In which Jerich comes face to face with an ancient power. For the first part of the story, read Part One: Crystal Halls, in which our hero enters a cave and finds something astonishing.

Part Two: Paraxyl

“Stearis and Fallar!” Jerich exclaimed again, this time in fright.

A second eye opened, and great angular nostrils blew out a stinging crystal dust. Clinking and clattering, with shards of glass breaking loose, the mound that circled all about him heaved itself off the cavern floor onto four great legs, sending tremors throughout the glowing chamber.

As Jerich wiped the dust from his eyes, he beheld a crystal dragon standing before him, its head looming among his memories up above.

The more dour part of his mind suggested this was the power Lord Welkind wanted him to retrieve.

The creature opened its mouth, and a rumbling clatter of sounds issued forth. It peered at him, almost curiously, and repeated the avalanche of noise. It sounded like words, almost, though none from any language he recognized.

“I,” he began, wondering how he might communicate with this creature. He scrambled to his feet and pointed to himself. “Jerich,” he said loudly.

The creature cocked its head. It rumbled another phrase, and Jerich could have sworn it was laced with derision.

“That’s my name,” he said uselessly. He hung his head, his heart still pounding, but things seeming less dangerous than they had a moment ago.

The creature nodded. It rumbled again, and with a shock, Jerich realized that the noises formed the phrase, “And my name is Paraxyl.”

“You speak,” he gasped. “Well, of course you speak, just that, well…” he glanced up at the creature, which had now lowered its head to look him in the eye.

“I know the tongues of men, aelfs, and dwarfs all,” growled the dragon. “I know their hearts, for they shine in my scales.”

Gazing into the shining beast’s face, Jerich could indeed see his past play out before him. It seemed different, though. Rather than merely reflecting his mind, the visions he saw in the creature’s crystalline visage seemed to run away from him, following a course of their own choosing.

A realization struck him. Not of their choosing. Of Paraxyl’s. The thought shook him to his core.

“The mortal understands,” nodded the dragon. Its eyes narrowed into slits. “And it comes seeking power for the unworthy.”

Jerich gulped. He dared not nod, but he dared not either try to deny it. Instead, he numbly met the creature’s stare.

“I give it not,” declared Paraxyl, rising again and sitting on his haunches. “You have leave to depart, mortal. Trouble me no more.”

Still Jerich stood there, torn now between fulfilling his duty—and angering this creature—and turning back to the relative safety of the troupe—and angering his lordship.

Seeing his hesitation, Paraxyl raised a glassy brow. “Will you not depart? Surely I am mightier than he.” With a thundering clatter of crystal, the dragon rose up. “Surely my will reigns in this hall!”

And with those deafening words, a vision swept across the opalescent scales. Jerich looked away, recognizing the scene.

It played across the floor as well, reaching out from Paraxyl’s shimmering bulk. Jerich looked to the walls, the ceiling, everywhere, finally shutting his eyes against the vision.

Massive limbs clattered forward. Crash. Crash. Crash. The dragon was approaching.

Jerich peeked open, watching the advancing beast in terror, squinting against the vision that he refused to see.

The day when he’d won his band a glorious victory.

Even just a glimpse was enough to fill his soul with horror. He shrank back, but it seeped into his mind from the ground, the walls, the towering creature looming above him now, staring down with draconic wrath.

Suddenly, it was the day of the battle at Pilling’s Hill.

Lord Welkind had returned from a cavalry charge with a dented breastplate and a few shards of a broken lance protruding from his visor’s breath holes. The charge had done little to break the advancing foe, and several of their own dead lay in front of their slowly receding line. Men to the left and right seemed on the verge of breaking, and it was only the hope that a charge would pierce the advancing lines that had kept them holding on.

That hope was gone, apparently. Even so, Jerich remained crouched behind his pavise cranking the windlass of a crossbow as Lord Welkind thundered back, a straggle of battered horsemen behind him. “Hold firm!” his lordship said through his visor. “Hold firm or I’ll run you down myself!”

“Better to die at the hands of a foe than a friend!” called the sergeant.

Little difference here, thought Jerich. He gazed out over the dead. Ahead lay Hawich, an honest lad. Next to him, under a shattered pavise, lay Sandorin, a wizard with cards, and a dead accurate shooter.

Over there was Filibert, a crushed leg soaking in a pool of blood. The remains of a tourniquet evidenced a vain attempt to save him. His hand still clutched the broad single-edged blade he favored.

Several others lay in messes of splintered shields and battered armor, their weapons strewn about, having been wielded in vain against the advancing foe.

He loosed a bolt at the opposing line, forcing a man to duck behind his own pavise. His partner Billith was ready with a second bolt for when the man peeked out again.

Meanwhile, a bolt found the earth a mere span from his foot. Too many of them had fallen, and their line was opening up.

So many men, dead in vain. Sorrow sank into his heart, but it soon gave way to wrath.

His brothers in arms, laid out in testament to their ineffectual defense.

Their weapons, lying about, having been vainly wielded.

An utter waste of life and steel.

Something snapped in his mind. Something went mad. Something propelled him to drop his windlass and crossbow and rush over to Filibert’s corpse, prying the blade from the dead man’s cold fingers. He never thought to draw his own sword. Somehow, this seemed more fitting.

He cried in a loud voice: “May this blade strike with the truth of its owner’s intent, and fall not again in vain!”

With that, he charged forth amid protests of his fellows.

His feet pounded the earth. A dozen bolts whizzed at him, a few sticking in his jack, grazing his ribs and abdomen, and one breaking on the brim of his helmet. Bolts from his own line suppressed any further shot from the enemy.

Jerich leapt into the opposing line, vaulting over spears and throwing down pavises and laying about with Filibert’s blade. The weapon struck true with every stroke as if guided by the intent of its deceased owner, wreaking vengeance upon those who had struck him down. A torrent of fury drove Jerich forward, and no man could counter him, the blade cutting them off with a speed and a precision a master swordsman would envy.

Padding, weapons, and living flesh all gave way before the flashing steel which, as if possessed, faintly shone with an otherworldly light.

Jerich was unconscious of it all. His whole mind was movement, wrath, and a promise of death to all upon whom his gaze fell. That gaze met soon with hesitation, then fear, and finally outright terror as the foe broke and ran before him.

Thunder mounted up from behind, and Lord Welkind’s cavalry charged past him, punching into the hole he had made in the enemy’s lines and tearing it into a gaping wound. Soon the foe’s lines had unraveled, and the enemy lord—Jerich couldn’t even remember the man’s name—was put into flight.

Fatigue overtook him, and he dropped to his knees. The weapon fell from his fingers, its unholy gleam fading as the sun set over the bloodied field.

Cheers erupted behind him as the vision faded, but Jerich’s own stomach turned at what he’d just done.

Suddenly, he was in the cavern again, nose to nose with Paraxyl.

Next is Part Three: Necromancer

Yes, I know. Most of this thing is a flashback. If you hate that, let me know in the comments! Also, share this with all your friends to get it some exposure, or support additional content via Patreon. All proceeds go toward creating a memorial for those who died at Pilling’s Hill. Really.