Black Dawn - Chapter 29: Driving The Darkness

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Chapter 29—Driving the Darkness

Turim caught sight of Sand and pulled the reins. He had to do something. It was seconds before Sand and Lasertooth might be dead. And there was Gewurmarch Rottbone too.

“I see them!” Like a flash, Thunderclap dove toward Runamuck. He hailed hot bolts of lightning through him, catching Gorelust as well. It smote the earth with a clap of thunder. The air prickled. Both beasts and their riders fell, their bodies smoking.

Thunderclap landed in the courtyard before the prone form of Lasertooth and let forth a challenging roar to the wyvern and black dragon.

Runamuck didn’t move. The wyvern stirred, but her actions were slow and hesitant. She hissed like a serpent at Turim and Thunderclap. Suddenly, she wretched, and her dark filth splashed on the ground.

“You will all be the last kills of Panthis Obsidianfist, Grand General of the Black Dragon Army!” roared the General on his wyvern’s back. “Gorelust go!” he finished with a cough.

Gorelust beat her feathered wings and dove towards them with a long, petrifying shriek.

She sped past them like an arrow. Even then, Turim heard the sickening wheeze of air that came from deep inside her. Not much longer, he thought. Five minutes maybe?

He knew the sound well. She’d been poisoned by the gas of another dragon—probably Lasertooth if he guessed right. She seemed well aware of her imminent death as well, as she shot past him and snaked up into the sky.

Thunderclap’s head pointed back at Runamuck a moment, then they sprang after Gorelust.

“I’d hoped to get a second chance at Runamuck,” he growled.

“He’s down,” answered Turim. “No time for that. We have to get them away from Sand and Lasertooth; concern yourself with this General Obsidianfist for now. Besides, you left him smoking down there—he might be dead.” He considered that Gewurmarch Rottbone might be too.

Thunderclap chortled with a rumble, clearly pleased at the thought.

Turim gripped both his riding shield and his hilt. Then he remembered he had no lance, only the mace. But it was far greater than any weapon he’d ever wielded. It was lightweight. Solid. It blazed with luminance at times. And he did not know how it worked—only that it did.

Quickly he glanced to the courtyards below. He rose above the crowd, wheeling Thunderclap around to pursue the wyvern. Just before passing out of view, he saw Sand was back on his feet, defending his great copper. But he could handle a few Dark Knights now.

“The Lieutenant isn’t with the men,” said Thunderclap. “What’s he doing?”

Turim peered backward. “He was seeking vengeance. Vengeance for me, I think. I probably would’ve done the same.”

“Would you? Do you really think you’d have left them in a battle like this?” Thunderclap paused, “We all handle loss differently.”

Turim considered that. Could he set aside his duty for something so rash and dangerous, even if Sand had died? He’d never had to test that theory. But he’d come to understand his duty as a knight had many balances with other duties. If he couldn’t help friends and family when he needed to, what was he doing protecting their country? He didn’t answer Thunderclap’s question.

Their exchanges couldn’t last any longer. Dragons sprang across their path from left, then right. Gorelust accelerated, and now as they skimmed over the ground, many more dragons separated them. Thunderclap let bolts loose again, and a green dragon in his path fell.

Turim felt a shudder. Thunderclap seemed to be struggling. His muscles trembled as they bound and glided. Turim already noticed how slow he’d been flying for almost an hour now. The blue might be taking caution flying in the dark, but he didn’t think so. Thunderclap was as tired as any of the dragons out there. But Turim wasn’t riding those other dragons several hundred feet up; he was riding Thunderclap. And he could only watch as his mount continued to struggle, grunts of strain accompanying each wing beat.

Thunderclap was losing Gorelust in their chase. She drew further away, her tail and body thrashing about, her wings speeding her forward. Turim had all but given up. It was okay. He wasn’t hunting the General, and the poison would kill them soon anyway. He decided to land and let Thunderclap rest.

Suddenly, a shape like a golden bolt came down from the east wall.

Great golden jaws tore Gorelust from the air. Her screams of agony pealed through the night. For a moment, the wild horror of the cries stole Turim from his own plight. But only for a moment. The bolt was Smokewind, Grandmaster Strongthorn’s gold dragon.

On Smokewind’s back, the Grandmaster didn’t look like he’d seen Turim. But as Thunderclap glided closer, they caught each other’s eye. Grandmaster Strongthorn’s gaze widened, and a smile broke across his face like the rising of the sun. Turim could only imagine what he’d felt.

Grandmaster Strongthorn’s smile faded as he and Smokewind continued their struggle against the swamp wyvern. General Obsidianfist clung to his saddlemount, struggling to hold on as Smokewind shook the wyvern. The gold dragon clamped on hard, muscle tore and Gorelust’s blood ran. She screamed. She struggled for one last moment before Smokewind released her and the wyvern began to fall to the courtyards below.

But General Obsidianfist appeared to have other plans entirely. He leapt for Smokewind and caught the ridge that ran along the back of the dragon’s neck. Struggling fiercely, the General pulled himself up and grasped the Grandmaster’s riding shield.

He shouted a challenge to the old man, crazed with poison. “I can at least have the pleasure of knowing I took a Grandmaster with me!”

Thunderclap circled, gliding, his wings too tired to do much more. Turim felt like he needed to go back—to make sure. He couldn’t leave Grandmaster Strongthorn yet. “Rest as best you can. We can’t leave Daynard. If he needs us—” He didn’t say what he’d do, but it wouldn’t be difficult to swoop in and lend the old man aid.

The Grandmaster gripped his lance with both hands and swung it. But General Obsidianfist was swift. He drew his blade, parrying the lance, and knocked it from the Grandmaster’s hands. It splintered and fell to ruin beneath them.

Smokewind made a sudden dive to rattle the General loose, but the Dark Knight wasn’t shaken; his grip on the riding shield was too firm. Grandmaster Strongthorn drew his hawk blade. He struck at the General with speed Turim wouldn’t have guessed possible of the Grandmaster. General Obsidianfist parried, and the General and Grandmaster began to fight, exchanging glancing strikes, holding tight to Smokewind’s riding shield from either side.

But then, a false move, a single mistake by General Obsidianfist cost him the last of the victory he seemed to be trying to seize. Grandmaster Strongthorn swiped and the General’s sword rang from his hand. The hawk blade buried itself in the Dark Knight General’s chest, and with the shrieking sound of metal sliding against its kin, General Obsidianfist fell from the sword to the courtyard below.

“Get out of my keep,” Turim heard Grandmaster Strongthorn rebuke.

Turim let out a breath. He was relieved that the Grandmaster had triumphed. But there was no time to speak with him. “Incoming!” Several enemy dragonriders leapt toward Thunderclap, biting and clawing, and Turim was forced to return his attention there.

He struck out with his mace, caught horn and skull, and sent one Chromaback crashing into a dragon stable below. The mace’s power was remarkable. Thunderclap sunk his claws into the other and bit the Dark Knight from his saddlemount. Then he spat him down into the courtyard after the first, letting the dragon fall after.

Thunderclap needed to land—now. He wheezed, struggling hard to keep his wings beating.

“We’re going to find a place to rest awhile,” shouted Turim.

“As you wish, though I’m going to return in short order.”

But Turim knew that his dragon was merely protesting to avoid appearing weak.

Thunderclap took a few wing beats more. They drew up near the central tower and landed on the ground with a skid as his claws tried to dig into the earth and stop himself from tumbling end over end. Immediately, Turim leapt from his saddlemount. He gave the blue a quick pat.

“Don’t die again, Commander!” shouted Thunderclap. “Whatever you mean to do, may The God be with you in it.”

Turim paused a moment, looking one last time on Thunderclap before turning. “He will be,” he said. “Of that, I’m sure.”

Several Dark Knights approached Turim as he began his walk towards Runamuck, but none of them could stand very long against him—he smote each down with a single, mighty swing of his mace. No blade seemed strong enough to bear the mace’s strikes. No shield’s defense could sustain a blow.

He slew thirteen Dark Knights before no others would approach him. The remainder of his path was cleared by fear alone.

Several paces further, he saw the dark shape he’d been seeking. The mass of black scales didn’t move and the scent of burnt meat was in the air. Runamuck was definitely dead. “Thunderclap will be happy,” he thought with a hint of a grim smile beneath his whiskers. ”I can’t say I’m disappointed.”

He almost allowed himself to hope. Then, slowly from behind Runamuck’s fallen corpse, strode Gewurmarch Rottbone—a shadow before its master, as evil in appearance as the Nameless One himself.

Turim swallowed hard, his mouth dry. Still, he kept moving.

He did his best to remain stout as he approached the Gewurmarch, though every few steps a dark foreboding gripped him. He sent it away again, bending his thoughts on good to keep himself stalwart. The happy children he’d seen in Centerland. His mother on their farm. His father helping anyone who needed it, ‘because that’s just what we do’, he remembered him saying. But even with such deliberate focus, each step he took closer made his flesh crawl.

When twenty paces remained between them, both he and the Gewurmarch halted. Their eyes fixed on each other, staring. At last, they were face to face—still several feet off, but close enough to speak; and yet several moments passed before either of them did.

The wind still felt cool. Daybreak wasn’t far off. Night had finally begun to peel away from the sky as a pale light broke the edge of the world.

Gewurmarch Rottbone stood taller than Turim by nearly a foot. The breeze tossed his black, tattered cloak around his shoulders. His ebon helm had long, intricate horns, and gold trim lay about its opening. Deep shadows shrouded his face, and all that could be seen of it was a pair of eyes that gazed back with a piercing malevolence.

Finally, Gewurmarch Rottbone’s voice ripped through the still air. On one hand, he sounded incredibly intelligent. On the other, it was so terrifying and awful that Turim felt sick. “You? I’ve seen you before—today, have I not? I glimpsed you in the skies for but a moment.” He paused. The blade in his hand was long and wicked, and it hissed with a sound like burning flesh. He raised the sword, pointing it at Turim. “Yes, I slew you up there. You fell to the plains dead. Or so I supposed, as did the young blue who came to avenge you. How can it be you still live?”

Turim swallowed the knot in his throat and gripped the Aureate Mace harder. Blood throbbed in his ears. His heart beat—a drum in his chest. “What you say is true,” he returned slowly, but with building confidence. “Perhaps the only time such words have come from your lips. You slew me. I died. But I didn’t stay that way. I’ve been returned to life with the blessing of the bright lady Lumina, and of The God himself. They’ve given me the task of eliminating you and all of your brethren. And I mean to.”

The Gewurmarch stood aghast. It appeared he hadn’t heard anyone speak to him that way before.

Then the Gewurmarch laughed long and hard, and the Knights of the Hawk around them winced at its fearful noise. The Dark Knights in earshot gave a jeering shout as they fought, clearly invigorated by their Gewurmarch’s laughter. The noise of battle, which Turim hadn’t noticed for several minutes, returned for a moment before his focus and purpose suppressed it once more.

“And you suppose that The One’s blessing will intimidate me?” said the Gewurmarch. “Yet I have drawn the attention of The God who created all of this!” He waved his hands in a wide gesture. “The Gewurmarchs, mere specs upon this world, ascending to such greatness and power that we are contemplated? I consider that a flattery. We move the pieces upon this world now. Purposes that are grander than you—an insect in your right—can comprehend. You and all the people of Genova shall soon realize our domination and desire for true peace. When the Council of Races is thrown aside and their petty squabbles and lies are expunged, we will show this world a new progressive way of life, and none shall oppose our reign.”

Turim blinked, shocked at the words he heard. The Dragon Army sought peace? What peace had they ever given to the people of Cornerius—or Daropel? They took the Chromabacks—granted the dragons had risen and pillaged, gathering treasures for themselves—but they took them and slew thousands of dwarves and gnomes in Daropel. And they’d only stretched out from there. How many had just the Black Division silenced on Ys to keep themselves hidden? Even tonight, how many had this one man killed? Still, he had the opportunity to hear the Dragon Army’s reasons for being, and he’d take it.

“I am listening, Gewurmarch Rottbone,” he said, hoping to push more conversation. “If you’ve more to say of peace.”

Gewurmarch Rottbone stood still, seeming to be sizing him up. “You are so very small, farmboy. Is not the end of any war: peace? If we are to bring about unification and growth, is that not peace?”

“Peace, yes, but beneath the boots of tyrants. Must the world live according to you and the other Gewurmarchs? Isn’t that again a reason for war?”

But Gewurmarch Rottbone didn’t answer. He seemed tired of their speech, and he began to stride forward, taking threatening steps that fell heavy on the earth. “There are machinations you do not understand, insect, and cannot, for your mind grasps only the thought in front of you. So, slowly, I shall exterminate you this time.” Turim saw him gripping the hilt of his blade. The fight was coming, despite his willingness to listen. “My hands will deliver you from this world, and you shall never see it again. Twice has been too many for you, I think!”

“This is peace then,” Turim said, narrowing his eyes.

Gewurmarch Rottbone said one final word as though Turim had said nothing at all. “Die.”

Turim lifted the Aureate Mace and it flashed in brilliance before the Gewurmarch, nearly blinding them both.

The black sword in both hands, Gewurmarch Rottbone drove it in a great, horizontal arc. Its blade stank of burning flesh as it cut through the air. Its edge hissed.

Turim blocked the Gewurmarch’s blow with his golden mace, then spun quickly to swing the Aureate for Gewurmarch Rottbone’s head. But he wasn’t fast enough. The Gewurmarch ducked away and turned for another strike. Turim came at him again. Gewurmarch Rottbone extended his arm and caught the mace against his sword. He struck out with his fist. The blow caught Turim across the face and sent him sprawling across the dirt.

Though the steel punch had made his head swim and lip bleed, Turim hopped to his feet as the Gewurmarch approached. Without time for thought, again they traded blows, beginning their dark dance. They parried. Struck. Batted aside. Slashed. And Ducked. On and on they continued as the battle raged on around them. None dared to approach the two, they could see this was a battle of titans. No opponent had managed to touch either of these two tonight, and none again dared to try it.

As they drew apart again, Turim stood poised, his breath coming quick. He was winded, but he still hoped to end the battle with words. He had to keep trying. Though Lumina seemed to have faith in him, he didn’t think killing the Gewurmarch would end the battle. He still had a whole division in their keep. And even if Meineken had succeeded in Tusokan—a fact he still wasn’t sure of—the Knights of the Hawk remained the only thing standing between the Dark Knights and Daltaria.

“Gewurmarch Rottbone!” he called. “I’ll still give you a chance to heed my words. Your defeat will come tonight. But you don’t need to lose your life because of it. Your surrender will be accepted by my order, and you’d stand trial. All the wrongs you’ve done can be repaid if you share the purposes you spoke of with us.”

The Gewurmarch shook his head very slowly and laughed again. “Can you not see? Are you blinded by your own supposed magnificence? Tonight is the night that the Black Division shall roll over Genova and take it under its great wing. Each Gewurmarch has its charge, and this is mine. Our defeat will not come now, nor ever. We are far too great for you, or your draftless, overpaid knightly order. And we’re far greater than Daltaria and its simple-minded Council of Races.

“Look about you, knight! The greater part of the Knights of the Hawk lay trampled by my Dark Knights. Our many dragons have slain yours. Things do not bode well for you!”

Turim didn’t draw his eye away. He already knew these things were true. Even as he stood there, he saw on the ground beside him, one of the fallen Hawk Knights. He knew the man’s face. And though he didn’t know his name, his heart was heavy for this loss—heavy for the horrific loss of all the brave knights who’d fallen defending the keep. There’d be no true victory over the Dragon Army here. “And still”, he thought, “the Gewurmarch himself might bring a change to the tide of battle. I have to destroy him whether we have a chance or not. There’s nothing else to be done.”

He raised his mace and gathered himself. He leapt forward, and with a ring, he landed a blow on the Gewurmarch, smiting him in the shoulder and denting his wretched armor. But the Gewurmarch only roared in anger.

The Black Blade hissed. Turim parried again, knocking the blade aside. Then, as the Gewurmarch was struck back once more, Turim closed his eyes for a moment and spoke several soft words that seemed to pour out by another’s will.

Suddenly, the mace lit with wild energy. Exhausted, he managed to spring forward, then swung with all his might. The Aureate Mace gave forth light in all directions, singeing and searing. Its shine blinded any who looked on it for a time, and Turim couldn’t truly see what was happening.

The strength of the blow was powerful. Turim heard first a crunch, and then the crash of armor hit the ground. He had to wait for a moment, feeling vulnerable as his vision returned.

But at last, when his eyes restored their sight, he stood above his enemy. Gewurmarch Rottbone lay crumpled on the stone, his body crushed beneath the power of the Aureate Mace. Turim took a deep breath and stepped away from the Gewurmarch, as the world seemed to slow and stall for a moment. “Did I—” he whispered. “It can’t be…”

The Gewurmarch raised his hand for a brief moment, where it wavered in the air, disbelief in his voice. “I—I wasn’t meant to die tonight…”

Turim felt a stir in the air. He didn’t know what, but something was happening. He looked up to see the few Chromabacks, flying some distance off, seem to suddenly take notice of the Gewurmarch’s waning. Their heads turned. Their wings changed direction. Their riders, though, seemed surprised, halting in mid-attack, pulling at their reins. Then with hissing roars, the Chromabacks suddenly wheeled towards him.

Turim glanced down as Gewurmarch Rottbone’s hand slowly fell to his chest. He chuckled. But then he coughed a sickening wheeze, rasping with labored breath. “Heh… you know not that our forces advance upon Daltaria. Your end lays nigh.”

Turim looked at the Gewurmarch with something near pity. “No Gewurmarch Rottbone,” he said finally. “Reinforcements were sent south to Tusokan to stop that march to Daltaria. Your own end is here at last. Your division is finished.”

The enemy dragons and their riders were almost on him. Turim held his hands palm up. Maybe this was as it was meant to be. He was ready to die again. Then, as life slowly slipped from the Gewurmarch, not only the ones approaching Turim, but all of the Chromaback dragons let forth a roar at the same instant.

It was screeching and awful—a dreadful noise that caused many to cover their ears. Turim wasn’t sure how long they roared. But eventually, as if they’d regained control of themselves, the dragons were silent again, moving off in their own directions.

Gorrick Rottbone was dead.

Looking around, Turim could see that many of the Dark Knight dragonriders had witnessed the slaying of their leader. Amidst the shadows within the Dark Knight’s helms, hundreds upon hundreds of white eyes stared back. He turned in a circle as if making eye contact with each of them. Then, perhaps in shock of the Gewurmarch’s death and in awe, the Black Division began to retreat.

As the sun peeked over the Dindaron Mountains, the evil dragons pulled up and away from Grendelock Keep like clouds being lifted from a hidden blue sky after rainfall.

Dark Knights were struck down in the courtyards as they tried to break away. The retreat turned quickly into a rout.

A shout went up from Grandmaster Strongthorn. “Take to the skies! Drive them beyond the borders! Any that still fly, go now and return victorious at last!”

The golden horns cried out.

And with a great rush of wind and lash of wings, the Knights of the Hawk’s dragonriders pursued the Black Division across the Plains of Sirik and continued to destroy their enemies before they could regroup.

The Knights of the Hawk dragonriders who gave chase were gone for only a short time in respect to the time they’d spent battling that night. They were all weary from the long and tiring battle, and little did the Knights of the Hawk desire any more death, for neither themselves nor their enemies.

In the courtyard, Turim’s allies approached him from the south.

Their tears fell at the sight of their friend who’d been slain and was alive once more. Emotion overwhelmed them. And all rejoiced at his return, and at the death of their greatest enemy yet.