Legend Warrior

by Liara Woo

  Katie felt shocked and somewhat insulted. "What do you mean? I'm not…I don't want to destroy anyone, or anything…except perhaps every mosquito in the world."

  "I remember with somewhat more clarity the magic of Darkness. Beware of strange ingredients; you may accidentally find yourself brewing poison with them. If you find yourself surrounded by Darkness, it will be difficult to control yourself. And if, for whatever reason, you turned against the elves…"

  Katie finished his sentence in her own mind. Everything good would be destroyed. And who's to say that the Darkness won't try to conquer Earth as well? She shuddered.

  Meanwhile, Joran was deeply immersed in his own thoughts. He swallowed nervously. Does that mean Halthren is Legendheart? he wondered, thinking about the prophesy. I've heard people call him that…mostly in jest. But if he is, does that mean he'll die? Joran shook his head slightly. No. Halthren knows everything about the legends. If Legendheart meant him, he'd know. But he's never said anything about it, so it must not be so. "So how do we return to Kylaras?" he asked, abruptly changing the subject.

  Starling scraped one hoof on the ground. "There are two enchanted portals that no one likes to venture into. The Forest of Mist is one; if you go there it is all too easy to become lost and starve to death or be sent to Earth. The Ocean of Storms is the other; only the strongest dragons and the rocs (massive predatory seabirds) can successfully cross it and endure the violent winds and the thunderstorm. The Forest of Mist sends you to Earth. The Ocean of Storms can take you back."

  "How?" Katie asked.

  "You will need a boat," Starling told them. "A boat and a magically conjured storm. Sail out into any body of water and then summon a storm, and after a few minutes, Poof! You're in Allagandria. Then all you need to worry about is staying alive long enough to get to shore."

  Joran looked at Katie desperately. "We must try. Halthren is in anguish as we speak."

  Katie sighed, hoping she'd be able to live up to his expectations. "Well, there's a small pool right here that we can use, and I think I saw a boat on the other side of that shack, but I don't know how to summon a storm. I mean, if we went back to the surface and I think hard enough about wanting it to rain, a few days later there's a rainstorm, but I don't think we can wait that long…"

  Starling nodded. "You're absolutely right; it would take time that the elves cannot afford to lose. Joran, you were in Kylaras more recently than I. What was the creature that could summon storms in the blink of an eye and call down lightning?"

  "Griffins," Joran smiled. "For storms they said something like 'Cloud seal-breath birth-lion.' I know those aren't the actual words—that's just what it sounded like."

  "Celed serelbeth birthoniel," Katie said without thinking, feeling a strange tingling on her tongue. Then she frowned, surprised with herself. Where did those words come from?

  Starling looked at her approvingly. "Good. You are familiar with the incantation. Did you not feel the power coursing through your blood as you spoke the words?"

  "I…I don't know…I suppose so…yes…maybe?" Katie was perplexed. "What did I say? It doesn't mean anything vulgar, does it?"

  "I think the translation is 'Come rain and clouds,'" Joran told her. "All creatures in Allagandria have a secret spell-language reserved for enchantments and ancient rituals. I can't understand most of them."

  Katie shrugged. "Oh well. Umm, Starling, I was wondering…how did you get a house and a boat and elven clothes?"

  "I was exploring the Forest of Mist on a night of a full moon, and I came across this abandoned shack. The mist swept in, and it and I were swept away to this cavern, where we've been for fifty years."

  Katie nodded. "That makes some sense. But how do the other creatures in the forest know about you?"

  "I don't suppose you knew that I could breathe underwater, as can all of my race, and I spent twenty years in the forest, exploring. Even now I rise up occasionally to get fresh food. Moss doesn't really cut it for me, you know. But my welfare is a trivial matter; the night is nearly through, and the sooner you get to Allagandria the better."

  Katie walked around the side of the small shack and started dragging the small silver wooden boat towards the small pool. Joran helped her, looking skeptical.

  "I hope that this will take us all the way to Kylaras's shore," he said nervously.

  "Don't say that; of course it will," Katie insisted. Now was not the time to start having doubts, especially since she was nervous enough as it was.

  They shoved the boat into the pool of water and jumped in, making it rock violently from side to side. Katie clutched both sides of the small craft, her eyes wide. Joran had a point; it didn't seem tough enough to sail into what sounded like a hurricane. "Personally, I don't feel ready to go into an ocean full of storms," she said uneasily, her heart fluttering nervously in her chest.

  Joran smiled. "I do. I've not been on Earth for very long, but I've had enough of it. I'm ready to find Halthren. I'm ready to go home."

  No More Hope

  No More Hope

  Halthren was pinned to the wall in the arena by two bulky demons. His head lolled on his shoulders. Each breath he took caused him pain. His lips were dry and swollen; his stomach was empty and cramped. He had no strength left.

  Being imprisoned for weeks without food, water, or light of any kind had taken its toll on him.

  He was not alone in the arena. As always, Blacknack was pacing in front of him, growling. "I've been gentle on you so far, elfling."

  Halthren would have laughed if he'd been strong enough. He'd been beaten every day he'd been imprisoned. Every part of his body had been battered and beaten.

  "You don't deserve it, but I'll give you another chance," Blacknack snarled. "Tell me: where did Joran go and why did you send him away?"

  "I'll say nothing."

  Blacknack pummeled his ribs, causing white-hot agony to flare in the ones that were fractured. "What did you say?"

  "I won't betray what I believe in. Nor will I betray my friends," Halthren managed to gasp. His fair face was a mask of pain.

  Blacknack roared angrily and ripped him free from the demons that held him to the wall. Halthren grunted as pain flared in his marred limbs. Blacknack hurled him into the side of the wall and he saw stars as his head slammed against the wall; he moaned in agony. Blacknack laughed cruelly and lifted him by the back of his neck, throwing him into another wall. Halthren groaned again. Every bone in his body was throbbing anew.

  Blacknack grinned evilly and walked over to where the elf was huddled against the wall. He rained blows down on every inch of Halthren's body until the elf was barely conscious. Then he chained him to the wall; Halthren cringed as pressure increased on his injured wrists and ankles.

  Blacknack pulled out a small vial of blood-red liquid from a pocket in his leathery jerkin. "This was a gift from Nashgor's Shape-Shifter," he snarled. Halthren swallowed nervously as anticipation turned his stomach.

  Blacknack pinned Halthren's head against the wall by his hair and forced his mouth open. Then the demon pulled out the cork in the vial and poured a single drop into Halthren's mouth. Weakly he tried to spit it out, but it was too late. A terrible burning sensation was beginning to spread through his body, down his arms and legs and into his chest. Halthren gasped as a sudden white-hot bolt of pain shot through him. A second bolt followed, lasting longer. He bit his tongue hard, drawing blood and trying to remain silent, but an involuntary groan escaped his lips and Blacknack smirked.

  More bolts of pain followed in quick succession, each longer than the last. Halthren couldn't take it anymore. His body trembled from the agony, and his eyes widened. "Aaaaaah," he moaned as the seventh bolt jolted through him. When the tenth bolt came, it didn't fade into nothing. Anguish burned through his veins, into his heart, into his muscles, infiltrating every part of his being. He screamed, his body tightening against the pain.

  It was too much. And it didn't stop. Halthren twisted and writhed madly
in his chains. His chest felt constricted; he couldn't get enough air in his lungs for another scream and it was difficult to keep breathing. His blood roared in his ears; he was unaware of anything except agony, splitting his body apart.

  "Alright, that's enough," Blacknack cackled, and gradually the pain faded. Halthren stared at him, horrified, drenched in sweat and involuntarily shaking and twitching violently, hanging limp from the chains. He inhaled deeply, trying to calm his rapid breathing.

  Blacknack laughed gleefully. "That was a pleasure to witness! You feel awful now, don't you, little elf? Let's do it again." He unstopped the vial of red potion.

  And the whole process began again. Within moments Halthren was screaming again. It felt as if every part of his body was being ripped into tiny shreds. When at last it stopped, Halthren was wishing for death.

  "Now tell me, and you won't have to bear that ever again," Blacknack hissed. "What have you done with Joran?"

  Halthren was weak and horrified. He could barely get his mouth to move. "I'll say nothing," he whispered in a trembling, breathy voice.

  Blacknack growled and punched Halthren in the face. Halthren fought the urge to weep. Why? he thought desperately. Why me? Why do I have to bear this? Please, someone… anyone… make it stop…please…

  His head lolled on his shoulders; his neck was too weak to hold it upright anymore.

  Blacknack snapped his fingers, muttering to himself. "Curses. The Shape-Shifter warned me not to do it two times in a row. Now I'll have to wait twelve hours…but it is such fun…" He sighed. "Hey you, Garbage, take this elfling back to his cell."

  Halthren was barely aware that he was being unchained. His eyes were wide and staring. He couldn't stop shivering, and occasionally his body twitched and convulsed involuntarily.

  The demon that was apparently named Garbage dragged him down seemingly endless flights of stairs, and then down a long hallway, although he was so close to unconsciousness that all he barely noticed. He was tossed roughly back into his tiny, filthy cell, cold and weak and trembling violently.

  Halthren was absolutely miserable—more so than he ever remembered feeling. He'd lost all hope of seeing light again. Darkness surrounded him, sapping the remainder of strength from his battered body. Without food or water, he was certain that he wouldn't be able to live for much longer.

  As long as Light and goodness remain, elves can live forever. They never lost the appearance of youth, and if they were deprived of physical nourishment they could survive off of the light of sun, moon, and stars. But here, down in a deep, dark dungeon, surrounded by demons bent on making Halthren's life miserable, the only light came from torches. Halthren was slowly, painfully dying. He'd just go on becoming weaker and weaker until his heart wasn't strong enough to keep beating. He would die far from the forest, far from all light and goodness, far from all that he loved.

  He moaned; his body was still in such horrible pain that just wouldn't go away. He shivered, curling himself into a tight ball in one corner of the tiny cell. His thin tunic was worn, filthy, and tattered and the sleeves had fallen off. His feet were bare and his leggings had been ripped off just past his knees. His fair skin was covered in a thin layer of grime and discolored by bruises and infected cuts. He felt awful as he waited impatiently for death's warm embrace to claim him.

  There's no use in living anymore, he thought dully. I'm done. I'm finished. I can't take this anymore—please, someone, let me die. Take my life. "Please," he gasped hoarsely to the guard outside of his cage. "Kill me. Kill me. Please end my life."

  The demon only laughed.

  * * *

  Blacknack stormed out of the dungeon, fuming. Most of his fury came from the fact that he knew deep down that Halthren's heart was too pure to be destroyed by torture: no matter how much pain was inflicted upon him, he would never give in. This annoyed Blacknack more than anything ever had before.

  Blacknack stepped into the dungeon tower and climbed up the spiraling black stairs until he reached the room at the top. He stomped up to the barred window and gazed out across Kratchene.

  Dark clouds of evil mixed with smoke filled the sky in every direction. Jagged black mountains rose up on all sides. Blacknack could see tiny orange specks dotting the countryside from demons climbing the rocks with torches in their hands, training for battle. Eleven volcanoes were spread out across Kratchene, but here at Vernisgard only one was visible: it was the largest, and it was the home of Nashgor's second-in-command, the Demon King. Lava spewed from the top and poured down the sides.

  There was nothing green or growing anywhere in the Dark Lands; the smoke polluted any water source, rendering it unusable. Kratchene was a harsh, desolate country full of death. Blacknack smiled. That was the way he liked it.

  Demons swarmed over rocky landscape, practicing battle moves. They didn't need armor; their scales were much harder than any metal they could mine in Kratchene. They made swords out of the melted-down skins of their dead, and occasionally suits of armor were made for decoration and given to the high ranking officers. Like Blacknack.

  Blacknack took comfort in the sheer size of the hordes of demons marching along below him. Those silly elves, with their foolish notions of faith and hope. We'll get them; we'll destroy them. They have no chance.

  "I feel as if we've won already," he hissed.

  "Indeed," a cold voice drawled from the shadows.

  Blacknack spun around, alarmed. When he saw who it was, he sighed in relief. "Oh, it's you," he said. "Can I do anything for you, O Mighty Shape-Shifter?"

  A tall, bone-thin figure stepped out of the shadows, clothed in flowing black robes that billowed around him like dark fog. His slicked-back hair and his soulless eyes were the color of obsidian. But his skin was as white as bone, and his face was eerily similar to a skull. A cloud of blackness hid his feet.

  The figure appeared human, but the soul within was pure Darkness. "Not at this moment," he slithered in a cold, cruel voice—a voice that perfectly matched his heartless gaze. "My master's armies are made of fantastic warriors, Blacknack. And yet it takes ten of them to kill one elf. That is unacceptable." He circled Blacknack slowly, smelling of death and smoke.

  "But we have plenty of soldiers," the demon replied. "Ten to each elf should be fine."

  "My master's warriors are getting killed by elves," the Shape-Shifter hissed. "I do not care if we have enough troops. I do care about the fact that they're being slaughtered by those nonsensical pointy-eared do-gooders. What if they manage to get reinforcements? We must be stronger. You must train them harder. Remember, when we win, we must have enough troops left over to spread our transcendent evil across Allagandria."

  "Yes, sir."

  The Shape-Shifter turned to go, but he paused. "Oh, yes. I was ordered to tell you that Nashgor is designing a special torture device. It will help us break the will of our prisoner."

  Blacknack smiled. "Thank you, Mighty One."

  "One last thing. Apparently the elves can pull a powerful ally out of the forest of Mist, so it must be destroyed. Prepare a stealth force to go to Kylaras and burn it." Without another word the Shape-Shifter turned into a tiny bat and flew between the bars of the window; then he transformed into a huge black dragon and soared away towards one of the other volcanos in Kratchene.

  Neither the shape shifter nor Blacknack were aware that, through some strange phenomenon of the sonic properties of that tower and the dungeons beneath it, Halthren had heard every word.

  So the Shape-Shifter is not Nashgor, but is some sort of minion belonging to Nashgor, he thought uneasily. That means that our actual enemy is either the Demon King or the Shadow Lord.

  He shivered and curled himself tighter.

  The Ocean of Storms

  The Ocean of Storms

  "I don't suppose you know much about sailing," Katie said uncertainly, looking at the small, slender elven dinghy with uncertainty. Joran shrugged.

  "Elves don't really use boats much. If we want to g
o downstream, then we walk or ride along the riverbank. If we want to go out to the middle of a lake, we swim. We definitely don't try to cross either of the two oceans, for such an attempt would be pure folly, and we don't go fishing either. So we don't have a reason to use boats. Of course, some villages do craft them, mainly for entertainment. Younger elves love to ride in boats like this."