Paragon of Destruction

"They come again! Brace yourselves!"

Arran fastened his grip on his sword at the familiar words. Master Zhao had spoken them many times already, and if his voice held a hint of despair that had been absent before, that was to be expected.

Briefly, Arran’s eyes darted to the bodies that littered the ground around him. There were thousands, too many of them to count. Most belonged to strangers, but there were many that he recognized.

Kaleesh lay a mere fifty paces ahead, eyes wide and pointed at the crimson sky in an empty stare. Around him lay the remains of the last of the Wolfsblood Army, starmetal armor soaked in the blood of those it had failed to protect.

Closer still lay Snowcloud and Jiang Fei, side by side, their figures unmoving amid the mass of bodies. The charred remains of their enemies still smoldered around them, a reminder of the ferocity with which they had fought. Yet even that had not been enough.

Where millions had once stood, only hundreds remained. And soon, even those would fall.

Arran glanced to his right, where Brightblade still stood. Though she bore many wounds, her face carried only a vicious grin — a grim determination to kill as many of the enemy as she could before falling herself.

There were others, as well. Beside Brightblade, he saw Elder Naran and the Sixth Valley’s Patriarch, and further along the line he recognized Lady Merem and the Governor of Knight’s Watch. There were many he did not recognize — Shadowflame mages, Darian warriors, and others besides — but none of them were free from injury.

Only Crassus remained unscathed. The towering dragon stood alone, half a mile away, the area around him a ruined wasteland of fire and ashes. Yet although Crassus was yet unwounded, Arran could see that even the giant dragon was affected by the exhaustion they all shared.

His thoughts were interrupted by a familiar shimmer in the air before him, and he gripped his sword as he cleared his mind and readied himself for battle.

The enemy had returned.

The shimmer in the air lasted a mere instant before it was replaced by a jet-black mass, darker than darkest night, with the space around it distorted as if a hole had been torn in the very fabric of reality — like a gate to some other world.

As the gate grew wider, hundreds of creatures poured forth from it, their figures twisted and misshapen, with bodies that seemed to be composed entirely of raw Essence. Some were no taller than a man, while others stood a dozen feet tall. But in each, Arran could Sense an overwhelming force of seemingly endless Essence.

Without hesitation, he struck forth. In a matter of seconds, a dozen of the creatures died, the Living Shadow blade almost singing with joy as it tore through their bodies. And alien though the creatures were, fear filled their faces in the instant before they were killed.

Yet even as Arran slaughtered the creatures, more followed behind the ones that fell, a dozen instantly taking the place of each that Arran defeated. And as he fought, more gates appeared, dense masses of black that spewed forth still more of the creatures.

It was a battle without glory, an endless struggle to keep from being overwhelmed, with every victory offering only the slightest moment of respite. Fighting the creatures was like trying to stop a flood with only a bucket — a task so futile it bordered on being ridiculous.

Yet if there was no victory to be had, there was no surrender either. It was a struggle only death could end, and hopeless though the battle might be, Arran refused to accept his demise.

And so, he continued the fight, slaughtering his enemies even though he knew that others would come to take their place.

As the battle raged on, at times he caught glimpses of the other fighters. Master Zhao, surrounded by a flurry of unseen blades that dismembered any of the creatures that neared him. Brightblade, her sword a streak of white fire that burned her enemies even before it touched them. The Governor, who moved with a speed that seemed impossible, his frail body darting between enemies, striking them down with attacks that appeared to violate the laws of reality itself.

And then, there was Crassus. Tall as a mountain, he spewed streams of liquid fire that incinerated the creatures thousands at a time, leaving naught but smoldering ashes in their wake.

But formidable as they were, one by one, they fell.

Brightblade was run through by one of the creatures as she slew another, and although Arran attempted to come to her aid, hundreds of the alien creatures overwhelmed her in an instant. There was one last flash of light — a searing wave of heat that turned a hundred enemies to dust — and then, the light of her sword faded.

The Governor, too, was overwhelmed, torn limb from limb by a mass of creatures so dense they could not be evaded. Even with his dying breath he slew another dozen of the enemy, but amid the endless sea of creatures, the final act of heroism carried no more meaning than a single drop of water in a rainstorm.

Slowly, their numbers dwindled. It did not matter how many they defeated, there were always more creatures that appeared, more gates from which more enemies poured forth.

Then, in the distance, Arran saw another creature emerge — a man-shaped titan wrought from fire and lightning, a thousand feet tall if not more, with waves of raw Essence surging from its hands that destroyed ally and enemy alike.

Even amid the carnage, the sight caused a tremble to run through Arran’s heart. The titanic creature seemed more god than man, a primordial force of nature that no blade could stop.

But as Arran touched on the edge of despair, a deafening roar sounded, followed by a sudden storm that swept across the lands and sent hundreds of the alien creatures sprawling on the battlefield.

Crassus had taken flight.

For a moment, it seemed as if time stood still, with the titan reaching toward the dragon that blackened the skies above it, fire and lightning surging forth from its hands as it tried in vain to bring down its opponent.

Then, Crassus descended. Plunging down like an avalanche, he soared toward the gargantuan creature, striking with such power that it caused the earth itself to groan in agony. As he hit, his giant claws lashed out at the titan, ripping and tearing into it with a force that could have shattered mountains.

The two went to the ground in a violent embrace that caused the ground to shake for miles around, their struggle so fierce it seemed like it could crack the very earth on which they fought.

Yet after a time, the deafening noise died down. And as it did, Arran saw that neither of the giant creatures rose again.

He could spare only a single thought for his fallen friend. Then, the battle continued.

More of Arran’s allies fell. The Sixth Valley’s Patriarch disappeared in a firestorm that scoured the battlefield of life for a hundred paces around, and Elder Naran’s towering figure was dragged to the ground by hundreds of the creatures, never to rise again.

There were those who were mightier still — men and women whose power would have left Arran dumbfounded at any other time. They rained down lightning on the battlefield, tore the creatures apart with gusts of wind that struck with a might no sword could match, and opened vast chasms in the earth that swallowed the creatures by the hundreds.

But for all their power, they died one after another, even their power no match for the endless onslaught of creatures that continued to pour forth from the ever-expanding gates.

At last, none remained but Arran and Master Zhao, two lone humans amid an ocean of enemies.

By now, they had killed so many of the creatures that the broken corpses of their defeated foes formed tall hills around them, but still, the creatures kept coming.

Arran had long since abandoned any hope of victory. Yet even though he knew the battle was lost, and despite the numerous wounds that already covered his body, he continued to fight. Not out of bravery, determination, or even the desire to avenge his fallen friends.

Rather, what drove him was pure spite. If he was to die at the hands of these strange creatures, then he would do so atop a mountain of their corpses. And if they had a language, then he would make them curse his name for generations to come.

Yet spite could only do so much. Even if Arran killed a dozen of the creatures for each wound he took, it was still enough to wear him down, every injury he received slowing him and making it harder to resist the next attack.

But then, just as he thought he could take no more, he heard Master Zhao’s voice.

"Flee!"

He looked over in confusion — if he could flee, he would have long since done so. Yet as his eyes found Master Zhao, he saw that his former teacher had stopped fighting. Instead, he stood perfectly still, one arm stretched toward Arran and a look of utter concentration on his face.

Suddenly, a tear opened up before Arran — one much like the gates from which the creatures had come, except where those were smooth and black, this one was red and had ragged edges.

He understood at once what Master Zhao had done, even if he had no idea of how the man had achieved it. Yet there was no time for hesitation.

He cast a final look at his teacher, then leaped into the tear.

As soon as Arran landed, he turned around, ready to face any of the creatures that might have followed them. But the tear winked out of existence even as he laid eyes on it, too quickly for any enemies to have followed behind him.

A stab of pain went through his heart as he saw the portal close, for he knew what it meant. He had seen that Master Zhao was on the verge of being overwhelmed, and as much as he wanted to believe that his teacher had closed the portal, he knew the truth.

For several moments, he stood in silence, eyes downcast as the full weight of what had happened suddenly pressed down on him. Snowcloud, Kaleesh, Jiang Fei, Brightblade, even Crassus — all of them had fallen.

Then, however, a sudden frown appeared on his face.

In the heat of battle, all that had happened had seemed entirely natural. But now, he suddenly wondered how he had even ended up on the battlefield. More importantly, he realized that he had no idea who his enemies had been — nor why the Shadowflame mages had joined forces with the Darians.

His eyes went wide with confusion, and he turned to look around — and found that he was standing in what appeared to be an endless empty plain, albeit one with purple grass and a crimson sun shining above him.

"Was it a dream?" he wondered aloud. Though the idea seemed ridiculous — it had seemed completely real, and even now, his body was still covered in wounds — it was the only explanation he had.

The last thing he remembered before the battlefield was meeting the Governor of Knight’s Watch, and he could not recall receiving so great a blow to the head that he would forget whatever events lay in between.

"It was," a reply came. "In a sense, at least."

Arran turned around with a start, and when he saw who stood before him, his heart immediately sank.

"Panurge."

The self-proclaimed god gave a broad smile. "In the flesh," he said in a cheerful tone. "Or whatever passes for flesh in here."

For several seconds, Arran found himself torn between rejoicing that none of it was real, anger at what he’d been made to experience, and no small amount of concern that the god could enter his dreams. But finally, he settled on a single question.

"Why?"

"A well-earned reward for your latest achievement," Panurge replied. "Though I’ve planted many seedlings, it’s always a pleasure to—"

He was interrupted mid-sentence when Arran’s blade came flashing toward him, but he dodged the blow easily, then shook his head in mock dejection.

"Such an ungrateful child. Not a whit of gratitude for the gift I’ve granted you."

"A gift?!" Arran stared at him in outraged disbelief. "You call that a gift?! To make me witness the deaths of everyone I know?!"

Again he swung his sword at Panurge with all his might, but the god effortlessly caught it with his hand. And this time, he seemed less amused at the attack.

"A gift," he said, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "And a great one, at that. To catch a glimpse of what the future might hold is something that is given to few."

At this, Arran felt his rage subside. "The future?" Though he wasn’t so foolish as to trust Panurge, the battle was still fresh in his mind, and even the possibility of it becoming reality nearly made him sick with worry.

"A future," Panurge said. "And one that may yet come to pass, if there are none with the power to stop it." He cast a thoughtful look at Arran, then added, "Although I will admit to taking some liberties with the truth. As it is, your strength would not have gotten you nearly as far."

"What were those creatures?" Arran asked. As much as he wanted to disregard Panurge’s words, he could not help but feel that there was at least a core of truth to what he’d witnessed.

"Inevitable," Panurge replied with a shrug. "A consequence which cannot be avoided, and one which only fools would seek to delay. But enough of your questions. I’ve granted you a glimpse of what awaits, and perhaps you will even heed the warning. I bid you—"

Seeing that Panurge was about to depart, Arran cried out, "Wait! I have one more question!"

Panurge gave him a flat look. "Well?"

"Why me?"

"Why you?" Panurge looked at him in disbelief, then burst into laughter. And although this laughter subsided a moment later, an expression of heartfelt amusement remained on his face. "As I said before, you are just one seedling among many. A spark of potential, but no more than that. Whether you grow into something different... that remains to be seen."

The answer left Arran unsatisfied, yet as he was about to ask another question, he found that Panurge had already disappeared. And as he noticed this, he saw that the strange plain upon which he stood began to fade, as well.

Arran came awake with a start.

Briefly, he hoped that it had all been a dream — the kind that involved no gods other than the ones created by his own mind.

This hope was short-lived, however, as he realized almost immediately that the wounds on his body were all too real. And although they were already beginning to heal, he could feel that the bedsheets were soaked in fresh blood.

He groaned in frustration, then got out of bed, the only thing keeping him from cursing out loud the knowledge that the people he’d seen die in Panurge’s vision were still alive.

A brief look at the bed was enough to convince him he couldn’t leave it as it was, and after a moment’s thought, he stored the blood-soaked sheets in his void ring. Better the Governor’s servants think he stole the bed sheets than that they find what looked like the scene of a murder.

Then, after taking a deep breath and muttering a curse at Panurge, he looked around the room.

He was pleased to see that a small stack of fresh clothes was neatly placed in a corner of the room, and doubly so when he saw that there was also a large copper tub filled with water.

Though the water was cold, it served well enough, and a quarter-hour later found Arran clean and dressed in a fresh set of clothes. The old ones — even more blood-soaked than the sheets had been — he stored in his void ring as well.

He hesitated briefly, then dug up another well-worn set of clothes from his void ring, which he wrapped in an old piece of bedding to form a large and foul-smelling bundle.

Finally, after he put his armor back on, he stepped out of the room and waved down a passing servant.

"Young master," the man said, some surprise in his voice. "You are awake."

"Clearly," Arran replied. "How long did I sleep?"

"Four days," the man said. Somewhat apologetically, he added, "We would have asked if you needed assistance, but the Lord Governor gave orders not to disturb you."

"It’s a good thing he did, then," Arran said. "But now that I’m awake, can you have a meal sent to my quarters?"

The servant gave a polite nod. "Of course. Is there anything else you need?"

"There is." Arran held up the bundle of bedding and clothes. "Have this burned. It holds two months worth of filth, and I fear no amount of washing will be enough to salvage it."

Disgust flashed across the servant’s face, but he recovered his composure in an instant and accepted the bundle with well-concealed distaste. "It shall be done immediately."

Arran gave the man a friendly nod, after which he stepped back into his room.

A brief sigh escaped his lips as he sat down on a chair by the window. Four days. In his mind, the battle had lasted months, longer even than the time it had taken him to reach his breakthrough — what the Governor had called a first step into Enlightenment.

Yet for all that, the only thing Panurge’s vision had brought him was a heap of new questions, not least about the supposed god’s intentions for him.

Idly, he wondered what would have happened had he died in the dream, and a wry smile crossed his lips when he realized that Panurge might well have let it happen.

Though he was still uncertain of what it was Panurge intended for him, he could not help but think that the self-professed god had little patience for the weak. If a seedling — as he called it — died before his time, Panurge seemed more likely than not to dismiss the unlucky victim as a failed experiment.

But as much as Arran distrusted Panurge, he could not convince himself that the dream had merely been a cruel trick. There was something more to it — almost certainly an attempt to influence him, and likely an attempt to set him against the forces of Order. And, perhaps, a sliver of truth.

Though he hadn’t yet encountered the creatures he saw in the dream, he had witnessed similar ones. The Remnants that roamed the Shadow realm for one, and the creatures Brightblade had named Demons for another.

And if the similarity wasn’t perfect, it was strong enough — especially for the latter — that he knew it was no coincidence.

Moreover, the idea that such creatures might one day overrun the world did not seem nearly as impossible as he would have liked. Though he still had little idea of how the Shadow realm had fallen to its current state, what he had seen outside the Ninth Valley brought him little peace of mind.

Arran’s musings were interrupted when a knock sounded on his door.

"Enter!" he called out, but as he turned toward the door, he was surprised to see that behind three servants carrying a sizable meal, the Governor himself followed.

He quickly stood up, managing an awkward bow. "Lord Governor. I didn’t expect you to visit me."

An amused smile crossed the old man’s face. "I had intended for you to come to me, but after four days, my patience ran thin."

Arran shifted uneasily. "I apologize," he said. "I didn’t think I would sleep as long."

As the servants finished setting up the table, the Governor motioned for them to leave. Then, with narrowed eyes, he peered at Arran. "Yet for all that sleep, you seem no more well-rested than when you arrived."

Arran feigned a smile, struggling not to recall how he had seen the old man torn limb from limb in Panurge’s vision. "I had some unpleasant dreams, but I expect that a proper meal will do me much good."

The Governor gave a short nod. "A common thing, this close to the Desolation." Again he cast a thoughtful look at Arran. "Though I am surprised to see how well you’ve taken to your step into Enlightenment. From the look of you, I would’ve sworn that you had your breakthrough months ago."

For an instant, Arran was dumbfounded. But then, he realized that it was true. It seemed that Panurge’s gift had brought more than just questions and wounds, after all.

Though he had not realized it at the time, the desperate battle — imaginary though it was — had allowed him to hone his skill at using his newfound understanding, to the point that he now used it even without thinking.

Seeing Arran struggle to reply, the Governor gave a dismissive gesture. "Your secrets are your own. Come sit with me."

Thankful that the old man did not ask any questions he could not answer, Arran gave a relieved nod and sat down beside him.

"Now then," the Governor said as Arran sat down. "We have much to discuss, and a good meal to discuss it over." He reached into his robe and produced a smooth white disc, which he laid on the table. "But first, there’s the matter of your oath."

Though the old man spoke casually, Arran’s eyes went wide with surprise when he saw the disc. While he had expected the oath to be somehow similar to the Shadowflame oath, he had not thought that the object used would be exactly the same.

That it was so, he knew instantly. It was a likeness that went beyond mere similarity, the two objects so alike that they could have been — and perhaps were — created by the same hand.

And whatever hand it was that had created the discs, he knew for a fact that it belonged to a mage.