Disclaimer: Characters and associated details are property of HB and are used for non-profit, entertainment purposes only.

Archiving permission granted.
 

THE REAL ADVENTURES OF JONNY QUEST

Synopsis: As time passes, and with each new victory, the heroes' legend grows.

"THE INNER LIGHT" chapter 8

by Eric R. Umali

"Legend"

A fisherman stood on a muddy riverbank with his son. "I seen him, you know," the man said. The boy's eyes lit up. "Seven feet tall if he was an inch, and arms bigger around than an oak tree."

Three middle-aged housewives sat in a sewing circle. "They say she's more than a match for the strongest men in the kingdom, and for the greatest wizards, too."

"At the siege of Rockport, he killed thirty of those undead warriors-thirty! And with a single swing of the sword."

"An entire battalion! Leveled with a wave of her hand! It was like a storm of fire!"

"The two of them have decimated the baron's forces. One hero is an army, but the two of them are invincible."

From one end of the kingdom to the other, and even beyond, everyone knew of the heroes. The wizard Surd's cold grip had reached far and wide, and the news of their arrival anywhere was greeted with much excitement. The peasants and villagers showered them with honor and praise. Corrupt nobles tried their best to destroy them. Children dreamed of growing up to be like them.

In two short years, they had weakened both Surd's earthly forces and his magickal influences in every corner of the kingdom. Every victory brought them closer to final confrontation, and honed their already remarkable skills until it seemed that no force conceivable would stop them.

Every exploit was witnessed-told and retold, over and over. They clashed with Lorenzo and his forces, and the cursed troops of the dark elves Zin and Rage many times and were victorious each time. No matter what the forces of darkness threw at them, their light would force it back. Jonathor and Jessamyn became legend, and their tales cheered the heart of every peasant, and fanned the flames of rebellion in every oppressed village.

These tales, of course did not fail to reach the ears of their nemesis.

**********

The screams of the poor souls being tortured below him gave him no comfort. The blood of peasant after peasant strangled by his own hands offered no solace. With every passing month, he would send a newer, bigger, more powerful adversary to extinguish the light, and every time, his minions would limp back trounced or be carried back dead. Surd would berate them and torture them, and they would weave fantastic excuses for their failures and pledges that they would succeed "next time."

"Next time," they would say, always "next time."

Surd, atop his black stone throne, pondered his next move carefully. With each village liberated and with each one of his warriors defeated, his dark powers lessened and their odiously virtuous might increased.

He rose and strode to the torture chambers. As he walked through the horrible place, he ignored the shrieks of pain and the pleas for mercy. He stopped before the great cauldron of molten iron and began chanting a spell.

His body began to glow with scarlet fire, enveloping him and spilling from his eyes in terrible gouts of flame. With a shout, he plunged his right hand into the glowing liquid metal. Seconds later, he removed it, clutching a long hunk of still red-hot iron. Surd brought the ingot into the tempering water, causing a great cloud of steam.

When it cleared, the evil mage stood in the center of the chamber with a terrible black sword in his hand. It was long and heavy and the blade serrated on the third near the hilt. Characters of evil incantations were engraved on it, and it glowed with the same fiery magickal flame.

"Next time," he said to himself aloud, "next time, it will be _me_ you face, heroes."

Surd laughed. A dark, cold laugh that sent a shiver down the spine of every person within miles.

TO BE CONTINUED...

NEXT: "PREPARATION"