Frostfell_ The Wizards - Mark Sehestedt [75]
She watched as the Other within Arantar gathered and concentrated his strength to strike.
No! said Arantar, though his lips did not move. Mercy.
The pure light in Arantar's eyes evaporated, and the Other began to lift away-
–but the thing that had been Khasoreth struck, its great arm of darkness seizing the Other, tearing at him.
For an instant-she knew it was no more than that, though it seemed to stretch for an eternity-darkness warred with light, then light surrendered. Arantar breathed his last, a small smile upon his lips, and the Other fell.
The five creatures of darkness seized it, and she watched as they battered and tore at it. Again and again they tried, but to no avail.
The Other sought the last bit of warmth, the last living thing upon the island-the Witness Tree-and fell into it. With a cry of triumph, the five struck, unable to destroy the now-hallowed tree, but sealing it with their darkest spells so that the Other could escape to oppose them no more.
* * * * *
Her vision followed them throughout the years. Winterkeep lay fallen and shunned by all people, but true victory had been taken from the five devils. The last attack by Arantar and the Other had warped their spell. Not only were they trapped within the bodies of the five sorcerers, but much to their dismay the bodies of Khasoreth's apprentices grew old, weak, and approached death as all men do. Filled with the dark powers, their bodies lasted many generations, but die they did.
In their desperation the five devils refined their spells and sought the ancient magics of the people of the world in which they found themselves. Try as they might, they could find no way to free themselves from their imprisonment nor stop the decay of their mortal homes. But they did find a way for their fell spirits to seize other mortal forms.
But only a chosen few.
She watched as the years passed and the ruins of Winterkeep blew away with each passing winter or were buried beneath soil and snow. Powerful as the dark arts of the five were, they could not overcome one flaw. No mere mortal could contain them, but only those in whom the blood of Arantar and Isenith flowed.
She watched as Isenith learned the life of an exile, watching her son grow up, often in hunger and want. But he grew to a man that made his mother proud, though the sadness never left her eyes. Her son married, had many children, and his children had children, the royal blood of Raumathar mixing throughout the years with the peoples of the steppes. The first did not disappear until Arantar's great-grandson was a young man. The second a few years after that-and then two others. Then no more for three generations.
She watched as the five sorcerers fled into the dark north, seeking the coldest lands they could find, forever shunning lands of light and warmth.
Her vision narrowed as she followed the strain of Arantar and Isenith's blood down through the ages. A king, warlords, shepherds, farmers, sorcerers, thieves, and slaves-all these and more were the fates of Arantar's offspring. In most, the blood of Arantar grew weaker with each passing generation, the golden eyes fading, the gifts of his heritage becoming only distant melodies in dreams. But in one line the blood ran strong and true, and her vision followed that line through the ages, seeing it mingle, dilute, and fade, only to gather strength as the bloodlines mingled again.
Then came the Horde, and one man's ambition that would bring nations to war and change the fate of Amira Hiloar forever. The young war wizard fought in many battles, killing and almost being killed so many times that she stopped counting. War became her life. Every day different but torturously the same. Until the day of the battle near the Well of the Broken Antlers, when a Tuigan warlord fled his camp before the Cormyrean troops. The warlord's warriors slaughtered every servant, slave, and captive in camp, leaving nothing for the westerners to take. One of Arantar and Isenith's