by Paul Centeno
“There is no need to protect me,” interjected Aarian. “Yesterday was a great tragedy, but I killed that dragon.”
“Oh, you did?” said Dargain, showing an amazed expression. “Endurance of U’cleria, the prince is now a dragon slayer! I didn’t realize that. Because, correct me if I’m wrong, I seem to remember being told that Xel’vakora resurrected dead archers who attacked the dragon in hopes of pulling it away to prevent it from ripping you in half.”
Aarian glared at his mentor with distaste. “Do you think you’re the only one who mourns Magi Frostwarm?”
“This absurd quest is over!” shouted Dargain at the top of his lungs.
A long silence fell, broken only by his outrageous echo. The quintet remained quiet for a while. Even though Dargain felt ashamed for snapping, he nevertheless continued to look angry. Aarian, on the other hand, was shocked that his mentor yelled and wondered to himself, was this how they saw him?—a prince with no dignity or courage to face mortal danger?
“Prince Aarian,” began Parla’vasa, “coming here was a terrible mistake. We’re simply not equipped to deal with this menace.”
“The title ‘Master’ is given to the greatest swordsman in Vlydyn,” said Aarian, ignoring the princess. Then he fixed his eyes on Dargain. “You were bestowed that honorable title by my father for a reason. You are Master Dargain, and together with the greatest warrior in Yunedar, we will reach Fal’shar and vanquish Keldoran.”
“Eloquent words,” said Dargain, “but do you realize that we are probably the only two humyns left in this world?”
“All the more reason to strike with a vengeance greater than the demons,” said Aarian.
Dargain laughed and said, “Has that new elven suit of armor gotten to your head? Or is the delusional thought of you being a dragon slayer making you think that you’ve transcended and become an immortal akin to Thay’tal?”
“Mind your words, Master,” said Aarian, unsheathing his weapon.
Widening his eyes and staring hard at the glossy sword, Dargain said, “You don’t want to do this, Prince Aarian. Don’t humiliate yourself in front of the princess.”
“Though you may be the master, and I, the apprentice,” began Aarian sternly, “it does not give you the right to command me. If you want to run away to fairy land, you can do so by your own accord.” He knew that he offended the princess with the sarcasm he’d used for her home, but he didn’t care. Instead he continued, “My quest remains the same. And if I die doing so, then I die with honor.”
“Honor?” said Dargain, raising his voice. “Where was this honor when you confronted Belisa? Where was this honor when the demons invaded? Where was this honor when Súrion attacked? Where was this honor when Zarlando gave up his life to save you? Where was this honor when the dark elves ambushed us in Grisfall? Where was this honor when my brother—”
“Enough!” bellowed Aarian, his voice as menacing as Izabaldo’s.
Not wanting to hear another word blurt out of Dargain’s mouth, Aarian thrust his crystal sword at him. Without even attempting, Dargain evaded the strike. Aarian continuously swiped his blade at his mentor who dodged every attack. This time the prince pulled out his moonstone buckler and, upon missing with a thrust, bashed it into Dargain’s face. Realizing that Aarian was serious, Dargain unsheathed his swords and positioned himself in a defensive stance.
“Stop this madness,” pleaded Parla’vasa.
As usual, the dark elf looked amused. Olwe, on the other hand, took a deep breath and remained seated. Aarian, meanwhile, ignored the princess and charged forward, aiming to slice Dargain who parried with one sword and struck with the other. Blocking with his sturdy shield, the prince pirouetted and targeted Dargain’s back. Before piercing the armor, Dargain brought one of his swords rearward, parrying from behind without looking. He then swerved to the side and crisscrossed his long swords, disarming Aarian.
“Give up,” said Dargain fiercely.
“Never,” replied Aarian, hurling his shield at his mentor’s face.
Slightly startled, Dargain raised his crisscrossed swords up, blocking the sudden attack. Yet the buckler’s sharp rim struck so hard that it caused Dargain to stagger. This gave Aarian a chance to slide forward and seize his crystal sword. He then got to his feet and used both hands to wield the sword, swiping at Dargain who blocked as best he could. For the first time the prince was riposting fast, nearly slicing Dargain’s arms. Even though Dargain had two swords, he found it difficult to disarm Aarian again.
“I don’t bloody be’lieve th’is,” muttered Olwe.
“Surrender and serve your prince, Master Dargain,” said Aarian, continuing to strike and parry when needed.
“You’re only alive and unharmed because you are my prince,” said Dargain, going up a flight of four steps backwards while evading each attack. “Now stop this foolishness before you regret this and accidently get hurt.”
When he finished speaking, Aarian roared and thrust his sword at him. Dargain ducked and swooped by an elven lamppost. He then leapt onto it sidelong, using it as leverage to push himself in the air, and flipped behind Aarian who turned, flabbergasted by the aerial move. Not two seconds later, Dargain crisscrossed his weapons along the prince’s neck, forcing him to drop his sword and kneel.
“How dare you,” scowled Aarian.
Dargain pulled his swords away and unsheathed them. “I don’t know what happened, but I sure wish you had this courage a few days ago.” He gave Aarian a hand while he added, “Are you going to stop this absurdity?”
“The only absurdity is your cowardice,” retorted Aarian, standing up and taking a step back.
“Cowardice?” grumbled Dargain, infuriated by the prince’s hypocrisy.
“You’d rather abandon your kingdom than fight against the odds.”
“Jorian is dead!” snapped Dargain. “We no longer have the means to dispel the hell rift. It would be folly to sacrifice ourselves in vai—”
“So run away and leave, coward,” interjected Aarian.
Dargain took a deep breath and stayed quiet for a moment. “Though this may be our last day alive, we’ll do things your way,” he said finally, trying not to lose his temper. “Pick up your sword and shield. Xel’vakora, can you continue guiding us?”
“I always keep my word,” replied the dark elf. “However, I am not sure if I’ll be able to dispel the hell rift.”
“Whether that’s possible is irrelevant,” said Aarian indifferently.
“Excuse me?” said Parla’vasa, not sure if his response was one of ignorance and stupidity or astuteness.
The others stared at him with the same perplexed expressions.
“Our first objective is to vanquish the leader of the Mor’vyi’dou,” said Aarian, sheathing his sword. “If there are any demons, we either slay them or send them back to the nether from where they came.”
“Do ya real’ize h’ow diffi’cult it wa’s ta de’feat one?” asked Olwe.
“It was never defeated,” said Xel’vakora. “I used black magic to seal it. But my magic is not as powerful as Saldovin’s. It’s only a matter of time before the spell is broken. The demon will return.”
“Then we need to leave now,” said Dargain.
“This way,” said Xel’vakora, gesturing to a weather-beaten walkway on his left. “There should be a path ahead that takes us southeast through the cavern.”
After gathering their belongings, they pursued the dark elf along the edge of the footpath, avoiding holes on the floor. Passing a few arches upon which hung vines and webs, they crossed a plant-infested bridge and went through a tunnel, leaving the old elven kingdom behind. At this point the natural light from the ravine lessened, darkening the passage. Once again, Xel’vakora used black magic to conjure flame on a branch. Using the torch, he and his followers were able to see much better; though, it wasn’t the same without the wizard.
Frostwarm was deeply missed, especially by his brother. And though he refraine
d from showing his emotions, he found it awfully difficult to quell them. His body wanted to be released of such pain, making his eyes watery. Yet with his disciplined mind, he didn’t succumb to such a state of depression. He kept telling himself that he needed to be strong.
Moving on, Dargain glanced at the prince and noticed how much he’d changed in such a short time. What he witnessed Aarian recently do was almost unbelievable. Although angry at the prince for attacking him, he strangely started to appreciate it. To him, it meant that Aarian was beginning to become a master of his own, no longer an apprentice. Aarian still had so much to learn, thought Dargain, but he believed in him and had faith that he’d continue to grow and become a great warrior and, one day, a magnificent king.
Upon hearing a heavy stream ahead, Dargain pushed his thoughts aside and unsheathed his swords. He walked beside the dark elf while cautiously scouting the passage that remained dim. Together the quintet entered another cavernous chamber in which lay a jagged bridge with waterfalls cascading along its edges. Glowing mushrooms lit up the narrow overpass. Olwe attempted to look down and shivered, realizing that below was a seemingly bottomless pit. The others took notice of this as well but ignored it as best they could, carefully crossing over to the opposite side.
Once they reached the other side of the bridge, the rest of the passageway was much less dangerous. Though traveling through Tor’kales for a few more hours, they didn’t come across a menacing creature or hazardous environment. They were long past the flooded areas of the cave and refrained from resting until entering a large stalagmite chamber with a drinkable waterhole accompanied by magical mushrooms giving off blue and red flickers of light.
“I am in need of respite,” said Parla’vasa.
“Aye,” said Olwe haggardly. “My ba’ck is ‘bout ta sna’p if I don’t si’t dow’n in the nex’t, um, fi’ve se’conds.”
Scouting the chamber thoroughly, Dargain nodded at them. “I’m relieved this area hasn’t been corrupted yet,” he said, settling down by the waterhole and taking in the majestic sights of the enchanted fungi.
“It’s only a matter of time before the demons plague it,” said Xel’vakora.
“Not unless we drive those accursed fiends back and seal the hell rift,” replied Aarian, placing his buckler on the ground and sitting against a thick stalagmite. “Mor’vyi’dou cannot defeat us if we stand united.”
“Ya ma’ke it soun’d so ea’sy,” said Olwe, lying flat on the ground.
“I have faith that the Nine will help us succeed,” said Aarian.
Parla’vasa, meanwhile, drew water from the hole with folded palms and drank it. “Ah, this water has been blessed by the Spirits,” she said.
The others drank as well. Olwe splashed water on his sweaty face, feeling refreshed. Not long after, Xel’vakora placed his fiery torch in a crevice and strengthened its blaze with more of his blood, hoping it would warm up the chamber. Just then, the cavern shook. Even though it was a faint tremor, Aarian and his companions were alarmed.
“What was that?” asked Parla’vasa.
“It’s an old cave within a mountain,” said Xel’vakora apathetically. “There are bound to be a few tremors…nothing dangerous.”
Again, the cavern shook. This time it was harsher, causing dust to fall from the prickled ceiling. With the exception of Xel’vakora, the others rose and glanced around. That instant, an earthquake started. One of the stalagmites cracked while another crumbled, nearly crushing the dwarf. Then the ground split at the center, the clean blue water from the sinkhole draining into the abyss.
“Moun’tains of Khordalam,” gasped Olwe.
Only now did Xel’vakora look serious. “Perhaps the demonic invasion is affecting this area too,” he said, grabbing his weapon and getting to his feet.
“And if that’s true?” asked Aarian.
“Then the land is becoming warped and corrupt,” said Xel’vakora, grimacing. “Forgive my arrogance; I was hoping this region where my people dwell would be protected. Apparently the demons have betrayed even Saldovin.”
“Demons can never be trusted,” said Dargain.
Xel’vakora snorted in agreement. “His hatred toward humyns has blinded him, dooming us all,” he said.
“I agree,” said Aarian, shaking due to the tremor. “Now, can we get out of here?”
Without so much as a nod, Xel’vakora grabbed his torch and searched for a way out. The others followed him to a fork. One of the passages was already blocked. Then a violent tremor started, causing large boulders to collapse and seal another path. The central trail was all that remained, leaving them no choice but to take it.
Sprinting through it, Aarian spotted roots along the cracked ceiling. His face lit up with relief, realizing they were probably getting closer to being outside. Just then, parts of the walls behind them crumbled. Turning back was no longer an option, conceded Aarian. Yet he wasn’t terrified. His heart raced, yearning to escape Tor’kales and infiltrate Fal’shar no matter the consequences. Was he brave, foolish, or crazy for thinking this way? Before he could answer himself, he heard Xel’vakora shout:
“The exit is ahead!”
That instant, Olwe yelped. Turning around, Aarian noticed that Olwe had tripped. The ceiling was still caving in on them. For a split second he glanced at the way out and thought of leaving but then reached down, helping the dwarf get back on his feet. Dargain helped too, at which point they rejoined the elves and ran toward the exit. A minute later, they left the cavern and found themselves in a bog forest littered with peat. By a miracle, it seemed to Aarian, they made it out alive. Trying to catch her breath, Parla’vasa slowed down.
“Don’t stop!” reproached Dargain.
She glanced over her shoulder while running and saw a part of the mountain behind her caving in. Her eyes widening, she sped up and wheezed while she desperately tried to sprint as far away from Tor’kales as possible. Even though the band of five didn’t stop running through the boggy terrain, they could still feel the land shake.
It wasn’t until they reached a shoreline when they came to a stop. Parla’vasa and Aarian dropped to their knees by the sand, panting heavily. Dargain drearily drank from the dark water that splashed over him due to the harsh waves. On the other hand, Olwe jumped for joy and flung sand into the air. While the elves questioned his sanity, the Vlydyonians laughed and fell flat on the soft ground, watching an area of Tor’kales sink deep into the heart of Yunedar while other vicinities of the mountainous region shook as though several eruptions were about to occur as a result of volcanic activity.
Breathing with relief, Aarian turned his attention to the heavens and stargazed. For once he could see a clear sky since the horrific attack. No demons were in his sight. This was surely a place to relax, he thought. Glancing at the princess, however, made him lose what little serenity he had found here on the seashore. When he saw the appalling expression on her face and gazed south to where she’d been looking, he saw an enormous citadel upon a precipice.
“Fal’shar,” he muttered, standing.
“It seems so close and yet so far,” said Parla’vasa. “How can we possibly hope to get up there when the forest is cursed?”
“My people have flourished in this region for centuries,” said Xel’vakora. “Haelaven, a coastal village along this shore, is one such place where we have thrived. My plan is for us to reach it and use one of the ships to reach the dungeon of Fal’shar.”
“How is that possible?” asked Parla’vasa, suspicious.
“Fal’shar is more than just a citadel,” replied Xel’vakora, walking along the beach. “The cove below leads to a dungeon. From there we can scale the stronghold to reach the central spire and confront Saldovin for his treachery.”
Aarian gripped his sword’s handle tighter, staring at the citadel menacingly. Although he had only traveled for a week, it had felt, at least to him, as if he’d been journeying to Fal’shar for months. Following the dark elf toward Haelaven, he wa
s ready to face whatever horrors lay in that dreadful place. Saldovin Keldoran or Izabaldo himself, Aarian was prepared to fight them. He may have only been Master Dargain’s apprentice, but for the sake of his parents, his beloved Belisa, his best friend Scar, and all who had innocently died, he would exact revenge and tear the hell rift apart, even if it meant him sacrificing his own life.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DEMONIC RIFT
In due time, Xel’vakora guided the others to Haelaven, a coastal village with a dock where cedar-wood schooners were moored with crimson banners illustrating Gar’kon. The elven dwellings, all of which had triangular-shaped roofs with mahogany walls and balustrades, stood by the border of the wilderness, expanding to a hillside; and though technically a part of Grisfall, the Mor’vyi’dou called this region Ula’veth.
Not more than six miles away, the rock-strewn hill expanded, curving toward the ocean. And by the cliff of that hill stood Fal’shar. The sight of it made Parla’vasa feel uneasy, desiring to flee back to Lar’a’dos. Olwe wasn’t too far off from wanting to take a boat and traverse to the northern icy continent of Niratredam, where his brawny mountain brothers lived.
“Here we are,” said Xel’vakora. Approaching the wharf, he pointed at a seven-masted vessel upon which stood a wooden carving of a dragon’s visage on the aft and added, “That is Taeldelan, my ship.”
“A fine vessel,” said Aarian.
“I have always taken care of her,” said the dark elf. “Now it’s time she took care of me.” Boarding the sturdy boat with his companions, he removed the wooden plank and lifted its steel anchor. Then, controlling the wheel, he steered the ship southwest, toward Fal’shar’s cove. “It shouldn’t take more than ten minutes to reach the dungeon,” he added.
“Tell me,” began Dargain, gazing at Fal’shar from the fore of the elongated vessel, “do you believe we can succeed?”
“I am confident about many things in life,” replied Xel’vakora, steering the ship through a dense fog. “Infiltrating the citadel of Fal’shar, defeating Saldovin, and sealing the hell rift isn’t one of them.”
