Chapter Sixty-Two: The Age of Heroes

“The Wolf will howl, the Dragon will roar and the Serpent will thrash in the wake of His coming.”

—Morene Gylfaginor, The Codex Gylfaginor

“Wyrdhaugg,” Talberon hissed the dragon’s name as its head touched the ceiling and continued to rise, more than half of its body now exposed. The cavern was collapsing now, chunks of the ceiling caving in on the Spirit Garden, the Heart of the World vaporizing anything that landed inside it.

“Talberon,” Alend called out. “Are you coming with us?”

Talberon regarded the former Kingsblade, eye stinging with his own blood. “I will stay behind and deal with him.”

Alend drew his lips shut and nodded. “Thank you.” He called out to the others, urging them to leave. Celianna was already racing around the dragon’s foot to the other side of the garden, Ein and Aeos behind her, the former dragging Yselin with him.

“Wait, Alend.” A thought suddenly struck Talberon. “There is one more thing I would have you do.”

Alend looked back. “What is it?”

The Druid thrust his hand into his robe and brought out the book with the sparrow-shaped lock on it. He whispered a word, and the lock fell away into a silver dust that scattered in the wind.

“You know who to give this to,” he said. “Take care of it.”

Alend took it and nodded, and Talberon watched him go.

The Druid didn’t know what had happened inside the Ward Tree, but he could guess. Aedrasil had clearly died and released Wyrdhaugg from her depths. Whatever she’d told them to do would be pointless if he didn’t stop the Fatekiller right here and now.

So this is how it ends, he thought. I suppose it could have been worse. At least he’d taken care of the bastard Keldan.

Once he himself was gone, the Skyward Circle would likely crumble. There was a small chance the recipient of his Codex would be able to revive the order, but it was a pipe dream at best.

Half of the cavern collapsed, revealing the night sky above. Dead soldiers and Worgals crashed into Spirit Garden, upheaving clouds of dirt and dust. He could imagine the looks on the faces of those fighting in the courtyard when the ground suddenly gave way to a titanic dragon below.

Wyrdhaugg’s other wing was out now, and his combined wingspan stretched the entire length of the cave. Talberon had not had the pleasure of fighting the dragon himself during the Great War, but plenty of his comrades had. He was said to be as large as an entire city, a force of nature rivaling Faenrir and the third Great Relict, Eotumsorm. Each step he took left a crater in the ground, each beat of his wings sent hurricanes sprawling across the reach. When he breathed fire, it was said to be ten times as destructive as the fire mountain of the dragons, Freortahn.

By all accounts, Talberon should have been quaking in his boots and threatening to loose his bladder, yet he felt strangely calm. Perhaps it was just his experience shining through. Three and a half ages was a long time to live. He only regretted not being able to see the Fourth Age through to the end.

Wyrdhaugg finally spotted Talberon and reached out towards him. Talberon thrust his hand into his pouch instinctively before remembering there were no seeds left to sow. He’d used them all in his battle against Keldan.

“Mother Anturia protect me,” he sang. The Spirit Garden rustled as the trees stretched and elongated, their branches rushing along the ground to form a protective cocoon around him. He felt a dip in his Spirit, but his defenses held fast as the dragon wrapped its claws around him and lifted him up to its face. It breathed slow and steady, each breath sending gusts of wind through the stout trees.

He couldn’t kill it. He doubted even a god could kill Wyrdhaugg; after all, its very name spelled their death. Wyrd-haugg—fate killer, devourer of souls. Even the relicts feared it. Only Al’Ashar could place a leash on his son.

He couldn’t kill it, but maybe he could send it back to where it came from.

Hellheim was said to lie deep beneath the earth, far away from where mortals could descend. A realm of fire and ice consisting of nine concentric layers, each representing a sin more dire than the last. The Warden Sigruhn watched over the deepest level where Al’Ashar himself was bound in a frozen wasteland, a place reserved for the greatest and most evil of demons.

Wyrdhaugg had clawed his way up to Aedrasil’s roots, chewed his way until the mortal realm was within his reach. He could not be allowed to travel any further.

Enveloped by the casing of wood and branches, Talberon began to sing.

“Nine circles of fire and ice,

A prison unyielding, a seal undying.”

His voice rang true and clear across the crumbling cavern, rippling across the trees like a wave in a pond. The fiery sky shed its light upon the Heart of the World, dying it a deep orange. Wyrdhaugg’s head was well above the surface now and he was still rising. Talberon watched as treetops of the Spirit Garden became little more than green splotches beneath him.

He emerged in the courtyard, looming over the disarray of human-Worgal skirmishes. Barks and cries of surprise erupted as everywhere around them, people stopped to watch.

“Fair Lady of the Underworld;

Open the gates to Hell,”

Wyrdhaugg finished climbing out of the chasm and roared. It was an exuberant roar, one that expressed his elation at being freed from his dark prison at last. Talberon paid it no mind, lashing into the fabric between their worlds. His Soulsong was as straight as an arrow, piercing through the realms to where the Warden watched over Hellheim. It was a lighthouse beacon sending for help, a rope cast into the darkness. He felt the strength drain from his limbs, his fingertips becoming numb and ice-cold as his body struggled to search for more Spirit.

“So I may smite the foe that threatens the world—

The demon dragon of Al’Ashar.”

It wasn’t enough. The tangle of wood around him cracked and threatened to crumple as Wyrdhaugg’s grip tightened. He needed more.

Drawing a deep breath, Talberon tapped into the Heart of the World.

“His name is Wyrdhaugg.”

The Druid’s body stiffened, scorching heat shooting to the tips of his fingers and toes, his nose and ears, every tip of his body. The pool of Spirit beneath him brightened to an unbearable shine, as if giving birth to a new sun. His throat caught, words refusing to budge.

The air below him rippled, and it was as if Wyrdhaugg’s weight had suddenly doubled—no, tripled, quadrupled. The dragon’s neck lurched towards the ground, its wings dropping downward, its scaly hide tensing as it struggled to remain standing. Something was pulling on it, an otherworldly force summoned by Talberon and the Heart of the World.

Slowly, inch by inch, Wyrdhaugg sank back beneath the courtyard, under the cover of the cavern. It howled in frustration, batting its free wing violently against the Garden floor, unearthing dirt, ripping through copses of trees, but still it continued to sink. Amidst the burning pain, Talberon looked down and gave a start.

The Heart of the World was gone and in its place was a dead, blackened crater. Tendrils of fire licked hungrily from the chasm that Wyrdhaugg had emerged from, loosing low moans and the wailing of the Damned.

He had done it. Hellheim was taking the dragon back. He’d successfully sealed the Devourer of Souls as Aedrasil had before him—though not without cost, for the Heart of the World was now gone, and he could feel the heat charring the meat off his bones.

Wyrdhaugg began to pick up momentum. The chasm widened, the fire closer now, the voices louder. He swung his wings and legs in a final effort to free himself, but the invisible hands that were dragging him down were too strong. Wyrdhaugg gave a last cry of fury before he plunged through the chasm, back to where he’d come from, taking Talberon with him.

The last thing Talberon saw as he fell was the top of the chasm above him, like a slash in the black sky. Then, both sides of the earth clicked shut, and he was alone with the Fatekiller.

#

Ein, Alend and Yselin followed the Uldan siblings through the castle. Steel echoed across its halls, mixed with the barking and snapping of Worgal jaws. The ground still shook, groaning from the aftermath of Wyrdhaugg’s passing, fragments of stone and mortar raining down from the ceiling. A large hole in the ground now marked the courtyard, through which lay the Spirit Garden and what remained of Aedrasil and the Heart of the World.

“Your Highness!” Two guards standing by the mouth of the corridor met them, their faces tense with worry. “We thought you were both long gone. You must hurry, before we seal shut the exit!”

“Have all the people of the city been evacuated already?” Celianna asked.

“A while ago, Your Highness,” one guard said. “They are about to close the gates, I think.”

“What about the other guards in the castle?” Aeos asked. “Aren’t they going to escape as well?”

The soldier shook his head. “We will stay behind and hold them for as long as we can. Even as we speak, Worgals break into our halls.”

The Prince gave a firm nod. “Very well, then. Wyd watch over you.”

“Wyd watch over us all.”

They left the guards behind, sprinting down the corridor as screams continued to filter through the windows around them. Celianna took them through the kitchens and the dining hall to a library of some sort. The shelves and tables in the middle of the hall had been pushed to one side to open a straight pathway to the far wall, where a large shelf swung open on two hinges. Behind it was the entrance to a tunnel, flickering torches lighting the path on either side.

They followed the boot-prints on the carpet, jumping over scattered piles of books and strewn papers. By the time Ein saw the dead guards lying on either side of the library and called out, it was too late.

The figure slammed into Aeos and Celianna, a blur of black and grey. Celianna shrieked, rolling across upturned books while Aeos wrestled it, jaw clenched tightly. Ein leapt into the fray, grabbing something long and furry with his hands and pulling on it.

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Their assailant hissed and leapt backwards, opening the distance between them. He was a small man, perhaps only as tall as Ein’s chest, with wolf-like ears and a bushy tail. He held a sheathed sword in his hands, a long, curved scabbard almost as tall as himself—but perhaps his most prominent feature was the mask that covered his face, half white and half black.

“An Apocalypse Knight,” Alend growled. “Are you alright, Your Highness?”

Celianna nodded. Her hair was mussed, but she looked otherwise fine.

“Take everyone and keep going,” Alend continued. “Ein and I will catch up.”

The Princess paused for only a moment before grabbing hold of Yselin’s hand.

“We’ll be waiting on the other side,” Aeos nodded, before he too vanished into the tunnel. Once he could no longer hear their footsteps, Ein drew his Rhinegold blade.

“I thought you were going to send me off as well,” he said to Alend.

“I was considering it. But you wouldn’t have listened, would you?”

Ein smiled grimly. “You know me well, Father.”

He studied the swordsman, from his oversized sword to the strange robes he wore. He’d never seen clothing like it before, not in Felhaven or even Aldoran. It was either very old or from a distant land—or both.

Alend dashed in without warning, brandishing his iron blade. The swordsman moved fluidly, only raising his weapon the bare minimum to deflect his blows. Not once did he draw his sword.

They exchanged lightning-fast blows, their blades rattling like a weathervane in a storm before disengaging. Alend returned to Ein’s side, panting.

“There’s no mistaking who he is,” he said. “Saidon Urudain, a demon swordsman said to have left behind mountains of corpses where he fought. He dyed the waters red with blood along the Arrien during the Great War.”

“Those ears,” Ein said. “And the tail. Don’t tell me he’s a…?”

“He is a felen. He will outmatch you in speed, even as a Kingsblade.”

Ein nodded. The felen, much like the Worgals were also half man and beast, though closer to man than not. They were small and lithe, possessing the agility of a woodland fox.

“I’ll stay here then,” he said. “You go on ahead.”

Alend frowned. “Are you sure?”

“You’re still recovering from the inhibitor drugs,” Ein said, “and you don’t have a proper sword. I’ll be able to use my Soulsong to aid me.”

“Ein, you’re too inexperienced. It would be better if we faced him two against one—”

“I slew Faenrir, Father. I’ll be fine.”

Alend stared at him, and he could see his father turning over the options in his head.

“Very well then,” he finally said. “I’ll leave it to you.”

“Thank you.”

Saidon didn’t move until Alend too had run through the tunnel behind the hinged bookshelf. Ein noted the bloodstains along his hem and the scabbard of his sword, and the wounds in the dead soldiers by his feet.

They hadn’t been slashed to death. They’d been beaten.

“Why didn’t you go through the tunnels?” Ein asked. “Why did you choose to wait for us instead?”

“The people are weak. They are not worth killing.” The felen’s voice was deep and hoarse, and surprisingly clear. “The Lord has promised me a challenge, and I thirst for it. What say you?”

“I will defeat you,” Ein replied. “And I will find a way to defeat Al’Ashar. The Oathbreaker has no place in this world.”

Saidon’s visible eye glimmered. “I’ll hold you to your word.”

Ein blinked, and the felen disappeared. Saidon was before him in an instant, before he even had time to register what had happened, sheathed sword raised to strike. Ein ducked, feeling the wind of the thin blade pass above his head. He thrust a clumsy counterattack, but the swordsman batted it aside.

“Slow,” he said, and swept Ein’s feet out from underneath him. Ein broke his fall instinctively with his wrist and felt jarring pain shoot up his arm.

The wind, he thought. Remember what Garax taught you—

But the felen swordsman was too fast, refusing him time to gather his thoughts. Ein was forced backwards, moving only as fast as he could see, barely keeping up with the other’s assault. Frustration mounted within him.

He’s so fast, he thought. Alend was right; there was no way he could match the felen’s speed, even with the power of the Vow.

“Weak,” the swordsman said, parrying each attack Ein threw his way. “Your strikes are not even weak enough to chip my scabbard. I do not even need to draw my sword for this.”

And he was right. To Ein’s dismay, whatever material the scabbard was made of, he wasn’t even making a scratch. At that moment, he felt a sense of despair he hadn’t experienced since sparring with Alend as a child.

It wasn’t just speed. Their differences in skill were too great. Like a bladesmith could tell at a glance the quality of a sword, Ein knew at a glance that this man had spent his entire life honing his technique. He stood as much chance as a bale of hay in a fire.

“You are good,” the felen said, as Ein ducked another swing. The scabbard splintered a corner of a bookshelf, causing books to rain down from above. “One of the best men I’ve fought. But you are nothing in the grand scheme of things.”

An idea suddenly came to Ein. He had the Soulsong. Dark memories surfaced in his mind, memories of the Worgal camp and what he’d done to them on the night of the thunderstorm. If he could just replicate that…

He didn’t wish to be trapped in that abyss again, an out-of-body experience as he watched himself from afar lay wreckage to everything in sight, but he had no choice. In order to defeat a demon swordsman, he had to become a demon himself.

Remember the Eye of the Storm. If he heeded Lady Reyalin’s words, perhaps he would have greater control of himself this time.

Ein set his mind in stone and opened his mouth, but before the first note could leave his lips, a terrible searing filled his throat and he fell to the ground. Saidon cracked his sword hard upon Ein’s knee, breaking something. Ein stumbled away towards a bookcase, howling in pain.

What’s happening?

He couldn’t make a sound. It was as if someone had rammed a red-hot poker down his throat, blocking it. He tried again, just a fraction of a word, a quarter of a note, but nothing came out. Only pain, raw and red.

He couldn’t sing.

Just like Sonata the Speechless.

A terrible thought struck him, nearly as hard as Saidon’s next blow across his knuckles. He dropped his blade, clutching at his fingers in pain.

I can’t sing. I can’t sing.

Is this the price I paid for breaking Raginrok?

Saidon bent down and picked up Ein’s sword, staring at it in disgust.

“You are a disappointment,” he said. “To have your sword taken away from you is worse than losing your life. You are not even worth killing, Fateweaver. The next time we meet, if you still do not grant me the thrill I so desire, I will kill you.”

The Apocalypse Knight turned and walked away. As the door closed behind him, Ein limped painfully towards the evacuation tunnel, hugging his hand to his chest.

#

Gilfred slammed into the wall, his brain rattling in his skull. Hrongar towered above him, giant hand pressing into his throat, rank breath drawing tears from his eyes.

God… damn…

He clutched at the hand with a mailed gauntlet, but the Knight had his entire weight bearing down upon him. His lungs were on fire, his vision dimming…

No. Not here. Not now.

With strength he didn’t know he had, Gilfred stabbed his sword into the giant’s neck, piercing the hollow below the throat. Hrongar jerked backwards, loosening his hold for a second, and Gilfred broke free, coughing and spluttering.

Their battle had been ongoing for several minutes now, even while Wyrdhaugg and risen and fallen and left behind the giant hole in the ground. The Worgals had all but taken Aldoran. Though their numbers were dwindling, they had more on the way coming from the outer regions of the district. In the meantime, the brave soldiers who’d held the wall were all dead.

Gilfred threw himself to the side as Hrongar levelled the wall to the forge, sending brick and dust everywhere. Gilfred clutched at his ribs and bolted for the Keep, where the last survivors of the assault had banded together and were retreating. They saw him, bloodied and bruised, Rhinegold armour dented everywhere, the hulking giant chasing after him.

“Go,” Gilfred rasped. “I’ll be behind you. Get out of here, before it’s too late!”

He turned around and slammed the gates shut, throwing the iron bar down a microsecond before Hrongar rammed into it. There was no way he could beat the Knight; it simply wasn’t possible. The most he could do was maybe distract it, sacrifice himself and buy enough time for the survivors to escape.

The door shuddered again, and then a third time, splintering open. Planks flew past Gilfred’s face, clattering across the floor. He rushed through the entrance hall, scrabbling over the bodies of dead soldiers, into the mess hall. Hrongar gripped the long, rectangular dining table with both hands and heaved, blood spurting everywhere from his wounds. Silver plates and cutlery flew at Gilfred, catching him in the back of the head and across the back. Fruit peelings and remains of pies and bones spewed across the carpet as Hrongar hurled the table towards Gilfred.

Gilfred whipped his sword around and cleaved it through the centre, sending both halves flying in opposite directions. He continued through the door to the kitchen, never breaking stride.

Stone shattered behind him as Hrongar burst through the too-small doorway, an unstoppable juggernaut. He swept his arms along the implements and utensils hanging on the walls, batting them towards Gilfred’s exposed back. Gilfred eyed the glints of silver coming towards him, parrying the kitchen knives and pots and pans. More pain flared across his ribs, and he coughed blood onto the floor. But he kept running.

The next section of the castle was a narrow walkway between two wings, spanning across the razed courtyard. Gilfred broke into the corridor, ramping up to a full sprint. All he could hear was the pumping of blood in his heart and the rhythmic thump of Hrongar’s feet against the ground. He dared a glance behind and saw the giant taking up almost the entire width and height of the passageway, breaking vases and glass displays on either side. He never showed any signs of pain, even though his body was red with blood.

Something cracked in the ground as they passed the halfway point, and the walls shifted. The ground sloped backwards, pulling Gilfred towards the rampaging giant. He looked back and saw that the walkway had broken in the middle; Hrongar was too heavy for it to support. Stone bricks rained down from the ceiling, pieces of the path ahead crumbling. Gilfred’s sprint became a series of jumps and scampers as he raced to make it to the other side before the walkway hit the ground.

He landed on all fours, more blood flooding his lungs. The centre of the corridor had crashed into the courtyard. Hrongar was standing at the bottom looking at him, impassive behind his mask. He waved the dust cloud away and then made a running jump, landing halfway up the slanted hall. He dug his fingers into the marble floor and began to climb.

Gilfred swore and forced himself onward, to the library.

The soldiers were waiting by the entrance to the tunnel for him. Their eyes widened in shock as they saw the state he was in, blood matting his hair, trickling from his lips, powdery dust soaking the wounds across his chest and side.

“What are you still doing here?” he cried. “Go!”

“We can’t leave you behind,” one of them started. He was young, too young to be able to grow a full beard. “We either leave together, or not at all.”

“Are you insane?” Gilfred punched the wall and immediately regretted it. “Throw away your stupid ideals, boy. Don’t wait for me, save yourselves!”

A roar echoed down the hallway, and the group of guards flinched. Gilfred turned around and shouldered one of the bookshelves. It teetered on the edge, books and ledgers falling down, before thudding down in front of the door. He circled around to another bookshelf and pushed it too, just as the top half of Hrongar’s body broke into the room. The shelf slammed atop his back, half-shattering, pinning the half-giant in place. He shifted and struggled against the two shelves and the mountain of books like a chained wolfhound.

“What are you doing!?” Gilfred screamed. “Get out of here!”

He didn’t care anymore. He’d been thrashed within an inch of his life, his eyes thick with dust and tears and blood, half of the bones in his body broken. The guards still stood, rooted in fear at the sight of the Apocalypse Knight.

The shelves atop Hrongar began to crack as he strained, veins popping in his neck and shoulders. Blood gushed out of its throat, forming a red river along the ground.

It can’t move, Gilfred realized in a moment of clarity.

The moment wouldn’t last for long.

He lowered his sword and, with a breath that tasted of rust and daggers, charged at the Apocalypse Knight.

Hrongar broke free of his prison at the last instant, sending bloodied books and shards of wood flying everywhere. Gilfred met him at that moment in time, the tip of his Rhinegold blade marking the centre of the mask.

For Aldoran. For Aedon.

For Celianna.

“For Faengard!” he roared, and pushed.

The sword slid through Hrongar’s flesh as easily as a hot knife through butter. It hit something hard, scraped it, but Gilfred shifted his entire weight upon his thrust and pushed harder. The hardness gave way to softness once more, and then hardness again. The blade slid in all the way to the hilt, sprouting from the back of Hrongar’s head, dripping with blood.

Hrongar gave a small cough and didn’t move. The two halves of the mask fell away, revealing a horribly disfigured face without eyes or ears. Gilfred stamped a boot upon the face and drew his sword from his skull, staggering backwards. A geyser of blood erupted from the half-giant’s forehead. Hrongar’s body slackened.

Gilfred threw his head back and roared.

He’d done it. He’d beaten an Apocalypse Knight, one of the Oathbreaker’s generals, a being of myth and legend who’d come from the depths of Hell itself. He roared, tossing the blood from his mane, announcing his victory. The soldiers clapped from the entrance of the tunnel, their eyes brimming with admiration.

“The Lion of Faengard,” a soldier said. “The Lion of Faengard has saved us.”

“The Lion of Faengard,” another murmured, and soon they were all joining in. “The Lion of Faengard.”

Gilfred was too dazed to respond. The castle was not safe, far from it. There would be more relicts arriving soon, perhaps even Bloodmanes and Apocalypse Knights. They had to escape before it was too late.

“Through the tunnel,” he commanded, fire blooming in his lungs and chest. “Now.”

They obeyed, still singing words of praise, even after he’d swung the bookshelf shut over the passageway and began descending into the darkness that awaited.