by Paul Centeno
“Who are you?” asked Parla’vasa in a demanding tone. “Are you responsible for this nightmare?”
“My name is Xel’vakora,” he said, his purple eyes glaring at her.
“I am the princess of Lar’a’dos and order you to answer me; are you responsible for this nightmare?” she inquired, ready to put an arrow in his black heart.
“No,” he said coldly. “However, I can enlighten you as to who is accountable for ruining our world.” He paused for a brief moment and went on, “Saldovin Keldoran, as with most of my kind, was enraged with your plan to marry the humyn prince and wanted to stop it. He sacrificed his sister, as well as his own immortality, in order to summon a demon known as Izabaldo. And now, as suspected, the demons have begun an invasion.”
“Why are you telling us all this?” scowled Dargain, suspicious.
“I no longer serve the will of Saldovin Keldoran,” said Xel’vakora. Before waiting to be mocked or asked whom he currently serves, he went on, “I now aspire to be like Gar’kon. He is, and always will be, the only Mor’vyi’dou who deserves respect.”
“True,” began Dargain, “because only the Nine can save us at this point.” He took a deep breath and continued, “Your words do not lie. Regrettably, my comrades and I cannot say the same about you. Whether you are an elf of honor, you must prove it.”
“Then allow me the chance to prove it by guiding you through Tor’kales,” said the dark elf. “I’m sure none of you know your way through it. In addition, my black magic can be quite useful, as it was just now by sending the demon back into the depths of hell.”
“I s’ay we gut ‘im ‘n fi’nd the pa’th oursel’ves,” said Olwe.
“Agreed,” said Parla’vasa. “I don’t trust him at all.”
“Nor do I,” replied Dargain in a whisper. “But he did save us from the demon. He could have easily let the fiend devour us.”
“Indeed,” said Frostwarm, his staff steady.
A long silence fell over them, punctured only by the chorus of insects and the imminent fire causing the trees and loose logs to crackle.
“I have an idea,” said Dargain. “It is time to let our leader decide: Prince Aarian.”
“What?” snapped Parla’vasa before Aarian could even have a say in the matter. “Do you realize how many times he has abandoned us?”
“Yes,” said Dargain.
“Aye, ‘n ar’ ya a’ware of h’ow ma’ny ti’mes we h’ad ta sa’ve ‘im?” asked Olwe, snorting.
“Of course,” answered Dargain.
Parla’vasa ignored him and released her arrow at the dark elf. When it reached his chest, however, he grabbed the bodkin with his fingers and threw the projectile aside. This alarmed the others.
“As the humyn with the headband said, let your leader decide,” grumbled Xel’vakora. “I won’t offer my help again.”
“I accept your offer,” replied Aarian. He noticed Parla’vasa roll her eyes while he added, “Just as Master Dargain said, if Xel’vakora truly wanted us to die, he would’ve never intervened. We’d probably be Izabaldo’s undead slaves right about now. And besides, do we have a choice? Does anyone know the passage through Tor’kales?” No one answered him. “Right, that’s what I thought. Now I’m no leader, but if we’re to stop Saldovin, we’ll need this dark elf’s help.”
“Spirits!” blurted Parla’vasa. “You’re so gullible!”
“Call me what you like,” said Aarian. “I probably deserve every ill name you can think of. But everyone deserves a second chance in life, and if even one Mor’vyi’dou wants a shot at redemption, I’ll allow it.”
Dargain smiled at him, a feeling of hope welling up inside him; hope that Aarian wasn’t simply referring to the dark elves.
“Well said,” responded Dargain.
“Wise words indeed,” said Frostwarm, bowing.
“Th’en wha’t the h’ell ar’ we waitin’ fer?” asked Olwe in an irked tone.
Xel’vakora gestured the survivors of the demonic calamity to follow him into the pitch-black cave. Despite the princess of Lar’a’dos objecting to this, she followed the others. But she certainly did not do so on her own accord. She despised all Mor’vyi’dou; and her anger toward the prince wasn’t too far off. Yet she didn’t want to wait for another demon to find and slay her, which was why she ultimately decided to follow the group.
As for the prince, he felt slightly less overwhelmed. Somehow they survived, conceded Aarian, and he wanted to believe they would stay alive. Aarian passed by the ancient elven ruins and gradually approached Tor’kales with his entourage, hoping from this point on he’d improve as both a dependable warrior and prince. Whether that was true, he’d have to travel through the primeval cave and confront Saldovin Keldoran.
CHAPTER FIVE
SCALES OF ICE
Taking hold of a rod-shaped branch on the ground, Xel’vakora waved his hand over the tip while mumbling a spell. Fire ignited on its end, partially lighting the way. At the same time, Frostwarm cast a powerful spell of his own, enchanting his scepter to be a source of light. Bats fluttered out of the cave, startling Aarian and his company.
The passage they were treading through was narrow with a stench of death. Trees’ roots hung from the cavernous ceiling, dust sporadically falling. Insects scuttled left to right, straying away from the lights produced by the wizard and necromancer. And ahead, where cracks formed along the concrete, lay yellow bones. Whether they belonged to Mor’vyi’dou or Quel’de’nai, no one knew. Gasping at the elven remains, Parla’vasa readied her bow.
“Calm yourself,” said Xel’vakora. “Those bones are old.”
“I don’t care if you’re right,” she said gruffly. “After what we just experienced, I want to be prepared for anything.”
“Fair enough,” said the dark elf, continuing to be a guide.
Upon reaching a corner in the jagged tunnel, they turned left and walked through a much wider path. Stalactite hung above, water drops occasionally dripping. Liverwort and ferns grew between cracks. There were also several webs along the pathway. They didn’t disturb the dark elf who led the way. Dargain, however, resentfully tore them down.
Exploring the dim passage, they eventually heard a trickle of water. Although they could still smell rotten flesh, it wasn’t as bad as when they’d first entered the cave. Not a minute later, Aarian and his comrades came across a junction. The path on the left, however, was filled with boulders. The ceiling had apparently collapsed long ago, thought Aarian. With no other choice, Xel’vakora entered the other corridor where a stream flowed.
“Must we enter the water?” asked Aarian.
“Oh, are you afraid of that too?” scowled Parla’vasa. “You could always turn back and wait for more demons.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” she said firmly.
“Yes, we must go into the water,” answered the dark elf, no longer amused by their petty quarrel. “Tor’kales is an ancient place that’s been abandoned for many decades now. Sometimes the tunnels are flooded when there is a storm.”
“In that case,” began Frostwarm, remembering the abnormal weather prior to the prince’s wedding day, “we need to expect the worst flood yet. Tread carefully.”
The band of survivors carefully stepped into the water. Though it flowed serenely at first, the deeper they traveled into the cave, the livelier it became. The stream also rose, as Xel’vakora had predicted. Frostwarm slowed his pace, attempting to balance himself against the current and slippery rocks on which moss grew.
With the water rising fast, the survivors sheathed their weapons and realized the tunnel wasn’t just flooded; they were descending down some kind of elf-made trail—at least that was Aarian’s conclusion as he warily strode forward. When the water reached his waist, however, he stopped.
“Wha’t n’ow?” dribbled Olwe, the water at his neck.
“It appears to be a dead end,” said Dargain.
“This is not a dead end,�
�� said the dark elf. “Quel’de’nai ruins lay beyond this point. Alas, they’ve been swallowed by the torrential storm that took place last night. We must go under and swim.”
“U’cleria, have mercy,” said Frostwarm, his voice cracking.
“Wait a minute,” said Aarian. “Master Dargain, Olwe, and I are wearing armor. We’ll drown if we swim. Shouldn’t we turn back and try to find another way?”
“There is no other way!” exclaimed Parla’vasa.
With the exception of the flowing current, silence descended upon them. Olwe and the Vlydyonians stared at the elven princess, surprised at her behavior. Even the dark elf appeared startled by her attitude.
“Don’t you dare look at me like that,” she continued. “I have sacrificed too much to turn back simply because of his wretched fear.”
Noticing her fingers shaking, Aarian, his eyes downcast, glanced at the murky water and then looked back at her. “I have failed my kingdom,” he said. “I have failed my parents, my best friend Scar, my beloved Belisa, and you. However, akin to Xel’vakora, I, too, deserve a second chance. I may not be the man you’ve always dreamed of—yes I’m scared and don’t know how to handle situations like these. But, like you, I’m trying.” He took a deep breath and went on, “All I ask is that you give me a chance.”
Parla’vasa glared at him hardheartedly. “I’ve given you so many chances since you left me to die by the temple. I simply don’t trust or respect you anymore.”
“Princess,” gasped Frostwarm in a croaking tone. “This union is sacred. None of us were prepared for this. Surely you understand?”
“Of course,” she said considerately. “Yet you and your brother, as well as the dwarf, have fought admirably by my side. Aarian, on the other hand, has been screaming, crying, and running away like a child since the demonic incursion. I won’t tolerate this any further.”
“His name isn’t Aarian,” said Dargain. “His name is Prince Aarian.”
“Spirits, help me,” she said aloud, sighing. “He is no husband of mine and most certainly no prince of mine.”
“The el’ven prin’cess is a fei’sty one,” whispered Olwe to Dargain.
Aarian began, “I think I’ve had about enou—”
“As much as this is amusing me,” intervened Xel’vakora, “the demons aren’t going to sit and wait for this trivial debate to end. Even now the hell rift is expanding in Fal’shar. We need to move.”
“What is Fal’shar?” asked Aarian.
“The citadel and home of Saldovin Keldoran,” answered Frostwarm, tiredly walking past the prince. “Despite how all of you feel, Xel’vakora is correct. We must make haste if we are to defeat the leader of the Mor’vyi’dou and seal the hell rift.” He turned to Aarian and said, “As for your armor dilemma,”—He waved his scepter over the prince, his brother, and Olwe, a sprinkle of light in the shape of feathers brushing over them—“How does that feel?”
“Much better,” said Aarian, smiling.
Parla’vasa rolled her eyes at him.
“Incredible as always, brother,” said Dargain.
“Khordalam be prai’sed,” said Olwe, stunned. “If on’ly I cou’ld always forge ar’mor th’is ligh’t.”
“You’re still the best blacksmith in the world, Olwe,” said Dargain.
“Aye, ya don’t hav’ ta tell me tha’t,” he said, guffawing. “My bla’des ‘n ste’el armor ar’ the fin’est cre’a’tion since the Nine be’came im’mortal.”
“Tch,” uttered Parla’vasa. “Dwarves...”
“All right,” began Aarian to the dark elf, “lead the way.”
Nodding at the prince, Xel’vakora waded through the rising water. Then, at what looked like a dead end, he plunged into the flooded trail and swam downward. Shortly after, the others joined him. Together they propelled into the cavernous depths of Tor’kales. With the dark elf’s torch getting wet, the only light they had came from Frostwarm’s scepter. He made it brighter, helping his companions see ahead.
Aarian noticed cracked statues of Quel’de’nai wielding bows and curved swords. Some elves were accompanied by tiny pixies on their shoulders. Seeing the pixies’ wings reminded him of Scar. If his parents died during the demonic invasion, as horrible of a thought as this was, he’d be able to live with it. He couldn’t, however, bear the thought of an innocent animal—who happened to be his best friend—being a victim to this nightmare.
Even though he was in dismay, he refused to cry again. No, not any more, Aarian thought to himself. He was done being a child. Master Dargain and the others needed him now more than ever, and so he tightened up, his countenance strong, and swam with purpose; a purpose to defeat Saldovin Keldoran, seal the hell rift, and restore Vlydyn.
Not more than two minutes of going deeper, the sextet had no choice but to swim back up to the passage’s surface to get air. Yet when they reached it, only a few inches of breathing space remained.
“Th’is can’t git any bloody wor’se,” said Olwe, gasping.
“Brother,” called out Dargain, wheezing heavily, “is there any chance you can provide us with a breathing spell?”
“I am not a fountain of mana, Dargain,” said Frostwarm, trying to catch his breath. “As it is, this spell of light is draining me. Mind you, not more than an hour ago I unleashed everything I had to weaken that demon in Grisfall.”
“I understand,” he replied calmly. “I just hope this doesn’t get worse.”
“Believe me when I tell you that you’d better count on this getting worse, humyn,” said Xel’vakora, dipping himself back into the murky water.
“He’s guiding us into a trap!” said Parla’vasa.
“Dark elves aren’t raised to make you feel safe, princess,” said Aarian, not caring that she was giving him a long look of death. “Right now there’s no one else who can help us. There’s no time to doubt; we simply need to follow him. And if he’s in fact leading us into a terrible trap, as you claim, then we’ll deal with his treachery when the time comes.”
“I couldn’t have said it better, Prince Aarian,” said Dargain proudly.
She snorted at Aarian and then thrust herself underwater, bitterly following the dark elf. Dargain patted the prince on his shoulder, making him feel slightly more confident in his ability to make decisions.
Getting their breath back, they returned underwater and caught up with Xel’vakora who swam swiftly through the flooded trail that eventually led him and his followers to a gargantuan chamber of Quel’de’nai ruins. They could see the sunken kingdom clearly—moonstone citadels, many of which stood slanted, crystal staircases, moss-covered bridges, broken statues made of marble, and silvery walkways accompanied by arches. Although weathered, the remaining walls of the abandoned city depicted elven hieroglyphics.
Aarian accidently swallowed some water, mystified by what he saw. Upon choking, Magi Frostwarm aimed his golden rod at him and cast a weak spell on him. Not more than six seconds passing, Aarian grew gills. He nodded with gratitude at the frail wizard and continued swimming while taking in the forgotten sights of Tor’kales.
The rest of the group desperately needed air. Yet the surface was too far up. Xel’vakora grimaced, having no choice but to slit his forearm using a dagger. Etching a wavy symbol of Lólindir on his skin, he spoke an incantation within his mind, his eyes briefly gleaming blue. Then he, along with his followers, grew gills. While the others were relieved to be breathing underwater, Frostwarm felt disturbed that he was being kept alive by black magic. Parla’vasa also didn’t feel right even though the dark elf had called out to the Spirit of water. The distressed duo nevertheless put their troubled feelings aside, following the dark elf.
After swimming between twin moonstone shrines, Xel’vakora spotted a flicker of natural light above and propelled himself upward. The quintet pursued him. Though much darker in this cavernous chamber, the magical glow produced by Frostwarm’s golden rod still allowed Aarian to see far. By chance, he glanced down to see if he c
ould determine how deep the elven kingdom had sank. When he looked, however, he no longer cared. His eyes widened, fixed on something squirming at least a mile or two below. He instantaneously whimpered, bubbles rising from his mouth.
While gurgling, Aarian was able to see the moving object better. It wasn’t squirming; to be more precise, it was slithering. Staring at the scaly monstrosity, the prince wondered if this thing was a figment of his imagination or as real as he. His companions ignored him, thinking he was simply complaining about the gills dissipating. Upon reaching the surface, Aarian burst out of the water screaming:
“Monster!”
The others, who had already climbed up vines attached to a moss-covered bridge, looked at one another disappointingly. Just when they’d thought the prince had finally stopped moping or being frightened by his own shadow, he started whining again. Their faces became sullen, including the dark elf who barely knew him. Dargain, as usual, reached out and gave him a helping hand.
“What monster?” he asked wearily.
“Down there,” replied Aarian, pointing below. He saw a tower at the end of the bridge, inside which stood a spiral staircase, and ran toward it as he went on, “We need to get on higher ground now.”
Just then, water burst upward, gushing onto the bridge. Like a ray of blue heavenly light, wings expanding, the creature flew into the air with an ear-shattering roar. Its spiky tail twirled, walloping a wall on its left, causing it to collapse. The sextet, mostly slack-jawed, gazed at the scaly beast that ruled the forgotten realm of Tor’kales in disbelief.
“Take cover!” shouted Xel’vakora.
“Lólindir’s breath, it’s a water dragon,” gasped Frostwarm, readying his staff and trying to muster whatever magical energy was left within him.
Barely avoiding the falling moonstones, Aarian ran to the tower’s entry. Unsheathing his sword and shield, he reached the spiral staircase he’d spotted a moment ago and went up as fast as he could. Upon reaching an arched window where the wall had partially crumbled, the dragon approached and breathed frost onto him. He swiftly raised his shield, blocking the icy attack. His already damaged shield, however, grew rime and cracked. Aarian frowned, vertically hurling his shield at the jaw of the flying dragon. It shattered upon impact, enraging the beast of flight that flew straight toward him. Frightened by this, he hurriedly scaled the steps. Yet when he did so, the dragon crashed into the tower, causing it to fall apart.
