Konrad

The canyon looked like a battlefield. The high rock walls were blackened by fire, and the air tasted metallic, as if charged by lightning.

A trail of blood on the sand led to Athir, who sat slumped against the wall. Blood trickled out of the corner of her mouth, and her face was utterly battered, with one eye swollen completely shut. Her hand was clamped to her side, and each breath came as a strained hiss through clenched teeth.

"Run, you fool," Athir gasped.

Despite her injuries, Athir might still live, but the specter of death hovered over the young man who lay nearby. His hair was white, and the deathly pallor of his skin was stark against his black leather armor. He rolled over, and Konrad knew with an innate certainty that this was his brother, Otto. He had promised his father he would find him, and now he had, on the brink of death.

"Konrad, get out of here," Otto croaked.

A blast of red light flared, and Otto was plucked into the air like a marionette, his limbs creaking as they were pulled to breaking point.

"Does your treachery know no bounds?" The old man who spoke held an intricately carved staff capped with a red jewel in one hand, and, in the other, a long black sword of the type favored by the champions of the Father. This was the man that Rolo had fought under the coldest mountain. Laveous Flean, arcanist, high priest, and Fist of the Father.

"Put my brother down," Konrad commanded, summoning a tide of darkness that encased his body in a layer of etherial shadow.

The Fist of the Father grinned. "Your brother? This is delightful. I was going to just kill you, First Champion, but letting you watch as I destroy your family will be much more satisfying."

A circle made of white light formed around Konrad, and the sand under his feet shimmered as it melted into molten glass. Konrad blasted the Cold Bite downward from his fists as the floor turned to lava and the steam it created suffocated him, burning his throat.

He felt a tug on his belt as Spirit dragged him to safety, and as soon as his foot touched more solid ground, Konrad counterattacked, pouring the power of the Cold Bite into the steam and transforming it into an ice wraith that shrieked and flew in a graceful arc before rocketing towards the Fist of the Father, its toothy maw glistening with rows of sharpened ice fangs.

The Fist of the Father disappeared in a whirl of his crimson cape and reappeared several feet away, driving his staff into the floor. A sand wraith rose into the air, and the two magical creations clashed with a snarl that shook the canyon.

"I sensed that the events in the North and the disturbance on Mir were connected. Now I see that you conspire with the Faelen demons, and there is something else, another power—"

Flean cocked his head, listening, and his face contorted with rage. "You are the Prior’s champion."

A white sword appeared in the hand of the Fist of the Father, and something deep within Konrad trembled as he looked at a blade made of white smoke and glass. He’d seen it before, on the stage of the playhouse in Montdun, when Ostred had traveled to the Echo to face the Faelen Queen.

"Call your master here so that I can cut him from existence," the Fist spat.

"Good luck with that; he’s not really the saving-people type," Konrad muttered.

Shadows containing two sets of glowing eyes coalesced behind the Fist and Konrad attacked, summoning his etherial sword to his hand as he charged.

The Fist drew back the white blade, and Spirit’s shadow hounds struck a split second before Konrad, veiling the Fist in shadows that snarled and mauled him. Konrad put all of his strength into the blow, but cried out as the white sword neatly cut through the shadow blade, causing it to vanish. The white sword whispered over his head, and he felt a great void open up in his soul as the blade whispered its promise to cut him off from his power.

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A gray blur emerged from the swirling darkness, and Spirit clamped her jaws around the old archaist's hand; bones snapped, and the blood-spattered white sword fell to the sand next to a severed finger.

The Fist screamed in pain, and a magical explosion emanated from him, sending Konrad, Spirit, and the Fist himself flailing through the air.

"You will not defy me," the Fist screeched, scrambling to his feet and clutching his hand as shattered bones began to knit together.

Lyran’s ancient power had embedded its roots in Konrad’s mind, and it tried to break free, straining to choke and entangle his enemies. Konrad had fought for this power, but it felt tainted; he couldn’t trust it. Forcing it down, he instead unleashed the restless Cold Bite.

Casovan’s ancient power surged out in a howling frenzy of frozen wind, and a layer of ice formed on the Fist’s skin. Still, Konrad unleashed more of the ancient power of the coldest mountain, and the Cold Bite poured into the old man just as it had inhabited the ice creatures Konrad had created. The Fist’s movements became sluggish, and then he was frozen solid; the only thing moving were his eyeballs roving madly in their sockets.

Still, the bite flooded into the old man, and with a spike of fear, Konrad realized what was happening. This was the gift that Casovan had promised him: the power to bend living creatures to his will. He was creating an ice zombie.

"Finish him." Athir’s voice was weak, but even so, her command was strong enough that Konrad almost increased the flood of power.

"No." With all of the mental power he could muster, Konrad wrestled the Cold Bite back under his control. He would not subject any living thing to that fate. He was not Casovan.

Konrad directed the Cold Bite into the sky, expending every last ounce until the cold wind died and silence reigned. In the stillness that followed, snow fell for the first time in the Southern deserts of Parthanea.

As the Fist of the Father collapsed, the power holding Otto suspended in the air failed, and he hit the sand next to Athir with a sickening thud.

Konrad rushed to Otto’s side and poured healing power into him, but his brother’s body was an empty shell, and the healing seemed to be sucked into a hungry void. In desperation, Konrad poured in everything he had until he felt the heat under his palm fade.

"Leave him; you have to finish the old man," Athir gasped.

"I’m not finishing anyone. He’s done, Athir; we won," Konrad replied.

An explosion sent shards of ice hammering into the rocks around them, and the Fist of the Father staggered to his feet, panting like a wounded bull.

"Surrender now, and we won’t hurt you," Konrad declared, stepping forward to shield his friends, facing the Fist with Sprit at his side.

Behind him, Athir groaned.

The Fist licked his lips, and his eyes flickered to a white sword. The old arcanist dived towards it, but Spirit was quicker.

"Spirit, no," Athir hissed.

Spirits' jaws clamped around the white blade, and a bolt of lightning sundered the sky. Her whole body was engulfed by a crackling light that was so bright that Konrad had to shield his eyes.

"Spirit!" he cried.

The gray dog was thrown across the clearing, and the world slowed as Lyran spoke urgently in his mind.

Lyran had never sounded anything other than haughty to him, perhaps arrogant, but now her voice trembled in fear. "Use my ancient power to defeat him; I can help you."

"I can’t; I don’t trust you. Don’t come here; he has the sword," Konrad replied through gritted teeth.

The world returned to normal speed, and the Fist seized the white blade. "You cannot hide, champion. The Father knows you know."

The old man vanished, and a deadly silence crept into the clearing as the snow fell gently onto the bodies of his companions.

Konrad dropped to his knees next to Spirit and cradled her head; her fur was singed in a dozen places, and there was a gaping, burned hole in her flank. He tried to heal her, but the power wouldn’t come to his hand, and his tears of frustration fell freely. Long ago, at the start of his adventure, he had been in a similar position when Partick, the young priest in Tajar, lay dying, and Konrad had managed to save him. It was his only chance.

"Konrad. Let me help," Lyran said.

The small god materialized next to him, her face a mask of terror. She ran a trembling hand across the wound, and Spirit whined as the singed fur and burned flesh began to knit back together. The more healing Spirit received, the fainter Lyran became, until finally Spirit opened her eyes and licked Konrad’s hand.

"That was all the power I possess," Lyran said, her voice little more than a whisper in the air.

"This doesn’t change anything, you know; I still don’t trust you," Konrad mumbled, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

"You'll have to trust me if you want to save the other one. Only my ancient power can do it," Lyran replied, and faded.

"I need to check on the others, Spirit; you just rest here."

Otto was taking shallow breaths and seemed to be sleeping, but Athir wasn’t moving, and the sand around her was stained in a wide circle with her blood. Konrad pressed his hand to the wound and ignored the ancient power of Lyran that beckoned to him. He would do this himself. Taking a deep breath, he smashed the barrier inside his own body and poured his own lifeblood into Athir.