The Onic Cycle

“All goes as planned, Cordal?” Durien’ta asked,
“It goes as well as can be hoped for, milord,” Cordal replied meekly.
“Good. We need this to work.”
“If it pleases milord, I will see to the preparations.”
“You may go. And Cordal?” replied Durien’ta.
“Yes, milord?”
“Be careful.”
“Yes, milord,” managed Cordal, tears welling up in his eyes. As the solen known as Cordal left the chamber, Durien’ta contemplated his plans. His nor’alten floated around his throne, pulsing with unspeakable power. He stared at the glowing orb, perfectly spherical with intricate carvings in many shapes. Durien’ta knew that the seemingly random lines were, in fact, inscriptions in a long vanished language. It was those inscriptions that gave the orb its vast power. He could easily recreate the inscriptions on a replica orb, but the orb would fail. He knew that all too well. The exact ritual for the creation of nor’alten was lost forever. Too many things were lost. The War of the Demons was to blame for that. If only it had never occurred. He would not be bound to the Crown of Nightmares. Tears streamed down his pale, scarred face as the past assaulted him.

“Are the troops ready, Mornal?” Cordal inquired.
“As you have requested, so have they done,” Mornal replied formally.
“I shall inspect them then.” Cordal strode down the tower staircase to the shadowed courtyard. The sun never shone in Val’sor en Dorin. Many believed to place to be cursed. Its inhabitants considered it a blessing. They were devoted to their lord, Durien’ta. He was their caretaker and guardian. They fought in the name of the Lord of Sorrow.
Cordal gazed upon the mass of soldiers. The foot was in the front, followed by the pikemen and Bolters. The cor’at riders brought up the rear.
“Where are the Stalkers, V’ar?” Cordal asked the man shifting through the shadows to his left. The lurker looked surprised at being seen.
“They guard the perimeter, Captain,” whispered V’ar.
“Do you expect an attack?”
“Just because something is not expected, does not mean it will not happen. Better cautious than killed.”
“That is why you lead the Stalkers, V’ar,” Cordal chuckled.
“That’s also why I’m still alive,” V’ar stated flatly.
Cordal turned his attention back to the assembled troops. They seemed…eager. Eager to defend their lord.
“We are gathered here,” Cordal called out, “to serve Lord Durien’ta in his crusade against the horde of the long-dead Demon of Madness, Dyment. This horde would love nothing more than to see the fall of our cherished protector. The barrier that holds these creatures in place is weakening after thirteen-hundred years. The horde seeks to sweep over the land, killing all before them.” Cordal took a deep breath. “I ask you: will you fight these monsters?!”
From the heart of the cor’at riders erupted a cry: For the Lost Lord! That chant spread through the army.
“For the Lost Lord! For the Lost Lord!”
“Death to the Horde of Dyment!” Lightning surged through the sky.
“Let it begin,” Cordal announced. The thunder in the sky was washed away by the thunder of thirty thousand martyrs.
-*-
The altar pulsated with unearthly promises. An emaciated boy struggled atop it, bound by freezing chains. No sound came from his gaping mouth; his vocal cords had snapped days ago. Crimson tattoos decorated his thrashing body. Not tattoos: carvings. The flowing blood pooled at the base of the altar, glistening in the torch light. The chains had settled now, useless for a corpse. The altar was silent, brooding.
The blood leapt into the air, crashing down on the lifeless youth. As the torrent ceased, the body was gone. In its place was a being of nightmares. It flexed its shoulders, tested its wings. Standing upright, it twitched its lethal tail, tipped with a spear-like point. Its unnatural head was topped with a crown of horns, emitting an aura of purpose. Striding from the chamber, it proclaimed itself.
“Hyster has come! I am your lord!” The Horde of Dyment now had its savior. Durien’ta would bleed for his blasphemy.
-*-
“Captain Rayne? Captain Rayne, are you listening?”
“Sorry Falcen. I was thinking about something. Continue,” replied Captain Lilit Rayne, coming out of her reverie.
“Very well, Captain. As I was saying, raids have increased over the past four months. More and more towns are being razed in the dead of night, with no survivors. In fact, no corpses have been found at any ruins,” reported Under-Captain Falcen Sorn.
“Murgûls,” uttered Rayne.
“That is the most likely event,” replied Sorn. He paused a moment before continuing. “My Lady, even if just one town was converted to murgûls, we are outnumbered ten to one. If we consider a murgûl’s strength and agility, we are looking at twenty to one odds.”
“I’m well aware of that, Under-Captain. However, you forgot to count the gur’vuls. They’ve…acquired a taste for murgûl unflesh. I doubt there will be a lack of that commodity in the coming weeks.”
“There will be no shortage of corpses either. Our men will die. Something must be done,” hissed Sorn.
“Under-Captain Falcen Sorn! We are the Bleeding Hand! Blood is the price we pay for the free peoples! You, of all people, know that!” thundered Rayne.
“My apologies, Captain. I meant no disrespect. I merely meant that there will be nothing left of the Bleeding Hand if we enter a melee with the murgûls. We must seek aid,” offered Falcen.
Lilit sighed. “I know you meant no offense. I know you better than that. I know we are in need of aid. I’ve had someone in mind for some time.” A wicked smile crept across her near-perfect face, slightly diminished by the inch-long scar at the side of her mouth.
“Lilit, you can’t mean…him. That’s madness,” whispered a pale Sorn.
“There is no one else. He is the only one that fights them.”
“He is mad beyond reckoning!”
“There is more man than madness in him. He paid for the lives of his people with himself. He suffered for them.”
“How do you know this? Did he tell you this?” muttered Sorn.
“I…I’ve met with him before. Two weeks ago to be exact. I believe he will help us. He longs to leave Val’sor en Dorin. It would appear that he had a force already on the move. Out only chance at survival lies with him,” replied Lilit.
“Durien’ta,” whispered Sorn.
-*-
Durien’ta woke to blackness. He summoned his nor’alten, which pulsed with a sickly pale blue glow. The sight no longer made him nauseous, having looked upon it for hundreds of years. He found it odd to think that the orb had nearly killed him when he had found it among the ruins of Ash’lait.
Dyment was defeated. The Crown had made sure of that. Torvac was dead, as well. Purgan and Cynan had gone with him.. Victory had come to Durien’ta, but the cost was immense. He had damned himself the instant the Crown had encircled his head. It had been necessary, though. The Demon would have been unstoppable otherwise. He had been unstoppable, until Durien’ta came. Even then it had been a struggle. The fire, the screams, the blood: all because of Dyment. But he was vanquished, destroyed beyond reconstruction.
As Durien’ta knelt among the ruins of the once-great Ash’lait, blood ran down his sides in rivers, mixing with the torn up dirt. He should have died hours ago, but the Crown wouldn’t allow him that mercy.
“Damn”, muttered a broken Durien’ta. “If I am damned to live, will this bleeding not cease?”
The crimson torrent stopped. His wounds sealed up. He moved his hand to where a gash should have been along his side. There was only a six-inch long scar.
“The Crown,” whispered Durien’ta.
He stood on strained legs. Dyment had broken the left one and nearly torn off the other. But he was dead and Durien’ta still drew breath. Durien’ta hadn’t decided which was the crueler fate.
Pushing the past out of his mind, he struggled against pain to move forward into the ruins. Buildings were reduced to broken slabs of stone or melted to molten sludge.
As necessary sacrifice, thought the destroyer. What is the loss of one city compared to the destruction of the world?
Durien’ta proceeded toward the center of the disheveled grave, picking his way around collapsed structures and broken goods. He passed the market, where children once played their games while parents bought the family’s food. His journey continued on toward the heart of Ash’lait: the Flowing Library.
The trek seemed to take an eternity. When Durien’ta finally gazed upon the majesty of the Flowing Library of Ash’lait, his legs could support him no more. His weak body collapsed to the ground. Durien’ta clawed his was along the ground the last twenty feet to reach the vault of knowledge. Upon reaching the gateway to the library, Durien’ta, exhausted and broken, lost consciousness.
He awoke to sunlight caressing his eyes. His limbs ached from disuse. When he finally managed to sit up and wipe the dust from his face, he found a week’s worth of facial hair.
Have I slept for that long? wondered Durien’ta.
He forced himself to stand. If he had been unconscious for that long, then a week of research was lost.
The war has raged on without me. It may even have been lost.
He doubted that it had been won yet. Victory against the Demons seemed near impossible.
He turned to enter the library and allowed his eyes to adjust to the dimness. Inside, he would hopefully find answers to his questions. The air inside was acrid. Death loomed, yet he knew he would find no corpses. The power struggle between the demon and himself had obliterated all living and most nonliving things in the city. The throne from which Dyment had ruled was the epicenter of the destruction. The library was the only structure still standing. There was something inside that had prevented its destruction. Durien’ta had to find that something.
The interior was vast. The ceiling was swallowed by the darkness. The lobby was the center of the structure, with racks of books spiraling ever upward toward the ceiling. There were no stairs to use; instead, the ground sloped slightly upwards, providing a ramp. Rails were in place to prevent pondering readers from falling to an unknowing demise. Durien’ta exhaled a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.
The books are intact. There is still hope.
As he made his way toward the ramp, a sickly pale blue glow caught his eye. His gaze jerked toward the center of the lobby and found an orb imbedded in the ground. It pulsed like a heart, the heart of the library. Durien’ta sprinted toward the object. He knelt on the ground and took hold of the orb. Blackness took him.
That had been so long ago. The war was over, the demons were gone. Durien’ta was still confronting his demons and fighting his war. Dyment’s Horde was still trapped in this realm. Durien’ta had sealed the pass to their hold and constructed three towers to watch over the ward. Each tower was dedicated to one of the three General-Commanders who had fallen during the War of the Demons: Torvac, Purgan, and Cynan. Their memories would continue on while those towers still stood.
“The past has been dwelt on enough today,” declared Durien’ta. “I must turn my attention toward this Lilit Rayne.”
Cordal stuck his head through the open chamber door. “Did you say something, milord?”
“No, Cordal. I said nothing.”
“As you say, milord.”
“Have the preparations for my journey been made?”
“They are being finished as we speak, milord.”
“I knew you would see them completed, Cordal.”
“You are most gracious, milord.” He paused. “Milord, are you sure you are ready to leave?”
“This place has been my prison for too long. The world will soon need me.”
-*-