It was then the last Reaver attacked.
Alaric barely dodged the first swing. His vision swam, but he held his ground despite the strength that fled with each deflected blow.
If you fall, your people will perish.
With a cry of rage, he spun past the Reaver's stabbing attack. The ebony blade grazed his armor, parting it like rotted fabric. Ignoring the shallow gash it opened across his side, he swiftly counterattacked. Mothros flashed, cleaving through the Reaver's armored forearm with ease. The severed member struck the flooded ground, still clutching the massive sword.
Undaunted, the Reaver struck with its other gauntleted fist. Alaric felt his ribs crack as he sailed backwards. He struck the muddy ground hard, skidding until he tumbled into a wide, overflowing puddle. Half submerged, he sputtered and groggily lifted his head.
The towering apparition was barely visible in the pouring rain, but it stalked toward Alaric in an unhurried manner, producing another weapon from behind its back. The razor-edged scythe was long and wickedly curved, gleaming dully when the lightning flashed. The Reaver's steps squelched, splattering mud and water as it advanced. Greenish light wafted from the stub where its forearm had been, but the wound was either unfelt or ignored. The Reaver's eyes flared behind the helm, matching the lightning that flashed as it raised the dripping scythe blade.
Alaric rose, catching the weapon as it fell. The wind howled as he grappled with the towering death-knight. The storm beat against them, tossing their garments and pounding them with stinging rain as they struggled to overcome each other. Alaric pitted both of his arms against the Reaver's one and was still nearly outmatched.
He glared into the Reaver's ember eyes, matching hate for hate, teeth gritted in a snarl. With all the strength he had left, he pivoted and hurled the Reaver aside. It sailed some thirty spans before it crashed against the rocky hillside. A portion of the hill toppled, burying the Reaver.
Alaric exhaled a cloud of vapor, barely able to stand. His ribs pulsed, every throb of agony intensified as blood ran freely from the gash in his side. The rain beat down mercilessly, forcing him to shield his eyes and squint to see the damage.
The Reaver emerged from the rubble, shrugging off the massive stones as if they were pebbles. Raising its monstrous helm, it gazed at Alaric as though unimpressed. Hurling the debris away, it advanced; an unstoppable juggernaut that would not rest until its target perished.
Alaric stood on unsteady legs, waiting for a fate he was unable to stop. He had given everything, but the Reaver was too strong. Alaric had failed, and he would pay the price for his defeat. He prayed his people would find another way to survive. Perhaps they could find a way to prevail where he could not.
Something on the ground pulsed with light, like a glowing heartbeat.
Alaric looked down and saw Mothros, gleaming as if newly forged. It took all his concentration to focus Transference, linking his mind to the weapon. He could not use the Craft directly against the Reaver, but there were other options. A simple bind of mind and metal and the blade lifted as though by an invisible hand, humming its song of bloodlust and death.
The Reaver seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if uneasy. Alaric motioned, and the sword flashed as though it were born of the storm. One moment it hovered in the air, the next it had impaled the Reaver to the hilt.
The Reaver tottered, struggling to step forward. Its gauntleted hand outstretched toward Alaric as though its last thought was to complete its mission to destroy. The eyes flashed, and then a bellow escaped it, a roar of rage and defiance, a scream of sheer animal hate. The great helm exploded, revealing only greenish, flickering light before the armored shell crumpled in an explosion of glowing dust and smoke.
A gale-force wind shoved its way through, forcing Alaric to clutch one of the pillars to keep from being swept away. The wind died as quickly as it came, and when Alaric looked up, all remnants of the Reavers were gone as though they had never existed. Mothros remained, planted into the stones as though by a mighty hand. It flashed once more as if demanding to be used again. Alaric tottered over in obedience. He felt thin, his skin paper, his bones brittle glass. Yet he had never felt so alive, so capable of doing anything he desired. He was losing himself, he knew. He was dying.
But not yet.
Alaric turned. The Threshold entry was in front of him, the gateway that would take him to Leilavin's last place of refuge. Alaric placed Mothros on his shoulder. Its weight almost buckled his knees, but he somehow managed to stay upright. Water rushed across his boots as he ascended the vine-covered stairway. One step at a time he approached the Threshold.
One step closer to death. One step closer to salvation.
Chapter 2: Nyori
The tunnel of hand-carved stone whispered secrets from every crevice. Nyori's fingers lightly traced the roughly-hewn surface, trying to decipher its secrets. It seemed to stretch for eternity, the mouth at the end only a teasing mirage that lengthened with every forward step. Its iridescent glow beckoned; the glimmering assurance of the future that awaited at the Chamber of Pools. She had never seen them, but she knew what to expect. Water that was not water. Liquid that glimmered of its own accord. The Pools were only utilized for rites of passage. In her case, to symbolize her transition from an apprentice to an anointed Shama.
Her heart quickened at the thought. She had yearned for the day, tasted the expectation since her parents hastened to Halladen and delivered her to the Sha ten summers ago. Her village in the Steppes was quickly put behind her, a life to which she could never return. Her new life was in Halladen, the Hidden City. Buried deep in the circle of mountains centered in the vast and wild Great Steppes, it was the abode of the Sha, masters of healing arts and keepers of ancient lore.
"Do you remember, Nyori?"
Nyori glanced over her shoulder. Ayna was a comforting shadow behind her, in the tradition for the student's instructor to witness the anointment. Ayna's eyes glowed golden in the dim light beneath the wide cowl that covered her head. At one time Nyori might have found such an oddity discomforting, but she had years to become used to Ayna and all of her distinctive traits.
"Remember what?"
Ayna seemed to smile comfortingly, but Nyori couldn't tell in the darkness. "When you first came to us. Such eagerness. Many hang back from fear or unease, but not you. You tackled every new lesson as though it was your last, pestering your instructors until they finally presented you to me."
Nyori smiled at the memory. Mistress Ayna only dealt with the most talented students, and was the only instructor who could handle Nyori's insatiable desire to learn everything. Nyori quickly surpassed the other apprentices, mastering the basic skills so quickly that Ayna was practically forced to devote special training to her eager and adept pupil.
"Yet I still am not as young as you when you became a Shama, Mistress Ayna."
"Not quite. But you are the youngest we have had since my anointment. You should be proud of yourself, Nyori. I certainly am."
Nyori felt a swell of satisfaction at her mentor's words. Anya was never one to dole out gratuitous praise, something her apprentices understood all too well. While never harsh, she was rarely satisfied, always ready to wring out more from her talented pupils.