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Gauldryon could recall the first battle he had ever fought. It had been in the Fortress of Sargoth on the frontiers of the Red Land. In a war that had raged many centuries, the Black Hand had fought to protect the border outposts from the cruelty of Palog the Mighty, a giant that had unified the tribes of Gilgathan.
For six long grueling years, they had been besieged, had battled countless enemies, and if not for the aid of their order, the stronghold would have fallen. The monastery had sent five hundred of their best fighters to help the people of Zarroa. But by the end, only six warriors from his order remained alive.
In the aftermath of such tragedy, Gauldryon had seen the face of true darkness, had seen it in the eyes of the giants that had devoured their dead, and had felt it in his heart. Evil creatures could not be bargained with, nor could they be trusted. There was only one way to cleanse this world of darkness, and that was to eradicate it. Root and stem.
He had spoken as much to those that would listen, and after they had caught their breath, he had led an army into Gilgathan, slaying hundreds of giants. But it was never enough. With the fresh blood of a hillgiant still upon his blade, he had looked to his warriors, and could see the light burn in their eyes. But ill luck was with them. The very next day, they were ambushed amongst the trees, and if not for the sacrifices of his men, he would have died there as well.
Full of sorrow for the price he had paid, he was shocked to receive a message from the masters of the monastery. They not only condemned his actions, but claimed that he had become mad with bloodlust. That he had forsaken the path of light. And yet, he did not feel the Lightbearer pull away from him. If anything, he felt closer to him than he had ever felt before.
Set adrift in the world once more, he had begun seeking the foulest of monsters that haunted any land, and would slay them. And yet it was in the Citadel of Fire where he would discover his true purpose, amongst the Honor Blades, and the greatest champions of light. There in the distant Land of Dreams, he learned of a prophecy. One that would doom this world to eternal darkness, or bring about a fresh beginning. Studying every scroll or tome that spoke of this prophecy, he had become sure that he was the one chosen to be the Harbinger of the Lightbearer. Why else would he feel the call to leave his home? To have the monastery turn their back upon him? And then, here, in lands he would not have thought to have traveled, he heard the prayers of Honor Blades. That one day, a hero would arrive to save them. Why else would all this have happened to him?
But again after the masters of the monastery had denied him entry, he had felt doubt, and journeyed deep into the Red Waste to contemplate. For years, he attempted to communicate with his god, but all he heard was an echo in his mind. Fearing for his own sanity, he would visit the nearby tribe of barbarians. Tall, broad shouldered warriors with wide formidable statures, Gauldryon had seen the wild untameable spirit in their eyes, and had felt peace for the first time in many ages. It was also there amongst the rocks and sands that he found Daria, and with her, a new found conviction. That if he was not the Harbinger, he would find them, and bring them to the Monastery as proof.
And so began the next long chapter of his life…
~*~
Struck by waves of violet coloured energy, Gregor tried to fight through the pain, and advance towards them. But they moved in ways he could not anticipate, each new form seemingly blurring into the next to create something he had never encountered before. Their armor was also able to withstand his magic. Battered from side to side, he kept a fingernail grip on the edge of unconsciousness. These red eyed warriors with grotesque face masks, came at him again, and again. Each blow, never the one to kill him, but thrusting him back. Until too late, he felt something hot and wet beneath him, and was sucked into a sandpit in the middle of the floor.
Struggling as he bled from dozens of wounds, he could feel himself blacking in and out, when at last he drifted into the darkness…
Waking up in a foul smelling dungeon, Gregor could feel his rage burn like the suns. How could he have allowed this to happen again? How could he have failed her? His throat parched with thirst, he could feel every part of his body throb in agony. His vomit pushed its way up the back of his throat, before he choked it back down. The stink of piss, shit, and dank air was so strong, he thought he could taste the last man that had died down here.
The voice that called out to him, coming from a few cells over. “You awake, outlander? They beat you up pretty good.”
Rolling on the hay where the guards had left him, Gregor saw the faint outline of what looked to be a humanoid, and thought he felt something squish underneath him. “Who are you?” He croaked.
“The name’s Talisman. The damn hellspawn thought I was stealing from the temple.”
“And were you stealing?”
Letting out a low chuckle, the shadowy figure leaned back against his cage. “I heard there was a horde of treasure hidden deep within this place. A pile of treasure so large it could fill a mountain. So what if I got curious and wished to see it for myself.”
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Releasing a laugh of his own before he gritted his teeth at the pain in his ribs, Gregor asked, “Where are we?”
“Why my friend, you have the pleasure of being in the Dungeons Keeps of Zalzabar, a powerful Warlock. And he also takes his duties at the temple very seriously, so it’s unlikely we will ever see another day.”
Drawing on the energy inside of his body, he focused on healing himself, and gradually felt the aches fade away. Unfortunately however, it also left him incredibly drained as he sat up in the gloom. The flicker of torches on the far wall, revealed an unguarded doorway, and two sconces.
“If you’re thinking of escape, my friend? I would say that it is pointless. Zalzabar has warded every inch of this place with spells, traps, and the like. You would suffer an excruciatingly slow death rather than a fast one.”
Needing to know more about this place, Gregor asked, “this dungeon, how far is it from the temple? And where will they kill us?”
Hearing the scrape of movement as the shadowy figure moved closer to the bars, he whispered, “We are right below the temple of the Mother. As for how they will kill us?” he shrugged his shoulders. “There are many ways, but I suppose that we will be sacrificed, and our souls given to the Great Lord Tazrael.”
Taken aback by the name, Gregor could hear Sarsonel’s words at the back of his mind. “Kill my brother…” The words repeated again and again like a mantra. His hands and feet suddenly itchy, he felt his gaze pulled upwards like an arrow, and thought he could see Tazreal appear several levels above him in a spectacular flash of light. Silent for a long time as he contemplated what that could mean? The other prisoner eventually spoke, “While you were unconscious, you kept screaming a name. Kira. Who is she?”
Head shaking as he answered, Gregor looked down at his palms, and clenched them into fists. “Someone I lost, and mean to find again. It is why I cannot stay down here.”
And in saying so, he crawled to his feet, and searched for an opening. However the moment he touched the bars, he felt a sharp spike of pain drill through him. Blinded by a wave of agony, he grabbed hold, his teeth clenched, and pulled.
Smashed underneath a rip tide that threatened to swallow him whole, he felt his skin slowly being turn black, could feel the hair on his flesh burn, and his body transform into churned butter. But whatever strength it was that held him up, he continued to pull. He used every bit of his power, until the bars squeaked, and broke apart. With the spell ended, he widened the opening.
Stepping out of his cage onto cold wet stone, he moved along the line of cells, when he gasped in shock. The prisoner that stood watching him, was a lizardman. Talisman, his light blue scales splashed red with paint, had a ready smile on his lips. He reminded Gregor much of his friend Siwen with that cocky self-assured grace, as well as pose, and grunted sourly, “you're a demon.”
“Ahh, I see we have an intellectual. Although I much prefer the term dekaram. It holds a great deal more meaning to me, rather than an insult invented by your people. My full name is Talisman Fen’rod, an academic from the Great Metropolis of Gamora, a pleasure to meet you. Now if you would be so kind as to help me out of here. I would be deeply in your debt.” The lizardman, pointing to something on the wall behind him.
Following the direction of the demon’s finger, Gregor saw a row of keys hanging from the stone wall, and walked towards it.
But before he could decide whether or not to free the lizard, Gregor heard the clatter of steel above, and the thunderous roar of magic. Sure it had to be a rescue attempt by Daria, Gregor let out a curse, and again started towards the doorway, before he stopped again, and turned back. “Blasted hell.”
He then moved to grab the key off the wall, and unlocked the demon's cell. Talisman, who had not reacted at all, patiently waited inside, before he bowed his head graciously. “Thank you, my friend, you have done me a kind deed, and I shall do you one in return. Down this corridor and to the left is a secret doorway. You need only push the shield of Tazrael down, and it shall open.”
His mind whirling with questions, Gregor again heard the roar of magic, and when he turned back the lizardman was gone.
Muttering an oath about trusting the word of a demon, he searched the dungeon first for his equipment, and like fools, he saw his clothing and weapons lying in a trunk.
Striding towards it, he paused as he recalled Talisman's words to him about possible traps. His gaze tracing the grounds around him, he saw faded symbols marked on the brown stone.
Drawing back from it, he ripped off a bar from one of the cells, and threw it. The resulting explosion of fire threw him back against the wall, his head ringing.
Gingerly getting back up, he walked towards the blackened ground, and found much to his amazement that the trunk was unscathed. Collecting his belongings, and blessing the fool that had warded the chest, he hurried back to the open doorway. The cold silent corridor was somehow more daunting now as shadows flickered from the torches, and a light breeze blew against him.
Following the corridor down, Gregor kept a knuckle white grip on his greatsword, when the hallway split apart in two directions. One to the left, and one to the right.
Not sure if he could trust the word of a demon, he considered taking the corridor to the right. A much shorter path, it led past a series of rooms, and up a winding stone stairwell. Whereas the other seemed to run for many miles, and tapered off into the darkness.
With no way to know for sure which was the right one, he eventually decided to heed the lizardman’s advice, and turned left.
Drawing his greatsword just in case, he edged his way forward slowly, but as he grew confident, he began to move faster. Passing stone statues of demons, he could hear the familiar squeak of rats, and for once he was comforted by them. If there were traps this way, the vermin would surely have triggered them. Still, as he neared the end of the corridor, he was careful, before he reached a dead end where three shields hung on the walls around him. One depicted the head of a dragon, the second a griffin, and the third was a basilisk.
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Pulling one down, he took a step back, and watched as the wall slid inward, before disappearing into the ground. Illuminated by balls of light, the chamber ahead of him revealed a treasure trove of tomes, dozens of bookshelves stretching out to either side of him. He also heard a voice from off to the side of him. “You're human.”