Eternal spirit

From EFWiki

New lands, old hands

The people of the flame smelled burning. And blood. As one, they turned to each other, questioning the strange sensations.

Far away to the north on a distant hill, an old dwarf battled for his life. Ducking a savage blow, he placed his gun against the chest of his opponent and pulled the trigger. The already dead carcass of the zombie fell to the floor, the magic which tentatively held it together sucked out by the impact.

Turning, he surveyed the scene. Muffled roars from nearby revealed that the battle still raged around the great white bear, a half dozen skeletons with axes pinning it back against an old tree stump. Ragged corpses lay scattered around tree, heads torn apart by vicious claws, but it was clear the animal was tiring. Further to the north, through the pale mist that swamped this region, he could see the citadel still. Cursing under his breath, he hoped he was close – the resistance was getting stronger, and they were at their limit trying to deal with it.

Reloading his gun, Dorgan hurried down the slope to try and aid Boku. As he raised his gun to aim at the nearest assailant, there was a sudden roar, the note different to the rest. One of the skeletons staggered back, its bones falling in pieces to the floor, but beyond, the great bear lay wounded, a ragged cut in its side. The skeletons rushed forward, sensing victory, and Dorgan desperately started firing, concentrating inside on the link with the bear’s mind, urging it to hold on. He screamed as he saw another blade strike the thick fur, and as his emotion rose a vision opened in the minds of the Flame, who saw through his old, tearful eyes as he cut down the last skeleton and rushed to the side of wounded bear.

Wiping away tears of frustration and rage, he hurled aside his gun and looked down at Boku’s heaving chest, kneeling and trying to quiet its growls, the once powerful muzzle now making muted noises, its eyes beginning to close. Dorgan felt an angry knot welling up inside his throat, but for now he had to ignore it. Already he could feel the peril approaching from all sides, distant sounds giving away the hunt. He had only moments to linger, so he summonsed his courage, staunched the bear’s wounds as best he could and then patted the muzzle gently in reassurance. The dark brown eyes barely flickered as he walked away.

Stuffing his last few shells in his rifle as he walked, he climbed the next rise. As he crested the terrain he stopped, eyes narrowing as he observed the structure before him, only 100 yards distant. A dark, malignant castle of iron and stone, it stood squat upon the landscape, a rough earthen ditch surrounding it. At the center of the closest wall was a portcullis, currently closed. Crows whirled above, one of the few animals Dorgan had seen in the last few days of his journey, and as he stepped cautiously forward he noted their movements. Circling, then diving, down toward small huddled masses on the ground in front of the gate, or larger shapes floating in the moat. Bodies, he assumed. Every so often one would squawk as it found a particularly juicy prize, an eye or a liver. He looked on, unmoved. Too much death in one day to worry about a few more.

Slowly approaching the gate, the crenallations above now seeming to loom over him, he paused, considering his options. He hadn’t really thought about what would happen when he reached this place – perhaps never thinking he would reach it, perhaps it was just something you didn’t plan for. Certainly knocking on the door of the lich king’s castle and asking to speak to his grandson didn’t seem quite right. He chewed, and spat. Maybe there was another way in, a more secret way. Turning, he stepped off the bridge, and was beginning to circle around when there was a loud clang from within.

The portcullis began to move.

As hidden wheels turned deep within the structure, the gate rose, a cloud of dust billowing out as the gate shook from the effort. The light seemed to dim slightly as the dwarf looked on, and he swallowed, nervous for himself, and his mission. Squaring up, he peered at the cloud, unable to see beyond it for the moment. A few seconds passed, then suddenly the grinding was silent, and the cloud began to clear. As it did, he stiffened, regarding the lone figure in the doorway. Horns, of an ancient helm, blackened now as if from fire, running down to a fiery, reddish orange light from the slits. Tall, with powerful shoulders and arms, it carried a greatsword easily in one hand, red and green motes of light flickering up and down the blade.

Thalos.

The name beat within his brain has looked on, and he felt a collective wave of disguiet from the flames in his mind. He had quite forgotten their presence.

“Its Thalos” “Maybe he’ll change his mind?” “No.. he’s lost it, didn’t you read his letter to Kinta?” “Yes but Dorgan is his relative, perhaps he can…”

Dorgan shut them out with a single thought. Quiet. He needed to concentrate, and their worries, flickering at his mind, made that very difficult. He began to understand what Thalos described as the pressing weight of the spiritual connection, and he wondered how he had withstood the mental intrusions, which were a thousand times stronger as leader, the conduit of the Flame.

Breaking out of his thoughts, he watched as the figure took a step forward, then another, slowly walking down the ramp towards him. Squaring up, he paced forward a little, looking up at the tall warrior.

“Thalos, is that you lad?”

The figure stopped. When it spoke, the voice was cold, uncaring.

“Yes, it is me, old man. You should not have come here. Were you not who you are, you would already be dead. Go, now. You can walk no further.”

Dorgan shook his head, wearily. “No. I’m not going, I’m going to talk you out of this nonsense you’ve got yourself into. By Grim’s beard lad, what are you thinking joining up with this filthy lot? The undead? Have you lost your senses?

“You don’t understand, Dorgan. I have no idea why you’ve come here, but my allegiance to Him is total. It CANNOT be changed. The power he wields, the armies I command… a host of the Flames, Dorgan. Those who have fallen since the order began, all here, quietly waiting. It is what I came here for. It is my destiny, ever since I took up this mantle. The natural evolution of my former life.”

The dwarf waved angrily. “And what of Calia? Your friends? You are forsaking them all for power… I always knew you wanted to make something of yerself lad, but this? To give up everything, to cling on just a little longer? Let it go… come back and be happy with what you’ve already done, not poison it all to do more. Think, Thalos!”

The elf scowled. “I had no time to think. And now it is done. He brought me here, with magic more powerful than any we have yet found, tapping into the simmering spirits of the dead flames who he already called servants, and lured me to come to him. I arrived and he made me fall to my knees with a mere gesture. He could have taken my life and everything I had, but instead offered me a chance to serve. He offered me a choice, Dorgan, and as much as I hated the options I chose to stay alive. None of you who look down on me so would do any different. To choose oblivion over honour? Especially when I was given a chance to continue leading in battle? No. I fell into the trap, but I was dying anyway. It was only a matter of time. You saw how strained I had become inside, the weight of the Flame pressing ever downward on me, my personal spirit drained so that there was only a yawning emptiness inside me. It would have killed me, had he not brought me here.

The dwarf shook his head. “Tis not likely he was open and honest with you, lad, and neither do I think it likely you would have died from the emptiness. There would have been time… time for you to pass on the burden, time for you to recover from the your wounds… but you instead listened to it, let it draw you north, away from us. Damn it that I didn’t feel it earlier, but you had grown so distant anyway I didn’t see the change. The only one that did was Calia, but you sent her away, and she hid from me for too long, searching alone for the answer.”

He sighed, and continued. “So, you won’t come back then? Even for her? There is nothing to be done?”

“No, nothing.” Thalos, glanced around, the metal helm whispering as it swivelled toward the keep. “And now you should go, for my master will not tolerate your presence here. If he bids me kill you, I must. For the sake of our former life, go.”

Dorgan tightened his grip on his axe. “I cannot believe it, still, but .. it seems I am too late. Very well then lad, I’ll go. But remember this meeting, when you look in the mirror. You were given more than one chance, and it shames me I did not bring you up better.

Cross, hurt, but resolute, he turned. Behind, horrified at the conversation unfolding, members of the Flame shouted angrily at their former master and the dwarf. One, emboldened by the others, raised his gun and aimed at Thalos through the vision. The dwarf tried to quiet him, feeling the discontent, but he ignored it.

“Don’t you dare hurt him, traitor!” yelled Raelvar, a young dwarf with a particularly bold mouth. “Or I’ll shoot, and you can go back to your new friend in pieces!” Murmured agreement from another young Draenei, as other, older Flames tried to quiet the dwarf.

Dorgan frowned, and waved his arm curtly to try and silence them, but it was no good. “Not now!” he screamed inwardly, fearful for the boy’s safety and worried the confrontation would attract unwelcome attention. Behind him, he felt a chill as Thalos looked past him, past the nether and into the halls of the Flame, his dark red eyes landing on the young dwarf.

“Young fools..” the elf hissed. “You do not understand anything. I speak with the dwarf because he is my former mentor.. you are beneath either of us. Be silent!”

Reaching forward, the blackened mail hand extending to point at the young dwarf, he clenched his fist in a grasping motion, then flung his fingers out again. Terrified, the dwarf howled as his spirit and senses seemed to fly apart. In a flash, he disappeared, severed from the spirit of the Flame. The rest of Flames watched, aghast, as Thalos tore open the soul link and exercised his former power, a dark glow around his hand subsiding as the magic concluded. Inside they felt cold – a dark place filled, but by a creature now alien to them.

Knowing it was too early, knowing his hand had been forced by the rash dwarf’s actions, Dorgan knew regardless that he had to act before the link was sealed once more and this chance evaporated. Cursing the lack of preparation, he drew his axe and spun, facing the elf.

“If you will not return, Thalos, then you must leave us entirely. For us to go forward, this tie must be cut!”

He grunted, and swung hard at the glowing wrist. Thalos stiffened, and as the axe swung toward his hand he turned, a muscular forearm flashing down to try and deflect the blow. But Dorgan had anticipated the move, sweeping under and up, a blow hard to block, and struck the gauntleted fist from below with a sharp crack. Although the armour held, there was a loud hiss, then a whooshing sound as flames erupted along the weapon. Dark red and black motes of light which flickered from the elf to the dwarf, and then ran up over the dwarf’s body from where he held it. The blade seemed locked to Thalos’s wrist, for as he frantically tried to yank his arm away, he found it held fast, the fire spreading, and no effort elf or dwarf could make would separate them.

“What is the meaning of this?’ Thalos screamed. “What have you done, Dorgan?”

“Just a little witchery from a friend of yours, lad. She brought you here, learned about you, cared for you, and now, having had enough time to study you, with her help, you will stay here. Not in our heads, and not in our souls. Leader of the living Flame no more!” he cried.

Thalos hissed in response, the anger rippling through him. “That bitch Lokara? The one I sent to you, saved from His attention, taught about the Flame and its ways, has betrayed me with this? Simple, arcane transference? How…sickeningly base…” He snarled, still trying to yank the blade away from his arm, but it was sealed. Eyes widening, both men watched, standing still now, helpless as the flames swept around them. Slowly those around Thalos started to die, and as they did, a crushing void swept over the hearts of those watching. Where once had been a black spot, like a closed room in a house, now there was true emptiness, a vacuum. They gasped as they felt a large part of their spirit invaded and removed, their former leader no more among them, his spirit and powers consumed by the witch’s simple magic. And transferred - to the axe wielder.

Still glowing with the dark flames, Dorgan pulled experimentally and blinked as the axe finally slid away. Thalos collapsed to one knee, temporarily stunned by the final severing of his connection. Dorgan stood, stepping back, and looked down in amazement at the axe, energy still throbbing from it and into his old, scarred hands. The wounds of the past few days glowed briefly, and healed. His armour, rent in several places, repaired. Blood and scratches disappeared from his brow, and his eyes, once a chestnut brown, shone with an internal flame. He gasped again as he felt an embryonic connection open, and then staggered as the weight and sounds of the Flames came crashing around his ears. So much louder, so much closer than the connection previously in place, he reeled, their thoughts and cries resonating inside him. They too, were amazed. As soon as the gap had opened, the tearing pull of Thalos’s departure had reversed, to be replaced by a calm, ancient warmth. Dorgan’s soul opened up to them, and like an old oak swelling within, its branches reaching out to them as his spirit began to understand and use the connection. The feeling of loss mingled with a feeling of closure and hope, and they stood, renewed, but still fearful.

The events that followed happened quickly. Thalos staggered to his feet, and Dorgan backed away, fearful of the elf’s response at being denied access to the Flame. But the anticipated attack didn’t come, and with a nod and a whispered word of farewell, he walked away, the shadows of the gate reaching out to claim him. From within, however, a cry went up, and the dwarf turned and sprinted for the distant hill as he saw other figures milling in the shadows. As if eager for revenge, they cried out, taunting the dwarf as he ran, but he ignored them and didn’t look back as he ran. Eventually, they faded, as his feet pounded on the cold barren hillside. In the distance, he saw the bear slumped where he had left it. He ran on, then, acting on a strange impulse in his chest, diverted briefly to it. Looking down, he moved without thinking, placing hands over each wound on its flank and evoking the power of the wild to heal it. He had tried it before without success, but this time, dark motes of black and red mingled with the green of the wild and he felt a surge of energy rush into the big body. In seconds, the wounds closed and the bear sucked in breath, rising groggily to its feet. The dwarf’s eyes welled with happiness and confusion, but he had not time to think about this new power. On the distant hill, he looked back to see a line of figures crest the earth and stop, clawing and baying as they ran toward him. Grabbing the bear’s collar, he reached inside his cloak, pulling out a small, familiar stone. Looking up, his gaze rose to the distant building, and he paused, still hesitant. It felt like the biggest farewell of all. Yet in front, death came, and he closed his eyes, pressing against the stone. A green glow surrounded him, and he felt his surroundings warm, the cold of the north replaced by the fires of his home.

Silence surrounded him, and he relaxed, sagging as he stood. “Farewell, Thalos” he whispered. Then opening his eyes, looking at the curious and happy faces around him, he set about the next part of the plan.