The Shadow Curse

by Kala Merseal

  Raethin moved, scoring the blade once again across the creature's side and wing as he slid away.

  A roar echoed the attack, and the creature blurred.

  Darkness convulsed and thickened around him. The horned Kaevari steadily rose and turned, his crimson eyes bright and pulsing.

  Raethin shifted, aiming for the heart this time.

  The shadows convulsed as the horned demon shifted, his wings erupting from the shadows. Claws lurched out, one slamming into Raethin's shoulder, interrupting his attack, and the other slicing into his side. Searing pain erupted from the wound as blood quickly pooled.

  Reinvigorated by the bloodshed, the horned demon loomed over Raethin as he struggled to remain on his feet.

  Raethin's arm clutched his side, while his other moved to strike with the sword once more. But the shadows evaded the attack and the blade cut through empty air before halting against the demon's palm. With a twist, the demon brought Raethin down to a knee, and a moment later he relented his grip on his weapon.

  Blood drenched Raethin's side and arm. Through hazy vision, he glanced down, and his stomach churning at the gory sight. The demon’s talons had gone through his side, spearing organs.

  A claw landed on his shoulder, the grip sending tendrils of pain down his torso. With gritted teeth, Raethin struggled against the hold, but the force behind the claw forced him further on his knees. He panted and buckled under the weight.

  Through his blurred vision, Raethin saw Ara lying yards before him. He threw a look over his shoulder, the horned creature distorted.

  “Cease your fighting now, Raethin Corvus,” the Kaevari muttered, his smooth voice turning gritty with rage. “At this point it is like a mouse fighting a cat. Pitiful and miserable.”

  Surges of light flickered in Raethin as he panicked. The claw on his shoulder tightened and Raethin cried out as the energy he so desperately grasped onto dissipated out from him.

  Then with a twist of the creature’s talons, Raethin’s back hit the ground. That miasmic blade flashed obsidian in the moonlight as the horned Kaevari withdrew it. A heavy weight settled on his chest, right above the open wound in his side, and pressed down.

  The blade hovered above Raethin’s throat. Blazing red eyes cut through the shadows. Moonlight glinted off the creature’s horns as he leaned forward. Wings shrouded them in darkness.

  “You’ve fought with honor, aelvan tsaza,” the creature muttered, eyes narrowing. “Your efforts may pay off. The Void King is merciful.”

  Raethin’s chest heaved as he struggled against the weight. Though he feared his end, terror gripped him for Ara, lying yards away.

  The blade pulled away, its miasmic stench fading. Then Raethin’s blurry vision caught a flash of the blade as the demon gripped the sharp end and sliced.

  Thick black blood dripped from the Kaevari’s hand, hot and acidic against Raethin’s bare skin. It dribbled across his severe wound, and the instance the substance touched the wound’s depth, agony unimaginable racked through him.

  A claw cut off his scream. It wrapped around his throat, thrusting him out from under the Kaevari’s weight and into the air. His hand gripped the creature’s wrist as he struggled to breathe.

  The agony radiated through him as darkness shivered into his vision.

  Carnage surrounded them. Arlow stood alone, the others lying across the cold ground. The half-elven warrior trembled with fatigue as he angled his sword toward the last lesser Kaevari. Max crumbled to the ground feet beside Ara. Nyphelia laid unconscious during the battle. As for Veron, his body laid nearest to the hill’s drop-off, a miasma now radiating from its open wounds.

  Raethin felt his conscious drown under the pain. Liquid fire now filled his veins from the wound. His drowsy eyes turned again to the Kaevari clutching his throat.

  The horned creature had that same sanguine grin as Raethin imagined he had when killing the king.

  As Raethin began to lose consciousness, shimmering beings filtered into his vision, ambushing the demons. An echoing howl pierced the air. The horned demon’s grip slipped and Raethin hit the ground.

  The abyss took him as the demon moved away, and moonlight struck across his dying body.

  Chapter Nine

  Beings shimmered out of the shadows—lithe, semi-ethereal bodies poised for stealth and ambush. Bright crystalline swords unsheathed. The horned Kaevari dropped the mortal and turned. The lesser demon crouched away from the remaining conscious mortal, hissing through his bloodied teeth as the beings pointed their vibrant weapons at it. Slowly, the newcomers’ shimmering bodies solidified.

  Druids. Their gem-like eyes gleamed with righteous fury. One stood taller than the others, his long, green hair tied back and his armor adorning him with status and strength. He sneered, eying the horned demon in disgust.

  “We outnumber you.”

  The horned demon narrowed his eyes, then turned his dark, calculating gaze to the princess, now lying behind the druid captain. He had hoped that his lesser demons would distract the druids long enough for them to make their escape with Ara.

  For the first time in their race against the druids, the Kaevari underestimated the ethereal people. He thought for a mere moment that he could maneuver a way out of this disadvantage.

  Until the Great Rakevan Spirit appeared.

  Paws of gleaming mauve fur appeared first as he stepped out from the shadows. A gigantic canine head appeared then; blazing gold eyes narrowed with the same righteous fury. Horns like the white hind adorned his head like a crown.

  He prowled further, seven tails rearing his appearance.

  When the guardian of the Forest spoke, his voice echoed through the forest, a whisper on the breeze.

  “Your chances for redemption are over, Aeskrius.”

  Aeskrius sneered, his glare combing over the princess once more.

  The Rakevan Spirit shifted, lips pulling over pearl fangs. His body contorted as he lunged for Aeskrius. The horned demon stumbled back, shadows warping his appearance as he shivered from the guardian’s attack.

  The Guardian twisted with claws outstretched for the demon’s throat. Aeskrius’s shadows dispersed, sending reverberating dark energy through the air. His body dissipated into the darkness.

  The druids flinched away from the dark magick, twirling their blades, and motioning their hands to dispel the spell. They cursed as the area settled, the last of the shadows fading into the night sky.

  The druid captain swiftly dealt the killing blow for the lesser demon, plunging his crystalline blade through its heart.

  “Coward,” the captain muttered as he turned to the others.

  The half-elven warrior stood in shock and fatigue.

  Slowly, his sword dropped from his grasp, and he turned and rushed over to the other elven woman.

  “Cirith,” the druid captain muttered. “Let us dispose of the dead and gather what is not tainted.”

  The guardian turned, his canine head nodding in agreement.

  The druids moved, checking the bodies for life and taint. When they approached Veron’s body, they staggered at the stench, and turned to their captain and Cirith for guidance.

  “Dispose quickly,” Cirith muttered, then turned to the other druids, who cloistered around the other mortal bodies. “Whatever does not have taint, we will take to our sanctuary and tend.”

  The conscious mortal held his elven woman in his arms. “We’re untainted and she’s unharmed.”

  “Let my people check for taint. We cannot bring those who are blemished,” Cirith said.

  The mortal stuttered and bowed his head. Two druids approached him, their fingers gliding over their bodies. One poked and prodded at an open wound in the warrior’s shoulder, despite his protest. Then the two druids turned to

  Cirith and nodded.

  “You shall come with us then.”

  “What about the others?”

  Cirith turned at the mortal’s question, his golden gaze seeing his people at work. T
he older elf beside the princess was checked, his bodies untainted though severely cut and bruised. His druid captain Solas held the Therilean heir, checking the cut on her temple for signs of taint. Across her bare skin were bruises, but Cirith did not note any taint as well.

  “What about Raethin?”

  All eyes turned to the last mortal, who laid feet behind Cirith. The Great Rakevan Spirit turned to look at the mortal, another elf.

  The elf still breathed, though a stench now wafted from him that was a clear sign of taint. Blood still flowed, drenching the cold ground underneath, and a sheen of sweat coated his bruised skin. Black ichor bubbled from his open wound.

  “Tainted,” Solas hissed. “Kill him and put him out of his misery.”

  “Wait!” The mortal rushed to protest but fell forward his knees from fatigue and the weight of the woman in his arms. “Please, save him.”

  The druids shifted, muttering for death of the taint.

  “We can’t allow taint within our dwelling,” Solas snapped at the mortal. “If we do not kill him now, he will turn and attack us. We can’t allow a demon into our wards.”

  “Then stop the taint!” The mortal snapped, panting from fatigue and fear. “We need him—Ara needs him.”

  The druids hushed. A dozen pairs of eyes turned on the Therilean heir in Solas’ arms.

  Cirith looked back to the dying mortal, brow furrowed. He could see the dark energy pulsing inside Raethin, as the half-elf called him. The curse worked quickly due to the direct exposure of Kaevari blood.

  Despite the taint, Cirith observed still a thrumming of light deep in the mortal’s chest.

  A whisper swept through Cirith, soothing and smooth.

  “It will be advantageous to save the mortal, Rasilvanor.” The Rakevan Spirit’s name lilting in his goddess’s voice sent shivers down his spine, his mauve fur raising in apprehension.

  Cirith contemplated her words. Then he turned to his people and said, “We will save the mortal. It is in Rakeva’s favor to do so.”

  The druids went silent. Solas stewed, his usual scowl deepening. The mortal on his knees sagged in relief.

  Cirith shifted, his body gleaming with golden light. Human limbs stretched out from the canine and his back contorted as his bones snapped and straightened. He sighed as his muzzle shortened and the fur disappeared to reveal human skin. Armor much like the druids’ wrapped around his human body.

  He knelt by the elven mortal. His human senses diluted the stench, though his abilities were still much stronger than the mortals. With one nail, he sliced into the palm of his hand and gold blood pooled, dripping into Raethin’s open wound.

  Mumbles grew from the druids as they watched their leader spill his divine blood over the taint. Solas simmered in silence. The half-elf watched with wide, terrified eyes in awe.

  The taint deafened, its growth stopping the moment the gold blood enveloped the black ichor. Raethin stilled, having instant relief.

  “Let’s hurry back now,” Cirith muttered. He slung Raethin over his shoulder, ignoring how quickly his own armor dampened from Raethin’s flowing wound.

  As always, Cirith knew that his goddess had her people’s best intentions in mind. But to bring a tainted mortal back into the fold of their most sacred space sounded insane, even to her most trusted servant.

  When Cirith prayed for clarity, Rakeva’s sudden silence after her intervention terrified him.

  Oh, how the gods enjoyed their games.

  ♦♦♦

  Each time he returned to his home, awe still washed over Cirith, even after millennia of presiding in the druidic fortress. The wards shimmered in divine opaline iridescence, invisible to most others.

  The Great Spirit willed passage for the mortals as Cirith and his squadron moved through its aquatic surface, and a long, narrow bridge welcomed them. Beneath, valleys of wild gardens and streams surrounded the fortress.

  Stone and metallic buildings erected along the perimeter's ledge glistened with the dawn's light. A looming, gigantic tree settled in the middle of the surrounding settlement, its limbs settling against roofs and steeples.

  As they edged across the bridge, guards from the arching twin towers swarmed to greet them. Trepidation filled the druids as the returning group came through the gate. But with their glance to Cirith, they quieted and hurried to help.

  Cirith unloaded Raethin to a pair of druids and said,

  "Take to the healing waters."

  Motion surrounding him stilled. The druids looked at him in disbelief. Solas stirred beside Cirith, holding the princess out from his body. The druids glanced from their captain to the Great Spirit, eyes wide.

  "Hurry along." Cirith ignored his people's silent hesitation. He motioned for Solas to hand the princess off to another druid, then ordered the druids to take the mortals to the infirmary.

  The druids scattered with the conscious half-elf trailing behind them. The two carrying the dying mortal followed after Cirith. Solas clambered behind, cursing under his breath.

  Cirith was unaffected by his people's clear discomfort. He could count on his fingers how many mortals entered their fortress throughout the millennia of his service. He even understood their astonishment of bringing the dying elf to their sacred water, which settled beneath the roots of their tree. His own shock had yet to fade from his goddess's command.

  There was uncertainty of what could happen when Raethin's tainted body touched the waters. Would he poison the magical liquid? Would they lose their source of divine healing?

  Yet Cirith continued toward the council chamber’s entrance. Standing higher than the other buildings, the keep surrounded the base of their Rakevan Tree of Life. Its architecture held massive swirling crystalline steeples and towers. More than living space, it was the congregating area for the druidic people, where their great library lived and where their magical practices took place.

  Attendants rushed to aid them but halted at the sight of Raethin in their brethren’s arms. The dying mortal’s taint now emitted a sweet-smelling stench, much like the poisonous nightshade, a scent with which all druids were familiar.

  "Call for Misandreas," Cirith commanded and the attendants dispersed, more than happy to keep distance from the tainted mortal.

  The guardian continued down the hall, heading toward the swirling entrance to the lower levels of the keep.

  "We must consult with Misandreas and Vilithian before this, Cirith." Solas grabbed his shoulder, halting Cirith from his procession down to the sacred chambers.

  Cirith turned, his golden eyes flashing.

  "Do you deny the goddess's command, Solas?"

  "No, I question consequences."

  "The goddess wishes for this mortal to survive," Cirith said. "Would she allow such a thing to taint our people?"

  He doubted this himself but turning the question back on Solas silenced the druid. Cirith shrugged out of his hold and continued down the swirling staircase. It curled down into the ground, passing stone and roots until it emptied into a cavern.

  Carvings etched into the stone wall, proclaiming the glory of their goddess and the creation of the world and their people. Cirith walked past the ornate art, through a carved archway leading to a floor farther down.

  Below, a still water settled from wall to wall. Above it, a carved stone platform separated the water from earth. Two druidic attendants guarded the waters on either end, seated cross-legged on the cold stone floor. They typically sat in deep meditation; their constant focusses an added purifying force to the sacred waters.

  They stirred and bowed as the guardian approached. Their indifferent, gem eyes glanced over them, though one met Cirith’s gaze in question.

  Cirith ignored their inquiring gaze and motioned for the druids clutching the mortal to move forward.

  “I must protest, Cirith,” Solas said from behind. He approached, followed closely behind by three other druids.

  Misandreas pushed past Solas, her lilac lips downturned in a furious
scowl. Her vine-like hair sat in twisted braids atop her head, their lengths past her knees. Her eyes, unlike most of the others, were white like lily petals, the pupils opaque from the lack of color. She dressed in a priestess robe; her white hem twisted around her feet as she rushed over to Cirith.

  Behind them, Vilithian ambled closer. He was the tallest of druids, and like Misandreas, his hair nearly brushed the floor, twisted in vine-like braid.

  One of Misandreas’ apprentices followed her, mimicking her mistress’s appalment.

  “What is this?” Misandreas flew over to the mortal, her eyes wide. “I thought it was the heir that we were rescuing. Where is she? Who is that? The taint is consuming,

  Cirith. The stench is appalling. What have you done?” Cirith’s narrowing gaze turned to Vilithian, who hung back, his gaze cool. Then, with a sigh, he motioned for the druid pair holding the mortal to lie him beside the waters.

  “Why must I feel like my mother and father have joined together to thwart me?” Cirith crossed his arms, eyeing Misandreas and Solas as they stood rigged before him. “Have I not led our people safely for centuries? Nay, millennia? You must question me now, in our darkest hours, for what?”

  Heated, the guardian’s voice grew, his eyes blazing. “Must all of our centuries of trust dissolve in the moment a sick mortal is brought into our fold, when the majat is knocking on our door? Must we tremble and cow when the Void consumes us whole? Must we ignore our goddess’s wishes when it is our survival that interests her?”

  The druidic leaders paled. White and emerald eyes averted Cirith’s dead-panned stare.

  The guardian turned to look at Vilithian, his grimace fading as the druids’ oldest bowed his head to Cirith.

  “The princess is lightly injured.” Cirith sighed. “But she is in a fragile state. I trust that your apprentices in the infirmary can take care of her. As for her warden, Raethin, as the other mortal called him, he was to die.” The guardian turned his gaze to the dying mortal. “But Rakeva spoke and said that it would be a boon to save the mortal.”

  “And how would the waters save him? It heals mortal wounds and cleanses the soul,” Misandreas mused, hovering over Raethin. Her fingers skimmed the wound, pulling back the clothing that had stiffened with blood. Gold tint dried around the black tar, clotting the wound.