by M. M. Whan
“You really think we’re going to find Eferath in Tallonin?” Carlisle asked. He knew the answer, but he was looking for an excuse to break the awkward silence. “I mean, Tallonin is such a remote village that they would be able to see us coming from miles away. Hell, it’s so flat around here I can nearly see the back of my own head in the horizon!” He smiled at the joke, but Syline merely stared at him with a look so cold it would have frosted glass.
“We have gone over this many times already, Carlisle. Why do you not understand something so simple?” She asked, frustrated as she held her arms out to the side.
Carlisle looked at her blankly. “Perhaps we haven’t discussed it satisfyingly. I don’t want to waste my time only to find out he out-foxed us and went the complete other direction. What if he headed to Nairfidel instead?”
Syline let out a long sigh. “Missives have been sent out to all of the neighboring kingdoms with warnings that if any are found to be assisting, or harboring him in any way, it will be considered an act of war.”
“Damn.” Carlisle breathed even as he felt his throat constrict. There was literally nowhere Eferath could go. Even if he did try to get into Nairfidel, the guards at the gate would undoubtedly be extra vigilant, if they let strangers through the gates in the first place.
Carlisle squinted as he looked into the distance, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sunlight on the grass and nearby lake. The sun had only crested the horizon to the east a few hours previous, but did little to chase away the chill of the night. He and Syline had broken camp before even the false dawn, eager to make up the distance. At their fastest speed, Carlisle estimated that he and Syline would reach Tallonin by night two days hence. Syline was worried that their window for finding Eferath was rapidly closing, and feared they may reach Tallonin after the trail had long gone cold.
“How do you expect to bring him into custody?” Carlisle asked. “I hope you are not expecting me to raise my swords against him.”
Syline shrugged. “I don’t know. I can only hope that Eferath is cooperative. I wouldn’t want us to have to fight him and take him by force.”
Carlisle looked at her sidelong while they marched. “I will not raise my swords against Eferath.” He said again, this time his tone had a note of finality to it.
“You will do as your King commands!” Syline barked, turning on him fiercely. So fiercely that Carlisle’s hands twitched toward the twin swords crisscrossed on his back. Syline noticed the movement and immediately her demeanor softened, but only a little bit. Syline closed her eyes and took in a deep breath as if to collect herself, then clasped her hands in front of her. “I do not wish to harm your friend. I truly hope it does not come to that.”
“Is that what you were ordered to do?” Carlisle asked hotly. “Were you ordered not to harm him?”
Silence.
Carlisle stared at her for a long moment, and he noticed that she seemed to be walking faster. He finally grabbed her by the elbow and spun her around to face him. His heart beat rapidly in his chest. He did not like what the signs pointed to.
“What?” She demanded, and it was not lost on Carlisle that she had balled her hands into fists.
“Were you ordered to bring him back alive, or dead?”
“What does it matter?”
Carlisle shook her roughly. “Answer the gods-damned question!” He bellowed in her face.
Syline stared into his eyes for a long moment, her nostrils flaring with each breath as she struggled to calm herself. “Dead.”
The half-elf shoved Carlisle away, then marched away, leaving Carlisle alone with his contemplations. Why would the King order Eferath to be found, only to have him killed before he could stand trial for his crimes? He had to admit, there was no love lost between him and the hierarchy of the kingdom since many good friends of his died in what would be known as the greatest training tragedy in the history of the kingdom. If Eferath truly did what he was accused of, then Carlisle would prefer to hear it from his friend himself.
All he had to do was get to Eferath before Syline did.
Just as Syline continued on their path she stopped and squinted. “Smoke.” She explained before Carlisle could finish opening his mouth to speak. Carlisle followed the direction she was looking and there it was. A plume of thick black smoke rose in the distance. Carlisle clenched his jaw; he didn’t need a map to know where the smoke was coming from.
As the two were looking on, a fiery streak sliced through the air above the smoke then exploded into a brilliant flash. The explosive shockwave was powerful enough to push a sizeable portion of the smoke hanging in the air away from the point of the blast.
Thirty seconds later came the deafening retort, and the accompanying shockwave that forced both Carlisle and Syline to take a step back. That explosion was followed up by several more retorts, and a lot more smoke.
Syline turned to regard Carlisle, and they spoke in unison.
“Eferath.”
* * * *
Eferath’s eyes widened in horror as he and his father noticed the same thing at the same time. The shaft of an arrow protruded from Eralon’s gut still quivering from the impact. Eferath’s shout of “NO!” came too late to have any impact on what happened, but before Eferath could do anything, Morgan suddenly came into view wielding a long dagger, then brought it in to sink deep into Eralon’s chest.
Eralon stood completely still for a long moment, staring straight ahead as if he could see beyond what mortal eyes could see, then he sank to his knees. Morgan kicked Eralon off the blade of his dagger, and Eferath watched as his father landed hard on his back and lay very still. Eferath stared at the unmoving form of the man he thought was undefeatable and felt something stir deep inside of him. It was as if a great darkness stirred, awakened like some great, ancient beast it rose up within him. Eferath crawled over to his father as soon as he found the strength to move. No one stopped him. Even as he lifted his father’s head up, he felt hot blood pouring over his hand. Eferath laid Eralon’s head in his lap and he began to rock, tears streaming down his face as he looked at his father’s still, pale face. The light in his sapphire blue eyes had dimmed to a dull blueish grey, and his eyes looked as if they were seeing beyond what mortal eyes could see.
The mighty Eralon was dead.
Eferath hugged his father close, and felt the limpness in Eralon’s body. He heard someone sobbing and it took a moment for him to realize that he was hearing himself. Sadness gripped him, enveloped him whole, but Eferath could feel something else.
Fury.
It rose up from the depths of his soul, and grew until it became a tempest inside of him. Eferath was aware of his breathing becoming more heavy and ragged. The last time this happened, Eferath was afraid that the darkness would consume him, and so he fought back with everything that he could muster, if only to hold on to a modicum of control. Now, however, seeing his father lying dead in his lap, Eferath accepted the intrusion. Accepted the darkness and let himself fall into it. The darkness ringing his vision swelled to the point where Eferath could barely see his hand as he ran it through his father’s thick brown hair. His hand was wreathed in purple-blue-black ethereal fire that burned with incredible intensity but emitted no heat.
Eferath felt someone grab his shoulder roughly, and he distantly focused all of his rage, all of his anger into that point of contact. There was a terrific thunderclap and an enormous surge of magical energy that channeled itself through Eferath, and into the poor fool who dared touch him in his state. That wasn’t all, though. A wave of incredible power blasted outward in all directions, taking everyone within a hundred feet off their feet.
Eferath was on his feet in a heart-beat, casting a ball of pure energy that took Lethaniel off his guard and sent him flying. One of the elites was quicker than the others to get back to his feet and Eferath had to dodge a blade on a whistling arc for his head. Even though the attack missed, Eferath was facing an elite, and e
lites were rarely caught off guard. Prepared for the possibility that he would miss, the elite soldier already had a follow up on the way. He wasn’t the only one prepared, though, and Eferath brought his bound hands up before the follow-up attack, and the elite was unable to retract his blade in time. A ringing clang sounded, and Eferath’s binds fell to the ground.
Eferath drew his diamond longsword before the shackles hit the ground and cut the man down before the first bounce. After that, Eferath went into a fury. The next soldier in line went down hard and went down fast, then a third, fourth, and finally a fifth before no one seemed eager to venture within range of his deadly blade. Eferath’s magical blade was so sharp it cleaved through weapons and armour as if they were soft cheese. At first his sword glowed bright blue, and sparkled with the intensity of the emotions roiling inside him.
Eferath blocked a spear that was aimed for his back, then lopped the head of it off, and plunged his blade deep into the offender’s chest. Just as the next taker was about to run up Eferath felt his skin prick. Whatever it was that added strength, speed, and fuel to his body sensed something that Eferath couldn’t even put words to. His head turned to regard the source and he spotted Lethaniel standing less than thirty feet away.
And he was casting.
A blinding flash stole Eferath’s vision, and a thunderclap loud enough to shatter nearby glass rang out. Yet Eferath remained unharmed. As soon as his vision cleared, Eferath noticed that he was standing in a fighter’s stance, diamond blade held between he and Lethaniel, and there appeared to be a shimmering translucent barrier hovering in the air protecting him.
Even with Eferath’s limited magical experience, he recognized it as a magic shield, but he could not remember casting it. Eferath pointed his blade at Lethaniel and barely noticed the fact that its bright blue glow was turning purple. Lethaniel should have stayed hidden. Eferath’s fury reached a fever pitch and he unleashed a magical onslaught the likes of which even Lethaniel had never before witnessed. Houses exploded in flame, or from the intensity of the ensuing spells. Eferath was no longer in control. He let his fury drive him, and his instincts guide his movements. He would make every last one of these people pay for his father’s death, no matter the cost.
That philosophy was proving to be true even as Eferath magically bludgeoned Lethaniel’s defenses, giving no thought to collateral damage. He screamed with every spell he unleashed as if the magic was tearing itself from his very being.
When the smoke cleared, Lethaniel lay crumpled up on the ground. His fine robes were tattered, charred, and smoldering. The ground for a dozen feet or more all around him were pock marked with craters, or were horribly burned. Eferath strode closer, and even as he neared, the mighty wizard stirred and tried to raise himself up to his hands and knees. Eferath grabbed him by the shoulders and roughly pulled the old man to his feet, then spun him around to face him.
“You will be one to pay for my father’s death!” Eferath shouted in his face, but was surprised when he heard his voice as being watery and ethereal, deeper even. Definitely not his own. That thought would have been more terrifying had he had more than a moment to process that.
“Eferath!” A woman’s voice called suddenly, breaking him from his reverie. A voice that Eferath quickly recognized as his mother. He turned in the direction of her voice and saw her and his sister being dragged away, back toward his family home. The men who were dragging them were not of Tallonin, he saw, and he doubted the two men had their safety in mind. In fact, when one of the soldiers looked back his direction, Eferath recognized him as Morgan. That rat! Eferath thought to himself. He roughly threw Lethaniel to the ground then quickly gave chase.
Eferath chased them as fast as he could, but the streets were absolute chaos. There were moments where he was physically unable to continue as the fighting of the elites and the townspeople made it impossible to pass. Eferath took a hand, and it did not take long for the elites to recognize him, remembering what had happened just minutes past, and to scatter, often leaving their weapons where they had stood.
By the time he reached his family’s home, nearly every building around him was in flames. Townspeople rushed to and fro, some carrying buckets filled with water, others rushing to fill them back up. Their efforts were completely in vain, Eferath knew. The fires were too hot, and the wood from the building was so dry since it hadn’t rained for some time, the water would evaporate before doing much of anything.
Whether by some miracle, or act of divine providence, Eferath’s home was so far untouched by the flames, but he knew that would not be so for long. He held his sword aloft as he ran up onto the porch, then leaned into a heavy kick that nearly took the door from its hinges.
“Morgan!” Eferath shouted as he slowly advanced through the lower level of the house. “Where are you you cowardly son of a bitch?”
A scream, this time it was his sister, and it was coming from upstairs. Eferath clutched his sword tighter and headed for the stairs. The floorboards creaked under foot as he went up, making him cringe at how loud it was. He reached the top of the stairs and headed for his parent’s room first. Logically, it made the most sense defensibly as it was the largest room on the floor, and secondly it was where he heard the scream come from.
Eferath stood outside of the door, taking a moment to listen for any signs of danger but all he could hear was the muffled sobs from his mother and sister. He reached for the door handle, heart pounding in his chest. He had no idea what to expect on the other side of the door. Given that Morgan had killed his father, he held no illusions that his mother and sister wouldn’t suffer the same fate. He felt the spring compress inside of the handle mechanism, then a click as the door disengaged. Eferath waited a moment, then suddenly heaved the door open and sprang into the room. The second soldier, the one Eferath saw running with Morgan, stood behind both Lillyan and Emily, sword and dagger held at the ready.
“Let them go.” Eferath said calmly. It took every ounce of his self-control to manage a smooth tone and voice. Adrenaline surged through his veins making him nauseous. The looks of pure terror on his mother and sister’s face was heartbreaking. “Your orders concern me and only me, you do not have to do this!” Eferath pleaded.
“No.” The man sneered, and he prodded the tip of his knife to Lillyan’s neck. Tears streamed down both girls’ faces and Eferath swallowed hard.
“If you touch a hair on their head, I swear your death will be as painful as I can manage.” Eferath promised, taking a step forward. It was a hollow threat; the soldier held the advantage. There was little Eferath could do without risking harming his mother and sister’s safety.
Lillyan’s eyes widened suddenly, and Eferath took half a second to register the danger. He spun around to protect his back, but the half-second he took to realize the threat was a half second too long. The tip of Morgan’s longsword stabbed into his abdomen. Hot, blinding pain seared through him even as the cold steel pierced his skin. Eferath threw himself backward and nearly fainted as the sudden movement caused incredible pain as the sword tip pulled free. Eferath could immediately feel the hot blood as it poured from the mouth of the wound. He held a hand down to his abdomen, the pain keeping him practically doubled over and he felt the rings of his chainmail shirt. Thank the gods I remembered to put this on. Eferath thought to himself and he wondered what would have happened had he not been wearing his armour. He shuddered at the thought, then held his sword at the ready.
Eferath’s eyes narrowed as he saw Morgan standing before him. This was the man who had brought his father down. The man who so treacherously laid him low. Ethereal fire once again sprang to life all over his body, and Eferath lunged for Morgan with a guttural roar.
It was time to make this bastard pay.
Chapter 20
Metal and diamond cried out in a pure crystalline note as Eferath’s lunge was picked off. The cramped quarters in the house made a full-on sword battle next to impossible, so Eferat
h did the next best thing. He followed through on his lunge by charging forward into a shoulder rush. He collided with Morgan with the full weight of his body and the two went tumbling through the threshold of the door and into the second-floor hallway beyond. Eferath disengaged by kicking away into a backwards roll. Morgan wasn’t so lucky. He was completely out of control and was stopped by the thick wood railing. The two were up on their feet in a matter of seconds, and came together in a flurry of fists.
Eferath landed a stiff right hook that nearly spun Morgan around on his feet, then ducked under Morgan’s backhand swing. Eferath grabbed his opponent by the back of his tunic, then yanked him forward while he brought his knee to Morgan’s gut, folding the murderer in half. Eferath then spun him around and sent him flying head first into the railing. It cracked, creaked, and splintered from the impact, but held enough to keep Morgan from plunging the ten feet to the floor below.
Morgan was tougher than he seemed, though, and he wiped the blood from his lips as he stood up on shaky legs. Eferath almost admired the man, but Morgan was nothing more than a coward and a traitor, and Eferath wouldn’t be satisfied until he killed Morgan with his bare hands. Eferath saw stars a moment later as Morgan slugged him hard, and tasted hot blood in his mouth. Morgan tackled him into the nearby wall and punched Eferath hard where he had been wounded. A wave of incredible pain and nausea washed over him, then, and Eferath feared that he would vomit all over his opponent. The pain was severe and nearly buckled his legs out from under him. Eferath countered by stomping his armoured boot onto the arch of Morgan’s foot. How the man howled!
Eferath planted both hands on Morgan’s chest and shoved as hard as he could. Morgan’s arms wind-milled as he tried to maintain his balance, and Eferath drove him right between the eyes. Blood exploded from the point of impact, covering Eferath’s fist. Morgan leapt forward suddenly, then grabbed Eferath by the tunic, and the two spun around before Morgan shoved Eferath into the wall. Wood planks cracked as Eferath’s head bounced off the wall. Eferath somehow maintained the presence of mind to duck in the nick of time. Morgan’s fist brushed the top of Eferath’s head before slamming into the wall. A loud crunch followed the blow, but the resulting painfilled scream told Eferath that his enemy had broken his hand.
