Eternal Foe
Chapter 11
Time had lost all meaning to Skeletor, how long now had he been on this mysterious new continent? He had staggered from the forest and limped across patchy plains; he had spluttered through streams and straggled across rivers, driven only by one thing: the thrumming of an unknown source.
He could feel it much stronger now; it had become his travelling companion, the dull vibrations coursed through every vessel, every bone and every muscle. It guided his feet, it drove his will. It had brought him to a cave, or a series of caves, Skeletor could not be too sure, he was not sure of much these days.
He stumbled along too weary to strike a light he let the hum drag him forward. The problem was that 'forward' all too often led him straight into a wall, or a dead end. Little did he care; all that mattered in Skeletor's scrambled mind was the goal, without that he had nothing and nothing he had; no food, no water and no clothes. Skeletor let out a choked laugh; here he is a maimed sorcerer of incomparable power and his chief concern was a dirty pair of tights.
The thudding of the ground greeting his knees broke Skeletor's musings. He had fallen again, a much too common occurrence in recent times. He tried so hard to explode into a rage, but failed without so much as a whimper. What would his enemies think, seeing him broken like this? Unable to defend himself; what would they do? Come to think of it, what would his minions do? They too were beyond trust, especially that witch, Evil-Lyn.
She thought he didn't know, that he never watched her scheming behind his back. But he did. Every moment of it.
He heard every soft word she ever whispered in Beastman's fuzzy ears; 'I am your friend, I would not treat you like a dog'. He could hear her breathy, inside Trap Jaw's head; 'Skeletor has said the next time you perish in battle, he will not bring you back.' Lyn did not have to massage Tri- Klops' ego however, he was Skeletor's man to the end, his field commander. Instead she used her position as Skeletor's bonded to have Tri-Klop's believe that she led in Skeletor's absence.
Skeletor had many times publicly tried to disabuse Tri-Klops of that notion, making the witch cow at Skeletor's feet, tying together her hands and feet and making her cook the evening feast. But no matter what, whenever he was not around Tri-Klops would jump at the witch's word. There was no doubt Evil-Lyn was crafty, cunning, like Skeletor himself - once.
There was a time when Skeletor was a leader of men; men who loved and respected him and he repaid their faith by leading them into many victorious battles. There were few that could outwit him in battle strategy and fewer still that could match his skill with the sword.
But what good did the love and respect of men do him when its only reward was to fight and fight again? What good when it his very brother that ordered him time and time again to an uncertain fate? For when you sent kin to war there was no promise they would return. What good did it serve him that the love of a thousand men could not replace the absence of love from his brother?
Dear brother, Skeletor remembered the day his brother left, the day his family left, but not him. Oh no, it was his fate to stay with strangers, be raised by strangers. Little did the strangers care for him, their only interest was his relationship to his father.and brother.
When Skeletor was of age, he was reunited with his brother. He remembered being so elated at being with family again that he forgave his abandonment. But then, some years later, she came into their lives.
Skeletor had rescued her from the ocean, her and her companions. He had fallen in love with her, for she was the very vision of an angel and like an angel she had fallen from the heavens. Surely it was destiny? He had brought her before his brother, this woman he intended to wed. But they would both betray him.
She had instead lusted for his brother's power and he too lusted for her, his brother's betrothed. That is when it became apparent to Skeletor that love, adulation and respect were worthless. That there was nothing greater than power and Skeletor too would seek power of his own. But it would not be the power of title, he would take it and make men fear him and obey him because there was no other choice. That was the only power worth having.
It took the appearance of a man he once vanquished to give him his means of dominance. He freed Skeletor from the incarceration his brother imposed upon him; thrice betrayed! His liberator Hordak, invited Skeletor to learn under his tutelage, to master the arcane; he asked for but one token, a symbol that Skeletor's bond to this world was broken.
Skeletor offered him a child, the child of his brother and his duplicit wife. Hordak accepted and took Skeletor to an alien land. A land he learned was completely controlled by his new mentor. There he saw Hordak living the dream he had; the populace living in fear, obeying for they must lest they be punished. The power of an absolute ruler in action.
It took Skeletor almost two decades, but master the sorcerous arts he did and thus he returned to Eternia. During his time under Hordak's auspices he learned of the mystical fortress Grayskull, a keep where the power of the Ancients is stored and the conquering of this castle became his primary goal.
But that did not mean he had forgotten those who had betrayed him and he would see to it that they had not forgotten him. At least, that is what he intended. He had not counted on the appearance of a hero, a champion to Eternia's cause - He-Man! Now someone Skeletor did not even know wanted to stop him.
For all the tools at his disposal Skeletor just had no answer for He-Man, the musclebound goon wielded the power of Grayskull; Hordak had once spoken of one who would. Yet, Skeletor threw all his power at the hero and every time he was thwarted. Until now he could not figure out why.
He-Man has, what Skeletor once had - cunning. A great leader, whether loved or loathed did not win wars on the strength of his blade alone. He- Man's physical strength was immeasurable, he had witnessed its ferocity on many occasions, but it was not that alone which made him successful. It was Guile. When did Skeletor, once the greatest of warlords resort to brute force to bring enemies to heel? At what point did he come to rely on the strength of his magic, rather than use it wisely?
How hard could it be? To again be one of the great military minds, how hard would it be to again focus the mind in that manner? For traitors did not work publicly, their craft was ministered in shadows an unseen force robbing the unwary of all they had. The traitors would not see the sword in their backs for they would be blinded by the lights in their eyes.
As always the promise of revenge drove Skeletor back to his feet, spurring him on further. Onward he laboured, on through the darkness. An interminable amount of time later he again fell. This time he just lay there, sprawled in the darkness. He trawled his hand along the cavern floor, feeling the rocky surface and loose gravel swept away by his touch. His fingers dipped in something dank. Apprehensively he brought his fingers to his nasal cavities. There was no discernible odour to the liquid, he touched it to his tongue - water! He had found water!
Skeletor fumbled about for a moment, unable to find the puddle immediately. Once he did he greedily immersed his face into the sparse liquid. What little he could lap down smoothed his parched throat and tasted exotic - who knew water could taste so fine? His tongue brushed against silt telling him that there was no more to be gleaned from this source.
He sat up, feeling more refreshed than in Gods knew how long. He surveyed the darkness, trying to allow his eyes to adjust to the light. A few minutes passed and the faint silhouettes of rock formed walls emerged, not much, but perhaps enough to at least not walk into any more dead ends.
He tried to stand, slipping down slightly in the process. Only his mind felt more alert, his body still weakened from malnourishment. Nonetheless he pushed on again, refusing to just sit and die. As time passed his night vision grew, to the point that he no longer used one side of the cave as a guide.
Skeletor was becoming forlorn again, the cave never seemed to vary in appearance; each corridor, every rock wall looked alike. It was not until he heard air whistling through vents did he think he had made any progress.
He looked hard for the source of the winds but could see none. It was definitely real as the sound became stronger the further he walked. A ways ahead he could see traces of light.
Forgetting his hunger, fatigue and thirst he ran towards the light. The closer Skeletor got to the light the more certain he was that it was daylight; the whistling had grown in pitch as well.
Skeletor halted before the mouth of the lit cavern. He could see into the chamber and his jaw dropped in pure awe. Stepping into the grotto he looked about, still stunned by what he saw: the single largest room he had ever seen populated by dozens, if not hundreds of sleeping creatures he thought he would never live to see. The whistling sounds he had heard earlier tore through the air, made not by natural vents, but by sleeping beasts.
He realised that all his aches and pains had subsided, including thirst and hunger. The warm light; which he now realised was not of natural origins, seemed to wash all his physical ails away. Skeletor stepped quietly through the massive cave, he could not for the life of him see the other side as it was hidden by the sleeping bulks and obscured by distance.
In his lifetime Skeletor had known fear, trepidation, apprehension, but never had he felt as nervous and unsure as he did now. Even so, his mind worked frantically, evaluating the situation, plotting to how he could make thing work in his favour.
Skeletor figured there must be some way.to use the dragons for his purposes.
Chapter 11
Time had lost all meaning to Skeletor, how long now had he been on this mysterious new continent? He had staggered from the forest and limped across patchy plains; he had spluttered through streams and straggled across rivers, driven only by one thing: the thrumming of an unknown source.
He could feel it much stronger now; it had become his travelling companion, the dull vibrations coursed through every vessel, every bone and every muscle. It guided his feet, it drove his will. It had brought him to a cave, or a series of caves, Skeletor could not be too sure, he was not sure of much these days.
He stumbled along too weary to strike a light he let the hum drag him forward. The problem was that 'forward' all too often led him straight into a wall, or a dead end. Little did he care; all that mattered in Skeletor's scrambled mind was the goal, without that he had nothing and nothing he had; no food, no water and no clothes. Skeletor let out a choked laugh; here he is a maimed sorcerer of incomparable power and his chief concern was a dirty pair of tights.
The thudding of the ground greeting his knees broke Skeletor's musings. He had fallen again, a much too common occurrence in recent times. He tried so hard to explode into a rage, but failed without so much as a whimper. What would his enemies think, seeing him broken like this? Unable to defend himself; what would they do? Come to think of it, what would his minions do? They too were beyond trust, especially that witch, Evil-Lyn.
She thought he didn't know, that he never watched her scheming behind his back. But he did. Every moment of it.
He heard every soft word she ever whispered in Beastman's fuzzy ears; 'I am your friend, I would not treat you like a dog'. He could hear her breathy, inside Trap Jaw's head; 'Skeletor has said the next time you perish in battle, he will not bring you back.' Lyn did not have to massage Tri- Klops' ego however, he was Skeletor's man to the end, his field commander. Instead she used her position as Skeletor's bonded to have Tri-Klop's believe that she led in Skeletor's absence.
Skeletor had many times publicly tried to disabuse Tri-Klops of that notion, making the witch cow at Skeletor's feet, tying together her hands and feet and making her cook the evening feast. But no matter what, whenever he was not around Tri-Klops would jump at the witch's word. There was no doubt Evil-Lyn was crafty, cunning, like Skeletor himself - once.
There was a time when Skeletor was a leader of men; men who loved and respected him and he repaid their faith by leading them into many victorious battles. There were few that could outwit him in battle strategy and fewer still that could match his skill with the sword.
But what good did the love and respect of men do him when its only reward was to fight and fight again? What good when it his very brother that ordered him time and time again to an uncertain fate? For when you sent kin to war there was no promise they would return. What good did it serve him that the love of a thousand men could not replace the absence of love from his brother?
Dear brother, Skeletor remembered the day his brother left, the day his family left, but not him. Oh no, it was his fate to stay with strangers, be raised by strangers. Little did the strangers care for him, their only interest was his relationship to his father.and brother.
When Skeletor was of age, he was reunited with his brother. He remembered being so elated at being with family again that he forgave his abandonment. But then, some years later, she came into their lives.
Skeletor had rescued her from the ocean, her and her companions. He had fallen in love with her, for she was the very vision of an angel and like an angel she had fallen from the heavens. Surely it was destiny? He had brought her before his brother, this woman he intended to wed. But they would both betray him.
She had instead lusted for his brother's power and he too lusted for her, his brother's betrothed. That is when it became apparent to Skeletor that love, adulation and respect were worthless. That there was nothing greater than power and Skeletor too would seek power of his own. But it would not be the power of title, he would take it and make men fear him and obey him because there was no other choice. That was the only power worth having.
It took the appearance of a man he once vanquished to give him his means of dominance. He freed Skeletor from the incarceration his brother imposed upon him; thrice betrayed! His liberator Hordak, invited Skeletor to learn under his tutelage, to master the arcane; he asked for but one token, a symbol that Skeletor's bond to this world was broken.
Skeletor offered him a child, the child of his brother and his duplicit wife. Hordak accepted and took Skeletor to an alien land. A land he learned was completely controlled by his new mentor. There he saw Hordak living the dream he had; the populace living in fear, obeying for they must lest they be punished. The power of an absolute ruler in action.
It took Skeletor almost two decades, but master the sorcerous arts he did and thus he returned to Eternia. During his time under Hordak's auspices he learned of the mystical fortress Grayskull, a keep where the power of the Ancients is stored and the conquering of this castle became his primary goal.
But that did not mean he had forgotten those who had betrayed him and he would see to it that they had not forgotten him. At least, that is what he intended. He had not counted on the appearance of a hero, a champion to Eternia's cause - He-Man! Now someone Skeletor did not even know wanted to stop him.
For all the tools at his disposal Skeletor just had no answer for He-Man, the musclebound goon wielded the power of Grayskull; Hordak had once spoken of one who would. Yet, Skeletor threw all his power at the hero and every time he was thwarted. Until now he could not figure out why.
He-Man has, what Skeletor once had - cunning. A great leader, whether loved or loathed did not win wars on the strength of his blade alone. He- Man's physical strength was immeasurable, he had witnessed its ferocity on many occasions, but it was not that alone which made him successful. It was Guile. When did Skeletor, once the greatest of warlords resort to brute force to bring enemies to heel? At what point did he come to rely on the strength of his magic, rather than use it wisely?
How hard could it be? To again be one of the great military minds, how hard would it be to again focus the mind in that manner? For traitors did not work publicly, their craft was ministered in shadows an unseen force robbing the unwary of all they had. The traitors would not see the sword in their backs for they would be blinded by the lights in their eyes.
As always the promise of revenge drove Skeletor back to his feet, spurring him on further. Onward he laboured, on through the darkness. An interminable amount of time later he again fell. This time he just lay there, sprawled in the darkness. He trawled his hand along the cavern floor, feeling the rocky surface and loose gravel swept away by his touch. His fingers dipped in something dank. Apprehensively he brought his fingers to his nasal cavities. There was no discernible odour to the liquid, he touched it to his tongue - water! He had found water!
Skeletor fumbled about for a moment, unable to find the puddle immediately. Once he did he greedily immersed his face into the sparse liquid. What little he could lap down smoothed his parched throat and tasted exotic - who knew water could taste so fine? His tongue brushed against silt telling him that there was no more to be gleaned from this source.
He sat up, feeling more refreshed than in Gods knew how long. He surveyed the darkness, trying to allow his eyes to adjust to the light. A few minutes passed and the faint silhouettes of rock formed walls emerged, not much, but perhaps enough to at least not walk into any more dead ends.
He tried to stand, slipping down slightly in the process. Only his mind felt more alert, his body still weakened from malnourishment. Nonetheless he pushed on again, refusing to just sit and die. As time passed his night vision grew, to the point that he no longer used one side of the cave as a guide.
Skeletor was becoming forlorn again, the cave never seemed to vary in appearance; each corridor, every rock wall looked alike. It was not until he heard air whistling through vents did he think he had made any progress.
He looked hard for the source of the winds but could see none. It was definitely real as the sound became stronger the further he walked. A ways ahead he could see traces of light.
Forgetting his hunger, fatigue and thirst he ran towards the light. The closer Skeletor got to the light the more certain he was that it was daylight; the whistling had grown in pitch as well.
Skeletor halted before the mouth of the lit cavern. He could see into the chamber and his jaw dropped in pure awe. Stepping into the grotto he looked about, still stunned by what he saw: the single largest room he had ever seen populated by dozens, if not hundreds of sleeping creatures he thought he would never live to see. The whistling sounds he had heard earlier tore through the air, made not by natural vents, but by sleeping beasts.
He realised that all his aches and pains had subsided, including thirst and hunger. The warm light; which he now realised was not of natural origins, seemed to wash all his physical ails away. Skeletor stepped quietly through the massive cave, he could not for the life of him see the other side as it was hidden by the sleeping bulks and obscured by distance.
In his lifetime Skeletor had known fear, trepidation, apprehension, but never had he felt as nervous and unsure as he did now. Even so, his mind worked frantically, evaluating the situation, plotting to how he could make thing work in his favour.
Skeletor figured there must be some way.to use the dragons for his purposes.