What art thee doing?” Pelurji asked at last, after Nemgas had managed to exhume a large pile of soft loam upon the esplanade. Yet still the earth went down, the headstone towering over him like an angry sentinel, the chiselled words upon it surface limned in silverly light as if on fire. The dirt was fully wedged under his fingernails, and his brightly coloured tunic was smeared with the brown of the earth. Sweat poured from his head, drenching that same shirt as he dug and clawed at the ground, determined to bring it all up again.
Do you see?
He had every intention of doing just that, Nemgas thought bitterly in response. Glancing briefly at Pelurji, he saw that the boy was holding one of his juggling balls in his hands, squeezing it nervously.
“Trying to see,” Nemgas said at last. “‘Tis the grave of Pelain.”
Pelurji blinked. “But Pelain’s body dost lie on yonder dragon.”
Nemgas nodded. “Aye, ‘tis why I dig.”
“I dost not understand, master Nemgas.”
“Neither do I,” Nemgas said with a resigned half-grin. “Yet,” he added, and then returned to his digging at the ground. The boy seemed to understand his need, and stepped back, juggling his balls after a moment.
His breath was heavy as he ripped up earth, tossing it aside where chunks would tumble about and rolls to a stop on the esplanade, bits of broken earth that had not seen the sky in hundreds of years. How deep had he managed to dig? Three, four feet? It seemed like so much more, but he knew it could not be. With every new heave, he’d stand up and peer out over the expanse between the crystalline towers, and everything would seem to be just a bit taller. Even Pelurji stood over him now, though Nemgas was grateful that the boy had not wandered off. He could not imagine what he’d do if he couldn’t see him.
Dig! Dig! See!
But see what?
Thy fate, mortal man?
And what a fate at that!
Nemgas’s lip curled disdainfully. He knew what he would see, but did not want to think it. He’d known the moment he’d seen two swords, each as unblemished as the other. They were brothers after all, twins. He knew what lay in the bottom of this grave, but would not permit himself to think it. After all, the Magyar did not want to understand its implications, though he knew he must. With a heavy grunt, he pressed deeper, pulling up yet another chunk of earth and heaving it over his head. It skipped past the headstone and scattered across the stone, marble and isinglass.
As he stood up he saw that Pelurji was no longer juggling, but instead had returned to the body of the dragon and the armoured man atop it. The boy was wrestling with the old armour straps, pulling first the boots, revealing the decrepit skeleton underneath. Nemgas nodded in approval at that. The old armour did Pelain no good now. Best go to the Magyars. Pelurji in particular. He was in Pelain’s bloodline after all, or so Nemgas had decided. There certainly seemed to be something in him that was special.
And so they both continued, Nemgas piling up more and mor earth from the grave, Pelurji removing bits and pieces of the armour, exposing the skeleton within. The boy finished first, arranging the armour before the ragged black claws of the dragon, while Nemgas toiled behind the headstone. Satisfied at his work, Pelurji ran back to the older Magyar and announced in jovial tones, “I hath rescued Pelain’s armour, master Nemgas! Come see!”
Nemgas smiled warmly but shook his head. “Perhaps after I hath finished here.”
“But I want to see thee in the amour!” Pelurji pleaded, his face, once filled with excitement, already turning to disappointment.
“‘Twas upon a skeleton only moments before, Pelurji,” Nemgas reminded him. “I wouldst catch an ague were I to don that armour. It must be cleaned first.”
“But ‘tis clean! It sparkles on the inside.”
This did catch Nemgas’s interest. He paused in his digging, stretching his sore back. Digging was certainly arduous labour. “Bring me any piece thou wishest and let me see.” His excitement renewed, Pelurji dashed off back to where the bones of the dragon lay. Nemgas bent once more and scooped out another handful of earth. Even when he stood, he could barely see above the hole he’d dug. Perhaps there was nothing in the grave after all?
He will find two.
You will see.
Nemgas straightened up again, the sudden tugging of the voices upon his ears a genuine surprise. He had not forgotten them, but he had put them out of his mind. Why was it important that Pelurji be the one to find whatever may lay buried under this grave. The path they had followed had led nowhere until he’d let Pelurji take over leading them. Could it have been deliberate, some strange ancient magic preventing that line of marble from going anywhere until the boy took the lead? Or was it simply coincidence?
The sound of footfalls made him look up. Pelurji was returning, carrying one of the mailed gloves in his hands. Even after hundreds of years of neglect, it still shone as if newly polished. Nemgas put his hands on the sides of the pit he’d dug, and hoisted himself back up to the esplanade. Wiping his hands upon his breeches, he took a couple steps from the pit to meet his boy.
“Ah, ‘tis a gauntlet,” Nemgas said, holding out his hands. Pelurji offered it up, and he took it gently. The weight of the metal was heavy, but no more so than any other suit of armour he’d handled. Turning it over, he could find no mar, nor did it reek of death, as he feared it might. The fingertips were marked with steel black claws, like a wolf’s. “Strange. This place hath mysteries greater than I canst imagine.”
Still curious, Nemgas slipped the gauntlet over his fingers. The inside was lined with leather, and it felt crisp and soft, warm even to his touch. The leather also fit his hand as if it had been sewn according to his own size. Flexing his fingers, he found it supple and secure. “‘Tis a superior gauntlet, Pelurji. Any knight wouldst spend the work of their life for such a gauntlet. And ‘tis but one piece of this suit!”
Pelurji nodded excitedly. “Dost it fit thee, master Nemgas?”
“Aye, it dost.” Nemgas glanced back at the grave. “I wouldst like to put on more of this armour. Wouldst thee dig for me?”
The boy looked at the pit and nodded slowly. “I wilt try.” He walked to the edge, looked down for several moments, and then climbed over the edge. Nemgas watched as the boy disappeared, the pit so deep that Pelurji was completely lost to sight. He waited a few minutes, watching as a small handful of dirt was tossed onto the pile. A bit of it slid right back into the pit, but most of it remained where he’d thrown it.
Turning, Nemgas walked steadily over to where the armour had been laid at the dragon’s claws. Pelurji had arranged all the pieces where they should go, so Nemgas knew he’d have little difficulty in putting it all on. He removed the gauntlet first though, setting it carefully back down upon the stone. His eyes skirted over the wolf head helm, noting the long steel fangs that it sported. He fancied a bit of spittle dribbling off of them. The eyes, the ruby eyes seemed to sparkle in the silver light from the towers.
Upon the dragon, the skeleton that had once borne this armour had been twisted and turned about, though it too looked to be in better condition than he would have expected. The bones were clean, white, though where the boy had wrestled with them they had shattered to ash. Nemgas nodded once to the remains of Pelain, and then knelt down. He took the breastplate, the metal stylized to appear as the chest fur of a wolf, and pulled the straps tight. Already, the weight pulled on him, bringing him down to the ground, but it was a weight he’d borne before.
One by one, Nemgas strapped on the pieces of armour, slipping them over his dirt stained smocks. After the breastplate, he strapped on the greaves, and then the boots. The arms and then the gauntlets too went on piece by piece. At last, he hoisted the wolf head helm in the air, and stared at it, almost afraid of what might happen should he slip it on. The inside of each of course was filled with first a bit of beaten leather, followed by a set of chain mail. Even without the helmet on his head Nemgas felt he needed every muscle simply to remain standing.
Resolutely, Nemgas lifted the helm before him, gripping it as tightly as he could in the mailed gauntlets. He thought he saw a gleam cross through one of the ruby eyes. It slid over his head easily, settling into place at his shoulders heavily. He found he could see well enough through the wolf’s jaws, though as with all helms, it did blind him to either side. With slow ease, he snapped it into place, finding working with the claws of the gauntlet easier than he imagined.
Bending over slightly, he retrieved Caur-Merripen from where it had fallen, and hoisted the silver-black blade into the air. It rung with the thirst of polished steel, and he felt an electric thrill race up his arm. A strange excitement came over him, and he swung the blade in several wide arcs before him. It hummed through the wind, and he could fancy he heard a bit of amused laughter. Nemgas cared not, grinning as the wolf helm grinned.
Once the suit of armour was complete, he found it surprisingly mobile, considering its strange design. He strode over to where Pelurji continued to toil in the dirt, and bent over. When the long shadow of the wolf crept over the boy, Pelurji looked up and smiled. He pointed to a dull stone slab he’d begun clearing away. The same scrawling had been etched into it as was on the headstone.
“That looks great on thee, master Nemgas!” Pelurji cheered as he stared at the armoured Magyar.
“No armour I hath e’er worn hast been greater than this,” Nemgas admitted, though he knew that as Nemgas, he’d never worn armour before. The man whose memories he possessed, Kashin of the Yeshuel, had worn armour in his life, and he knew what it felt like from them.
Pointing with one black claw to the stone he asked, “What hath thee found?”
Pelurji smiled then, “I hath found Pelain’s coffin!”
Nemgas’s mouth turned down in a strange line. “Canst thee clear it off?”
“‘Twill take me another minute.” Pelurji bent over then, and continued scraping the dirt off of the coffin. He would scoop it up into piles of dirt in the middle, and then he’d lift that up and toss it over the side of the hole. The coffin itself looked no more than an inch deeper than Nemgas himself had dug. Perhaps he’d merely had to let the boy dig and it would have been quickly found. Or perhaps, it was again merely a coincidence.
Glancing about those twelve crystal towers, he began to wonder if anything that happened in Carethedor was coincidence.
You will see.
Soon.
“See what?” Nemgas asked aloud, looking to either side through the fangs of the wolf. But there was nothing but the towers there.
Evil comes.
This made Nemgas blink and look more astutely around. The mists that surrounded the towers remained unchanged, and the stars continued their turning in the heavens above. It had to be nearing midnight, but he did not feel weary at all. Nor did Pelurji, the boy still scooping the dirt away from the coffin as energetically as he had been all night. Cautiously, he reached over and plucked the second sword up from the headstone in his left hand. It fell into his gauntlet effortlessly, the tip whistling into the air as its twin had done.
Nemgas stood with his back to the boy for several moments, scanning the towers, but seeing nothing. He clutched both swords before him, finding them both to be of the finest craftsmanship. He could have stood holding them for hours he knew. There was something subtly different about the sword in his left hand though, but he was not sure what it might be.
Setting the sword in his right aside for a moment, he considered the one in his left. He’d picked it up from the headstone, while its twin had been in Pelain’s hands atop the dragon. They both appeared the same, a long black blade whose edges and quillon were silver. But there was something slightly different about them. Shifting the blade to his right hand, it did not feel the same, and in fact, felt balanced incorrectly.
Nemgas slowly put down the blade, resting it once more against the headstone. He retrieved the other from the ground, gripping it tightly. This one felt right. What could that mean, he pondered.
“‘Tis clear, master Nemgas,” Pelurji called out from the hole.
“Canst thee open it?” Nemgas asked, turning back around. The area around the esplanade was quiet and empty. Whatever evil the voices spoke of must still be some ways off, he decided.
Pelurji shook his head. “I hath no strength for that.”
Lowering Caur-Merripen down, Nemgas put the tip of the blade at the edge of the stone. He nodded his head to the boy, who quickly scrambled up the side of the pit, wiping the dirt on his breeches just as Nemgas had done before him. Nemgas grit his teeth together then and put his weight behind the sword. He felt ashamed at using such a fine weapon, a weapon of finer design than he could ever remember seeing, for such a ghastly purpose. But it served better than any pick or wedge could have done, for the stone cracked open after only a second’s effort.
A rush of wind hissed from the coffin, but the scent that greeted them was subdued, of rough earth and stone, not of decay. Nemgas gave another push, and he managed to wedge the sword tip between the lid and the casket beneath. Another heave and the lid began to tilt upwards. But the stone was very heavy, he soon realized, gritting his teeth, eyes clenched as he pushed, shoving with all his might against the quillon, the sword tip itself digging into the stone as it shouldered it aside.
And with one last gasp, the stone fell against the dirt at the side of the pit, resting there, letting the light of the silver globes high atop the towers penetrate into that coffin. There, they came to rest upon a suit of armour, gleaming brilliantly as if newly polished. It danced along the jagged edges of black claws pressed within the gauntlets, cavorted over the various lines of the chest, wavy crenellations meant to be seen as fur. The light glowed upon that helm, and the skull set perfectly within it, seen through jagged teeth limned by that silvery illumination. Nemgas stared down into that coffin, seeing the same suit of armour he now wore, upon the very same skeleton that now rested in a twisted heap upon the black bones of the dragon.
Pelurji blinked as he stared downwards. He looked up at Nemgas for a moment, stared, and then his eyes went back down into that pit. “Why art there two, master Nemgas?”
“Thee wilt find two,” Nemgas said, his voice empty. “But I wilt see.” He stared for several moments down at that skull, empty eye sockets peering back at him, dazzlingly stark in that sublime brilliance. He turned and glanced back at the black dragon and the remains of Pelain that lay atop it. A small laugh trickled from his lips. “Pelain wast two men,” he said at last, turning to gaze once more at the boy.
Pelurji’s eyes were wide and he shook his head. “Nay! Pelain wast a hero! He wast great! No legend says he wast two!”
“Nay, they all dost say it!” Nemgas said loudly, drawing Caur-Merripen back up from the crypt. He shook his head and looked down at the edge. It did not even appear to need sharpening. What magic had gone into this blade’s crafting, he wondered idly. “The tale of Pelain’s death hast said it. He didst strike the dragon so quickly that the dragon thought it wast being struck from two sides at once! ‘Twas there all the time, but we couldst not see it. He didst dig his own grave, but he cast himself upon the dragon in his death. I couldst not see how both couldst be true, but they wert! Pelain wast two!”
Pelurji looked back and forth between the suits of armour and the dragon, his face a mixture of confusion and disbelief. Finally, he managed to ask, his voice quiet, strangely forlorn, “Then why dost the tales only speak of Pelain? Who wast the other?”
“There wast no other,” Nemgas asserted, knowing that he was right, but not yet knowing why. The words seemed to come to him though, as if they were whispered in his ear even as he said them. “Both the man in this grave, and the man upon the dragon yonder art Pelain. He wast both men at once, and yet, a single man. But he wast blessed in this, he couldst be two men at once. ‘Twas how he became a man of legend. ‘Twas how he built the wall of Cheskych, the Great Mirrors, and how he forged Caur-Merripen, a blade that shouldst not exist, for it hath taken elements that canst be forged into its substance!”
“But,” Pelurji asked, as if trying to salvage some semblance of the Pelain he had grown up hearing about, “how couldst he hath become two men?”
The answer to that stumped Nemgas for a moment. Though he knew it had to be the case, there was one element missing, some clue that eluded him at just that moment. And then, he felt a tingling along his ear, and the answer came to him.
Blood and Ash will now see.
“Because,” Nemgas said, his voice coming slow. “Because of what thee didst tell me when I first met thee. I wast staring at the fountain, and we wast speaking of Pelain and of Shapurji.” The mention of the other half of Pelurji’s namesake brightened him somewhat. After all, the tales of Shapurji were still secure, and he certainly enjoyed hearing of that great Magyar’s exploits. “Thou hast told me that Pelain hast climbed the ash mountain.”
And then, Pelurji’s face fell, actual fear filling his eyes. He backed away from the pit then, shaking his head. “‘Tis a bad place!”
Nemgas shook his head, stepping around the headstone, the mail of his armour clinking. “‘Tis a feared place, aye. But thou wast right. Pelain hath climbed Cenziga.”
“Thou shouldst not name it!!” Pelurji cried, his voice rising so high that it was nearly a squeal. Nemgas took another step and gripped the boy’s shirt in his gauntlet, pulling him close.
“Thou hast nothing to fear of that place, Pelurji. Thou must believe me when I tell thee this,” Nemgas said, his voice firm, but soothing.
The boy looked up past the wolf’s teeth and into his eyes, his own trembling. But the firm assurance that he found in Nemgas’s own brought forth after several moments a slight and nervous smile. A few moments later, he managed to say in shaking tones, “I hath heard only evil of it.”
“Aye, ‘tis a place of great power, but ‘tis far away. It canst not harm thee here.” Nemgas was careful not to hurt the boy from the many studs and sharp claws that protruded from the armour, but it seemed he merely had to wish to not harm the boy and it would not happen. “Dost thou believe me?”
Pelurji did not hesitate, doing his best to control his fear. “I wilt always believe thee, master Nemgas.”
Nemgas smiled proudly then. “Thou wilt live up to thy name, methinks.” The boy smiled more certainly then, though still with that undercurrent of fear. It was the same that the rest of the Magyars possessed when he spoke of Cenziga. If there were to be any of them free of it, he would have it be his boy.
“Well,” he said at last, “what Pelain hast done here is make himself two. There wast but one power that I hast knowledge of that wilt do that, and that be Cenziga. So, Pelain, as thee hast suggested already, hath climbed Cenziga himself, and survived, because he hath died here.” He gestured with the gauntleted hands at the suit of armour he wore, and then at the grave where its duplicate lay interred. “Dost thee understand?”
Slowly, Pelurji nodded. “Aye. But,” the boy looked up curiously into Nemgas’s eyes. “How dost thee know what the ash mountain hath done?”
Nemgas smiled slightly. “Thou art the only Magyar that dost not yet know, Pelurji, but thou shouldst know.” He took a deep breath. “I hath climbed Cenziga too.”
Pelurji stared at him skeptically for several moments, opening and clothing his mouth. Simply too frightened, the boy said nothing, unable to tear his eyes away from the older Magyar’s own. Nemgas had not expected him to accept it so quickly either. Perhaps later, he would be able to tell the boy the story, and he would listen and understand. Perhaps surrounded by those massive crystal columns and the fog of an ancient city, nothing seemed quite as real. There was of course one question that still lingered with him, but he would have to find his answers elsewhere.
Evil comes.
The whispered voice caught once more upon his ear, and Nemgas glanced to either side. But it was not what he saw immediately that made him stiffen and clutch the sword tightly in the gauntlet. Instead, he began to hear the tread of hooves upon stone, and the quiet murmuring of voices in a strange tongue. He shook the boy once more, gently though. “Get into the grave, hide!” His words cut through his teeth quietly, but fiercely. Pelurji nodded, his eyes, already unsettled, became fearful as well.
Nemgas took several heavy steps from the grave, looking southwards into te fog. He held the sword tightly, bringing that black and silver blade up to meet the wolf’s head helm. The effusive light made the armour shimmer as he stood, watching as strange shadows began to shift and change within the fog ahead. The voices grew lower, as they suddenly took on a definitive shape, men leading horses. The clinking sound of mail could be heard, and Nemgas knew he’d been right to order his boy to hide.
From the mist first stepped a man dressed in mail bearing a shield upon one arm, leading a horse draped in light barding with the other. The shield bore the heraldry, white on left, red on right, with a flame in the lower left corner. In the upper right was the blue green cross of the Driheli. So this was the Knight Commander, Nemgas knew, and they had found their way to Carethedor, and to him.
The knight appeared very surprised to see him standing there clad in the wolf armour of Pelain, bearing the sword Caur-Merripen before him as a man waiting to face an enemy. “Stranger, who you are?” the knight asked in a loud voice, drawing his own blade. Several other knights filled into the space between the two nearest towers, while their squires looked on from the edge of the fog, as well as a black-robed priest.
Nemgas glanced at them all for a moment, seeing years of training in the knight’s faces. There was also an arrogance. They were obviously impressed with his own arms, but they were confidant in their numbers. A few eyes slid over to the bones of the dragon, and a few curses muttered. The priest made the sign of the tree at seeing those black bones.
“I wilt ask thee the same question,” Nemgas called out, lowering the blade form his face. They would not be able to easily see his face through the fangs of the wolf. “Who art thee? Why dost thou come to Carethedor?”
But the Knight Commander, Sir Lech Poznan of Bydbrüszin he recalled Golonka saying, seemed only incensed by his sang-froid. “Greater numbers than you we have. Use them do not me tempt.”
Nemgas found the knight’s Sueilish so offensive he decided to use the Southern tongue instead. “I do not tempt. I leave that to the dark one. Giving into temptation is not the way of Eli. Do remember that.”
The barb did not fail to land. Sir Poznan gripped his blade more tightly then, taking another step within the esplanade. “How does a stranger in this land come to know my tongue so well that he can be a viper with it?”
“You come into a city built by the Åelves but abandoned long ago, to a place where hundreds of years ago a dragon of terrible power and evil was slain, and you think it strange to find a man who can speak your tongue? It seems that there are far stranger things you could marvel at, knight.”
But the knight grimaced. “I have little patience for your repartee. Tell me your name or I will have to kill you.”
“Will you kill me yourself, or will you send another to die for your impatience?”
But this did not quite have the effect that Nemgas expected. He’d hoped to goad the man into a rage so that he would attack alone. Nemgas knew he would be able to best him in such a fight. Instead, the knight simply smiled slowly. “Why should I fight you by myself? I am merely a representative of Eli’s will, an instrument of His wrath. We will all slay you together.”
Nemgas did not pause, but drew his sword point back up, tightening his grip, displaying the black claws of his gauntlets. “Nay. You will all lie down next to each other.”
“Bravely spoken, wolf,” Sir Poznan said with a laugh. He glanced backwards momentarily, and a sly smile crept across his face. “Very bravely spoken, but you will be the only one who falls tonight. That is unless you would give me your name.” He turned back fully around then, sword and shield held at the ready.
“I have survived far greater perils than you,” Nemgas replied. “Sir Lech Poznan of Bydbrüszin.”
At that, Sir Poznan’s face first went white, then flush with newfound rage. “How do you know my name?”
He smiled, though he knew the knights could not see it through the wolf helm. “I know a great many things about you. I know that you have come all the way from Sotwici to the Steppe merely to find a single man, Kashin once of the Yeshuel, so that you might slay him. And I know that you think him amongst the Magyars who travel that Steppe. But I am here to tell you that you are wrong.”
Sir Poznan’s eyes darted to either side, and the two knights flanking him began to spread further out to the side, their own weapons drawn, shields raised. Nemgas did not move, holding his pose as if nothing had happened. He would be ready should they move against him. He had to make them angry.
“Wrong am I?” bellowed Sir Poznan at the armour clad stranger who stood before him. He sneered. If there was any chance they could learn something form this strange man, he would take it. But it was becoming increasingly clear that such was unlikely. While it was obvious that he knew things, it also seemed obvious that he would never speak of them.
“Yes, you are wrong,” the stranger reiterated, his voice firm. Strangely, he spoke the southern tongue without an accent. Either he had been raised in the Southlands, or had been schooled in their tongue.
Sir Poznan’s eyes narrowed. “I think not. Tell us your name stranger. Or do you wish to be skewered upon my blade?”
“You will never touch me with that blade,” the stranger asserted, turning his own silver and black blade about in one gauntlet. “You lack the skill.”
Sir Poznan felt his heart pound at that, his face flush with anger and shame. He would have to kill this man now. No matter whether he was Magyar or not, he must die for that insult. “You would dare to insult me, stranger? I am of noble birth. In my father’s manor, you would have your tongue cut out for such an insult.”
“High birth perhaps,” his foe said, voice considering, “but low in mind and manner.”
“And you are a nameless bastard!” Sir Poznan shouted, mailed glove tightening around his hilt. He ground his teeth together. “I think you are one of those Magyars, dressing in that bitch costume to deceive us.”
“Come then, Sir Poznan,” the stranger said, swinging the blade in a wide arc. It whistled as it cut through the air. “You’ll find that this,” he paused, and Poznan could fancy a smile coming to his lips behind the metal canine jaws, “bitch has fangs.”
“Hah!” Sir Poznan laughed, though there was no humour in it. He truly detested this man, whoever he might be. He supposed it had to be Kashin as no other had ever taxed him so. “You are one of the Magyars, I knew it. And unless I am mistaken, you are Kashin as well. No other could be so vexatious!”
He spun the sword about by its hilt once. “I will take that as a compliment, Sir Poznan. Do you dance with swords or merely words?”
Sir Poznan grinned, the time for battle had come at last. There could be no doubt anymore to this man’s identity. Their search was over - this was indeed Kashin. “Oh I dance with many things, Kashin. But I never dance alone.” At that, the other four knights slowly began to step outwards, forming a circle around the Magyar. Sir Poznan stood still, feeling the tension in his squire behind him. He simply had to wait a few seconds more.
The stranger crouched a bit lower, lifting his sword high in his hand, head turning briefly as the knights began to encircle him. Though Sir Poznan could not see Kashin’s eyes through the canine helmet, he knew they were no longer staring at him. And so, the Knight Commander took a step to the side, and heard the twang of the bowstring, and felt the rush of the arrow that Skowicz had kept knocked and aimed since they had first seen the armoured man.
Unfortunately, Nemgas had not expected the arrow. His eyes had strayed to the four knights circling him, wary of which would advance first. His thoughts also strayed to Pelurji, hoping that the boy would remain hidden in the grave. But his attention snapped back into place just as quickly as the bow string did. With muscles tense, he ducked to the side, the arrow bouncing off the side of the wolf helm with a heavy thwack before spinning wildly across the esplanade.
“You cheat, Sir Poznan,” Nemgas said with a droll smile. “Fire all the arrows you wish.” And then, he spun about, dancing backwards across the esplanade as best he could in the armour, spinning the sword in whistling arcs about his body.
“You seem very confidant for a man woefully outnumbered,” Sir Poznan said, anger filling his voice. He stepped forward with his knights flanking him, sword drawn. They resolutely approached Nemgas, but neither would they run towards him. The two outermost knights seemed more interested in getting behind him. But Nemgas continued to flit about the esplanade, keeping one of the crystalline towers behind him instead.
But not even he could forestall the actual blows forever. The two knight trying to circle around behind him seemed to finally settle for getting on either side of him, and moved in. Nemgas flicked out Caur-Merripen, deflecting the first blade, but he had to dance backward to avoid the next thrust. Strangely, his sword felt sluggish to him, as if it had grown heavier the moment it had struck the other blade.
Once the first two had moved in, the next two also approached, slicing in turn. Nemgas knew he had to break free from the trap quickly, or he would be skewered, no matter how good Pelain’s armour was. Ducking low, he did his best to roll aside, but it was nearly impossible buckled as he was in the breastplate. He let out an exasperated grunt, and instead, simply lunged at the nearest of the knights.
The knight was quick to bring up his sword, but Nemgas was faster. Darting in beneath his arms, he crashed that wolf helm into the knight’s mail shirt. One of the links caught around a fang, hooking the man to the helm, even as he was yanked from his feet. Nemgas tried to push the man off, as he couldn’t see anything with the man’s chest blocking his view. He could hear the sound of booted feet rushing to him, the whistle of steel through air. The rest would be on him in a moment and slay him in is moment of weakness.
With a reluctant grunt, he tossed the silver and black sword aside, reaching up and quickly snapping the buckles that held the helm in place. With a kick, he pulled himself free, the wolf’s jaws still pressed to the prone knight’s chest. He blinked in surprise at seeing Nemgas free himself so suddenly. Both locks of white hair had fallen in his face, though a flick of his head put them back where they belonged.
“It is him,” Sir Poznan said, still standing just behind the rest of his knights, gripping his sword tightly. “Spare him no mercy.”
“Then I shall spare you none,” Nemgas cried back, even as he sidestepped another blow from one of the three knights. He raked his clawed gauntlet in the man’s face, and a horrid scream echoed. The knight dropped his blade and shield, reaching up and pressing mailed hands to his face, blood spraying out through ruined eyes and cheeks, even as he fell to the ground in death. His cries did not last long.
The other two knights slowed their approach then, eyeing him and his gauntlets warily. Caur-Merripen lay where Nemgas had tossed it, pointing towards the black bones of the dragon. Nemgas made no move to retrieve it, keeping the four still living knights in his view. Beyond, the squires watched uncertainly, even as one cried out, seeing his knight fall. More bows were drawn and arrows nocked.
And they were loosed only a moment later. Nemgas turned and ran from the knights, diving towards the dragon’s bones to avoid the arrows. He felt another bounce off the armour, but he also felt one slice through his hair. The back of his head stung, but not terribly so. When he looked up, the knights were chasing him. Caur-Merripen was at his side, and he took it once more, before dashing behind the ribcage of the great beast to avoid another volley.
Even while the arrows bounced off the bones, and the knights slowed their advance, with Sir Poznan calling out mocking jeers, Nemgas felt an undefinable sense of wrongness. It surrounded him from every side, pressing inwards. The tip of his sword seemed to be sliding through something far more tangible than the air, and he could almost feel a nebulous mucus crossing his face from time to time as he moved back and forth through the dead dragon’s chest. As his chest pounded, he shuddered at a thundering slow ostinato that reverberated in that black cage.
Two of the knights kept him pinned inside that cage while Sir Poznan and one other went around the dragon as quickly as they could. The squires moved a bit further into the circle of towers, their bows drawn, fresh arrows nocked, though held for when they could get a clear shot. Nemgas felt as if something were slipping through his body, sliding between the muscles and bones. As swords poked in through the cage of the beast, he ducked and wove, trying to hold down his stomach.
“You’re trapped, Kashin,” Sir Poznan called, a grin alighting upon his brackish face. “Now its time to die.” He advanced, his sword point held menacingly, shield ready in his other hand. His fellow knight smiled as he made his way around the dragon’s skull. Nemgas felt as if the Driheli knight had already sheathed his sword in the Magyar’s gullet. Something thick and sharp slid through his middle and chest, an agony that he could not hope to describe in words.
And then, something happened that none of them expected.
Father Athfisk’s scream was by far the shrillest. Even so, the frightened cries of the horses nearly drowned the goggled-eyed priest out in their terrified flight. Two of the squires loosed their arrows wildly as their horses bucked under them, dashing back outside the towers, carrying them away despite their best efforts to control them. The message carriers did not wait for their horses to bolt, turning their steeds the moment the first of the black claws had shifted, scratching across the smooth stone with the cry of a thousand nails against fresh blown glass.
Sir Poznan stepped back, watching as that twisted white skeleton that hung off the dragon’s fossil tightened its grip, skull turning, hollow eye sockets regarding the reptilian behemoth with cold determination. Sir Ignacz and the Sir Tadeusz before its ribcage darted backwards, nearly stumbling over the forgotten wolf helm in their haste. But the skull of that great serpentine monstrosity crushed down on poor Sir Jerzy before the man could even unleash his own cry of terror.
And trapped in the centre of that cage come to sickly un-life was Kashin, disgraced of the Yeshuel, looking for all the world a man being drawn and quartered without benefit of horses or rope. Sir Poznan watched him writhe, clutching that strange silver and black blade tightly in a gauntleted fist. But the knight did not care how that man felt, only that he died. If this strange skeletal dragon did it, fine.
So long as they survived. Even as Sir Poznan took several more steps back, watching as the long vertebrae of the tail began to lash back and forth as they scrapped across the stonework, he saw the crocodilian jaws pick up the crushed body of Sir Jerzy and crush it anew, pulling them completely inside that basalt maw. Dark teeth ripped through the mail armour, small metal links bouncing outwards, rolling across the stone work as it chewed. Sir Poznan watched with a sick sense of curiosity, wondering if that beast would attempt to swallow the remains, and just what would happen if it did.
Both Sir Ignacz and Sir Tadeusz had retreated a good distance from the dragon, their swords still drawn, but neither looked as if they wanted to use it. Their horses had bolted along with the rest of them, so they had nowhere to run should the dragon turn its to them. There was little Sir Poznan could do for them in any event. After all, how does one slay a dragon already dead?
A creaking of metal and a child’s cry caught his attention. Off to one side there was a headstone surrounded by piles of newly turned earth. A small child dressed in colourful rags had just climbed up from the pit, his face full of fear. He had a bandage about one arm that had been stained red, but he no longer appeared to be bleeding. A Magyar child certainly, but why he was here was a question Sir Poznan briefly considered, and then derided himself for wasting any such thought on a mere boy.
But the boy was not the source of the creaking. Strangely, the child continued to stare into the grave, not giving a single look to the skeletal dragon that had risen to four legs now and was continuing to chew upon Sir Jerzy’s ruined corpse. Instead, his eyes were upon the grave that he was slowly backing away from. And a moment later, Sir Pozna saw why. A single clawed gauntlet, much like the one that Kashin was wearing, placed itself on the edge of the pit, and then it hauled up a second armoured form. It was the same armour that Kashin wore as well, the wolf’s head helm, the breastplate the wolf’s chest, and the claws on gauntlets and boots. Only there was one difference. The light of the crystal’s streamed at just the right angle as the figure stood and stared at the dragon, highlighting the polished white skull that was held within.
Sir Poznan moved back even further, standing very near to one of the twelve crystal towers. He could still watch the scene play out before him, but he doubted that any of the combatants would consider him a potential target. The skeletal warrior reached down and plucked a sword twin to the one that Kashin still held from beside the headstone, and strode resolutely towards the dragon itself. The other skeleton, the one that had dangled off the body of the beast, was clawing at those black bones, flailing against it hopelessly.
The madness before him was so horrifying, Sir Poznan wondered if they hadn’t stepped off of the world itself when they’d entered the fog shrouded city. Perhaps they had been transported to a different time altogether, one where the dead come to life and slay the living. But there was no doubt, Sir Jerzy was quite dead, and the dragon lifted its skull, as if it were swallowing the knight. Sir Poznan watched, feeling his skin trembling, heart pounding both in anger and fear. But the body of Sir Jerzy did not appear. Strange wisps of smoke trailed down along the curve of the dragon’s vertebrae, passing into the ribcage, and through the stretched form of Kashin, until they settled just below it pooling like a bit of oil spilled in an eddy.
Sir Poznan blinked. What had happened to Sir Jerzy? Where was his body? Had it been crushed to smoke by the dragon’s jaws? The skull of that beast turned and began to look about, empty eye sockets seeming to peer out at the towers and those between them, seeing only five figures standing in the area anymore - the three living knights of the Driheli, the Magyar child, and the skeletal warrior clad in wolf mail. It ignored the rest of them, its attention given only to the other walking corpse. It turned about, maw parted in a scream that did not sound but Sir Poznan felt course through his flesh, freezing it.
The skeletal warrior stood his ground though, even as the other knights retreated and the boy huddled behind the tombstone. The dragon turned about to face that dead man, Kashin still trapped within, face contorted into a rictus of agony. Sir Poznan smiled briefly as he saw that. The skeleton clinging to the dragon’s side was grasping at the sword Kashin held, trying to wrench it free, but the shifting of the bones gripped the skeleton and held him fast. The dragon’s skull slipped back along its side and caught him between jagged teeth, wrenching that skeleton to pieces. There was a palatable sense of thrill that seemed to flow from the dragon as the bones clattered across the esplanade, smashing to pieces and dissolving into piles of ash.
The warrior advanced, brandishing his blade in silent communion with that beast. They stared at each other. The dragon’s tail lashed out, but the man dove underneath, his sword slicing above him as he did so, cutting across and biting through the last few feet of that appendage. Several vertebrae came clean, crashing down and shattering as they hit the stone. Sir Poznan felt his body writhe with the unheard scream of the dragon, his blood hot.
Beyond the dragon, both Sir Ignacz and Sir Tadeusz had managed to retreat to the towers as well. They watched, frightened at that monstrosity, unsure of what to do next. Neither the dragon nor the warrior seemed to have that problem though, as they advanced on each other certainly. Though but a skeleton, the warrior moved as nimbly as a bee, flitting from one flank to the next, striking at the bone where he could, carving off chunks with his sword. The blade moved through the air so quickly that Sir Poznan could not be sure that it was real anymore either. But the hunks of black bone that littered the esplanade were very real, smouldering from the heat of the blows laid against them.
The dragon moved and snapped its jaws wherever it thought the warrior was, but it invariably missed, being just a bit too slow. It had more weapons than just its jaws though, and it lashed with its tail constantly, and slashed with claws at every opportunity. It was the strangest sight that the knight had ever witnessed. There was nothing that compared to it, nothing that came even close to seeing a dead warrior and dead dragon fight. Apart from heraldry, he’d never even seen a dragon.
Even as he began to wonder who the skeletal warrior had been, the dragon’s maw finally connected with him. The skeleton’s sword arm was knocked free from his torso, the sword sliding across the stone until it came to rest at the headstone once more, making the child jump in shock. The armoured skeleton wavered a moment as it still, before another blow sent the wolf armour scattering, the bones crumbling under the onslaught. Another roar echoed from that dragon, silent as all the others, but filled with a shattering verisimilitude regardless.
The head of the dragon turned, looking for more enemies to devour. It never considered the enemy that was buried in its chest, the traitor Kashin. Sir Poznan studied his face, enjoying the look of agony that contorted and twisted, as if he were being sawed in half very, very slowly. It would have been more satisfying to kill him with his own blade, but Sir Poznan would not be unhappy should he die in the belly of that beast either.
At last, the dragon turned towards the two knights standing at the far end of the esplanade, and it took a tentative step towards them. Both Sir Ignacz and Sir Tadeusz began to back up, knowing they stood no better chance against this beast than the skeletal warrior had. The dragon’s body turned as it stepped around, long tail lashing dangerously close to where Sir Poznan hid, but with the end sliced free, it missed him by several feet. The jaws opened, and he could almost imagine them slavering. Even if they ran, both knights would soon be dead.
A sudden cry brought them all to a pause, even the dragon. Sir Poznan wondered for a moment whether it had even come from his throat, but no, he still remained hidden to the side of one of the towers, ready to bolt behind it should the dragon take even an inkling of an interest in him. It was not even Kashin, whose position inside the beast prevented him from doing anything. Nor, judging from the stupefied looks on their faces, had it been either of his other knights. Scanning the line of the towers, he did not see any of his other men returned to him to join in the fight, nor had any of the other Magyars come for their pagan fellows.
And then Sir Poznan looked once more to the only other figure within the circle of crystal towers. Bathed in silver light, and holding aloft the sword of the dead warrior was the child Magyar. The sword was as tall as him, and looked far too clumsy in his small hands. Sir Poznan could not believe that the child had been able to even lift the blade, let alone hold it aloft with both hands as he was doing. The child had been the one to cry out, offering a challenge to the dragon, his voice carrying out across the esplanade as if the bellowing of an army rushing into battle. “I art of Pelain!” the boy cried, though the name had little meaning for Sir Poznan, it seemed to make the dragon bristle angrily.
To his amazement, the dragon turned, roaring his silent peal, while the boy rushed forward, bearing that sword in his hands, a sword he could not possibly lift. It sliced through the air, its whistle the music of the thinnest bowls of glass rubbed with water. The light of the towers grew brighter, as the two advanced, the jaws snapping, opening wide to take the boy down in a single gulp. Heedless of his own danger, the boy ran, holding the sword point before him, until he stood in the very centre of that esplanade, where the lines of marble and isinglass from all twelve towers met. There he stopped and stood, holding that sword out. “I art of Pelain!” he did cry again, his voice suddenly so loud, that Sir Poznan felt the earth trembling beneath his feet. “Taste Caur-Merripen, oh dragon of death! Taste your own death yet again!”
The words could not have come from the boy themselves, but they came nevertheless. Sir Poznan watched as the dragon came, jaws snapping down over the boy. The sword itself moved then, sliding upwards, catching the creature just beneath the lip of its jaw as it crashed down. A brilliant scintillant white erupted then, as the jaw itself was cleaved in twain. The rift that the boy had shorn in the skull slid down the entire line of the dragon, shattering each vertebrae as it went. The air sucked past Sir Poznan, tugging at his ailed shirt as the detonation ensued, leaving nothing but a pile of shattered bones surrounding that boy.
The figure of Kashin tumbled from where it had been held within the dragon’s ribcage, laying to rest in the midst of the stone. The air whistled fast as those bones scattered, but the boy stood resolute, the sword he held above him still there, as if transfixed, a mere statue that would remain until worn away by the passing of ages. But it all ended when one of the bones, in its crumbling smacked into the boy’s chest, sending him hurtling to one side with a sudden cry of pain. Sir Poznan stepped forward one step, seeing that a bit of blood welled upon the boy’s chest where he had been struck. The child did not rise.
Slowly, Sir Poznan emerged form where he had taken refuge, crossing the space to where the boy lay. He avoided the discarded remnants of black bone, but they seemed completely devoid of life. Then again, so too had the dragon. He looked up and saw Sir Ignacz and Sir Tadeusz also stepping back onto the esplanade. He nodded to them both, and then returned his attention on the boy. The child still weakly clutched the sword in one hand, though his eyes were rolled back up in his head. The bone had not hit his chest directly, so it looked as if his ribs were intact. But his shirt still was stained with fresh blood. If not attended to soon, the boy would likely die. Even were he to be bandaged, he could die anyway, Sir Poznan saw.
Turning his back on the boy, Sir Poznan looked to where Kashin lay. The man was slowly moving his fingers and arms, barely able to lift his head. Sir Poznan smiled, and held his sword aloft, stepping above that body. He began to laugh, the thrill of the kill finally upon him.
Nemgas could still remember the pains that Cenziga had inflicted upon him, the constant assault to his identity, the relentless pounding as if he were a drumskin, all of it was clear to his mind. But the tearing that the dragon inflicted upon him was in some ways worse. He could feel malevolent thoughts, so vile and unforgiving that he quailed in terror from them. He felt the spirit and body of the knight that had been eaten passing through his own on its way to digestion by that nightmare. Every blow by the reanimated corpse of Pelain tore into his flesh, though no wound had been landed upon him. He felt everything the dragon felt, and it was the closest approximation to Hell that he could ever envision.
And then, Pelurji drove Caur-Merripen into the dragon’s skull, and everything shattered. His vision, and all of his senses felt as if they were panes of glass being broken by rocks. He felt himself falling, lost amidst a world of blackness and malice. The mind of the dragon was being pulled back in that moment, and it clawed and clawed at him, yearning to drag him with it. But his body was still alive, and it could not change that. Though it tore and screamed its rage, all was in vain. The dragon, woken only moment ago by powers he did not understand, was no more, and Nemgas lay in the midst of shattered black bone.
Not a single muscle in his body wished to move. He twitched occasionally, but the pain was so great, he felt that he’d rather lay there for days and risk dehydration instead. He was able to turn his head though and open his eyes once more. At least they didn’t hurt. But he could see Pelurji laying upon his back, Caur-Merripen still clutched in one hand - how had he been able to even lift the blade in the first place? And upon Pelurji’s chest blood was spreading. Seeing that one thing made him forget his pain and struggle, trying to get over to the child that he might bind those wounds
But then, another figure stepped into his view, that of Sir Lech Poznan of Bydbrüszin. The knight of Driheli stared down at the child for several moments, agonizing moments. Nemgas could easily imagine the knight putting the tip of his sword to the boy’s chest and leaning on it, ending Pelurji’s all too short life. But the knight did not do that, turning instead to tower over Nemgas, blade drawn, laughing. Nemgas stared up at him, wishing he could rise, but knowing that there was nothing he could to stop that blade from ending his life. He gave a silent prayer, closing his eyes, waiting for that last pain before release.
Sir Poznan’s laugh continued for several moments, even after the brilliant pain hit him. He felt the smooth sliding of a sharp blade press up through his back and gullet, and even saw it rip through his mail shirt to protrude from his chest. He blinked and stared down at it, his own blade and shield still held tightly. It was black, dark as night, with the silvery light of the moon at every edge. His blood smeared across it, but ran from it, as if no blood were allowed to mar this blade.
Turning clumsily, the sword still imbedded in his chest, Sir Poznan stared down at the child who had one arm over his chest, holding back the flow of blood. He blinked again and opened his mouth, images of so many battles, so many others he’d won, their blood splattering him, his laughter the last thing that filled their ears. Yet those images began to slip away as did his strength. His shield fell from his hand, crashing and turning with the escutcheon down. His blade dropped, clattering like a dull bit of iron upon the stone.
“Boy,” he said, his voice tenuous. “By a boy.” He reached out a hand, leaning over to snatch at the child. But his legs ceased, and he toppled forward onto his chest, the blade expelling out his back. He felt the metal slip form his flesh, and the knight rolled over, resting in a puddle of blood. His eyes stared upwards at the heavens, lips still framing that last word. The stars danced in his eyes, their light being all that there was left to see.
Nemgas did not understand immediately what the emergence of Caur-Merripen from Sir Poznan’s chest meant. Nor did he even after the knight turned about and looked down and said “Boy.” Only after he’d fallen to the rock and ceased moving, did Nemgas see Pelurji standing there with one arm before his chest, holding back the blood from his own wound. The boy took a few uncertain steps forward, until he crouched and sat down just before the front of Nemgas’s head.
Nemgas forced his armoured arm around the boy, holding him gently but close, his whole body still shivering with strain. “My boy,” he said slowly, watching Pelurji lean back into the arm, his own slipping from his chest to expose the blood stained patch-work tunic. Pelurji’s eyes once again began to roll back into his head, and his arm fell limply to his side. “My boy!” Nemgas cried, fear welling up in him, darkness descending heavily. “My son!”
Now you see.
And then the wall of darkness finally crashed down upon him, blotting all else out as unconsciousness claimed them all.