by Levi Samuel
Inyalia found herself staring at the floor. It felt wrong to make direct eye contact, though she couldn’t explain why. “Sir, I don’t mean to question, but what makes me so special? Why am I the first you’ve spoken to in so long?”
His voice lowered, becoming more compassionate, like a father giving lesson to his offspring. “My dear child, each is unique in their own way. Some are destined for great deeds. Others will waste their life pursuing meaningless tasks. It is not us few who decide your worth. That’s assigned by you, and you alone. No one is born to fulfil prophecy of any kind. It’s the actions one takes. It’s your drive, your determination that pushes you. It’s that tenacity that saw you through your trials. And now that you’ve had a glimpse of what is to come, it is we who must warn you.”
“Warn me? Warn me about what?” Inyalia was lost in it all. If she was nothing special, why was she standing here surrounded by the ancestors of her people? Why was she in a place no other had been for a thousand cycles? Why did they care enough to warn her? It wasn’t like anything could affect them. They’d died thousands of cycles ago.
“Never before have our people faced such a trying time. Our legacy, not just the rangers, but elven kind as a whole, will soon be in its darkest hour. If it is to survive the coming age, it will be because you showed them the way. You find yourself at a crossroad. But at the end, it is you who must choose your path. No other can do it for you.” He straightened his posture, returning to his commanding tone. “Inyalia Highlor, will you accept the title of Ranger, devoting your life to the service of your people? Or will you turn from this path, forsaking yourself and your family in the troubles ahead?”
Inyalia knew her answer before he’d finished speaking. She’d spent too long making the decision to turn away from it now. But the way he’d asked made her feel uncomfortable. It felt almost like it was designed to illicit a specific response. A part of her wondered what would happen if she said no. Would life go back to what it had been? Or would this rising threat happen with or without her? It really didn’t matter. She had a role to play. She knew she’d be a part of it whether claiming the mantle or not. It wasn’t a title that made someone a ranger. It was their actions.
Inyalia smiled to herself. She finally understood. She never had to undergo the trials to become a ranger. She simply had to believe herself one.
“You’ve made your decision. Please, accept this gift. May it bring you protection in the coming days.” The Ranger-King gestured behind her.
Inyalia turned to find a suit of armor proudly displayed in the center of the isle. The leather was similar to what she currently wore, though even at a distance she could see it held the same crystalline fragments as her arrowheads. Approaching, she discovered the blackened plates were rather hundreds of tiny scales, opposed to a single, solid piece. It was nearly half the thickness, and the joints less cumbersome. By design alone, it would greatly aid her movement. Removing it from the stand, Inyalia was surprised by the weight. Her cloth shirt was nearly twice as heavy by itself. Piece by piece, she began replacing her ruined armor, locking the upgrade into place.
The elves began to disappear, returning from whence they’d came. Even the statues that had greeted her were now gone. The mist slowly evaporated, leaving her alone in the chamber. Just before it faded completely, she heard the Ranger-King’s voice one final time.
“Be well, Child of Jordnye. We’ll see each other again.”
Inyalia removed the shredded breastplate, only now discovering how close to death she’d truly come. She winced, pulling the blood-soaked barrier from her wounds. Several gouges lay in her midsection and along her legs. Were it not for the armor, she had no doubt the dragon’s teeth would have ripped her to pieces. Carefully, using the unsoiled tatters of her clothing, she wiped away the excess blood, cleaning her wounds as best she could. It wasn’t perfect, but it would see her through. Dawning her new breastplate, she adjusted the straps, feeling a comfort unlike any other.
The armor felt like a second skin, holding her tight without hindering movement. But it did something else she didn’t expect. The pain faded near instantly. She could still feel the wounds, and she was still sore. But it seemed to lessen drastically.
The large ornate doors opposite the throne creaked open. A breeze rushed through the crack, filling the room with freezing air.
Inyalia approached, seeing the ancient elven writing carved into the surface. She had no idea what it said, but she could feel the power emanating from it. Stepping through the opening, she found herself in the original hallway. In the distance, she could see Tylor huddled over one of the basins. A layer of snow had collected on his shoulders and head. Over a foot of accumulation had in her absence, blowing wildly at an angle. Having never seen it so copious, the only way she knew to describe it was a blizzard. But it wasn’t the excessive snow that demanded her attention. It was what was happening at Tylor’s back that had her truly concerned.
Clouds of rolling gray spanned the sky as far as the eye could see. Heavy winds seemed the swirl from all directions, carrying the heavy flakes of snow and ice. Among the precipitation, several large chunks of stone broke through the clouds, crushing everything in their path.
Charging toward the entrance, Inyalia could already feel the pressure against her. It was reminiscent of Alona’s wing gusts, but this was straight line. Forcing her way through the currents, she reached the opening. “Tylor, look out!”
Inyalia’s voice reached him, but he couldn’t understand her words. Slowly, he broke his gaze on the dying coals, turning to face her. The temperature had dropped radically, freezing everything around him in mere seconds. He couldn’t feel his fingers or toes. In truth, he couldn’t feel much of anything. It’d all happened so fast. He’d tried to take shelter when it arrived, but a single step away from the brazier threatened to freeze him solid. Instead, he huddled as close as he could get, absorbing as much heat as possible. It was the only way he could stay alive until Inyalia returned.
A loud crash shook the foundation of the mountain. It didn’t take much to glance its direction, but even that was slow. Were it not for the excessive cold, Tylor would have dropped to his knees. Caelum rested in the distance, her beautiful terrain in ruin. Buildings collapsed upon themselves. Trees uprooted and toppled over. Even the tower of arcanum, which had stood longer than most could remember, had fallen. Several pieces were scattered along the many tiers of the grand training ground. Inyalia’s voice reached him once again.
“Tylor—What are you waiting—Watch out!” Inyalia pointed helplessly at one of the many falling boulders. Realizing he wasn’t going to move, she ran toward him.
It crashed into the side of the mountain, throwing stone, mud, snow, and ice. Cracks spread through the floor and ceiling of the colonnade. Several of the ranger columns collapsed, their broken chunks joining the collection of rubble.
Inyalia knew they couldn’t stay here. In a few more seconds, there wouldn’t be a here anymore. She grabbed Tylor’s sleeve, urging him to follow. Hearing the crash, she saw another stone headed straight for them. “Damn it, Tylor. We have to go now!” Seeing little other option, she twisted, locking his arm over her shoulder. Pulling as hard as she could, they began to move.
The stone crashed with a ferocity unmatched by weapons of war. It overturned the protruding platform, destroying the statues and collapsing the ceiling. In the blink of an eye, nothing remained but a jagged edge where it had once rested.
Inyalia pulled herself from the debris. A heavy layer of dust filled the central corridor. Coughing, her senses returned to her. She remembered Tylor. Where was he now? “Tylor!” She searched all around, looking for any sign. He’d been right behind her. She’d pulled him inside. She knew that much. Her eyes fell on the collection of rubble blocking the entrance. It was sealed tight, piled from floor to ceiling. She had no idea how long it would take to dig through, if such a feat was even possible.
Hearing the stone shift, Inyalia caugh
t a glimpse of Tylor’s cloak beneath the collapsed stone. Rushing to the site, she dug vigorously, unburying the trapped ranger. “Come on, Tylor. Don’t die on me.” Removing another stone, she uncovered his face. He was breathing, albeit extremely shallow. But he was alive.
Stone by stone, Inyalia uncovered and pulled him away from the entrance. If it caved in, she didn’t want to risk him being crushed again. Or herself for that matter.
Propping his limp form against the wall, Inyalia dug the firewood from her pack. It wouldn’t last longer than a night, maybe two if she conserved it, but she had to get the temperature up a bit. Tylor was wounded and cold. He needed warmth.
Raking her dagger, bits of glowing flint landed in the kindling. It smoldered, releasing a dense stream of smoke. Blowing gently, Inyalia struck again, watching a tiny flame come to life. Feeding the flame, it slowly spread to the larger wood and a few moments after that, she had a small fire burning. But that presented another problem. The cave in had blocked all air flow and the smoke was already beginning to linger about the ceiling. She had to find a way to vent it. Otherwise, their two nights at most would end with asphyxiation.
Picking herself up, Inyalia approached the rubble. She carefully climbed to the top and began dislodging chunks of stone and rock. Within a few hours, she’d made a small hole to the outside world. The smoke began to drift out, clearing the air.
Inyalia climbed from the pile and returned to Tylor. She needed to make sure he didn’t suffer any serious damage.
Carefully, she removed his armor and tunic. He was bruised in many places, but she couldn’t find any broken bones in his arms or chest. Glancing at his legs, she felt her cheeks flush red. She wouldn’t be removing his pants if she could help it. Moving into position, Inyalia wrapped her hands around his cloth and leather covered legs, inspecting for damage. Starting at his left thigh, she slowly worked her way to his ankle. Everything seemed okay there. Repeating the process on his right leg, she paused, feeling a large bulge about his knee. It was swollen near twice over and was already developing fever. She couldn’t say if it was broken or not, but he certainly wouldn’t be walking any time soon, provided he woke.
Elevating his leg, allowing the blood to drain, Inyalia removed his boot and greaves. The leg of his breeches wasn’t so simple. It was too swollen. Her only option was to cut the cloth. Grabbing her dagger from beside the fire, she carefully split the seam and uncovered his knee.
Dark bruising showed from ankle to knee. Deep impressions remained from where the jagged stone had crushed, but it didn’t break the skin. He likely had his armor to thank for that. But overall, it didn’t appear any worse than severe swelling and bruising.
Inyalia wasn’t sure what to do. She couldn’t pack it with ice. Aside from the tiny vent hole, they were sealed off from the outside world. And with the swelling, she didn’t know if she should apply heat. He wasn’t bleeding, which was good. But with the swelling, how much more could the skin take? If it tore, how was she going to bandage it? And if she did nothing, would it cause more harm? It was times such as these when she desperately missed her mother. It didn’t matter how minor or severe any situation was, her mother always knew what to do.
Inyalia huddled over the dying embers of her fire. Tylor’s pack was nowhere to be found, and she’d already exhausted nearly all of her resources. If it could be burned without being missed, it had gone into the fire. A part of her wished she’d never made the vent hole. It was bringing in more cold air than the fire could keep out.
Her stomach growled. She’d allowed herself an eighth ration for the day, which she’d consumed that morning. She wanted more, but there was no telling how long they’d be trapped, and Tylor would need food when he awoke. As horrible as it felt, it was enough to survive provided she didn’t push herself too hard. And this way, between the two of them, her rations would last another five days. Thus far, finding a way out had proved pointless. It was now a matter of longevity.
Inyalia had spent the better part of the previous day walking the halls. She’d walked both directions for hours. Not a single room, turn, dead-end, or really anything other than a never-ending hall presented itself. Whatever power was hidden in this place seemed to have disappeared when the entrance collapsed.
Turning her attention to Tylor, Inyalia watched his chest rise and fall several times. His breathing was getting stronger. That was an improvement, but he’d developed a fever the night prior. Sweat clung to his forehead, and his leg had turned a darker shade of blue. Though some of the swelling had gone down.
Inyalia adjusted his cloak to cover him better. She’d donated her bedroll for his comfort. And a section of the food and water had been separated when she inventoried her rations. He was going to be hungry when he awoke. But he was also going to have to take it slow. They were nearly out of supplies, and she had no idea how they were going to get more. Things weren’t looking good. And soon, unless she could find something else to burn, they’d freeze to death.
Lost in worry, Inyalia hadn’t noticed Tylor’s head move. Slowly, he opened his eyes. Everything hurt. He couldn’t remember what’d happened, only that the sky had turned dark right before the loud crash. The temperature dropped faster than he’d ever seen. He remembered trying to run for the hall’s entrance, but that was it. His memory went blank beyond that. Why did he hurt so much? From where he lay, all he could see was the ceiling and part of a wall. Disoriented, Tylor tried to sit up. Rising slightly, he let out a grunt and fell back to the bedroll. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to see Inyalia sitting behind him. Panting, he rotated his head to see her. “Where are we?” His voice was hoarse and dry. It hurt to speak. It hurt to do much of anything.
“You’re awake!” Inyalia jumped, abandoning her cloak. Rushing toward him, her arms flew around his chest and she hugged tight. Hearing him wince from pain, she released. “Oh, right. I’m sorry.” She backed away and took a seat where he could easily see her. Grabbing her waterskin, she offered it. “You’ve been out for three days. The ceiling fell in on us. I dug you out, but your leg’s in pretty bad shape.”
A frail smile came to his lips. “Oh, is that all?” Tylor wiped the sweat on to his forearm, his muscles screaming in protest.
Inyalia matched his grim expression. “No.” Grabbing her pack, she pulled a portion of the rations out. “We’re almost out of food and water. And I can’t find any more wood to burn. At this rate, I’d say we have about three days before we freeze. And about five before we starve.” Inyalia’s gaze fell to the floor. She was glad he was awake, but to do so only to die seemed cruel. And it wasn’t like she could fight her way out of this one.
Forcing through the pain, Tylor pulled himself up and leaned closer to her. He gently placed his fingers against the underside of her chin, lifting her head to meet his gaze. “Hey, chin up. We’ll get through this. We’re in the halls, right?” He didn’t have to ask. Now that his vision had cleared a bit he knew exactly where they were.
“Yeah.” Inyalia answered, doing her best to believe him.
“We’ll be all right. The halls will provide for us.”
“I’ve already tried. I walked for hours, both directions. I never found so much as a room.”
Unable to hold himself any longer, Tylor fell back. Wiggling, he sat up, despite his insides telling him not to. “Do you remember me telling you what happened the last time I was here?”
“Yeah.” Inyalia felt some comfort, but she was a long way from feeling comfortable.
“Well, what I didn’t tell you is, I knew I would be back here one day. The visions told me I would be trapped. I would be hungry. And just when I felt like I couldn’t go on, the halls would open and see me through.”
“But—” Inyalia paused, contemplating his words. “—you’ll never feel that way. By being told something like that, it virtually ensures that you’ll have hope until the end.”
Tylor shook his head in refusal. “No. You’re overthinking it. Break it into p
arts. We’re trapped. We’re hungry. And I can’t move my leg. Seems to me like I can’t go on.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“Oh, really?” Tylor smiled, though it took all of his will to do so. All he really wanted to do was pass out again. But Inyalia needed the encouragement. That was the only way they were both going to make it out of this alive. “Then what is that?” Raising his arm, he weakly pointed to the wall behind her.
Inyalia twisted, seeing what appeared to be a doorway. “But—that—that wasn’t there a moment ago!” She declared in desperation.
“I told you, the halls would provide.”
Chapter XII
The Lost Stronghold
The rusty hinges creaked as the door swung open. A wash of musty air escaped around her, though Inyalia found it oddly comfortable. It wasn’t stale, but it certainly had a strong scent of dirt. Moreover, it wasn’t cold. At least not compared to the temperatures in the hallway.
Stepping inside, Inyalia looked around the large room. It was twice as long as it was wide, but plenty spacious for their purposes. A long table ran the length of the room. Behind it, a stone fireplace protruded from the wall. Iron pokers sat on one side and a wood rack rested upon the other. It was a little over half full of chopped and split logs that looked as petrified as the stone tabletop. The right side of the room held several beds, each separated by a shelf sitting against the wall. There didn’t appear to be anything upon the shelves other than dust and a few worthless trinkets.
Inyalia walked between the beds and table, searching for anything of use. The general layout reminded her of the guardhouse just outside Camruun City. Her father had taken her there once when they made a trip to the city. This was vaguely reminiscent of the common room, though it was considerably small. Maybe half a dozen soldiers could have been housed here, whereas the one she’d seen was meant for upwards of two hundred elves.
