by Lee Dunning
“Go on, you need to rest anyway and there’s something about that place that eases the soul,” Lady Earthfire said. The smith pushed Lady Swiftbrook in the direction of a portal. “Besides, K’hul went there. If anyone can talk sense to him, it’s you.”
K’hul wasn’t sure why he’d returned to Oblund’s old battlefield. He’d told himself it was to confirm the reports that a forest now occupied the field but he’d stood in this one spot for over an hour now. No amount of gaping would change the fact a wasteland now held a forest full of ancient-looking twisted oaks, and flowers as broad around as his splayed hand. Animals already moved about in its depths. Tiny lights played among the preternatural boughs. Sprites, or fairies, he didn’t know. The fae, at least some of them, had returned.
The swoosh of someone passing through the portal brought him around. He expected more Wood Elves come to worship at their new goddess’ shrine but Kiara stood there, blinking with the same kind of shock everyone did upon seeing the transformation of the battlefield. She sat down hard, right where she’d entered. One of her hands crept up to cover her open mouth. She made a sound that might have been a gasp or a choked sob.
K’hul pulled himself away from the forest and passed through the hip-high grasses to Kiara. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said, surprising himself with the realization.
At the sound of his voice, Lady Swiftbrook’s expression transformed from awe to fear and anger. “What do you plan to do?”
There was no mistaking the cold accusation attached to her words. She’d always firmly adhered to the rules, the strictures of tradition. Had he lost her to the Exile’s chaos? No, he wouldn’t forsake her. There had to be a way to reach her. “Long ago we learned the price of allowing half-breed Shadow Elves to live among us. This,” he paused to let his gesture encompass the whole of the moonlit field and woods, “is beyond even a great casting. No one should have such power.”
“She saved everyone,” Lady Swiftbrook said, rising to her feet, her jaw setting stubbornly.
“She could just as easily turn that magic against us—as Umbral did to the First. She hid it from us until her passions made it impossible to contain.” He’d meant to stay calm, speak reason to Kiara, but the longer he spoke, the more his fervor tinted his words. “Your pet Exile knew all along and did his best to divert our attention from the danger she represented.”
She didn’t flinch as he pressed in close to her. She tilted her head back so she could glare up at him in defiance. She raised her hand and he thought she might slap him. He determined to allow her to vent as she willed but when her hand stopped before his eyes, the moon shone off something she held. He took a step back trying to focus.
A sapphire ring. He sucked in a shocked breath and checked his hand. His ring graced his finger as always. Confusion replaced mounting ire. “Where did you get that?”
She scrutinized his face before speaking. “An elf was responsible for bringing about the breach in Lord Icewind’s wards. That elf wore this ring.”
“What? No!” K’hul pressed forward again. He grabbed Kiara by the shoulders and shook her. “No! You cannot believe what the Exile tells you. He knows about my family’s rings. He’s playing with your mind.”
She didn’t struggle against his rough handling but lightning flashed in her gray eyes. “Lord Icewind used this ring in a divining. He’s the one who determined who wore it. One of your sister’s lovers, Lord Cinder.”
First Father, no. Not Itarillë. His sister had always disapproved of his relationship with ‘the stick’ but surely, she wouldn’t resort to murder. A chill ran down his back. No, of course the horror of the last day didn’t result from any scheming on her part. She would never risk the lives of any elf, not even Kiara. The fault lay with another—someone who could rationalize the deaths of hundreds for the sake of saving First Home from the Exile.
K’hul released Kiara and spun away, the enormity of Historian’s betrayal forcing the air from his lungs as surely as a punch to the gut. I worried so much about that calculating little fuck; I completely ignored the serpent in my own house.
Kiara’s voice broke through K’hul’s misery. “Tell me who. I don’t truly believe Itarillë orchestrated such bloody treachery, but you must tell me who did.”
K’hul’s head shot up. Kiara, his first and only, glowed coldly in the dark. Though just a few feet separated them, the gulf might just as well be an ocean. Nothing he did could repair the damage done. He’d never convince her of the danger the Shadow Elves posed and for good reason. He took a shuddering breath. “Historian.”
She nodded as if he’d simply confirmed knowledge she already held. She swung away and glided back toward the portal, its light making her appear like a phantom. She paused at the edge of the portal, staring into it as if torn. K’hul took a step toward her, but froze when she turned an icy countenance upon him. “See to your own house,” she said. “Leave W’rath and Raven alone.”
He started to protest but distant thunder silenced him. Her back straightened so sharply she looked more ice than flesh. “You will leave them alone. Otherwise you will never know your child.”
She disappeared through the portal. Despite the still open eye of the gateway, the night closed in on K’hul. What should be a moment of joy, learning he was to be a father, left him bereft. His day of triumph burned like cinders in his throat.
Even vengeance had slipped from K’hul’s fingers. Or had it? His thoughts turned to Historian and the floating prison, Traitor’s Heart. It was said, Umbral had gone mad within its confines.
A grim smile broke through his mask of bitterness.
W’rath stepped lightly from the shadows and passed among the humans. All of them lay as if dead, even the priest and the obnoxious king, the terrors of the day having burnt through them like wildfire in dry grass.
He paused to peer back from where he’d left Raven. She’d given so much of herself, exhaustion finally beat her down despite her anxiety. She’d curled up on the ground, too tired for dignity. He’d brushed her mind, banishing fretful dreams. He didn’t know what the next day would bring but this night at least he could free her from worry.
Satisfied his young charge still slept undisturbed, he padded quietly through the cluster of humans. Chalice Renoir had gathered his family among a pile of rubble that formed a pitiful windbreak. The two eldest daughters used their father’s shoulders as pillows while his arms circled them protectively. The youngest daughter pressed up against the man’s wife. The object of W’rath’s search lay cradled against the woman’s hip.
W’rath knelt. The child’s pink dress had gone gray and stiff with filth. The lace along the skirt’s hem clung in tatters. Her face hung slack. A trail of drool trickled from one corner of her mouth to drip from her chin, leaving a spreading stain of wet on the priestess’ gown.
I will regret this. Healing a fractured mind required abilities he’d never fully honed. Saving Lady Swiftbrook had left him drained. Digging through a human mind, even that of a child, would immerse him in her creeping mortality. Oh, get on with it, you old git.
Nightmares ran amok in the girl’s mind. The monsters butchered her parent’s over and over in a relentless cycle. The demons, terrible enough in the flesh, distorted to levels of greater horror in the child’s ravished psyche. All the while, one tiny wisp of self curled in on itself, desperate to escape the torment but unable to look away—always compelled to relive the last moments of the adults who had perished trying to save her. One long, never-ending keen of denial, loss and confusion howled through the endless black of despair.
W’rath cocooned the girl’s shredded psyche in a shell of silence and peace. He banished the things trampling about her mind. He’d grown up around visions of cruelty. He’d fed on the putrid remains of tears and pain. He couldn’t free himself from his past but he could spare this child from her own nightmare. Some might call him cruel for altering her memories and simply removing those from the last day. As skilled as he
was, even he lacked the ability to stitch her sanity back into place with such bloody memories intact. Her parents became a sad sense of loss, much faded, while Chalice Renoir and his family grew more substantial. W’rath released her from the cocoon and let her new life enfold her.
When he at last rose, head thudding, knees mushy with fatigue, W’rath felt less solid than a ghost. As much as he’d feared overreaching himself when he’d destroyed the demons, that act had left him refreshed compared to the work he’d just completed.
W’rath caught the glint of eyes. Chalice Renoir studied him in the dark. The elf suppressed a sigh. He’d hoped no one would witness his embarrassing act of kindness. There was no help for it now—he might as well make the best of it. “Her name is Jaki and she thinks you adopted her,” W’rath said. He paused to cough and clear the weary rasp from his voice. “She knows her parents died but doesn’t remember the details. I’ve just spent a great deal of energy putting her back together. See she stays that way.”
“Careful, Councilor,” Renoir said, “I might start to like you.”
“Have a care, priest,” W’rath said, slipping into the shadows, “threatening me seldom turns out well for people.”
Epilogue
Foxfire clawed his way out of a deep and terrible sleep. Lady Rimedeath was shaking him with an urgency she’d never displayed during their entire stay with the nomads. Even the night the goats broke free from their pen and plowed through the elves’ yurt, bleating and stomping as they went, she’d merely given a resigned shrug. Now her grip bruised down to the bone. “Lord Foxfire! Wake up,” she hissed.
“What? What!” he said. He pulled away, massaging his abused arms. Had First Home finally contacted them? Last he’d heard, the elves marched on a small army of the damned, expecting an easy victory. Dread filled him. “Tell me.”
“Don’t you hear it?” Lady Rimedeath asked. She cocked her head and then cringed. “Sweet Lady, it’s awful.”
Now that Foxfire could think more clearly, he realized a sound did pull at him. It scraped at his nerves, like nails against slate. No wonder a nightmare had tormented him as he slept. He ought to be grateful to the soldier for waking him but something about the discordant noise told him he’d left one bad dream only to enter another.
Foxfire threw off his blankets and exited the yurt. The yurt’s heavy fabric had protected him more than he’d realized. He shuddered, quailing at the cacophony. Thousands upon thousands of voices wailed and babbled with madness. Then it coalesced and he realized only one inhuman throat emitted the terrible, fractured sound.
The strident howl left the nomads thrashing upon the hard earth in torment. The humans clawed at themselves and the ground, leaving bloody trails from their torn fingers. Lord Silk moved among them, subduing them with one hand, while pressing something into their ears with the other. They quieted as he finished and he moved on to the next.
“Here,” Lady Rimedeath said. She handed Foxfire a small blob of wax and mimed pushing it into his ears. His hands shook so bad she took the wax back and helped him. “It won’t block it completely but you’ll be able to deal with it now.”
He nodded. It did help. “I need to get some height to see what’s going on,” he said. “Open a portal to that mesa over there.” Lady Rimedeath cocked her head in acknowledgement and strode away to the edge of the camp.
The Wood Elf trotted over to Lord Silk and gathered some of the wax from him. Even though the humans couldn’t hear as well as elves, the otherworldly keening affected them more. Foxfire knelt next to a moaning bundle of rags. Croaking Wisdom crooned in agony, her wrinkles deep shadows beneath her wild mat of hair.
Foxfire ignored the smell of piss and blood and tended to the old woman. She let out a wet sob as the wax blocked the soul-shattering wail. He scanned for another human to aid just as Lady Rimedeath stepped clear of the cluster of yurts and commenced casting. A minute later, the camp lit up as the blue of a portal flared to life.
He blinked in surprise when Croaking Wisdom’s gnarled hand wrapped around his wrist. She pointed toward the portal. “I must see,” she wheezed. “Take me with you.”
Foxfire helped the old woman stand. With his help, she hobbled over to the glare of Lady Rimedeath’s portal. The crone sucked at her withered lips, perhaps reconsidering her desire to pass through the elves’ strange magic door. “Come,” she said, her need to know apparently outweighing her fears.
Foxfire, Croaking Wisdom and Lady Rimedeath passed through the gateway. They arrived on the other side atop a mesa far to the north of the nomad’s camp. Without the Wasteland’s stone tabletops to act as a buffer, the banshee wail worked through the plugs in Foxfire’s ears. He recoiled and nearly leapt back through the portal. Lady Rimedeath cursed and sank to her knees, clapping her hands over her ears. The wax and her less sensitive hearing protected Croaking Wisdom. Even so, she gasped and pointed to the north.
The gesture was unnecessary. Uhthein glowed as if the entire city blazed. A writhing beam of light shot out from the enormous castle dominating the eastern half of the city. While still in the camp, Foxfire assumed the terrible sound was either sorrow or pain. Without the Wasteland’s sculpted buttes distorting it, he now recognized it for what it was—rage.
As he stared, transfixed by the undulating light, it flared brighter and sprang farther into the night sky. It erupted in a violent conflagration and the three onlookers twisted away and clapped hands over their eyes. A dragon. A fucking dragon!
Foxfire peered between his fingers. A whimper of terror escaped his throat as the fiery, translucent reptile spread its wings, illuminating the entire valley. Even the monolith, its cold, dead length reaching from the Glass Desert toward the stars, shone with the angry yellows and oranges of the monstrous drake. The voice of rage swelled and expanded until Foxfire thought they’d all die from its crushing fury.
A final roar dropped Foxfire to his knees. He screamed in helpless pain and fear. The buttes closest to the city collapsed. A brutal wind screamed across the wastes, scouring his skin, tasting of dirt, brimstone and hate. A warm trickle made him think his ears bled. The bluish backlighting of the portal flashed and died as the gale shredded the threads of magic holding it together.
The dragon’s flames winked out and with it, the deadly howl cut off. Purple afterimages left Foxfire night-blind. The pounding of his heart and his dog-like panting didn’t quite block the sound of Lady Rimedeath’s quiet weeping.
The Sky Elf dragged herself over to Foxfire and Croaking Wisdom. “What does it mean?” she asked. She used the back of her hand to clear away the tears from her cheeks and left streaks of grime in their place.
Foxfire went to fish the wax from his ears only to find it had melted from the cruel wind. His hands came away sticky with wax not blood. “I think it means our people won,” he said.
“Won what—at what cost?” Lady Rimedeath asked.
“The hatred of the Dragon Queen,” Croaking Wisdom rasped.
Foxfire started to correct her but stopped. Though none of them could say why, the elves assumed they’d already earned the mysterious Dragon Queen’s undying wrath. However, what if all this had been some kind of twisted game for her? A game she’d rigged to ensure she won?
Only she hadn’t won.
And she was a poor loser.
Sweet Sister of Wisdom. We’re dealing with a creature gone mad. There would be no suing for peace, no quiet time while she went to lick her wounds and soothe her ego. She would keep coming at them until the entire world burned.
They couldn’t hope to stand against such insanity except with madness of their own. “Come on,” he said, helping the others to their feet. “We need to get back so we can contact First Home. We need W’rath. Here. Now.”
Dramatis Personæ
First Born
The First: First elf believed to rise out of the lava of the newborn world of Alassea. The largest and the strongest of the elves of his day and the first in a long line of w
ar leaders going by the K'hul family name.
Lord K'hul: The most recent First Born of the K'hul family to take the High Council seat set aside for the eldest of the line, along with the title. He is also known by the titles 'The Voice of the First', and during wartime, 'Warleader'.
Lady Itarllë K'hul: K'hul's younger half-sister. Even more zealous than her brother, she seeks to revitalize her family and set them above all others.
Lady Arien Culna'mo: Member of the High Council who befriends Raven. Daughter of Cho'zen Earthfire.
Lady Cho'zen Earthfire: Weapons smith who is a direct descendent of Amryth Earthfire, the smith who made Shadow's Edge, Umbral's sword.
Linden: Young soldier who gave his life to protect Raven, who subsequently became a part of her when she drew his soul into herself.
Tyan Young elf, still wearing the green armor of an untried soldier.
Lord Orcbane Powerful earthmage in charge of the First Born soldiers stationed at Castle Teres.
Historian Family scholar for the K'hul family and tutor to those children born of the direct line.
Sky Elves
Lady Uruviel Stormchaser: The first member of the Stormchaser line, friend of Umbral, and creator of the elves' earliest written language.
Lady Kiara Swiftbrook: Member of the High Council. Skilled with a sword as well as lightning-based magic.
Lady Sera:Head healer of First Home.
Lord Bloodletter: Sword master of the Ice Blade technique.
Lady D'rizen: Sword mistress of the Ice Blade technique.
Lord Kiat Icewind: Powerful diviner and member of the Elven High Council.
Lady Aenwyn Winterdawn: Apprentice to Kiat Icewind.
