Swept Away: An Epic Fantasy (The Last Elentrice Book 3)

by S McPherson

  He’d hummed for a while to keep hold of his sanity, but now lets his mind drift into ludicrous places, not caring when he laughs out loud. There’s no one around to hear him.

  A faint crunch and the feel of something hard cracks underfoot. Milo strains to see, to hear through the raging cries of the wind as he wriggles his toes. Yes. The ground, once smooth and pearl white, glinting and shifting like diamond dust, is now lined and uneven, a burnt shade of brown not unlike the bark of a tree marred with green veins. When he shifts his weight, the green substance sparks, forking out in a discord of ripples.

  He crouches and dips his finger into the luminous and sticky substance that wriggles through fractures in the wrinkled ground. Instantly it grips him like a frightened child, the cracks widen and the green glows brighter as it crawls up his arm. Milo pulls against it but the more he tugs, the faster and higher it climbs. The ground crumbles away, swirling into the wind and Milo reaches out to grab it as he’s dragged beneath the surface.

  He hits something hard, damp and slippery. His ankle snaps; he cannot tell if it’s broken or just badly sprained. He struggles to stand but only collapses. The luminous sludge still clings to him, having scaled across his hand, up his arm and around his throat—but it seems to have stopped there. Milo squints up at the eerie white light streaking down from above ground, where the wind still roars. Everything else around him is in darkness. He blinks, wincing as what feels like a thousand needles scrape across his eyeballs, filled with whatever had been raging in the gale.

  He barely has time to consider his next move when a blue haze trickles in from the distance and he hears an odd series of gurgles and squeaks, a language he knows he has heard before through his device.

  ‘Hello?’ he calls, eyes clenched shut. He attempts to stand but again pain explodes through his leg and he crumples. As the garbled language grows closer, Milo drags himself away on his hands and knees, but the speed of whatever creatures they are is faster; blurred, shapeless silhouettes shift rapidly against a pale blue glow. One minute they’re there, the next, gone.

  ‘Hello?’

  A cold rush swirls around him and he turns his gaze to follow it but still sees nothing. Then: eyes. Bulbous, yellow eyes with obsidian centres stare at him before blinking and fading away. When they reappear, they are much closer, mere inches from his own. Milo holds their gaze, his heart thrumming, his soul calling to the power within him. The eyes look over his head as more squeaks rattle in alien throats. They circle him like creatures made of wind, swivelling, howling; his mortal eyes register nothing but a transparent shimmer of white, green or gold, each possessing two yellow eyes.

  ‘What are you?’ he asks.

  Flurries of green and red lift his arms and pull him to his feet. He grimaces, drawing breath through his teeth as his ankle protests. Another apparition joins them and soon he is gliding through the air, his toes barely skimming the ground. He feels no prod of fingers nor grip of flesh, just a force that moves him on. Are they helping him? Sacrificing him? He doesn’t know what to think. His mind drowns in a deluge of possibility as his ankle throbs.

  They carry him into a narrow passageway, further from the opening above and its roar of wind, but the cold lingers like a living thing. Milo uses the creatures’ dim blue haze to help make sense of where he is. The ground he landed on was as hard as concrete, smooth and slippery. He realises now, as he gazes at the frosted walls, that it was ice.

  He cranes his neck and puckers his lips, eager to be crushed against the cool slick wet of the wall and drink the water droplets that trickle down its surface. He cannot remember the last time water touched his tongue.

  At the end of the passageway stands a vast circular enclosure with a plethora of further passages leading from it, all made of glistening, pale and frosted ice. Ice dangles from the ceiling in deadly points and dips and twirls like vines. Almost perfect spheres of the stuff gather on the wall, and what looks like blue specks of dust gleam inside them, radiating a cold light.

  Dozens upon dozens of the wind creatures shimmer and whirl about—flashes of fading colour shifting through the air, each with bulging yellow eyes that blink and disappear. Milo stands agog, trying to make sense of what he is seeing and where he might be.

  The creatures holding him slow as they near a large ice structure at the centre of the dome. It stretches from the ground to the ceiling; wide at both ends, narrow in the middle, an alcove carved into it. A deep groove in the ground surrounds the structure and Milo blanches as the creatures carefully lower him into it. As he peeks over the rim, he registers the warmth the trench offers, cocooning him between its walls of compact snow.

  When the creatures flutter away, one with a golden glow heads into the alcove, returning almost instantly with two frosted beakers swaying behind it. Milo takes them, filled with Earth’s most precious gift: water. He flinches as the cold kicks his teeth but guzzles anyway. His chest burns but he swallows past the pain until he finishes every drop in both beakers.

  ‘Thank you,’ he breathes, ‘Wind thing.’

  The creature hisses and blinks, it’s eyelids clicking as they meet.

  ‘Windling?’ he offers.

  Another hiss and click of what seems like disapproval.

  ‘Windinx?’

  This time the creature doesn’t blink or make a sound. Instead, it cocks its head, as if studying Milo for the first time, then turns its gaze to his ankle.

  ‘Just a scratch,’ Milo mumbles, knowing it’s anything but.

  The creature shrieks like a gale and Milo tightens his grip of the beaker. Without warning the Windinx bashes into the nearest wall, over and over. What can only be described as it’s wafting body slams into the ice, carving out chunks. The fragments twirl from the ground in a spiral, up into the air as they spin towards Milo. But they land with unexpected lightness on his swollen and bruised ankle. He snarls, fists clenched, jaw taut.

  ‘Just a scratch,’ he repeats through gritted teeth.

  The Windinx gurgles something in response before flittering off into one of the nearby passages. Milo snuggles down, exhaustion and relief tugging his eyelids closed.

  DANCE WHEN YOU’RE DEAD

  Lexovia sprints around the training arena; a magnificent circular hall that takes up most of the Courts lower floor. Thick ropes coil from the ceiling like snakes and pillars burst through the ground, some so sharp they resemble fangs. Lexovia charges. The pound of her feet on the concrete vibrates through her legs as she lunges over the columns, as effortlessly as if they weren’t there.

  She grips a rope in one hand and uses it as leverage to push off from the wall and swing around weapons that cling to the aged stone. Here hang a panoply of swords, tridents, spears and other items Lexovia cannot name, but she vows to master them all one day. That’s as soon as she masters her newest gifts, the ones given to her by her forebears, ones she still doesn’t fully understand nor control.

  Breathless, Lexovia lands in a crouch. She feels the zing of power in the base of her throat, and then screams with all the fury of a hurricane. The force sends her hurtling backwards as the outline of the pillar in front of her seems to shimmer seconds before it drizzles cracks and explodes. No sooner does it crumble than it reforms and Lexovia springs to her feet. She leaps onto a stone lip that juts out from the wall, then charges from it onto another and yet another, bounding higher, lower, faster and faster, always surefooted.

  Lexovia laughs, delirious on adrenalin, bewitched by her agility and speed. She has always been powerful, but since the Elenfar it is like nothing she’s ever known. Without hesitation, she dives from her high perch and onto one of the corded ropes, letting gravity drag her down. Friction grates her skin, but with barely a thought to the pain, she channels her inner Ochi. Her eyes blaze and instantly, a cool balm coats her hands in a sheen of ice that protects them as she glides the rest of the way.

  Lexovia somersaults when she’s close to the ground and lands with ease, her breaths coming in
shallow bursts. Then she twists to the sound of unexpected applause: Vladimir.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she snarls to hide her embarrassed flush as Vladimir pushes himself off the pillar he was leaning against and steps towards her with quick, almost silent strides. She has no idea how long he’s been standing there, watching her, and the thought makes her skin crawl. She’s now very aware of the hostile fumes of sweat radiating from her and of how ragged she must look. Before she can protest, Vladimir grips her hands and watches as the layer of ice melts away, leaving them smooth and tinged pink.

  His eyes meet hers with a glint of his wicked grin. ‘Clever girl.’

  She bristles and pulls her hands from his grasp, wishing he would stop looking at her in that way only he did. ‘What are you doing here?’ she pants.

  ‘You’ve been down here a while.’ He takes a step forwards.

  Lexovia steps back. ‘I need to train.’ Bending, she claims the chalice and jug of water she’d earlier placed on the ground, and downs the contents of both.

  ‘Did you always train this hard?’ Vladimir perches on one of the lower columns around the edge of the arena, the flexed fist of the Fuerté carved around its own edge.

  Lexovia sits opposite him, on a column boasting the snowflake and flame of the Ochi.

  ‘Never anywhere as grand as this,’ and she gestures to encompass the arena. Her gaze strays to all the wonder and enchantments that whirl around them, like strips of silk, and she wonders if they are only visible to her. Is this a gift purely for the Elentri or one that all Coltis possess?

  ‘Can you see those?’ she says, her voice low and curious; at ease until Vladimir settles his gaze on her like the caress of a lover’s hand. ‘The magic?’ Now her voice is barely a whisper, her mind distracted by the proximity of his legs to hers, the way his feet seem to slip nearer and his knees to brush against her own.

  Resisting the urge to reach out and touch her, Vladimir follows Lexovia’s gaze to the ceiling. The last of the day’s sunlight streams in through the line of windows that surround the upper level of the arena. He notices the twirling haze of golds and crimson, the flashing flutter of a violet enchantment, all helping the arena withstand the vigorous training sessions it has witnessed, but his eyes keep drifting back to her.

  When he doesn’t answer, she waves her hand over the chalice. ‘Aquamenté,’ she intones and water quickly rises in the cup before she takes a hefty gulp.

  ‘I see it,’ Vladimir finally says. ‘Did you ever do anything for fun?’

  Lexovia snickers, ‘I broke the rules, however and whenever I could.’ She pauses. ‘It wasn’t always fun,’ and this time she takes a sip of her water. Vladimir sees the ghost of sadness that darts across her eyes. Those large, bright, ochre eyes that now light a flame in places he didn’t even know could burn inside him.

  ‘That’s what you did to piss off the Court.’ He chuckles, remembering all too well, the day Lexovia swanned over to Taratesia and got herself discovered by the Vildacruz. In his seventeen years of life, Vladimir had never seen his father so livid. ‘But what did you do just for you?’

  Sighing, Lexovia finally turns to him. His breath hiccups as she smiles and says, ‘I danced and played the vilasacheey.’

  ‘She’s human after all,’ he grins, getting to his feet. He feels her watch him as he goes to the corner of the arena, tapping his foot against the floor. Finding the tile that sounds hollow, he crouches down and slides it to one side.

  Vladimir knows when Lexovia has come up behind him, though her feet make no sound—like she glides instead of strolls. He can tell by her smell, as if peach perfumed clouds had fallen into the ocean. He loves that scent. It follows her, and only her, everywhere she goes. Steeling himself, he forces a listless smile and turns to reveal the vilasacheey he’s pulled from his hiding place in the ground.

  ‘My dad wasn’t a fan of music,’ he explains at her puzzled look, ‘so I’d often come down here to practice and get away from it all.’ He holds it out to her. She hesitates. ‘It doesn’t bite.’

  Scowling, Lexovia snatches the instrument from him. He laughs, folding his arms. Without having to be asked, Lexovia wraps the clear upper pipe of the instrument around her throat, positioning the mouthpiece between her lips. She cradles the lower, teardrop-shaped base of the vilasacheey in her open palm, and her other hand gently strokes the strings that stretch across it.

  She inhales, her eyes closing, then blows into the instrument. A high, searing sound cries from it as she strums the crystal base, the notes merging in an intense crescendo of grace and power. Vladimir instantly recognises the melody, as the song of the Elentri fills the arena, as it climbs the walls and lashes against the ceiling, rising and ebbing like high tide. Vladimir doesn’t breathe, or if he does, he doesn’t feel it; gasping breathlessly when the music finally falls to a lull. She keeps her eyes closed.

  A thumb wipes a tear from her cheek. Lexovia opens her eyes unaware she had tears to cry. That song always did that to her. It brought back memories from so long ago. Of nights spent around a ditch of flames with other Elentri laughing and whooping whilst her mother danced and her father played the vilasacheey. Even after her father and all other Elentri, had been killed and only her and her mother remained, hidden away in Telathrodon, her mother still danced, only then Lexovia played the vilasacheey—not well, but it cheered her mother, as though it were the sound of diamonds falling from the sky. And for years after her mother had died, making Lexovia the last Elentrice and the most protected weapon of Coldivor, Lexovia still danced and played the vilasacheey, now all on her own.

  Her eyes meet Vladimir’s, recognising the pain in them. His fingers brush her neck as he unwraps the pipe from around her throat and places it around his own, taking the base with him.

  ‘Do you know the dance?’ he asks, and she nods, unable to form words. Her skin tingles where his fingers touched.

  ‘Show me,’ and Vladimir pinches the mouthpiece between his own lips, playing the melody just as profoundly as she had. After seconds of simply swaying, Lexovia finds her feet effortlessly recalling each step: the taps, the leaps, the twirls. She skirts across the ground, the arena becoming a late-night bonfire, her a three-year-old without a care in the world. Her arms rise, twirl and fall with each passing chord and she smiles, as not magic but joy rallies through her. In this moment, this one fleeting fragment of her life, she is fulfilled.

  Arms snake around her waist and she opens her eyes to see Vladimir. She glances at the vilasacheey, propped against a pillar and clearly enchanted to play itself. She lets him guide her, spinning her, lifting her, wrapping her body around his shoulders and lowering her to the ground. He crawls over her then draws her to her feet, wrapping one of her legs around his waist. She gasps, never noticing before how sensual this dance is. Her heart races as his deep russet eyes bore into hers. The music still plays but he simply holds her against him and she doesn’t move an inch.

  ‘Forgive me, senior,’ a bitter voice slices through the moment, like the blunt edge of a knife, and hastily Lexovia pulls away as Brixen stalks into the arena, looking ready for a fight, ‘but I didn’t realise there was cause for dancing.’

  Vladimir goes to the vilasacheey, silencing it, and smirks, ‘There’s always cause for dancing, Brixen.’

  ‘You won’t be dancing when you’re dead,’ Brixen growls and anger burns behind Vladimir’s gaze.

  ‘Is that a challenge?’

  ‘Brixen, tell me something,’ Lexovia snaps, the memories of dancing, laughter and being held in Vladimir’s arms fast fading. ‘Do you always rush to answer the call of the vilasacheey or is there a reason you’re here?’

  Vladimir grins. Brixen sneers.

  ‘The last members we sent out to spy on the Exlathars, they have returned,’ he snarls then storms out of the arena, Lexovia and Vladimir close behind.

  Lexovia stares blankly, her fists clenched, stomach roiling. Her eyes flash in Brixen’s direction, not missi
ng the smug look on his face as Vladimir enters the great hall and comes to an abrupt stop. Pained and sickened faces gape back at him, some with tears and blood smeared across their brow or spotting their cheeks.

  Brixen spoke the truth; the members they sent out to spy on the Exlathars have at last returned, but what he conveniently forgot to mention was that they’ve done so in pieces, barely recognisable. Their mutilated carcasses lay piled in a heap on the steps of the Court. The great doors stand open, welcoming in the musky night air, daggers of starlight and stench of death.

  Lexovia growls, quelling the urge to gouge out Brixen’s smirking eyes as together they near the rotting forms. She watches Vladimir. His steps thump like a dying heart, slowing the closer he gets. His expression is hard to read: lips pressed to a thin line, eyes: numb. He stands stock still, staring down at the crumpled heap of bodies and limbs. Xyens are still clutched in dead hands, morphing from polished bone to black marble. Gaping mouths and wide eyes stare blindly at the ceiling.

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ Vladimir rumbles, his voice low like oncoming thunder. The surrounding Court members wait silently for him to go on but Brixen scoffs, snatching Vladimir’s gaze. ‘Why did they do this?’

  ‘Why?’ Brixen splutters.

  ‘Yes!’ Vladimir barks, his face creased by fury. ‘Why?’ He swivels to address those around him and a gentle wind tousles his hair. ‘Exlathars attack for food, in Feasting season. Or they attack when provoked.’ Wild rage coats his every word. ‘Our members…these members,’ and he thrusts a hand out at the mangled heap beyond the door, ‘were told to remain hidden; not threatening. And they have not been killed for food. No! They have been slaughtered, mutilated and then dumped at our door.’