Shattered Dreams

by Ulff Lehmann

  “But we have some grave business to attend to, and what happens after that is as uncertain as our success.” Lloreanthoran looked up at his familiar. “We go against forces that were strong when the world was young.”

  “You don’t mean the humans, do you?” the squirrel jumped onto his shoulder and looked at him. “Those fools caused the Heir War and that other war after you were gone, but they aren’t as powerful as you elves, now, are they?” He frowned. “No, no, no, no, no. Don’t you even dare to tell me we have to fight demons! What I saw was scary enough.”

  “Listen, from what you have told me…”

  “You were pretty quick to sever the connection through the mirror,” Bright-Eyes interrupted.

  “Me?” Lloreanthoran halted and stared at the squirrel. “You severed the connection!”

  “Yeah, yeah, blame it on the furry fellow!”

  “You accuse me…” Lloreanthoran began; then he laughed. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  His friend pulled a face. “Actually, I am. Besides, you can’t blame a body for being upset about this entire abandonment business, can you?”

  “I think I have apologized enough…”

  “Nope,” the squirrel interrupted him. “Some muttered words before you fell asleep hardly counts as a decent apology! I was stuck with a whole bunch of squirrels that used me to fetch their food most of the time.”

  “And I am stuck with a squirrel who complains far too much,” Lloreanthoran countered.

  “Can you blame me? I was the one who lost more wits than that apprentice in your precious new home has.” Bright-Eyes stood on his shoulder, arms crossed, glaring at him.

  “I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry!” the elf growled. “Now, are you happy?”

  “Happy? No. Mollified? A little.”

  He shook his head, laughing. “I missed you. I hope you know that.”

  The feeling that always came when their minds linked arose, and Lloreanthoran knew Bright-Eyes was looking for the sincerity of his words. Satisfied, the squirrel nodded. “Don’t leave home without me,” he said and pointed one claw at his own chest. “You’ll only get in trouble.”

  “So, you were at the Aerant C’lain.”

  “You’re in my mind oaf, you already know.”

  He severed the link and frowned at his familiar. “Indeed, but I’d rather hear things from you. Squirrel thoughts are somewhat alien to me.”

  “Oh, you noticed? Me too.”

  “But you handle the smells and perspective much better than I do,” he replied.

  Bright-Eyes told him, and when he was finished Lloreanthoran was in a thoughtful mood. “So,” the squirrel said, “you left the doodads in the Aerant C’lain? Good boy.”

  “That’s not the case; we had to make a quick decision.”

  “The first time I ever saw you guys make a quick decision. The last one took you a couple of months and that resulted in more destruction during the Heir War.”

  “Have you ever tried to talk to my fellows?” When Bright-Eyes remained silent he continued, “Well, from what you told me, the Aerant C’lain has been violated.”

  “But you already knew that,” the squirrel remarked.

  “No, unfortunately we didn’t.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes. If you say the room is empty, and that you felt a vile presence surrounding and enveloping the chamber, we can assume that the Tomes of Darkness and the Stone of Blood have been stolen, but the protective magic has been corrupted nonetheless.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Cut down on the sarcasm!” the mage snapped.

  “How about you tell me something that I don’t already know!”

  “We have to find out what’s afoot.”

  “We aren’t, that’s for sure.” Bright-Eyes looked down and then back into his eyes. “If we want to solve this mystery you can talk while walking.” The squirrel grinned at the mage. “And I will stay quiet as long as you don’t play the ambitious but innocent wizard again, right? Right!”

  Lloreanthoran resumed his hike. “As I was saying, the Stone of Blood is a sacrificial instrument of sorts.”

  “What do you do with it? Drop it on the sacrifice?”

  The mage couldn’t hide his amusement. “No, it was supposed to gather the life-force of people to open a gate to… somewhere.”

  “But didn’t the Dark Tomes already take care of that part?” Bright-Eyes inquired.

  “To a degree yes, but my ancestors wanted to subjugate the Realm of Demons, and the Stone of Blood was meant to open not merely a small door but a portal similar to a castle’s gate.”

  “I hope it only works one way…” the squirrel’s voice trailed off. “No, don’t tell me it works both ways.”

  Lloreanthoran climbed across a fallen tree and looked around, trying to get his bearings. Many things had changed over the decades. When he finally continued his march he said, “Unfortunately, yes. The doors that opened with help of the Dark Tomes were comparatively small; only individuals could cross the border.” He jumped into a small ravine, carefully paying attention not to drop his friend, but the reassuring paws of the squirrel were firmly planted onto his shoulder. He remembered the treatises he had read about the vile magic his ancestors had wrought in a delusional attempt to master the forces of the unknown. To master the universe itself.

  As he walked along a small brook that lead him deeper into the forest, he thought how arrogant most members of his race still were. Now with the impenetrable wall that surrounded the Realm of Elves, they thought themselves invincible, and even though they enjoyed their solitude, some bold minds—he called them delusional fools—envisioned themselves the soon to be conquerors of their ancestral home. Fortunately, the Council of Mages had disallowed any further contact with the outside world and those foolish minds were quickly silenced. The ban affected all: delusional fools and those who merely longed to live in the real world again.

  “So, who opened a portal?” Bright-Eyes inquired after a few moments of silence.

  “My guess: a human.”

  “Oh, and what, pray tell, did he do?” the squirrel began pacing Lloreanthoran’s shoulders, a habit he had picked up centuries ago.

  The elf remained silent.

  Bright-Eyes was now standing on its hind-legs, scratching his tiny nose. “Hang on a moment,” he said, his voice ringing with a mixture of dread and enthusiasm. “What if this human just handed out the key, so to speak? What if this human struck a deal with those demons?”

  Lloreanthoran halted, furrowing his brow. “That’s possible, but what would he have gained from that?”

  A quizzical look on his face, the squirrel stared at the mage. “A question like that from an elf? You’re kidding me, right? What would you demand of a being that is as powerful as a god, and as ambitious as an… elf?”

  “You’re right, sometimes I just try to see the world as a beautiful place,” Lloreanthoran sighed.

  “I don’t believe that for an instant; for someone a couple centuries old you are still too optimistic. And you fought in the Heir War.”

  “Sometimes I just wish that the world would be without any problems.” The mage stared at the ruined tree that used to be his home. Here he had lost his wife and his daughter, victims to a fiery boulder that one of the Phoenix Wizards had summoned. It had been here that his personal war with humanity had begun, a war victorious but nonetheless painful. Over the years he had forgotten the anguish he had felt when he’d first gazed at the smoldering ruin, the charred and mutilated body of Lilanthias, his daughter, clinging to the last threads of life. The girl had fought so valiantly against death. He could still see her ruined mouth silently calling him, the stump that used to be her hand reaching out. Without a second thought he had put her out of her misery, knowing she was beyond any help.

  “I’m sorry,” was all Bright-Eyes could say when he realized where they were. The squirrel looked at him and for the first time since they’d known each other, he saw him
cry. Back when he had killed his dying daughter, he had known only hatred. Now tears ran down his face.

  It took Lloreanthoran some time to regain his senses. He was lost in a haze of blood and ashes, reliving the life that had been destroyed.

  After he had ended Lilanthias’ suffering he had searched for Aureenal, his wife, but all that remained of her was the molten remains of the necklace he had given her when he had proposed to her. The power of the human’s spell had been too much for the protection charms he had placed over the house.

  He wiped the tears away and looked past the ruin. “Let’s move on,” he whispered.

  They reached the Aerant C’lain shortly before dusk. Clouds reclaimed empty spots of heaven that the sun had wrought from their grip; the two companions were assaulted by the cold. It was unnatural, originating from the Forbidden Chamber. The silent resting place of the Stone of Blood lurked in the shadows, taunting them, testing their strength. Lloreanthoran listened to the magic, cast by long dead Elven mages who had erected the building to store their most dangerous works. It was a warning from the past, gone unheeded for centuries; when the Heir War had shattered Gathran, none of the survivors bothered to listen to a chant that had accompanied them all their lives. Now it was far too late.

  “Creepy,” Bright-Eyes whispered, gazing at the structure. “Even worse than last time. Any idea what’s happening?”

  The wizard scanned the building just as carefully as his companion, but unlike the squirrel his senses were attuned to the Aerant C’lain’s magic. Only half hearing his friend’s question Lloreanthoran said, “Now that’s odd. I thought the remnants of the artifacts’ powers would have disappeared.”

  His mage-sight perceived a whirlpool of blackness intermingled with white, the last remnants of the soulward. It was as if the dark was fueled by the power that the mages of old had invested into the integrity of the structure. He frowned and listened. In the days before the exodus he had come here on occasion to listen to the souls as they chanted, sang, and drew his thoughts regarding the forbidden knowledge. The songs had changed slightly, but to his accustomed ears it was obvious. Nuances were set wrong; pitches had been changed, as well as words and syllables. The guardians of old were now increasing the blackness; only a few feeble shouts against the thundering choir, their chant felt as if too few hands were casting a net meant for many. It did not matter how the change had occurred, he was interested in the source of this power and its intentions. If a human had removed both Stone of Blood and Tomes of Darkness, what perverted the enchantment now?

  A couple of spells came to his mind, spells to unearth the mystery. Ignoring his familiar’s questions, Lloreanthoran withdrew a few objects from his pouch. A mirror, some salt and powdered charcoal. Then he set the mirror on the ground, its surface reflecting the dim, clouded sky. Holding salt and coal, he gazed at the building, intent on capturing one of the guardians. He took a deep breath and concentrated on the spell, his gaze wandering to the mirror, where both salt and coal would imprison the magical creature.

  On the looking glass’s shiny surface stood Bright-Eyes. Instantly the wizard’s concentration was broken and he glared down at his familiar.

  “Would you please tell me what you think you’re doing?” the squirrel asked.

  “I want to find out who is using the guardians’ power,” Lloreanthoran grumbled, annoyed.

  Bright-Eyes looked at the Aerant C’lain and stumbled off the mirror. Again, he looked at the wizard, concern written on his face. Years ago, his instincts had helped them survive and it was his knack for dangerous situations that had saved his life time and again.

  The elf was doing something terribly wrong and stupid, Bright-Eyes was certain. Overcome with dread, the squirrel watched his friend resume his position. Hands held close together above the mirror, eyes shut in concentration, the mage started to cast his spell. Carefully he mouthed the arcane syllables, forming them into words no normal being could comprehend, forming them into words of power, of magic. Specks of salt and coal flew from his hands trailing a path down toward the glassy surface. Slowly they floated down, dancing and twirling around each other. Every word gave the steady trickle of material a new direction, a new spin.

  Bright-Eyes had seen his friend cast a similar spell before but back then he had not felt such fear. Something was bound to happen and whatever that was, he knew it would be bad. His legs quavered, shook like leaves in the wind, and the squirrel retreated to a nearby wall to hide in the safety of the stone.

  CHAPTER 33

  Lightbringer pondered what next to do. She had enough humans to feed her magic which meant she could breach the Grand Library’s defenses soon, but there was also the elven wizard to consider. By now he should have reached Honas Graigh and begun his investigation. Briefly she concentrated on the Aerant C’lain and felt that something was amiss. In his ignorance the mage had opened a rift that would destroy him. The elf’s plight decided her actions, and Lightbringer thrust her spiritform toward the wizard and his familiar.

  At first the spell proceeded as expected. Tendrils of smoke rose from the mirror’s surface, stabbed into the air, and then reached out for the building, reaching out for the wailing voices that sang of woe and destruction, drowning out the dwindling choir of protective chants. The gray smoke drew closer and closer to the invisible barrier that surrounded the Aerant C’lain, its fine fingers probing, searching.

  From his vantage point behind a tree, Bright-Eyes observed what he thought was a doomed mission, dread paralyzing him. The part of his mind still capable of clear thought, the part not overcome with terror, tried to convince his body to retreat even further. To no avail. His feet refused to budge.

  He stared at the spectacle, eyes darting from the clasping tendrils of smoke to his friend, who stood transfixed over the smoke-spitting mirror, and back to the tender fingers that attempted to drag a wailing voice out of the mindstorm. He saw Lloreanthoran quiver, shake as in a fever, his hands grasping for the cloud, trying to rip it apart, to sever the connection. The mage’s eyes were filled with fear, and now even Bright-Eyes could hear the banshee-wail that surrounded the Aerant C’lain. They beckoned Lloreanthoran, taunted him, daring him to perform the last step and join the perversion of powers that his ancestors had summoned long ago. Every muscle in the squirrel’s body screamed against the horrible choir that ensnared his friend.

  Shaking with frustration, Bright-Eyes watched and tried to gather strength to fight the horrors, to help his friend.

  Then time stopped.

  The presence that had once already linked to his mind was with him again. For a moment Bright-Eyes feared the spirit would take over his body, but a gentle touch assured him this was not the case. “Don’t you think you should do something other than watch, little squirrel?” she whispered, her voice stern despite the gentle words. “You have to help.”

  Renewed strength, hope, and love surged through Bright-Eyes. He felt the being giving him an encouraging nod; his fear changed to determination, washing away all traces of horror and causing his heart to hammer in his chest, but instead of the staccato-like pulse it grew steady.

  “Where would the old fool be without me?” Bright-Eyes grumbled, stepped into the open, and hefted a stone twice his size. As he turned toward his friend the spirit’s presence vanished. His courage remained.

  With all the strength his little arms could muster, Bright-Eyes smashed the mirror, its glass shattering, giving way to the stone he wielded like a battering ram. Hundreds of splinters flew through the air, propelled by the force that had already been imprisoned by magic, cutting his fur and skin, piercing his flesh.

  The evil choir was muted immediately; silence reclaimed the night. Weakened, the squirrel collapsed onto the stone he had wielded so valiantly. A pained smile on his face, he looked up at his friend. “Guess you should have listened…”

  The smoke rose toward the Aerant C’lain and as the voices reached for him, Lloreanthoran knew something was wrong, bu
t his will was ebbing. He felt the cacophonic cries of the twisted guardians drawing his spirit closer, promising him a life he had stopped dreaming about. They guaranteed power to turn back time, the reunion with wife and daughter, the strength to thwart the Heir War, thus giving Turuuk all the strength himself.

  It was tempting.

  He saw Lilanthias and Aureenal rising up from a sea of blood that was his doing, but he reveled in the havoc he caused, the pain he wreaked onto humanity, eliminating it before it could ever become the nuisance it now was. He felt hatred within, swallowing him, and making him part of the evil that was the Aerant C’lain.

  Forgotten were his goals. Drowned out was his soul. Now the anguish, hate, and pain that had lain dormant for so long within the recesses of his mind came to life, surging out, transforming him.

  Then the voices were gone.

  With one final scream Lloreanthoran freed himself of the spirits that had tried to meld his soul to the Aerant C’lain. The struggle left him shivering and shaking, staring at the black wall of hatred that was now visible to him. Swirling around the old building was a dark mass of shadows that moaned and howled like whipped slaves, but with a viciousness that revealed their true nature. The tendrils of white that still floated amidst the blackness were fading and the battles that occurred between the forces were always won by the dark, swallowing whatever tendril rose against the evil surrounding the tomb of Tomes.

  Then a flash of pain burst into his mind. Lloreanthoran wheeled, screamed again, this time from grief over the loss of his companion. When he had left for the new realm, he had felt the squirrel’s presence dim to the point where almost nothing remained. Now the link was broken, ripped apart by forces he did not wish to explain, destroyed by his mistakes, and killed by his magic. Angry at his foolishness, Lloreanthoran slammed his fists onto the ground beside the shattered mirror and Bight-Eyes’ corpse.

  “No!” he screamed, tears running down his cheeks. “No!” His arrogance had killed the squirrel, and in his moment of grief, understanding overwhelmed him. Bright-Eyes had given his life to save him! He had given his life to free him of the shroud of souls surrounding the Aerant C’lain. This realization doubled his pain and grief. Yet another friend lost. Yet another part of his life gone to ashes, vanished in the mist of death and decay, and nothing would bring Bright-Eyes back. The familiar was gone, like Lilanthias and Aureenal. Dead, because he had failed to protect them.