by Levi Samuel
A beautiful woman stepped forward and took position at the head of the large group. She moved with such grace and elegance, her form never betrayed her. Standing midway between the formation and the lone combatant, she surveyed him from head to toe.
The dreuslayer watched the woman make her way toward him. Perhaps he'd be able to learn something about these people and their society. She was beautiful by all standards, her platinum hair pulled into a tail and hanging low down the back of her black, leather armor. She carried a polished, silver rapier on her side, and had a bow strung across her back. Ravion studied her for a brief moment, knowing she was doing likewise.
“We know who you are, Ravion. My name is Senaria. We’re refugees. Our kind has been broken. Us few no longer sharing the beliefs of our ancestors. As outcasts, we seek a place to call home.” Her voice was strong and unwavering. She spoke as a warrior, but had a soft harmony underlying the musical tone.
He studied her face. There it was again. That familiar trait he'd thought he saw earlier. Looking beyond her appearance, Ravion searched her energy. There it is. The light blue aura, like the one surrounding Kane, only this was brighter, unblemished. But these— creatures— they weren’t like Kane. These were pure, not like the memories from his childhood. That was able to be seen without looking. These were a different kind of pure. Like something that once was, had returned to its former grace. They had to be dalari, didn't they? His mind raced with the possibility. If they were, that meant he was finally in position to rebuild their legacy. “Please don't take offense to this, but what are you?”
Senaria smiled briefly, considering his question. “We’ve chosen to call ourselves Mul’daron. The first of our kind.” The answer, while accurate, wasn't what he meant. And she knew it.
“You said you're outcast from your people. What were you before?” Ravion didn't need to ask. The pieces clicked into place. But he needed her to confirm it.
Senaria shifted uneasily, unsure if she could trust the seemingly young human. Sighing heavily, she adjusted her stance. Trust had to start somewhere. And who better to trust than one that could possibly understand. Steeling herself, she spoke. “You knew us as dreualfar.” Senaria froze, ready to defend herself if he attacked blindly. Seeing his reserve, she continued. “The corruption was pulled from us a few weeks ago. We fought to escape the catacombs, taking arms against those that weren't changed. We knew we couldn't remain among them, not that we'd want to. The taint was broken, and while we have the memories of the pain we've caused, we're no longer the enemy you've spent so many years battling.”
Ravion heard her words. They were like a heavenly voice narrating a dream. He recited the ancient stories his father used to tell him. Both stories aligned into one truth. That meant he'd found what he was looking for. These mul'daron were the first of a new generation of dalari. Ravion sheathed his sword and looked upon her in a new light. A commanding and assured presence built inside him. “You have nothing to fear from me. If you’ll accept, I’ll guide you to a safe location where you can begin your lives without fear of persecution. It won’t be a pleasant existence, but it’ll be safe until you can find better accommodations for yourself.”
Senaria considered his offer. He had the potential to aid them, his status alone was verification. But it was a huge risk. If she was mistaken in his intention, he could easily betray them. Was trusting him, a previous enemy of her kind, worth the possible extinction of her family? Glancing at several hundred homeless figures behind her, each one looking for guidance, she weighed the options. I hope I'm right about him! Turning back to Ravion, she stared him in the eye, offering silent warning. “Your assistance would be greatly appreciated.”
A single arrow spun through the air, aimed for its target. The hardened-steel head struck with such ferocity it tore through the man's armor, sinking deep into his chest. Losing his footing he slammed into the reinforced wooden wall. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Over a dozen dreualfar roared from the shadows of the hidden cavern. They rapidly engulfed the unsuspecting guardsmen. Their green and black tabards sprayed red in the slaughter, leaving them to bleed out on the dirt covered road. The small band rushed through the unprotected gateway and into the incognizant city.
Lythus stepped through the opening, shoving his sword into the back of one of the defeated guards. The man went limp, crying out in his death throes. Hearing the horns echo in the distance, announcing their attack, Lythus sheathed his blade. “This way!”
Unaware of where they were going, the dreualfar followed. Never before had they dared enter the heart of the forbidden city. Such a thing was believed to be a death sentence. Yet this man, this masked figure, showed no fear of the dreuslayers or their tactics which had led to the deaths of so many. A number of guards charged toward them ready to reclaim the security of their beloved land.
The two groups crashed against one another, each holding their own. The dreualfar were out manned and out skilled, but they fought with a resolve that tested the commitment of their enemies. Uncaring if they fell in battle, they tore into the guards, claiming nearly three to one.
The masked rogue stood behind the dreualfar, watching the battle play out. They were little more than a tool at his disposal. Several were going to die here. There was no question of that. He didn’t need them all anyway. But at least a few had to survive. Hearing the clank of chains in the distance, Lythus glanced to the west. The massive Dreuslayer Keep, perched at the mountain base was spewing soldiers through the heavy portcullis. That meant word had reached The Order. He was nearly out of time. If the army made it here, all of this planning would be for nothing. Returning his attention to the battle in front of him, Lythus quickly counted the fodder. Less than half remained. This had gone on too long. “Enough!” His voice carried over the battle, silencing both sides. All eyes on his, he drew his sword and stepped to the forefront.
The remaining dreualfar stepped back allowing their commander access.
The guards stood ready, unsure what was going to happen. Their eyes locked on the shadowed and pale orc skull covering the man's face. They permeated fear. It was one thing to battle the vile black-skins when they were being commanded by one of their own. Quite another when they didn't know who was commanding them. It made the entire situation unpredictable. Raising their weapons they readied to face the disguised man, hoping they could hold long enough for the border wardens to arrive.
Lythus smiled beneath his mask. These were the men chosen to keep the city safe? They're frightened little puppies, awaiting their master's protection. Silently drawing on the powers within himself, he flipped his sword around and raised it to the sky. A bright flash of blue and white erupted from the heavens. It jumped to the blade and split off shooting into the opposing men. He watched the static charge rip through their bodies, scorching them each time it exited. They collapsed on the well-kept road, unable to delay him any longer. “Come!” Refusing to wait a moment longer, Lythus he led the way along the eastern road, ignoring the cowering citizens and frightened merchants.
The roads turned from dirt to stone, both sides lined in staggered wooden posts. Every other one had a glass shield mounted to the top, an amber glow beaming from beneath. The lanterns didn't offer much in the daylight, but at night they lit the streets quite nicely. Street signs intersected occasionally, marking the way for visitors and traders. Each one displayed a carved trident, serving as a silent promise of protection inside the city. A promise that was currently being tested.
The dreualfar launched themselves at the few patrolling guards that approached. They were little more than a minor inconvenience in the grand scheme of things. The ring of battle died down leaving all the market guards dead or dying.
Lythus looked around at the defeated men. He had no doubt there would be more very soon, but he wasn’t overly concerned. So long as he reached his destination before the army reached him there was nothing to fear. He glanced at the exhausted dreualfar. There was
a sadistic pleasure in their eyes. As if they treasured their current trespass more than anything. It made sense. An assault against a group that specialized in the killing of their people had to be liberating. He just had to be careful. If he gave them too much reign they were likely to waste time on the townsfolk. That would do nothing but waste his time. And his time was too precious.
They rounded the market square and stepped into a fair-sized courtyard. The cobblestone street intersected another, leaving a large landing at the center where the road curved around. In the middle, several stones were stacked to form a large fountain with a perched dais at the center. Water sprouted from the top tier, splashing onto the stone ring, and trickling down to the lower levels. The reflective liquid left an emerald mist in the fading sunlight.
The dark cloaked figure approached the fountain and jumped onto the ledge. The crystal-clear water soaked into the back of his pant legs. Staring down at the gathered dreualfar, Lythus ensured he had enough to complete his task. Confident in their number he returned his attention to the fountain. “Circle around and get ready.”
The dreualfar moved into position unsure what was going to happen.
Lythus reached beneath his cloak and drew a dagger. Kneeling into the water, he traced the edge of one of the stones and pried up. The transparent liquid filled the compartment almost instantly. Stashing the blade away, he peered into the hole, spotting the hidden lever at the bottom. Grabbing the metal handle, Lythus gave a light tug, feeling it click into place. The fountain rumbled to life shifting the base stones in a counter clockwise direction. The mid layer spun opposite, while the top tier stopped spouting water and dropped into the base.
The dreualfar watched nervously. The water drained from the pool revealing a series of tracks and gears hidden among the stone. One by one the molded granite slabs slid into place, revealing a spiraling stairway leading down.
“What are you waiting for? Let’s go.” Lythus jumped from his perch and rushed down the stair before the final stones had settled. Reaching the bottom, he stopped at a heavy, wooden door with several rings embedded in the face. Glancing back to make sure all the dreualfar were present, he returned his attention to the door and reached out, spinning the outer ring.
An echo of moving stone radiated in the narrow chamber. The dreualfar jumped, watching the stairway shift into a solid wall. No sooner than the passage closed fully the grinding resumed and the walls slowly moved toward them, threatening to crush anything in the room.
Lythus wrinkled his nose, smelling their fear in the enclosing space. Cowards! He quickly shifted the remaining rings, arranging them into the image of a large, jagged trident. The walls retracted and settled into place. A resounding click echoed on the other side of the door and it swung open to reveal a long tunnel. He marched into the dark path. The mounted basins ignited with each step, illuminating his way.
They passed several doorways and connecting tunnels. Lythus ignored them completely. There was no telling where they led, or how far they went. Some connected to the catacombs, some held other secrets. But discovering which was little more than a shell game in the underground labyrinth. Only his current path mattered.
Lythus made his way to the far end of the tunnel, approaching the final door. Quickly unscrambling the puzzle as he had upon their entry, it sprang open revealing a large room. The wall to his right was lined in barred cells. Many of them occupied by a number of dreualfar, orcs, and other creatures too dangerous to hold in the surface prisons. Even the occasional human rested comfortably in the underground jail. The center of the room was dished, forming a large ring. Training dummies made of wooden posts with simulated swords and shields were grouped around the edge. The left wall held an independent room with its own stairway leading up, and the far side of the room was sectioned off, sealed by a large, reinforced door and an odd-looking disc positioned over where the latch should have been.
“Free your kin if you must. When you’re done meet me in the ring.” Refusing to wait for them, Lythus marched across the room and approached the disc mounted to the sealed door. It had a faint aura surrounding it and five finger-sized holes embedded in the surface. Removing his glove, Lythus extended his peach colored fingers and pressed them into the holes. He felt the cold mineral ebb from his touch. The stone-like material started to glow a bright green. Twisting his wrist, the disc rotated and clicked into place. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. The exterior walls were lined with tables and shelves. Racks were fixed to the walls, displaying a variety of weapons. Upon the shelves a number of items rested peacefully. They were sectioned by type. One layer was stacked with runed chests, nearly locked against one another. One shelf was filled with books. Their multicolored bindings coated in dust from disuse. Numerous artifacts rested where they'd been laid gods knew how long ago. There was even a wooden divider organizing thousands of sealed scrolls and what appeared to be rare spell components.
Lythus made his way around the room, running his bare fingers over the placards, wiping away enough dust to read what they said. He found it amusing how many of the items were labeled 'Unknown'. He sighed. “Such is the way of pompous do-gooders, always claiming treasures they know nothing about.” Rounding the isle, Lythus stopped, finding the treasure he'd been seeking. Reaching down, he held his hand over the finely crafted blade. He could feel the power within, yearning to be released. The dagger itself was made of a rare ore embedded with crystalline fragments. Very few knew of its existence. Even fewer had ever seen it. Recalling the mineral’s history, he carefully grabbed the handle, ensuring the blade didn’t contact his flesh. Looking over the room a final time, he made for the door.
Twice as many dreualfar stood in the center arena awaiting the fearful figure.
Lythus approached, glancing over at the empty cells. Not only had they freed all the dreualfar, they'd murdered the other prisoners, leaving them to bleed out on in the caged cells. It was no loss. This prison was for the special few that had no chance of rehabilitation, yet were too valuable to execute. They would never have seen this place otherwise. Lythus casually approached the group, unable to contain the smile beneath his mask. Stepping to their center, he reached into the pouch hidden beneath his cloak and retrieved the fist-sized emerald, once the crown jewel of Shadgull. He extended the gem, holding the crystalline dagger over the top. Several sparks of energy jumped from one to the other draining the color from the emerald. His fists shook, struggling to contain the power transfer. It took every ounce of strength to keep them in place, like trying to push two opposing pieces of magnetite together. Feeling the last bits of power transfer to the blade, he tossed the empty gem to the slate floor. It shatter into several fractured pieces of clear quartz and scattered across the pit. The enchanted blade glowed a deep purple, pulsing in the basin lit chamber.
The dreualfar stared in wonder and impatience. The power of the blade demanded their attention, but the lingering presence of their mortal enemies left them uneasy.
“Now for the final ingredient.” Lythus smiled beneath the mask. Striking like a bolt of lightning, he sprang forward, slaughtering the assembled mass with the pulsating blade. Each death made it grow brighter. He watched the final dreualfar hit the ground, barely able to look upon the beaming weapon. The blackened skin of the bodies faded to a light pink, draining them of their identity. The weapon burned so brightly. He could feel it trying to penetrate his armor.
Holding the dagger away from him, Lythus pulled the straps of his bracer and exposed the tan colored skin beneath. Taking a deep breath, he chanted the spell. “Yawa nrub eht hsaw llahs luos sih, etas ot liaf I dluohs. Mrof siht ot em dnib nrub sti yam. Edalb yloh siht eubmi I ssenkrad htiw.”
Without hesitation, Lythus pressed the tip against his flesh, hearing the sizzle burn deep into him. Screaming his torment, he fell to his knees, careful to keep the weapon in place. The corrupted magics wrapped around him, crawling beneath his skin. It felt as if his soul was being scorched, burnt beyond rec
ognition. He strained against the pain feeling the magics take hold. Arm quivering, he struggled to finish. Breathing heavy, Lythus angled the tip and drug it through his charred meat to inscribe the rune.
Chapter III
The Bigger They Are
A thin layer of flaky rust covered the pitted, iron bars. Krenin's thick, green hands were locked around them watching the spectacle upon the other side. The large human straddled the defeated alfar. Reaching down he grabbed the agile creature's matted, brown hair. Lifting his head, the human drug his sword across the alfar's throat, cutting him to the spine. The dead creature dropped, his face slamming into the damp sand. Roars filled the air at the scene. They couldn't get enough blood to sate their appetite.
The half-orc released the bars, inspecting the red dust clinging to his skin. Wiping them together, Krenin turned and secured his twin axes. The keen weapons were polished to a shine. Sunlight gleamed on their edges. He'd grown fond of the weapons, forged from the great sword his brothers had given him. Krenin shook the memories from mind. They wouldn't serve him here. Staring at the light weight axes, he could nearly feel their desire for blood. The same desire the crowd craved.
Returning his attention to the arena, the thick chains clanked along the huge sprocket, raising the portcullis. He watched the human approach, his beady eyes locked on him. The man's bronze skin was shiny, partially from sweat, but it was more than that. He looked as if he'd been oiled from head to toe. His face bore no emotion, simply a lingering glare that burned into the half-orc's soul.
Krenin couldn't help but feel like the man wanted to lunge at him. It was a silent challenge. But they were both too smart to start anything outside of the sands. Krenin’s eyes followed the man until he was out of sight. Returning his attention to the golden, blood soaked sands and, Krenin marched up the ramp. The roar of orc cheers funneled into his ears. Guttural laughter and joy washed over him, a sense of bliss burning its way into his gut. He reached the center of the large stadium and threw his axes into the air, greeting his audience.
