Chapter XIII
The Last of His Race
15th of Mid Spring, 376, 5th Era – Gray Swamps, Southeastern Helkras
Dak`kcar could sense it. He was there, very close by. The dank swamp reeked of life that grew from dead things. Shriveled and gnarled trees sprouted from small, soaked islets, while in the distance, Gnarled Cypresses made a patchy forest, green mosses cascading off their branches. The sun was obscured by an overcast sky, so the light was made gray. Dak`kcar only felt more dead because of it. Creakers and other toads made croaking noises in the slimy undergrowth of mushrooms and moss. One fled from him by jumping from a Jellycup into the muddy water.
The stag (the word for a male Yindarian) trudged on, his feet so covered in algae and muck that he could hardly recognize what was fur and what was not. His dark Arium armor made soft noises of scraping plates, but it wasn’t any louder then his sloshing strides. Feeling the huge sword at his hip, he smiled grimly, and went on to touch the steel spear and axe. He also had a bow, with a several-hundred pound draw-weight. Strong enough to send an arrow like a spear into the thickest of armor. He had tested the new Arium weapons on several oak trees, even on stone, and they had proved indestructible. The Tulmalin did excellent work; the weapons were more effective than his old ice-forged arms. And the steel wouldn’t deteriorate in the heat, so they would outlast the Winterblades in any climate.
A flock of birds flew out of the cypress forest ahead, disturbed by something. Dak`kcar took his bow in hand, pulling out a huge, solid steel arrow from his quiver with his lower right arm. It still felt wrong, to not have his fourth arm, and the itch to move something that wasn’t there was agonizing. As if the poisoned stub didn’t already burn like fire.
He nocked the arrow, then tested the draw on the thick cord. It was difficult to pull back, but he could hold it for several moments if he had to. He awaited the moment to send an arrow through one of the Kuldaki; to hear them scream in agony as they were pierced to the core. And then he would send another flying into them, and another, until they bled their life into the ground and finally perished. Then, when they regained strength and grew into physical form again, he could do it once more. For half a thousand years he had hunted them, slain them, and they kept coming back. And even after all that time, he still lusted for more revenge.
Dak`kcar knew that the Kuldaki’s purest form existed in the Shadow Realm, but when they became powerful enough in it, their Essence would leak out and manifest in the physical world. That was why he could never kill them permanently. No one knew exactly what the Shadow Realm was. Indeed, most had never even heard of the place. It just made sense that the demons should dwell on another plane of existence; it would explain their immortality, and their strange powers.
A crack, and the sound of a falling tree echoed into the quiet swamps. Cool rain poured from the gray clouds overhead. A dark feeling more imminent than the dismal scenery made itself known to Dak`kcar; it hunted after him, always hungry, always searching to feed off of the last half of his Soul. And he hunted after it, even if primal, ancient fear crawled up and down his back when he approached the vile presence.
“You will die a thousand times before you perish,” he muttered, hate coursing through his body. It powered him to have so much hatred, but it was a fuel that never ran dry, and a thirst that could never be sated.
He stopped in his trek abruptly, in a murky pond surrounded by knobby cypresses. To his side, deeper within the forest, trees fell noisily to the ground, after making a sound like thunder as they were snapped in half. Dak`kcar looked up, and glimpsed the bare tops of the cypress trees. They were too far away to see their trunks, so when he saw them topple over like sticks, he could not see the culprit. He knew that whatever it was, it made a wide path, as ten or more giant cypresses were felled every moment. The destructive trail led north, so Dak`kcar followed it. When he couldn’t see the falling cypresses for all the trees and underbrush, he obeyed his ears. And his hate.
It’s Soul Skulker this time, I know it by the feeling of fire. And power. I had better be cautious; if Nether Wraith, The Serpent, removed one of my arms, what could The Dragon do? The stag soon saw what he would have to contend with; a demon reared his shadowy head fifty feet above the treetops, jaggedly scaled body black as The Void, plated head lighted with fiery crimson eyes. Otherwise, he reflected no light of any kind. He made the trees crackle with only an unsettled flutter of his four gigantic wings. Soul Skulker howled hideously before he threw up a spout of black fire, which lingered like an abyss in the air, before the lightless flames finally flickered out. The Dragon fell back to the ground with a tremulous crash, resuming his ruinous trek through the forest. Dak`kcar trailed the demon closely, until he was practically beside Soul Skulker, within sight.
The Dragon’s crimson, constantly flickering eyes shifted to look at his minuscule quarry. The abysmal ruby flames looked forward again. Darkness awaits, Dak`kcar.
Dak`kcar followed, bow at the ready, but he did not attack The Dragon. He ran beside his age old enemy as if they were companions, though a fight was obviously approaching. Dak`kcar only waited out of interest to see what the demon’s odd behavior was for, and the Kuldaki—who knew what he waited for. If Dak`kcar could not guess, then no one else could.
Dak`kcar studied The Dragon, looking for weak spots. The essential points were always in a different place each time he clashed with Soul Skulker; the demon was always shaped a little differently, and his strength changed depending on when he had last been defeated, or how starved he was for Souls.
Dak`kcar always looked to the obvious places: There was within the crotch of either of the four massive legs that propelled the demon through the forest. The folded wings would make nice, if futile targets. On the back of the head, between the two jagged horns. In the throat, underneath the massive head and jaws. The eyes. Those at least remained the same every time, regardless of how either Kuldaki shaped themselves.
Dak`kcar rushed alongside the demon as Soul Skulker plowed recklessly through living wooden pillars, leading The Hunter somewhere, deeper into the thickening forest. Trees flew between them, but always, their eyes would meet again after each barrier was passed, carrying restrained hate for each other. But something was wrong about Soul Skulker’s eyes; they held a secret mirth. He had something planned; that was the reason for his not trying to incinerate Dak`kcar upon contact.
Finally, The Dragon slowed, and then came to a stop. He looked at Dak`kcar without moving his head, and stretched his wings. A memory seemed to flit through his eyes. Hehehe . . . No, they’re not gods, they’re demons. His voice resonated mockingly through the air, but nothing of his physical form moved to indicate the creation of speech.
Those words derided Dak`kcar, and a harsh laughter rose up from The Dragon, until his own ethereal voice echoed over itself. He leaped into the air and took flight, his massive wings flinging trees about like feathers as the extra limbs made a hurricane.
Dak`kcar let his readied arrow fly, hatred like fire consuming him because of the cruel reminder of the past. The arrow bounced off of the armor plate of the Kuldaki’s flank, and fell back to the earth, snapped in half. Dak`kcar’s heart was emptied of hope, for a moment.
Soul Skulker laughed again. Not yet, fool. We’ll fight, if you can keep up.
Dak`kcar growled, and then ran, trying to match The Dragon’s pace, but he fell swiftly behind. It did not matter in the end; Soul Skulker became earthbound just a half-mile or so ahead. Breathing with difficulty, Dak`kcar sprinted forward with hazy sight—he couldn’t miss the chance to destroy The Dragon. If not now, then he might take years to obtain the opportunity again.
He burst into a wide clearing within the cypress forest, then onto a sunken stone foundation. The ruined groundwork was circular and two-hundred or more feet wide. Soul Skulker dominated nearly half of it. He sat upright, on his hind feet, in a grand position with wings outspread wider than the whole foundation. A motley group of twenty or more people were bowing before him, chanting and worshiping him as a god. Whether it was of their own volition or because of Soul Skulker’s evil influence, it was impossible to tell.
The half of Dak`kcar’s Soul that remained flamed over in Shadow, spewing hatred. He’s doing it, again! When he saw Soul Skulker’s enormous mouth opening wide to vomit his poison on the humans, Dak`kcar rushed forward, sword in hand to save them. By killing them. Even in his own mind, he did not know whether he slaughtered them to spare their Souls, or simply to snatch victory out of Soul Skulker’s jaws, to injure the Kuldaki further.
He slayed as many as he could before The Dragon’s Voidfire consumed them, using Kinetic blasts that made them break to pieces like shattered bricks. The screams of the living ones grated at him; but the fools didn’t realize what was happening. It would be better to release their Souls before they were consumed. When the flames as hot as magma did fly towards him and the fanatics, Dak`kcar threw up an arm, creating an Ice ward that fought against the black fire above him. It rushed to the sides instead. He heard more screams.
Dak`kcar glanced about for the few seconds that he could hold the Elemental shield, seeing that he had killed seven of the people. The rest had been consumed by Soul Skulker, as could be seen by the decaying, writhing black husks. They shriveled to blackened bones, becoming still, and the rain sizzled as it landed on their remains. It was not actual heat that had destroyed them, but Void, which ate at everything around it, turning it to nothing, or nearly nothing. Husks remained, and that was all.
Just before his Ice shield was consumed by flame, Dak`kcar leapt backwards, avoiding the Voidfire before it enveloped him. He rolled and quickly came to a knee, aiming his bow toward the towering demon. Letting his arrow loose, Dak`kcar had already nocked another just as he saw the first pierce the corner of The Dragon’s maw. Soul Skulker stumbled back, stopping his fire while shrieking in anger and pain, inky blood dripping off of the end of the arrow. The second arrow pounded powerfully into his armored chest, not piercing him, but denting his plates.
The damage did not last long, however; he swelled with a breath, and the shells of the men and women shriveled further, as he drew out as much of their Souls as was possible for him. The arrow in his mouth dislodged, fell to the ground while his whole form became indistinct for a moment, before solidifying into a solid blackness again. His wounds were gone, his plates and scales a little more robust than before. His eyes were more molten than smelted iron. Ahh! Just like those quivering husks I made of your village, and all the others as well.
Dak`kcar froze. The reminder of his past was painful, but what did The Dragon mean by all the others as well?
Soul Skulker saw his reaction, and began to laugh horrendously. The moment was too sweet for the demon. The tidings never reached you? Wandering around Yindyr didn’t show you? They’re all dead, Dak`kcar, every last one of them. I eradicated your race. There weren’t many left. They always had trust in you. They truly believed that you would come and save them all at the last moment. They didn’t know you couldn’t even save your own Soul!
“GAHHHHH!” Dak`kcar screamed. No words could match the utter wrath he felt. He burned inside; his Dark half was consuming him in the agony of hate. All of those who he had hoped were still alive . . . dead. Kinir and Se`kes, both taken. He had no doubt in his mind that the Kuldaki had fulfilled such a horrible deed.
He charged at The Dragon, axe held in two hands. The Kuldaki merely laughed, and lowered his head to Dak`kcar’s level, releasing a storm of fiery darkness on the stag. Dak`kcar dashed through it, the armor of the Tulmalin and another Ice ward protecting him, if barely. His fur began to singe, and he burned all over his external form as well as within. He struck his axe down, deeply into the open maw of The Dragon. The demon shrieked, retreating quickly. His flames went out as he tried to look at his jaggedly split mouth. Black blood cascaded forty feet to the ground, and his eyes became as feral as a wild animal’s. The wound only healed slightly, because he didn’t have any more Souls to consume. His healing ability only lasted so long after a feast.
Dak`kcar took the advantage and leapt forward, attacking the lower parts of The Dragon. Hacking and slashing with his axe and sword, the weapons proved more effective than the arrows. The armored belly plates were torn open, and the softer dark flesh underneath those were cut, spewing blood all over Dak`kcar. It burned like acid, but did little to physically harm him.
Soul Skulker was not helpless; he leapt back, pounding into the ground with his talons. His eyes squinted, a telltale sign of his anger that only Dak`kcar could have noticed, before the onslaught fell.
It had been a while since The Hunter had fought The Dragon. Neither had lost their skill, nor their smooth adaptions for each other. Soul Skulker went to melee, smashing his tail into the earth, swiping and hammering at Dak`kcar with his limbs, only occasionally spewing flames, and less often hitting the stag. The air shook with his frustrated shrieks, the forest trembled with his immortal blows.
Adeptly, Dak`kcar parried and dodged each attack, never losing his footing even on the quaking stone foundation, which was being pitted quickly from Soul Skulker’s attacks. He jumped backwards, over a black paw, away from snapping jaws, and released another arrow into the demon. His Arium glinted as he weaved between Soul Skulker’s strikes, delivering attacks of his own, in amidst limbs of blackness and spurts of fire.
Debris flew into the air, and torrents only brought up more as Soul Skulker beat his four wings on Dak`kcar, confusing the battlefield. Black blood and rain swirled around the area in a tornado of wind. Dak`kcar flung several Kinetic strikes at the demon, mangling two wings with pounding thuds, knocking The Dragon off balance with another.
The Dragon screamed and fled quickly, seeing that he needed space, or he would be slowly broken in pieces. He turned and whipped his long tail behind him as a last effort, and caught Dak`kcar by surprise.
The stag was dashed aside, past the stone foundation, and missed the sharp roots of a cypress by mere inches. He landed in the cold swamp water, and felt the poisonous blood that coated him neutralize as he sunk fully into the murky pool. Disturbed bubbles poured up around him in the cloudiness. He waited a moment, and readied his axe, which he had gripped tightly the whole time. When he burst out of the water, he hurled the weapon to where he had last seen Soul Skulker. He heard another shriek which bored into his ears. Dak`kcar stepped from out of the water back onto the stone, where The Dragon writhed from his wounds.
Soul Skulker looked to him with livid injustice. I should have chased after you the first time we met. I should have finished eating your Soul, left your stain in the snow. His ruby eyes flashed. I can’t wait to finally taste the other half.
Dak`kcar approached The Dragon, bringing down a massive Kinetic force on the demon, felling him. The Hunter lifted his sword silently overhead and prepared to plunge it into the skull of The Dragon, who laid helplessly on the ground. Dak`kcar would exact the killing blow, as he had done so many times before, and with that thought, he gazed triumphantly into the crimson eye of Soul Skulker.
The Kuldaki disappeared. The Dragon vanished suddenly, his body being replaced by a small cumulus shadow that hovered above the ground. The darkness gave one treacherous lunge towards Dak`kcar, missed him, and then flew, defeated, into the sky. Once well out of his reach, it transformed back into The Dragon, with wings outstretched, wounds pouring a bloody trail on the ground, which was hundreds of paces below him. Soul Skulker skreaked loudly, then beat his wings to ascend a mile into the sky. He went south, but glanced back at Dak`kcar who stood soaked and determined.
This isn’t over! After that declaration, he flew far into the distance, fleeing as a wounded deer would. The tameness of demons was revealed when they were outmatched.
Dak`kcar found his weapons and sheathed them. He gazed about, seeing the bubbling pools of demon blood, and the dry husks that were strewn about. Whether they had been true fanatics, or unfortunate fools caught in Soul Skulker’s net, they had paid the ultimate price. They had not deserved to lose their Souls. Not like Dak`kcar’s own kind.
“No, this isn’t over,” he agreed with the Kuldaki for the first time.
The Hunt had begun . . . again.
Chapter XIV
Wounds
23rd of Mid Spring, 376, 5th Era – Waendel, Vaelandol
Kelestil studied herself closely in the tall mirror, admiring the colorful silks that she was draped in. It was nothing like she was used to wearing in Helkras—a simple dress with a fur mantle. Sorrel had helped her don the ridiculous outfit with its dangling jewels and fine chains of gold. There hadn’t been anything else to do, since they had thought of and done everything else that could be done to while away the hours. The distractions only barely alleviated Kelestil’s worry over her mother. She may have been an optimistic child, but she had been too long estranged from Leyfian, and that made for a sad heart.
Sorrel concentrated to try and bring a wooden comb to herself with Kinetic Magic, but she ended up standing to go and fetch it with her own slender fingers. That was when the object flew over to where she had been, and it floated in place until she plucked it out of the air in frustration. She then went to brushing Kelestil’s long, dark hair, tugging painfully at the girl’s scalp when it hit a knot.
One thing they never tired of was talking, so they usually combined that activity with whatever other adventure they had underway. Sorrel was far from quiet when she was around a good companion, which meant that her and Kelestil had become fast friends over the course of a week and a half.
“It seems that my Magic has a problem with delays,” the Gelsingean complained. “I’ve always had a problem with that. It’s embarrassing, really. I could never live up to the standards of Gelsing. I’d never even find an Ascendant who would find me worth their time to teach.”
“Who’s an Ascendant?” Kelestil asked, then winced as the comb went through another tangle in her hair.
“A teacher in Magic. The Gelsingeans chose the word, and since they are the best Magic-wielders, everyone else decided to use the name as well.”
“How did you learn to use Magic without an Ascendant?”
Sorrel placed the comb aside and went to braiding Kelestil’s hair in a complicated fashion. “Every Gelsingean has inborn Magical powers in them, and they usually show ability in Magic by the time they are four or five years. I didn’t show anything at all until I was twelve.”
Kelestil made a sympathetic noise and then looked at Sorrel from the view of the mirror. The young woman’s eyes were relaxed and half-lidded as she dealt with Kelestil’s hair, her yellow irises gleaming intently beneath her lashes. “I wish I had pretty eyes like yours,” the girl bemoaned after looking at her own plain, umber eyes. “Mine are so boring.”
“Oh, don’t say that,” Sorrel reproved softly. “All eyes are pretty, if they are healthy and full of life. Yours are very full of life. Gelsingeans may have unique eyes and the best of sight among humans, but we pay for it. Our eyes are a weakness. If we lose them, or if we go blind, we die because of it.” She took on her usual tone when instructing Kelestil on something. “Some believe that one eye holds part of our Soul, and the other holds part of the Essence of your Soulmate. If the eye with the Soul of your love is damaged, then it is believed that you will die from being separated from them. If your other eye is ruined, however, you may live, because your Soulmate will still hold a piece of you in them, and you will have access to it because you are still tethered to them.”
“That’s amazing!” Kelestil exclaimed, thinking up a hundred different questions to pelt Sorrel with. “Do you believe it’s true?”
“I can’t say,” Sorrel replied absently as she finished up Kelestil’s complex braids. “I think that it may be true, from what I’ve heard of it, but I have never had personal experience with it. Perhaps it is true for some, but not for others. And maybe some find a Soulfriend instead, or a Soulsibling; there are many possibilities, and you might find several in your life. They aren’t exactly linked to your eyes like a Soulmate, but they are still precious to have.” She ended there as she finished Kelestil’s braids. “All right, I’m done. What do you think?”
“It looks . . . a little weird. But I like it,” she added so as not to offend the Gelsingean. “Now let me dress up your hair,” she suggested, to which Sorrel nodded gladly. She sat cross-legged on the floor, rearranging her skirts as was necessary, and then she watched Kelestil through the mirror as the Dakrynian girl braided and tied up her hair with a pair of small wooden sticks.
“So,” the golden-eyed woman began, “what is your mother like?”
Kelestil bit her lip as she concentrated on Sorrel’s thick, long waves of golden hair. “She . . . she likes to tell me stories a lot. The fables of the animals are the best, especially the tales about the Wolves.” Kelestil inhaled deeply, then wiped at her eye. “I wish she didn’t have to be gone so long.” She wrapped Sorrel’s remaining tresses of hair around the two sticks and then tied it off to make an attractive hairstyle. She had seen Leyfian dress her hair like that, and had even helped her mother achieve the look. “How do you like it?”
Sorrel looked at herself in multiple angles in the mirror, a perfect resemblance of feminine scrutiny. She made a wide smile and said, “You will have to teach me how to do it on my own.”
“But first, let’s find something to add to your outfit,” Kelestil suggested, so they quickly went to searching through Sorrel’s wardrobes for something to put over her plain dress. She had extravagant things, if she wished for them, but she usually just preferred something comfortable and simple. “What about Jacsibial? Is he your actual father?” Jacsibial was The Trader’s true name, and he had given the information away only after she had pestered him enough about what his real identity was. He had told her to keep it a secret, and she wondered why it was so important. In that particular case, she hadn’t bothered to annoy him enough to find out.
“No,” Sorrel answered as she inspected a silk shawl before trying it on. “He adopted me when I was ten. He has always been so kind to me and provided anything I could ever need, but sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to have both of my real parents. He can get distracted with his business you see, and sometimes he forgets that I exist while he tallies his coins.”
“You don’t know what happened to your parents?” Sorrel shook her head in answer, and she seemed unwilling to talk on that point. “Well, I never really knew my father,” Kelestil admitted.
“Oh? You don’t have any memories of the King of Amarnthra from when you were little?”
“He’s not my father!” Kelestil exclaimed, and then threw a hand over her mouth when she heard what she had just said. She went red in the face because of her slip. “Don’t tell anyone that,” she pleaded.
“Your secret is safe with me,” Sorrel promised. She paused in taking off her shawl and just stroked it intently while giving Kelestil an expectant look. She wanted to hear more.
“My . . . my maea told me that he wasn’t my real father. She said that my father was-was–”
“You don’t have to say his name,” the Gelsingean soothed, “I think that I know who he is,”
*
Gelvir looked around the forest, searching wildly among its tall sentinels. It was still eerily silent, but he could almost hear the sun caressing the horizon, sinking below the mountains and counting down the time until dark. He had to find Kanni before then, and rediscover the ruin; in his search for the mage, he was sure that he had gotten lost himself. What am I doing? I shouldn’t be panicking. And I should not have abandoned Leyfian; she is my foremost duty. But I couldn’t just leave Kanni to run alone into the forest . . .
He didn’t know what had gotten into the woman. The feeling of evil in the air was apparent to him, but it was no reason to go running off like a mad person down the mountain slope. Maybe her Magical abilities made her more sensitive to the effects of the . . . whatever it was haunting the area.
He had an urge to go back to Leyfian, to make certain that she wasn’t in danger, but he was already chest-deep in his search for Kanni, so he would just have to finish that first. He went on, calling for the woman, almost hesitant to disturb the silence.
The thick forest was getting dangerously dark; it was that time when the shadows were long and confusing, and the light dimly reddish. His eyesight was mediocre as it was, so it was no surprise that he found himself tumbling down the slope of a sudden, plummeting to the ground and then rolling over several times until a tree stopped him with a painful jerk. He grunted, and then panted a curse as he gathered himself up, his world still reeling around him. When he saw that the tree was on the outlying edge of a small cliff-fall, he sighed shakily in relief. And then he hissed when the real pain came on. His knee had been split open by a jagged stone further up the slope—he could see his blood staining the rock. He wished that his armor had been made with knee-plates. But more than that, he wished that it had been his arm, or his abdomen that had gotten a hemorrhaging wound. He would hardly be able to walk with a knee injury.
He stood slowly, putting all of the pressure on his good leg. He moaned through gritted teeth, watching with demented fascination as his blood cascaded down his armored shin, then over his boots. He had suffered wounds just as bad in his career, but never in such a dire situation.
Taking his sheathed sword off of his belt, Gelvir used the heavy instrument as a cane to relieve further weight from his injured leg, and he used the belt as a tourniquet tied just above his knee to slow the bleeding. It still stung like the inferno in the core of the planet, and ached like someone had stuffed pebbles in his joint, but he continued, stifling his moans so he could call after Kanni. He went at a crawl, and the mage never responded. It was like chasing after a particular seed in the wind when the whole field had shed its seeds to the breeze. His voice had a wide radius, but if Kanni couldn’t respond for some reason, then his efforts were pointless.
Finally, the lighting made him stop. Dus`ridyian only cast a weak light on the world, and it was far too dim for Gelvir to see by. It would have been too dark for anyone, really, with so many clouds in the sky. The sun had hidden itself behind the western horizon, and his hopes were lost with it. He collapsed willingly against a large spruce, sliding on his back to lower himself to the ground.
He heard a squeak from the other side of the tree, a noise from a familiar voice. He edged over carefully, and then launched his hand to grab Kanni’s arm. She screamed, tugging away to try and escape, likely thinking him to be a monster from her worst nightmares. He held on tightly; he wouldn’t give her the chance to run.
“Kanni! It’s me!” he said quickly. Now that he thought of it, he should have just begun by saying that instead of latching onto her, but then, maybe she had been running from his voice the whole time. Better just to hold onto her arm until she calmed down. Eventually, she did stop pulling away and screeching about being caught by demons, and she sat back against the tree, gasping in a quivering voice, like she was in the midst of crying quietly. Gelvir felt like tears were in his own eyes; his knee felt as if it had embers in it.
The mage finally spoke in her normal voice, though it wavered like her breathing had. “I was so scared, I couldn’t even think. I just wanted to die. I heard you calling . . . but I was too afraid to say anything. Thank The Creator that you found me,” she added in a whisper that may or may not have been meant to be heard.
Gelvir was surprised when he felt her arms go around him and squeeze firmly. He only jerked a little at the unexpected touch, though. He patted her on the back of the head, and he felt the leafs that had gotten tangled into her curly hair. She must have suffered a fall like he had.
She snugged herself up beside him, likely to ward away any remaining fear she had, and the Captain could barely make out her pretty face in the dark, and the dirt that stained her in smudges. “Gelvir . . . why are you wet? Did you piss yourself?” She giggled a little at the notion.
“It’s my blood,” he answered.
Kanni gasped worriedly. “Why didn’t you tell me? Where is it? Here?”
“No,” Gelvir said hurriedly, because she had put her hand far to high on his inner leg. He felt her hand shift downwards, feeling blindly over his armor until it came to his knee, where he grunted and she recoiled.
“Hold on for just a moment,” she said in a whisper, and Gelvir felt his kneecap moving slightly. His torn flesh felt odd as it was sealed back together under Kanni’s caressing fingers. “There,” she said after a second, “now your knee is better, but it may feel sore and unnormal for a few days as it finishes healing on its own. And your trousers still have a hole; I can’t fix that, because I’m terrible with a needle.” She laughed once, nervously, then sniffled. “I feel like an idiot. I don’t know what came over me, but running was the worst possible choice.” There was a pause as she situated herself to lean against him again. “Where’s Leyfian?”
Gelvir felt a pang of a different sort from the kind his knee had recently suffered. “She . . . I left her at the ruin.”
“Why would you abandon her for me?” Kanni said it in such a quiet whisper that Gelvir took it that she was musing to herself, and he treated the question as such by not answering. In truth, he didn’t know why he had left his duty.
He shifted awkwardly. “We should try getting back to the ruin. Can you make a Light?”
Kanni didn’t answer for a moment. “ . . . I’m afraid to make one. ‘Don’t be afraid of what the light may reveal, because it will be more dangerous if it is hidden in the dark.’ My Ascendant used to say that, but it doesn’t help at all.” There was another silent moment, and then it was broken by her sigh. “All right, I’ll do it, but it might not be enough to work with.”
A faint glow added to the dim illumination around them, and the little Light grew in the combined palms of Kanni’s hands. It grew to reveal a small swath around them, but after that it faltered, fading out of her hands.
“It just . . . went away,” the mage muttered. She turned to look at Gelvir, with wide eyes, and he had a similar expression in an effort to see her in the sudden darkness. “My Magic was drained. Something won’t allow me to make a Light.”
“Try something else,” Gelvir urged.
Kanni made a flame in her hand, but it likewise went out. When she used Kinetic Magic however, she could use it as much as she wanted, and she even used it to pull Gelvir closer to herself. She then whispered cautiously into his ear. “I think that whatever is nearby—the evil feeling—it doesn’t want light to be created. It must hate the day.”
Gelvir sighed. “Then we’ll have to sit out the night until morning comes.”
Kanni nodded and shivered. “Well . . . even if it’s awkward . . . Will you hold me? It’s getting cold, and I don’t want to feel like I’m alone. Don’t think that I mean anything by it. Just for tonight, under the circumstances.”
The Captain fought back a grimace, but then consented. It was difficult to consent because he knew that it was difficult to refuse. That may have seemed confusing, but it was perfectly understandable from an honorable man’s view.
Kanni coaxed him to lay down on the uneven, needle-coated ground, and then she buried her face into his armored chest as much as was possible, allowing him to put his arms around her significantly smaller frame. She never fell asleep so far as he knew, since her breathing never turned to snoring. Her breath misted his steel plating, and at times, he could see her eyes gleam in the shadows as they darted to look up at him. He wanted to stay awake himself, to be warned of any approaching danger if it came, but it was hard to not fall into slumber with such a pleasant woman wrapped up in his arms.
He wondered what she was thinking, because his own thoughts wandered ten years back, to when he had first entered the service of The Keep. He hadn’t been long as a Kingsguard in the palace when Kanni came to offer her abilities to King Mawing for his use. Her Ascendant had come to assure the King that she was an excellent pupil, ready to begin working as an independent mage. Gelvir had stood guard over the whole interview, but he had only observed Kanni as the two older men discussed whether she was ready or not to be of service. She had been just a young woman back then, still girlish in appearance, with her tongue caught between her teeth in anticipation. Obviously, she had been accepted into The Keep, but since she was a mage, Gelvir hadn’t seen her very often when he was about his own duties. At least, not until seven years later, when he became a Captain, and Leyfian’s personal choice as a guard. Kanni turned out to be Leyfian’s favorite mage among those in the palace, and a close friend of hers. Then they were put together often enough, and Gelvir couldn’t help but adopt Kanni under his personal protection, even if she only spoke to him a little here and there.
And now he was holding her in the dark, sharing warmth and comfort with her. That was the last thought he had before falling asleep.
*
Wrewrewrewre!
Soft moss pressed against her bare back, and cool air coated the rest of her naked body. Leyfian shivered, her skin pebbling, giving her that odd hair-raising sensation which always accompanied the reflex. She blinked hesitantly after first opening her eyes, taken aback for seeing light instead of darkness. Towering trees of indescribable beauty loomed above her, sunbeams raining down through their foliage, the shadows they cast on the ground wavering and always in motion from a slight breeze. Leyfian was clothed in dappled light that slowly warmed her, and the air began to feel less chill. She sat up, standing slowly, totally unselfconscious of her nudity. It just seemed natural to be unclothed in such a wondrous forest. She decided to explore, and she took a tortuous path through the tumbled landscape of mossy stones, grassy knolls and vine-draped trees. When she crossed a brook, she stepped across the small round stones that filled its course.
Wrewrewrewre!
Just as she heard the harsh warble, she came into a small stand of trees within the whole of the forest, and in the clearing, there was a circle of wide-capped mushrooms. On a stone in the center of that ring was a tiny wren, who looked up at her quizzically. He performed his grating call again, then gazed at her intelligently.
“Hello, little friend,” she said to the pinecone-sized bird. She crouched down to offer him her hand as a perch. After studying her hand suspiciously, he hopped onto one of her fingers in a single bound. Leyfian giggled with innocent joy and stood with her new companion, walking on to continue through the forest. The wren chirped at her once with a cooing trill, then held his beak shut afterwards.
The forest at first had been silent except for the whisper of the winds, but now the quiet was slowly filled with the most beautiful music that Leyfian had ever been graced to hear. Birds began in choruses, and they were joined by more and more avians in the song, until the forest emanated with chirps, warbles, trills and whistles. She saw them flying overhead, weaving gracefully in between the trunks and branches of the trees, loose feathers falling in trails after them.
Eventually, she came to the top of a rocky knoll, and at its peak was a single Nebuloom, a flower that grew from thorny nettles. The blossom was a shocking contrast to the shrubby stems and leafs. The bloom had intricately folded petals, all multi-colored in vibrant hues and swirling patterns, much like a gaseous nebula.
“This life is in you,” an odd voice said.
Leyfian looked to the wren with astonishment, because the words had come out of his beak. But, instead of asking him questions, she felt drawn to silence, and to look at the Nebuloom. It expanded in its glory, taking Leyfian’s breath out of her from amazement. But after a moment, it faded, shriveling, living out autumn and winter in mere seconds. She looked up around herself, seeing that the entire forest had followed the example of the Nebuloom. Dead leafs showered from the trees, some getting caught in Leyfian’s hair. The grass turned brittle and blonde under her feet, even as she took a leaf off of her head and studied it in the palm of her hand. It turned to dust, getting blown away afterwards.
The forest sprung into life again, the moss turning lush and green once more, the vines climbing over the trees again to regain their hold and advance it a little further. The Nebuloom sprouted for the second time, but that time, several smaller blooms joined the first, and they spread out their petals just as eagerly before falling into winter again. The forest soon became a scene of passing seasons. It changed from hibernation to life so quickly that it became a blur; one state faded into the next and then back more times than Leyfian could count. Foliage rained down on the ground just as new, green leafs took their place on the branches of the trees. The dead leafs decomposed into the shifting grasses. Leyfian watched as giant trees grew visibly, bark expanding and limbs reaching out. Some were felled by age, and new saplings leapt up to stand in their stead. Some of the new sentinels grew off of the remains of a fallen giant who slowly sunk into the ground and turned to soil.
“Creation and Destruction are opposites, yet that makes them part of the same cycle of Death and Life, Void and Existence.” It was the wren who spoke again, and with his voice, the birdsong rose in power and urgency. “All Souls are split between Darkness and Light. You have a small part in Destiny, but if you fail, so will all else.”
Leyfian burst awake. If you fail, so will all else. Those words echoed in her mind as she started to gain feeling in her body and consciousness in her mind. Cold stone chilled her back, and a strange hum was in the air, like some deep, subterranean river. She sat up hesitantly, feeling something pull at her skin all over the front of her body. It was dried, black paint, which made odd, swirling patterns from her face to her toes. She was bare of clothing, and shivered because of the cold as well as disgust. Someone or something had put paint all over her, even on her genitals. Before cleaning the ink from herself, however, she wanted to get away.
She looked around, finding that she had been placed on a smooth, dark stone altar at the peak of a set of pyramidal steps. A domed roof arched high overhead. All was made of stone, and every surface was carven with tiny Bihffyan symbols. There could have been ten-thousand of them, and each representing an entire story. The room was lit by a few ethereal torches hanging on the walls which made odd red lights.
Leyfian might have been impressed if she didn’t feel that she was in impending danger. She saw that her clothes were laying on the ground nearby with some odd tools, so she picked up her cloak and stuffed her feet into her boots. She didn’t want to waste any more time than was necessary to cover herself; she couldn’t know what she was facing, so getting out as quickly as possible was her goal, which was why she left her other garments behind.
That same uneasy, sickening feeling was still in her, and Leyfian knew that if she focused on it, she would be paralyzed with fear. Her surroundings were enough to make her want to hide in a corner and wait for daylight. Only, daylight would never come to that place, unless the surface broke open to reveal it to the sky. She was sure that she was still in Jelril, but the chamber she was in could have only been underground. There was only one surface structure of Jelril, and that was where she had been caught. By what, she didn’t want to imagine.
Wrapping her cloak around herself, she went down the steps and away from the altar, again, trying not to think of why she had been placed there. She came to the base of the pyramidal staircase, then scouted its edge until she found a passageway. The first she found was completely black; she shivered when she turned her back on it, a familiar creeping feeling scuttling up her neck when she tried not to look back at the passage.
The next corridor had those ruddy torches running down its length, and the deep, almost mechanical rumble echoed more strongly from it. Leyfian didn’t trust the noise, but any hall that was lighted would be just as good as the next. She had no clue where she was within Jelril, so it would be a wild cat-chase until she found a way out. That meant starting somewhere—anywhere.
She carefully went down the hall, making her footfalls as quiet as she could so that their hollow echoing wouldn’t reveal her. She couldn’t know what was hunting her, so she did her best to not find out by making certain it would not sense her. The first corridor she went down split into three more, and the one she chose out of those three led to another trio.
She was horrified; how long would she have to wander before she found a way out, and would she be attacked before she could escape? Leyfian panicked, so she sped her pace, running down random halls, unwittingly going towards the deep grumble in the earth.
She entered an area of the ruin which had expansive corridors with flanking balconies as well as gigantic chambers, and those places were lit with eerie red lights like everywhere else. Finally, she came to it.
An immense, wild cavern faced her when she exited a wide passageway, the cave’s walls and floor tumbled and rocky. The ceiling couldn’t be seen in the darkness, and the only thing that was making any light was an anomaly in the center of the cave. A mechanical anomaly, with gears, pipes, pistons and chains making a roughly cylindrical shape that reached upwards. Glass lenses the size of shields hung off of it, and they were all meant to be adjusted mathematically. Strange, glowing white crystals decorated it at multiple places, making Leyfian suspect that they powered the thing. Quivering pipes and rolling gears were to be found all over the cavern, but they all led to the same contraption, and the anomaly’s mechanics filled the open space with a deafening rumble.
Leyfian was mesmerized as she took in the sight of the device. Her eyes were torn from the contraption to look at its base, where something was walking slowly around it. Her heart beat hard enough that she could have seen her chest thumping in rhythm with it, had she bothered to look. She felt weak in the knees, on the edge of fainting, but she forced them straight and backed up slowly, eyes locked on the thing.
Could it possibly be a . . . a Deadwight? she thought with more panic than curiosity. The thing at the base of the mechanical device looked to be a gray, dry-rotted man, dressed in decayed leather armor and a cloth cowl. It looked up at her with golden irises that encompassed each eye entirely, and then it was gone. Not even a vapor to show that it had turned to smoke, just gone.
It is! Leyfian screamed in her own mind, just as she turned to escape with all the speed her legs would give her. It was just her bad fortune that she had a weak heart, one that wouldn’t allow her to sprint like a normal human being. She was quickly brought to panting, and she leaned against the stone wall of a corridor, stumbling along, about ready to faint. Leyfian couldn’t tell if she was being stalked, but that wasn’t important. In either case, she wanted to get out.
She came into utter darkness. The torches which had once lit the hall went out without a noise or an obvious cause. The woman wanted to die from fear; was she going to feel something claw at her, drag her into a pit of torture? Would she have to live through horrible agony?
She begged The Creator that she could see the light of day again.
After several horrible moments of staggering, and gasping to keep herself alive, she saw a faint, predawn light in the distance, at the end of a long passageway. She tripped, falling painfully to one knee. When she looked up, full of hope, she saw that the corridor was blocked by a silhouette which looked far too similar to the Deadwight. It approached her, and she wanted to cry. It blocked her escape, but she had to attempt to get past anyways. She stood, slowly walking forward, heart laboring dangerously. Whimpering at the sight of those empty golden eyes, she tried to look at the light beyond her predator. She wanted to edge past the thing, but she found herself facing it directly, stopping suddenly as if commanded. Leyfian felt cold, frozen by somethinglike The Void. A faint darkness writhed around the Deadwight as it stared at her thoughtlessly. She was almost too cold to feel terror shivering through her.
The Deadwight’s golden eyes shifted from yellow to green, and then those enormous irises transformed to blue, purple, then to a dark indescribable color. Finally, they turned utterly black, and Leyfian could almost feel her Soul leave her, like the first time. She hardly felt the invisible, Magic-wrought knife plunge into her stomach.
*
On the afternoon of the twenty-fourth, Kelestil and Sorrel were passing the time in the courtyard that the Gelsingean had brought to life. Both had donned various colored flowers in her hair. Sorrel had learned and kept Kelestil’s hairstyle with the two sticks, and the braids were decked with vibrant buds. Both, however, wore their plainer clothes; silks and golden jewelry could be unwieldy. They had been surprised when the ill feeling in the air disappeared abruptly by early morning. The normality still felt odd, even after hours of acclimating to it.
The courtyard was in the center of Jacsibial’s mansion, so it was the most secluded and quiet place in the dwelling, where Sorrel could practice her Magic without disturbance. She claimed that she had broken several of Jacsibial’s ornate decorations by accident when she was practicing Magic, and had barely repaired and placed them back in position before he walked in on her. He never found out about her mishaps, she said. As much as the fat man loved his unnecessary decorations, he took them all in as a part of the background and only rarely scrutinized them.
She was practicing Kinetic Magic on that morning, while Kelestil watched from across the courtyard, ready to fall down and dodge any flying objects. Sorrel had given her fair warning that it might be dangerous to observe, so Kelestil had promised to keep her distance from the Gelsingean while the practice session was underway. Sorrel at that moment was trying to pull a basket of fruits towards herself, with the type of Kinetic Magic known as Pulling Force. There were two other types in addition to that, and they were called Pushing Force and Gripping Force. That last was the most difficult to obtain because it was like an invisible hand that could handle any sort of object in any sort of way. The other two were limited to going in one direction, as their names suggested, and the object had to be in constant motion, so it could never be precisely placed like with Gripping Force.
The basket moved slightly, being dragged across the paving stones with little creaks and jerks. Sorrel sighed gratingly, concentrating hard on the insolent basket.
Kelestil thought that she heard a noise from outside the mansion, perhaps from somewhere in Waendel, but she dismissed the sound as coming from the scrapping of the basket. “Why don’t you try taking out one of the apples on their own?” she suggested timidly, even though she knew next to nothing about Magic.
Sorrel exhaled with frustration, but it was a feeling more pointed at herself than the girl. “You’re right; I should try something smaller.” She threw her hand out, making a gesture as if beckoning one of the apples to come forward to her. Instead, a horse-sized chunk of the brick wall surrounding the courtyard fell outward in a heap of rubble and noise. Sorrel’s mouth fell agape. “I guess I won’t be able to hide this one from Jacsibial,” she murmured, the color draining from her face. She had never caused much trouble for him, and she didn’t know how he would respond to it.
Kelestil bit her lip; she felt sorry for her friend, but Sorrel’s bad fortune with Magic could be comical, so she struggled not to laugh because of it. Suddenly, however, all mirth left her as she strained her ears. Was that a sound of shouts in the far end of the mansion?
Sorrel had gotten off of her stone bench to kick over the fruit basket in frustration, then to look over and assess the damages she had done. Her shoulders slumped when she saw the severe harm she had caused the wall.
“Sorrel, did you hear–?” Kelestil stopped short as a woman’s panicked scream came to them from nearby in the mansion. Sorrel bolted upright and quickly had Kelestil by the arm, making her back away from the archway nearest to the screaming. They heard footsteps approaching from out of that threshold, so they went to escape through the other one. Sorrel held a finger to her lips, beckoning Kelestil to remain silent as they weaved through the courtyard and its plants.
Right at the arched corridor leading out of the garden, they collided with a broad wall of plated steel.
The giant of a man looked down at them with a crooked snarl. “Where do you think you’re going?”
*
It was darkness, and then pain. A dull . . . half-felt agony that tore at her lower abdomen. She thought her heart should be drumming to failure, but it was perfectly calm, as if there weren’t a gaping hole in her stomach bleeding pools.
More clenching pain. She couldn’t open her eyes. Or were they already open? She didn’t even know if her chest was rising for breath or not. All she was sure of was that she still had her Soul—it had merely quivered in fear; it hadn’t abandoned her. Maybe it would have been better if it had escaped.
A deep rumble in the ground signaled something. She didn’t know what, just that something was near to happening, possibly within the minute, or in a thousand years. It was hard to guess when she was only half alive. A quake in the ground and a guttural roar of failing mechanics assaulted her muffled ears; it seemed the whole planet began to shiver. Fatal groans in the stone walls and ceiling around her raised distress in her faint heart, but it quickly calmed from an outer influence. An outer influence which seemed to drag out her death throes to keep her alive for something sinister. What that was, she couldn’t guess, but she felt and saw—she thought she saw, anyways—a darkness hovering over her in shadowy clouds. Two color-shifting eyes looked down at her, both of them lost between countless worlds and Realms. She could hardly see the face they belonged to because of the swirling shadows.
More grumbles and earth-shattering crashes resounded through the stone room, and the ceiling cracked and dusted her in dirt. The whole place was going to fall apart, with her in it. Minutes passed, and small parts of the ceiling fell to crash around her. The darkness with those two multi-colored eyes never wavered, and she felt her consciousness fading. The writhing shadows were digging into her, feeding off of the Light from her Soul. Now, it would truly leave her.
The whole chamber reeled from a deafening roar. The walls began to crack and fall apart, the ceiling collapsing in huge chunks. Still, her predator never moved, never flinched, even as the room went to pieces with groaning roars.
A new pain spread through her, one that clawed at her very Essence; she felt her Soul coming apart in howling shreds, and her body wanted to writhe, but couldn’t from paralysis. Her heart still beat constantly, but it began to fade away, dying as her Soul was snuffed out. The pain also started to fall away, like evaporating fog, tendrils hanging on only to turn to nothing. Every one of her senses halted: first her taste and smell, then her tactility, her hearing came after, and finally . . .
Her eyes burst open; she moaned and screamed at once. All of the pain had returned, except for the agony of her Soul. Her Essence seemed whole again, as if it had been siphoned back into her suddenly, a taut rope snapping back into place.
The ruin was truly being torn to pieces. Her ears hurt from the catastrophic noise. She looked around with hazy sight. The shadow and the Deadwight were gone. Someone swept her up into their arms, using her cloak to bundle her up and cover her. She groaned because the sudden movement made her wound go aflame with even greater pain. With no alien power to keep it calm, her heart halted its calmness, throbbing in her chest, while a gripping pain pervaded through her thorax.
A ruddy torch lit the way as her rescuer stumbled through the constantly shifting, simmering mass of Jelril. Her ears were barraged with the sounds of collapsing halls and tumbling boulders. She saw showers of dust pour around them, then watched as huge stones fell from the ceiling to bury the hall behind them. They were closely pursued by failing corridors and closing arches.
Finally, after what seemed like Eras, Leyfian saw daylight again, and her pain could hardly hold back her joy at seeing the golden rays of dawn. Her savior hauled her up the stairs in a rush, throwing the torch aside to hold her more firmly. Out the domed building they went, into the forest of the Western Mountains. The horses who had been tied to some nearby trees the day before were neighing and making panicked noises as the ground quivered underneath them. The dome of Jelril collapsed with a roar of crumbling stone, and everything fell quiet, except for a few indignant snorts from the horses. She was laid on the ground, and her pain came back to her in full. Groaning helplessly for a moment, she looked around with blurry, shifting sight to take a look at her rescuer. She saw a tall man crouched over some flames newly started with Emberstones.
“Gelvir . . . ?”
He turned, and she might have gasped if it hadn’t come out in a cry of pain. Mithourn?!
He came to her side again and elevated her wound. “Just lay still,” he said gruffly, but not unkindly. He took her cloak and used it to cover most of her, leaving a wide area around her injury clear. He pressed a cloth firmly against her stab-wound, and then she really did gasp. Moments passed in agony as her wound was staunched. “I’m almost done,” he assured, though he spoke as if he didn’t expect her to hear. He then left for the little fire that had developed, and when he came back, he held her in place as he dipped hot steel into her gaping injury. She screamed, and tried to wriggle around, but he refused to let her move, and it was certainly for the better. After she was reduced to stillness and weak moans, she felt a needle digging into her abdomen, sealing together her burning, stinging, agonized flesh. A cool ointment of sticky honey went over her stitched gash, and then a long bandage was wrapped around her midriff to protect the treated section.
She watched Mithourn with squinted, tired eyes as he went to her horse, Dune, and dug through her saddlebags. He came back and helped her dress in trousers and a suede top. He gave her a blanket to wrap herself in, taking away her beaten, dirtied cloak.
Mithourn came back to sit her up against his arm. “Here, drink this,” he said, offering her a canteen of water. She sipped at it, not interested in much but the hope of her pain going away. He also gave her some dried meat and urged her to eat it after he chewed on it a little to soften it for her. Even then, it was difficult to gnaw on and swallow, but she managed a few bites. He leaned her against a tree in a sitting position, putting some bundled cloths behind her head. After that, he sat nearby, cross-legged with his sword balanced across his knees so he could resharpen it. (He had dulled its edge before using it on her.) “We’ll leave as soon as you’re healthy enough to move,” he stated, likely in an attempt to keep her awake. “What were you doing here?”
“I . . . ugh! . . . I was recording some of the w-writings.” She broke off in a groan, crying with gritted teeth.
Mithourn grimaced at her sound of suffering. “What is your name?”
She just sat there with her mouth hanging open like a fool. Had he forgotten her name? No, wait; asking an injured person their name was just a standard question to see if they were all there. “Leyfian. And you are Mithourn. Thank The Creator that you’re here. But why are you—agh!—h-here?” Her emerald eyes watered as her abdomen frothed over with pain. She wouldn’t be able to use her core muscles normally for a long time yet.
“Kelestil sent me to find you,” was his answer. She really did look like a fool when her jaw dropped at that.
Chapter XV
Fear
24th of Mid Spring, 376, 5th Era – Jelril, Eastern Caldkere
Kanni woke up slowly, long lashes shading her sight. She felt pleasantly tired and warm as she took in the misted steel of Gelvir’s breastplate. With no little embarrassment, she wiped a little drool off of the armor and out of the corner of her mouth before re-situating herself to lay her head on his chest again. It was morning, and a gorgeous golden one. Early-waking birds were chirping contentedly in the tree above her and Gelvir.
Wait a minute . . . that horrible feeling is gone! She jerked up, pushing herself off of the Captain to look around, unbelieving. Only then did she realize that she had been laying on top of the man with her legs half-straddled over him. And she had told him to hold her, not rest a hand on her butt! She rolled over in a panic, then sat up, leafs and needles sticking in her hair as she looked in bewilderment at the Captain. Well, maybe he hadn’t intentionally put his hand there; he was as unconscious as a hammered drunkard.
Eventually, she had to kick him in the ribs to wake him, (she was sure his cuirass would deflect most of the force, and if it didn’t, well, he might have deserved it after all) and when he shot up awake, reaching for his sword, he took her in.
“It’s morning,” was all he said as he strapped on his sword. He stood with an effort as Kanni secretly massaged her breasts; they were tender from being pressed against steel plating all night. Yes, that whole affair had been very awkward. But as long as he didn’t mention anything, she would go on acting as if nothing had occurred. He gave her one of those odd looks that she couldn’t decipher, then opened his mouth to speak as he dusted himself off. “We should go search for the ruin,” he stated simply.
They went walking in what they both agreed was the right direction, going along side-by-side. The birdsong in the air truly was beautiful after such silence and horror, so Kanni reveled in it. Even her worry for Leyfian didn’t take away how she felt in that moment in the woods. Leyfian would likely be waiting impatiently for them at the ruin, which Kanni believed wouldn’t be such a freakish place anymore.
As with much of life’s irony, just as that thought formed in her head, so did the beginnings of a catastrophe. The ground quaked with a deep grumble, the whole forest and mountainside reeling drunkenly. Kanni fell against a tree, and Gelvir landed on a fleeing fox. The canine squeaked horrendously before scrambling off into the quivering woods. The birds of the area clambered into the air and escaped in flocks to the sky.
“What in The Waste was that?” Kanni asked no one in particular as the initial quake quieted. A constant grumble in the earth signaled that it was far from done. “A volcano? There are mountains in this chain that are known to blow a cap every so often. I don’t fancy choking on ash or getting melted alive, just so you know.”
“I think it was the ruin,” Gelvir announced, standing with an effort and offering a hand to Kanni.
She took it and stood next to him. “If you’re right, then we need to get to Leyfian quick. Let’s follow the noise.”
Gelvir didn’t have a better plan himself, so he went after her as she trailed the rumbling in the ground. The mountains shook violently multiple times as they searched for the ruin, but after a few minutes the whole display of noise and vibration halted, allowing the tumultuous forest to calm. The birds settled back into their trees, and a lone Wolf gathered herself from the ground to trot off after a group of deer.
“Well that’s just damn great! Now we don’t know where the fuck to go!” Kanni exclaimed. Gelvir raised an inquisitive brow at her foul tongue, but she chose to ignore him. She could curse all she wanted; she was a grown woman, and she didn’t care what he thought. She stood there for a moment, trying to decide which direction was closest to the last indication of a quake, but she suddenly found herself tagging after Gelvir as the Captain took the lead for himself. He went near enough to where she had thought of going, so she pursued him without objection, watching as he struggled up rocky slopes with his injured knee. Kanni regretted that she had been the cause of his wound, or at least the major cause, seeing as he had gained it in the search for her. She still wondered why he had left Leyfian for her, abandoning his highest duty for someone who had never been named as his obligation.
Eventually, they found that a tremor in the ground was still active, but it was weak and hard to follow. But, after an hour or more of tracing the reverberation, they found the ancient mountain road. They didn’t recognize the section of the trail, so they went south, backtracking until they came across the ruin of Jelril.
Kanni cried out as if from a great pang and rushed over to Leyfian, who was propped against a tree. She hardly noticed the wide ring of ashes and dead plants around the ruined dome of Jelril.
Gelvir was only a second behind the mage, so he was beside Leyfian and checking over her as Kanni talked and went on in a regretful voice. “I’m so sorry I ran off like that! What happened when I left? Who hurt you?”
Leyfian shifted with a groan, and her blanket fell away to reveal a bandage around her middle. “A . . . I don’t know what it was,” she said finally.
Kanni slipped the bandage away and gasped in horror. She seemed ready to cry as she put her hands over the wound and used her Healing Magic to cure the injury. Leyfian sighed in relief, probably because her pain was fading. Gelvir didn’t feel like crying; he didn’t weep over feeling bad. He gritted his teeth instead.
“I never . . .” Leyfian began, and then her voice gained in strength as she felt more healthy. “I never want either of you to run away again,” she commanded, but then her sternness broke with a smile. “Not unless you take me with you next time. I should have left with both of you, and I wish I had. Next time, drag me by my ankles if you have to.”
“I will,” Gelvir said with no humor in his voice.
Kanni just fell from her crouching position and onto her bottom, mouth hanging open. Leyfian wasn’t accusing her of anything? After her royal fuck up had nearly cost Leyfian’s life? She felt despicable! Terrible! “I will,” she found herself saying in a daze, just after Gelvir. Maybe she hadn’t been that bad, but she still felt guilty enough to feel like she was meant to suffer some sort of inferno. But Leyfian is alive. I should be grateful for that. She threw her arms around Leyfian and squeezed the woman firmly, trying to pour all of her positive, powerful Magic into the Dakrynian. “I’m sorry I didn’t have the courage to think of that!” And just like that, they were both crying into each other’s shoulder.
Gelvir put a hand to his face. Women could be confusing; they did the oddest things and cried over anything, or nothing at all. Kanni might have enough grief and self-blame to sob, but what reason did Leyfian have when her pain had been taken away? She should have cried when she had been suffering the pain of a new wound, not shedding tears over emotional sentiments!
He stood at the arrival of a new presence. “Mithourn?” he questioned the man who came out of the edge of the woods. The Captain felt like a fool to be surprised by a new visitor; there were two new horses tied next to the others, and how could Leyfian have performed surgery on herself?
The Third High Captain seemed on the offense. “Gelvir and Kanni: Where were you two? Why weren’t you with Leyfian?” He held a snarl as he took them in and his hand noticeably gripped his pike. He never took two steps without that thing in his clutches.
Kanni came away from Leyfian and stood to face him. She looked at him nervously and spoke in a timid voice. “I got frightened by t-the ruin, and I just had to escape. Gelvir came after me, and then we were trapped by the night.”
Mithourn gave no quarter. “Why didn’t you come back earlier?”
“M-my Magic was cut off. Or at least any Magic that could make light. I slept with Gelvir all night long—I mean we slept together—That is not what it sounds like! We literally slept through the night, just to wait for daylight. Creator, I sound like an idiot.” She was red in the face by the end of that little rant. Gelvir thought he might have shaded a tone or two as well, but he couldn’t prevent a strangled laughter. Kanni had butchered her reputation by saying that, but she was lucky that she had only said those things while in the midst of a few tight-mouthed individuals. Leyfian laughed into her hand, but Mithourn was unimpressed.
The Third High Captain looked away from the mortified woman who sat on the ground and shrunk away from everyone. “We should leave soon. If Kanni has improved on my treatment of Leyfian’s wound, we can move today. I don’t like leaving Kelestil to herself; it’s too dangerous.”
Kanni perked up at that, and some of the excess color in her cheeks drained away. “Kelestil? Where is she? Are you her Kingsguard?”
“Yes,” Mithourn answered with small patience, then went over to Leyfian’s stallion to prepare him for his passenger. Dune had already stripped his tree of some of its bark, and he looked hungrily at some of the shrubs that he couldn’t reach. “She is the guest of The Trader, in Waendel, with the other Kingsguards watching over her.”
“Then she should be fine, with her Kingsguards keeping her reined in,” Kanni pointed out. As if she knew.
“You have no clue,” Mithourn stated. “She needs a fist of steel to keep her out of trouble.”
Leyfian giggled at that, standing slowly, holding a hand to her abdomen gingerly. “That’s true, but I’ve learned other ways to keep her under control.” She threw off her blanket and fingered the paint marks that were visible on her stomach. Mithourn had wiped off the ink on her face, but the rest of her was still stained. “Let me clean off before we leave,” she said, “it will only take a moment.”
In truth, it took more than one minute because she also needed to dress fully, so the others prepared their steeds to ride. Gelvir tried to help Kanni brush out the array of leafs and grass that had gotten caught in her hair, but she shooed him off and did it herself. The mage also went behind some trees to redress in her most concealing riding outfit.
They were all on the road in only a little time, and before noon. Kanni was quickly in high spirits again, but she kept Leyfian between her and Gelvir because she was still too humiliated to be near him. Mithourn rode ahead of them, leading the way at a trot with his two horses. He truly did believe that Kelestil would get herself harmed if he couldn’t watch over her himself. Kanni recognized that trait in him; he thought that he was the only one who could do the thing right, and everyone else was an amateur, unless they were a renowned master. Even then, he doubted them.
Mithourn doubts everything, the mage thought to herself. And he’s always in a bad mood. He used to be more lighthearted, at least when he and Leyfian were in love. But even that never destroyed his stoniness. At least Gelvir is just quiet; he isn’t always in a perpetual foul temper. Why am I even thinking of Gelvir? That made her mind wander to her husband, Ålund, and she lost herself there for a time. Only when Leyfian sped her horse to fall in beside Mithourn and speak with him, only then did Kanni turn out of her thoughts and into the present instant. She was alone with Gelvir, and just that thought made her flush and look to her saddle horn. The Captain looked to the overhead foliage and hummed a weird tune.
Leyfian still didn’t know what to think of Mithourn’s sudden appearance, so when she came to ride next to him, she was at a loss for what to say. He looked at her with a glare—no, that was just how he gazed at everything. She didn’t remember him looking so hard. It has been eight years. We’ve both changed a lot since we last were in each other’s company. Leyfian didn’t know whether getting to meet the man again after so long was a Blessing or a Curse. Obviously his saving her was a Blessing, but how to move forward? Stay detached, or try and bridge their eight year gap?
She decided to start with something simple. “How is Kelestil?”
“She’s just fine, but in great need of her mother I’d say. I caught her crying several times over you. Also, she is far too adventurous for her own good. You shouldn’t have let her get so privileged. And what were you doing getting yourself killed?”
Leyfian frowned and gave him a sidelong look. She asked him a simple question, and he turned it around and made his answer into a critique of her parenting methods. “Well, it’s nice to see you again, too,” she reproved. Mithourn just sighed harshly. Leyfian looked off to the side for a moment, closed her eyes, and then turned back to him. She couldn’t just let it end there. “Let’s start over. How did you come to be Kelestil’s Kingsguard?”
“The King tangled me into it. Your father and uncle gave me little choice. I still don’t know why this little excursion with Kelestil required me in it. Did he know that you would try and get yourself murdered? What attacked you anyways?”
It stung to hear him sound so frustrated with her and her family. She shouldn’t have expected a warm exchange with him. “You didn’t see it?”
“No,”
“I don’t really know what it was, but the thing was . . . horrible.” Mithourn at least had a sympathetic expression when she said that. Leyfian didn’t want to dwell on the subject, so she asked another question. “Where have you been these last eight years?”
“Everywhere,” Mithourn answered simply.
“Have you . . . do you have any children?”
He took a deep intake of breath. “No; now stop prying,”
“I’m just showing an interest in someone I’ve known for half my life,” Leyfian retorted.
“You don’t know me, and I don’t know you. Not anymore—not after eight years. And we don’t need to revive what died in the past.” He kicked his mare to move ahead of Leyfian, leaving the woman to her own thoughts.
She glared tiredly at his back. There was no need for him to shove her aside like that. She wanted to approach him again and smooth it over, however abrasive he had been, but she saw that it would be hopeless to try it at that moment. So she let him lead while Kanni and Gelvir took the rear. As was usual of her, Leyfian became wrapped up in her mind, forgetting where she was while she took the paths through her memories and thoughts.
By gloam, when the sky was darkening, they had made fair progress, and Leyfian was sufficiently exhausted. Her wound may have only been a sore spot within her abdomen, but she still suffered from blood loss and trauma, so she was more than ready to lay down and pass out for the night.
The uneasy companions ended the day’s trek at a high vantage on the arm of a mountain, and from there they could see the jagged peaks all around them in the dimness. The men set up the shelters and cared for the horses while Kanni started a fire. She pressed her palms against a pile of tinder and then slowly lifted them, flames licking around her fingers and growing as she took her hands away. The heat never harmed her so long as she was forcing Fire through her body and out her hands, but as soon as she let go of the Magic, she jerked her arms to her sides. She gave Leyfian an embarrassed smile, then went to setting out some fur blankets for herself.
Leyfian reclined against a sun-bleached stump with her cloak wrapped around herself, yawning gratingly. She fell slowly to her side and began to fade into sleep. She was hazily aware of Kanni setting a rolled up blanket under her head before she completely passed out.
Despite all of their differences, the four companions all shared a common experience that night; they all suffered nightmares, and when they woke—all at different moments within the night—each was glad to see the others still there.
They were all haggard in the morning, except for Mithourn, who had since gained a resistance to his nightmares. He urged them on and had them on the road by early morning. Strange birds sung to them along the road, even as wild things prowled in the woods flanking them. Kanni tried not to look at them, but Gelvir stared them down, whether the creature was a marten or a cougar. It was his duty after all to fend off dangers that threatened his charge. Both of his charges, actually, since he had taken Kanni on as his responsibility.
Mithourn seemed to be slacking in his saddle, as he didn’t look to be scanning the forest for dangers. But, his patrolling instincts were so completely ingrained in him that he could keep as steady a watch as Gelvir without seeming to.
Later that day, after they had eaten a hasty meal and had given the horses a small rest, they walked beside their mounts, pulling their steeds by the reins. Leyfian came to traverse the road beside Mithourn nervously, wondering how to begin. It didn’t really matter if their years-dead relationship was reignited or not, but she did have to tell him something, now that she had the chance. The man just gave her a level, unreadable gaze.
Her vision flitted all over his face, refusing to rest on his eyes. “Mithourn . . . I can see that you don’t want to . . . you’re not interested in bridging the gap between us, and that’s just fine. I’m sure that Kelestil will release you from your bond, if you ask her to. But I have something I need to tell you before you leave.” Her heart beat anxiously, making her breath labored and precious. Why did she fear telling him it?
“And what do you need to tell me?” Mithourn asked, bland and blunt as he always was.
“I want to tell you when we’re back with Kelestil. You’ll understand then.”
“All right . . .” He gave her a quizzical look, but remained silent afterwards.
Leyfian slowed her walk, looking to the ground and studying how her feet moved in unison with Dune’s hooves. Kanni rode up next to her with the giant mare in tow behind her own steed.
The mage looked down at her. “Are you doing well? You look kind of pale. I mean, paler than you were yesterday.” She went to digging around in her saddlebags, and then pulled out a pouch with hunks of dried meat stored inside. “Here, have some more to eat,” she offered, leaning out of her saddle to hand the sustenance to Leyfian. The Dakrynian took it with a noise of gratitude and then munched deliberately on one of the strips of meat. She was feeling faint, since the mage mentioned it, and it was a deeper fatigue than the normal exhaustion she suffered sometimes from her weak heart.
Leyfian thought to her daughter, and almost laughed giddily. She had almost forgotten that Kelestil was waiting for her in Waendel, so the reminder made her feel lighthearted, content. Almost content. She would be truly fulfilled once she could bear-hug her daughter again.
Each day they came closer to Waendel, and Mithourn continued to urge them onward. He started to relax around them, and he seemed to be more like one of their companions instead of an intruder. Kanni enjoyed being contrary and difficult with him while Gelvir had quiet conversations with the Third High Captain. They had the commonality of having seen war, so they got along. Leyfian remained mostly in her own thoughts, but she occasionally approached Mithourn, then backed off again, getting a little closer each time. Slow and stealthily was the way to disarm a man like him, and she wanted him to be less steely when she told him what he needed to know.
On the twenty-eighth, four days after the incident at Jelril, they came across a suitably clear river, which meant that they each washed in it while simultaneously setting up camp. Kanni reveled in the water so long that Gelvir had to call after her to see that she was still alive. She might have left the river quicker, if she hadn’t the power to warm the cool water around her like a steamy bath. They were all in high spirits that night, except Mithourn, who still worried over Kelestil. Leyfian was just glad to be a day’s ride from her daughter instead of two months away. Still, despite the High Captain’s dark mood, they all talked around the fire before crawling under their blankets. They actually talked, and even Gelvir spoke, though he was usually the quietest of them all. They mainly went on at length of what they would do when their trouble-laden journey was ended. Leyfian just wanted to return to The Keep with Kelestil and laze about while raising her daughter (which was no easy task). Kanni also liked the idea of returning home to her husband, and serving the palace normally, without suffering long excursions from home. Gelvir was just satisfied with the idea of having both the women in a familiar place again, where they wouldn’t be plagued by demons and Dragons, and where he could get some actual sleep. Mithourn humored them by discussing their plans, but he never voiced his own desires. Maybe because what he wanted had to do with putting distance between himself and them. Or perhaps he didn’t know what he wanted.
Whatever the case, they went to their bedrolls by twilight and fell asleep next to the dwindling fire. That time, only Mithourn had nightmares, and they were mild compared to what he usually had to contend with. He had no idea of the living nightmare he was about to discover.
On the twenty-ninth morning of Mid Spring, Bæl`diis was low on the southern horizon with Orøs for a companion, but the two moons and the sun were soon covered by gray, stormy clouds. It drizzled on the four travelers, as lightning rent the sky to pieces occasionally, thunder roaring through the valleys and ricocheting off of the walls of mountains. In such a climate, they came to Waendel by midday, entering the dale by the ancient road and finding themselves surrounded by the pretty landscape.
Mithourn sighed loudly in relief when they entered the city, and he led the group to The Trader’s house. They dismounted together to approach the mansion, after tying the horses up of course. Mithourn was suspicious when he saw no Kingsguards standing sentinel near the double-doors to the house. He ground his teeth when he saw bloodstains on the cobblestones, too soaked into the rocks to be washed out. He didn’t waste any time, and before the others had caught up to what he had put together, he kicked the doors down. They flung inwards with a crack, revealing an empty entry hall. There was a dried puddle of blood in the center of the floor, and a few overturned tables, but nothing of The Trader’s ridiculous decorations remained. His house had been plundered, then.
Leyfian gasped and dashed past him, going into the dwelling, calling after her daughter in a panic. Gelvir went after her, but Kanni and Mithourn remained at the doorway.
The mage turned back and went towards her horse. “I’ll be back after I ask the locals what happened here,” she said as she mounted her steed to trot off, looking worried and harried at once.
Mithourn hardly took account of her. He gripped his pike with a steel fist and gritted his teeth until they felt ready to crack. “AGHHH!” he screamed, hurling his pike into the wall. It quivered where it stuck in the wooden paneling, s he left it there. He searched the mansion ceiling to floor, finding that all of the riches had been removed, and that there were indications of a violent struggle . . . or a slaughter. No bodies remained, and that likely meant that the townsfolk had cleaned up the place after seeing what had happened. Maybe Kanni could get some valuable answers out of the people of Waendel.
Mithourn stormed through the mansion to eventually find Leyfian and Gelvir. The former was on her knees in a hopeless position. She was in what used to be The Trader’s own chambers, where a huge, cushioned bed was centered and dressers were situated. She had her eyes plastered on a charcoal-written message on the wall. “He took her,” she moaned in a broken voice.
In the name of King Darenhar, yada-yada-yada:
To Leyfian, the whore of Helkras, and the bastard soldier, Mithourn:
Your precious Kelestil is with me, along with that slug of a trader and his Gelsingean bitch.
If you want your daughter back, or care to free the other two, then come to Theargern and claim them.
— Dirkfang, General of the Hargirmian Army
*
Kelestil couldn’t sleep on the moonless night of the twenty-ninth. Not because of the uncomfortable, shrubby grass and coarse ground underneath her back, or because of the snoring of twenty grisly outlaws—it was because of fear. The only comfort she had was that Sorrel and Jacsibial were with her, two sleeping forms in the night that flanked and protected her. She nudged Sorrel in the back, making the Gelsingean roll over quietly to face her. “Yes?” the young woman asked gently, tiredly.
“I’m scared,” Kelestil whispered back in the dark.
Sorrel’s eyes took her in, yellow irises gleaming in the night, abyssal pupils wide from the dark. She tried her best to hug and comfort Kelestil, even with bound wrists, acting like an older sister to the girl. “We’ll get away, somehow. I won’t let them hurt you, and neither will Jacsibial.” She didn’t sound convincing, though, because fear shone in her own eyes.
So far, only Jacsibial had suffered any abuse, because the bandits had thought him an easy target for punching and kicking, and they liked to see him puff and pant as he was forced to jog along after the horses in his thick, heavy silks. They would make him walk until he collapsed from exhaustion, beat him up some more, then finally sit him in the saddle. Most of the outlaws just gave Sorrel hesitant, fearful looks, because they thought that her golden eyes signified a demon-mage who would tear them to pieces if they so much as touched her the wrong way. They must have been fairly stupid, because they hadn’t realized that she would have done something already if she had been a demon-mage. One or two of them had tried to undress her, but Dirkfang had slapped them around before they got far. That was confusing, but it had happened.
None of them gave a second look at Kelestil because she was the valuable prisoner, except for Dirkfang, the leader of the rabble. He liked to torture her by threatening her with a long knife—a dirk—but the blade only came within a hair’s breadth of her before he would pull the knife back suddenly.
Dirkfang had taken them south from Waendel, going inevitably towards Theargern, where he would offer Kelestil to Darenhar as leverage against Helkras. Apparently, the bandit leader was the tyrant King’s General, and he had originally gone to Jacsibial’s dwelling for a small errand, only to find something much more priceless. He and his men had murdered the Kingsguards outside of The Trader’s household, knowing that someone of royalty was inside. Then they had broken in, slaughtered most of the servants and taken Kelestil and her two companions aside. Dirkfang had pummeled Jacsibial for answers, eventually getting the information he wanted. It was too much to expect of Jacsibial for him to hold out on the answers eternally; there was no hope of escape, no possibility of help since Waendel had no soldiers, and Dirkfang had been ruthless.
Kelestil cried quietly and stuffed her face into Sorrel’s dusty blouse. The Gelsingean let a few tears fall as well as she awkwardly patted Kelestil on the back with her tied-up hands. “We will get away. We have to.”
Sorrel hadn’t used her weak Magic to attempt an escape because it was pointless. The bonds were a formality; what kept them from escaping in the night were the facts that the outlaws surrounded them on all sides, there were sentries, and the horses were hobbled at a fair distance away from the camp. So they were trapped.
When morning finally came, after several sleepless, fearful hours, Kelestil observed as the men stirred and woke, getting about to their meals and feeding the horses. They all rode, and they went fast. Dirkfang apparently wanted to obtain an advantage by returning to Darenhar as quickly as mortally possible. He had gotten all the information he needed out of Jacsibial, and the bandit leader knew that Leyfian would be arriving in Waendel any day. He had left a message there for her, and he knew that she would come to Theargern swiftly, and likely without a cautious thought. Dirkfang had also sent one of his men to Herkile to inform Mawing of the situation, though the King would get to hear that Leyfian was held captive, whether that was the case or not.
Dirkfang came directly to his three prostrate captives and punched Jacsibial in the his massive gut, effectively waking the man. The Trader squawked and flailed pointlessly on the ground before he realized that he was no longer under attack. The rough, suntanned man then poked at Kelestil with his boot, and finally pulled Sorrel up by her hair. “It’s time to get moving, little trophies,” he announced in Helkrasic, then turned to his lethargic men. “Get saddled up you worthless shits!” he cursed in Hargirmian, changing moods in an instant. Kelestil thought that his mind might have cracked somewhere in his life.
The outlaws moved quickly, getting their stout, squat horses saddled and packed for another long, fast-paced day. Of course, they had to torture Jacsibial a bit, so they pulled him along behind one of the horses with a leash until the fat man could walk no longer. Then they put him up on a horse and really began the journey on the highroad.
The plains of Hargirm were expansive and green, covered in gentle knolls, and with hardly a tree in sight. It was really just a corridor between the Western and Central Mountains, but the peaks could only be seen as hazy shapes in either horizon. The south showed more empty flat lands, and the mountains in the north, which belonged to Vaelandol, were out of sight. The horses went at a fast trot the whole time, except for a few breaks throughout the day, where the outlaws would rest their steeds and then switch to ride on their remounts. Kelestil was stuck on a horse with Sorrel while Jacsibial got his own mount, a plow-horse to make up for his considerable girth. They were all bound at the wrists, fed and watered minimally, and handled roughly when being given to another horse as a burden. Kelestil could just barely withstand riding all day, but Sorrel winced with each step the horse took and she moaned. Her bottom was probably sore and bruised. Jacsibial was like a sack of potatoes on his steed; he hardly moved, and he sat slumped in his seat. He was probably too fat to even feel his saddle. His horse labored under him more than anyone else, and he had to be switched to a remount more often than the others.
They passed through several towns of Hargirm that day, where they saw normal farmers and artisans at work, living out their lives in overfilled dwellings. They seemed to have just enough to survive off of, but nothing in excess. They could probably all benefit from an extra meal each day. The people were roughly clad in garments similar to those of Helkras, but they all went without fur mantles or gloves.
None of the men, women or children glanced twice at the outlaws or their captives. They were probably used to such processions and knew that it was futile to raise a cry. The people of Hargirm had been cowed by generations of tyranny, and they would likely stay that way for as long as there was a tyrant on the throne. The way it looked to be, they would always have a despot, because they were so simple to take advantage of.
Dirkfang hurried them through each village and back onto the highroad, and the sun was beating warmly on them all, burning the captives after long exposure. All of the outlaws had since tanned and burned their skin so as not to be affected by the bright star anymore. The filthy men went on about what they would do with their reward once Darenhar got his prisoners. Some of their propositions were filthy like they were, and Sorrel glowered indirectly at them while she covered Kelestil’s ears, even if the girl didn’t understand the Hargirmian tongue. Dirkfang just rolled his eyes at their useless drivel. Likely he had plans to take the whole prize for himself.
They cut across the plains, keeping at a gallop until they came within sight of a large sandstone mass in the distance. The clump of bright, sand-colored stone resolved itself as the walls of Theargern, and at that point Dirkfang called the group to a slow trot.
The walls were tall, a hundred or more feet high, with a slight slope, and they were thick, made up of huge sandstone blocks. The rock had been mined from the shores of Aragen, a large lake ten miles south of Theargern. The walls were likely several miles in length, and they encircled all of the capital. The wall was interspersed with domed towers, catapults, giant crossbows and tens of thousands of arrow-slits. No structures had ever been built outside of the walls, because that would have been a disadvantage. An enemy could gain protection, prisoners and an upper hand in a siege. They could even burn all of the buildings and smoke out the Hargirmians. Without an outer city, Theargern was a much more secure stronghold, with less weaknesses. Theargern had always been more a fortress than a city, and now it was wholly a military encampment.
Dirkfang led the party to the base of the great rusted iron gates, seventy feet high, but only thirty wide. “Open the damned gates!” he screamed up at the guards on the top of the wall.
“Who demands entrance?” one of them yelled back.
“Dirkfang, you son of a–”
“Just had to be sure, General,” the sentinel explained, and then he shouted down to someone on the other side of the wall. “Open the gates!”
There was a bestial roar that echoed from behind the sandstone barrier, and then the gates began to swing inward with creaks and groans. Quivering footsteps shook the ground as chains clattered and gears turned, and all of the mechanics rendered an open path for Dirkfang’s group. Somehow the General made his horse saunter arrogantly into the city, while he looked over-proud of himself, with a ridiculous grin on his face. While the bandits followed their leader into the city, the three captives gaped at who had operated the gates.
A Titan Rhinoceros was an awing sight. The beast was forty or more feet tall, with a long neck and slender legs like a horse. His skin was rough and dull beige, his eyes dark and squinted. He only had a stump remaining in place of his horn. The crowning glory had likely been removed by the Hargirmians to destroy his best weapon.
The sentinel yelled at the Titan Rhino to close the gate again, since the beast was strapped and belted to a giant cogwheel that operated the doors of Theargern. The giant creature growled and fell tiredly to his knees.
“Do you want to be roasted tonight? Darenhar will have you eaten if you keep this up, you lazy grunt!”
The beast groaned with exhaustion, and then stood to drag the cogwheel around, closing the gates with a screech. “If Darenhar wants me to keep tugging your fucking wheel, he should feed me more often. Five wagons can not hold enough grass for one day, you stupid bastard.”
Kelestil couldn’t tell what was said, as she didn’t understand Hargirmian, but Sorrel could, and she explained it to the girl. They shared an amazed look, even if it was just for a moment before they were clawed back into their present circumstance. Jacsibial was unimpressed, and he slumped further in his saddle at the sound of the enormous voice of the creature, which thundered through the city.
Looking about, the captives observed the city as Dirkfang led them through the center of it, following a straight, wide cobbled path. The buildings had shingled, sloped roofs and walls built of dark wood with sandstone bricks. The detailing could only be found in the wood, and even it was simply squared.
Two things immediately made themselves known to the newcomers: The city was holding only a quarter of its capacity in people, and there were no women. Not one except for Kelestil and Sorrel. The men were all in prime fighting condition as well, with none of them too young or too old. The overfilled villages would explain where most of the people had gone, but even then, Sorrel had noticed a lot of older and younger folks in those villages. All of the middle-aged men were obviously in Theargern, but where had all the mature, fertile women gone?
At a gasp from Kelestil, Sorrel looked up and saw the real wonder of Theargern. At the southern half of the city was a sudden cliff that raised several hundred feet above the rest of the city, and its flat platform held The Palace of Theargern, as well as a few clusters of buildings which crowded its flanks. The Gelsingean didn’t know why she hadn’t paid it any attention earlier; the thing was massive. It had four main towers, one at each corner, and the central area was an enormous mass with the protrusions of more towers, chambers and halls. It was domed and blunt overall, made of sandstone like the walls, and perfectly majestic. It could likely house two-thousand men.
Sorrel wished that she could have seen it under kinder circumstances. The men of the city looked at her either with hate or lust, and she wondered why she hadn’t been hurt in one way or another already by Dirkfang’s outlaws. The leader had beaten off one or two of the bandits who had thought to toy with her in a disgusting way, but that made little sense, unless he wanted her for himself. She shivered with unrealized fear. She would know soon enough, and she was afraid of that fact.
After the better part of an hour, Dirkfang led the group up a crooked staircase carved into the wall of the jagged cliff, going up the wild heights to the flat top of the bluff. They were greeted by the arched threshold into The Palace once they reached the peak of the heights. Guards stood to either side of the entrance, and there, Dirkfang had everyone dismount. Irritably, he pulled Kelestil and Sorrel down, since they might have fallen on their faces if they had attempted it themselves. Bound wrists could be a pain. Dirkfang left Jacsibial to slide off his saddle and land in a heap on the ground. The outlaw rounded the three prisoners up and pushed them towards the archway of The Palace. When his men went to follow him, he turned abruptly on the outlaws and hissed. “All of you, go,” he commanded, but they were hesitant. They were probably just beginning to see that they would get none of the reward. “Go, all of you shits!” Dirkfang screamed suddenly, and that sent them in every direction, so long as it was away from him.
Left alone with his captives, Dirkfang pulled the three along, taking the girls by their bonds and tugging them behind him while putting a foot on Jacsibial’s back and propelling the fat man forward. Going through The Palace in that fashion, they traversed the inner intestines of the enormous keep, going ever upward and inward. The halls and ceiling were of bright yellowish sandstone, while the floors were often paved with tiling or marble. Wherever it was possible, the corridors and rooms were spotted, even lined with windows. The smaller specimens were filled with grated glass, but the larger openings were empty except for flowing red curtains.
Soldiers were stationed everywhere, though many were off duty. It seemed that much of the military was housed in the palace, by the number of fighting men that inhabited it. Those who weren’t in armor worked in other ways, such as keeping The Palace in order and feeding the soldiers.
Kelestil saw a ragged, tired-looking Boar pushing a cart full of chamberpots down a hall. The boar looked perfectly malcontent, and he glared at the men of The Palace. The girl had only a second to observe him before she was whisked away by Dirkfang. She hated the man, and that she was trapped amongst enemies. There had been little time to bemoan her situation over the days unless it was at night. Otherwise she was stuck in a state of survival, and that reptilian mentality didn’t allow for complaints or sorrows.
Dirkfang stopped suddenly before a set of iron doors, so Kelestil was ripped out of her reverie. The General pushed past Jacsibial who had been the trailblazer, and he kicked the doors open with a self-important flair. Just passed the iron barrier was a medium-sized chamber with dark stone construction and windows looking both east and west. Either view showed the major towers and jumbled mass of The Palace, the wall of Theargern beyond, and then the green plains of Hargirm. The day was getting to be late, so the sun was visible in the western window, and light filtered in from the opening.
At the back of the room was a simple throne of granite, and the man who stood facing it. The large, gaunt man turned to face the newcomers with a glower that took them all in. His harsh gaze was intense, making his scarred, livid face seem all the more brutal. His clothing was fit enough for armor, made of leather and chain-mail, with a fur mantle going over his shoulder. He was obviously past his middle years, still strong, but beginning to decline. The hate in his eyes said that he would continue in life as long as he needed, if it brought him what he most wanted.
“King Darenhar,” Dirkfang greeted with a mocking bow and a flourish, feinted respect touching his voice. “I have prisoners for you. Very pivotal prisoners,” he added, as if trying to gain favor by talking up to his King with words he didn’t know.
Darenhar, the mad King of Hargirm, the insane tyrant who had burned his country as much and more than his enemies had, made a sneer. That expression turned to a grave look of restrained hatred as he took in Sorrel completely. He walked up to her with thunderous steps, and then took her chin in his hand, lifting her face up to observe it. She squeaked, and her eyes widened, but that just worked against her benefit.
He growled a curse after seeing her golden irises. “You brought a demon with you,” he announced in a voice that was strained and hate-filled. He let go of Sorrel with a jerk and wiped his hand off on Dirkfang’s shoulder. It didn’t look like he considered his General to be much cleaner than the supposed ‘demon,’ the way he gave the man a disgusted look. “Why didn’t you kill her? The Gelsingeans tore our country apart, and you spared one of their lives?”
Dirkfang shrugged. “You should know by now that I don’t belong to any country, so the golden-eyes didn’t hurt me in particular. You shouldn’t be too prickled by it anyways; I saved her to have a little fun, since you got rid of all the women around here. I figured you’d like to hear her screaming.”
Sorrel gasped abruptly, and her eyes dilated at his words. What torture was she about to enter? This nightmare won’t end! It just gets worse! She had been worried over Kelestil as well as herself over the time of their imprisonment, but now she had no thought except for her own survival. Anything to escape. Except, there was no escape; Dirkfang had a perfect grip on her, and there was nowhere to go other than the windows. There wouldn’t be any hope there, so she waited for an opportunity, heart fluttering sickly, body quivering.
Jacsibial moaned at Dirkfang’s proposition, begging hopelessly with him, promising to pay any price to keep Sorrel unhurt, but neither the outlaw nor the mad King acknowledged the fat man.
“I want her dead,” Darenhar stated as a direct command. “I will put her down myself if you won’t,”
Dirkfang backed up, tugging the two girls back with him. He pulled Sorrel especially close, though she leaned away from him in fear. “I want her, I’m not gonna get rid of her,” he resisted. “I went through the trouble of keeping the other men off of her the whole trip back here, and if that was just a waste of effort, you won’t have a very happy General.”
Darenhar simmered for a moment, glaring contemplatively from his General to the golden-eyed woman. The Gelsingean looked to be split in horror between two horrible prospects; either a definite end, or a period of slavery that might not finish with her free or alive. The King may have made the conclusion that Dirkfang would kill her, purposely or indirectly, by the time he was through with her, which was why Darenhar restrained himself in that moment. “You can keep her,” he allowed begrudgingly, and the woman sobbed quietly to herself, pulling at her bonds pathetically. “Just mark what I say; you will be the one who is screaming when her Curse eats you from the inside and tears you to shreds.” Darenhar had no pity for either of them. The King turned to look at The Trader, who was on his knees and imploring for the woman’s sake. It was hard to tell who the fat man was pleading with; his babbling was so panicked and muffled with fear that he could have been talking to either, or both at once. Dirkfang performed the favor of shutting the fat man up with a knee to the stomach.
“The Trader,” Darenhar said blandly as he observed the toppled, heaving ball of silk and dust. The fat man moaned on, saying that they couldn’t hurt her, that he would do anything. His love of the golden-eyed girl sickened Darenhar. Such acceptance of the filth was comparable to worshiping and loving one of the Kuldaki, in his eyes. He snarled at the man on the floor and turned The Trader over with his boot. “Did you pillage his dwelling?”
“You bet,” Dirkfang answered. “He had all sorts of valuable things laying around in plain view, it was a wonder no one had taken them already.”
Darenhar was unimpressed so far with the prisoners. “I may be able to extort some of his assets out of him, but what real, pivotal use is there to a rich man and a Cursed girl?”
Dirkfang pointed quickly to Kelestil. “She’s the valuable prisoner.”
The girl had yet to gain Darenhar’s attention, as she had been quietly watching in terror as the other two captives were broken down. He looked to her now, but he didn’t see what his General was talking about. “This child? What can she do for me?”
Dirkfang took on a confident stride in his voice. “I got The Trader to squeal, and boy did he have a tale to tell. This is Kelestil, granddaughter of King Mawing, and daughter of Leyfian. Apparently the bitch was just about to arrive in Waendel with some shit-soldier, but I got there first, and now her beloved daughter is in my hands. I left a note in The Trader’s home, telling her how it is, so she’ll come rushing here without a thought. A distraught mother will be easy to manipulate—I should know, because my old woman was stupid enough to get herself killed for me.” Darenhar’s eyes widened in realization, and he began to show the traces of his infamous insanity. “I also sent a messenger north to tell King Mawing that we have both Kelestil and Leyfian, and that he better come quick and without an army, if he wants to see them alive.”
Darenhar nodded in understanding, then went to take Kelestil by her bonds, but Dirkfang jerked her back and out of the reach of the King. “What are you doing? Give her to me!” the tyrant howled.
“You don’t get her yet; not until you give me a proper reward.”
“And what would you demand for a prize?”
Dirkfang licked his lips thoughtfully. “A promise,”
The King gave his General another disgusted look, but then settled himself and crossed his arms. “What promise would that be?” he asked, willing to humor Dirkfang just to keep the outlaw’s wavering loyalty.
“I want you to swear that you’ll give me Herkile when Helkras is all nice and roasted to your liking—I always wanted a fancy home base.”
“A large city,” Darenhar observed.
“And an even larger country. You get the rest of the land, I just want a town that you’ll likely burn to the paving stones anyways. Also, as part of your promise to me, I want Leyfian, once you’re done using her in this war. I heard that she’s beautiful, and I always wanted to screw a royal woman.”
“I promise you will have both,” Darenhar pledged quickly.
“I want it written, and with your seal on it,” Dirkfang added to his demand.
The mad King growled. “I will write it out as soon as Kelestil is in my keeping,”
The outlaw lifted a conceding hand, causing the gathering tension to instantly fade. “That’s all I wanted,” He pushed Kelestil towards Darenhar. “Now just keep her nice and cozy for her mother, and everything should go peachy afterwards, if you consider war peachy.” He dragged The Trader to his feet and then pulled his two remaining prisoners back out the way he had come. “I’ll have someone question this fat slug, and you can be sure that you won’t see a peep of this Cursed girl.” At that, he went down the hall, struggling with Sorrel the whole while as she tried to escape him.
Kelestil was alone with Darenhar as two guards closed the iron doors from the outside. She looked fearfully to the ground. She was afraid for Sorrel and Jacsibial, but she was more concerned with what the King had in mind for her. He pushed her to the back of the throne room, towards a dark passage behind the ruling seat. Following the dim corridor, they went down a set of spiraling steps, ending in a damp, cold dungeon. There were three empty cells recessed into the walls, sealed in with rusted iron bars. There was one small window in the whole dungeon, and it reached the sunlight by going through a dozen feet of solid stone.
Darenhar threw open a screeching iron door and stuffed Kelestil into the darkest of the cells. He slammed the door shut behind her, then locked it with keys from the dungeon wall. Without a word he left, jangling keys in hand.
Looking around her new abode, Kelestil spotted a pile of decayed straw, a dry old blanket and a rotting chamberpot in the back corner of the prison. She sat in the opposite corner and pulled her knees to herself. Her life had really turned into a mess. Now that she had a quiet reprieve to think, she felt like crying. She hadn’t seen her maea in two months, and right when she was about to be reunited with her mother, she and her two new friends were kidnapped, tortured and imprisoned. Now anything might happen to them all, and she didn’t even have the ability to know what her captors were saying. Hargirmian was very closely related to Helkrasic, but she could only piece together a few words, and that didn’t yield much for her.
Kelestil wept into her hands, crying until she forgot what it was she was sobbing over. Finally, she rubbed at her reddened eyes and sniffled, looking around her cell again. She spotted a little beetle in the light of the young evening. The tiny insect crawled on the damp stone bricks beneath her feet, and it looked to be confused, trekking in circles and odd spirals. She coaxed the tiny creature onto her finger, then brought it up to her face. Kelestil watched as it scuttled around on her hand in a panic. It sprouted wings and flew off, escaping the dungeon through the one window. She wished that it could have turned into a giant and broken a way out for her, but obviously, no such thing happened.
Time passed, until twilight came, and the girl waited for nothing, wondering whether she wanted to keep waiting, or if she would rather see what happened next and get on with it. Eventually, it became too dark to see anything and she shivered in the ensuing cold. Nights were still chilly in Mid Spring, so she was forced to use the old blanket in the prison to keep herself warm.
A flickering light shone in the recess of the staircase, gaining slowly in brightness. Footsteps accompanied the light, and a man soon revealed himself at the base of the stairs, lantern in hand. He was in his middle years, with an overgrown umber beard and short, wavy hair with gray mixed in it. His frame was strong and muscular, despite being dressed in ragged garments and looking as if he had been in disrepair for a while. He had a newly healed scar on his brow that Kelestil observed when he came to sit next to her cell. The man pushed bread and meat between the bars towards her, along with a nicer blanket. He had a covering for himself, which he wrapped up in, laying his flickering lantern to the side. The illumination wavered and framed him in warm light, painting odd shadows all over the dungeon.
Kelestil took the offered supplies, tightening the blanket around herself, but she didn’t have an appetite to eat. She placed the food in her lap but didn’t touch it otherwise.
“Eat, girl,” the man urged, leaning back against a wall of the dungeon and staring at the other side tiredly. “You need it.”
Kelestil bit slowly into the bread, finding it to be stale and tasteless. She continued to eat just to have something to do. “Why are you staying here?” she asked between a mouthful of food.
He sighed and rolled his ankles. “Because there are worse men here than Darenhar or Dirkfang,” he answered in Helkrasic, a definite Hargirmian accent touching his voice. “Who are you?” he asked, glancing briefly at her. “No one tells me anything around here.” He laughed at that, like a nervous bark, and he looked to the staircase anxiously for a moment.
“I’m . . . I’m Kelestil,” the girl answered. “What’s your name?”
“Damn it,” the man swore mutely when he heard her name, and then he sighed deeply. “Who am I?” He asked afterwards, cocking his head to look at her. Firelight gleamed in his eyes. “Some call me the rebel-general, and many know me as The Bear, but most simply . . .” He leaned forward, and a vengeful glow came in his eyes, promising punishment to those he had rebelled against. “I am Hafkil.”
Chapter XVI
A Fated Beacon
31st of Mid Spring, 376, 5th Era – Jelril, Eastern Caldkere
Tik . . . tik . . . tik . . . tik . . . A small timepiece of gears and axles counted down the time meticulously. It was connected to the inner workings of the machine in Jelril, miraculously joined with everything else in a complicated symmetry. At the moment, nothing else was moving on the anomaly; gears were stagnant, pipes and pistons were silent, chains no longer revolved. The cave had collapsed around the machine since the fateful quake that it had caused, but unfortunately, none of its outer components had been damaged. The remaining cavern was small and encroaching, dark and damp. The timepiece went on. Tik . . . tik . . . tik . . . tik . . .
Suddenly, an arm in the clock fell, connecting the few live gears to another set of cogwheels. Those newly activated mechanics began to rotate, and more noises joined the first. Tik tok tok tik tok tok tik tok tok . . .
The timepiece spread its heartbeat outwards, starting up the rest of the machine. Chains grated into motion and gears slowly gained speed, groaning and creaking until they were back to their working gait. Pipes bulged with inner power just as pistons began to siphon in and out of them. At the grated end of a pipe, a blue flame sprouted, licking the bottom of a dead crystal. The flame brought it to life, bringing light and radiance into its shining facets. More flames flew out at the other crystals held on the anomaly, lighting them like lanterns.
A laboring noise emanating from the whole machine grew in volume until finally . . . Spshhhhhh! Steam billowed out of an exhaust duct, releasing excess energy.
When the last crystal burst to light, the machine was already creating its usual hum which reverberated through the earth. The massive lenses on the anomaly began to shift and align in a complicated manner, making slight adjustments as were necessary. There were enough lenses to account for each crystal.
The inner timepiece came to its last, muffled tick.
The first crystal shot a diffuse light into a lens, which amplified and concentrated that illumination into a single beam. That ray shot into the next crystal, which added to the beam’s original power. The next lens took that doubled strength of light and created a brighter shaft, and the blinding ray went about in a complex web around the machine, threading it with light. Unexpectedly, the last and most powerful beam went down through the top of the machine, into a hidden chamber. The anomaly quivered.
With a roar, the whole machine shook, threatening to tear itself down but not quite reaching the brink. A glowing, diffuse light gathered in an orb around the top of the anomaly, gathering strength before its final outcome. In an instant, the light gathered, and shot a concentrated, molten illumination into the ceiling of the cavern.
A sonic boom flattened the night-shrouded forest around the ruin of Jelril for a thousand feet, and an earthquake ensued seconds afterwards. A light to surpass the sun shot into the atmosphere and disappeared into the void of space. The earthquake affected the land and could be felt for hundreds of miles. The initial flash of light could be seen for thousands.
The beam of light concentrated into a thin needle and remained pointing skyward, a fateful beacon to the world. Of what it foretold, none would know. Not until it was too late.
*
Mithourn woke up from a dead sleep, and he sat up from his blankets, looking over the tall grasses that surrounded him. The others were awake as well; they were all gazing to the same place. A loud booming noise had wakened them, and a moment after they became conscious, an unbelievably bright flash of light invaded the sky to blind them. Kanni shrieked, while Mithourn grunted from shock.
When they regained their sight, which was poisoned by an afterimage for several minutes, they saw nothing of the light anymore, but instead felt a tremor in the earth that shook them and upset the horses. It slowly faded away and everything fell still again, aside from a cool breeze.
Gelvir stared blankly where the light had originated. “What infernal pit did that come from?” he asked no one in particular, so none of them answered. Kanni’s mouth was open wide enough to make a Wolverine jealous.
“I think that was from Jelril . . .” Leyfian mused to herself, seeing that the position of the light was somewhere near where the ruin had been, if she knew anything about directions and distances. She shivered.
The Western Mountains were just barely visible from where they were in the plains of Hargirm, shadowy outlines that lined the lower half of the heavens. The stars were still out playing in the sky, winking innocently in the darkness. Half of Dus`ridyian could be seen on the eastern horizon above the Central Mountains, but it was just a black disk in the void. There were still several hours to pass before day came on.
Kanni went unconscious a minute after the incidence, and Leyfian followed her example. Gelvir wasn’t far behind, but Mithourn had trouble falling asleep again. He couldn’t stop wondering what the light meant, and what would come after it. Like always, he suspected that nothing good would stem from it, whatever it was.
Inevitably, dawn came, and in the gray, dewy morning, they woke up to gather themselves, packing up their camp and eating a full breakfast. They wouldn’t stop for hours once they were on the road.
Even knowing that, Leyfian was fidgety and anxious to move, so Kanni had to sit her down and stuff a bowl of food in her face. They were all anxious to find and rescue Kelestil, but Leyfian would kill the horses and herself if she weren’t restrained by the others. Kanni also sat next to her and put an arm around her shoulders as she cried into her food.
Mithourn thought that Leyfian might actually have more fear than Kelestil did, wherever the girl was. It was frequently like that with parents. The offspring usually had less fear for themselves than their forebears had for them. Creator, I’m not even her father, and I’m about to go insane worrying over her. He inhaled sharply. If Darenhar knows what’s good for him, he won’t hurt Kelestil. But what about this Dirkfang? What would he be willing to do? He gritted his teeth and saddled the horses. There was no need for pointless thoughts when he didn’t even know the situation clearly. Kelestil had been kidnapped by men from Darenhar, and that was most of what he knew. Kanni’s questioning of the locals in Waendel had only gotten a few facts straight; outlaws had flooded into the city and attacked The Trader’s house, killing all except for The Trader himself, a Gelsingean woman and a Dakrynian girl. The rest of his curiosities would have to be figured out when they reached Theargern.
They moved quickly on the highroad south, keeping the horses at a constant trot throughout the day, only resting them occasionally. Several villages were passed that day and the next, so the companions observed the inhabitants closely, especially Mithourn. He wanted to confirm Captain Taylan’s news to him, the piece about all of the mature, prime women being gone from Theargern. All of the dwellings were overpopulated, housing several families per each roughly thatched home. It only took a little casual questioning to learn that many of the people were newly arrived from the capital. Mithourn could easily see that young men and women were wanting in many of the settlements. There were too many children and older folks in the hamlets and towns to be natural.
As the group went south, they concocted a rough plan. It was necessary for Leyfian to go into Theargern to plead with Darenhar, and Mithourn would go as well, to keep her company and face the dangers with her. Dirkfang seemed to know that he would be with Leyfian anyways, so he would fulfill the General’s expectations. Besides, Mithourn felt personally responsible for Kelestil’s safety, so he had to see her home in one piece.
Since the General didn’t seem to know of Kanni and Gelvir’s presence in the bargain, those two would remain outside of Theargern to secretly try and find a way in and out. Hopefully they could discover a way to siphon Mithourn, Leyfian and Kelestil out of the capital before Darenhar decided to kill them all in a mad spurt.
On the first golden morning of Late Spring, Leyfian sighed in relief at the sight of Theargern’s bright walls. It was a mixed feeling that coursed through her, relief and anxiety at once. The four stopped a few miles off, concealing themselves behind a high, craggy hill.
Kanni hugged Leyfian encouragingly. “This is goodbye, but only for a little while . . . I hope. Maybe Darenhar will do the world a favor and croak. In either case, me and Gelvir will find an out for all of us.” Leyfian nodded silently, then looked to where Theargern lay. Kanni let go and turned hesitantly towards Mithourn, who busied himself with preparing his packs. “Keep Leyfian and Kelestil safe while you’re having fun in there. It’ll be up to you to guard them until we can get you out.”
“Of course,” Mithourn replied gruffly. “Just remember to approach Theargern after dark. You have some waiting to do.”
“I’m not a little child, you big dummy!” the woman exclaimed. “Those sick bastards won’t see us lurking around; I can promise it.”
Mithourn gave a positive gesture, then turned to Leyfian, who was still staring blankly into the distance. “Are you ready? I have the packs prepared so we can carry them ourselves if they take our horses away.”
Leyfian gave him a nervous look, probably fearful of what would happen once they were behind those iron gates. “All right, let’s go.” She jumped onto Dune, heeling him towards the road. Mithourn followed closely after her, eventually taking the lead. Gelvir and Kanni were hidden behind the hills, and then Mithourn and Leyfian were alone.
The walls of Theargern grew until the barrier loomed before them, casting deep shadows where it was turned away from the sun. The domed towers seemed to watch them cautiously. When the two came to the base of the orange-rusted iron gates, they had only to wait a moment before the doors slid open with a deafening screech. They were expected.
The ground shook underneath them as something truly colossal made ponderous footfalls. They were both breathless when they saw the Titan Rhinoceros tugging a cogwheel around in tight circles, winding up the chains that operated the gates.
They entered the city slowly, their steeds’ hooves echoing off the paving stones mutely amidst the cacophony that the Rhinoceros had conjured. The moment they were past the gates, the giant was ordered to turn around and double back on all of the work he had just done. Mithourn heard the Titan muttering foul curses vaguely towards Darenhar, and he raised his brow. It surprised even him to hear a mammoth creature speaking a human tongue.
Him and Leyfian were quickly surrounded by ten soldiers, and Mithourn’s weapons were removed from him. He had little choice in the matter, unless he fancied dueling ten soldiers all alone. His precious pike was removed from his grasp, his sword unsheathed from his hip. They found a dozen other objects that could be titled as weapons, and then they moved on, keeping their loose circle around him and his companion. Leyfian gave him a concerned look before urging Dune to follow their escort.
Mithourn sighed, then kicked Thistle to a trot. They all went towards The Palace of Theargern, a structure that he had seen before. Helkras had launched an attack against the capital, but the siege had fallen apart quickly afterwards. Mithourn had to admit that Theargern was a worthy fortress to besiege.
He looked around, studying and taking note of the city; it was only holding a fraction of its usual population, but it still had men on every street, lugging carts or riding horses and wagons. Captain Taylan had been right; there were absolutely no women in the city, and no men who weren’t able to fight. The city had been completely militarized. It also seemed that the capital had been invaded with criminal types. Roughly clad, savage men with rusted short-swords and billhooks patrolled the streets, running their suspicious gaze over everything. Mithourn felt suddenly protective over Leyfian; she was the only woman in a female-deprived society full of virile men, and she was a pretty woman at that. He suspected that her importance as a captive would protect her from them when Darenhar had her in his grasp. The Third High Captain was glad that Kanni had not joined them, since the mage had no title or use to protect her, and her Magic would have done nothing if a thrown object rendered her unconscious. Leyfian seemed to be on his trail of thinking, because she edged her horse to walk closer in stride with his.
They went up the bluff to the high-founded Palace, and when they came to the entrance of the keep, they were met with a coarse-looking man. He was suntanned, clothed in mismatched armor.
He had a vile grin. “Welcome, my lady and . . . you,” he ended bluntly, not even feinting respect for Mithourn. “I, Dirkfang, General of Hargirm’s armies, have been commanded by the great King Darenhar to escort you to your new chambers. Follow me,” he ordered.
They both dismounted and took their saddlebags in hand before their horses were taken away. Then Dirkfang took them around the entire Palace, so that they were both lost and utterly disoriented when they were shown to their chamber. It was likely a tactic to keep them from escaping The Palace if they managed to get out of their prison cell.
Leyfian refused to follow the General’s order to enter the room. “Where is Kelestil? What have you done to my daughter?” her voice wavered between crippling fear and fierce, motherly rage.
“You won’t get to see her if you don’t cooperate,” Dirkfang announced in a whisper, getting up close to casually fondle her butt. She jumped through the threshold and gave him a venomous glare. He just kicked Mithourn hard in the chest, making the bigger man stumble into the room after her, and slammed the wooden door in their faces. There was a sound of locks being slid to, and then of booted feet taking positions to either side of the barrier.
They were caught.
The wait until night was awkward, to understate it. Kanni mainly just sat with her hands between her legs, trying unsuccessfully to whistle a tune she vaguely remembered from her childhood. Gelvir kept looking towards Theargern and crawling to the top of the hill to take a peek at the city, all the while sighing heavily to himself.
Eventually, the mage mustered the bravery to ask the focused man a question. “Cats or dogs?” Maybe a little out of the usual and asked at an odd time, but that was the humor of it. She wanted to get him to laugh, or at least brighten a smidge. He could be a real damp cloth, and the situation was dire enough without him adding to it.
“I prefer dogs,” the Captain answered with surprising quickness. “But cats are nice companions as well. My niece cares for about a dozen of them.”
“Oh, so you have siblings? I have a brother somewhere . . . I don’t know where he went. I might have nieces or nephews, but it’s hard to say, seeing that I can’t even locate my brother.” Gelvir didn’t have a response to that, so Kanni in turn had to become more blunt to get him to talk more. “Well, why don’t you say something more than is minimally necessary? We have to do something to pass the time! Do you not like the sound of my voice or something?”
“I enjoy hearing you talk,” Gelvir stated in such a way that caused Kanni to blush. “I’m just not one for many words.”
“All right, then what are we supposed to do to pass the time? I don’t feel like practicing Magic, and you aren’t in the mood to talk . . .” She exhaled deeply, wishing suddenly that she could be with her husband again, and that she didn’t have to worry about an insane king and his plots to burn the world.
“We can talk; there doesn’t seem anything else to do, and I don’t see the point of making plans until we can see Theargern up close.”
Kanni perked up at that. “So . . . umm . . . Oh damn it! Now I can’t think of anything!”
Gelvir just raised his brow at her like he always did. “How about I ask a question . . . Why did you become a mage?”
“Well that’s simple—wait no, it isn’t—you see, I was born and raised in Helkras, but I had to travel with my parents to Gelsing. I think my father was working as an architect in Sej Dae for a while—my memory is kind of hazy because I was only two summers old at the time. Anyways . . .”
She went on, and then that led to more conversation, until they realized that half the day was gone. They then paused to take a look together at the path they would take to get to Theargern. Unless clouds hid the sky that night, they were both certain that they would have Dus`ridyian’s light to see by, at least until late evening. Gelvir swiftly marked out a trail for them which would provide cover for the journey. He had spotted an area of Theargern’s wall which looked to have a good hiding place, but it was only a guess from such a distance.
They waited for the onset of the shadows, that time in comfortable silence, and when Dus`ridyian cast its bright, diffuse light on the land, they started their trek. Gelvir led Kanni and the horses along the shadowy paths, following the heights of the knolls and natural ridges in the landscape. He pointed out the stupidity of the Hargirmians on the wall of Theargern; the fools lit up lanterns and bore torches with them, pointing themselves out to the enemy and ruining their night vision so that they couldn’t even see two sneaks in the dark. That didn’t mean that Gelvir let down his guard or became arrogant; he was just glad for another advantage on their side.
Kanni held herself low as they approached the base of the wall. “Maybe we should have left the horses,” she whispered.
“We may need them to escape; they’ll be worth the trouble,” Gelvir responded in a similarly quiet voice.
Kanni suddenly realized that she couldn’t remember the last time Gelvir had addressed her as ‘my lady.’ She shook the thought out of her head and pulled her horse along, looking up anxiously at the height of the wall. The mage enjoyed taking care for her pretty mare, but the equine was a noisy one, and she prayed that the horse chose to be quiet for some time.
They went along the eastern side of Theargern, searching out the area Gelvir had spotted by daylight. It took them a few heart-throbbing hours, but by the time Dus`ridyian was out of sight, and the night was dark, they had found the perfect place. Near the southern end of Theargern, where the walls and Palace were situated on the jutting table of a rocky bluff, the two sneaks found a small cave which burrowed into the wall of natural stone.
Kanni made a dim Light and scouted out the cave while Gelvir urged the horses into the shelter. It went about thirty feet in as a narrow tunnel, and then there was a nook that branched off to the side, just large enough for a sleeping area. Kanni felt very safe and cozy in the place, so she put a few Lights in the corners of the hollow and helped Gelvir prepare their temporary residence. They hobbled the horses and unsaddled them, throwing their packs to the back of the cavern, and spreading their furs, blankets and canvas shelters on the ground. The woman then had Gelvir stay out of the nook until she finished dressing in her nightgown. When she threw a blanket over herself and snugged into the padded ground, she called quietly to Gelvir so that he could get some sleep. It seemed that he had redressed himself as well, because he only wore a tunic and trousers instead of his plated coating of steel.
They fell asleep facing away from each other, but when Gelvir woke in the morning, he found his arm was resting around her smaller frame. She was covered in a thick blanket, and still faced away from him, so he didn’t feel too embarrassed. He slowly took his arm away, hoping that she didn’t know that he had held her for The Creator knew how long.
They prepared to search the wall for an entrance of some sort, dressing in dun clothing and forgoing any steel buckles or brooches. Gelvir wrapped the pommel of his sword with a handkerchief to prevent it from shining in the sunlight. They then went to stealthily tracing the outer edge of the looming wall, taking what cover they could. The first half of their journey took them around the wild stone tabletop that the southern half of Theargern rested on. They soon found something of interest; a gaping cavern wide enough for ten horses and high enough to give spare room to their riders’ heads. The two peeked around the edge of the large, jagged threshold, finding no one there.
“I’ll go on ahead,” Kanni stated, “I’m quieter and smaller than you.”
“No, I will go; you shouldn’t put yourself in danger,”
The mage huffed. “I know what I’m doing, pea-brain. I’m the one who has Magic at my disposal. And I can take care of myself. You should get a wife and hen-peck her instead.”
Gelvir thought for a second, ignoring Kanni’s frustrated comment. “We’ll both go.”
Neither of them had any choice but to accept each other’s company, so they went into the cave together and with as much caution as they could spare. It went up a slight slope, and ended in a giant, underground stable of all things. Hundreds of horses were kept in rough stalls, surrounded by the notched walls of a natural cavern, lighted by lanterns and holes in the ceiling which led to sunlight.
The two intruders kept low, sneaking past soldiers who were shoveling horse manure and raking hay about, disturbing only a few of the horses. At the back of the subterranean stables was a man-carven staircase which led up towards what looked to be the interior of The Palace, if the sandstone block construction and lofty ceilings were any sign. Since the steps were obviously void of anyone, they went up together, making sure that their footsteps didn’t echo and give away their presence. At the summit of the stairs they found a large chamber with high-set windows and a dozen doorways going in various directions and elevations.
Kanni went along in one direction, hugging the walls and looking through each empty corridor. She heard the noise of clattering steel coming from an opposing hall, and she pressed herself back against the wall in a fright. Unbeknownst to her until that moment, there was a barrel chute at that point in the wall, and she fell into it with a scream.
Sliding at a frightening speed down the dusty stone gutter, she tried to turn onto her belly so she could see where she was plummeting to, but she just ended up in an odd, half-contorted position and fell in a heap out the end of the chute. She was grateful to feel a soft landing, but her breath was still taken from her in the fall.
The woman rolled dizzily off of the sacks of grain, covered in flour and dirt, her head full of sloshing equilibrium, body flowing with adrenaline. She leaned against the stacked bags and took a moment to regain her breath.
A reedy man stepped in front of her. “It looks like someone finally sent us something of worth, men. And she’s actually pretty!”
Kanni just stared at the various men who gravitated to her from around the storage room with her mouth hanging open. She was caught.
Kelestil looked at Hafkil through the iron rods of her cell, tearing at the bread he had given her that morning. It was already the beginning of Late Spring, and she wanted to be out in the sunlight again. She felt starved for light, and it was almost as bad as hungering for food or thirsting after water. At least she wasn’t bored; Hafkil stayed around for many hours of the day, and he always had something interesting to tell her, if she just asked. He had told her all about giant Wolves, and now she was instilled with a desire to see them and experience their presence like he had. But on the first morning of the month, she had something else to ask.
“Hafkil, why are you called the rebel-general?”
“Because I was a general who rebelled against his king,” the man answered while he was half asleep against the stone wall.
“Why would you do that?”
“. . . Darenhar . . . was not always an evil man. It was when his sons were killed that he made the change. He committed horrible atrocities both to Helkras and to his own people, and I tried to end him for that. I failed.”
“What is an atrocity?”
“It is an evil act that hurts others. It could be anything, as long as it is cruel.”
“What . . . atrocities . . . did he do?” Kelestil asked, thinking of the worst things that she knew; murder, theft, torture.
“I don’t want to poison your mind. Just know that he hurt his own people terribly, just to gain revenge that is ultimately pointless, and which will injure more people. That is, unless he is stopped before he can begin his little war.”
There was a small silence, but then Kelestil’s voice broke out again. “Why did you come back if you hated Darenhar?”
Hafkil shifted to look at her with wakening eyes. “In my travels with Kcarc, we came across an enemy. We were defeated, and I thought the enemy was advancing on Hargirm. I put aside my anger and came to warn Darenhar that the kingdom would soon be under attack. I convinced him to prepare for the enemy, but . . . they never came.” A memory of Keelkzar flitted through his mind. He wondered where the bony Wolf had gone, and what he was contriving against humanity. He sighed in defeat. “Now, Darenhar finds it amusing to have me wander The Palace as his ragged slave. He thinks I’m broken, so he lets me in on everything, believing I won’t be able to turn it against him. I hope to make him regret that.”
Kelestil had a sudden inspiration. “You can go anywhere? Do you think you could find Sorrel or Jac—I mean, The Trader? Could you help them escape?” Why hadn’t she asked that before? She felt terrible that she hadn’t thought about the condition of her friends until that point.
“I . . . I suppose I could look in on it. But the chances of them being in a situation I can fish them out of is unlikely. They’ll probably be locked up like you.”
“Can you go see? Right now?” Kelestil persisted, pressing her face to the bars of her cell.
The Bear shifted again, and then settled to stand. “I guess I can go look now. Just remember to not respond to anyone unless its Darenhar. Anyone else likely doesn’t belong down here.”
Kelestil nodded and crawled into the corner of her dungeon. Hafkil was satisfied with that, so he went on his way, up the staircase and out the throne room. He remembered overhearing Dirkfang in one of the war room meetings that Darenhar had everyone attend, and Hafkil could sneak into. The General had said something about a pretty slip of a girl waiting for him in his room. The Bear had shivered then, without even knowing the whole story. He suspected few women would willingly give themselves to Dirkfang, even harlots. He was a rough, cruel man, utterly worthless scum.
Hafkil knew where the General resided in The Palace, as he had to take messages to the outlaw periodically. He had the entire Palace mapped out in his mind; every facet of it was familiar to him, after decades of living in it. When he came to Dirkfang’s abode, he found a man standing guard in front of the closed door.
“The General’s busy, Bear-man,” the leather-clad sentinel stated.
Hafkil did his best urgent and anxious impression, fidgeting like a sparrow and wringing his fingers. “But I have a message from the King; he needs the General immediately.”
“Well that’s your problem,” the guard announced, but he stepped aside so that Hafkil could try his fortune on the door.
The ex-general stepped to the barrier, hearing noises as of a struggle between two people. He could hear a woman crying, and he decided to end it. He pounded on the door.
“What the—I said no visitors you damn–”
“It’s me, Hafkil,” The Bear responded to Dirkfang’s voice. “I have a message from the King,”
There was a growled curse. “Come in—and don’t waste my time,”
Hafkil tentatively pushed the door open to find Dirkfang in his usual outfit of mismatched armor. There was a golden-eyed woman at the window, and she was trying to pull her dress back on.
“Well!?” Dirkfang demanded.
Hafkil gave a suspicious look towards the Gelsingean. “King Darenhar wants to talk to you about you know what. He needs you now.”
Dirkfang, wanting to seem as if he knew exactly what Hafkil was talking about, strode arrogantly towards his door. “Well of course he does. There’s nothing more important than it.” He walked out of his room and went self-importantly down the hall.
Hafkil shut the door, and then looked to the Gelsingean woman. “You’re Sorrel, right?”
She sobbed once, and then nodded, trying to stifle her weeping. “Who are you?” she croaked, and then looked out the window. It was a wide, open type that only had curtains to close it off. It looked out to the wall of Theargern, and then to the plains outside of the city.
Hafkil came to look out as well while he explained the situation to her in whispered, clipped sentences. There was a dangerous fall below the window. Thirty feet to a narrow, sloped roof, and then another hundred feet down until solid ground was met.
Sorrel was leaning dangerously over the edge of the window. “How could you help me?” she asked, not willing to meet his eyes as they conversed.
“I would need a little time to see what I could do, but I’m sure something could work, if you can help me. Do you have any skill in Magic?”
Her face fell further, if that were possible. “No,” she answered in a dead whisper.
“Well, I guess that I–”
The guard from outside poked his head in abruptly. “I hope you’re not having too much fun with the General’s plaything, Bear-man,” he said, making a smirk.
Hafkil couldn’t see any way out except to leave without a word. He grimaced as he left; he could almost hear Sorrel crying again. He would have to try again, but later. She would have to hold on, and endure a little longer.
The ex-general attempted to find The Trader and see what the fat man’s situation was, but he could find no sign nor rumor of the prisoner. Either the soldiers were holding out on him, or The Trader had been placed in the darkest, deepest cell of The Palace, and that would have to be severely abyssal. The Palace had deep roots, and Hafkil had seen them all. He didn’t feel like committing to such a search just then, so he looked through some of the more shallow dungeons, and then returned to check on Kelestil when he came up empty-handed. He didn’t want to upset the girl, so he just vaguely reported that Sorrel was alive and that he would find The Trader, eventually.
She didn’t have anything to respond with, so she just asked another random question, a common trait in her. “What do you think that earthquake and light meant?” she inquired, referring to the strange phenomenon which had occurred a few days gone. Kelestil had asked that question already a dozen times, and Hafkil answered with the same words he always had. He said that he didn’t know, and he would rather not know, and that he wasn’t going to answer differently however many times she asked him.
He then fell into thought in the following silence. I need to do better than sit around all day. I’m hesitating again, as Kcarc would point out, but what opportunity am I missing? What can I do? It was more a hopeless thought than a constructive inquiry. He came up with nothing, again.
He was abruptly aware of Darenhar coming off the last step into the dungeon. He stood, but the King ignored him and went to Kelestil’s cell.
The King took a hold of one of the bars and pinned the girl down with a harsh, maniacal stare. “Your mother is here to save you; I won’t make it easy for her. Helkras will bleed before either of you can return home, and by then both of you will be as broken as your country.” He said it in Helkrasic so that she could understand every hateful syllable.
She just looked up at him with a tinge of fear. “I hate you,” she muttered, and then turned her face away from his insane glare.
Darenhar just laughed. “Then you are beginning to know what I have felt this whole war. By the end of it, you might truly realize what I have been Cursed with. Grief will tear you to tatters.” He gave a malicious smile and turned, walking back the way he had come. His cloak rippled with his movement like a war-banner, and for a moment, pounding drums sounded in the deep.
Hafkil was gestured to follow, and he had no choice but to do so. He actually went with a hop to his step. Something had finally been revealed to him. The Bear didn’t know what exactly it was he had to do, but he had a feeling that Leyfian was the key to it. Soon, he would take action, and then Darenhar would finally be brought to justice. He made his own maniacal smile.
“Well, who’ll claim her first?” one of the men asked, scratching his head as he tried to figure how Kanni had ended up at the bottom of the chute.
A larger fellow advanced on the frightened, wide-eyed woman, making her recoil and yell in protest. “Stay away from me!” she warned, but the man couldn’t understand what she said because they didn’t share the same language. He likely just chose to ignore her tone of voice and its obvious meaning.
The lumbering creep could have easily overpowered her, especially when she had her back against a wall of sacks, but when his hand touched her arm, he jumped back in shock. “Hey, this bitch stings!” he whimpered.
The reedy man who had first discovered her just sneered and made to grab her. Kanni threw her hand up to ward him off, and he fell to the ground, writhing like a dying rat, clutching his face and shrieking like an idiot. “She’s a witch! Take her down!” he screamed.
Kanni was still surprised and scared, but she didn’t make a noise as the group of men closed in on her. One after another, they fell back in shocked yells of pain. She realized what was happening when she saw sparks flying from her body every time they attempted to touch her. Unconscious Magic had activated in her. Her body had sensed immediate danger and had made an impenetrable shield around her, effectively deterring anyone who tried to hurt her. She had been shocked and anxious when she had landed amidst that group of scum, so Lightning had activated. If she had been angry at the moment, it likely would have been Fire, but she preferred the electricity. She let the Unconscious Magic fade away as she took over deliberately, harnessing as much electrical power as she could.
The men had grown cautious of her and were going for weapons and objects to knock her out. She saw a newcomer trying to stop them, and it seemed like he really wanted to help her. He shouted at them and attempted to hold some of them back. That was just fine; she wouldn’t shock him . . . too much.
“I said stay away!” she yelled and released her thunderstorm. Blinding webs of convulsing lightning burst out in every direction, filling the room with lethal bolts that rent the place apart with noise and light. Sacks of grain burst open and were set aflame, while the men screamed jerkily. They all fell to the ground, sizzling and twitching like dead spiders.
Kanni stopped with a gasp. It was hard to stop the flow of power, and she had gone too far as it was. Live sparks danced around her still, slowly disappearing with buzzes and hisses. I didn’t mean to . . . they didn’t deserve to die . . . did they? She could never know more then that most of them would have raped her, or stood by and watched, except for the one who had tried to help her. Many of them she had seen quite plainly would have done anything to get what they wanted, and that surely warranted death . . . But how could she ever know? And what about the one well-meaning fellow? He was among the dead as well.
I feel sick . . . I didn’t want this! Those screams had been terrible, even from the throats of evil men. She stumbled off in a direction, putting a hand to her head while she quivered in nausea. The whole place stunk of charred flesh and smoke.
Only when she had left the storage room and made it halfway up a set of steps did she realize that her hand came away from her forehead with rivulets of blood. One of those men’s objects must have hit her when she was killing them, and she hadn’t noticed while the electricity was flooding through her. Now that she thought of it, her brow did throb. She fingered her gash, Healing herself as she did so.
When she came to the top of the steps, she heard steel clattering against steel, and men’s shouts and agonized screams. She looked around, then saw that the battle was taking place in the chamber where she had first fallen into the barrel chute. Gelvir was holding off three soldiers at once, and two more were prostrate on the ground with blood pooling around them.
Kanni panicked for a moment, thinking that she couldn’t help her friend. If I make another thunderstorm I might kill him, like that one man. I didn’t mean to murder him! She slapped herself in the face. Gelvir needs help! What should I do? Oh yes, of course. Her first lethal mistake with Magic had scrambled her mind, and she had almost forgotten that she possessed more than one type of Magic.
Using sharp bursts of Kinetic power, she threw one of the enemy soldiers into the air so that he crashed into the stone wall with a clang of metal. The next one went flying down a hall, and slid along the ground for a good twenty feet. Gelvir had the third well in hand, but that warrior wasn’t so fortunate as the other two. The Captain could be brutal with that broadsword of his, and Kanni turned away, cringing. Before she could look back towards Gelvir, he was already at her side, hustling her back the way they had come.
“We have to get out,” he stated, “One of them escaped to raise an alarm, so they’ll be swarming all over here.”
Kanni was silent, choosing to follow rather than lead, crouching down when Gelvir did, and trusting in his ability to get them out. Just as they left the wide cave entrance for the plains of Hargirm, they heard yelling and the clatter of horse-hooves. The two intruders leapt into a clump of bushes to the side of the cave opening, narrowly dodging a hoard of armed cavalry. One of the riders lingered nearby, spat into the underbrush where the two sneaks were, and then rode off into the plains.
Kanni hissed at a sudden realization. “We should have–”
“Shh!”
She waited for Gelvir’s hand to go down, and then spoke in a quieter voice when he had confirmed what he wanted. “We should have camouflaged our hideout.”
The man nodded. “If it’s still undiscovered when we get there, then we can do that; I just hope we don’t find company by the time we get back.”
When they returned to their cave, they were fortunate enough to find everything as it had been when they left earlier that morning. Kanni went to work, struggling with Earth Magic to seal up the entrance and cast her and the other residents in darkness. After that, she created a few Lights in the corners of the caves, calmed the horses and flopped herself down in a corner. Gelvir was already cleaning off his sword with a crimson-soaked cloth.
“You have a cut on your side,” Kanni remarked and stood to go seal it for him.
“And you have blood on your face,” Gelvir went to his feet as well, letting the sword fall to the side. He wiped her brow clean with a handkerchief while she stroked the open wound on his side, making it come together and look healthy again. After that, they stood there, each with a hand on the other and both staring at nothing in particular. Gelvir felt frustrated and hopeless with their first, unsuccessful excursion, but Kanni had something heavily weighing on her mind.
“Gelvir . . . what was it like when you first killed someone?”
The Captain gave her a concerned expression. “What happened? You disappeared for a moment or two, but I was too distracted with the Hargirmians to go searching for you. Did you have to kill someone?”
Kanni’s eyes glazed over in thought, but she struggled to remove the images of horror coming into her mind. She nodded slowly, jumping slightly when he placed his hands on her shoulders. “I fell down a chute, and at the bottom . . . most of the men didn’t give me a choice, but one was trying to help me . . . they’re all dead now and I-I don’t know what to think. Just the memory of it makes me nauseous.”
Gelvir sighed and took her in a hug when she leaned into him. He swore under his breath, condemning those men with words that Kanni would never think to use, and then he calmed. “Time will take it away,” he said slowly. “It will start to fade in a few days; just hang on until then.”
“Is there anything else that can help?”
“Thinking of the good in life, and occupying yourself with something you love.”
Kanni stepped away from him and looked to the ground. “I wish that Ålund was here—not that you aren’t good company, it’s just that . . . I’m sure you understand.”
Gelvir gave a positive gesture. “Well, I’m glad that you came out safely. I don’t know what I would have done if you were hurt, when I could have protected you.”
Kanni paled suddenly. Why did his voice have a tone that made it sound like he meant more than he said? “I uh, I think I’ll practice some Magic, to occupy my mind.” Gelvir nodded at that, leaving her to sit in the darkened nook where they had slept during the night. She tried to focus on creating a Wormhole with Teleportation Magic, but aside from her usual ineptness at the Class, her mind was a quilt of confusion that she couldn’t conquer, making all Magic difficult.
She had killed six or more men in one day in a rush of fear and anger. The mission to infiltrate Theargern had been a terrible failure, and now she and Gelvir were trapped underground until they decided it was safe to leave their hideout again. And the Captain had said something to her that made her uneasy.
She tilted her head in amidst her meditations, eyes closed in lost concentration. Is Gelvir . . . in love with me?
Leyfian felt ready to go insane; for two days she was trapped in the room, with no indication of life outside of her prison. Mithourn seemed at a loss for what to do, while she only had maddening thoughts going through her mind with no plan or order. All she could think of was if Kelestil was safe, and if she would see her daughter again. For those two torturous days she pounded on the one door incessantly, shouting to the guards she knew were just outside, demanding to see her daughter, or to at least send a message to Darenhar. She was almost certain that every time she asked them to send word to the King of Hargirm, they relaid it directly to him, just so he could measure her desperation and decide whether she was malleable enough for his liking.
There was food, water and a chamberpot which emptied into a deep hole; the room was comfortable and had one large bed, but it was dampened by the feeling of imprisonment. Neither her nor Mithourn gave into sleep very often, and they didn’t change their outfits; Leyfian wanted to be ready at any time for anything, and she knew that Mithourn was thinking along the same path. She still knew more about him then he thought.
She hadn’t expected warm support from the Third High Captain, and he was gruff most of the time, likely worried like her, if not nearly so detrimentally. The woman remembered a time when he would have shown her some care, but that had been a long time before, when they had been deeply in love. She suspected that his experiences in the military had hardened him more than most men, especially since he didn’t seem to have a direction in his life; men always thrived when they had a set goal outside of themselves. They hardened with bone-deep cynicism when they had no direction.
On the third afternoon of Late Spring, she was looking out of the one glazed window in the room. It was situated just behind the bed, and it was rough, grated so she could hardly see anything through it except for the vague shapes of a courtyard. Leyfian stared out of it a lot for those long and anxious hours, empty except for her own breathing and Mithourn’s quiet foot-tapping.
I’ll get Kelestil back, even if I have to strangle every soldier in this fucking castle. I’ll kill Darenhar for this, whatever he does! That stupid wretch will pay for this! He’s unforgivable! Anger didn’t usually plague her, but at that time, it was the only thing fueling her exhausted body and keeping her from breaking down in fearful tears.
Leyfian looked to Mithourn, her verdant eyes shining lividly. “Can you try to break the door down again?” she asked in a hoarse whisper. Her voice had suffered from shouting at the mute guards all day.
Mithourn looked up from where he sat on the edge of a chair. He let go of his metal amulet and stuffed it under his cuirass. “I can try,” he said with some determination, standing with a deep breath. He threw himself at the thick wood door, heaving his armored shoulder into it, and then reverted to kicking at it. The thunderous crashes resounded through the room for a few moments, but the result was total failure. The barrier hadn’t changed aside from a few new scratches and dents.
Leyfian flung herself at the door, knowing that she would accomplish about a quarter as much as Mithourn had, but she just wanted to vent her emotions on the inanimate object. She was only at it for a couple of seconds before Mithourn picked her up and set her back on the bed.
She glared up at him with her arms crossed. “Why did you do that?”
“You’ll hurt yourself like a drunk fool,” Mithourn commented placidly.
“Well what if I wanted to hurt myself? I can break my bones if I want,”
“Not under my watch,” the man responded in an even drier tone. “I’m your Kingsguard until you’re back safely to Herkile, and I’ll protect you, even from yourself.”
Leyfian put her hands on the bed, where they writhed and clenched the sheets. “That’s something new; when did you become my guardian again?”
“Since Kelestil sent me to help you.”
Her face contorted in a frown at that. “I want her back, Mithourn, I want her back now! Why did this have to happen!?” She collapsed on the bed and kicked the mattress futilely. With her face buried in the soft blankets, her eyes flooded with tears. She shrieked with rage into the bed.
That was when the door finally swung open. Mithourn looked up to see Dirkfang’s coarse face smiling at them. The bandit gave a mocking bow, pushing the guards to the sides with his flourish. “I didn’t mean to intrude on a personal moment, little lovebirds, but King Darenhar just can’t be made to wait. Just pull up your trousers and follow me.”
Leyfian sat up, wiped her face and gave him the most venomous glower that she could muster. She stood from the bed, came directly to the General and stared up at him.
Dirkfang made another hideous grin.“Such a forthcoming little–AGHHH!”
Leyfian watched with a satisfied smirk as he fell to the ground, clutching his mauled genitals. Leather trousers were no protection against Leyfian’s knee, and she had kicked him quite hard in the crotch. She realized that she hadn’t really thought in that moment, but the spontaneity had been worth it.
When Dirkfang had crawled back to his feet, with a wide-eyed, dangerous look for the woman, he limped down the hall, snapping his fingers at the guards. The soldiers fell behind the prisoners and urged them forward with just their metallic steps.
Leyfian swallowed anxiously and followed Dirkfang after giving Mithourn a meaningful look. He acknowledged her with a stony expression, and they walked together behind the temporarily lame General.
It only took them a moment to traverse the stone halls and high-ceilinged chambers before they came to a set of large iron doors. Dirkfang kicked the barrier open to reveal a pillared dining hall with long tables and dozens of chairs. Patterned tapestries hung below wide windows, and marble coated the floor. There was only one other guest in the decadent room.
Darenhar stood from his chair at the far end of the chamber, a wild look crossing his face. “Traitors!” he screamed in Helkrasic and pointed an accusing, quivering hand at Leyfian and Mithourn. “Traitors! Skin them alive!”
Dirkfang just rolled his eyes and then gave the two open-mouthed prisoners a grin. “He has his moments,” the General explained with amusement.
Darenhar’s face suddenly cleared. “No, forget that,” he negated, but he sounded as if he were speaking to someone that none of them could see. He gave the two prisoners, his soldiers and the General an equally disgusted glare. Likely he couldn’t decide who he hated more. His lips abruptly twitched into a sincere smile, and he spread his arms wide in greeting. “Welcome, my favored guests. We have much to discuss,” he added, and trailed into broken laughter.
Needless to say, they didn’t feel very welcome.