| Avenger II: Mastering the Dark |
| Written by MutantMaggot | |
| Saturday, 01 March 2008 | |
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In Avenger I Coreaux suffered the curse of vampirism, and became the Black knight. But now he is cursed, what shall happen? And how can he escape fate itself? And as he attempts to master his darker nature, in the forest, creatures from Bretonnian legend emerge to take their part in the upcoming conflict … Coreaux strode to the top tower as he heard hooves: he knew he would have to leave soon, but for now he had discovered an ample supply of prey, and wanted to practice using his newfound powers. Looking from the tower, he could just make out a figure in black armour. Arkhor. Good. Carelessly, he laughed, and leaped of the tower, lightly landing in front of the vampire as dark wings materialised and kept him aloft. The Banner Bearer was not impressed. “Don’t be a damn fool,” he hissed, looking carefully around as he handed Coreaux his steed. “The Lady has spies everywhere … birds … beast … too many to count. Be careful. And I presume you are going to invite me inside, you ungrateful wretch.” Coreaux was taken aback by his uncle’s attitude: obviously he believed there was no need for courtesy now Coreaux was a vampire. Ah, well, he could be ‘tamed’ once he was more powerful. All for the Lady: of course. But for now, he needed his powers. “I must admit I’m impressed,” said Arkhor, unbuckling his armour – it was easy for a vampire to carry it, but it was uncomfortable. He never usually spoke casually: he must be genuinely surprised. “I always thought you’d never master your powers, but I was wrong. Nature magic, eh? The lands as good as new … apart from the inhabitants.” “I have spread news about a plague. Now it’s been confirmed safe, more people come each day. It’s not all bad, being a vampire,” he finished, looking at the green grass and restored houses around him. “But I need help. Help how? To train, to master my powers, to keep them undetected from the Lady.” “I thought it might be something like that, boy. Yes, boy. You are young. I am hundreds of years older than you. Never presume you are the master: for you are not the master. But, yes, I will help you. My master, Mallobaude the Black, wishes to see if you will be any use to him.” “I am not a tool! I will not be manipulated, by Mallobaude, or any others.” “Manners. Tread carefully … never insult my master for he has walked the earth many thousands of years, some say since the Breton first came. And you … you wish to be his equal. Careless child.” “Sorry, uncle. But I wish not to be lectured … will you help me?” “Why? I am already helping you – you must have modesty before you can have power. You are not powerful, and you never will be I—“ “Uncle, please—“ “‘Uncle’! I am no uncle of yours boy. Arkhor, son of Arborkh, is not your uncle. Did you really believe that? You have more to learn than I thought. Come, you must train yourself, and there’s no point standing here gaping and trying to insult me but failing miserably. Come, I said!” +++++ In the re-grown forest, a figure leaped lightly from the branches, and dashed away, eager to relate what she had heard … He who had re-grown the forest, he could be saved. The other must die. +++++ Inside, Arkhor immediately embraced magic. The feeling of embracing magic may be described as plunging into tainted ice, of burning yourself while grabbing power. And in that detached state, one could embrace magic … power. You could shape the air and your surroundings as you wished, infuse dead with your own power, shred mortality with the dread energy. But this time he did not do so. He simply threaded strands of pure energy, and lifted Arkhor into the air above the dining hall. When he spoke, his voice was enthused with excitement and joy. “So I have you here … a vampire whose power is ready to drain, for me … for my master. You are trapped, in my hands. You are weak: you can do nothing. And in this remote corner of the world I shall absorb your essence …” Arkhor smiled, and turned away, releasing the power. Coreaux began to fall, and he yelled out, falling like a stone … And stopped in midair again. And was lifted. And dropped. And again, he was stopped … raised … dropped … and again. Arkhor turned around and hissed, voice dripping with malice like an ancient beast from times past. “Fool. Have you learnt nothing? Power must be grasped quickly, and used like lightning … you may understand how to wield it, but at present you are showing the skills of an octopus. Try again …” he hissed, and continued … But this time, Coreaux did not even start to drop. He stood in midair, smiling smugly. But Arkhor was not impressed. “Fool! Do you listen to me? Obviously not! I told you about reflexes, and you spend your time doing that. You are a failure, for now. We will continue this tomorrow.” The vampire swept from the room, Coreaux in his wake … +++++ It was darkest night when Arkhor awoke. He knew it was advisable only to teach Coreaux during the day (in the night, his powers may be unpredictable due to a slightly greater level of power), but he had an errand. Slowly he gently pushed aside the coffin lid, and the tip of his forked tongue tasted the air. No tang. Good. Coreaux had not fed. Carefully, he tiptoed past the coffin, and inched open the door a fraction: just enough for him to go outside. The night air was still and cold: perfect weather for hunting or necromancy, even though Coreaux was not going to do such a thing. Not a leaf rustled as he stepped into the ‘cursed’ forest. All was silent. His footsteps made barely a sound: he had no boots on, as he had not seen the point: it didn’t exactly hurt, treading on a thorn. But he was not looking for prey as such: he was looking for something he had smelt earlier. A noise behind him echoed in the silent forest, and he turned, dealing a strong blow to a dark figure, that collapsed to the ground, lifeless. But he was too late. Another elf was already shinning away through the branches: spells were no use in this forest. All it would do would be to attract unwanted visitors. Bending down, he began to drink from the smashed skull of the fallen elf … +++++ It was late morning when Coreaux awoke: the sun was beaming down on the tops of the trees. Why had Arkhor not awoken him? He looked across to the coffin (for some reason the vampire had preferred a coffin to a soft bed), and saw the lid brushed to one side. Where was the vampire? Arkhor was not in the great hall either. Coreaux gave in, and began to eat some cold meat from the previous day: not tasty or substantial, but enough, for now. As he finished, he noticed a piece of parchment on the table. As he touched it, it turned to ashes, and a figure awoke: a holographic image of Arkhor. A voice came from the 3D form. “I have left on important business, boy. Do not leave the castle, do not go out: your life is in danger, and I fear IO must discover how and why. Practise your control, and I will return within a week to continue your lessons. Be ready.” The image faded slowly, and Coreaux still stared at the point. Where had the vampire lord gone … and why? +++++ Arkhor dismounted. He was outside a fortress among the woods: ruined, but a known refuge for undead. Living never came here. No one knew if mortals could see it, and they didn’t want to find out. He could rest here. The elves would not dare trouble him until he had consulted his master … no; they were intelligent. They knew the limits and the strength of his powers. Again, no sound was made by his careful footsteps, no leaf disturbed, no branch snapped. He needed to make sure nothing and no one would interrupt him now … His quest had begun. If it failed, both he and his master would fall. +++++ Coreaux carefully stepped into the woods, making sure not to make a sound. He would have a thousand years of practise, yet for now he had no time to learn. He needed to find Arkhor. He needed to ask him about the blood kiss. He needed to do so now. But, perhaps more importantly, he wanted to know about his ‘uncle’s’ business – where had he gone? The earl needed help in controlling his powers. He was wary. He suspected something in the forest. Something moved … a bird, he thought. He had the senses of a fox, and he needed them. He was straining them … if anyone could find Arkhor, it would be him … He stepped forwards … to see an arrow pointed straight at his head. A cold voice spoke. “Do not move, vampire,” it began, as Coreaux began to notice more elves moving towards him, “You will go no further.” +++++ Coreaux opened one eye, and found himself staring up at the trees. Had it been a dream? No … his head really ached where they had hit him. But what had happened? One moment elves had appeared out of the trees like insects, the next they had hit him on the head and left. Where were they now? Yet more importantly … where was he? +++++ Arkhor awoke to see robed figures surrounding him: nbut not undead. Their faces were pale yet not pale enough. He could just make out pointed earmarks in the hoods. “On your feet, vampire.” +++++ Slowly, Coreaux stood, and looked around. Everything around him looked grey … no colour, except perhaps a hint of green in the surroundings, like a ray of light surrounding him. He was in a forest, he was certain of that. He could make out leaves … but no elves. No birds, either. His sight seemed to focus on something lying on the ground, and colour was restored around that object. One colour: red. Blood. As his vision focussed, he could make out other objects around it. What seemed to be a corpse of a deer? An arrow? But that was of no significance. He must get to the blood. Some inner urge pulled him forwards, some dark desire … Saplings fell as the vampire leapt towards the corpse … only to see something already there. He circled the other vampire, licking his claws as though it would sharpen them. Arkhor turned slowly … and Coreaux leapt. Arkhor was more powerful, yet Arkhor had an inhuman rage as he searched for blood. Spells smashed on an unseen wall as claws tore at Arkhor’s face. The vampire was shocked: the assault was fierce, probably more than he could usually handle. Coreaux attacked like a feral beast, in a frenzy of desperation: this was his last chance to live, he knew. In a single blow, he knocked down the older vampire, and lapped up the deer’s blood: cold and vile, yet still blood. Arkhor watched, amused, as his nephew’s eyes crossed, and he held up three fingers. Coreaux blinked. He hadn’t had eight fingers on one hand last time he looked. The landscape was clearing, but a fuzzy pain in his head seemed to be growing … Still cross-eyes, he fell to the floor. ++++ Arkhor looked down at his nephew as he yelled at the prostrate figure on the floor. “How dare you? Forgetting your powers … I save you, and then you first attack me, then get yourself a hangover from some meat! Yes, that’s what it can be reckoned to: a hangover. Fool. Get out of my sight. Later, I will teach you more, but for now, you are a disgrace! Had you forgotten everything I taught you?” He yelled, and strode out. Coreaux clutched at his mean, and groaned. Two hours of pure shouting did little to help a headache. Arkhor had lectured him at length about how the elves had tried to restrain his feeding habits, and he had only come in time to save him, having narrowly escaped death. “Save him,” the vampire had said. Ha! It had sounded like he was trying to stop him being saved from the doom of vampirism. Coreaux scowled. He remembered enough to know that he had nearly beaten Arkhor … perhaps in a short time he could truly fight him, when he was fulfilled after a hearty, warm, flowing meal. When he had fed … +++++ Before the wrath of a vampire, there is no mercy: only death. Villagers fled and died before Arkhor’s hand as he clawed his way through his hunting ground. They were used to his hunting by now: most of Mousillon was. He eyed a young girl: he’d save her until later. Youth was always more pleasurable to prey upon. But for now … he could feed upon the others: those whom were not careful enough. But he had seen something that distracted him. Another figure in black armour, slowly making its way towards him … it walked in a strangely familiar way. He had a helmet that concealed all his face except the mouth and chin: enough to feed. Even at this distance, it was clear that he was covered in blood from head to toe, his aura projecting thousands of metres. Arkhor stood his ground. This day, he would not falter. He would not let a competitor enter his hunting grounds. The villagers slowly turned to watch as the Avenger as he charged like a ton of bricks into the chest of the rival vampire: a crude yet effective style that would have left any other creature dead on the floor … But Arkhor merely grunted, not bothering to dodge. He seized his foe’s head, and with magically enhanced strength rammed it against the brick wall. And again. And again. The figure fell limp, and Arkhor backed off, ready for the counterattack … But when it came, it was not physical. The figure did not move: he reserved all his energy for magic. The psychic blow knocked Arkhor flying, and his head smashed upon the ground. The challenger arose, showing his true height: he stood at least a head taller than the tallest mortal, and he looked more bulky even though his armour appeared thin. He strode over to the other vampire, and the crowd held its breath. It was clear one was far stronger in magic. The bloodstained armour of the Avenger buckled as Arkhor leapt upwards, his sword drawn, and knocked him over. A primal howl emitted from the vampire’s lips as he raised the sword and plunged it into the fallen creature’s shoulder … But not deeply enough to wound. The Avenger grabbed the blade, and snapped it in two like a matchstick. Through the helmet, his eyes blazed with unholy flame as he drew his own, notched sword. But rather than strike, he suddenly locked into a parry position, as though blocking an attack. Red light streamed past the blade, yet faded as it reached the Avenger, whose face was tight with the tension of blocking the attack. But the attack could not be blocked. A thin strand of light reached and touched his face. Slowly, his body twisted and shook, and the figure fell back against the wall. But he did not suffer another attack: around him, the ground trembled. Arkhor frowned with exertion as the cobblestones cracked by a great force. And around the fallen vampire, the dead began to rise … Coreaux was surprised by his foe’s mastery: he had come out to feed, and then found another vampire stealing his prey. But for now there was a more important matter. He dropped his sword in resignation as ever more warriors arose from the cracked cobblestones. His opponent smiled, a predatory grin visible through his visor. But while Coreuax sighed, he smiled inwardly. All was going according to plan. He had been gathering his power for quite a while now … The skeletons broke into dust, and fell to the re-sealed ground, as Coreaux charged forwards. The ground shook as he met the other vamnpire in midair, and flung him back, clawing at his face, which was now exposed and covered in blood. The other vampire struck out, and knocked Coreaux far into the air with the force of a giant. But Coreaux did not fall. The villagers covered their faces as a great shadow materialized around him, in the shape of a terrible winged daemon, a true avatar of death. Great wings beat as Coreaux roared, the sky splitting before his cry. The other vampire cowered, beaten. Coreaux laughed, a deep rumbling growl. Today, he had found victory, and would drink the blood of a vampire. But Arkhor was not defenceless. He was shocked by this mastery of magic, but quickly regained control. He seized a villager, and drank deep of her blood, the pleasure of the bite temporarily overwhelming him. He knew that the other creature could not drink blood in that form. The ground shook, lava spouting from the cracks as the dark beast of shadow landed. The villagers, transfixed by horror, remained in place, their faces all mirroring the same horrific terrified expression. The beast strode forwards, and a sword materialized in its waiting hand. With one sweep, it smashed half the watchers to a bloody mess: it was not sharp, but it was powerful. Arkhor stared in horror, and a sword of red light materialized in his hand. The beast laughed at such a puny defence, and leaped into the air, coming downwards with a hissing noise as his sword swept downwards … And lost his avatar. Arkhor laughed as his spell struck home, but soon realized he had no time. He stepped backwards, watching the monster fall onto the tiles. In a symbolic and impressive gesture, he swept of his remaining helmet, revealing his headband and flowing dark hair. He laughed, and held up his sword, watching as it caught the first rays of morning light … Coreaux shuddered at the clear light, and leapt at his opponent, his leap half-hearted and faltering. He had finally seen the truth: here was a far more skilled opponent: weaker, yet with a greater mastery. And he saw his salvation: faith. Muttering a prayer to the Lady, he unsheathed his magic sword, watching as it glowed blue. For once, it did not burn his hand: perhaps it sensed his purpose was pure. “For the Lady!” he cried, watching his uncle cower before his righteous wrath … Blows fell, yet Arkhor did not parry. He felt the force shatter his armour, yet he could do nothing. Against the fate of such power, what could he do? What could a vampire do against one who held the power of the pure Lady? Day had broken: he knew he had no chance of retaliation now. The fight had gone on for too long. Yet he had one final chance: not to win; to escape. Slowly, he hissed an incantation under his breath, and red rings of fire surrounded him, as his form slowly faded … Coreaux scowled, as his opponent faded. The remaining villagers began to creep away, as though they had witnessed a nightmare, yet they turned as he sprang onto a rock conveniently placed nearby. He pulled off his helmet, revealing a pure, clean face. “Villagers of Mousillon: do not fear! For the day of the Lady’s reclamation has come. No longer will you suffer the hunting of such creatures as thus! For I have emerged from the dark, and I shall free my birthright! I have risen out of shadow, and I shall lead this land to freedom and purity! Will you help me? Will you support my crusade?” he orated, and a great roar came from the villagers. He smiled, and raised his sword. “Then to arms, sons of Mousillon! Let the ancient horn calls ring out to far lands, and they shall say ‘hail, for Mousillon shall be free!’ And we shall purge the beast, the vampire and the traitor, for we are the pureblood descendants of Mousillon, and we shall not fail! To arms!” +++++ Mallobaude scowled at his minion. He was annoyed … that both Arkhor had failed and also lost a fight to a lesser vampire did not improve his temper. He rose from his carven steel seat, and looked down at the quivering Arkhor. He did not shout, nor did he lose control. He spoke in a sibilant, cutting whisper. “How dare you … you return here to report your failure? I will not accept failure: you must try again. And harder.” He finished, and looked down at Arkhor, who shuddered under his furious gaze. “I understand, master …” he stuttered; yet Mallobaude was not satisfied. “Not good enough,” he hissed, and struck Arkhor across the face, throwing him down to the floor. “When you have recovered, return to his fortress. Investigate the elves, yet the boy must remain a priority. And for your own safety, you had better hope he didn’t identify you …” +++++ ¬Coreaux felt a slight surprise as he stared into Arkhor’s cold face. He must admit he was surprised the other vampire had returned so soon, but Mallobaude had probably healed him. But on the other hand, it was vital he knew nothing of Coreaux’s actions. He placed a hand on his former rival’s shoulder, and turned him around to face the open plains of Mousillon, which were already sprouting with plants and people were gathering for his crusade. “Arkhor, the world is changing. We vampires are a dying race. Where will we look to in the future? Our powers? No, it is in humanity we must place our hopes. You know this: every dark creature is increasingly aware of this. For every skeleton dead, we lose our power. Already forces are massing around our homeland. And I can seize it back. Will you not join me in my quest, my crusade? Will your banners not fly behind you?” Arkhor twisted away, to stare into the fire. His voice was a whisper. “You still have no understanding. Our race never does, when you first become one of us. Later you will understand. For a vampire is never free: when he relaxes, he dies. When he acts with caution, he dies. Do you not understand? There is no hope for us. The best possible is to form a horde to defend ourselves. Mousillon is lost.” He paused, and looked Arkhor in his black eyes. “Do not place your hope with Bretonnia, for fate is fickle. One wrong move, and your ‘goddess’ will kill you, reveal you. You stand on the edge of a knife. You can have Mallobaude’s support: yet no more than words, no more than what I can provide. For what honest Bretonnian would fight alongside ghouls? “And I ask you thus, nephew: why? You know as well as me it is doomed. Maybe you will last a thousand years, maybe a hundred, yet you will die. In your heart of hearts you know this. Politics is a waste. For a thousand years my master tried an approach … he failed. “Tales are told of a Black knight, like the green knight but dark. And they are correct: for he is the exemplar of Mousillon. My master knows this: he sees there is only darkness. This is why he fights. “For a vampire, life is short when you relish it, and you will return faster. Life is long with boredom, and then you take time to come back. Submit to your inner urge. Come … have you not bitten a foe? Do you not know the feeling, the pleasure? In royal society, the best you could get is a villager. In my rank, you can get fair maidens as the dark knights in a balcony beneath the stars, with hair flowing, and necks smooth and beautiful … “You know I speak the truth, and I urge you: do not throw away a thousand years so rashly. Join my master.” Coreaux took a deep breath. He did, indeed, know what Arkhor said to be true, yet he also knew that if he gave in, he was a traitor. He replied as best he could, though he knew it sounded half-hearted and weary. “Since childhood a sense of duty has held me to life, kept me alive. Now it is gone. I can do nothing; I am useless. Yet in that moment, I felt alive: truly alive. I can live my life well. I can hunt monsters, be a true Bretonnian. The sun does not hurt: my magic armour does not sting. Why should I once more suffer such pain, when I can experience the thrill of hunting monsters, or drinking the blood of courtly—“ “Fool! These monsters are your kin: some are even vampires. You must understand! I am not your enemy! I will aid you in whatever you do: yet I can tell you that service of the Lady is unfulfilling and hollow. I will aid you; yet do not ask for more. You can be cleansed for a day, maybe a year. But you cannot be cleansed for eternity. Remember this. You re an outcast to Bretonnia while you remain so, not an ally. You will be reviled and killed for your beliefs, your way of living. Yet when you fight, Arkhor of Mousillon, son of Arborkh, will ride by your side …” +++++ Lethalis sighted down his bow, and gestured for his fellow scouts to move forwards. Their arrows had no heads: they were pure wood, dipped in holy water. The suspicions surrounding such things were mere rumour, yet still a risk worth taking. Slowly, he raised his hands, watching the two figures, and it fell abruptly. Five arrows whizzed from their bows, all aimed towards the two figures on the battlements … +++++ Arkhor yelled, and pulled Coreaux down. The arrows whizzed past his head, and Coreaux began to speak: why could he not keep his fool mouth shut for once? “What the—“ “Be quiet! Elves. They’re after us. That was where I went last time, but they’re still here: still after us.” “Elves! Pah! Easy to kill … good to feed on.” “No, no they’re not … these are elves who have hunted vampires since birth: if any will, these will know how to kill us. We must be cautious.” +++++ Lethalis cursed as the figures ducked, but was ready, He pulled an arrow from his sheath; but this was no ordinary arrow. It had silver fletchings, and green light danced around the wooden tip. It would not kill, but it would stun. The figures stood again … Lethalis pointed the bow, aimed … and fired …” He smiled slightly as a figure fell from the turret and into the moat … +++++ Arkhor stared down in desperation as more elves appeared from the trees: that would not have killed the boy, yet it would have stunned him. The boy was crucial to his master’s plans. In his head, a voice resounded: “I will not accept failure” … and he would not fail! He must rescue the boy … or die trying … +++++ Lethalis looked up, and hissed a command to the other scouts, who slowly melded back into the shadows … He gestured to the other elves, who picked up Coreaux’s limp form, and carried him into the woods. Lethalis glanced around hastily, and followed … +++++ Arkhor hissed as he looked around. He was a vampire at the peak of his power, and he would not be thwarted by mere elves! They had not even had time to cover their tracks … it took just a moment before Arkhor was limbering through the trees after them … +++++ Lethalis paused, and looked around. He paused, and listened to the trees. His expression changed to urgency. “He’s catching up! We must hurry, brethren!” the elves sped on to the secret grove … +++++ Arkhor, hanging from an oak tree, listened to the elves’ feet and their speed. He swiftly realised they were gaining speed. He must hurry! Ever faster, he swung from tree to tree as one born in the forest. This day he would not fail! +++++ A shimmering essence materialized around the vast oak as the elves reached it. To the normal eye it looked normal, but to the elves’ carefully refined senses it was a magical trick covering a hundred metres square: the angles of the surrounding land were twisted and distorted. Lethalis did not pause, and dashed into the vast cavernous cave in the oak’s metre-think trunk … the other scouts followed, and the opening closed behind them … +++++ Arkhor scowled. The elves’ footprints stopped at the oak. No sound could be heard: it was a massive oak tree, with no visible entrance. Yet he could sense elves: the place reeked of their magic. But could he access their hiding place? +++++ Lethalis sighed in relief as he encountered the refreshing smell of the herbal compounds used by wardancers as he entered. The grove was almost empty, save for a few relaxing elves: all breathing in the fresh air. The place was a sacred grove, a true place as such: a natural circle of stones where nature had been given free reign. A place that was purely accessible by elves. But he had no time. He grabbed the prisoner, and placed him in the shadow of the central tree … +++++ Arkhor had seen something: the area was all scrunched up … twisted. This wasn’t a normal oak tree … it looked a hundred metres across with the right state of mind! But he presumed it was only available to elves. How to break the spell? ++++++ From the shadowy trees, dark figures emerged, carrying braziers that burned with a green light. Lethalis stepped back. His work was done. The guardians knew what to do. +++++ Arkhor aimed his strongest spells at the tree, yet it remained impenetrable. Once or twice he had detected a green magical aura, yet little more. This was hopeless … unless he could find an elf, and force him to open it … +++++ Mystic chanting filled the air. Lethalis watched as Coreaux groaned, sweat pouring down his brow. Good. The ritual was nearly complete. He smiled as mist emerged from the sacred tree, and two of the dark figures placed the figure resting against its dark and forbidding boughs … +++++ The captive struggled, yet she could do nothing against the vampire’s iron grip. The vampire slowly released his grip slightly, and exerted his considerable will. The captive fell dead, and Arkhor dropped the corpse, having absorbed the she-elf’s life essence. They were defenceless. Slowly, the wood split apart, revealing an entrance for the vampire. +++++ Lethalis looked around as a figure walked in from among the dark and shadowy trees. She was a scout left behind to watch the castle: something must have happened. The slender, beautiful elf walked up to Lethalis. “Excuse me highborn, yet I believe the vampire is approaching. Would it not be prudent to deal with him? I fear he has a way of entering.” Her voice sounded normal, yet slightly … different … But her appearance was normal: her clothes exactly the same. Lethalis frowned, and her bosom heaved up and down in panic. “But he is nearly here. You must go—“ “I must do nothing. My place is here, and nowhere else,” Lethalis replied, turning away. But something made him turn … A thin scream emitted from the girl’s mouth, and her eyes filled with terror. Lethalis stepped back, and signalled for a volley. Ten arrows pierced her chest, yet she did not falter: just stood there, eyes wide, screaming in fear and terror. Lethalis stared on in horror, and watched the guardians. The spell was nearly over. All they needed was time. But they had little. Lethalis turned to see the body dissipate into dust, leaving a vampire pierced by ten arrows, yet with no serious wounds. But Lethalis had no time to think, before the vampire smashed into his chest, obviously intent on his death. +++++ This elf was a match even for Arkhor’s warrior skills. Every blow was parried, every stroke replied to. He was aware he was not even facing the elf’s full potential: here he could not use magic and sense such, but he felt as though the elf was playing with him, gaining time. But if the elf had speed and skill, he did not have strength. It could only be so long before his endurance ran out. Yet Arkhor had no time to waste. +++++ The elves could not fire, for fear of hitting their leader. The warriors sparred like ancient creatures of legend: one evil, one fighting for the future of the world. But eventually one had to fail. Arkhor feinted, and watched Lethalis’ expression. As he had predicted, the elf moved to parry the obvious attack move: one from the bottom right. But Arkhor was not a fair fighter, and certainly he would not take the obvious move. He appreciated martial honour, but for now it was a concept he could not afford to keep to. His foot kicked upwards, catching him in the groin. As the elf slowly folded over, Arkhor hit him on the head with his sword hilt and blood seeped out of the creature’s cracked skull. Arkhor did not pause: he knew in a few seconds he would be full of arrows. But for now, he had to kill the other elves. Flames appeared around him as he gathered power from his unholy sword (he could not use magic, but his sword was a different matter), and three elves fell in ashes to the ground. As seven arrows embedded themselves in his flesh, another elf fell to his blows … and another. More arrows came, but Arkhor knew he had no time to dodge. The sixth and seventh elves fell to sword slashes, the eighth and ninth fell to a swift blow to the head. A magical missile from his sword hit the tenth. Arkhor could now rescue Coreaux. All that remained were the spellcasters standing around the fallen vampire. +++++ But these were no ordinary guardians, no standard mages. The spell was not yet complete, but it was complete enough for them to turn and stand to face Arkhor, who tried to draw magic and failed. As one, the magicians unleashed flaming missiles that split reality. Arkhor could see the fight was already lost, yet he blocked the attacks, and charged, flames burning his flesh like hot knives through butter. But he would not fail. He could not let the spell be complete. The first guardian fell to a downward slash, the second to a hack, and the third to a punch in the face. But there were more. To Arkhor the world around his was a distant land: all he could see was flame. The last guardian fell, and Arkhor quickly ran to see to Coreaux. But he was too late. The spell had nearly been been successful … or had it succeeded? Arkhor fell to his knees in despair and mental torment, but he noticed something out of the corner of his eye: Coreaux’s eyes were flickering. +++++ Coreaux felt as though he was back in the dark realm where he had seen light and dark: but this was different. He was aware he was unconscious: aware of his state. He knew … everything that was happening. Yet it seemed natural to him. He could not see, but his imagination provided these images, and for some reason he believed they were accurate. But he could not move or see: he felt dead, yet … not dead. He could think. Was this what death was like for a vampire? But something was changing … he felt figures stand over him, saw their movements … and heard their voices. That should not be possible, yet it was happening. Chanting filled his mind, and his vision slowly began to clear, to show a conclave of mages standing over his fallen body. His eyes weren’t open, yet he saw as though it was bright daylight. A voice echoed in his mind, not in the mystic chanting, but as though it were formed of those voices, in his own language: or at least, he could understand it. “Coreaux … return to the light … do not hunt mortal blood in vain. Do not abandon your soul to the curse of vampirism … return to the light …” Coreaux’s eyes snapped open, and he saw light. +++++ The forest burned. Arkhor felt a slight tang of regret: not even a vampire could get out of that, but it was necessary. Whatever state his nephew was in, that was the kindest thing. Besides, it would also kill any elves, which was an added bonus. As he turned away, he looked one last time at the castle nearby. It would never know the glory he had hoped for. +++++ Coreaux stood as his vision cleared, and immediately saw his situation: he was stood in a grove amidst a burning wood. He had no chance of escape. Unless … it was easier than he had imagined: all he had to do was exert his will. It felt little like magic … it just seemed natural: he was not drawing on his power, or trying to use magic. It just happened. He didn’t know what the wood elves had done, but if it was this, he was grateful. Mind you, it was probably just the sacred grove and the build-up of his power. One by one the surrounding flames vanished, leaving a clear path out of the forest. As he strode through it, he felt as though something was gone, lost. Perhaps leaving the sacred grove, perhaps not. As he finally exited the forest, he drew more power: for this he needed more than the imminent supply. His expression was sad as he exerted all his will, yet he knew it was necessary. The flames slowly stopped, yet the forest did not re-grow. That would take time, after such horrific damage. But something had to happen, before this forest was free from taint. A clear white globe appeared around an area of the forest, white interlacing shell binding it around where the grove had been. Then, with a sudden snapping noise, it split open, sending a wave of light away that distorted the forest and reality. When the wave was gone, so was the light. Coreaux looked back, and saw he was successful: the grove was gone. With a last regretful look at the forest, he travelled back to his castle. Events had happened there that bound him forever to woods, and to growing things. And it was there his heart would forever reside: not with his home, or even Mousillon, yet with the peace of the woods, and their unspoken voices. +++++ Mallobaude stared into the crystal ball, and looked at Arkhor. He did not attack him: he understood he had tried as hard as he could. So … the boy lived. Perhaps that was good, perhaps not. Yet first, he must understand what had been done. He had glimpsed a fraction of the magic emitting from the grove, yet very little. He turned to Arkhor. “What did they do? Give me your mind …” Arkhor opened his thoughts, and Mallobaude directed his own thinking to channel his mind. Arkhor felt a faint shock as his master saw the guardians, and then the presence was gone. He looked at his master, concerned at his shocked expression. “Master?” “They … they tried to remove the taint, to make him as good as an elf. But they failed.” “That is good … it is, isn’t it, my lord?” “Yes. He will now have the powers of a vampire without our constant thirst, our inhuman failures. But …” “”My lord?” “It will return when he least expects it. For now he is a vampire-elf, and is not truly one of them or us. For while he may sense the trees, feel their life, he was not fully cured. No – that cannot be done. Their spell was powerful, yet nothing could cure him fully, save slaying a dragon himself, or so the legends tell.” “You wish me to return?” “No. We must watch, and act when our time is ripe …” |
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| Last Updated ( Saturday, 01 March 2008 ) |