The Quest (The Hidden Realm Book 5)

by A. Giannetti

  “She is destined to die anyway, so what matter if I have a bit if fun with her first,” thought Lepida to herself. With a delicate, precise movement of her right hand, she drew the long, black painted nail on her index finger across Anthea’s left cheek, expecting to see the soft flesh laid open, for her claw like nails were sharp as razors. When the flawless skin of the woman’s cheek remained unmarked, a frown twisted her beautiful features, rendering them instantly hideous and terrifying as her skin wrinkled and her fangs were exposed. Opening her third eye, she saw at once the shield that protected Anthea. Closing her magical eye, she bestowed a covetous look on Anthea’s silver necklace, suspecting that it was the source of the spell which protected the woman.

  “Can I make that bauble my own, I will,” thought Lepida to herself before summoning Dwarf slaves to the chamber. The Dwarves, silent and abject from their long, harsh captivity, covered Anthea with a dome of clear crystal impenetrable to any weapon or tool, joining it to the surface of the bier with magical spells. Beneath the cover Anthea lay lifeless and unmoving, sealed off from the life giving air that filled the dungeon. Lepida next had a Goblin prisoner brought to her, an Uruc who had displeased Torquatus. Crimson eyed, half-mad from his captivity and abuse, he glared at her as two Urucs clad in black leather armor held him still. After fastening an iron collar around his throat that was imbued with spells of control, Lepida used her powerful mage powers to change him into a licantrope. Exiting the chamber with guards while the changeling was still adjusting to his new form, Lepida then sealed the door to the room. A small barred opening in the upper part of the door gave a view of call while a small, sliding door in its lower part allowed the guardian to receive food and water.

  “Not too much of either, though,” thought Lepida cruelly to herself. “The creature must be kept hungry and alert.” Looking through the bars, she smiled maliciously as she observed the monstrous creature she had created pawing at the crystal cover with its iron hard claws. She then set many Goblins and mutare to guard the passageway to the dungeon, ordering them to keep a continual watch on the passageway and the cell that confined Anthea. With all accomplished as her master had ordered, Lepida retired to her quarters, for she felt the need of refreshment to restore the power she had so freely spent.

  Deeming it time to accomplish the next part of his plan Torquatus arrived at Tyranus through a portal not long after Lepida had entered her apartment. When he strode into her rooms unannounced, the scene before him caused his eyes to flame, for it spoke to the desires which coursed through every member of his race. In the center of a richly appointed room with gleaming walls of dark basalt, Lepida's slim, black clad form was crouched like a great cat over a screaming, struggling young Hesperian who lay on the polished floor of the room. She had torn one of the great arteries in his throat with her sharp teeth and watched by four, black clad Mordi, was lapping the red blood, which gushed out of the wound, with a long, red tongue, like a great cat lapping a saucer of milk. Despite her victim’s frantic efforts to escape her grasp, her slender hands held him down effortlessly as she continued to feed. Torquatus remained where he was, watching as she satisfied herself. The screams of the Hesperian gave him an exquisite pleasure, and his nostrils flared wide as he drank it in the warm, rich smell of the blood spreading across the floor.

  Finished with her feast, Lepida finally rose in a lithe movement to stand above the weakly struggling form of the Hesperian. At her signal the Mordi descended on the hapless prisoner with their knives in hand and began carving him into pieces even before he drew his last breath. Tender, man flesh like this was a rare treat, even for them. Two of them even stooped to lap blood off the polished floor.

  “Clean up when you have done with him,” said Lepida indifferently to her servants. Noticing for the first time the presence of her Dark King, she asked, “How can I serve you now my lord?”

  “I have another task for you,” replied Torquatus. “I wish you to take the form of the Tarsian woman that you imprisoned.”

  “As you wish my lord,” replied Lepida, raising her right hand. With his third eye, Torquatus saw a flow of crimson light spring from her fingertips, spreading to cover her slim form from head to toe. Closing his magical eye, he watched with his normal sight as her features flowed like water until she had taken on the semblance of Anthea. Torquatus then carefully examined her face and form, but even to his critical eye, she was, to all appearances, a twin to Orianus’s daughter.

  “Dress yourself in raiment like that of the Tarsian woman and wait for my summons,” he instructed Lepida. “When it is time, I will send you to Silanus where you will play the part of Orianus’s daughter for a Tarsian named Merula that I wish to win over to my cause. Pretend you are overjoyed to see him and then accompany him back over the Arvina. Once you are wed, for that is what he desires, convince him to slay Orianus and his son, using subtle means, so that he does not suspect you are a counterfeit. Once the king and his son are disposed of, you are to slay Merula, too, which will make you the sole ruler of Tarsius. Once you have opened a path for my armies, you will remain in Tarsius, ordering that nation according to my desires.”

  “I will not fail you my lord,” said Lepida, eyes gleaming at the thought of ruling a kingdom of her own.

  “Wear this at all times, from this moment on,” Torquatus ordered her next, handing over a counterfeit of Anthea’s chain made by his Dwarf slaves. “Take care not to expose it entirely, however, for it is incomplete. If there was a device attached to the original, it was hidden from my slaves by the woman’s raiment.”

  Opening his portal again, Torquatus returned to his throne room where he sat his chair. A cruel smile played across his thin lip, for by now, the Tarsians would have discovered the severed finger that one of his lentuluses had placed before the main gate of Niveaus. His smile deepened as he imagined the distress and suffering Orianus and Merula would endure at the sight of it.

  “Merula is certain to summon me as soon as night falls, thinking that he has been betrayed,” he thought confidently to himself. “I need only wait until we are face to face to press forward with the next part of my plan for his destruction and that of his king.” Like some great spider patiently awaiting the first vibration signaling the appearance of prey on its web, Torquatus reclined in his chair, his mind deriving no little satisfaction from the cruel, devious plan that he had concocted to advance his interests and to confound his enemies.

  THE SORTIE

  Although the bright rays of the sun were muted by the thick canopy of needled branches overhead, Ascilius judged that it was early morning when he opened the door at the end of the passageway. After Dacien and Elerian followed him onto the path outside the door, he sealed the entranceway once more before leading the way back to the glade where he and Elerian had parted with Falco.

  Falco, who was dozing inside the carriage, started awake when the ponies grazing in the meadow began to whinny. When he climbed out of the vehicle, his eyes became bright with curiosity when he saw Dacien in the company of Ascilius and Elerian, but taking note of the grim, somber faces of his companions, he refrained from asking questions, guessing that some ill news weighed heavily on their spirits. Elerian, especially, seemed cold and distant to him, as if some rift had occurred between him and his companions.

  As Falco hitched up the ponies, Elerian and Ascilius placed their packs and other gear in the carriage boot before following Dacien into the vehicle. Ascilius sat next to Dacien on the rear seat. Taking a place on the opposite seat, Elerian drew back the curtain from the window on his right side, staring sullenly out into the forest as if he would rather not look at his companions. After Falco climbed into the driver’s seat, he urged the ponies onto the track leading back to the main road with a flick of his reins.

  “Whence came these holes in the carriage?” Dacien asked Ascilius curiously.

  “Elerian and I had a rather vigorous discussion on our journey to the passageway,” replied Ascilius dryly, at the same
time casting a sidelong glance at Elerian who continued to sit in stony silence. Seeing that there was no rise to be gotten from his companion, Ascilius, instead, began to recount to Dacien the events that had taken place since he and Elerian had left the plains.

  “This is like a tale from the old days,” said Dacien wonderingly when Ascilius was done. “In happier times your adventures would have occasioned songs and celebrations in Tarsius, but now my sister’s disappearance has cast a pall over the kingdom, banishing all happiness for those who loved her.”

  “We may yet rescue her,” Ascilius assured Dacien, but the Tarsian was quick to note the lack of confidence in the Dwarf’s deep voice, as if he had little faith in his own words. “What has occurred in Tarsius since I left?” continued Ascilius, for he was concerned about the state of the kingdom. With Iulius under siege, it was the last bastion in the east against Torquatus’s armies.

  I have little news to relate that is good,” replied Dacien somberly. “The Goblins have not ventured across the Arvina again, but a great force of mutare and Mordi has gathered in the part of Silanus that lies on the west bank of the river, and the city is being transformed into a strong fortress by slaves brought up from Ancharia and Hesperia. Even my own people are among them, for the Ancharians have taken to the sea again in their black ships. They have begun to raid our lands all along the coast of the gulf of Haterias, appearing suddenly and vanishing just as quickly after they are done burning and pillaging. I am certain that there will be another invasion of Tarsius after Torquatus has made all his preparations.”

  “I doubt it not,” agreed Ascilius gloomily. “He will not rest until the entire Middle Realm is under his sway.” They rode in silence after that for their spirits were subdued by the loss of Anthea and the dark future that they faced. Dacien, exhausted by his journey, fell asleep, as did Ascilius, leaving Elerian alone with only his troubled thoughts for company.

  “I envy them their ability to sleep, thus escaping for a time the worries that beset us,” he thought enviously to himself as he surveyed his slumbering companions, worry gnawing at his mind like some relentless worm while a vision of a maimed, bleeding hand floated constantly before his mind’s eye. “I must learn more about her fate or go mad,” he thought to himself at last. Opening his right hand, he called his crystal orb from the place where he kept his spell book. With his third eye, he saw a small circle of fiery light briefly appear above his palm. Closing his magical eye, Elerian saw his sphere, transported through the portal by his summoning spell, resting on his palm, its polished surface cold and smooth against his skin. He regarded it indecisively, for he knew the orb was a perilous guide when it turned its gaze to the future which, unlike the present, was not fixed but mutable, shaped and reshaped as decisions were made and actions taken. “What it shows me may not come to pass at all or may be made worse by my actions as I seek to avoid some outcome that I have seen in the sphere,” Elerian warned himself, but it did no good.

  “Show me what will happen if I proceed on foot to Anthea’s side,” he ordered the orb, driven by a need to know the outcome of his quest to rescue Anthea. The dark interior of the orb immediately filled with light, illuminating a scene where a miniature Elerian stood in a red-lit chamber, blood running down his face and frothing from his chest through his torn leather armor. In his arms he held the lifeless body of a woman dressed in hunting gear. Beside him, on his left, stood Dacien, pale and weak as if he had endured some great trial. Both of the small figures in the orb grimly regarded the heavy wooden door that sealed the chamber they were in. Before Elerian could look more closely at still form that he held, the scene suddenly shifted to what he assumed was the corridor outside the dungeon, for he saw the same door from the other side. A great Troll armed with a heavy club stood before it, and behind him, a tall, black clad Uruc approached with a heavy iron key in his right hand. Countless howling mutare and heavily armed Mordi filled the passageway behind the Goblin from wall to wall. Abruptly the scene vanished and the orb became dark once more.

  “Death! Death for all three of us,” thought Elerian despairingly to himself, for he was almost certain that it was Anthea that he held in his arms. “However Dacien and I arrived in that place, we surely did not leave it alive, for it would take a small army to defeat that the enemy forces assembled against us in the corridor. Let me explore my original plan instead. Perhaps it will offer me a better outcome.”

  “What will happen if I attempt to fly to Anthea’s rescue,” he silently asked the darkened sphere. In response to his mental query, the interior of the orb lightened again. Against the backdrop of a star-studded night sky and dark mountains, it revealed the bat winged form of a lentulus holding the lifeless, bloody body of a gray hawk crushed in the talons of it right front paw. The scene faded, replaced by one which showed Anthea’s face, thin and wasted as if she had taken no nourishment for many days. From the stillness of her features, there was no doubt in Elerian’s mind that she was dead.

  “Two choices, both with the same result,” he thought bleakly to himself as he sent his sphere away. “No matter what path I take, my death and Anthea’s seems certain, but the choice Ascilius forced upon me now seems the better one, for it at least affords me the opportunity to hold Anthea one last time before I pass from this realm.” To escape, at least for a time, from the grim future ahead of him, Elerian now took to the dream paths, reliving happier parts of his life. When Ascilius and Falco switched places halfway through the day, they noted that his eyes were open, but he did not acknowledge them in any way or stir in his seat. Made indifferent to his own fate by the hopeless future he had seen in his orb, Elerian had allowed himself to sink more deeply into his memories than was wise. Riding gladly across the Tarsian plains with Enias beneath him and Anthea by his side, he no longer felt any desire to return to the waking world, and his link to it, already grown thin as a gossamer thread, was in danger of breaking entirely.

  Later in the day, as the sun was sinking below the horizon, Ascilius stopped to change teams when he came to a way station. Inside the carriage, Falco asked Elerian if he wished to stretch his legs, but still got no response. After casting a last concerned look at his companion, he left the carriage.

  “Look in on Elerian,” Falco advised Ascilius as they passed each other. “He has not stirred an inch all day long.” Concerned by this information, Ascilius entered the carriage and took a seat next to Dacien who was still asleep. From beneath bushy brows, he directed a concerned look at Elerian as the carriage rolled back onto the road with Falco in the driver’s seat. His companion’s eyes were open, but it seemed to Ascilius that there was no awareness in them which was both unusual and alarming.

  “He has not sunk so deeply into his memories since we were prisoners in the mines,” thought Ascilius worriedly to himself, for he was well aware of the dangers the dream paths presented for the Elves who chose to walk on them.

  “For all the powers of their minds and bodies, Eirians are like delicate wildflowers, easily uprooted from the waking world,” mused Ascilius to himself. “It is far better to be a Dwarf, I think. We are not so fair to look on or as adept in the unseen world, but we are like tough, old brambles, prickly and difficult to uproot, surviving hardships that would cause Men or Elves to perish.” Returning his attention to Elerian, he saw that he was still quiescent and unresponsive.

  “This has gone on long enough,” Ascilius thought anxiously to himself. “He must be roused, but how to accomplish it? It must be done subtly or who knows that damage may occur to his mind?” An anticipatory gleam suddenly shone in Ascilius’s dark eyes as a suitable plan came to him. Surreptitiously extending the powerful fingers of his right hand, he lit a small mage fire beneath Elerian’s left foot. Keeping careful control over the flames which licked at his companion’s boot, Ascilius let a little of their heat sink into the soft leather of Elerian’s footwear. Deep within his dreams, Elerian now sat with Anthea beneath the oak tree near the Troll Wood and only graduall
y became aware that his left foot felt unusually warm. Deep in conversation with Anthea, he ignored the sensation.

  With the air of one conducting some especially interesting experiment, Ascilius let more heat from his magical fire seep into Elerian’s boot when his companion failed to react to the first wave of warmth that had penetrated his boot. Although he was still absorbed in reliving his memories, the realization that his right foot was burning up finally penetrated Elerian’s consciousness. Half in and half out of the dream world, he looked down and observed for the first time the crimson flames licking around his left boot. Still only half-awake, he leapt to his feet, thumping his head on the low ceiling of the carriage which further added to his confusion. Taking advantage of Elerian’s befuddled state, Ascilius craftily extinguished his fire. His dark eyes gleaming with delight, he then watched as Elerian, unaware that his boot was no longer on fire, began to wildly stamp his left foot on the floorboards. The thumping finally woke Dacien who stared wildly about and then groaned softly.

  “They are at it again,” he thought to himself as Elerian ceased his frantic activity when he finally realized that the flames around his foot had vanished. He immediately glared at Ascilius who put on his most innocent face.

  “You set me on fire!” Elerian accused the Dwarf angrily.

  “I am sure you are mistaken,” replied Ascilius blandly. “You probably dreamt that you were on fire. See, your boot is cold,” he observed, after pressing his right index finger against Elerian’s boot. Elerian turned to Dacien who shrugged his shoulders, a noncommittal look on his face.

  “I saw you stamp your foot, but there were no flames,” he admitted reluctantly, for he had no wish to be drawn into an argument between his two companions. Elerian now found himself in the same position which he had so often forced on Ascilius. He was almost certain that the Dwarf had started a mage fire under his boot, but there was still an element of doubt, for there was no denying that he had been deeply immersed in the dream world and might have imagined the whole incident. After a last glare at Ascilius, who regarded him smugly from beneath bushy brows, he resumed his seat and healed the bump on his head. When he leaned back and closed his eyes, Ascilius did the same, but neither of the two fell asleep. Eyelids barely open, they warily watched each other as the carriage rolled steadily on toward Iulius, one on guard against further attacks and the other against retaliation. Next to Ascilius, Dacien sat with his right hand near the door handle, ready to flee at once if his two companions decided to resume their altercation. The holes in the carriage walls were a stark reminder of the violence that such a confrontation might unleash.