Chapter Twenty Two: Divergence
The island sat in the middle of the great River Elid, yet it did not part the waters. Instead of swirling around the sides of the island, as any flowing liquid should, the water seemed to simply flow right through the land. It passed into the sand of the island's northern beach without pause, and seemed to spawn right out of the southern beaches, continuing on its way. It was almost as if the island rested on top of the river's surface, rather than the actual riverbed.
A small, but tall pyramid rested in the middle of the island. Though it gave off a faint, golden glow, it was not actually made of gold—it was built from giant, smooth golden-white stones. And instead of coming to an apex, there was a temple of sorts built on top of the pyramid—columns lined the edges of the top of the golden structure, supporting a flat roof comprising of a single, giant slab of the same kind of yellow-white stone.
Surrounding the pyramid was a ring of dozens of tall palm trees. They seemed perfectly normal, except for their size and fruit. They were nearly as wide as the length of two men head-to-toe; and, instead of bearing coconuts, these trees bore large, round, yellow fruit that glowed bright like miniature suns.
It was a green oasis of vibrant life, contrasting somewhat with the sandy expanse that hugged the Elid on both sides.
The island itself was home to crocodiles, which swam in the waters around the island and crawled along the beaches; desert apes, which dwelled in and around the trees with the bright, radiant fruits; eagles, which nested in the treetops; and scarab beetles, which dwelled in the earth. It was situated in one of the widest points of the River Elid, where the river was nearly a mile and a half across.
If a traveler happened upon this part of the river, walking along the banks, he would see nothing in the waters save the crocodiles and fish. If a man was travelling down this part of the Elid in a boat, then he would see nothing in the middle of the river, either. He would simply pass through unhindered, though he might feel an odd sensation or presence within his mind. But he would think nothing of it, and continue along his way.
Thus, the island was both there, and not there.
Sometimes, however, men would catch glimpses of the island, like how a mirage might appear to a traveler near death in the middle of the Kharidian Desert. They would return to their homes with tales of a phantom island, of a golden pyramid temple, of fantastical trees with fruit that shone like the sun. These tales would be dismissed by most as hallucinations born of thirst. And if anyone ever set off in search of this island, they would never find it.
A bluish mist had descended over the center of the river, slowly traveling upstream towards the island. It hung low, almost clinging to the surface of the water like moss to the face of a rock. It was curiously moving upstream, however; moving against the current of the river, rather than with it. Wind was the only force that could make something like that possible, but today was a windless day.
The mist continued to move upstream, eventually flowing over the island's southern beach. Unlike the water, it did not pass through the sand as if it were insubstantial. Instead, it shrouded a small portion of the beach, disturbing the handful of crocodiles which were sunbathing in its path. The mist did not remain, however. After it settled over the sand, it started to compress in on itself. The mist coalesced into a humanoid shape before finally solidifying into the form of an older, silver-haired man with a carefully groomed short beard and piercing blue eyes. He was dressed in a simple azure cloak, which bore the symbol of a four-pointed star.
The man cast a single look at the sunbathing crocodiles that were in his path, and the large reptiles immediately scurried off to either side. The old man walked up the beach and through the grassy meadows, up towards the giant palm trees.
As he neared trees, he caught sight of another man. Upon closer inspection, however, it was clear that this other person was not a man—he looked like a beetle in humanoid form. Instead of having flesh, his skin was a chitinous, black and gray carapace, spiny and insect-like. He also had four arms; two larger arms that bore a closer resemblance to human arms—having upper and lower sections, elbows, double-jointed wrists, and long, spindly fingers—and two smaller appendages that grew from his torso under his larger arms, which looked more like insect legs. He also had the head of a scarab—elongated, with large eyes—which were currently closed—and mandibles in the place of jaws.
The scarab-man was sitting cross-legged in front of one of the sunfruit trees, his hands resting on the ground. Dozens of scarab beetles sat around him in a circle. It was almost an unnerving thing to see—the beetles were not skittering or flying about, or even flaring their wings. They were sitting perfectly still, as if they were made of stone, entranced in the presence of this being.
"Hello, there," the old man gave a cold smile in greeting to the scarab-man.
The scarab-man's eyes snapped open, revealing solid, glowing orbs of light—similar to the old man's eyes, only they were white in color, without any irises or pupils. His mandibles twitched as he saw the old man in blue, and he hissed in contempt. "You," he snarled, his voice a raspy whisper. "I believe you are on the wrong island, Meddler."
"No…" the blue-eyed old man shook his head, glancing up toward the temple at the top of the pyramid. "No, I am right where I need to be. Is your maker home?"
"My father is here, yes. But do not disturb his peace."
"Father, right, yes," the old man returned his gaze to the scarab-man. "Forgive me; I keep forgetting that he still calls a beetle his favorite son."
The scarab-man clicked his mandibles in anger, but gave no other outward reaction to the old man's insult. "You have no place here, Meddler. Speak with my father if you must…then leave. Go back to your war, and do not return."
The old man in the blue cloak made his way past the scarab-man, chuckling quietly as he stepped into the ring of sunfruit trees that surrounded the pyramid. "Always a pleasure, Scabaras."
Avis was lost.
He was in a desert of red sand, crimson dunes stretching off into the distance, as far as the eye could see. The boy moved to take a step forward, but felt a cool breeze at his back, smelled the salty scent of the sea. He turned around and found himself looking out into a vast ocean. The coastline was a perfectly straight line—from Avis's perspective, the desert and the ocean were exactly the same size.
Thunder started to rumble in the sky. It clapped very regularly—every ten seconds, or so. The wind started to intensify, as well. There were no clouds, but neither was there any sun. The entire sky glowed bright with a soft radiance that gave the illusion of daylight.
Avis became aware of a thick wall of mist over the surface of the ocean, swiftly billowing up into the sky until it reached the height of the clouds. A hot blast of wind caught the boy from behind, prompting him to turn back towards the desert, where he saw what appeared to be a gigantic dust storm brewing in the distance, mirroring the wall of mist over the ocean.
A voice came forth from the dust storm, speaking directly to the boy. "Follow me, boy… Follow me, and you will have freedom."
"Follow me, child of war…" a second voice emerged from the mist—this one deeper and more commanding than the first. This sounded like the voice of a lord, whereas the other sounded like the voice of a general. "Follow me, and you will have peace."
"I will bring change to the world."
"I will bring the world stability."
"Choose..."
"Yes, you must choose..."
The thunder continued, gradually increasing in frequency. The blue and red behemoths of mist and sand drew closer to the shoreline, taking on an even more threatening demeanor. A tendril of fear snaked its way into Avis's stomach, and the boy fled, running down the coastline. Time did not seem to have a strong grip on him—sometimes he felt like he'd been running for an hour, and then it would feel like several seconds.
The voices did not leave him alone. They spoke in an endless, constant stream, overlapping with each other, bombarding the boy from both sides.
The mist and sand surged towards each other, screaming towards a convergence over the shoreline. Avis finally stopped running, seeing that he was getting nowhere. Heart pounding like the thunderclaps from the sky, he turned around, facing back the way he came. He looked to the sand, but saw none of his footprints. It was as if Avis had not even moved.
The mist and sand clashed high overhead, blotting out the light of the sky, plunging the beach into shadow. Squeezing his eyes shut, Avis fell to his knees and screamed as the two forces of nature crashed into him, clutching at his head and face to ward them off, but any sound he made was snatched away by the roaring wind, any movement taken from him by the fury of the elements. Everything was plunged into howling darkness.
And then…light. The elements continued to battle all around the boy, but he was now surrounded by a protective bubble of white light, which seemed to keep the raging sand and mist at bay. And in the middle of it all stood Jerrod, dressed in his trademark black traveler's cloak.
Avis slowly uncurled himself from the fetal position and got back up to his feet, staring up at his mentor. "Master? What is happening?"
Jerrod did not give any reply. Instead, he smiled, reached forward, and flicked Avis right in the middle of his forehead. As he flicked the boy, the thunder clapped once again.
"Ow!" Avis rubbed the spot where he had been struck. "What was that for?"
Another flick, another thunderclap. But the thunderclaps were now beginning to sound more like dull thunks, as if Avis was able to hear them more clearly...
The light keeping the elements at bay suddenly brightened. Avis looked up into the light, squinting as it grew too bright for his eyes to handle. He blinked once, and the light moved aside, revealing stormy gray eyes, a long, straight nose, and dark gray facial hair. It was Jerrod's face, which did not make much sense because he was standing over…
Avis looked to where Jerrod had just been standing, but there were only trees and underbrush. The beach between the desert and ocean was gone, replaced with a thick forest. Jerrod was kneeling over him, a werelight floating over his palm, which he was shining into the boy's eyes. The bright sky was gone as well. In its place was a veil of dark gray clouds, the smell of sea salt now replaced with the smell of rain.
"Nearly croaked on me, boy," Jerrod grunted, extinguishing the werelight. "Bled out enough to feed a whole family of vampyres, you did."
"I…" Avis blinked several times and shook his head, trying to sit up, but a feeling of profound dizziness gripped him, and he rested flat once more.
"Lie still for a minute," the Cleric ordered. "Get your bearings. We need to move fast, and I can't have you passing out on me, again."
Gradually, it all came back to Avis. Agoras. Reyton. The new spatha. The explosion, the werewolves…running, fighting…so much fighting…
The boy instinctively clutched at his side, feeling for the horrible bite wound that a werewolf had given him in front of the walls of Agoras, shortly before Avis had brought the walls down. The bite was no longer there. The blood had been washed away, and the bite was little more than an oddly-shaped mass of scar tissue.
The center of his forehead also felt rather sore… It seemed Jerrod had been flicking him in both the dreaming and waking worlds. Perhaps the thunder from his dream had not been thunder at all.
"Healed it as best I could," Jerrod said, watching his pupil touch the scars. "Same with the scratches across your back. They won't trouble you…but traces of them will always remain."
Avis took a deep breath and let his hand fall. Slowly, this time, he sat back up, breathing in deeply. The dizziness was still there, but it was not nearly as bad. He looked around at the forest they were in, running his hand through the grass. When his fingers brushed against a rock, he looked down at the small stone, lodged in the earth, and concentrated upon it. The stone shuddered, and the earth covering it was shifted to the side.
The stone was actually a large rock, larger than Avis had expected, most of which had been buried. Avis ripped it free from the earth without even moving his hands, watching it rise up into the air. He made it hover at eye level for a few moments and considered shattering it, but ultimately decided to just let it thud back to the ground. He pushed it back into its niche, smoothing it over with the displaced dirt.
"I used Earth…" the boy murmured, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I remember using Earth."
"I'll say," the Cleric chuckled. "You brought down an entire wall with it."
"How'd we end up here? Last thing I remember was you picking me up…"
"Nothing I could not handle," Jerrod shrugged, scratching under his beard at an itch that would not go away easily. "All that matters is that your mother did not reclaim you… Can you walk?"
"I think so," Avis nodded. He took hold of the nearest tree and used it to pull himself up to his feet. He swayed in place for a few moments as the blood rushed to his head, but was fine after that. He took one last deep breath and straightened up, giving the Cleric another nod. "Let's go."
"Not so fast, boy," the Cleric reached into his pack and pulled out the woolen shirt and pants that he had purchased in Agoras right before its destruction, tossing them over. "Unless you intend to walk to the Kharidian Desert in naught but your own flesh."
Avis looked down and saw, with some small measure of embarrassment, that his pants were little more than tattered rags. It was a miracle they had not fallen to pieces when he had stood up—now that would have been embarrassing. To prevent this from happening anytime in the future, Avis ducked behind a large tree and changed quickly into his new clothing. It was just as well that he shed the sad remnants of his clothing from his old life in Ullek—winter was coming, and desert clothing did not shield very well against the cold.
The boy then grabbed his spatha and buckled the sword belt around his waist. Now, he was ready to move.
"We'll have to move fast," the Cleric donned his satchel, having finished lacing up his boots while Avis was changing. "Your mother will not have given up her pursuit—no Enochian sigils to hold her back, this time. She is most likely on our trail right this moment, which is why we must move swiftly."
As teacher and student hiked off deep into the forest, Avis could not help but notice a different feeling in his gut. His journey had changed, sure as the sun rose in the east every morning. In the beginning, from the day he woke up in Jerrod's cottage, there had been an almost light-hearted aspect to his training. Recovering from his grief at the destruction of Ullek, his home, Avis had been able to discover more of his inner ability to manipulate the elements. He was in the company of a fascinating, if somewhat gruff, man who seemed to have an absolute treasure trove of knowledge concerning all matters worldly. He was in a new place, a new environment…and life was good, for the moment.
Then Enakhra had burned down Jerrod's home, forcing them to flee north earlier than planned. During their time on the road, Avis had started to understand the implications of the prophecy found in the Stone of Jas concerning him. He started to realize that his journey was more than that of a student traveling the land to learn the power of the elements—he was attempting to do in a matter of months what it took years, decades for Human mages to master.
But there had still been a strange sense of adventure throughout it all. After all, Avis had spent his entire childhood in Ullek. He'd known that city like the back of his hand, but he'd never set foot outside it until its destruction. And then he had spent several months in the Virid Swamp, which was virtual isolation. After being forced from the swamp, Avis suddenly found himself traveling to cities and lands that he had known only through his quasi-caretaker Farrah's stories. He was realizing just how very little of the world he had seen, and enjoyed every new experience that his journey brought him.
But now… Avis had known that his mother was hunting for him since her attack on Jerrod's home, but her threat had always been a distant one. They had always known she was out there, but she always seemed to be many miles away. But now, as the boy forged onwards into the forested hills of the Stellantae Province, he could not help but feel like prey, like a frightened rodent fleeing under the eye of a hungry hawk.
Now, Avis could feel the immense pressure that had been laid on his shoulders. He knew that the war had come to Centralia, that he had very little time to finish mastering the elements. There was an urgency about their journey, now. Avis had a bad feeling that his mother knew exactly where he was going. Her attack on Agoras had not been a spontaneous act—she had obviously planned it ahead of time…which meant that she had probably been on their trail since they had left the Earth Temple.
By now, she had most likely determined how Jerrod was Awakening the elements…and she knew there was only one element left. She might not know where Avis's location was at the moment, but she did know where he was going to be. The boy was certain that they would run into her again, and he did not know how they would escape her a third time. Even for his mentor, those would be incredibly long odds.
They continued through the forest at a breakneck pace. It was Jerrod's reasoning that they get to the Fire Temple as quickly as they could—once Avis was fully Awakened, then Jerrod could take him someplace secluded to finish his training, someplace where Enakhra could not find them. Karamja, perhaps. Only the northern part of the giant island-continent was colonized by Centralians—the main part of the island comprised of a largely unexplored jungle. Jerrod was certain he and Avis could disappear there for a while.
Eventually, night fell and Jerrod stopped their trek—they still had to sleep. But they got right back to it before sunrise, continuing eastward. It was the Cleric's plan that they travel east to the River Salve, which they could use for transport down to the desert. This would shave days, maybe even weeks off of their journey—the only other option was walking south, which would take a long while. And with Enakhra close on their trail, speed was something Jerrod did not want to sacrifice.
On the second day of their trek through the forest, Avis and Jerrod encountered Centralian legionaries on a tall ridge. They were hard at work strengthening fortifications and constructing additional defenses all along the escarpment. Jerrod recognized it as Silvosii Ridge, one of the largest of the Undae Stellantae—the collective name given to the giant ridges of northeastern Centralia, translating to Commonspeak as the 'Waves of Stellantae'. They extended almost as far south as the River Salve, and were named for their relatively close proximity to one another. Were the Stellantae Province stripped of trees, the ridges and valleys would no doubt resemble giant, earthen waves.
Considering the lack of fighting on Silvosii Ridge, Jerrod deduced that the Legions had also established another defensive line on Mattinse Ridge, further east. Mattinse Ridge was the nearest of the Stellantae Waves to the River Salve, and was another obstacle Jerrod and Avis would have to cross.
As they neared Silvosii Ridge, Jerrod stopped for several minutes to devise a quick spell that would hide their presence. It involved bending the light around their bodies in order to render them invisible. It was not a perfect process—it would not mask the sounds they made, their tracks, or their shadows; and if someone looked at them directly for long enough, they would notice an unnatural shimmering in the air. Luckily, though, most normal people did not spend their time staring into space, searching for invisible people, so getting past the Centralians would not be very much of a problem.
Once they were hidden from the naked eye, Jerrod led Avis forward. First, they made their way silently through the myriad camps that the legionaries had set up behind the defenses of Silvosii Ridge. When soldiers were not on duty, manning the defenses, these camps were where they would reside. Getting past them had been easy.
It became more difficult once they reached the actual ridge. There were many more soldiers stationed on the ridge, and no easy gaps for the pair to slip through. Ultimately, if they were discovered, Jerrod knew he would be able to talk their way out of it. All he really needed was to contact his old friend Athellenas, who was bound to be somewhere nearby…but, all the same, it would be much better for everyone concerned if Jerrod and Avis made it to the River Salve undetected.
When they reached the top of the ridge, Jerrod waited patiently for several minutes for an opportunity to move, which eventually presented itself when a group of soldiers struck up a conversation, discussing their conquests in an Avarrockan brothel. Muttering under his breath, Jerrod dragged Avis past the soldiers and over the trenches before the boy could comprehend what it was he was hearing.
As night fell once again, Jerrod and Avis stopped for rest. They did not make any kind of camp, this time, however—they merely found a reasonably flat patch of dirt and laid down their bedrolls.
Avis lay on his back, resting his hands under his head, staring up at the pitch-dark void of the sky. The stars were still hidden…and they would probably remain hidden for a long time. Thunder continued to growl overhead. It was no longer a distant storm, like it had been at Agoras. It hung squarely over their heads, waiting to unleash its fury.
The boy sighed, turning over onto his side, hoping sleep would find him easier in this new position. It did not. He blinked once and frowned when he saw that his mentor was not asleep, either. In fact, he was not even lying down; Jerrod was sitting back against a tree, his pipe in hand, the pipeweed in its chamber glowing a cherry red as the Cleric drew upon it.
"Can't sleep?" Avis asked.
"What gave it away?" the Cleric grunted, exhaling a plume of smoke into the air, not bothering with smoke circles. "Noticed the lack of snoring, did you?"
Avis smiled, but did not laugh. Laughter did not come as easily to him as it had in the past. He lay in silence for another few minutes before speaking again. The Cleric clearly was not going to start a conversation, but he seemed to be in one of his rare, pensive moods…moods in which he was willing to hold a conversation, if prompted.
"If you had a choice between peace and freedom…which would you choose?" the boy asked.
Jerrod did not give an immediate answer. Instead, he took another breath from his pipe, this time exhaling the smoke in circles, staring thoughtfully into the sky. "I would choose both," the older man finally declared. "Wouldn't you?"
Avis's cheeks flushed red; the boy had not expected to be put on the spot like that. "I… Well, yeah, I would choose both, but… But I mean, if you had to make a choice…"
"Why would I have to make that choice when I can just choose both?"
"Because… Because, I… you just…" Avis found himself getting more and more tongue-tied before he finally gave up trying to argue. "Why can't you just answer the question?"
"And miss out on an opportunity to see you splutter about like a drowning monkey?" Jerrod hummed with subdued laughter. "It's like you don't know me at all!"
"Why do I even bother…" the boy muttered.
"Alright, boy, alright. You want my honest opinion?" Jerrod held up his hand, calming his pupil down. "Peace and freedom… They are two things that every man is entitled to, and anyone who tries to force you to choose between them is a tyrant. And in the end…a tyrant will deprive you of both."
That gave Avis more than enough to think about.
Jerrod could see the troubled look on Avis's face—unlike the Cleric, the boy had never excelled at hiding his emotions. Jerrod could read the boy's face like a book. "Not the kind of answer you were looking for, was it?" Avis's continued silence was enough of an answer, so Jerrod went on. "The best answer is usually the simplest one…but sometimes even the simplest form of a complicated answer remains rather…complex. Why'd you ask me in the first place? Thoughts like these don't just spring up from nowhere."
Avis hesitated, but decided no harm could come from explaining himself to his mentor. He gave Jerrod the details of what he remembered from the dream he'd had before regaining consciousness, of the battle between the desert and the ocean.
The Cleric continued to smoke his pipe as he thought on Avis's dream. "So let me get one thing straight," Jerrod paused to clear his throat, shifting to a more comfortable position. "I was in this dream of yours…and you still consider it a nightmare?"
"All you did was smile and flick me. You weren't helping."
Jerrod chuckled again, drawing out one last breath from his pipe, burning out the last of the pipeweed. He tapped out the resin and stowed the pipe away into the folds of his cloak. "Dreams are complicated things, boy."
"Were the Dark and Light Ones actually talking to me?"
"I do not know," Jerrod shrugged. "Again, dreams are complicated. I even know of a group of mages from the Fremennik Territories who specialize in the study of dreams; that is how deeply one can try to understand them. And for the sake of clarification, Saradomin is not the God of Light—that would be Tumeken. Come, you were raised in the desert; you should know that."
"I was a thief, master," Avis sighed. "Learning about the Desert Pantheon is not exactly the highest priority of a thief."
"Point taken…" Jerrod paused for a moment to yawn, his weariness finally catching up with him. He sat up from his tree and crawled over to his bedroll, slipping inside. "All this talk of dreams and gods has finally made me remember just how tired I am. Get some rest now, boy… Tomorrow, we cross Mattinse Ridge and make for the River Salve."
Within a minute, Avis could hear snoring coming from the Cleric's bedroll. It was a wonder the soldiers moving back and forth between Silvosii and Mattinse Ridges did not discover them. Perhaps Jerrod had taken measures to ensure that the sounds of his own sleeping were not heard by passers-by. That was the only explanation Avis could think of that would explain why half the Centralian Legions were not coming down on them.
The boy returned to his back and closed his eyes, letting the sound of Jerrod's heavy breathing to lull him to sleep. He did not even get the chance to dream, this time; he felt like he'd only closed his eyes for a moment before Jerrod was shaking him awake. It was still as dark as it had been when he'd gone to sleep, but Avis knew that it was dawn. They always woke up at dawn, even though for the past week it had been impossible to see the morning light because of the clouds.
Avis looked to the sky and blinked when he felt a tiny splash just under his eye. He held his breath and listened to the forest around him, became aware of quiet tapping sounds, sounds of water striking the plants and underbrush. It had started to rain.
"Storm's finally here," Jerrod remarked. "Athellenas's boys aren't going to be happy…"
"Wouldn't the rain bog down Zamorak's forces?"
"Well, yes, it will," the Cleric conceded, rolling up his bedroll and shouldering his satchel. "But you have never fought in earthworks, before. Whenever it rains, the ground around those defenses runs like a muddy river…and the soldiers have to live in that, for to leave the trenches would be to forsake the defensive line."
Avis buckled his sword belt around his waist and fell into step beside his mentor as they continued heading east. They could see the motes of flame flickering in the distance, the torches set by the legionaries all along their lines. They moved at a fast jog, at first, covering the distance between their 'camp' and the ridge within several hours. The morning had brightened to a dull gray by the time they reached the camps. Jerrod wove the light-bending spell that made them invisible once again as they slipped in between two of the camps, moving at a slower pace up the slopes of Mattinse Ridge. There were many more soldiers here—this ridge was much more heavily defended, as it was the first line of defense.
Battle did not seem to have arrived here, yet, but it could not be far off. Jerrod and Avis could see it in the eyes and faces of the men who they passed; they had the look of men who were stuck waiting for a fate that they could see approaching, but had yet to arrive. Avis had seen similar looks in condemned prisoners awaiting the gallows. Even the staunchest of fighting men had trouble with their nerves during the wait before a battle.
"Look there, boy," Jerrod whispered as they reached the top of the ridge, nodding over to the left. Avis looked in the indicated direction, caught sight of a battle standard capped with a golden eagle. "See that? The gold bird on top of the standard? That there is the Aquila—the eagle standard. Every legion has one. The Eagle is more than just a mere standard, however—it is the symbol of that legion's honor. Losing it is about the worst thing that could happen to a legion. That's the Eagle of Legio Quarta Mortifers; the Fourth Legion. The Killers."
"The Killers," Avis echoed, making a face. "Not a very creative name, is it?"
"Can you think of a better way to describe what it is they do best?"
Avis had no answer to that, rendering Jerrod's question rhetorical.
The men here were much quieter than the soldiers Jerrod and Avis had passed on Silvosii Ridge. Some of them sat in groups, playing games of dice, chatting with one another. Others sat individually; some stood watch, some smoked from their pipes…some simply stared into space, having nothing else to do. And the rest were asleep—they slept sitting up, usually in pairs with both men propped up against each other. This way, no one had to sleep in the mud.
There were no heated tales of seedy brothels coming from these soldiers. Danger was always more real, it seemed, the closer you were to it. These IV Legion men seemed to be reinforcing that sentiment. Because they were quieter, Jerrod and Avis had to be quieter as well. They stealthily made their way through the earthworks and wooden fortifications, over the shallow trenches, dodging any soldiers who walked across their path.
Down the eastern face of the ridge, they continued on their way, picking up the pace as they left the Centralian lines behind. There were still small groups of legionaries operating on patrol east of the ridge, but Jerrod and Avis did not encounter any of them. Before long, Jerrod was able to spot more torchlight through the trees. Not very far up ahead, the forest thinned out as it neared the River Salve, which would make it easier for a large army to set up camp…as evidenced by the torchlight. Zamorak's invasion force was in sight.
Jerrod could not actually see them, yet; he could not see the vampyres, the werewolves, the undead, the demons…but he knew they were there, waiting to begin the attack on Mattinse Ridge. And he would have to sneak past them, as well. There, the real danger would lie…had the legionaries discovered them, Jerrod would have eventually been able to get himself and Avis out of trouble—the only real loss would be time. Up ahead, though…if they were caught, it was all over. The Cleric hadn't had time to create another teleportation tablet—he was out of tricks. If he was cornered again, he would have to fight his way out the old-fashioned way.
Or at the very least, he'd have to ensure that Avis was able to continue on his way to the Fire Temple alone. Upon leaving Aeriose, not long after their first encounter with Enakhra, the Cleric had given Avis careful instruction to seek out one of his own kind to complete his training, should anything happen to Jerrod. Azzanadra would have been Jerrod's first choice, or perhaps Wahisietel, or Akthanakos. Any of the Zarosian Mahjarrat would do, really…except Sliske. Jerrod harbored a special distrust and dislike toward that particular Mahjarrat.
As the torchlight grew nearer, Avis started to breathe a bit more heavily. An old, familiar feeling was coming back to him. "I can feel my mother," the young Mahjarrat informed his mentor, doing his best to focus on where he was putting his feet, not letting his Awareness get in the way of his other senses. "She's nearby…"
Jerrod swore under his breath. That was all he needed—trying to stealthily tiptoe their way through a mass of Zamorackian filth with a hostile Mahjarrat nearby…and a hostile Mahjarrat actively hunting you, at that. The Cleric proceeded even more quietly, his eyes staring out into the forest ahead of him. If he focused any more than he was right now, the trees he looked at would be sawn asunder by the force of his concentration. He watched for signs of disturbance in the forest, both physical and magical, slowing his pace as they neared the invasion force. If anything seemed out of place, he would have to-
"Bending the light around your bodies, I see," a deep, gravelly voice spoke from behind.
Jerrod swore again, whipping around to find the source of the voice…but he saw nothing but trees, stretching off into the west. Obviously, they were not the only ones using a cloaking spell…but Jerrod could not detect any alterations of light in the area, which left him at a loss for how this individual was hiding himself from view.
"You must forgive my disappointment," the voice continued. "From the stories I have heard of you, Jerrod Lucifer, I had been expecting something a little more…competent, shall I say? It certainly ruins the thrill of a hunt if you cloak yourself in a light-bending spell that I can smell over a league away."
Jerrod was getting tired of this voice's games. "Either hold your tongue and let us be on our way, or show your face! I grow weary of having conversations with trees."
"With shadows, you mean," even as the voice spoke once more, Jerrod saw movement near one of the nearest trees. It was a large oak, but the tree itself was not important—it was the tree's shadow that was moving. A humanoid, shadowy figure extricated itself from the tree's shadow, stepping out into the light, where it shed the cloak of shadows that was clinging to it.
It was a man in a black cloak, many shades darker than Jerrod's own cloak. But as the rest of the shadows fell away, the man's hands were revealed to be skeletal, and his face was a grinning, tattooed skull with eyes of burning scarlet. He spread his hands theatrically, as if he were about to give a bow. "Shadow magic beats light-bending spell, I'm afraid," the skeleton-man seemed to grin even more so than normal.
In his mind, Jerrod was screaming something along the lines of 'Well, shit!'—and rightly so, for Jerrod knew this person—but he kept himself calm. He had faced his own death more times than he could count, but he had never once lost his composure or nerve. He dropped the light-bending cloaking spell, as it was no longer serving its purpose. "So you must be… Zemouregal?" Jerrod pretended to guess. "Forgive my memory—almost every member of your ilk has tried to kill me on at least one occasion. Eventually, all these occasions just start to blend together."
"Oh, don't pretend like you did not already know exactly who I was; it is insulting," the Mahjarrat sighed. "Everyone in Gielinor knows of me, such is my power. And you must be Avis," he turned his gaze to the boy, who stood at Jerrod's side, slowly lowering himself into a fighting stance. The Mahjarrat noticed this, and rumbled with laughter. "You intend to fight me, fledgling? Do you know who I am?"
"An enemy," was all Avis would say in reply.
Zemouregal's muted laughter continued. "You are certainly your mother's son. Never any humor, with her..."
Throughout the entire conversation, Jerrod had been steadily gathering his energy for a giant magical attack. If he wanted to stand a chance against a Mahjarrat in a straight-up duel, one of the only attacks that could possibly incapacitate Zemouregal would be one that channeled the energy of Saradomin. As long as the Lord of Order believed Jerrod to be loyal to his cause, the Cleric would always have access to his energy. This form of attack had no formal name, though many of Jerrod's former comrades from the Church had called it the 'Saradomin Strike'. He was nearly ready to attack, but he still needed to buy a little more time, so he decided to needle Zemouregal in a place where he knew it would sting.
"So how has life been treating you, this past decade? Enakhra still playing hard to get?" the Cleric asked, as if he were merely making small talk with an old acquaintance.
Zemouregal drew in a sharp breath through his teeth, the fire in his eyes flaring an angry orange for a brief moment. "Careful, Lightbringer."
"Or what? You'll kill me twice?" It was Jerrod's turn to laugh. The energy building within him was causing his staff to hum and vibrate lightly. Nearly there, old man… Just a little more… "If I hadn't already gotten Hazeel killed, I should have expected to see him here. Enakhra must really be getting desperate if she's turning to you for help, don't you think?"
The crimson light in Zemouregal's eye sockets darkened for a split second in the Mahjarrat's skull equivalent of a blink. Then the black-robed Mahjarrat gave a simple shrug and gestured behind Jerrod, saying, "Why don't you ask her yourself?"
Reacting with near-superhuman reflexes, Jerrod turned on his heel and dropped into a defensive stance, ready to ward off any magical attack that came his way. Unfortunately, the attack that came was not a magical one. Even as he was raising his defenses, he heard a faint twang, and then felt something punch him in the torso.
Enakhra, clad in her customary red, stepped out of the shadow of another tree, having also hidden herself with shadow magic, a yew longbow in her grasp. She was smiling.
The Cleric's breath caught in his throat as his built-up magical energy dissipated into nothing, and time seemed to stop. He slowly looked down at himself, saw a feathered arrow shaft sprouting from his chest. The world became distorted, almost as if Jerrod was looking through a lens; everything seemed to grow more blurry, but the arrow in his chest remained clear as crystal. He felt something wet beginning to dampen the front of his cloak, and he knew it wasn't the rain.
Avis was in shock. He did not see his mentor get hit, but he heard the impact. He turned around as well, staring unbelievingly at the arrow shaft embedded in the Cleric's chest. Already, a deep red stain was spreading outward from the wound. The older man had a look of complete surprise on his face. He stood perfectly still for a few moments before his legs gave out, and he fell to his knees.
The Cleric felt numb, now. There had been a burning pain before, but now he just felt cold and numb. He could hear Avis screaming in rage, could feel the energy rolling off his apprentice in waves.
Avis did not even consider the possibility that Jerrod was possibly dying. He went straight from shock at the sight of his mentor bleeding out on his knees, to unrestrained fury when he saw Enakhra reveal herself with the longbow that had done the deed. He surrendered himself to the darker side of his soul, let the animalistic, instinct-driven part of his mind take control, and he attacked his mother.
Enakhra had briefly fought her son once before, back in the Virid Swamp when she attacked Jerrod's home, but it had not been much of a contest. The boy had been able to hold his own for half a minute or so before Enakhra had completely overwhelmed him. But this time… Enakhra was taken aback by the ferocity of her son's attack. Had her reflexes not been quite as sharp, she would have met her end from the very first strike.
As the duel progressed, Enakhra found herself truly fighting for her life. She stopped playing with her son and started concentrating on actually bringing him to heel.
Jerrod did not know how long the fight lasted. He was having a hard time staying awake, let alone upright. His eyelids were growing heavy, but he ignored the weariness that was building up inside of him. He had to stay conscious.
With his blurred eyesight, all the Cleric saw was a hazy mess. All four elements were fighting themselves and each other, resulting in massive explosions of energy, blinding flashes of light that lit up the forest for miles around—and in the middle of it all, two constantly moving silhouettes, both trying and failing to find the weaknesses in each other's defenses. The problem was that they matched each other's ferocity and aggression—their fighting styles were too similar, resulting in a stalemate.
Zemouregal, who had been leaning against a tree, watching the duel between mother and son with an expression of pure boredom on his face—or, at least, as bored as a skull could look—finally gave a long, loud yawn, and stood up straight. "Alright, I think that is quite enough," he declared.
As he spoke, tendrils of oily smoke appeared around him and surged forward. Instead of seizing the boy's limbs and restraining him, however, Zemouregal opted for a more unconventional solution. One of the tendrils curled around Avis's neck and tightened, which held him still for a moment before he was able to break free. That one moment was all Zemouregal needed, giving him enough time to send the rest of his smoke up the boy's nostrils and down into his throat.
Avis faltered when he realized that he was unable to breathe. The sudden rush of smoke made him want to gag, or cough...but he could not do that, either. He clutched at his throat, trying to tear away whatever it was that was keeping him from breathing, but the obstruction was inside his throat, beyond his reach. When he opened his mouth to gasp, he wasn't even able to make a noise. The inside of his mouth was nothing but inky darkness—filled with Zemouregal's smoke.
Avis's anger drained away as his lungs started to burn with the pain of being denied their lifeblood. He collapsed to the ground, falling to his hands and knees, still clutching at his throat, trying desperately to breathe. His heart started beating really fast, and he felt as if his entire body was crying out in pain, longing for oxygen that it would not get. As his consciousness started to slip away, he managed to look up at his mentor one last time. Crimson eyes met gray ones.
Neither Jerrod nor Avis were capable of speaking to each other, but they could understand each other perfectly. I will not leave you, they said to each other with one single glance.
Then Avis's strength failed him, and he pitched forward, lying unconscious face down on the ground.
Jerrod, however, was still awake and on his knees. He watched his pupil lose consciousness and collapse. He felt like he should be angry, furious, frustrated at his current situation…but, truth be told, all he really felt in those moments was a deep sadness. Avis was being taken from him, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He would have given anything to spare the boy from the pain and suffering that no doubt awaited him at the hands of the Zamorackians, but he was completely and utterly helpless.
With Avis now unconscious, Zemouregal withdrew his smoke from the boy's throat, allowing him to breathe once again. The Mahjarrat then morphed into his human form—a tall, pale-skinned man with a closely-trimmed beard and mustache on his chin and upper lip, a straight nose, and large, crimson eyes. His scalp was covered with the tattoos that were on his skull, but they were obscured under his hood. He said nothing at first to Enakhra, only raising a single eyebrow.
Enakhra glared at him. "I had it under control," she muttered, reaching down to her waist and unsheathing her knife.
"Yes, I'm sure the fact that the youngling was matching you blow for blow was all just part of your plan," Zemouregal mused, brushing past the she-Mahjarrat. "But don't you worry! You'll always have me to pluck you out of danger; anytime, anyplace."
"I do not need anyone to 'pluck me out of danger', as you so eloquently put it; you, least of all," Enakhra snapped, stepping toward the Cleric while Zemouregal picked up her son, slinging the boy over his shoulder like a sack of vegetables. "And for the record, the Lightbringer was right; the only reason—and I mean only reason I even considered speaking to you is because Hazeel is currently sleeping off a bad case of death. I also figured you could use a break from failing to destroy the Centralian Legions when you had the chance, so don't talk to me about 'plucking me out of danger'."
Zemouregal gave her a wink. "Has anyone ever told you how adorable you look when you're angry?"
Enakhra growled in extreme irritation—she bit down on the inside of her cheeks, stopping herself from retorting. Holding prolonged conversations with Zemouregal was not healthy for her sanity. She forced a smile and knelt down in front of the Cleric. The she-Mahjarrat cupped Jerrod's chin, tilting his head up so he faced her.
"Oh, Jerrod, I do wish you could have seen the look on your own face," she crooned. "I don't think I've ever seen you look so shocked!"
Even if Jerrod had wanted to give her a reply, he would not have been able to. Blood was starting to drip from his mouth, and he found it harder and harder to breathe.
Enakhra saw that Jerrod was not going to answer her, and gave a disappointed sigh. "You are no fun when you're dying, Jerrod, you know that? Of course, your lungs are no doubt filling up with blood right now, so you would not be able to answer me, anyway… No matter," she held the knife to the Cleric's throat and leaned in close, whispering, "If it means anything to you, you're the only Human I've fought in a long time who I consider worth taking the time out of my life to kill personally. And do not worry about the boy…I shall take good care of him. I am his mother, after all."
Still lacking the ability to talk, Jerrod communicated in one of the very few ways he had left.
Enakhra jerked back as the Cleric spat his own blood into her face. Snarling, she raised the knife and thrust it towards the older man's heart…and stopped short when something suddenly hit her in the shoulder. Waves of white-hot pain throbbed through the she-Mahjarrat's body, especially around her right arm and chest. She looked to see what was causing this pain…and was surprised to find an arrow shaft lodged in her right shoulder.
The she-Mahjarrat barely had time to question how that arrow had gotten there before a second arrow caught her in the upper right arm, not far below the first arrow. Enakhra grunted in pain and stood up, trying to snap the shaft. A third arrow whistled right past her, just barely grazing the side of her neck. Someone with very accomplished archery skills was shooting at her, and he had very nearly scored a winning hit. That was much too close for comfort.
Within the next split-second, Enakhra glanced back at Jerrod, decided that the damage was already done. Even if he received medical attention, the arrow she had shot him with had been poisoned. He would not live to see the sunrise in two days. With that in mind, she decided it was not worth risking her life for a redundant finishing blow, and so she raised her arms and teleported away, vanishing in a haze of indigo light.
"That's my cue…" Zemouregal murmured, doing likewise.
As the indigo light faded, Jerrod found himself very much alone. It occurred to him that he had not been alone since his arrival in Ullek, what seemed like a lifetime ago. He'd arrived at the large Menaphite city, expecting to pick up Avis to take him back to Centralia, only to find the boy half-dead with an arrow wound near his heart. Quite an adventure that had been, escaping from the city as the Zamorackian hordes under the command of Balfrug-Kreeyath burned everything down around him.
As he reminisced, the world played an odd little trick on the Cleric—it tilted down away from him, from his perspective. He noted that he seemed to be lying on his back, now, staring at the cloudy skies through the treetops above. He felt the raindrops splashing on his face, and they confused him, for he did not know if his cheeks were wet with tears or rainwater.
Now the Cleric felt very tired. He considered taking out his pipe and attempting to have one last smoke, but the idea was laughable at best. Instead, he contented himself to lie still and savor the cool, refreshing feeling of the rain on his face, listening to the thunder, which sounded distant to him. He also heard something else, something higher-pitched…voices, perhaps. But he did not trouble himself over any of it. All he needed was rest…
As darkness fell over the world around him, Jerrod closed his eyes. But even as he surrendered himself to his weariness, he did not find peace. What he found instead was an image burned into the inside of his eyelids…his pupil, in the Water Temple, the very first time he attempted to use Water Magic… Jerrod had held out some water in his hands to Avis, instructing his pupil to levitate it. Avis's attempt to do so resulted in the boy accidentally boiling the water—while still in Jerrod's hands—and causing it to explode.
The look of surprised horror on his apprentice's face had been almost hilarious enough on its own to make Jerrod forget the fact that his hands had been scalded within an inch of their lives.
The Cleric chuckled once, quietly, to himself, and fell silent.