Drachenara

by T. G. Neal

  As Vaelen came at Denevim, something within him not only lived, but it flourished. It blossomed. He wasn’t going to die. He wouldn’t allow it, and neither would the power inside him. Again, he came at Denevim, this time swinging horizontally at his waist. The attack was parried, but only barely, upward into the air. Vaelen then tapped into something he hadn’t ever had before. As he brought the blade overhead, he slammed it into the ground, fracturing the tip of the blade, but sending a shockwave out that flung Denevim backward.

  Denevim was knocked off his feet, and his blade was sent flying. Vaelen sprung from where he stood, launching himself through the air with the broken blade, a foot-length portion missing from the tip, and landed right in front of Denevim just as he was standing.

  Without even giving Denevim a chance to fight back, Vaelen hefted the big sword and sank the edge of the fractured blade deep into Denevim’s torso from the base of his neck to the middle of his sternum. The look of shock, not pain, crossed Denevim’s face.

  The defeated warrior, Denevim, reached for his breast and gasped, then looked at Vaelen and reached out for his face. All he could choke out was “Bastard” before he collapsed backward.

  Lady Annis stopped her onslaught of Aurelia and turned. The world whirred around her and she screeched out the word “Brother!” but it wasn’t her own voice, it was Miliria’s. Vaelen’s eyes opened wide at this new revelation and reacted just in time to dodge a well-placed fireball that launched him from his feet and sent him flying through the air.

  As he landed, he rolled, prepared to rise again. “Miliria, you’ve possessed this woman!” He yelled.

  Aurelia came back around, now, hearing his words. She understood what was happening, and she scrambled to help.

  Lady Annis screeched again, a painful roar that could almost shatter glass. “You will die Vaelen Wraithson! You will be punished! You will know my wrath!” She yelled again.

  Vaelen began to run right at her to attack but stopped as a hand came around the front of the witch’s body and drove an arrow directly into the heart of the woman. He realized the hand as Aurelia’s. He could see Miliria losing connection with her host, and the body collapsed at Aurelia’s feet. Vaelen ran to Aurelia and embraced her. “Are you okay?”

  “No. Yes. Yes, I’m okay.” Aurelia said, quivering. She wasn’t sure if it was the revelation of taking human life or recovering from the pain she had just endured. Either way, she was alive, and no doubt because of Vaelen. Little did she know, he felt the same way. Neither would have been there without the other.

  “We have to— “He was cut off as the front doors to the main hall burst open with more guards. He released Aurelia. “Quick. To your bow.”

  Vaelen found the other claymore dropped by the guard that Aurelia had killed and picked up the sword. He tightened his grip on the pommel. “This won’t be easy,” he said to Aurelia, looking over his shoulder as she approached.

  “It hasn’t been yet.” She said, pulling the drawstring with an arrow ready to fire.

  Vaelen couldn’t muster a smile, but he nodded. Just as she loosed an arrow, two more guards came from the rear. “You watch the door, I’ll get these!” He yelled, turning to face the two guards. He hefted the claymore and deflected an incoming blade and ducked to dodge the other. As he rose to full height, he kicked out the back of the knee of on guard and struck down the spine of the other.

  Aurelia’s first loosed arrow drove into the skull of the guard, passing effortlessly through the helmet intended to protect him. As his body fell, she rolled around Vaelen as he turned his attention to the rear and docked and loosed another arrow. This one found its home in the chest of the next guard, passing through the mail that covered his chest and entering his heart.

  Though Vaelen’s blade had found its home in the first guard, the second guard whose knee he kicked, spun to attack again. He clanged his blade against the guard and shoved him away. The harder he fought, the harder he clenched his jaw. Vaelen looked into the eyes of the guard and saw fear. He took his moment and reached with his weaker hand and grabbed the collar of the man’s armor, pulling him away to the left. Once he was off balance, Vaelen placed his hand back on the hilt and swung against the side of the guard, he didn’t stop pushing until he felt the distinct snap of his ribs.

  As Vaelen removed his blade, he turned to Aurelia, who loosed a third arrow that passed Vaelen and hit its target. Vaelen knew this because of the hiss-thud an arrow makes when it meets flesh from a good archer. He turned to see his target, Bren Hemund, standing stunned behind him with a dagger hefted in the air. The arrow that Aurelia fired had sunk in his shoulder. Vaelen considered killing the Bren, but Aurelia spoke before Vaelen could even formulate his thought fully. She placed a hand on the Bren’s chest and shoved him backward.

  She snarled as she spoke. “You believe that I am misguided by this man? You believe that I am misled? You believe that I could work together with any being to have killed my father and mother? I loved them. You are the misguided fool, Hemund. You are a disgrace for a human being. Allowing a dark-master pawn such as Lady Annis into your home is the reason you lost your wife and daughter, not the ‘ire’ – it was some false disease to cover the dark spinnings of those who surround you.” She looked to Vaelen, then back to Hemund. “Change your ways. Please. Trust your heart, not the words of the true murderer who sits in the seat in Drachenara.” She stopped and looked to Vaelen again. “Let’s go.”

  Vaelen looked down to the Bren, who sat on the floor clearly in pain, but on the verge of tears that stemmed not from his pain, but from his broken heart and questioning emotions. He almost felt pity for the man, but he didn’t have time for such emotions. He ran out of the Keep, into the market square, leaving behind Denevim’s corpse for whomever might clean it up.

  Outside the Keep, Vaelen and Aurelia sprinted past the guards who were planning to march on the building. As they passed, the guards shouted and moved to pursue. Vaelen and Aurelia never let up, running back for the horses they left behind naught an hour ago.

  As they ran, Vaelen pulled down a market stall to slow the guards, and even plowed through a group of citizens. No matter. Their escape had to happen. No plan now, except to live.

  Aurelia clambered up on her horse and forced him to gallop out the stables in a full sprint, the horse trampling several guards as she left. Not far behind her, Vaelen did the same, but pulled a lantern down inside the stable entrances, setting the hay inside ablaze. Horses and people scattered like a disturbed colony of ants, giving them ample distraction.

  As they approached the city gates, they just barely made it under as they closed. Now Vaelen and Aurelia bolted at full speed back up the road they had only just come down. “Just keep running!” Vaelen shouted. “It’s a risk we’ll have to take!”

  Miliria screamed out in anger and bare-handed flung coals from the fire. She reeled and screamed and almost roared with fury. She turned to look at a slave who faced her. Without a warning, Miliria drew back her hand and slapped the slave across the face hard enough to snap the young elven girl’s neck.

  As the corpse fell to the ground, Miliria stepped around it.

  Jorvig rushed into the room. “What is it?”

  “Move.” She said as she stepped around Jorvig, out of the room. “I am leaving for Greyever, now.”

  Jorvig tilted his head and followed suit, right on her heels. “Why?”

  “Because Vaelen killed Denevim.”

  Jorvig was floored. “I see.”

  Each one of Miliria’s bare footed steps left steam rising from the floor in her wake, sized appropriately like her foot. “Make preparations, Jorvig. Send word to Greyever. Prepare a suitable replacement and make sure we are ready.”

  Jorvig nodded. “It shall be done, Milady.”

  Miliria didn’t even bother changing her attire. She mounted a horse, whispered some ancient words into its ears, and rode off immediately.

  As Aurelia rode, following the path that
Vaelen laid out in fron

  t of her, she thought back on what happened behind her. Initially she felt guilty over taking human lives, and though she now felt apathetic about it, knowing it was the only way she and Vaelen could have survived, she still felt the pang of guilt in the back of her mind.

  The surroundings passed her in a blur as they raced down the cobbled path at full speed, pushing the horses as hard as they would go. Where will we go now? She thought. What could we possibly do? She hoped that Vaelen had a plan, but their movements were too fast, and now was not the time to talk, just to go.

  After an hour at the fastest pace they could afford, Vaelen slowed his horse, Aurelia following suit. He didn’t say anything yet, he led his horse off the cobbled path and into the squelching ground of the bog. An average human wouldn’t sink into the peat, but the horses heavy weight made it sound like they were walking on a sponge. There was no sound of hooves behind or in front of them. No sound of the trumpets of chase. No announcement of a hunting party. It was just the sounds of the bog and the horses breathing erratically.

  Once he came to a stop, Vaelen hopped off his horse. At some point during everything that happened he lost his pack and had been carrying the monstrous claymore in his lap, as he had no way to carry it on his back. The weight of his feet pushed water to the surface of the ground, but it made no sound. This area was close enough to the river, still, that the water was not stagnant, but its waters were black from the sediment, nonetheless.

  As the horse craned its head downward to drink from the water, Vaelen pressed his back against a nearby cedar tree and sighed heavily. After a moment, he looked up to Aurelia who had lead her horse to the water’s edge and climbed down as well. He knew this was the first time she had taken a life; he had been training her for such a scenario for months. “Are you well?” He asked, gesturing to her blank slate of emotion.

  Aurelia didn’t say anything. She walked toward him and held her arms in to her chest and buried herself in Vaelen.

  He embraced her. “It’s okay. It’s all going to be okay.”

  She remained silent for several moments before drawing away. When she moved back, tears had streaked down her face and moistened the cloth of his blood spattered shirt. “Will it, Vaelen? Will things be okay?”

  Vaelen looked down in to her eyes. She was strong. This was new for her, and a massive change was taking place in a short amount of time. “Things will never be like they were, Aurelia. Our families are dead.” He was blunt, but it was true. “They’ve gone on to be with the Maker, now. We can do nothing except try to make do.”

  She shook her head, looking away at the horses. The tears had stopped again. “Make do.” She looked at the ground, at the thick moss that grew in this soil. She looked into the marshes and the long grass, and at the roots of the cedar trees. “I have you. And for that, I am grateful.”

  Vaelen smiled. Such a change had occurred that wracked both of their worlds and tore them asunder. The only similarity to their life before was each other. Truly, each other was all they had. In the midst of the tangle they had lost everything. Now they were on the run from two Brendoms, one who knows they are alive and have made them scapegoats for a tragedy, and another who believes them to be criminals and now, likely, murderers. “As am I, Aurelia. More than you know.”

  By the time the dawn sun crested the horizon and began to show through the forests, Miliria was arriving at Greyever. Even as she passed through the city gate, she did not dismount the horse, she rode the stallion all the way through the city market and to the staircase leading up to Bren Hemund’s Keep. Her face was stoic, a misrepresentation of the fury that burned within her.

  In her younger days, she dabbled in all the elements, but favored the flame. Her innocence in the field left her feeling unsatisfied. Each time she would practice under the careful tutelage of Archmage Mivin Farrith, who had selected her for her connection to the Magus, the ethereal plane of magic where mages got their power.

  Her connection to the magus caused her to age slower than others, it allowed space and time to almost bend around her, submit to her demands. As she grew in power, her teacher began to inhibit her learning. Mivin would tell her “The Maker forbids us…” or “The Maker graces us this…” or “The Maker stops…” and the words would only anger her.

  Though she grew up under parents whose sole beliefs were in the Maker, she yet reached out for more. When she would meditate, she would allow herself to venture spiritually into the Magus. It was there she met The Destroyer, the one who was believed vanquished by those who believed in the Maker. There she began to talk with the one known by the name Ifris, as well as many other names.

  In the Magus, Ifris told her that The Maker was not there, that He did not look upon the races of this world with kind eyes and had turned his back on them long ago. He told Miliria that the time of the gods would come again, for they had been created by the Maker, but cared for this world much more. Ifris, The Destroyer, had never left the world and had been leaving his mark all along.

  In the coming years, Miliria began dabbling in the darker of magic abilities. She became infatuated with learning more and more of the destruction magicks. From elements to entropy, and gradually into flesh shaping, or blood magic, she all but mastered them all. Out of all the schools, Blood and Fire stayed the nearest to her heart, for they encompassed life and power, and could take both.

  At the end of her tutelage with Archmage Farrith, by the instruction of Ifris, she sacrificed her master for greater power and connection to Ifris. On that day she began to devise a plan to earn her right in the world, under Ifris, and through her magic on that day, began spinning a dark web of magical energy that snared many young up and coming mages through their dark dreams and emboldened their starvation for power.

  Lady Annis was one of those who had come along, and by her connection to Ifris as one of the many dark witches in the area, she was overtaken by Miliria’s superior power and became a puppet to the Dark Lady. She died that day alongside her brother. A little of Miliria died too, and now she knew what she had to do.

  As she threw open the front door, she was met by two guards. “I am Lady Miliria Drache, Brenness of Drachenara. I will see Bren Hemund now.”

  The guards looked to one another and started to speak, but she cut them off before she could continue.

  “My brother was sent here to stop two people who you failed to kill yesterday. I will see the Bren and I will see my brother’s body.” She growled in a vicious, horrifying voice.

  One of the two guards stepped ahead of her and opened the door and shouted, “Milord! Lady Miliria Drache of Drachenara is here to see you!” And stepped out, closing the door behind her as she passed.

  Miliria strode up to the face of Bren Hemund who sat in his chair in a slump. “Are you so incompetent that you are unable to stop two fugitives from my Brendom?”

  “Lady Miliria, how pleased— “

  “I already grow tired of your pleasantries, Hemund. I already grow tired of you. Where is my brother?”

  Hemund withdrew from her cold words. Hemund had been a brave man, but having lost all of his family, his fight was just not there. “He is draped in the guest chamber, awaiting your men to take his corpse.”

  “You will not refer to him as a corpse.”

  “Milady, he is dead.” The Bren said defensively.

  “We shall see.”

  Miliria then stepped past the Bren of Greyever, and headed back into the back of the Keep, where she could still feel the lingering spirit of her brother, tethered to his body. Without even the slightest discretion, she pushed open the door and stepped inside and slammed it behind her, locking the door tightly in place.

  “Brother,” she said, both sad and disgusted. Then she spoke ancient words around her, casting a dim green glow on the room, bringing to sight the spirit of her brother, whose ethereal form was still attached to his body. “I will save what I can.”

  Miliria took a long
, obsidian dagger from her waistband and held it in front of her. As she chanted, deep inscribed runes began to glow along the flat surface of the blade. With her free hand, she moved to feel her abdomen, and to seek the feeling of the life that was just beginning to grow within her. She inhaled sharply, and smiled darkly, “Such as it has to be, Master.” She then took the blade and drew far back and shoved the blade into her abdomen and twisted. She could feel the purging of life, the cost of power, and then withdrew the blade. The pain was barely anything to her, as her flesh was only a shell for the power inside.

  She now held the blade over her brother’s corpse, and shoved the blade deep into his heart, up to the pommel. Once there, she snapped the glasslike blade off into his body, and tended to her own wounds, healing them closed with magic.

  The whole atmosphere of the room changed. The low green light that once illuminated the spirit world within glowed bright, then changed red. The spirit floating above her brother fractured and dissipated, some went back into his corpse, the rest flung through the walls all around. The blood she spilled from her womb onto the floor lifted in droplets and was absorbed by Denevim’s corpse.

  As she watched her brother, she could hear the tendrils of flesh knitting his gaping wound back together beneath the cloth.

  Seconds, minutes, or hours later – it did not matter – Miliria and her brother came walking back into the main hall of Greyever. Bren Hemund’s eyes shot wide open in fear. “I don’t understand?! How?” He asked, almost screaming, begging for her attention.

  Miliria stopped and turned to look at her brother, who returned her gaze with gray, lifeless eyes. “Show him.”

  Denevim turned toward the Bren who began to stand and run. Before he could escape, the shirtless Denevim wrapped his cold fingers around the throat of the Bren and hefted him off the ground with a single arm. Then, without so much as a struggle, twisted his wrist and snapped the Bren’s neck.

  “Sacrifices must be made.” She said, standing over the Bren’s body. “Fetch me a servant, brother.