by JW Baccaro
He turned toward her with a sharp gaze. “Be silent she-elf!”
Darshun had heard enough; he stood up to Nayland’s face. “Enough of this,” he spoke sternly. “We are allies in this war together, and together we shall win. Please, do not fall back into hatred my brother.”
Nayland’s eyes flashed. “You are not my brother! I shall forever hate you Darshun. Both you and Mirabel sicken my spirit and I strive to settle my vengeance once this war is over. As for the sorcerer Valnar, I will crush him myself.”
He turned to walk away and Caelestias for the first time chose to act. "No, the Eye will see you," he warned, grabbing a hold of his arm to pull him back.
In a moment of rage, Nayland cast him off. “Never lay hands on me again!” he shouted and transformed. The energy was—incredible! Shaking the very ground. Never before did he display such power, and all could feel it. Wind blew chaotically, trees swayed, broke apart and fell over, even most of the Aryeh could not stay on their feet. It felt like being caught in a storm. As the black flames, or ‘Shadow Fire,’ elevated Nayland's presence he yelled, “Valnar will pay for what he did to my father. I will split him in two. His life is already over. It ended five years ago when he took my village—killed my father. I don't need any of your help. The vile is mine.” He clenched a fist and sections of landscape split apart. “VALNAR WILL KNOW THE WRATH OF A NASHARIN!” In a flash he disappeared; the storm settled. The fanatic Nasharin—gone.
“Is everyone all right?” Darshun asked.
They were, though a little startled, especially Minevara, who did have tears in her eyes. Perhaps due to the wind? Whatever the case, she spoke no words, and fell to her knees trembling.
“It is okay sister,” Darshun soothed, squatting down giving her a tight hug.
“What’s wrong with him?” she asked, looking into Darshun’s eyes.
“One thing is for sure. Apparently, this Valnar was the sole creature responsible for his father’s death. That explains his anger toward the name. As far as being angry toward us, well I—do not really know. Back in Loreladia, Nayland let go of his past, so I thought. He’s showed no tension with us at all until now. Doesn’t make any sense."
"What I would like to know is why you allowed yourself to be trodden, Lord Caelestias,” the Aryeh Strizar asked. "I could have stopped him."
"No, there was no reason to do harm to Nayland. He’s committed no wrong."
"But he tossed you to the ground, spiting on your honor."
"He is proud of his race, that is all, and I respect that. If you listen closely, hidden behind the arrogance there is truth in his words, and in his actions."
"Perhaps," Darshun mused, "but something oddly peculiar is going on. Father, what do you think?”
Mirabel, who’d been silent this whole time, looked to Darshun, his eyes displaying sorrow. “Back at Loreladia Nayland’s anger indeed seemed diminished…United with us he stood. He told me himself after the fall of Zithel; he gained respect for me after our battle. But ever since the Witch’s cave something has crept into his thoughts—as it has mine…”
“What are you saying?”
“While we were unconscious terrible memories of my past became my dreams. I saw my dead wife and child, my village burnt down, even the bodies of my parents still decaying from the Great Plague of Death. These dreams felt so vivid and real that once I awoke, it seemed as if it all happened yesterday. They are fresh in my mind now, and the pain is hard to let go of.”
Minevara went beside him and caressed down the side of his face and then along his back with a gentle touch. She understood the pain of losing loved ones. Therefore, the motherly instinct within her took over.
Mirabel smiled weakly, but enjoyed the comfort, understanding what she attempted to do.
“I should have known…” Caelestias sighed.
“What is that?” Mirabel asked.
“Nayland wasn’t furious because he was defeated by the Witch, but because his memories have once again resurfaced. The vines that bound us the Witch already placed them under a powerful dark spell long ago. They inflicted the memories you speak, once you’d fallen unconscious of course. Just as the birch trees upon the Witch’s cave have lived for a hundred years, witnessing many things, having many memories, so does everyone else whom their accursed roots touch. They bring any sorrow from one’s past into the present mind of the soul they kill. Another face to add to the walls of her cave. They too suffered a similar fate.”
“What will happen to Nayland?” Darshun asked.
“Whatever he chooses. I only pray that the Eye does not detect him.”
“It will not,” Mirabel noted. “He will remain invisible until we come.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Trust me. While he and I have our differences, I understand his ways. Besides my son, Nayland is the most unique Nasharin I have ever known. Just look at this place now, the ground torn up, the trees scattered about. He wasn’t even focusing his power—rage brought it about and the level far exceeded the amount of energy he put forth when I battled him nearly two months ago.
"The day we left Ashhaven, he and I got into a little dispute," Minevara spoke up. "He warned me not to anger him because his power unleashes best when he loses control. 'Absolute rage' he called it. And according to him, no one has seen it yet."
"Yes, I believe he speaks the truth. There is power buried within his spirit."
“You mean lying dormant?” Darshun asked.
"I would not say that, rather, buried and can only ever surface if he were to lie in desperation. Kaylis also, as we have spoken, has an incredible ability, though his I believe is dormant. Such strange siblings indeed, the Winveil boys. Their father Magnus was strong, awfully strong, but never like this.”
"What are you saying father?"
"There is much to this ‘mystery Nasharin’ yet to be witnessed that is all. Be glad he’s on our side.”
"I am not so sure about that," Minevara commented.
"The warrior stands righteous," Caelestias defended.
"In all due respect Lord Caelestias, he threatened to kill Windtros after Valnar is slain, if that is true then I’m afraid I am going to strike him down first, or die trying. No one is going to lay a finger on my brother."
"Darshun shall be fine. Those words Nayland Winveil spoke were empty threats, like a disobedient child screaming he hates his parents out of frustration. The Nasharin suffers greatly from past tragedy, and has a violent heart indeed, but is no murderer. He’s already bound himself to your brother, to protect him until end. Do not be fooled, daughter of Ariel."
"Time will tell." Minevara looked unconvinced.
"Time…Yes, speaking of which, move on we must."
The night fell and they set off again. After a great deal of walking they stopped for a short rest, munched on a few nuts and oats, renewed their strength and then continued. Soon, they were only an hour’s walk from the tower. Then within the dark sky, they saw something from afar through a haze of fog.
Visible by moonlight and no doubt—the sorcerer’s Eye, just as Athanasius described it. Somehow, engraved in stone by Valnar, having the shape of a wheel with spokes and shining blue eyes in its ‘rims.’ The wheel turned along with its gaze, piercing the night sky along with the landscapes of Asgoth and the very forest they dwelled in. A ‘Throne’ it’d been called, a type of Angelic host except this Throne was one of the Fallen.
Darshun gasped from taking a glimpse of it, praying it would not take notice of them.
“Now is where we must be extra careful,” Caelestias warned. “Follow my every movement.”
They sliced through the forest like ghosts, passing around specific trees, zigzagging in and out, here and there to and fro, making no sound at all. They avoided all contact from the Throne.
Caelestias did have the way down to perfection.
The forest ended. The tower of Valnar just a few hundred feet before them—separated only by a stone bridge
set above a river, the drop at least a good thousand feet.
The tower looked lit up by the night sky and huge, standing about seven hundred feet consisting of seven great circular layers of stone—each layer having a walkway patrolled by Cullach and other strange Cullach-like creatures, seven to eight feet tall, having yellow-brown skin, red coarse hair and black savage eyes. Some carried large spiked maces while others swords. All looked incredibly strong.
“What are they?” Darshun asked.
“Bugbears,” Mirabel explained. “Relatives of the Cullach race, yet much fiercer.”
Then a creature came out from the tower’s entrance and walked back and forth on the bridge, guarding the passage. A creature Mirabel called an Ettin, a two-headed monster with five times the strength of Bugbears. It stood about twelve feet high, with brownish-green skin, long fangs on each mouth and facial features resembling Cullach. It carried a long wooden club in one hand and a spear in the other.
“Caelestias, how do we get into the tower?” Darshun asked.”
Before an answer came, a familiar voice spoke, "There is a secret passage, an old drainage hole coming from the second level."
They glanced over to their sides and saw Nayland sliding out of the undergrowth. “The hole is small but large enough to crawl through.”
“Nayland, you have returned!” Darshun blurted out.
"Shhh!" Minevara hushed him, placing a hand over her brother's 'loudmouth.' "Windtros Abdias!" she scolded in a whisper.
From embarrassment, Darshun wanted to sink at her feet. After all, he did speak quite loud, forgetting their location, becoming overexcited to see Nayland again. "Sorry. Just thrilled Nayland came back."
"I am not here for greetings Darshun," Nayland retorted. "I only come because I need your help getting to this sorcerer. This place is loaded with too many foes for even myself to defend against if I am seen. Though, if I could stand face to face with Valnar—”
“How do you know there is a hole with which we can pass through?”
"While you have been wasting time, I have been combing the castle surroundings, inside as well. Unfortunately, none of you can become invisible, so I will need a rope. I will venture back inside the tower, to the top of the hole. If you four can get across the bridge, I will cast the rope down to you. The hole is to the far east of the tower, quite a distance from the bridge, so you will have to catch the rope and swing over before you can climb up.”
Darshun stared over at Caelestias, as if he might have a better strategy.
"That is far superior to any plan I can give," the elvish lord commented. "It may prove safer than storming the tower. Here, take this." He reached into a backpack and retrieved grappling rope then handed it to Nayland.
"But once we enter the halls of the tower what are we to do?" Darshun asked. "Because we can’t aimlessly roam dressed like this."
Nayland went back into the brush and returned shortly with armor and helmets, some dripping with black blood; he tossed the materials before them. “Put these on, the former owners will not be needing them.”
"Ugh, these smell revolting," Minevara complained.
"Apologies I could not find garments to your liking, princess. But being this is a job of assassination the best will do anything—no matter how vain or uncomfortable, if only to get the task done. Or shall you wait here in the wilderness?"
"All right all right!" she scoffed. "I was merely speaking my thoughts. I will put the wretched things on. It’s worth it just to hear you shut up."
“Hey,” Darshun interjected, as if getting another idea, “Since we will be dressed as Cullach, perhaps we could simply by-pass the Ettin and enter through the front? That way we won’t need to crawl through a hole.”
“No, this place is locked under secrecy,” Nayland debated. “Whenever a Cullach attempts to cross it first stops before the Ettin, removes its helmet and speaks a word in the demonic tongue. The Ettin then steps aside and allows the Cullach to pass. Apparently, only specific ranking foes are allowed entrance."
“Surely you can find out this secret word, being invisible in all.”
“Fool! Once you were to remove your helmet the Ettin would see that you are not a Cullach. Have you no sense?”
“Oh, right. Sorry.” Darshun felt ridiculous from his stupidity reminding himself just how immature and inexperienced he still was, even if his power is great.
“So, you will have to enter through the hole. Now stop wasting time and put on the armor.”
They did as he instructed.
“I expect you there in ten minutes. Do not be late.” Nayland disappeared.
“My, my, he is quite the pushy one,” Minevara snarled.
“Wait a minute,” Darshun spoke again, “That Ettin is determined to let none across, and we are to move quickly, so how are we getting to the other side of the bridge?”
“Climbing under it of course,” Mirabel explained. “Now let us go.”
Caelestias left Strizar in charge and commanded the Aryeh to remain in their positions until a signal would be given, the signal being the destruction of the Eye; then they were to fire upon the Bugbears. Until that time there seemed no reason to fear the Throne’s gaze, it never looked below the tower. This job belonged to the Ettin and Bugbears.
The four traveled through the darkness and crept under the bridge while the Ettin’s back was turned. The stone under the bridge seemed rugged making it fairly easy—easy for them—to climb across. They moved at good pace, sometimes glancing down at the dark river, which seemed to be miles away. At times, they could hear the Ettin walking above them, never knowing they were there. Upon reaching the other side, they now waited for the rope.
In no more or less than ten minutes, it flung down and Caelestias grabbed a hold.
He passed it to Minevara. “Go on,” Caelestias whispered.
Gripping it tightly, she kicked off the bottom of the bridge, swung out and over landing about twenty feet under the hole were Nayland invisibly dwelt. At first she remained still, glancing around to make sure she’d not been seen, then climbed up and tossed it back to the others.
One by one, they swung over and climbed to the hole. It led upward and the space seemed dark, tight, wet and uncomfortable, but they managed to squeeze through until coming to a dead end.
Then Nayland removed a large stone allowing light to pierce through. “It is clear,” he called. “Come on.”
They crawled out of the passage and onto a floor, finding themselves in a hallway.
Nayland put the stone back over the hole, covering the floor
Searching for a way to the top, they roamed the bare lonely hall, having nothing except lanterns hanging from the ceiling every so often.
Sometimes, a few Cullach or Bugbears would pass by, take a quick glance, then continue on their way.
At first, they debated whether to follow these heathens and see where they went. They decided it might prove to be unwise if they become suspicious and a fight broke out, ruining the element of surprise.
Finally, the hall came to an end, stopping at a large chrome door.
Mirabel gripped the handle and slowly pulled it open, revealing a circular room with a deep blue light ascending off the steel floor. The source? Unknown.
Cautiously they entered. Among the room were three additional doors, one at the northern side, one at the south, another at the west. Darshun and Nayland entered north, Mirabel and Caelestias the south, and Minevara the west.
Past the northern door sat a large cage consisting of multiple human skeletons and the stench of death. Prisoners more than likely, abandoned to die.
No reason dwelling there. Darshun left and entered to where his father was, nearly gasping for a breath at what he saw. Before them was another cage—enormous in size and within it—a red Dragon! “Is it—dead?” he asked.
Before they could answer, the Dragon opened its eyes.
All except Caelestias stepped back.
“You three look not
like Cullach,” he said with a sharp tone.
“We are not,” Caelestias answered.
The Dragon stared into his eyes for a moment, then Darshun’s and Mirabel's. “Ah, it sees an Elf, a Wizard-Man, and another Wizard-Man.”
“Who are you?”
“…One who long forgets its name. It has been enclosed within this cell for thirty days, but seems an eternity passes." He released what appeared to be a sigh, but came out as a growl rumbling on for a good half minute.
“How be it this cell can hold a dragon of your size?” Caelestias asked.
Hesitant at first, it then answered, “The sorcerer, you see, is mighty. Not even its flames can burst through these magical bars. Unknowingly, it passes over this secret place, returning to master, when the Throne detected it and wretched Valnar shot it down. Horrid spell, such horrid indeed, yes.”
“Why does Valnar hold a Dragon captive?”
“Foolish reasons. It is eldest of its kind on earth. Wretched Valnar believes it is knowledgeable of many treasured secrets yet untold. His lust for power and riches run great. But time cheats it. Because of a curse it sleeps for two thousand years, only to be reawakened by a new master. It needs to return to him, return now. The bars though, they hold it in bondage, horrid magic, such horrid spells.”
“This dragon speaks kind of funny,” Darshun whispered into Mirabel’s ear. “I am having difficulty understanding him. He talks as though everything exists in the present. And why does he keep referring to himself as an ‘it?’ ”
“To answer your first question,” Mirabel whispered back, “To speak in present is the language of the Dragons. Second, this creature is owned. Dragons having a master always prefer calling themselves ‘it,’ believing to be regarded as nothing more than a puppet—even though the master will not think of them to such a degrade. It is the Dragons doing, part of their make-up, to obey and die for the one they serve—which leaves me curious…”
The Dragon looked hard upon them, knowing a conversation passing. “You two exchanging words of it?”
“Who is your master?” Mirabel asked.
