by Lee Dunning
The Sky Elf wiped her face and W’rath nodded his approval. “Good,” he said. “Now it’s about time we introduce ourselves and get these people out of here.”
Without further warning, the Shadow Elf grabbed Lady Swiftbrook’s arm and teleported them into the midst of the massacre, among the many sobbing, wounded elves, and one stunned, nude warrior standing amid the carnage.
Chapter 3
The young Shadow Elf didn’t flinch when W’rath and Lady Swiftbrook teleported to her side. Slowly she focused on W’rath. He allowed her to see the flames of pain and anger burning there so that she would recognize the soul who had briefly shared her consciousness. “You,” she said, her voice raw from her ordeal.
“Me,” he agreed.
In that one word he acknowledged far more than the obvious, but the girl, Raven, was in no condition to make the connection. Instead, she took a step back, her eyes going wide as she realized something. She stared down at him. Her gaze switched to Lady Swiftbrook and then back to him. Ah, she’s noticed she’s much taller than me, and nearly as tall as a Sky Elf.
Raven dropped the sword and stared at her hands. Then the arms that bore them. Then everything else. “What have I done to myself?”
Neither W’rath nor Lady Swiftbrook answered. W’rath cocked his head in the direction of the wounded and Lady Swiftbrook nodded and slipped off to assist them as best she could. Smoothly, W’rath bent to retrieve the dropped sword and presented it hilt first to Raven.
“This belongs to you now, lady,” he said.
Raven grimaced and dropped her head in shame. “No,” she said quietly, “I’m not worthy of that. My friend …”
Deliberately she turned to where Linden lay. Horror replaced shame as her eyes fell upon his green armor. She rushed to him and knelt by his side, heedless of the blood and organs covering the ground. Her hands fluttered over him as agitated as the butterflies that continued to swarm the air.
“Gods! What happened to him?”
W’rath joined her. Little of the First Born remained. Hardly more than a skeleton lay within the armor. “The mass needed for your transformation had to come from somewhere,” he said.
“ I did this?” Raven gasped.
“Better you absorb a fallen elf than draw in the essence of a devil,” W’rath reasoned.
Raven’s barely suppressed sobs made it clear his practical view of the situation brought her no comfort. W’rath scowled and prepared to try again. Sensitivity was definitely not one of his strong suits.
Raven wrung her hands. “This is the very thing Exile females do to gain power. I’m no better than my mother! I destroyed him.”
W’rath spared a glance back at Lady Swiftbrook. While she seemed like a level-headed sort, he wasn’t sure he wanted her privy to Raven’s words. Fortunately, she appeared absorbed in arranging for the less injured to assist those who couldn’t walk on their own, allowing the two Shadow Elves to sort things out for themselves. Good enough. That just left the task of trying to calm down his young heroine.
He tried to quickly sort through the information he’d picked up when he’d resided in her mind. The Exiles did indeed have some vile practices, their “ritual” nothing more than a corruption of an ability Shadow Elf females had used since they first walked the world. While the means by which Raven had accessed the ability had been unusual, it had certainly resulted in a state much closer to its original intent. The girl just didn’t understand what had happened. Therein lay his chance to remedy the situation.
He knelt next to her and placed the sword between them. “Lass,” he said, and reached up to take hold of her shoulders, forcing her to face him instead of Linden’s desiccated corpse. “Your mother, and those like her, seek out demons for the sole purpose of absorbing their essence so they can gain access to magic that doesn’t come to our kind naturally. You did not do that. You had a need—an unselfish one. You were driven by the desire to aid others, and your friend’s soul responded to that. You took nothing by force and you did not destroy your friend. If you look within yourself—truly search—you’ll see that you and he have melded into one being.
“You didn’t destroy his soul. You gave him a second chance at life. The Exiles perverted it, but when used as originally intended, it is a gift. Our ancestors called those like you twin-souled.”
Skepticism suffused Raven’s face. He could see her wrestling with the ideas he’d presented to her. She plainly wished to believe, but could not help but doubt his words. Then a look of awe replaced the distress on her face. Her friend had made his fire-touched presence known, filling her heart. “You are there,” she said in wonder.
W’rath released her shoulders and lifted the sword to her once again. Her face now alight with a quiet joy, Raven accepted it. The crimson butterflies lit in her hair like a crown of rubies.
W’rath didn’t realize he was staring until a feminine hand slapped him on the back of the head. “Lecher,” Lady Swiftbrook scolded, wiping her hand on her blood soaked tabard as if it were somehow cleaner than his head. “You should offer her a cloak instead of salivating as if you haven’t seen a female in a hundred years.”
Try ten thousand. He rose, offering a hand to Raven and a wink to Lady Swiftbrook. “I appear to have misplaced my cloak, madam.”
“How very convenient.” The Sky Elf sniffed in mock disgust.
The sobbing of one of the rescued elves sobered them instantly. “The portal these fiends came through most likely endures,” W’rath said, gesturing at the fallen devils.
“My unit was attempting to fight its way to the gateway in the Western Glade when …” Lady Swiftbrook’s voice trailed off.
“You managed to close it,” W’rath said. Enough gaps lingered in the Sky Elf’s memory that he could easily lead her to believe her people had succeeded in closing the gate before the demons overwhelmed them. He thought it prudent she stay ignorant of the full extent of his powers. No doubt many questions concerning his origins would arise. No need to provide even more mysteries for clever Elven minds to ponder.
“But these are devils,” Raven said. “They’re not from the Abyss. He’s right, another portal exists.”
“Oh Ancestors!” Lady Swiftbrook said. As one they turned to the East.
Getting everyone moving toward the Eastern Glade proved more problematic than W’rath anticipated. A great many of the elves Raven had rescued were reluctant to even stand. Several seemed intent on curling into a fetal position, and simply waiting for a great host of saviors to come spirit them away to safety. While they had endured a terrible ordeal, this complete lack of fighting spirit appalled him.
“Have patience,” Lady Swiftbrook said. “They’re civilians not trained soldiers.”
“Insanity,” he hissed, exasperated. “The very idea that a few live to protect the many puts all of you at risk. No wonder these monsters ran amok slaughtering you. Every single elf should have the skills to fight back. This lying about, expecting others to give their all while they do nothing, is shameful.”
“I agree,” Raven said, her shoulders drooping as if W’rath’s words had been directed at her.
“But not everyone possesses that kind of spirit,” the Sky Elf said. “Some are sculptors, or tailors or musicians. Our nation needs more than warriors. We need art and beauty too.”
“If you can’t fight to protect those things, then it doesn’t matter. Your enemies will drive you to extinction and fill the world with statues of their heroes.”
“We live long enough there’s no reason we cannot excel at both,” Raven said.
Raven’s words jarred W’rath. Uverial had often said very similar things. She had waded into battle, fearsome, wielding both spell and sword with ease. Yet she put word to vellum and urged others to follow suit. How his father had scoffed at her, calling her soft, even as she regarded him from the mountain of enemy corpses at her feet. I always thought of you as a gentle soul, Uverial. Whatever would you think of these pathetic creature
s?
Lady Swiftbrook sighed. “We can debate this until the next wave of demons or devils falls upon us, or we can figure out how to get everyone to the Eastern Glade.”
Slit their throats and be done with it. Probably not a popular option. Very well then—so much for keeping a low profile. “I can teleport the whole lot to the Eastern Glade,” W’rath said.
“You can do that?” the two females asked in unison.
“Certainly,” he said. “I sense quite a few elves there already, engaged with the enemy. Mind you, if I teleport us there, these civilians will find themselves close to the fighting. I’m just warning you—I shouldn’t wish for you to regard me as … insensitive.”
“Would you kindly stay out of my head,” Lady Swiftbrook growled.
“Simply reading your face, not your mind, madam.”
“I don’t think we have much choice,” Raven said. “We can’t leave them behind, and we have to help the others fight off the demons long enough to get the portal closed.”
“Devils,” W’rath corrected. “However, you have the right of it. Madam? I believe I can place us close, yet not directly within the fire fight.”
“Do it,” the Sky Elf said. “Better that than wait here hoping it’s elves and not more hell spawn who find us.”
“Very well,” W’rath said. He clapped his hands to get the attention of the civilians. “Listen up, lads and lassies. If you will stop mewling for a moment, I need for you to all link hands.”
Raven and Lady Swiftbrook moved forward and assisted in getting people organized. W’rath tried not to grind his teeth at the slowness of the proceedings. When at last the civilians had gathered together hand in hand, he waved to his two companions to join in.
As he started forward to form the final link to the circle, the glow of magic, emanating from the gore-covered ground, brought him up short. Stooping, he pulled forth what turned out to be three books. As he lifted them, the blood coating them spilled off, leaving them pristine. Powerful magic indeed, if it protected against hell spawn blood. Intrigued, he placed them in a pouch he had built into his kilt. When he returned his attention to the people before him, Raven gaped, wide-eyed in his direction. Ah, well, the mystery of where they came from is solved. “I’ll just keep them safe for you, lass,” he said.
He stepped forward, fighting to keep from grinning at Lady Swiftbrook’s scowl, and grasped her and Raven’s hands. He willed them from that terrible place, and the next moment they popped into existence elsewhere. As promised, W’rath had brought them close, but not directly, into the fray.
Perhaps fifty feet away gaped a bloody-looking wound, the doorway connecting the Elven city to the Nine Hells. Before it raged a battle that stirred memories within W’rath of a time long ago when he’d been young, and the world so brutal, the only music to be heard came from the roars of the triumphant and the screams of the dying.
Some twenty First Born, knee-deep in the corpses of their brethren and devils alike, battled furiously against a like number of ash grey devils. Unlike the unruly demons, the devils carried fine weapons. Purple flames danced along the blades of their swords. Some used barbed whips to bind up the sword arms of the elves. For their part, the elves had more discipline. Working as a cohesive unit, they cut their allies free from the whips and created a wall of tower shields that thwarted the devils’ attempts to push their way from the portal.
A second group of elves, their slighter frames and furious spell casting marking them as Sky Elves, focused their attacks on flying devils. A couple of them, wearing the black and red armor of the Blood Magi, concentrated on drawing the life force from the enemy to use it as fuel for healing their comrades.
Despite all this, the elves could not hope to win. Their numbers were finite while there seemed no end to the number of devils. Every time one fell to the sword of a First Born, another stepped through the portal to take its place.
Lady Swiftbrook prodded the mossy ground with her boot and sighed in relief at the sight of open sky above them. “At least we have more access to our elemental-based powers here, but there’s not enough time to summon our companions. We’re on our own, and the casters need relief so they can turn their efforts to undoing the gateway,” Lady Swiftbrook said.
“My pleasure, madam,” W’rath said. He drew in an impossibly deep breath, threw out his chest and let forth a blast of sound and thought. The shock wave hit the flying devils obliterating them. The Sky Elves turned to stare at W’rath in wonder. Lady Swiftbrook gaped as well. With some effort, she snapped her mouth shut and ran to her people to lead them in the destruction of the portal.
As such she didn’t see W’rath topple over in exhaustion. Raven caught him just before he hit the ground. “I think you’re done for the day,” she said.
W’rath shook his head. “They’ll never get that portal closed with magic alone. They’ll need my help. I just need to catch my breath.”
Raven pursed her lips, dubious, but nodded. “Okay, you rest and we’ll make sure nothing disturbs you.”
“We?”
Raven placed a hand over her heart. “We,” she affirmed.
“You won’t stand alone, lady,” came a voice. The two Shadow Elves lifted their heads to see one of the rescued standing nearby, gripping a scavenged sword. Behind him others clutched bows, knives and staves. About half of those rescued had found the courage to take up weapons.
“You saved us, lady,” he said. “It’s time we do our part.”
W’rath saw a flash of panic cross Raven’s face. She wore the body of an adult, but inside a child still dwelled. Precocious, no doubt, but lacking in experience. She hadn’t been raised from birth as a weapon, expected to lead others into life and death battles.
Though exhausted, it still took little effort for him to send a tendril of thought to Raven. Give them this, lass. They can stand here looking fierce for a few minutes while I recuperate. Let them feel like they matter.
Raven swallowed and nodded, but remained unconvinced. W’rath made a shooing motion with his hand. “Go! Lead them, and leave me in peace, child.”
W’rath’s ploy worked, and Raven rose unflinchingly to face the expectant gazes of her tiny group of would-be heroes. Her posture stiffened to that of a soldier and W’rath suspected the soul of her friend had come to her aid, stepping in, influencing her, giving her the benefit of his training and the discipline needed to lead others. “Those of you with bows stand back there and shoot at anything that flies this way. The rest form a perimeter here with me. Nothing gets through us. Our job is to allow this bedraggled lump to rest long enough so he can do something about the portal.”
W’rath ignored the assaults upon his dignity and concentrated on entering into a meditative trance. Despite his skill, it took every drop of discipline he possessed to manage it. Relying upon others to watch over him while he lay vulnerable did not come natural to him. In the end, though, there really wasn’t much choice in the matter. Cut off from the Abyss, his stamina had dropped to a pitiful level. It could take another lifetime for his body and mind to readapt to this plane.
Once he finally shut out the chaos around him, and began the task of recovering, his mind worked to put itself in order. He’d been living from moment to moment since he’d escaped the Abyss. Now that he had some time for reflection, he could analyze what he’d learned, and determine his next move.
Until now, returning to his childhood home had seemed such an impossibility, he’d never done more than dream of vengeance against his father. Actually reuniting with his people, perhaps even reestablishing himself as a leader among them, had never seemed realistic. Now the opportunity lay within reach. The question was … did he want it?
Deep inside persisted a remnant of the furious boy who had lashed out at the First. That child wanted nothing more than to teleport away and leave the elves to their fate. He listened to the boy rant for a time and then dismissed him, exiling him to the part of his mind reserved for his many regrets.
Perhaps he would rue his actions this day as well. The effort required of him to close this second portal could kill him. Was the risk worth it? If it meant being instrumental in remaking the elves into a proud people once again—a people molded by his will and not his father’s—then certainly. That was worth any risk.
Of course, he couldn’t contemplate such things without considering the fate of the First. His brief time in Reaper’s mind had turned up no sign of his father other than as some vague deity-like being she hoped to appease. Nor had he found any memories of the other elves from his past, making any immediate confrontations unlikely. But eventually he could find himself facing someone from his past, perhaps even his father. While disconcerting, only a fool would ignore the possibility existed. Could he defeat the warlord this time? Certainly not in his current condition. But would it even be necessary? He had learned much during his years in exile. He had patience now. He had learned subtle manipulation, and even bent demons to his will. He had an entire nation to sway now. A challenge to say the least, but then anything worthwhile usually was.
Yes, if he had the loyalty of the entire Elven Nation, it wouldn’t matter if the First returned. He could defeat his father without spilling a drop of Elven blood. And oh, wouldn’t that be the sweetest revenge of all?
When Raven came to break him from his reverie she found him smiling.
Raven helped W’rath up. Despite the smug smile, he didn’t look much recovered to her. She could tell he had more pride than ten elves, so when he accepted a steadying arm, her worry deepened.
“Make way,” she said and the elves who had stood guard while he rested reluctantly parted. Once they’d made up their minds to help, they’d fought fiercely, determined to prove themselves. Fortunately, the only threat they’d faced had been a small devil with a broken back, attempting to drag itself to safety. They’d fallen upon it with the savagery of wolverines. Only a blood stain persisted to show it had ever existed.
