It was reflex, that caused Garthag to act immediately, without a second thought he shot out a ball of flame to meet the jet of ice charging towards him. The collision of scorching flames and freezing ice, set a stalemate and both of the attacks seemingly canceled each others out. The fiery elemental had suffered from the other attack yet held together barely, Garthag could tell he would have to make his first sacrifice here. He sent the elemental rushing towards the shadower lord and explode itself into a sea of flames before freeing the essence of the elemental, allowing it to return to the fiery realm it had once come from.

Garthag had used this distraction to disappear out of sight, unseen by the mortal eyes he quickly moved away from the stairs, trying to put distance to himself and the others. Yet what was enveloping in the lake was more than enough to tell, that another elemental would have been direly required to deal with the threat. However at least the two pawns worked as bait and might distract the undead whilst the mages battled. Garthag prepared a few protective spells whilst he could as he felt his invisibility wear as the shadower lord invoked a reversing spell, that revealed Garthag`s location to him.

New spells sprang forth from both mages, the shadower lord sent a lightning bolt of fierce magnitude at Garthag, who naturally felt compelled to dodge yet simply remained still whilst utilizing a spell of his own. A green sphere, the size of a man`s head formed before Garthag and was sent flying towards the shadower mage. However it`s course was not straight trough the lightning bolt, that might have impeded it`s process, rather it flew in an arc over it and approached the shadower mage from above.

Both spells struck at the same moment, the lightning bolt was suddenly stopped by an invisible barrier of magic and it coursed trough it, surrounding Garthag with a sphere of lightning. Meanwhile the sphere exploded into a large radius rain of acid, that rained down upon the elven mage. Garthag grinned as he felt his own barrier as well as the lightning bolt dissipate, the acid rain at least took out some of the undead as well, but it would not stop an experienced mage, only wear down his mgaical protections.

Once Garthag gazed around, wondering whether he would see the eerie face of either the hag or the lich, but neither appeared. It seemed, that he would have to defeat this mage or make an escape to grasp his true objective, once the time was right.

_________________

Let him curse my name
On these blood stained pages of misery
Let him call me a tyrant so cruel
Let him curse my name, but remember the truth!

This time, annoyance couldn't begin to describe it. The Shadower Lord was very, very angry. So angry, in fact, that he not only deflected the acid storm but sent it exploding back at its caster. It burst upon Garthag's protective wards in a spray of green. Residual trickles of acid showered down, but the Shadower Lord flicked them aside as he began chanting another spell.

The initial exchange of magic had not gone as conveniently as he'd planned. This uppity human hid his own power well, the Shadower Lord had to acknowledge, and while a few tactics struck him as amateur - the poorly cast invisibility, for one - the human had promise. And ambition; he'd seen the fire in Garthag's eyes. Ambition was ruthlessness. Ambition was strength. For the short-lived Garthag, however, ambition would all too soon burn out his stud of a candle and leave him, lost and bewildered, in the dark.

Poor, pitiful human.

Dissonant syllables grated in his throat. They comprised a spell that Shadower acolytes could only dream of, that most necromancers took a lifetime to perfect. For the Shadower Lord, it had taken half a century.

He felt the magic lift his body. He felt it untangle the invisible threads interwoven around him. He felt it trace the strands, jumping from one filament to the next, shifting from the material plane to the nether plane and back. At last, it impacted an obstacle, a tapestry of threads that meshed and collided in a massive web of magic. The signature magic of any mage. In this case, Garthag.

Relishing the sensation of the silken strands between his fingers, the Shadower Lord began to pull them apart. One piece at a time. One by one, he began to unravel the quintessence of Garthag's being. In the end, Garthag himself would simply cease to exist.

-----

"Don't worry," Kendath told Adeila. "Everything is going to be all right."

Famous last words.

The undead horde groped their way up out of the lake. They scraped their knees on the shore for a while before lurching to their feet. Joints creaked. Gristle snapped. Water, glinting viridescent like mottled emeralds, clung to their bones. The glistening droplets resembled stars in the drab twilight. Tiny, green, disgusting stars. They made Kendath's stomach churn.

He backed into Adeila. The corpses spotted them and surged forward. The sea of decay pressed in, blotting out everything but the pillar of light that throbbed out its distant laughter. Kendath hefted his falchion and found it surprisingly steady in his hands. He shot a glance over his shoulder at the healer. "Any regrets?"

-----

The Lich saw the flame. The Lich heard the words. The Lich felt the wrath of the gods shattering upon the cavern in fire and lightning.

The Lich laughed.

Long and hard he laughed, and his laughter ripped out from the depths of his hood to rend the shadows and send them scattering. Its echoes hung in the air until even the coils of darkness shuddered and roiled in discord around his thin frame. When at last his mirth bubbled away, he settled back in silence to appraise this creature before him. The sight of her, trembling despite her defiance, widened his smile. She feared. Oh, she attempted quite heroically to hide it. But the Lich had trod this fearful world too long not to recognize the fragrance of terror.

"Delicate thing," he murmured, slithering toward her. "Ah yes. The gods are cruel, are they not?" He whispered a word - a single hissed command.

Darkness, absolute and perpetual, swooped down to engulf them.

And the Chosen's throat was warm - so fleetingly, delectably warm - beneath his icy claw.

_________________

As the acid rain came upon himself, Garthag did not flinch despite losing his initial magic barrier, but remained still and waited for the rain to hit him. The Acid burnt the ground around him, releasing a foul odor and it also would have burnt his skin, robes and flesh had it not been for a stony like shield around his body. It allowed him to perfectly to withstand all physical, even some magical attacks of physical nature, without enduring pain nor harm. Thus Garthag again prepared for the next spell as he well knew the race was on and he had no time to waste, the enemy was far more formidable than he had foreseen. Then it struck him, forcing him to kneel down in shock and he knew, that he had not expected such an attack.

Necromancy, an abomination, that Garthag had despised and avoided all his magicians career, however the irony lied in this very fact. Had he studied it he might have gained a spell or mean to protect himself against such underhanded methods. But even tough he now, suddenly, laid on the floor writhing in pain and feeling himself slipping away, mentally and physically, and was torn apart piece by piece, he did not regret learning that cursed art. Garthag had not thought of himself as one, who knew great spells, that allowed one to rip his foe apart in such a way, but he had always been resourceful.

It was disappointing, even blasphemous to him, but he still had a few methods and he could wonder just vulnerable the shadower lord was now. Be it magical barriers or stone skins, Garthag swore he would cut trough them and make the elf pay for his accursed arrogance to stand in his path. Garthag pulled out his last item, a wand with latent magical energies stored within it and pointed it towards the mage, an array of magical protectiles whirled themselves forth from it before the wand simply crumbled to dust between his fingers. The dust scattered onto the ground as it slowly poured from his hands and Garthag could not, but help wonder whether his life force was experience the same kind of phenomenon.

The multicolored projectiles were like the rainbow as they attacked the mage, each had a different effect, one would exploded, another would attach magical flames onto the target, third would create a ring of fire around the victim and the remaining would remain dancing above the target eliminating possible escape by levitation. If one were to survive the particular hellish attack Garthag would truly have to applaud to them as skilled and perhaps even admit they were more powerful than him should they escape the trap set after the attack. The remaining projectiles would create magical explosions should the victim try to escape.

Garthag grinned, it seemed this would be his final attack in this battle as no doubt it would not take long for the mage to end his existance with such a spell. Garthag gripped the hilt of his dagger tightly and closed his eyes, trying to ease his breath before smirking to himself. He pushed the dagger into the ground and forced himself onto his knee`s before gathering what strength he had still left, preparing for one final attack should the wand`s magic fail to kill the shadower lord.

_________________

Let him curse my name
On these blood stained pages of misery
Let him call me a tyrant so cruel
Let him curse my name, but remember the truth!

She couldn't see, couldn't breathe, couldn't move. The paralyzing tentacles of night froze her limbs and choked in her throat, caressed her fragile existence with horrible patience as though they would tear apart her being fragment by fragment over eons of agony, and whispered her own helplessness in her ears - Merrin could feel her soundless scream as she lashed out with only her own pitiful strength -

I am the Chosen of the Gods! screamed the thought frozen in her mind, immobilized in fear like a fly in amber. Over and over, with the heartbeat that beat and fluttered frantically and threatened to stop for eternity. Like an accusation, a plea flung to whatever black heavens still existed, an entreaty whose answer determined the fate of her very soul - I AM THE CHOSEN OF THE GODS!

For a moment, there was nothing except roiling, multiplying waves upon waves of spirit-rending terror. Alone. So alone.

Their answer descended to shake the foundations of the netherworld.

Merrin lashed out once more. This time, the eruption of the gods' rage stretched the confines of her being. She stood, the last beacon against the night, as dark coiled about her soul and light beat its unending ranks back. Heaven and hell did battle, there in the darkest hole of oblivion.

The pain of all the world's struggle made her stagger. Somehow, Merrin found the darkest piece of night, found the eternal hole of that cowl where arcane syllables rasped from a mouth unseen, and fixed her gaze on night's emissary. The Lich, poised to swallow her light as she was to sear away his darkness. Her throat was raw and her voice like a feather when she needed a sword.

"My gods are stronger than you," Merrin gasped. Even the air felt tainted. "My gods are stronger!"

_________________

The icy claw squeezed. Her throat was soft - softer than the stem of a tulip, begging to be snapped - and the Lich reveled in her fragility beneath his fingers. Such power was his to wield. He was the arbiter of life and death, and not even the gods could stop him now.

Not even the gods...

She cried out - some blabber about the oh so illustrious gods - but the Lich heard none of it because all of a sudden light was flaring, and his head was pounding, and his own shriek of outrage was splitting his ears as he reeled back. The sun itself - the wretched, hated sun - blossomed in her hand, and its radiance blasted him to the edge of the lake, where he just managed to catch himself before tumbling in.

My gods are stronger than you!

No. Never.

The Lich rose. The velvety tendrils of his robes sank into place around him. He raised his arms, and wind swept over the lake to stir his voluminous sleeves. The gust swirled around him, gathering strength until it became a storm, then a maelstrom. He raised his head to the spray of the cold waters. He clenched his fists, and he could feel the magic surging up his arms, through his shoulders, and into his chest. If he closed his eyes and willed hard enough, he could fancy hearing the throb of a heartbeat against the bars of his shackled soul - the throb of something far richer and warmer than the mere existence that dragged on now.

Magic lifted him high. Power burned through every strand of his being. Life? Life held no meaning. Not now. Not ever. Day by day, millennium by millennium... This was his life. This was what he lived for.

The Lich harnessed all the might of his dark majesty. He tempered it, hardening it, sharpening it into an edge finer than a dagger's blade. The darkness yielded like clay to his command.

He threw his arms back and hurled it at the Chosen.

Blade of darkness and shield of light collided between them with a thunderclap that shook the cavern. The Lich screamed, a keening wail of fury. He flung his arms forward, and darkness drove against light. Again and again. Neither gave way.

Through the flashes of shadow and fire, through the roaring clash of hell and divinity, the Lich spoke, his voice a thin whisper that pierced the thunder. "How cruel are your gods, Merrin Dragonrider, to have chosen you above all the heroes that Vryngard had to offer? A capricious choice, not so? How cruel are they, to give you everything - courage, dreams, love - only to yank them away once more? Vryngard is gone. Your dragon is gone. And Kendath..." He laughed. "They toy with you, dear Chosen! Your desperation is a most amusing sight to behold!"

_________________

Every word Merrin choked through her raw throat was a prayer. Dimly, past the globe of light and fire, she could glimpse the roiling fingers of darkness poised to crush her with a curled fist - the dark that would break her - and once more she screamed defiance.

Her scream was lost in the thunderous roar.

The first violent reverberation that rippled though her shield of flame was far beyond mere physical resistance. It picked Merrin up like a doll, flung her across the stone, and then a keening shriek was ripping her being to shreds, penetrating the marrow of her bones to saturate every fragment of her being with the agony. Any cry of pain was drowned beyond recovery. She lay trembling, rough stone beneath her scored palms, terrified to rise for the anticipation of another shock wave to slam her fragile human body senseless.

The darkness laughed. It taunted, get up, Merrin Dragonrider. Get up, or have you come so far to prostrate yourself before the lord of the night like his servants? It laughed, and the sound was worse than the shriek. Tears - such a pitiful, human reaction, laughed the shadows - sprang to her eyes at the pain.

Somehow, she was on her feet to brace the shield for dark's next hammering attack. Now her hands were shaking, bloody scrapes blazing with pain even as fire flowed from her fingertips. Two times. Three. Four, and Merrin couldn't hold it any longer, couldn't do it, but somehow she was, and every word of every prayer kept the shield from crumpling. Tears blurred black with white. "Gods," she whispered, the words so often repeated, "help me."

They did not speak. The Lich did.

Her gods were not cruel. Her mind knew it. But her heart, whose pieces were gathered but not mended, never mended, felt the words as though they burned. The insidious laughter multiplied a hundredfold and once more Vryngard fell, once more Wyvern died, once more Kendath -

You are nothing to me.

"You don't know," she whispered. Why was she defending him? A dagger in the snow. A shard of ice, a million shards. Did he ever love me? Merrin raised her head, the traces of tears on her cheeks. Words were lost like raindrops in the ocean, but she had to speak them to stop her heart shattering once more. The words were true, had to be true, were true because she wanted their truth so badly - "You know nothing about Kendath! Nothing!"

_________________

Adeila glanced uneasily over at Kendath. Regrets? She had long ago convinced herself that regrets were a waste of time and energy. The past could not be changed, and there was little sense in wishing that it could. But there were quite a few things that she admittedly might have done differently, had she known all that she knew now. Learning more combat-related spells came most readily to mind. "A few."

Any further response was cut off by one of the advancing undead suddenly making a lunge for her. Almost instinctively, Adeila hastily uttered a spell, and the corpse before her burst into flame, emiting an odor even more overwhelmingly nauseating than before. What little organic matter still clung its frame burned away...and the being continued to advance. Desperately, she summoned another shield like the one before, and just like before, the nearest line of undead toppled over. Only this time, they had barely even hit the ground before they were trampled under the seemingly endless onslaught. It was useless - all of her life had been spent working with the living. She knew how to sustain life, and how to end it. But how did one combat those who were already dead?

"A weapon!" she shouted urgently to Kendath. Anything was better than her bare hands, at the present. "I don't much care what kind!"

She was pathetic - so weak, so frangible. Emotions sputtered in her cheeks, and tears blinded her vision. The flaming white shield was the only crutch that kept her on her feet, kept her from collapsing to abase herself before him. And she would abase herself before him, just like every other mortal he'd ever laid eyes on.

The warmth of her humanity staggered him. It sent his mind careening back centuries... millennia... to the days when he had known what it was to feel sentiments such as this. Such petty, debilitating sentiments. His own human husk, in the end, had become yet another obstacle in his path to greatness. Obstacles were quickly and effectively disposed of.

The Lich knew precisely how to dispose of this one.

"How little you are aware of, dear Chosen." He took a step toward her. The shield flared white. His blade shuddered. Pain - a dull, distant echo of agony - staggered his step, bending his shoulders for one paralyzed second. A hiss escaped him as he tightened his fists. The darkness held strong. He steeled himself and continued his advance. "Some mortals are not meant for power. You, for instance. Power rendered you arrogant and naive. Power blinded you to your enemies. You were nearly destroyed by it."

He stopped just short of her. His voice, a fine blade in itself, sliced through the roar as easily as a knife slices through butter. "Nearly destroyed. I was this close... this close to finishing you, and then where would you have been, Chosen of the Gods? Lying cold and forgotten in the snow, dead by a single stroke of a dagger? Ah, but no. Love saved you. Love!" He flung his arm, and darkness impacted light with another thunderclap. "Love... such a pretty, virtuous sentiment."

_________________

Her hands were outstretched. That gesture was all that held the shield, all that kept it from crumpling inward like parchment. That gesture, leaving her helpless to block out the sounds, let every word fall with sharpest clarity on her ears.

Merrin stood, braced to defend the gods with her last breath, while delicate stroke after delicate stroke destroyed her last support.

I was this close. Not Kendath. The Lich. Love saved you. Merrin closed her eyes. It hadn't. Love hadn't saved her. Love had torn her heart to shreds, love had left her kneeling in the snow to face her fate alone, because love had not been enough. Cruel jest.

From cruel gods, whispered the shadows.

"No," whispered Merrin. This thing you call love. Again laughter rang, but this time it was not the shadows. This time Kendath turned toward her in the snow, his eyes like smoldering coals, and he laughed until he was hoarse at the naive Chosen. Laughed at little Merrin who had been innocent enough to think that he loved her. "No!"

She raised her head and flung fire at the Lich with every particle of strength she possessed. Thunder. Lightning. Flame searing the air. Flame that crackled like laughter, but it could not be the shadows laughing, because it was her own fire. Her own fire. Her throat was too raw even to whisper a prayer. She tasted the salt of her own tears, like the bitterness of her own love.

Cruel gods.

You promised! You said I was chosen, you blessed me, you gave me white fire! You set the world on my shoulders and I believed you when you gave me hope and strength! I BELIEVED YOU!

Fire thundered like laughter. The first sob broke from Merrin's raw throat.

She raised her head and that black cowl waited, and again that mirth tore across her skin. "Gods," she sobbed. "Gods - help me -"

A blow from the darkness drove Merrin to her knees. She thrust out bloody palms to hold the shield, and the first fist of oblivion's fingers made it crumple inward. The second ripped a hole. The third. And her shield of flame was gone. The dark shrieked its glee and swallowed the fragile tendrils of divine fire.

Then the dark came for Merrin.

Ropes of shadow flashed like snakes. They coiled, tightened, cut into her flesh - and her soul beat against the bars of night. She fell, unforgiving stone slamming up to catch her, and heard the laughter. Like all the others. Bow. Bow to the darkness, because you are no different from the rest. Your gods are weak. Where are your gods now, Chosen? Where is your white fire now?

I believed you! You chose me! Save me NOW!

Cruel gods.

And only the laughter answered.

_________________

Aeons had passed since the Shadower Lord had experienced agony such as this.

Flames exploded against his protective wards. A twister of heat cocooned him in its roar, and Qal-Sorak felt his skin blister, felt his frame convulse against the impact. With a cry he flung out his hands, palms outward, bracing himself against his sphere of protection even as it shuddered and cracked. Blow after blow. Ward after ward tore away until he knew only his delicate mortal flesh would remain, a final barrier against the storm. The pain would be exquisite.

His knees shook. Sweat drenched him, then sizzled away. Above the roar of the conflagration he could hear his own screams. The same words, over and over. The same phrases that became a mantra that became a spell.

Magic bore him away.

The din of the flames faded to distant thunder. Fire licked his skin but no longer scalded. His vision spun with sunlight that flickered in the gloom of the cavern like a sputtering candle. Shadows danced among a towering pines and a forest floor dappled with saffron. Not far ahead, the murky waters of the lake hung suspended over a wide gorge, its waves lapping at the precipice one moment and receding out of sight the next.

How he hated planar travel. The sloppily cast spell had deposited him somewhere in the limbo between the nether plane and the material, and the collision of the two worlds made his head spin. Nevertheless, it would serve his purposes.

His adversary's hazy form blinked a few paces away. The disoriented human hadn't spotted him yet. Qal-Sorak would have to strike quickly, before the two planes battling for dominance within him split him apart. A simple attack would suffice. The element of surprise was on his side, and he didn't have the strength besides for a complex incantation. A two-dimensional knife, perhaps? Yes. Subtle. Not terribly difficult to evoke. He was loath to strike from his current position of vulnerability, but he didn't dare jump back to the nether plane lest Garthag detect his presence.

He executed a few arcane passes, and the knife shimmered into existence before him. Slipping into place behind Garthag, he guided it to hover behind his fellow mage's neck.

-----

The first weapon Kendath whipped out was a throwing knife the size of his hand. A bit on the small side. Adeila would not be pleased. With a shrug he reversed his grip and launched it into the kneecap of the nearest corpse. Bone cracked. The creature pitched forward.

His movement followed through with a lunge and a downward sweep of his falchion that barely grazed the ground. Two corpses toppled over with shattered ankles. He seized the opening to snatch back his knife and send it spinning out behind him, right into the elbow of a skeletal arm.

The arm kept reaching. Gaunt fingers curled, stretching to clasp his face.

Kendath braced his hand beneath him, twisted around, and dealt the corpse a square kick in the jaw. Its mandible dangled, unhinged, as its skull snapped back with a sickening crunch. He grabbed another weapon. A dagger this time, long enough to be called a dirk. "Here!" he gasped, tossing it at Adeila. No time to see if the healer could catch - the next tide of undead was already dragging itself out of the lake. He rolled to his feet, falchion raised.

The corpses didn't attack.

They were hardly any prettier, and their numbers were hardly fewer. Wave after wave groped onto shore but failed to crawl forward. They simply stood, swiveling their heads from side to side as though admiring the scenery.

Heat sizzled through the air, and Kendath turned to see flames streaking above the cadaverous sea. The undead parted to allow a glimpse of flashing white robes that could only belong to Garthag. The Shadower Lord was nowhere in sight. The puppeteer had cut the strings. As he watched, more corpses surged up to join their aimless fellows.

Fire flared once more in a distant corner of his eye, from the other side of the cavern. Breath catching, he spun around and squinted more closely. Nothing. Just the skeletal horde and the murky lake beyond. A sneer twisted his lips. He was dreaming too hard. He wanted it too badly. Wishful thinking fashioned him a fool.

Yet he couldn't tear his gaze away.

There. Again. On the opposite shore, all the way across the lake's glassy expanse. There was no mistaking it - that tiny spark, white against the cavern's darkness. How many times had he seen it burst, a miniature sun, to drive back the night? How many times had he seen it sparkle, cupped between her slender hands? She had come. For one tangible, fleeting instant, hope bubbled in his chest.

The Lich. The Lich wasn't here.

Why did it matter? The Lich has other worries... It'd been Garthag who had said it. Dispassionately, with that casual tinge of irony, Garthag had dropped the hint.

Kendath stood, frozen, to the spot. He had been so blind, so utterly and hopelessly stupid. Hope flailed and plummeted, cold and lifeless, into the pit of his stomach.

No. Not Merrin. Gods, not Merrin.

Kendath broke into a run.

-----

At last. The final wave of white fire.

The Lich staggered under the assault. It was the final assault, he knew. The final hammerstrike of the gods' fury. The final thrash of a storm that had long since worn itself out but was too stubborn - too foolish - to bear the crushing weight of its own defeat. With this knowledge the Lich held on, weathering the hurricane, flinging out his defenses against the crackling gales of flame. He had won. He had already won.

When the last banners of flame had fluttered away, the Lich stood victorious over the Chosen of the Gods.

She wasn't dead yet. The same strength that had driven her, through time and darkness, to stand at the threshold of his Citadel drove her still. She lay broken and miserable on the cavern's cold floor. Yet her heart still pounded. Her lungs still sucked in the razor-edged air. For all her scars, her skin was smooth, unblemished. Her soul was intact. How deliciously ironic it was, that the Chosen of the Gods had never felt the stab of true pain.

The Lich brushed her cheek with one icy finger. "So it all comes down to this. All your promises, all your prayers. Faith, like yourself, is so easily shattered." His finger slid down to her neck. That delicate neck, into which he channeled a thousand years of bleak, silent agony. Torture in its purest form. "Die, Merrin Dragonrider. Die like the loving, sniveling weakling you are. Die, and may the light of the gods die with you."

_________________

Planar travel would have likely been the only reasonable method to escape the deathtrap created by the wand, but Garthag had at least foreseen this much and knew his opponent was lurking about, not far and preparing to unleash another one of his malicious spells. Just as he had thought, it might as well be his final spell in this battle or quite possibly the very last of his life, suicidal, but effective nonetheless.

He had already started to chant the verses of magic when the shadower lord had hastily retreated from the material plane and thus giving him the advantage of relocating. He could be to the left, to the right or quite possibly behind him however he did not brake his concentration for not one bit. He should have been omnipotent to possibly know his opponents exact location, but he had no time to worry around direction nor distance, he would attack all at once.

An amused smirk rose to Garthag`s face as he at last finalized the spell and opened his palms, facing them downwards and letting two, snow white, sphere`s of light fall into the ground. A small taste of the northern cold, that he had been holding back just for The Lich, whom he had wished to have suffered, but now he would nor could face The Lich in a direct confrontation.

The two sphere`s cracked as they braced the ground, then quickly split thereafter and exploded into a sea of ice, that shot out into every direction around him. It was a gamble, but Garthag was willing to gamble his chances for ultimate power, even in this situation where The Lich remained undefeated. She, Merrin, would hold him off for that time and keep him toying with her, but that would only last so long. The glimmering beauty of the ice spread out into every direction, deadly shards of ice hurled trough the air impaling everything in their path.

His breath drew heavier, his heart slower and his feet powerless. Surrounded by a glimmering embracing of ice Garthag slumped into the ground, not falling into the darkness as he had thought, but staring at his very, possibly, final creation. He laid almost motionless, only shivering within the sea of ice, that he had created and he had to confess it was a pleasant sensation. The shivers reminded him of the home he had once had and the warm fire, that had once awaited for him there, one that could never be extinguished. However whether he would see those beyond sooner than he had assumed, depended solely on the fate of the shadower lord.

A shard of ice laid before him, with trembling fingers he reached out for it to witness his own reflection and truly he had to admit, over those ten years and more, his change had not been for the better. The young man, whose heart had been filled with hope and love turned into a rugged man with a bread, who had seen the worst of what the world had to offer. That man yearned for what he had been promised, no, what he was entitled to after all his pains. He would not rest until he had ultimate power, was that the kind of person he was and was that a bad thing? But at least it had been a change, a path, that he did not regret one bit and one that would have an end. The sole thing he now wished for was, that it would be the path of the shadowers, which would end here, not his.

_________________

Let him curse my name
On these blood stained pages of misery
Let him call me a tyrant so cruel
Let him curse my name, but remember the truth!

Merrin had thought her voice was exhausted. Too spent to whisper the prayers that hadn't saved her, too spent to cry defiance one last hopeless time. She was wrong.

The caress of death incarnate ripped a sob from her lips. The bonds of shadow convulsed, breathing poison into her limbs, racking her with uncontrollable tremors. Every breath of tainted air was agony that rasped down her throat. Every tear was bitter salt on her tongue. The touch on her cheek, colder than ice, colder than kneeling in the snow while her glass heart shattered, lasted a millennium. Those crawling aeons speared through her soul, and with every stab came horrible knowledge. Horrible truth.

That pain was nothing. Less than nothing, compared to the torment that followed.

Lying there, flung at her worst enemy's feet, bound by shadow and shackled by night, feeling utter abandonment and the crushing weight of despair, she felt the threat ripple through her. Felt the malevolence mount as that icy kiss of death scraped across her skin, felt the shell of emptiness that was all her fire had left her. Most of all, felt the void where once her gods had been.

So easily shattered.

Only then, as purest torture racked her frail human frame, did Merrin scream.

Faces. Every face she loved. They floated in the darkness, everyone she held dear, and one by one she saw the horror twist in their expressions, saw them arch backward in silent agony, saw them lying broken with staring eyes that begged her for an answer. Why didn't you save us? Why did you let this happen? they asked. All of them. Her family, her dragon, all the hosts that put their fragile hope in her hands, all flung like refuse before the feet of shadows. Again and again she watched.

The darkness beat at her soul until it, too, lay shivering in the deepest cavern of hell. Long ago, her scream had turned soundless. Long ago, she'd given up the faintest spark of hope. Her identity fled. Memory fled. All that had ever existed was this pain, from which even eternity could not rescue her.

Then it was over, as suddenly as it began. The torture was over. The agony would never end.

Die, and may the light of the gods die with you.

Her head fell back onto the stone. Merrin saw no stars, no heavens, no sun. She would never see them again.

Her heartbeats were numbered. Her seconds were few. Merrin stared up at that vortex of darkness, and where hope and love and faith were gone, only the pitiful shreds of defiance remained. "Never," she whispered. "The light - will never - die."

_________________

The Lich killed her.

With a single ruthless thrust of his hand, with a tiny nudge of his fist that sent the darkness crushing down upon her throat, the Lich killed her. He killed her, and he smiled as her heart shuddered with its final thump, as her lungs tore out its final gasp.

Merrin Dragonrider, Chosen of the Gods, slumped lifeless to the cold ground. And the Lich smiled.

He was still smiling when he turned to see the figure standing behind him. Another mortal. Light from the green pillar tossed pallid shadows across the man's face and eyes, which glinted black in the grim dusk. As far as those eyes were concerned, the Lich might as well have ceased to exist.

Kendath walked right past him, his gaze never leaving the motionless body of the Chosen.

-----

Once, on the pale shores of an ocean so very far from here, Merrin had asked him about his dreams. What do you dream of? she'd said in that sweet, gentle voice of hers, and Kendath had looked at her without answer because he hadn't known. He hadn't known what it was to dream, hadn't known what it was to imagine the a future brighter than the gleam of his dagger beside his next kill. But then she'd taken his hand in hers - her warm hand, wrapped around his fingers - and she'd told him... she'd told him...

I would hurt a thousand times over... for your sake...

That was the night he'd learned to dream. That was the night he'd dared to cast his gaze to the skies and see not only the stars but the constellations. He'd seen the universe in the skies.

And he'd found the universe, again and again, in Merrin's smile. Every time she'd glanced his way, another star had fallen into place. Every time he'd pulled her close, the world had trembled in his arms. If his imagination soared high enough, he could still see her, feel her. Haloed in firelight, she twirled laughing into his grasp. Shivering with cold, she sobbed the weight of the world onto his chest. Just yesterday she'd followed him to the gorge, to the precipice at the edge of the earth. She'd followed him, and she'd reached out to him and whispered her words to the wind.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

"I love you too, Merrin," he said softly, sinking to the cavern floor beside her. He lifted her into his arms and clutched her to his chest. Her hair spilled onto his hands, and he stroked the copper waves just as he'd stroked them a hundred times before. "You'll be all right, Merrin. Shhh. Sleep now. You're safe. You're safe." Her eyes, deeper than the blue heavens, stared back at him. He closed them, then leaned in to kiss her tender eyelids. "I'll keep you safe."

"Ironic, isn't it, hearing that from one such as you."

I love you. Kendath held her and rocked her and buried himself in the winter of her neck. I love you.

"She tried, you know. Oh, she tried. She and her pathetic gods. Her efforts amused me to no end."

"Shh, Merrin. It'll be all right..."

"She screamed. Did you hear her? She wasted her last breaths screaming for the gods to save her - screaming like the sniveling weakling she is. What an ugly, unseemly end. I, for one, would have expected something more... impressive... from the Chosen of the Gods. Or have the gods become desperate enough to bless a coward?"

Kendath laid Merrin back down. Slowly, slowly, he turned and rose to his feet. The hilt of his falchion was frigid against his palm.

The velvety figure opposite issued forth a chuckle. "Angry, are we? Your dearly beloved was angry too. She was quite the hot-tempered little thing, before I killed her. That is, before I found the sweet delicacy of her jugular and squeezed out every little ounce of - "

Neither of them ever did get to hear what the Lich squeezed out because at that instant a strangled roar was echoing against the stony confines, and Kendath was launching himself forward, falchion leading, another cry ripping from his throat as he closed the distance between himself and this skinny, abominable creature that would snap like a twig beneath his blade. So close now. So close - he lunged -

Something did snap like a twig. But it wasn't the Lich.

A jet of darkness smashed into his weapon, jarring it out of his grip and hurling him backward. Steel split with a brittle crack, and Kendath could only watch, stunned, as the two halves of his falchion clattered to the stone.

"Are you prepared to surrender now?"

In response, Kendath snatched out a dagger and launched himself once more.

The second impact flung him to the cavern wall. His dagger clanged a few paces to his right. His recently healed spine protested with a searing jolt up his back. He clenched his teeth, stifling his groan, and waited, counting the seconds until the blood would stop pounding in his ears. Eight. Nine. Ten. He raised himself to his knees.

The third impact flattened him before he ever made it to his feet.

Pain hammered his senses. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe. Through the scarlet haze that sagged against his vision, he could just make out Merrin's prone form a hairbreadth beyond his reach. He blinked, and when he looked again, she was already obscured by a curtain of velvet and a sigh of black robes. So the Lich was here to finish him. A lazy grin crawled across his lips. At long last, the Lich was here to finish him.

The undead abomination loomed over him. A skeletal hand eclipsed his sight. Razor-edged words, made thinner by laughter, slashed the air. "Tonight, I will have ended the tyranny of the gods."

But it's not tyranny. Kendath's head throbbed. The clarion knells of that sweet, gentle voice struck the bars of his mind. It's a blessing to have the gods protecting us, watching over us.

As they had protected and watched over her. As she had believed in them. But in the end, it hadn't been enough. The gods had failed.

You know nothing of the gods. She sounded angry.

No. She didn't understand. He knew their power. He knew it well - knew it first in his father's peaceful face, then in her own slender hands. He knew the gods. He'd never admitted it, never wanted to know, but he'd known them all along.

"You will feel her pain before you die," someone said, and exquisite agony tore through his chest, chilling his heart where it quivered against his fragile ribs.

No again. The stranger was wrong. Only Merrin spoke the truth. You'll be happy because the gods will bless you.

He snaked his arm out to clasp her shoulder. Ice ripped through him, and his limbs contorted with his grin. He was already happy. That was the truth - the blissful truth. He was so very, very happy...

Father, I have failed. He heard himself scream. Not the gods. Me. I am the failure. Who was I to dream. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Don't forgive me.

It is better for faith to become a mountain. Some will climb this mountain, and all will fall. But once you reach the top and stand beneath the clouds... That is where you'll find the gods.

One more time. One more chilling, excruciating throe would be the last. He would writhe one more time, and then he would plunge down, down, and forever down into waiting oblivion.

I would rather be hurt, she whispered. I would hurt a thousand times over for your sake. And then she looked at him and smiled with that smile that was the universe. That perfect, painful smile.

For your sake...

Did you love her? they asked him. The same question, one last time.

He choked back his tears. Yes.

Do you believe?

Show me, then. Show me! His throat constricted, smothering his scream - the scream that betrayed him and abandoned him to the terrible, terrible silence.

Do you believe?

The terrible, terrible silence. He swallowed. I believe.

And white fire flared from his fingertips.

-----

Shadower Lord Qal-Sorak was dying.

The blast of ice had shattered his concentration, jerking him back onto the nether plane to face his human adversary. Icicles? He recalled his disdain. Surely even this amateur can do better. He had spared Garthag a derisive glance before his tongue had taken up yet another incantation - a fireball that would melt the ice and blow this uppity human to the abyss, once and for all.

Just then, something sharp and cold beyond imagination had stricken his midsection. He recalled his shock. He recalled the blood.

He recalled, with stunning clarity, the chill of his own mortality.

His protective wards were gone. The storm glimmering shards had pounded them away. That storm now drove at skin that had long ago ceased to acknowledge pain. The jagged edges of ice tore him open and froze him - tore him open and numbed any sensation that might have trickled through his tattered flesh. Unfeelingly he knelt, arms limp at his sides, and knew he was dying by the petals of scarlet blossoming in the snow around him. Too slow. His blood might as well have been water seeping through the tiniest crack in a dam.

His shredded lips moved. "Be merciful, human. End it for me quickly."

-----

White fire lit the night, and white fire hurled the Lich back. White fire struck the Lich a blow that thundered with the fury of the gods.

The sight of this twisted undead creature bent over, staggering, propelled Kendath to his feet. He cried out - a single supplication to the heavens that lost itself in the roaring flames. His hand no longer belonged to him. Blast after blast of alabaster brilliance burst from his fingers, chasing back the shadows and lighting the cavern with streaks like comets. Blast after blast, until he stood before the Lich himself. Until all he had to do was raise his fist to strike the final, fatal blow.

Darkness struck first.

Darkness threw itself against the light, crumpling it and shoving it aside to make way for an ocean of shadows that flooded the cavern. White fire flashed once, twice, then sputtered and sizzled to nothing. Kendath stumbled. He flung out his arm, hoping, praying -

Too late. The fires had already died. What had once burned with warmth now stung with frost. Cold jabbed his knees, and he collapsed as the darkness pressed in. The vortex of the Lich awaited him.

Black robes sighed with the Lich's advance. He hissed something - something about weaklings and power and gods - but Kendath couldn't hear. His heartbeat pommeled his skull. He struggled to get up, but the cavern floor tipped beneath him. He fell to a stony silence that throbbed in his ears. White fire sputtered from his fingertips, and he wondered... Had Merrin been crushed by this same despair? Had that icy claw, hovering overhead, been her last sight?

Kendath...

She called his name. She laughed with him. She seized his shoulders, stared into his eyes, and told him about the gods.

This could not be the end.

Darkness reached down to claim him. Darkness ate at his skin and curled frigid tentacles around his chest. Darkness choked his lungs.

Merrin wasn't laughing. It was the Lich. The Lich was laughing...

Goodbye, Kendath.

The haft of his dagger bit into his palm. White fire sparked, then blazed.

One more time.

The blade flared white. Kendath plunged it straight into the vortex.

Screams rent the silence. The Lich was screaming, and the shadows were screaming, and Kendath was screaming, and all their screams shattered like glass shards upon the cavern walls. Blinding radiance took flight with wings that skimmed every crevice, sweeping away the darkness, before ascending to soar above the lake in veils of sparkling silver. Kendath twisted the dagger deeper and ever deeper into the black hood, and the Lich convulsed with a keening wail that sliced the alabaster glory.

The flaming blade exploded in a million needles of steel. The Lich fell to his knees. His robes crumbled to waste as tendrils of darkness fluttered, then lay limp around his hunched frame. Piece by piece, the shadows beneath his hood began splitting apart.

With a final scream, the Lich, prow of the Shadowers' power, shriveled to nothing.

Gloom shrouded the cavern. Quiet. Subdued.

It was over.

Wrapped in the silence of mottled shadows, Kendath stood alone at the edge of the lake. His blood no longer roared in his ears. His heartbeat had faded to soft thuds. The hand that had held the dagger hung, blackened and withered, at his side. White sparks danced along it, already healing the broken skin, but he knew the scars would never mend. Nor did he want them to.

He gazed out over the wasteland of murky waters. He was tired. He wanted little more than to drop to the ground and let sweet oblivion drag him under. He closed his eyes, and his breath escaped him in a long, measured sigh that might as well have been his last.

Sleep now, Merrin. It'll be all right...

_________________

The sublime beauty of the cold beckoned him to succumb to a deep slumber, one unshakable and unending, and wished to rest yet in his heart he knew, that his work was not over. For a brief moment, as he quietly forced his own body above the ground and slowly wobbled to his shaking feet, he turned to stare his writhing opponent. His face was filled with a bit of curiosity, that was however overwhelmed by confused amusement. As he stared at the shadower lord, whose life was slowly, painfully, dripping away, Garthag flashed him a weak smile.

His eyes turned away for a while as he realized, that his numb hand was still holding onto the shard of ice he had grasped earlier on. Gazing at his own reflection, he collected his thoughts before allowing the shard to slip from his hand and fall into the ground. Again he looked at the elf and this time a cold judgment was declared by his eyes as they had sharpened into ice, cold steel piercing all they witnessed.

"It`s... beautiful isn`t it? And you wish to end your life, not being able to savor this sight? If you beg for swift death I shall not give it to you necromancer, for the sacrileges in life, you must pay in death. I wonder how many spirits, vengeful and hateful, are waiting for you on the other side?

... I have... still... things to do, this battle is not over... yet... She is still waiting"

He added with an exhausted, but satisfied tone as he struggled forward as every step seemed like a struggle alone. He had sensed, somehow known of the liches `demise` and frankly he was quite stunned yet then again he could not be more joyed. Everything, all, had gone according to his plan and even better than he had dared to wish for. No, it was not over, not as long as the shard remained within his reach and along with it was ultimate power.

A wild, psychotic grin illuminated his face as he made his way with wavering feet towards his destination. Along that walk, with every step, he recounted his own life and the struggles, that had finally brought him here and everything he had achieved. He had achieved nothing, but always struggled yet now it was his time, his turn to gain what he sought most and it was almost within his grasp. With hungry, predatory eyes Garthag approached the shard laying on a pedestal in the center of the lake as, if a trophy.

None of their deaths would not have been in vain, Lily could rest peacefully knowing, that he had achieved everything he had ever dreamed of. The anxiety within was reaching it`s pinnacle and once he had what he wanted it would be washed away by the long awaited, deserved sensation of triumph. With slow, but steady steps over the waters Garthag approached the shard and reached out with his very being, his hand, every finger and his whole body only seeking to grasp the shard.

The tip of the middle finger already braced the surface of the glowing shard and a victorious smile appeared on Garthag`s face.

_________________

Let him curse my name
On these blood stained pages of misery
Let him call me a tyrant so cruel
Let him curse my name, but remember the truth!

Adeila had not needed an explanation to know where Kendath was going. Even in the heat of battle, she had felt it the moment Merrin entered the cavern, sensed the beacon of hope and life in this empty place. She could even feel echoes of the Chosen's pain as Darkness incarnate drove her steadily back. Instinctively, she was immediately running after Kendath. She was a healer, she could help - And then it stopped. Adeila stopped. The beacon had been hopelessly, mercilessly, irrevocably snuffed out.

Merrin was dead.

Adeila could only stand there, frozen, staring at the place where light had been blazing defiantly only moments before. She imagined that she could even hear the Dark's cold laughter as the gods' Chosen lay defeated at its feet. What now? She could heal nearly any wound, but she was powerless against death itself. She could do nothing to help Merrin.

Looking up, she abruptly realized that the immense pillar of green light lancing through the middle of the lake did, indeed, end. Or rather, it began. The crystal. She did not pretend to fully understand the complexities of their present situation, but it was not difficult to gather that this shard was something of great power. Power that was dangerous in the hands of anyone....Garthag. Belatedly, she recalled the mage, still locked in battle with dark lord. He had been winning, when she'd last had the chance to look, and the lack of attacking undead indicated that his opponent had not yet been able to recover. And without Merrin to claim the shard....

Adeila turned around and hurried back to where they had been fighting, doing her best to disregard the unnerving sight of the aimless undead standing along the shore. She arrived just in time to see the Shadower Lord fall, but her attention was immediately diverted. Pain again. Pain and heartbreak and desperation and...light. But not from Merrin. Kendath. Once more, beams of white fire sliced through the dark, relentless in their onslaught, even more intense than before. Then there was a pause, and for a moment Adeila feared that the Dark had triumphed yet again.

And then the light lanced upward and illuminated the entire cavern - not sickly green, but pure, untainted, restoring silver light. A bloodcurdling shriek resounded off of the stone walls, growing to deafening intensity, until finally it ended in an explosion of light. And then all was dark and silent once more.

Garthag was steadily advancing toward the center of the immense lake, now. He meant to claim his prize. That could not happen.

She hurriedly made to follow the mage, arriving just as Garthag reached for the shard. "I do not believe that that is yours to claim," she said evenly.

A bug, she was nothing more than an ant beneath his heel and soon enough she wouldn`t even matter anymore. Yet she persistently tried to verbally challenge him as they both knew all too well, that despite being wounded Garthag could easily kill her. Spell or blade? Quite the predicament, but then again he had chosen not to bother as his fingers were only a few inches away from grasping the shard.

At that moment, as his fingers folded around the shard, Garthag could not help, but smirk victoriously when drew the shard for closer examination. Finally all his dreams, ambitions and hopes would come to fruition with this single object and what an object it was indeed. Inside he felt the shards power, pulsing, breathing as, if it were alive. By it`s nature it resembled the crystals, but the crystals in their own essence paled in comparison with the shard. Certainly, now, he realized why the gods and the shadowers wished to obtain the shard.

Quietly, Garthag smiled and pressed the shard against his own chest as, if to protect it from any harm. However his thoughts and mind returned from the ecstasy of power to the mortal realm as he gazed towards the fragile, withering woman opposing him. His eyes were cold as ice, sharpened steel, intent on piercing her soul as, if it were thin air.

"Truly? I see no other, no better to claim this prize for themselves, after all I do not reckon dear Merrin will be rising from where she is. Indeed, like a little good girl, a little puppet she plaid her part and quite magnificently I admit.

The sheer amusement she awoke within me was quite enough to make the forsaken journey bearable, but at least in the end it all went according to plan. Finally I have obtained the one thing, that will grant me ultimate power, one beyond that of the Lich and the chosen! And both of them lay broken, more than I could have ever dreamed of, and soon enough the likes of you or Kendath will be beyond my notice."

He proclaimed with an amused, laughing, tone that mocked the gods themselves and all that had taken up their cause as their own, Adeila was one of those people and she was one of the most pathetic one`s above all. It also appeared, that Kendath, thus far seemed miserable than ever before and that grief would envelop him once he were to realize what was happening. Quite the beautiful tragedy, but it was time to bring his promise and goals to fulfillment, Garthag once more turned his steel gray eyes at Adeila.

"Tell me healer, what will your salves and bandages do now? What ointment will heal the wound of this defeat? What kind of a healer could wash away the pain of the gods defeat? I think none... You are just no good, Adeila, you should have remained behind when you had the chance, but foolishly you came here to die.

Pathetic, unlike her, you are insignificant and helpless even in the smallest of battles.... Yet I always wondered whether you were the hypocrite I imagined you were, truly, I have received my answer...

But enough of this, she will come soon and to think that I would let you simply stand there might come across insulting. Vanish you hag, go the dear gods you so sincerely call for."

Garthag threatened, insulted and even chuckled in amusement at her helplessness before raising his hand. With a few, meager syllables, he utilized a minor spell to warn her off. An array of magical, blood red, projectiles were unleashed from his hand to barrage the seemingly helpless woman. She would not die, she would suffer pain within her body and gain a few burns, but above all she would live. He wished for one of the gods followers to witness his triumph, rolling in the dirt as they belonged.

Every word, that had poured from his mouth thus far had been driven by the ecstasy of power and greed, but inside he could not feel a budge of joy nor happiness. After all he was dead inside, the gap, that had been utilized by the weak gods had disappeared and the shell had enclosed the tortured spirit of Garthag. The raging sea of emotions, that had been drowning his soul had calmed and everything had ceased, enclosing the storm beneath the surface. Only the cold armor remained, freezing all those, who attempted to approach and soon enough none of what had happened during the tests would not matter.

Soon it would all be over and only he would remain, grasping onto what he had dreamed of all his life.

_________________

Let him curse my name
On these blood stained pages of misery
Let him call me a tyrant so cruel
Let him curse my name, but remember the truth!