“He found the book. According to the markings we were able to translate from the tomb, only the one that can read the book can unlock the prison.”, another responded.
“But Nezial? He's an accomplished magician and decent swordsman, I’ll give him that, but he lacks the determination and blood-lust of our people, let alone how the legend describes the chosen one.” Khronis burst out, challenging any who would oppose.
Nadilia responded , “Khronis, my old friend, I’m well aware of his personality. I’m also well aware of the legend. However, the legend states the chosen one is unlike any other. He both found and fed the book, therefore he’s the only dreualfar that can read the tome in its entirety. When he returns I think you'll agree that he’s quite different.”
Nezial heard all he needed to. He turned and made way for his personal chambers. There were a few things he needed to pack before he could set out on such a perilous journey.
***
Sunlight filtered into the darkness, an inverted tunnel ending in a blinding glow. Nezial shielded his eyes, hoping they wouldn't burn forever. One foot in front of the other, he made his way through the catacombs, rapidly approaching the end. His lightly packed satchel bulged to capacity, allowing his hands to remain free. He wore a heavy cloak over his robes, knowing it would be needed if he was to leave the safety of the dark cavern.
His sabre hung loosely at his side, sheathed and positioned for quick draw if needed. He preferred the light weight of a rapier but his fighting style was more fitted for the curved blade, using mostly slashes as opposed to the fencing posture the flimsy weapon required.
He threw the hood of his heavy cloak over his head and walked out into the sunlight. The heat burned through the layers, leaving him in a constant state of nausea, but he was, in a roundabout way, doing what he'd dreamed of his entire life.
The brightness left a dull ache behind his eyes but he continued on, hoping he would grow accustomed to the glare. Listening to his footsteps on the dried, crunchy dirt and rock, he recalled the maps packed away in his satchel. Their details were fresh enough he didn't need to consult them. Glancing around, he searched for the landmarks on one map in particular. Spotting it, he turned and carefully made his way across the river, careful the current didn't drag his legs from beneath him.
He reached the other side and turned north, looking into the misty hills far beyond the seemingly never-ending forest in the distance. Fear, excitement, hope, all of it burned into his stomach. Miles of deep-green trees, tall and broad, sprawled across the land.
An occasional patch towered over the rest. Those were areas he'd have to be careful. The myrkalfar were notorious for building their cities in such places. Beyond the forest of Evinwood, the hills rose like mountains in the distance, less rocky and equally covered in vegetation, but they felt more inviting. Perhaps it was due to the dangers between here and there, he couldn't say. There was only one certainty he could offer. His goal was there, somewhere, hidden beyond the alfaren borders.
He knew he’d have to be extremely careful. Not only were the villagers a danger, but there was the possibility of soldiers between him and his destination. Many carried a wide array of opinions in the world, but most weren't favorable of his people.
Aside from the common man and soldiers, he'd also have to keep an eye out for the other races of Ur. Some could be trusted, others not so much. In fact, it'd be safest to reserve trust for those who've earned it. He chuckled to himself at the correction. He would be crossing many borders, after all, and his kind were enemies to most.
For that reason alone, he'd earned a death warrant before he was even born. None of these concerned him as much as one specific group. Among all the threats he could possibly face, the most dangerous obstacle would be the Dreuslayers.
Nezial recalled the stories he'd heard when he was younger. They were ever a mystery to the dreualfar. Sprinkled throughout his people's history, riddled in their lore and myths, yet disappearing time and time again. Such a thing was nearly impossible as far as he could find in his books, yet no logical explanation offered advice.
The Dreuslayers were the one thing his kind feared. They specialized in the destruction of his people. If not for their methods, they were feared for their tactics. They were the one force known throughout history that could hold off an army of dreualfar on any terrain. Numerous cities of the underdark had fallen to them in ages past, earning a permanent residence in history with this methods alone. They were the nightmares the monsters dreamed about, their leader especially, who claimed an ear from each dreualfar he killed.
Nezial straightened his spine, letting the chills pass. He swallowed hard, forcing those thoughts from his mind. He didn't need to focus on them. Such a thought could cause him to see things that weren't there. His fear would dilute his focus. It was not productive to the plan for their arrival, only to deal with them if they showed up. Closing his eyes, he centered himself, bringing his purpose back to the forefront.
He stared into the distance, calculating his trip. Nearly a week’s walk to get through Krondar. From there, he'd continue north to the hot plains, which marked the border between the barbarian lands and Evinwood. There was no telling how long he'd be in the forest. Distance alone suggested another week, maybe two, but that didn't account for unexpected encounters or getting lost. He sighed heavily and took his first step into the open plains lands, hoping to reach the small patch of trees in the distance.
Several days passed, moving him closer to his goal. Nezial hid at the edge of a small section of forest along the eastern pass. The sun was retreating for the night, disappearing behind the mountains to the west. He wrapped himself in the cloak and hunkered down into a thick patch of leaves. Closing his eyes, he drifted off to sleep.
Rustling of leaves woke him. He instinctively wrapped his fingers around the leather wrapped hilt of his sword, ready to draw the curved blade. Opening his eyes, he could see the orange glow reflecting off the trees. A burly human staggered toward him, taking a rather long draw from his tan colored wineskin.
Nezial watched the hulking man. He clearly hadn't seen him. With any luck, that fact would remain true. He squeezed the hilt, contemplating his options. I don't know how many there are. If I kill this one, the others are likely to come looking. I don't need a search party on my ass. Perhaps he'll continue on, without incident.
The drunken man rested his forearm against one of the trees and pressed his head into the thick muscles along the back side. Fumbling with his leather breeches, he got comfortable.
Nezial felt the mist splash off the leaves, spattering all around him. If only the barbarian knew how close he was to death. Holding his breath, he waited, letting the man finish his business. Clearly, the human believed himself to be alone.
Shaking the last few drops, he tucked himself away and spun around to head back toward the caravan.
Nezial watched him wander off. He needed to get out of here now. He'd grown too comfortable. Cursing himself for allowing anyone to get that close, he quietly picked himself up and slung the satchel over his shoulder. Making his way from the occupied woods, he stepped into the moonlight plains, leaving the encamped humans behind.
He crossed several dusty roads, remembering the layouts as best he could. They were few and far between but even one meant civilization. He was drawing close to the main pass to Heroes' Gate.
The moon radiated a dull white, leaving dots in his vision. It irritated him. He could see so much better without it. The massive glow was more a distraction than anything. It made shadows seem like figures, each one watching and waiting for him to relax. His vision played tricks on him. One moment a perfect silhouette would be standing there and the next only a fallen limb or patch of wheat remained. Night travel was much harder than it seemed.
The crunch of dry grass and grain faded, replaced by his hollow footsteps on crumbled earth. Despite his distorted vision, he could tell he was on a road. A main road, from the size of it.
While it would take him to his destination faster, it also increased his chances of discovery by hostile strangers. If there was a main road, there would surely be travelers. He looked up at the moon. It nearly sat upon the mountain ridge, following the sun's path earlier in the evening. He guessed he had about two hours before it would fade, allowing the sun to reclaim the day. At that time, he needed to be clear of the road, but a little distance gained wouldn't hurt him in the dead of night.
Morning light peaked over the treeline, illuminating the brown grass on both sides of the road. Nezial watched from the thickest patch of briars he could fine. The sharp needles burrowed their way into his flesh, as if his clothes were nothing more than a thin layer, easily punctured. He watched a detachment of soldiers march past, blue and silver tabards hung loosely over their armor, marking them as soldiers of Shadgull. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to himself. If he tangled with these men, there was no telling what kind of wrath would be brought upon him. He watched them fade into the distance, refusing to move from the painful perch until he could be certain he was alone.
Hours passed with no sign of travelers. Wherever the soldiers were headed, it was clear they weren't coming back anytime soon. The thorns ripped free of his cloak as he wriggled out. It was nearly midday and he had to make up the time he'd lost.
In no time, he was back in the trees, happy to be hidden once again. Krondar's northern edge was densely pack with forests. If he didn't know better, he would have guessed to be in Evinwood already, but he knew that wasn't the case. The myrkalfar homeland didn't start until he reached the hot plains, which should be coming up any moment.
He stepped to the forest edge, looking out into a wide field of golden grain. The crop stood nearly half the height of the other plains he'd passed. He recalled the details he'd read, dredging up every memory he could.
Nezial scanned the tops of the grain, watching for any movement. Every now and then a small stream of water would shoot up. They didn't seem to have any pattern of design that he could see. Surely such a small spray cannot be responsible for the reputation this site has gained. Abandoning all caution, he stepped into the reputed, perilous field.
A faint hiss echoed all around, reminding him of a light breeze through the autumn leaves. He continued along, a wicked smirk at the deception, scribed in so many books. Halfway across, the hiss grew louder, sending a massive jet of water straight into the air, not ten steps from where he was standing. The scalding mist rained down over the area.
He could feel the heat of the tiny droplets pecking at his cloak. The larger drops would fall much harsher. He had to do something. Focusing his will, he threw his hands overhead, thrusting his palms to the sky.
The water collided with an invisible barrier, splashing and pooling along the top of the hidden disc. It collected together and ran down around him.
Letting the water cool, he dropped his hands, allowing the shield to dissipate. A large splashed soaked into his thick cloak.
He parted the stalks and found himself facing an odd figure, lying half buried in the deceptively muddy dirt. Humanoid eyes stared back at him, a look of shock burned into the cooked skin. Glancing around, he found many more. Victims that believed as he had.
I may have underestimated this place.
He had a newfound respect for the plains, but now was not the time for admiration. He broke into a run, hoping to escape the field before the jets erupted again. The hiss grew louder all around him. He was moving too quickly to determine its location. Slowing, he listened for it. It wasn’t far off, but it wasn't right on top of him either. He felt a minor quake under his feet. Am I too late? Did I make a mistake? He lunged forward, bending his knees to jump as hard as he could.
The ground gave way a few inches, squishing water out around his boots. He took to the sky, feeling the thick stream erupt where he had been. The jet grazed his backside, burning its way into him. The pain was unbearable. Like a sting that continuously repeated itself. It soaked into his clothing, lingering on his already sensitive skin. He was glad he kept moving, allowing his momentum to carry him away from the majority of the blast. His feet collided with the soggy ground, sinking into the muddy grass-covered dirt. He lost his balance, falling face first into the mud.
The geyser rained down upon him, burning deep into his clothes.
He cried out in pain, feeling the blistering water pound against his body. Is this how it ends? Am I another victim to underestimate the field? His cloak offered little protection to the scalding vapor.
No! I will not be defeated so easily. I've been tortured my whole life. It will not end this way! Biting his tongue, he picked himself up. He could see the treeline, marking the border to Evinwood. Hand over fist, he crawled through the mud. The water receded, raining the last bit down upon him. On hands and knees, he made his way to the forest edge and passed from the deadly field.
Reaching the trees, he buckled, falling face first into the leaves and dirt. The pain shot through his blistered back. He wanted to roll over, but it required too much strength. Forcing everything he had into the single action, he pushed himself to his side. Letting gravity do the rest, he plotted down on his back, wincing in pain from the sudden pressure. The young dreualfar laid there, looking into the blinding clouds of white and blue.
The moon was already out, ready to claim dominion over the sky. Nezial lay there, watching the sun fade. Despite the annoyance of its burning beams, the transition was a sight to behold. All the shades of orange, yellow, and blue came together to sing a lullaby for the finished day. It was a painful price to pay for such a memory, but it was well worth it.
The sun faded completely, surrendering its position to the moon. Nezial gathered his strength. He had to find shelter before his body tensed further than it already had. Pushing himself up, he got to his feet and staggered into the trees.
Just past the forest's edge, he found a fairly secluded ravine. It slashed into the earth, protecting him on all sides. Of course it offered no escape if he was surrounded, but at least no one would see him until they were already there. Weakly, he slid his way to the bottom and stripped off his wet clothes, placing them over the low hanging branches to dry. Kicking the leaves into a pile, he closed his eyes and focused on them. His hands outstretched over the mound, he whispered a short incantation.
The leaves began to shift, caught between a single entity and the pile they were before. They changed form, gathered, and solidified into a single mass. He opened his eyes, looking down at the thin bedroll before him. He pulled the top layer away, exposing a down pillow and thin liner.
Unable to spend another moment awake, he wiggled into the roll and covered up. Silently praying his back would feel better in the morning, he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.
Chapter VIII
Stolen Thoughts
The seasons came and went, passing years like the evening sun into the dead of night. The giant trees stood minus their leaves, scattered along the thawing ground, while the occasional crunch could be heard against the collection of fallen refuse.
A young man skirted across the dirt covered road, disappearing into the dense forest. The dark-green and browns of his leather stood in stark contrast to the Autumn surroundings, making his movement seem like a mirage, darting in and out of view. He watched the overturned wagon in the distance, drawing closer with each step. Approaching without caution, experience told him the danger had long since passed. Demetrix stepped up to the broken frame and looked over the abandoned cargo. It clearly wasn’t bandits. They avoided this part of the woods, in large part due to him. Moreover, nothing seemed to be missing. He’d seen the same damage many times over. He quickly checked the bodies for survivors. Despite their fate, it seemed this group was fairly lucky. At least they died before the beast fully descended upon them.
Covering their bodies with the thick canvas, he dug through the scattered cargo, checking for anything he couldn’t live without. He laid the collec
tion of salvaged arrows out before him, checking each one, ensuring they were straight enough to fly true. Quickly stuffing them into his quiver, he grabbed the few other items he found and went to work piling crates and other broken wood atop the shattered wagon, leaving the canvas uncovered at the center. Positioning the last few pieces to dome around the bodies, he poured a wineskin full of lamp oil over the wood and let it soak for a few minutes. Believing the wood ready, he struck a piece of flint, letting the sparks dance to life. They skated across the surface of wood, disappearing into the pile. A moment later, they began to smoke. He waited in anticipation, watching the small flame climb up the rough oak. It slowly moved along the corners, growing before his eyes. Within a few minutes, the wood was engulfed, claiming more with each gust of wind. Satisfied it would continue to burn, he turned and stepped back into the forest. Finding a thick tree with low hanging branches, he climbed up and positioned himself to watch the pyre burn away the victims. He pulled his cloak around him, shutting out the cooling evening air. The fire would keep him warm for the night, though the smell of burning flesh might make it difficult to sleep. Getting comfortable, he closed his eyes and listened for any sign of approaching visitors.
Demetrix opened his eyes at the first light of morning. He glanced down at the pile of smoldering ash, little more than a mixture of flaky powder and melted iron remained of the wagon and its occupants. He threw his cloak open, knocking the collection of frost and ash from the black barrier. He quickly scanned the area, making sure no one was around. Secure in his solitude, he climbed down and approached the smothered pile. The heat was nearly gone, buried beneath the layers of cremated mineral. It was probably safe to abandon, but there was no need to take any chances. He kicked a mount dirt around the edges, and quickly covered the site, ensuring it wouldn't reawaken and spread to the forest around him. He kicked his boots against the base of a tree, knocking the clinging ash and dirt free. Dusting the gray specks from his leather, he stepped off the road, no destination in mind.
The Order of the Trident (Eldarlands Book 1) Page 9
