The Xethicor drew closer still, looming like the shadow of death itself. It spoke once more, a dry hiss invading Frey's mind.
"The kingdoms of men are fallen, the season of the living perishes. Your time has ended!"
The heat of the circlet then swept through Frey's body, and suddenly Faerthring burned to life once again. The blade glimmered, humming hungrily. The Xethicor stopped once more, only steps away from the prince. Frey raised his weapon.
"In the name of my father and my kingdom!" he yelled, and lunged at the Death Knight.
* * *
"Signalmaster!" yelled Vraim over the grisly cacophony raging around him. "Order the archers and reserves to the west!" He urged his steed to a gallop as colored flags rose and trumpet blasts sounded. Within moments, a rain of arrows began falling on the next wave of attackers that were threatening to decimate the western flank. The break provided was short lived, but Vraim ordered the reserve squad to shore up the expanding breach. Swiftly he joined with the commanding knight of the reserve squad and plunged with him into the midst of the oncoming Dagir Xethu.
Of the ten knights charged with leading the defense of the western flank, Vraim could only see the banners of three, and Lady Elelluin was nowhere in sight. The remaining seven knights were either slain or routed.
Even with the reserve soldiers and the support of the rear archers, Vraim knew the line would soon collapse. From the vantage of the Watch Keep, he had seen that though the enemy force was massive, they were far from limitless. However, with the eastern flank securely anchored along the Vendehar and the ferocious defense given by the Deihamen in the center, the enemy was shifting the brunt of its effort against the west.
The soldiers of the Caiste Duchy regrouped despite the missing knights, converging instead around Vraim. With savage thrusts of their broad spears they carved the enemy away from Vraim, allowing him to call the remaining knights to him.
"Collapse the western flank, fall back to the walls of Ceremane! Anchor the defensive line at the Pilgrim's gate. The enemy will aim his fury there, but will not have enough room to encircle us with Vendehar's southern exit so close to the gate."
"My captain," shouted one of the knights, Lucas. "Our forces will be too thin! Unless you mean for us to retreat into the city, we will not be able to stand long!"
"We will stand as long as if we stood here and let the Dagir Xethu encircle this position! But I mean to drive the Deihamen straight through the belly of this beast the moment the western flank is secured at the Pilgrim's Gate! Now go!"
The knights saluted, but before order could be given a savage roar rose over the surrounding clamor. Out of the thick of nearby combat a great black dragonmare leapt up and over the defenders. It landed with the speed of a great cat, its teeth biting into the neck of Sir Lucas' steed, shredding the armor. The horse collapsed, but before striking the ground the black beast snapped its jaws with such violence Lucas was hurled forward into the mass of the enemy. In moments the soldiers of death were upon him.
Vraim leapt off of his horse and fell upon the dragonmare, impaling its hindquarters with his sword. It screamed in pain and rage, spinning and thrashing at the captain. Vraim righted himself, but his weapon remained lodged in the creature.
The dragonmare crouched, but before it could leap it suddenly screamed again and was knocked over as a knight of Caiste swept in on horseback and skewered it with a lance. The monster convulsed, and died with a final exhalation of putrid steam.
Vraim dashed up to the corpse and withdrew his sword, then in a quick motion mounted his horse. As he did so he locked eyes with the knight. Lady Elelluin nodded at him, and then turned her mount back toward the combat. With a shout she rallied her troops. Her horse leapt, and she vanished back into the fray.
Captain Vraim watched her for a moment before turning to the fighting nearest him. The groans and war cries all around echoed throughout the fields. He looked to the east, and his skin grew cold. The distant forms of his prince and the Xethicor shimmered on the hill as they closed upon each other.
Thunder battered the heavens and rocked the ground as a sudden tempest swept in from the north. Hail and rain began to transform the blood-soaked land into a grim marsh of the slain.
As ordered, the shredded flank began to fall back under the relentless press of the Dagir Xethu. Vraim ordered the signalmasters to trumpet the commands telling the eastern flank and center to hold fast. Prince Frey was no longer visible, cloaked behind a veil of elemental anger.
Through the thick of the howling winds and shrieks of death Vraim spied, to the east, the white and green banner of Orodin still flying wildly in defiance of the ceaseless onslaught. Vraim turned to battle his way to the besieged Northman.
As his mount closed the distance between them, another wave of black clad enemy soldiers assaulted the retinue of Orodin, who stood atop a mound made of his fallen enemies. His deafening war cry threw back the chaos of the gale. Even the dragonmares paused before attacking him as his ax hewed relentlessly any that approached.
The swell of enemies rose about him, and for a moment the barbarian chieftain and his fellow Northmen appeared as a shining white warship tossed on a furious black sea. Vraim urged his steed to dive to the center of the attack on Orodin, wondering as he did so whether he would be permitted to join the Deihamen in the afterlife promised by their gods.
* * *
The tempest that had set upon the battle went unnoticed by Frey. The grounds his duel was now fought upon were no longer entirely of the same world. The rain and hail hissed and vanished into a haze before falling near the warriors locked in battle.
The circlet felt as though it had burned through his flesh and into his skull. He paid it no mind. His own strength had been exhausted already, and hungrily he welcomed the powers that fueled his muscles and strengthened his bones. His mind groaned as raw, elemental forces vied for entry in to empower and rule him.
Frey was doomed. He had accepted his fate. If only he could throw this beast back to Hell, he would happily join it. So be it if the price was giving his body over to the spirits that lurked behind the magical veils of the world.
The Xethicor was furious, as every mighty blow was deflected and countered. The runes along its black sword were teeming with mystical fire so that the entire weapon appeared ablaze.
Somehow Faerthring withstood each strike that could shatter steel and pulverize granite. Frey sensed his weapon was channeling the mindless mystical rage that was his only strength now. Faerthring's gleeful shouts had grown louder than the omnipresent battle dirge of the Dagir Xethu.
With speed unmatched by a mortal, the Death Knight suddenly brought his weapon up high overhead and within a moment brought it down with preternatural power. Frey lunged forward, casting aside any desire to protect himself. The Xethicor was unprepared for the unnaturally swift counterattack, and suddenly Faerthring tore through the creature's belly, impaling it completely.
The creature's attack still fell, and Frey felt the blade strike his crown. The force of the blow, on the side of his head, hurled the prince away as though he were a scarecrow dashed off in the tempest. He landed heavily, his armor crunching against the rock and dirt of the hill.
Frey rolled up on his elbows, blinking hard. Then he heard the heavy footsteps, as of a great warhorse. The Xethicor trudged toward him, Faerthring still embedded to the hilt in its gut. Suddenly it stopped, its hidden eyes casting pale blue fire which radiated from within the helmet. It seemed confounded that Frey remained alive and his head hadn't been sheared off.
Frey stood, touching his forehead. The circlet was gone. It had absorbed the lethal strike, but to its own destruction. Perhaps Frey was near death as well, because as the great Prince of Hell suddenly rose before him, he still felt no fear. He was without weapon, and without allies. He glanced over to his right, toward the hazy darkness of the withering storm and the battlefield beyond. Faintly he heard horns, and a smile touched his bloody lip
s.
The Xethicor heard it as well, and cocked its armored head.
"Bastard," spat Frey. "Do you hear that? It is the charge of Valeot. My captain is advancing against your army. They fight to the last, and you will not be able to take Ceremane." Frey closed his eyes as his own strength failed him, and he fell to one knee. He was ready to die.
* * *
Fire and smoke spun around the Watch Keep tower. Dayhoral stood in the midst of the eldritch ring as it swirled out in wider arcs. He looked down through burning eyes at the battlefield, and at the titanic battle raging between Frey and the Xethicor. There was hope, but only a glimmer.
The Dark Captains continued to try and summon unholy beasts, dragons most likely, to help in their attack. Dayhoral's might proved an unexpected obstacle, as he drew away the power of their incantations, the raw magic of which now encircled him. What few archers the Army of the Dead possessed, he quickly dispatched by hurling remnants of their own spells upon them, so the ground to the west of the Watch Keep was charred and smoldering. No mortal or dragonmare dared to approach the Keep, in part because of the fury of the confrontation between Frey and the Xethicor on the ground, and in part due to the power of Dayhoral perched on the tower above them.
Again Dayhoral looked down at his prince. His magic was now taxed, so he could lend no aid to him when he watched the Xethicor's weapon strike Frey's head. The magus then nearly fell over when he saw the prince stand again.
Now is the time for sacrifice, thought Dayhoral. Prince Frey is giving his life to buy the slightest of hope for the city. I will join him. Dayhoral raised his hands, and instead of drawing the power of the Dark Captains away and dispelling it into the night, he began an incantation to pull it within himself. Once tainted with necromantic magic, Dayhoral knew he would need to perish. But the power would be enough to lay desolate the northern fields as well as much of the eastern ranks of the enemy.
A light then spiked afar off on the western horizon. It was dim for a moment, and though surely hundreds of leagues away, the thin spire of fire burned Dayhoral's eyes, and he turned away. Suddenly the world faded, and the wizard felt his mind slip into nothingness.
* * *
Dayhoral heard the familiar roar of the monolithic waters of life. He found himself standing upon a great horn of gray, wet stone. This was no small island, as when he saved Frey from death, but a jagged cliff that broke out from the falls. All around the cliff the waters plunged down into oblivion. As before no moon or other celestial emissary could be seen, but one other stood with him upon the rocky outcropping.
Standing on the edge of the rock, only a pace from the nothingness, was the thin form of a man. He wore a silver robe, bound at the waist with a silver belt. No hair rested upon his head, but the skin was covered with archaic and eldritch tattoos.
"Master?" called Dayhoral.
Layarax the Great turned and faced his apprentice. His eyes, crystal blue like Frey's, were hidden by deep shadow. His once gray beard was now snow white. He opened his mouth to speak, but before uttering a word the great promontory shuddered. The ground slipped, feeling as though it would plunge into the deathly abyss. It halted suddenly, bringing Dayhoral to his knees. The form of Layarax remained standing.
"Like an eagle the night is upon me," said the elder wizard. "My time has come. Listen!"
Dayhoral stifled the question on his lips. Layarax's form was still then, the shadowy features seemingly lost in thought. The apprentice sensed turmoil within his master. When he spoke, his words were sharp, bringing to mind an eternity of lessons from decades prior.
"The battle upon the western plains is won, but at great cost. The army of Valeot has been decimated, her princes slain, and the magi exhausted to the point of ruin." The wizard paused as the ground again seemed to give way briefly. A thunderous crack reverberated through the ground.
"And though you and the Lord Prince Frey have fought valiantly, Ceremane is on the verge of ruin. The Xethicor that leads the Dagir Xethu against you is bent on laying waste, not conquest. It is true the enemy severely underestimated your power, Dayhoral. I could see from afar that the denizens of the Dark Kings have been unable to conjure their hellish servants to aid them, and for that the Xethicor will surely confront you as soon as he destroys Prince Frey."
Again the ground quaked, and another massive crack rent the earth. The promontory lurched forward, pitching over toward the blackness below. Dayhoral clawed at a great stone beside him and held on. He glanced down the side and saw the unfathomable waters roaring so near into nothingness. Layarax called him back.
"My son, you are needed here. Listen!" Dayhoral shook his head and looked upon his master.
"Behold, I send you deliverance now for a brief time. Your courage, and the valor of the prince and the armies defending the great city, have bought time. I will work my last great spell... indeed, I work it now. But this is the most crucial, Dayhoral." Layarax stepped forward, and his blue eyes were ablaze. The ground rumbled, and he halted after his first step. He raised his hand and reached out to Dayhoral.
"The Prince of Graves is truly upon you. His time is now, the fulfillment of his coming is nigh."
"My lord, how? If we repel..."
"And the twilight of the mortal kingdoms comes with him." Layarax bowed his head.
Dayhoral became aware of a disquieting, alien illumination around them. A pale, pure light fell like dew, the source unseen in the sky but evidenced by a retreating blackness. The elder wizard did not move, and seemed to shrink.
"Behold, the coming doom," said Layarax.
At first Dayhoral could see nothing but the thick darkness beyond the falls, and hear nothing but raging waters. Then suddenly a horizon, a thin white line, loomed in the distance. Dayhoral strained, looking but not comprehending. The horizon grew more defined, and could now be discerned extending left and right, infinitely in either direction. Horror seized the young wizard as his mind struggled to understand. He looked at the falls that beckoned beneath him, greedily waiting for Layarax to feed it with his life. He knew these falls awaited all one day.
But what was this he now saw? The great waters fell into eternity... wait! There, in the lesser dark that now shrouded this world between life and death, a faint glimmer of an ocean could be seen. A vast chaotic expanse of black water so far below that entire storms could be seen from the precipice upon which he stood. As terrible and wondrous as this was, Dayhoral felt the awful draw of the misty white horizon. He scanned over the tumultuous ocean and then knew what he was seeing.
"You see truth," Layarax said at length. "These great falls beneath us are the end of life. But now, all life approaches the greater falls, the end of everything. The vision is certain. All that lives now approaches oblivion."
"By the gods, Layarax," stammered Dayhoral.
"This end consumes gods as well, it would seem." Layarax at last lifted his head. The light in his eyes had extinguished, and the rock they stood upon started to shake violently.
"My dear apprentice," said Layarax tenderly. "I have no counsel for this. Before all of creation faces extinction, great things will come to pass. My parting words to you are simple. Guard the great knowledge you have learned, for it is your greatest weapon. But, be willing to cast it all aside should wisdom bless you with salvation." Layarax then closed his eyes and bowed his head. Dayhoral opened his mouth to speak, but as the ground gave way beneath them both, his sight was covered at first by the choking mist of the falls, then by blackness.
* * *
From the collapsing Tower of Layarax, the great spire of blue fire soared into the sky. The clouds and tempest fled as it climbed higher into the heavens. It arced, dividing the sky between the captive sun and moon before racing toward Ceremane and the carnage on the northern fields. The earth beneath was filled with dark blue shadows and terrified men, those of Valeot and the Necromancer Kingdoms. The Dagir Xethu assault slowed, and as the great fire came closer and closer, some broke
ranks and began to flee back to the north.
Standing before the Watch Keep, the Xethicor stood and watched the approach of the heavenly fire. It turned its head down the hill to look upon the battlefield. Though the war still raged, the defensive lines were not moving, and the rear ranks of the Dagir Xethu were ragged as deserters fled the coming judgment. The Xethicor turned back to Frey, who watched it intently.
Frey rose to his feet. He felt life in his bones again, but the terror of the Xethicor rose with it. There was no fight left in him, no strength. With the August Kingdom spared, his last wish was to die standing as he looked the beast in the eyes.
The Xethicor hesitated, and Frey could see the sky fire hurtling toward them. Frey laughed. It was a raspy, quiet laugh, but it was in mockery of the thing that sought to kill him. They would both perish now.
I am victorious, thought Frey. And then, with all the strength he could rally, he bellowed at the Xethicor.
"I am victorious!"
The creature silently regarded him. Then, to Frey's wonder, the creature knelt. In its hideous voice, like the echo of a tomb, it mocked him.
"My Prince," it said. Then the great bolt of fire fell upon them, rending the earth and demolishing the great hill. Frey felt the ground convulse and vanish. Rock and dirt tumbled with him as he realized the entire cliff face was disintegrating from beneath him and the Watch Keep.
The Xethicor, ablaze with the blue fire, was cast forward and fell into the deep chasm, disappearing into the shadowy ravine and the mighty Lhorost. As it fell the creature issued a horrible laughter that cursed the grounds below.
Frey's body slammed into a suddenly unearthed ledge. Even as he felt ribs break under his armor he clawed at the edge that ran along the top side of it. But though he held firm, all the earth about him continued its slide down into the ravine. An unearthly sense of displacement filled his insides, and suddenly Frey was loosed from the earth, and he too plunged into the shadows below.