I am way behind.   Let me explain.  No, there is too much.  Let me sum up.

I got sick.  I had people that needed me.  There were social engagements I could not miss.  Oh, and I am still sick.  So, I am very far behind and I am not sure if I will make the end of November goal.  I will finish the novel, however, so there is that.

With that said, I am starting Chapter 8.  Adieu.

Chapter 7:  End of the road

“Let no one weep for me, or celebrate my funeral with mourning; for I still live, as I pass to and fro through the mouths of men.”

–          Quintus Ennius

Surrounded in the dark, he could hear them closing in.  Growls and snarls and howls were all around him, ready to strike at any moment.  Pathfinder was in his hands, its light quenched by some foul spell.  Twice, he had tried to dispel it, but he was no match for this power.

There was just enough light to see a sword-length from him, but barely enough to react when the first one came through.  Ducking under the raking claws, the warrior cut across the underbelly of the beast above him.  Following through to the dirt below, the beast was hurled away back into the darkness as another jumped upon the swordsman’s back.

Grabbing it over his shoulder, he rolled forward and threw the monster onto the ground before him, ending on its chest.  Pulling the sword up with both hands for a finishing blow, he was abruptly struck on his side and hit the ground hard.  His sword was thrown off into the darkness and he was plunged into complete darkness.

He lay there in the black void, hearing the same noises moving in.  He popped up to his feet, in the way the sword master taught him – hands over the head, throw the feet up and out, and push your upper body over them to land on your feet.  Drawing a dagger, he closed his eyes to listen better for signs of his enemies.  Open, he would try to rely on them over his ears; closed, he would ignore them.

He circled in place, preparing to fight these unseen creatures, when a blast of light came at his face.  Reflexively, he opened his eyes and was momentarily blinded by the light.  At the same time, he was shoved hard in the chest sending him once more to the ground.

As his eyes cleared, he saw someone standing over him, Pathfinder raised above his head.  The boy standing there was familiar, although in the blur he couldn’t see.  And then all at once, it was daylight.  Standing over him was Marcos, poised to kill him.

“Hello, brother.  You shouldn’t have come.”

And the sword was plunged through his stomach, leaving Damon in agonizing pain.  He could hear his screams and his brother’s laughter clearly above him as his life ebbed from him.  He was wailing as the blood came out of his belly, thick and red.

“Damon!  Wake up!”

He sat bolt upright on his bedroll, as his father’s voice rang out, and his face took the place of Marcos.  It was a dream.  Just a dream.  Marcos wasn’t here.

He reached for his stomach as if there might still be a wound but he found it unharmed.  Well, save for the incredible hunger he had. Nightmares take some energy it seems.

“I need java.  Is it ready?”

“Yes, it is.  Tell me about your dream.  You were screaming, ‘Marcos, NO!’ in your sleep.”

“I was?  That is rather odd, isn’t it?”

He got up to go get his drink, hoping that would be all. Hope failed him, as his father followed him to the pot.

“Son, what was the dream?”

He had that voice that said he wasn’t going to stop, that family tendency to never give up.  I resigned myself to the reality that I wasn’t getting out of this, and told him the dream.

“Perhaps it was a vision of the future.  Your mother was strong in the ways of magic; you may have picked up the Sight.”

“Or, I just had a nightmare.  It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“Dreams often do, my friend,” Invictus broke in, as he sat down next to me, “Generally, they tell us things we don’t want to see, that we have buried or run from.

Our fears will betray us when we sleep.”

“That’s comforting.  I am sure I will sleep much better, now that I have had your counsel.”

“I’m only trying to help.  Master made me read a book on dreams, in case I was ever attacked there.  If you can recognize it for a dream, you will have your full skill there, and some more.”

“Well, boys.  It is likely that it was just a dream, but we will be cautious just the same.  Let’s get some food and pack for the rest of the trip.  I’d like to get back before nightfall.”

With that, he finished his coffee and walked over to talk to the Captain of the Red Guard.

*****

There was an unnatural darkness to the cave, made more so by the profound lack of any kind of encounter on the way to it.  An hour of walking in the dark wood made the group more than a little nervous.  All save one.

Ambrosias had walked with a purpose, as if nothing was happening and they were just out for a stroll.  Either he was fearless or he had absolutely no idea what was happening around him.  Damon chose to go with fearless and kept walking cautiously along until they came to this cave.

It was tall, perhaps 30’ around, and showed signs of recent activity by many feet.  It hadn’t rained in a while, so the tracks were obvious in the soft dirt.  It seemed that this entrance was regularly used by wolfen and humanoids, from the tracks there were here.

Except for now.  There was no sign of movement of any kind inside the dark entrance.   Everyone stood crouched in the woods staring at the large mouth except for father.  He stood there staring inside the entrance, holding pathfinder in front of him.   It had been that way for several minutes and Damon began  to wonder what was happening.  As he was about to speak, Ambrosias took the opportunity.

“Time to go.  There is something happening in there that we need to stop.  Marcos is in trouble.”

With that, he began walking quickly toward the cave.  Everyone else looked at him, looked at each other, and then started after him.

“Vic, do you know what he means?  Does your power tell you the same?”

“I cannot see Marcos state of being other than I know he is alive and is in that cave.  The relative distance has not changed, so I just assume he was at rest.  I have no magic to tell more than that.”

“Let us hurry.  Perhaps saving him from some ugly fate will show him we care.”

Under his breath, Invictus murmured, “Perhaps,” and followed after.

The long tunnel was dark save the light from Pathfinder and we walked perhaps 10 minutes before father came to a halt.  They were just around the corner from a large cavern filled with sounds, not unlike chanting.  It seemed a whole group was working some magic together.

He signaled for us to wait, and walked forward slowly and cautiously.  We lost sight of him for a few moments, as he went around the corner.  Quickly, he came back around and whispered to the group.

“Marcos is chained to a slab and a robed man is leading a chant over him.  I think they mean to sacrifice him.  I am going in, and I want all of you to charge on my command.

Or, should I be immediately attacked, of course.”

A smile played across his face, as he turned and walked confidently around the corner to confront the dark congregation.  We snuck up into positions around the entrance, weapons drawn and spells ready.  As soon as we were in place, father walked straight out into the cavern and spoke to the cult leader in a loud voice.

“Ho there.  You have my son, and I would like him released.  Now.”

“Father!  Help me!” cried out Marcos, fighting against the chains.

Father charged the black robed man.  His target, ignoring him, raised a wickedly curved ceremonial dagger over his head.  He was poised to thrust it into Marcos’s exposed chest.

The rest of the congregation turned to see the intruder and began moving between the leader and the warrior running at his back.  And the rest of the party charged at them.

As this happened, the torches in the room flared up and made the room entirely too bright, making all of the above actions that much more exciting and dramatic.  The next few moments unfolded something like this.

Father drove a wedge through the cultists reaching the leader in short order, with only a few small cuts on the way through.  The Red Guard plowed into them, pushing through in a practiced way, as though they were just chopping their way through tall grass.  The boys attacked those that were at the rear, in an attempt to create a funnel where either way they went, they found sword or spell.

Without a pause, Ambrosias thrust Pathfinder straight ahead, as the chanting rose to a height and the dagger was starting to fall.  The blade went straight up through the man until the hilt slammed hard against his back making a loud thump.  The man appeared to be held there by the strength of the man who currently held steel through his midsection.

Meanwhile, the rest of us cleaned up the minions surrounding us.  They fell several at a time as the Guard and the boys tore into them with shining steel and blasts of fire and ice.

Soon there was a bloody mess about the floor, making the footing less than pleasant. After a particularly strong swing, Damon was turned in a way to see his Father pulling the blade out of the leader and watching him as he fell to the stone below him.  At that moment, he saw his father in a completely different light.  He was a warrior, and was capable of great deeds.   His hero and mentor, protector and teacher.

A stinging pain in his side brought him back to the present, ongoing mayhem as a dagger had struck him while he looked away.  He screamed and brought the pommel of his sword down onto the head of the man who had stabbed him several times until the man fell to the ground before him.

Clutching his side, he fell back behind the Red Guard, so that he would be less likely to get stabbed again.  They let him through and he fell to the ground near the lifeless leader, leaning against the stone altar, he waited for the conflict to end.  He looked up to father as he was attempting to loosen the chains around his boy.  They were quickly undone, and Ambrosias lifted Marcos up and embraced him.

The battle around them continued, although there were only a few cultist left and the Guard had them on the run.  A few stood near the alter to guard Ambrosias’ back, as Invictus came up to Damon and started to cast a healing spell he knew.  As he was doing this, Damon noticed something odd as he looked at father.

Marcos was drawing Ambrosias’ dagger from his belt as he was being hugged and raised it over his father’s back.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Damon cried, as he attempted to get to his feet.  His would was not yet healed, and he fell before he got there, knocking Invictus down and spoiling his spell.

Father released Marcos and looked around at Damon.

“What is the matter?  Are there more com…uuuunnnnhh!”

His voice was cut off by intense pain. Turning to look forward and down, Ambrosias saw his son’s hand on his own dagger, which was thrust into his abdomen.  As the blood poured out, he looked down at his son with a look that said, “Why?” and began to fall to the ground.

The Guard and Invictus began to run to their lord, but were stopped by a wave of Marcos’s hand that sent invisible force at them.  They fell backward down the altar steps onto the bloody floor below.  Damon, tried to rise again, but only made his wound open more and fell once more the ground.

Marcos pulled the blade out, and thrust it in again at his father’s heart.  As the big man fell forward, Marcos stepped back and pulled so Ambrosias fell on his back with a heavy thud.   He stared up at his son with wide eyes, unable to speak.

Marcos, however, had words.  He leaned down and spoke in a wicked, spiteful tone.

“Father, your guard was a bit low.”