Chapter 15: To the Hour of Demise
‘It matters not if a mission takes me a day, a year, a decade, or a century, for my purpose is immortal’ Philosophical Lessons from Utyirth (Volume III: Scholar).
1
“Prometh,” Ganis said, “I have to go to Scyldur.” It was the third time he visited the Pits of Carcer since his arrival to Initium Keep, and the excitement of his return all but faded.
The resistance leader raised his head, revealing his saddened eyes. “The resistance needs you now more than ever.”
“On two fronts it seems.” Ganis shook his head both ways. “It cannot be, Prometh. I’m needed by the Ona. The time draws near and my return is necessary.”
Prometh’s eyes widened. “Are the Southern Dwellers attacking?” He propped up his chair, back straightened with aspirations of a long-awaited strike at the Scylds.
“Not yet.”
“Then what is it? By Gehennam, would you let me know what’s going on?”
Ganis took a moment for himself, thinking of how to best explain that the connection he had to the Ona is the only source of warning. His immediacy was something beyond reason and words. “You will have to trust me, Prometh. It’s of things I can’t explain, a connection beyond words, that I’m drawn to reunite with the other Nosgardians.”
Prometh nodded. He did not like having Ganis come and go as he pleased, drawing close and far at the same time to the resistance, his own child. “Do as you must, Ganis from Nosgard, and we’ll do our best to be there when the time comes.”
Ganis looked at Prometh intently, a single look that bore more meaning that any words he could produce, and left, red-trimmed grey cloak gliding behind him as it brushed the air.
2
The Scyld guards, loyal to a fault, remained behind under the command of Twityo, whom Ganis had promoted to serve as his right hand. They were left with strict orders to see to the construction of the keep before anything else, even the prisoners’ atonement.
When Ganis returned to the empty streets of Scyldur the moon had reached its highest. He made his way from the pier at Sacred Stove District to Pertinax Dwelling, coming across a few houses emitting the occasional sound of praying dwellers, chants fading in the night.
It was not long before Ganis reached Pertinax Dwelling and entered it, expecting none of his Parthan crew to be awake.
A few steps into the common room, just before Ganis turned at the corner to reveal what awaited him, and Ganis heard a voice saying, “We were wondering if you would sense it.” It was Hephaestion. The smell of fumes strengthened as Ganis approached, revealing the other eight Parthans sitting idly, each minding their own and barely surprised by Ganis’ arrival.
“Sigurd and Monolos?” Ganis was surprised to see the two within the walls of Scyldur, Monolos more than Sigurd. “When have you returned?”
“When we were called,” Sigurd said, coarse voice sounding ever so strange. Monolos nodded agreeably.
“Is that what drew me here? A calling?”
“It is a rare occurrence, even amongst Red Onas,” Hephaestion said. “Some believe that it is a sign of greater things unraveling around an Ona, a pattern of sorts.” He puffed on his pipe. The smoke smelled differently from what Ganis remembered, less floral and more arid, but equally pleasant. “We were never called before.”
“Is it about Naa’tas?”
“Certainly,” Rein answered. He stood up and approached Ganis, his aura of concern and violence entirely gone. After all this time, Rein finally managed to control his transformation rage and return to serenity, in spite of the vengeance oath he made against the Scylds. “Pax smiles upon us.” He held Ganis gently and hugged him, letting go just when it felt right.
“There is no urgency, Ganis,” Hephaestion said, after taking a deep breath to cleanse his lungs from smoke. “Tell us of Initium Keep.”
Ganis swallowed, and started his story. He missed no detail, even the thoughts he got about how different Initium Keep was from his memory of it. He told them what he discovered about Vetus and of Flagrum’s role in his assignment; of Twityo and the trust he pioneered in Ganis; and of the resistance and how far it went.
When Ganis concluded his story, drawing the absolute attention of the others, Hephaestion hummed and said, “Everything is falling together as it should.”
“Yet you seem concerned, captain,” Percival said. He sat next to Drain, shoulder to shoulder, and had his leg raised on the seat of his chair casually, resting his other arm on it, palm relaxed and facing down.
Hephaestion nodded slowly. “We are incomplete without Pertinax, and the calling never comes to a missing Ona.”
“You said you never experienced a calling before, captain.” Percival did not seem concerned, the only among the Parthans – even Sigurd – who remained calm.
“True, I have never experienced a calling before, or known anyone who has, as a matter of fact.”
“So you can’t say for certain that it comes to only complete Onas.”
“I cannot,” Hephaestion agreed, although he seemed attempting to resist the urge to do so. He wanted to say that things were wrong and that the calling was false, but he had no way of proving it either, and he would not draw his argument without certainty, not with his nature.
Ganis was concerned. Thoughts about his belonging rang deeply in his mind, echoing through walls of doubt, and of Hephaestion’s acknowledgement of him being one with the Ona. He had never considered that the biggest obstacle to his attunement would be Hephaestion. Always, he thought, it was none other than himself.
“Tell me, captain,” Ganis said, staring at him intently unblinking with his big, black eyes, “am I, by any chance, a cause for your doubt about the calling?”
Silence spread in the room as everyone held their breath to hear Hephaestion’s response, as if it would obstruct their hearing. He paused for a moment which seemed like many moons to the others before saying, “I never had any shred of doubt about your belonging, yet I very much doubted your acceptance to belong to out Ona.” The tension disappeared and liveliness returned, a little more than before.
Ganis, too, was relieved. He did not know what he would have done if Hephaestion responded with any hesitation about his position, and he dared not dwell on the thought any longer lest it tear the little hope he had apart.
“You must be tired, Ganis, we all are,” Rein said, approaching Ganis from behind and resting a soothing palm on his shoulder, just like the old days.
Ganis breathed deeply and looked around, seeing the weariness weighing down on the Parthans, and said, “I will retire to my quarters now. It’s been a long time since I slept without the hindrance of this armor.”
3
As the calling warned, something made Scyldur stir with preparation. All Scyld soldiers were summoned to the capital and the armories were emptied, maces being replaced by blades whenever possible, and pikes by spears, weapons of greater use on the battlefield than in the city.
Hundreds of soldiers swarmed into Scyldur, gathered from all the hinterlands, and no street was left without at least two dozen soldiers roaming it. It would be a difficult battle, should the Southern Dwellers chose to march on to Scyldur, an entirely possible scenario as per Glowleaf’s reports.
At the moment, no orders were given to the Parthans separating them from one another, and Flagrum was unreachable. On many accounts Hephaestion attempted to send word to the quartermaster, trying to position the Ona favorably should a conflict arise, but none of the attempts received any response.
And Naa’tas was present, as Sigurd confirmed, in Scyldur Keep. He dismissed the Turian from his side for a time, and Sigurd was told that he is to remain within the city walls until summoned, a task he had no intention of disobeying.
“It will not be long until we are sent to the front,” Percival said, leaning by a wall. His assignment to the Law Enforcer Corps allowed him to establish a deep network of informants within Scyldur, making the Parth
ans privy to many secrets and hidden plans.
“There is no front yet,” Rein said. He leaned on the table kept for them in the tavern beneath to Devout Servant, setting his ale aside, a drink that made it difficult for him to resist the now-rare violent outbursts brought about by his transformation.
“But when there will be a front, you can rest assured that we’ll be sent to it,” Percival said, glancing at Sigurd beside him. “Even Sigurd will find himself facing the Southern Alliance forces.”
“Perhaps it is time to consider leaving Scyldur,” Monolos said. Glowleaf sat by his feet, head reaching well above the table, eyeing the Parthans as they spoke left and right.
“Careful, Monolos, we’re not in Pertinax Dwelling.” Drain half-crouched, as much as the table allowed him to, as if trying to make himself less noticeable. He gestured at Monolos to lower his voice, provoking nothing more than a nodding response from him.
“We will not leave,” Hephaestion said commandingly. He looked around him, eyeing each Parthan in turn expressionlessly. “Has anyone felt another calling?” They shook their heads slowly to each side twice, all in unison. “Then we stay.”
Percival tilted his head sideways, staring for a moment at the roof, lifting his attention from Sua as she disappeared through the kitchen door. “What’s this place called?”
“The Devout Servant!” Drain answered with hesitation, eyebrows frowning and eyes shrinking.
Sigurd took a deep breath dismissively and said, “The Drunken Servant.” His response earned him a curious look from the others.
Suddenly two Scylds, clad entirely in iron, entered. They wore a new uniform the Parthans had not seen before. Once the bards and jesters took notice of the two visitors, all music stopped, shifting the patrons’ attention to the ironclad men.
“The time for The Casus is upon us,” one of the two said. He was a taller man entirely covered in a crudely-made iron outfit. Rounded plates covered his shoulders, knees, elbows and wrists, giving him some degree of freedom to move. Other than a small opening in his iron casket revealing a scarred aged face with blue eyes and grey eyebrows, nothing of the man’s skin was bare.
The other ironclad man walked deeper into the cavern, iron boots falling hard on the wooden floor, armor clinging as he moved - it was a burdensome thing, and the man showed it. He pushed the mugs away from the nearest table to him, urging all those who served as soldiers to stand and rush to the exit.
Hephaestion stood, the other Parthans mirroring him, and slowly made for the exit. The older ironclad Scyld rushed him. “Quickly, fool, Naa’tas calls for our immediate presence.” He shoved Hephaestion towards the door, but succeeded in doing nothing other than pushing himself back.
“The Casus can wait for me.” Hephaestion threw a deadly glance at the ironclad Scyld, drawing a single drop of sweat from the ironclad Scyld’s forehead, and added, “Touch me again and I will claim your arm.”
With nothing else to add and no knowledge of where to go, the Parthans left.
While following Hephaestion, Ganis leaned and asked of Percival, whispering, “Where are we going?”
“Wherever the others are.” Percival was in no good mood. He was concerned for how much things would change for his Sua, and he hoped that it would still be possible to come back for her after Naa’tas has been dealt with.
Ganis paused for a moment, trying to conjure any memory of The Casus, but none came. He looked at Percival once more and asked, “What is The Casus?”
“The war to end the world.”
4
The Scylds were rushing towards the armory like ants on a fallen fruit. There was no order to their preparations, simply a few Scyld men handing out weapons and armor to those nearest to the distributing desk by the armory.
None of the Parthans were in need for any Scyld tools, for theirs would carry them further than any Utyirth-made device, and they just continued to follow the readied Scylds, with armor worn and weapons drawn, to where they gathered, just outside the walls of Scyldur.
Thousands of armored Scylds gathered, some ironclad and others leatherclad, indicating the amount of preparation they had undergone – not enough to equip the soldiers as the generals wished them to be. They all bore the deadly iron weapons of the Scyldur soldiers, but some still had the bulky pikes used to guard the inner cities against petty criminals and unarmed violent citizens - weapons more fit for display than for the battlefield, especially since they would not be facing heavily armored soldiers.
It was not difficult for the Parthans to remain together amidst the chaos, until one of Naa’tas’ guards spotted Sigurd, an easy target to find for anyone seeking him. “Sacred Sigurd,” the Scyld called. He was a large man by Scyld standards, just half a shoulder shorter than Sigurd, and his frame was one made for violence.
When Sigurd turned around to face the man, the Scyld continued, “Naa’tas calls for the Sacred Guard. We are to ride with him in battle.”
“Naa’tas marches with us?” Hephaestion asked in surprise.
Finally the opportunity we were waiting for, Ganis thought. His blood warmed with the encroaching thrill of facing Naa’tas once more in battle.
“Of course he does,” the Scyld replied without a hint of hesitation, glancing at Hephaestion only long enough for him to conclude his response. “Now, Sigurd. We must go now.”
Sigurd looked at the Parthans, nodded slowly in acknowledgement that he will be present when they face Naa’tas, and followed the man.
None of the other Parthans was called away.
After the passage of some time, long after many of the Scylds started fidgeting in boredom from their idleness, a black ironclad figure appeared on a black steed, followed by dozens of his Sacred Guard, Sigurd among them. As he approached Ganis, the man’s identity was revealed, Naa’tas.
The horses trotted to the front of the army. After passing the first soldier, having none other further from the gates of Scyldur than himself, he looked back, raised an iron blade, of crude make still but better than any other Scyld weapon, and thrust it towards the south, where the Southern Alliance gathered.
5
They marched south until an approaching army emerged from the horizon, the Southern Alliance force, Enkashar and Highborn marching side by side. When they reached the top of a distant hill, a good position to receive the Scyld force, the Southern Alliance army stopped, waiting patiently for their adversaries to engage them.
Naa’tas was not intimidated, and his pride led the Scylds blindly towards their readied foes, a force larger than theirs, but perhaps not as well equipped – or so they thought. Suddenly something seemed different in the plain grasslands carrying the Scyld force. The sound of birds and small insects subsided, and absolute silence prevailed, broken only by the occasional gust of wind whistling in the air.
“Ambush!” a voice echoed and a reign of burning arrows fell upon them, drawing the Scylds in an unfitting panic and breaking their formations.
Ganis followed the arrows’ origins to distant pits hidden by the long blades of wild grass. A trap was sprung, one prepared with such mastery that it even escaped the Parthans. Some of the arrows made their way to the Parthans, many bouncing harmlessly off of Hephaestion’s sturdy kite shield, and others ricocheting off Thalus’ masterwork armor. As Scylds fell around them, far fewer ironclad amongst their dead, the Parthans stood unscathed.
Another volley of arrows followed, and another, felling more Scylds but not as many as the first. Naa’tas remained calm throughout the entire endeavor, looking with an expressionless face as his followers died by the hundreds. Then a voice echoed, “Defend the flanks!”
“About time they start giving orders,” Percival said, smiling and suppressing a giggle. Drain joined him momentarily, and quickly withdrew once he noticed Rein’s judgmental eyes fixed on him.
No death was a laughing matter, regardless of affiliation. This was the moment when Ganis noticed that Rein no longer harbored any hatred for the Scyld
s, and his oath of vengeance was directed only at Naa’tas, Pertinax’s real killer.
“Spread out and find them!” another command echoed - a different voice from before, but the Scylds followed it regardless. The Parthans remained still as they studied the battlefield, acting only to defend themselves from the occasional stray arrow heading towards them.
A group of Scylds approached one of the pits only to find themselves springing yet another trap, one of flames and painful death. “To the east!” another command the Scylds followed with utmost devotion.
Then the sound of clashing steel resonated from a distance and cries of battle erupted. The Scyld force had met with the Southern Alliance. The battle had begun, and the remaining Southern Alliance soldiers standing by the horizon decided to join. The Scylds were at a significant disadvantage, but the Parthans knew that many battles with seemingly determined outcomes ended surprising even to the most experienced strategists.
Naa’tas remained calm, sitting on his steed with his back straight, watching the Scylds die in their futile attempt to confront their crafty enemy, trap springing after trap. Then the tide of battle changed when the slower ironclad Scylds reached the Southern Alliance force. Their armor made them impervious to many of their weapons, but it also encumbered them. They cleaved through the Enkashar brutally, whom their blades fell with far lesser devastation than intended on the Scyld’s iron armor.
A shout erupted from the Enkashar ranks, “Wear them down!” The Enkashar army retreated, their speed making it impossible for the ironclad Scylds to reach them.
“Purge the enemy!” a distant voice barked from within the Scyld ranks, and the leatherclad Scylds charged at the flank of the withdrawing Enkashar.
The battle continued with small victories to each army followed by a reaction by the other army changing its position from defeated to victor. Many small skirmished broke out and subsided, soldiers weaving in and out of combat, resting as much as they could, fighting in each following charge with less vigor but equal determination.
Then Naa’tas commanded the Sacred Guard to join the battle. They were few but their cavalry charge inflicted great damage onto whoever they directed it upon. Sigurd ignored the command and withdrew away from him.
Hephaestion moved, and the Parthans followed. Naa’tas was separated from any notable force, and he was vulnerable to an attack now. Upon noticing the other Parthans approach, weapons drawn and gleaming with murderous intent, he drew his mighty greatsword nearly as long as he was tall.
Naa’tas looked behind him, noticing Sigurd prepared to strike, and calmly asked, “What is the meaning of this, Sigurd of Midland?” His face was still, not a hint of surprise or any other emotion on it.
Sigurd offered no response; he simply stared at him idly waiting for the others to arrive, holding his mighty blade with one hand and the reins of his brown steed with another.
Naa’tas slowly turned his head to his right, noticing the approaching Parthans, and smiled. “So you are the ones sent from Nosgard.” His words were meant only for Sigurd’s ear, but Ganis caught wind of them regardless.
Then the Parthans arrived, and Sigurd commanded his horse to charge, swinging his blade above him. At the height of his charge’s speed, Sigurd slashed at Naa’tas, felling the blade from above his head. Naa’tas dodged the steel easily, but his horse met a grim fate. Naa’tas tumbled on the ground and gracefully stood straight after rolling a few times. When he looked at Sigurd, it was with tremendous contempt.
Percival slashed at his back, cutting his black iron armor clean in a swift slash, revealing the pale skin beneath and provoking a surprised resentful look from Naa’tas.
“My blade doesn’t cut him,” Percival managed to shout before the back of Naa’tas’ armored hand was flung against his chest, throwing him back with impossible force into Drain who attempted to soften his brother’s fall with his own body.
Naa’tas then turned to face Sigurd, revealing his unharmed skin exposed by Percival’s strike to the approaching Parthans. He released a menacing laugh, echoing higher than any other sound on the battlefield, making the clashing of steel seem like a distant fading memory.
Encircled by the Parthans, slowly making their way around in a perfect circle, Naa’tas said, “Your steel cannot cut me and your words cannot convince me. What else do you want to try?”
Ganis took a step closer to Naa’tas, Eos held proudly in his determined grip, and said, “Sing Eos.” The blade rang in a beautiful tune as it glided through the air.
Naa’tas turned to face Ganis and was met by a mighty slash against his chest he arrogantly did not attempt to evade. Eos did indeed sing his way into Naa’tas’ flesh and drew dark blood. A look of disbelief appeared on Naa’tas’ face.
“Impossible,” Naa’tas said shockingly. He quickly punched Ganis in the chest, an impossible blow to dodge, and he flew into Hephaestion and Ninazu, Eos still firmly gripped.
“Attack!” Hephaestion shouted, commanding an immediate response by the Parthans as the words were uttered and not a moment after it, a feat only possible to the most attuned of Onas.
Naa’tas huddled and the air around him formed a fierce twirl pushing everything away, Parthan and ground alike. After the motion subsided, a mighty black dragon emerged in Naa’tas’ stead. Its hands were sharp claws that dug into the exposed stone beneath it, scratching through the hard rock; its wings were like mighty clouds covering the sky; and its mouth was riddled by many serrated teeth, each as sharp as an Orichalcum Parthan dagger, the finest of metals any could wield.
The dragon released a mighty roar, splitting clouds and grass alike, and commanding all the soldiers, Southern Dweller and Scyld, to pause in fascination of the legendary creature’s appearance. The Scylds, when their shock disappeared, resumed the fighting with renewed vigor and replenished strength, but it was not a sight the Parthans would notice, not with what they faced.
Ganis growled and lunged at the dragon, slashing and evading stronger and faster than ever before. The moroi’s initiative drew the Parthans into the fight. Each strike was made with extreme precision, avoiding the dragon’s fatal tail swings and snapping jaw.
When a Parthan would be in harm’s way, another would push them away, creating an opening for yet another Parthan to attempt injury on their colossal adversary. The weapons were useless except for the purpose of confusion; all save for Eos who scratched at the dragon’s scales, but never inflicted a grievous wound.
Suddenly Naa’tas spread his wings and took to the skies, creating a massive shock that pinned the nine Parthans to the ground. He made for the forest nearby with large black wings violently beating the air beneath it.
In a blink of an eye, Percival readied his bow and Ninazu his crossbow, releasing precise shots at the dragon’s belly, arrows and bolts bouncing off harmlessly.
“Your steel will not penetrate his scales,” Ganis shouted. He took a deep breath and aimed his extended arm, with palm bare, at the flying dragon, and the shock of Koa, the word of power Ganis had learnt in the Pits of Carcer during his imprisonment, felled him. The dragon dropped violently, crashing into ancient trees and leaving a trail of desolation behind him.
“Quickly before he takes to the skies again,” Hephaestion shouted as he rushed towards the fallen dragon, leaving the battle to be resolved between the natives of Utyirth.
6
With the battle raging behind them, echoing in furthering sounds, the Parthans raced to the forest where their colossal adversary had fallen. All nine Nosgardians ran harmoniously together, step matching step perfectly, forming two rows of hardened warriors.
Then a step into another world.
Ganis stood still in Katabasis Keep. She was back in her original form, wearing the black robes of Katabasis and stripped from Eos. She looked around, seeing each stone falling exactly where she remembered, blackened stones with spider webs spun between them wherever two were far enough apart.
Flickering light of torches g
ave her sight and revealed the crimson carpets and draperies decorating the endless corridor. She knew exactly where she was in Katabasis Keep, but it appeared that anything beyond the section no longer existed in this version of reality.
“Ganis, where are we?” a voice uttered. She turned and saw the eight Parthans standing oddly; wearing purple clothes she assumed were their original Parthan attire. None were armed. The Voice was Thalia’s, Ganis recognized. Like herself, the other Parthan women returned to their original form.
“In Katabasis Keep,” Ganis said. “Though I don’t know how we came here or why.” In spite of her confusion and concern, she was relieved to have the others with her.
“Because the hour is nigh,” another unrecognizable voice to the Parthans said. It was accompanied by a distant cold shrill, sending a chill up Ganis’ spine, a chill she was certain the others felt. A thin black hooded figure appeared, wearing an outfit much resembling Ganis’, but shrouded by an aura of darkness.
The mysterious man approached Ganis from the opposite end of the corridor to where the Parthans stood. Whenever he drew closer to one of the torches, its flames would dull to near death, but they slowly returned once he passed.
“Who are you?” Ganis asked, slightly stepping back in an attempt to distance herself from him. Her legs were suddenly halted, and she found herself helpless against his approach.
“See for yourself.” He was close enough for Ganis to taste the profound smell of decay emanating from under his robe. He removed his hood, revealing eyes entirely consumed by blackness and a bare scalp with many small warts protruding from it. The revitalization of a nearby torch allowed Ganis a clearer look at the man, turning the warts into small fissures in his skin oozing with pus.
“You are a Hand of Fate?” Ganis said, yet her tension from the man’s mystique only grew.
“Demise, to be precise,” the man hissed. He wore a wicked smile matching his wicked face more bone than flesh.
“Then we have failed?”
“Not yet.” Demise spoke slowly, like an aged man struggling to find long-forgotten words seldom parted from his withering lips. He circled Ganis slowly, glancing only once at the other Parthans as he watched them stare helplessly. “You have eluded my clutch once, as did your master.”
“Lord Asclepius?”
“There are no lords in my realm.” He chuckled mockingly, continuing around Ganis for the second time. “But we speak of the same man.” He pointed a bony finger at Ganis, not touching her robes but having her feel it entirely. It was like the flesh suddenly burnt and froze at once and nearly ripped away from her in an attempt to escape the near-touch of Demise.
Demise smiled, revealing two rows of pointy black teeth oozing with dark mucus barely avoiding an abrupt escape onto his withered bony chin. “The hour is upon you, and I demand a life from you.”
“A debt we will pay,” another voice erupted from behind Demise. A tall man, taller than any Highborn Ganis had ever seen, approached from behind Demise, entirely immune to his leeching presence. The torches rekindled with the new visitor’s presence, burning brighter than any torch should; nearly blinding Ganis.
The man had long brown hair much like a lion’s mane. His beard was thick, but not wild, trimmed to perfection around his sharp jaw. His arms were like thighs and his thighs like waists. He wore no robes, just brown cloth pants and brown fur boots tightly fastened around his massive feet. A thick white fur cloak fell from his shoulders to the back of his knees, leaving his muscular chest entirely exposed.
“Eos?” Ganis said. The name alone eased the tension among her and the Parthans.
Standing next to Demise, towering over the scrawny figure, Eos nodded. He shifted his gaze to Demise and said, “Please, Ancient One, accept the debt of a life and collect it another time.”
Demise seemed unthreatened by Eos, and Ganis sensed a hint of concern emanating from Eos now standing between her and Demise, covering the Hand of Fate entirely from her sight. “You have been a profitable investment, Eos of Utyirth, and one of my best servants.” Demise paused for a moment. “I will grant you this wish and, for now, delay the servitude of the others.” Demise laughed menacingly, disappearing from Ganis’ sight as the echo faded.
When silence prevailed once more, Eos looked at Hephaestion then again at Ganis, face expressionless and body relaxed. “You were concerned that the Ona was incomplete without Pertinax.” He grunted. “A meaningless concern. Let us see what Naa’tas is made of.”
And back into the forest, the dragon now in sight. The Parthans halted their hasty advance, looking at one another in search for answers about what they had just experienced. But now was not the time, for the dragon would not wait.
He snapped at Ganis, nearly catching her cloak between his merciless teeth. Ganis noticed her weight lighten. The transformation was undone, for her and the others too. She had but a moment to gather her thoughts and make sense of Demise’s words, and it was all she needed.
Eos sang, splitting teeth from mouth once the dragon snapped again. He released a growl at his small loss, and whipped at Ganis with his tail. She took notice of Sigurd and threw Eos to him, taking the mighty blow as gently as she could, smashing her into a tree. It was not a dexterous parry.
Eos sang once more with the tune of Sigurd’s heavy strike at the dragon’s wing, a strike which tore it to make flight impossible for the vile creature. And yet another swing by the dragon at Sigurd, this time from his intact wing.
Sigurd threw Eos to Percival who caught it midair, sweeping at the dragon’s leg. Sigurd was struck, but Percival avoided the attempt for him and passed Eos to Dindrane.
The other twin struck at the dragon’s claw as it fell towards Sigurd, amputating the three claws meant for his life, and threw the singing blade to Ninazu, who ran it through his poison satchel, tearing it apart and anointing Eos with a mixture of poisonous concoctions.
While the dragon was attempting for Hephaestion, ready to meet one of their adversary’s blows with his kite shield - Strikestopper, he called it - Ninazu shoved his captain away and pieced the dragon’s scaly hand, provoking a screech from the black lizard. Unwilling to part from the blade, Ninazu held as the dragon shook him and the blade free, tossing Ninazu at Monolos.
Now in Monolos’ hand, Eos sang with a different tune, it was wilder yet still beautiful, and struck at the dragon’s belly, cutting deeply through the seemingly soft tissue at Eos’ touch. And the Progenitor Blade was handed to Eirene, who aimed for the dragon’s heart with Eos singing gently, but not piercing it deep enough. She gracefully avoided his spike tail by swinging on his still-intact wing.
Eirene tossed Eos to Thalia, who managed to climb over the dragon’s spiked back. With Eos singing in a hammering tune, it sliced off some meat from the dragon’s shoulder, making the lizard screech in agony once more. And Thalia was tossed away, Eos still dug deep into the bleeding dragon’s flesh, a result from another attempt from Thalia which did not fare as well as the first.
Hephaestion rushed from behind the dragon preoccupied by the futile swings from the other Parthan weapons, and he tossed Strikestopper aside to grab onto Eos with all his strength. The dragon took notice of him and shook violently, trying to rid itself from the stubborn foe. When Eos was free, Hephaestion threw himself off, dropping near Ganis and handing her the Progenitor Blade.
Ganis summoned all the power she could from her runes and Dark Gift to lunge at the dragon one last time. She ran with blinding speed, far exceeding anything the dragon could react to, and attempted for the giant lizard’s head. Eos soared – a grand voice echoing in all of Utyirth - as its sharp black edge cut through the thick black scales of Naa’tas’ neck, splitting head from body.
The dragon’s head fell lifeless, two large yellow eyes within a black head staring at nothing, and its body violently convulsed, random strikes at random things, cutting trees and stone alike in one last mindless act of destruction. Then it stopped.
Ganis collapse
d next to the dead dragon.
7
“She’s awake! She’s awake!” a voice shouted enthusiastically.
Ganis opened her eyes and found Thalia sitting next to her, holding her hand while she repeated the words to alert the others.
“Where am I?” Ganis asked, scrubbing the haze from her eyes away with both hands.
“Scandur Keep, King Ragnar’s domain.”
The others rushed in, each in their own manner. Percival and Dindrane tripped atop one another as they raced to Ganis; Eirene glided through the air gracefully yet quickly; Monolos stumbled in; Ninazu stroked his beard as he made for her side; Sigurd calmly entered, feet punishing the wooden floor as they always did; and Hephaestion preceded by the smoke from his pipe, holding Eos with both hands, hilt above the blade. Within mere moments they were all cramped in Ganis’ quarters, beside her resting bed.
“What happened?”
“We defeated Naa’tas, but that it not the most impressive feat we did,” Hephaestion said, looking around for a place to seat himself. He decided to keep standing when he noticed how much of a ruckus it would cause if he attempted for the chair in the corner, behind all the other Parthans. “We were incomplete without Lyra at first, then without Pertinax, but with you and Eos our Ona was complete once more.”
A single gleam made its way from the tip of Eos’ blade to the hilt at the mention of the Progenitor Blade, still held in Hephaestion’s hand.
Ganis took a deep breath, and said disappointingly, “Then we make to Nosgard now.”
“Not yet,” Thalia said. “Our new ship still needs some work before it can safely carry us to Nosgard. Oh, the Scands agreed to help us return to Nosgard by providing a ship and a crew.” Thalia scratched her head. “Although I doubt if it’s worth the trouble of training them.”
Too tired to ask for an explanation, Ganis simply nodded. “What of the Watcher hounds?”
“They come,” Monolos responded immediately.
Ganis looked for Glowleaf, and as she was about to ask Monolos about the Watcher, Percival said, “As for the big news, I believe that Sua and I will get married.”
The room fell into a sudden eerie silence. “What?” Dindrane shouted in surprise.
“I proposed to Sua and she accepted. We will get married,” Percival repeated casually, as if it was announced a thousand times before.
“Well,” Thalia said, “at least we’ll have something to occupy us while we prepare for our voyage.” She patted Percival on the back, “Congratulations, brother. Name your first child after me.”
“What about the war?” Ganis asked. She held herself up, pulling the pillow with her to support her back against it rather than the bed’s hard wood.
“The Scylds surrendered once Sigurd showed them Naa’tas’ head,” Hephaestion said, puffing on his pipe twice after speaking. “The Southern Alliance would have defeated them regardless, but not without unnecessary shedding of blood.”
“And all is well in Utyirth?”
Hephaestion chuckled. “Far from it, Ganis.” He shook his head. “Far from it.”
“It will take some time for the land to heal,” Eirene said calmly. “Many generations of Midlanders suffered by the hands of Scylds, just as many generations of Scylds suffered by the hands of Scands. The scars of Utyirth go deep, and it will take time for the people to learn how to forgive one another.” Eirene paused. “The resistance, Prometh and his men, will be invaluable for such transition. I was told that they managed to settle their differences with the prison guards without the shedding of a single drop of blood. Whatever you taught them, it worked.” Eirene smiled. “You walked the path of Pax without even knowing it.”
“But this is not our task,” Hephaestion said. “We are soldiers, fit for times of war and not of peace. Perhaps the people of Utyirth will be brought into the fold of the Empire, and then others more suitable for the task than we are would be sent to lift Utyirth up from the darkness it has been cast into.”
“Many here seem to favor joining the Empire,” Dindrane said. She stood next to Percival, as she always did, and leaned on her brother casually. “Brother here certainly is keen on having Utyirth as part of the Demigod Emperor’s dominions.” She pointed at Percival with her thumb.
“Our task is complete now,” Hephaestion said, turning away from the Parthans and leaving them. “I think you should rest some more, Ganis. Your body has been pushed far beyond its limits during the fight with Naa’tas.”
The other Parthans left, Eirene leaving last, struggling to let go of Ganis’ hand. She slipped out as gracefully as the wind itself, white dress gliding through the air.
And Ganis slept with no fear of attack or concern for safety.
8
A large ship named The Martyr Captain, in honor of Pertinax the Second, sailed from the shores of Utyirth to Nosgard with the nine Parthans and a large group of Watcher hounds aboard as its passengers.
Ganis stood by the railing on the deck, staring at the blue horizon, where the gentle sea waves met the fading sky clouds, enjoying the sea breeze caressing her face. She wore her yellow hair down, allowing it to dance merrily through the air.
“It is a beautiful sight,” Hephaestion slipped next to Ganis. Enthralled by the view, Ganis did not feel him approach.
“Indeed it is.” She looked at him, staring into his chestnut eyes pulsing with calmness, and asked, “What of the Ona now?”
He breathed deeply, lungs free from smoke for a time. “This was our last task as an Ona, I fear.” He brushed his curly brown hair away from his face, clearing it for the pleasant sea winds. “We have been away from Nosgard for quite some time, and undoubtedly much has changed. There will be something for us to do there, even not as an Ona.” He swallowed, suppressing the tears that ached to be released. “What about you?”
“I’ll go back to Katabasis Keep and tell Lord Asclepius of what I learnt here.” She paused for a moment, taking a deep breath once she realized the astounding amount of knowledge she would have to record.
“And what was that?” Hephaestion asked curiously.
“That there is no planning worth planning other than preparation for the unexpected.” She paused for a moment, thinking of how difficult it will be back in Nosgard without the Parthans to guide her actions, to make her a better person and balance her conscious. “And I learnt that there is no better lesson than to explore the uncharted.”
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