Chapter 16
At last the army came within sight of the ziggurat. Stormfist was no longer certain if it was night or day. The sky was black and unchanging. The source of the unnatural night seemed to be ziggurat itself. The very sight of it seemed to draw the life from the gazer. Though darkness shrouded the land, the ziggurat itself was bright and visible. It seemed to throb with life. Stormfist could imagine that he could see tendrils of evil extending from the ziggurat out to steal the life from the land.
His men were grim and without words. An unnatural silence had sunk into them. Gone were the jibes and complaints. Gone too were the hails and calls from man to man that were normal for such a march. Even the dwarves did not sing as was their normal wont. The elves had retreated into a close group that spoke little, though their faerie light continued to illuminate the way.
He could hear his commander's voice from time to time calling out orders to the men to sharpen their march, but even Redthorn's voice sounded dispirited and without force. Stormfist waved to him a druid that walked nearby. The druid came in answer, followed by a mage whose black robes seemed suited to this land of dark.
"What pall is that lies upon the men? What foul curse causes them to march as if already dead? Tell me druid, how do I combat despair?"
The druid pushed back the sleeves of his robes and crossed his arms before answering. "The pall is the pall of death. These men know they march unto their dooms..."
Stormfist cut him off angrily. "Spare me your melodrama, druid! I have marched among men into war all my life, and this be like unto no despair I have ever seen. This is no natural fear of death. I have marched men into the teeth of orcish armies that outnumbered us a hundred to one. I have stood upon castle walls about to be overrun, with men who knew their lives were forfeit, and heard them sing in defiance, and give voice to battle cries despite the knowledge of their deaths to be, and this is unlike those all."
Stormfist turned upon the druid, his eyes almost seemed to burn with fire. "Something else afflicts the men here. How can I make war with men who are already dead in spirit?"
The druid's face remained neutral as he met the general's wrath. He did not answer for a moment. "And would knowing that a dark and forbidden spell saps the very life from your men, even as it drains the life from the land, from the sky give you insight into how to combat it?" The druid gestured about, his arms taking in the land around them. "Has the darkness of the sky not given you hint that something unnatural happens here? That something beyond the ken of fighting men takes place?" He said the last with a sneer, his contempt obvious.
The general snapped in anger. "Do you tell me that our cause is lost? That our march has been for naught? That we should give up here and lay down our arms because some gods-cursed necromancer has cast a spell that will consume the world?"
"Nay, lord general, I do not say that we should give over our lives, but recognize that you do war with forces that may not be combatted with force of arms."
"Bah! I've not met the sorceror yet that could not be silenced with a yard of steel run through his chest!"
"As effective as that steel has proven against the dead who walk?" The druid challenged.
Stormfist's fist slammed up, backhanding the druid with the silver gauntlet. The druid fell backwards to the ground. The mage who accompanied him stepped back and brought his hands up in a quick movement, a red flare of light forming around his hands as he prepared to defend himself.
Rage consumed Stormfist. Fiery anger burned through him, he felt as if he must surely burst so great was his fury did he not release it. His sword was suddenly in his fist, the bright blade aflame. "You dare!?" He strode forward upon the mage who stumbled back a step. "You dare bring your powers against me!?"
"See! You see!" A shout from the ground distracted him. Stormfist turned his gaze back to the ground where he had cast the druid. The druid held one hand to his face, where he attempted to staunch a small flow of blood. With the other he pointed to Stormfist. "See how the power consumes him, I warned you it was folly!"
Nonplussed the general hesitated. "Of what do you babble, druid?"
The mage, no longer in immediate danger, released the spell he held, but kept a careful distance. The druid clambered to his feet quickly. "I warned you the power of the Opals were not to be trifled with!" He pointed to the gauntlet upon the general's hand.
The general reacted in surprise. "What do you mean, druid! Speak plain, or I will surely strike your prattling head from your shoulders." But even though the words were threatening, the general's anger had begun to dissipate. The blade's flame dwindled to a flicker.
"I warned you the powers of the Opals could not be bound together and controlled. Can you not see yourself the anger you feel does not come from you, but from the influence of the Opals? Or do you normally strike your own advisors?"
Stormfist could not answer. He watched the flames coursing along the blade slowly die out as if seeing them for the first time. He turned the blade down, his gaze seeking out the Opals afixed to the back to the gauntlet. The Opals glittered with a life of their own, pulsing in harmony with an internal light.
"There were never meant to be joined! No man can control them! They are the primal elements! It was folly to bring them here!"
The general continued gazing at the pulsing stones. "Cease your prattling, druid," the general commanded. Was it true? Did the gauntlet which he wore contain more power than could be commanded by a single man?
No, Stormfist thought to himself. No, he denied it. No magic trinket could be stronger than his own will. It would serve him. He would allow nothing else. He could allow nothing else.
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