Seeker stripped off his shirt, then the chain mail hidden beneath. He crouched beside the stream and dipped the linen into the running water. The white fabric—once beautiful—should have been ruined by the blood and gore that covered it. He worked it gently between his hands until the water cleared. When he lifted it from the stream and held it to the light, not a single trace of stain remained—the white gleamed pure, the gold still shone.
He spread the shirt carefully across a sun-warmed rock to dry, then took up his trousers, using them to wipe the blood from his boots and sheath before rinsing it in the stream. When both garments were laid out to dry, he stepped into a still pool where the water had gathered and washed himself from head to toe, scrubbing away every trace of battle.
His clothes were already dry. He’d never seen a fabric like it—sturdy, unstainable, and quick to shed the water. He dressed swiftly and started toward the Prince’s country house. If Bright was still in these parts, Seeker knew where he’d be—beneath the old tree by the still pool across from the house.
As he walked, Seeker met a youth with bright cheeks and a lamb slung across his shoulders. The boy’s eyes lit up the moment he saw him.
“Hello!” he called out. “You must be Bright’s father!”
“I am,” Seeker said with a nod. “How is he? Is he well?” He smiled faintly. “His mother’s worried sick about him.”
“He’s more than well,” said the youth, grinning wide. “You should’ve seen him—he smacked the lion that tried to steal one of our sheep! It slunk back into the mountains, tail between his legs.”
Seeker laughed at the thought of Bright fighting a lion. “Oh, he’s added lions now—to go with the coyotes and bears?”
“Oh, I’m Meek, sir…” said the youth.
“Just call me Seeker,” he replied with a nod.
“You came just in time, Mr. Seeker,” Meek said brightly. “Bright’s been talking about traveling on—to the Delectable Mountains. I’ll tend the flock when he’s gone. He’s been teaching me everything I need to know.” Meek’s whole face lit as he said it, the words tumbling out like sunshine.
The lamb on Meek’s shoulders gave a pitiful bleat. “Oh, hush,” said Meek with a grin. “You’re lucky a coyote didn’t get you. Maybe next time you’ll think twice before wandering off.”
“I’m glad you’re here to go with him,” Meek went on. “Coyotes are one thing, but…” He gave a slight shiver. “You should hear the sounds that come from that place at night.” His eyes flicked toward the Valley of the Shadow of Death, then back—lingering on the sword at Seeker’s side. “You wouldn’t believe it,” he murmured.
Seeker gave a quiet chuckle. “Let’s just say I know more about that place than I’d like to.”
–
When they reached the camp by the still pond, Bright was tending a pot of black beans simmering over the fire, the smell of cumin in the air. He looked up, startled—and the ladle slipped from his hand.
“Dad!” He ran to Seeker and threw his arms around him. “You’re just in time for supper!”
“Mr. Seeker can have my plate,” Meek offered quickly.
Together they ate. Bright had chopped several tomatoes and prepared rice seasoned with herbs and spices. Sheep grazed contentedly nearby—at least twice as many as when Seeker was there before. He listened as Bright spoke of how he’d sought out the scattered sheep one by one and driven back the coyotes on his own. How he’d met Meek. And how he planned to journey onward, leaving the flock in Meek’s care.
–
That night, Seeker slept peacefully beneath the open sky, a soft breeze cooling the summer air. Overhead, the Great Bear and Little Bear wheeled in their slow procession, the Dragon gliding between them—King and Queen shining beside them.
***
In the morning, Bright gave Meek his final instructions, and together they set out. Never forget. The Shining One’s words echoed through Seeker’s heart as they passed through Forgetful Green and stepped once more into the darkness of the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
The path was too narrow for them to walk side by side, so Seeker went first—his Sword raised, light glinting along its edge. Bright followed close behind, staff in one hand, Phial lifted high in the other. Together their lights filled the Valley—silver and gold intermingling with the restless red glow of the fires below. Bright’s voice rang out over the chasm, clear and fearless, untroubled by the stench of sulfur that thickened the air.
Seeker was grateful that no hobgoblins stirred this day. Perhaps their joined light kept such shadows at bay. Of all the trials in the Valley, that had been the worst—the voices that spoke in his own mind, each one wearing the sound of his thoughts.
Seeker’s necklace grew warm against his chest as they neared the second half of the Valley. The ground ahead was strewn with bones—bleached remnants of Plague’s victims. Then there, astride the Narrow Way, stood Giant Wrath—waiting, blocking their path.
“Little Bright,” the giant sneered, “come to play with your daddy’s staff? I was gentle with you last time.” His gaze shifted to Seeker. “And you—do you believe that puny weapon will save you?”
Something had emboldened him. Wrath stood unflinching in the mingled light of Forgiveness and Wisdom. Fear’s icy fingers brushed Seeker’s spine, but the warmth of the Necklace of Conscience held them back—steady, sure, and near his heart.
The giant’s face contorted with rage. “Wherever you go, I will follow—and I will destroy you! I am the curse that haunts your blood. Your father, and his father before him—I was their undoing. I am your curse… both of you.”
With a roar, Wrath heaved a boulder high above his head and hurled it toward Bright. The air slit with its passing. Bright dove aside, the stone crashing where he’d stood an instant before, shattering the ground in a spray of dust and shards.
Seeker felt the gentle pull of his boots and the weightless guidance of the Sword. He closed his eyes, breathed a prayer to the King—and surrendered. Then he moved. In a single heartbeat he surged forward, faster than thought, the Sword flashing in an arc of silver light. Wrath’s head parted cleanly from his shoulders.
The earth trembled as the giant’s body struck the ground, dust billowing skyward. The severed head rolled to Seeker’s feet; its face still locked in shock—as if disbelief had followed him into death.
Bright collapsed to his knees, trembling. The Valley fell silent. Even the air held its breath. Then they saw what had emboldened Giant Wrath. Out of the shadows emerged a monstrosity—towering, terrible, alive with malice. Its body was scaled like a dragon’s, wings vast and leathery, the hands and feet those of a bear, each claw longer than a man’s forearm. The head was that of a lion, with fangs that gleamed like burnished iron. Smoke coiled from its belly, rising in choking waves, and sparks leapt from its jaws with every breath. And its eyes—its eyes burned with a hatred so pure it seemed to strip the world of light.
Apollyon.
“You are my subjects—yet you have defied me.” His voice rolled across the Valley like thunder breaking mountains, shaking the very ground beneath their feet. In his right hand he held a bundle of fiery darts, their shafts of black iron glowing at the tips with molten light.
Seeker planted his feet and raised his Sword, the weight of it steady in his hands. Nothing in his Book had prepared him for this. Did he possess the being to stand firm before such a power?
“I am the Lord of Destruction,” he declared, his voice echoing like fire through iron. “Yet I am not without mercy.” He spread his claws in a gesture of mock compassion. “Bow to me, swear fealty to Mammon—the King of this world—and I will spare your lives. I will even grant you fortune… and fame.”
Apollyon stretched his mighty wings until they seemed to span the valley. He roared, “If you will not, your blood shall soak the ground, and your corpses will join the heaps of those who have fallen here.”
Seeker turned to Bright with a wry smile. “I’m glad to have the vanquisher of bears and lions at my side—now let’s chase off this damn coyote.”
Seeker closed his eyes and breathed a prayer to the King—strength for himself, protection for Bright. Then he sprang into motion. Fiery darts hissed through the air, but his feet found their path with unearthly precision. Lightning burst from his Sword, striking toward Apollyon. A dart hurtled straight for him—his blade rose in time, deflecting it with a crack of light.
While Seeker held Apollyon’s gaze, Bright struck from behind. He swung with all his strength, but the staff glanced off the creature’s scales—he did not even flinch.
The ground trembled beneath Apollyon’s steps. Lightning split the sky, and thunder answered—mingling with his terrible roars.
The battle dragged on—an endless blur of dodging and parrying. No matter how he pressed forward, he couldn’t land a single blow. His arms ached, his breath came ragged, and his strength ebbed with every heartbeat.
Seeker froze in horror. From the shadows, Plague bounded forth on all fours and leapt upon Bright, dragging him down. That single instant was all Apollyon needed. A flaming dart slammed into Seeker’s chest, driving him backwards. His armor caught the blow, but the force crushed the air from his lungs. He hit the ground hard, Sword spinning from his grasp. He clawed for breath that would not come, vision narrowing, the world dimming at the edges as he fought to stay awake.
Apollyon pounced, slammed Seeker against the ground beneath the crushing weight of his body. “I have you now!” he roared. Sparks spat from his jaws, the fangs stopping inches from Seeker’s face—so close their heat seared his skin. The stench of smoke and sulfur filled his nostrils as the world shrank to claws, fire, and breath.
Seeker felt the Book pressed against his chest—and beneath it, the Necklace of Conscience pulsing with life. Christian’s words stirred in his heart, not as thought but as truth itself: Rejoice not against me, O mine enemy. “When I fall,” he whispered, calm amid the storm. His left hand found the hilt of his Sword. Strength surged through muscles long forged by tread-wheel and timber. “I shall arise!” With a cry that split the air, he drove the blade upward with all his might, plunging it deep into Apollyon’s chest.
A hideous cry tore from Apollyon’s throat as the blade struck true. He lurched backward, wings thrashing in pain, the air shuddering with his roar. Smoke poured from his belly as he clawed at the wound. Then, with a final scream that shook the Valley, he spread his wings wide and plunged headlong into the abyss.
Seeker rolled to his feet. Bright lay beneath Plague’s weight, the creature’s claws tearing at him. A surge of fury ignited in Seeker’s chest—not the black rage of Giant Wrath that poisoned the soul, but a righteous fire that blazed with golden light.
He charged, Sword raised high, and struck with every ounce of strength. Plague shrieked and lashed back, a miasma of sickness spilling from its wounds. The air burned his lungs. He coughed, choked—but kept swinging, fighting with all his might.
Claws raked against him, scraping sparks from his armor but finding not purchase. Seeker struck again and again, each blow echoing through the Valley like thunder. The creature’s hide bore the scars of countless battles—marks left by warriors who had come before—yet still it would not fall. With a final cry, Seeker gathered all his strength and drove the Sword downward. Plague shrieked, rearing back, its body convulsing in pain. Then wailing, it turned and fled into the darkness, leaving behind a trail of black vapor that dissolved into nothing.
Bright lay sprawled among the scattered bones—eyes closed, unmoving, his body bloodied and broken. Seeker dropped to his knees beside him, gathering him into his arms. The faintest groan escaped Bright’s lips as Seeker tried to lift him, but he felt the bones shift beneath his hands and froze, terror tightening his chest.
Seeker bowed his head against Bright’s chest, a cry tearing from his throat as grief overwhelmed him. “Bright… oh, my Bright.” The words broke apart into sobs. Bitter tears fell freely, mingling with the dust and blood beneath them.
