by C. J. Aaron
Paasek still lived.
“He still lives, that I can see,” Faya chimed in from behind him. “Will he be alright, Ryl?”
Her voice, though confident in her assessment, was shrouded in clear notes of concern.
“Aye, Faya. He’ll survive,” Ryl responded hopefully as he knelt by his friend’s side. He carefully rolled the unconscious phrenic to his back. His mindsight flashed with an image that confirmed his statement. The blazing signature of the phrenic councilor was a touch dimmer than normal, yet the glow was steady.
“You must understand that there are limits to the uses of any phrenic ability,” Ryl continued. “Even you must use caution not to overextend yourself, especially when the skills are so new and untrained. Paasek’s control over stone is one he’s only very recently learned to understand. He pushed himself too hard; the feat was monumental.”
Ryl knelt by the phrenic for a moment, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. He ran the light over the figure of his friend, though he knew Paasek would likely suffer bruises and scratches from the fall, nowhere did he notice patches of blood. His eyes lifted to survey the tunnel that Paasek had opened through the stone. The gap through which the large phrenic had collapsed was jagged, crudely resembling the form of his figure. A thin sheet of stone less than a finger’s width thick was not enough to support the force of the phrenic.
Beyond the entranceway, the results of Paasek’s efforts were far more dramatic. A pathway now spanned the length of the palisade, cut from the solid stone of the western palisade. The earthen floor was compacted and flat as if it had been rolled by a steady, even weight. At the center a narrow trough, slightly wider than his hand, was inset into the floor. The earth here was soft, having the appearance of freshly tilled, watered soil. The walls and ceiling were rounded and seamless, smoothed to a reflective shine.
Ryl extended the glowing seed in his hand. The shine bounced off the walls, reflecting the light across the length of the narrow tunnel, bathing it in a warm yellow glow. At the end of the pathway, the unnatural illumination faded as it reached what appeared to be a natural earthen chamber.
“Is that light I see?” Andr quizzed as he peered into the pathway from the opening above. He reached out with his hand, gently tapping on the thin stone remains that separated the outer chamber from the pathway Paasek had created. His gentle touch was enough to topple the flimsy barrier. Ryl swatted at the debris, batting it away from the prostate body of the unconscious phrenic.
“Aye, there’s an opening ahead,” Ryl called to his friend. “Can you watch over Paasek while I check?”
The scraping of stone signaled Andr’s approach. The mercenary paused to assist Faya down the slope before turning his attention to the fallen phrenic at his feet. Paasek stirred as he knelt down beside him, his eyelids batting with a random intensity that signaled his return to consciousness.
Ryl moved slowly through the newly created tunnel. Faya, reassured by his words that Paasek would recover, tagged along, holding tightly to the side of his cloak. Her attitude grew giddier with every step forward, toward the dimly lit tunnel’s end. Ryl steered the youth to the opposite side of the narrow channel in the floor, careful not to step into the purposeful depression.
As they walked, she ran her hand along the wall to her side. Though her eyes were sightless, her fingers traced the winding seams where the mortar filled between the stones. The changes in the rocks and mortar were dramatic. Both stone and filling had been smoothed to a glossy perfection, its crystalline interior on stunning display. The light of the small seed in his hand amplified as it bounced from one shimmering surface to the next.
The glistening end of the tunnel ended abruptly as it opened into a small earthen chamber. Though the surface below their feet was still soil, the consistency had changed dramatically. From the hard-packed floor of the tunnel, the ground became rather spongy. Though his feet sank slightly with each step, the ground rebounded after his passing. The trough in the base of the tunnel ceased where it met the squishy floor.
The natural opening was slight, barely wider than the exit of the tunnel. The walls and ceiling were course; varying edges protruded slightly in all directions, though they were smoothed by the ravages of time. The stones were slick with moisture, a product of the humidity that seemed to hang heavy in the air. The temperature was strangely warm, though not overpowering. A few meters ahead the chamber turned to the left, seeming to follow the path around a massive stone buried in the earth. Around the corner the light brightened. Though muffled and little more than a trickle, there was a distinct sound of running water.
“We’re close,” Faya whispered at his side.
Ryl grunted as he nodded in agreement. He felt the changes as they had exited the tunnel. Both inside the chamber and inside his body, there was a sense of excitement that was palpable. The air was warm and fresh, carrying a sweet undertone of something floral. The alexen in his veins rushed with anticipation. It was with an overwhelming sense of curiosity that he eased forward toward the mystery of the unknown.
He had no true expectations of what was in store around the corner, though the sight that met his eyes was shocking.
The chamber ahead was natural, widening to a distance of roughly ten meters across. The walls were composed of stones and earth, though little of the surface remained uncovered. Vibrant shades of green mosses, some short, some with finger-length tendrils, clung to the stones. Thin vines covered with thousands of tiny leaves draped over the packed soil. The walls curved inward as they reached a height several meters above his head, though they failed to meet in the center. An opening perhaps two meters wide provided a skylight for the sun’s light above. A trickle of water, little more than a rapid drip, fell from the hole in the ceiling.
A single, wide ray of light lanced into the subterranean chamber, illuminating the majesty of the room. The ground throughout was covered with a thin layer of growth. Patches of grass mixed with low-growing wildflowers and moss covered the rocks. In the light of the sun, the flowers bloomed in a rainbow of colored pedals. Outside the influence of the light, their flowers remained closed, though they seemed to bend eagerly toward the illumination. The thin waterfall splashed onto the ground, seeping into a narrow, twisting pool that encircled a single plot of soil.
While the focused, glowing beam from above illuminated the room, its target on the floor was clear.
The water enveloped the small plot of land save for a single strip. The dark, rich earth was churned as if it had recently been worked by human hands. As if it had been made ready to be sown.
“It’s beautiful,” Faya gasped.
“Aye, Faya. It is.” The words were distant, distracted as he attempted to drink in every detail of the hidden chamber.
In every aspect, the idyllic chamber held the imaginatively creative workings of nature; however, there was a definitive sense that something more was at play here. Ryl could feel the latent energy of the Erlyn here, stronger than he’d experienced outside her walls, yet he had the sense that it was distant. Fleeting. It was as if the remaining power of the woods struggled to project the feeling of wholeness.
Though stronger than he expected to find outside the confines of the Erlyn, he saw through the false front with ease. He knew the energy was more of a show than a palpable force. He doubted that the wonders, the illusions, the strength of the ancient woods could have much of an effect here if needed. If it did, he had no doubt the pocket of its original influence would fade away to nothing.
That one of the final surviving pockets of her power would vanish from the world.
The morose thought gave him pause. He surveyed the chamber again with renewed interest, looking at the wonders with a sense of resolve, a defined sense of purpose as his eyes catalogued every patch of vibrant grass, every flower that dotted the surface of the living carpet of the floor.
As a child growing up in The Stocks, freedom was only a dream. The thought was fleeting, relegated to the
recesses of his mind so as not to instill a reality that he saw no possibility of coming to pass. With the discovery of his power, of the history that the kingdom had sought to erase from the world, the hope that one day it could be a reality grew.
The fragile spark that had nearly been snuffed out by the absolute desperation of his situation had found fuel in the fertile information that flowed through his mind. The spark caught flame.
Freedom was now a reality he could grasp. Over the last cycle, his purpose had grown exponentially. The tributes, the unawakened phrenics, now tasted their first glimmer of freedom. He would deliver them to Vim, yet his path did not end there. The system of ascertaining, the Deliverance, would fall as had the wicked king and Leiroth who spurred them into reality.
His eyes roved the chamber, falling to the seed gently cradled in his right hand. He focused on the glow for a moment; though it produced no heat, it radiated a comforting feeling of warmth. The task at hand had grown.
As with the tributes, it was the Erlyn that must be restored.
From his understanding, there were still two facilities that remained in operation. How many phrenics lingered in unrelenting agony as they were bled dry? They would fall. He would see them free.
He had much to do.
A shuffling noise, a crunching of the loose dirt on the floor behind him caught his attention. He pivoted his head, noting Andr’s approach. His steps were sluggish and strained as Paasek leaned heavily on him, his massive solid arm wrapped around his shoulder. The phrenic councilor was upright, though his face was pale, more withdrawn than he had ever noted. His stony features were more defined, as if the skin of his face was pulled tighter against his angular frame.
“What is this place?” The sense of wonder contained in Andr’s words was impossible to disguise. His eyes were wide as he methodically surveyed the room.
“A piece of the Erlyn yet lives outside the walls,” Paasek whispered. His voice was soft, yet raspy and strained. “After the fall of the prophet’s tree, I thought all traces of her were lost.”
Ryl grinned as he nodded in subtle agreement. He shared similar feelings. The absence felt with the death of the prophet’s tree had been a stinging loss, though now, once again, hope grew from the pain.
“In my hand, I hold her rebirth,” he whispered; the words were merely a thought that seemed to escape of their own volition as he stepped closer to the illuminated patch of earth near the center of the chamber. His body was moving forward before he realized the action. He plotted his steps carefully, treading lightly over the pristine grounds.
The prepared earth. The trough. All now made sense. Ryl knew what was required of him. He understood the hope that the woods had placed in his hands. The instructions, though not implicit, rang clear in his mind.
It was only a matter of a few steps before he reached the illuminated patch of earth. The water that surrounded most of the small plot of tilled soil was broken by a narrow strip of land less than a meter wide. Smooth, flattened stones were embedded into a patchwork flooring; the seams between them grew thick with a covering of moss.
Ryl carefully stepped across the stone walkway, pausing as he examined the patch of churned soil. The intention was clear. The excitement that he felt coursing through his veins was easily dwarfed by the electric atmosphere that filled the chamber. The Erlyn did nothing to hide her anticipation.
The sensations danced through his body; the air inside the earthen chamber buzzed with energy. He knew what must be done; the patch of soil waited, as if freshly prepared by unseen hands to receive the fruit of the Erlyn’s rebirth. Ryl had never truly enjoyed the arduous task of farming, of tending to crops; however, he longed for this seemingly insignificant task with every fiber of his being. He dug his left hand into the soil.
As his fingers sank into the warmed earth, his arm erupted with a searing pain. A jolt of unbearable agony exploded in his elbow, sending shock waves throughout his body. His mind reeled as it failed miserably to counter the speed and ferocity of the onslaught. The whispers of blackness to that point had been silenced by the swelling of the alexen inside his veins.
Their silence had been neither apathy nor submission. It plotted in eager preparation.
Their reaction was planned, coordinated with vicious precision.
The muscles in Ryl’s body seized up as he toppled backward. His hands locked into a state of perpetual rigor; his fingers were neither clenched into a fist nor extended as they cramped with immobilizing pain. The glow of the seed faltered as it slipped from his hand, falling helplessly to the patch of earth below.
The atmosphere—alive, expectant, hopeful moments earlier—shattered as the light of the seed faded. The brilliant, golden beam of light from the sun dimmed as if obscured by a layer of thick cloud. Air that had buzzed with fresh, clean, floral scents was now thick; he struggled to catch his breath as he seemed to chew on the oxygen in his mouth. There was a pungent, potent hint of rot, of death.
Of the Horde.
By the time Ryl’s body hit the cushioned floor of the chamber, he had become oblivious to the external torment. The agony, the disorder had shifted internally as the battle waged within his veins. Images flashed to view in his mind, one following the other in rapid succession like lightning splitting the blackness of night.
Screams ripped through his ears as he viewed the clearing, the hidden bastion that the tributes, the unawakened, called their temporary home. Countless bodies were scattered across the cleared interior, some floating in undulating pools of blood. The unnatural rolling of the crimson churned his stomach, much like during his hasty retreat across the stormy Sea of Prosper. The trees surrounding the clearing were ablaze from root to the canopy. Scraps of flaming branches rained down, hissing as they landed on the blood-soaked ground. His vision fell to his hands, which were stained with a dripping crimson.
Blackness engulfed his mind before the next flash of image.
The winds swirled around him, though they were not of his own creation. Odors carried on each current, putrid and thick. Ryl stood alone atop a solitary parapet of drab, grey stone. He recognized the confines of the corner watchtower he’d haunted for the last moon. He pivoted slowly; the sickening sensation of his stomach dropping overwhelmed him as he surveyed the terrain. In every direction, color had seemingly been robbed from the world. Dark grey clouds choked out the sunlight, bleaching the blue from the sky. The ground was covered in a seething mass of blackened bodies, stretching to every horizon. Their focus was singular. On him.
The scene shifted as his vision flashed for the third time.
The wide dirt path was rutted; pools of stagnant water filled the holes. Scattered across its gnarled surface, rotting leaves and debris littered the road. A withered riverbed lay to his right, its flow reduced to a trickle. The water that slithered around the exposed rocks had a sickly viscous quality. Trees, or what was left of them, hemmed in both sides of the roadway. Few leaves remained on the sparse branches; the bark in many if not all places had rotted away, exposing the pale sickly flesh underneath. No bushes or bramble remained to disguise the sight lines through the undergrowth. Little life existed around him. It was the graveyard of a forest; the pale trunks of dead trees remained as scattered tombstones.
The moments of lucidity became fleeting. A warmth nagged at the chill, attempting to counter the all-encompassing pain that had enveloped him. He felt hands on his body, though he was alone in his agony. Voices without forms screamed, pleaded, begged, encouraged. Their calls bombarded him, resounding from inside and out. He felt his mind slipping into a blackness, into a void from which there would be no return. He welcomed the madness if it could for but a moment end the excruciating pain.
A jolt of electricity tore through his body. Arcing from his right arm, it sliced through the haze of agony, clearing the darkness with a moment of starling clarity. The cacophony of voices garbled, muffling into a roar, loud enough to feel the percussive emphasis, yet tolerable. A voice w
hispered over the roar. Hers was a voice he knew. The tones were imprinted on his mind, yet her name was missing, lost in the abyss of his mind. Fleeting glimpses of a lithe figure danced in and out of clarity.
A body, covered in a long charcoal robe that flicked gently in the breeze.
Auburn hair blazed as it captured the light of the sun.
Her voice was steady, calm, yet he felt the dire importance of every word.
“The seed,” she whispered. The simple message repeated over and over.
With a flash of light, the image faded. The voices silenced in unison.
Faya’s hands were wrapped around Ryl’s right arm. Her small hands squeezed to wrap themselves around his biceps; her fingertips barely touched together. She squeezed on the marking of Kaep’s hand. Tears streamed down her face. He could feel her desperate but feeble attempts to force her emotion over his addled mind.
“The seed,” he gasped. His voice was weak, scratchy as if sound hadn’t emanated from his mouth in cycles.
He felt the grip of strong hands under his armpits, hoisting him up to a sitting position. There was fear in Andr’s voice, potent and sobering.
“I’ve got you, Ryl.” The mercenary groaned as he propped him up.
Faya released his arm with a single hand, stretching for the seed with her other. Ryl gritted his teeth as the blackness surged again in the absence of her hand. He could feel the alexen struggle to maintain their tenuous defense, holding the darkness from overtaking him. He viewed the events as if he were but a spectator, watching the battle waging from afar. His own emotions, his willpower were held at bay, mitigating the excruciating pain.
It was the scream from Faya that snapped the hold. The high-pitched yelp was that of surprise and pain. Involuntarily, Ryl surged to his knees, his eyes searching for the youth he knew to be still at his side. He could still feel her single hand gripping tightly to his arm.
