BlackThorn's Doom Page 0,83

collapsing. They were cut to ribbons the Morne swords hacking apart their bodies as they fell.

Casius watched in horror, he knew the defenders had minutes left to live. Anger built within him but try as he may his feet and legs refused to obey him. Taking Aethir into his left hand he drew the long knife from his belt.

The heat blurred his eyesight and each breath pulled fiery hot air into his lungs. He no longer hoped to survive, his doom weighed heavily upon his heart, but he would do what he could to save the brave men from total annihilation.

He groaned in despair and Sur’kar spun about, his eyes alight with perverse joy. He opened his mouth to taunt his captive and gazed in amazement at the grime-smudged hilt of the long knife that suddenly appeared in his arm.

Casius’s aim was true the blade entered the seam of Sur’kar’s armor, shattering the Tal’shear’s elbow.

Sur’kar screamed. It had been many thousands of years since he had felt pain. Spinning in agony he sought to pull the weapon out.

Casius felt the hold upon him breaking, Taking advantage of his sudden freedom he rushed forward.

Sur’kar threw up a wave of shear force seeking to drive Casius back. The hilltop rocked with its power, the ground cracking beneath their feet.

Casius felt the wave wash over him; it did nothing to slow his attack. Aethir screamed with power as Casius drove it through Sur’kar’s armor and into his chest.

Sur’kar’s eyes widened as he felt the bite of the ensorcelled blade. Emerald fire fought to drive out Aethir. The metal rang with might and Sur’kar’s strength was absorbed into the sword.

“This is for my father!” Casius shouted into his face. “For Marcos, Suni, and all the others who have died because of you!” He threw his full weight against the pommel, driving the sword completely through Sur’kar’s body until its point erupted from his back in a spray of blood.

Sur’kar reeled, dark blood running from his mouth. He fell to one knee and feebly tried to pull the blade free. “What have you done?” He cried out in a wet cough.

“Justice,” Casius said. The heat of his anger fading from his eyes as he watched Sur’kar’s face age until it was a withered gray husk. The emerald fire of his power pulsing weakly as the heart within him slowed as he died.

Sur’kar’s eyes grew distant and he collapsed in a heap. His body becoming little more than bones enwrapped in leathery skin.

Darkness seemed to grow in the air upon the hilltop. A whirling mist that smelled of freshly turned earth and green grass. Within it stood a wraithlike presence vaguely human in shape. It moved slowly forward coming to stand over Sur’kar’s corpse.

Casius could feel the coldness emanating from the shade. He knew that he looked upon Thoron’Gil, the legendary hero. He had returned to witness the fulfillment of the destiny denied him.

Casius withdrew Aethir and the grim shade vanished in a blast of cold wind. He fell to his knees, weakness suddenly overtaking him. He could hear the battle continuing and gasping hard he gathered what strength remained and pulled himself erect, using the sword for support.

Anger fueled him as he watched the men dying in a futile attempt to hold the Morne back.

“Enough!” He shouted in a voice barely above a whisper. He closed his eyes and searched once more for the argent light within him.

Connell worked along the outer ranks of their dwindling line. His sword was a whirlwind of destruction slaying wherever it struck. He was beyond weary and it was only the strength of desperation that allowed him to continue. But he was slowing and he bled from half a dozen superficial cuts, it was only a matter of time until a mortal blow would get through his weakening guard.

A terrifying scream cut across the sounds of combat. From atop the hill a brilliant emerald light flared. So bright did it shine that no one could look at it for long.

“Demon Sur’kar!” D’Yana cursed fending off a Morne attacker. “What is he up to now?”

“We’re lost anyways,” Yoladt replied. “What does it matter?”

D’Yana could not reply, suddenly before her loomed a Morne whose skill vastly surpassed his brethren. He had slain men by the thousands and was much renowned among his kind.

But in challenging D’Yana he had met his match. Although her skills were meager compared to Connell, she was a master of the blade; the man hunter quickly dispatched