The process began before he reached the top. Halfway up the stairs he paused and turned to look at the field. Tremors rocked the fortress and the ground with such force Turon needed to crouch and grip the stairs so he wouldn’t fall. He closed his eyes and hoped the ipsum powder wouldn’t blow the entire realm to smithereens, but the tremors stopped and a roar sounded from across the field. It sounded like the same roar Crestaos had given when they resurrected him from Avrigost. Another roar just like it, sounded from far away. Eight foot tall beasts formed as far as the eye could see.
The ipsum powder worked.
Turon scrambled to the top of the ledge and met Crestaos’s satisfactory grin.
“We will have victory after all,” Crestaos said.
***
Chapter 3
Lorac let out a grunt and kicked a rock off the path. He was agitated by the deepness of the night and their incompetence in finding the Flame. His leadership skills failed him and even as he tried to hold order between the members of the Daed it was useless. The others said nothing as he rounded the hearth fire. He held his hands out and focused on the ashes inside. They came to a blaze a moment later and Lorac sat down on a log. He rested his hands on his thighs as he stared at the dirt.
“One more day of this and then we will return.” Lorac broke the silence.
The others straying around the fire turned to look at him. “One of us will die if we return empty handed,” Delotha pointed out.
Lorac’s mind was on the villagers. They hadn’t encountered a single village unwilling to help them. He looked at Delotha’s defeated expression. “We aren’t the only ones to be feared in these lands,” Lorac explained.
“We are hardly feared at all!” Valtor exclaimed. He idly put his sword into the fire, making the blade hot and waited until it was a piercing red. He held it dangerously over his head as though he might stab one of the others through but then dug it into the ground and glared at Lorac. “The villagers were too hospitable. Feeding strangers without a thought of danger …” he trailed off as though the fear he struck into the hearts of those on other realms was fading.
“If they don’t see us as enemies, they won’t be prepared for our attack,” Azdrach interrupted. He had one of the rocks in his hand, inspecting the blood on it, frowning at it.
“Aye, but we have no reason to attack the villagers,” Delotha said.
Lorac took a deep breath, “The villagers are afraid of something else.”
“I know,” Delotha said. He sat on the opposite end of the log and hung his head. “Crestaos has more minions than we thought.”
Valtor let out a roar of laughter. He pulled the sword out of the ground and swung it around over his head. He pointed it at Delotha and continued laughing. “When Hortis is dead you’ll be our new apprentice.”
Delotha growled at him and jumped to his feet. He pulled out his broadsword and took a menacing step towards Valtor. The longhaired elven stepped back, his sword still pointed at Delotha.
“Crestaos isn’t affiliated with those beasts we saw tonight,” Valtor explained. Azdrach moved towards the log and stifled a yawn as he sat by Lorac.
Delotha lunged forward, his sword out, and Valtor swooped away, laughing again. “If you insult my intelligence again you’ll meet my strength!” Delotha shouted. He turned and grabbed the blade with both hands, attempting to land a blow to Valtor’s shoulder. He missed, the blade hitting Valtor’s blade as the elven deflected the sword.
“I find it insulting you call yourself Daed when you are so unobservant,” Valtor hissed. He pushed forward with his thin, slender blade. Delotha moved to the edge of the circle, their swords clanging against each other as they sparred. The fight was nothing spectacular, Valtor seemed bored and lost without a challenge.
Delotha dodged another blow and stepped around the rocks in an effort to redirect Valtor and avoid him at the same time. He met the sword when it was in danger of swiping him and when Valtor lunged towards his shoulder he ducked out of the way and the blade missed by merely an inch, almost slicing into his neck. “Whoa!” Delotha exclaimed. He backed away, but the elven had his hungry eyes set on him. He held his blade down at his side as he approached the burly warrior.
“Who were the horsemen?” Lorac interrupted. He stood and looked at Delotha who cowered. He glanced over at Valtor and the elven stifled a groan and stuck his sword into the mud.
“Morgana. The villagers are afraid of them,” he chortled in a low tone. “We released more than one. Morgana was known for her beasts.”
Delotha frowned. “So the Horsemen came because we brought Crestaos back from Avrigost?” he asked.
Valtor sighed. “That is the way of it.”
“And it explains why Terra is in need of a Ferryman,” Azdrach interrupted.
Lorac shot a glare at Azdrach. Speaking of a Ferryman was more forbidden than speaking of Avrigost. He moved to his feet and backhanded Azdrach. The dark haired immortal fell off the log and into the mud. He rubbed his face in pain as Lorac straightened himself and turned towards Valtor. Even though Valtor hadn’t landed a blow to Delotha, he was surprised to see Lorac deliver one to Azdrach.
“The last Horseman was not a Ferryman,” Lorac spat. He circled the hearth fire and stretched out his arms. He turned towards the flames and stared at them with piercing eyes. It grew higher until smoke wisped off it into the air.
Azdrach pushed himself onto his elbows. “Without doubt, a Ferryman exists in this land.”
Valtor crossed his arms. “He seemed afraid of us.”
Lorac gritted his teeth. “But he wasn’t a Ferryman!” The fire cracked and two of the stones split in half. They fell to the sides of the hearth as the rest of it toppled onto itself causing the fire to extinguish and release a cloud of smoke.
“He was only a boy,” Delotha said.
“A Ferryman fights in these parts, another one, another one, another one, another one,” Azdrach droned. He covered his ears with his hands and seemed to be hallucinating.
Lorac had enough of this. He pushed his sword into his belt and paced towards the burnt house of one of the villagers. He rounded it and inspected the decaying carcasses on the opposite end. He continued walking, surveying and counting the bodies as he went. He heard Valtor screaming at Azdrach and was unconcerned about what he would do to him. In an older time, Lorac would have cut off his finger and taken it as a trophy for his petulance. These days were different, Lorac was no longer as powerful as he used to be and Valtor thought his cowardice to be an insult to the Daed. He rounded the corner and everything went somewhat silent. He didn’t want to tell Valtor he agreed with Azdrach, the boy looked familiar. Ferryman or not, he was someone they needed to be aware of. He might be from Avristar. That thought forced Lorac back to the hearth fire. The others were stood around it, lethal stares locked on each other.
“We need to follow the boy,” Valtor explained.
“And what will that accomplish?” Lorac countered.
“Whether or not he is a Ferryman isn’t important. He looks like a Child of Avristar,” Valtor said.
Delotha shoved his sword into the scabbard. “Neither of them would be looking for the Flames, would they?”
Lorac growled and kicked what was left of the hearth fire hard. “None of you understand!” he roared. “Crestaos won’t win if that boy is a Ferryman. There’s one thing none of us can fight.”
“Vultures,” Valtor muttered.
“Aye,” Lorac replied. “If the boy is a Ferryman, then Terra is plagued with Vultures. And we may never find the Flame.”
All of them shifted uncomfortably. Azdrach sat up and brushed the dirt off him. He pushed himself onto the log carefully as Delotha paced around in a circle and eventually sat down on the log beside Azdrach. Valtor stood pristine as a statue.
“We need to follow the boy,” Valtor repeated.
“Aye,” Lorac grumbled, not liking the idea at all.
Turon stared at the rusted fields of Angr
enoth. A sea of mithronians stretched to the horizon. Giant beasts with scales and curved horns crowded the grounds with their thick limbs and spiked tails. They were an extinct race of monsters from the First Era. Turon felt dread in his stomach. Crestaos would have an unnatural advantage against any of the lands he chose to quarrel with from this point on. The drow and goblins were only satisfactory compared to the mithronians. They looked invincible.
It was near sun down and the mithronians were still marching on the rough terrain, turning it to a mucky swamp. When the sun slipped over the horizon, they retreated to the underground caverns and rested there with the goblins. Turon assumed their arsenal of goblins would be devoured. The drow were safely packed away on Dacnad and that provided some relief for Turon. He could control the drow because they were small minded and weak. The mithronians were tall brutes with a precocious attitude. They would roughshod the Daed before listening to them.
He worried about the Daed on Terra. It had been weeks since they left, and with time moving differently on the two realms it was hard to keep Crestaos patient. He knew something had faltered and he only hoped at least one of them would return soon with good news. If it were him leading the expedition he would have sent back the weakest to give news of their progress. Perhaps there was a delay with the people of Terra, or they encountered the savages again.
He grimaced. The savages were the least of their worries. It was that beacon causing the most grief. He was still puzzled about how the Amethyst Flame escaped. She was nothing more than a child. He tried not to think about the Flame they lost. He grinded his teeth together and shook his head. He regretted instructing Delotha to watch over the lantern, but it was their only method of travel through the realms. In the days before High King Tor, the portals were open. It was much easier to travel from one land to the next. Since the days of Tor however, the lands were segregated, causing peace on every realm that would have it. It only made their tasks harder. The lantern was something of Turon’s own creation; he spent countless years perfecting the dials, testing the device for competence, making it mimic the portals. He was unsure if he was successful in creating a portable portal, but the lantern was something invaluable to him.
Night crawled across the sky and commotion erupted on the land below. Turon shivered with the cold and stood. He ascended the stairs and entered the hall. Crestaos wasn’t far behind him. His mithronian form thundered up the steps as Turon stood to the side. Crestaos passed him hastily and moved to the glowing circle of symbols at the far end of the hall. Everything in the hall changed since they first arrived. There was a throne situated in front of the glowing circle, and draperies had been spun by the goblins to celebrate their revival. They hung from the rafters in the hall, but were a mess of sorts.
Turon watched as Crestaos shifted from his mithronian form to his immortal form. He levitated, the body snapping into place and Turon shuddered. He loathed the idea of shape shifting, it seemed so barbaric.
Crestaos stretched his limbs when the transformation wore off. He rounded the throne and sat down. “They’re strong.”
“Aye.” Turon smiled reluctantly and carefully approached Crestaos.
“And the others haven’t returned,” Crestaos said with a sour tone.
Turon hung his head. He gulped and avoided eye contact. “I’m certain they will send a messenger,” he lied.
“And until then, I wait,” Crestaos spat.
“I believe there is another on Sallas,” Turon began.
Crestaos stood, towering over Turon with a menacing glare. “Why would you tempt me with others when your brethren can barely recover the one they lost?” He swung an arm at Turon, but the lanky elven jumped back and avoided the blow. Crestaos stared him down with a mean growl. “You look for more and don’t understand the ones we have.”
“I was afraid …” Turon squeaked.
“Afraid of what?” Crestaos jeered. He sat down. “Afraid they would harm you?” he paused, inspecting Turon’s filthy robes. “If you can unlock their secrets, then do it.”
Turon nodded and ran from the hall. He ran until he found the place of arms where he kept them, and as he entered he stopped, breathing heavily and collapsed on the stone table in front of him. What the Daed had gotten themselves into was gradually getting worse. He had little but folk tales and rumors to guide him. Even his memories of those stories were faded. Nobody on Metaphis believed in them to begin with. The Flames were magic, not science, and everything that wasn’t logical was seen as foolish.
“Is it you Turon?” Hortis asked from the corner. He refused to leave the place of arms since the last outburst. His quarters weren’t safe from goblins and others, but none were permitted in the place of arms. Punishment was death.
“It is.” Turon pulled himself off the stone slab and moved towards the cabinet. “We have some tests to run.”
The Iolite Flame was impossible. Turon held the indigo orb up to the light to get a better look at the properties, but he was nowhere near discovering anything new about her. It was like the Flame inside the orb was dormant without a shell to occupy. He sighed. They couldn’t keep the bodies of the girls. The Flames needed to be extracted because of the girls’ unwillingness to comply with their orders. Hidden powers trapped in an uncooperative girl would prove disastrous.
He set the orb down on the table and stared at the milky translucency. Indigo wisps of energy shifted within it, creating its own smoky cloud. Turon tried too many things that garnished no results. Heating the orb did nothing, cooling it did nothing, and adding it to a paste or a potion also did nothing.
Turon took the orb in his left hand and squeezed his palm around it. When he held it, he could almost feel the power rushing through him. It was ecstatic. He let the feeling build up within him, the energy surging through his chest. He muttered an incantation to himself and when he held his hand over top of the alter he noticed a change. Water evaporated from the chalice, the fire extinguished and the leaves from the paste turned black. He smiled and placed the orb into its box.
“Crestaos will favor you the most, Isadora. You make things die,” Turon breathed.
“What are you saying?” Hortis squeaked.
Turon noticed the apprentice sitting in the corner. He had moved onto a stool and had been holding things for Turon. At the moment he had a pair of tweezers and a spool of thread. “Not of your concern, but I have another test.” He smiled to himself. The Flames were more unique than he could have imagined. Impervious to the laws of magic they responded to the subtle frequencies of the universe itself, causing their own impetus of change. He took the Emerald Flame in one hand and turned to Hortis. He wordlessly took the tweezers and thread from him and replaced it with the orb carrying the Emerald Flame.
Hortis sat up straight immediately. “What am I holding?” he asked with alarm in his voice.
Turon licked his lips. “The Emerald Flame.”
Energy wrapped around Hortis’s arm and the apprentice seemed nauseous. He opened his eyes and gasped, standing straight, acting like he had his sight back.
“Peculiar,” Turon commented. He stared at Hortis, but the glazed over white irises were changed. The right one had a pool of green pouring into it like an ocean wave. It curled around the center of his iris and shone a liquid green. “What do you feel?” Turon asked.
“Not what I feel, what I see!” Hortis exclaimed. He expertly walked to the table, waved his hand over the items on the table but nothing happened.
Turon’s face fell. “It gave you sight?”
“I can make out shapes.”
Turon frowned. “Give it back then.” He held out his hand but Hortis recoiled.
Turon glared at him.
“Just another moment, please?” Hortis said.
Turon tapped his foot on the ground impatiently as Hortis looked around the room. Nothing new or spectacular happened. He hung his head and prepared to hand Turon the emerald one.
“Wait,” Turon said, an idea formi
ng. His hands moved to the boxes. He pulled the Ruby Flame from her box and thrust it into Hortis’s hand. “Perhaps if we combine them …” He watched Hortis’s eyes roll into the back of his head. He stumbled away from the table and fell flat onto the floor, convulsing in dangerous seizures.
Turon’s eyes widened as Hortis writhed. He was torn. Part of him wanted to help Hortis by ripping the Ruby Flame out of his hand, but another part of him was curious to see what would happen.
Hortis struggled but his fingers clamped around the orbs like shackles, light spilling through his fingers. Ruby red energy trailed up his other arm and the light battled it out, converging near his head. Turon had seen enough but he couldn’t approach Hortis to help him.
A boom rang out, throwing Turon off his feet, and when he regained himself, Hortis’s hands were slack, the orbs rolling on the sandy floor. Turon crawled across the floor and grabbed the emerald one. He went to reach for the ruby one but rethought it, placing the emerald one in its velvety prison before retrieving the other from its spot in the corner.
Hortis turned onto his side, heaving, covering the back of his hand in spatters of blood.
“Hortis?” Turon asked, no hint of concern in his tone.
“I’m fine,” Hortis mumbled.
“That was a bad idea,” Turon said. He grabbed Hortis’s hand and helped him onto the chair. He smiled to himself as he reveled in the progress they made.
***
Chapter 4
Valtor waited by the tree line for the others. They appeared over the rocks, holding the girl by the arms and dragging her across the mud. She was pretty in the daylight, but dull. Her dark yellow dress was stained with mud and limp strands of blonde hair hung around her in varying shades. Unlike the other fair maidens they found, she was sodden.
Villains Page 16
