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Book II: Though He with Giants Fight
31: The Doomsayer
6 years after the coronation of Queen Starsha of Iscandar
"You sure about this?" the zealot glanced uneasily over at the strange man who'd recruited him and his small renegade group several years ago. "Those rakabim* won't be easy to get past... And then there's that 'Masterson' fellow." the zealot shivered. "We've heard stories about him. Followers of the Malha Guardiana who encounter him are never the same." The man was wide-eyed now at the thought of the terror that the infamous Christian had dealt the Guardiana followers over the course of the past half-dozen or so years.
"Of course I'm sure, you idiot!" Fiske hissed at the leader of his unfortunate band. "And if you don't stop complaining like a sniveling toddler, you'll be the first one to find out if those stories are true."
The zealot shut up immediately, but the trepidation he felt was still evident in his face and body language.
"Besides..." Fiske continued with an evil smirk, "I've got plans for the rakabim. Without them, the rest of the rebels won't have their first line of defense. Then, we'll take them down."
The zealot nodded, still nervous.
"Stay here." Fiske rolled his eyes at the skittery man, glanced back at the group he'd brought with him, and then sneaked away to start the melee he hoped would bring down the rebels and their mysterious leader.
As he crept through the trees and underbrush he considered, with more fear than he would ever admit to his recruits, his lack of contact with his commander these past years. After his two week deadline had passed – an uncomfortably long time ago – and he hadn't found and converted the "marked one" his superior so wanted.
The fact was, he was terrified to face the commander again; somehow, he suspected that he wouldn't get out of that conversation alive. But now that he had a chance to do something for his superior, perhaps he could return to the commander with a bit less fear – and keep his life in the process.
Another mystery that had surfaced over these past years was the disappearance of Yeshin from the usual communication channels. Even before the strange virus that had scoured Iscandar had been announced, Fiske had waited to hear from Yeshin. He soon realized that he was waiting in vain.
The rumor had begun to circulate among the Guardiana followers that something had happened to the former zealot leader – though it had never been said exactly what it was that had befallen the man.
Fiske made it to the edge of the trees, where he could get a clear look at the rakabim and their lounging mounts. He still wore his old black armor, though it was battered and often repaired, it was still his faithful companion. His original helmet had long since had to be replaced after his incident with Dommel Lysis and Wolf Frakken at that strange cabin in the woods years ago.
Fiske took off his helmet, setting it aside so that none of the rakabim would see the sun glinting off of his visor. The nearest tannin* stirred and Fiske froze.
The great beast let a stream of smoke whoosh out of his nostrils. His indigo scales gleamed in the sun, but he didn't wake.
The rakabim sat in a circle around a cooking fire, surrounded by their dozing tanninim, chatting about nothing interesting.
Fiske listened for a few minutes to see if their banter would turn into anything he might be interested in hearing.
Then, another man suddenly appeared, coming out from the other side of a giant brown dragon.
Fiske silently swore when he recognized Dommel Lysis. He was rougher than the bounty hunter remembered, and he now wore a thick, well-kept beard.
Fiske growled quietly in frustration, then commenced his plan. He opened a compartment in his armor and pulled out a small, round object. He waited until all the rakabim were concentrating on the conversation and lobbed the object between two of the sleeping tanninim. It landed silently and none of the rakabim noticed it.
For a moment, nothing happened, then suddenly the two beasts awoke and started roaring. This woke the other beasts who took up the cry of their wing-brothers. The creatures leapt to their feet, swinging about wildly, tumbling over each other in the process. The rakabim jumped out of the way of their mounts' sudden, inexplicable insanity.
Fiske smirked as the group started yelling and trying to catch and calm the animals, only to be knocked off their feet time after time by tails, clawed limbs, and swinging necks.
When the chaos was at its peek, Fiske signaled his men to move in.
"It is not time yet." a twenty-four year old Desslok insisted to his council, "We've come this far, a few more months can only increase our chances of finally defeating the zealots and taking back Rapha'owr... or what is still left of it..." the heir apparent let his gaze fall to the floor as he thought about the fate of his beloved city.
"Sir, it can still be saved." Masterson interjected. "Once the Guardiana followers are expelled, things will return to a semblance of normalcy."
"True enough, Talan." Desslok replied, "But it will still be forever changed because of them and because of that nachash who shares my face."
"But Deun's reign will end soon." Elisa said, her face determined. "We've come too far to let it continue."
"Oh, it shall end." Desslok replied with conviction, "and I will be the one to end it, I assure you."
The group was silent for a moment as they all processed the implications of what Desslok had just said, but after six years with the man, they knew better than to ask.
Wolf Frakken cleared his throat loudly and said, "Where's Dommel? I thought he'd be back by now."
"He'll be here." Garen Krenshaw brushed off the other man's continued absence. "Probably talking to that tannin of hi –"
An explosion of shouting and roaring tore through the air, stopping the conversation completely and sending them all running outside to see what had happened.
"Get back!" one of the rakabim yelled just before his tannin sent a line of flame over his head, singeing his hair and turning his scalp beet-red.
Sensing something was wrong, Desslok summoned the rest of the rebels still staying on-site. No sooner had they gathered at their leader's behest than a band of zealots stormed out of the woods, screaming and shooting at them all.
Fiske hung back, watching as the Guardiana followers ran into the enemy's camp. A mass of rebels appeared suddenly and managed to take down several zealots. Shouts of triumph mingled with cries of distress as the two forces clashed together like a wave against cliffs.
The crazed tanninim ran through the men, trampling friend and foe alike before finally taking wing and fleeing, the reason for their fear still unknown, but powerful enough to drive them away nonetheless.
Some of the rakabim managed to leap aboard their mounts before they shot off the ground, but many were left beast-less to join the fight dirt-side with the other rebels.
Fiske smirked again and chuckled to himself as he watched the chaos.
Then appeared some of the members of the infamous "Circle:" among them, Masterson, Elisa, Garen, Wolf, and another man Fiske had never laid eyes on before, but whom he instantly recognized. His eyes narrowed as he examined the man: in his mid-twenties, closing in on six and a half feet tall, red-orange hair seeming to glow in the afternoon light, fiery green eyes blazing with anger at their attackers' boldness, and a curiously gloved left hand, though his right remained bare.
"So I've finally found you, oh elusive 'Marked One.'" the bounty hunter thought gleefully. "Your days with your little band of followers are at an end."
The bounty hunter scooted back under the cover of the trees, took his hover-board off of his back and mounted it. Then, he waited for the opportune moment set in motion a plan he'd been hatching for much too long.
"Take down the ones with the amulets first!" Desslok ordered from the dead center of the mob. "Kill them before they can summon something worse!"
Rakab and rebel alike obeyed, knowing all too well that their leader was absolutely right. To let the amulet wielders live was to invite death into the camp. Without the amulets, it was much harder – though not impossible as they had discovered on a few rare occasions – to summon the foul spirits that the zealots were so fond of. Once the dark things were there, only Masterson and David had ever proven to provide any defense against them.
The sky was suddenly filled with the returning rakabim who had been driven off minutes before. They swooped in, rider-less beasts also in-tow, all throwing blasts of flame at the enemy, charring the outlying zealots to crispy heaps. The rest of them were so intermingled with the rebels that it was impossible to blast them without baking their own men in the process, so the tanninim circled back and landed, several of the smaller beasts rushing in – now calmed and able to tell friend from foe again – and sending enemies flying this way and that, splatting against trees and rocks, or crunching under heavy, reptilian feet.
In the midst of it all, Desslok himself stood back to back with Masterson Talan, the two hefting their own weapons and shooting down whatever enemies happened to enter their field of vision.
The conflict was well under-way when suddenly the prince heard a muffled groan come from behind him. He turned just in time to see Talan sink to the ground, an oddly-shaped needle jutting out of his friend's neck.
Desslok swore under his breath and immediately dropped to one knee to see if Masterson was still breathing. To his relief, Talan still had life in him – merely knocked out by whatever substance was in that dart.
The prince was instantly on high alert, looking everywhere and listening to every sounds he could above the drone of battle as he stood guard over Talan's unconscious body, waiting either to be able to take his friend to safety himself or for another rebel to be able to do so.
That chance never came. In the heat of the battle – when everyone, zealots and rebels alike – were focused on killing one another and not being killed in the process, the prince thought he saw a glimmer of something off to his right.
He whirled around to take aim at it and was caught squarely in the throat with a second dart. He remained conscious long enough to see an armored man riding a hover-board zoom towards him.
Masterson awoke to a bad headache and a mild case of nausea. He shook his head, sat up, and brushed the dirt off of his face. Around him the battle had ended. Casualties from both sides littered the ground – thankfully the majority of the corpses he could see were not rebels. He was relieved the incident was over for now but soon remembered why he was just now returning to reality.
He looked around everywhere trying to make sure that everyone was accounted for: Dommel and Elisa stood near Lysis's tannin, tending to its wounds; Wolf and Garen were also nearby, Dara, though not expected to be back from her latest scouting trip was also present, having returned early.
David Lysis was still gone on his own scouting assignment, or he would have been there as well.
An almost-eighteen-year-old Constance took in the scene from the mouth of a cave the rebels used to house some of the rakabim and their beasts. Zimring – that crusty old hermit – had taken Deror and hidden him away somewhere safe when the fighting had begun – as was his responsibility now.
Then a bolt of fear shot through him and he looked around frantically. He leapt to his feet and tore back to the meeting room, looking everywhere in between, but finding nothing – no trace at all. Then he ran for all he was worth back to the site of the battle.
"Krenshaw! Frakken!" Talan yelled as he went, then stopped just short of Lysis and his wife, "Dommel!" he panted, "He's gone!"
"Who's gone, Masterson?" Elisa asked, puzzled.
"Desslok..."
The prince roused. His head felt like it was splitting apart: not the first migraine he'd ever had, and he was fairly certain it also wouldn't be the last. He started to rub his forehead, but when his hand came to within six inches of his face, it stopped, hindered by something steely cold. Chains.
He swore.
Then, with sudden clarity, Desslok realized he wasn't in the rebel camp anymore. A sick, sinking feeling began to eat at his gut as he realized that the reason he couldn't really see very well wasn't because it was nighttime, but because he was in a dark, dank, underground chamber of some sort. A musty smell permeated the area, combined with a strong dose of a multitude of previous occupants' body odors.
The wrinkled his nose at the stench. Even the tanninim didn't stink this badly.
He noted everything around him that he could. Since his eyes weren't of great use at the moment, he listened for any sound that might give him a hint as to where he was. Then he remembered the black-armored man he'd seen just before blacking out and it dawned on him that the stranger had likely been the one who had brought him here. But to what end? Clearly the man didn't want him dead, or else he would already be a corpse by now.
Hearing nothing that could really help him, he turned to the mix of unpleasant smells currently assaulting him: body odors, dirt, water, and... something else he couldn't quite place, but knew he should remember. It was an odd, sour smell – as though something were dead, yet still living, or perhaps rotting from the inside out.
A door about twenty feet in front of him was flung open. Light burst in, blinding the prince until his eyes adjusted to the new brightness. He looked up, expecting to see the armored man. But instead of a man, an aged woman stood before him, her eyes seeming to pierce through him and stare into his soul.
"Whatever you want, you'll not be getting it." Desslok said dismissively, trying to take control of the situation despite his restrained state.
The woman ignored his words and just continued to stare at him. She never blinked once the whole time she looked at the prince – a fact that Desslok didn't go without seeing.
Then he noticed that smell again. It seemed to be coming from... the woman?
"Just get on with it." the prince sighed, pretending to not care about the woman's presence.
There was silence. The woman paced back and forth in front of him for a long while, simply staring, examining, thinking.
Then, in a sudden, swift movement, she snatched the glove off of his left hand and flung it away, baring the ever-present mark.
"You will join us now, my son." she said in a sickly-sweet, yet ominous voice.
"I shall not join anyone I do not know; and I am not your son." Desslok growled back.
The woman laughed, a hollow, strange sound that echoed with madness. "You do not have a choice; and as my daughter's son, you are my son – my grandson."
"Aurelia Guardiana..." Desslok breathed. "Murderer..." he gritted his teeth as he said it.
The Malha laughed again, "I prefer to call it 'purifying the line.'"
Desslok was entirely taken aback by the careless reply; he was so stunned that when the woman raised her hand and laid it on his forehead, he didn't even think to try to shake her away until it was too late.
"Oh, Spirit of Guardiana." Aurelia began, "I give you this vessel to do with as you please."
The prince's stomach began to churn and he felt as though he would throw up.
"He is my own flesh and blood. Accept him as your own." the Malha beseeched the dark spirit that dwelt in her.
"No," the prince tried to shout, but it came out as a harsh whisper. "I won't do this! Leave me!"
But the Malha and her shêd did not honor his demands.
Desslok could feel the darkness beginning to creep over him; immersing him in black despair so thick he thought he would never be able to get out of it. The dark spirit whispered thought of death and destruction to him, showing him visions of hopelessness and fear over and over.
"You can never escape me, foolish man." a guttural voice echoed in Desslok's head and he shook it, trying desperately to send the thing away but he could not.
"You cannot make it leave, my son." Aurelia cackled. "You have no power over it to send it where you will; but I do."
"Masterson..." Desslok whispered, wishing harder than he ever had that his friend was with him now.
This only made the Malha laugh harder, "Foolish, foolish boy. Your little defender isn't here; no one can save you. Just give in."
"No..." the prince managed to whisper one more time. "Never..."
Suddenly, Aurelia screamed and jumped away, clutching her hand as though it had been burned and howling like a wounded yafehari.*
"No! He is mine! You've no clai –" the woman's protests were broken off by another shriek of pain as she covered her eyes, shielding them from a burst of radiance.
Desslok's world began to fade into blackness again, but just before he lost consciousness, he heard a deep, authoritative voice say with power, "Touch not mine anointed."
* rakabim - riders
* tannin(im) - dragon(s)
* yafehari - lion-cat