* * *
At last! The castle is in my sights, and before the day is done I will sleep peacefully at the foot of its throne! Dyron thought, the anticipation of the coming victory sweet upon his mind.
Castle Toroth stood atop Toroth Mountain menacingly in the shrub-speckled distance, seen clearly in the embrace of the early morning sky. Its massive towers and broad walls looked down threateningly upon the narrow path which swiggled its way to the drawbridge, which spanned small jagged rocks and clumps of weeds. The huge wooden drawbridge was down, as if Dyron were expected. Either that or someone just wanted fresh air -- or the place was deserted. Dyron hoped it wasn't the latter. Then he'd have to backtrack and find the wilderness wanderer he'd met a few miles back and kill him. He'd already been to one castle two days earlier, and it proved not to be Bal Toroth's.
When Dyron reached the foot of the path, he dismounted, and let his horse retire to what little there was of the nearby greenery.
The journey up the path was long and tiring, and Dyron felt elated at finally reaching its top. Today he would meet his destiny; today he would claim the glory which had evaded others for countless centuries. Today he would become power incarnate -- or so his fantasies had led him to believe.
The castle was massive, and seemed to be carved out of the mountain itself, its walls and towers seamless and without feature, it's corridors dank and empty. After extensive searching he found the throne room, and it was somewhat like he'd imagined it. Intimidating. Large. Beautiful. Beautiful in that its walls were bare, ready to be painted black with Bal Toroth's evil blood.
Bal Toroth sat upon an ornately-carved black onyx throne, its carvings a wild variety of torture, most likely the tale of the deadly legacy of Bal Toroth. The massive man stood, his face a blank mask. He stared silently at the warrior Dyron, as if he had all the time in the world.
Dyron pulled the amulet strung about his neck from under his clothing, and spoke in a rehearsed way.
"Know now that it is Dyron Faldoon who comes to challenge you," he bellowed, "and know that it is I who will be the one to rid the world of your evil, and lay claim to your castle's vaunted secrets. Come forth and meet your death!" he yelled, and drew his sword from the oaken sheath strapped to his leather-clad back, and stood waiting for Bal Toroth to attack.
The massive man's swarthy face betrayed no emotion, his massive black mustache twitching back and forth in a rocking motion. He drew from beneath his black robes a sword of his own, and walked unhurriedly toward the waiting poseur.
Dyron stood confident, for he had spent the better part of his twenty-six years becoming a master of the sword, and was prepared to display his skills convincingly.
When the battle was done, a bruised and bloodied Dyron emerged the victor.
He beheaded his worthy opponent, and placed his head in the sack he'd brought along for just that occasion. He cast aside his bloodied sword, and sat upon a throne that was now his by right of contest.
"I'll show that crazy old man," Dyron heaved out-of-breath at the corpse of his enemy. "When I return victorious, I'll slice away the dumbstruck look he'll have on his leathered face, if his crusty old self hasn't died from a heart attack in the meantime. He won't be expecting to see me again. His open mouth and lolling tongue will permanently play upon his beheaded features, and he will know, oh yes, he will know, as will the world, of the death of Bal Toroth by my mighty hand!"
"Oh, I don't know about all that now," a graveled demonic voice intoned, emanating from everywhere, and nothing.
Before he could react, Dyron was held immobile by thick black steel bars that ruptured in a wave from the black throne. A portion of the smooth wall in front of him opened, and Dyron screamed like a terrified girl. Eventually, he managed to confine his reaction to sobbing fits and mumbled words. The image before him changed, shimmering as it settled into another, smaller, more familiar shape.
"It's you? You?. . .sniff. . .you. . .nah. . .sniff. . .no. . ."
"I told you, no one will ever return alive from Bal Toroth's domain," the old man said in an old dry voice. “I'm sure that by now you can see why. I am quite amazed, by the way, at the skill you displayed against my guardian, but I'm afraid nothing that you did herein these ancient halls would have mattered, not in the long run. The only secret behind these walls is the one I bear, and if you'd killed me, shudder the thought, the secret would have died with me.
"You see, my secret is immortality, and I'm afraid it's young and stupid blood such as yours that is the key to it being possible. Had we met and I not warned you, you would have been quite useless, but nonetheless harmless. Otherwise. . ." Bal Toroth shrugged, assuming Dyron knew the rest.
Dyron screamed again, and Bal Toroth waited until it seemed the boy would never tire of flurious wails and tormented curses, before stripping the young man of his precious amulet. With a wave of his hand -- his patience at last exhausted -- he silenced the poor boy. Dyron's face continued to writhe like a mewling mime.
Bal Toroth examined the amulet for a moment, his eyes glazed in trance, and tucked it away in his dirty robes.
"My dear Dyron, if it's your poor soul you're worried about," he mocked, "then let me assure you it is being donated to a worthy cause."
Dyron ceased his contortions long enough for Bal Toroth to notice, and his tongue was released from it's agonizing silence.
"Worthy cause?" he asked sheepishly, both hoping and fearing what Bal Toroth might say.
"Why yes," said the old man as he removed a wicked looking dagger from under his dirty garments, "at least it's worthy to me." His smile was as full of evil laughter as an evil smile could get.
"Your soul will take its place among the others," he said, gesturing to the throne Dyron was strapped into. "My poor old chair has been without a new soul-carving for quite some time, and yours will be a most glorious addition. . ."
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