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Earthmoon 8, 2604 R.M. — Nesileér Plateau, Portlia, Litheran
RAIN POURED HEAVILY from the Spring sky as they ascended the plateau. Derith Sylvarado had taken to extending a long pole from his head with a rounded sheet of leathery material which shielded him and his companions from the rain. Even still, his boots had become caked in brown mud, despite repeatedly changing them with his mind. He carried Que-Que so the Queserion’s snow-white pelt did not get coated in the same way.
Despite the miserable conditions, they all knew they had to trudge on. This time, they were ready to fight. If they had to endure the rain to avenge the monks at the shrine, so be it. For hours, they plodded through the mud and rain. The torrent became worse the farther they went. Thunder crashed around them, and a bolt of lightning divided a nearby tree in half.
The worse the storm got, the harder it became to see. A thin line of fog began to shroud them. We must be getting closer, he thought.
While there was still some visibility, Silver grabbed Searin’s shoulder and thrust the hilt of his sword into his hand. “Take it!” he commanded.
Searin simply stared at the blade. “No, Silver. This is a gift from your parents. They made it for you.”
Silver shook his head. “That may be true, but you need it more than I do. We have a dangerous battle ahead of us. We all need to be prepared. I don’t need a weapon. You’ve seen what I can do with my... gift.”
Searin groaned. “Many of the things you’ve done are impossible for a normal Ladrian who’s practiced all his life, much less one who’s only been Ladrian for a few months. One of these days, you’ll overexert yourself and that will be the end.”
Silver’s cold gray eyes stared into Searin’s. “Then it’ll be your duty to guard the power,” he declared. Searin nodded, his usually emotionless face giving an ever so slight sign of acceptance. He clasped his hand around the sword’s hilt and nodded. He took the sheath and strapped it onto his hip.
As they proceeded up the Plateau, the trail became cloaked in the thickest fog Silver had ever seen, much less walked through. He, Searin and Niri had to hold hands to stay together. The fog eventually became so concentrated that only Silver with his Ladrian vision could see anything at all, and even he could not see far.
The mist was noticeably denser with every step. They were driven only by the knowledge they had to reach the top in time to stop the pretender Fìmn from destroying the bow. Thoughts of revenge resurfaced in Silver’s mind. The death of that blasphemous charlatan would be swift and painful. Silver cracked a wry, sadistic smile. As he permitted himself to let out a cruel chuckle, an icy, gloved hand grabbed his shoulder and sent him spinning into the ground.
Three men in masks and scarlet tunics stood around Derith Sylvarado. Their cloaks were marked with an arrow piercing a ring of light. Behind Silver, Searin and Niri were being held by two men each and being bound with heavy chains.
Que-Que was being trapped in a makeshift cage. How they could have known Que-Que was a threat, Silver had no idea, and he could only begin to guess how they knew to lock him in a cage. He assumed at least one of the two men he had freed at Fìmn Hill had returned to his master. If that was the case, Silver had already told them of their promised fate. They would receive no mercy this time.
“Ye have intruded into this sacred fog on the great day of Lord Fìmn’s ascension,” one masked stranger stated in a guttural voice. “Explain yourselves.” Silver and his friends were all silent. These men were not worth their words.
The masked man hissed. “Do ye know not that this place, the Peak of Infinity, is that point from whence Thendor’il was bestowed upon the ungrateful ones? It is a sacred locale, and we need its power this day to return our master and his treasure to the heavens from whence they came.” Again, Silver and Searin did not answer.
The man pounded the spear he carried into the ground. “If ye shall not speak, I shall assume ye are enemies.” He growled. “Ye shall be brought before our master. First, he shall be your jury. Then, he shall be your judge. Finally, he shall be your executioner.” He chuckled deeply, the way people only do when they try to sound villainous. “Your bodies shall be consumed by flame and your souls shall rot forever in Yxl’s domain.” Silver glared at the irony of the fake monk’s sacrilegious words.
They had no way to tell how much time passed as they pressed on. As the monks shoved Silver and his companions along, a cunning plan began to form in Silver’s mind. At the point where the fog was too thick to see further, he established a mental link with Niri. Niri, are you well?
Indeed, Derith. They have not hurt us too severely. They struck Searin unconscious, but he is awake now.
I have a plan, he said cryptically.
And what is that plan? Niri questioned.
Silver tried as best as he could to smile ironically. First, he replied after some seconds, I shall be their jury. Then, I shall be their judge. Finally... I shall be their executioner. Niri, having not heard the cruel statement the false priest made before, did not reply.
The march continued for a lengthy time. Silver’s skin was rubbed raw by rough edges of the cuffs. He could have broken them or wriggled out in a heartbeat if not for his plan to save the bow and his friends. For his plan to succeed, he had to let these terrorists believe he was unarmed and not dangerous.
The soldiers pushing them forward came to a brisk stop and disappeared into the mist, except for one who stood guard over the prisoners. At least a dozen other men stood around them, though it was impossible to make out their exact numbers in the fog. Their heads were bowed in hushed silence. Moments later, the first two men reappeared, this time followed by two others. The first was dressed the same as the monks.
The second also wore red but he wore a hood with a deep cowl covering his head. In this mage’s hands, sat a small globe glowing with a milky gray light. That orb is the source of this fog, Niri sent to Silver, who had drawn the same conclusion.
A final man appeared wearing a red cloak with a plate of mail and a black helmet with ebony horns. His eyes were deep set, full of ire and spite. As Silver stared at this imposing soldier, he knew this was the man pretending to be the deity Fìmn reincarnate. Truthfully, from his horned helmet to his bald head to his impressive bulk that still managed to fit within his shimmering, green-painted plate, he looked like every depiction of Fìmn Silver had seen.
Except for one crucial difference. The real Fìmn was supposed to be benevolent, a hero of the people who spent his life helping his fellow men not only survive but thrive. This man’s eyes bore none of the compassion the sainted ancient was renowned for. Instead, his eyes pulsed with his insatiable desires for vengeance. Silver would make sure vengeance was, in fact, served, but it would not be in the way this obvious pretender desired.
“Fìmn” took out the crimson shaft of Thendor’il. He stroked his hand along the bow as an elderly woman would a cat. “Ye were found traversing in the holy mist on the day of my ascension.” The man’s voice was crisp, almost soothing. He had surely used his charisma to lure the red clad monks to his cult and convince them of his divinity. Silver would never hearken to his sly facade.
The man walked along the foursome. “Pray tell, for what purpose have ye not answered my monks?” he asked. He waited a moment for an answer, but again, none came. He clicked his tongue. “If ye are unable to speak, simply nod your heads, and I shall allow you to watch my ascension before your execution.” Silver raised his own chin in defiance.
The pretender came especially close to Silver, so close that he could smell the man’s sickeningly sweet breath. “So ye are here to attempt to stop me.” He shook his head. “Good. This shall only make my ascension sweeter. All godly men have been persecuted and driven by those who ought to be their inferiors. This merely proves to the doubters the verity of my divinity.” He let out a short but cutting bark of laughter.
He looked Silver in the eyes. “I am guessing from that vain posturing and your strong build that thou art the leader?” he asked calmly. “How dost thou explain thine actions?” Silver extended his neck, not outside the normal Human limits, but enough to bite the pretender’s long, beak-like nose.
The Fìmn pretender drew back a pace in shock, but it was not three seconds before he raised his left hand and smote Silver across his face. The impact tore into his very being as he focused on keeping the Ladris Unit hidden.
“How do you explain your actions, knave?” he repeated. All calmitude in his voice was now gone. Without even giving Silver a chance to respond. another sharp rasp exploded over his face. He held onto his consciousness and his natural form with his strength. “If thou shalt not answer me, the almighty Fìmn, you must be agents of Yxl. I, the Mighty Hunter, have spent my life destroying such as thee. It is not becoming of a god to spare thee. Thy blood shall act as fuel to light the pyre which shall raise me to the heavens.”
Silver used his strength to stare through the fog, past “Fìmn”. A large pile of sticks had been organized into a giant tent-shaped formation. The man intended to burn himself along with Thendor’il.
“Well?” the false deity yelled. He landed one more resounding slap on Silver’s cheek. Silver gasped, his head slumping down. He was barely able to constrain his mark against the intense pain. He hoped he would still have enough strength remaining to do as he planned.
“Wishest thou to say any final prayers unto me, or beg for my forgiveness? Perhaps, I, the great hunter, will be merciful, and your execution shall be swift and painless.”
There was silence for almost a minute. Silver, his head facing down but not out of deference began to chuckle. This soon turned into an all-out laugh. He smiled, keeping his eyes closed. “I was raised on these legends,” he started in a deep voice. “I was taught from my youth of the kindness of the gods. The gods would never execute men dedicated to their service, as you did at the shrine. The gods would never punish mankind when even a small few still believe in them. The gods would never act in haste but would certainly warn the people time and time again before smiting them with their wrath. Clearly, you are no god.”
Fìmn growled an otherworldly growl. “First, the monks who did not recognize their master when he appeared. Now two lowly simpletons and a child dare to make a mockery of me? My revenge shall be swift and absolute.” The man slapped Silver again, but this time, he hit against a hard and hot surface like a burning coal. He recoiled in pain as his hand shook from the impact. “What... what are you?” the man wondered, his pompous air diffused.
“You asked if I would beg for your forgiveness,” Silver replied in a slow, deep voice. “Here is my answer:” Silver slowly raised his head and opened his blood red eyes. “I will never bow to a monster like you!”
His hair became stark white and flickered like fire. He hissed like a snake and lashed out with his long, forked tongue. His skin became coated in black scales from his neck to his feet. From every finger protruded a long, glossy obsidian blade. Fìmn staggered back a pace as Silver snapped free of the chains.
He paused for a moment and breathed deeply. He was going to do this for all people, not just for himself. He would not allow himself to kill for the wrong reasons. His eyes gray again, he said in his somewhat higher but still powerful baritone, “For mass murder, attempted genocide, heresy and a host of other crimes I’m sure are too numerous to count, I Derith Sylvarado, defender of mankind, do hereby find you guilty, and sentence you to death by combat.” He smirked. “Draw your weapons, not that they’ll do you any good against me.”
He flashed like a bolt of lightning and disappeared for a moment in the mist. As he rematerialized, his claws struck through the mage. The fog globe fell from his lifeless hands and shattered on the rocky ground. As the orb broke, the fog cleared, and a number of Fìmn’s supporters began to back away from the sword-nailed wraith.
Silver slipped easily from them and cut his friends free in one stroke each. They acted immediately. Searin drew the blade the monks had been foolish enough to leave him with and swung it through the nearest guard. Que-Que assumed his monster form and impaled two men with his acidic fangs. Niri stood completely still, his purple robe flapping in the breeze making him look almost the most menacing of all.
“Hold your ground, friends,” Fìmn called out. “This is your master’s final wish. Slay these Yxlites where they stand.”
The soldiers each carried a large buckler in one hand, a heavy pike in the other, and a steel bow with a matching quiver on their back. Though they were armed, their hands shook, and their legs shivered. Silver tore through three waiting soldiers before they were able to even fully draw their weapons. He crushed their weapons underneath his feet, so no unarmed men could draw them. His sheer strength shattered the metal spearheads and bows into useless scrap.
Archers surrounded Searin on either side. An arrow flew at him, but he was able to step to the side and slash the head with his sword. He spun in a wide arc, chopping through both archers’ chests in one easy motion. All the archers were surprised at this small man’s strength and reflexes. They began to back away from him as well.
An archer aimed at Niri. Silver dove through the air and crashed down through the man’s exposed back with his claws. Niri shook his head. I will have you know, Derith, that I am more than capable of defending myself, and you as well.
Silver heard a scratching sound to his right and wheeled around to face it. Before he could react to the three men who had decided to team up on him, they all suddenly froze in their tracks. Silver only watched as the three archers’ eyes turned a deep shade of violet and they began fighting each other. Two died in less than a minute and the last, seeing his “enemies” had fallen, ran in terror from the other shadowy illusions Niri had put into his head. Silver nodded to Niri. He was surprised how powerful the Syl child really was and he was glad he did not need to defend him or worse, fight him.
Que-Que whipped his tail around and used it to bite through the neck of an archer. He spat at another one, melting the man’s skin and clothes together. The poor man screamed and crawled away in agony, his flesh burning from the acid.
Seven soldiers remained standing. Silver slashed his claws through two of the survivors in a single thrust. Fearful for their lives, the few remaining followers ran haphazardly down the hill. Their faith in the pretender was not strong enough to dare risking their own lives against these uncanny enemies.
Silver resumed his natural form, letting his Ladris Unit blaze triumphantly. Before he could think about anything else, an arrow, shimmering red in the warm sun, struck him through the heart.
