Frostfell_ The Wizards - Mark Sehestedt [74]
Following the sounds of slaughter, Arantar at last came to face the destroyers of the capital of Raumathar. They stood before him, the wind whipping their cloaks like banners. One stood foremost. Upon seeing Arantar, he stopped and lowered his cowl.
Arantar stopped and stared, his mouth hanging open. "Khasoreth? What… I-"
The thing that had been Khasoreth laughed and struck, sending shards of ice at his former master.
Arantar rebuffed the attack, then another and another. After repelling the fourth, he struck back, but the five sorcerers absorbed the force he sent against them and used it to fuel their own strength. Spells flew faster than the snows driven by the gale, and shields of magic shattered and reformed themselves. Again and again the five struck at Arantar and he struck back. Their battle raged throughout the city, neither side gaining the upper hand, but Arantar's stand allowed the last of the survivors to escape onto the steppe.
The five sorcerers called forth beings from the darkest planes to fight for them, but Arantar bound them and sent them back. He in turn sent fire and lightning upon his foes, but they blocked every strike. Their battle took them into the skies themselves as the combatants rode the winds of winter and magic.
She watched as Arantar alighted upon the Isle of Witness, now an island in truth since the bridges joining it to the city lay beneath the waves. There, under the winter-bare boughs of the Witness Tree, Arantar made his last stand. His eyes shone forth bright, but with each strike their light was growing dimmer. His foes surrounded him, and she watched as he leaned in weariness against the trunk of the great tree. His hand shook, and his staff fell from his hands to clatter down the stone steps.
Seeing his foes approaching, Arantar smiled, closed his eyes, raised his face to the heavens, and called out, "Father!"
The fabric of creation seemed to vibrate, as if a great bell had been struck or clarion sounded. The gait of the five sorcerers faltered, and when Arantar opened his eyes, they shone a white purer than the noonday sun. Again she looked, and it was as if two beings stood in Arantar's frame, one a man of Raumathar, wanderer of the steppes, and councilor of kings, and the other… beyond all that, one who looked down on the petty bickerings of kings and laughed.
The five sorcerers howled in fury and struck, calling upon every spell they knew as they charged up the hill.
Arantar and the Other struck back, and it was as if she could see beyond reality, see every note and harmony within the song of reality. The five were darkness and shadow infusing the bodies of Khasoreth and his four apprentices, and they drank in all warmth and corrupted all life around them. The attack from Arantar and the Other did not strengthen that disharmony, but rather fed it, pouring holy light and life into the never-ending hunger. The five screamed, and four fell to the ground. The dark infusion, the thousands of tendrils of unlife burrowed into their souls, twisted, frayed, and broke.
The thing that had been Khasoreth fell to his hands and knees upon the ice-slick steps and looked up at Arantar. In the light cast by Arantar's countenance, the shadow lifted from Khasoreth's face, and his eyes cleared. "Master… please. Remember. Remember… mercy."
The exultant smile upon Arantar's face faltered, and his countenance deepened to what she could only call a profound pity. The light dimmed-
–and Khasoreth struck, sending a thick arm of darkness crashing into his former master. The thing within him shrieked in unholy delight.
Arantar stumbled against the tree, and the thing