They found Ishyrus at the base of the rock cliff near the end of Point Harrow, sitting upon the wet sand among the rocks in the tide pool near the very spot where Roland had almost dashed himself to pieces in his escape from the Pharitans. Pale as moonlight and ethereal as mist, the great Fifth Realm Seraph shook its shoulder-length tresses and sang a dirge of unbearable grief.

Standing at a safe distance from it, on the open ground far above, the Gnomes who stood watch over Ishyrus were debating another matter: what to do with a grayish, morose figure they had found tethered to a pole near the center of Ishyrus’s camp. The miserable captive, whom Digtry identified as a Morp, had been the unwilling First Realm link that had completed the union of interrealm forces that Ishyrus had needed to break the Fourth Realm bonds.

“What are we to do with this . . . this . . .creature?” snapped a particularly heavy-set and jowly Gnome.

“Leave him to me,” said Digtry. “Just watch him for a moment, will you?”

He and Roland climbed down the cliff on a faint and difficult path. stepping across stranded anemones and starfish, and feathery boas of seaweed. Stepping across stranded anemones and starfish, and feathery boas of seaweed, they approached the ghostly figure on the sand. Roland trailed nervously after Digtry, his previous harrowing experience with the Fifth Realm branded firmly in his mind. He was not altogether certain why Digtry believed Ishyrus, the spirit who had brought so much harm to the realms, to be harmless now. The Fourth Realm bonds had been broken after all, and would remain that way for a brief time even if Ishyrus did not complete the job by going to the Second. What was stopping the immortal Ishyrus from continuing its quest?

“Ishyrus,” said Digtry, softly. Again and again he repeated the name. After a long time, Ishyrus turned and lifted its face, revealing an expression of such anguish that Roland could not bear to look.

“Ishyrus, Seraph of the Fifth Realm,” repeated Digtry.

Eyes that glowed colorlessly in their grayish sockets focused on the little man. “What do you wish, wizard of the Fourth Realm? To gloat over my folly? To stare at the ruins of a creature who was once called noble?”

“I wish neither, Ishyrus. I seek only answers.”

“The answers to my fall? I who have fallen farther than any creature since the beginning of time?"

“Yes,” said Digtry, evenly. “I know the nature of the Seraphim, and noble is the least of the names my order gives to you. I know your reputation. “Wise” is appended to your name so often one would think it were part of your title: Ishyrus the Wise. Yet, and I will not shrink from saying it, for the deaths of hundreds of good creatures bear witness to what I say, the enterprise you championed bears the mark neither of nobility nor wisdom. How did this happen, Ishyrus? How can such virtue spawn such evil?”

Ishyrus dipped its head and moaned, pouring out an achingly pure melody that brought tears to Roland’s eyes. Even in profound sadness, a Seraph could touch the hearts of those around it.

It stopped and fixed its pale gaze on Digtry. “Even the pure can succumb to hunger, wizard. Even the wise can be blinded by their own ambition. Especially, and in the case of a Seraph, perhaps only, when the ambition is noble.”

After a long silence, Digtry said, “Tell me more. How can a Seraph, who can willingly do no wrong, bring the world to the brink of ruin.”

Ishyrus blinked and grew so pale that for a moment Roland thought it might disappear altogether. Then it said, “It is true; Seraphim cannot willingly do wrong. That is a fact. It is nothing for which we are to be commended or honored. It is simply how we are created. Seraphim cannot seek their own glory nor happiness. What nourishes us is peace and joy and kindness and purity of spirit and this only can we seek.

“Yet, wizard, we have been cut off from these. Not for days or weeks, but for centuries of your time have we been bereft of our lifeblood. I alone of the Fifth Realm have risked death by walking the lower realms. I see how badly you need us. I see how much despair and pain rules your broken world.

“Wizard, I sought to fix it. And perhaps I hungered too much for the joy denied to us, that we have denied ourselves for the sake of the world. My hunger grew so consuming that it led me to believe that I could supercede the power of the Creator and fix that which was broken. That I could restructure the world to make it a better place. That I could gain the secrets of Orduna which would allow me to control the Nephilim. That I could break the realm bonds and grow strong and powerful under the nourishment of the peace and joy that I brought, while the rest of my Fifth Realm brethren slumbered unaware. That by the time they awoke to the reality of the broken realm bonds, I would be strong enough to control them, and to establish an era of generosity of spirit and nobility of purpose such as the world has never conceived.

“So focused was I on this goal, that I wandered beyond the range of wisdom. I convinced myself that the goal was so great and so noble that the temporary pain and suffering required to bring it to reality were acceptable, even worthy, sacrifices. That a goal so virtuous would excuse the enlistment of foul beings in my quest. That I could fight wars and take actions that would result in regrettable but necessary casualties, in order to bring about the great good that I desired.

“And so despite my great wisdom,” it said, in a self-mocking tone, eyes welling with tears, “I lost sight of who I was and the consequences of what I was doing. And now that my sight is restored, I look upon the carnage of the battlefield and find that I, Ishyrus the Wise--a Seraph--was the agent of evil. I have become the enemy of all that Seraphim hold most holy.

“Ah, the delusion of virtue! As if I could gain the strength that I needed in the midst of ruin! Why, tree wraiths, the weakest, most lowly and insignificant of all the Nephilim, whom I recruited specifically for their powerlessness, were growing greater than I, feasting on the destruction I had wrought. I who had aspired to be the master of all Nephilim, who had thought to o reduce even such as Draxis to simpering inconsequence with my benevolent power, and to inaugurate a golden age of virtuous rule, found myself powerless against them.

"Irony of ironies, not until I fed on the joy that your armies experienced in my own defeat, did I even gain the strength to stand against a single wraith under my supposed command.”

Ishyrus turned back toward the sea. Its entire being seemed to flutter like tattered cloth in the breeze as it resumed its song in that same clear, plaintive wail that touched Roland’s heart and unstrung his knees. “Such a wasteland have I made of the realmlands that until hours ago, I had not the strength to make the Cold Flame journey to complete the realm bond destruction. But now . . .”

Its voice changed and grew stronger, more authoritative. “Now, nourished by the heroism of your armies and your elation at the unexpected destruction of my host, I am fed. I am stronger.”

Ishyrus rose and the gray transparency transformed into a fiery brilliance. Roland shrank back in horror.

“Yes, I can do it now,” said Ishyrus. “I can finish the journey now that I have so long plotted. I have the power to travel to the island that contains the Cold Flame that I have conjured, and I can destroy the realm bonds forever. There is nothing you can do, wizard, to stop me. Not with all your guile. Nothing that anyone can do.”

“I believe you,” said Digtry, evenly.

The two stared hard at each other. Then Ishyrus gave a mournful smile. “Do not count yourself wise, wizard. Look upon one who has made that mistake. Had the accident of that color lode not destroyed my army, I would not have woken up until it was too late.”

“I have made the error of counting myself wise, said Digtry. "I hope not to make that mistake again. Listen, Ishyrus. What you have done is tragic to be sure. But while I mourn the past, my concern is for the future. This thing has been stopped. You now see clearly, do you not? Have you any intention of carrying out your scheme?”

“Fear not,” said Ishyrus. “Shame has stripped the blinders from my eyes. I renounce my intent to break the bonds. I shall not take the final step. I shall not go to the Second Realm to seal the destruction. Never will I agree to do so. In 25 hours of your time, the deadline shall lapse. The bonds shall then be restored in the Fourth as well, and the world will be as it was.”

“That’s what we wanted to hear,” said Digtry. He went close to the Seraph and whispered something that Roland could not hear.

“I do not care,” said Ishyrus, with an empty glance at the Gnome guards.

Digtry and Roland left the miserable Seraph alone. After the long, winding climb up the sea cliff, they collected the Morp. “Ishyrus is no longer a problem,” Digtry said to the Gnome guard as they passed. “No point in guarding it. You cannot stop Ishyrus should it choose to leave.”

“Orders are orders,” barked their leader. “We stay here.”

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

Roland stared at the Cold Flames glowing brightly, whitish-purple, upon a marble altar near the edge of Point Harrow, and he shivered. The Cold Flames. The stuff that almost got me killed. Almost got us all killed.

“So I guess we won’t be seeing those flames again,” he said, as they turned back toward the allies’ camp.

“That is to be hoped.”

“Aren’t you taking a huge chance in trusting Ishyrus not to use the Cold Flames to travel to the Second Realm. What’s to stop it from completing the destruction?”

“Of course I trusted it. It is a Seraph. Seraphs cannot lie.”

They turned and began the long walk back to camp. They trudged slowly, for Digtry’s wounds were still healing and he had greatly overtaxed himself in walking so far. Roland wished he had not come on this visit. Against his will, he found himself taking pity on the Fifth Realm spirit, and that bothered him greatly. He could far more easily accept the costly sacrifice offered on the altar of Point Harrow if he could believe it had been given to stop a cold-hearted fiend instead of a pathetic, broken and misguided servant oh the Creator.

“What did you whisper to Ishyrus?” asked Roland.

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Ignorance has its uses?”

Digtry nodded.

Darkness had begun to fall when the two finally arrived back at camp. After securing a comfortable resting place for the Morp, they found Belfray and Sloat, streaked with sweat, their cloaks torn, but suffering no serious injuries. All of them were spent in both body and spirit, and they greeted each other with restrained hugs

“What news?” asked Digtry, wincing as he eased himself to the ground.

Sloat plopped himself next to Digtry. It was the first time Roland had seen in him any sign of fatigue. “Hatanwa is dead at the hands of the behemoth,” declared Sloat. “Gone, too, is Redmerit, felled by the tree wraiths. And many others, both beast and Gnome, will never again open their eyes in the realmlands.”

“Where’s Berch?” Roland asked, suddenly.

“I, I, I have not seen him,” stuttered Belfray, mortified that he had not noticed this absence before.

Roland felt sick. “He’s not in camp? Are you sure?”

Digtry did not answer. Sloat slowly shook his head.

Roland’s throat went dry and he felt as though he had been slugged in the gut. Berch? Berch, who had, against all expectation, given him strength last night when he most needed it? “Has anyone seen him?”

Missing.

Sloat sighed and nodded toward the wreckage of the battlefield. “I shall go out and look for him.” He rose heavily to his feet.

“I’m coming with you,” said Roland.

"I shalll ask around the camp,” said Belfray.

Filtering the foul air with their cloaks, Roland and Berch prodded the ranks of the fallen upon the plain of Point Harrow, leaving no decaying body unturned. They scoured every crack and cranny, every pit and hollow. They questioned both allies and captured enemy soldiers for reports of Berch during the battle.

As soon as Belfray alerted the wolves to Berch’s absence, they organized their own methodical search of the battlefield. Some bison claimed they had seen Berch fighting alongside a small cluster of wolves and bison whose position was overrun by Raxxars and tree wraiths and one of the Terrible Ones, but no one was certain. No one who had been with Berch on the battlefield in those final hours remained alive.

In the morning, the swallows and eagles fanned out, searching not only every square inch of the Point, but traveling far in every direction, searching for any trace that Berch had passed that way.

The haunting uncertainty was worse than the finality of death. Roland had always avoided funerals as morbid spectacles and gut-wringing exercises in futility. Why put yourself through that kind of discomfort for someone who’s not even there to appreciate it? But as he watched the dirt cover Hatanwa, he saw that his attitude had been wrong. He felt far better about laying to rest Hatanwa and Redmerit and committing their remains to the care of the soil and their Creator than he did letting go the bonds that joined him to Berch.

Funerals were a blessing--a gift to the living as much as a tribute to the dead. A coffin, or just a box of ashes, covered with dirt and resting under growing grass was a finished work. It was a poem or a song with an ending.

Berch was not only an unfinished work, he was a lost work, and that was a poor end.

Shortly after dawn, the army pulled back from Point Harrow to the south. All were exhausted and would spend the night in rest before they dispersed to their homelands. Nonetheless, they were eager to put distance between themselves and a battlefield where tree spirits might yet linger, intent on taking revenge for the expected feast which had been denied them. Besides, many of the animals required better grazing than could be found on the Point. Only a grim detachment of Gnomes remained near the shores, standing watch over Ishyrus until the deadline passed.

“We have witnessed a miracle,” said Belfray, trying to raise the somber spirits of his companions as the four travelers sat under the stars that night. “I feel terrible, of course, for those we lost. Especially for our friend Berch. Their courage cannot be measured or ever repaid. But when one thinks of what might have happened on this field, what by all rights should have happened, this is a day above all days on which to give thanks. A great day to be alive, to celebrate. Against all hope, we have stopped Ishyrus and scattered its army. It is a miracle.”

Sloat tightened the straps on his backpack and turned to the others. His gray-flecked beard had turned completely white on this expedition. His eyes had receded deep in his flesh and he appeared brittle--no longer the indestructible woodsman. “A miracle, yes,” he said. “Yet I wonder how such a miracle can do so little for my spirit. The loss has been bitter. It is hard not to feel many things at once at a time like this.”

“That is just what I am saying,” said Belfray. “I feel torn in so many ways at once. This surely ranks as a supreme moment in the history of the realms. We should be on our knees in thanks or leaping into the sky in joy at our salvation against all odds from the wrath of the Nephilim. I feel almost silly with relief. Yet at the same time, this has been a terrible day.”

Sloat nodded. “A great victory. But dearly bought.”

“I know one thing I feel,” said Roland, awkwardly. “I feel proud to have known all of you.” It had taken all of his courage to say the words, and he might never have done so except that both Berch and Digtry had broken the ice in recent days. The gruff old farmer and the cold, impersonal little genius had both gotten under his skin Thet had touched in friendship. It made Roland realize that he was not just an alien presence; that he was part of this world and the people with whom he shared it.

He was instantly glad that he had taken the risk. Belfray looked so pleased with the praise he could have popped. Sloat’s eyes crinkled in appreciation. Digtry? Well, who would ever read anything in the wizard’s face?

Roland marveled at his initiative. Perhaps Berch was right about change and patience. The Roland Stewart who landed on Reef’s Island would never have opened himself up that far in front of anyone. He wished again that Berch was here among them to share the moment. And he couldn’t help smiling bitterly at what the old man would say about this: “Touchy-feely bunch of crap.”

Yeah, Berch would probably bite my head off.

“One more thing needs saying, Roland,” said Digtry, when the weight of the day’s experience had again sobered them. “Thank you for saving my life.”

Belfray slapped Roland affectionately on the back.

“It was nothing,” said Roland, automatically, squirming at the attention, or perhaps at the uncomfortable feeling of pride, another of those emotions he had been trained from birth to suppress.

“My life may be worth little to you, but I place a value on it somewhere above nothing.”

Roland blushed. “That’s not what I meant! I meant, anyone would have done the same.”

“No,” said Digtry. “No one else would have done the same. No one has ever thought of a connection between a starfish’s regenerative powers and mortal wounds. I wonder if such information exists even within the walls of Orduna.”

The walls of Orduna. The words brought into focus a hazy image of one very brassy young woman. How is she holding up? Has she found that old prophet? Is she even alive?

At that point, the rearguard of the Gnomes passed by them, marching quickly to catch up with their brethren who had already departed the field. Never ones to linger anywhere but in their own hills, they buried their dead in private, said only the most perfunctory of goodbyes. Baffled by the destruction of Redmerit’s lode, they had finally concluded that an enemy blade had accidentally cloven it, probably the very stroke of the blade that had killed Redmerit.

“I hope you’re satisfied,” growled a weather-beaten sergeant, as he passed. “Ishyrus is gone.”

“Gone?” exclaimed Belfray.

“Gone. Left a few hours ago. We noticed he was gone from the beach, and then suddenly there was this big blast of flame. Cold Flame. Some of the critters say they saw Ishyrus in the flames.”

“Curse the name of Ishyrus forever,” snapped another of the Gnomes. “I wish it had stayed a few hours longer, when the realm bonds are renewed. Then we’d have made it pay for what it did to our mates!”

None of the expedition commented on this. They offered their goodbyes and their thanks, both of which went unreturned, and watched as the solemn lines marched out of sight.

Digtry nudged Roland. “That is what I told Ishyrus.”

“What? When?”

“When we left him. You asked then what I whispered to him. I told him to leave the Point as soon as possible."

“Why?”

Digtry looked at him askance. “Did you not hear the Gnomes?”

“What do you-”

“Did you not see what it cost the beasts and Gnomes to stop Ishyrus?”

“Yeah, but-”

“The only thing that prevented each of them from shredding Ishyrus alive is that it was immortal. What would happen if Ishyrus were still here when the realm bonds revert?”

Several moments passed before Roland understood. “It would be mortal. They would kill it.”

“Not slowly.”

“But Ishyrus kind of deserves it,” said Roland.

“I suppose.”

“Then why-”

“I know what it has done. I know what it deserves. Despite that, Ishyrus is a Seraph. There are too few forces for good in the world as it is. Not so many that we can afford to destroy those that exist. There may come a time when the world needs the wisdom and strength of a sadder but wiser Ishyrus.”

“You do not fear Ishyrus is going to the Second Realm after all to finish off the realm bonds?” asked Sloat.

“It is a Seraph,” said Digtry. “Seraph’s don’t lie.”

“They were not supposed to scheme and raise armies and ally themselves with the foulest of creation and start wars, either,” noted Sloat.

Roland stared hard at Digtry, and his heart skipped a beat. “I have known good people who got caught in the grip of addiction," he said. “They talk a good game, and they even mean what they say. But in the end, they can’t beat it. Ishyrus was obsessed by this plan for years. He’s been starving for centuries and then got just a taste of what he’s been missing. What if it can’t beat the craving?”

“Seraphs do not lie.”

Roland raised his eyebrow. Boy, I hope you’re right!

Roland did not sleep that night. The mystery of Berch’s fate had gotten inside his skull and cried out constantly. He could not escape the consuming fear that the old farmer was alive, trapped somewhere, or perhaps the captive of one of the cruel enemy who had escaped.

“Dead or alive, he must be out here,” he insisted, as he continued to scour the battlefield in his mind all through the dark hours. Unless he had somehow wandered into the Fifth Realm. Who knew where the Fifth could dock? But then someone would have seen it.

Berch would not have been the only one.

Yet he was the only one missing. The only one in the entire Beast/Gnome alliance, dead or alive, who was not accounted for.

No sign or word of Ron Berch was ever found in the realmlands. Not even the most skilled trackers among the beasts could find evidence that he had left the battlefield, nor that he had ever walked upon it.

Roland kept silent about his role in saving the day at Point Harrow. When the questions popped up around him: “Who destroyed the color lode? How did this happen? Could the blow that killed Redmerit have cloven the lodestone?” he shrugged as if it were all far beyond his comprehension. The first and last realmlander to whom he told the secret of the lodestone was Digtry.