The thought gave Khazerai pause, just as he was also resisting an insane urge to go out there and to see if he could lend a hand. Direct confrontation had never been his style, he always preferred using the more subtle arts to achieve his goals and, failing that, following up with the army. But it would appear that my army is in the process of being routed, which doesn’t leave many options. Flight wasn’t an option, for even if he could make it out of the Ebon Citadel, his face was known throughout the empire, for in a moment of supreme egotism several years ago he had ordered his own face placed on all the coins-well, that, and to stop the rampant counterfeiting that had been happening. Regardless, he wouldn’t be able to go as far as the next county without being caught. Surrender? Not likely, as they no doubt would tear him limb from limb before he could even reach trial, assuming that they would even bother with such a formality, and not just try to burn him alive.
Khazerai tried to concentrate, as something about the legends of the people was niggling at his mind, something about the stories of the heroes who, no matter what the odds were against them, always managed to defeat evil at the end. Impossible odds, odds like-
– Exactly like what has been stacked against this boy from the very beginning, he thought. And he has come through all of it not without difficulty, but he has vanquished everything in his path to destroy me.
The thought rocked Khazerai. Could it be true, could they somehow be caught up in a cycle that was larger than the both of them, the endless struggle of good versus evil? Could there be a force beyond men, beyond the gods, beyond even his incredible comprehension, that somehow ensured that evil was defeated in every confrontation, no matter how long it took?
If this is true, that would certainly explain my odd impulses lately, he thought. But if that was the case here, how would he manage to salvage victory from what looked like certain defeat?
Before he could even begin to contemplate the answer to that question, the huge double doors burst open, and his trusted lieutenant backed into the room, valiantly fending off what could only be the assistant pig keeper’s son, now clad in gleaming chain mail and swinging a shining sword like a man possessed. The fighting pair was followed by several other men from both sides, all cursing and hacking at each other with crimson-streaked blades. Khazerai stood up as the approaching battle spilled toward him.
Although Khazerai’s lieutenant was a most capable warrior, he had also suffered several other wounds during the fighting, and was now hard pressed to defend against the crusader’s relentless assault. As Khazerai watched, the young man slashed his henchman across the wrist, disarming him, then beat down his shield with hammering blows, driving him to the ground. The lieutenant’s shield arm buckled, and his battered armor fell to the side, exposing his chest and head. The young warrior raised his sword to finish him off, and when his sword was just about to come down, Khazerai spoke.
“Don’t kill him, if you please. After all, it’s me you really want.”
At the sound of his voice, the young man started and looked up. When that happened, Khazerai’s lieutenant managed to draw a small blade from the back of his shield and glanced up at his liege’s face, waiting for the command to strike.
Khazerai shook his head just enough to negate his man’s intended action. He felt it more strongly now; the sense that theirs was a battle that had raged for centuries, millennia even, since before the dawn of time itself. He knew how this would play out, indeed, how it must play out for the cycle to continue. And strangely, he was content with this. After all, I had a good run, he thought. Perhaps it is time to pass the torch on.
What? Absolutely not! another part of his mind said. This is not how it will all end, accepting this fate like a mewling lamb to the slaughter.
But how am I to defeat him then? Khazerai thought. Everything is on his side, the army, the gods, momentum-
And in a trice Khazerai had the answer. He nodded to the young man, who was breathing hard with his exertions as he stood there in his armor the likes of which this world had not seen for hundreds of years. Seeing the glint of wildness in his enemy’s eye, he chose his next words carefully. “You have defeated my army, and destroyed all that have come against you. Now you have me at your mercy.” He spread his arms, palms up, out in a show of submission. “Congratulations, you have won.”
“Not yet I haven’t,” the young man snarled, raising his sword again. “Not until your foul stain is erased from this world!”
Before anyone could move, the young man bounded up the steps to the dais of the Throne of Black Blades and stabbed Khazerai in the chest, right through the heart. “With the Sword of Laighmon, granted to me by the gods themselves, I strike you down. And before you die, know that Ardon, son of Laot the pig tender, was the one that destroyed you.”
Even through his pain, Khazerai couldn’t help smiling at the boy’s theatrics. “So… be… it.”
The youth pulled his sword out, and with dazzling speed, whirled and beheaded Khazerai in one smooth, powerful stroke. The despot’s head bounced down the steps to land facing the young warrior, his eyes open in sightless accusation. The headless body fell back into the chair, the jet of blood from the neck already subsiding.
The young warrior turned to the assembled soldiers before him. “People of the Yulen Empire, your suffering is at an end. Your cruel overlord is no more, and today heralds a new dawn of peace and tranquility-”
He might have gone on like that for hours if Khazerai’s body hadn’t risen from the chair behind him, grabbed the young man’s sword out of his hand, and lopped off his golden-haired head in one stroke. As the young man’s cranium bounced to the ground, Khazerai’s body kicked the shaking torso off the dais and strode to where his head lay. Everyone watched, aghast, as the body dropped the sword of the gods, picked up its head and set it on top of his neck again. As the men in the room stared, the flesh of Khazerai’s neck knitted together, drawing the wound closed until there was just a thin red line marking the injury, and in a few seconds, that was gone as well. The hideous gash on his chest had already closed up as well, leaving no trace that he had ever been cut at all. The men all knelt down on the floor, first his own, then the soldiers of the former enemy army, each one prostrating themselves before him.
He walked over to his lieutenant and motioned him up with one hand, then addressed the rest of the men in the room. “Go forth and let the rest of your people know that your leader is dead, and if they lay down their arms right now, I will be merciful. However, this is not negotiable, and they have, oh, about five minutes to decide. Now get out of here.”
The vanquished men wasted no time in scrambling out of the throne room, Khazerai’s intense gaze following them the entire way. Swiveling his head back and forth, he tested the muscles in his neck, feeling them stretch and pop as he moved. He rubbed his jaw, which throbbed when he touched it. That’s going to bruise nicely, he thought. Picking up the once shining sword, he wasn’t surprised to see that it was just an ordinary weapon, with no magic about it at all. Dropping it, he glanced over at the quivering body of the young warrior, blood now staining his once-gleaming armor a blackish-red, and shook his head.
“What part of ‘Khazerai the Undying’ didn’t you understand?”