"Juriken," came a voice. "We are leaving."
Juriken turned from the sight of the battle and saw the tall figure of Saliman standing in the narrow doorway. "Saliman." His voice was hoarse from disuse, and he coughed lightly to clear his parched throat. "Is it time?"
"It is, my friend. Good luck."
The two bards shared a look full of anguish and sorrow, concealing from each other the stark fear they both felt. It was a look devoid of hope, and the deadened look in their eyes was a testament to the hundreds of men and women who had died at their very feet. A gong sounded in the distance.
The Black Army was approaching.
"Care for Hem," said Juriken at last. "My Knowing tells me that he plays an important part in this war."
"As does mine," said Saliman. "He is the easy one, though. I take Zelika by force. She would stay to fight; she welcomes death."
"She has suffered much," said Juriken. "But someday she will understand. Nothing is gained by needless killing, nor by self sacrifice. Not even revenge."
There was silence again, in which the two contemplated the battle raging at the walls of their beloved city, Turbansk. It would fall, they knew. In fewer than two hours, the jewel of the Suderain would be nothing but ruins, destroyed and left to rot. The very thought of it tore at Juriken's heart and he felt choked. Such beauty, preserved for so many centuries... It was an unspeakable tragedy for it to go to waste. He blinked rapidly, then quickly went back to staring out at the battle. The great blue and gold banner of Turbansk was nowhere to be seen; it was over two days now since it had fallen, and they all knew what it meant: Har-Ytan, their lovely, magnificent leader, was dead. Well, he though with a wry smile, at least I'll be seeing her soon. He knew he was going to die; it was part of their last desperate stance, and he was not sorry.
Saliman turned to him. His eyes were wet, but his face was grave. He did not surrender to his sorrow. "Good bye, Juriken. We will not meet again."
Juriken shook his head slowly. "It is for good reason, Saliman."
"All the same, my heart misgives me. It is a terrible thing, what you prepare to do."
The words struck a chord deep within him. "Terrible, yes. A terrible deed, performed in desperate times. It must be done."
"It must," Saliman agreed. He stepped forward and clasped Juriken's hand solemnly, then turned to go. "Goodbye, Juriken," he said again. "And good luck."
The tower seemed very empty all of a sudden. He, Juriken, was the only one up there, and he was going to die. It seemed incomprehensible.
Suddenly there came a great boom, and he looked hastily at the Black Army, seeing the flashes of the Dogsoldiers. The gate had fallen. It was almost time.
He raised his chin, ignoring the fear sweeping through him, drowning him. He was going to die, but his death would have meaning.
The soldiers were starting to trickle very slowly into the city. He heard a gong in the distance, then a blaring of trumpets, soaring triumphantly through the air, over the city. Knowing he had to move quickly, Juriken glided down the spiral stairs and out into the city, breathing erratically. He walked swiftly until he reached the very center of the city he loved. Using his bardic hearing for a moment, he heard the Black Army pouring through the gap in the wall, a flood of black magic washing in with them. Th air around him seemed to shimmer slightly as he began to prepare himself, letting his power flow through his veins, fusing it with his very body until he was completely saturated with magic. As soon as he saw a mounted horse at the edge of his vision, followed by a cavalcade of hulls and Dogsoldiers, he began to chant.
His soft and melodious voice began to gently weave a picture of terrible beauty through the air. As he started to use more of his strength, though, the words became harsher, and he began to lose control of the image he was creating. His power rushed through him like a torrent of fire while his voice rose steadily. The faint gusts of wind floating through the streets merged and grew in strength, drawn to him by an invisible force, until it seemed that he was standing in the very eye of a whirling, screaming tornado. The earth was crying out, groaning under the pressure he was exerting on it, but he kept chanting, building the energy around him. Strands of purple magic began to streak from the seething wind, only to be caught up again in the still madly swirling storm, its gyrating spiral still reaching out farther and farther. The pressure reached an impossible height, the power still gushing forth from the frail-looking man at its center, when its focus seemed to shift. The earth suddenly began to absorb the energy, sucking it all down into itself, until it exploded, causing the ground shift, violently, unable to withstand the pressure. It slipped beneath the buildings, and, as if a rug had been pulled out from under them, they began to topple down, nightmarishly slow. They fell one after the other, in no particular order, gathering speed as the earthquake continued. The screams of the thousands of dying soldiers echoed through the air, before being crushed by the weight of death and silenced beneath the rubble and ruins of what had once been the greatest city of the Suderain. Among the anguished shrieks, no one noticed when one man fell to the ground, dead, in the very center of the storm.