Chapter Sixty-Seven: The Protector

“A hero is a person who fights, even when he doesn’t want to.”

—Garax of Felhaven

The relicts came streaming through the gates, following in the wake of the rampaging Slazaad. Three guards died immediately, their bones shattering inside their bodies as the spiked tail batted them aside. The rest of the soldiers parted around the creature, closing up by the broken gate where the Worgals were funnelling in.

Evaine found herself in a tightly-knit group of Songweavers led by Gerrard, taking cover behind a row of heavily armoured soldiers. The Adept took charge and sang, reaching out to the moat. Evaine did the same, as did several others around her, urgency leaking into their voices.

The water responded to their call, rising like a liquid serpent, thrashing across the front line of relicts. Howls pierced the night as Worgals were swept off their feet and into ranks behind, their assault disrupted. As the water drained into the soil, Gerrard’s voice continued to rise above the mix, calling the serpent back. It lashed in reverse, pulling its head out of the dirt and returning to the moat. Several of the bodies in the bridge of corpses shifted, rendering it useless for a few moments.

Gerrard bent down on one knee, shivering uncontrollably as two soldiers helped drag him to safety. Of the dozen or so Songweavers in their band, three more had collapsed from the effort of moving the entire moat. Worgals had begun to throw themselves into the water again, repairing their path of corpses.

There’s no end to them, she thought.

The Slazaad roared behind her, assailed by several bands of men at once. Spears stuck out of its flank like a pincushion, black blood spraying everywhere as more and more wounds criss-crossed its body. An arrow sprung from one eye, and then the other. Evaine looked up and saw Merrill standing on a stack of crates, bow in hand.

The Slazaad finally fell, collapsing into the dust in a bloody heap. It had taken out almost an entire squadron, carving a huge chunk in the Legion’s defense. Captains and Sergeants called for retreat, pulling away from the walls, covering the Songweavers. The Worgals followed, having repaired their bridge of corpses, eyes red in frenzy.

A Bloodmane appeared, white as snow, dashing into the rear guard. Evaine screamed as two men beside her were cut down. She gave it a mighty push with her voice, dazing it, feeling a wave of fatigue sweep over her.

Water, she thought. Any form of Songweaving she used that wasn’t linked to water tired her immensely. She wouldn’t last long if she did something like that again.

Another Worgal jumped in front of her. She closed her eyes to the impending blow, but nothing happened. She opened them and saw Merrill, his back facing her, the spear of a fallen soldier in his hands.

“Go!” he cried, forcing the Worgal back. “Go, Evaine!”

Before she could reply, someone grabbed her from behind and dragged her away by the heels. “Merrill!” she screamed.

She could only watch as he continued to fight feebly against the relicts, swinging with unpracticed hands. The crowd of Worgals swallowed him and he was gone.

“Merrill!”

She continued to scream, thrashing against the strong arms that held her, tears blurring her eyes as she was dragged away to the Keep and to safety.

#

Gilfred dashed into the courtyard, cursing. Skirmishes had broken out as far as he could see—among the hedges in the garden, near the barracks and the stables, at the base of the clock tower. Swords clashing, spears slashing, barks and howls, shouts and cries, the glint of fire against steel. He stood still for a moment, rooted to the ground, unable to decide where to look first, where to run. Soldiers were falling everywhere, swamped by Worgals and their crude swords and sneers, losing ground inch by inch. He stopped a Worgal in its tracks, taking its head off with a vicious sweep of his blade, found another, stabbed it through the chest. His Rhinegold sword was a pillar of living flame, leaving behind a path of smoking remains. His vision narrowed, his breathing harsh and laboured as he danced through the remains of the courtyard like a demon of fiery gold. He was the last Kingsblade. The last remnant of the seven who had served the King proudly unto his death, the last remains of Aedon Uldan’s reign.

Yet, no matter how many he killed, more took their places. The footsoldiers had retreated from the broken gates, opening the way for the rest of the relict army to flood inside. There were but a fraction compared to how many there had been at the start of the assault, but still more than enough to break through their last defenses and take the city. They had killed all the Slazaads, the final lizard’s corpse lying in a bleeding heap in the centre of the path, and there was but a single Bloodmane left—a lion-man of pure white, stained with the blood of its enemies.

They would not win tonight. He’d already known it to be true, but secretly he’d held onto the hope that something would happen, some sort of miracle that could turn things around. He’d thought that miracle had arrived in the form of Ein and his party, but nothing had happened yet, so he had to assume the worst. They needed to cut their losses; get everyone into the evacuation tunnels before they lost completely.

Gilfred staggered to a halt next to the barracks as pain flared everywhere inside him. The thrill of battle was fading and in its place was a cold, tired feeling seeping into his bones. Sharp pain pulsed where his ribs were; he shouldn’t have fought in his current condition. But ribs could become well again; dead people couldn’t.

A trio of soldiers fled past him, chased by Worgals. The relicts didn’t give him so much as a passing glance. Perhaps he simply posed no threat as he was now, exhausted and beaten and broken. He leaned against the door, drawing shallow breaths, cursing the Slazaad that had wounded him so.

Something flew into the wall beside him with the sound of crunching metal and bones. The body of a soldier slid down onto the ground, gagging briefly before falling silent. Gilfred looked to the distance, suddenly alert again, scanning for the threat. He didn’t have to look far to find it.

The Apocalypse Knight Hrongar was there, blood streaked across the white half of its mask. It looked like a creature of nightmare under the dark sky, sweat and blood slick across its scared chest, hot puffs of breath escaping its lips. It had a soldier by the neck in one hand, a dead one by the likes of it. The soldier hadn’t been dead for long.

Gilfred watched in horror as the Knight clenched its fist. Blood spurted from the corpse’s eyes and lips, followed by a hideous cracking noise. The soldier’s head lolled to one side, the bones inside completely broken. Hrongar tossed it aside like a ragdoll and wiped his hand against his pants.

“You bastard,” Gilfred spat through his teeth, pain forgotten.

The creature that had slain his King stood before him now, the blood of a hundred more men on its hands. If he left it to run rampant, it would kill a hundred more. Maybe it would kill Aeos. Maybe it would kill Celianna.

Forgive me, Princess.

He didn’t think he would be emerging from this battle alive. But he wore Rhinegold armour, and he carried a Rhinegold blade. He bore the ring of the sword and crown on his finger. If he didn’t stand against it, then who would?

“Kalador, give me strength.”

#

-Death has already claimed me-

Bones and dust, barren snowfields and an icy wind carrying with it browned leaves. Her words made Ein feel empty inside, melancholic.

Dead. She’s dead.

“What are you talking about, Mother?” Celianna asked. “Surely not? I’ve brought the Blood of Three Kings here like you asked—”

Aeos pulled her back, his voice rising. “Listen here, you damn tree. You can’t just say it’s too late when we’ve gone to all this trouble to get your descendents here. We climbed the highest mountain in the world and killed a god to get to this point. You’re going to do whatever you need to do to re-seal the relicts.”

There was a pause, and then a deep creaking as if Aedrasil were sighing.

-I am sorry, my children. I do not have the strength to cast the Sealing again, not even with the Heart of the World to draw upon.- A frail woman, a withered tree struggling against the winter. That was what Ein saw.

“What do you mean?” Alend was growing frustrated as well. He approached the comatose woman beneath the vines. “I can see you right there. I’m assuming you’re still alive; why can’t you just do what you did back then and close the portals?”

-It is not so simple, child. My death is set in stone; the Winds have already cast my fate. But Al’Ashar can be stopped. Not by my hand, but by yours.-

The woman’s eyes suddenly opened. They were a dull orange, like the embers of a fire. Alend gave a start and stepped back.

-There is a secret I hold that even the Druids do not know save, Morene, greatest of them all. You see, my strength is not my own. I am not the only one who can cast the Sealing.-

The vines groaned and began to slither away, revealing the woman’s naked bust. A light burst to life where her heart would be, red and orange like a bonfire.

-I stole my strength, and now I have used it all up. If you can submerge it in the Heart of the World again, then you will be able to use it for yourself. But before you do, I want you to fully understand what becoming the Protector entails.-

Ein suddenly fell to the ground as a torrent of images flooded him, sounds and sensations, a thousand shards of a mirror piercing into his mind. A rising sun and a setting sun, rising and setting, light and night, stars blurring into concentric lines. Stalks springing from the ground, petals opening to the sky and then bowing to the earth. Petals falling, crumbling into dust. Dust to ashes, caught by the wind, scattered seeds sowed. Children growing, budding, blooming, waning, withering. A crescent moon eating its fill across the sky each month, hanging full and silver for three nights, then fading inch by inch. The river of time, unrelenting, two hands desperately trying to push it backwards, reverse the current. A lonely girl falling to her knees by the riverbank in despair, looking at the heavens as they continued to blink, sun and moon, day and night, stars spinning. Sobbing as her golden hair grew down to her waist, turning into a dull silver and then a wispy white by the time it reached the water.

The mirror shattered and Ein was back, tears streaking his eyes. He looked around and saw more of the same—Aeos and Celianna visibly shaken, Alend with his jaw clenched, Rhinne and Yselin a deathly white.

-Take my Heart, children, and remember what lies ahead of you.-

The light grew in her chest, hot and bright, until Ein was forced to close his eyes. By the time it had faded, the stone had fully broken into the air. It was ruby red, about the size of a human heart, rough and faceted like an uncut gem. A fire whorled inside, coiling in upon itself in wreathes of red and orange.

“The Dragonstone,” Rhinne gasped.

It dropped out of Aedrasil’s chest and fell onto the ground with a dull thud. Alend bent down and picked it up. As he did so, the ground gave a violent lurch.

-Before I fade, there is one thing more I must tell you.-

Dust and dirt rained down from the ceiling. The streaks in the sides of the wall were fading in colour, returning to a deathly grey.

-As you know, I have been taking vigil at the Heart of the World since the First Age, an era spanning millennia. -

The ground continued to shake. A deep, grating sound filled the cavity—as if some great creature was grinding its jaw beneath them.

-My roots stretch deep beneath the ground—so deep that they even reach Hellheim, the land of the Damned, where Al’Ashar and other enemies of mankind were imprisoned.-

Cracks spread along the vines, sapping them to a dull colour. One of them crumbled, releasing half of Aedrasil’s body from the wall. Branches splintered and snapped outside, falling into the Heart of the World with audible splashes.

-Wyrdhaugg, one of the three Great Relicts, gnaws at my roots from below. One of the children of Al’Ashar, the Fatekiller, Trad-Atar in the old tongue. When I pass away, the ground will open and the Dragon will emerge. You must re-seal him as soon as possible, or the world will burn beneath his breath.-

“Wyrdhaugg,” Aeos choked. “Wyd almighty—”

“We have to go,” Alend snapped, pushing the Prince forcefully from behind. “Everyone, out! Now! Else the whole tree will collapse on us!”

-Luck to you all, my children. And may the Winds of Fate blow in your favour.-

They piled out of the hollow in single file, racing along the patch of raised land across the Heart of the World. Ein turned around, staring at the Ward Tree in shock. It continued to wither, its branches growing so brittle they could no longer bear their own weight, breaking and slamming down onto the ground. It was as if a thousand years had gone by in a blink; age after age, aeon after aeon finally catching up to the tree. The leaves became paper-thin slivers of black, shattering at the slightest touch. A great seam cleaved the once-noble trunk in half. The Spirit Garden shook as Aedrasil toppled over on its side and plunged into the Heart of the World, spouting geysers of silver into the air. As the ripples continued to reverberate across the surface of the pool, what remained of Aedrasil’s crown slowly sank beneath the surface, until the only thing that remained of the Protector was a jagged stump protruding from the ground.

They stumbled off the path and onto the other side of the pool where they found Talberon, his cloak tattered to bloodied shreds, leaning on a wooden staff. Blood trickled down his temple and across several burns on his arms and legs.

“Talberon!” Alend cried. “What happened to you?”

Before he could reply, Celianna gave a shriek. “What’s that?”

All eyes turned to where she pointed, and Ein felt a chill run up his spine. A figure lay torn to shreds on the ground, its cloak ripped where thorns and brambles had pierced it. He would have recognized it from anywhere; the tall, wraithlike frame, the ominous hood pulled over its face.

“The Apocalypse Knight from the Sleeping Twins,” he whispered.

Alend snapped his head toward Talberon. “Where’s Gilfred?”

The Druid took a few tottering steps forward, blinking the blood out of his eye. “He went back to the Keep to check on our defense,” he said. “And next thing I knew, he was here.” Talberon spat a globule of blood to one side.

“Is he dead?” Rhinne asked.

“Aye. I made sure to finish the job this time.” Talberon prodded the body with his staff. It didn’t move.

Ein bent down on one knee and touched the dead figure. Looking at Talberon for approval, he rolled it over onto its back. The hood fell away, revealing the mask with the open eye, dead and staring. One half white, like the moon. One half black like the night, like the scorched half of the Oathbreaker’s face.

“Take off the mask,” the Druid instructed. “I want to see this bastard’s face.”

Ein gripped the edge of the mask with both hands and undid the straps that held it in place, slowly easing it off. The face of an old man greeted him—or rather, the remains of his face. He was grey-haired, a beard tied up and folded neatly against his chin, but all his other features were sunken and ruined as if a mud sculpture had been left under the rain to dissolve. A hooked nose fell from the mask with a plop, gnarled like a tree trunk.

Ein didn’t recognize the person, but judging from the way Talberon and the Uldan siblings stiffened, they did.

“How…?” Aeos whispered.

“This explains a lot,” Talberon growled. “I’d always wondered how Keldan managed to die when he survived the initial encounter with Faenrir. It would make sense if he were a Faceless under the command of Al’Ashar himself.”

“Keldan?” Ein asked.

“Keldan. One of my fellow Druids of the Skyward Circle, even older than myself. I’d recognize that nose from anywhere.” He stared at the open eye sockets in disgust. “Put that mask back over his face.”

The ground suddenly lurched, sending everyone to their hands and knees. The Dragonstone went tumbling out of Alend’s hand and in front of Ein’s face.

“It’s coming,” Aeos said. “Gods above, Aedrasil wasn’t lying.”

A fissure had opened where the stump of the grand tree stood, running from one side of the cavern to the other, parting the Heart of the World in two. A taloned claw the size of a two-storey house burst from its depths, spraying liquid Spirit everywhere in a silver shower, sending waves sloshing violently against the edges. The rift widened, revealing the deep, dark depths of the underground, and a head followed through, so large it almost stretched the entire height of the cavern. It forced itself out into the open as if it were hatching from an egg, black scales gleaming, a single golden eye staring.

“Al’Ashar’s eyes and ears,” Talberon said, taking a step back.

“Talberon,” Aeos yelled. “Is there anything we can do to stop it?”

The cavern itself was shaking now, the roof cracking as the dragon continued to crawl inch by inch out of its prison. A chunk of rock fell down and crushed two trees, snapping them like twigs. At this rate, it would destroy half the Keep by the time it fully emerged.

Ein reached out for the Dragonstone, but someone else picked it up before he did.

“Rhinne,” he said with a breath of relief. “Pass me the Dragonstone. We have to do what Aedrasil said; if we can charge it in the Heart of the World and give it to someone to use—”

“No.”

She had a pained look on her face as she stared at the stone. Dread clamped its hand around Ein’s spine.

“Rhinne,” he said again. “What are you doing?”

She locked eyes with him, and Wyrdhaugg became unimportant. All he saw was an apology in her eyes, and a burning determination.

“If we do what she says, history will only repeat itself,” she said. “Aedrasil has fallen once already. I must return the stone to my people, the way it was meant to be used.”

“Rhinne. Wait!” Ein lunged at her ankle and grabbed it, but she pulled back and it slid from his grip.

“I’m sorry, Ein,” she said, and ran.

“Rhinne!” Ein scrambled to his feet as the earth quaked again.

“Ein!” someone else cried. Was it Alend? Aeos? Celianna? “Ein! Watch out!”

He could only see her small figure racing into the trees, red hair pluming behind her. Then an enormous scaled arm fell into the ground between them, and leathery membrane opened up into a vast, spanning wing the colour of night.