by Ben Hale
The shock wave ripped the Gate to shreds and obliterated the nearest trees. The dead dakorians were crushed in the whirlwind of dirt and storm of power. It expanded upward, devouring the tornado as she rocketed upward, the wave reaching for her boots like the jaws of a beast.
Then suddenly it sucked backward, drawing every speck of metal, dirt, and flesh it had caught, compressing all of it until it was no more than a ball the size of a dakorian skull. Its power spent, it dropped into the scorched bowl it had created, striking the blackened stone.
The explosion had sapped the power of the tornado and Lira fell, tumbling back to the earth. She righted herself and sent a gust from her hands and feet, landing just feet from the steaming ball of compressed rock.
The base of the bowl was scorched with fire, purple flames licking at the remains of power that had splattered the walls. The trees above flailed or shrank into themselves, green blood dripping from their trunks and limbs. Fire burned amongst their branches.
Breathing hard, Lira looked to where the Gate had stood and extinguished her swords. Anger pooled in her stomach at the failure. For thirty thousand years the Eternals had protected Lumineia, hidden it from the eyes of the Empire. Now she’d allowed Skorn’s wife and son, with a force of dakorians, to reach her homeland.
She reached to her cheek and tapped the signal embedded on her jawbone, mentally connecting the message to Ero. It took several seconds, but a faint click signaled he’d answered, his voice as calm as ever.
“What did you discover?” Ero asked.
“Wylyn was here,” Lira said. “She made it through a Gate with four patrols of dakorians and her son, Relgor.” She then added what Wylyn had said about summoning her house army.
Ero sighed and Lira imagined him hunching his shoulders. “Return to Lumineia using the usual methods and meet me at the Vault. We’ll travel from there together.”
“You want me to come home?” Lira asked in surprise.
“Wylyn will move quickly,” he said. “And the other Eternals are scattered on other assignments. I’ll need you to hunt Wylyn.”
“I do not know the region,” she said. “Not anymore.”
“I have some allies in mind,” Ero replied. “They are not Eternals yet, but they have the potential to be so.”
Lira winced at the disappointment in his voice. “I’m sorry I failed.”
Ero grunted. “A breach was inevitable. But we must move quickly before everything we have sought to protect is destroyed.”
The link ended and Lira turned a circle, gazing at the destruction that remained. She’d protected Lumineia from threats far and wide, but had not been home in millennia. The prospect elicited a spark of fear, and she wondered if it would still be home.
Chapter 3: A Troll’s Bounty
Elenyr watched the caravan work its way north. It had been several decades since she’d visited the unclaimed lands of the northwest, but they hadn’t changed—patches of trees in rocky soil, the uneven ground rising and falling into hills and gulleys, each more treacherous than the last.
Home to giant and goblin tribes, as well as outcasts from throughout the kingdoms, the region was dangerous to all visitors, and the trade caravan was no exception. Heavily armed guards rode on top of the wagons with mounted crossbows for additional support. Cavalry from Griffin flanked the slow-moving wagons, the soldiers wary. The caravan leader had even collected a handful of fire dwarves for protection. Marked by their red armor, they’d been contracted to help ensure the delivery of the goods to the rock troll lands on the Fractured Plains.
“They came prepared,” Water said from beside her.
Elenyr looked to the fragment. He looked much like he had the day he’d fractured for the first time, albeit now he was an adult. His dark hair was a little long, giving him a rakish look, and his dark eyes still harbored the same power. Yet now there was a measure of control, and a playful smile crossed his lips.
“Do you know what today is?” she asked.
He raised an eyebrow. “The end of summer?”
“No,” she said. “It’s the day you were separated from Mal, the day you were born.”
“Really?” he asked. “How many years ago?”
“Five thousand,” she replied. “Give or take.”
He grunted in amusement and used water in the air to conjure a mirror. “I look good for my age,” he said, raking his fingers through his hair.
“You think?” Elenyr replied with a snort.
“You don’t look a day over nine hundred,” he replied.
This time she laughed, but the sound was tinged with regret. Five thousand years. She still had difficulty comprehending the passage of so much time. In the beginning it had seemed normal, each day flowing into the next. But as the years faded she’d watched her daughter, Alydian, grow old and eventually die, her daughter taking her place, and the next generation rising.
Without flesh to wither, Elenyr had become ageless, as Draeken had become ageless with his power. Time flowed differently for them. She frowned, wondering if she’d made the right choice the day Draeken had split into five fragments.
That day on the ledge she’d decided to train each fragment separately, afraid the sheer volume of power would consume Draeken. And so she’d asked him for a sacrifice, to retreat into the Dragon’s Sleep while Elenyr took time with each of the five guardian fragments.
At first, she’d intended on taking each for a year, but it quickly became apparent that more time was required. Elenyr had worked through the standard training of mages, and then guided the five fragments through advanced training. Eventually she began taking them out into the world so each could use their magic to help the races of Lumineia.
Time had bled away, and when the fragments needed rest she returned to Verisith and ventured forth with another. She’d kept them separate from Draeken, hoping to give each the chance of self-mastery before they became one. She’d expected complaint, but the fragments did not seem inclined to be whole, and she suspected they shared her fear.
“Do you think they’re going to be attacked?” Water asked, motioning to the caravan.
“It’s likely,” she said. “Bartoth likes to attack caravans in The Ranks.”
She would never admit it, but she liked Water best. He was amusing and clever, quick with a smile and wit. But what made him her favorite was his sense of honor, a sentiment that appealed to her past as an oracle.
Although Fire was the strongest in pure power, he was impulsive and angry, necessitating the most time in training. Elenyr guessed she’d spent nearly a thousand years just with him, and he was still volatile.
She wished she’d worked with Shadow more. He was thoughtful and intelligent, with a mischievous side that reminded her of a young boy. Whenever they’d traveled to the Deep and visited Dark Elf lands, he was her companion. Light was, as expected, bright and carefree, frequently necessitating a reminder of the weight of their tasks.
Of the five, Mind was the one she feared. At first he seemed the weakest, his only magic that of memory. But she’d come to suspect that he hid his power, pretending his control was less than it was. He was ambitious and methodical, and even after centuries of traveling together, she wasn’t certain she knew him. While the others trained with magic, he trained with weapons, and was a true weapons master.
“Do you think Bartoth will be strong?” Water asked, still watching the caravan.
“He’s a rock troll,” Elenyr said absently, still lost in thought. “But rumor says he has body magic as well.”
“At the inn, one man said he snapped a sword in two, with his bare hands.”
Water seemed eager to fight the troll, but she knew it was because he despised Bartoth’s legacy of bloodshed. There was nothing Water hated more than a brute, especially one that used might to inflict harm on the innocent.
She frowned, recalling the last time the fragments had merged. Each attempt to merge into a single being had ended in disaster, but one or two
could merge with Mind to become a less powerful Draeken. When they did, Draeken possessed only the personality traits of the fragments.
“How much is the contract?” Water asked.
“Does it matter?”
He nodded. “Shadow likes to collect coins from the different kings. He wants one from the current monarch.”
“Five hundred gold,” Elenyr said with a shrug.
It was a princely sum, but gold mattered little to either of them. They had a fortune stored from the first millennia of work, before they’d switched identities. Although the line of kings didn’t know it, they’d been using Elenyr and Draeken for many generations to aid in quelling unrest, hunting bandits, and even preventing wars. Elenyr and the fragments used personas to hide their identity, and only a handful of Elenyr’s trusted friends knew the truth about Elenyr and Draeken.
“Will we ever succeed to unite as Draeken?” Water asked.
The fragment’s somber tone revealed he’d been considering the question for some time, and his brow knit together in doubt. Elenyr stepped out of the shade of the tree and came to his side, placing her hand on his arm to offer comfort.
“I’m confident you will,” Elenyr promised.
He nodded, but his expression remained uncertain. Water’s gaze was on the trade caravan, but he looked beyond it, his normally serene expression troubled. Time had less meaning for them, but Draeken wanted to be whole, and she recognized the approaching time when she would have to permit Draeken to be himself.
After all this time she knew the fragments were still drawn to each other, as if they wanted to be one, but she could not say why they still struggled to be whole. Her heart ached for them. The fragments were her family, her friends, her sons.
“What would you like to do after we deal with Bartoth?” she asked, attempting to steer the conversation to the future.
“The rock troll fortress,” he said, nodding emphatically. “I’m the only one that’s never been to Astaroth.”
“Then we will have to visit,” Elenyr said with a smile.
The region west of the unclaimed lands was the rock troll domain, the wide plateau broken by countless canyons and ravines. Forged for combat, the trolls were without peer on the battlefield, their very discipline leading to less need of outsiders, which made Bartoth such an anomaly.
The troll had been raised like any other, but unlike the rest of his people, he reportedly possessed body magic, a skill common only among the barbarian tribes of the south. Already nine feet tall and layered in muscle, Bartoth had sought the crown. His bloody rise ended when the entire populace had rebelled and exiled him to the unclaimed lands. That was ten years ago, and he’d set himself a small empire by destroying trade caravans. Even giants feared him, while the outcasts of every race had quickly flocked to his lair, a stronghold hidden in the snow-capped mountains of the deep north.
“We could return and attack him in his fortress,” Water said, a smile on his face.
He fidgeted, growing restless as they continued to wait. Elenyr couldn’t blame him. Much like Fire, Water always wanted to move, to advance. They’d visited Bartoth’s fortress twice, but Elenyr was leery of attacking such a redoubt. In physical form Elenyr could be harmed, and every fragment of Draeken had been hurt before. Attacking a few thousand bandits in a well-fortified cave would not be wise, even for them.
She considered recalling the other fragments, but they were all on other assignments, some important enough she did not want to risk them not being completed. No, she and Water would need to deal with Bartoth.
“Patience,” Elenyr said.
“Mind said you’d say that,” he said glumly.
“Oh did he?” Elenyr asked with a smile.
“He thought we should all come together and eliminate Bartoth’s lair,” Water said. “They would not be able to stop us if we were united.”
“But would you be able to control your magic as Draeken?” Elenyr asked.
Water nodded, but there was doubt in his blue eyes. “You still think we are not ready?” he asked.
He set his jaw in a firm line, as if challenging Elenyr to disagree. She recognized the influence of Fire and realized she could not keep them apart much longer. Perhaps she had already delayed them too long.
“I think you are ready,” Elenyr said.
“Really?”
Elenyr nodded and motioned to their camp. “Let us return to Verisith and speak to the others. Unless . . .”
“What?” he asked.
“If we leave, that caravan will be slaughtered.”
She feigned doubt but a hint of a smile crossed her face. Water began to laugh and pointed an accusing finger at her, sending a spray of water into her face.
“Are you trying to manipulate me?”
“I’m just showing you the options,” Elenyr said, wiping her face and flicking water back at him.
“We stay,” Water said with a nod. “But only because you’re right.”
Elenyr felt a tremor in the ground and looked to the caravan. It was deep in The Ranks, the region named for the rocky towers that resembled ranks of soldiers from a distance. The spring runoff had eroded the gaps between them while leaving the twenty foot towers, a near labyrinth of connecting corridors, dead ends, and hidden grottos. Summer had just started and water trickled through shallow creeks, with numerous patches of water hidden amongst the stone towers.
The caravan had entered the Ranks an hour ago, following the marked road that gradually ascended to the rock troll territory. A gap in the Ranks allowed Elenyr to spot the top of a wagon, where a few minutes ago a soldier had stood at a mounted crossbow. Now the man was slumped on the wagon.
“I do not think we will have to wait long,” Elenyr said.
Water turned to the caravan just as a plume of smoke rose from between the rocks and distant shouts rang out. Elenyr and Water exchanged a look and without a word leapt down the slope.
Chapter 4: Dangerous Prey
Water sprinted forward and summoned his magic from a nearby stream. It flowed up and around his body, becoming a giant wheel that picked him up and carried him down the slope, the vehicle accelerating, bouncing over rocks and brush. It reached a small cliff and sailed over, blasting through the branches of a tree before impacting lower down.
A smile split his face as the wind whipped against his tunic, the sheer speed eliciting a burst of excitement. Even after centuries of training and practice, the use of magic never grew stale, and each use was as exhilarating as the first time he’d felt the spark of power at his fingertips.
A flicker of green caught his eye and he glanced to the side, spotting Elenyr gliding in ethereal form. She had her cowl drawn over her features, her cloak billowing behind her. Her sword hung low in her hand, the metal glowing green like the rest of her form. In the flesh she was bound by the constraints of her body, but in her ethereal form she moved by will, and she veritably flew, easily keeping pace with him.
He grinned at the sight, realizing just how fearsome she must look to those they hunted. She was the Hauntress, her fearsome reputation now a legend that grew with every telling. Many regarded her as a myth, others swore she hunted oathbreakers and killers, that she was the very hand of justice.
“Stay focused,” she said. “This is not for your amusement.”
“Doesn’t mean it can’t be fun.”
“Killing is never fun.”
“Even when they need killing?”
“That sounds like Shadow.”
“He’s the one that said it.”
Beneath her cowl he spotted a faint smile. “The moment they slaughtered their first victim, they accepted their fate today,” she said. “Remember, we are here to exact justice, which can have as much heart as mercy.”
Water wondered how mercy could be part of justice. They were there to kill the offenders, to end their lives because it needed doing. Some of the other fragments enjoyed killing bandits, but Water merely enjoyed the combat. The killi
ng was a distasteful necessity.
“Focus, Water,” Elenyr said. “You strike the left flank, I’ll handle the right. Then we’ll wrap around the caravan and come together on the opposite side. Try to stay unnoticed for as long as you can.”
They veered apart and Water rolled his wheel into The Ranks, diving into the patchwork of shadows beneath the pillars of stone. Water was approaching the caravan from the north, and he caught glimpses of the line of wagons.
The first and last wagons were on fire, the flames licking into the wood and the bodies above. He recognized the tactic to trap the caravan on the road between two flaming barricades. Then he spotted a figure kneeling on top of a pillar and rolled up the side, extinguishing his wheel as he reached the top. His momentum sent him soaring up above the crossbowman aiming at the caravan.
Water landed behind the man and he clenched his fist, casting a spike of water just as the man turned. Punching once, he drove the spike through the man’s back and kicked him over the edge. His scream was brief, but drew the attention of the two neighboring men, both armed with crossbows. They rose and swiveled, shouting for aid as they took aim at Water.
Water flicked his wrist and the spike turned into a whip, which he sent snapping at the nearest, the whip coiling around his neck. Water yanked him off the pillar. His body slammed into two pillars on his way to the ground, his makeshift armor clanking on the stone, the sound mingling with his screams.
Water turned to the second but he’d already fired his crossbow, the bolt digging into Water’s chest. He grimaced in pain and yanked the bolt free, blood spilling down his tunic before water covered and healed the wound.
The surge of anger was swift and harsh. Water sent his whip at the man, catching his leg and pulling him toward the drop. He shrieked and dropped his crossbow to claw at the smooth stone, but Water pulled him off the lip and sent him plummeting below. Just before he landed on his head, Water felt a tinge of remorse and pulled, swinging him into the stone instead. His helmet struck the rock and he went still, and Water lowered him to the ground.
