Curse

valence · Oct 17, 2007, 07:27 PM // 19:27

You made me register

Wonderfull story, keep up the good work.

Koross · Oct 18, 2007, 09:11 AM // 09:11

This is awesome and its slowly coming to an end. Can't wait to read the next entry!

HezekiahKurtz · Oct 19, 2007, 03:57 AM // 03:57

Glad to have you aboard, valence.

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Zephyr 43, 1276 DR

As any good servant would do, I skipped ahead and read the end of Hezekiah’s journal. Much to my displeasure, I discovered what I think his plan was, and then found myself forced to confront him in the morning on the day that we disembarked from our ship, at the Cliffs of Dohjok.

I told him I knew what he was planning. He was immune from the demons and their influence. He thought he could leverage that advantage in order to free me from my master. He listened in silence as I berated him, cursed his foolishness and declared that he had single-handedly caused the downfall of Elona. He stood there on the shore. Shoes covered in white sand as the waves splashed over his feet, and then washed clean as the water subsided. The wind whipped his hair and snapped the edges of his clothing. The smell of the sea water—now familiar to us after days on the sea—was covered by the stench of rotting, burned corpses that lay in piles on the beach and along the base of the cliff. Bodies of men and women and every creature imaginable. The remnants of the recent battle for this place, as my master’s forces had landed and taken to the shore to assemble outside of the First City, in preparation for invasion of Kamadan. I had seen it. The scene did not surprise me. Last time I was here, I had seen the catapults and the fighting. The body count. It happens sometimes. I see what will be.

He just stood there, his face even and calm, betraying no emotion, no uncertainty or worry. I wanted to grab him and shake him. What a fool! At the least he should have gotten rid of the journal so that I could not have read it. Then at least he might have gotten close my master and had a chance. As it was, as my bonds required, I could not knowingly take such a threat close to my master. I would have to leave him outside of the city, under strict guard as I entered to tell my master of the prize I had brought, the plan to destroy its power. I must have screamed at him for ten minutes, bewailing our fates, cursing him for adhering to some silly idea that he had made a promise to me and needed to hold to it. There are times when doing the right thing means doing what we would usually consider wrong. The idiot! The fool!

He just stood there and took it. He shivered sometimes as the water buried and washed his feet. Finally, when he sensed that perhaps I had cleaned myself of all possible invectives, he asked about Guel. I had almost forgotten about him. It has been weeks, after all. When we passed through the Crystal Oasis, he asked his leave of me, said he wanted to go back to Tyria. He had been faithful to me, and I saw his weariness, his desire to be out of the Desolation, to not pursue his friend in a cause he did not believe in. So I released him. I let him go. I was very surprised that my master’s magic let me do it. I thought at the time that he would have been valuable in capturing Hezekiah. The only thing I can think of is that deep down I knew he would not betray Hezekiah for the honor he owes me, that he would not be as stupid as the Paragon and hold to honor over reason, light, civilization.

Hezekiah commented to me that it was good of me to let him go. Guel wanted to go home. He told me not to lose faith. All was not yet lost. Shaking my head, I turned away from him, and motioned for my group to follow me. It was a different group than I had hired in the Gates of Desolation. They had abandoned me before we reached XXXXXX, as the familiar dread and fear had risen steadily as we neared the port. A demon resided there, ruling over those who had not fled the area, over those who we call damned. The demon provided me a ship and sailors loyal to my master, and a similar group awaited us at the beach. They led us up the sand and into the plain, Westward toward the First City. We traveled through the evening and into the next day, until we came to the area just outside of Fahranur, to the first ranks of my master’s horde. Some heket, some djinn, some margonites. And many more. A veritable rainbow of creatures, of every race and build—any that had enough consciousness to be susceptible to the whisperings of evil from beings of other planes, other dimensions. It was like the army we saw all those months ago in the marshes. It was like Kitten’s army, although probably not as great. It stunk like piss and crap. Like sweat and bile. Appropriate, I think.

Despite my instincts, my desires to run and flee, to pay heed to the fear that bombarded my soul, we passed through the army, moving ever closer to the unintelligible whispering that tainted the air. My soul grew darker with each inexorable step, with that march forced by my magical tethers. I felt I was approaching the doom of man, like I was taking a calf up to the slaughterhouse where its sacrifice would unleash all of the darkness and flames of hell. My shadowed thoughts turned inward, to a bereavement born of that calf’s death, and the subsequent loss of all, everything.

At the gates of Fahranur I commanded the party to stop. I verified that Hezekiah was fettered securely, exchanged a few last words of sadness with him. He encouraged me, his eyes solid and unwavering. I continued on into the city, for an audience with my master.

I understand now that it appears as it wishes to appear. I cannot fathom it looking any different, cannot imagine what it might look like in reality. As I approached it then, I wanted to view it as I had seen Kitten back in the Canyon battle, or as something even more benign. But years of witnessing its great height, its crocodilian face and those sets of a dozen terrible wings, those twenty eyes and that scaly, snakey skin, barred me from seeing it as anything else. It sat there in that great hall, so large that no dais or throne could contain it—so enormous that the very room was its place of dominance and reigning. It sat up on its haunches, almost like a dog, proudly displaying its purple and black belly. Only its short back legs and two longest front arms supported its posture. The rest of the appendages rested motionless at its side, an odd contrast to the way its wings flexed and relaxed, moving every moment, seemingly independent of any other muscle or command.

The other-worldly being that had never given me its name, that I had never heard referred as anything more than “it”, filled the immense space of the cavernous room. I felt crowded. Claustrophobic.

It spoke to me. I do not know how a mouth that shape could formulate human sounds. It commended me, praised my years of service, a deep chuckle rising from its middle as it promised me that I would be rewarded, that I would hold high station in its kingdom. I warned it of Hezekiah’s seeming immunity to demonic influences, of his plan to slay it. With a flip of a claw, it dismissed my concern, declaring that no man could destroy it now. Not with any skill or spell. It had grown too strong since Kitten’s death, had gained too much power. But it did not call that other other-worldy being “Kitten.” It called it “my arch enemy” or my “foe.” Always, it said, the two of them had vied for power in this world, splitting the loyalty and strength of the wicked. Now that the angels had destroyed its nemesis, my master no longer had to share the power, the might that came from the evil inherent along the waters and wind.

And in that moment, as the enormity of it all settled over my body and my soul, when I felt there was no hope and no reason not to believe in impending doom, a blur of white appeared, shining in the corner of my vision. I have no idea how he escaped. I have no idea what he did to obtain a spear. But somehow that Paragon was there, an enchanted weapon in his hands and running so quickly that really I would not have seen him except for the bright streak across my vision. I am certain he escaped, cast his Signet of Amplification, and then used any number of skills to increase his speed before enlivening his weapon with Angelic Deliverance.

Even as my master leapt to its feet, standing on no fewer than a dozen claws that scraped and scratched the stones, tearing them up and marking them deeply, like a heartbreak marring a soul, I knew I was powerless. I could hardly track Hez’s movements as he zig-zagged forward through the vast chamber, practically bouncing off of the walls. I could not harm him with my little staff or my monk’s skills. A hope dawned within my soul that perhaps the calf—now a lion—could foil the butcher, become the slayer.

Those were endless seconds. They belonged to another world, another time and place. Light tinted my thoughts and my world vision. Everything—what it might be—opened up before me. In those seconds as my master twisted and turned in the tight confines of the room, lashing out with talons and bringing wings in tight, roaring and looking in every direction at every moment, I beheld the possibility of freedom. Of blue skies and rolling fields. Of city walls that never fell. Of distant lands revealing their secrets. Of lovers who I did not have to leave. As Hezekiah moved along the floor and through the air, jumping and dodging the smashing of claws, only a bar of light, maneuvering and trying at every moment to gain a clear shot, hope illuminated the vast expanse of my future life, of every dream I’d ever had, of every want I’d ever known. Of every nook of every place I’d ever been. Every cave. Every city. Every room.

And then in an instant darkness befell the world again. A gigantic, red talon skewered the Paragon through the torso, like a spit. The spear of light shattered. Shards struck the stone walls, the tinkling of a million needles dropped, the pinging of glass shards against rock, clattering and cutting into the flesh of my face. With a deep, rumbling chuckle that belied the intensity of the previous few seconds, my master shook its claw, flinging Hezekiah across the room to collapse in a heap in front of me. He lay face down. Red gushed in all directions from the wound, spreading quickly out over the gray floor.

The calf was slaughtered.

Sasuke The Betrayer · Oct 21, 2007, 10:10 AM // 10:10

Hey. On your site, I read the newest journal after the one you just posted before this post. I have to say, It's getting awfully hopeless for the good guys. Can't wait till the next journal lol (Here I am, 3:10 in the morning, reading your journals the past couple of hours). Great stuff man, thanks a lot.

Koross · Oct 22, 2007, 09:30 AM // 09:30

I have a feeling that our 'monk' will redeem himself somewhat.

HezekiahKurtz · Oct 24, 2007, 02:32 AM // 02:32

Thanks for the kind words. I'm glad ya'll are enjoying it. Only a handful of entries left!

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Zephyr 43, 1276 DR, continued

For a moment there was only silence punctuated by the shifting of my master back to its sitting position. Its wings rustled. Its breath came heavily. The hole gaped in Hezekiah’s body. I wondered how quickly the blood would run out.

My master spoke quietly, ominously, telling me I should not have doubted. Now, with it having killed Hezekiah, when it raised him from the dead the Paragon would be its servant, just like I was. I wondered numbly if it were true, or if Hezekiah’s immunity would continue on even past death.

Without exerting any noticeable effort, my master cast Demonic Rebirth. Darkness coalesced around Hezekiah, blurring the air around him, concealing the healing of the wound and the lifting of his body. In a moment he stood with his back to me, only his torn clothes a sign that moments before he’d suffered a critical, killing wound. He did not speak. He did not move. He just looked intently at his new master. A quiet, rolling laugh filled the room. The neck of my master vibrated with the sound.

It commanded me to draw my dagger and give it to Hezekiah. Unsure of the reason for it, I obeyed, and an instant later my friend plunged the blade sideways into his neck. With a sickening gurgle he crumpled to the floor, into the still fresh puddle of blood. I could not fathom what was happening, and hardly had time as I was calmly commanded to pull the blade from Hezekiah’s neck. I stared in disbelief at the vacant, open eyes, wondered what was going on. With the weapon clear, and still laughing, my master raised him again from the dead.

Again, it told me to give Hez the dagger, and just as suddenly as before, the Paragon took the blade to his belly, cutting in the shape of an “L”. He wailed as he did so. Collapsed to the wet stones, splashing the red onto my clothes. Looking up at the other-worldly being, his eyes raging with hatred, he roared in agony as he reached into his stomach and yanked his innards out. He pulled and pulled, each time more weakly than the last, his cries becoming quiet and pitiful. Our master continued to laugh, a maniacal sonata to a scene of torture.

I began to remember. To understand.

Decades before, as I stood in the same room as Hezekiah, practically in the same spot, I had heard a voice clear and dark in my head, issuing commands to me. Silly things at first. Stand on your head. Jump on one foot. Slobber. Say the alphabet backwards. And I had obeyed, not understanding why, but doing every little thing the demon before me commanded. It laughed as it watched—the exact same laugh that now echoed over and around Hezekiah. I had struggled to disobey, but my mind and my body moved of their own accord, as if by magic. As the ritual progressed, the commands became hasher, more brutal. Strike yourself. Bang your head against the wall. Rip out your hair. Break your finger. Cut your arm. Cut your chest. Until, finally, the orders stopped. I stood a bloody, painful mess, and was told about the full effects of Demonic Rebirth. I was a slave. I would be forever. There was no possibility of disobedience.

I remembered all of this as I watched Hezekiah emptying his guts out onto the glistening floor. I understood what was going on. My master had been correct. Hezekiah’s immunity had failed upon resurrection. The fool Paragon’s plan had failed. In a few moments he fell still, one hand inside himself, the other gripping the squishy pile of tubes in front of him. His feet twitched. His mouth hung open, crimson dripping from one corner. Eyes wide. Staring in adoration and enmity at the new master.

For a third time the air blurred in blackness around Hezekiah. Again he stood whole before me, and again he took the blade into his hands. But this time he held it in his left hand, raised it quickly into the air and then brought it down against his right forearm. It was a good blade. It cut cleanly. He cried out as his wrist and hand fell at his feet with a wet thump. The air around his arm blurred, creating a stump just below the elbow. All the while our master chortled softly.

Then it spoke. In triumph it told Hezekiah about his new slavery, about how he would serve with unflinching obedience even if he did not want to. He understood, he said. He’d witnessed it in me, and knew he could not resist. My master promised Hezekiah that his service would be short, only long enough for him to see the ultimate victory over this world. Then it turned his comments to me, gloating over its power, praising me for my valiance, chiding me for doubting, and referring to Hezekiah’s stump as a sign that the immunity had ended. Then it stopped its victory speech and stared at us. All twenty eyes, scattered around that head, trained on us. Its wings flexed and its many limbs twitched.

The two of us just stared in silence. Drowning in the despair. Fear and foreboding emanated from the towering monster before us. My body shook. Hezekiah’s face drooped. His shoulders sagged under the weight of failure. He pressed his shortened arm against his belly, held it there with his other arm. The hand lay still in the crimson.

I wanted to kill him for his folly. Rage boiled belly. He had cost us everything.

I am not sure how long we stood there. Many minutes. Silence. Sounds of an army outside of the city. Finally our master spoke again, commanding Hezekiah to use the Signet of Amplification. He did so. It cast its Signet of Capture.

It was done. All was lost.

It commanded us to go into the next room, where we were to wait. We would accompany it on the journey to Kamadan, relating all details about its foe’s defeat. Telling anything and everything that would aid our master in its battle. Witness as Istan fell. Then Hezekiah’s work would be done, and mine would begin.

HezekiahKurtz · Oct 25, 2007, 11:49 PM // 23:49

Zephyr 43, 1276 DR, continued

There we sat, Hezekiah and I, in that dim hallway. On the cold stones. Children waiting for punishment. Torches lining the walls cast grotesque, green pools of light down the entire length of the hall. We sat just outside of one such pool, just beyond our master’s chamber, not speaking at first. Hezekiah hugged his stump to his stomach, sat with his knees to his chest, staring into nothing. His eyes, oceans of despair and regret. I resisted the desire to stand and kick him repeatedly, to rail on him with accusations and hatred. As his body started to shake with sobs, I fought the impulse to put my arm around him in comfort. I hated his recklessness, yet loved his heart.

Suddenly he held out his arm, to one side so that the green illumination caught it. He looked at with wide, horrified eyes, as if seeing its disfigurement for the first time. Tears wet his cheeks. Redness burned in his eyes. He shouted out, “My arm! My arm! I have lost my arm!”

I could hold back no longer, and told him that is not all he’d lost. I did not look at him as I spoke, for I did not want any compassion to touch my heart. I wanted only to stress the magnitude of his stupidity. He’d lost an arm, yes, but now everyone else would lose everything. All freedom and peace. All sense of nation, of family, of individuality. The skies would lose their deep blue, and the savannahs would lose their waving blades of grass. The ocean would never be calm again. Clouds would never be white. Everything as we knew it would now be lost because of his folly.

When I finally looked at him, I found his body trembling, his face buried into his knees. I demanded to know why he had done it. Why he had thought he could do the impossible.

In a muffled voice, never once looking up, he told me a story. He’d been eighteen. It was his last summer at home, on the farm with his parents and family and friends. He had a little brother, the youngest in his family. Baenlone. His mother and father were too busy caring for the fields and farm and inn to care for the boy, and so once the boy was weaned, Hezekiah was charged with raising him. At first he hated it, despised having this little person tagging along at all times, clinging to him, needy and endlessly demanding. But in time that had changed. As the child had learned developed a personality, begun babble and to express his needs, Hezekiah grew to love him, to relish in his company. His first word was, “Hez.”

They were together at all times. In the house. In the fields. With Hezekiah’s friends. During trips into Ascalon. The child refused to go to his parents, denied all service or love from them, always insisting instead that Hezekiah take care of him, that Hezekiah love him. Which he did. They even slept in the same bed—as siblings often do—up on the second floor of the inn, in a tiny room with a window. Huddled together for warmth and companionship.

One night the inn caught fire. The noises woke Hezekiah and the child. The sound of fire, the smoke squeezing into the room from beneath the door and between the floorboards. Hezekiah picked up the child, then 18 months old with hardly a hair on his head and arms as fat and round as bread loafs. He held the child tight on his hip, and went to the door. A wall of smoke. Screams of guests. Of his family. Only one other way out—the window.

Looking out, down below, Hezekiah saw only smoke gushing from the windows and doors below. He could not see the ground. He called out, shouted for someone, anyone. His father cried back, telling him not to panic, but to go out the hallway. That was the safe way. He should not do anything rash. But Hezekiah felt like his mind was clear, that he knew the exactly right thing to do. He had to throw the boy down and hope that someone caught him. The baby was crying so much at the confusion. Coughing at the smoke that forced its way through the door, thick in the air by the ceiling. They could not go back through that hallway, through the smoke. The only way out was the window. He warned his father, told him to get ready, he was going to drop the boy an arm’s length away from the house, down through the smoke.

His father told him not to. Don’t do it! Go out into the hallway! Hezekiah told him to be ready on the count of three. Held the squirming, teary-eyed child out. One! Two! Three! Then he let the boy go. Arms and legs flailing, the child disappeared into the smoke, its eyes never leaving Hezekiah’s. Confused, yet trusting. In the next moment, Hezekiah’s mother threw open the door, coughing and yelling for Hezekiah to follow her back out the hallway. Bring Baenlone! But it was too late. The child had been dropped.

Their father caught the boy. Only barely. By the right arm, tearing it out of the socket. It never healed right. As Hezekiah told me this, he finally lifted his head, looked at his own right arm. He’d known, he said, that that was the only way. That was the only thing he could do to save the child. His father’s warnings and instructions had meant nothing to him. He’d known. He’d been sure in those moments of panic. He’d felt clear and sure.

He looked at me, lines around his eyes, searching my face to see if I understood why he’d told me the story in answer to my question. I did understand. I stared at him, unblinking, thinking of the months I’d spent with the paragon, of some of the stupid things he’d done. I understood why the story was an answer to my question, and I shook my head in disbelief, not knowing what to say. Hezekiah had been the same since his youth. He had not changed, had not learned.

“This is who I am,” he said. I will never forget those words, or the searing of his eyes into mine. “This is who I am.”

Finally he looked away, sighing heavily and indicating that now he understood me. He understood how it felt to be an unwilling slave, bound to act without hope of salvation. He’d wondered for months what life was like for me. Now he knew. I did not respond. And then he asked why I’d never told him the name of the other-worldly being. I laughed—it was because I didn’t know it. I’d never learned it.

Dagon. He said he’d heard it in his mind, that when the demon had been ordering him to slaughter himself, it told him that he would now serve Dagon, Lord of Depths.

That was a startling revelation to me, and as I sat there considering it, wondering why Hezekiah had been told the name when I had not, pondering, the air in the hallway became rancid, fearful. Demons of all shapes and sizes shuffled along its length, coming toward us, their bodies surrounded by that indescribable black haze, their auras of murder and fear filling the room. Black waters so thick and deep I thought I would drown. We stood, watched them amble or float past, never giving us so much as a second look as they entered the room where Dagon waited. There must have been twenty of them. Perhaps thirty, and they congregated in that room, an unholy communion.

We stood and listened to the demons talk, to the voices like breaking bones in a language like raped women. And then, the now-familiar ringing, singing of the Signet of Amplification, and the every-day, sparkling tone of a Signet of Capture. Then another. Then twenty more.

I met Hezekiah’s gaze. His eyes gaped nearly as wide as his mouth as he realized what was happening. The Signet of Amplification was being given to the demons. To all of them.

In another few minutes, after more of the terrible discussion, the demons filed out in the same way they had entered, never acknowledging us mere humans. When they had disappeared out of the hallway, a man appeared in the doorway, coming from the room where I had lost my life. He was short, wearing tight-fitting pants and an elementalist’s coat. Carrying a smooth, ebon staff of wood. Balding. Small, eyes set a little too closely. Tight lips. The man looked at us, grinned with unusually long canines. He declared the imminence of Elona’s fall, commanded us to follow him.

Willing yet unable to disobey, we fell in behind Dagon.

HezekiahKurtz · Oct 31, 2007, 04:09 AM // 04:09

Zephyr 45, 1276 DR

Dagon marched with us in the absolute center of the motley army, ten thousand strong of every type of creature imaginable, in no understandable or organized rank. Harpies and demons flitted above us as we strode through the night. An endless sea of churning bodies treading through the Jokanur Diggings and into the shallow waters of Zehlon Reach, all individuals obeying their master without question. I wondered how many of them were unwilling slaves like Hezekiah and I, and how many were slaves due to the wickedness in their hearts. I imagine than most obeyed without understanding why, without knowing it was their previous decisions that had bound them to their whispering, conniving god. The whispering never ended. Distinct and endless in the clear night air, coming from many directions at once from each of the demons scattered throughout the army. Not even the endless roar of the crowd, the constant refrain of broken grass, could drown out the whispering. Gibberish to me. Subliminal instructions to others.

For me, the march began with a great deal of emotion. I struggled to keep my face composed. Despair and anger and bitterness clashed within me, filled my lungs and raged in my blood. I knew in those first minutes out of the First City that our march marked the commencement of the final battle. Every step felt like progress toward doom. It would only take the night and some of the next day, and we would be there, assaulting Kamadan. The demons would use their Signets of Amplification. Their malicious voices would drown out all other influences, thoughts, desires. They would reach to the depths of the ocean, and into the sky above. There would be no room or pit or cell where the whisperings would not become irresistible urges for most of the inhabitants of the city. No soul would go untouched, untempted. How many would simply throw down their arms? How many would turn on their comrades? How many would resist the amplified voices of twenty or thirty demons and of an other-worldly being? Certainly angels would use the Signet of Amplification and try to counteract the demons. But would it be enough? I did not see how it could be. Back in the Yahtendi Canyon, in the battle against Kitten, the balance between angels and demons had fallen on the side of the demons—otherwise Kitten would have appeared as a cuddly little pet. I did not see how it could happen differently with Dagon.

The Lord of Depths grilled Hezekiah and I as we marched, but especially Hezekiah. It asked question after question about angels, about the opposing army. How many angels are there? I have only hosted one, but I know there are others. Perhaps a handful. How many? I don’t know for certain. I doubt there are more than five or six. How many different people can the angels take on as hosts? I don’t know. I only knew, specifically, of a few. Myself. Rhonan. Breenian. I don’t remember any other names. I am sure there are other hosts. What skill will they depend on? The Signet of Amplification. Angelic Deliverance. I don’t know what else. What skills did my nemesis use? I don’t know their names. A whip of darkness. A skill that created mists. I can’t remember others. What did it look like? A giant. Huge. Towering over the battlefield. I see. So it made itself a target. I will not make that mistake. That is why you are in the form of a man? Indeed. I intend not to make any mistakes.

The interrogation stretched through the night, the questions and answers threading through the darkness, a string of endless probes and responses. It asked the same question so many times at different angles I wondered if Dagon suspected Hezekiah of lying. I didn’t know how he would lie—unless he was merely pretending to be Dagon’s slave. An amazing acting job, if so. Especially the dual suicides and the severing of his useful hand. Not that it wasn’t completely implausible. We were dealing with relatively untested and unproven magic. Even the angel told Hezekiah that they didn’t know quite how it worked. He and Rhonan were the first to become immune to all other-worldly beings. The questions made me wonder if Dagon suspected the same thing, thought that—jut maybe—the Demonic Rebirth had not truly made Hezekiah its slave.

Whenever the thought occurred to me during the interrogation, whenever he said something that I wasn’t quite certain was right. I questioned it, out of magical obligation, and he would always say that he could only give what information he had, how he understood it. He certainly seemed excited to give answers, spilling details eagerly. A child caught being naughty, hoping that a quick, truthful confession would ease the punishment. He did not seem to be lying.

Not that it would matter. What could he do, in the midst of a sea of evil, if he were just pretending? Nothing, really.

Not long before dawn we passed from Zehlon Reach into the Astralarium. Logistically, that is a nightmare for a large army, as the steep hills, thin gates, and narrow paths create deadly bottlenecks for large groups. As the front ranks of the army filed through the town, the middle and rear parts of the army came to a stop, waited their turns. By the time Hezekiah, Dagon, and I were into the Astralarium, the sun had just peaked over the Eastern horizon, sending long, deep shadows over the area.

I always found this town stunning in its ethereal beauty and purpose. It is here to help humankind study the heavens, to gain an understanding of something larger and greater than just itself.

In its center sits a square stage of sorts, with stairs leading up to it on the western side. Each of the four corners of the stage is marked with wide, rectangular pillars, atop which sit bizarre sculptures of concentric circles. Another, taller platform dominates most of the stage, but in its center sits a gigantic brass bowl, decorated with airy lines, recessed into the stage so that at its deepest it must extend several feet underground. Beyond the stage, to the east, a large, blocky building stands over the stage, with Istan’s typical earthy, fluted walls. On the building’s outer walls sit two enormous reflectors of copper or brass, which, in the evening, reflect sunlight back into the bowl. To the South looms the observatory, sitting atop a high, steep hill.

When it came to our turn to enter the Astralarium, Dagon commanded Hezekiah and I to wait on the stairs leading up to the building East of the stage. It said it wanted to keep us nearby, to keep an eye on us. We ascended the stairs and sat at the top. At the top of the stairs was a door into the building, and we sat there before it, in the cool shade. We watched as, during the next half an hour, the rest of the army filtered through the area. Dagon stood on the stage, in front of the bowl, watching its host in silent satisfaction. Once the last of them had passed through, into the next area—the Plains of Jarin—Dagon raised his arms into the shape of a V, and called his demons. The sound rose clear and crisp in the cool morning air, like the howl of a wolf or the roar of a tiger, only its sound made the spine tingle and the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

The demons heeded Dagon’s call. Those with wings flew back into the Astralarium. Others came through the area’s narrow, gated entrance, just to our left. Within minutes they all stood there before the Lord of Depths, at the base of the stage, crowded in the small area, listening attentively as it instructed them. I took the chance to count them. Twenty-six. All of them three or four times the height of a man. A congregation of shifting mists and darkness, of constantly deforming shapes. A menagerie of evil.

I could not bear to listen to their conversation. Though I could not understand their words, I did not doubt that they spoke of their plans and tactics, their methods for victory. They must have spent twenty minutes there, receiving instructions, being commanded. At the very end Dagon raised its elementalist’s staff before him, perpendicular to the ground. It said something unintelligible to me, in the hellish tongue. The demons answered in unison, with great enthusiasm and volume. They brandished their fists at the sky, spread their wings wide. Their oily voices echoed against the nearby hills and walls. My soul shrunk under the tumult. I have no idea what Hezekiah was doing, standing behind me. I hoped he was quaking with guilt. Dagon shook its staff once more, and the demons repeated their war cry. Then the Lord of Depths turned sharply and pointed its staff past us, through the gate toward the East, where the army and Kamadan waited. With a third cry the demons erupted into motion. Some lifted into the air. Others rushed forward.

I stood and took a few steps forward, into the sun. Hot on my back. I had the impulse to stretch, but resisted. I saw no point in it.

That is when the angels ambushed.

HezekiahKurtz · Nov 02, 2007, 03:33 AM // 03:33

Zephyr 46, 1276 DR

Now, after everything is finished, I have learned exactly what happened.

The army in Kamadan knew that Hezekiah was going to try and free me by killing Dagon. Breenian told the angel of Hezekiah’s plans, and the angel told other angels and they told their hosts in Kamadan. As Hezekiah and I traveled to the First City, and as Breenian, Rhonan, Wez, and the others traveled to Kamadan, the angels and leaders debated ardently over what path to take.

They knew they had to plan for the worst, for Hezekiah failing and giving Dagon the Signet of Amplification. Once that happened, the demons and Dagon, outnumbering the angels in strength and number, would simply have to use their Signets of Amplification and whisper their instructions. Instantly, they would rule over the wills and actions of all people in Istan except for those who hosted angels. How easy, then, for Dagon to command its new converts to fall on their swords and end the battle before the Signet’s effects even expired. Only the angel hosts would remain, immune to the commands of Dagon because of their symbiosis. Of course, it might not be so absolute, since the angels would also be using their voices and Signets. But the angels and demons reached a consensus that the balance of influence would fall to the demons, and for a minute they would rule. They might even have more time if they staggered their usage of the signets. But whatever length they ruled for would be enough to cause irreparable damage. And that would be enough. The only ones left after that minute would be the fifteen or so angels against ten thousand foes and dozens of demons. And the Lord of Depths.

So, logically, they concluded that they had to construct a conflict without numerous hosts on either side. No armies. No masses of susceptible, weak-minded humans, skree, or harpies. They had to isolate Dagon and the demons. Face them apart and separate from enormous armies. In such a case, the power of the Signets of Amplification would be reduced dramatically.

There were eighteen hosts. Apparently the supply of angels is nearly limitless, just as the supply of demons is limitless. But just as the demons were restricted to the bodies they had possessed and grown over the years, the angels were limited by the number of hosts worthy and able to allow them into their bodies. Of course, the invisible angels and demons were around, just as they always are. Whispering and struggling against each other. An unseen battle on another plane, raging constantly and especially at this critical time. But as is always the case, an angel—or a demon—with a body has greater power in this physical world, and so the number of angel hosts in comparison to the number of demons and Dagon was a critical issues.

Back in Vabbi, the moment that Hezekiah had left with me to go to Farhunar, Breenian had turned to Wez, Sileman, and Haillia, the glow of the angel blazing in her face. She told them what was to come, and instructed them on what they needed to do. As they travelled to Kamadan, they must purge their hearts of evil. They must cleanse their minds of tainted intentions and lingering bitterness. They must make themselves worthy to be hosts in the final battle.

And so they did. They were willing to make the sacrifice. Lay their grudges and angers and bitterness aside. Under her instruction—or the angel’s—they spent the time travelling across Vabbi and over the ocean becoming worthy. I cannot imagine the emotional struggle it took. The hours of agonizing, of listening to the quiet promptings of an angelic voice, the tedious, laborious refining of the soul. The meditation. The tears. How does one eliminate evil in the heart? How does one banish hard feelings and selfish desires? Decimate grudges? Kill pride? There must be motivation. There must be impetus. And they found it in their dedication to Hezekiah. Their love for him and their willingness to aid him in his recklessness. Like me, they knew his soul and that despite his stubbornness and silly tendency to ignore the counsel of others, in him was no guile, no desire to deceive or to hurt or to abuse. They loved his heart, and that provided them with reason enough. They would do what they could to aid him.

And that is the noble thing that they have done in this battle. That is their contribution. Those were their moments of greatest danger and fear and doubt. The struggling within their hearts, which can never fully be described or understood or seen—those are the things that even gave the army of light a chance. For once the angels possessed Wez and Sileman, Breenian and Haillia, they could not control or act. They became merely spectators. Their critical role came before the ambush, as they struggled to master their emotions and instincts. I can never understand it. I can never put it in words. And even if they were to write down what happened in those days, the full impact of that struggle would seem miniature and minute compared to the marching of armies and the battling of angels and demons. But at that point, for them, when they reached that pinnacle and allowed the angels to enter their bodies, it did not matter what would happen later. They had succeeded in all they could do. They had been victorious over themselves, and had thereby improved the chances of humanity.

By the time they reached Kamadan, all of them had schooled their animal pride. Angels came and went from their bodies at will. They had done all they could to aid Hezekiah.

Each of the hosts, worthy of perfect trust and heavy responsibility, received the Signet of Amplification and Angelic Deliverance. They set out immediately, all of the hosts plus one. Rhonan. The one other person inoculated against evil. Nineteen total. Not knowing exactly what would happen, but seeing with clarity what they needed to do. They had to isolate Dagon, though they did not know how to do it.

On the morning we entered the Astralarium, they were there. It was pure luck—or divine intervention—that had placed them there the previous night on their journey toward Dagon. At first they panicked when they realized we were headed for them. They debated fleeing back to Kamadan. But the angels determined to simply hide. Take refuge in the buildings around the stage. Perhaps this is the chance we have needed, they said. I can imagine Wez’s response to that.

I don’t know what foolishness caused the army, the demons, and Dagon to not search the buildings, to not ensure that they were empty. I don’t know why the unseen demons couldn’t have told the visible ones to simply open those doors and look in the most remote rooms. Look in the closets. Look in the deepest corners and darkest hallways. There you will find the angels! They’re there, cowering in fear, knowing with certainty that all is lost. Trembling with despair in the blackness. Perhaps it was the zealousness to get through the area. The desire to advance to victory. Perhaps, they did not worry about it because we hadn’t encountered a living soul since leaving the First City. Every conscious, able being that had not already evacuated to safe ground had certainly felt the coming of the army long beforehand, and fled before us, toward Kamadan. It never even occurred to me that anyone might be in those buildings. Dagon must have felt the same way. Too busy in the orgy of planning and looming victory to worry about such a remote possibility.

The angels found refuge from Dagon’s army in the building to the East, the one behind Hezekiah and I as we witnessed our master’s final planning. They retreated to the very back of the structure, finding the most remote room where they planned and waited.

Periodically, one of the angels would leave its host to discover what was happening in the Astralarium. Later, Wez would tell me what it was like. When the angel inhabited him, the constant, never-ending darkness of demons fled his mind, abandoned his consciousness. He became detached and calm. Comforted. Yet that darkness lingered there on the edge. Flitted against his soul and the internal armor he bore. And the moment the angel would leave, to spy on the enemy, the full force of twenty-six demons and an other-worldly being crushed him. Deafening whispers pounded his ears. A mountain of fear, despair, insanity bore down on him with all the subtlety of a blade through the head, a death through the heart. He clenched his fists so that his nails cut into his palms. To keep from screaming, he bit down on a random piece of wood. Those around him held his arms and legs and body to keep him from running. It would last for only seconds at a time. The angel would return. Calmness would overtake him. The desolation would depart instantly, retreat like shadows fleeing light.

And so it went during the hour. The angels quickly realized that this was the opportunity they had hoped for. They planned their attack. Waited for the right moment.

I remember as a child hearing stories of great battles. Some of them fictional, some of them historical. In almost every tale, before the great climactic finish, the hero and the villain would have an opportunity to stop and talk. Perhaps in the midst of a battle. Maybe in the privacy of a room before an assassination attempt. In a chamber or field where all important parties of the story could hear and see one last effort at peace or persuasion. The two sides would have one last chance to convince the other of their errors, try to convert them to their own other path. Spit a few last curses and threats. Tell why they were right, and why the other would soon be dead. And then they would engage.

I have concluded, now, that in all such cases the story tellers or writers contrived these final conversations in an effort to create uncertainty. To create tension. To prolong the moment of defeat or victory. Even in stories that are supposedly based on fact. For in no battle that I have ever engaged in has there been this final dialogue. I have never seen it. All I have seen are sudden, intense struggles where both parties seek to gain advantage, or to keep from showing a weak spot. There are no conversations. No dialogues. There is only action. Violence. The seizing of advantages.

That is what happened that day. The angels saw an opportunity. They seized it. We heard their attack before we saw it. Whistling sizzles from above. A storm of meteorites enhanced and empowered with the Signet of Amplification. The first meteorite came down though the center of the rising demons, those departing in ecstasy from their master toward certain victory. It struck one of them directly on the head, crushing the creature down into the demons standing on or floating just above solid ground. The air shook with the strength of the impact. The ground rippled, rumbled, throwing nearby demons into the air.

By the time the second meteor struck, the metallic ringing of the Signet of Amplification sang through the air, echoing itself a dozen times like a chorus of destruction. As if by reflex, the demons not thrown by the meteor used the instant-cast skill, and became a hundred times more dangerous. Dagon dove to the North, over the edge of the stage. As it did so, its form shifted, transformed instantly into that of a winged demon. At the same time, from behind me came a clattering of knobs and the squealing of hinges. I knew that someone was opening the doors. I had no chance to turn, however, for a sharp, cold pain sliced through my neck. As I sunk slowly to the ground, my eyes dimming, the world growing grey, I heard Hezekiah whisper, “I am sorry, friend.”

kmburton · Nov 02, 2007, 11:57 PM // 23:57

Great story. Thanks!!!

Sasuke The Betrayer · Nov 03, 2007, 12:05 AM // 00:05

Wow. Amazing ending. The newest one is at his website: http://www.gwcartographer.com/index.html
I have to say, Great job man. Hopefully there's one more chapter so we see how everyone lives out their lives

Koross · Nov 05, 2007, 09:48 AM // 09:48

Wow. Only one word can be used to describe the ending ... "wow".

After a long journey, I am glad that it ended as it did. Great writing and imagination skills HezekiahKurtz and I hope you don't stop writing. This 'Journal of a Cartographer' is one of the best fan fiction I have ever read. Definitely satisfying and I would recommend this read to everyone.

HezekiahKurtz · Nov 05, 2007, 06:46 PM // 18:46

Thanks for the kind words, everyone. It's satisfying to hear that you've liked the work.

Just to make sure you don't abandon ship until it's over, there will probably be at least two more entries, just to wrap things up. And then just as an exercise for me, I plan to write and post a "post-mortem" of sorts, considering a little about my experience and what I learned as I wrote the Journal. It has been a valuable experience for me. Thanks for your encouragement.

Also, I am extremely interested in hearing how you thought the work could improve, what you thought worked best, or any other specific comments you might have.

Thanks again!

Sasuke The Betrayer · Nov 06, 2007, 12:25 AM // 00:25

Yay! I thought the journals was over, and was hoping for more. Thanks

I loved your work, but there was only one problem I had with it. It was kind of odd with the "skill capturing" and stuff, or "I used Fall Back" and such. It was a bit weird too, when you mention a character going back to town and redoing his skills. I'm not totally sure, but you could've said something like "Hezekiah shouted an uplifting chant and everyone began to run faster", instead of saying "He used fall back". Nonetheless, it was awesome.

HezekiahKurtz · Nov 07, 2007, 03:43 AM // 03:43

Zephyr 47, 1276 DR

As Hezekiah dropped me onto the stairs, my life slipped away. My spirit rose out of my body. My first thought was to call Hezekiah a lying, sneaking bastard. He had betrayed us, had fooled me and Dagon into believing that he was a slave when, in fact, he was not. For that was the only explanation. The only reason he might kill me. My second thought was to celebrate that perhaps there was a chance, that perhaps the fool paragon still knew what he was doing. I wanted to cheer him on as he rushed forward into the confusion, to the side of the stage where Dagon stood, out of range of the continuing meteor shower, bat-like wings spread wide, a half a dozen arms in motion, shape and skin shifting in the midst of the darkness that surrounds all demons, a handful of eyes looking in every direction. I fully expected Hezekiah to cast the Signet of Amplification, for his spear to light up, then for the blazing shaft to pierce my master’s torso. In those few seconds, my hopes soared. Hezekiah had become my savior.

But it did not happen. Not the way I thought it would. He did run straight for the demon, but upon reaching it motioned anxiously in my direction, shouting something I couldn’t hear over the deafening voices of angels and demons, intermingled like blood and water, and the simultaneous activation of numerous skills by demons and angels. Dagon’s face turned momentarily toward me, where I lay, and then away. It motioned at Hezekiah to follow it, to join up with a group of demons.

As the paragon obeyed, following behind Dagon, I battled with a surging confusion. There—my master had its back perfectly exposed, and Hezekiah did nothing, simply trotted along behind like a loyal dog. Why did he not act? Why did he not slay the other-worldly being? For just a moment I did not understand. Then I realized that even with the demon’s back to him, Hezekiah was still being watched. Dagon had taken a shape similar to many of the other demons—it had eyes on the back of its head.

In that moment it struck me as odd that Dagon should take that shape. The shape just like any of the other demons. No larger. Why not tower above the Astralarium? I quickly remembered its words the night before—it did not want to stand out. Did not want to draw attention to itself. By then, the first meteor shower had ended. The demons had split into several groups—two smaller ones in the air, and two larger ones in the northwestern and southwestern edges of the Astralarium. Dagon joined one of the groups on the ground, merged with them and became just another figure in the crowd. Two demons lay still on the ruptured ground, victims of the meteor shower.

Angels, their skin glowing bright yellow, poured from the building behind me. There was Wez, filling the air with luminescent arrows. They sizzled as they flew, passing through aloft demons as if through paper, drawing out behind them a long string of red as they arced upwards into the air. There was Breenian. Sileman. Haillia. Rhonan. A dozen others I did not recognize, of every class and nationality. Both sexes. All with incandescent weapons shining brighter than their faces. As they reached the base of the stairs, they split into two groups. One headed to the northern edge of the stage, the other to the southern side. Those with spears or arrows focused their aim on the demons gathering in the sky.

I remembered, suddenly, that as a specter I could attach myself to one of my party members. Watch the action from above its shoulder. I chose Hezekiah. He stood behind the group of demons on the northwestern corner of the area, casting shouts to aid his party members. My mind raged to know of his status. Enemy or not?

For several seconds the demons did not directly engage the angels, and the angels did not advance on the demons—except for the arrows and spears. They hung back, circling and shifting position. Hesitating, as if hoping their signet-enhanced shouting might intimidate or break their foes.

Then everything happened at once.

The effects of the Signet of Amplification last exactly sixty seconds. By the time the various groups engaged, at least twenty of those seconds had passed. The next forty seconds, plus or minus a few depending on when the signets were cast, contained the complete magnitude of the entire struggle, compressed and amplified like the history of the world condensed into a few short sentences, chiseled into stone, and then dropped from the a lofty cliff. Beyond that, I can only compare it to a tournament match in an arena multiplied by a hundred. With twenty-four demons on one side, and nearly as many angels on the other, things happened far too quickly for me to notice, monitor, or record everything that transpired. I cannot imagine being in the middle of that milieu, trying to track the action, to notice and digest what skills were being used in what order and by whom. I could only focus on what went on immediately around Hezekiah. Everything in my periphery came as brief images. Short flashes. I remember many things, but their chronology is jumbled. I don’t know exactly when they happened, I only know that they happened in those approximately forty seconds. Bars of light hissed through the air. Whips of blackness lashed out. Flames leapt up. Roars. Battle cries. The ground rocked and folded. Buildings crumbled. Dark mists rose, obscuring the vision, and then were washed away. Bodies collided. Demons exploded into nothingness, banished to their native realm. The light of angels extinguished as their hosts fell.

An unnatural darkness swallowed the Astralarium. Not like the darkness of a deep cave, in which you cannot see things. I could still see the stage, the shattered remains of the bowl, the building and reflectors across the courtyard. I could see the demons in the sky, flanking and attacking the angels at the south side of the area. I watched one blink out in a flash of red. I watched Rhonan engage the demons right in front of Hezekiah, his sword blazing, slicing, deflecting whips of black. Yet there was a darkness. A sensation of the space between objects being dim, evil. It was so strong even I, being dead, felt it.

Yet in that darkness, shining always, was the pallid gleam of the angels. Easy to spot in the midst of that void of light, standing out like stars in the night sky. They moved through the evil like meteorites through the night, slicing their way effortlessly, naturally past the blackness. Beacons of hope. Ensamples of righteousness. Ensigns of liberty.

At one point in the struggle, the very ground erupted into flames. I have never seen dirt or stone burn, but that is what seemed to happen. For a few, brief moments, everything everywhere was fire. It surrounded all of the demons, all of the angels. Its roar engulfed all sound. Its light illuminated the sky and single remaining airborne demon in eerie orange. It lasted only a moment, and then the flames were gone. Healers were mending the damage done. I have no idea what caused the flames other than it was some skill used under the effect of the Signet of Amplification. Whoever used the skill did not do so again. From then on, ash covered every inch of ground. Feet kicked it up with every step. A haze of dust quickly hovered around each person’s and demon’s feet.

It did not take me long to realize that while the demons had the advantage in numbers, the angels had a different, greater advantage. A fallen angel host could be brought back. Not so with the demons. When they died—always to a shining sword, scythe, arrowhead, dagger, or spear tip—their soul leapt out of their wounds, shining and spilling red rays over the ground and nearby foes. And then with that now familiar “Pop!” their bodies simply disappeared. There was no resurrecting a fallen demon. It was gone for good. The angels used this tool to their advantage, often sacrificing their own lives in order to take out a demon, leaping into its deadly arms or ignoring the foes around them. In slaying the demon, they would be killed, only to be brought back a few moments later. A few times, the monks in the group, always staying back, always protected with a few others, would let several of the other angels perish, and then use Light of Dwayna to bring them all back to life. Of course, they were weaker with each death, but less weak than the collective body of demons. All of that changed when Breenian perished, followed quickly be the other two monks.

It was all confusion. The flying demons smashing down onto the ground, crushing or barely missing an angel. The angels using skills to slow their opponents, or to quicken their own motion. Fire fell constantly. The earth rumbled and shook. Summoned spirits wailed. Their chains rattled. Assassins shadow walked at every moment.

Very suddenly, as is so common in battle, everything was almost over. I had watched the numbers of demons dwindle, watched them combine into one group, but hardly realized they were down to so few. And without the monks to bring the angels back, their numbers thinned quickly, as well. And then, suddenly, there it was. The end. The only ones left were Hezekiah, Rhonan, and Dagon. Hezekiah stood in front of his master, shield strapped to his arm and spear held tightly overhead. It makes sense, I suppose, that Hezekiah, a less powerful being, not as much of a threat, would last longer than the demons. Same for Rhonan, who, without an angel inside of him, posed less danger to Dagon. But he stood there, panting, holding his own shield and his blazing sword, eyeing his foes carefully.

The two friends faced each other for only a few seconds, Hezekiah creeping forward, feinting and dodging back-and-forth, Rhonan crouched behind his shield. Dagon stayed back, working some demonic magic that produced a black on one hand. Then, simultaneously, the humans dove at each other. A blur of blades and shafts. Hezekiah’s spear shattered. His shield flew away. So did Rhonans. They sailed in opposite directions. Hezekiah sprawled to the ground, on his chest, arms and legs splayed in four directions.

With a roar, Rhonan raced forward toward Dagon, shining blade dancing. Singing. Practically drowning out the unending wail of Dagon. The demon’s wings convulsed, lifting it into the air. It snapped the whip, as fast as lightning. The time-tested reflexes of the warrior responded, bringing the blade up, shielding his head. But those reflexes misjudged the distance, and rather than the whip striking the blade, it connected with the wrist just below the sword hilt, and wrapped. Dagon yanked backwards. The whip tightened, searing into the flesh with a hiss, and then like a rotating blade it sliced through Rhonan’s skin and sent the warrior falling backwards. The hand, still gripping the shining blade, rotated up through the air, arcing gracefully like a golden rainbow growing across the sky, and then with a dull, final thud landed in the ashen dirt next to Hezekiah. Upon impact, the hand lost its grip and skittered away, kicking up dust. The paragon had already rolled to a sitting position, and there was the blade, shimmering against the black ground, just an arm’s length away.

Helpless new, unable to hurt the demon, Rhonan stumbled back toward. He had to dive across Hezekiah’s body, and as he did Hezekiah’s left hand closed around the hilt. He swung the blade upward, in a perfect path to slice effortlessly through the warrior’s torso. Until that moment, I have never considered what light cutting light might sound like. But in that instant, seemingly slowed to the length of a hundred years, I heard it. It was like the sound of metal tearing, mingled with the ringing in your ears after you have heard a loud bang, and then mixed with the crunching of rock ground beneath a millstone. The light cleaved him in half just below the armpits. One side of him fell to Hezekiah’s right. The other to his left. There was no blood.

For a moment everything stopped. Dagon hovered there, ten feet off the ground. Hezekiah looked in disbelief into the sky. The air in the Astralarium thickened. I found myself holding my spectral breath, unable to accept that what had happened was the end. It was over. Hezekiah had lost it for all of us.

In that moment of inaction, in that deep, final release of breath when the all uncertainty of the outcome had disintegrated, I felt the reality of my cell close about me. I heard the clanking of iron bars. The chinking of shackles. I’d had hope in that minute of action. The prison walls had seemed weak, as if with just a push Hezekiah could toppled them. But no more. Not in that moment.

The stillness passed. Dagon’s form shifted as it lowered to the ground. It shrunk and blurred, and the darkness around its form dissipated. It turned back into that elementalist. With a small crunch of ashes its boots landed it on solid ground. A guttural, wicked chuckle rose from its throat as it stepped toward Hezekiah, holding out a hand. It was the only moving thing in the entire area. In a deep, satisfied voice, it commended Hezekiah for his work, commented that perhaps he had earned a few extra weeks of servitude. It leaned over further, nodding anxiously at Hezekiah, wanting him to take its hand and stand. Elation filled those eyes. Pure and utter victory. That laughing continued, growing louder with each moment, echoing from the shattered remains of the Astralarium.

Hezekiah reached out his right arm, his stump. Dagon grasped it and pulled. Hezekiah flexed his legs and stood. Effortlessly. He did not drop the blade. His arm hung limp at his side. The tip of the sword rested in silence against the ground. Its enchantment would end at any moment.

Dagon interrupted its cackling for a moment and invited Hezekiah to follow it. It looked into his eyes for several seconds. For a moment I thought it would hug him. It indicated that the time had come to raise me, and then continue on to Kamadan. My soul was exploding. I simply could not believe it. We had lost. It was over. There was no reason or possible cause to hope.

It turned its back on Hezekiah, started toward my corpse.

The Paragon struck.

I do not know what possessed Dagon to turn its back. It must have simply been drunk and unreasonable. Unable to think clearly. Giddy with the prospect of ruling Elona.

Hezekiah moved so quickly I almost didn’t see it. It was as if he’d been harnessing all of his energy for his entire life for that exact moment, conserving and coiling. Preparing. If I had blinked I wouldn’t have seen the one, swift motion as he brought the sword in front of him, across his body, into one side of Dagon’s torso and out the other. Red light spewed from each half of the crumbling, dissected body. There was that familiar sucking noise. Deafening. Hezekiah, his energy spent, collapsed to his knees, and then by the force of the gathering energy was pulled toward the two halves of the body. Others around the courtyard—those lying burned, punctured, and cloven—slid along the ground. Rhonan’s halves rolled across the ground, grisly pieces of a broken statue. Stones tumbled. Chunks of columns rattled. The red light expanded, spraying rays in every direction, consuming everything within their power until they disappeared and the sucking noise halted.

Once again, for a moment, there was complete silence and tranquility. And then Dagon exploded with a bright, blinding flash as brief as a lightning strike, with a deafening crack like that of thunder.

The rubble and bodies that had collected around Dagon flew outwards in all directions. Rhonan’s sword, its angelic light fading, soared over the area’s steep walls, and disappeared in the distance. I searched for Hezkiah’s body, and saw it just in time to watch it strike the steep rocks on the Western edge of the area. It collapsed to the ground and lay still. I looked at him as closely as I could, watching for signs of life. I was, quite simply, numb. How had he gone so long without betraying himself? Why had he waited until the last possible moment to make his move? How had he managed, despite all of the adversity and mistakes and foolishness, to pull it off? His chest moved ever so slightly. Hope rumbled in my chest, perhaps like the hope a stranded sailor in a boat might feel at a soft breeze. And then his body stirred. His eyes fluttered open. My heart soared. Dazed, he looked around. Stood. Shaking his head, he trudged across the area, feet dragging through the ashes, shoulders slumped, arms hanging limp, to where my body lay. He cast his Signet of Resurrection.

Although it had been, at most, three minutes since my spirit had left my body, my flesh felt unnatural and awkward in that first moment of re-birth. I stood, disoriented for a moment, regaining control of my arms and legs. My eyes focusing.

Once the disorientation had passed, I realized that I felt different. I was not the same as I’d been three minutes before. There was emptiness. A blessed, glorious void where before there had been obligation and slavery. I was free. I was free. I was free!

The prison walls crumbled. I felt them. All of the possibilities I’d hidden away over the past twenty years flooded over me. I could live in one spot. I could marry. Have children if I wanted. I could travel to any part of the world. Cantha. Tyria. I could sit in a bar all day long and drink myself unconscious. I could sail every sea. I could farm. Learn a trade. Climb a mountain and sit there for days, watching the sun rise and set. I could chart the motion of the stars. I could discard my map. I could read any book I wanted. Develop my own skills or spells. Join a guild. Start a guild. I could teach young monks. I could learn a second profession, then discard it and learn another. I could learn every profession and every skill. I could simply travel to destitute lands, offering my services to heal the sick.

The possibilities were endless. They consumed me. My body quaked. There Hezekiah stood in front of me. Through tears I beheld him with my natural eyes. He looked ten years older. He gave me a sheepish grin. Shook his head. Shrugged. Despite all the torture he’d put me through, and the mistakes he’d made, I loved his heart. I loved his soul. I embraced him, thanking him over and over. He returned the grasp, weakly, saying nothing until we separated. Then, he said, “Let’s get to the work of resurrecting them.”

I nodded, unable to stop smiling or weeping. I was free!

I am free!

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Just a quick note. There are two more entries, and then I will post a "post-mortem" of sorts regarding my story, how I wrote it, what I have learned, etc.

As you know, I have a website where I post the story. I am debating what to do with the site once the story is over. At the bottom of the current entry of my website I explain all of it. If you're interested, take a look: http://www.gwcartographer.com.

Thanks for all of the input!

HezekiahKurtz · Nov 09, 2007, 03:17 AM // 03:17

Zephyr 52, 1276 DR

Bruck has returned my journal to me. I must admit that I am surprised. I never saw him writing in it. I’d thought he’d discarded or destroyed it. It’s difficult to write with my left hand.

I feel at this point that I must offer an explanation of what has gone on since the Desolation. I admit—I have made some very grave mistakes. We certainly owe our success to the loving care of the gods.

For one thing, I should have listened to Bree and the angel, found a different way to fulfill my promise to liberate Bruck. That is really what weighed most heavily on my mind during those last days in the Desolation. I wanted to free him. In retrospect, I could have easily done so by simply going to Kamadan, and then attacking Fahrunar as part of the angels’ army. I think I made the decision to go with Bruck because the promise seemed personal, and the method of fulfilling it needed to be personal. Whatever the case, I should not have done it. That was my first mistake.

As I traveled with Bruck, I figured that one of two things would happen. I would either succeed in destroying Dagon, and avoid a battle, or it would kill me. I firmly believed that if it killed me and raised me from the dead, I would not become its slave. I thought that my immunity would hold even past death. I was only partially wrong, but it’s a good thing I was.

After Dagon had slain and brought me back, its magic created a connection between the two of us. Certainly Dagon had counted on that connection being just like the one it had with Bruck. However, while the connection forced Bruck to obedience, it simply allowed me to hear the commands of the one who had raised me. It was as if a thread of darkness had connected the two of us, uniting our minds so that whenever it directed its thoughts to me, I heard them. Apparently it worked that way with Bruck, but when Dagon commanded him, he had to obey. I found very quickly that I did not have to obey. But as the other-worldly being commanded me to stick that dagger into my neck, I knew that I had to obey. I knew that while my chance was not yet gone I had to be exact and instant in my obedience. So, I acted. I pretended to be a slave. When Dagon commanded me to commit suicide by plunging the dagger into my neck, I obeyed. I split open my own gut and pulled out my innards. I chopped off my hand. That was the hardest. It was not so difficult to kill myself. Death can be healed. But I knew that I would not be getting that hand back.

In the end, it was the magic that Dagon used—with the intent of controlling me—that allowed me to defeat it. If I hadn’t been able to hear Dagon’s commands, I could not have pretended to be its slave. I would have been killed immediately.

In those moments after I’d lopped off my arm, after I had proved my inability to disobey, we waited in silence for the Signet’s five-minute cool down to expire, I knew I had another a decision to make. I could betray my pretense and not cast the Signet of Amplification when commanded to, or I could resist. In one case, I would live at least for another short time. In the other, it would be over for me. Dagon would have no reason to keep me around if I was not its slave.

Admittedly, I acted selfishly. I coveted my own life. I believed—hoped—there would still be a way out, that an opportunity to turn on Dagon at the exact right time would present itself. I believed that the opportunity to be close to Dagon, combined with my ability to disobey if I wanted to, presented a greater opportunity than the threat reared by giving it the Signet of Amplification. That was my second mistake. Really, I should have just not cast that Signet of Amplification. I should have let myself die. I am fortunate that things have turned out the way they have.

In the end, it could have gone much worse. Dagon could have been right. The immunity could have evaporated when it raised me from death. Or, once it had obtained the Signet from me, it could have dispatched me. I imagine I have Dwayna or Melandru or Balthazar to thank for my luck. Bless them.

As we marched toward Kamadan and Dagon questioned me, I heard its commands in my mind, telling me to answer honestly. So I did. I gave it all the information I thought I had. I may have fudged a few things, details about how many angels and what skills I thought they would use, but I knew that in general Bruck could catch any major lies I might tell. He kept me honest throughout that night. In fact, this entire affair would have been easier for me without Bruck there, always suspicious, always questioning and observing, having to be loyal to Dagon. How ironic that in order to free him I had to kill him. Thank the gods for Signets of Resurrection.

Those few minutes between the time I killed Bruck and the time I brought him back to life were unlike anything I have ever experienced. I have never felt such fear, such uncertainty, such a sense of impending failure. I had thought my chance to betray Dagon might come in a battle at Kamadan, and so was ill-prepared when the moment came. The sudden opportunity caught me off guard. During those confusing forty seconds I may have missed a chance or two to kill Dagon. I constantly wondered, “Is this my chance?” or “Is it now?” I was so nervous to use the Signet of Amplification and Angelic Deliverance. Dagon had commanded me to bring neither skill, and if it noticed my using either, it would immediately know it held no power over me. How fortunate that I never used either, and that Rhonan’s blade stayed enchanted as long as it did.

Killing your friends is never any fun. I do regret eliminating Bruck and Rhonan. At least I had the satisfaction of brining Bruck back, and being there to embrace Rhonan when he was restored to life. It was quite a satisfying reunion. Breenian, the first one resurrected, kissed me startlingly hard—it was quite shocking for our first kiss, really.

“You stupid, stupid man!” she kept saying as she held on to me. I relished her body next to mine, yet I wanted to be moving on with Bruck, to be there when my other friends came back. But she would not let me go. “And your arm! How did you lose your hand? What has been going on with you for the last two weeks? What has happened?”

I didn’t know how to respond, so I bent down and kissed her. “I’ll tell you later. I only want to tell the story once!”

She still would not let me go. I could only watch as Bruck raised the others one by one. As he moved throughout the rubble, he resurrected them in the order he came to them, and so he restored several hosts of angels to life before any of my friends. Wez was the first. He trotted over to Breenian and I, grinning so broadly he looked like a different man than the one I had come to know.

“I can’t believe you pulled it off,” he said, throwing his arms around the two of us.

And then Sileman was there, also smiling stupidly and embracing. “I was ready to believe that you had failed.”

“Me too!” I said. We all laughed, giddy with the thrill of triumph.

And then Haillia was there, as well. She said nothing but put her arms around all of us. I started to worry that we would lose balance and all collapse into the ashes. But we didn’t. We held each other up.

Rhonan came last, laughing and practically skipping. “Look!” He held up his right arm. It ended at the wrist. “Maimed! Just like Hezekiah!” He wrapped his arms around the body of my friends.

“I looked,” Bruck said, shaking his head, “but I couldn’t find your hand.” But despite the words, he grinned broadly. He’d raised one of the other monks, who was now seeing to the rest of the hosts. “We should look some more.”

“It’s okay,” Rhonan said. “I think it sailed over the wall with my sword. It’s a price well worth the victory!”

Someone pulled Bruck inward, and with a laugh he joined the group hug. We all laughed. Some of us cried. I stood there in the very center, in the warmth of that group, my party. I savored those moments of togetherness, of being once again with those I loved.

The other hosts went about seeing to the army just outside of the area. That eclectic mass of hostiles proved to be no problem with the demons and Dagon gone. Simply put, their hostility had disintegrated. They were easily controlled by the angels’ voices and their Signets of Amplification. The monsters and nonhumans were sent on their ways, to return home in peace. They dispersed practically without incident, docile and malleable.

Before long we began our march toward Kamadan. Myself, my party, and the angel hosts at the front of the Istani army. Word went ahead of us, and by the time we arrived near sunset the streets were already paved with the finest cloths, lined with cheering crowds. Flowing banners of victory furled in the wind, along the walls and atop the towers.

You might say that there was something of a celebration that night.

Unreal Cyn · Nov 12, 2007, 05:02 PM // 17:02

Well I haven't been on here for a while now... but its great to see that not only are you still writing, but you've actually finished this wonderful story, man! I gotta sit down and read this over, but I for one would definitely love to read more from you, here or anywhere else.

HezekiahKurtz · Nov 21, 2007, 05:10 AM // 05:10

Zephyr 75, 1276 DR

The last few weeks have really been quite a welcome vacation from conflict, traveling, and worries. Much has happened. Enough that I don’t think I can record it all in much detail.

Well, I suppose that not that much has gone on. Perhaps it simply seems like that because every moment has been spent in the company of Breenian. After about a week of kissing in the hallways and necking on the couches, I decided that perhaps I would push things a little further. It had been a long time for me, after all. As my hand had slid up her smooth stomach, between her skin and her shirt, she stood up quite suddenly and gave me a solemn, angry look.

“Hezekiah, I knew this time would come,” she said, shaking her head.

I knew I was in trouble because she did not call me Hez.

“I knew I would have to have this conversation with you sooner or later.”

My heart still pounded from the passion of our embrace and kisses, and from the prospect of a little skin. But now, my heartbeat skipped a moment. “Yes?” was all I could say.

“I’m not going to have sex with you,” she said.

A disappointed lump settled into the bottom of my stomach. “Ah, I see. May I inquire as to why not?”

“I cannot betray my father and my grandfather. They spent so many years and so much effort to ensure that I have a good life, and that my children would be better off than me. It would be very easy for all of that to change if I were to have a child out of wedlock.”

I thought about this for a moment, trying to understand its true meaning. “If I understand you correctly,” I said, standing and taking her hands in my, “you are not opposed to the idea of sex with me. You are opposed to the idea of sex out of wedlock?”

She nodded. “Too many people do not take that responsibility to their children seriously. I must.”

I raised my eyebrows in a question.

“Any child I might have deserves a father.”

“Every child you have will have a father.”

“One who does not leave us.”

“Marriage does not guarantee that.”

“But it increases the odds.”

I pursed my lips together, frowning slightly. “Well, then, might you consider marrying me?”

She stepped back, letting her hands drop. She stared with wide eyes and gaping mouth. “Hezekiah Kidron, are you asking me to marry you?”

“I do believe I am.”

“Just so you can have sex with me, and then in a year, when I am no longer interesting, you will abandon me?”

I could not tell if her tone was serious or not. I decided I’d better play it as straight as I could. “No, no. During that time when I was with Bruck, and in the past week, I have thought many times how pleasant it is to be with you. How you make me feel. I cannot imagine that such a feeling can be temporary as long as it is not unrequited, as long as I have a reason to cultivate it, and a partner to help.”

She raised her eyebrows at me, and put her hands on her hips. “Pleasant? That’s what I am? I’m pleasant?”

Now I could tell—she was playing. I dropped to my knees in front of her, my eyes sincere as I grabbed her hands. “Pleasant. And I’d like you to be pleasant by my side until the day I die. Marry me. I beg you.”

And so she did. We travelled to Shehkah, along with our friends and a few officials. Married on the beach, the wind in our hair, the surf at our feet.

Later that night, after I’d gotten what I wanted and we lay together talking and laughing quietly, unembarrassed in each other’s naked, matrimonial company, we talked. The soft light of candles touched her face. I thought that I’d never seen anyone so beautiful in my life.

“How do you feel about how everything turned out?” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“With all of the demons and Bruck and everything.”

“It has turned out for the good. I do wish I had my hand, but I suppose some loss is acceptable.”

“And you are satisfied with who you are?”

“With who I have discovered myself to be?”

“Exactly.”

“Well . . . .” I lay silent for a while, considering. I had thought much about it in the time since the Astralarium. “I do not believe myself to be a coward. Foolish, perhaps. Rash, perhaps. But not a coward.”

Silence, again.

Finally, she said, “That is all you have come up with? That is all you have learned?”

I shrugged. “If I think good of myself, how can I say it without sounding arrogant?”

“There is a difference between arrogance and a recognition of one’s traits. What good do you think of yourself, other than you are not a coward? You have, I assume, discovered who you are?”

“Actually, at this point I don’t know that it matters what I have found out about myself. Perhaps it is most important that I have realized something else.”

“Yes?”

“I can change.”

“Change?”

“I am a fool. Bruck is right. I make terrible decisions because I think I am right. I have been doing it my entire life. I have always thought that I am right. I recognize that now, and now that I recognize it, I am able to work on changing it.”

“That sounds like an easy thing to do.”

“Yes, yes. Of course. It’s easy to change one’s character flaws.”

“So you’ve come to the conclusion that you’re a stubborn know-it-all.”

“Among other things. Yes.”

At that point I had not been looking at her, but laying on my back, my hands behind my head. I knew immediately, however, from the increased light coming from her direction, that a change had come over her. When I looked, I saw her face emanating a quiet yellow light. An angel’s light.

“This is awkward,” I said, reaching for the bed sheets.

“I just wanted to talk with you one last time.”

“One last time?”

“I think so. I think that you and Breenian have served enough. I plan to leave you alone from here on out, unless you do anything too rash. I will check in with her periodically, just to see how things are going. But there won’t be a lot of reason for me to talk with you.”

“I thought you would want to keep a tight grip on me, given the skills that I possess.”

“Of course. All of you with the skills will be closely watched until your deaths, to ensure you don’t do anything too foolish.”

“My wife will be your spy?”

“That’s certainly a negative way to put it. Have I done that much to hurt you?”

I thought about that for a moment. “In all fairness, no. Little things, but nothing drastic.”

“I just wanted to commend you.”

“Commend me?”

“On proving who you really are. I believe that both you and Rhonan were in great danger there in the Desolation. In great peril of changing who you were simply out of fear and uncertainty. But in those days, as you struggled and as you sought answers from inside, who you really are emerged. You may be a stubborn know-it-all, yes. But you are much more than that. I think the decisions you made prove exactly what kind of person you are.”

I did not answer. I didn’t know what to say. I felt like the angel was confirming what I had concluded myself, that it was paying me a compliment.

“I’ll be with Breenian. Listen to her. There is no guile in her. You are a good match.”

“Thank you.”

And with that, the angel was gone.

It has been a few weeks, and true to its word, the angel has not bothered me. I don’t know that bother is the right word, there. The angel has not been in contact with me. I wonder if, in the future I can request that it talk with me. It’s not all that bad, after all.

We have talked a lot about what we’ll be doing from here on out. Of course, it was no mystery what Rhonan would do. In fact, he departed the week after the wedding, anxious to be back to his wife and son. He and I spoke in private on the beach before he left. The others had already withdrawn, and a few of his ship’s crew members waited on the longboat to take him out to the ship.

“You’ve been a great strength to me,” he said. “I am grateful for your friendship.”

“I don’t know what I have done to be a strength to you. I think it’s probably the opposite—you have been a strength to me.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps it was enough to know that there was another person suffering as I suffered.”

“Misery does love company.”

He smiled. “As does joy.” He held out his stump. I bumped mine against it, and then laughing we embraced.

I don’t know if I will see him again. I will write, but I don’t know when or if I’ll have a chance to return to Elona. I have decided to return to Cantha. There is a certain elementalist guild master that I need to talk with. Breenian, of course, will be joining me. She doesn’t really have much of a choice. Sileman and Haillia were all over that idea of returning to the Canthan arenas. Bruck and Wez, after determining that they had nothing better do, have decided to come with us.

“I’m quite flattered,” I said to Bruck as he and I sat with Wez atop one of the walls of Kamadan, looking at the statues looming over the city.

“Flattered?” the monk said.

“After twenty years of slavery, you can finally do anything in the world that you want, and you’ve chosen to accompany me.”

He laughed, and smiled as he spoke. “There is nothing left for me in Elona. I have been over every inch of it many times. Nothing left to see. As long as you are taking me to new places and not ignoring the good advice I give you, I’ll follow you.” I knew, despite his laughing, that he was completely serious about that.

“There’s only one way that I’m going to come,” Wez said.

“You’ve already agreed to come,” I said.

“Well, I’ve thought of something that could keep me from going.”

We looked at him expectantly.

“You both have to promise to never fight over the party leadership, again.” His face was serious for a moment, and then he broke into a wide grin. We all laughed.

“We’ll probably need to go to Tyria,” Bruck said. “Once we’ve finished with your guild, I mean.”

I nodded. “I didn’t really have a chance to talk with Guel. I would like to.”

“As would I.”

And so that is our plan. To the Canthan arenas, and then back to Tyria. I am honestly excited about it. Home seems so far away, so long gone. I would like to go there again, if only to visit. I very much would like to see Baenlone. I think he would be amused at my missing arm. I hope the Searing has not treated him too harshly.

So I suppose that this is where my journal ends. There isn’t much left to say.

Ah, except for one thing. I’m a little embarrassed to mention this, but I think I might as well. Many of the leaders from Istan, Vabbi, and Kourna have come to Kamadan in recent weeks, to attend the festivities and celebrations. At one point, they decided that it would be appropriate to erect monuments in recognition of the key heroes in the conflict. I don’t know what kind of monuments they have in mind. Statues. Plaques. Parks. No idea. But they plan to build one in the Gandara, in honor of Shenan, one in the Yahtendi Canyon in honor of Rhonan, and one last one in the Astralarium for myself. Naturally, I objected. There really have been too many people involved to single out just the three of us. In the end, they agreed to construct another three monuments in the capital cities of the three nations, and include the names and identities of all the major players. I would be fine if those three were the only ones, but have been unsuccessful in persuading anyone.

And so, that is what I will leave behind in Elona. A monument. Tomorrow I leave—from the same shore I arrived and was wedded on: Shehkah. Only now I am one arm for the worse, and many friends and a wife for the better.

Overall, I feel that Elona has been good to me.

THE END

Koross · Nov 21, 2007, 09:28 AM // 09:28

It was a great journey for all of us and we stayed through thick and thin, and now we have reached the end. It was enjoyable, enlightening and very entertaining. You brought the characters alive and made them live through the pages written here. I enjoyed the story immensely and wish you luck in your future endeavours.

Auntie Social · Dec 01, 2007, 12:31 AM // 00:31

I only just discovered this! Spent the last couple of hours reading. Great stuff!
Wish I'd have found it yesterday when VM was down.