Villains

by Rhiannon Paille

  ***

  Chapter 2

  Delotha slipped on the rock and fought to steady himself. His big burly hands scrabbled at the bedrock on the side of the mountain path as he pulled himself away from the ravine. Foolish mistakes wouldn’t garnish victory. The others had no time for his bumbling tonight. The sky was a fresh overcast, obscuring the night sky and painting a darkened canvas above them. He cursed at the little glowing rock he held in his right hand and tried to continue following them. Lorac had the lantern with him and was quite a few paces ahead with Valtor and Azdrach on his heels. If Delotha wasn’t quick they wouldn’t hesitate to leave him behind.

  He reached the narrow pass between two giant boulders and grimaced as he sucked in his gut and turned sideways to fit through. The battlefield was a stone’s throw from where they were. He felt something soft squish below his boots. Another of the fallen warriors from the first battle. He regretted not joining in the fray, even if it endangered his own life to fight alongside his own legions. That battle might have been weak but the storm made it formidable. Three separate groups representing three different sides. It was almost unheard of, and it was chaotic. He loved the idea of killing those weaker than him, ones whose lives didn’t matter. He thought they left the battle too soon. They could have taken the Flame right then and there, but Lorac ordered the retreat, and by his authority Delotha slunk back towards the vortex.

  This time would be different. He doubted the nomads were in the region, but with any luck the man guarding the Flame was still situated there.

  “Halt!” Lorac shouted from the front of the line. The others stopped short as Lorac turned to face them. “Azdrach, can you scan for an ambush?”

  Azdrach’s face contorted as his eyes darted into the sky and traveled along the tips of the rocks and into the battlefield. “The rocks have no souls.”

  Lorac continued down the path. They had become accustomed to decoding Azdrach’s incoherent speeches. Everything that came out of his mouth was jumbled. Ever since their expedition to Avrigost he had been ill with a mental condition. Turon was clear the necra powder would run out soon. If Crestaos would let them loot they wouldn’t have this problem.

  “Does he sense the Flame is near?” Delotha interrupted as he caught up to Valtor.

  Valtor ignored him as he descended a hill. When they were a few paces into solid ground he turned to him. “Nay, he is not close enough to sense it.”

  Delotha sighed as the path wound to the right and spread into the battlefield. Nobody bothered to clean up the mess left. Rotting bodies lay stacked on one another as far as the eye could see. Delotha stifled a gag as he rounded the side of the battlefield and tread along in the grass behind the others. He raised his sleeve to cover his mouth against the smell of the carcasses and tried to ignore that under the shield of the blackness, vultures and crows were picking at the bodies. He heard faint clicks and shrieks from the madness and shuddered. He wanted to retrieve the Flame and go home to Cam’Wethrin. Even though it was pigsty, the merchants had better manners. At least they were accustomed to bartering. With his stories he could barter all day long and get riches and food for nothing more than tall tales. He wanted that life back so badly he salivated.

  Azdrach began shaking his head. “No,” he said quietly at first, and then his voice became thick and loud. “No, no, no, no, no!” he shouted. A multitude of flapping wings met the outburst with ten times the sounds of Azdrach’s shouts.

  Lorac sent Valtor a cautioned glare.

  “The Flame isn’t here,” Valtor said. He stopped short and crossed his arms across his chest. “The tribes moved on.”

  Lorac watched Azdrach sink into the grass as a distant glaze fell over his eyes. “No Flame,” he whispered.

  Delotha stepped past them and continued towards the hill. Even though they were surrounded by mountains, the hill provided an entryway to a second battlefield, one once full of a thousand angry savage beasts waiting to face death by his hand. It was deserted now. “There’s the cabin,” Delotha said.

  “Aye,” Valtor agreed as he turned from the pathetic blubbering idiot.

  Lorac pulled Azdrach to his feet and pushed him in the direction of the hill. “The essence will be in the cabin.”

  Azdrach stiffened his posture and smoothed out his brown robes. “I will know where she has moved to.”

  “Good,” Lorac said and Delotha blanched. Lorac wanted to be encouraging, but the further Azdrach fell into his lunacy, the less useful he was to them. Delotha felt less than empowered. Narwa was dead, killed by Crestaos for treason and Hortis was blind for speaking out against the ancient lord. The more they suffered, the worse their chances were of surviving. When Crestaos led the Daed to Avrigost Delotha never expected them to become slaves to a quest. He wanted to possess the finer things in the universe, relive the glory days on Hadwen when the people would cook the most exquisite foods and spin him the most beautiful garments. He had authority and respect on Hadwen.

  “They burned it,” Delotha said.

  Lorac crossed the field, their boots crushing countless tiny wild flowers and stopped in front of the cabin. The wood was charred through. It stood on shaky ground, barely supported by the decaying frame. “The energy hasn’t dissipated with the fire.”

  “Nay,” Azdrach agreed.

  “Then where is the Flame?” Valtor hissed.

  “Tucked away with the traveler, he possesses her, but doesn’t know what she is.”

  “Lorac, cryptic riddles will get us nowhere,” Valtor spat. He met Lorac’s hazel eyes and bore into them with anger. Valtor wasn’t used to failure. Avristar made his blood boil. He was almost as angry as Crestaos about the loss of the Flame. Delotha shifted uncomfortably, not wanting Lorac and Valtor to break into another fight. He didn’t relish the idea of breaking it up.

  Lorac narrowed his eyes at Valtor. “Tell Azdrach to go inside the cabin,” Lorac said quietly enough so Azdrach couldn’t hear him. The cabin might collapse on him, but he was willing to take that chance.

  “What will that accomplish?”

  “Her essence is leaking off the wooden pillars. I can feel it, but I’m not gifted in the metaphysical arts the way Azdrach is. The closer he is to the energetic pulse of the Flame, the better chance we have of hearing something we can understand.”

  Valtor turned to Azdrach. “Go inside the cabin.” His eyes shot daggers at the immortal. As he neared Azdrach he paused and narrowed his eyes to slits. “You can face Crestaos yourself if you don’t. And I’ll tell him to lock you in the dungeon with the souls of all those we have tortured. We have plenty of mugwort leftover.”

  Azdrach stiffened at the mention of mugwort. He took a look at the cabin and winced. One false step and the entire shack would shift and bury him. But he wouldn’t test Valtor. The warrior was maniacal when it came to torture. Mugwort was known for enhancing psychic perceptions. A dram of it plus a dram of necra powder and Azdrach would be subjected to the constant onslaught of painful memories of torture. The very memories would be enough to make Azdrach skin himself alive. Delotha had no doubt with Valtor in Crestaos’s favor, Lorac wouldn’t be able to stop him from committing the act.

  Azdrach carefully padded towards the cabin and steeled himself. His foot hit the floorboards of the porch; flush with the grass. Surprisingly he managed to steady himself on a decaying wooden panel and followed it into the house. Once he was passed the threshold he stopped. Delotha crossed his arms, watching him with disdain.

  Azdrach seemed afflicted by what he saw, his mouth moved but he couldn’t hear what he was saying. He seemed confused, and affected by the onslaught of visions.

  “What did you see?” Lorac asked.

  Azdrach took a step and the wood cracked below his foot. He winced and all at once the burnt beams crumbled. He ducked as the shack caved in on itself. He scrambled to the fields and as he stretched out along the grass the porch creaked and groaned as it slid to the side and toppled onto itself. Azdrach rolled ont
o his back and looked at the logs he could have been crushed under. He let out a sigh and looked at Delotha.

  Azdrach pointed towards the mountains. “He took the Flame in that direction.”

  “We will follow, right?” Delotha interrupted.

  “Aye, but we need to find the Flame before Crestaos decides we’re useless to him,” Lorac said.

  “Unless we never return,” Delotha said with a sly smile.

  Lorac smiled as he took towards the mountains. Delotha had no time to help Azdrach or comment on the dangerous state of the cabin. There were always risks in war, Azdrach knew from the beginning. “That would be pleasant, except Crestaos would hunt us down himself if we didn’t return with his prize.”

  Delotha only shuddered as they trudged on.

  Turon stared at the map of Angrenoth and cursed under his breath. Outside the fortress the lands were becoming stable. Clouds formed, rain fell, and the once rough red landscape turned into a sticky marsh. A thick layer of moss coated the ground, bringing with it amoebas and parasites festering between the rocks. Turon raked a hand through his light brown hair and squeezed his eyes shut. The last incantation had been a synch. Crestaos had the canister prepared; all they had to do was put it on the ground and activate it. Crestaos did the rest with his energy. Turon thrust the maps aside. He moved around the large table in the place of arms trying to think of a way to emit a wave underneath the ground to awaken the mithronians. He first needed to understand Crestaos, and that was no easy task. He was a shape shifter, which made him mithronian, but was that his original form, or was it something else? He couldn’t ask the ancient lord directly, he was too angered over the loss of the Flame.

  He let out a low growl and slammed his palm on the stone slab. He was one of the smartest beings in the universe, and answers were evading him. Their previous quests were so easy, accidental even. How had they so quickly reached the point where his knowledge couldn’t extend?

  He walked to the other side of the table and glanced at the flickering torch resting along the wall. The mithronians were crystallized in the rock; their souls remained trapped inside their forms. The first time they used the canister, the dust formed goblins. Of the five hundred they raised, less than a hundred were left.

  Because of Crestaos they would be extinct soon.

  Turon ran a hand along the stone wall to his right. The mithronians were an abominable race, demon bipedal lizards with horns and spiked tails. They were nearly impossible to kill once resurrected, and they would only listen to one master. Crestaos would fill that role. Turon gritted his teeth. None of the Daed were strong enough to train an army like that; Crestaos would have to control them himself. He worried the mithronians would replace them, but other than brute strength they wouldn’t be useful in penetrating the Lands of Peace. The ancient lord would need magic and someone with knowledge and ability. Turon had that but the problem frustrated him to no end.

  “Are you still there?” Hortis asked from the corner.

  Turon glanced in the direction of the blind apprentice and instinctively nodded. “I am.”

  “Have you found the answer?”

  “Nay.”

  Hortis was quiet for a long while and Turon sighed and moved to the head of the table. He opened the canister and smelled the insides of it. The concoction was basic; herbs, dust of the fallen beasts, and necra powder. He could recreate the original potion and have Crestaos try again, but if it failed, there would be consequences.

  “You should kill me, you know,” Hortis said.

  Turon looked at him, huddled against the wall in the corner, staring at nothing. He thought about it for a moment and smiled. “I could, but I’d rather offer you up the next time Crestaos is angry.”

  “You mean the next time you make a mistake.”

  Turon glowered at him. “I wouldn’t be in this mess if Narwa hadn’t been manipulated by that Flame!” He slammed a fist on the table. “We should have infiltrated Sallas as I suggested.”

  Hortis cowered. He had his arms up over his face like he expected Turon to strike him. “I thought Terra was an easy victory.”

  “Aye, easier than Sallas. That’s why Lorac chose the location, there would be little interference. Sallas is a peaceful realm, but the gryphons are unpredictable.” Turon leaned against the table. He had never been to Sallas, but the stories on Metaphis told of an intelligent race of elvens riding gryphons, controlling them. They were magnificent creatures, half lion, half bird, with large talons and eagle like faces. All of them had the same golden feathers. Killing one would give someone enough gold for the rest of their life. Gryphon feathers were sought after in most parts of the universe. Not only for their weight in gold, but for their magical attributes. A gryphon feather had the power to grant one wish. It was like allspice for spells. Any intention, anytime, no matter how impossible the task, a gryphon feather would solve the problem. It was rumored the Citrine Flame of Hope was on the realm. She was mentioned in every text regarding Sallas as a creature of endless beauty. She kept the Gryphons chaste and free of corruption, which was why their feathers were magical. Gryphons were full of hope.

  “If they don’t return with a Flame, I’m dead.”

  Turon snapped out of his thoughts and turned to Hortis. He rolled his eyes. The blindness cut into the apprentice, but he was becoming an annoyance. Turon moved to the cabinet and assessed the herbs. There was a jar of nightshade on the second shelf. He quickly rubbed a bit of a leaf onto his fingertips and turned to Hortis. As he crouched in front of him, Hortis coughed involuntarily. Turon reached out and rubbed the nightshade onto Hortis’ hands. “Salnen,” he commanded.

  Hortis pulled his hands over his eyes and took a whiff of the herbs. Turon heard his pulse quicken as the drug took effect. The scream drowned in his throat as he drifted into the nightmares that would plague him until the poison wore off.

  “Good,” Turon said as he turned back to the maps. He wanted nothing more than to invade Sallas and bring back a Gryphon. Bringing back the Citrine Flame would be good too, but Crestaos would trap her in one of the orbs locked in a box inside the cabinet in the place of arms. He was frustrated with them. All he dug up were stories of the Flames, and the texts were incomplete. Most of them alluded to potential abilities, but none of them honed in on the one important ability they each possessed. Crestaos seemed uninterested, as though he knew exactly what they were for, and to him they each fit together like puzzle.

  Why was the amethyst one the most important? What was it about her that made the puzzle complete?

  Turon stopped and stared at the canister and the maps. He shuffled some of the paperwork around and realized something he missed regarding the mithronians. They had been the first to die, and then the slaves. All Crestaos had to do was continue the process until more of the dust rose. He batted the canister off the table. If they were locked further underneath the surface, he would need something better to resurrect them, something more than ipsum powder. The budding ecosystem of Angrenoth would have to be interrupted, and they would need to ignite a blast inside the planet for the beasts to be dislodged. Then the ipsum powder would work.

  He turned to the cabinet and pulled out the herbal ingredients needed. He added the dust first, and began to mortar the herbal concoction. It was enough to raise the energy needed for the resurrection to take place. He thought it was dangerous, the mithronians couldn’t be trusted, and even if they didn’t require sustenance, they would have an appetite for bloodshed. The goblins wouldn’t survive the moment they set foot on the land. He ground the herbs into a paste and begrudgingly added them to the canister. He took a deep breath and turned to the cabinet. There was only one small vile of the ipsum powder left. The blue dust glittered in the torch light as Turon removed it carefully from the cabinet and placed it on the table. He gently popped the cork and sprinkled a small amount into the paste. The canister would need to be placed underground. That was Hortis’s mistake the first time. Turon replaced the cork and
put the ipsum powder back into the cabinet. As he turned he stopped in his tracks.

  “Is that one dead yet?” Crestaos asked with a dry expression on his face.

  Turon turned to Hortis who seemed to be comatose and shook his head. He tried to calm his nerves, but without the rest of the Daed present he couldn’t hide his fear.

  Crestaos stepped forward, crossing the length of the place of arms until he towered over Turon. He smelled of rotting flesh and blood. “I need my army.”

  Turon turned to the canister and closed his eyes, part of him hoping with all of his strength this would work, but he was uncertain. “The canister needs to be placed underground.”

  Crestaos grabbed the canister and went to leave. He was muttering to himself but Turon caught every word. “Of course it does, that’s what I told the small puny one to do the first time.”

  Turon gagged as he doubled over with anxiety. He knew the answer all along, and let Turon torture himself trying to figure it out.

  “Come, we have no time,” Crestaos ordered. He gave Turon a measured glare as he watched him writhe in pain.

  Turon pulled himself to his feet and steeled himself. He stood upright and forced his stomach to stop doing flip-flops as he followed Crestaos into the grand hall. Once again the ancient lord proved his knowledge and skill in mere seconds where Turon took hours to find the simple answer. His stomach knotted up as he worried about the addition of the ipsum powder.

  “You will take it to the bottom of the staircase and bury it outside of the fortress gates,” Crestaos said as he paced along the red carpet towards the doors.

  Turon felt his stomach jump into his chest as he contemplated the ipsum powder. If he didn’t scramble out of the way quickly enough the blast would kill him. He gulped as Crestaos handed him the canister.

  Turon snuck over the ledge and trailed down the five hundred steps. The ground was wet and mucky as he pushed open the gates and glanced at the cloudy sky. He grimaced as he dug his hands into the moss and pulled up the rocky terrain below it. He dug until there was a hole two feet deep. He took a deep breath and put the canister inside, shoving the dirt back on top of it.