The stallion whinnied and snarled. He scratched his hooves along the ground as Lotesse panicked and pulled at him, trying to force him to turn back and go for help. There was a yelp behind her and as she turned she caught the sight of crimson against the beige dress. Livinia’s eyes widened as the hooded beings stalked away from the trees, throwing the servant’s body on the ground.
They surrounded the horse as it rose in the air and kicked at the seven of them. Lotesse felt her hands slipping. She tumbled off the horse and fell into the arms of one of them. Hooves pounded the ground as the stallion shot off.
Lotesse wrestled, trying to punch him, but he pinned her arms behind her back and stood up behind her, pressing her face into the grass.
“Stop fighting,” he hissed.
Lotesse felt her energy flare, green Flames soaking the air around her in thick sheets of heat, scalding her captor’s fingers. The hands released her as she pushed herself up and faced the rest of them. She only knew a few combat skills and was outnumbered. She either did something drastic or let them take her.
She was about to move into action when another appeared from behind the trees, his white lightning eyes flaring. A thin current snaked through the ground, creating a fracture as the ground sizzled into ash. Lotesse felt the energy cover her, throwing it into shock. She fell on her back, her body convulsing, her mouth foaming. She only noticed one thing before she passed out. The trees were rotting from the inside out, leaves crumbling to ash.
It was the smell that was the worst in the dank dungeon. The walls were covered with angry soot from the times of burning, and ashen bone spattered the walls. Lotesse laid there, her cheek pressed firmly against the waste pool of blood and slime collecting in the dungeon. The smell woke her from her comatose state. She looked around, and fear crept into her heart.
She sat abruptly, the mixture of slime and blood staining her mint green dress. She put a hand to her face, feeling something sticky against her cheek. She frantically wiped it off spreading the gunk onto her hand. She wiped the ooze down her dress, her thoughts a jumbled mess.
Manke n’amin? She questioned, terrified. She went to lean on her wrist, but cried out. It was broken. Holding it with her right arm, she sat back into the ooze. Ksher, she thought as she pulled herself forward to stand up.
Her whole body ached, but she was desperate to escape and go home. Amin irm eska.... She trailed off while thinking about her home in Nazole. She recalled the ravine and the black-skinned creatures and shuddered. She forced herself to her feet and glanced around, desperate to find a way out. There was nothing.
The catacombs outside the chamber were dead silent and she became very afraid. She looked down at her hands, and relaxing her pulsating heart she rubbed them together attempting to create a small bit of energy between them. She spread her hands to reveal a green flame between them. The sight of the Flame warmed her.
Amin ist-nuquen ksher. She repeated the incantation in her head a few times while watching the Flame prepare its power. Amin usin, she pleaded with the Flame as it grew and became strong enough to heal her wrist. She heard a noise outside the dungeon stairwell, and as quickly as she had created the Flame, she rubbed her hands together and snuffed it out. She waited with bated breath as the faint sound of footsteps descended the stairwell. She instinctively backed away from the edge of the bars as they came closer.
The foe with the white lightning eyes encompassed the opening and with a torch in hand he lit the dungeon dwelling brightly. He walked over to her cell.
“Princess.”
“Amin na-il tarien,” she retorted at him resentfully. She wasn’t afraid of him. She knew who she was, how important she was to her people. They would send help.
“Do you understand my words?” Crestaos asked her somewhat amused. She didn’t say anything but continued to rub her broken wrist, healing it silently with her inborn abilities. “Ah, you will not speak to me then. I know who you are.”
“Lle-uum,” she mumbled under her breath still waiting for her strength to take her over.
“Lotesse …” Crestaos whispered with a menacing low chortle.
The girl’s eyes shot open. They were no longer blue, but filled with bright green, full of the Flame’s fire. She turned towards him, wanting to know where he heard that name, how did he know her, what did he want. She gaped at him, and found the words stuck in her throat.
“Tell me Lotesse, where are the Flames?”
A pit formed in her stomach. He knew her deepest secret. She wondered how, the people of Nazole thought she was a princess. Only Lady Satarine and her council knew her secret. The Flames were so well protected, so well hidden. She opened her hands and created a green shield around herself, an attempt at protection against the ill will of Crestaos. She feared in this place she wouldn’t be able to hold him off for long, her magic weak.
Crestaos smirked. “So you do know, and yet you will not speak?”
“Amin uum sint,” she spat, her eyes narrowed in contempt.
“Ah but you do know. It is in your body, in your blood.” Crestaos moved closer and reached into a pouch. He removed a handful dust and looked at her again. “Reveal the location of the Flames, and I will let you live.”
“Amin mem gurtha,” she held her ground.
Crestaos tightened his gaze and the shield dropped, slamming her against the wall. She slid to the ground, too speechless to move. “Do not test me. Tell me what I want to know!” Confused and knocked to the ground, Lotesse coughed attempting to catch her breath. She dragged herself against the walls of the dungeon to show her strength, but the light of the Flame drained away, her eyes appearing blue again.
“Amin uum sint.”
“You will speak or you will be tortured.”
“Amin mem eska,” Lotesse called back at him. His presence made her weaker, she held her stomach and doubled over.
“I don’t believe you can’t find them. Track them for me. You can live if you give them up.”
“Amin mem gurtha. Amin mem eska,” Lotesse cried out as the stabbing pain in her gut worsened. The healing she had done on her wrist went sour and it fell limp. She grimaced, and the room spun. “Amin … uum … sint,” she whispered as she sank to the ground, strength faltering, sleep calling her, death wanting her.
Crestaos looked livid. “It will be slow and painful, but you leave me with no choice. After this you will be returned to Nazole, if you live.” He threw a handful of dust into the chamber and took a step back. Parasites hit her flesh, spreading almost instantly to every part of her. She attempted to rub them off but they were already soaking into her skin, grabbing her Flame within and putting her into a state of agony. She screamed as the burning sensation intensified leaving her Flame trapped.
She was ready to pass out but fought for consciousness as Crestaos entered the chamber, his leather shoes planted in the muck. He waited, waited until the pain was too much and she could do nothing but stare at him open mouthed until he bent down, presenting a small orb. Lotesse felt like she was being torn from the body, like fabric being unraveled at the seams. She didn’t know what this was, how he returned, why he was seeking vengeance, but she knew one thing: he wouldn’t stop until he found every last one of them.
Water squished under Turon’s boots as he descended the clammy stairway. He wasn’t afraid, only aghast he had to carry out this final task. Killing her wasn’t enough for Crestaos, he wanted to make an impact, and that meant doing something he found unthinkable. He neared the flat iron bars of the dungeon cell and opened it with ease. The girl inside was still. He sighed as he bent to pick her up, knowing full well she was covered in the muck on the floor. Before he reached her, her body jolted. He avoided eye contact with her. Her head was facing the back wall and something told him he didn’t want to see her eyes.
He reached into his pocket and found the lantern. Being the only one skilled in using it, he was the one who alone would transport her. No need to make a spectacle of it, the shee
r volume of the atrocity he was about to commit would suffice enough to prove his wretchedness to Crestaos. He paused and pulled her towards the wall, and sat her up against the brick. He hoped some of the sticky ooze would slide off her back, and in the meantime he begrudgingly set the coordinates.
She was beautiful. Even though her face was shriveled and scarred rust red, he thought who she used to be would have been pretty. Her hair had started to fall out; it laid in clumps on the floor, either from her tearing it out or from the effects of the parasite. Had the parasite not damaged her vocal cords she would be screaming inconsolably. Instead she stared away from him while he finished working.
Contemplating how to transport her he bent down and touched a portion of her dress unharmed by the muck and the parasites. “Come Lotesse, time to go home.”
The orb in the lantern glowed and exploded into the room, pulling them both through the rift. He didn’t bother to hang onto her as they tumbled through space and time. He landed squarely on his feet. He had done this so many times before it was less than amusing. She on the other hand fell into a heap on the ground at his feet.
It was midday in Nazole. He looked up; the castle a few yards away. He bent to pick her up and her arm jolted out, draping itself around his boot. The gesture was meant to cause harm but in truth it was her begging for death. He grimaced, picked her up and cradled her across the length of his arms. He walked solemnly forward, anxiety rising in him. He set her down, took out the lantern and set the dials for home. The last place he wanted to be when this was finished was with the demon he called master.
She twitched again; death so near he could taste it on her. Hastily he grabbed her again and began walking towards the thick archway marking the edge of the shield. Beyond that was a large slab of stone extending from the tall castle doors. He saw a woman in white scouring the rock, her silvery-white hair flowing around her shoulders. Pinpricks touched the back of his neck. Satarine. He hadn’t the pleasure of facing her when they took the girl. He almost longed for the chance to face her now.
He stiffened at the sight of the guards. He could grab the lantern in a flash and disappear, but if those guards were within range, they would transport with him. He sighed and closed his eyes reciting the shadow spell. It would do no good for Lotesse; they would see her floating towards them. However, his shape would remain concealed. He felt the light bending around him as invisibility took him over.
The distance closed between himself and the guards, puzzled looks on their faces as he carried Lotesse. Before he had a chance to drop her at their feet, his eyes met with Satarine’s. She saw through the shadow spell, her blue eyes blazing with an icy coldness that ran shivers up his spine. She charged towards him and shouted something at the guards in a language he couldn’t understand.
Turon panicked. He threw the girl in the air at Satarine and stumbled backwards searching his cloak frantically for the lantern. His fingers curled around the smooth metal. He clicked the last of the coordinates into place as he watched Lotesse land in Satarine’s arms. All he could hear as the orb exploded was her deafening cry of anguish.
***
Chapter 4
Crestaos roared as he threw the orb across the room. It smashed against the stone wall and shattered into pieces. Lorac sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. “It was beginner’s luck, we had no idea the girl was a Flame.”
Crestaos shot him the iciest glare. “I must find her.”
Lorac nodded. They were in the grand hall at Cam’Wethrin. Crestaos paced the hall with anger in his eyes. It had been weeks since their expedition to Nazole and he was growing impatient. They couldn’t locate another Flame. Lotesse held the key to their unveiling and she proved useless to their cause.
“I admit we have had some setbacks,” Lorac commented. He was uninterested in finding the Flames. Ever since he faced Isadora in Avrigost he had been more than happy to stay away from the rest of them. Crestaos however was adamant; he had a fascination with their unique qualities. Crestaos stalked the floor, lost in thought. “She evaded me, she knows something, where is the one I want?”
Lorac hoped he wouldn’t throw something else at his head, or paralyze him with his abilities. It had been a taxing few weeks. Azdrach’s insanity grew thicker, Hortis was still suffering insomnia and the others had distanced themselves in hopes of finding some form of peace. Even Valtor had suffered enough and went searching for the goblin that brought the shard in the first place.
Narwa strode into the hall. He went to back away when both of them turned to look at him.
“You,” Crestaos snapped.
Narwa shot a look at Lorac; he constantly confessed his fear of Crestaos and loathed to be in his company. He fidgeted nervously but stepped forward. Crestaos approached him placing his bony hand on Narwa’s temple.
“Twin flames!” Crestaos roared as he dropped his hand and smacked Narwa across the face. The elven was knocked to the ground and Lorac wanted to laugh but kept it in. “Liar!”
Narwa stood, looking guilty. He used to be Lord Orneshon’s advisor. While the Daed warrior never mentioned Flames to Lorac, he should have said something. Lorac wanted to slit his throat for keeping the truth from them, and causing their faction unnecessary hardship.
“I—”
“Silence! Where are they?”
“Zzz, Zzz, Zanandir,” Narwa stuttered and hung his head.
Crestaos’s lips twisted up in a grin as he licked his lips with greed. “You will retrieve them, or I will consume your soul.”
Narwa hung his head. “Aye.”
“You weakling. Why didn’t reveal your knowledge of the Flames?” Valtor said, his sword pressed against Narwa’s throat. He eased his back into the wall, waiting for the others to enter the place of arms so they could figure out what to do next. He glanced at the door trying to conceal a grimace. He once admired the twins, and though he betrayed Orneshon, he couldn’t bring himself to betray his daughters as well.
“You better not fail,” Valtor continued.
“Nay, he will not. We will follow,” Turon said as he set the lantern on the altar. He raised an eyebrow. “You will need a disguise.”
“We will all need a disguise,” Azdrach groaned as he rested his hands on his staff and gazed at the shadows dancing across the walls. His mental state was still slanted since their expedition to Avrigost. Turon tried everything to cure him, but necra powder was the only thing that emitted normalcy out of him.
“Do you foresee success?” Hortis asked.
“Lust and poverty and showers of peasants. Night fall will come, night fall will come,” Azdrach mumbled.
Turon sighed. “I need a dram of necra powder, plus the moonstone and,” he paused and turned towards the cabinet himself. He pulled out the things he needed, mixing them to create the poison.
“I would prefer to train the troops,” Delotha huffed, arms crossed across his chest.
Turon lit the candles and began dissolving the necra powder. He handed the green sticky liquid to Azdrach and continued to crush an infusion of herbs into a powder. He gave the moonstone to Narwa and watched as Azdrach downed the necra powder.
“We will arrive by night fall. They are in the royal city. There is a celebration. Shezeel is a vixen with great powers of manipulation. Do not fall prey to her trap,” Azdrach said.
“Take this.” Turon handed Narwa a small vile of liquid. He downed it and waited. Narwa felt the moonstone beating in his veins, spreading, transforming. His breathing became labored as he cough and spat, almost in hysterics. He felt paralyzed as the others in his faction watched. Turon began chanting in a low tone while the others gathered around and followed, resulting in a cacophonic heap of meaningful mumbles. He levitated to the air, blue shoots of energy forming around his body.
He closed his eyes, his body shifting, turning him into the white haired, spotted Zanads. The poison seeped through him, fortifying the process, making what was energetic into physical matter, causing his body
to feel like it was on fire. His lungs widened and his heart shrunk, his stomach shifted, and muscle piled itself upon existing muscle. He wanted to scream in pain but all he could concentrate on were the shadows flickering off the walls.
“We have sixteen hours, or sixteen days, or sixteen minutes; I’m not sure if my calculations are precise,” Turon shouted. Narwa opened his eyes long enough to see him clicking the coordinates into place. He paused and turned to Narwa, the transformation almost complete. The orb exploded, ripping them through time and space.
Shezeel curtsied to the peasant as the guard led her pick onto the dance floor. She waited by the orchestra pit to the far left of the checkered floor. They struck up a lively tune and she sashayed to the music, turning, spinning and dipping along with the music. The peasant wrapped an arm around her waist and pressed his nose into her deep blue locks, smelling the saccharine scent of dragon’s blood. It aroused him as she pulled away and let him dip her. Her tanned fingers trailed along the checkered dance floor until he pulled her into him and pressed his hips against her torso.
“Careful,” Shezeel said with a mocking tone as she maneuvered her hips against him and twisted out of his grasp, dancing away from him. He ungracefully strode towards her and caught her hand, pulling her towards him, her back hitting his chest hard. He wasn’t allowed to speak to her, but he growled in her ear. It meant he wanted to get the most out of the dance, and since she chose him, he wouldn’t let her go back on her decision.
She giggled and swiveled in his arms, catching his hand and drawing into a waltz. They swept across the dance floor as the music swelled to its peak. He lifted her and spun her around, making her feel feather light. Shezeel let her usual black glazed over eyes shine with wisps of pink as he set her down and dipped her again.
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