and finality of that loss had darkened the mighty Light of Shandor’s soul.
You have reminded me of my pain , Shandor said at last. You have been life-mated, and you hope now for happiness that I will be forever denied? At least you may have such hope . He paused again for a moment, the Light of the Stone thrumming as if in rhythm with a beating heart. Well, then, since you hope for that which I will never have, I shall oblige you. Prepare yourself, for you will not like what you see .
Farahin Ri-Elathan looked into the surface of the crystal, which had begun to glow golden, as though a fire had kindled there. An infinite number of flat, silvery planes shifted and roiled within, until at last one seemed to coalesce, swimming into clarity. Rain heard the sound of distant battle, but had seen no images as yet. He braced himself for what would come next.
Behold your destiny .
Rain fell into the Stone, his body flailing and twisting, light and sound and image swirling and buffeting and battering him until, at last, he came to rest. The sounds of battle, once faint, were now terribly clear. He stood upon an immense battle-plain; the surrounding mountains told him he was in the North, near the ruin of Tal-elathas, his birthplace and his father’s former kingdom. Then he saw the Shadowmancer, Lord Wrothgar of the Black Flame, standing before him. So, this was it, then—the last battle. Only one of them would leave it.
They were surrounded by B ö dvari, the black demons, supposedly the children of Wrothgar himself. They held back any who would aid him—he could see Magra, as well as several of his other battle-captains, but they had been held at bay and could not reach him. The Bödvari cast fire from their gnarled, dark fingers, and that fire was not easily extinguished. The worst of their weapons, however, was the suffocating cloud of fear that enveloped them. The only one who had ever overcome it was Aincor, the legendary Fire-heart, first High King of the Èolar. Rain would receive no help from his battle-captains.
Wrothgar had put forth his most fearsome form, an immense, dark-armored warrior, nearly a head taller than Rain’s already impressive height. The two warriors regarded one another for a brief moment, and Rain heard Wrothgar’s horrid, oily voice inside his mind.
Thou art vanquished, Elf-king! Lay down thy weapons, and receive mercy. Otherwise I shall feast upon thee.
Rain would not dignify Wrothgar with a reply, but stood in silence, his great sword at the ready. He did not have long to wait.
Wrothgar flew at him as if on stinking black wings, their bodies slamming together, and Rain knew his sword was useless. He needed both hands to wrestle this great, armored creature from him. It would have to be Light against Darkness alone.
Rain had summoned his Light before, but never in such dire need. He flared up like a star, so that even the Bödvari were burned by it. Wrothgar shrieked in his grasp, his terrible, soulless eyes going milky white before he could turn them aside. But he would not be blinded for long. The horrid stinking darkness and despair pervading him began to overcome Rain’s Light, and the Elf-king knew he would need to summon every scrap of strength he possessed.
They strove for almost a full minute—an eternity—until at last Rain faltered. Wrothgar’s great jaws opened and he sank his three-inch-long teeth into Rain’s shoulder, causing him to throw his head back in a silent scream. The terrible, black flames for which Wrothgar was named blossomed forth from the wound, spreading first down Rain’s sword arm and then across his chest and back, enveloping him in searing, blinding pain. His armor glowed red, and then melted, the leather smoldering before flaring up briefly and turning to ash. His flesh did likewise. He screamed over and over, still struggling, still clinging with grim tenacity to his enemy. His throat filled with fire, and that silenced him.
Magra was not far
You have reminded me of my pain , Shandor said at last. You have been life-mated, and you hope now for happiness that I will be forever denied? At least you may have such hope . He paused again for a moment, the Light of the Stone thrumming as if in rhythm with a beating heart. Well, then, since you hope for that which I will never have, I shall oblige you. Prepare yourself, for you will not like what you see .
Farahin Ri-Elathan looked into the surface of the crystal, which had begun to glow golden, as though a fire had kindled there. An infinite number of flat, silvery planes shifted and roiled within, until at last one seemed to coalesce, swimming into clarity. Rain heard the sound of distant battle, but had seen no images as yet. He braced himself for what would come next.
Behold your destiny .
Rain fell into the Stone, his body flailing and twisting, light and sound and image swirling and buffeting and battering him until, at last, he came to rest. The sounds of battle, once faint, were now terribly clear. He stood upon an immense battle-plain; the surrounding mountains told him he was in the North, near the ruin of Tal-elathas, his birthplace and his father’s former kingdom. Then he saw the Shadowmancer, Lord Wrothgar of the Black Flame, standing before him. So, this was it, then—the last battle. Only one of them would leave it.
They were surrounded by B ö dvari, the black demons, supposedly the children of Wrothgar himself. They held back any who would aid him—he could see Magra, as well as several of his other battle-captains, but they had been held at bay and could not reach him. The Bödvari cast fire from their gnarled, dark fingers, and that fire was not easily extinguished. The worst of their weapons, however, was the suffocating cloud of fear that enveloped them. The only one who had ever overcome it was Aincor, the legendary Fire-heart, first High King of the Èolar. Rain would receive no help from his battle-captains.
Wrothgar had put forth his most fearsome form, an immense, dark-armored warrior, nearly a head taller than Rain’s already impressive height. The two warriors regarded one another for a brief moment, and Rain heard Wrothgar’s horrid, oily voice inside his mind.
Thou art vanquished, Elf-king! Lay down thy weapons, and receive mercy. Otherwise I shall feast upon thee.
Rain would not dignify Wrothgar with a reply, but stood in silence, his great sword at the ready. He did not have long to wait.
Wrothgar flew at him as if on stinking black wings, their bodies slamming together, and Rain knew his sword was useless. He needed both hands to wrestle this great, armored creature from him. It would have to be Light against Darkness alone.
Rain had summoned his Light before, but never in such dire need. He flared up like a star, so that even the Bödvari were burned by it. Wrothgar shrieked in his grasp, his terrible, soulless eyes going milky white before he could turn them aside. But he would not be blinded for long. The horrid stinking darkness and despair pervading him began to overcome Rain’s Light, and the Elf-king knew he would need to summon every scrap of strength he possessed.
They strove for almost a full minute—an eternity—until at last Rain faltered. Wrothgar’s great jaws opened and he sank his three-inch-long teeth into Rain’s shoulder, causing him to throw his head back in a silent scream. The terrible, black flames for which Wrothgar was named blossomed forth from the wound, spreading first down Rain’s sword arm and then across his chest and back, enveloping him in searing, blinding pain. His armor glowed red, and then melted, the leather smoldering before flaring up briefly and turning to ash. His flesh did likewise. He screamed over and over, still struggling, still clinging with grim tenacity to his enemy. His throat filled with fire, and that silenced him.
Magra was not far
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