Before him, a great stone door barred the way. The doors towered toward the ceiling of the cavern they had come to. They were adorned with carvings and strange symbols. They were a thousand years old, but untouched by time. The carvings were strange, the symbols unreadable for he did not know the language, but he knew who had carved them. Only one race could work in stone with such grace and beauty. It was rahken hands at work. There was so much about the rahkens that he did not understand.

And it was too late to start now. He had his duty, his place in the fate of Rythe, and it was to observe come the awakening of the wizard. His place was not to understand. If anything came after they stepped through those majestic doors, he did not know what it was. His life from this moment forward would be a new, undiscovered country. He had known the future all his life, and from this moment forward he would have to learn to live as a new man, one like any other. With powers beyond ordinary mortals, but a man, nonetheless. One who faced each new dawn with fascination, or dread.

He turned his kind eyes on his brothers, his friends, looking at each of them in turn.

“It is our place, brothers, to face the wizard, to wake him from his slumber. Only Tirielle, Shorn and I must enter. If we win through, we will return. Do not try to follow. To do so would mean death. Only those who need to enter should do so. Tirielle, Shorn, are you ready?”

Tirielle nodded firmly, her chin held high. “I am ready.”

Shorn grunted and hefted his sword. “I’m tired, my leg aches and I want to get away from this stink. Let’s get on with it. Whatever waits through that door, I intend to kill it and get this wizard. The beast reeks, and the wizard has led me a merry dance. He better be grateful.”

There was always time for a smile. Shorn, in many ways, remained refreshing.

“Then let us enter the belly of the beast,” he said, and pushed the door…just so…(he did not know how he knew, it just seemed right, like the knowledge had been in his head all along…or like something else was guiding him) and it opened, stone grating on stone.

Beyond, a blackness darker than moonless night, a liquid, sucking blackness, covering the entrance.

Drun pushed at it, and his hand went through, and came back unscathed.

“Heed me, brothers,” he said, but not unkindly. “Do not follow me. We do what must be done.” His words were punctuated by a quickening of the beat — the wizard grew impatient.

“His heart wakes already. We will come back, fear not. We will win through.”

Roth did not look up as Tirielle stood before the blackness. Doubt assailed the beast. For the first time in its life, it understood fear. Its bravery was stripped away. The pain of loss felt to strong the bear. It stood, in agony, filled with indecision and fright. It watched her back as she moved forward. It could find no comforting words, no thought for others, as it always had. It was routed to the spot, fear crippling its strong limbs. So this was fear? It could not understand how humans could live with it. It swallowed the rahken’s heart, chewed on it. Its belly gnawed at it, as though its fear was eating its way inside to the out. But it stilled its face and held as calmly as it could. It would not allow Tirielle to see its cowardice, not come the last.

But she did not look back. Tirielle stepped through, followed by Shorn. No words of encouragement, no backward glances from the warrior.

Drun nodded to his brothers, laid a hand on Renir’s shoulder. “We will return, if we can. If not, get free. Follow my brothers, they will find a way.”

Renir clasped the old priest’s offered hand. “Make sure you come back, old man. You just make sure. And watch out for Shorn. He’s headstrong, you know.”

“I know,” smiled Drun. “I will bring him back.”

Silently, and only to himself, he added ‘if I can’.

Klan Mard’s bare feet made no sound on the warm stone beneath his feet. He padded silently, his blood red eyes lighting the path before him.

He could not sense them — the Sard hid them from sight — but they had led him to the wizard. Finally, a test of his powers!

Excitement flowed through him, and he sought for control. He could not give in to his urges, not yet. He had to control himself. He fought down the power bubbling inside of him.

Gone were the worries of leadership. His soldiers could fend for themselves. He had handpicked them. They were the best. The battle was not his concern. Only finding the wizard, and destroying him forever, that was all that concerned him. Human mages these days were nothing. They did not know their power. He would face one, a remnant from ancient days, the one who had been powerful enough to dispatch his forebears, to banish them from Rythe.

How powerful could such a wizard be? It sent a delicious chill of anticipation through his body.

But as he strode on, and he could hear their voices even through the catastrophic rumbling of the mountain tearing itself apart, his mood darkened. He felt the anguish of his soldiers dying outside, their agonies feeding him. They had eluded him for so long. But no longer. He would wear their faces and grin back at them as they died. He would inflict such pain on them, such tortures, as he tore them apart. He would burn them, drive nails of pain into their souls, but never their faces. Those he would save. He would save them for his congregation. He grinned malevolently, evil in the red glow. The rock hissed and cracked around him. It boiled beneath his feet as he passed.

A gout of fire erupted through a fissure in the pathway. He walked on, unscathed. The strength of the ascension was coursing through his body. He was harder than stone, sharper than tempered steel. Nothing could harm him. He was invincible. Impervious to all weapons. Pain would feed him. Fear would give him strength. He would grow in power as he destroyed the Sard, took Tirielle A’m Dralorn’s face from her dying body while he held her in his power. He would make them all watch, hold them still, tear their life from their frail human corpses…

He raged, the rock around him melting and pouring into the tunnel. The mountain’s fire joined his own. Unseen, insensible now to all but rage, the caverns filled with molten rock and livid fire, burning, running downward into the heart of the mountain, a river of fire following in his wake. The heat did not touch him. He was stronger than stone. He was invincible.

He burned brighter than the fire. His whole body glowed red, terrible heat coming from him in waves. His pace quickened. He could hear them talking now, talking in low voices, though he could not make out what they were saying. How they infuriated him, with their petty worries, with their stupid mewling words…

His ambitions were greater. Come the return, he would stand above all others. He would rule beside his makers, teach the humans what true control was.

He raged. His power grew. He breathed in each death from his soldiers, luxuriating in their pain, bridled emotions barely held in check. He turned the corner, and they were there!

At last, taste my fire! And he lashed out with all his strength.

Roth’s fur caught fire instantly in that first, terrible blast.

The three barbarian warriors dived to the floor, flames streaking over their heads and hitting the rock, which plinked, cooling suddenly as the Sard’s latent energies flowed forth, meeting fire with sunlight, with growth and love and the beauty of full summer, nascent spring, and crisp, cool winters.

The Sard’s magnificent armour shone back against the fire, with a brilliant golden glow, and the fire from the terrible creature before them was met. They drew their swords, holding the fire back with some innate magic that only those blessed by gods could possess.