Part Two of my story. 3nodding Quite a bit longer, I'm sorry if that bothers everybody. The majority of this chapter is memories that Vence suddenly recalls.
A King of Lowly Stature
Part II: Stirrings - A Fire Rekindled
The world was silent now, in the grey dawn. Only the sound of the wind and what little fire still burned disturbed the silence. Destruction was the only thing seen. The city walls were smashed, the city itself was all but gone, and the castle on the hill yonder was empty. Sreael was fallen, and as far as Vence could tell, only he and Alysia remained there.
Vence had stayed all night beside her, not bothering to move her, or to leave. Somehow, they had avoided being crushed, burned, and/or meeting death at the hands of a Nitemare. The Nitemares seemed to have gone away, but their being there was visible. Especially since Vence could still see a scythe’s blade sticking up from amongst the rubble in front of him. Nitemares; they actually existed not in legend, but reality. Their power was indeed frightening, to paralyze their prey in fear, then consume their souls, gaining sustenance and giving birth to a new God-forsaken creature.
What caused this destruction? Or rather, who caused it? This was an attack; nothing else explains it.
Vence sighed; a heavy laden, sad sigh. Too many people had died, too many homes destroyed. An entire country would soon fall apart that had once stood higher than all the others, with just and fair order. Why was this world as cruel as it was? It was a question that could never truly be answered. What could he do? He glanced at Alysia, now sleeping with her head on his lap.
All I can do now is…protect her, Vence said to himself. That was all he could do now, until something could be done.
Vence pulled out his cloak from his bag, and folded it neatly, sliding it in place of his leg as he pulled himself away from Alysia. She stirred only a little, then remained as passive as before, as Vence stood up to stretch, having not done so all night. The morning was progressing steadily, and the sun, shining red, was just showing its face on the horizon. The shadows cast onto the ground made the city an eerie place. Oh, how once before by now the city would be bustling with activity, only yesterday.
There was nothing that could be done. Vence grabbed his bag, a couple feet away from him, and pulled out a roll of bread. He broke it in half and ate silently and slowly, putting the other piece away for Alysia when she awoke.
Well, now that…well, this, had happened, what was he going to do? He was a smith apprentice, or rather, was until yesterday. No doubt traveling around would be a given. Could he get a job, or complete his training under someone else? And what about Alysia? She certainly couldn’t do much on her own either. At their age, both fifteen, Vence soon to be sixteen, no one would help them on the streets of some other city. They would have to work to get what they needed.
And what happened here could happen anywhere else, Vence realized. If that was the case, could he and Alysia run to each town, warning the nobles and those of royal stature about the danger? Surely not in time. And then the question came into his mind again; “who had done that?” That had been magic, no doubt about that, but that was far too powerful for any normal being. Such power on such a massive scale, to bring down more than half the capitol city… Whoever did it, he, or she, was very dangerous.
How does anyone compete to that? Vence asked himself. Maybe several magic users could do something, but that required serious precision and concentration. Most likely, the attempt would fail. It had to be a one-on-one confrontation.
Vence suddenly chuckled, amused at how, already, he was planning ahead. How could he know the future? For all he knew, no one could help. He stopped short when Alysia stirred once again; this time, though, she awoke, if slowly. Though her eyes were closed, he could see she was awake; her breathing had quickened, the most obvious observation. Vence turned away, pretending not to notice.
A few minutes later, she opened her eyes, blinked a few times, and sat up. Vence decided now to notice her awakening.
“Morning. How’re you feeling?” Vence asked, dropping the unneeded act, now looking concerned. Why wouldn’t he be? After all, she had cried for hours right where she was sitting, until she had fallen asleep. He could guess she had had nightmares, as well. She took a few moments before answering.
“I guess I’m ok,” she said. He could tell by “ok” she meant “I’m not much in the mood for anything right now.” Vence nodded in understanding, and pulled out the other half-roll of bread.
“Here, eat this. It’s not much, but it’s something,” he said, a little guilty for not securing more food. They only had a few roles of bread, and potatoes, and then they would be out. Rationing would be necessary.
She looked at the bread for a second, then at him. She smiled, despite the sorrow he could still see in her, and took the bread, thanking him as she took a small bite.
“So,” She said, finishing her first bite, “What now?” She turned her head to face the wreckage. “Now that… well…” She lowered her head, unable to finish her sentence as tears crept in again. Vence crawled over to where she sat, once again there just to try to help.
“I have no idea,” Vence answered. “I have several options laid out, but nothing specific.”
“How about you just lie down and die?” A voice said from behind. As soon as the voice had spoken, Vence once again felt a paralyzing sensation, but this time only for a moment. He felt something, as if heated, on his back, and knew what it was. The sword; did it have some sort of power? Vence stood up slowly, somehow recognizing the voice. How he did, he did not know. Alysia looked at him, not turning around to see the speaker. Her expression showed fear quite obviously, and Vence nodded in hoping that some comfort could be given through that.
“Vence Elserain. How many times have we encountered each other in our previous lives? Ten times, fifteen times? You really are starting to piss me off, kid,” the man finished, sounding as if he was disgusted. Vence turned around, and looked upon the man for the first time. Instantly, he knew; this was the one who started everything. The man was tall, and looked to be middle aged. He was well built, but that was based on his stance, and what he was wearing; full armor, plate mail, colored black, and an evil-looking large sword resting on his shoulder, as he held it with his one right hand. He had no helmet, but his black hair covered the right side of his face, and a black band across the forehead suggested his right eye no longer existed. Not only did he have a sword, but on his back, resting lightly, was a scythe, looking to be the same type as the Nitemare’s.
“Who are you?” Vence demanded, surprised at his own authorative sound. The man, now having actually seen him, was strongly familiar. Previous lives? So they had met before, as others.
“You don’t know?” the man asked, sounding surprised. “You mean you don’t remember? Oh, that’s too bad, maybe I should remind you.” The man grinned, lifting his sword off his shoulder easily, as if it held no weight. Definitely stronger than most people. The man charged, with speed that matched, even exceeded, anything Vence had seen. Vence had only one reaction. In under a second, he had pulled his newly acquired blade from its sheath, and bolted at the man. Amazingly, he realized he must be going the same speed as the man before him. Was this more power that he had gained from this sword?
Both he and the man swung, and the collision of the two swords forced the man back, the shock numbing Vence’s arm, but he held on, and promptly swung again, this time holding it, ad the two were locked. Somehow, despite the man’s apparent strength, he held is ground with little difficulty.
“So you haven’t lost your touch, I see. Very well, I’ll remind you who I am. Does the name, Zevach, remind you of anybody?” Vence instantly recognized the name.
“Zevach, shadow elementalist and blademaster,” Vence replied, as if rehearsed.
“Congratulations, Young Vence. Do you remember your own title? It’s quite similar to mine, mind you,” Zevach said. With some forced energy, the man broke the lock between them, sending both back several feet.
“Fire elementalist and blademaster,” Vence replied curtly.
“Correct! Now, enough of the exchanging of questions and answers; I’m here to finish what I started: destroy this city and every living inhabitant. You are the only ones alive in this city, currently. And what is more, you are my greatest opponent. Vence, the chain will be broken here, and a new line shall begin. Starting with breaking you,” Zevach finished, now an evil grin spreads across his face.
A scream came from behind. Vence whirled around, to see two Nitemares, each with a grip on Alysia. A third appeared, blocking Vence’s path straight toward her. It held a scythe, and took a battle ready stance.
“You can’t win, Vence. Give up and die quickly,” Zevach said from behind, and he began to laugh; a wicked, cruel laugh, meant to mock. Alysia screamed again, trying to break free. Vence knew he was beat. He couldn’t take on a Nitemare full on, he knew that, and this man had been toying with him. He was done.
Something sparked in Vence just then. He didn’t know what it was, and it was there only for a moment. At that moment, both the Nitemare and Zevach lunged forward. Vence was right in between, with no way to win. As the two neared him, Vence suddenly felt…different. He sheathed his sword, confident that he would not need it, and stretched his hands out, each hand toward an opponent…
~~~
420 years ago
Theil stood at the top of a hill, huffing and breathless, as he faced his opponent. He was covered in scratches and bruises, and his body ached like Hell. No doubt, this man was the same.
Theil was a tall nineteen- year-old, around six foot one. Shirtless, his body was well built, meant for physical work. The man in front of him was similar; same age, same height, same build. The two of them had been going at it, hand-to-hand combat, for about a whole day now. The sun was setting, and the second moon was rising, the first moon already a crescent in the sky above them. Neither made an effort to speak nor continue to fight, but still they stood their ground, in case either made a move.
Theil decided to go first. Taking his chances, he rushed forward, went for a punch straight in the face. The man dodged easily, and aimed for a strike at his back. Theil reacted quickly, jumping and flipping as the man’s hand went under him. During mid-flip, Theil attempted to aim a kick at the man’s head again. He swiped his leg aside, and threw a punch at his chest. Buy now, Theil had landed on the ground, and he leaned back to avoid the hit. Grabbing the man’s arm, he attempted to twist it before sending the man flying over his head. The twisting only worked half a s well as he wished, not even hurting the man, and when he flipped him over, the man easily landed on his hands and flipped upright, then flipped forward, a strong kick ready to be delivered on his head. With no way he could block such a thing, Theil was forced out of the way, and threw a punch where he determined his chest would be when he landed. When he did land, he thrust the hand aside, and threw his own punch, sending Theil sprawling backward. Another hit.
Theil rubbed his chest where the punch had connected, feeling another bruise coming on. At this rate, neither would last. He darted forward again, and at the last second, he faked a punch to the head, and swiped the man’s feet from under him. He succeeded in this, taking him by surprise, and presently kicked him higher into the air, jumped up to the same height, and smashing him in the stomach with his leg towards the ground. A cloud of dust appeared as Theil landed a few feet away from the impact. The fight was definitely, finally, over.
“So…Zevach,” Theil said, breathing hard still. “You’re finished.”
“Indeed…I am, Theil...indeed I am,” was the reply. A blur of motion, and Theil dropped to the ground, pinned. He gasped as the air in his lungs washed out of him, and struggled to breathe again.
“You’ve won this time, Theil. But I promise you this, that you will live as long as I do, and you will suffer.” The weight on his back vanished, and he gasped, breathing deeply as air filled his lungs. Turning over, he saw no one there.
350 years ago
Deandric struggled to keep his ground, as his blade and the man’s in front of him, Zevach’s, remained locked. For the past four hours now, they had been fighting relentlessly, refusing to give each other the chance to rest and by doing so gain ground on the other.
Zevach; how old was he now? Deandric held memories from a past life about this man. That had been years ago, though. But he knew about how old. Around one-hundred and sixty sounded about right. That was an elf for you, and this elf was not one to trifle with. Deandric was human, but had been taught by the elves, and so had about the same skill as one.
Deandric was now in his early twenties, with a muscular build. He was a little short though, at around five foot nine. Elves were taller than he was, but that didn’t truly matter; except now, of course, when fighting a guy half a foot taller.
With a good shove, Deandric pushed Zevach back a few inches, and threw himself backward, making Zevach stumble forward. Deandric decided to strike then. He leaned backward, his sword ready to swing, and then leaped forward, spinning quite quickly as the air literally was sliced through by his blade. Zevach had no way to dodge this, and so he leaped out of the way, but was nicked in the shoulder. That nick was enough to send him sprawling, the force was that powerful. Zevach was up in a second though, gripping his shoulder, gritting his teeth in pain.
“Fine then, Deandric…Theil. The curse still carries on.” A shift seemed to occur in the air, and then...darkness consumed him, and he was gone. Deandric sighed, both relief and exhaustion, and turned back toward the city standing not far from him, Sreael.
280 years ago
The entire town was in ruins. The common folk were running, screaming, panicking, afraid for their lives, as the Black Death swept through. Those who had learned the arts of magic, using the elements, stayed their fear, and did their best to defend what they could. All to no avail, it seemed, for no magic was enough to stop the man who swept in an out of the shadowy cloud. The shadows were absolute, it seemed. Only now was the forbidden dark magic seen at its fullest, and deadliest, potential.
For Brahm, and his fellow students of the Academy of the Arts, they seemed to hold their own fairly well. They would not be able to hold for long, though. One by one, they fell; an ice mage here, a gifted lightning elementalist there, and then an earth wielder somewhere else. Brahm, a fire elementalist, and training currently to use a sword, was among the center of the huddled group, anxious that soon, he too would be pushed to the edge, and die.
Brahm was a particularly gifted fire elementalist, being able to control class A level three magic; even one Class S level two magic attack. Like all magic users, though, it came to him erratically. No wonder so many people were dying. They depended on their magic so much that they refused to learn anything else. And now, when they called upon it desperately, they were left helpless to die. That was why Brahm had chosen to learn how to use a sword. It was a simple weapon, yet deadly if used properly.
Brahm was young though, only fourteen, his fifteenth only a month away. He was short, too, only five foot two inches. But he was strong, and fast on his feet, and just as quick to make a reply or think of a plan. Unfortunately, he had no plans in his mind currently but to make it out of this alive. Now was his chance, since the man in front of him suddenly stiffened, and fell to the ground in front of him. The lack mist was right I n front of him. Now was the time when magic would be helpful. He stretched out his hand, burying his soul into “the void,” where magic was accessed, and summoned what energy he could. At first, nothing happened. He kept on searching for it, that one little spark that would beckon what magic abilities he had to come out and reveal itself.
Suddenly, out of the black cloud, a blur of movement came at him. He instinctively threw up his hands, holding his sword in a defensive state. A loud strike, and Brahm was face to face with a man he could swear he had seen before.
And he had seen him before, Brahm realized. The memories that weren’t his revealed that to him. This man was old, and experienced…and deadly.
“Zevach?!” he half shouted, horror-stricken that he would come face to face with this man. The man blinked, a quizzical look coming to his face, then grinned; an evil grin that sent shivers down Brahm’s spine
“So, this is the reincarnation of Deandric and Theil. How lovely to see you, young man, and what might your name be, since you seem to know mine so well?”
“That, you don’t need to know, elf traitor!” Brahm yelled angrily, suddenly finding a spark within him; with a shout, he let loose all he had. The man disappeared before anything could happen to him, but the fire he let forth was so intense, the black clouds were as nothing against it. The air was cleared from the pervading black death trap as the fire swept through. Brahm closed his hand, and collapsed to all fours. Whatever he had just done, it had left him completely drained of energy. Before he could pass out, he saw an adult, a teacher by the looks, run up to him and lift him up, a stunned expression on his face.
“Did he just use Balefire? Impossible, I thought that was only supposed to be theories and-“
“Balefire,” Brahm whispered, not hearing the rest, and passed out.
210 years ago
The war had been raging on for several years now, and the world was on the brink of falling apart…literally. The elders predicted that if magic continued to be misused, and at such a large scale, the world would collapse on itself from the stress. So far, half the world was already a burning wasteland.
This was a war; a war that had taken years of planning by an architect of evil. On one side stood the alliance federation; most of the world’s thirty countries, including the industrial-centered eastern and western shores, and the magic-centered islands between.
On the other side, stood the Corrupt; the armies of evil, summoned from the Drelle and the Unknown, places where no man has set foot on, nor ever dared to, for evil hangs like a mist, sending fear down the weak, and closing the mouths of the prideful men, claiming to have no fear.
This was the war. Both had weapons of steel, fists, and magic. The Corrupt had victory nearly in their grasp; the west had fallen, the Islands were empty, save for Zxerithiel, and the Eastern north was being swept away by an invasion force… but this battle would change everything.
The only clear pass the enemy had was through the small city-state of Kryll-ti. The last three free countries, plus the thousands of refugees of the rest of the western countries, had placed their full force on the southern border of Kryll-ti. The number of soldiers: numbering nearly four-hundred thousand active front line soldiers, and nearly a million more available for reinforcements, reconnaissance, medical duty, and support. Considering the situation, it was a blessing from the god of fate himself. But…the Corrupt had even more ghastly creatures at their disposal.
This was where it ended. This was the final desperate assault against the onslaught of the evil. And what was left of the Allied Federation had a single hope: A young man who held the best title, possibly in the world. His name was Arcturis Livai; an Eighteen-year-old, First class Fire Elementalist and expert Blademaster, commanding officer of the elite assault force known as the Phoenix Brigade, comprising of the highest level Fire elementalists and weapon specialists. He, and the legions he commanded, was the best of the best.
The battle was extremely intense. Unrecognizable creatures were tearing limbs of bodies, and men, elves, and dwarves were chopping limbs, piercing hearts, and smashing skulls of the monsters. Spread out all over the battlefield, individual Phoenix squads held their ground under impossible odds, easing the front line’s stressful duty. In the center of the battlefield, there was a two-mile radius of open, barren field, where two men fought with sword, fist, and magic.
Arcturis and Zevach, the two most powerful men in the world, fought each other. Craters and rubble piled high everywhere, with more yet to be accumulated and created. On both of them, scratches and dents decorated their armor, and dry and fresh blood painted their skin. Currently, the two were locked in a battle for elemental dominance, Arcturis letting forth a stream of white-hot flames, and Zevach letting forth a beam of dark energy. The collision point was a blur of white and black and grey, the ground beneath crumbling, and the air around rippling as miniature shockwaves burst forth.
Arcturis was doing his best to breath evenly, concentrating on the task before him. The longest he had held a stream like this was ten minutes, but this was stretching to almost fifteen minutes now, and the effects were taking its toll on him. He was playing with fate now. At any second, he could lose his connection on the magic, and he would have to defend himself the hard way. But then again, so was Zevach. They both had the same chance of failing. Placing his hope on this, Arcturis sheathed his sword, and began using both his hands, increasing the energy output.
The collision point shifted slightly toward Zevach, swelled up, and quite suddenly imploded. The force was so sudden, that the point then exploded, sending a huge shockwave outward, breaking up the ground and shaking both Arcturis and Zevach to the bone as they were thrown violently backward a good twenty feet. Smoke and dust filled the area between the two of them, and small rocks and dirt fell from the sky.
Arcturis drew his blade, knowing for sure he would not be able to summon magic again. Beside that, he was certain his magical energy was depleted, so trying to use magic again would be fatal. No, no magic would be used anymore. He had to resort to the next best thing he was good at; using a sword.
Arcturis launched himself forward, sweeping aside with his sword all in his way of reaching Zevach. As he came out of the dust cloud, Zevach was waiting for him. The two collided, and somehow, a blast of magic energy, from both of them, sent both flying backward again. Arcturis stumbled, then dashed forward again, ignoring the fatigue he had been accumulating. The two collided again, and each strike produced a small shockwave of energy. It only proved just how powerfully matched these two were. The sound of steel hitting steel rang out amongst the rest of the fighting surrounding them.
Slowly, yet surely, Arcturis could feel his magic returning. It was a slow process, but it was exactly what he needed to win this fight. He would need his combined strength and skill with the sword, added with the power and effectiveness with his magic. With each slice, counter, and guard, his chance grew nearer. Both of them were growing weaker, attempting, nonstop, to cause harm to the other.
At last, Arcturis ducked from a swing and kick-flipped himself away from Zevach, who stumbled from just being pounded in the chest. Arcturis took his chance now. Sheathing his blade, he spread his hands out on either side of him, summoning what energy he could. Timing was everything here. If he did this too quickly, he could die; if too late, than he could die that way too. The energy in both hands was so strong, it became visible. Now, he converted the energy to fire, and slowly brought the two spheres together. This was the hardest part. The two spheres of fire were so compact; they practically had a physical mass, and heir own gravitational pull toward each other. While he did want the two to come together, he had o force them to stay apart, and bring them together slowly; a painstaking task that took a lot out of him, too much, really.
Zevach had stood up and now saw what he was doing. Rather than coming at him with sword in hand, however, he sheathed his own, and a dark aura appeared around him. He was using his own magic he had obtained during the time they had fought, melee style. Arcturis already knew what attack he was using. “Black Quasar,” it was called; a beam of dark energy easily strong enough to take out half a continent. But Arcturis smiled at this knowledge; his own attack was stronger, he knew. It was called “Balefire.” An attack so strong, it burned through time itself.
The two spheres of energy melded together, and the sphere shrunk as the force that it generated weighed down on both it and Arcturis. At the same time, Zevach had created a tiny, compact sphere of dark energy, about the size of a golf ball. This was it; someone would lose now.
Simultaneously, Both Arcturis and Zevach let loose the power they had been containing; one, a shining fiery beam as bright as the sun itself, the other a black steam that threatened to consume the world around it. The two collided, and the shockwave forced both to their knees to stay their ground. The surrounding battle-filled landscape was shaken like an earthquake, so that all the races and creatures trembled in fear. The two beams held for only a moment, but, as Arcturis predicted, his Balefire steadily consumed the level pillar of destruction. Zevach saw this as well and his eyes grew wide in amazement and fear. He knew his fate was sealed if he did nothing.
At the last minute, Zevach released the spell, and dodge-rolled out of the way of Arcturis’ Balefire. He also ended his pressing assault before any damage was done, and once more drew his blade. Magic energy once more depleted, he could not do as he wished with his blade, to light it in flames.
Both were exhausted, but it was clear Arcturis had the upper hand. As Zevach staggered to his knees, Arcturis laid his blade on the evil man’s neck.
“So…are you finally going to kill me?” Zevach managed to speak between gasping breaths.
“I dunno… should I?” Arcturis replied, breathing heavily, but not as much as the man before him. He grinned, then laughed, before coughing from exhaustion.
“Should you? You’re the one that’s cursed; killing me will end it all.”
“You sound as if you want to die.”
“Kid, I’ve lived for over five-hundred years. I have no reason to live any longer. As much as I love this power I discovered four-hundred years ago, I am not blinded by it; I see what I have done, and caused. This world will end soon if something is not done. The reason it will end is because of me. I have power that should not exist. The very essence of darkness is in my soul. Slay me, and that darkness will fade away, your curse shall break, and the world will know peace. Let me go, and you will surely die, and so will the world. If you can see an alternative, than you are a god.”
“I am no god. Unfortunately, as much as you deserve to die, I will not be the one killing you. I refuse to kill you, in fact.”
“Hmm…then so be it. Here…DIE NOW!” he shouted, throwing his fist to the round. Arcturis threw his blade into Zevach’s chest, and then…he fell, lifeless.
“It…is not over,” Zevach said, and fell beside him. His body turned black, and faded into the shadows of the twilight.
~~~
The death of Arcturis was a blow to the world, and the grieved much for him. But his sacrifice brought victory to the Allies, as they won the Battle of Valley’s Pass, and continued to sweep through the world, freeing all that had fallen. Before the first snow fell, all was at peace once more.
In Sreael, the capital of Medean, A statue was erected as a memorial to him and his act of courage.
The deadlands, in the far north of the East; a desert where nothing lived; Zevach, in his hidden layer deep underground, slowly recovered, cursing all that lived in the light.
~~~
Vence opened his eyes, a new aura surrounding him. A snap of his fingers sent a wave of white hot fire swept toward both Zevach and the Nitemare. Zevach dodged before the fire reached him, but the Nitemare was not so lucky. It met its end in seconds.
Vence closed his eyes again, for only a moment. When he opened his eyes again, they had undergone a change. While before they had been blue, now, they were a golden hue.
 b10n1cl3k1n6 · Fri Jun 19, 2009 @ 08:00pm · 0 Comments |
