Lost in the Light Ch. 14

"Someone that wishes this was a rod of red hot metal," he said, his voice changing to take on a feminine tone. Silas snarled and threw his flame at the man. Teagan was engulfed in it, but when it burned away, there was no body. "Yes, this is close enough you fat pig." The Mischievous cackled from the darkness overhead.

Silas staggered backwards.

"You died!" he protested. A barrage of blue fireballs streaked through the air exploding harmless off the stone ceiling in random directions.

"I've died many times since I came here." she cooed from the shadows. "And yet I am still here." she added a disembodied cackle for good theatrics. The sorcerer conjured up a ring of fire around him, orange flame rose as high as he was, and it moved as he moved, giving him a mobile wall of defense from attackers.

"Only one escaped me." Silas called out to the darkness. "I've killed one already. That makes you the last. Is revenge worth challenging my power? Flee and live!"

"I remember everything..." she said sadly from the darkness. "I remember the feel of the blade as it bit into my neck, even if it was just for a moment. How can I flee and live when every time I close my eyes I feel your sick greasy hands all over me? Your small limp sausage trying to pleasure me..."

"Come then! I'll put you out of your misery!" He snarled to the darkness, two fresh balls of blue flames appeared in each hand and soared up into the air. They splattered harmlessly off the high ceiling.

"No, you won't lover..." she breathed on the back of his neck. He whirled around but felt a numbing sensation in his arms, and suddenly felt very light headed and very cold. The orange fire started to dissipate. Silas looked confused until he saw his own severed arms on the ground. As the last of the fire disappeared, only the pale white glow of The Mischevious's spearhead kept them company. He looked up at her, disbelieving what had happened. Yet when he tried to move his arms, nothing happened. The cold from her spearhead made his breath form a cloud in the air.

Slowly she backed away. The metal spear went dull and light-less, and then started to turn a hot red. Silas felt an unfamiliar fear creep up his spine - something he had not felt in a long time. The Mischievous grinned at him, her eyes reflected the red glow from her weapon. "Run piggy run..."

"Mother!" Silas called out. "Save me!" He practically commanded as he turned to flee. Something struck him in the back between the shoulders and he toppled forward onto the ground.

"Beg me for it..." She whispered as she signed his exposed backside with the metal tip. The stench of smoking meat filled the air as Silas howled in pain. "Tell me you want it, and I'll end your pain."
Slowly the hot metal pushed between his ass cheeks, and Silas screamed.

*****

The outer wall of the mess hall exploded for a second time as another body was thrown through it. This time a large red giant hit the ground, and tumbled to a stop. Rasj tried to pick himself up, but too many of his bones were broken and his healing ability was not keeping up.

The fighting was dying down as the last of the Huanguard was surround by a battle hardened and bloodied group of Elthairin and Zecairins. He shouted one last obscenity before the wall he was braced against came alive and slit his throat. Liam looked down at Rasj.

"Your forces are defeated." Liam said coldly.

"I will not surrender. I am a God. I will slay these heretics after I slay my only remaining rival." Rasj spat as he unsteadily rose to his feet.

"I did not tell you that in order to coax your surrender. I told you so you would die knowing of your failure." Liam snarled. His left arm was still ruined and useless, his right hand gripped the battered remains of a cast iron skillet bloodied and embedded with bits of broken bone.

"Liam, the Lion," Rasj scoffed. "You will bow before the Dragon."

"I took a new name." Liam said as he stalked the wounded man. "I am The Killer."

"Faugh! Zecairin vanity!" Rasj bellowed a laugh and lunged forward to strike Liam down with an Elthairin sword that appeared in his hand from the tumble. Liam spun to the side at the last minute and brought his skillet down on the man's head as if it was a sword. He struck solidly and was bathed in gore and brains as Rasj the Red Dragon fell dead to the ground.

Liam looked to the elves still alive. Merely a handful. So many had fallen. Deep inside his heart sank in empathy for the despair that would be theirs when they sorted the bodies. The Windmaster was not one of the those still on their feet, and Liam then realized he was a stranger to them. He had no way of proving his allegiance to this group of strangers.

"Very nice," Came a condescending voice atop a nearby building. A shadowy Zecairin with long black hair appeared out of thin air. Behind him a handful of lizard riders stood atop the walls all around them. A few other Shadowraiths appeared around Liam's would-be allies with their weapons drawn.

"I have heard this name before," The cocky shadow elf said in Liam's direction. "You are the one aren't you?"

"I crushed The Unkillable's throat with my bare hands. His own armor bled him dry." Liam bragged and gave his skillet a few test swings.

"I always wanted to kill a general," The Shadowraith laughed as he leapt and descended on the man with weapons drawn. He expected the human to sidestep, or back away. He did not expect him to rear back and launch his only weapon into the air. Luckily for him, it was the last thing he thought before the iron stick lodged through his head and dropped him to the ground.

Liam wrenched the battered piece of iron from the skull with a sickening crack.

"Next?" He said wearily. A sudden whirlwind of dust and debris surrounded the group of defenders and revealed the hidden Shadowraiths. The Elthairins struck first, felling most of them, then the melee resumed with the clang of fine steel.
A scrawny Zecairin girl, covered in red spray came to stand behind Liam as the lizard riders charged from their perch. His one good eye looked her up and down, and assessed her strength. She never took her gaze from the charging riders.
"Kill the lizards first, then the riders'" he instructed her. She flipped her knives into an underhand grip, threw them, and stuck one in a lizard's eye and the other into a lizard's front paw. A discarded Huanguard sword was in her hand before they both hit the ground.

"I said kill them. Now they're more trouble..." Liam grumbled and charged while the riders struggled to right themselves.

*****

Riyarra followed the screams. The closer she came, the worse the smell became. When she burst through the tunnel into the cavern she was amazed with her alien surroundings, but took no more time to admire them. Far ahead, in the darkness, she could see the corpse still smoldering. The stench was horrible. The fat man, Silas, had been gutted, and his entrails seared while he was still alive. As deserving as this may be, it reeked horribly.

"Mischievous?" She called out. But heard no answer. Then off in the shadows by one of the large columns she saw the glint of metal. The Mischievous was squatting on the ground with the spear across her knees, her arms folded atop it, and her head nestled in the crook of her elbows staring blankly at the corpse. She did not seem to even notice Riyarra's approach. Despite what her own eyes were showing her, Riyarra did not understand, she had seen this woman die, but here she was, hovering over her kill. She gave the woman a moment to reply, and then decided it best to leave her alone. Riyarra had something more important to contend with.

It wasn't long before she heard it moving. The sound of slimy flesh flailing about on the stone floor followed by the poignant stench of decay, bile, defilement, and all other grotesque biological smells combined as one. Reflex took over and she doubled over to retch on the stone floor. A moment later and an emptied stomach made no difference, the slightest whiff and she dry heaved again. She called up a fire before her, and the air exploded violently and unexpectedly. It burned out the foul odor, but also took most of the oxygen from the air. Riyarra struggled to breath, but managed to summon up a gust to clear out the air.

"It has come for us..." came a disembodied voice.

Riyarra dared to stand up and look ahead. The slithering mass of flesh before her was speaking. It was huge, monstrous, and had no recognizable form or structure. It was a creature of madness. Nothing natural could look like that and survive. Seemingly pieced together from random blobs of flesh and organs, it pulsed, oozed, twitched, and shambled unnaturally. This was the Mother.

"It has come to frreeee us..." it said once again. "Free us, Elven Queen. Take the sword from us." the mass of flesh parted, and in the middle she could see the glint of a silvery pommel - the handle of some weapon buried in the flesh.

Riyarra scowled. Was this a trap? Why would it show her the means of its imprisonment? As she dared to look the creature over more, she felt more and more nauseous at its hideous form. The room started spin and weave the longer she stared, as its twisted form was obviously affecting her. Liam had demanded she kill it, but as she stared at this terrible thing, she had no idea how to accomplish that. The most terrible inferno she could summon wouldn't be enough to burn away all this grotesque flesh before it consumed all the breathable air in this huge chamber.

"Why?" she asked. There had to be a way to kill it, but since it had not defended itself, there was no need to rush in until she could come up with a plan.

"I have been here a loooong, ageless time." It said. A tentacle rose from the mass, at the end of it a human head, grafted onto the limb spoke to her. It was the most disturbing sight she had ever seen. Some poor soul's severed head, re-purposed for such foulness. "I am the last." It said. "I wish to return."

"Return where?"

"Home.. only the Queen can free us. Remove the sword. Set us free. Let us leave this terrible world and its horribleness." The Mother said.

"You are devil-kind?" She said with uncertainty, as if to confirm it. "One of the ancient, elder horrors?"

"This is not my world. Let me leave." The Mother pleaded through the man's head. "Take the sword. Free me. Use its power to open a Tear. Let me go. Hurry. They are dying above. They need your help." Riyarra did not trust it. She looked to her own weapons. Charged with the elements, they would only annoy this creature. She needed Tamain's power. How had he done it? Liam was confident she could destroy this thing but she had no idea how he expected her to do it. The more she looked at it, the more she was repulsed and wished to leave this place. The only option was to take this creature up on its offer. Perhaps if not to free it, the sword could also be used to slay it. It was obviously powerful enough to keep it trapped for uncounted centuries. Whatever her next move would be, it had to involve that sword.

She took a step towards it.

Sharp bony spines erupted on all sides of the monster's flesh to guard the sword.

"Do not betray. Set us free." It said. "Take the sword out."

Riyarra dropped her own blades. The spines retreated, but remained present. Slowly, cautiously she stepped forward. With each step the two of them forged an uneasy truce. With each step the spines retracted more, allowing her to enter, yet tested her resolve by constantly re-orientating themselves to aim directly at her body. She had to climb atop part of the creature to reach it. Her booted feet sank partially into the slick, fleshy body of the devil. It would make maneuvering treacherous should this go wrong. Like it or not, Riyarra had to admit The Mother held the upper hand, and she had no other options than to play along. Cautiously she reached out for the pommel. The spines grew slowly as she did so - either to kill her the moment she touched it, or the moment she tried to turn it on The Mother. There was no going back now.

Her hand touched the soft silver metal, and some old power jarred her out of her consciousness.

"Welcome, Great Daughter," An elderly elven man said to her. A vision of his past countenance came to her mind. He was handsome, younger looking than Twenyl but with the same ancient eyes, and his skin was a burnt redwood in color. He wore resplendent robes of green with purple accents, gold thread, and a silver crown that rose high above his head. He wasn't an elf she recognized. But something in the back of her mind struggled to push forward, and suddenly she made the connection.

"You're one of the Sylvair!" she exclaimed in surprise.

"Yes," He smiled sadly. "I can read from your memories all that has happened in the long years I have been trapped here. It fills my heart with sadness to hear that my brothers of light and shade have turned such hatred on one another." His face curled to weep, and he did gently weep. "It was not your brethren that murdered us. It was them." An ancient, unspeakable name came to her mind then. "You must never speak it out loud, or it will turn their eyes upon you." he warned. "Even now, we speak through the Joining of our souls. It will not know of this unless you speak that name."

Riyarra understood. As he knew her through the Joining, so too was she knowing him. But he was so foreign to her, his life's experiences were from a civilization long gone and they bewildered her with enchanting scenes of a culture that was as rich as it was foreign. She wanted to bathe in it all and experience its splendors, but urgency called on her and pulled her back to the now of thought.

"We don't have much time." He said, and an image of her body in the outside world appeared before them. The spines of the Mother had already moved in for the kill, and a few of the spines had already punctured her skin superficially. "Sadly, I cannot share much more with you. Both of our times are up."

"What must I do?" She asked in all seriousness.

"Something you cannot yet do. It cannot be killed for it is not a living creature, just a consciousness that inhabits a physical body from this world. It must be banished." He smiled cleverly as a father instructing a student. "I will teach you of old powers that lie dormant inside you. You must merely call their name and they will come." Great gossamer wings unfurled behind him, and Riyarra let a stunned gasp escape her lips. They were scintillating in a prismatic color. Unlike her multicolored wings of four, he had eight.

A lifetime of knowledge and training forced its way into her mind. She tried to retain it all but much of it escaped her, and he expected this. He tried again, and this time she retained more of it. It was a remarkable use of the Joining she had never considered, as it must have grown out of practice long ago. It was such an intimate bond between master and pupil that she felt a faint blush across her face.

"Farewell, Great Daughter," Ismeril said sadly. His name now came to her as if she had known him all her life. He was a king, a knight, a scholar, a father, a husband, a brother, and a son. All these she felt of him, and it broke her heart to know his life force would vanish once she did what he asked of her. "Do not weep for us, but remember us."

Pain flooded her body as she felt the spines spearing her body. Their poisons already coursing through her, trying to paralyze her.

Riyarra screamed. It was not the scream of pain and suffering, but of Wrath, Fury, and Divine Retribution as she grabbed the sword with both hands. Power flowed from her into the sword, channeled from her own spirit by the teachings of Ismeril. Her wings appeared in the air above her, and all four shined brightly in their new singularly opalescent color. A blinding explosion of light erupted from the sword, spread throughout the room, and The Mother evaporated into dust.

*****

The early evening sun welcomed her back to the surface. Riyarra reeled from its blinding light. Even as it filtered gentle through the windows of the chapel, it was too much. She shaded her eyes, and mindlessly continued forward, past The Father's broken rag doll body, past the broken pews and Brylen's crumpled form. Just like the evening light, these grim sights were a small taste of what awaited her beyond that large door. She shouldered it open without a pause in her step, and a reddish light poured in along with the smell of blood and death.

Bodies. Bodies everywhere. Man and Elf. Zecairin and Elthairin. Soldier and bystander. This was the horror of war. Her veteran years as a Knight would not have been enough to prepare her for such a slaughter. She had seen battles, and murders, and senseless killing. But never in such terrible efficiency had so many lost their lives in such a short amount of time. She had expected to see a battle won, or a battle still engaged, but not a battle simply ended because no one was left alive to fight it.

She walked the grounds, looking from one dead body to another until she found a man groaning on the ground. He had been run through the gut, and was succumbing to the coldness of shock. He wouldn't last much longer without aid. Ismeril's blade felt heavy in her hand. She looked to it as if seeing it for the first time, and somehow remembered it had a name - Dekarsil, the Lord of Enlightenment, a very ironic name. Thoughts of mercy, thoughts of forgiveness, thoughts of vengeance... none of these crossed her mind, and she moved on. It didn't take her long to come across her first dead strider. She paused when she saw it, looked back over the path she had come, and at that point the number of dead Zecairins made more sense. The realization that those dead did not belong to her allies, supported by the fact she had not recognized their faces, gave her both relief and misery. She had not found her allies dead, but there had been more trouble up here than they had planned. The fighting had been more terrible than she had anticipated. As their leader, she felt the weight of this failure. Of course these humans would have allies of their own. Of course they would come to aid if they were threatened. This bloodshed was her responsibility, she had underestimated their foe.

"Princess Riyarra," came a scratchy voice that made her heart sink. She turned, saw him, and her shoulders forcibly squared up just as her ears couldn't help buy droop in grief. Liam. He stood tall, horribly bruised, cut, and battered, but yet still carried himself as the obvious victor of this terrible fight. He wore a red robe that split in the middle and belted around his waist. His left side hung out as he worked to wrap his shattered arm in a makeshift splint. She watched him work, and her own hands trembled in empathy. She was eager to heal him, eager to rush into his arms and embrace him for all their lost time together, even a little eager to run her sword through him for his role in her suffering, but part of her mind stalled all of that involuntary reaction as it unnerved her with the ease at which he moved despite his grave injuries. He had a dried bundle of leaves in his mouth and was chewing it bitterly. His face was red and swollen in different places, his left eye was a grotesque purple color, and it stared at his work with the same intensity of his healthy one. She drew a shallow breath to speak, but he looked up and gave her such a dangerous glare her words died in her throat. That sharp look was as cutting to her soul as a verbal reprimand, and it stole her breath away.

A breathless moment later a shadow flew overhead. Riyarra quickly looked up to see her another of her worst fears come to life. She had thought that with what she had just faced her nerves would have steeled themselves, and she could handle any scope of danger still left to face. Yet her heart pounded in her chest, and the warmth drained from her cheeks when she saw the Elthairin atop that flying lizard as it circled. Sky Riders had come!