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A.R.Yngve
DARC AGES
Book Three
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Death & rebirth

Chapter 63

Tharlos heard no explosions from the beach, and he could not fly up for a better view without exposing himself. He sent down a scout to find out what was happening at the landing site, and waited.

Then, the sound of jet engines rolled up over the hills. Two large troop carriers flew past Mechao's mansion - one bearing the blue-red-black Damon insignia on its flat underbelly, the other painted green and white.

Tharlos's men ran for cover; charges dropped from the ships and detonated among them. The ground shook as explosions blasted geysers of dirt and death into the air.

The peasant army cheered, and Darc headed for the mansion's barricaded entrance. The troop carriers hovered down uneasily into the rocky, sloping clearing, and troops climbed out into the terrain. Almost without hesitation, Tharlos ordered his men to attack the newcomers.

The rain had almost stopped, but the air was still damp and misty. Opposing forces clashed up close, in hand-to-hand combat. The fighting proved quick and brutal; yet, both sides were almost relieved to find a recognizable human enemy. Tharlos also fought, with the fury of a desperate man who knew the end was near.

Lord Fache, the most confident of all soldiers present, moved his riflemen in a pinch-formation that cut off Bes Orbes from most of his men, then had them open fire.

With shield-wall formations and flickering laser-fire closing in on all sides, Lord Orbes and his force crowded together for a last stand.

"We must surrender!" Kensaburé pleaded, standing beside him.

"Never!" Bes Orbes replied in a hoarse voice.

Kensaburé tossed away his sword and flew up on his jets, toward the gate of the mansion.

Some of the battle clamor receded as he called out: "Lord Damon! I surrender! Spare us, and we shall stand by your side again!"

Someone fired a shot at Kensaburé, but missed. Bor Damon made a jet leap, flew across the sloping field and landed close to him.

"Hold your fire!" he ordered. "Lord Orbes - surrender yourself now, and I swear your sons are to be brought back to your city unharmed, no ransom paid!"

Bes Orbes, gazing across the battlefield through the small telescopic sight mounted to his visor, saw his youngest son bow in surrender to his enemy... the enemy who so recently had been a friend.

A few moments later, Bes waved the flag of surrender and ordered his embattled troops to lay down their arms. And again Lord Tharlos saw his alliance shrink. In the next minute, he stood alone with a single injured knight, a handful of exhausted riflemen... and some useless, malfunctioning black robots.

Azuch Fache lined up his men around Tharlos, and there was no question which side was winning. Azuch spoke across the battle lines, a grim voice that commanded every listener's attention.

"Tharlos! You and your brother are the last ones of your line. Yield now! Or there will be just one Pasko left!"

Wild-eyed with fear and hatred, Tharlos stared up into the clearing sky, praying for some last-minute air rescue - but Lord Yota's fleet was absent.

Tharlos had worked hard for it to come true, but the result was undeniable: he had not a single friend left in the world.

"Everyone has betrayed me!" he cried hysterically. "He betrayed me too, with those no-good war robots I was tricked into buying. And he'll come for you when I'm gone! You'll see! Pan Krator is coming!"

In the moment of silence that followed, Tharlos spotted a familiar shape up high, gazing down from behind the mansion barricade. A tall, white-haired man... his nemesis.

"You!" cried Tharlos, and fired a round of laser pulses at the mansion. "This is all your doing!"

Darc ducked down, but the pulses were too weak to cause any serious impact on the barricade.

Tharlos ignited his jetpack and rose above his men, signaling a last attack. They charged outward with their swords and shields high... and the surrounding circle of Fache's soldiers hacked them down.

The last one of Tharlos's knights also flew up after his master - but he was too slow, and passed unguarded just above a line of riflemen. A close-range volley penetrated his visor. Blinded beyond all help, he sank to the ground and toppled over.

The confusion on the battlefield allowed Tharlos to fly past the battlefield, the hundred meters up the slope, toward the front of the rock mansion.

It took him just seconds, and he was heading straight for the barricade - just tall enough an opening to allow him inside. His single goal was to reach and kill Darc; all other ambitions were forgotten.

Another jetpack sounded from just below him, and a shape flew in his way, too fast for Tharlos to shy away, even if he had wanted to.

Then, just before the end, he could make out the shape: Lord Damon, rising on powerful jet streams, thrusting his broadsword with both arms, straight toward Tharlos's armored chest.

Tharlos could glimpse Bor's face: he roared and his eyes were open wide, set firmly on his target. The eyes really resembled Dohan's when he was about to cut off a knight's head at the Summer Joust...

Everyone present witnessed the momentous impact between the two airborne knights: Lord Orbes and his sons, Lord Fache, Darc, and the villagers inside the mansion.

Tharlos was instantly impaled on Bor Damon's broadsword. The two men collided with a resounding crash and were tossed apart, tumbling to the ground ten meters below.

Tharlos landed hard and lay still, his visor shattered; blood welled up and filled his helmet. Soon, the pale, long face disappeared in a bowl of blood. A few last bubbles of breath floated up and burst with muted pops.

Lord Damon lost his gyroscopic balance and fell hard on his back. His jetpack shut down automatically. Several men rushed to his aid, among them Darc.

And yet, Bor still lived. He coughed up some blood, and found he could not move his body. His dazed eyes gazed forward, and saw the blue sky appearing from a crack in his visor. He could not feel his legs; he heard how people crowded around his armor.

Someone removed Bor's damaged helmet for him, so that he could see.

"Darc," he croaked. "Is that you?"

"Yes."

"Is Dohan here?"

"Please hold on. He will be here soon."

Darc leaned closer to the dying man, and asked: "Why did you come? What were you going to do?"

Bor let out a laugh, as faint as whisper. "You called for help... remember? I understood... this was my last chance. To make good. To choose the right future."

He sighed, and his weak breathing sounded not quite right. Azuch wanted to move Lord Damon to a ship, but Darc stopped him.

"No! We have the best physician in the world here. Lord Fache! Please, trust me."

Azuch Fache, still encased in his fearsome armor, unscrewed his helmet and stared down at Darc with intense anger. But he nodded. "Go then, go get your damned witchdoctor," he growled.

Darc went back into the mansion and returned with a pale Mechao, supported by his white-clad assistants. They were led to the battlefield, and a whisper went among the troops: "Witchdoctor!" The ranks of soldiers parted and let the slight old man move through. With the help of his assistants, Mechao made a quick examination of Bor Damon.

The doctor looked up at Darc, who saw the verdict in his grave eyes. "Broken legs, broken spine, massive internal bleedings. He may live another hour, if we do not move him."

Mechao poured a sedative into Bor's mouth to ease his pains and the bleeding; but all it gave him was a few more minutes.

Then they noticed a stir among the surrounding troops. Someone was coming. There was confusion, then wild cheering - then mute silence, as the soldiers let the newcomer pass through.

Dohan appeared, his hand slightly burned and his face flecked with soot, but well alive. He stumbled forward to his father who lay in the grass. Bor moved his eyes and fixed them on the young man who kneeled over him. Dohan clutched his gloved hand.

"My son," Bor mumbled, without anger or fear.

"Father. Can you forgive me?"

"I came here so that you could live, and forgive me."

"Is everything well with the city? Our family?"

"Yes." He paused. "Is it true, what Darc said... a cure for the Plague?"

Darc could sense everyone watching him. The soldiers could not fully believe it; they had to see proof with their own eyes. He turned his head toward the open portal of the mansion.

Cautious villagers were lined up at the barricade, rifles and shields ready. Azuch and Mechao called for calm; there would be no more hostilities, everyone was to return to their homes. And Darc heard Shara's voice.

Shara appeared in the entrance, propping up a young girl who staggered downhill beside her. As the two women approached them, the Castilian troops backed off; the mark of the Leper, tattooed on the girl's forehead, was enough to frighten them.

The soldiers were too stunned to speak - the Leper girl was too beautiful, so utterly different from the monsters they had feared all their lives.

Her slim, very pale body was wrapped in half-torn bandages and a shoddy dress, but it seemed flawless. Her walk was clumsy, like that of a child taking her first steps, but with each step she beamed with joy and pride.

Her face had changed too, and the plasters had come off. The thick, ugly facial veins were virtually all removed, withered away or covered by make-up; her youthful features were soft and rounded, full of life and energy. Even the eyes, though slightly bulging, had a healthy color.

Shara looked at Darc; they were both too happy for words. She led Eye-Leg all the way down to the dying Bor Damon, so that he could see.

Bor's half-shut eyes met the bright, curious eyes of the Leper girl, and he felt redemption. In his final impressions, the blond girl became a vision of the Goddess reborn, rising from the rejects of mankind to bring new life to the world.

Dohan saw, with great happiness and sorrow, how his father shut his eyes with a peaceful expression on his face.

The Dark Ages had come to an end.

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