Chapter 5: Darkness Invades

The next explosion knocked Ronan off of his cot, and shook the fading oil lantern off its hook and to the floor. Glass shattered near Ronan’s feet, and flames caught onto the furs and fleeces he was wrapped in. Ronan wrestled out of the fiery blankets. He shuddered at the sound of shrill screams just beyond the door to his room.

“We’re being attacked!” a voice shouted from outside and down the corridor before fading into a gut-wrenching gurgle.

Ronan leapt up from the floor and away from the spreading flames, his mouth dry and heart hammering in his chest. He pressed his back to the door and trembled as his windowless little cupboard of a room continued to catch fire. What little he had and was given by Yvette was burning before his eyes. Feeling like he might be able to at least salvage something of great importance, Ronan reached over the rapidly growing flames for Yvette’s purple crystal ball on his nightstand. Flames bit at his wrist, and the crystal ball cracked and fractured from the fire’s heat.

Ronan patted the fires on his wrist out and backed away towards the room’s exit. A spiked, black metal gauntlet punched its way through the wooden door and inches from Ronan’s head. Wide-eyed, Ronan stared at the massive fist. It was far larger than even Titanoboa’s hand, and it irradiated a presence that curled Ronan’s stomach into a tight knot. A second black gauntlet hand smashed through the door in a burst of splinters and grabbed Ronan by the shoulder. Squeezing him so hard that his bones nearly shattered, the hand thrust Ronan through the remains of the door and pulled him into the corridor.

Ronan fell roughly onto his back and his head smacked against the stone floor. Disoriented, he watched as his room burned with red fires, then noticed another inferno overtaking the corridor. He’d never read of gleaming white flames, yet they crackled intensely around him, producing a thick black smoke that concealed his attacker. These magical fires were strong enough to burn the stone of the floor and walls to nothing but ash, and large holes in the temple’s walls laced the corridor, letting in a fierce winter chill that fought the intense warmth of the white fires.

Before Ronan could catch his breath or locate who had yanked him out of his room, his jaw dropped. To his horror, dozens of corpses of his fellow Trainees lay splayed and mangled on the corridor floor, their bodies burning in white fire. Trainees rushed from their smoking rooms, defenseless, and hardly had time to raise their arms before they were cut down by ferocious figures that Ronan could barely make out through the fire and flames. He coughed from the billowing smoke and his eyes teared.

Overwhelmed with fear and confusion, Ronan let out a weak scream, but was stopped short by a heavy boot to his chest. The boot was made of the same pitchblack metal as the gauntlet that threw him from his room. Tall as Ronan was, the boot covered his entire chest from neck to hip. The shin and toes of the boot resembled a snarling stag, with long, sharp antlers as riding spurs. Ronan pushed on the boot with all his might and wretched his head around as he felt his ribs start to crack.

Above him, more smoke plumed and was swept away by the winter gale, unveiling the near ten-foot giant in hulking black armor about to claim Ronan’s life. The giant’s helmet was horned at each side, and the visor was shaped like a snake’s open mouth. Ronan glared into the visor but found no set of eyes, and he wondered if there was even a creature inside the armor.

Clutched in the giant’s hand was a sword as black as a starless sky. Staring at it, Ronan felt a mysterious wave of sorrow, — as if he were looking into the many nights he’d spent alone in his tiny cupboard of a room. The shoulder pauldrons on the armor were shaped like angry foxes, and the chestplate shaped to resemble a raging bull. With all the chaos around him, Ronan still noticed that each animal emblazoned on the giant’s armor was a representative of one of the twelve Temples of Nightblade. Before he could make out the other eight animals to confirm his suspicions, his eyes were forced closed from the pressure on his chest.

His eyes shut, and Ronan felt the tip of the sword against the edge of his throat.

For all his readings of monsters and mythology, he had no clue what creature of evil was about to end his life.

More screams curdled his blood, and Ronan could identify which of his peers were being killed just by the unique sound of their screams. An anger filled him, and he thought of the image of himself he’d seen in Yvette’s crystal ball, and how she had proclaimed that he was destined for greatness. Ronan focused and tried to channel that greatness and the warrior he dreamed of being. He felt the Mark of the Serpent on his forearm start to sizzle, and he opened his eyes and with a savage shout lifted his hand to attempt to cast a fireball.

But the second his eyes opened, Titanoboa, bleeding and bruised and his shirtless body grey with soot, charged and shouldered the giant out of the hole in the corridor wall.

The giant made no sound or offered any emotion as it fell and disappeared from sight. Ronan leaned over to observe where the giant had fallen, though what Ronan discovered was haunting. Black, nine-legged horses as tall as merchant carriages galloped in hordes the size of an ocean wave towards the Temple of the Serpent. Their riders were giants who looked similar to the one who had pulled Ronan from his room, and the giants all raised their swords and axes in a lethal charge.

Titanoboa’s serpent markings were steaming, and his left eye was closed by a newfound and nasty gash. His stomach and shoulders, too, carried many thick and deep slices. Still, Titanoboa reached a hand to the collar of Ronan’s wool shirt and dragged him upright.

“On your feet, Nightblade!” Titanoboa shouted.

Ronan clutched at his fractured ribs, wheezing each of his breaths. Through his excruciating pain he felt a sense of pride; Titanoboa had referred to him not as a turd, useless oaf, maggot, or cur, but as a Nightblade.

Titanoboa reached to the sheath on his hip and produced a short sword the size of Ronan’s arm.

“We’re fighting our way of here,” Titanoboa declared, raising his far larger and two-handed blade in the air.

Ronan nodded and responded, “Yes sir,” through a tasked, steady breath.