Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

For a long time, Brinn slumped against the sword in his belly; white-hot agony burned in the center of his mind. Finally, slowly, the pain diminished, coalescing into two concentrated spots of pain; one running through his stomach, the other radiating outward from his left breast. When he found the strength to open his eyes, Brinn saw only the blackened and blistering scar on his chest and the trickling of blood from his belly. A dark red line of caked fluid ran down his breeches and into a dark red pool at his feet. He felt light-headed. The pain from the branding upon his chest was excruciating. He tried to clear his head. His ears still rang from the echoes of tramping iron shoes. He remembered now the whips the passing trolls had used on him, cutting his battered body even more. Those hurts ached dully behind the greater pain from his belly and chest, but he lacked the power to even heal those smaller welts.

Suddenly an image formed in Brinn’s mind. He saw his beloved R’ille again, and heard the words she spoke as she gave up her soul in the attempt to save his life. That memory brought new strength to his battered form. He could not let her sacrifice be in vain.

With tremendous effort, he raised his head and looked through sweaty blonde locks to see the end of the enemy line marching up the span. Legion was last, bringing up the rear. Seeing his mortal enemy brought more strength to Brinn’s limbs. He raised his arms behind him until his wrists rubbed against the protruding tip of Yllirin. He rubbed the chains that bound him against the blade, but the iron links would not yield. He knew only one choice remained. He moved his left wrist to the blade’s edge and began a sawing motion against it. He slammed his head back against the wooden stake; eyes closed tightly, tears running from their pinched lids. He cried out as he continued rubbing his wrist against the blade.

Moments later, the Nyakil severed his hand at the wrist. It and the chain fell to the ground behind the stake. Brinn brought his right hand forward, along with the bloody stump of his left and found the hilt of the Nyakil against his belly. He pushed against the pommel with his palm and the stump of his other arm. He cried out from the pain, but felt Yllirin begin to move backward. Inch by inch, be pushed the sword away, using thrusting the weight of his body, he lunged away from the stake and all the way to the hilt of the sword. After several more tries, at last, sword and body fell free of the post.

As Brinn lay in the dirt, he grasped his blade and withdrew it from his body. He crawled to the back of the post and retrieved his hand and held it to his bloody stump. Closing his eyes, he willed the healing power within to ignite. Now that the Nyakil was no longer in him, his healing power rose up and flooded his stomach and limbs with a healing force. Bone and muscle, sinew and skin began growing together, and in a moment his body was whole again. A white scar ran the circumference of his left wrist, but his hand worked. His stomach wound closed, and no scar could be seen. Only the pentagram brand remained. The skin was healed, but in an ugly scar, and the pain of that wound radiated still. No healing power could quench that fire or cover that scar.

Brinn staggered to his feet, the world around him swimming. He tried to focus on the departing image of the Nil'Ganash, and he stumbled toward it, finding himself stepping up on to the crystal span. Something against his right leg burned. His strength was giving out, screaming for sleep; for rest. He fell once more to his knees. His adversary was getting away. He screamed at the departing form.

Legion turned at the sound and saw that the Illuminar prisoner was somehow free from the stake and had reached the beginning of the crystal bridge. He couldn’t help but smile malevolently as he imagined the unbearable pain of that feat. He watched the Immortal stumble and fall to his knees, relishing for a moment that the Illuminar was too weak to do anything to stop the enemy marching toward Illianor. Still, Legion was torn. He wanted to be there when his master began the slaughter of the Gathâni, but he didn’t want to leave the prisoner loose. He paused, watching the Immortal and considering his options.

The burning at Brinn’s right leg was worse. He tried to stay focused on the Nil'Ganash at the top of the span but the pain at his right leg commanded all his attention. “What in curses is that?” he muttered aloud. The pain was nothing compared to what he had endured in the last hour, but like the buzzing of a sand-biter fly, Brinn couldn’t ignore it. He reached down to the source of the pain, and was shocked at what he felt. Tucked down inside of his right boot was some kind of stick. The Zor! The wand of Fire! His mind grew clear with the revelation.

Brinn was instantly lucid. Arazor, the wand of Fire was still tucked in his hip boot, where he placed it after R’ille gave it to him. How had his captors missed it? They had relieved him of his Nyakil immediately upon capture, but had never bothered to check for anything smaller than a dagger. It was a tragic mistake that Brinn sought to use to his advantage. He drew out the wand and pointed it at Legion. The surge of power in his hand was electrifying. His alertness was fading again and he couldn’t stay focused. He fell forward on his face, unable to stay upright.

Legion scowled when he saw the wand.

“Ach sada ara’i la Shaitan!”

By the fires of Lucifer!

Legion couldn’t believe it. He never thought to look for a wand on the prisoner, assuming the Illuminar would have used had he possessed it. Now the Nil’Ganash’s next move was plain: Retrieve the wand.

“Uzzan!” Legion said, mastering himself.

Fool!

The Gathân was obviously too weak to use it, and powerless to harm him with it anyway. The Nil'Ganash walked back toward the downed Immortal. Pleased with the thought of recovering another of the master’s wands.

Brinn lay upon his side, the wand in his outstretched hand. He found he didn’t have the strength to rise. He tried to remember how R’ille had called forth the power of the wand, but the answer was lost to him.

“Ár-Ádun, help me!”

His sight was beginning to fade. He was losing consciousness. Now all he could see was the wand in his hand, just a few feet in front of his eyes. What was that, he wondered? Something was happening where his hand lay. He shook his head and focused, and saw that where the wand touched the crystal bridge, a small liquid pool was forming. Of course! Brinn remembered Lorelai’s words to R’ille:

“… only one who has given his soul to the Demon Lord can wield a wand of the elements. Anyone else would fail, because the wand would simply use its power to seek out and subdue the power of the other wands!”

That was it! The wand was reacting to the object created by another of its kind. The wand was melting the bridge! It was subduing the magic that had created the bridge, subduing the magic of the wand of Earth.

With almost the last of his strength, Brinn raised the red wand and stabbed it down into the crystal span. Instantly, it reacted against the magic of its sister wand, and started turning the crystal span to liquefied glass. The wand erupted into flame and fed upon the crystal, melting it. The fire spread instantly, and there was nothing that could halt the cancelling effect of the red magic. Brinn turned and rolled off the span onto the edge of the cliff just before the space beneath him melted away, falling in diamond-like drops into the void below.

He raised his head and saw the Nil'Ganash running toward him. He saw him flap upward on giant black wings as the span beneath his feet melted away. Beyond the violet fiend, the first of the Demon Lord’s troops began plummeting along with the molten glass, their screams fading as the fell into the abyss. Brinn saw the Nil'Ganash turn in horror to see his army plummeting to their deaths. He heard the Nil'Ganash scream in horror at the loss. He was too weak to feel elation, too weak to even care. He felt his life slipping away.

On the opposite side of the chasm, R’ille and the rest of the Illuminar prepared for the assault by the Demon Lord. Just before the black figure stepped off the bridge, a rumbling began. R’ille thought it was some other arcane magic being thrown at them, but then she heard the screams. They were faint at first, but rose in intensity like a tidal wave reaching its crest. She realized that the screaming was coming from behind the Demon Lord; from his own troops. R’ille watched the advancing transformation of the bridge. It was changing from a solid to a liquid. Something was melting the bridge, turning it to molten glass.

“What—” the Demon Lord cried as he looked behind, and then the moving wave of molten glass reached him. The Demon Lord seldom assumed solid form, for he was vulnerable in that guise. Today, It proved to be his undoing. The crystal span dissolved from under his feet. The Demon Lord fell into the chasm.

The wail froze the hearts of all who heard it, as Lucifer and his horde fell into the depths. The cry faded into the gloom below. In seconds, it was over. Only the gargoyles remained, and they turned in horror and flapped off to the east, no longer thinking of battle but only running from what they guessed was certain death. In an instant all sign of the enemy was gone.

R’ille was speechless, while the Illuminar rejoiced. After a few moments, she felt an arm around her. It was wild-haired Dártan.

“I’m sorry, R’ille, for Brinn’s loss. He was your husband and my friend. I pray that in time, your pain will be less. But for now, take heart: Because of your sacrifice and his, we are free of the Demon Lord!” He gathered her hands in glad triumph.

“No,” R’ille said with tears as she pulled away. “Not free; just spared for a time.”

Dártan was puzzled. “How can you know this?”

R’ille wiped away the tears that fell in memory of her lost husband. “I have lost the voice of the Kalláh, but I remember its words.”

“Yes,” Dártan acknowledged. “Because of your Kalláh we were led here and saved.”

“But my Kalláh said other things, too. There was one thing it spoke to me over and over again these last days; something that I have kept to myself.”

“What did it say?”

“It said, ‘Await the Messiah, who will deliver you!’”

Dártan pondered her words for a moment. “Methinks we have just witnessed that, R’ille! I believe it was the work of the Messiah that caused the crystal span to fail. The Messiah must be here, in Illianor! We must search Him out!”

“No, He is not here. Not yet. I know this because of what else the Kalláh said. ‘Await the Messiah,’ it said, ‘who will be proclaimed by the Seer, who is of the Avanyar.’”

Dártan stood next to R’ille and was quiet for a moment. Around them, crowds were dancing and singing. Finally, he spoke.

“The Messiah will be proclaimed by an Avanyar?”

R’ille nodded. “Though we now lie upon Illianor, safe from all harm by the Demon Lord, our fate lies still entwined with those we left on the far side. Our fate lies with the Avanyar, our mortal allies and friends, who lie, now unreachable, in the land we have abandoned.”

R’ille looked out across the vast chasm, and thought of the mortal Avanyar and of her husband Brinn, both now beyond her aid. She searched within for her Kalláh, for the voice that could have told her that Brinn still lived. The voice was silent. Gone. Only the wailing of demons whispered in the depths of her mind, mourning their master’s passing.

Far across the chasm, the object of R’ille’s thoughts lay at the edge of the cliff. The screams in Brinn’s ears had subsided. His vision was almost gone, but he could still see the sun shining on the tallest of peaks of the land on the far side of the chasm. All else was quiet; just the wind whistling at the edge of the chasm, as it ever did. It was as if nothing evil had ever disturbed this quiet part of the world.

Brinn thought of R’ille, and wondered if she and the Illuminar had made it across before the collapse of the span. He lay there, trying to stay focused on the far away peaks, but the world around him faded to black, and he remembered no more.