For that fleeting moment, he had felt the horror and pain of a million lifetimes, but that moment was over now. He heard the muffled grunting cough of Pael landing in the rubble. He heard the dark wizard cry out in rage, pain, or some other powerful emotion, and when he opened his eyes, he saw Ironspike lying on the ground before him. When he reached to pick it up, his muscles felt wrong, and stiff, and a tremendous pain tore through his body. He felt as if he had been cooked.
He remembered Loudin of the Reyhall, and the agonizing pain he must have felt as he clung to the blade, trying to save it from the hellcat. He remembered Vaegon’s upper half laying among the rocks, and Grrr’s valiant leap into the jaws of the Choska to save him. Knowing that the hoard of pain that he was feeling couldn’t possibly equal the sacrifices that had been made for him, for this very moment, he gritted his teeth, lurched forward, and grabbed the leather wrapped hilt of his father’s sword.
At once, Ironspike’s harmonic symphony filled Mikahl’s ears again, and he was drowned in cool relief. His pain was quickly vanquished, and a rush of energy took its place. Gathering his wits, he found his feet, and surveyed the scene around him.
Not ten paces away, Pael was trying to get back to his feet. In the bright, blue glow of his blade, he could see Pael’s good eye rolling around wildly in its socket. He could see the clenching, and unclenching of the demon-wizard’s jaw, and the way the veins stood out on his neck. Something was wrong with him. Pael seemed to be caught up in some inner struggle, and was being tormented by it. Mikahl didn’t hesitate to wonder why the pale-skinned demon wizard was in such a state. He just raised Ironspike, and charged.
Pael, with Shokin’s might behind him, had reached through the power of Ironspike’s defenses, had reached into Mikahl’s soul, and started to blacken it, but something had happened. Shokin was yanked from him, for a terrible, soul-wrenching moment.
Pael clung to the demon’s power with all he had, but it was still slowly slipping from his grasp. Some power beyond reckoning was drawing Shokin away from him. Through the skittering of his good eye, he saw the boy coming for his flesh.
What to do? He latched onto the demon’s essence, and cast another destructive spell, but it wasn’t to be. Icy blue steel bit into his neck. He saw bright, sapphire shaded rubble, then the dark starlit sky, then after a crazy whirl of darkness, his vision came to rest.
He saw the bloody, spurting stump of a body, clad in black robes trimmed in sparkling crimson tears, and knew that he was seeing his own headless corpse. What was worse than watching his life’s blood pumping from his body, while his brain slowly died, was that his soul still clung to the demon’s essence, and the agony of it ripping free from his consciousness lingered, until he finally faded away into nothingness.
Mikahl wasn’t satisfied that Pael’s egg-like head was sitting several feet away from his body. He judged where the wizard’s heart should be, and fell to his knees as he drove Ironspike through it. Such was the force of his thrust, that the cross guard of the hilt slammed into Pael’s back, as Ironspike pinned him to the earth.
A deep, thrumming vibration erupted from the ground there. Mikahl felt it, and let go of the sword. He rolled away, and crumbled to the earth, naked, save for the tatters of his robe.
He had expected Ironspike’s power to quell when he let go of the hilt, but it hadn’t. It vibrated and pulsed so deeply, that the earth trembled beneath him. Mikahl made to scoot away from the demon-wizard’s body, and immediately felt the depths of his injuries. He had to fight to stay conscious, as the thunderous low end of Ironspike’s symphony rumbled through the earth beneath him.
A golden column of light began to twist upward, from the sword’s hilt. The intensity of it grew, and started to swirl its way up into the sky, like some giant corkscrew. The underside of a bank of clouds caught the illumination, and then parted, so that the glowing shaft could pass beyond their pillowy mists.
Ghost-like forms of men, with haunted expressions on their stretched and twisted faces, came streaking by, making great whooshing sounds as they went. They were being drawn towards Ironspike’s hilt, as if they were soapsuds spinning around a drain. Once they were sucked into the sword, they were sent spinning upwards into the heavens. Four of them, five, and then ten. A score now. And thousands more. There were so many of them, that the air shimmered around the skyward beam of light, a cyclone swirl of ghostly souls.
A great relief tried to wash over Mikahl’s pain, but couldn’t quite manage the task. It was even painful for him to close his eyes, but he closed them anyway and all at once he slipped away into unconsciousness.
King Jarrek nearly dropped Queen Willa, when he saw the shaft of golden light pierce the distant darkness, and reach up into the very heavens. From the castle grounds below, he heard the cries and shouts of the soldiers who were defending the last bit of ground between the enemy, and the people huddled in the palace.
“They’re falling!” one yelled.
“The dead are dying,” another added dubiously.
“It might be a trick! Where’s the wizard?”