“And why do you make such a claim?” asked Kaysa.
Marro motioned to Khey. “Because your comrade just revealed that your time is fleeting. You must go make your peace while you still can. Death will not wait for the hour of your choosing.”
Reclaiming her wits, Kaysa wiped the tears from her eyes as she stood, nodding to the mercenary. “You are quite right, Marro. Thank you for reminding me of the urgency that presses us,” she said before she nodded to Khey. “Please lead the way.”
Through stark silence, Khey led the others into the room that held Talcoros. Upon entering, Kaysa shivered at the dimness and the scant reaches of life. Quenthell's Elder resting fitfully, as if every breath was a battle for life. Talcoros clearly looked older to Kaysa as his skin relinquished its color for a pallid and fading landscape. Sweat beads gripped to what skin was not covered in blankets and the smell of death lingered in the air. Talcoros held a hand over his freshly bandaged wounds, clinging to what vitality that remained in his ancient body.
At the sight of the Elder, Kaysa rushed to his side, gently taking his hand. The others softly formed around him, lowering their heads in their grief. Kaysa's tears gushed as she allowed emotions to best her. She held Talcoros's procured hand between hers, resting it upon her head as she wept softly. The grief and culmination of loss were now breaching her reserves in full force.
"Kaysa," whispered Talcoros as his fading eyes opened, searching for recognition.
"I am here," replied Kaysa softly, squeezing at his hand to offer assurance. She fetched a cloth next to the bed to dry the Elder's forehead as Khey rushed to the other side of the bed.
"I am relieved," said Talcoros as he pointed to her neck with a shaky hand. "And the seed has endured."
"Yes," said Kaysa as she squeezed at the Elder's hand again. "We made it. We are safe."
Talcoros offered a pained smile. "I wish that were true, child," he whispered before looking at those present. "For all of you, that would be my only and deepest wish."
"What is going on," blurted Lokus as he looked upon the Elder, who appeared to still be slowly aging before their eyes.
Talcoros drew a slow breath. "This is the end for me. The forests that sustained life and prolonged mine are free of us now. Without them, there is no magic, nor is their hope for this world." The Elder then searched about. "Has he arrived? Has Faeth's keeper found us?"
"He has," stated a firm voice, startling some of the room with its strength.
Kaysa joined the others in turning to the voice. There standing at the door was the Steward of Faeth and its unopposed Keeper. The elf stood the span of the door, easily towering over the fellow Dynpri guards that flanked him. Though his eyes were not replaced with orbs, they glowed eerily with their own golden light. A modest circlet adorned with three onyx jewels crowned his head above slanting ears and a weary, yet stern expression. Crimson robes and belt adorned his strong, slender frame as pauldrons of metal rested on his shoulders. His clean, shaven face revealed much of his mood as he approached the end of the bed.
At the sight of him, Talcoros nodded once with a soft grin. "Derahn," he uttered with some relief.
Derahn approached the foot of the bed, nodding once to the fading Elder. "It has been a lifetime, Talcoros," said the Regent as he examined the injuries before him.
"And now one of those lifetimes is at an end."
Derahn ignored the comment as he pressed. "What are you doing in Faeth?"
Talcoros coughed as he grimaced from the pain before responding. "Quenthell, the last great secret of Kel'Thara is no more. It was discovered and raided, its people butchered. I dread to think what has befallen those that remain. The Ageless King has at last struck the most mortal of blows."
Derahn lowered his head, accepting the truth unloading upon him. "The finality has reached us. The age of our world has truly come to an end."
Talcoros shook his head, squeezing Kaysa's hand. "All hope is yet to be relinquished. We still hold the last of the seeds and the only hope for our salvation," he breathed.
"That is a fool's dream," said Derahn as frustration caused his eyes to flare with light. "We went our separate ways, Talcoros. I kept your secrets. But you have held to that seed and basked in its strength for too long. It shall never wake."
Talcoros tried to rise to challenge this and was wracked immediately with agony. Kaysa gripped to his hand as she helped the Elder back down upon the bed. As Talcoros fought the pain that ravaged him, he continued to diminish in the eyes of those around him. The sight of it brought horror to those that witnessed it, unable to assist the fading Elder.
"He needs his rest," said Kaysa.
"He clings to vain hopes," offered Derahn. "Our life has left this world, Talcoros. I have brought my people here to Faeth to forge a new path. I do not know how much time I have afforded them, but we are safer here than Quenthell was under its guises. You were foolish to believe yourself free from Thorien's reach. And it has cost you fully." The Regent then moved himself to stand at Talcoros's side, taking his other hand. He squeezed to it in silence, sharing a brief, yet tender moment with an old friend.
"If we hold no hope, then we hold nothing of this world," said the Elder.
"There is no world left to hope for. Quenthell was the last," said Derahn somberly.
"No," said Talcoros gritting his teeth through another rushing pain. "It is not over. Kaysa holds the seed. She will carry it through any burden. I believe this fully. What she needs is time. You must afford her this time, Derahn. You must fight so that this world may be reborn."
Softly, Derahn released the hand of the Elder, helping it back down to rest upon Talcoros. "I am sorry, old friend. But my duty is to Faeth now. There is no other way than the way that we now forge. We must endure, and upon a path that leaves Kel'Thara as Kel'Thara once left us," he said before placing his hand on the Elder's shoulder. "My spirit mourns for you and the days we have missed to misfortune. You will be truly mourned. But your people will be safe here in Faeth. That I promise you. Farewell, Talcoros," he said before turning sharply and exiting the room. As he did, his entourage of guards followed.
Silence befell the room as Talcoros watched the Regent's exit. A lone tear slipped from his eye, showing perhaps pain at times gone or failures come full circle. Soon the Elder's eyes moved to Kaysa and the seed upon her neck. The next wave of pain rushing through him was diminished as the features of the aged elf slackened further.
"What must we do?" asked Kaysa.
"Persevere," whispered Talcoros softly. "All hope that remains for this world now rests fully upon the sum of this room."
"That is a grim summation," said Marro in observance.
"Silence yourself, mercenary, and waste not this time that remains to us," said Vienda as she knelt next to Talcoros to address him. "Tell us...what is our task?"
Talcoros fought to draw the air he needed for his reply, harnessing what little vitality that remained to him. "You must leave Faeth, and soon, for if you remain, the safety of this place will fool you into security. But make no mistake, without the seed, even Faeth will fall. Prepare yourselves and venture to the town in the cliffs, the one known as Everspire. It is there you must seek out my son, for only he now can awaken the seed."
"Your son?" asked Vienda.
Talcoros nodded. "Our parting of ways was unpleasant, but he holds knowledge of the old ways. You must find Delegas and convince him to aid you. There is simply no other choice. Kel'Thara dies or is reborn by your actions."
"We will do what we can," said Kaysa gently.
Talcoros looked at the young elf then, offering her one final smile. "I am sorry, truly sorry, to place such a burden upon you. But only you can accept this path. My son will have more answers. Tell him that his father loves him, no matter the path." Talcoros then drew one more long and reluctant breath before resuming his final words. "Stay true to the path and what must be done. I'm sorry that I can no longer guide you...my charges...my children. Kel'
thara is you...and you are...Kel'thara," he rasped, his last words wheezing from his dimming lips. Soon the Elder's head fell to the side and Talcoros was gone.
Kaysa could feel the last of life leave the Elder, and the sensation brought her tears rushing back. Those present lowered their heads as Onzlyn offered a soft prayer for Talcoros's journey to the beyond. Those of Quenthell mourned yet another loss, and the knowledge that they were now truly alone in a savage and unforgiving world.
It was Marro who broke the silent, shared pain of the room. "Everspire is a long span from here and you know not the way. I would wager that your group requires guidance," he said.
Vienda's head shot up as she stared fire and ice upon Marro. "Who would seek commission in such a moment? You fall upon us like easy prey. Is your audacity without limits?"
Marro exchanged a glance with Onzlyn. His eyes bore some amusement as Onzlyn shook his head. "We merely heard your Elder well, warrior. It would appear that time is of some considerable essence. We simply seek to keep what odds we can in our favor."
"We require preparation and supplies for such a journey," added Onzlyn.
Without looking in his direction, Kaysa procured and tossed her small coin bag of possessions to Marro. As the mercenary caught it, she spoke. "Take it. All of it. May it be what you require and more. All that matters to me now is that we make it to our destination and do what must be done," she said bitterly.
Marro looked between the small purse and Kaysa. "Are you sure of this?"
Kaysa again responded without turning. "You again speak as if I hold some form of choice. It is either this or death. I choose this."
Marro pocketed the purse before offering Onzlyn a nod. "Very well then. We will begin preparations immediately," he said before he and Onzlyn were swiftly gone.
In their absence, the silence and grief of the room only intensified as Kaysa buried her head on the fallen Elder's chest to rejoin her friends in sharing tears for Talcoros.
8 Harvest
Impassively, Field Marshal Vakk watched as the village of Quenthell slowly faded from existence. The air was still engorged with the smells of felled timber and burnt flesh. Vakk’s ears filled relentlessly with the sounds of falling trees and fearful pleas of those judged to servitude or death. Years of service had allowed the elf to garner features like stone, even amidst the most horrific atrocities.
All it had cost him was his soul.
With the buildings cleared and the last remnants of resistance quelled, the decimation of Quenthell was now running its course. Vakk chose to focus on the positives of his mission. The food stores of Thorindale would swell in a way unseen for several seasons. His men were already anxious at the prospect of fresh food and water. Though from the screams that occasionally filled his ears, Vakk knew that those hungers delved into more carnal desires as well.
Vakk chose to disregard the careful bouts of insubordination, for it was rare to garner such moments. The field marshal knew that most if not all of those in his command had never seen such a luscious display of bounty. For the majority of them, Quenthell was as close to splendor as they would ever see. They would be absent from the banquet Thorien would host to honor this day. His soldiers would return to simply await the next battle, gears in a greater machine, means to a deadly end.
And for this, Vakk let them have their fun.
Pulled from his thoughts, Vakk turned to the crisp sound of a rifle firing. A villager fell in his violent protest. The man had refused to accept the truth and now fell to his knees before crumbling upon the ground. The village, its possessions, his family, these things belonged to him no longer. And his death echoed an example for all others to understand fully of the gravity resting upon them.
Turning from the death and anguish, Vakk chose to focus on the gathering. His machines worked tirelessly as they pillaged the surrounding forest. The splendor that the Harvesters gathered with their blades and pincers was almost beyond measure. It was a revelation easily seen in the eyes of the machine’s busy drivers. The current harvest was a great victory for their nation and their king.
Sighing his vexation, rejecting his hesitance, Vakk at last motioned for one of his men. “Bring me the Coresponder at once,” he ordered casually. The soldier saluted and was soon gone.
As he waited, Vakk paced, yet at a casual measure. He dared not reveal his own restlessness or unease, especially as the spoils were being garnered. Vakk nodded to passing soldiers, approving with casual indifference. The less his men knew of his unease the better.
Quickly the Coresponder was brought to Vakk. He dismissed the soldier with a curt salute before ensuring that he was alone. The satchel now in his possession felt heavier than it should. Vakk was not prepared to administer his report, and he knew beyond all measure that his king was waiting for it even now.
Finding a suitable rock, Vakk procured the Coresponder from the satchel before placing the compact chest upon it. Still coaxing himself, Vakk unfastened the latch to open the chest. It contained a series of knobs and a receiver attached to a crystal. Turning one of the knobs, the crystal glowed with a dull yellow hum before it offered a projection within it.
There, looking at Vakk with grim impatience was Thorien, his king.
Vakk drew steps backwards before bowing to the image of Thorien. “My lord, the town of Quenthell has been neutralized, its people pacified. We are in the process of harvesting its resources for Thorindale. Casualties are minimal and the campaign a tremendous success,” he said.
The image of King Thorien watched him intently for long moments. At last, the king responded with annoyance festering in his voice. “These things are pleasing to know, Vakk, and I welcome such tidings gladly. What is most displeasing is what you are not telling me,” he said.
Vakk held his ground, steeling his features as he replied quickly. “A small band of villagers have escaped our initial assault and have taken the item with them.” Vakk then held his breath, uncertain as to what to expect next.
Vakk then watched as a ripple washed over the image of King Thorien. The king looked away for a minute, and Vakk understood that a battle for control was being waged within Thorien. The field marshal knew that more than his life was hovering upon the brink. Vakk opted to hold steadfast, offering no emotion or pleas for forgiveness. At the present, silence and patience were his allies.
When Thorien returned his gaze upon him, Vakk could feel his hidden fury even through the distance. “Then the campaign is a loss until the seed is reclaimed. It is worth more than all the resources you could gather from ten Quenthells. Am I being understood in this moment, Field Commander Vakk?”
Vakk nodded to the image. “With the utmost of clarity, sire,” he replied.
“You hold an army,” started Thorien, clutching at the arms of his throne. “Utilize it. Undo this sin and return to Thorindale with your conscience clear and the seed in your possession, or do not return at all.”
“It will be done,” said Vakk.
King Thorien nodded. “I certainly hope so for your sake, Vakk. It was my hope that this mission would reveal to me the depths of your loyalty. But until that seed is in my hands, that loyalty is cast further into doubt. Are you quite certain of your allegiance, field marshall? I find it troubling that you stand where you do and a small band of Quenthell’s people have escaped.”
Vakk shook his head with certain swiftness. “An unfortunate coincidence, my liege, one that will be remedied quite quickly.”
“It is my hope that your desire is to squash this doubt I hold as quick as you are able,” said the king.
“Yes,” said Vakk, motioning to the dying village surrounding him. “Quenthell was but a stepping-stone in my life. It was never truly my home. My home is Thorindale. My allegiance is to you and that is utterly without question. These cowards will be found. The seed will be reclaimed. And you will either have it in your hands or my heart in its stead.”
Again, the ageless features of the king evaluated Vakk’s i
mage gravely. His nod of approval was offered slowly and with reluctance. “Very well, Vakk. Finish your campaign. Show to me proof of your undying fealty. There are only two places for you now in Thorindale. You can either reclaim your place at my side or take a new position within a food processing station.”
Vakk bowed, feeling the chill that crept up his spine fully. “Nothing is wasted in Thorindale. By my duty or my body, I will live and die to serve,” he said.
“And soon, very soon, we will see the extent of that commitment,” said King Thorien before he waved a hand before him. Suddenly his image vanished and Vakk was left alone once more to his thoughts.
Swallowing hard, Vakk closed the Coresponder, making sure that it and his nerves were both secure. Satisfied, he motioned for one of his men to reclaim the device as he shifted his focus back to Quenthell. Soon, Vakk’s impassive demeanor returned as the elf settled in once more to his agenda. The chaotic beauty of deforestation offered him a pleasant distraction, returning him to his own thoughts.
Vakk realized swiftly that his pledge of loyalty merely purchased him a span of time. Results would be necessary, and he needed to prepare to do all that was required to accomplish his task. He was elevated, yes, but Vakk was no fool. With but a word, there were those in his ranks that would turn on him if the king but asked them to. Vakk had to keep his wits about him and accomplish his task.
No matter the course or cost.
Vakk motioned swiftly for yet another of his men, still making calculations as the soldier rushed toward him. The field marshal knew his next step, though he was ever loathe to make the order. Vakk accepted that sacrifice was the foundation of true progress, yet even he felt sullied somehow utilizing certain assets available to him. Yet such a time triumphed over his own protestations.
The soldier halted before him, saluting with eyes wide. “Yes, Field Marshal Vakk?” he asked. His voice was wavering between fear and adulation.
Vakk turned to the soldier grimly, evaluating the man before turning away. “Our mission is not yet complete,” he said before produced a vexed sigh wrought with irritation. “Summon me the Huntsman, and be quick.”
The Last of Kel'Thara Page 9
