Everything leading up to a final moment of clarity. An end to her purpose…and her life?

She was not ready to die. To give it all up, hand the mantle over to another…if it freed her people she could accept it…but she did not want to die. There was so much to live for, so much more she knew she could achieve. But if the wizard was a legend, a being of immense power as he was fabled to be, then he could achieve more in one minute than she could in a lifetime.

Would he be a worthy successor in the battle to come? Could he truly halt the return that the Sard feared, that they had spent their life preparing to confront? If so, then she would pass on, without fear in her heart, but with regret.

She took comfort in the fact that she would meet her father again in the after world, and j’ark would be there to greet her, alongside all the other fallen. In the after world, there would be no Protectorate. It was the one place where a soul could truly be free of fear…

Her mind spitefully reminded her of the lost souls in the portal…no, she could not be sure. Perhaps the Protectorate had even subordinated the world of the dead. Though they surely had no souls of their own, the dead were still cattle to them, herding into a portal to hold back the darkness between the stars. Fuel, perhaps, in their insane hatred that drove them in all things.

She could only hope the last wizard could halt their progress. If she could do anything, anything at all, to stop their plans, even destroy them, if she could, she would do it, and while she would be sad to leave the world, she would give herself freely. What were tears and regrets to the dead?

Perhaps, she thought with sneaking hope, her title did not mean her death. The Sard had reminded her, as had the Seer, that there were many forms of Sacrifice. But could she fool herself into believing all would end well?

If they should triumph this day, how would they return to Lianthre? How were the rahkens faring in their own battle against the Protectorate? Without her, could they rally the humans to their cause…her cause? She could not leave it behind. It was her battle, and she would fight to the last not to give it up, not before she saw her people free. Free to live without terror, without oppression. For those with magic to return to her country and use their powers to improve life, not, as the Protectorate did, to suppress it.

So much to live for.

It tore at her, but she knew no matter how much she lived, she could not outwit fate. She did not want to die. But neither would she stand in the way of destiny.She could bear the loss, if only to do her duty. j’ark was not the only creature of duty. It had subsumed her, too.

She turned her eyes to Drun’s glowing light, and strode on, down into the deep, toward the steady, growing beat of the mountain’s heart.

Shorn looked up at the roof of a cavern as they passed. A great mural had been made on the domed ceiling. He strained in the dim light of Drun’s magic, but could not make out any detail. It seemed as though there was a man in the centre of the picture, holding out his hands wide in a gesture of supplication. He was surrounded by the white beasts, and the brown, like Roth. In the picture there were two suns, but only one moon.

“How am I supposed to trust such a beast?” he had whispered the man called Typraille as they descended into the murk. “It could tear me in two.”

“I as do,” smiled the armoured warrior, his moustaches twitching. “With your life.”

It seemed, from the telling, that Roth’s kind made murals, too. Typraille had seen them. They must be related. From the picture, it seemed the white and the brown had stood together with the figure — who could only be the wizard they were searching for. But the information meant to little to him. He was not a man to worry about things he did not understand. If he lost sleep over everything he did not understand, he would be forever staring at the moon. He worried instead about the pretty woman. She was gnawing at her lip.

The Sacrifice, Drun had told her.

Was he meant to save her? Save himself?

He did not know what was meant for him, what the immediate future had in store for him, but he knew that should the wizard wake he would find himself whole again, with a new purpose, a meaning in his life. He did not intend to die in this cave. When he died it would be in the suns’ light, his sword in his hand and his enemies fallen at his feet.

It had been his life until now, but he was changing. He recognised it in himself. Where once he would never have dreamed of risking his life for anything but the thrill of battle, to test himself against endless foes, now he found himself caring about his companions.

Staunch Bourninund, his sword-mate through countless battles. He could not imagine the Bear, as Renir had taken to calling the old warrior, searching his soul for anything. To him, the fight was all about the money, anything that allowed him to drink and womanise. Even for him, though, such days might be getting short. Perhaps he just wished to die in battle, not in ignominy, lost to cancer or bone-rot, wasting in some hovel, mourned by none. At least in battle he knew his brothers would weep for him, at the last.

He was as unsure of Wen’s motivations for joining their quest. He could rationalise most of the other, but Wen was an enigma. He fought like the demons that lived in his head. He always had. He was haunted by his slain. Perhaps he longed for the day when he could join the dead, rest at last. His had been a long life, and one that left behind pain and suffering…he had run from his life in his own country, but in the end he had sought the life of the sword again.

It seemed the blade was alluring. Look at Renir. When Shorn had met him the man had never even held a weapon. Now he wielded his great axe like a warrior born. Renir could not see it himself, but the fisherman had become a deadly fighter. Shorn marvelled at the change in his friend every day. Renir knew no fear, and fought by Shorn’s side merely because they had become friends.

He thought there was much to learn from Renir. He was a stronger man than he gave him credit for. Shorn had been complicit in Renir’s wife’s death, and yet Renir had stuck by him, following him even after the terrible moment of Nabren’s slaughter, never growing to love the violence but somehow floating above the sordid life he had immersed himself in. His nature was unchanged, even though his body and actions called him warrior, somehow his friend’s soul had remained gentle and caring.

A fine man. A man, Shorn realised, he was proud to call friend. He would go to the ends of the world for Renir, for he knew Renir would do no less — had done no less — for him.

He turned from the mural and strode on, following the light, and the rising sounds from below.

He could smell it, lurking underneath the sulphur, its musk strong. He drew his sword ready. Its strong odour was blown on the steam in the caverns. It seemed the battle was never done. No one had said anything about a guardian, but he could smell beast. He would face it as he had everything since he left his island home with nothing to his name but the memory of loving parents and a life surrounded by books. He would face it, with sword in hand, and fear under boot.

Drun smiled. The two were ready. They thought not of themselves, not any longer. He just hoped it was enough.

The beat rose, and the sounds of rattling chains could be heard. The wizard waited for them. But it sounded, and smelled, as though the last wizard had a guardian. The smell poured through the stone halls, as did the sounds of something ranting, tearing at the walls.

Drun paused, wiped his face clear of emotion. His place was to observe. What he saw was trepidation, concern, but not one hint of fear, except on the face of the beast known to him only as Roth.