Chapter 43: Encounter at Khasad-Mur

The last echoes of battle washed out into the wind, the war cries, the death rattles and the clash of steel fading like thunder. Tyrian Wolfheart looked around at the carnage strewn about the black stone bridge over the jagged pass of Imlac-kra, the last barrier between the Brotherhood of the Burning Blade and the Sorcerer-thane F'tir Sha. The evil one's Black Goblins, eighteen score at last count, lay in thickening pools of purple blood amid the shattered hafts and cleaved blades of their wretched weaponry. The Goblins, however, had not borne all the losses.

To his left, Tyrian saw the halved body of the dwarven hero Bimro Durian lying with the number he had slain, one thick, hairy hand still firmly gripping the leather thong of his mighty axe. Tyrian's good friend, the elf-mage Anharioris Fareye, had met a cruel fate from a handful of Black Goblins. Tyrian had fought to defend the elf in vain. A silent farewell in his darkening eyes, Anharioris had coughed blood onto Tyrian's shoes and slipped away to the Dreaming Atoll, last refuge of the elven soul. The twin warriors Kimat and Kimot lay side by side, a single long-hafted Goblin arrow pinning their heads together. Many of the evil beasts had fallen before their flashing blades.

A groan, a human groan, alerted Tyrian. From beneath the thick, hirsute body of a fallen Goblin, Lord Beriean called the lad's name in a weakening voice. Tyrian hurried to his mentor's side, rolled the rank fiend from his chest and cradled the old man's head in his arms. He was near death.

"Tyrian," he croaked. "We have done all we can. You cannot stop F'tir Sha alone!"

"I must, Lord! The others are dead and we have come so far! Khasad-Mur is before us. If we--well, if I turn back now, all of the Shining Lands will fall to F'tir Sha! From the Plains of P'miragon to the Brittle Seas of Eastern Mikkah, all will become his. The elves, the dwarves, the semi-men, and the animords, all will become his slaves or food for the hideous appetites of his Black Goblins! I will not see my homeland destroyed, my people made to bow and scrape to the likes of a Sorcerer-thane! We took a vow at the House of the Council of Six that we would bring the Burning Blade to Khasad-Mur and put an end to this struggle, this fear that grips our land and if I must do so alone, then let me try or let me die in the effort!"

But Lord Beriean, Tyrian's teacher in the arts of combat, lifelong friend and the father he had never known, had expired in mid-speech. Tyrian wept, but only briefly, for he was the last of the Brotherhood of the Burning Blade, and his greatest task lay before him. Carefully, he removed the long, golden sword from Beriean's belt. It shone magnificently in the sun, the subtle engravings worked along the blade by ancient dwarven smiths appearing in thin shadows, the words of power that would bring the blade to blazing life for the one encounter for which it had been forged, the one battle that would either restore peace to the Shining Lands or plunge them into a millennia of slavery.

The outcome was literally in the young warrior's hands.

* * *

Khasad-Mur loomed menacing and fatal above him, the once-great castle upon the cliffs over Imlac-kra rotting and draped in dark, wet moss. The cold wind whistled down the rock face in a dead, droning voice like the whispers of the anguished souls tortured for centuries in the depths of Khasad-Mur's unspeakable dungeons.

Tyrian made his way into the castle. There were no Goblins to stop him; every foul footman of Sha's army had met the Brotherhood on the bridge. He had only to reach the high tower at the south end of Khasad-Mur. Blood racing as much in fear as in expectation, Tyrian Wolfheart ran through the empty, echoing halls of the castle, silently vowing that when the battle was joined and F'tir Sha lay slain at his feet, he would claim this magnificent relic as his own and restore it to its former glory, the most brilliant star of the Shining Lands.

Tyrian Wolfheart's footsteps echoed on each shadowed stair as he climbed the narrow tower. He could feel the icy power of F'tir Sha's evil magicks pricking the air around him, deadly wards that would surely have laid him low had it not been for the abundance of talismans he had secured from Ishimura Babra, the hag of the Sallow Swamps. Even now, as a hint of greasy black tentacles formed out of nothing in the air by his head, only to burst into a weak gray smoke as they triggered the guardian magic of the Amulet of Fibrian-ru, he could hear her cryptic words:

Surely that time was now.

Gathering his courage for the encounter to come, Tyrian swallowed the harsh lump of fear in his throat, thought of his valiant friends dead upon the bridge over the jagged pass of Imlac-kra, of the glory of the Shining Lands, and stepped into the onyx chamber of the Sorcerer-thane F'tir Sha.

The Sorcerer was there, floating over a pentacle painted in the blood of innocents, weird, glowing symbols of hateful magicks dancing at its perimeter. His eyes were colorless, his face drawn on old parchment and lined by malice. When he spoke, his voice was harsh, gravelly, and commanding.

"Looking for me, boy?" he laughed.

"I am Tyrian Wolfheart," the lad said, standing ready with his sword of power. "I am the last of the Brotherhood of the Burning Blade, elect of the Council of the Six held on the Eve of Everclear and charged by the Elders of the Shining Lands with the defense of our beloved kingdoms, gifted with the power of the Burning Blade of Ursithria-nar!"

"Yes," the wizard hissed as he drifted to the floor. "I know."

"Then know this, F'tir Sha: your time has come."

"Of course it has," the Sorcerer-thane said reservedly. "It's supposed to."

This change of tone surprised Tyrian. "Beg your pardon?"

"Well, this is how it always ends, isn't it? I mean, you've just come from a dreadful battle, lost all your friends, and now it's down to you and I, face to face in my inner sanctum." He winked at the warrior-lad. "You get to win, you know."

"I do?"

"Of course!"

"Don't you think you're going to win?"

F'tir Sha shrugged. "I'm evil. Am I supposed to win?"

"Well, no. No, of course not. Evil never wins."

"Such is life."

Tyrian lowered the Burning Blade. F'tir Sha flashed a dangerous smile. Quickly, the warrior realized the wizard's plan. He meant to lull Tyrian into dropping his guard. It had very nearly worked!

"Gotcha!" the wizard chuckled. "Kidding, just kidding. It's okay, you can put the sword away."

"I think not!" Tyrian shouted. "I'll not fall to the guile of a wizard! Your chamber is filled with spells and black trickery!"

"Now what good would that do me?" The Sorcerer-thane stepped out of the pentacle and walked to a comfortable chair. He sat and poured himself some wine from a tall crystal carafe. "For as many spells as I've got, you've got charms."

Tyrian's jaw dropped. "You know of Ishimura Babra's tokens?"

"Ishimura Babra, sure, but you could just as easily have gone to Kippo Thrul or Sashu na-fimro or Iggy of Greonor. The point is, my magic arsenal is useless. Look what I've got here." He reached into a pouch at the chair's side and pulled out a slender silver rod topped with a dark gemstone carved to the likeness of a hideous face frozen in a tortured grimace. "The Demon Wand of Thokra!" he announced. "Will it work on you?"

"No," Tyrian said, "because I wear the Talisman of Shoboth. It is ward against the magicks of the Second World."

Sha placed the wand back in its sheath. "How about this?" He held up a withered hand graced by a band of glimmering ruby. "It's a ring that freezes people."

"Ha! Ishimura bade me drink the Elixir of Mimea!"

"That's my point. I'm screwed no matter what I do. Would you like to see my best spell?"

"What does it do?"

"Oh, it's wonderful! It's called Bizorth's Melting Fire. I picked it up from an ethereal merchant in the travelling bazaar that crosses the Eight Realities. You do have an amulet against Sub-Treanmic spells, right?"

"The hag would not let me leave her hovel without one!"

The Sorcerer-thane waved his hands wildly, shouted arcane curses over a suddenly rising demon wind, and the world erupted in a haze of searing white flame. Tyrian cringed despite his protections. He could feel the incredible heat licking at his skin. He heard the stone beneath his feet hiss and burn, but when the spell had passed, he was unscathed. Around him, the stone of the chamber glowed a volcanic red and the air danced with smoke.

"See?" Sha said. "That's the best I've got and it's bloody well useless against you."

"I see," the warrior nodded.

"And I think we both know that I cannot harm you with mortal weapons, right?"

"You speak true, evil one, for I bear the Bronze Cuirass of Guilphar, kissed with the blessing of Natuu!"

"So I can't win. But you've got to understand, that's how it always is and that's how it always will be." The boy was clearly puzzled. "Let me explain this to you." He waved at the chair opposite him. Tyrian sat cautiously, the Burning Blade across his lap. "Wine?" the Sorcerer-thane offered.

"Aha!" Tyrian shouted, leaping to his feet. "You thought to trick me! I'll not drink your poisoned wine, blackheart! Prepare to die!"

"Tyrian," the wizard said calmly with a raised hand, "are you or are you not also well-protected against poisons?"

"I surely am! The Sigil of Hymeria has been carved into my gen--ah, yes, yes, of course, I see what you mean. My apologies." He sat again. "You understand that it's hard for me to relax around you."

"We are mortal enemies," Sha smiled. "I've slaughtered your friends and threatened to enslave your land. A little tension is to be expected."

"You said something about this being the way it always will be. What did you mean?"

"Are you aware that this is not the first time you and I have met in final combat?"

"I have never stood in your presence, evil one."

"Call me F'tir. And yes, you are right--you, as Tyrian Wolfheart, have never stood against me, as F'tir Sha, but the likes of you and I have fought countless times over the ages and will continue to do so in ages to come."

Tyrian's brow was furrowed down to his chin. "You've lost me," he admitted.

"Thought I might. Okay, let's look at it this way: back when this all started, when you were a simple farmboy--you remember? Good. Back before that fateful day when the animords came through your town and the animord sage--what was his name?"

"Bira-sabu sim-jil-Sasho."

"Yes, him. Before the animord sage took you aside and did that whole prophetic riddle deal that sealed your fate, do you remember that I was just getting my legs under me in the south?"

"Yes. Your foul hordes had taken the villages of the Tiriac and you were seen crossing the Shishem into the Plains of Kintim."

"And how did people refer to me then? Take your time."

Tyrian thought it over. It had been so long ago, back before the War of the Valmoral Hills, before the Brotherhood had been forced to retreat through the Caves of Sundiman where their accountant, Pippo Squib, had fallen into the Pit of Ak-midru, before Tyrian had met his beloved mentor Lord Beriean half in his cups at a local tavern, muttering something about "getting them young and training them right." It was a lifetime ago, but the words came to him.

"They said you were...'an ages-old evil reawakened.'"

"Right. Now, the operative word here is 'reawakened.' Bear that in mind. So I'm supposed to be an 'ages-old evil,' right?" Tyrian nodded blankly. "Now stay with me on this, lad. Do you honestly think I'm the first or the only ages-old evil to come down the pipes?"

"Probably not."

"Right. I'm not. But I am one. Follow?"

"I think so."

"So I'm this ages-old evil that's 'reawakened.' That means that I've done this before, right? Right. Now, if I've done this before, if I've come out of the south, claiming lands, enslaving and killing, releasing my Black Goblins on the innocent, done this all before, doesn't it follow that you've done this before?"

"But I haven't."

"But someone like you has, just as someone like me has always done the evil bit before. See, I'm evil and you're good. There has to be one of us on either side."

"But if I kill you, that ends it. You're dead and the struggle is over and the people can live in peace."

"Can't happen." Sha refilled his wine and topped off Tyrian's goblet.

"You're saying I can't kill you?" He looked the Sorcerer-thane over with a cautious awe. "Are you immortal?"

"No, no, it's not that. It's just that this struggle can never really end."

"Why not?"

"It's just the way it is. You and I, Tyrian, we're not really people. We're archetypes."

"Archetypes."

"We stand for something. You stand for purity and goodness and the beauty of the Shining Lands. I stand for evil and foul, smelly things, and dead babies and the like. We just happen to inhabit these bodies." He stood and paced. "Why is it, do you think, that you are young and hale whilst I am old and withered? It's because goodness looks better coming from a handsome young buck than it does from a wizened old crow. I quite literally cannot inhabit a young body because I am the evil archetype. Look at Beriean! Your mentor! Why isn't he the hero, up here squaring off against me? It's because he's old. It's not his turn anymore. He did the hero thing years ago. Did he carry the Burning Blade during the battle on the bridge over the jagged pass of Imlac-kra?"

"Yes. Yes, he did."

"And did you take it from him to come after me?"

"Yes."

"Metaphor!" the wizard cried. "Blatant symbolism! That's emblematic of him passing on his bravery and wisdom to you, the young farmboy turned hero. This, you and I going head-to-head, this is your rite of passage! You are an archetype! I am an archetype! This whole battle is just a symbol of the endless tug-of-war between good and evil! It changes nothing in the long run because it will have to be fought over and over again, every time people need reassuring that there is something good and kind and wonderful out there that can keep the threat--me--at bay. I'm everything that's miserable and wretched in the Shining Lands, all the stuff no one talks about. You're the glimmer of hope everyone holds onto that everything will be all right. It's a fear that never goes away, and that's why you and I will never go away, no matter how many times we fight, or how many times you kill me."

Tyrian's eyes watered. Something in Sha's words rang true, but he did not want to believe that he had come all this way, endured all this pain and loss, to hear that his struggle was for naught. He shook his head in silent protest. Words came slowly.

"This...this cannot....be!" he gasped. "So much death, so much fighting. It all...meant something...it had to! How could it mean nothing?"

"It's not that it means nothing, Tyrian. What I'm trying to get through here is that I'm going to lose no matter what I do. I have to lose. Like you said, I'm evil. I'm not going to argue the point. Evil's great, but you can't win the war with it. For all my studies into arcanum, for all the enemies I've made, all the time and effort it took to win over those dreadful Black Goblins, I'm going to lose. You have to kill me, right? Isn't that how it works?"

"Uh...well, yes."

The Sorcerer-thane's smile widened. "No," he sang, "it isn't. We have another option."

"We do?"

"If you kill me, I or someone just like me is going to reawaken sometime down the road. We agree on this, right? The whole archetype problem?"

"I guess so."

"And, of course, you want to be a hero. That's your destiny, right?"

"I'd like to be a hero, yes!"

"And I don't want to have you shove that pig-sticker through me today, so here's what we do: you win." He spread his hands wide. "There. That's it."

"Beg your pardon?"

"You win. I lose. War over. And just to make it convincing, how long do you want me to stay away for?"

"Stay away?"

F'tir Sha sighed. This was harder than he thought. "If I'm going to 'reawaken' somewhere down the road, I can't be seen around the Shining Lands for a while. I'll take off somewhere, go east to the Lomathia Steppes or the Isles of the Urogu. Somewhere quiet. I'll lay low for as long as you say. Eventually, I'll have to do the whole 'ages-old evil reawakened' bit, but hell, you'll be old by then and there'll be some new farmboy. So how long?"

Tyrian mulled it over through a few sips of wine. He had to admit, it was a good plan. "A hundred years?"

"I'll give you a hundred and a half!" Sha laughed.

"Can I trust you?"

"As one archetype to another, yes. Shake."

The two shook hands. Tyrian found Sha's grip clammy, but that was to be expected from evil. He finished his wine.

"I guess I should be off, then," he said, rising. "I have to go break the good news to the Shining Lands." He winked at the Sorcerer-thane. The kid caught on fast.

"One thing before you go," Sha said. "I'm curious about this whole Burning Blade thing. I mean, this is the great, mythical weapon that was supposed to cut me down. You know, I've never even gotten a good look at it."

Tyrian drew the blade from its velvet sheath and held it high above his head. "Behold, then, F'tir Sha, the Burning Blade of Ursithria-nar, forged in the First Age of the purest gold from the Lost Mines of the forgotten Obir-mar, smelted under the fiery breath of the dragon-lord Kraal, enchanted by the elven archmage Misiriian Starfire. Ursithria-nar! beloved of blades, slayer of the man-wolves of Nuth-miria, lost treasure of the Diriphim recovered by Miniax Fane, great warrior of the Fourth Age, First Jarl of the Shining Lands. Ursithria-nar, the Burning Blade!"

"It is beautiful," the Sorcerer-thane sighed. "I know this may be a bit much to ask, given our relationship, but...may I hold it?"

Tyrian hesitated, then smiled. "Certainly, my fellow archetype."

F'tir Sha looked over the smooth gold blade, felt the sword's fine weight balancing itself in his grasp. A magnificent weapon!

"Oh, look," F'tir Sha said, eyes narrowing and a thin smile bending his black lips, "there's some writing on the blade! It says, 'Sushirim nar al-ma-niharu basam!'" he shouted, and the sword, inspired by the magic words it had waited countless eons to hear, knowing that the final battle had been joined, exploded with a blaze of shimmering, red-gold elven fire that ran wild along its keen edge.

"That means 'Good-bye, Tyrian.'" And a crackling wave of primal flame leaped like a wild beast from the wonderful sword and engulfed the screaming hero who, mercifully, had but a split second to realize that he had been duped. F'tir Sha sipped at the last of his wine as he watched the last great hope of the Shining Lands run burning and howling around his onyx chamber. My goodness, Sha thought, they certainly are making heroes stupid these days. In a short while, Tyrian Wolfheart collapsed and died and the Sorcerer-thane F'tir Sha was able to return to his work of conquering the world as he listened to the gentle pop and hiss of the smoldering flesh of the one man who could have stopped him from taking over the Shining Lands if only he hadn't been so gullible.

My work has appeared in the small press magazine Shadow Sword, the anthology 'Between,' and The Orphic Chronicle web site. I also maintain the A Collection of Worlds website.

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