Part XXVIII: Reborn

Or: The Hero's Return

It had begun as a successful raid. The Druchii rushed through the village when the night had fallen, killing those who opposed them and taking those who didn't as slaves. At dawn, they led a long line of humans, chained together, to the landing boats.

And then there was the thunder of hooves and the clinking of metal armor, and the knights were riding towards them in full speed. The Bretonnians had not forgotten. They had waited for the Druchii to return.

Makareth had only realized what was happening when one of the men that he and Lykaon had taken with them on this journey, a former guard of the Kythonarh estate, who was just a moment ago shouting at the slaves to move faster, was trampled to death by a horse. The hooves broke through armor and ribs, and Makareth saw the hand of the warrior loosing the grip of the Drannach spear he had tried to turn against the enemy. The knight whose mount killed the guard directed his strike at Makareth; he ducked, and, led by instinct, picked up the spear before coming up again. It had a greater range, and that was what he needed now.

The knight's horse danced to the side, and seeing that Makareth was too close, the knight drew his sword, swinging it in a high curve. The Druchii dodged again, jumping out of reach. With all his force, he pushed the spear into the horse's flank. The animal reared, whinnying in terror, and the knight was thrown down from its back, the heavy armor pinning him to the ground. Makareth drove the tip of the spear between gorget and helmet of the enemy, blood spraying when he tore it out again.

The humans that they had captured screamed and tried to get away, but the chains were hindering them; two of the knights shouted at them, chasing them from the battlefield as a shepherd dog would a flock of sheep. Their attempt to spare the villagers slowed the knights down; and Makareth thought the Druchii might have a chance.

But most of the corsairs were already fleeing; some of them had reached the landing boat and were on their way to the skiff that swayed on the waves at the horizon. The second boat was destroyed, and the rest of the Druchii seamen and Lykaon's retainers had no other choice as to fight for their lives.

Makareth ran to Lykaon, jumping out of the way of another knight and over the body of a dying corsair. He saw one of the enemies try to strike the lord with a lance, and Lykaon raised his magical sword to parry; but the impact of horse and rider was too great, and the weapon was knocked out of the lord's hand and flew out of his reach. Lykaon was lucky; the horse jumped over him without hitting him with its hooves.

The younger Druchii saw the lord rising on his feet again; Lykaon's hands forming the secret signs of a spell; but the knight who had just disarmed him turned his horse and rode back to end what he had begun.

"No!" Makareth lept forwards, throwing Lykaon aside and out of the way of the Bretonnian.

The sound was horrible, metal against metal, not a clash but a thud that made his ears ring. He was thrown onto his back, sliding on the sand, and something shook him once more before leaving him lying there. He tried to sit up, but out of some reason it was difficult. The light of morning was so bright that everything seemed white and blinding; the sound of battle around him was distant now. Something was wrong with his armor, too, he thought. He raised his hands above his face and pulled off one of the gauntlets. With a bare hand, he felt his way along his breastplate. Something wet was on his stomach, between bent and sharply torn shards of metal that had been his armor plates. He realized it must be his blood or entrails, or both, and that the rugged edges of the metal were around the hole in the armor where the lance had pierced him. He wondered why he didn't feel pain. And then he did, at once. It was so great that it took away his consciousness.

Darkness.

Pain.

A voice, whispering weakly.

A memory of a voice.

His mother in his arms, bleeding to death, her eyes unseeing. "He promised to come back for you, my son, he promised, but he didn't keep his word."

"Who, mother? Who?" He holds her close, his clothing, old and patched, soaked with her blood. The street is full of dead, red and black and white and yellow and blue, the Death Night has once again taken its toll. In other houses, neighbors are celebrating their safety for another year.

"A noble, a sorcerer… There was a ritual." The fingers of her remaining hand are digging into his arm. "He said… He said I will give birth to a child of unusual power." Anger and disappointment shadow her face. "But you have no power, my poor baby. You are nothing… You are like me, not like him. He didn't come back for you."

"Mother, what are you talking about?" His voice is cold, and he doesn't care for a moment. Her words have hurt him, and the feeling of insulted pride is stronger that the feeling of loss. He doesn't cry. But he still holds her in his arms. The dusky gray of a day in Hag Graef , where the sunlight never reaches the streets, calls out slaves and merchants and guards. The labyrinth city awakens.

She searches for his face with her eyes. Looks through him. "Your father. Your real father. He promised to come back after thirty years… To take you and me away with him to his palace in the town of the warlocks… Where we would live in wealth and… where you… would become a great warrior…" Her words are hardly audible now.

He leans down to hear what she says. "I will become a great warrior, mother. I will, I promise." He doesn't believe his own words. The only time he has fought in a war is just a month ago, and despite his survival, despite his success, no general came to assign him a position as a captain, no noble chose him as his retainer. His skill will be unnoticed forever, and he will die a death as useless as hers, he knows. But he is curious, curious beyond compare, and the curiosity is stronger than the sadness he feels. "Who is he, mother? My real father. Tell me his name."

"I… don't know. But he told me yours. The name I should have given you…" She smiles, for a moment lost in a memory of something pleasant. She doesn't seem to feel the pain of her wounds anymore, and he understands that her death is just mere seconds away. She whispers into his ear. "This other fool that I married just days after the ritual… He called you Makareth…"Her breath is warm and smells like blood. "Your real name is Darion… Dhar-Oriour, born of dark magic." Her breath at his ear is gone.

"Mother?" He resists the urge to shake her. She doesn't answer anymore. He is angry, so angry at her that she put an end to her life instead of telling him the truth earlier. Why did she go out on Death Night? Was it the fact that he hasn't become the great warrior she hoped him to be? Was it the fact that this mysterious noble never came? He wants to forget; wants it to be nothing but a nightmare from which he could wake up.

His wish is granted.

A voice, whispering words of comfort.

Pain. Tingling magical warmth knotting his torn flesh together again.

Light, stinging his eyes.

The young Druchii walked down to the coast.

It was the first time that he left Louaine's hut. He still didn't understand why the human girl had dragged him from the battlefield full of Dark Elven and human dead, why she healed him, cared for him.

He suspected she just wanted a companion, though to chose a Druchii as one was macabre, given that Louaine was only spared by the raiders' attack because she lived in the forest, away from the village. The red-haired human was shunned by her own kind for being a witch, always in fear of the Witch Hunters who might come for her. She was still needed by the villagers when there was a difficult birth, or a serious illness in their settlement. During the long days of his recovery, she had told him her lonely story.

She had spoken Bretonnian to him, at first; then, when she saw he didn't understand, she tried Reikspiel. She didn't speak it too well, but it was enough for them to understand each other. She was the first human whose name he had ever learned.

He hasn't told her his name yet. He pretended that he had forgotten it. Soon, he would tell her; but there was something that had to be done first.

The dead humans had been buried by the villagers a couple of days after the battle, but not so the Dark Elven raiders. Superstitious and fearing some taint that could spring onto their body or mind if they touched the Druchii, the humans have left everything where it was – weapons, armor, and the corpses.

The wind and the scavenging animals have gnawed at the bones of the Druchii dead; none of them was complete anymore, most faces just skulls. He realized that it had been months since that fateful battle. Still, he was sure that he would instantly recognize Lykaon's body by his armor if he found it. It was unique, with its purple and black and gold and the spikes adorning it.

He came with the intention to bury the lord's body; he felt that it was his duty. He had taken a shovel with him, from the shed behind Louaine's house.

He looked everywhere, turning over shields and kicking away withered corpses of corsairs. He found the Drannach that he had used in that battle, and picked it up. He also found his own sword, with the runes on its hilt. But he didn't find Lykaon.

Maybe the humans had taken the lord's body with them for some unknown reason or maybe Lykaon had survived. He hoped it was the latter.

He used the shovel to dig a deep hole in the ground. The evening sun shone on the golden circle with the runes when he looked at the sword one last time. The runes, "Dhar" and "Oriour", and the phonetic sign "N". He had thought that the runes meant "Niodar", the name of the lord's dead nephew; but now he understood that they could be read the other way around too.

According to the ancient tradition of Nagarythe, the first sword was forged for a child of noble blood around the time of his birth. That is what this sword was; it had been made for him.

The runes read "Dhar-Oriour-N". Darion. Born of dark magic. He had blocked out the memory of his mother's death; forgotten her words because her foolish suicide was too painful for him to remember. But now he knew again; the memory had come back to him when he was on the border between life and death.

He dropped the sword into the hole; then he reached into his shoulder bag and took out the golden torc that he had worn around his neck for years. The hadrilkar, the collar of servitude that marked him as Lykaon's retainer. He wouldn't need it here, with Lykaon either dead or lost. He let the torc fall too, and it clinked gently against the blade of the sword.

Earth covered gold and silversteel. He didn't need to mark the place – it was easy to recognize, between two boulders and an old tree. But he didn't think he would ever come back to retrieve the items anyway.

He thought of Lykaon, and a wistful feeling that he wasn't able to define made his heart ache for a moment.

"Why did you lead us here?" He spoke to the battlefield, whispering words in Druhir. He hadn't used the language for weeks, and it already tasted strange. "You knew that we would be defeated, didn't you? You can't tell me that you have made a mistake. Was it all a part of your plans?" His fingers flew up to his face, touching the scar running from one cheekbone to another, and he felt full of bitterness and hate for Lykaon at once. "Everything was always just a part of your plans, wasn't it, father?"

He walked back, up the hills and through the forest. The last rays of the sun were dyeing the tree tops golden and red, painting the upper edge of the straw roof of Louaine's hut light yellow. He strode around the house and brought the shovel back to the shed; he leaned the Drannach against the wall beside it. Who knew, he might need it one day.

When he returned to the front of the hut, the human girl ran out, her red hair flowing, her freckled face showing an expression of both worry and relief.

He smiled at her awkwardly. It was odd to treat a human as an equal, but he had to learn, if he wanted to survive in the Old World. "Good evening, Louaine."

She drew the brown shawl around her shoulders, and her cheeks went red. "Good evening, eh..." So many times she had asked him for his name; now he would finally tell her.

"Darion. My name is Darion." He stepped closer and touched her shoulder. She shivered, but didn't move away. "Do not worry. I just went to say farewell to my fallen comrades. Now I feel that I can finally begin a new life."

Her eyelashes fluttered, and he almost heard her heart beat, fast and excited. Such a foolish human, he thought. Had they met in a different situation, she would have suffered nothing but pain at his hands. But now the times had changed. He put his arms around her small, soft shape, pulling her close. Her hair smelled like goat milk and parsley. "Little animal," he said in Druhir.

Louaine was just a human, he thought, but she was also a witch. She could teach him to wield magic.

And learning to use magic, of its most powerful and darkest kind, was what he wanted.

It was what he was born for.

Though will it come to pass that the firstborn son of noble blood shall rise to power.

The child will be learned in the darkest arts and he will raise an army of terrible beasts.

Thus will the Dark King fall, slain by neither blade nor arrow but by a sorcerous power of darkest magic, and so shall his body be consumed in the flames and for all eternity burn.

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THE END

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