Izaryle's Prison

by Levi Samuel

  Gareth took a deep breath, exhaling through his nose. It seemed to calm him. Pulling himself upright he scooped another handful and anxiously swallowed, hoping it wouldn't react as it had before. He sucked the water down, glad it went smoothly. Slowly having his fill, Gareth hoped it would sate him until he could find some food.

  Staring into his twisted reflection, he couldn't see past the caked blood. It had grown crusty with the addition of dirt. Dipping his hands into the cold water, he quickly washed himself, careful not to reopen the gash over his eye. The water stung, but it felt good to clean the area. He felt as if it returned a small amount of his humanity. Probing the swollen skin around the wound, he was certain infection hadn’t yet set in. As best he could tell, the skin yellow, and it wasn't warm with fever. He hated to admit it, but he was already getting use to its loss. His perception was shot, but he was adjusting much better than he would have predicted. It seemed his other senses were compensating for its loss.

  Gareth grabbed the stolen satchel, pulling it to him by the dirty strap. Flipping it open he peered at the black book within, unsure if he should look upon it again. It was clearly not meant for him. Such power could take him down an even darker path than the one he was already on. Yet he was drawn to it. There was something inside that called to him. Unable to deny it any longer, Gareth pulled the shimmering binding free and opened to the center pages. They were blank as ever, refusing to display the smallest detail. “So we're going to do this shit again?” Reaching across himself, he squeezed the wound in his shoulder, forcing the broken skin to split just enough to seep. Securing a droplet on the tip of his finger, he wiped it on the page, watching it dissolve before he could remove his finger.

  The page sprang to life, displaying the markings he'd already skimmed. Their meaning was lost upon him, but he didn't mind. Deep down he didn't want to know what it said. Knowledge was power and power corrupts. He had enough corruption in his life. There was no sense in adding more. Content that the words were still available to him, that he hadn’t imagined them, Gareth closed the book and stuffed it into the leather bag. Pulling himself to his feet, he shook the water from his beard, letting the tiny streams run into his torn tunic. He threw the strap over his ruined shoulder and turned to find his way out.

  Echoing footsteps bounced off the walls, sounding an alarm to his safety. Spinning around, Gareth listened for them, trying to find their source. He wasn't sure how many boots there were, the echoes distorting their number. But they were clearly growing louder which meant they were getting closer. He focused on them, trying to extend his reach. Calm, collected drums rang in his ears. Several sets echoed in his mind. Why would they be sounding drums down here? He'd never heard war drums quite like them. Almost as if they were— heartbeats! The realization hit him. If what he was hearing was indeed their heartbeats, they had to be much closer then he'd realized. Using what little time he had, Gareth stepped against the cavern wall and held his breath. Focusing every ounce of will into the action he calmed himself, feeling his own heart slow to a near stop. If he could hear them it made sense they would be able to hear him. Waiting for his prey to show itself, Gareth clenched his fist, letting his hatred for the dreualfar fuel him.

  A lone sentry stepped into view. He was surprised by its appearance. It knelt beside the river and dipped a waterskin into the slow flowing current.

  Gareth paused, looking upon the faint blue aura surrounding the creature. It was hidden beneath the surface, but plainly present. He had no doubt, had he not been studying the beast, he wouldn't have seen it. It’s a trick. It had to be. Only Ravion had what he was seeing. The dreu were deceiving him. It'd be plain as day if they were not. “You black-skinned bastards can’t fool me that easily!” Gareth charged forward and locked his arms around the deceptive dreualfar. Refusing to give the others time for attack, he sank his teeth into the creature's neck, tearing at the exposed arteries. Dark red blood exploded in his mouth coating it in the sweet, coppery substance.

  The mul'daron screamed his pain, unable to escape the crazed dreuslayer. His cries were muffled by the thick, clenching hand over his face.

  Gareth ripped free the chunk of flesh and spit it into the water. Covering the creature's mouth, he grabbed the back of its head and twisted hard. The snaps echoed out leaving a blank, fearful expression staring back at him. Gareth slowly lowered the body, hoping he'd silenced him before the others heard the screams. His hopes were short lived, seeing several others step into sight and rush toward him. Setting his feet, Gareth threw his hands up, ready to fend off the approaching aggressors. “I don’t care how you’ve disguised yourselves, you can’t fool me. It’s death you seek and I’m happy to oblige.”

  Gareth clenched his fist, his knuckles popping in protest. Rage coursed through his body watching the deceptive creatures surround him. He felt alive, more alive than he’d felt in a long time. It was as if somehow his rage had manifested around him, protecting him. He didn't feel hunger, nor pain. In the blink of an eye the broken warrior was rejuvenated, ready to fight to the last breath.

  Bringing his fist around, Gareth punched the closest creature. He felt the blood spray long before he realized what happened. The creature collapsed at his feet, its head cut in half from the defensive blow.

  The other mul'daron slowed, unsure how to proceed against the dangerous dreuslayer. Watching him closely they inched forward, hoping to stay out of reach.

  Gareth's face contorted in surprise as much as his attacker's. How'd I do that? Noticing their concern, he realized he had a few moments to figure out what it was and, with luck, how to do it again. Glancing at his clenched fists, blood and brain fluid clung to the blade-like appendages protruding from them. He studied the transparent weapons for a brief moment. They were unlike anything he'd seen before. Even the few dreuki that used similar weapons didn't have anything quite like this. Running his thumb along the edge, he felt the keen blade threaten to slice his flesh. A wicked smile broke, exposing his blood-soaked teeth. “Who wants the other eye?” Gritting his teeth, Gareth stepped into the fray, swinging the unexpected weapons wildly.

  Fear and confusion radiated from the group. Using anything they could to deflect the invisible swords, they closed in on him in a desperate attempt to subdue the wild man.

  Gareth spun around, punching and slashing. He could feel the unseen blades cutting into his opponent as if they were a part of him. Every block, deflection, and hit felt as if they were against his arms, though it didn't hurt. It was more a feeling of pressure than pain. Trusting his new-found weapons would protect him, Gareth pushed onward, cutting them down. His rage poured into each strike, delivering one lethal blow after another.

  The bodies piled around him but there were many more to add. Gareth deflected a strike from one of the crude swords, opening up its wielder. Stepping into the creature's threat range he slashed in, cutting it in half. He felt great, but his hatred was quickly waning. Each death sated his blood lust, draining him a little more. He felt the blades weaken, their power nearly diminished.

  “No!” Gareth screamed, forcing himself to push harder in a vain attempt to refuel his rage. He saw one of the rust colored scimitars headed for him. Throwing his arm up to block the potentially deadly attack he felt it connect, slowing the blade slightly. His ethereal weapon shimmered and dissipated, leaving him defenseless. How was that possible? Where’d they go?

  The slowed scimitar bit into his shoulder, crippling him. Gareth dropped to his knees, unprepared for the painful strike. Panting heavily, he glared up at the swarming beasts, their pink colored flesh unable to fool him. “I may die this day. But I'm taking you bastards with me!” Gritting his, Gareth lunged forward, hoping to get his hands on as many of them as possible. Punching, biting, kicking, scratching— nothing was beneath him in his final moments. He watched helplessly as his unarmed fist smashing weakly into their armored forms. Out of breath and exhausted, he tumbled forward and fell to the cavern floor. He couldn’t move. Was he p
oisoned? Why was he so exhausted? It didn’t feel like the dreuki venom. This was worse. Unable to pick himself up, Gareth collapsed, feeling his heavy eyelid threaten to close. He tried to fight it, tried to stay awake, but it was no use. He had to sleep. Darkness overcame him. He felt as if we were floating. He was all alone, no one to comfort him. Nothing but shadow in the night. He was lost in an eternal void. Not even his thoughts would answer him.

  Staring at the unconscious warrior, the mul'daron inched forward, unsure if it was some kind of rouse. One of the creatures broke through the ranks. It took a long look at the bodies piled around the lone man. “Bind him. We've lost too many already. When he wakes, I don't want a repeat of what happened here.” The mul'daron turned, leaving the soldiers to obey his command.

  They carefully wrapped the ropes around the dreuslayer’s wrists pulling them together. Locking them behind his back, the secured him, assuring the mysterious weapons would not be used against them again. Every limb bound, they lifted the deadly dreuslayer and carried him off.

  A cool breeze passed through the trees rattling branches and leaves alike. The sun was fading fast, leaving more shadow than anything in the dwindling vibrant light. Two horses waited patiently, tied to the hitching post planted at the camp's edge. Upon a wooden bench made of split cedar, a young noble sat, picking his fingernails with his dagger. Another stoked the fire in the center of the rock ring.

  “Are you sure you want to go through with this?” The stockier man asked, poking at the embers. He wore a black cloak over his heavy iron breastplate. A shield rested across his back and a sheathed longsword hung from his hip, scratching at the dirt from the awkward angle. He wore no identifying colors, save for a small sash of blue and green concealed beneath the heavy cloak.

  “I wouldn't be here if I didn't. We need change. My father is too blinded by duty to see that.” Erik stuffed his dagger away, straightening his cloak. Like his armored companion, he wore all black, concealing his identity as best he could. Adjusting against the smoothed bench, Erik let out an annoyed sigh. Glancing at the fading sun, he wondered how much longer it would be. It disappeared behind the trees signaling the final minutes of daylight.

  “And change you shall have!” An unfamiliar voice echoed from the shadows, chilling them to the bone.

  Both Erik and Jem jumped, searching the shadows. Hands resting upon weapons, awaiting cause to draw, they couldn’t find to whom the words belonged.

  “Show yourself!” Erik demanded.

  A dark figure appeared in the flickering firelight not a foot from where the young price had been. The red and yellow glow danced across a pale white face, shaped like that of an orc, but lacking flesh. “There's no need to fret. If I intended to kill you, you'd already be dead.”

  Jem held fast, keeping his hand on his sword. If this figure tried anything he'd fight to the last breath. “My Lord, can you trust him?”

  Erik ignored the question. Releasing his swords, he took a step toward the masked man. “You're the one that sent me the message about the dagger?”

  “Indeed, I am. Have you brought what I requested?”

  The young prince reached under his cloak and pulled a small, leather bag dyed blue. The top was tied together by a pieced of green lace. Holding it up for the man to see, Erik continued. “I have. And do you have what I need?”

  Lythus studied the young man for a moment. He was confident for his age, though that trait wasn't uncommon in humans. They had a certain arrogance in their upbringing. More defined in those of status than the common man. The boy had trained all his life, and no doubt he was skilled with his blades, but he lacked a certain creativity. “I have what you seek. Though I warn you, your path requires great sacrifice. Are you sure you're ready for such burden?”

  Jem stepped forward to whisper into his commander's ear. “My Lord, I've heard rumors of this man. He can't be trusted.”

  Erik raised his hand, silencing the young knight. “What price can be too great for the protection of my lands?”

  “Very well.” Lythus reached under his cloak and retrieved a rolled scroll. The edge was sealed by black wax and bore a generic stamp in the center. Tossing the parchment to the young nobleman's feet he patiently awaited his payment.

  Erik tossed the sack to the masked man and bent to retrieve the scroll, keeping his eyes locked on the figure.

  Catching the bag, Lythus bounced it a few times, weighing the contents. Stuffing it under his cloak, he returned his attention to the two men. “Remember my warning. Even for a kingdom, some prices are too high. You've made that choice for yourself.” The fire flared up, throwing several sparks into the night sky.

  Erik and Jem searched the darkness for the figure, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  Returning his attention to the parchment, Erik broke the seal and unrolled the scroll. Gaze locked, his eyes danced upon the words written within.

  My dear young noble of Shadgull,

  The dagger occupying your obsession is forged of a power greater than your comprehension. To wield it would be to lose yourself. I understand your desire to obtain it, however I'm afraid it's currently beyond even my reach. Until it changes hands, and it will, it always does, it's a fool’s errand. But I'm a man of my word. You asked for a power to help you turn the tide and ensure the survival of your lands. I offer you just that.

  When your wall was created, during the first Dreu War, the base stones were enchanted with a power unlike any other. At the same time several runestones were buried throughout Dalmoura. Their system as a whole acted as a barrier against the very magics that created it. This is what has kept the wall intact all these years despite the numerous battles it's faced. Unfortunately for your people the wall has been fractured. The magic has faded and left you open for attack. The very magics that currently tear your lands apart are the same ones that once protected it. If you're to save your people you must restore the stones to their former glory. But I'm afraid it's something you cannot do at this point in time. Only the one true baron has the power to restore the ancient runestones and stabilize the network. If you achieve that status, take the crown to the site known as Heroes Gate. In the center of the archway you'll know what you have to do. Good luck in your endeavors.

  Lythus the Black

  “Son of a bitch!” Erik crumpled the message and tossed it into the fire.

  “What is it, My Lord? What'd it say?” Jem studied his commander's face, unsure what unnerved him so much.

  “It's next to useless. It said I can't get the dagger right now but offered a consolation that's still out of my reach. Only the 'one true baron' can restore the magics that protect us.”

  “I suppose that's better than nothing. Did it say what the baron has to do?”

  Erik plopped down on the bench. It creaked under the sudden weight. Running his fingers through his dirty-blonde hair, he buried his face in his hands. “The crown has to be taken to the center of Heroes Gate. It says I'll know what to do from there.”

  “Well, you're not at a total loss. Perhaps you can convince your father to ride to Heroes Gate. I'm sure he'd be more than receptive if you explain it to him.”

  “Have you met my father? He doesn't believe magic should be used in such a way. He thinks all battles can be won from the tip of a sword. I fear he won’t act until it's too late.”

  Jem approached and sat down next to his friend. “My Lord, if I may speak freely?” He stated more than asked. “Your father is a wise and noble man. I'm sure he has his reasons for believing the way he does. But I believe you underestimate his faith in you. If you give him a chance, I'm sure he'll come around, as I have.”

  Erik looked upon the man in charge of his protection. The two had grown up together, Jem being named his guardian when they were toddlers. Smiling, Erik released his worries. “All setbacks aside, I'm fortunate to have a friend as loyal as you.”

  Chapter V

  The Price of Trust

  Several basins hovered near the wall of the u
nderground chamber, dimly lighting the room. The red brick and mortar was free of dirt and moss. Unlike the other chambers of The Tower, this one was exceptionally well organized. Despite its small appearance, book shelves stretched on as far as the eye could see, leaving nothing out of place.

  Uirial crossed the threshold, watching the basins flare upon his approach. The arch-magus paused, feeling the darkness around him. Searching its source, he knelt beside the entryway and inspected the cornerstone. It was deep-red, nearly black in color. Running his fingers along the odd stone he stood, clearly disturbed by his findings. “Scigam enivid fo noitpurroc!” His words boomed through the seemingly small chamber, echoing in their ferocity.

  The shelves sprang to life, moving throughout the room. Coming to rest, a collection of tomes dismounted and landed in a stack on the central table. It was free of dust, a silver candelabra resting peacefully in the corner. The tiny flames burned bright, roughly halfway down the melted stick. Yet the strands of wax held fast refusing to drip beyond their current position.

  The arch-magus marched toward the table, waving his hand. The books flipped on end and floated out around him, displaying their ancient covers. He ran his hand over each one, skimming the contents without opening the pages. Deciding which was worthy of his attention, Uirial gestured.