by M. M. Whan
The source of the voices he heard was nowhere to be found, but he could hear that whoever the voice belonged to wasn’t far away.
“…should be here at any time. I do not know what is taking them so long.”
“Bah but ye’re worryin’ too much! They said they be here, they’ll be here er I’m a- Well I dunno what, but ye get me meanin’”
Eferath assumed that the pair were standing hidden in the tree line not too far from where he sat currently. Neither of the two men – for the voices unmistakably belonged to men – were even trying to keep their voices low. It was obvious they weren’t expecting anyone to overhear them. And why should they? This clearing was located in what could be clearly defined as the middle of nowhere.
At first, Eferath’s instincts were to close the distance and take a measure of the two men. If they attacked him on sight, then it would definitely speak to their intentions this far out in the woods. He decided against it, though. From what he heard the first fellow say, these two were expecting either someone, or a lot of someone’s, and it simply wouldn’t do for him to get caught up in a fight only to have a lot of back-up arrive. Eferath snuck away, wanting to get as much distance between himself and the two unidentified men – just in case one of them got lucky and he was spotted – but close enough that he could still hear them speak.
“You feel that? I think that’s them.” The first man said shortly, and Eferath thought he could hear a slight edge of fear there.
Eferath stopped in his tracks suddenly as he felt a very peculiar feeling wash over him. The hair on his arms and at the nape of his neck stood on end, and he was struck by a wave of nausea. The sensation was strange, but familiar in a way he was unable to explain. Instinctively, Eferath made for a nearby copse of trees, making sure he stayed quiet, and out of sight. He rested against a fallen oak even as the sensation grew in intensity. Eferath knew from his training at the academy that what he was sensing was in fact a wizard’s aura. An impressively powerful one at that. Immediately, Eferath utilized a different set of skills learned from their training time among the academy mages, and concentrated on suppressing his own aura.
His efforts were not a moment too soon.
Suddenly, a deafening crack! split the air and Eferath nearly jumped out of his skin then clutched at his ears, curling into a protective ball. Several seconds passed, and when he heard nothing else, he slowly dared to look in the direction of the explosion. He could still feel the aura; it was as powerful as ever, and made the very air hum all about him.
Eferath cautiously nudged a branch that was blocking his vision out of the way and immediately recognized the source of the aura, and why it was so familiar.
Lethaniel Xance stood in the middle of the clearing at the head of dozens of soldiers.
Dozens of Escoran infantry.
Curiosity overruled reason and he inched his way closer to the edge of the copse. Why was Lethaniel here? Why was he appearing to lead nearly two score infantry outside the fringe of Tallonin’s borders? Lethaniel was looking around at his surroundings, his expression a picture of pure disgust and contempt. It was no secret that the old mage preferred his comforts over anything that would likely get dirt on his robes, which added to Eferath’s confusion on why Lethaniel was here of all places.
The two men he had heard earlier emerged from the tree line about a hundred feet to his right. They were a lot closer than Eferath thought they were, and his heart leapt in his chest for a moment out of fear that he had been discovered. It was unnecessary, he knew. If that had been the case, the two men would have either engaged him themselves, or they would not have waited to report his position the moment Lethaniel arrived. He had to strain his ears to overhear the conversation between the three of them, and was thankful they weren’t anticipating being overheard by anyone for what he heard next made his blood run cold.
“…and you are certain that he is there?” Lethaniel asked in his typical holier-than-thou tone.
“Yes sir,” said the man Eferath recognized as the first voice he had heard before. “Saw Eferath with my own eyes, I did.”
Eferath stiffened at the mention of his name, and fear clutched at his heart and squeezed. So his father was wrong, after all. Dorien had guessed that he would come here. But why did it take so long to deploy? Eferath knew that it wasn’t possible for the armed forces to have searched every possible location he could have fled to. Despite his instincts screaming at him that it was time to go, he resisted those urges. He needed to know more.
The man Eferath recognized as the first speaker turned his face slightly, and the sudden recognition nearly knocked Eferath down on his haunches. The realization struck him with sudden fear.
It was the blacksmith’s boy. Morgan? Yes, that was his name. But how could he have possibly seen him at his family home? And what was he doing telling Escoran where he was? Eferath clenched his fist in anger, focusing on the back of the traitor’s head and wishing he could sever it from the rest of his body.
“Very good, you two are to be rewarded for your loyalty, and your service to the kingdom of Escoran.” Lethaniel said ceremonially. Both men puffed out their chests, even as Morgan began a low bow. “Now, how far are we away from the city?”
“Nearly two kilometers, my lord.” Morgan answered quickly.
“You fool!” Growled the wizard angrily as he glared at Morgan and his companion in sudden fury. “You were supposed to set up the waypoint stone in the city!” Eferath leaned closer, interested. A waypoint stone was a way for a wizard to anchor a point in space at a distance that often far exceeded typical teleportation range. Most wizards, Eferath knew, had several of these anchor points scattered all about the realms, despite how prohibitively expensive they were. It made for very convenient, as well as efficient magical travel. Eferath could only imagine how it would have been had this group suddenly appeared in the middle of town. That, if nothing else, proved to Eferath that their intentions were far from peaceful.
“And if I had we would have materialized inside of a wall, and we would have lost half of our force the same way!” Morgan retorted, his arms folded defiantly over his chest. “Perhaps I should have been a wizard, for even I know that you cannot teleport inside of a city!” The wizard spun on him fiercely, flexing his fingers prompting the other man to unfold his arms reflexively and Eferath noticed his hand brushed a sword hilt.
“Do not mock me, boy, I warn you this only once.” Lethaniel said in an even tone. Even Eferath shivered at the cold in his voice. Not only that, it was the promise of death that tone beheld. “Next time you insult me thus, I shall reduce you to a pile of smoldering goo.”
“Just get on with it,” Morgan said, waving away the threat as if it was nothing more than an annoying odor. “Just remember our deal. You may kill the family, but leave Eralon to me.” As soon as Eferath heard that, he stiffened, and it felt as though the cold hand of death clutched his heart and squeezed, quickly travelling throughout his body until he felt nothing but cold.
Not only were they here for him, they were here to kill his family! That was not something Eferath was going to allow, but he was aware that there was precious little that he could do. He was woefully outnumbered, even if he didn’t have Lethaniel to contend with. He almost chuckled at that thought. There would be no contest; Lethaniel would obliterate him as surely as the sun rose and set in the sky each day.
Eferath was suddenly aware that the intense cold that he felt all over his body grew colder and colder. It seemed to intensify from somewhere deep inside of him. It grew like a shadow cast by the moon during an eclipse. It covered his entire being in shadow. But somewhere within that darkness a power unlike anything he had ever fathomed lurked. Images flashed in front of his vision of his family being slaughtered at the hands of Dorien, the mad king, and the power inside him surged forth, despite Eferath’s best efforts to keep it suppressed before Lethaniel detected his aura.
Too late.
&n
bsp; The wizard started to say something to quell the smugness from the cocky upstart, but instead he stood unnaturally still. Eferath watched him through the dark, foggy haze that surrounded his vision. Watched as Lethaniel shivered, a shiver so intense it traveled through his entire body. Then Lethaniel turned his head until their eyes met. Eferath froze in place. He was certain that he was completely hidden from sight, but yet Lethaniel’s unwavering stare was unerringly locked onto his.
His mind urged him to leave while he still had time, but his body remained riveted in place. It was as if his feet had grown roots that planted him to the ground, so stuck in place was he that he did not react even when Lethaniel began tracing arcane runes in the air.
Eferath’s hair stood on end, and he shivered despite not being able to move. Despite being in the middle of a cast, Eferath noticed that Lethaniel’s eyes remained locked on him. It was at that moment that the young man knew why he was rooted in place.
Lethaniel had cast a paralysis spell on him.
Time was of the essence. In the academy, Eferath and his fellow students had spent time with the mages, and by extension learned spells that could potentially save their lives one day. And today was no exception. Eferath reached out with his senses and felt the tendrils of magic that surrounded, and bound him in place. He couldn’t just cast a spell to dispel anything affecting him, no, that was too unspecific to be effective. In order for him to untie himself, he needed to understand how he was bound. His heart hammered in his chest and in his ears, and the young man knew that he was doomed. He didn’t have enough time to untie the web before Lethaniel finished casting.
Almost as if his thoughts spoke of the future, Eferath watched as Lethaniel suddenly thrust both palms out toward him, and he suddenly felt light as a feather. He felt the sensation of his toes dragging on the ground as he was being drawn forward toward the clearing. Lethaniel held only one arm out-stretched, and Eferath was floating toward him.
“It’s him! It’s Eferath!” He heard someone yell, he looked for the source of the speaker, but saw only soldiers drawing their swords or spitting with disgust. Some even called him a traitor. He wanted so badly to refute their claims. To cry out against the lies that besmirched his name, but his mouth was sealed.
Eferath concentrated on the task at hand. Freeing himself. He had to get loose if he had any kind of chance to survive the next few minutes. Lethaniel was smiling at him, thinking he had Eferath trussed up like a game fowl.
Closer and closer Eferath drifted even though he resisted with everything he could muster it had no effect. He needed to figure out how to break the spell, but knew from the complexities that he sensed, that the spell was considerably beyond him. Then he realized something, and the realization struck him as profoundly as any slap might.
Lethaniel was still staring at him.
Eferath was no expert in magic, but even he felt it wasn’t coincidence that Lethaniel stared at him so. That gave him an idea.
Even as Escoran’s mightiest mage smiled triumphantly, Eferath cast the most basic spell they had all been taught at the academy. Magic Flare. Only instead of launching it high into the air, Eferath targeted Lethaniel’s smug grin.
Oh how Lethaniel howled!
Eferath closed his eyes a heartbeat before his spell took effect, and winced as the magic light filled the surrounding sun-lit area with a blinding white intensity.
Instantly, Eferath felt the magical hold on him evaporate like a snowflake in a campfire. He hit the ground running, spinning an about-face and legging it for the copse of trees he had been hiding in. His spell lasted only long enough to break the magician’s concentration on the spells he was casting, and Eferath quickly heard shouts and footsteps thudding into the soft grass behind him too close for comfort. Eferath raced for the cover of the trees as fast as his legs would bear him, but he had a nagging doubt in the back of his mind that it wasn’t going to be good enough. Not by a long shot. To make matters worse, Eferath could feel the hairs stand up on the back of his neck as he felt magic pour into the air.
It was not a good feeling.
Eferath heard something whistle behind him, then felt something tug at his cloak. An arrow sliced past, thudding into the thick trunk of an elm and quivering to the fletches. Eferath considered diving into a side roll, but abandoned that idea immediately. The action would rob him of all of his built-up momentum, and he would likely be turned into a pincushion before he regained his footing. No, not a good idea, he decided, and opted for adding a zig-zag to his mad dash.
Eferath made the copse of trees in what must have been a record for the one-hundred-meter dash, and it wasn’t a moment too soon. Arrows thudded into the trees and ground all around him, with more than a few slamming into a tree mere moments after he dashed behind it. His heart beat so fast in his chest it seemed like it was one continued note. His lungs burned as if on fire, and his legs seemed to turn to jelly, his adrenaline burned out.
He took refuge behind a thick oak, taking minimal comfort in its wide, thick trunk as arrows thwacked into it in staccato rhythm to catch his breath. He barely gulped in a few breaths before he felt the sudden increase of magical energy reach a crescendo.
“Uh oh.” He managed to groan out, then he pushed off the sturdy tree, and bent into a run.
BANG!
Eferath gasped as it felt as though an invisible fist slammed into his back. He was still pumping his arms and legs in a dead run for several moments until he discovered that his feet were not, in fact, touching the ground. Eferath was sailing through the air and felt not unlike a sailboat in a windstorm. He could smell burned hair and clothing, and, as his momentum caused him to inevitably pitch forward into a roll, he discovered why.
The entire copse of trees was a giant fireball, burning in a raging maelstrom of flame and incredible heat. Despite the heat, Eferath felt his blood freeze. Had he hesitated but a moment, he would have been turned to ash before he even knew he was on fire. Eferath yanked off his smoldering cloak with a jerk and tossed the ruined garment to the ground. It hadn’t even hit the ground before it was snatched away by an arrow and stapled to the grass several feet away.
Eferath wheeled around and legged it toward the tree line in the direction of his home. Someone needed to warn his family.
If only he wasn’t too late.
Chapter 16
He was barely halfway across the distance separating the copse and the tree line when he was forced to duck as an arrow shaft whistled past his ear. Then another, and another, the wooden shafts rained down all around him like deadly raindrops. Eferath ducked, dived, weaved, and dodged his way to the tree line, his heart pounding furiously in his chest as arrows clipped his cloak, some even passing so closely, they pierced his clothes and gashed his skin.
Eferath reached the tree line, ducking his head under the first bough he came across, and the action saved his life as a crossbow bolt hissed in and became snarled up in the branches. Beyond the tree bough, Eferath pumped his legs as hard as they would go, but in their jelly-like state, it felt as though they would buckle any moment. As hard and as fast as the dense forest would allow, Eferath tried to escape. His lungs felt as though they were on fire, and one eye was closed after a springy branch slapped him across the face. Spurred on by the sounds of pursuit close – too close – behind him, he fought through the pain, knowing that if he stopped he would be done for. He angled away from the dogged pursuit, running in zig-zags, hoping to throw off his pursuers.
Just as he turned to the right to swing around a group of three trees that seemed to grow from the same trunk, a pair of arrows zipped in, missing him by a hairsbreadth and slammed into the tree nearest to him.
Galvanized into action by the near miss, Eferath changed direction and darted to the left just in time to hear an arrow hiss through the air where he was standing a moment before. Whoever was shooting at him had serious talent with a bow, and he knew that one mistake would mean the end of him. He
fought the urge to scream in terror as he darted to and fro like a frightened, cornered hare. No matter which way he turned, the direction he took was the wrong one. He felt frustration and hopelessness build inside of him, mixing with the fear he felt very keenly and threatening to become crippling despair. To make matters worse, the forest suddenly became thicker with low hanging branches, prickly shrubs, and vines that threatened to clothesline him, or tangle him if he attempted to travel any further. Eferath knew there was no way he could hope to change direction and find a way around it and arrows continued to snap off trees and small boulders alike. He pushed on, running as fast as he possibly could, receiving slap after stinging slap of branches on his face. He looked over his shoulder in hopes of catching a glimpse of his pursuers as he ran, and in doing so, failed to notice an upraised root barely a few feet in front of him.
His foot caught on the root, sending him sprawling forward to land flat on his face. He could hear the shouting from behind, and he scrambled to push his back up against the tree that tripped him. His chest heaved and fell with each labored breath. Sweat dripped down his forehead and stung his eyes as he spotted an orc archer emerge from behind a particularly thick area of trees and line up his shot. Eferath smiled despite his impending doom, pleased that he had given his would-be murderers a good run. There was a sharp twang as the archer released, and Eferath closed his eyes as the arrow hissed in for the kill.
Suddenly, there was a cacophony of snaps and cracks that forced the young man to open his eyes. His eyes opened wide in amazement as he saw the arrow hanging there from a thick tangle of branches mere inches from his face. His heart hammered in his chest, flooding him with renewed energy, and he took off once again before the archer could get off another shot. There was a sickening thud! as something struck the trunk of the tree he was resting against hard. He ran with frantic pace, his feet pounding onto the ground hard enough to shoot pain up each of his tired legs.
