by K. A. Lentz
It wasn’t long after they finished their much needed repast that Kaiyssa insisted on mending Tahlan’s collection of wounds, starting with the geist scratch. Digging through the depths of her satchel, she quickly produced a medicine pouch and set to work mixing up a magical salve. Coating one finger in the viscous paste, she touched it to the dancing green flames and was delighted when her concoction caught fire. Tahlan leaned toward the campfire’s mossy glow and gritted his teeth, waiting for the expected pain. As if a magnesium vein set alight, Kaiyssa’s cure burned down the length of each laceration furiously fast. Tahlan winced yet said nothing as his wounds slowly closed and vanished from sight.
Tending the claw mark on his leg from Ceanntis, Kaiyssa whispered, “My love, there is something I must warn you of that greatly concerns me. The wound you received today—from the geists—I cannot fully heal it. I have sent it into hibernation, however it is far from gone. I do not possess the healing abilities to cleanse it of all reaper poisons. I know you will remember this, yet allow me warn you again my love; should you blend anger and powerful magic… it will return and ferociously spread. Please, we must take you to the light-elves and seek their highest healer. When I was working on the battlefield near where I met Megoth and Shresha… there was a forward guard that pushed Grausame’s frontline straight into his private-lands. Needless to say four amongst them became infected by the hordes of border geists they awoke that day. I was unable to completely heal them… none of us could. Each following day they charged the field of battle—losing the war to their injuries—and each day they became increasingly enraged by their plight. It took a mere three months for all four soldiers to transform into the enemy. A man from their legion fought his friends as they attacked our encampment; he was forced to shatter each of his comrades. The next morning he went missing with no hint to where he had gone.”
Kaiyssa clutched Tahlan’s hand before adding her plea, “If you remain on this path and face the storm-slave… you could be lost! Please, we can return to this quest once you are healed my love, it shouldn’t take us more than four months… or so to get there, rid you of this poison, and then come back to join the fight.”
Tahlan shook his head before replying, “It is dormant for now?”
Kaiyssa eyed him warily while answering, “Yes… but… there’s no telling how long such a quick fix can last, my love. It would be much better if you…”
“No, I cannot abandon this quest now; I am once again on the right path. I shall keep my temper and rely on your assistance to remain calm. If we leave now… there is no telling where the storm-slave will be in four months’ time. No, it is better we stay on this course and find a healer afterward.”
Kaiyssa stared at the full moon above, her heart breaking with worry, yet said nothing as she tucked herself into Tahlan’s side for some much needed rest.
Chapter Seven:
Strange and Unusual Creatures
Miach worked hard to keep Thistle away from prying eyes over the past four months. Zigzagging around villages and cities dotting the continent, he tucked her away in the uninhabited wilds between. As was the custom at the start of their journey, she spent most of her time riding on Miach’s back while he streaked erratically through forests and over hills. The remaining portion of her life mostly consisted of stories told around the fire while they cooked, preceded or followed by a night’s stay wedged into the unwelcoming crook of one tree branch or another. Occasionally inhospitable terrain forced the pair to sleep on frozen, windswept cliffs or deep in caves resembling unending labyrinths. While exciting and unlike anything she had ever experienced, the lifestyle was taking its toll on Thistle.
Normally accustomed to washing herself all at once—in hot water no less—she soon became uncomfortable enough to request a night’s stay somewhere she could clean-up. Disheartened over having to refuse her, Miach stated in a monotone voice that it would be most unwise. Having been mortified to ask in the first place, she broached no argument and silently set off for the frigid waters of a nearby river, guardian in tow. A month passed and further discomfort urged Thistle to renew her plea, this time with greater courage and resolve. Expecting another no, she was surprised when he casually requested time to think on it. As she bedded down for the night, Thistle nonchalantly sniffed at her armpits wondering if her odor had prompted him to rethink his stance on the matter. Sniff. Not too bad. Wonder what changed his mind.
The next morning as she ate breakfast, he announced they would be visiting a people called spring-sprites. Immediately her inquisitiveness and excitement flared at the thought of meeting a new race, begging for stories about their appearance, culture, or any accounts he had heard over the years. Getting accustomed to her boundless curiosity, the laconic swordsman picked through his brain and gathered everything he could remember. Regaling her with tales of a kind water people, Miach turned Thistle northward as the pair broke tradition and leisurely walked through the day to reach Mother Spring.
The stories proved to be true, most notably the ones describing their watery, translucent appearance and the strange way in which they walked. Meeting their guests at the opening of a rocky valley, a small welcoming party of sprites eagerly greeted the waiting pair. As they approached, Thistle couldn’t help but gawk at their unusual locomotion. Like a waterfall each foot fell, reaching out for the ground with every step before reversing course as though caught in a time loop. Accustomed to the unabashed reactions of other races, the sprites simply smiled at Thistle and gave her a few minutes to sate her boundless curiosity. Oddly enough she asked only two questions; would the sprites give them shelter for an evening and, more importantly, could she have a hot bath. Her last request felt a little odd as she wasn’t sure individuals made entirely of water would need to bathe or possibly be offended by the idea. Beseeched by her obvious discomfort they were quick to soothe her worries and heartily welcomed her into the village; Miach, on the other hand, was strongly advised to remain at the border. He was allowed to keep his charge in view, but the inhabitants warned him not to tread into their defined territory.
Unbeknownst to Thistle, if it had not been for Pyhe they would never have been welcomed at all. After she had gone to bed the night before, Miach requested an audience aloud to the darkness surrounding their camp; minutes later the little man appeared. For less than an hour they talked about Thistle, Miach speaking more on her character than the topic at hand, yet in the end both concluded that the spring-sprites would be most tolerant of a reaper’s slave and a wayward human. It didn’t take long for Pyhe to convince them. The next evening when their guests arrived, the village had been prepared for the worst.
The entire town was dancing and feasting to the sounds of music rarely heard by outsiders. Their collective voices gave one the impression a large group of dolphins and seals had decided to make a choir; creating a cacophony of clicks, pops, snaps, and grunts punctuated by the odd, occasional kissing sound. Two sprites standing beside Thistle were smiling and swinging their arms to the music. Looking the whole scene over she soon found herself in the odd space between wanting to laugh, and yet in full awe of the events unfolding before her eyes. Miach cracked a smile as he watched her experience this strange, new race of being.
From the moment they entered his village, the eldest sprite scrutinized both newcomers with the utmost curiosity as he sat pooled unseen in a dark shadow. It didn’t take long for him to conclude that Miach wasn’t like others of his kind. He had only met one murderous slave during the span of his lengthy lifetime and their character was well known to many by weary travelers passing through villages telling voluminous tales on the horrid things they had done in the name of their masters; even one regarding this slave. The story came flooding back to memory.
Set over seven hundred years ago, the story told of a young woman named Ann, known by her village to be ambitious and cunning. Seeking power beyond her means, she schemed to enter the service of Lesdaeonna. Calculating her every step, she devised a
way to earn her place within the reaper’s court. With a thirst for power and an air of entitlement, she soon wove herself into the web of undesirables passively promoting reaper dominion. Acting as a slave she hunted down any and all who spoke against her master, further poisoning her already twisted soul. Deriving pleasure from each innocent she slaughtered, the corrupted woman soon became equally as infamous as the slaves she sought to emulate. Some Reapers noticed but did not care while others became enraged, Lesdaeonna among them. No longer tolerating her name upon the lips of an uppity human, the infuriated reaper sent Miach to settle her score. The storm-slave bore down upon his prey like an eagle. Holding his prisoner tight within his grasp he refused to claim the kill for his master, instead he announced her death in town square as justice for the murdered. None ran as Miach ended the evil creature for all to see.
Reflecting on these stories until the moon was high overhead and the village had quieted down for the night, the elder finally stood with a groan as he poured himself onto the ground and slipped into a moss-covered shelter lying quaintly along the edge of the largest hot-spring. Illuminated by a shimmering pool resting in the middle of the room, the elder’s dwelling was that of a homey cavern. No furniture to speak of, the walls were lined with pots filled to the top with various edibles nestled between totems and tokens from a lifetime of travels.
The depthless pool at the hut’s center cast lazy watermarks along the ceiling, seemingly lit from within. Stepping near the ethereal spring, a gentle shimmer also emanated from within the elder, adding to the effulgent display. Kneeling down with another groan of age, his knee cascaded onto the stone floor before he began in a watery echo, “I’m sorry to wake you my love, however, it’s time. I’m bound for a short journey. There’s a reaper’s slave at the town border. He is not like the rest; he must be the one of whom our prophecies speak. I must talk to the lake-sprites regarding Typhon’s domain. If the time has come, our people must be ready.”
The pool of water acknowledged his words by producing an aged face in its rolling surface. Breathing in a strained breath, she whispered, “I cannot travel with you, my love, and I fear for your return. Must it be you who goes?”
Cooing gently the elder soothed his wife’s fears, “Hush, my sweet nectar, I shall return before you realize I’m gone. Sleep again, and wait for me, my love, I shall be home for our return to the spring… together.”
She started to reply, but he leaned down and kissed her with another groan. As he straightened away she flashed him a look that spoke volumes on her understanding of his tactics, and then reached up to caress the glassy surface of his cheek with a gentle smile and love in her eyes. He held her hand a moment before tucking it back into the pool of her body. Still bent over, he reached up and grabbed a leaf heaped with moss, algae, and fermented grassroots. Laying it beside her, he grabbed a small pinch of each and submerged them just below the surface of her puddle. As his own watery hand receded, the elder gave his wife’s pool a gentle swirl to the tune of a muffled gasp and a weak giggle. Standing tall he worked his way around the room gathering what few supplies he would need. Pausing at the door he blew his love a parting kiss and wished her farewell.
Stepping from his hut, the elder scanned his slumbering village. Thistle was asleep on a bed of leaves beside a small hot spring, her freshly washed hair fanned out behind her to dry. Miach remained perched upon the same boulder he had occupied all evening, watching his charge like a hawk. The elder walked up with a smile and asked both guards flanking the swordsman to back up a short distance. Nodding, the sentinels moved out of earshot yet stayed within view. Miach watched the elderly sprite with apprehension and curiosity as he settled himself beside a reaper’s slave without fear. Liquefying up to the waist the elder rested his arms upon the churning cloud of water and, with a longing glance toward his shelter, stated, “There is a touch of destiny about you reaper’s slave; you mark the beginning of the end for this realm… by our beliefs.” The elder looked around to Miach’s back and examined the two crossed blades resting there. With a dolphin-like whistle, he asked, “Did your master grace you with those blades? They feel… oddly, higher… stronger, what is it?”
Miach thought to show his swords off, but figured he had best not with the guards fearing his every move. Instead he replied, “They were given to me by the gnomes of the eighth-realm. Their race magically forged them using a mixture of elements. They are so named Hieseldin and Toepexi, meaning joyous and balance in gnomish.”
Rubbing his watery chin, the elder resumed his string of questions, “Gnomes you say… hmmm… odder yet. Did Pyhe tell you of what they are made? A strange feeling churns within me as I sit so close, almost as though they draw me in… and yet… have a repellent quality at the same time.”
Shrugging Miach answered, “I was asked to give elements of myself for their creation. As to the other materials, I’m unsure and he didn’t explain when presenting them.”
The elder continued to rub his chin as he mused with mild awe, “Parts of you… you say? I was indeed right to know that this… is the time for change. I heard tell of a reaper slain, it wouldn’t happen to be these fine weapons that ended Eltine?”
Miach took in a slow breath before replying in an emotionless voice, “Yes, it was indeed me that brought down Eltine and caused the destruction of her domain. I am… that monster.”
“I would not term you a monster, Sir. Yes, many died, however, a reaper hasn’t been vanquished since the first war. None who live in the realm today can claim true knowledge as to the outcome of a reaper’s death… only stories passed down through the ages regarding the four. It cannot be denied you bear the mark of their deaths, but a needed step was taken that day toward a journey home for us all. Who’s to say, but some may see it in this century! Big things! Oh yes, the reapers will be unable to stop this now! One more question, if I may intrude?”
Miach gave the elder a half smile before answering, “You may… I’ll answer what I can.”
Wearing a sincere expression upon his face the spring-sprite requested, “What’s your name, Sir?”
Miach looked as though he had been slapped. In eight hundred years, Thistle had been the only soul to ask for his name. Now the elder sat beside him—knowing the horrors he had been forced to commit—asking for the same knowledge with a smile. Seeing a tenebrous shadow cross over the swordsman’s face, the aged sprite began to apologize for his rudeness, but Miach stopped him, “No kind sprite, you honor me with your question. It’s not something I’m accustomed to in the least. I fear with my forced deeds and monstrous peers, many never wish to know my name… let alone ask for it. I am Miach; reaped from the fifth-realm eight hundred years ago.”
With a half bow, the elder replied, “I extend the pleasantries of my family to you. I’d offer my name but it’s doubtful you’d be able to hear it… much less properly pronounce it, so please call me Elder. Regrettably, I have no time to hear more about you; I journey to the lake-sprites this night. We’re not likely to meet again so I’ll say now; it’s been a pleasure meeting you, Miach.”
Sensing an opportunity to help, Miach inquired, “Elder, if I may beg another moment of your time, which lake are you setting out for? By chance, is it close?”
Pooling back into place, Elder replied, “I’m headed to the lake northwest of here, two valleys over; lake Etnase on the edge of Typhon’s domain.”
With the ghost of a smile, Miach offered, “I can get you there tonight if you can handle the journey.”
Elder gave him a curious, yet slightly wary look and asked, “How might we be traveling?”
Miach was quick to respond, “I would run you there upon my back, at great speed. You need only stay in one piece and help me keep you aboard. Will I even be able to hold you?”
“Oh yes I’m solid… when I wish to be. I think we can do this, what do you say? Shall we give it a try?” Elder answered with a mischievous tone in his watery voice.
Miach stood with a smile,
anticipating the guards’ immediate return. As the pair rushed to Elder’s defense, the grateful spring-sprite hastily explained how Miach was lending him assistance to travel this night. Not having been privy to their conversation, both sentinels blankly stared at their kinsman as though he had gone mad, one was so surprised he let his armor slip slightly down into his form. Embarrassment flaring upon his watery features, the spring-sprite shot his armor back into place and looked away for a moment’s composure. Elder laughed as he reassured his people not to worry. Miach on the other hand conveyed a sobering message to both sprites before his departure, “Protect her with your lives guardians or they’ll be the price of your failure.”
Neither sprite replied to his menacing statement; Elder, however, blithely stood by with a bright smile lighting his wrinkled features. Having made his promise Miach turned his back on all three sprites knowing he would be less intimidating while removing his swords. Holding the blades as one in his left hand, the storm-slave turned his head and said with the deepest respect, “Climb aboard Elder, if you are ready to leave.”
