“No, please!” screamed the desperate Naga. He looked younger than ever. “Let me go! I should have told you! I’m sorry!” His lips quivered and he clutched at his broken hand. He was limp, unresisting. Gamarron longed to drop him to the ground and let him flee, but he knew it would not happen.
“I’m sorry, too,” he groaned, and his fingers clamped down with inhuman strength. Tychus gasped and choked, flailing helplessly at his fingers with his one good hand. Gamarron’s fingertips punched through the skin on either side of the creature’s neck bones, and he felt the grinding of cartilage and tendons beneath his hands. The Naga’s eyes were bulging, and his tail whipped futilely against the gravel. Then he felt a crunch, and the bones separated beneath his fingers. The Naga went still, his head flopping loosely to one side. He dropped limply from the old monk’s knotted hands and slumped to the ground, his face blue and slack.
Gamarron had never felt so old. His heart railed and fought, but his body did not hesitate. He picked up Nira and Guyrin and walked toward the mountains. Bakal was waiting.
Chapter 21 All Things End
Nira floated in a haze of pain and dreamed of a man. She saw him grow from a child into adulthood like an oak tree spreading in a barren land. He was quick of hand, strong of body, and firm of mind. Those around him suffered the indignities of sudden violence and death, and none of them rose above – but he did, this grave-faced, curious man. She watched him practice the sacred fighting arts of his people and protect them from the monsters that polluted his homeland. For a time, he found joy in the violence, in the mastery he could exert not only on the demons but also on any human who dared oppose him. He was a bloody-handed warlord before he needed to shave his face regularly.
In his heart, though, there glimmered a burning desire for knowledge and understanding that refused to be drowned in blood. He used his influence to gather books and scrolls, cultivating an understanding of humanity first in his heart and then in his holdfast. Soon he bored of dominating others with his fists, and then wished to repent of it. His mien softened, and care for those he ruled etched his brow. He still had no mercy for the demons, but he grew to understand that striving against them made the humans of the Black Isle strong. He dreamed of the day when his people’s strength became so irresistible that they could scour the demons from the land and make a paradise of their cold black sands and granite hills. He made plans for irrigation, public works, cities, and monuments, waiting for the day they could bring it all to life. He gathered other leaders behind him, winning some by strength of combat and others by virtue of his dreams, until it seemed that maybe – just maybe – things were beginning to change.
With dread, Nira watched his assault on the demon stronghold of the Great Scar. Demons died by the score, and through the power of the koda the man became the focal point of the fighting prowess of a dozen of his strongest chiefs. His beard had gone gray and his beauty had faded into wisdom, but his arms were made of lightning and his fists of thunder. He challenged the demons, risked their claws and fangs, and withstood them all until he arrived in the monsters’ most occult place. The caves radiated an evil most profane, and in the center of it stood a shining gray cube.
When she saw the alien box standing higher than his head, Nira felt a tremor of fear. She’d never seen anything like it, but the monolith struck her with a primal dread like an animal fleeing a forest fire. What is that thing? What’s so terrible about it? The man touched its shining surface and cried out in pain, convulsing and falling to the floor. Even then his hand stayed on the huge block as if glued in place. Indistinct muttering filled the cave, sounding like speech but never making sense. She ignored it, focusing on what she saw. What does it mean?
The sounds grew louder, pushing at her, and the fabric of the dream tore and faded into nothing, waking Nira into a reality just as unpleasant as what she’d left behind. All her weight rested on a stiff bar that jammed into her stomach. It was hard to breathe. Pain blazed in her neck and throat, and her eyes were gummed shut with sand and dried tears. Her shoulders were stiff and uncomfortable, and she couldn’t feel her hands. The words that had awoken her plucked at her, demanding her attention.
“…don’t know how long I laid there with my hand on the box.” It was Gamarron’s voice, but it sounded wooden and dull. “Next thing I remember is arriving in my holdfast. Couldn’t have been too many days, because they were gathered to mourn me. Never seen my people so happy. They thought I had died in the Great Scar. My son cried, and no one mocked him. Turned from a wake to a celebration in a moment. Everyone drinking, singing…” He trailed off into silence.
Nira blinked her eyes clear and found herself looking at the old man’s backside. The bar jamming into her guts was Gamarron’s shoulder; she was slung across it like a goat trussed for slaughter. He was walking at a good clip, jostling her with every step. Craning her head to one side, she saw Guyrin in a similar position on the other shoulder. He was profoundly unconscious, mouth hanging open and arms dangling down the savage’s back. Her own hands were bound behind
