Part 3 - Epilogue
Tulin and Daim stood
over the Priest’s still smoking corpse, his wolf-skull helm cracked in half.
Surveying the
destruction strewn about the ruins, Tulin contemplated if the threat to
Silverglade was over. His moody rumination was interrupted by rustling behind
him.
He turned to see Daim
straightening up, dusting his robes. Tulin caught his eye, but Daim quickly
shifted his gaze, and cleared his throat.
“So, seems like all this
is wrapped up. No casualties too!” he beamed.
Daim paused. “Well,
apart from them,” he said, waving his arm at the handful of littered bodies.
He walked over and stood
by Tulin.
“Nasty piece of work
that,” he said, gesturing at the Priest.
With his mask off, Tulin
could see how inhuman his features were: dark hairy skin, fangs protruding from
his jaw, yellow baleful eyes now staring vacantly. He was not a full werewolf,
but something in between.
Tulin shook his head.
“What madness grips these fools to play with powers they cannot control,” he
said darkly. “So much death, such loss, and for what?”
Daim laughed, and
clapped Tulin’s shoulder, much to his chagrin.
“Power! When you aren’t
born with it, you fight for every shred of it. Be it good or corrupt, it’s only
power which separates the wolf from the sheep. It’s the only thing which can
give us what we all crave so desperately.”
“And what is it that you
crave?”
Daim smiled.
“Purpose, Elf. Meaning
and purpose in this chaotic charade we call life.”
Tulin rolled his eyes.
“Battle surely woke the philosopher in you.”
“Life threatening
situations tend to give me perspective,” Daim laughed. “Come, let’s take our
leave of this accursed place.”
Tulin clasped his arm.
“You were in chains for
practicing death magic. What different are you from the Wolf-Priest? Maybe I
should put you down too.”
Daim stared wide-eyed;
Tulin’s stony face betrayed no thought.
With a snarl, Daim jerked
his arm out of his grip. “Maybe because I saved your life, Elf. How about some
gratitude instead?”
Tulin watched him
carefully, his hand straying to the knife hilt on his belt. “Why did you help
me?”
Daim sighed,
exasperated. “Because you obviously couldn’t have done this on your own. And
yes, I was curious. The werewolf that attacked us were different, imbued with
necromancy. I wanted to see what had created them.”
He spread his arms. “But
I’m not after power to wreak havoc like this madman. I believe necromancy, like
any art, any tool, can be used for healing, for good. This was the work I
researched at the College. The simpletons there, much like you, couldn’t see
past their black and white idiocy and expelled me!”
Daim’s voice echoed
around the cave. Tulin continued to check his every move.
“It doesn’t matter what
you think,” Daim said in a low voice, shoulders sagging. “I consider you a
friend and I won’t fight you. I was going to let you buy me a drink for saving
your life in the next tavern over, and that offer still stands.”
He stared into Tulin’s
steely gaze, the silence between them widening, until he turned and began to
walk out of the cave.
“Your choice Elf,” Daim
called out. “Shoot me in the back, or shoot down some ale.”
Tulin watched him leave,
his thoughts abuzz.
As Daim’s figured
receded into the shadows, Tulin exhaled deeply. There had been enough death for
one day, he thought to himself.
He took one last look at
the ruins and followed Daim.
Behind him, the Priest’s
scorched remains lay splayed with limbs twisted and the soulstone distinctly
missing from the thick gold chain around its shriveled neck.
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