Chapter 31

31.
         Set the scene. Build it with imagination, paint it with atmosphere, finish the whole thing off with a touch of drama. Perhaps some background music. In the end, no matter what the tune, no matter where the final drama takes place, no matter who the players are, the end result is always the same.
         Set the scene. The throne room, now silent and dark. Even the lights have dimmed and gone out, the magic needed to sustain them either no longer available or the people who harnassed them no longer counted among the living. In the distance an alarm bell tolled needlessly, clanging away to ears that no longer cared. From somewhere smoke wafted.
         The Dark Lord strode into this empty throne room, his boots making clicking noises that echoed in the dismal stillness. Body held straight, every motion precise, he walked right into the middle of the room with deliberate patience. Behind him another Dark Rider ran in, stopping a good distance from the Dark Lord and merely standing there with the Dark Lord's back to him, waiting for acknowledgement.
         It came quickly. "Have you anything to report?"
         "The castle is ours," the Dark Rider said and that voice was exuberant. "All defenses have been subjugated and nearly every area has been secured."
         "Nearly every area?" the Dark Lord asked without turning around. He appeared to be examining a mural that had been placed behind the throne and stretched across the entire width of the room. From left to right it told the story of the land. The glimmering eyes rested for a particularily long time on the tiny painted figures on three identical men in red robes.
         "Yes, one area still eludes our control. The Agent has sealed people in the royal bedrooms with him. As of this moment we can't break through, but we are still trying."
         "Very well," the Dark Lord responded. He waved a hand to the Dark Rider. "Continue in your efforts, and report to me when you have success. Until then, leave me."
         The Dark Rider merely nodded its head and left the room, its footsteps slowly echoing into nothing, distant reverberations. The Dark Lord didn't move for the longest time, just stood there with his cloak casually wrapped around his body. What was going through his head was unknown, if such thoughts were even meant to be known. Perhaps they were of his master, the Shadow, at who's command he lived and fought and maybe died.
         Outside a light flashed, almost blinding. Almost in slow motion the Dark Lord turned to stare up at the window just as the castle vibrated as the shockwave of thunder hit it. Timidly, the patter of rain striking the windows and stones was heard, and then grew louder and more forceful with each passing second.
         Wordlessly, the Dark Lord watched the interplay of rain and lightning and then strode over to the double doors that were the main access of the throne room. With strength belaying his slim form, he grabbed first the right door and then the left, closing them with a resounding clang. That done, he seemed to nod to himself and strode back over to the center of the room. Perhaps he was waiting for something.
         The thunder roared again, and the entire castle seemed to shudder at the force of nature flailing around them. In the darkness in one of the corners of the room, two red eyes seem to pulse into life.
         A voice oozed from somewhere, perhaps from the direction of the eyes, perhaps not. "They are coming for you."
         The Dark Lord glanced at the eyes, and there was steel in his voice when he responded. "Let them come.
         "They will try to kill you." There was no concern in that dark voice, only simple fact.
         If the Dark Lord cared about the absense of such emotion, he gave no sign. "And if I am supposed to die this day, then I shall. And I shall die with no regrets, because I died serving a cause that meant more to me than my life ever did." He drew himself up, seeming to stand even taller then he did. "I may be the servant of my master and the extension of his will but before that I am a warrior and I shall meet my fate, without fear, without grief. Thus do I swear." And his voice barked on the last sentence, sending the words swirling into the air, floating and echoing until at last they settled back to earth.
         There was another streak of lightning and when that blinding flash faded, the eyes were no longer there. Maybe they had never been there. The stillness was evident in the air, but at long last something was trembling, a string vibrating in preparation of being plucked, tense and taut.
         Out of the corner of his eye he caught a flicker of red light. Ah. So it begins. Not turning, he awaited the first move.
         It came all too quickly and yet with groaning slowness.
         "Dark Lord." A simple statement, a name spoken for lack of something else to say.
         "I am here," the Dark Lord replied, and he turned to see a man standing in the shadows, his body wreathed in darkness. He was holding one arm stiffly at a diagonal from his side and there was something small in that hand. Giving the man a slight, mocking bow with a sweep of his cloak, he continued. "I see that you have come alone, Tristian. Have you grown more confident?"
         "I came to talk," Tristian said, his voice somber. "I know what's supposed to happen, Dark Lord. We're supposed to fight and one of us is supposed to kill each other." He gave a half shrug. "That's how it always goes, right?"
         "Unless you wish to cede this land to me and mine, that is how it shall go this time as well," the Dark Lord replied, not moving from his spot.
         Tristian's voice became suddenly more urgent. "But why should it always happen that way? This is just a game, don't you understand? The Shadow and the Agents play their little games and we're the ones who have to suffer, we're the one who do the dirty work."
         "The game is the entire point, Tristian. Without it, there would be no conflict and without conflict there would be no progress." The Dark Lord pointed an accusing hand at Tristian. "Talking only delays the inevitable. It is something fools wish to do when they want to hide from reality."
         Tristian seemed to frown in the dark, realizing his cause was pointless. He had to try anyway. "There should be another way," he whispered.
         "But there is not," the Dark Lord replied and there was ringing truimph in his voice. "Will you accept that?"
         "I'm going to kill you," Tristian told him, his voice not sounding hopeful about that at all and yet knowing that it really couldn't turn out any other way. He sounded slightly sad. "I'm going to kill you and you don't even care." He glanced down, pondering that thought and then stared back at the Dark Lord again, who calmly returned his gaze. "Dear God, is that what I would be like, if I ever stopped caring?"
         "I do not have that answer for you, Tristian," the Dark Lord responded and this time he did step forward. His hand was going for the sword at his belt. "But if it is action that must inspire you into the conflict that we both know must happen, then let me be the instigator. Prepare to defend yourself." As if following his words, the lightning flared and cracked again. Tristian winced against the onslaught of nature.
         He sighed, looking down at the thing he was holding in his hand. "Just once, why can't it end differently," he whispered, almost too softly to even hear himself speaking. His finger slid along a button in a motion that he had practiced more times than he ever wanted to admit. The thing in his hand clicked and seemed to emit a soft hum just as a red blade emerged from the hilt of the laser sword.
         Tristian stood there bathed in red, hating himself, hating everything for having come to this. "Let's just end this," he told the Dark Lord, feeling dirty for even talking like that.
         But the Dark Lord was already in motion, his hand flashing to his belt, the sword giving off its own red glow even as it became a blur in the air. Tristian ducked to the side and brought his sword up to block barely in time. The motions all felt natural, the sword never felt truer in his hands, and yet it all felt wrong. Always the bloodshed, always coming down to two people trying to kill each other.
         He swung back up and forward, trying to knock the Dark Lord's sword out of the way and run him through, trying to end the fight fast. But the Dark Lord nimbly stepped back, swatting Tristian's sword aside, counting with his own stabbing motion. His reflexes were astounding, all of them smooth, flowing. There was no hesitation anywhere, thought and action became one. In contrast, Tristian felt like he was moving in slow motion, plodding through a sea of molasses in an attempt to keep up. The swords drew red lines in the air as they crossed and stabbed at each other, and the two opponents circled the room, whirling and diving. The Dark Lord was faster with his one hand than most people were with two. Tristian felt he was pushing himself to the limits of his abilities, even as he felt the conditioning prodding him along, pushing his body to make blocks that he was still pondering even as his limbs just acted. His eyes analyzed a dozen attacks spots, discarded them all and he danced back, using his sword to weave an unbreachable defense.
         What was it all about? He couldn't give in completely to the conditioning, he wanted the battle to be won by Tristian, not by some augmentation that the Agents had stuffed into him because they were too lazy to train him the hard way. He wanted the muscles and reflexes that won the battle to be his, the ones that he had spent hours working with, honing, until now when he dove and rolled to the side, coming up and diving forward, trying to use his hand to knock the Dark Lord's hand aside, trying to make it so that Tristian was the winner, no matter the outcome.
         The Dark Lord lashed out with his boot, catching Tristian in the stomach and sending him spinning away. Tristian rolled on the floor, spun and recovered just in time to jump back again, feeling the stinging heat of the sword biting into the skin of his forearm, opening a shallow cut. Not even pausing to make a comment, he strained for an opening, cutting up and then sideways, seeing the sword bite into the Dark Lord's armor, the Dark Lord snapping his sword up and around, forcing Tristian into the defensive again.
         They paused, circling and stumbling, both swords held at the ready. Tristian could feel sweat forming on his forehead, already paving rivers down his face. Heat suffused his body, but his eyes never wavered from his opponent. The Dark Lord didn't even seem winded but then it was hard to tell what he was thinking underneath the armor. Tristian had never seen the actual body of a Dark Rider and from hints the Agents had dropped, he didn't think they had physical bodies. But they could be killed, he'd done it before. But never the Dark Lord, always the minions.
         "The longer the fight goes on, the more it tips in my favor," the Dark Lord announced, making caution stabs with his sword, testing Tristian's reflexes. Tristian merely stood there, waiting for the attack he knew was coming. He knew better than to answer, then to let himself get distracted.
         "Your doubts are plainly evident on your face," the Dark Lord went on, "even a fool can see them. You doubt your own ability, you doubt your cause, you even doubt your methods . . ." this said as he made a sliding step forward, trying to slice under Tristian's defenses and cut him in two. Tristian swirled and skipped back, lashing out and cutting the Dark Lord's arm, though not enough to make him drop his sword. Again, they faced each other.
         The Dark Lord barely glanced at the wound, as if it meant nothing. Instead, he continued talking, whether because he felt he had something important to say, or he just wanted to distract Tristian, it was hard to determine. "Your problem is, Tristian, that you always seek to find a different way, when the obvious route always looms before you." This was said as the Dark Lord cut down, and then to the side, finally coming down from above. Tristian took a cut at the shoulder, causing him to gasp at the sudden unexpected pain, but he tore a slash down the Dark Lord's chest. Nothing came from the gash, it was simply a tear. Tristian tried not to think about that.
         Something made him speak. "And your problem is that you always go for the easiest route, Dark Lord. You people are never subtle, you merely do whatever you want to further your plans, never trying to find a better way."
         "And why not?" the Dark Lord responded almost joyously, striking at Tristian with a flurry of slashes and prodding stabs, causing Tristian to work overtime to defend himself, feeling the ache in his arms growing. He was almost acting automatically now, and he didn't want that to happen. Tristian stepped back, sensing the wall near him, balancing on the ball of his back foot, stepping crosswise and then cutting straight across, hoping to cut the Dark Lord in half, hating himself for even thinking like that. The Dark Lord barely dodged it, bringing his sword down, not managing to avoid his hip being sliced open, even as Tristian drew his arm back to just barely avoid his hand being cut off. Distancing themselves from each other, they continued to circle like vultures over their own corpses. Tristian felt his blood hammering in his head, in his ears, in his whole body, moving to the pulse of the thunder outside. Even the Dark Lord looked wounded finally, a spring gone from his step, his movements not as flowing and liquid as before.
         "We choose always to take the direct route," the Dark Lord told Tristian and there was weariness forming at the edges of his voice. "You mistake that with the easiest method when they are two different things."
         "Killing is always too easy," Tristian replied evenly. He wished this was over, fear was beginning to work a hole in his chest. He didn't want to die, he didn't have the Dark Lord's calm resoluteness, he fought for himself as much as anything else. Pushed into something he didn't want or understand, that was the way his life always seemed to go. That was what the Agents wanted him to accept. But that couldn't be everything. There had to be something he was missing.
         "Is this easy, Tristian?" the Dark Lord nearly snapped at him, the evil calm breaking for just a second to show black anger. "Are you finding this easy?" He drove his attack forward suddenly, pressing Tristian farther and farther back, his body barely even paying attention to the sword movements, just going by pure instinct, feeling a calm settle over him as he did so. Even when the door crept into his back, when there was nowhere else to run, he tried not to feel afraid.
         "Not at all," he said as he ducked, feeling more than seeing the Dark Lord's stroke slice open the metal door behind him, leaving a long wide gash in the door itself. Lightning boomed again, even louder than before, sounding like it was right outside the door.
         "But then I never find killing easy," Tristian replied, jumping to his feet and kicking the Dark Lord, sending the Dark Rider flying back, but not before he cut open Tristian's leg, sending blood running down and soaking into his pants. It made him feel briefly lightheaded but he tried to recover, limping toward the Dark Lord, who was leaning somewhat against the wall for support.
         "Killing is only easy when you stop thinking about it, when it becomes nothing more than an act, when you stop feeling it," Tristian said, holding his sword at his side. "Whatever feeling you had within you, shriveled up and died long ago, Dark Lord. You're nothing but a hollow shell for the Shadow to fill with his own evil."
         "That is how it should be," the Dark Lord replied, gasping a little but launching himself at Tristian in a motion so sudden that Tristian could only go along with it. There wasn't even a chance to bring his sword up, he nearly lost it as they both tumbled onto the floor, Tristian doing all he could to keep from getting cut into ribbons, his head striking the floor and all sensation leaving his body for a brief second. In that second the Dark Lord raised his sword in the air, a red slash across Tristian's vison.
         Then the doors blew open.
         Rain poured in and the thunder was loud enough to be deafening. The Dark Lord was surprised for the briefest moment by this and when his sword cut into the floor, Tristian was no longer there, having stood up and struck across with his fist. Rain was washing over Tristian now, mixing the blood into the water as both ran down his face. He had a cut on his chest and he wasn't sure how he had gotten it, his entire body felt like it was somewhere else. His hand stung and throbbed where it had struck the Dark Lord but he couldn't afford to stop for even a moment.
         Lightning struck the floor suddenly and the world became negative for that second. Tristian shielded his eyes even as the Dark Lord turned toward the open doors, as if hearing a voice. In that blurred bright moment Tristian thought he saw a red robed figure standing in the doorway, a wry smile on its face. Then the room darkened again and there was nothing there.
         Tristian rushed forward and struck the Dark Lord across the face again, following it up by kicking him in the ribs, feeling something give beneath the armor. He wasn't even really trying to kill him anymore, he didn't really want to. In his own way the Dark Lord was pathetic, little more than a puppet for the Shadow to make his will known through. There were worse things for a person to be, but Tristian couldn't think of any right at the moment. Air was roaring around him and if the Dark Lord was saying something, then Tristian couldn't hear it. The rain slowed everything down, made all their movements sodden and sluggish.
         The Dark Lord's eyes blazed in the darkness even as he stood there unsteadily on his feet. The sword had never felt more right in Tristian's hands, almost like an extension of his hand, an extension of his skill. The two of them faced each other, not even circling anymore, just standing there, staring, as if not even believing where their paths had taken them. Rain pelted Tristian and he shook the wetness out of his hair, only to feel it replaced with even more. It was raining indoors and yet that wasn't the weirdest thing right now.
         His chest felt heavy and tight and he realized he was shouting, even as his own words were muffled and deadened. "I just wanted to let you know," he said and he didn't even know if the Dark Lord could hear him or not. Certainly he gave no indication that he had heard. "I wanted to let you know, that it wasn't my idea to do this. I gave you an option, an out, and you went for the easy route anyway."
         The Dark Lord seemed to know what was coming and he threw himself at Tristian, even as Tristian threw himself back, bringing his sword up. In those slowed down rain swept seconds many things went through his mind, memories of the things he had experienced in this land, of Johan, of Michelle, of the red sweep of the Magents' robes, the sun beating down on his face in brighter times, magic flowing all around him, tingling at the edges of his senses, enough to let him know it was there but far enough away that he might never touch it no matter how far he reached, the feeling of his breath being taken away as he saw for the first time in his life a castle floating on air.
         And all of it ending here, in this rain soaked throne room where the only solution was as usual to get together and try and kill each other because in the end no one wanted to back down. No one wanted to compromise, it was all either one way or the other. He blamed the Shadow and the Agents, but he couldn't blame the Dark Lord. He hated the being, with all his heart and life, hated him for what he was and what he did but recognized that he had no choice, that if he was given a choice between sparing and slaying, he would always take the latter because that was the nature the Shadow had imparted on him.
         Tristian thought about all of this even as slowly he moved the sword aside, feeling it bit and rip into his ribs, going under the skin and out the other side, feeling his teeth grit and a scream wrench itself from his throat to be swallowed and thrown down by a clap of thunder. Even as he swept his sword up and stabbed right through the Dark Lord, feeling his sword bite through metal and maybe flesh and back out through armor again, bringing the sword up, cutting him diagonally from the center of his body to his shoulder. The eyes of the Dark Lord stared at him, flicking, blazing, stared him right in the face. There was no hatred reserved for him there, no accusations, merely cold resignation. It could have ended only one way.
         And those eyes, as Tristian watched, became pale and cold and dark even the Dark Lord gave one shudder and slid off the sword, hitting the floor with a mild thud. Tristian stood there, swaying on his feet, feeling his head whirling, hearing only the sound of rain striking the cold stones, no violence left in that storm now, only gentle cleansing rain.
         He was aware of a rushing sound in his ears and that his legs weren't holding him anymore. The sword hit the floor, falling from his open hand even as all the pain in his body became a numbing singularity that stretched from the center of his body all the way out, even as the world tipped and swirled and fell, even as in slow motion he hit the ground, trying to hold on to consciousness, trying to find some happiness in his victory, feeling only the emptiness that he always felt, the feeling that there really should have been another way, a better way.
         And then he hit the floor. Half conscious, the lights of his world fading, he watched the rain strike the floor, throwing up small droplets of water, splashing his face, failing to rouse him at all. It was all so far away now, so very far away. He was aware of voices talking now, of familiar voices mixed with dark words, of evil and good intermingling and trying to counterbalance.
         Finally the world was lit with a blinding white flash, a flash that he saw even behind his closed eyes, even as his consciousness departed for parts unknown, a light that he had only seen vaguely before but knew intimately. The light that was a part of them all.
         He knew of an overriding awesome presence near him, one that even the beings he knew would bow to, knew they were there, could feel them in every fiber of his body.
         And when the voice spoke, he heard with more than just his ears.
         "THIS SQUABBLING WILL CEASE NOW!"
         A murmur of voices, so far away, drifting on gossamer winds. Only the voice filled him, plunging through his cold haze of consciousness. Even then, his understanding of the words was sorely limited, as if he was deafened by something his mind could never hope to contemplate.
         "WE HEAR YOUR PLEAS AND YOUR ARGUMENTS BUT FIND THEM ALL INVALID. THERE WILL BE NO FURTHER NEED FOR FIGHTING OVER THIS LAND, FOR IN THE TIME YOU HAVE BEEN STRUGGLING, WE HAVE REACHED A DECISION. BY OUR DECREE, THIS LAND SHALL BE-"
         And darkness clutched with nimble, strong fingers at Tristian and pulled him down to oblivion and he heard and knew no more.