddled minds of the three soldiers. Around the city, rebels were clutching their ears in a vain attempt to stop the terrible cries, while the more empathic men fell to the ground in agony.

Syvan, the only one who knew what was going on, began to flee, but despite going his fastest, he knew it would not be enough.

•••

Ten miles eastward, an old man stands watch over his small herd of goats. Pheir has been watching the smoke rise from Triel, and knows both that the city has been taken, and that it makes little difference to him, secluded as he is in the bluffs.

Beyond the city, the shepherd can make out the narrow bridge of land on which Triel lies. A sharp set of eyes can make out Cuaph near the on the other side, if the weather is clear enough.

Suddenly, a bright flare of light catches the old man’s eye. In amazement, he watches as a great ring of flame bursts from a point near the center of the city, swallowing Triel in a torrent of fire. As smoke begins to rise from the city, a sudden gust of wind catches Pheir unprepared. His hat is swept off of his head, but he cannot take his eyes off the blazing disk that is scorching Triel. The winds quickly become stronger, as a swirl of fire begins to form at the heart of the city. Although Pheir has heard of tornadoes, never before has he seen Virassa’s Spear. His aging eyes manage to make out what must be enormous buildings tossed for miles before crashing to the ground. He sees an enormous timber fly through the air and embed itself into the ground not half a mile away, and begins to fear for his safety.

The pillar of fire grows, threatening to spread to the countryside, and Pheir is torn between staying to watch or seeking shelter. His decision is made for him when the earth begins to tremble beneath his feet, sending the goats stampeding southward, away from the doomed city. Pheir begins to follow them as best he can while looking over his shoulder. Massive cracks rupture the ground, extending to a near perfect circle around the city. Then the city collapses, sinking into the ground, perfectly concave, as if the land bridge were crushed underneath an enormous bowl.

Then the winds begin to die away, and the sea rushes in, cleansing the charred earth, flattening all in its path, and eventually covering all remains of Triel’s existence. After the shepherd is safely away, he drops to his knees and begins to praise the gods for sparing him.

•••

To this day, the city of Triel lies under the waves, ruined forever due to the carelessness of the three soldiers whose names were lost to history. The rebel cause died that day, along with it’s soldiers, but Cuaph, now an island stronghold, survived.

It was quickly guessed what happened, and from every mouth the message spread:

The course of nature cannot be stopped. Do not disturb the Dark Ones.

Afterword, and Onward

Previous: The Legend of Lithra – Epilogue

As of the time of this writing, (February 2010) I have no idea how many readers this site will have, but whether it be many or next to none, I would like to thank you for your time spent reading this story. It’s been a pleasure (and occasionally a chore,) to write.

By the time this is published, I (Tyler A.K.A. LordKyler) will have been on a mission for the LDS church for nearly a year. This story was actually completely written as of February ’10, and has been released automatically every Saturday since, providing you with updates long after I’ve been gone.

It’s been an interesting experience to write in a serial format. Writing in short segments ranging from as few as 300 words to as many as 1000 in a single post, none are as long as what I’d consider a full chapter in a normal book. Were I ever to publish this (a highly unlikely prospect, unless this work attracts far more fans than I anticipate), I would have to re-write extended segments of it in order to make it flow better between sections.

Eventually, (read: maybe, many years from now,) I may find the time to rewrite sections of this story I was less satisfied with, but right now I simply don’t have the time. Several sections are admittedly filler, (generally the shorter ones,) and there are several I’d like to expand and build on. All in all, though, I’m pleased with the finished product.

You may notice the addition of an index to the sidebar, providing links to all the posts, along with basic “chapter” divisions. Please don’t forget to check out the Tome of Nadra for many world-building details.

Don’t worry, The Legend of Lithra was only the first entry into what is hopefully a long running series. Book I will be followed by another tale, but first will come an interlude until I return from my aforementioned mission. This interlude will not be devoid of content however, far from it.

For the next year, we will be releasing short stories. These will be longer than regular posts, perhaps several times as long, and are self contained stories occurring in the world of Nadra. They will be released the first Saturday of every other month, giving a new look at the world in which our heroes live. It will conclude with a preview into the next book, The Five Knives of Aesur, which will begin immediately afterward.

Please feel free to leave any impressions of the story, either praise or (hopefully constructive) criticism, in the comments section below.

Sincerely hoping you have enjoyed this tale,

Tyler and Josh.

P.S. Today is Josh’s birthday! Three cheers!

Next: The Tale of Fangling [Poem]

The Legend of Lithra – Epilogue

Previous: Victory

The scent of spring blossoms filled the air, and the delicate tone of flutes and strings mingled with the whispers of the hushed dignitaries, punctuated by the slow and steady beat of imperial drums.

Lithra, clad now in immaculate white robes, climbed the stairs slowly, making his way to the royal throne. To one side stood a long line of heroes, men who had exceeded the call to arms, and lived to tell the tale, now being rewarded for their heroic deeds. Proud relatives packed the great hall, commoners mingling with royalty, but all respectful of the carnage and death these men had endured in order to protect their loved ones, and their country. It was hard to believe the entire war had lasted less than a week.

Lithra was last of all, protesting his presence right until the very moment he began his solemn march to the throne. It was not that he disliked the attention and glory, far from it, but I knew in his eyes, this whole mess was his fault to begin with, one that had cost many lives and much sorrow. Weeks after the battle, a month since the mess was cleared up, since the prisoners had been sent scurrying back to their deserts, and still he could not overcome his guilt.

Now that things had nearly returned to normal, he had hoped to go into a quiet retirement, conducting research on what he called lodestones, a natural phenomenon he hoped to reproduce magically. However, the King had called a special ceremony to honor the heroes of this battle, and especially Lithra, in the place of highest accord. I seemed to have been left out of the proceedings, an omission I was simultaneously puzzled and grateful for. I did not care for public acclaim, even if it had been earned. However, I was uncertain about my future since Resca’s defeat, and a little majestic commendation would go a long way towards securing that future. But there were rumors floating about…

In any case, Lithra was the primary reason for this occasion, and he kneeled before the King as he arrived at the elegant silver-trimmed throne. He looked older now, hunched over, his face cleanly shaven for nearly the first time in months, revealing lines of age and worry. Avenger was buckled at his side, polished ebony and gleaming silver at sharp contrast to flowing snowy robes. He had been adamant that Sa’Lithra was to be mine, and exercised all his influence in making sure it remained that way. It hung at my side now, heavier than the saber, but comforting.

“My liege, I do not deserve…” Lithra began, humble as he only ever was on this subject.

“Silence.” the King commanded, and the room fell into noiselessness. “I know you believe this war was your fault, but you are wrong.” Lithra’s head snapped up, unused to being censured like this, but the King continued. His deliberate tone imbued weight to every word, making it clear he had spent some time practicing what he wished to convey.

The King continued, speaking formally but forcefully. “You set out to make a great force for good, a powerful tool. Many had you made before this, and many after, had not a traitor corrupted your work. Lesser men may have abandoned the chase years past, but you did not.” Lithra stared at the floor, unconvinced. The King paused until Lithra looked up. “Thirty years you searched for it, abandoning all else in order to prevent bloodshed.” Lithra lowered his head again. He had failed to stop Resca before he had brought war to our doorstep.

King Cartan spoke his next words quietly, but insistently. “What Resca did was not your fault. You need not punish yourself for his misdeeds.” He then repeated the phrase in what must have been High Salliae, signifying that what he had said was now irrevocable. It was a rare honor, usually reserved for the sanctification of treaties, or declarations of war.

Lithra let out a long, shuddering breath, perhaps close to tears, but he quickly gathered himself, and assumed his typical imperious mantle. I knew the thought still ate at him, but I suspected he was beginning to forgive himself.

King Cartan dismissed the formal assembly, and the hall exploded into celebration. My parents looked at me with pride in their eyes, but I was suddenly intercepted on my way to them. A heavy hand laid on my shoulder, and pulled me in close.

“I haven’t forgotten about you, Selane.” came the Kings whispered words. “I’d have preferred that Lithra had entrusted the sword to someone with more experience, but still, he chose well. You’ve got some encouraging prospects I’d rather not discuss here, if you’re willing.”

I nodded my acknowledgement, feeling my heart beat excitedly, and made my way to my parents.

Today was a good day, and who knew what tomorrow might bring?

•••

The End of Book I:

The Legend of Lithra

•••

Next: Afterword, and Onward

Victory

Previous: Restoration

I took the sword reverently from Lithra’s hands, and wrapped my fingers around the handle. It was a beautiful weapon, elegant and perfectly balanced. A razor edge lined both sides, gradually curving to a keen point. A simple black leather grip was woven around the handle, but despite its age, it still shone like new. The sword was longer than the saber, large enough to be wielded with two hands, small enough to be handled with one. A simple, unadorned pommel and elegant, slightly curved hilt completed the weapon.

Its simple outward appearance belied its true strength, the myriad layers of complex enchantments cast into the very fiber of the weapon, hundreds of individual spells spun into a single, unbelievably elaborate enchantments. This sword would not age for a thousand years, and would always maintain a perfect cutting edge. It was not even slightly blunted from slicing through my aethersteel shield.

As I was examining the sword, the din of battle drifted over to us. I knew what I had to do. Stopping only to retrieve Sa’Lithra’s sheath from Resca, clambered my way out of the crater and mounted Celthis. Moments later, we had arrived at the battleground.

I leapt off of Celthis’s back, and landed in a crouch. Rising slowly, I drew the Sa’Lithra from the scabbard. As I gripped the handle, strength flowed through me, instantly banishing my weariness, an echo of the pure energy that had flowed through it less than an hour ago. The gleaming of the highly polished blade caught the eyes of hundreds throughout the battlefield.

“Nevi Canturis Vemini!” I cried, and charged into the fray. It took a few strokes for me to become accustomed to the sword, but aided by the memories buried within the sword, I soon became accustomed to it. My swings quickly picked up power and speed as I lost myself in the power of the sword’s enchantments. I was soon cleaving through flesh, wood and even metal as easily as the air itself.

Faster and faster, whirling and slashing like a madman, but with precision, I cut through enemies like grass, a whirling blade, chaos and maelstrom condensed into a single weapon. I carved a path of destruction through the enemy.

If I had been forced to rely on my own strength to work the enchantments of the sword, I would likely have been exhausted within minutes, but the sword still hummed with the memory of Resca’s power, and carried me through the enemy like a whirlwind.

The sky grew darker as night began to fall. We had been steadily gaining the advantage ever since the arrival of the sailors, and now the addition of Sa’Lithra completely tipped the balance. Just as the sun touched down on the distant horizon, a long, plaintive horn call sounded forth, seeming to hang in the air for ages. A slow drumbeat began pounding out a slow and steady rhythm, and the Southern soldiers dropped their weapons to the ground.

They had surrendered. The war was over.

We were safe.

Next: The Legend of Lithra – Epilogue

Restoration

Previous: Finalities

I made my over to Lithra, dead tired, but forcing myself to move forward. He was bent nearly double, half-buried in the soft loam of the plain. I dragged him out, using my weight as much as possible, and checked for a heartbeat.

Silence.

I forced myself to to stay calm, keeping my ear pressed against his chest.

Thump. Thump.

He was alive, but only barely. I racked my brain for ideas.

“Zephyr!” I yelled, and the white mare seemed to come from nowhere, landing with a gentle thud in the soft ground. “Go! Find a mystic and bring him here!” She lowered her head to examine Lithra for a second, and then bolted. The thud of hooves faded quickly as she ran towards the battlefield. The horse was intelligent enough to know what I wanted, and I was certain a mystic would be sufficiently attuned to nature to divine Zephyr’s mission.

There was a long silence, when I suddenly realized that I could be helping. I found a half of my hunting knife, and began to cut long strips from Lithra’s cloak, using them to bind up his wounds, stop the bleeding. It wasn’t much, but it was all I could do.

A dull rumble grew from the west, and Zephyr let loose a desperate whinny. An elf ran down into the crater, long robes trailing behind him. It was Seniphar, the mystic I had met earlier at the infirmary. He laid his staff to one side, and spent a moment examining the body, eyes closed, hands passing over the body, trembling slightly.

“He is damaged.” he said, his tone calm and professional.

“Can you heal him?” I asked, far less calm. I had come to admire Lithra, despite his flaws, and although I knew it was a possibility, I had never really entertained the idea that he might die fighting Resca.

“Yes,” he answered, bringing me sweet relief. “but it will take time. I’ll need you to help me.” I nodded, and we began the work, Seniphar using his vast knowledge of anatomy to direct me, a complete novice.

Time passed interminably. Far away, I could hear the din of battle, mixing with the crash of nearby waves, a constant background to Seniphar’s patient instructions. The Thundersteeds stood to one side, nickering softly as they watched over the proceedings. A quick wave of the mystics hands healed Lithra’s minor scrapes and abrasions.

“His heartbeat is irregular.” said the mystic. “Do you have Thunderstones?” I retrieved my discarded bracer and released the latch that held the stone in place. I held it out to the elf, but he shook his head. “We need two.” I reached down for my pouch, and with a sinking feeling, realized that I hadn’t brought it with me. I hadn’t intended on using my sling today. I scanned Lithra’s robes, searching for his ever-present mysterious pouch, but there was no sign of it among the folds of his now-dingy robes.

Suddenly, I had a crazy thought. I rolled over Resca’s corpse, and retrieved Sa’Lithra. I didn’t dare touch his rapidly stiffening hands, so I pried it out by the hilt. I would have loved to take a longer look at the weapon that had caused us all this trouble, but I had no time, Lithra’s life was in danger.

“What do we do know?” I asked.

“We have to apply a small spark to his heart.” he said, reaching for the sword. I started to hand it to him, but then thought better of it.

“It’s got memories attached to it,” I informed him. “Memories of battle, how to fight. It tires you the first time you touch it.”

His brow furrowed, but he nodded. “Very well. Lay the blade along here,” he said, motioning to an area just below Lithra’s right shoulder. I wrapped my fingers around the hilt, feeling the now familiar tingle as the memories jumped to the forefront of my mind, but I was accustomed to it. I gently laid the the flat of the blade along the indicated area. Seniphar placed the Thunderstone further down on Lithra’s chest, forming a diagonal through Lithra’s heart.  He placed his hand on top of mine, and spoke forcefully.

“Ciaké Etru.” he said, using the phrase to deliver a mild shock. Lithra bucked, body arcing backwards as the shock hit him. The mystic pulled back, and Lithra collapsed. Checking his heartbeat again, I found it had strengthened and steadied. His breathing deepened, and became more regular.

I spent the next few moments aligning broken bones as the mystic passed his healing hands over them. Finally, Lithra was whole, but unconscious. The mystic placed two fingers on Lithra’s brow, then circled his heart, matching the Elven greeting.

“Awake” he breathed, and Lithra’s eyes fluttered open. He began coughing violently, clearing his lungs of the dust that filled the crater.

“Resca.” he gasped. I held up Sa’Lithra, answer enough. His eyes settled on the weapon, drifting in and out of focus. Eventually they flitted to Resca’s corpse, then to me, and finally to the elvish mystic.

“He’s- you…” The enchanter took a couple of deep, ragged breaths.

“It is finished,” I assured him. “Although I’m afraid a couple of the King’s gifts have been destroyed in the effort.”

“It is a small price to pay,” Lithra answered, and I nodded in agreement.

“It seems I am in your debt once again, Seniphar.” he croaked, “but I have one more favor to ask you.” Seniphar bowed his head in graceful acquiescence.

“I want you to lay one last spell on this thing.” he said, gently taking Sa’Lithra. “Bind it’s power. Make sure it can only be used by those who will use it correctly. Bind the power, so only those who appreciate the power and danger of the weapon can use it.”

“It is not in my power to do such a thing, my friend. Perhaps a Dominator could, but not I.”

Lithra shook his head slowly. “No, that won’t do.” Then his eyes lit up with inspiration, and his ancient hands wrapped around my wrist and placed my hand on Sa’Lithra’s pommel.

“Then we’ll bind it’s power to the only person I know I can trust. Bind it to him. No other hands may unlock the sword’s power save his or whoever he chooses as a successor.”

“Very well,” said Seniphar after a moments consideration. He began to move his fingers around my hands and the sword, fingers moving in a complex dance, tracing complex shapes in the air, entangling me and Sa’Lithra in a web of magic.

From his throat came a strange sort of song. It was not the heavy measured cadence of the enchanters tongue, this was formless, tuneless, but in some way I could never define, it was a song nonetheless. There were no words that I could make out, just an endless medley of shifting sounds. At times I seemed to catch traces of birdsong, the haunted cry of the wolf, the endless rustle of leaves, snatches of nature being woven into a language beyond words.

With a start, I realized I could understand their meaning, somehow hearing the meaning in my head without knowing how they arrived or with the benefit of words. As soon as I tried to focus on the sounds themselves, the message faded, and was gone. I tried to concentrate on something else, and the message came back, weaving their message into my consciousness.

I had experienced this effect months ago, when Lithra had used a mystic’s charm to ensure his secrets stayed safe. But this was far more potent. It was freer, stronger, wilder. It was nearly impossible to put Seniphar’s spell into words, but somehow he was describing me, either my body, or my essence, or some indefinable aspect of myself, but listening to it, there was no doubt it was me.

After a few moments, Seniphar finished his work, and Lithra nodded his thanks.

He turned to me, and wrapped my hand around the hilt. “You’ve earned this. Wield it well.”

Next: Victory

Finalities

Previous: Help

The two enchanters were locked in an arcane duel, clashing swords unleashing new spells with each strike. Sparks cracked and sizzled along the blades, and each glowed red-hot. The air shook and vibrated as the magically enhanced blows connected. Lithra’s staff, now devoid of the crystals that had once adorned its top, lay discarded to one side. Lithra was doing poorly.

He was parrying off the blows, but he was getting on in years, and his recent fall from transcendency had left him weaker than normal. I charged forwards into the shallow crater, coming up behind Resca, hoping to catch him by surprise. He was taller than I expected. Whispering a silent command, lightning burst across my blade, mixed with swirling fire. I swung for Resca. With the speed of a cat, he whirled and intercepted my blade. The enchantments on my blade died away as soon as they came in contact with Sa’Lithra. He spun again to dodge Lithra’s next attack. He struck towards me again, faster than the eye could follow. Operating on pure instinct, I attempted to parry the blow. With a ring, my trusty Avian saber fell to the ground, shorn in two. My arm went numb from the jarring force of the blow. He’d cut through the steel as easily as if it were a piece of soft cheese.

I stumbled back to hold my aching arm, and Resca resumed his merciless rain of blows against Lithra.

“Why, Resca? What drives you to do this?!” Lithra demanded breathlessly between the clash of swords.

Resca sneered, never ceasing his onslaught. “Because I can unite the North, make it great again. No one else has the tools, the power, except me. If not for you, the North and South would be united into one empire!”

He locked swords with Lithra, and a shoving match ensued. The air began to shimmer as a sword brimming with energy made prolonged contact with the sword designed to counter it. It was like looking through flames, the air quivering and trembling. Even the sound of their conversation was quaking, staggered by the opposing forces.

“At what cost?” asked Lithra, with no malice in his voice, only concern for a fallen friend. Resca let loose an annoyed yell.

“At any cost! Even you!”

The lock was broken, and a furious flurry of blows followed. Scratches and bruises appeared on the fighters as both scored dozens of near misses. Then, with dextrous twist, Resca seemed to wrap his blade around Avenger, and wrenched the weapon out of Lithra’s grasp. It cartwheeled up and out of sight. Lithra drew a quick gasp as Resca barked an arcane command, and golden light sprung from his hand, propelling Lithra back. He slammed into the soft loam of the craters edge and collapsed, unconscious.

Resca strode towards him, murder in his eyes. Sa’Lithra burned with an angry red glow, as its new master prepared to kill its maker.

No.

I charged at nefarious enchanter, screaming to gain his attention. I threw my hunting knife at him, which he easily sliced apart in mid-air. I shrugged the aethersteel shield off my arm, holding it in both hands, and attacked him. I pushed the shield towards his face, hoping to blind him to me, keep him occupied, when he swung Sa’Lithra down in a vicious arc, and cleaved straight through the strongest metal ever discovered. Following through , he landed a solid kick directly to my chest, long robes swirling around him. I was thrown backwards by the magically enhanced blow, holding half a shield in each hand. My energy vanished as the armband sucked up my strength to protect me from the blow, spreading it across my entire body instead of in one area.

Resca resumed his purposeful walk towards his fallen former mentor, savoring his victory. I couldn’t let him kill the old man, but what could I do?  Then inspiration struck. Struggling to my feet, I grabbed Lithra’s staff from the dusty ground. I moved towards him again. Fumbling for the latch, I removed the heavy metal bracers. I was too weak to power them anymore, and I would need speed. My arms felt almost unsettlingly light free of the restrictions of the heavy metal objects. I stalked Resca from behind, holding the staff ready for a quick thrust. I would have one chance.

Out of the blue, I received a miracle. Zephyr appeared at the craters edge, and for reasons I cannot fully explain, charged directly towards Resca. Startled, the traitor swung his sword at the mare, but missed, unused to a beast of this power and speed. It was all the opening I needed.

In the King’s court, seemingly ages ago, Cartan had present Lithra with the magical crystals. I had noticed there were five altogether, but only four were mounted to the head of his ornate staff. The last was hidden, contained inside the metallic bottom point of the stick. I had noticed him checking it one night on the journey over here. My curiosity was finally paying off. I swung the pole at him in a short, brutal swing, and spoke.

“Avai, traitor.”

The air broke and splintered into a thousand shards, like broken crystal. A prismatic spectrum flashed around me in the strangely silent explosion. Shrapnel whistled as it sliced through the air around us, mostly moving in the direction of my swing, which ended directly on Resca’s head. The staff itself must have countered the effects of the blast, for I was not affected.

The world pieced itself back together again, and Resca lay broken before me, his long chase ended. The monster was dead.

I could only pray Lithra wasn’t.

Next: Restoration

Help

Previous: Fallen

They had us trapped, surrounded and split into two groups. Already the bodies were beginning to pile up, but it would likely be hours before the battle was over. Both sides still had the majority of their troops, but they had the upper hand, and it was only a matter of time. My mind was churning, considering possibilities for escape, odds for survival, and the mystery of what had happened to the Dominators. Mostly, though, I was preoccupied with keeping myself alive, and whether or not Lithra had survived.

Then, unexpectedly, help arrived. A wave of bodies crashed into the southern troops. They were clad in a motley assortment of clothing and armed with a stunning array of weapons. For a moment, I had no idea who they were. Then I realized that these were the sailors from the fleet. For the past few days, they’d had to man the ships in case of an escape attempt, but now that the South had committed, they must have disembarked and come through the enemy camp on their way to us, killing all the dominators as well. The course of the battle began to change. With the sailors, our numbers were now nearly even. The two defensive circles began to expand, and finally burst, sending soldiers scurrying in all directions. Strategies and tactics were now useless, the battle had dissolved into a massive free-for-all.

It was still a close thing, for despite the Southerners lack of armor, they were still powerful warriors, and the majority of them likely hunted, unlike the simple folk that made up most of our army. Still, they had lost their supernatural element, and we still had powerful forces on our side.

I watched as a small coalition of Ursings cleaved their way through the enemy, wielding enormous pikes and maces with enough power to throw a man twenty feet. Elves darted through the battle, weaving through the carnage as if it were a dance, striking left and right with their long-bladed spears. Lycans and Drakars moved from group to group, attacking and distracting the enemy, while Centaurs charged through the chaos, strange crossbows firing bolts and sharp rocks alike. And of course, men, from simple farmers to professional knights, were beginning to gain the advantage over their foes.

I began to believe that we might win this fight, but I could not stay to be certain of it. Lithra might need my help. That had been the plan all along, to assist Lithra in the battle against Resca, but circumstances had changed.

I fought my way to the ragged edge of the battlefield, then bolted towards camp. I sprinted through the aisles of deserted tents, and called out to Celthis as loud as I could manage. Mere seconds later, he had vaulted over the corral fence and made his way to me. I leapt into the saddle.

“Run!” I yelled. “Lithra needs us.” If I had not been atop a Thundersteed, I might have felt foolish speaking to the animal, but I knew he understood my meaning well enough. He took off like a bolt of lightning. I had never seen him run this fast, I could tell he was pushing himself like he never had before, giving his all. I nearly fell off in the sudden acceleration. The ground flew past in a green blur, and the rows of tents seemed to vanish as we exited camp nearly faster than the eye could follow. I caught a brief glimpse of the battlefield to one side as we passed it, and sped onto the empty plains between the enemy camp and ours. My eyes began to water from the wind rushing past. The slightest twitch of the reins sent Celthis on a curving path, to one side of the large but shallow impact crater. I pulled in the reins a few yards away from the site, and dismounted. Glancing back briefly, I saw a white speck making its way towards us, faster than a normal horse, but not moving at the full speed of a thundersteed. Zephyr, perhaps, cautiously following us.

I had no time to speculate. I made my way to the edge of the crater, and looked in, hoping things were not as I imagined them. It was both a relief and a shock when I saw Lithra, alive, relatively undamaged, and engaged in a duel to the death with his former apprentice.

Next: Finalities