Flames
**********
Flames. Suldanessellar was burning. Clouds of smoke hung over the city, billowing from buildings large and small, as well as the trees themselves. Even the palace let loose the occasional puff of smoke. The temple was the only building yet undamaged. But not untouched. The Exile's minions had entered the temple, defiled it. The Goblet of Life had been stolen, given to the Exile's pet dragon.
And all hope rested on the Bhaalspawn, Marek. One soulless warlock with not a drop of Elven blood. Ellesime wondered what Joneleth had seen in the man. The spark of the divine, of course, but there were others with the same, Elves with the same. This man?s blood was instead tainted with an Orc?s lineage.
But it was little help to wonder over why Joneleth had chosen him. He had, and even now the warlock battled for his soul in the depths of the hells. No one dared touch the bodies.
Ellesime had returned to see Joneleth fall, and shortly after the warlock had as well. She had seen no harm befall him, but still his body fell to the ground as his soul was wrenched to the Nine Hells.
But that was all their magics could tell them. And so they waited. Ellesime refused to leave the bodies, one hand just above each of the men, both masters of the arcane, both tainted by darkness, and now both fighting over one soul.
*************
Hell was dark. Marek could hear the flames and lakes of fire, but still darkness clouded around him. It was everything he could do to stumble down stairs of blazing heat, into rooms of glacial cold. One room after another, and he was tested. Demons upon demons. Fear, greed, selfishness, pride, wrath, every demon of himself was given form to test him.
And for each test he was given a gift. For overcoming pride in his strengths, he was given the strength to overcome the elements that would stop him. For banishing fear, he was given the assurance that he need never fear the simple again. For resisting selfishness, he was given the power to resist more physical dangers, magic. For dismissing greed, he would more easily dismiss the dangers of this world. And for conquering wrath, he would conquer such troubles more easily in the future, through intuition and charisma.
The gifts came through tears, but the tears opened the door to the deepest parts of his soul. And Irenicus entered at the same time.
There were no words needed. Each knew that this was the end for one, and the beginning for the other. They nodded with the respect of old rivals who knew each other as themselves. And their magics met.
Irenicus fought with Elven high magic, and darker magics as well, those lost to history and found only in the darkest founts of arcane lore. Marek?s arcane power was from a pact with his sire, a dark pact made by a foolish young boy that had cost Marek no end of trouble in recent times.
But today those powers served him well as he sent one blast of Eldrith energy after another, drawing on unending founts of dark mysteries. And though Irenicus was an archmage beyond what the Elves had seen in ages, his spells would run out; Marek?s invocations would not.
All too soon they did. Both men sensed the change; both men knew the end was near. But if the end would come for him, Irenicus would not go lightly. Drawing upon the soul he had stolen, and the soul they fought over so desperately, he become the very aspect of death and murder that Marek had come to understand as the worst he could be. The Slayer.
And soon, the battle raged just as hard as before. But both were battered, and neither could continue for long. Though the founts of power through which Marek drew his power were unending, his energy was not, and he found his control slipping. The Slayer, whether it was still Irenicus or just a being of murderous instinct Marek could not tell, sensed this failing, and pressed harder.
Only once before had Marek pressed so far that he was at the end of himself. That was a long time past, but he had grown more focused since then. Today he had far surpassed what he could have imagined then. But again he found himself at the end, with a choice to surrender to the magic or turn to his more physical skills.
He surrendered.
The blast of power that left him tore at the very fabric of this corner of the hells. The Slayer seemed to recognize what was coming a moment before and it lunged for the warlock?s throat, seeking to end it before it began.
The blow would never land. A force roughly equivalent to a charging dragon crashed into the Slayer, throwing him back to fall on a wall of flames that sprang up to consume him. The blasts that continued to come were more powerful, each draining the Slayer of more strength, more energy.
The final blast sent even Marek off his feet, and his back connected with something behind him solidly. Apparently the force of magic propelling him against stones didn?t count as a simple danger, because it hurt. And standing caused pain to arc through him, from the small of his back to the base of his skull.
Perhaps he should have felt lucky he had not crushed his skull, or broken anything else, so far as he could tell. Blinking spots and tears from his eyes he searched the twisted landscape for any sign of the Slayer, silently praising his Orc blood for making the darkness easier to penetrate.
The Slayer was nowhere to be seen. Instead it was Irenicus? crumpled form that his eyes found. As he stumbled his way to the man who had brought him through hell, literally, he paused to retrieve Frostreaver from the ground, where he had forgotten it at the beginning of his deadly barrage.
He staggered forward again, this time his axe raised, and his eyes fixed on the dying Elf?s chest, slowly rising and falling as the mage struggled to suck in breaths. Marek had won, and the thought gave him no small amount of joy. His step was lighter as he moved forward quicker, the pain seeming more distant.
He reached the broken body and stared down at the mask, and the eyes that stared at him beneath. Was that fear that his eyes betrayed?
No, he realized as a hand shot for his face. Not fear. Anger. Irenicus felt that deep emotion as well as any other, and now it consumed him. Marek had no idea what spell was used upon him, but the pain that consumed him was agonizing, and he was sure he was going to die. He swung the axe at the still heaving chest before blackness began to creep into his vision. The last thing he saw before it took him completely was his eyes. They were wide open and staring into Marek?s own.
*************
?Ah... I see that you have finally come to. I almost did not believe it when the priestesses told me that your body was showing signs of life once again.? Ellesime was bent over the body of the Half-Orc, concern etched upon her features. The Warlock could also see tears, and her eyes were red. ?We resurrected who we could, but it seemed nothing would draw your spirit back. We were about to give up when you began to stir this morning.?
?H-how... how long was I...? He began but she finished when his voice faltered. His throat felt so dry.
?Dead? A couple of days, no more. However you managed to find your way back, it is good that you have done so.?
Nodding the warlock reached for a glass on a table beside his bed, draining it easily. ?Yes,? he said coldly as he set the glass down, and grabbed the Elven queen?s hand. ?It is very good indeed.? And with a cruel grin Irenicus wrapped her in acid.
For a moment he examined his new body, but then he stood and strode for the door. There was so much to do.
Edited by Kellen, 03 August 2007 - 06:27 AM.
