The End of a Legend

         The sky seethed with hatred. The ground swallowed corpses whole. The rivers overfilled with blood. Fire erupted overhead, vaporizing clouds and the Dragonlancers they concealed. The large, smoldering bodies of the Dragons and Dragonkin plummeted to the ground, striking with such force that it shook. The ancient creatures bellowed in pain and agony as magic tormented their bodies. Magic never meant to be freed from the lair of the Scrollkeeper.
         Screeches filled the sky, drowning out all but the noise of the powerful magic. Many soldiers couldn’t hear the noise of their own weapons even as they fought in close quarter. Orders shouted weren’t heard and the death toll showed no sign of slowing.
         Overlooking the battle from a distant peak, Arktal rested one hand on the pommel of his sword, contemplating the anarchy below. The other hand casually stroked the top of his large kite shield, a gift from The Mother herself. Its magical properties were a reward for his abilities and bravery on the battlefield. Neither they nor we show any sign of running. Perhaps it is time to take back the advantage and end this damned war. May those Red Mages burn in hell, for all their accursed fire! For the first time in memory, his enhanced vision was a curse, as he saw his soldiers die in torturous pain. Though they were far superior fighters on the battlefield, few could wield any sort of magic, let alone resist the far-reaching attacks of the enemy.
         The Elder Dragonkin stood, his sleek skin shining in the late afternoon sun. The cloudy sky had broken, though not naturally. Across the battlefield, he spotted three of the Red Mages terrorizing his Dragonlancers. He knew the farthest of the three on sight. Hatred burned in his heart and he stood, ready to finish what began so long ago. His clawed feet dug into the ground, tearing through the soil and clawing it away.
         Stepping over the bloody remains of a brash knight, he started on his way. If this thing were to end, those mages needed to be stopped! The Mother had died at the hands of these vile mages, and Her death was not to be in vain. His long, scaled tail bobbed as though in agreement.
         Hefting his shield before him, he appeared nearly invisible. Stalking along down the side of the mountain, he moved quickly across the ground, his long legs carrying him in leaping strides. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a glint, and moved with the instinct that had turned his name into legend.
         This human, too, thought more of himself than he should, and demonstrated this with a flying leap from his hiding spot behind a large rock. The leap was miscalculated of course, giving Arktal plenty of time to react. Without so much as a grunt, Arktal swung his shield, bashing the knight directly with the full length of the shield, stopping his attack in midair.
         The knight flew backwards, his spine shattering on the large rock. He tried to scream, but the broken shards of his plate mail dug into his lungs, filling them with blood. He chocked and gagged but finally was silent.
         Blood trickled through the cracks of his armor and stained the rock.
         Arktal had already moved on.
         He looked up, keeping his eyes on the mage and his shield between them as much as possible. Although those mangy humans could not see nearly as far as even the blindest Dragonkin, mages were known to have spells that could compensate for that effect. It was best not to take any chances until necessary. Even he could not withstand a well-placed blast of magic.
         Reaching the bottom of the mountain from which he had been observing, he recalled what he had seen from above to weave his way through the combat without drawing attention to himself.
         He stopped, reached into a pouch at his waist, and dug out a bloody scalp. Muttering an old incantation, he rubbed the scalp with his thumb and forefinger. By the time the spell was finished, the scalp had dissolved into nothingness, consumed by the casting. With an Aura of Fear about him, Arktal continued on his way. This will keep those damned humans from trying anything.
         With his sword still sheathed, he ran. He could almost taste the mage’s blood now. How sweet it will be. The blood of a caster is much more flavorful than any other. Unconsciously, he ran his tongue over his teeth, wiping away the grit of torn flesh.
         He came to the base of the next mountain without hassle. He looked forward, towards the next peak in line. It was one less peak now between him and the mage. Without warning, a vertical line ripped through space in front of him and morphed into the shape of another mage.
         Not the one he sought – this one that had been casting from the top of the nearest peak – the mage wore the traditional red robe of his clan and had the slightly dark skin to match. He was a trueblood mage of high order. They have put their best into this battle. It is unfortunate we have done the same.
         Arktal leapt onto the mage’s back, pinning his arms at his sides and preventing him from calling any further magic in this battle. Deftly, Arktal swung his tail around and drove its tip through the mage’s left eye. With a quick flex of his hands, he broke the mage’s arms as well.
         The mage fell to the ground as Arktal dropped off his back and continued towards his target. The mage he left behind howled in pain and fury, clutching his hands to his face. None of the nearby humans tried to stop the Elder Dragonkin. Some tried to bandage, or even Heal, the mage but none took note of the three Dragonkin warriors behind them until it was too late.
         He closed in on his target quickly.
         His mind recalled the vivid images of The Mother’s death. Her horror-filled shrieks filled the air and clouded his mind. Then he imagined the mage instead. His death would be twice as gruesome. You have terrorized us for long enough. It will come to an end today.
         Silent, he moved across a small stream, its clean waters mixed with the blood of Dragonkin and human alike. At the sight of the river, his thirst for blood grew stronger. Torn bits of flesh floated in the stream; to him they were toppings on a great dessert.
         A small pack of humans crossed his path, moving together in a tight cluster. Their bloodstained armor glinted with the light from the fire in the sky.
         What are they hiding? Arktal thought to himself.
         No sooner had he finished the thought than the group stopped and sprang apart. Standing visible now was the mage! His escorts spread out in a circle, ready to protect their master. With time now to see their faces, Arktal saw that not all of the escorts were human. Many were cadavers stolen from death, their remaining flesh limp against their muscles. Evil, sadistic smiles beamed at Arktal from underneath the skeletons’ dented metal helmets.
         Arktal bellowed in rage, throwing his arms back and revealing his full height.
         The mage chuckled. “So, Arktal. How long has it been since we last met? Eight tenyears?” His smile grew more broad and wicked with each passing word. “Do you remember what I said to your Queen when I killed Her?”
         Arktal nearly threw himself at the mage. Instead, he held himself back and performed his mental calming exercises. There is no point in attacking him in carelessness. He will destroy me and my death will be in vain. I must fight this battle on my own terms.
         “So you remember? Her wails were the most pleasant I’ve heard in a very long time. Killing Her was one of my greatest victories, almost as glorious as today. You should know She at least tried to put up a fight.”
         Arktal held his tongue, studying the guards out of the corner of his eye.
         The mage stepped closer. “I only hope your blood will taste as good as Hers. Your warriors cannot match us. Your Dragonlancers have fallen and the retreat is moments away. You have failed your people, Arktal. It is a pity you insisted on this war.”
         With that Arktal bellowed again, his howl almost overcoming the constant bursts of magic in the sky. He quickly glanced to his right, where the heaviest fighting was taking place. He saw his proud Dragonkin warriors slaying human after human. Curse that mage; he knew I’d look!
         Arktal knew what was coming before the blow even landed.
         The skeletal warrior on his left struck him hard in the midsection, reaching underneath the shield.
         Arktal stumbled back and countered by bringing his shield down on the cadaver’s arm, ripping it off handily.
         The next attacker came from his right, wielding a sharp, double-edged longsword.
         With a tight, swift round-kick he tore the warrior’s head from it’s body before it had the chance to more than start to swing.
         Five attackers remained.
         Three of the undead swarmed him at once. The first came from the front as his companions attempted to flank the Elder Dragonkin.
         With his sword still sheathed, Arktal hopped to his left and kicked the leftmost warrior in the side with his heel. The warrior stumbled and fell over, his unchecked blade cutting deep into his nearest companion. The chain reaction took the second attacker out as well.
         Both lay on the ground, moaning in pain. They weren’t fully dead when he raised them. He is usually picky about his subjects. He must be desperate.
         The next undead came at him with its sword poised over its head. Had it a voice, a battle cry would have accompanied the attack.
         Arktal turned to face the onslaught. Crouching down, he placed his shield between them.
         As the attacker came within range and was about to lower its blade onto Arktal’s head, the Elder Dragonkin lifted his shield quickly, blocking and countering the attack at the same time. With a slight grunt, he caught the attacker underneath its arms and flung it over his shoulder.
         The attacker slammed headfirst into the ground and did not get up.
         Arktal turned his attention to the last two escorts. Unlike the rest, they were still living, breathing humans.
         Terror-stricken, they held their swords out towards the Elder Dragonkin.
         He advanced on them, teeth bared in a frightening hiss. His Fear spell hadn’t broken yet. They struggled desperately to hold their ground, but once he was within striking range, they turned and ran, dropping their weapons to the ground and stumbling over loose rocks and dead soldiers as they ran.
         Arktal turned to the mage.
         “So, you haven’t lost your edge. A pity that Fear doesn’t affect me. It is a bit bothersome though.” With that the mage waved a hand in the air and Arktal knew his Aura had been dispelled.
         “You have brought enough terror on this world, mage. Your time has come.”
         “Oh, my time has come. My time has come to rule this putrid world and all of the wretched creatures that live here.”
         “Your foul touch has been here long enough. It is time to end this war,” Arktal replied, finally drawing his sword. The dark blade seemed to absorb light. The hilt was composed of a large human skull fused with the upward-pointing horns of a sand devil. The large handle was wrapped in cured flesh.
         “So, you have discovered the Magebane. You will hopefully provide more of a challenge than your Queen!”
         “The Mother’s vengeance shall strike you down!” Arktal shouted, dropping his shield to the ground and gripping the Magebane firmly with both hands. He charged.
         The battle was met.
         The mage waved his hands and the ground underneath the Elder Dragonkin warped.
         Arktal leapt to avoid the trap, landing in a roll. Coming out of the roll, he swung his tail out to catch the mage by the shins, knocking him down. Quickly following this strike, he lashed out with the Magebane, catching the mage’s robe with the dark weapon. The mage’s robe burned where the sword struck it.
         Annoyed, the mage called down a downpour of water to quench the flames. The large downpour of water cascaded over the mage and then flowed at Arktal, knocking the Elder Dragonkin on his back.
         Rolling to the side, Arktal regained his stance and advanced again.
         “You really think that blade is a match for my magic? You are far too young. It is a pity you won’t be around much longer.”
         Arktal responded with a bloodstained smile and a hiss.
         The Elder Dragonkin leapt again, this time his blade angled down for a killing strike.
         The mage laughed, calling forth a gust of wind that lifted Arktal into the air. With a second gesture he created a blast of flame. Combining the spells, he crushed Arktal between air and fire.
         Arktal screamed in agony. The flames were eating through his armor, tasting flesh already. The air was harder than any wall he had ever seen. If the fire didn’t kill him, the air would certainly crush his bones.
         Under the stress, it was difficult to mutter the incantation that came to mind, but after several tries he managed. The sword blade glowed red and the mage’s eyes grew big.
         The fire ceased and the force of air dissipated. Arktal fell to the ground.
         As he fell, he saw the mage recoil from the back draft the Magebane had created. He charged, the smile of victory already on his face.
         The mage recovered and stood before Arktal was close enough to attack. Bloody, the mage began to weave a thread of magic with his hands.
         The world went white.
         Arktal found himself in a dense forest at the base of a hill. The sky here was blue, unaffected by the battle he had just been watching. There were no bodies to be found. There was no road or any other sign of civilization, either human or Dragonkin.
         “Come and fight me, mage! No more of your cowardly tricks! We shall end this now!” he screamed into the forest.
         “Indeed we shall,” came the reply from behind him.
         The Elder Dragonkin spun on his heels, brandishing the Magebane. Muttering under his breath, Arktal tossed a small bit of tree bark at the mage, the incantation binding him where he stood. This was the end.
         Face to face, the mage stood well within range of the weapon.
         Arktal raised his blade to cut the mage down once and for all. His torn, singed robe revealed bloodstains and wounds that would not heal well, if they ever healed at all.
         The Dragonkin couldn’t finish the strike.
         “Damn you!” Arktal screamed. Bound by invisible chains, he could but watch as the mage sat but a little ways away.
         “You should be thanking me. I am letting you live a bit longer and giving you a glorious death. Now, be quiet while I recover some of my magical strength.”
         “Your blood will feed my kinsmen well this night!”
         “Be quiet, or you will be silenced while you wait.”
         Arktal gathered breath to scream again, but something blocked his screams of hatred. Fury raged in his eyes, a burning fire of anger.
         His muscles writhed with agony as he struggled against the bonds. He strained his body, calling upon all of his strength in an effort to break the spell by sheer force of will.
         “Your people were never too bright, Arktal. It is a shame you must be exterminated. I would have enjoyed having a slave such as yourself, but you are too dangerous to be trusted. A pity.
         “This spot shall be your eternal resting place. You will die here, a forgotten legend,” the mage continued as the rooting spell wore off. Then, taking a step back, “Sleep well, Dragonkin. Know that you failed your people and your Queen.”
         Arktal croaked, his voice breaking through the sound barrier. “I will drink your blood yet.”
         The mage’s icy cackles added to the look of pure evil in his eyes. He regained his dignity and stood firm. “We shall see.”
         The earth shook with the mage’s casting. Arktal screamed in pain as the rumbles shook him, crushing his bones. Trees fell and the mage began his second spell. Birds flew from their nests, seeking shelter from the chaos. Many fell dead in midair.
         A broad smile covered the mage’s face as he raised his arms with the incantation. A slit began to open up in the air behind the mage, a gateway to the inside of a far away castle. Beneath the Dragonkin the earth split, the fissure growing steadily larger.
         “You will be consumed by the earth, Arktal! There is no stopping the Rupture now!” the mage screamed over the din. With a grand, flourishing bow, he stepped back into the portal. No sooner had he stepped through when the gateway collapsed.
         The shaking grew louder and more intense.
         Still held in place by the mage’s spell, Arktal could only watch as the ground beneath him disappeared.
         Arktal tried to use his sword again. Perhaps there was some way to catch the edge of the fissure and run before it got bigger. Mouthing ancient incantations, he attempted to activate the dormant powers of the Magebane.
         The Magebane did not respond.
         As the thunderous noise grew louder and the earth’s ruptures continued to go stronger, even the walls of air and fire holding Arktal in place began to shake. Arktal tried once more to activate the Magebane’s powers and save himself.
         In the midst of another incantation, his grip weakened. The spell sword slipped out of his hand and plummeted towards the ground, falling deep into the fissure.
         Arktal’s eyes grew wide as he saw the fate the mage had doomed him to. The edges of the fissure grew higher, rising to consume him in their rocky embrace.

* * *

         Far off, in the Tower of Study, a commotion arose. Something had happened. The monks moved silently towards the few openings in their sanctuary. Gazing westward, they finally saw the occurrence that had been sending shockwaves for days.
         After days of wondering, they saw a new mountain in the distance. Taller than any other in sight, this mountain had twin peaks. The two peaks were such that it appeared a bolt of lightning had split the mountaintop.
         Months of study failed to produce an answer to what had caused the creation of the new mountain. Emissaries and agents sent forth to examine the mountain failed to return. Failure after failure set the mountain in an air of mystery. At the direction of the Tower Council, studies of the mountain were set aside and forgotten.
         The monks returned to their usual routines, knowing that whatever event had created the mountain must have set an end to the Dragonkin Wars.