A Darkness of Spirit
A’qil sa’n Alar strode to the central court of his walled fortress and raised the horn to his lips. It was an ornate instrument; looping coils of polished brass flaring into a gleaming bell. The sounding began as a deep bass rumble, rattling the windowpanes in their frames, and when A’qil pressed a valve the note rose to a piercing bay. He sounded it six times, and between each soaring trumpet the echo reverberated throughout the mountains. The armies that floundered nearly broken before the walls of House Alar blanched with new fear—they’d heard the stories, they knew what would follow.
The sounding of the Great Horn was a grim augury; a call to the slaughter.
Dal had just finished a long climb to crest a high ridgeline when the keening wail reached her ears, and a white fury flashed in her heart. But just as fast as the anger emerged she snatched it back, thrusting it into the far corner of her soul where she kept it sequestered and held down. Dal edged down to steepen her dive, hastening her descent to the Shii’e’tu caverns—home to her collective. Her thoughts ran with the shadows.
The two-legged one, A’qil—he calls the Drakaa forth once more. I must forestall Zax and his coterie, lest they further darken the spirit.
Old Riven waited as she approached, and he spoke before she came in visual range. “Dal, it is too late. Zax and a dozen others are already away.”
Dal growled low in her throat and huffed a thin cloud. “So soon? They’ve taken the underground passage?”
“Yes. As before, they will meet the two-leggeds in the caverns below their stronghold, and there they will allow themselves to be rigged for this monstrous desecration.” Even as he tried to repress emotion, Riven’s tone quaked. Dal remained silent as she glided in, and then, spotting him on the rough terrain near the cavern’s entrance, she landed. This was even worse than she had expected.
“You say that a dozen others have joined with Zax?” She settled back on her haunches and gazed slightly down upon Riven—in his ancient years he’d shrunk away from his prime.
“Yes. Four others have gone over to his ethic, including Kestar.”
Dal hissed softly. “Kestar, even?” She could scarcely believe it; Kestar had been so adamant in his opposition to Zax’s incitement.
Riven loosed a rumbling growl. The crown of armor between his widely spaced eyes glistened dully and he bared his front row of teeth. “It is so. I argued with them, but the reverts have lost their identities—they’re now little but reflections of Zax. They loftily claim their actions are the true way of the Drakaa—a way falsely repressed—and that to vent their desire in this manner is only natural. They claim that this sates their bloodlust… for a time. They insist that it involves joining in a savagery already underway, and that it is thereby an atrocity not of their making.”
Riven snorted and a cloud of grey smoke puffed from his flared nostrils. “I assured them that theirs was a foolish and dangerous argument. Zax countered, rather darkly, that the alternative would be a pent need—ultimately erupting into violence among our own.”
Dal hissed again—that was new. Never before had the betrayers hinted of violence in the collective. It was true, then—what she suspected. The spirit grew ever darker, claiming more reverts to the ways of old.
“I must follow them, then—intercede before they act.”
Riven shook his massive head. “If they scoff openly at Riven, Elder of the Elders, I cannot believe that they’d heed any other—not even you, Dal. And even were you to hasten now, you’d not catch them in the caverns—they’ve too much a lead. They’ve got the blood frenzy, I tell you, I remember it from my youth. You would do well to stay away, it would be dangerous to cross them now. Their vision has narrowed and a curtain drawn, shutting out all light of reason.”
But she had to try. Dal left Riven, still protesting, at the convergence of the two ranges and she pumped her wings steadily, climbing through thinning air toward the pass between the Guardian Brothers. She was a minute speck in a cold blue sky as she passed between the towering triplet of alps, and once through she canted her wings to begin a soaring descent, her heavy respiration gradually calming back to normal. The temperatures were very cold, up so high—her breath fogged in white clouds and a sheen of ice clad the stony landscape all around. She angled out from the peaks to gaze down upon the fortress of the two-leggeds, so very far below. The striped black-on-orange pupils of her almond-shaped eyes narrowed as her vision focused, and she studied the mayhem.
The chalky soil beyond the fortress walls lay dark and soaked-through with blood. Broken bodies and equipment lay as a still blanket across the broad mesa-top, and a trail of wounded straggled behind the army that limped away. Dal strove to see through the thick smoke; so much of the scene was shrouded by the black plumes that roiled upward, dispersing as a broad, grimy smudge between her high vantage and the groundscape.
She hissed softly—even so far removed, there was the feeling of raw evil here.
Dal rode the updrafts, floating above a scene of carnage mostly silent from this height, and suddenly the gates of the fortress were flung open and thirteen Great Drakaa moved out in a wedge pattern. She focused grimly on the leader.
Yes… it is Zax. And there is Kestar, immediately behind.
She shook her head in frustration. Zax had carried little sway before the reversions had begun, but Kestar—normally so equable—he had rivaled Riven and herself in collective influence. And in wonder she looked down upon sober Kestar—now rearing on hind legs and raking extended talons; roaring and snarling incoherent on a bloodied field of death. Her glands warmed at the faint sounds of violence; she spat dark bile and a growl rumbled low in her throat. She extended her mind to the spear of Drakaa that bore down on the fleeing two-leggeds. Riven had been correct, the curtain was drawn. She picked up no structured thought, just a raging frenzy—pulsing hot and livid.
She watched Zax plunge through the straggling clusters of wounded, the V-shaped ridge of his tail sweeping a wide path, decimating those he hadn’t trampled directly overtop. The two-leggeds simply dropped their weapons and turned to run. She could hear their faint screams, vocal, not of the mind, and she watched with growing fascination.
Zax is headed for the able warriors. He desires the whole blood of those not already fallen…
Kestar dropped behind and fell upon the wounded, snatching them up in his jaws and shaking his head—flinging separated body pieces and bright gouts of blood. He tilted his head back and Dal watched his neck pulse and bulge as he swallowed—she could not avert her eyes, she was possessed. Her second heart kicked in, doubling her pulse and flooding her mind with a coursing warmth. She flew a circling pattern high above the carnage, her structured thought dissolving into a haze of wanton, unremitting desire.
Zax now came upon the mass of the able-bodied two-leggeds. Surprisingly enough, some turned to form a thin line facing him. They thrust and jabbed their tiny lances and swords at Zax, and he thrust his neck forward as two streams of viscous fluid jetted from glands beneath his extended tongue. He doused the line of two-leggeds with venom, and they howled and fell to the ground. The writhing bodies erupted in blue flame as Zax swept through the broken line.
Dal’s eyes shifted to the two-leggeds riding atop the raging Drakaa. Perched in elaborate saddles they were suited in full battle armor, lustrous black, and they wore polished red helms styled as the head of a Montar. The lust was on the two-leggeds also; they brandished their lances and loosed flights of arrows into the seething mass. The mounted warriors howled in animalistic glee, and Dal felt a deep hunger building, irrepressible.
Another of the fleeing two-leggeds, uninjured and larger than the others, turned with a huge battleaxe to face Zax, and Zax’s head snapped down like a striking serpent. His jaws closed over the two-legged’s torso and he snatched the creature off the ground. Dal’s senses were so sharp now, she heard the steel breastplate crumple like an eggshell, transforming the piercing scream into a choking gurgle, and she abruptly reared back to spray a dark mist of poison into the open sky.
She blinked, dazed. She had never known it before, the taste of black death—so exquisite. She shuddered. The glands beneath her tongue swelled and her muscles hardened with the strength of a doubled heart rate. Her breath came fast and heavy, and suddenly she canted her wings to plunge down, down toward the carnage glistening blood red.
Her eyes, greedy now, sought out a target, a portion of the battlefield not yet broached by the spreading wedge, and she angled towards it. All thought was gone; there was now only bright glowing vision, rapturous taste and scent. She flexed her talons, extending them long, and saliva trailed from both corners of her gaping muzzle. Her jaw muscles flexed, opening and closing, and a red haze crossed over her vision.
And then Riven’s voice called out to her, from the distant home.
“Dal! Break away! Do it now! I cannot hold the collective together without you!”
Dal blinked, confused.
What is this, who speaks my mind?
“Veer away, Dal! You must!”
She forced her focus away from the lure of carnage; was there something important that she should remember? Something—to be wary of?
And then she did remember… some of it.
I must… turn away. Not join in the slaughter. But where to go? Not to the collective… not like this. How can I break the frenzy that’s upon me? How can I break it… without taking of it?
Dal forced herself to bank away, angling back toward the forest that climbed the steep slopes. She could not return to her collective, not without first breaking this all-consuming desire to slaughter, and the deep instinct awakened within understood that, ironically, only violence could stop it now. She shook her head and roared in black anger, and she swerved into the flat anvil of stone she flew parallel to, slamming herself bodily against its unyielding surface. There was the briefest flash of white and color, and then nothing.
***
A full cycle of the moon; that much time had passed before Dal could again attempt flight. A cold cycle, spent alone and in pain; she drew on deep body stores to survive. Riven’s mind had ventured to her; cautiously at first, and when satisfied that she’d broken the regression he withdrew. He told her that she needed time alone to heal.
Even once physically recovered she stayed away from the collective for some time; working to fully cleanse her mind of the malignance that had come so near to claiming her. By then Riven came to her regularly; a welcome touch. It was only Riven that she believed to be strong enough to see her like this, because it was only Riven who had once, so very long ago, proven resilient enough to fully break the bloodfrenzy once it was upon him. Riven had broken his raging delirium without the taking of blood, and so there had been no tainting of the Spirit.
Time did pass and Dal returned to the collective whole and perhaps even stronger for her time alone. But as Riven had warned she found the darkness there continuing to build, and Dal sensed the black wave cresting, ready to break its depravity over the entire collective. She watched them closely, and she feared for them. Group thought seemed to be finished; sentiment shuttered closely in, open sharing long since abandoned. The collective now conversed secretly, selectively—a dark augury.
How had it come to pass that the two-leggeds seemed to have assumed control of the Spirit, as though the callous savagery that raged in their hearts had usurped the stewardship long pledged by the Drakaa? How could that be, when the two-leggeds were such a young race, their intellect scarcely developed? The two-leggeds did not yet even recognize the Spirit’s existence, much less understand what it was or what it meant…
***
A’qil sa’n Alar stood at a high window in the southwest donjon, looking past the compound walls to the Mesa-top and to the yawning Flat of Gal’tar beyond. Word had just come—House Tyrgon had assembled the largest military force ever seen on Kast’ar, in large part by assimilating the armies of other Houses vanquished in recent years. That armada now moved across the Flat, approaching Alar, intent on a stellar prize never before taken.
A’qil smiled thinly. So be it, then. His lust for dominance fed his ruthless tactic—and he’d surely need both in the weeks ahead. But once Tyrgon was finished there’d be no others worthy of challenge.
He chuckled softly. In a way the absence of worthy opposition might prove a disappointment, as his barbaric nature seemed in particularly fine form of late.
***
“I overhear thoughts from small, secretive groups.” The tone of Riven’s mind offering was black. “They see the armies again gathering on the battlefield; easily the largest ever assembled. They are excited—giddy, even—at the prospect of what is to come.” Riven hissed his disgust. “Worse yet, those I overhear are not all of the original group of reverts—many are new. Young males, mostly, but even females join now.”
Dal nodded grimly. “I have suspected as much; the malignancy gathers itself. I will call the collective; perhaps together you and I can ward this off.” She began to turn away, but she stopped to study the odd glow in Riven’s eye. She cocked her head at him, and he nodded. He spoke aloud.
“I feel its influence, Dal, I feel it strongly. The shadows tug at me, insistent, and they tempt me. It becomes ever more difficult to resist. I fear for the others—I fear even for myself now.”
***
Dal flew through the deep caverns, the steady wh-whump of her wings the only sound as she sped through the darkness toward the abode of the two-leggeds. As Riven had predicted, the meeting of the collective had gone badly—when she had finally coerced group-thought she’d been shocked at the resultant cacophony. Jumbled fervor and hysteria, often no distinct speech at all—little but raw, charred, emotion. Zax had easily carried the assembly—it would seem that the collective had come to view Dal more as an obstacle than a leader. And even from those who would not yet admit to it, she could feel it on them—the urge of the darkness of spirit.
Now nearly all the collective eagerly awaited the sounding of the Great Horn—lusting for the call to rapacious, carnal, savagery.
She flew the darkness of the lower caverns, sounding against the stone walls to plot her course and feeling the darkening Spirit flowing even this deep. After a long passage Dal climbed to a higher level, entering the primal dungeons below the stead of the two-leggeds. Here the inchoate moans and rabid screeching tore at her soul; through the deep shadows she caught fleeting glimpses of captives chained to ankle posts or hanging limp from manacles. She picked out the gloating chortle of some debased practitioner inflicting his ministrations, and she pushed on to land a further distance away, in a widening cavern under an iron-barred grate through which daylight filtered in from above.
She could sense the two-leggeds; not so far away now, and she sent her mind out to the one. She sent her voice to A’qil, the cruel one—the sounder of the death knell—and she waited, determinedly holding on to measured thought.
Soon he arrived, alone.
A’qil approached with two greatswords slung across his back. He was smeared with dirt and blood, his leather raiment stained with sweat and his chain mail slashed open across one side. The man obviously did not lead his Legion from the rear. He carried a huge crossbow fitted with twin bolts—harpoons, almost—and he held it pointed loosely toward Dal.
“Why do you come now, Drakaa?” His voice echoed through the cold silence. “The war is not yet won; I’ve not yet sounded the slayer’s horn.” He peered stonily at her. “My victory must leave no doubt among the Great Houses—Alar will never fall. Only after I’ve sounded the horn—only then comes your time to feed upon the broken enemy.” He swiped a forearm across his brow, leaving a smear of sweat and dried blood. “That is our agreement eh, Drakaa?.”
Dal hissed softly, struggling to push down the white anger that flashed to the surface, and her second heart gave a single beat before she forced herself calm. A’qil’s eyes widened and he stepped back.
“You and I have no such agreement, two-legged. Your vile pact is with others of my pod.”
With feet planted wide, A’qil raised the heavy crossbow, training it on Dal’s chest. “These are armor-piercing bolts, Drakaa—dosed with d’arkfire. If you’ve come to kill me, you will fail.”
Dal shook her head and she spoke carefully. “I do not come to kill you, A’qil two-legged; that is not my purpose. I’ve come to change the way that you think, the actions you take—before all hope is lost.”
A’qil dropped the point of the crossbow a few inches, chuckling with no mirth. “You, a craven beast, would presume to change the way of A’qil sa’n Alar, the greatest warrior of the greatest race?”
Dal caught her breath as the fury flashed blood-red—a pulse pounding behind her bright eyes.
To kill him now... it would be so easy. I taste the venom sweet...
Her eyes widened as she recognized her own intent, and again she pressed the flaring rage down. She spoke slowly. “You do not understand, two-legged. You know nothing of the Spirit, even though you take of it and return to it. You do not see its darkening as the spiral that serves to accelerate your savagery, and you do not recognize this as a self-feeding prophesy. Every barbarism cumulates and drives further atrocity.” She sought the words that might convey her vision.
“We teeter at the brink of sanity—a mindless chasm awaits our plunge. Ours is a race much older than yours; more attuned to the Spirit, and for that reason I fear that we would be the first to fall. It’s begun already. But you would follow soon enough, as you might intuit from your ever-mounting abominations. Think, A’qil two-legged! Your breed was not always this way.”
A’qil squinted at Dal with a calculating expression. “So—you come to me, the great warlord A’qil sa’n Alar, seeking your own salvation? Why should I even care if the Drakaa survive? I don’t need you to win my wars—your passing would mark no great loss for me.”
Dal ground her teeth, tasting the anger.
How can I hope to get through to this simple fool, when I can no longer communicate even with my own?
“We all require untainted spirit—it is integral to our lives. If it continues to cloud over, then we will all ultimately perish. But our species can work together to begin a restoration of balance—beginning with the cessation of this war.”
A’qil snorted and raised his crossbow, waving it in the direction she’d entered from. “I do not believe your words or your intent, Draaka beast, I would have you leave now. Return with your ravening pack only after I’ve sounded the Great Horn.”
Dal fought her quickening pulse, and then she accepted it.
I must risk descending...
Her coiled haunches launched her forward with a quickness that could hardly be expected; she thrust her head low as A’qil loosed both bolts from his crossbow. The prongs shot past and before he could unsheathe his swords she was in his face, her rows of ripping teeth bared and glistening red in the flickering torchlight. A’qil stood frozen as Dal crouched rigid over him, her tail thrashing, so very close to simply finishing him now. But she held herself abeyant, and in moments the red haze over her vision lessened. She snorted and blinked her eyes as her pulse came down, and she spoke to his mind.
“I… do not mean to kill you, two-legged—if I did I would be forever lost. What I must do now,” she forced her bared fangs closed, “is show you how we both might live.”
“How… do you mean?” A’qil’s voice quavered.
“You do not believe my words. Will you accept the unmasked truth of my thoughts? I will enter your mind, and open mine to you.” She reached toward him. “I must have contact.”
A’qil took a step back. “How can I know that you won’t simply kill me?”
“If that was my desire, then why do you still live?”
A’qil spoke carefully. “If your race loses itself to this… this spirit, as you call it—you’ll come for us, won’t you?”
Dal nodded grimly. “Yes. It would be the first stage of descent—your race is plentiful and easy. But ultimately we’d turn on each other—already I see signs of it.”
A’qil remained silent, trembling but making no further attempt to move away. She took his skull between her talons and four thin trickles of blood trailed from where she held him.
“First I will release, just a little, the thin control that I hold over myself. You will see what will come should the darkening continue.”
She entered his mind and he gasped as she opened herself. She went back a cycle, back to the time she’d so nearly lost herself, and she replayed the vivid memories. Her second heart picked up and filled with savage warmth and glee, and a cloying scent rose from her hide. A thin black slaver, oddly foaming, dripped from her clenched maw. She wanted so badly to open her jaws, to snap forward, crunching down, but she held fast to the last strand of control. She watched, in her memories, as Zax and Kestar ripped chunks of flesh from the two-leggeds, and her mind surged toward the violence.
And then with great effort she thrust the memories back—able to do so only because she’d once come so close as to recognize the edge. She sagged back on her haunches with her eyes closed, struggling to force calm on her racing hearts.
Suddenly she staggered backward; a flash erupting across her senses as A’qil reversed the exchange. He thrust himself forcefully into her mind—on top of her raging emotions the raw influx of fury stunned her. Her eyes blinked open to see A’qil’s leering, triumphant grin as he unleashed a savage intent paramount to her own.
A’qil lunged forward, pulling his greatsword from its scabbard while stooping to sweep a handful of gravel toward her eyes. Dal hissed and flashed a forepaw out to catch A’qil around the chest, pinning one arm to his side. Her jaws snapped shut, grinding the thrown gravel and breaking teeth, and she fumed a dark cloud that covered A’qil in oily, noxious smoke. With his free sword arm A’qil hacked at her and she yanked him off the ground—he screamed and dropped the sword as her grip tightened and a rib broke with an audible pop. She drew him in close to her muzzle, all slimy dripping black slaver, and she bared her teeth, tasting the venom sweet. Her tongue snaked out to trail across his sweat-streaked face, and she reveled in the sour fear that she tasted.
And then she paused, shaking her massive head in confusion.
lost… I’m lost?
She struggled to grasp the thoughts that flitted through her raging mind, but she could hold none of them. She felt her collective playing at the fringes of her jumbled psyche—no words, no coherency, just blind frenzy—urging her, goading her on. She felt the others gathering in ecstasy. They were feeding their bloodlust, vicariously still, through her.
They want it…
Her senses exquisitely acute, she tasted the pulverized stone mixed with her blood and broken teeth, and the narrow slits of her pupils focused on her prey—she could smell the stench of pure panic now—such a narcotic.
She roared suddenly, angry with herself. This was wrong—for it to end this way. Why? And what of the others?
the others… the gathering… the frenzy… can I somehow… take it from them?
Dal struggled to concentrate, to put her thoughts together. She understood that the upper level of her mind, where she could exercise logic and reason, was fast slipping away. If she could hold to just one thought… for a time. She ground her teeth together, tasting the stone.
Stone… like before, use the stone… use it for the gathered conscious!
She turned her eyes back to the small creature she’d momentarily forgotten—it continued to struggle in her grip. She reached for its head with her free manus; it kicked its puny feet and snapped its teeth in a ridiculously futile defense. Her talons pierced its scalp and set firmly on bone and her eyes focused unblinking on his. He screamed when she drew hard on his mind; she pulled all his darkness to her breast. In short moments the creature’s spastic flailing went limp; Dal threw her head back and roared, hurling a great swath of fiery rage to burn senseless against the stone ceiling of the cavern. She flung the limp body across the stone floor and turned her eyes to the iron grate overhead, and she leapt toward it.
She slammed against the grate, taking the bars in her talons and wrenching them loose, raining clumps of broken stone to the floor. She clawed at the opening, tearing chunks of rock free until she could push through. The distant clamor of battle went unheard; she opened her wings and bounded into the open sky.
She repeated to herself, over and over, lest she forget.
to the stone… gathered thought… to the stone
She could feel the collective with her now, in wild, unrestrained exultation, clamoring for more. She felt their fury swell, but hers was even greater and she drew them in. Her twin hearts beat faster than they ever had before as she climbed and her rage continued to darken.
Up and up she climbed, feeling more power than she’d dreamt possible. The voices in her head goaded her, shouted at her, but she could understand no words. Only the feelings—the bright, intense, bloodfrenzy.
gathering… to stone…
When she could climb no more without her hearts surely bursting she ducked her head and pitched over, beginning the dive. She scanned the rockscape below and bared her teeth in baleful exaltation—there she found it, her prey. She pumped her wings until the speed was too great and then she folded them in, feathering just enough to guide her plunge.
stone…
She narrowed her lids as the wind tore at her. The voices howled now, incoherent, and she could pick out a few though she couldn’t remember many. One she recognized—ancient, different from the others. She was surprised that she could still understand it—it told her no; to stop, don’t do this. Irritated, she forced it to the rear of her conscious where it couldn’t distract her purpose.
And there, on the rear fringe, was where she recognized another voice—louder than all the rest, exhorting her on, goading and gloating. A name came to her.
Zax?
She snatched that consciousness up and thrust it to the front of her mind, shoving from behind as she plunged toward the jagged mountainside. She forced its vision through her eyes and it quailed—the entire collective felt it and quieted
She could no longer remember why or even what, she simply knew it had to be. The fury drove her, the excitement of the bloodlust, the understanding that the others now feared her. She reveled in it, and just before impact she reversed herself, her wings breaking backward, and she extended her talons and roared a gout of flame that was ripped behind by the wind.
The stony spire impaled her scaled underbelly, plunging up through her chest and her hearts, and she slammed to a halt with the gory pinnacle rammed through the ridge of armor along her spine. Her phosphoric blood spattered and mixed with the flammable venom of her ruptured glands, and a low blue flame sprang up and quickly burst into a blazing neon inferno. The intense heat shattered the cold stone, even melting it, and the landscape was consumed.
On the battlefield, warriors performing the rites of death paused to gawp in astonishment at the huge torch that erupted on the distant mountainside, too bright to look at for long, and loosing a roiling black cloud of smoke to the heavens.
***
A’qil again stood at the high window of his donjon, his chest splinted and bound, looking at the massive army, beaten, that retreated ploddingly from his walls like a huge slug burdened by its own weight. His newly-shaved scalp was puckered liberally with stitchwork, and he cocked his head to listen curiously. In the distance, from the mountains—raucous bedlam among the Draaka. He’d never before heard the like of it.
He sighed, absently fingering his blade. He looked and draw the edge across an open palm. So sharp it was—the tissue took a moment to recognize the cut, but then a bright flow of blood welled. He stared at it moodily—he felt none of the old excitement. He put his hand to his lips, tasting the blood.
Still nothing. He spat bloodied phlegm on the polished horn that lay at his feet, and he looked back to the retreating army.
It’s not cowardice, wh