CRY "HAVOC", BY BLACKROSE

I join the masses conveyed away from the teeming metropolis. I look around me. Surely, can't they hear it even feel it, the drums of war have been strung, the beat has begun and the tempo has begun to rise. Are they so closed, so cocooned in ignorance, insulated by the endless cycle of toil, television and sleep.

With great haste I enter my abode, my heart quickens, the moment is drawing near. I quickly take sustenance then refresh myself. Lighting aromatic oils and taking a draught of wine, with trembling fingers I disregard the mundane and ceremoniously don the attire of the arcane. There is a sudden stirring in the air. The wind chimes sing a crystal harmonic as the candles flicker. 'I will be with you soon' I whisper feeling the call of my brothers and sisters.

Relaxing the control that reigns the powers known by but a few, I feel the surge from within move like a torrent to every part of my being. I'm carried by its immensity, beyond words or comprehension, to a state of existance where moments are endless and all is meaningless. Still the almost unbearable power carries me. I'm one with the Goddess. Drifting within the cosmos, trembling with the sensation of pure existence unbound by earthly concerns, I transcend.

Gathering my sensibilities, I slowly gaze about me. Awaking from my disorientation I slowly recognise the faces around me but many I do not. The air is deadly tense. Many of the faces are grim. The council of war has begun.

Towering over all, Cat the Wizard adorned in shimmering colours, many of which are unknown to mere mortals, regally presides. His eyes glitter with a wisdom deeper than the desert night sky. On either side of him stand the patron immortals of the opposing Orders of Sorcery gathered on this fateful day. To his left Karya the Witch swathed in hues of cinnamon crimson and fiery red, adorned in elemental-wrought jewellery of blood-red rubies each flickering with an inner fire. On the left of him Maelstrom the Wizard, robed in the tempestuous colours of stormy skies and enraged seas, held a staff capped with an dark amethyst swirling with the shades of a clear midnight sky.

Across the broad table sit the eternal opponents of my Order, in robes of dark red, the colour of the blood which will soon stain their hands as well as their sleeping and waking dreams.

I look at the my brothers and sisters of my order, garbed in blue, the shade of clear spring skies as winter withdraws its icy fangs. The elders sit resolute like steel as the new to our order fidget with apprehension like a fresh young stream finding it way.

There is a pause in the exchange of recriminations. Darksoul, freshfaced and with youthful eagerness arises, his azure robe swirls about him as he commands the attention of all. 'Enough of this parley' he growled. With an icy glare he drew his dagger and thrust it into the table before him. From the ranks of the Red Order Joey arose and approached the table, his slight limp and livid scars, testament to his venerable experience, likewise drew his dagger and plunged it into the table. With eye's glowing like hot coals Joey affirmed 'Let the blood flow'.

The challenge had been made, honour dictated that only one Order would see the rising of the next day's sun. I glanced at Arcady the most wise of ancient and wise of our Order. Our thoughts exchanged, but we were duty bound and would uphold the honour of the Order to the death.

Cat gazed upon the members of each Order. 'By ancient lore, the teeth of the Orders have been drawn....Let it begin'.

Cat exercises his will and the Land obediently changes under his command.

The creaking timbers of the jetty tremble and protest as before them the ground heaves and splits. With ruthless ambition a ruby tower claws its way upwards from the depths, casting the violated earth from path. Arrogantly it looms, its faceted sides splintering the fresh morning sunlight. Its crown of cruel battlements shred the passing clouds, announcing its presence to the heavens.

In another part of the Land, the huge oaken doors of the monastery shudder, age old stonework sways but holds. As the dust settles, before the ancient place of quiet worship, A tower of purest Opal majestically stands. The innocent clarity of the new day bathes it as sparkling sunlight playfully dances around the elegantly reaching spire.

Within the treasure room of the Opal tower, a dozen of my brothers and sisters are gathered. Each vows before the standard of our order, for it is the earthly representation of the knowledge and art of our order, but now also the reason for which we are tragically plunged into war. The standard must be defended beyond regard for our fragile mortality but equally the blood-stained colours of our enemies must be taken and laid in tribute before it.

The excitement of impending battle is strong. Arcady and I try to calm our brethren, pondering over age-worn maps, formulating strategies, assigning tasks and daring deeds. Darksoul paces, his young blood racing, 'The time of study is past. The task ahead is to rid ourselves of this accursed Red Order' he challenges, drawing his sword 'I will destroy this evil as a scythe will lay fallow a field of corn. Lay aside your tomes else your minds become as yellow and aged as their pages. The hour of fate is upon us'. Turning, he races down the winding stairs to meet his doom.

A sudden wind scatters the parchments and scrolls spread before me. As I hasten to gather them, I feel a chill befall the Land. My kin feel it too. The Red Order have completed their blood chants and macabre sacrifices and are afoot in the Land.

Many of my Order have left to seek out weapons and items of war. Arcady and a handful remain. Sombrely he looks at those around him, coldly he proclaims 'We must strike at the evil heart now, whilst their forces are scattered'. Clutching my precious scrolls, Arcady regards me. 'I entrust you with the final defence of Standard' With a nod I accept my duty. Rapidly Acrady and his party depart. With haste I draw the close the massive door of the room and lock the iron bolts.

Placing my studies upon the table, I drawn my dagger. Nervously I look at the cold blade, wishing I had invested greater attention during the instruction of its use. Seeking reassurance I touch the rich fabric of the Azure Standard.

Faintly through the thick walls I hear the sound of combat below. Tensely clutching my dagger, I stand between the emblem of my Order and the bolted door. The clash of conflict ceases, soon I will know the outcome be it bane or boon. Suddenly the bolts are shattered and the door flung wide. From the doorway Joey emerges, behind him two of his followers. Greedily he eyes our scared Standard. Then with an evil grin he rushes toward me with a mighty swing of his cruel sword. Within a frozen heartbeat his companions are upon me as well.

Time slows, moments become unreal but through the horror and confusion of battle the pitiless eyes of Joey relentlessly bore into me. Magic assails me, frantically I repel it. With ungainly inexperience I use my sorcery against foes. I feel the bite of steel again and again, as too few of my own attacks meet their mark. Imploringly I call my brethren to help. As a red haze begins to cloud my vision, in desperation I flee for the doorway with my dagger clattering to the floor. I tug and tug at the iron ring but the door is too heavy. With forlorn hopelessness I turn to face my enemies. I never saw nor felt the final strike. The burden of despair and failure at the loss of the scared emblem was more cruel than any mortal blow.

My drifting soul is gently plucked from the nether realms. As though awaking from a deep sleep, I stand before my patron Wizard. Maelstrom awash with the colours of the deep oceans, benevolently gazes upon me. "It does not fair well for my children. Your sacred emblem has been tainted five times by unholy hands and your Order has been successful in its purging but once. Go forth with my blessing of renewed life and quench this evil firestorm". I bow with deep reverence. Thankful for the opportunity to redeem myself, I rush into the Land eager to resume the defence of my Order's honour.

Breathless from the climb, I enter the treasure room of our holy tower. With horror I see the crimson garbed Python grasp the pole of our sacred standard. Though his hand emits wisps of smoke as it burns him in defiance, he wrenches it from the altar. Swooping to retrieve a discarded weapon, I leap upon him. Again and again I strike him. The ponderous weight of the standard hinders his defence and the angered fabric flutters around him obscuring his vision, but still he will not relinquish his grip. Suddenly my brother Wincewind appears at my side and joins in the affray. Python tries to flee down the stairs but deftly with a hail of blows we counter his flight. Still he retains our ultimate treasure. Now gravely wounded he takes flight again, as he turns, Wincewind and I, devoid of mercy, coldly strike him down. His fallen body blackens, splits and boils then in a final gust of heat is reduced to ashes.

Rejoicing, Wincewind retrieves the fallen standard. At that moment a rage of red crashes through the doorway, with blood hungry Joey at the fore. Casting tempestuous magic to hinder my foes, robbing them of sight and leadening their limbs. Repelling their fiendish curses with diminishing energies. Desperately we fight as my brother protectively clutches our standard. Our cries are answered as a wave of cobalt breaks upon the violators. Arcady and Darksoul riding its crest. One by one the invaders are smitten, only Joey remains. With fearsome swings of his fiery sword he cuts into the sea of blue. Alas a sword is no defence against a raging torrent. Throwing back his head, he emits a demonic howl as the essence is hewn from his body.

Looking at the fallen about me, I notice the holy emblem is done. 'Thievery' I gasp. Wincewind reaches out and seeks its presence in the Land. He smiles then like the wind rushes out. Moments later he returns, victoriously carrying our sacred treasure, his blade dripping with warm blood. Slowly he kneels before the altar and returns it to its ancient mount.

The Lord of the enemy may be smitten but Karya his patron aflame with livid rage, will soon restore her vassal to his earthly form. Needing time to rest and heal, I cast my will and envisage the peaceful glade meticulously set to memory.

I find myself sheltered from the cold rain by the thick emerald canopy. I stagger and slump against a tree. My wounds are severe and my energies flickering close to depletion. Sleep beckons me, then I hear a sound. Holding my breath, I listen intently. I hear it again, a faltering gasping. Cautiously, painfully moving in silence, I peer around the tree trunk. Stifling a gasp, I see the crimson form of Kinslayer. Lying prone in a pool of blood, his eyelids flutter as he clings to life. Feeling too weak to end his suffering, I stumble deeper into the forest. Finally unconsciousness calms me, with fitful dreams the Land begins to heal me.

My vitality restored and the flow of magic strong within me, I return to the tower.

As I climb the stairs and enter the lower guard room, more sensing than seeing a movement within the shadows, drawing my dagger I spin round. From the gloom, the shattered body of Joey defiantly lunges at me, the last fading mote of evil still refusing to accept death. More by fate than expertise, my dagger plunges into its vitals severing the last dregs of his existence. With a parting gleeful smirk, the fire in his eyes flickers then extinguishes. With a sudden intense blaze the form before me becomes a towering inferno, wavers then collapses leaving a slowly dissipating evil vapour.

I look about me. The congealing blood of kin and foe carpets the floor. Once fine furnishings splintered and crushed add to the litter of shattered weapons. Once beautifully crafted tapestries hang in shreds or form heaps of smouldering ashes. The once gleaming crystal walls are clawed and pitted, scarred by frantic melee. The bare altar teeters derelict, split and scorched by furious magic. I gaze through the window edged, with shards of stained-glass, to see the setting solstice sun. With slow sadness it descends into the boiling cauldron of victorious fiery colours.

I gaze down at my rent and scorched robes, the clear azure stained by battle. Dropping my notched blade I stare with horror at the blood covering my hands. Overcome with grief and desolation, I fall to my knees and weep. The age of innocence has been lost.

Black Rose