The Spirit of Revenge (44 page)

The creature lowered its head at him, the black abyss of its eyes seeming to swallow Cain by mere whim. It turned these hell-bound eyes from Cain with satisfaction before turning its attention to Alanis.

The Knight started back in fright beneath the shadow of the monster, a stump of steel gripped uselessly in his hand.

The creature threw its head up and opened its maw, its black tongue quivering in the chill air as it bellowed forth an ungodly roar. It shot out its wings and swept into the air.

Alanis let out a terrified scream and tossed the stub of his sword before sprinting across the ice, running for his life. The beast spanned the gap in an instant, its great wings carrying it effortlessly through the air.

Alanis dove for the ice and buried his head in his arms. The creature sailed overhead and flicked its wings, throwing itself higher into the sky. Alanis picked himself up and ran for his life, eyes lit with terror.

The beast hovered above, eyes locked on its prey. It suddenly plummeted to the earth and descended over him.

A great plume of ivory flames shot from its gaping maw, completely engulfing Alanis. A gut-wrenching cry filled the sky as every inch of his body was instantly incinerated.

The winged beast sailed through the flames and crashed into its prey, sending his flaming body sailing through the air. Anguish flew from his lips as Alanis crashed through the ice.

The river instantly swallowed him whole and snuffed out his smoldering remains beneath the ice. A great pillar of smoke rose from the churning waters as he flailed for his life. Slowly, his body disappeared beneath the depths. The ice caps settled back into place and the smoke faded in the winds.

Cain stood frozen in bewilderment as he watched the beast circle victoriously overhead, merely a blur in the bright dawn sky. He lowered his gaze to the sword in his hand.

The glowing light around the blade flickered before dying, and bringing with it, the light of the creature’s scales. It seemed to diminish, scales, talons, wings and all. As the fires left its flesh, the creature let out a final roar. A vivid flash of scarlet lit up the skies and sent a pulse of wind rippling across the earth.

Then as swiftly as it had come, the creature vanished. The spirit of the sword returned to its ever-silent slumber, Ceerocai once again still in his hand.

Cain stared at the sword with disbelief. What was that beast? Why did it help him? Why can he alone use the sword? What makes him such a valuable target to Abaddon? All these questions and countless more swirled in his mind. He shook his head to clear his thoughts if even for a moment.

He looked down the length of the Alar to the city of Morven that lay barely visible through the snowfall. The hellish din of battle had long since ceased. An ear-splitting cry filled his ears as thousands of men screamed with victory.

The battle had been won. The armies of Andred were at last routed from their land. Peace had been bought for a few precious moments.

However, the war was still to be won, the genocide was still to be stopped. It would only grow in magnitude. A perpetual spiral of death embraced Tarsha. As long as Abaddon’s soul lived on inside this wretched Ceerocai, Cain knew it would only continue.

With Malecai swept from life, it seemed Cain was now the only one who knew the truth. Death and war would hold sway over humanity eternal, an unjust punishment for some past transgressions.

The only way to end all of this lay in his hands, the indestructible key to Abaddon’s soul. Fighting this war was useless, and the deaths of millions meant nothing as long as Ceerocai remained. However, what good was this knowledge if it could not be destroyed.

Despite this grave truth, Cain knew he must continue. He fought for more than a spirit of revenge; he fought for more than himself and his own petty vengeance. He was finally fighting for something now, something that mattered. He fought for hope, a white rose in the bloody tides of war.

He ran a hand through his soaked hair and gazed up into the sky. He closed his eyes and felt the cool kiss of snow on his face.

The battle for Tarsha and the rebirth of the Alliance had been won, but a strange air now brewed in the winds. A feeling of tension fell over him. War it seemed…had only just begun.

T
he doors to the throne room burst open. A hooded figure stood in the doorframe, peering intently into the dark hall before him.

Lofty windows lined the walls and small torches flickered against their glass, filling the room with a dim, ruddy light. The man tightened his grip on the rapier in his hand and cautiously walked down the hall.

All was silent. Nothing filled the room’s empty walls but the clicking of his boots. At last, he came to a stop at the foot of a dais. Sitting in a massive ebony throne at its top, was Abaddon.

The tyrant of Tarsha gazed down at the intruder through the slits of his elaborate helmet. “At last, you have returned to me…” He spoke with a cold and rasping voice, a voice that had lost all warmth long ago.

“Do not play games,” the man replied, “You know why I am here.”

“I do.”

The man flicked his hand at this. Every torch instantly flashed a vivid blue, lighting up the entire room. He raised his rapier to Abaddon and muttered, “I have come to kill you…”