Evert Kallstrom was in a pain.
It was the whole of his mind, body and existence. A soaring, flaming, sizzling thing which consumed all in its path. There was nothing but pain as his consciousness seized up.
And then, the pain left. As it faded, Evert’s mind bobbed up from under the pain and his other sense awoke: His eyes were unfocused, staring upward. His nose and mouth bitter and metallic. And his ears picked up the distant roar and sizzle of battle.
And then, silence. With a twitch, his arms finally moved as he began to physically inspect himself. Groping towards the pain, he felt something hard and tacky erupting from his abdomen, and his arms flopped back down to his side.
A timeless moment passed, and then he heard the thht thht thht of unhurried but careful steps.
***
For decades, Evert Kallstrom and his four party members had trained. And great spiritualists they had each become. Wielding the weapon of their choice—sword & staff, hammer & trident, gauntlet & daggers—and their attuned ki—fire, water, earth, air—they traveled the lands and vanquished great beasts. Like many spiritualists of the day, their acts and feats had become the subject of song and legend from bards to playwrights.
And yet despite the great efforts of brave humanity, they were losing traction in this dangerous world. In the last fifty years alone, more cities had been destroyed by demon beasts than in any period in known history. The atmosphere among the survivors was grim.
While most thought the great beasts natural, a few knew the terrible truth. They were the product of a dark lord. He desired neither fame nor wealth nor power. Instead, his sole purpose was genocide. Though his identity had been lost to time, he was known to reside in the Deadlands—a vast plain of sand, dust and ash in which naught grew but death.
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And yet those who knew of his existence would not act. Some believed him to be like a god, and so sought to imitate his ways. Others thought that whatever distant relation he had with the beasts, had no true effect the beasts here and now. Yet others bickered—as in all politics—in who would pay the cost in gold and blood to make such a foolhardy expedition.
And so, while their peers dithered, others fought on against the rising hordes. But the losses were terrible. Fed up with it all, a small faction set out for the Deadlands.
After weeks of travel, twenty-one spiritualists found themselves approaching an ancient fortress wherein rested a being known only as the Eastern Guardian. And on finding it, the spiritualists drew their weapons and, with them, fire flamed, water flowed, earth rumbled, and air hissed, as they prepared for battle.
“Ah,” a voice sighed contently, “company.”
***
“Hmm?” a voice graveled, “you’re still alive, hmm? A hardy one, yes.” A pause, then “Well, let’s see if human despair has changed flavor over the last century.”
Evert tried to speak, but found his throat filled with liquid. “Hack. Hack,” he coughed, then, more quietly than he preferred, “do your worst.” His enemy though had fallen silent.
“Well”—the piercing voice snapped Evert’s mind to an attention it didn’t know it had lost—“I hope that next time, they send someone, a little stronger,” the enemy replied.
Evert’s body stiffened, and new waves of pain rolled through Evert’s body and across his face.
“Aahhh,” the enemy signed contentedly, “quite close to the mark, wasn’t I? I’ll be sure to savor it.” And with that parting remark, Evert heard the thht thht thht of steps leading away from him.
And once again Evert found himself alone and in pain. His last thought was that going out in a blaze was much colder and lonelier than the phrase had ever implied. And then, Evert died.