How powerful could such a wizard be? It sent a delicious chill of anticipation through his body.
But as he strode on, and he could hear their voices even through the catastrophic rumbling of the mountain tearing itself apart, his mood darkened. He felt the anguish of his soldiers dying outside, their agonies feeding him. They had eluded him for so long. But no longer. He would wear their faces and grin back at them as they died. He would inflict such pain on them, such tortures, as he tore them apart. He would burn them, drive nails of pain into their souls, but never their faces. Those he would save. He would save them for his congregation. He grinned malevolently, evil in the red glow. The rock hissed and cracked around him. It boiled beneath his feet as he passed.
A gout of fire erupted through a fissure in the pathway. He walked on, unscathed. The strength of the ascension was coursing through his body. He was harder than stone, sharper than tempered steel. Nothing could harm him. He was invincible. Impervious to all weapons. Pain would feed him. Fear would give him strength. He would grow in power as he destroyed the Sard, took Tirielle A’m Dralorn’s face from her dying body while he held her in his power. He would make them all watch, hold them still, tear their life from their frail human corpses…
He raged, the rock around him melting and pouring into the tunnel. The mountain’s fire joined his own. Unseen, insensible now to all but rage, the caverns filled with molten rock and livid fire, burning, running downward into the heart of the mountain, a river of fire following in his wake. The heat did not touch him. He was stronger than stone. He was invincible.
He burned brighter than the fire. His whole body glowed red, terrible heat coming from him in waves. His pace quickened. He could hear them talking now, talking in low voices, though he could not make out what they were saying. How they infuriated him, with their petty worries, with their stupid mewling words…
His ambitions were greater. Come the return, he would stand above all others. He would rule beside his makers, teach the humans what true control was.
He raged. His power grew. He breathed in each death from his soldiers, luxuriating in their pain, bridled emotions barely held in check. He turned the corner, and they were there!
At last, taste my fire! And he lashed out with all his strength.
Chapter Ninety-Two
Roth’s fur caught fire instantly in that first, terrible blast.
The three barbarian warriors dived to the floor, flames streaking over their heads and hitting the rock, which plinked, cooling suddenly as the Sard’s latent energies flowed forth, meeting fire with sunlight, with growth and love and the beauty of full summer, nascent spring, and crisp, cool winters.
The Sard’s magnificent armour shone back against the fire, with a brilliant golden glow, and the fire from the terrible creature before them was met. They drew their swords, holding the fire back with some innate magic that only those blessed by gods could possess.
In the blink of an eye, Roth saw how beautiful they were, how pure, to hold back the simmering waves of hate and burning fire coming from the Protocrat before them. His power was immense — unbelievable. The rock around them was melting, and Roth could see molten rock pouring down the long tunnel behind him, but the Protocrat wizard’s fire outshone even than liquid, incandescent river.
A wall of flame held against the sunshine of the Sard, flowing, merging, pushing against each other. Roth’s fur crackled, the heat unbearable, and yet still it could not move.
Fear held its legs against the stone, fire raged all around it, but it was held fast in the grip of terror. Even now, it could feel its flesh sizzling. In its terror, it could do nothing. It watched the Sard battle, agony in its leathery hide, the smell of its own burning flesh strong in its nostrils…why could it not move? Why did it feel fear? It knew what it must do, yet it stood here dying a coward’s bright and burning death.
It watched, immobile, as the Sard moved forward as one. A wall of light against burning hatred, blood and fire and pain and anguish pouring forth in a torrent from the Protocrat. They did not waver. Take strength in that.
The Sard approached, and the first to strike out at the wizard was flung against a wall, armour clanging with the force of the blow, as though the wizard himself was made of steel. His fists were like hammers, smashing into the Sard, turning their blades aside with ease.
Then, as the contest began in earnest, the Sard pushed to the limit of their strength by the hideous apparition shrouded in flame, Roth heard a voice from the past, and echo in its mind.
‘You are the Sacrifice, my child. It is the wizard’s geas, the price we pay for our freedom, for our lives. You must do what you are born to do, but in the end, it will be hard on you. Remember all that you are, when the time comes and your fear turns you to lead. Remember your strength, and your heart…remember the love that others have felt for you. Do not let Tirielle die, Roth. In the end, I think you will understand.’
And it did. Its mother had known. It had listened to the words. This was the price it must pay. To die in fear. But it would not be a coward. Not at the last. It would not let Tirielle take the place that was rightfully its own.
Roth saw what it must do. This was not its battle. It did not matter if the Sard won or lost here. There was only one thing it could do. Finally, burning and in an agony it had never before known, it was time to face its fate. Time to face death.
It could still do what it must. Nothing could escape fate, not the mighty, not the weak. All must make sacrifices.
It took the only chance it could, toward the only end that it was ever destined to meet. Roth dived through the blackness, trailing flames, into the chamber beyond.
Chapter Ninety-Three
Shorn quailed at the sight of it. The behemoth was chained to the walls of a massive cavern, in chains of some silvery metal untouched by the passage of time. The chains themselves were immense — each link fully as thick as a man’s chest, stretching across the cavern, looped and fixed into holes in the cavern wall.
The heat was fierce. It scorched the skin.
Tirielle stood proudly before it, shouting to be heard above the din. Her face was fearless.
“Are you Caeus?” to her credit, Shorn thought, her voice did not waver.
Shorn could barely make out the rumbling words, the beasts language was so mauled by its massive jaw.
“NO. I ATE CAEUS. I AM ALL THAT IS LEFT.”
Shorn saw her hang her head in despair. He felt sorry for her. Perhaps she was not as accustomed to disappointment as he was.
It could have been laughing, but Shorn did not believe such a creature felt humour, or understood anything but slaughter. It was not built for peace, or love, or any of the light that made a human whole. It was alien and terrible, a monstrosity from out of time, a creature of nightmare and darkness.
The beast’s head reached the roof of the massive cavern. Dull green eyes stared myopically at the intruders. It howled, the whole cavern shaking, and renewed its struggle against its bonds. Shorn was knocked to his knees by the sound of the beast’s torment, dropping his sword and placing his hands over his ears, but his whole body shook, his bones ached from the rage of it, the plaintive cry of a millennium of anguish. Drun was on his knees, too, his light temporarily dulled.
They needed no other light, though. Around the monstrosity was a lake of fire, bubbling lava, with but one path forward — a path too narrow for the creature to take.
To defeat it, they would have to travel that one narrow path, know bravery beyond any other mortal. They would have to walk to their own slaughter. It would not come to them.
He walked forward, heart pounding a thousand times faster than the revenant’s, the creatures heartbeat that of the mountains, next to Shorn’s, stuttering along like a helting mir’s upon waking. If the woman could face it,
