Jean Rabe - Redemption

Dhamon’d seen it done many times when in the company of Maldred and Palin and, once, when the red overlord, Malys, tried to use the eldritch energy of ancient artifacts to power her ascension to godhood.

“I can’t let you win.”

“The master will triumph.” Now Nura spoke in her woman voice. “He will live forever, and I will live at his side.”

Dhamon hadn’t noticed her approach, but there she was, inches away—looking cherubic and innocent and cupping her hand as if she were holding him in her palm.

“You cannot best my master, Dhamon Grimwulf. You would do well to surrender and avoid the suffering. Oblivion would end all your pain.”

“Never!” The strangled cry echoed off the cavern walls. “He will not rob me of my spirit and transform me into a damnable abomination! He will not!”

“You already are an abomination, Dhamon. It’s a pity you can’t see yourself. So much more impressive than your weak, human body, but an abomination!” Her face took on a peculiar softness.

“Relax, Dhamon. Let your spirit find oblivion. Make it easy for us and yourself.”

“I will die before I let that happen!”

Nura laughed, the sound of crystal windchimes. “An abomination! But, Dhamon Grimwulf, my master is merciful and won’t let you die—not entirely. He will take over your body and displace your spirit, no matter how hard you fight.”

She laughed again, soft and long, and when she stopped this time her eyes twinkled with a merry malice that made Dhamon involuntarily shudder.

He continued to push against the invisible field while searching inward. The furnace in his chest was fiery, and the heat stretched from his chest and stomach down to his arms and legs and feet. The heat beat out a pulse, and as Dhamon concentrated and searched inward, the pulse became a thunder in his ears.

He dug his claws into the stone. Into the stone, he realized. The force of his claws alone had split the rock.

“You feel it, don’t you, Dhamon Grimwulf? You realize it finally? You know what my master is doing. What he would have done weeks ago, if your body had progressed faster, if you had accepted all the changes sooner. If you had managed to slay Sable…”

“…which would have permitted the magical energy dissipated from the Black overlord’s death to power the shadow dragon’s spell.” This came from Maldred. The ogre-mage was standing at the entrance to the chamber, warily watching the shadow dragon, and Nura as she hovered over Dhamon.

Maldred tried to look away, not wanting to stare at Dhamon’s ultimate form, but he couldn’t help but be fascinated. His gaze kept returning to his onetime friend—now a pathetic, misshapen creature, an abomination.

“Well, Prince,” Nura purred, “I see Dhamon got away from you again. You’re not very good at keeping your charge in check.”

With a snarl, Maldred rushed forward, but he also struck an invisible wall. The child raised her hand, fingers sparkling like her eyes, mouth moving in unheard words. The magical glaive flew from Maldred’s grasp, soaring through the air to land in the pile of treasure melting in front of the shadow dragon.

“Where did your precious sword go, Prince? Your wonderful, magical greatsword? The one your father gave you? And Fiona—where is that blade? The sword I had specially crafted? I want all those magic weapons, and I want them now!”

Maldred beat his fists against the invisible barrier, tossed back his head, and howled his rage.

“Won’t let the dragon win,” Dhamon muttered to himself, still pushing, pushing.

“Oh, but you will. You have no choice, Dhamon,” Nura said, returning her attention to Dhamon. She squatted next to him, outside the barrier. “Powered by the death of Sable, or powered by the magic in the treasures, it really doesn’t matter. The master will soon have the energy to complete your body. The master will live.”

“Fight it, Dhamon!” Maldred shouted. “Fight it with everything you’ve got!”

Nura leaned her face down close to Dhamon’s, her warm breath seeping through the barrier. “Power the spell and displace your rebellious spirit…. and place his soul inside your beautiful, new scaly shell.”

“No!” Dhamon screamed, straining his leg muscles.

“The master is dying, Dhamon Grimwulf,” Nura persisted. “The Chaos energy that birthed and nurtured him is fading away, but he will be renewed, through you. He will live a long time, because I was right after all—you are the one.”

“Never!” Dhamon pushed heroically, managed to get to his feet. He stood, woozy and weak. And still the invisible force pushed down on him, pinning him.

“You are beginning to understand, aren’t you?” Nura’s tone was almost sympathetic as she tipped her head back. “You understand it all?”

“Aye,” Dhamon croaked. His voice sounded stranger and stranger. “I am the one, right? The only vessel your bloated master could find to change with his magic?”

Her smug expression wavered almost imperceptibly.

“The only one. What? How many others did he try? How many others did he manipulate, fail to create, destroy with his foul ambition?”

She gave him a curt nod. “Our tests proved you were the only one strong enough to handle the magic, Dhamon, thanks to the dragon magic already inside you.”

Because of the blasted scale from the Red that had been thrust upon him a few years back. Dhamon understood. Because of the magic the shadow dragon and the silver dragon had used to break the Red’s control. Oh yes, he had plenty of the accursed dragon magic inside of him.

Nura smiled as she watched him struggle under the pressure. “The master always said your mind was stronger than your body. I disagreed, though you are indeed perceptive and clever. It is a pity that your mind won’t be yours any longer. A pity that all of that cleverness—”

Her words were swallowed by the shadow dragon’s mighty roar, as the cavern trembled. The spell was completed, and the magical treasures became a mass of pale, colorful light before dwindling to nothing. The cavern burst with brightness, with the force of the new magic, and Dhamon felt a wave of energy surge through Nura’s invisible wall, washing over him.

Dhamon felt himself spiralling down into a suffocating darkness.

The heat centered in his chest spread all over his body and threatened to consume him.

“Mal?” Dhamon called out.

There was no answer—only the darkness and the swirling sounds and the great heat.

No part of him was spared. Daggers of fire jabbed into him from every direction. He felt pulled apart, stretched on a torturer’s rack. His arms and legs were being torn from his torso, even as they were burning up with pain.

Dhamon gasped, sucking in as much air as his searing lungs would permit, trying to shut out some part of the acute pain and see… something…anything.

All he could detect was a break in the darkness that was jet black.

“What? Mal? Are you there, Mal?”

A throaty growl was the only reply.

“Strong!” Dhamon heard himself say aloud. “I am strong, Nura Bint-Drax!” The words followed the beating rhythm of his heart. “Nothing is stronger than me, you damn snake! I’ll stop your magic!” But her spell was already done.

The pain and fever deepened, so extreme Dhamon expected—hoped—to perish before he could draw another breath. He screamed. His scream became a roar, then trailed off when the heat started to abate.

He screamed again just to be sure he was still alive, then stole a deep breath and found the will to resist a little longer.

“The heat,” he whispered. “It was cleansing me!” The heat was chasing all the weakness from his once-human body, leaving only power and force. “I will live, Nura Bint-Drax! And I will keep a promise I made to Ragh. I will see you dead.”