Sleeper Of The Wildwood Fugue (Book 7)

by Charles E Yallowitz

  With her heart racing, the caster shifts her friend to her back and launches them into the sky with a startling boom. The sudden change of focus weakens her shield enough that a bolt of venom splatters against the side and a squirt passes through. The deadly liquid hits Nyx in the eyes, causing her scream in agony. Unable to see anything, she can no longer keep them in the air and a reflexive burst of force hurls them into a nearby dune. The caster fights the urge to rub her eyes, which burn as she writhes on the rough sand.

  “Stop struggling,” Dariana whispers, straddling her friend and plunging into her mind. She can hear the spadix charging as she uses Nyx’s aura to repair the damage. “It will take time and real medicine to fully heal. I saved your eyesight by turning it off, but you should be able to fire blindly at the noise.”

  A high-pitched war cry erupts from behind the dune and charging horses can be heard barreling toward them. The small force of scimitar-wielding warriors charge over the sand and crash into the swarming spadix. Arrows fly from out of view, causing Dariana to stand up to see black-clothed figures sitting on camels and firing into the monsters. Spadix are killed by every barrage from the archers who shoot with such precision that their mounted allies have no fear of being hit. Within minutes, the surviving creatures are retreating into the desert and the warriors are circling back toward the women.

  “Do not give us any trouble,” the leader of their rescuers says, his voice clear even through his protective head wrappings. He points a large scimitar at Nyx while he leans down to look at Dariana. “You are now prisoners of the Helgardian tribe. Get dressed, gather your things, and come with us. Come quietly and your friend will get the medicine that she needs, spy of Bor’daruk.”

  *****

  Nyx touches the medicinal wrap on her eyes when she can see the white fabric instead of unnerving darkness. Remembering the words of the warrior, she is surprised that her hands are not bound. Blindly groping along her body, she finds a cuff around her ankle with a slackened chain. Gently pulling on the tether causes a familiar voice to grumble and a bare foot shoves Nyx’s thigh. Taking off the wrap, her fuzzy vision adjusts to the torchlight and she sees Dariana sleeping among a pile of pillows. The adventurers have been chained together, but their bonds are loose enough to allow them to roam around the small, auburn tent. A pitcher of water and a bowl of dried fruit are on a table, which Nyx’s rumbling stomach urges her to crawl towards. The food is already in her mouth when the idea of it being laced with poison or truth serum crosses her mind. She looks for a place to spit the meal out, but all the caster sees are pillows and rugs that she knows she will be sleeping on for at least a night.

  “You might be wondering why we refuse to bind and gag a caster,” a deep voice says from the corner of the tent. The statement is followed by a deep chuckle, the noise reminding the half-elf of Timoran. “Feel free to eat and drink. We don’t drug our captives and poisoning you would be pointless. If we wanted you dead then we’d have let the spadix do the job. After all, do you know how difficult it is to dispose of a body in the desert? Well rather simple, but it’s not our way.”

  Nyx swallows her food as she locks eyes with the bare-chested, smiling man. His ebony skin glistens in the flickering torchlight, which illuminates every scar on his muscular frame. A white tattoo of a hooded serpent is on his bald head, the glint of ruby studs coming from the center of the crimson eyes. His emerald pants are a little baggy and are held in place by a black belt that is made from interwoven leather strips. The man casually runs his fingers along the sheathed scimitar that lays on the three-legged table next to him, but he makes no move to draw the weapon. He swirls a wooden cup of herbal water before taking a deep drink, giving off an air of calm casualness.

  “My name is Nyx. Do I have to ask the usual questions?” the half-elf inquires as she snaps her fingers. A blue flame appears on her thumb and she waits for a reaction from either the tent or her captor. “No anti-magic defenses or anyone jumping in. You’re obviously not scared of casters, Mr. Nomad.”

  “I am Misrae and I lead this tribe,” the warrior replies throwing the rest of his drink on Nyx’s hand. An amused chuckle escapes his lips when he sees that the flame still exists. “The Palqua sensed your power as soon as you arrived. She told us that binding you would only make you angry, so we settled for chaining you to your friend. You’ll notice that your left ankles are bound to each other instead of right to left. If you try to run, one of you will be tripping over the chain.”

  Nyx flexes her fingers and stares into the gray eyes of her captor. “I could destroy the bonds with my magic.”

  “That would take time and we’d be upon you quickly,” Misrae points out as he gets to his feet and crouches in front of his prisoner. “This is the test. A spy like you would lay waste to the tribe and make her escape. The Palqua says you are something else, but I forbid her from visiting you until I am sure you’re harmless. If you and your friend remain our captives without using your power to destroy us then I will give you more freedom.”

  “You mean give me my freedom, right?”

  The tribe leader flashes another grin that makes his teeth shine in the flickering light. He strokes the half-elf’s hair and cautiously moves to Dariana who is still asleep. The nomad tries to gently shake her awake, jumping back when she lashes out with a kick to his stomach. He rubs at the scratch left by her toenail, amazed that she came so close to striking him. The slumbering prisoner rolls further into the pillows, muttering incoherently about sand. Returning to his simple chair, Misrae grabs a slab of warm meat from a plate and takes a big bite from it. Seeing the hunger in Nyx’s eyes, he tosses her a piece that is greedily devoured.

  “How did you end up in the desert?” he asks, leaning back until his head touches the side of the tent. “It’s strange to find two women so far in the wilderness with no steeds and very little supplies. Your signs of exposure are minimal, so you didn’t walk out of Bor’daruk. Perhaps you traveled with a caravan and parted ways?”

  “We arrived with our friends in Bor’daruk about a day ago,” Nyx answers while pouring herself another drink. She considers throwing it at Dariana, but something about the mumbling woman tells her to leave her friend alone. “A Spurge flew in from the desert and attacked the docks. Someone turned it into a magical bomb, so Dariana and I carried it into the air before it blew. The explosion sent us into the desert and we’re trying to find our way back to our friends. Hopefully they’re staying in the city and not rushing into the desert like idiots. I trust one of them to keep the others in line.”

  “Bor’daruk has locked its doors and declared war on us. Your friends are trapped within its walls,” Misrae says, breaking his smile for the first time. He pulls a blackened fang out of his belt and holds it to the torchlight. “We found the remains of a Spurge. It was destroyed in a way that it died instead of returning to the Chaos Void. This doesn’t mean I believe you were involved with it, but the evidence helps your story. What’s your business in the south?”

  “It’s difficult to explain,” she awkwardly replies. Something in her mind stops her from mentioning the Baron or being a champion. Rubbing her amethyst necklace, she wishes she could contact her parents for advice. “One of my friends had a dream, which led us here. It’s about finding a lost temple that can be dangerous in the wrong hands. We believe it was unearthed somewhere in this desert.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Not really. I’m telling you the basics, which will prove we’re not spies. Neither of us are from around here. So you can’t get any information from us because we have nothing to tell.”

  Misrae strokes his chin and eyes Nyx, who goes back to her small meal of dried fruit. He watches Dariana toss and turn among the pillows, her mouth stuck in a proud smirk. Drawing his scimitar, he crosses the tent in two long strides and stands above the sleeping woman. The blade of his sword emanates a purple glow when Misrae points it at the silver-haired prisoner. Her body tenses and locks, the only remaini
ng movement being the rising and falling of her chest.

  “Your friend is paralyzed, but can breathe. Still muscle atrophy happens quickly under this spell,” the nomad explains in a cold, steely voice. The warmth in his eyes has vanished and all that remains are the orbs of a hardened leader. “I have been polite and patient, but I do not accept lying. Even partial stories are lies in my world because it means you are hiding something. Tell me your connection to Bor’daruk, Nyx of Rainbow Tower. Yes, I am aware of your origin and status.”

  “Then why the game?” she asks, flames appearing along her arms.

  “Attack me and my people come to my defense,” Misrae states, moving his blade closer to Dariana. A flutter of the woman’s eyes catches his attention and he growls as he breaks the spell and returns to the table. “The Palqua has decided to do her own investigation. It appears your friend is busy and not to be interrupted. That means I have no leverage to get the truth out of you.”

  “You have a mind caster in your tribe?” Nyx asks, shrinking away when Misrae flashes her an angry glare. “I’m sorry. If I’m not telling you my secrets then I shouldn’t expect you to be open with me. Look, I really don’t want to drag your tribe into my adventures. So it isn’t that I’m lying to hide anything.”

  The dark-skinned man laughs loud enough to startle the guards outside. He waves the two men away when they enter with their spears aimed at Nyx. Leaving his scimitar on the table, Misrae sits cross-legged in front of the half-elf and takes her hand. His smile has returned along with his jovial demeanor.

  “You have a good heart, young caster,” he states, putting the slightest pressure on the center of her palm. He lets go when he realizes that his action can be mistaken for a threat. “There’s a rumor that I have been hoping you would either confirm or deny. As I said, I have heard of you through various sources. I know you travel with a forest tracker who is supposedly betrothed to Kira Grasdon. Are you and her friends?”

  “I’ve no problem with her. I haven’t really interacted with Kira enough to consider us friends. We were nice to each other the last few times we met. I guess we could become friends over time.”

  “That’s unfortunate, Nyx of Rainbow Tower,” Misrae sighs, getting to his feet and grabbing his sword. He stands in front of the tent’s entrance, his hand on the flap. “The Grasdon family has become our enemy. We are marching to either negotiate the return of our property or declare war before they cause irreparable damage to the region. If you are a friend of a Grasdon then I cannot trust you.”

  “Then what happens to us?”

  Misrae shakes his head and leaves the tent, whispering orders to the guards. The hum of a spell fills the tent and the brown fabric takes on a darker hue. Nyx snaps her fingers to create a flame on her thumb, holding her breath in anticipation. An invisible hand smacks her in the back of the head with enough force to stun her. She waves the fire away and lays down among the soft pillows, quietly hurling every curse word she knows at her captors.

  *****

  Dariana stops running backwards and catches the spear swinging for her head. She has several cuts on her body, but no sign of blood on her pristine, white clothes. With a twist of her arm, she yanks the weapon out of her dark-skinned opponent’s hands. The spear vanishes and reappears on the other woman’s back, shrinking until it is nothing more than foot long rod of polished wood. Their wounds are already healing as the pair looks around the empty void that they have been sparring in for what feels like an entire day.

  “Thank you, Dariana,” the toned woman says as she attaches a golden lizard clip to her short brown hair. Her right eye sparkles like a sapphire, but her left is swollen shut. “You are a powerful warrior on the mental plane. I never get to spar in here since nobody wishes to damage their precious Palqua.”

  “I thought your name was Sharne,” the champion replies while focusing on erasing her injuries. “I apologize for my friend’s tardiness. I thought she would have fallen asleep by now.”

  “Your friend is slumbering now, so you can get her,” Sharne mentions while she mends her torn clothes. The red, flowing skirt goes down to her feet from a belt of golden scales. Her matching top has long, wide sleeves and an intricate pattern of polished stone and ivory running from the shoulders to her belly. “You and your friend may call me Sharne. The Palqua is my title within the tribe. It is a name of honor handed down to the child born in every generation with the sight.”

  Dariana concentrates and reaches her hands into the ground, circular ripples rolling into the horizon. She slowly draws out the slumbering form of Nyx, a layer of white energy on the caster’s naked body. A fiery shirt and pure black pants appear on the half-elf as her eyes open, their violet light sending beams into the endless sky. Dariana and Sharne stay behind Nyx when she tries to face them, neither of them willing to stand in the projections of raw aura. With a few hard blinks, the beams disappear and her eyes lose their vivid shine.

  “I feel asleep and now I’m in a void,” Nyx states in a dull voice. She experimentally waves her hand and creates a throne of living flames. “If I’m going to be in this mental realm then I’m going to be comfortable. Though I’m not sure why I made something this flashy. Who’s this?”

  “I’m sorry for not speaking sooner. This is Sharne the Palqua and we’ve been talking since we bumped into each other in our dreams. Well we’ve been sparring,” Dariana replies while aggressively rubbing the left side of her face. Sharne turns in a circle, her swollen eye healed by the time she finishes. “She is the holy woman of the Helgardians. I’ve explained our situation and she believes we are not spies.”

  “If you two were talking then my meeting with Misrae was pointless,” the caster angrily growls, her throne flaring and filling the void with heat. “I should probably get rid of this thing before I hurt somebody.”

  “I have a request, Lady of the Flame,” Sharne says with a low bow. The holy woman creates a fake version of herself that takes several steps away from the original. “Please destroy this illusion with any spell of your choice. I promise that I will be fine. I simply want to get a taste of your true power.”

  Nyx looks at Dariana and gently bites her lower lip, unsure of what is going on. “I’m not sure about this. My magic is very dangerous. I’m a channeler, which means I’ll be more than what you expect.”

  “She’ll be fine,” the silver-haired woman assures her friend.

  With a tired sigh, Nyx gets off the fiery throne and whips it over her head until it turns into a crackling fireball. The real Sharne moves closer to Dariana as the holy woman stares into the churning spell. Unleashing a small shout, the caster hurls her attack at the illusion and a narrow explosion engulfs the entire void. A bubble of solid wind protects the three women from the spell, but they still feel enough of the heat to sweat. The inferno dies down, leaving scattered pillars of smoke that dot the blank landscape.

  “That was impressive,” Dariana whispers in amazement. “I’m realizing that I’ve no clear idea of your abilities, Nyx. No wonder my brother wants to claim you.”

  “That’s not really comforting,” the half-elf hisses between her teeth.

  “I don’t believe there’s any way to comfort you about him.”

  Sharne takes Nyx’s hands and presses her forehead to the other woman’s knuckles. “I recognize your power. You are the champion who will brave the challenges of Helgard. My tribe is named after your temple because our ancestors once called it home. We were the loyal servants of Gabriel and we tended to the guardian beasts. A dangerous monster forced us out and we became nomads while waiting for the time we are called home.”

  “I’m confused on what’s going on here,” Nyx admits, gently freeing her hands from the friendly nomad. “All I want to do is return to Bor’daruk and my friends. I don’t want to worry about Helgard until then.”

  “I believe Sharne is saying that the tribe will help us when the time comes,” Dariana politely interjects. She senses her friend’s mental anguish a
nd pushes positive thoughts at her. “We will be okay as long as we stay with the tribe. They’re going to Bor’daruk and will reach the city in a few days.”

  “They’re marching to a war.”

  “Sharne and Misrae don’t want it to come to that.”

  “Then what’s going on with the Grasdons?”

  “We’ll find out when we get there.”

  “I’m all for helping these people, but I want to know what’s going on.”

  Nyx and Dariana are pushed apart by a golden light that transforms into a three foot tall scepter. The smooth object has a multifaceted ruby that rises out of a blue lotus. Ancient runes spiral from the bottom of the jewel flower to the rounded base. Strange figures dart within the core of the ruby, moving too quickly to be seen with any clarity. Nyx is mesmerized by the scepter and reaches out to grab it, but the object abruptly spins into Sharne’s hands.

  “This is the Scepter of Palqua. It is the symbol of my station, the holiest relic of my tribe, and the only treasure my ancestors freed from Helgard,” the holy woman explains while polishing the beautiful ruby. She gently twirls it over her head, releasing a shower of crimson sparks. “It was stolen a few weeks ago when we were attacked. The bandit we captured for interrogation told us that him and his allies were hired by the Grasdons. Misrae is angry at them, but I think something else is going on. For one thing, only the Palqua and the Tribe King know the truth behind the scepter.”

  “What is the truth?” Nyx asks, her eyes still locked on the enchanting object.

  Sharne’s eyes turn black and the air becomes shockingly cold. “There are monsters within this scepter. One by one they will escape until the worst of them is set free. Then the desert will burn for eternity.”

  9

  Stephen takes a bite out of the large turkey leg, his eyes scanning the faces of his three companions. Trinity is the only one to meet his gaze as she drinks from a deep goblet of wine and relaxes on a soft couch. She tries her best to ignore the white and black-skinned hand that is playing with her ebony hair even though she swears there are at least eight fingers touching her scalp. With a tired sigh, the chaos elf glances at the Goddess of Chaos who is standing on the domed ceiling. Yola Biggs smiles wide enough that the top of her head nearly falls off, which causes Trinity to shudder and turn to the brooding gnome next to Stephen. The greasy inventor quietly picks at the sandwich platter in front of him, making sure not to get any on his bright yellow shirt. He already has a few stains on his green pants, they are from a spinach dip that happens to blend into the hideous color. Nyder slides his thick goggles from his forehead to his dark red eyes, but he takes them off a minute later.