by JW Baccaro
“I have had enough of you!” he shouted and charged forward.
Rolling her eyes, she side-stepped while firmly grabbing his arm and applying great pressure…Screaming aloud, she brought him to his knees.
The Dark Elf knew then it was over, for as much as he tried, he couldn’t move. It wasn’t the fact she held him in place, rather his body. He felt weak, numb—his arm began to freeze, spreading to his chest, then over to his other arm, his torso, legs and lastly his head. He’d become a mound of ice.
She did this with her touch, obviously possessing some type of ice power. Using her finger, she tipped the frozen corpse over and it shattered to pieces. “Who’s next?” she asked—almost sadistically.
In that instant, an Elf she didn’t notice hiding among a tree shot another Sythra arrow at her. The tip struck next to her feet, exploded violently and launched her a good twenty feet away, some of the rubble landing on her. Disoriented, she could barely stand.
The villain aimed one more, this time at her chest. “Goodnight…pretty,” he whispered and released the bowstring. Unexpectedly, a sudden wind came out of nowhere blowing the arrow off course, driving it into a comrade’s gut. The results were devastating—for the comrade as pieces of him fell everywhere. Then something like a flying star of black fire struck the branch of the tree the Dark Elf stood on. The branch exploded and he dropped to the ground, hitting his head hard.
“What’s going on?” one shouted, then was hacked across the chest from what seemed to be a ghost wielding an axe. His comrade standing beside him met a similar fate as his head suddenly split open, a mass of dark red blood gushing out.
The remaining Dark Elf—he who’d shot the Sythra—now frightened for his life, desperately ran.
However, the Nasharin woman, having risen to her feet furiously enraged took off a whip tied around her waist, gave it a crack and it lit up with flame. Then she cracked it against the ground on which he ran and a stream of fire followed.
Sensing the heat, the Dark Elf turned around and saw the flames rushing forward. He jumped out from its path, the inferno whizzing by singeing his skin. Once more, he turned to run but stopped suddenly.
There she stood, right before him with eyes of fury. She hurled the whip forward, curling it around his upper body down to the lower torso.
The pressure crushing when he fell to his knees.
“That’s right heathen,” she scoffed, “bow before your slayer as she sends you into the abyss.”
The whip lit up with a raging fire and burned the heathen away, down to a pile of ashes.
Smiling, though yet to be satisfied. Now for this apparent stranger. She turned around and looked past the trees, scanning every inch of the woodland, branches swaying in a breeze. All seemed quiet. “Show yourself!” she shouted. “I know you’re out there.” Then, sensing a presence from behind, she turned around clashing her sword against a man’s axe.
Swift-like, she jumped away. “Who are you?”
“Who are you?” he responded.
“I am not in the mood for games stranger. Answer me or I will cut you in half.”
“I saved your life and this is how you thank me?”
At first she felt confused, but then recalled the Sythra and how a mysterious wind disrupted its path, blowing it into the enemy instead of her. That must've been him. “Ha, I could’ve withstood that explosion,” she defended while descending to her normal state.
“I beg to differ.” The stranger still watched her in awe.
“Oh, really? The depths of my power besiege you.”
“I know what you are, except that was no common fire—”
“It was Demonic, spawned from an element called Sythra. Yes, I am aware of that. Yet, if you were able to cast wind then that makes you more than Human does it not? Unless you’re a sorcerer, which for your sake? I hope not.”
"I am not a sorcerer.”
“Well, whatever and whoever you are, I never asked for your help.”
Looking at her long and hard he finally said, “What an arrogant, feisty little she-elf you are.”
“…Feisty little she-elf?” Eyes burning, nostrils flaring, she attacked. For his comment was clearly spoken as a mockery, as if she were some ‘little’ pest and weakling carrying an attitude. She swung hard causing sparks to fly after every clash of her sword against his axe.
“What are you doing?!” he shouted, blocking another thrust. “Stop this insanity. Are you mad?”
“I’ll stop when I have you down on your knees, begging for mercy,” she said, exchanging another fierce blow. Truth be told—she didn’t trust him. He definitely was no Elf, and could not be a Nasharin, highly doubtful a Wizard. So, that only left sorcerer. Coming at him furiously, she backed him up against a tree and nearly stabbed his heart out had he not maneuvered in the last second.
He indeed appeared to be fast. Then, using his foot, he swept her feet out from under her.
She fell onto her bottom but did a fancy roll backwards and immediately stood back up—now annoyed and debating Transformation, wishing she’d remained in the state after realizing she underestimated this man.
Before another thought could pass through her mind, the stranger hit hard with another clash, loosening her grip on her sword then twirled it out of her hands, quickly setting his axe to her throat.
She froze.
“Take it easy! I don’t want to fight you! I’m on your side.”
Staring at him, watching his dark shadow-like eyes ‘studying’ her, she smiled and slowly ran a finger down the axe head, feeling the smooth steel. “Well,” she smirked, “that is something that cannot be helped now.”
Raising an eyebrow in perplexity, the stranger suddenly seemed to sense the power she’d summoned earlier when battling the Dark Elves. She must be calling it out again, her Nasharin power. As if realizing what might happen he stepped away from her but the Transformation came, the energy blowing him away, landing in a cluster of bushes.
“Is this easy enough for you?” She took up the whip and thrust it at him, catching his leg, fiercely drawing him back onto the open ground.
He rolled like a sack of potatoes, disoriented and he tried to stand.
She again, hurled her whip forward, this time twirling it around his body, binding him still. “I know you saw what I did to that Dark Elf,” she said, her crystal white eyes going ecstatic and icy, fiery streaky hair blowing wild. “Tell me who you are or I will burn you down to ashes.”
“So, you want to know who I am—what I am?” he spoke. His dark eyes flashed and power dramatically increased, shaking the very ground, black flames covering his presence. He tore out of her hold, breaking the whip into pieces.
Startled, yet not really afraid, she stepped back to retrieve her sword, still lying on the ground.
“Please do not despair. I mean you no harm.” The fire around him vanished and once again, he appeared normal.
"Despair? I am far from despair. Interested maybe, but if you think you have me frightened you're sadly mistaken."
“There's no reason for us to keep fighting."
"I only wanted to know your name. But instead of answering me, you sunk to mockery."
He laughed then.
The sound of his chuckling angered her more with every passing moment.
"I didn’t know you would let loose an attack like that."
"I don't trust you." She squinted her eyes at him. "Still don't."
"My name is Nayland Winveil, and like you, I am a Nasharin."
“So it appears, but why is it I cannot sense your energy?”
“My element is Shadow Fire."
A stunned expression took over her face, like she understood what he meant by Shadow Fire. "I see." She descended to her original state.
Nayland studied her for the first time without any distractions. He found her very striking. She stood about 5’5” with bay blue eyes and long golden hair. She wore a teal cotton long-sleeved shirt, a sea blue skirt�
�creases rippling in the wind, and calf-high white boots with chunky three inch heels, one of them splattered with blood from crushing a Dark Elf's throat. And strangely enough, her scent smelled like cloves.
“Finished undressing me with your eyes?" she balked.
Nayland grinned.
"Where did you come from?"
“Ashhaven.”
“But—that’s my home. What were you doing there?”
“I was called to aid one on a quest, one I think you may know. Originally, he was born in Ashhaven, long ago. His name is Darshun Luthais.”
“I know no Darshun.”
“You may better know him as Windtros, Windtros Abdias. There can be no doubt you are his sister.”
She stepped back, looking like she did feel a great deal of shock. “Windtros, my long forgotten brother has returned?”
"Need I say it again?"
She whistled for her horse.
The golden mare came trotting out of the brush, still munching on a few blades of grass.
"Honey," she cooed, patting her down for wounds. "Not a scratch. That's my girl. Those heathens had nothing on us did they?" She climbed atop.
“Wait, I did not catch your name.”
Looking back at him she answered, "I never gave it!" She bolted off like lightning, heading for Ashhaven.
“Heh, silly creature,” Nayland voiced an amused response.
* * *
Darshun sat around the fireplace on the first level in Loinnrich Crann, having small talk with his father and Caelestias over tea when suddenly Minevara came storming in.
“Windtros! Windtros!” she shouted, wrapping her arms around him tightly.
“Um—hello?” he said, eyes widened and startled half to death. “Wait a minute, what did you call me?”
She backed up and gazed into his eyes.
“Can it be?” he asked.
"Yes, it is I, Minevara—your sister!" She pounced on him again, this time hugging tighter, cutting off a bit of circulation.
“At long last, you two are reunited,” Caelestias noted.
“I rejoice for this day. Don't you Darshun? Rejoice with me. Rejoice! Rejoice!"
He laughed. "Well, of course I do—"
"I’m sure you have hundreds of questions lined up and prepared for me just as I have for you, right?"
Darshun just stared at her, nervously licking his lips, trying to keep with the flow, for everything moved so fast.
"Well then, let me be the first to start. Like who named you Darshun?”
“Ah, that would be the same Nasharin seated beside me, also responsible for raising and training me.”
“I am Mirabel Luthais,” he said and shook her hand.
She raised an eye brow, staring at him like he might be some kind of an experiment, studying his features. “Mirabel Luthais—the Mirabel? Mirabel the Great?”
“That is what some have called me,” he answered with a chuckle. "But I prefer to refrain from such gloat."
"Gloat? Why, every Elf in Ashhaven knows your legend and values you with great honor because of it. Lord Caelestias has told us all about the long war you fought. The Aryeh witnessed it from the shadows."
"So, I've heard."
"You saved the east from enemy invaders, just like our Nasharin founder Marsainn in his time."
Only not those most important to me, Mirabel thought, his mind filled with images of his wife and son.
"How be it my little brother gets delivered into the hands of the greatest Nasharin since Marsainn? You are 'Great' Mr. Luthais."
"Just call me Mirabel."
She smiled.
No matter how much veneration was bestowed upon Mirabel or written in historic scrolls, praising his ‘wondrous’ deeds, only he knew the full truth about that war. He never felt courageous, never brave as the writings have called him. Rather, he’d gone mad—insanely illogically mad, his heart filled with darkness and rage. He did whatever he had to do to destroy the enemies. Sometimes, those deeds were not so much righteous or great either, involving heavy collateral damage, never batting an eye to it, for the enemies had to pay for what they did to his family. None of that was ever written down, because no one survived to write about it except one, Seth Caelen, and he never spoke a word unless Mirabel himself would bring it up from a restless night of sleep. Many times, did Seth try and tell Mirabel to abandon those actions, to leave them where they’d taken place, on the battlefield, buried forever. But now Seth Caelen was dead and every time a new person would approach him for praise, like Caelestias, who did not even take part in the war but merely watched from the ‘sidelines’ as if it were a play. Then now Minevara, this subject always brought his heart back down a little, re-opening the wounds. They didn't know however, and Mirabel understood this, casting blame on no one except himself.
"Bless you for looking out for Windtros," Minevara cheered, dragging Mirabel out of his train of thought. "I’d almost given up hope he was still alive.”
“It has been an honor and a blessing to father him. Yet, I am sorry for the loss of your own parents.”
“I know—and thank you.”
“Where have you been all this time?” Caelestias asked.
“I was wandering close to Eldeno—so close I could spit on Satyrus. And what do you know? I spot him communing with a group of Dark Elves. Fortunately, they saw me and attacked.”
“ Fortunately? ” Darshun asked, wondering why on earth she seemed so pleased.
Grinning, she answered, “Because I got to slay them. A dozen less heathens in the world.”
He laughed. “Fiery aren’t we?”
“Mmhmm, perfect choice of words brother.”
“Minevara, you should not be wandering that close to Eldeno,” Caelestias scolded.
“I know I know, but I felt a filth in the air and had to see for myself.”
“On another notion, Dark Elves shouldn’t be this close to our lands.”
“Should you be surprised? Satyrus can’t be trusted, that’s no secret.”
“If he’s communicating with Dark Elves, at a time like this—when the Guardian is amongst us, and the world facing extinction, there can be no question he’s planning something.”
“The Guardian? You mean the Guardian of the Prophecy?
“Darshun has a lot to inform you. While he’s doing that, I must speak to my father.” Immediately, he rose up and exited the room.
Minevara stared at Darshun, seeming to be baffled about Caelestias’ words regarding the Prophecy as if it were taking place. “What is he talking about Windtros?”
For the next twenty minutes Darshun explained everything to her about the Prophecy—himself being the fulfillment, the Second Great War and what they needed to do.
By the end, it seemed as though Minevara’s eyes were permanently stretched opened, and her jaw dropped. “So—those times are really upon us—and my brother is the Guardian?”
“Shall I explain it any further?”
She squealed ever so loudly, shaking her hands. “Wow! What are the chances? Oh, yes! I just knew there was something different about you since the day you were born, those eyes of yours gave that away, the mystery in them. Well, you now have another member along for the quest. I am coming with you tomorrow.”
“Please Minevara, stay here with our people,” Darshun urged. “We need not burden anyone else into these matters.”
“Burden? Oh, far from that. I long for the excitement; and—I am the older sister, so you cannot tell me what to do my brother,” she ended her lecture with a smile, crossing her arms.
“I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Forgetting I am Nasharin also?” She rolled her eyes at him. “Our father Ariel trained me well. And our mother Meyanna taught me a great deal of magic. I am an expert in the Nasharin arts and a mistress of Elvish Fire. I can take care of myself.”
“Then what is your Element?”
“Ice, I am of Water Wizard’s Magic. I have also intertwined t
hat power with my elvish fire, therefore living up to my name ‘Minevara,’ which in elvish means fire and ice. ”
“All right, we best end this subject,” Darshun prompted. “You’re getting me excited. It’s been a while since I’ve engaged in battle.”
“Well, most assuredly you will get the chance alongside me, because I am coming.”
Darshun laughed. “I don’t see how I can stop you.”
Abruptly, Nayland entered the room, disrupting the conversation; his eyes immediately shifting to Minevara.
“Nayland, you’ve returned?” Darshun asked, thinking he wouldn’t be seeing him until the following dawn.
“Just making sure your sister arrived in one piece,” he said, keeping his gaze on her. “Nice to see you again she-elf.”
“And you too Nasharin,” Minevara scoffed.
“I see you two have met,” Darshun commented.
“Unfortunately,” she muttered.
“I saved her from a Sythra explosion.”
“You most certainly did not! Aided yes, but saved? I don’t think so, boy. That Dark Elf had nothing on me.”
“Nayland, being how you are here why not stay in Ashhaven for the evening?” Mirabel asked. “With Dark Elves on the prowl, there’s no telling what else might be lurking tonight.”
“Very well. This way I can keep an eye on others, not minding their surroundings.”
Minevara clenched her fists, knowing he was speaking of her. If he weren’t a friend of Windtros,’ I’d kill him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
AN ENCHANTED NIGHT
As nightfall came, they dined once again with Athanasius, Caelestias, Kelarin and one whom Darshun and the others met for the first time that night, Caelestias’ cousin Strizar, the second in command of the Aryeh, a fellow with silver-gray hair draping just past his chin. He wore an eye patch and sported a scar along the left side of his face resembling the remnants of a knife wound.
Darshun felt a little unnerving when catching a glimpse of nothing under the eye patch except bare skin when Strizar lifted it to scratch. Whether he had inflicted these scars in battle, or was perhaps born that way was a mystery. Just as mysterious as to why Kelarin hadn’t healed him yet—if they were in fact old battle wounds. Still, Darshun decided to leave well enough alone, even if his gaze would cease shifting back from time to time.
