Phoenix Rising

by Alec Peterson

  “You may refer to me as ‘Tarah’,” the woman informed her haughtily.

  “’Companion’ to the Winter Queen,” Ceyrabeth frowned, “Does that mean-?”

  “It means I accompany her. Her dearest friend. Keep your assumptions to yourself, elf.”

  “And yet, you did not arrive with her,” Sul interjected smoothly, “Does she know where you are?”

  Tarah’s chin took on a defiant set, “She knows what she needs to know.”

  “And do your parents know where you are and what you’re doing?”

  Tarah’s orange eyes narrowed, “Don’t push it, uncle.”

  Don’t ask, don't ask... don't...damn it! Ceyrabeth shook her head. “All right, I give up,” The elf turned to face the blind man, “Are you actually her uncle and if so, doesn’t that make you a dragon as well? Is Drachaen your name or your title? It means ‘dragon’, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s a term of affection,” Sul gestured to the other young woman, “I helped raise Tarah, and she helped me through…a difficult time in my life.”

  “If you call being tortured to death over and over for centuries on end ‘difficult’,” Tarah commented with an air of disdain.

  “Wait, what...? No. You know what? No, I don't…” She was about to say 'I don't want to know’ when she realized that it was actually a lie. She was intensely curious about Tarah’s statement. “You were tortured to death?”

  “I was.”

  “Over and over? As in you died more than once?

  Sul sighed, clearly not enjoying being the topic of discussion, “I did.”

  “For centuries?”

  “Longer.”

  “So, you're a reanimate? Like Eregost?”

  “No. I am a simply a man.”

  “Nothing ‘simple’ about you, dear uncle,” Tarah commented dryly.

  “How did you surv-…?” She turned her gaze towards the dragon, “You?”

  “My parents, actually. I just gave him his name,” a smile flickered across her regal features, dispelling some of the cruel lines of arrogance that otherwise dominated it, “He showed the strength of a dragon. He deserved a fitting title to go with it.”

  “You didn’t come all this way from the north to rehash the past,” Sul commented.

  “Perhaps I simply wanted to see you.”

  “Perhaps you did but more likely you want something.”

  Tarah sighed, “Is there someplace we can talk?”

  Sul nodded, “Right this way”.

  After a short walk, Sul opened the door to a large wooden caravan. Ceyrabeth was surprised to see the unmistakable form of Peloquin already lounging in the wagon. Despite the bulk of his size, the foppish giant managed to fit comfortably inside the confines of the wagon without it seeming crowded. Ceyrabeth’s eyes finally adjusted to the dimness after the bright light outside...and she immediately revised her initial assessment. This wagon was far too small to hold her, Sul, Tarah....and a completely naked Peloquin.

  “Good morning all. Quite the wake-up call no?” He grinned his purple teeth at Tarah, completely comfortable despite his state of undress. “My dear, may I say you look simply ravishing...”

  Tarah rolled her eyes so hard Ceyrabeth was surprised they didn’t get stuck in the back of her head. “One more word Mithrac and I will eat you. Why is he here?” Tarah asked as Sul helped her into the wagon.

  “Peloquin is my spymaster, I imagine what you have to say he should probably hear.”

  “Okay,” Ceyrabeth spoke up, looking at the lamp, the desk, anywhere else but Peloquin’s knowing grin. “But why am I here? I truly don’t need to be here. Shouldn’t Pellinore be here instead?”

  “The Lieutenant is minding the men. I need someone to take notes and observe,” Sul flashed a rare smile, “I assume both of those requests are within your capabilities?”

  “Entirely,” The elven woman’s expression was completely deadpan, unless you happened to look in her eyes.

  “I’m relieved to hear it,” Sul turned his attention to Tarah, “So, now will you tell us what brings you here?”

  “The news from the Reaverlund is dire…,” Tarah began.

  “It usually is,” Peloquin commented wryly.

  Tarah emitted a guttural growl that was far too deep and resonant for a human frame to be capable of.

  “That’ll do,” Sul stated calmly, “Please continue Tarah.”

  “The Farcold is progressing farther and faster than we anticipated.”

  “’Farcold’?” Ceyrabeth frowned.

  “By the Great Flame, they really don’t teach you southerners anything of any use, do they?” Tarah sneered.

  “The Farcold is a sentient disease upon the land of Reaverlund,” Sul explained, holding up a hand to stave off Ceyrabeth’s inevitable retort, “It is a pattern of weather, the most frigid lifeless winter you can imagine that is working itself slowly down the northern continent, killing everything in its path. It renders entire swaths of land uninhabitable, ravaging them with unending storms of snow and ice.”

  “I still put no stock in this fool notion that the Farcold is sentient,” Tarah said dismissively waving her hand, “I believe it to be some form of freak magical occurrence, no more no less.”

  “It seems drawn to inhabited areas,” Sul replied, “That would suggest at least a rudimentary intelligence.”

  “Regardless, it is showing signs of growth and acceleration,” The woman’s face was grave, “The kingdoms of Icefire Peaks and Wintercrown have already fallen and the rest of the north is in peril.”

  “I imagine that’s disrupted the balance of power in your homeland considerably.”

  “You don’t need to ‘imagine’ anything. It’s fact.”

  “Not to sound callous,” Ceyrabeth began, “But what does this have to do with us?”

  Tarah opened her mouth, her expression dark and angry.

  “It matters because the north keeps the southern kingdoms in check,” Sul interjected, “If they weaken, you may be certain that Daymore will start considering the advantages of conquest.”

  “That’s absurd,” Ceyrabeth scoffed, “He’d have to move an army all the way through the Ghenlands to even reach the northern coasts and get to Reaverlund.”

  “Not if he uses his navy.”

  That comment drew the elven woman short, “The Daymorian navy is large enough to move an army?”

  “It is,” Sul confirmed, “And, even if it weren’t, the Emperor of the Ghen could be convinced to allow an army to move through his territories without lifting a finger.”

  “How? They hate each other.”

  “Large piles of gold,” Peloquin answered dryly.

  “Just so,” Tarah turned her attention back to Sul, “And if the southern armies do start aggressively expanding north….”

  “Then we could be under a great deal more scrutiny than we are currently equipped to handle,” Sul nodded, “Fair point.”

  Sul rose from his seat and moved towards a map, “We need to work to bolster the northern kingdoms.”

  “How are we going to do that?” Ceyrabeth asked, “Gold?”

  “Oh, please,” Tarah scoffed, “The Northern kingdoms are almost as wealthy as the dwarves,” She took in Ceyrabeth’s look of surprise with contempt, “Why do you think your Hierophant and his precious church wants them?”

  “Information then,” Peloquin put in. Sul nodded. Something rustled in the far corner of the caravan where Peloquin’s bed was. Intercepting Ceyrabeth’s questioning look, he reassured the elf, “Don’t mind her.” Ceyrabeth’s face flooded with understanding just as another rustle came from the pile of cushions and blankets. “Don’t mind them.” He amended, laughing at Ceyrabeth’s groan of dismay.

  “Detailed reports,” Sul emphasized quietly, immediately bringing everyone’s attention back on track, “on the movements of the southern forces could help ease the minds of the remaining royalty in Reaverlund.”

  “Not as much as you being ther
e in person to help them shore up their defenses against the Farcold or invasion from the south, uncle,” Tarah put in. Ceyrabeth swore she could hear a spark of hope in her usually sarcastic and callous tone.

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible. We’re contending with the Taintbrood here,” Sul turned his bandaged gaze to her, “If the Brood crosses into the Ghenlands, they’ll spread like wildfire and very easily make it to the northern coast, leaving you vulnerable to attack on two fronts.”

  “I do have some information about that,” Tarah said, looking resentful at being refused, “The Brood isn’t behaving like a swarm any longer.”

  “Explain.”

  “They seem more organized. As if they have united behind a single purpose beyond simply slaughter.”

  “I surmised as much,” Sul nodded, “Which is why I’ve been observing them,” He sighed and rubbed his temples, “I cannot say for certain but based on the patterns of their behavior I’d say they’ve united behind a single leader or at least a single group.”

  “That cannot be good,” Peloquin commented glumly.

  “Agreed. The question is what to do about it,” He frowned for a moment then turned to Ceyrabeth, “Lieutenant?”

  “Sir!” She straightened her back.

  “I have a task for you,” He turned to Peloquin, “Peloquin, I want all our reports on the movements of Daymore’s army and navy over the last six months compiled and ready to go in an hour.”

  Peloquin placed a hand over his heart, “Alas, the curse of being as talented as your job as I am: being asked to do the near impossible,”

  “Will that be enough to appease your liege?” Sul asked Tarah.

  “I suppose it will have to do for now,” the dragon grumbled.

  “Captain,” Ceyrabeth began cautiously, “What exactly is this task?”

  “In a moment Lieutenant.”

  “May I get you a cold glass of water while we wait, Lieutenant?” Peloquin rumbled. Ceyrabeth could hear the laughter threatening in his tone. “Your face looks....flushed.”

  “You should see the healers. Your eyesight is obviously failing.”

  “It is as I was saying before, Lieutenant,” Sul addressed Ceyrabeth and pointedly ignoring the banter, “Arcus Meier will soon be under attack. Your mission will be to delay the strike.”

  “…Excuse me?”

  Sul just looked at her.

  She shook her head in adamant denial. “Marshal Aeneas is a legend! We literally learn about him in training. He’s considered the paragon of what a Witchhammer should be. If he’s calling for the Witchhammers to come down in force, then there must be a damn good reason!”

  “I imagine so. And I very much want to know what that reason is. Furthermore, I have need of the mages there and having them exterminated to the last runs counter to my goals.”

  Ceyrabeth nodded reluctantly. “Yes, Captain. Will I be going on this mission alone?”

  “No, Lieutenant. I have a team in mind for you. They should be arriving any moment.” As though in response to his words, a knock sounded on the caravan door. Ceyrabeth lunged for it, even though it was technically Peloquin’s door to answer. Keiran, Evric and Scout Mischa stood outside. Ceyrabeth gratefully stepped out, closely followed by the Captain.

  “This is it?” Ceyrabeth asked incredulously.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Beth,” Keiran commented sourly.

  “I’m sorry,” she sighed, “But how exactly am I supposed to accomplish this mission with three people who, put together, have less combat experience than I do?”

  “Keiran is a capable soldier as you are well aware,” Sul explained, “Evric is a talented mage despite his youth and Mischa is one of the finest infiltrators one could ask for.”

  Ceyrabeth sighed, finding herself missing her former comrades amongst the Witchhammers. They could get this mission done with ease.

  “Have you any objections to my choices, Sir Ceyrabeth?” Sul’s question intruded on her thoughts.

  Resigned, she saluted, “None, Sir.”

  “Excellent. See Lieutenant Pellinore for your requisition orders.”

  “Yes, Captain!” Ceyrabeth snapped to attention.

  “For the Legion!” Keiran, Evric and Mischa declared.

  “For the Legion.” Sul replied.

  “For the Legion,” Ceyrabeth sighed once more before saluting. The mission she could handle, and even her team. But one thing bothered her to the point of distraction:

  When had Sul called the team together and how did they know where to meet?

  She sighed again. Another one of the hundred mysteries she would probably never understand.

  .:*:.

  “That’s him,”

  Evric’s whisper came to Ceyrabeth’s ears from off to her right. They sat at the dinner table of a rough but clean inn in the Daymorian province of Corbray. She cut into an apple with her dagger and brought a piece to her mouth before turning around and crossing her legs casually. She immediately found the subject of the whisper; a tall, handsome man with copper red hair streaked with gray and pulled into a half-tail. “You’re sure?”

  “Believe me, I know Josef.” Evric replied with a roll of his eyes. “He used to give the Hammers a right proper time when I was at Arcus. He’d always find some way to try to escape. He actually managed it seven times…well, eight if you count this one.”

  “He sounds like he’d be very helpful.” Ceyrabeth replied. Along with arms, armor and travel rations, Captain Sul had thoughtfully provided dossiers on people who may be helpful in case they needed a hand. The first portion of their mission had gone off without a hitch but that was before Keiran had been recognized in a stroke of insanely bad luck. It was only a matter of time before the local Witchhammers descended on them in a shrieking hoard out for his ‘traitorous blood’. Keiran was currently lying low, but they desperately needed someone who knew both the lay of the land and the local faces.

  Ceyrabeth watched Josef move about the inn, stopping here and there to chat with a villager. He seemed to be well-liked, if the smiles and nods directed at him were any indication. For a moment, Ceyrabeth thought about going up and asking to speak to him in private, but then she rejected the idea. He was going to be cautious, over-watchful. “You said he was a healer?”

  “Yes,” Evric nodded. “At least he was back at Arcus…Ceyrabeth!”

  Ceyrabeth cried out in pain as her dagger clattered to the floor, its edge now stained with blood. Her blood, point of fact. She had grasped the blade and drawn it across her palm hard enough to leave a gaping wound. Josef looked around at the unmistakable sound of distress. Evric had grabbed a cloth from the table and was pressing it against her hand before Josef could make his way over. He was careful to keep his head down, but Josef didn’t even notice him.

  “What happened? Are you alright?”

  “I…it was on the bench.” She breathed, doing a very convincing approximation of a maid in distress. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “Let’s see.” Josef took her hand, examined it carefully. “You’re going to need stitches.” He informed her. “Were you using this dagger to cut this?” He gestured to her half-eaten dinner. She nodded hesitantly. “You don’t want to risk blood poisoning. Follow me.”

  “Are you a leech?” She asked, using the peasant’s term for one who tended wounds. Josef smiled at her.

  “Of a sort.”

  He led her up to his room, gesturing her to the chair before removing a small sewing kit and bottle. “This’ll sting,” Josef warned her as he poured a splash of the liquid onto her palm. It did sting but much less than she expected. Josef still cradled her hand in his as he began sewing the wound, which was also less painful than expected, and she focused in. She realized that he was slowly healing her hand, the stitching just a blind for his real actions.

  “Thank you,” She said sincerely as he bound the freshly cleaned and stitched hand in a length of new bandage. “How can I repay you?”


  “You can stay right there. Manere!”

  Ceyrabeth recognized the mage’s spell to paralyze a split second before it hit her. Her limbs seized up and she went rigid in her chair. “Sorry,” Josef moved about the room, rapidly stuffing things into a small bag. “I’m sure you’re not a Witchhammer, but I can’t be too care-”

  But Josef had made a serious mistake; he had only paralyzed her from the neck down.

  “Eluo!” Ceyrabeth spoke the command to cleanse magic and her limbs immediately unseized. Before Josef could react, she had tackled him to his bed. Electricity blazed across his skin but she was expecting it. Most mages immediately thought electricity as defense.

  “Silence!” she cried out and Josef yelped in dismay as his magic abruptly ceased.

  He heaved her off bodily, desperation giving him strength.

  Ceyrabeth threw herself forward and grasped his ankle, tugging him down with an almighty crash. “Josef!”

  “You won’t take me back!” He kicked at her once, twice and by sheer blind luck he caught her in the forehead. The skin split and blood poured into her left eye. He scrambled up once more and made for the door.

  “Just listen!” She roared, pouncing on his back. They slammed into a wall with crushing force. “I’m not...a…Witchhammer!”

  “Those sure as the Void feel like Witchhammer abilities!” Josef slammed her into the wall again. She gritted her teeth. She hadn’t wanted to hurt him, but he was really giving her no choice. She tangled her fingers in Josef’s hair with both hands and, dropping her weight, she wrenched back on his head. He slammed to the floor and tried to roll but Beth was already straddling his chest. Her fist connected across his face with the force of a mace, backed by an ability that her trainers called ‘Arcane Binding’. It not only caused physical pain, but drained a mage’s magic reserves. His hands shot up, tried to block her, tried to strike back but it was no use.

  Evric burst through the door just in time to see Ceyrabeth roll off of Josef’ chest. The mage was bleeding from his nose and a split lip, and was just lying dazed on the floor. “Lord’s Mercy!” He exclaimed as he took in the scene.

  “He’s been silenced,” Ceyrabeth told him, rummaging for something to staunch the flow of blood from her head. She eventually found a towel and pressed it to the wound. “I didn’t want to but he paralyzed me. Help me get him onto the bed.”