A Past That Haunts
"Dakkon, submit to this! Relinquish your ghosts and surrender to tranquility!"
The Dakkons continued to stare at the archangel as she surveyed the room and its inhabitants. Dirark was the first to move, charging the imposing figure with his sword leveled. With barely a movement, chakrams appeared in her outstretched hands and parried the attack. Stopping suddenly, Dirark ducked the counterattack and dodged to one side, jabbing his weapon towards her unprotected flank.
From the shattered doorway, long wooden stakes rocketed towards the other Dakkons, striking them squarely in the chest. As the first two fell, the rest burst into action except for True-Dakkon. Some rushed the angel while other swarmed through the door, trying to find the assailants. Those rushing the door quickly fell back as more Dakkons collapsed with wooden stakes through their chests. Those rushing the angel were quickly dispatched as her chakrams whistled through the air around her. True-Dakkon merely stared stoically at the death of his simulacrums, their demise hardly affecting him. The voices that wafted through the air assured him that his involvement was not needed and for reasons he could not conceive, he believed them.
Motion from the doorway finally caught his attention as an armoured figure surrounded by wooden stakes suspended in midair floated through the doorway. True-Dakkon felt his hackles rose as some active part of his brain recognized the human: Hellbender. Fury coursed through his black veins and for the first time since the battle began, he was able to think clearly.
"I sent you to die! BEGONE!" Dakkon bellowed, quivering in rage.
A flick of his wrist sent a burst of energy around him, recalling his energies and causing the simulacrums to crumble into heaps of ash. Clenching his fist around the accumulated power, he unleashed it in a devastating blast that leveled the tavern with a concussive explosion. When the dust settled, Dirark and the archangel had taken to the air to continue the battle; Dirark having sprouted a large pair of bat wings from his shoulder blades. Zeia and Sylk were nowhere to be seen.
Dakkon's sharp eyes scanned the wreckage for his adversary. Without warning, a sharp blow hit him from behind, causing him to plow through the frozen dirt and into a neighboring house. Ignoring the screaming inhabitants, he flew through the gaping wall and back into the frigid winter air. Hellbender hung above the roofs of the nearby houses, waiting with his arms crossed.
"Dakkon, calm yourself. Tyrian brought me back to my senses after your – treatment. Just come peacefully. She can do the same for you," he said, holding out his hand.
Dakkon halted mid-charge and stared coldly at the pale psion.
"No. An archangel does not fraternize with vampires. This is some elaborate ruse to destroy me, or banish me to void space with Mehla, or some other fitting end, correct? This, 'Tyrian', was it? She must have been associated with Mehla and is upset she won't be able to retrieve her friend," Dakkon said with a sneer.
"That isn't true --" Hellbender began, but was cut off when a spiked chain wrapped itself around his neck. His hands shot up to the weapon, but were quickly restrained by another length of chain looping around his chest, pinning his arms. Zeia placed a hand delicately against his cheek and leaned close to his ear.
"Hmmmm, Dakkon, I'm surprised by your taste in men. Can I have him?" she purred, looking innocently at the sorcerer.
Sylk shimmered into existence next to Hellbender with a golden knife placed against the vampire's throat. Smoke wafted up where metal met undead flesh.
"Perhaps you would allow me to add him to my shadow collection?" he asked with a smirk.
"Maybe we can compromise," Dakkon replied with a feral grin.
However, the grin faded quickly as pain, something he hadn't felt in a very long time, blossomed in his chest. Instantly he knew the battle went poorly for Dirark. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Dirark pinned to the ground by his own sword. Thick black blood oozed down the weapon as the dark ranger feebly clawed at the earth, coughing more black blood. Zeia and Sylk paused as if waiting while Dakkon grabbed his chest and shook his head violently. Turning to face Hellbender, he saw Tyrian hovering in front of the human, chakrams held ready; Zeia and Sylk hung behind the sorcerer.
"Careful, Dakkon. She's powerful," Zeia cautioned.
"She'll make a nice shadow," Sylk hissed.
Drawing a flaming longsword, Dakkon held it ready, trying to focus through the pain. "Come, angel, take me if you can."
As he finished his sentence she rushed him, appearing mere inches from him in the blink of an eye. He reared back in an attempt to put distance between himself and his foe, but an armoured hand shot out and grabbed him by his face.
"Surrender yourself Dakkon!" she shouted as a brilliant aura enveloped her hand and Dakkon's face.
Panicked, he tried to call out to Zeia and Sylk but knew they would be no use by their screams of anguish. Gather his concentration, he tried to cast a simple spell to escape her grasp but was overwhelmed by a flood of memories.
Suddenly he remembered –
Zeia, Sylk, and Dirark had left a millennia ago. He had seen Dirark and Zeia briefly, but they hadn't spoken. Wait . . . he had been in disguise and either they didn't notice him or didn't care enough to mention anything. Sylk had gone into self-exile on a plane without magic and had lived out his life there.
There were others too, but all he could recall were faces and experiences. Destroying a village, but taking an orphan. Why? Before then, there was a man who traveled with him, and a dragon! Maybe they had taken the girl.
The town. They had followed him there, he was hunting . . . Zeia. But why that town? She wasn't even on the same plane. He recalled the slaughter. He had killed plenty, but they had all been prostitutes, women of the night.
Another memory bubbled forth, catching his attention. A plane. Lush and verdant. Greenery covered the lands as far as the eye could see. He was a blight upon the land. A runic circle blazed on the soil with him in the middle, chanting. A gate opened above his head and an angel shot out, chased by a dragon covered in black scales. It opened its mouth to swallow her but she dove out of the way. Circling back around, she used her speed and agility to flank it. Drawing an enormous sword, she plunged into its stomach, but was pulled in. Frantically she beat her wings in a futile attempt to free herself from the substance, but all he did was laugh at her demise.
Suddenly it struck him. Lush and verdant. How his home had been before he leveled the canopy it had been settled on. Grief welled up inside his cold gut as he realized what he had done barely an hour previous. Opening his eyes, he looked at Tyrian. She gazed back at him with empathy.
"Peace, Dakkon. Peace be upon you," she whispered softly.
He shut his eyes and let himself drift away, listening to the voices on the wind.
. . . But Only Means Well