by JW Baccaro
Favonius was cast downstream from the force of the currents becoming chaotic and ocean-like; and on that day the energy waves scattered halfway around the earth, drawing many creatures attention. Even the sun brightened harshly for a few moments, slightly burning whatever its rays hit.
It was done. The aftermath resulted in a crater about five hundred feet long and almost a hundred feet deep—at the bottom is where Kaylis lay, unconscious.
The only survivors near-by was the creature with gleaming white eyes and a handful of Dark Elves, protected by a bluish-white energy shield. “Find the Centaur and retrieve the boy. Bring them both to the tower.”
“As you command, lord Valnar. But would it be wise to keep such a loose cannon as he there?”
“I’ll sustain him, then search his mind. There is something oddly familiar about this boy, something from the past.” Valnar rubbed his oily face, gazing down at Kaylis. Yes, like his father, he too will be mine.
CHAPTER THREE
REUNION
After a deathly storm, Darshun abandoned a cave he’d fortunately found the night before, probably an old grizzly bear’s den, he’d recognize that heavy musk smell anywhere. He continued along the Azriel. The tornado destroyed a great portion of the woodland. Debris looked to be scattered to and fro, and quite often did he have to journey around mounds of trees, rocks and chunks of earth. At one point, he discovered something eerie—the arm of what looked like a Dark Elf, evident by the burgundy skin, one who must’ve gotten caught within the storm. And if there were one, there were bound to be more, possibly roaming around even now. He kept all senses keen.
About an hour passed and he grew hungry, feasting eyes upon a luscious black mulberry tree. He stopped beside it and picked over a dozen berries, stuffing them in his mouth. They were the sweetest he’d ever tasted, the juice trickling down his chin. For once, he savored the flavor instead of just gulping it down in mere seconds. But then the wind blew against him carrying a familiar smell he could never forget, the smell of death, reminding him of the mutilated corpses stacked on high within the tower of Zithel, rotting. He stepped off his path and followed the stench, passing through dense brush, fir and hemlock tress; crossed over a little stream and came upon a devastated town.
Dead Human Beings were everywhere; men, women and children slaughtered without mercy. Great mounds of ashes lay about—probably houses at one time and among the acreage of land not a single survivor could be found. Then Darshun witnessed a sight that boiled his blood, he came across a dead woman and little boy—her son no less, the woman’s back perched on top of him with a massive hole through her chest, most likely made by a sword. It appeared she stepped in front of the path of an attacker to save her son, but the sword pierced him also.
There they lay, together, lifeless and dead.
Darshun fell to his knees, ignoring the stench and cluster of flies. “What monsters could have done such a thing? What evil!” He hit the ground with his fist. “It looks like the work of Asgoth, for who else would cause such senseless destruction? Perhaps this place held the Air Crystal—yes! That is most assuredly it,” he said, ‘inhaling’ the magic into his soul. “I can feel the crystal’s presence, like an aroma left over from a fine tea. This was the place and there’s no doubt Tanarokai and Talvenya unleashed havoc. Just like the people of Mt. Mundoria and Zithel, destroyed, carrying no memories or no one to continue their lines. It’s as if they never existed.” He clenched his fists. “Never have I hated two individuals so much.”
To give these forgotten people last respects, he decided to bury them, starting with the woman and child, placing the bodies together in a shallow grave. The whole process took up the majority of the day and stunk awfully vile, but he felt he owed this to them for not accepting his calling sooner. He was the Guardian—their Guardian also. They would have a proper burial.
When all was done he ventured back to the river to wash, taking off his tunic and breeches, dunking and swaying them back and forth in the water, wringing them out then hung the clothes over a low stooping branch of an oak tree. He returned to the Azriel and swam around in the water bare bottom, enjoying the cool sensation against his body as the wetness took away dirt smeared onto his skin. He scrubbed his hair, dunking his head up and down. Feeling cleansed, he walked backed to shore, noticing a few squirrels standing on the same branch his clothes hung from, watching him, their beady eyes widened, probably never seen a naked Nasharin before. Darshun remembered the rodents belonging to Kelarin, wondering what’d happened to them, if they were still at Castle Volborg, secretly attending to the slaves. "Hi there little ones," he said stepping closer to them, a hand out.
They ran off, scurrying higher up the tree, jumping into another and then another, rustling the leaves.
Darshun sighed, feeling lonely. "I wish I could talk to animals like Uncle Seth and Kelarin. It would make this journey alone bearable." He felt his pants and realized it might take a while before they were completely dry. Hanging around bare bottomed didn’t fit well in his mind, least of all an attack come. He got an idea. He would transform and ignite just a minor heat wave, enough to help the drying process of his clothes. Though he hadn't attempted Transformation since his battle with Abaddon, and he still felt pretty battle-scarred and fatigued, especially after working all day burying bodies. Still, he decided to give it a try. He closed his eyes, focused his energy and the transforming began, his skin slowly becoming fire-opal, his hair and eyes fiery red, and the aura of red flames spawned around his presence. But an awful pain in his gut caused him to yelp aloud like an animal; the very spot Abaddon plunged his sword through burned immensely, and only seemed to hurt while in Transformation, as if his body recalled the memory. The pain would not cease either, in fact it grew worse when a stabbing torment began to devour his belly.
He had no choice but to descend, the pain fading away like the sunset that very moment, with dusk coming on. "Strange, my body just couldn't seem to keep the state. I'm not positive it’s just my fatigue either. I think whatever Abaddon wounded, he may have wounded permanently, damaging my bodily make-up. Great, just what I needed,” he scoffed.
Trying to think no more of it, at least for the time being, he held out his palm and unleashed a heat wave, causing it to surround his garments and continued heating them for about ten minutes. He may not have been in Transformation, but as he descended he kept a bit of power loosely within the pores of his body, so to speak, having the ability to release it in original form, a little trick he learned when training at Shajin Island. The technique was short and simple but came in handy for moments like this, as well as the time when he’d cut the metal bars of a window in castle Volborg, using his energized Milandrith-made sword, so Kaylis could escape. He remembered Kaylis while still not understanding how he did it without being in a transformed state.
The garments were dry and he slipped back into them, fished with his sword, jabbing the blade into a big meaty trout, de-boned it as his father had taught him, made a little fire and cooked his food. Darkness came and he nestled down beside the oak tree, vaguely watching the beautiful orange coals and smoke drift into the air; too tired to care whether or not any enemies were in the area. The day already exhausted him and he speedily fell into sleep.
The next morning, he feasted on five dozen mulberries, stuffing them into his mouth like they were going out of extinction, the natural sugars energizing his body. "Oh how a mug of coffee would hit the spot," he said, remembering all those mornings with Mirabel, and sometimes Uncle Seth, always carrying a few pouches of roasted beans, ready to grind and boil in a fresh kettle of water, the aroma most treasuring—this wouldn’t be happening this morning. He stretched his muscles and continued his way, following the Azriel.
The following days passed so swiftly; sometimes Darshun traveled a few hours during nightfall or would awaken at midnight and journey until the next dusk. During the night travels more than once did he catch glimpses of creatures of the darkness: owls,
foxes, raccoons; wolves and on a few occasions a mountain lion, jumping out of a large evergreen, or creeping its way through heavy brush, gazing at him with shining eyes. Often, he wondered if it was the same lion which sat beside Aurelius many miles back, but who knows?
Soon, he came upon Arundel Mountain, Merlin—the great tree of Azarius, and the Azriel River’s fork where he’d met Seth when all these troubles began. Standing in the exact spot, he thought back, remembering Seth coming out of the brush to greet him after a near-death escape from the Cullach and Dark Elves and the great fall off Merlin. This’d been where they made the boat; if only he had material handy to make another, time would move more quickly. But he did not.
So badly did he wish Uncle Seth was here now and somehow, his desire to see him increased tenfold. He ventured almost nonstop for the next few days, stopping to rest one final time before reaching the parameter of Loreladia the following dawn. There the city stood, shining in the early morning sun, along with the dew upon the trees. There would be only a few hundred feet to go before exiting the forest. “I never thought to see home again.” He sighed with relief.
Suddenly, a familiar eagle gave a cry.
“Why that sounds like—Asiel. Oh, can it be?!” He followed the cries, bursting through the brush hoping to come upon his uncle; then immediately froze in his tracks. Asiel was there, but sitting on top of a gravestone. And as Darshun came closer the inscription on it read…
“Here lies Seth Caelen~ Nasharin master and father to the animals of the forest.”
Darshun's hands trembled and he could scarcely breathe, falling to his knees. “No. It can’t be. It just can’t—Uncle Seth!” The silver eagle stepped off the gravestone flapping his wings, hovering close to Darshun. He extended his arm so Asiel could land onto it.
Then after the eagle did so, he rested his head upon Darshun's shoulder, giving such cries of sadness.
Darshun never heard an animal make such a woeful sound. “Oh Asiel, I know. I am sorry, I am so truly sorry,” he soothed, stroking his soft silver feathers. “He was my friend too. I loved him.” Again, he felt shameful believing it was his fault Seth died. All because of his failure at Zithel. And also because of her—Talvenya!
* * *
“Our options grow thin,” King Loreus exclaimed while pacing back and forth in his chambers. “My men have been cut in half and we don’t have the strength to defend the city if Asgoth attacks.”
“I do not think they will,” Mirabel answered, standing beside the window, his blue eyes following the King’s nervous movements. “Neither do I believe they know the location. Wouldn’t matter to them, by now they believe themselves to be victorious. Yet our hope stills lies in Darshun.”
Loreus stopped, sighing, and faced his Nasharin friend. “Mirabel, we combed all of Arundel Mountain and found nothing. Zithel has been decimated, King Adeleric is probably dead and his soldiers and monks are no more. Olchemy is missing and so are the Wizard Crystals. It’s doubtful that Darshun still lives too. It’s been over a month since we’ve last seen him.”
“No, he’s alive.”
“How can you be certain?”
Mirabel gazed out through the window upon the south side of the city, people busy with their daily affairs. “Because I can feel his spirit.”
“I will not judge your instincts but as of now—the Light hangs by a mere thread. The Zithelians were our final allies. Who else can we look to for aid, the Elves? Centaurs? I think not. According to your own words they disappeared long ago, carrying their prejudices with them. And without Darshun we have already lost.”
Sternly, he faced the King. “I will go to Asgoth to look for him.”
“Are you—mad?! Even if he is there…and alive, how will you pass through that land unnoticed? Evil lurks behind every corner.”
“What else would you suggest? Seth Caelen, my long past friend and brother, is dead. It is true we have no more allies, that the Light is scattered—has been for quite some time, and the Loreladian forces are diminished. You are correct. Yet the little hope we do have is my son. I know he’s alive and I will find him. We cannot sit and wait for death to find us.”
Loreus didn’t answer. For what could he say? He knew Mirabel wasn’t one to wait for death to come, even if the chances of victory were one in a million, Mirabel would go out like a lion, fighting until the very end. And what kind of fire lit the King’s heart? As of now he thought himself pathetic. His first battle ever, fought on Arundel Mountain at the Siege of Zithel, failed miserably. Not for a moment did Loreus think himself as a King like his father and forefathers. He appeared as a disgrace while over half the men of his kingdom felt the same for the klutzy fool; the word traveled fast. The crown should go to another.
Though Mirabel tried to discourage this kind of talk, believing something special stirred in him since the day little Loreus lifted the Golden Sword of legend long ago prior to leaving the first Loreladia. The sword now sat along his golden throne, yet never had he picked it up since that day. Nor would he rest in that throne. What great things has he done to deserve such a beautiful seat? A throne designed by Mirabel nonetheless, who insisted not to be too hard on himself, that one day he will be called for something great. Perhaps. But as of now, no such fancy talk was inspirational. “Very well. Let me go with you.”
“No,” Mirabel interjected. “It’s better I remain alone. You need to replenish your army and rebuild courage in your men. For so many are losing faith—” Mirabel glanced toward the door, sensing something—someone, and then there came a knock. He rushed over to open it immediately and scarcely could breathe when setting eyes upon the figure.
The morning sun pouring in from the chamber window illuminated his presence, for there between two guardsmen stood Darshun. His long honey brown hair may have been scraggly, his face bearded, but it was nonetheless him. Darshun entered the chambers and fell to his knees before them.
“My son!” Mirabel shouted, squatting down to wrap his arms around him.”
“Can it really be?” Loreus asked.
“Yes, it is I.” Darshun smiled a joy of relief. “Finally, I’m home.”
* * *
After a hot bath, a change of attire, and a meal of the finest chicken, breads and fruit gathered around the King’s table, Darshun told of his adventures starting from that horrid day at Zithel.
“So, you faced off against the Demon Lord and survived,” Mirabel stated. “Incredible!”
“Father, his power was the darkest and most terrifying I’ve ever seen,” Darshun answered sipping his vanilla spiced cup of coffee. “Only by a miracle—did I survive.”
“Yet, you survived.”
“Yes, though my strength is not what it used to be. These scars over my face cover nearly my entire body. My bones ache and at times it hurts to breathe. I’m alive but never did my body fully heal. Abaddon—shattered me.”
“Look how far you’ve traveled in so little time. Of course you’re going to be weak. Remember, as long as a Nasharin has will…never shall he lose strength. You best get rest while we wait for Caelestias, whom you say Aruelius promised would come.”
As long as a Nasharin has will he has strength? Darshun thought. I have will, but cannot tell father I may never be able to transform again, due to my inner wounds. True, he probably would not care, but that is what makes a Nasharin a Nasharin. I can see it now I am going to be an embarrassment to our race.
“I find it odd the Elves would lend aid,” Loreus commented. “Especially to a Nasharin.”
“As I’ve said, according to Kelarin the Elves of Ashhaven let go of their hatred toward us. And with all my heart do I believe her words. Kelarin—a creature who redefines beauty. Oh father, I wish you could have met her. You too, Loreus.”
“They may have forgiven you because that is where you were born, as you say,” Loreus commented. “But what about Mirabel? I’d be cautious Darshun, at least until we know for sure what’s going on.”
“What
other choice do we have? No other can show us the way to Syngothra, not the path I have to go.”
“Caelestias,” Mirabel added, “Meaning ‘Heavenly Bodies.’ His name runs deep among elvish history. He led his people into battle against the Samaeltho, first and most vicious legion of Dark Elves. The war was said to take place over a thousand years ago lasting for a century, the longest running war ever recorded. The Samaeltho wished to wipe the Elves of Light from the face of the earth, and take the east. A few gone-bad Nasharins and Wizards joined the Dark Elves as well, being paid high in riches. Caelestias crushed them all, even the Nasharins. They say he moves like the wind, shines like the stars, and sees like the eagle. For he is the founder of the Aryeh, the most elite fighting force of Elves possessing great strength and magic, some reaching levels as high or even beyond the greatest Wizards.”
“Why are such terrible heathens always wanting the east?” Loreus asked. “The Samaeltho, the Barbarians, the Cullach that drove us from the first Loreladia, now Abaddon’s minions and probably much much more. Seldom do we hear of war among anywhere else.”
“Indeed,” Mirabel agreed. “The east has been hit hard this Third Age. But I think that is because of the secrets the land holds, or once held, the Wizard Crystals of the Elements, drawing forces of Good and Evil. These times were meant for us my friend.”
Changing the subject, Darshun asked, “Say father, did Nayland survive?”
“Yes. He’s been wandering to and fro, in and out of the city for thirty days now. Restless, asking if you’ve come back yet. Somehow, he knew you would.”
“What about—Mythaen?”
He nodded. “But sadly, Captain Alaric was killed at the siege of Zithel, so Mythaen has taken over his position and is training recruits for the army as we speak.”
