That One Time I Went on a Quest

Heralds of Fire

The eyes of Rutherford.

They are enormous, each the size of a newborn star. Its pupils are a putrid yellow, the colour of that tainted snow. The whites are jagged bands of crimson and black, shimmering as if lit up from within. They look familiar – not the weird combination of colours, but the expression. The emptiness. It's looking at me but...not seeing.

Rutherford speaks, its words reverberating in my skull louder than a thousand clamouring bells: 'Imposter, usurper of the righteous flame – how brave you are to have come this far.'

Fire blooms around me in an unfurling rose, taking over the sky, the earth...there is no more red cottage or gentle breeze, only a pit of flames and walls of lava pressing in from all sides – a furnace big enough to fit two stars and a little human.

Never have I felt so calm. Inexplicable.

'I'm not here to fight you.'

Rutherford leans in.

'Then die.'

The walls of lava collapse in a gigantic wave; the ground heaves, broken by a thousand blue-flamed geysers that sprout swarm upon swarm of little dragon heads, all snarling and baring their teeth –

Pain unbearable, a molten vice squeezing my skull. Those people enchanted by the Thralls, with smoke coming out of their eyes and ears – so this is what they had felt.

There is no final battle, no contest of fire; I'm just another worm, incinerated by the flick of a burning match and spared not a second glance. How else could it have turned out, really? The mind of Kastor the esquire against that of the Apex – right. Match of the century.

Doesn't feel good though, dying like this. After having experienced so much I think I deserve a little better. Not so far as a fighting chance – that's too much to ask – but just an acknowledgement that I am getting crushed by choice, that I, Kastor, esquire of Kathanhiel, am not getting annihilated by the Apex with his back turned. That would be nice.

So rude, to be brushed off like this. Like dirt.

Sorry, I have to refuse.

I refuse to die like this.

...

...

A hand closes around mine. How familiar it feels, yet...different. With the last of my strength I tear my gaze from Rutherford.

Cradled in the firelight, she looks like a goddess. Her bronze-cast face looks youthful, almost child-like. Her golden hair is dancing with the flames. No gentle smile on her lips, only a wide grin that runs from ear to ear...like a hyena; what a terrifying expression, yet it looks perfect on her perfect features, as if she was born to grin like this.

'At last, my calling,' she says, jutting her chin out at me. 'Quit shaking, coward. I detest weaklings like you.'

My jaw drops to the floor. She didn't just say – but she couldn't possibly – this can't be her, even though she looks exactly...no, not exactly. Younger. She looks ten years younger.

'Help me out here.' She beckons at someone behind us.

(Of course she has two hands, one to hold mine and one to wave with. Why shouldn't she?)

The curtain of fire briefly parts. A stranger walks up and stands by her side...a stranger? Why would I think that? Who else could it be but –