A Destiny Fulfilled

He knelt at the base of Mount Gwin, the fiery giant that divided the realm of Grayla in half. He knelt not to pray to the old gods or new, but the only deity he believed in, the only one he’d seen.

She took his brothers and his father as they succumbed to the White Plague.
She led his wife by the hand into the path of a famished wyvern.
She danced with warriors and mages on the battlefield of Griméh, tumbling and tripping them as the manticores tore into their flesh.

And he saw her now through the corner of his eye, the Goddess of Death, matching his every step. A silent companion on this desolate road into the mouth of doom.

The end of the world was sudden and loud. The earth beneath Grayla shook, sending people running out of their homes, inn-keeps running to their barrels of ale. The old gods had abandoned the lands of Grayla, and the new gods still wallowed in obscurity. Mt Gwin awoke after an age of dormancy; angry and seething. It blackened the sky with acrid smoke, rained ash on both halves of Grayla until all was grey. Lava spewed from cracks up its side, trickling slowly towards the towns. And out of Gwin’s mouth, long buried in its depths, came the monsters, hungry for fresh flesh.

He was a walking armory with a broadsword strapped to his back, a dagger at each hip, knives hidden in his boots, in his wristguards, and two small blades wedged into his breastplate. He wore no sigil, no royal colors. He had no allegiances, not anymore. His loyalty was only to the soil of Grayla; the soil he had come from, the soil he was ordained to protect.

He was bloody and battered. The road to Mt Gwin had not been an easy one. They knew who he was, the monsters. And by some collective intuition, they knew what he intended. He had lost count of the number of wyrms and arachne he had slain along the way. But he felt it in every step up the face of the giant. Every sinew in his body ached, every pore oozed pain. With each breath he wondered what sweet escape cowardice could be; to walk away from your destiny, curl up in the arms of the woman you love, and forget that the world burns beyond her embrace. But the woman he loved no longer dwelled in this realm, and he knew better than to turn his back on destiny.

He kept climbing. Walked where there was a path. Jumped, hooked and climbed where there wasn’t. No creature crossed his path, no monster tried to stop him. But he knew there was malice afoot, could taste it on the air he breathed. It could not be that Gwin and its minions had accepted their fate. He was walking into a trap, of course. And he did not intend to walk out of it alive.

He crested the final arête and laid eyes on Gwin’s last line of defense. A horde of Varthox, the Five Fingers of Doom, hovered over the southern lip, their tattered robes swaying in the pungent air. The fumes from the giant’s belly shadowed them, making them seem even sinister. He stood downwind so they hadn’t yet caught his scent. He unsheathed his broadsword, wrapped both hands around the hilt. With a last nod to Death who stood at his shoulder, ready to claim his soul, he launched himself over the last twenty feet, unleashing a battle-cry loud enough to awaken his wraith legions from slumber, commanding them to defend him one last time. Just as he swung his broadsword at one of the Varthox, a heaviness took the air. His wraiths had arrived. They shielded him, fended off the Varthox, stopped their claws and their teeth from finding his flesh as he danced on his heels and struck one blow after another. The wraiths were no match for the Varthox, vanishing in wisps of smoke as the claws swiped through them. But the sheer number was enough to allow him time to take the Varthox on one by one. As he drove his sword through the molten core of the last Varthox, the remaining wraiths retreated, their blood-debt paid in full.

Gwin’s defenses had been broken. The giant lay bare in front of him, spewing fumes and blight over Grayla’s lands, destroying his home, killing his people. The old gods had deserted Grayla, and no new gods arrived to save it. His order had tried to contain the monsters, but they were heavily outnumbered and quickly slain. Only he still stood. The Last Mage of Grayla, a relic of the old world. He had no place in the new one except to rid it of the monsters that plagued its shadows.

He carried within him all the power of his order, gifted to him by his brothers with their dying breaths. He was one man but his blood coursed with magic siphoned from every rune, every memento in Grayla. He was legion. His destiny lay at the bottom of the molten lake that was the heart of Mount Gwin

As he stood at the mouth of the giant, the fumes stinging his eyes, he tried to think of anything but the heat that clawed at his skin, that pulled at his flesh. He looked up and saw Death hovering in front of him, her veil pulled back. The face she wore reminded him of vows made in lavender fields. He had not the words to thank her for this mercy, but Death understood. He took her hand, giving himself to her, watching his body descend into the mouth of Gwin, hungry magma closing in around it. And with sigh heard throughout the realm, Gwin slept again, his destiny fulfilled.

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