Chapter Twelve The Dark Island

(Something that authors of fanfiction have in common is a bit of laziness. It's obvious; who else would use someone else's characters and plot lines rather than develop their own? So, to set the scene I'm going to be sinfully lazy and re-insert a description of the Altar from the last chapter. Enjoy.)

The altar of Kardis was not a pleasant place to be in, for all its austere beauty. The temple itself sat on the highest mountain of Marmo, perhaps a mile away from Castle Conquera. The building was in the same vague style as the Greeks and Romans of earth would build; a generally square building, ornately columned. For all that the dark goddess despised light with a passion that went beyond madness, the temple had been carved from the purest white marble, the altar within shale and slate instead. The altar floated atop a forty foot boulder over a yawning chasm stretching miles deep into the ground, to the very resting place of the mistress of destruction.

(We now return you to slightly more original writing.)

Wagnard howled in laughter as he stared at his prize. "It has come full circle. The power, the scepter, and finally the elves. There is nothing left to stop me from fulfilling my destiny and bringing forth the glorious one." He grinned at the two elves. "Cheer up; you give your lives for a Goddess!"

He raised the scepter, intoning the necessary incantations. "Ancient power long since imprisoned, you who were eons-ago forged from chaos, let slip your power, so that we may go where fore-ordained..."

The entire temple began rumbling ominously, as the floating stone began to sink, slowly downward.

The priestesses of Kardis (there were never more than three or four at a time; they tended to murder each other) had chosen to dress both Deed and Pirotess in what they had counted as more appropriate garments for their sacrifices. Both wore tight black ankle-length dresses, the skirts slit up the side for theoretical freedom of movement. The bodices were high-necked and sleeve-less, looking vaguely chinese. Their hair had been pulled back by head-bands, maroon silk engraved with tablet weaving in golden thread. The priestesses had also decked them out in various anklets and bracelets of gold, with huge Egyptian-looking collars of gold and engraved gems.

If it's the end of the world, go for broke.

The two had long since been placed under hefty compulsions; they couldn't move or struggle under any circumstances. Still, they had just enough freedom to let tears flow down their now-pale cheeks. "Trent..."

--------

The dark elf in question gasped uncomfortably, panting as he stared upward at the temple of Falaris for the first time in his life. Uncharacteristically, he'd actually consented to wear armor, though not the half-plate of his holy knight's armor. His jacket had been laced with elven steel wire and ring mail; less than one third of the weight plate armor would have taken, with almost no loss of protection.

It had taken him and the rest of his group hours to get this far, killing or incapacitiating everything in their path. Most had fallen under Trent's swords (he was saving the Holy Sword for when he went up against Wagnard himself or something similar), the remainder going down under Slayn's mage bolts.

He tried not to think about the fact that he'd left a swath of literally hundreds of dead bodies behind him. It was easier than you'd think; they were all goblins and ogres. You know, creatures that would have hacked him and company to bits before gorging themselves on whatever was left over. Not something you feel too much grief for.

"They're over there?"

Leylia nodded. "The ritual will be taking place in the temple of Falaris; no where else could possibly be suitable. That's where we'll find Deedlit and Pirotess."

Trent stared at the hundred or so misshapen creatures blocking him from the temple, and smiled. It had absolutely no good humor in it, more like the visage of a wolf opening its mouth in preparation for going after your jugular.

Cry Havoc, and Let Slip the Dogs of War.

--------

Kashue stared moodily at the fog-shrouded water. He was on a small...well smaller than he would have liked rickety wooden boat with a few thousand soldiers, and he had to go and try to stop a man wielding more power than most gods from ressurecting a goddess who intended to destroy any and everything that ever existed.

Sometimes, he reflected, Being a hero sucks.

Shadam stared into the fog as the afore-mentioned island began to swim into sight. "And so it begins."

Kashue shook his head. "Mere men and their cold steel are fighting this battle. And our opponent will quite literally be divine."

"At least we're assured a worthy adversary."

Kashue probably should have laughed, but given the grimness of the situation, he settled for a bitter grin. "I suppose that under the circumstances a bit of bravado would be a good thing." Silence reigned for a few more minutes, until they got close enough for details of the island to become apparent.

Shadam frowned as Kashue's expression darkened. He REALLY didn't need a sorrowful, brooding hero at the moment. They had Trent for that. "My lord?"

"Take a good, long look at that place Shadam. Even if we survive the battle, we'll never return there."

"You mean that it will be no place worth returning to...my lord?"

Kashue's hand shot to his broadsword, senses sharpened under the razor edge of a lifetime of battle sending the subtle hints of danger. Not quite enough for him to be aware of the source, but enough to know something was coming.

Said thing proving to be a sea-dragon; one hundred fifty feet long and forty tons of berkser scales, flesh, and fangs.

"Stand firm!" Kashue bellowed as his men began milling and shouting in terror. "Archers! Loose!"

Sea Dragons aren't counted among true (read as land) dragons. Among other things, they lack scales; their skins are tough, slimy, and leathery; more like a huge eel than a snake. While nowhere near as tough as the iron-hard scales of a dragon, sea-dragon skin is still proof against a lot more than you'd think. That includes arrows.

The flights of arrows only served to get the damn thing pissed at them, as evidenced by its crushing one of the fleet ships. The sailors manged to reach other boats, but that was no guarantee. As for the men who'd been wearing their armor...steel and iron don't float under normal circumstances.

Kashue glared at the thing, sword in hand. He'd have to try and finish the thing off, and quickly...

...Before it sprouted a dragon-rider's javelin through its brain pan.

Jester shook his head, tsking at the mercenary king. "Not exactly polite of you, just running off like this. I thought we were allies in this endeavor."

Kashue smiled in relief. His smile turned thoughtful as he noticed the two who'd killed the sea dragon. "I thought you two were bowing out of this fight?"

Shiris shrugged helplessly. "I just can't stand the thought of you guys fighting without me."

Orson chose less flippant remarks (as if he could be funny. "If Kardis is reborn, the Hyuri in me might take control."

Kashue laughed openly at that. "So, not even berserkers will allow the rebirth of the Destroyer?"

Orson's answer was short and to the point. "Hyuri won't protect Shiris."

--------

The wind whipped ebony hair around Ashram's face as he surveyed the creatures that had chosen to oppose him. He was unaware of it to a degree, but he'd unconsciously entered a Pose. Come on, how much cooler can you get? A six foot six bishonen in glossy black anatomically correct (no, not THERE) armor, a scarlet-lined black cape whipping around him in storm winds, his black hair tossed around a pale face without obscuring it for a moment, the blazing sword Soul Crusher in his hands.

Yeah, good luck topping that.

The various goblins and ogres of Marmo had been trained for eons that you bowed only to one who was proven stronger than you. Ashram would be no different; he would be respected and obeyed only when he proved that he was their better.

He allowed the energies of a currently enraged demon to slip free of the sword as he was charged. Whipping his blade upward, he unleashed a pulse of energy, devestating any and every thing withina hundred yards. Flesh and bone was reduced beyond ash in the maelstrom of unholy power he summoned; nothing survived his rage.

Ignoring the carnage he'd unleashed, the Black Knight stared to the south. Towards Castle Conquera and the Temple of Falaris. He had business to attend to soon enough.

--------

The altar continued its descent down the rock tunnels. Over time, the simple stone rough-hewn by wind and water gave way to subterranean ruins stretching past even the time of Kastuul. Resembling to a degree the pueblos of the southwestern United States (if anyone in Lodoss had ever heard of the United States), the ancestors of what would become goblins had carved them before the tainted blood of Kardis had twisted them around. Now, after cataclysm on the heals of cataclysm, the ruins were nothing but mausoleums; hollow, barren monuments to the dead.

Some less dead than others.

The perpetual wraiths of Marmo stirred as they sensed still-live creatures traversing their realms for the first time in over a millenium. Little more than shells of what had once been living breathing flesh and blood, they were not true ghosts. They had hunger and anger, but no souls; just a powerful memory of something lost.

What little mental faculties they had knew better than to trouble the dark priest; they could sense the forbidden energies around him. The elves were under no such guard.

They couldn't feed on them per se, but they COULD sate their hunger to do harm on the pair. The compulsions on the elves was too great for them to even cry out in pain; they were limited to whimpers and grunts as the ghostly creatures began to phase through the two bodies.

Wagnard frowned, raising the scepter. It would never do to have his sacrificial lams harmed; he needed all their strength if he was going to kill them first. Bringing the butt of the staff down against the altar with a single rap, he unleashed its power against them. Those closest were ripped to ethereal shreds; those farther off were meerly battered by the astral and magical forces. Regardless, a lesson had been forced down their throats...leave the elves or pay.

Sighing in the minute relief brought by the cessation, the two elves lapsed into sub-consciosness.

Floating ever lower, they passed the great black dragon Narse, lord of Marmo and guardian of Kardis's body. The perpetually snarling grin of his jawbones finally reached his eyes as Wagnard went past. He didn't like the goddess; he'd been offended by her very presence. Still, her ressurection meant a renewal of the great war of now-dormant gods, one that Falaris could win this round.

It would be glorious.

In the farthest northwest corner of Lodoss, a second beast stirred. Raising his golden, whiskered head, Mycen gazed across the valley, across his city of Dragon's Breath. One of the five survivor dragons, he had chosen to use his hoard and powers to form Myce, the only kingdom to boast dragon knights. He'd fought alongside Falis, defending Lodoss from darkness and destruction. Now, a new battle was raging, and old roles must be slipped into.

Spreading his bird-like pinions, he flexed muscles that he'd refused to let weaken in his dormancy. With a single mighty heave, he launched himself out of his cavern, his heading due southeast.

He had old battles to fight, old enemies to kill.

--------

Wort's eyes snapped open in shock. Mycen was stirring, headed for Marmo. Narse would never accept his presence without a fight. He openly shuddered at the thought of what the two dragons could do to a land they considered a battleground.

Kardis was stirring.

Every force in all of Lodoss was mustering to turn the dark island into a battleground of truly epic proportions.

"Damn you Karla...what are your scales of history? What purpose will your battles serve?"

The archmage, sage of Moss, began glowing in a fitful aura of golden sparks as he readied the powers that decades of study had honed. He would be of less than no use in the battle against Kardis; he would be too easily countered. He was predictable, it was that simple.

That didn't mean he would let it be. He had a few last questions to ask.

--------

Panting slightly, Trent continued his charge up the marble steps of the temple of Falaris. Two new goblins fell in large meat chunks under his katana, but time was starting to tell. He'd been at this for hours, at least the trying to get into the temple. He resolutely tried to ignore the fact that around two hundred various corpses were littering the ground behind him; most falling to watered elven steel, the rest to greenish mage bolts.

It was easier than you'd think. After all, it's pretty hard to feel sorry for a bunch of creatures that would have dragged you to a campfire, skinned you alive, and finished off by roasting you in such a state as to ensure that you'd continue screaming the whole time.

No, very not-nice people.

Still, fighting off that kind of a group was exhausting. Using his sword as a cane, Trent found the time to rest long enough to catch his breath.

Unfortunately, that was when an ogre chose to appear to try and hack him into little chunks.

Before Trent could react, a mage-bolt rammed into the creature's side, blasting it off the steps. The dark elf turned gratefully towards a still- posed Slayn. He probably could have blocked the stroke, but in his current state it would have sent him tumbling down a few hundred VERY hard rock steps. "We're almost there."

The inside proved to be a bit of a let down; without the floating altar, there was almost nothing but a bunch of well-carved if austere columns surrounding a hole in the ground.

Leylia stared in wonder. "Kardis ressurected from within this temple...as though she were waiting for her rebirth in the womb of Falaris."

"Gods don't have wombs, goddesses do," Trent remarked absently, still in less than ideal shape. "Shall I assume that Wagnard is somewhere down this hole?"

Slayn nodded. "Most likely." He would have liked to continue his explanation, but was cut off as the ground began rumbling under his feet, cracking to belch out beams of crimson light.

Outside, Kashue stared grimly at the slaughtered remnants of the battlefield. "They weren't playing around, were they?"

Orson looked to the temple as the earthquake reached them. "He's coming."

A huge rift began to open behind the temple; four hundred feet long, easily seventy feet wide.

Then Something came out of it that made a gaping hole in the earth forming in mere seconds seem tame.

Jester gaped at the sight.

Black, leathery hide?

Check.

Jagged white fangs under spiky jaws?

Check.

Red membranes covering black, bat-like wings?

Check.

Looked really, really, REALLY pissed off?

Check.

Approximately four hundred feet long, a few dozen tons in weight, and breathing violet fire?

Check.

Narse had appeared.

"GET BACK!!! DON'T TRY TO ATTACK! NARSE IS FAR TOO STRONG TO OPPOSE!"

Orson watched absently as Narse continued to roar, his wings stretched protectively over the temple. "He doesn't seem to be terribly active. More as though he were trying to keep us away."

Shadam winced. "Meaning that we can't get anywhere near the altar."

Orson nodded. "That, and our only hope to stop them now will be Trent and the others."

--------

It took long enough, but the altar finally reached the bottom of the vast chasm; yet another, bigger floating rock. Said big, floating rock was almost featureless, if one ignored the six pillars surrounding what could be considered the original altar. Atop each pillar, one of the red-robed and virtually identical priests of Falaris materialized. Why will eventually become apparent.

Wagnard's skeletal grin continued as he surveyed the two still-almost- comatose dark elf women. "Soon...soon your lives will flow to Kardis, opening those ancient seals that keep her bound. And when the darkness of her destruction is loosed across this world, he who holds the scepter of domination shall not die." Cue the maniacal scream of laughter. "With this scepter, i will becom a god!"

Raising the scepter, he began the ritual in a decidedly calmer state of mind. "Ancient power long since imprisoned, you who were eons-ago forged from chaos, let slip your power..."

A flare of crimson electricity burst across the larger, secondary altar; a ring of lightning surging inward, from the edges to the central altar. As the energy continued, a stream of glowing motes of red light began to rise from the first of the pillars, soundlessly devouring one of the six priests. With his death, the first of the six seals opened.

Pirotess and Deed gasped almost inaudibly in pain as the energies stole their own life-forces to feed the gates. Tears began to flow from their eyes; the compulsions left them that little freedom. They were going to die to destroy the world, and their only real hope of rescue was a man they prayed would not come within miles of them. "Trent..."

--------

Trent growled in irritation as they entered a walk-way of sorts. "How much further will this blasted place go? How much more time could it possibly take to reach the altar?"

Slayn sighed. "I haven't the slightest idea. The last people to come out of Marmo were the six heroes over thirty years ago, and they didn't devote very much time or effort towards the topography and cartography."

The dark elf shook his head, looking around. "It's rather disturbing for Her to be reborn in a temple devoted to Falaris. Destruction doesn't spring from night like everyone seems so convinced."

Leylia raised a concerned eye at him. He hadn't mentioned why he'd chosen to accept the sword when they'd first set out, but this wasn't the first time he'd mentioned something of this nature. She really wished that he'd explain why he was having all these...insights. "We should be getting closer. It's unlikely that Kardis would have fallen all that much further."

Etoh winced as a pungent new odor arose. "What's that?"

Trent glanced ahead, where some kind of acidic goo was dripping down onto the floor. "I'd guess it's whatever comes after that."

They assumed ready stances (one or both hands towards the now increasing noise of something shambling closer, a shoulder or the second hand trying to cover a nose) as the creature came into view. It resembled a giant amoeba of some kind; twenty feet tall, forty five feet long, slimy, green, and slug-like, with psuedo-pods/tentacles.

Not a pretty sight, but as this fic is only PG-13, don't start worrying all that much.

A darting tentacle was sliced in half as Trent's katana bisected the path, only to result in a new patch of stink/burning acid.

"Don't use your sword again," Slayn cautioned. "It's slime is its primary weapon."

"Great. Terrific. Peachy. So does that mean you're the only one who can deal with it?"

In the middle of this conversation, an over-looked psuedo-pod/tentacle had snaked around behind them, and of course, it went for Leylia; the attractive female one.

Slayn felt an odd snap inside of him as he saw his objet d'affectionne dangling from what was close enough to a monster's maw. He shot forward, his staff raised. "Source of all power, you who dwell within and without, lend me your force!"

A six-foot orb of green energy lanced out, surrounding Leylia harmlessly while simultaneously disintegrating a good fifty pounds of slime creature's flesh.

Slayn managed to catch the priestess as the creature screeched in pain. "Trent! Go on ahead, we'll stay and deal with this!"

Said dark elf bit his lip in concern, but waved it off; particularly after the two started sharing lovey-dovey glances. (I could never understand why near-death experiences are considered romantic in anime.) "Good luck you two..."

As the elf and the priest ran off, Slayn raised his staff. "Source of all power, you who dwell within and without...throw off these false garments, and protect our movements through..."

Psuedopods were shredded against the conjured wall of mage-force. It would prove to be a gory, time-consuming, and ultimately undescribed battle.

Even if it was sufficiently cool.

--------

One of the less fortunate of Jester's dragon knights managed to get slightly too close to what Narse considered his immediate territory. A quick wash of violet flames and he ceased to exist in anything other than ashes.

Shiris gaped at the demonic visage. "Geez, what's that things problem?!"

Kashue grimaced as the dragon knights began jerking their mounts around in shock at their brethren's death. "That thing's not about to let a single person get anywhere near the temple."

Orson began stalking forward, his sword unsheathed. The way he figured it, he owed Trent a small debt. The warrior was the only man he'd ever met that could control a near-berserker fury. He was the only person that really knew what Hyuri could possibly be like.

The result of these conclusions being a near-suicide. "It's in the way."

Shiris gaped in horror at her companion. Okay, he was an excellent swordsman under any circumstances. Granted, he was damn near unstoppable once his Berkserker state kicked in. That didn't mean he'd be a whole lot of good against an eighty ton lump of claws, fangs, scales, and infernal breath. "ORSON, GET BACK HERE!!! IT'S IMPOSSIBLE!!!"

Quite possibly true. He probably would have gone through with it anyway, save a very timely arrival.

Check that, a very timely and down right collosal arrival.

In close-faced helmets, it is very hard to nearly dislocate your jaw from gaping. Somehow, Jester was doing it anyway. First that mess with Shooting Star, now Narse had arrived and now this. "MYCEN?!"

He was quite glorious to behold, as terrible in his own way as Narse. He was roughly the same size in body, head and neck, but his tail was a fair bit shorter...mostly because it was a feathered affair rather than lizard- like. Unlike any other dragon on all of Lodoss, his wings were feathered as well, gleaming against his golden hide.

The golden dragon turned to the prince of his nation, roaring in an ancient tongue that only the royal family of Moss and another ancient dragon could understand.

The wyvern-riding monarch nodded, hope touching him once again. "I understand!" Swooping down, he brought his wyvern to a landing before Kashue and Orson. "We're free to continue our battle! Mycen will deal with Narse!"

The demonic black dragon grinned as he sighted the golden dragon in the skies. Mycen had been his opponent in the long-ago war of the gods; it would be good to face his truest rival once more. Spreading his wings wider, the black one leapt powerfully upward towards a bitter foe.

Let the fires of the dragon's maw scorch heaven, hell, and earth.

--------

Miles away, in what had been the citadel of a Marmo noble, Karla stared into the flares of magical flames that erupted in the clouds. For the first time in hundreds of years, events transpired that he had absolutely no control over. It was not a comforting revelation that he was not the ultimate force in Lodoss.

"Do you really intend to allow Kardis to be ressurected?"

Karla turned calmly to regard Wort's glowing astral figure. "I will wait and do what I see fit."

Wort's brows twitched at the comment. "You face gods now Karla. Have you so lost touch with the world around you that you think yourself Their equals?"

Karla turned back to the battlefields in the distance, for once devoid of his ever-present, mysterious smile. It didn't suit Woodchuck's uglier face, anyway. "For seven hundred years I have struggled to preserve Lodoss. I have no intention of allowing nearly a millenium go to waste." He drew his cloak around tighter. "For now, I will have some faith in the black knight's will to survive and dominate. I will have faith in the elf's power to endure anything he chooses."

Wort had no answer to that. Like Karla, he felt his own impotence against such forces, and felt very small. All that was left for him was to watch and pray.

--------

Wagnard sighed blissfully as the fourth of the six priests melted into motes of scarlet light. Their deaths and those of the two elves would fuel the rising power of Kardis. Truly a worthy death. He actually felt a slight bit of envy for them, going on to such glory. The demented priest could easily picture scores of others eager for the same honor.

That they would be choosing this sacrifice over death by torture, be strung out on so many drugs that their names would escape them, or be under too many magical compulsions to piss without leave was lost on him. Still, it wasn't so bad a way to go. (Author's note: In case you haven't figured it out yet, ressurecting the goddess of insanity DOES have a few side-effects on the ressurector.)

Which was what made the death rattle he was hearing from the sixth priest just so irritating. It wouldn't halt the ritual; all that was needed would be for the body to be evaporated within a few meters of the pillar for it to be sufficient fuel. No, what irked him was that any person who was audacious and/or dangerous enough to actually try to interfere might actually cause some problems. "Who's there?" he barked, his eyes widening first in shock and then rage at the figure stepping out of the shadows. "YOU?!"

Ashram allowed himself a small grin. "When did I ever let you do as you pleased?"

Wagnard snarled at the figure who'd dared to try and stop him. "Who dragged you back from hell?" he demanded. As Ashram remained silent, he went with the most obvious (and surprisingly for a psychotic individual, a fairly accurate) choice. "I see...so, you've thrown your lot in with that witch, eh?"

Ashram didn't bother to answer. If Karla chose to help him, he'd accept it. He wouldn't trust her, but he'd be willing to use her. Mutual use seemed reasonable for an ancient witch and a knight who wielded a demonically possessed sword. "The powers of the gods are beyond your ken, Wagnard. A man should know his limitations."

The red-clad priest laughed. So, underestimating his resolve? The black knight and 'king' was in for a nasty shock. "Unfortunately for you, I'M not the one who has to worry about controlling it. KARDIS is!"

--------

As he paused once more in the next little stop of their sojourn towards near-suicide, Trent growled in irritation. It had taken them an hour since reaching the shrine to make it this far; he considered himself slightly lucky that the ceremony was one that apparently took forever. "How much farther is it this time?" he asked Etoh, managing to keep at least some of the irritation out of his voice.

"Not much further at all," Etoh answered surprisingly. "We're close enough that I can actually FEEL Her dark energies. It's only a matter of time now."

Trent gave the priest a surprised glance, though pleasantly so for once. He can actually feel what we're up against, and he's coming anyway? Seems the boy's done some growing up since we last fought. I'll have to remember to start cutting him some more slack.

This of course was when yet another obstacle chose to present itself; this time, another swarm of almost mindless wraiths. Oddly enough, they chose a more potent attack than normal for the two, coalescing into larger groups before beginnging their attack.

Knowing that simple tempered steel was little good against the undead (as well as having an idea of how long before he'd be facing off against Wagnard), Trent sheathed his katana, finally bringing out the holy sword Spiritus Falis. Given that it was a holy weapon, he'd assume that it had at least some capabilities for turning the undead.

Gritting his teeth, he braced himself against the streaming mass of ghosts as they attacked. It would have been a great deal easier if the blasted weapon would cooperate; it seemed to dislike its wielder as much as Trent disliked the blade. Why in the seven hells couldn't I have gotten a weapon that focused on darkness, or something cooperative? he griped, trying to drive off ghosts from sheer bloody-mindedness.

In heaven or some reasonable analogue, Falaris grinned. Hmmm...I think I can arrange that.

Preoccupied as he was dealing with a single wraith cluster, he didn't have a chance to parry or dodge the next two that attacked from back and sides, sending him almost-sprawling. He caught himself, but it was a near thing.

Rather than press the attack, they chose to increase their own power to a degree, coalescing further beyond their normal mist-tailed forms of flying skulls. Specifically, into a fourteen foot tall spectral ogre sporting a demonically horned skull for its head. Energizing a group of the smaller wraiths still circling around it, the collected form attacked with its brethren rather than itself.

Before Trent could attempt anything, Etoh had flung himself in the wraiths' path. Firming his grip on his blessed mace, he bellowed, "BY THE GLORY OF FALIS!"

The first wave of the small-fry wraiths were shredded back into the lands of the dead. The larger collective was less visibly harmed, but it was impressive nonetheless.

Wearing a fair approximation of Trent's feral smile, Etoh called back to the assassin, "Get going, I'll hold this thing off!"

Trent gnawed his lip worriedly. Granted, Etoh was holding himself a lot better than before, but still... "You sure you can handle this?"

Etoh nodded, sending a second prayer to scatter the wraiths. "Prayers will be more effective than swords here. Now get going! You have to save Deedlit and Pirotess!"

Trent smiled at the priest. Will wonders never cease? "When this is all over, I'll meet you again."

Etoh allowed some of the nervousness he'd been hiding (he'd been practicing) as Trent shot off, much faster than before. He still felt he could handle this thing, he just wished he was as sure as he'd pretended to be. Firming his mace once more, he faced off the beast as more wraiths erupted towards him. "BY THE AWESOME MIGHT OF FALIS!"

--------

Ashram hated Wagnard. He had for years; the simpering little man, so convinced in his own perfection had grated on his nerves to no end. Now the fool thought actually thought he would be allowed to arbitrarily destroy the world for his own twisted little jollies.

Soul Crusher's first master, Beld, had disliked the priest to a degree, though for markedly different reasons. Wagnard had struck him as too cunning, too self-serving. Not that self-service was a flaw to the Marmo; far from it. Beld had merely considered the priest a danger. That, and he was more often than not annoying as hell.

Soul Crusher itself, or more properly the demon king bound to it, currently hated Wagnard with a passion that would have staggered even the priest. The demon had never loved Kardis; what point was there in carving out an empire, just so it could be ruled over by a deity who'd destroy it in a whim or as a matter of policy? No, the rule of Marmo and Lodoss had been for his sake first, then for his master's after his death. The ressurection of Kardis was one thing the Great Sword had no intention of allowing.

That didn't make things a whole lot easier though.

Wagnard faded into sight before Ashram, a backdrop of darkness forming around his body. He openly sneered at the knight. "You don't really expect to be successful against me, do you? You couldn't possibly hope to even comprehend the powers at my fingertips, let alone oppose them."

Ashram firmed his grip. Unlike the priest, he was taking this with every shred of seriousness and focus he could muster. "Neither Marmo nor Lodoss are your play things."

Wagnard laughed. "Mere trifles, at best. After all, what use are mere chunks of cursed rock and dirt to one such as I?" Cue the skeletal grin. "What I desire is POWER! And when those of Kardis are mine, I will be the greatest, most powerful wizard to have ever been born!"

His eyes glowed blood red as the dragon-headed staff he bore (he had to leave the scepter to the ritual) flared with power, sending a wave of magical energy to buffet the dark knight.

Ashram set himself firmly in its path, Soul Crusher's demonic force easily deflecting the blast. A slightly more appreciative Wagnard frowned, drawing forth more of his now vastly enhanced magical energies.

This time, the blast was far more powerful, forcing everything Ashram had into defense. He gritted his teeth, grunting in the exertion as energies fueled of chaos and madness slammed into him. He was now fighting a battle that he could quite easily lose.

Once more, Cry Havoc. And Let Slip The Dogs Of War.