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

by S McPherson

  Milo doesn’t turn, his eyes trained on the scenes of massacre sculptured before him. ‘Forgive the intrusion,’ he purrs as he snakes a hand towards the Elutheran twig.

  Diez chuckles without humour. ‘Where is she?’ he asks, his tone as deep and hollow as a crypt.

  Milo clenches his jaw. Had Diez come hoping to find Dezaray instead of him? Did the torches burn for her?

  ‘What is this?’ and Milo gestures to the figures. He still doesn’t turn as his fingers coil around the twig of dark magic. His voice is steady, confident, a great contrast to the tumult within him.

  ‘Have you come alone, lad?’ Diez asks, what sounds like a sneer on his lips.

  ‘What is this?’ Milo repeats harshly, at last turning to face the man. No, not a man; a reflection of nightmares. His skin is burnt; raw and flaking, in parts stretched and gnarled. His chin angles to a severe point, long enough to scrape his chest, and his eyes are bright pools of cyan. Fangs jut from between his thin lips and a charcoal Mohawk hangs heavy to one side.

  Diez grins, clearly noticing the way Milo has halted, the way his face twisted with disgust, though not enough to mask his fear. Quickly, Milo turns back to the markings and figures and clenches the stone in an attempt to tame his pulse. At the same time, he stealthily pushes the Elutheran twig up his sleeve. He is rigid when he again asks, ‘What is this?’

  A swift breeze shakes the flames as Diez glides to where Milo stands. He hovers inches off the ground, his teeth flashing as he snarls at the sculptures. ‘This is my glory, love. And your Dezaray,’ at which figure he hungrily leers, the one lying bound on the mountain top, ‘is the key.’

  Milo’s hands twitch, longing to reach for the sword at his side but something tells him Diez will expect it, so he lets the half-man continue.

  ‘Do you know that Dezaray has within her the potential to be as damning as Lexovia?’ and his eyes gleam; he looks racked with fever and poison. ‘That is, of course, only after Lexovia parts from this world.’

  ‘You’re referring to the C.P. Myth,’ Milo growls, stepping away from the cold sting that radiates from Diez, prickling his skin. ‘Of course I know it.’

  ‘And did you know that when infused with Elutheran magic, Dezaray can tap into that potential whilst Lexovia still lives? She can be a new Elentrice, a darker, more deadly kind, eager to satisfy my every whim,’ and he trails a pointed finger down the length of Dezaray’s bound body.

  Rage bites at Milo’s gut and he has his sword out faster than he thought possible. ‘Stay away from her.’

  Diez snickers. He has struck a nerve and by the look on his face, that was his intention. He lunges straight at Milo, not caring when the blade pierces his flesh. Barely wincing, he snatches the sword from Milo’s stunned grip and drives it into the ground, where it sways back and forth but does not fall.

  ‘I will.’ His lips twist into a sneer. ‘But I can’t guarantee she’ll stay away from me.’

  He reaches a hand out for Milo who runs, fumbling for the gethadrox. He doesn’t know what Diez has planned but cannot help feeling that his being here is a part of it.

  But then Diez manifests in front of him, a sheen of black descending around his dark robes. ‘I really thought she would have come with you.’

  ‘Looks like you don’t know everything.’ Milo darts the other way but Diez reappears. Milo turns again, but Diez is there, barely working up a sweat and seeming to be enjoying the chase.

  ‘I know enough,’ Diez drawls in his smooth voice, each word seeming to drizzle from his mouth like melted chocolate. He grips Milo by the scruff of his neck, his eyes bathing him in an eerie glow. ‘I know she loves you.’

  Milo winces, biting down a grunt as a searing pain, like burning needles, grips his wrists then yanks him up through the air and slams him agonisingly into a spire of rock, around which his arms become shackled. Then the force around his wrists seems to rotate, puncturing his skin.

  ‘She won’t come here,’ Milo snarls, but Diez simply smirks, moving towards him on a phantom wind.

  ‘How little you know her, lad,’ he tuts, plucking a pincer-like tool from thin air. ‘Dezaray will come here…’ he grins, his fangs now flared. ‘She’ll come here for you. And she’ll stay here for me.’

  And as Milo tugs against the invisible ties binding him to the rock, Diez closes the gap between them.

  AND SO THE TIDE CHANGES

  Vladimir braces himself, not sure why his nerves tremor at the thought of opening the doors to the training arena. He can hear her moving around on the other side; grunting, puffing, slamming into things. He easily remembers the last time he was in the arena with her. The way her body felt against his and how the sound of the vilasacheey transformed her from his perfect weapon to his perfect woman. He always thought she was beautiful but that day… He loosens a breath. That day she was striking. Without a care. And that calm radiated through her like golden rays of sunlight.

  But just as easily, he remembers the previous night, when she stormed from the Court with Yvane and Howard in tow and him the cause of it. Illogically, a part of him smiles at the memory. How she can go from something as delicate as lace to a snarling viper is quite a talent. One that makes his fists clench and heart race. Come to think of it, nearly everything about her has that effect on him.

  Vladimir frowns, shaking his head. ‘Get a grip,’ he tells himself then cautiously pushes open the doors. His stomach flips at the sight of her. She swivels a xyen in her hands, swipes at rising columns, strikes the air. Gosh, he’s missed her. She was only gone a night but he felt her absence like a lost limb. No one sat beside him whilst they ate their evening meal, sprawled out on sand bags. No one poked holes in Brixen’s many tales of triumph over creatures of the Vildacruz and no one nudged him over so they could rest their feet beside him. He thought he’d always felt at home in the Court, not necessarily happy but comfortable, but now he wonders if she’s startled him from that comfort, as if on edge, as if watching and putting her before him will now be his norm. He wonders if what he once saw as his home might just be a house without her in it.

  Silently, he steps across the stone tiles admiring the way her body twists and arches, how her muscles ripple and her teeth flash. Her silver hair falls carelessly into her face and sweat glistens on her brow like crystal beads. He sucks in a breath as her ochre eyes snap in his direction. Stunning. Fierce. She barely spares him a glance, returning to mauling the column in front of her that then dutifully collapses and reforms.

  He grimaces, convinced she’s imaging that pillar as his head, the ass that sent Yvane away. He runs his fingers along the weapon-riddled wall, until they coil around a xyen and he tugs it down. Lexovia doesn’t pay him any attention but he knows she knows he’s here. She is infuriatingly difficult to sneak up on, so he doesn’t bother trying.

  Instead, he charges over, skidding between her and the column, and blocks her xyen with his. They clash with a violent blaze of white light. She sneers and lunges again, the gilded leaves of the weapon deftly close to his throat. He chuckles, thrusts out and whacks her in the side. She barely winces before she swipes again, this time for his knees. He leaps back, smacking his head on the column he’d forgotten was behind him, and she purses her lips, chewing back laughter. He grins. He would hit his head all day to hear her laugh.

  ‘Ku-ta,’ he hisses. The xyen folds with a vicious snap but Lexovia is swift, dodging out of the way before she strikes again; one of the leaves nicks his sleeve. His eyes dart to the patch of flesh now visible through the torn fabric.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ he murmurs. ‘Ku-ta!’ and his weapon bangs straight. The xyens thwack against each other, one thunderous crack after another. The two of them spring off the walls as they pounce and lash. Lexovia whoops as she gets him again, this time slicing the fabric over his chest. It falls open and he smirks as he notices her eyes linger a moment longer than necessary.

  ‘Like what you see?’

  ‘Would be better if it was bleedi
ng,’ she snarls but attacks clumsily, her face flushed, and he easily disarms her, knocking her weapon from her hands and sending it skidding across the floor.

  She throws a punch, and dropping his xyen, he blocks it with his forearm. She goes again and again, one stunning blow after the other at impressive speed, but he dodges or deflects each one. Her final punch, he catches, clutching her fist in his own before strapping her arm around her neck and pinning her back against him.

  ‘Why so angry, little one?’ he grins against her ear. She squirms, breathless and no doubt furious as he chuckles. A blast of warm mist causes them to leap apart, leaving behind a Rijjleton guard who eyes them suspiciously. ‘My liege,’ he then says, ‘the Portologists have arrived. The gethadrox is ready.’

  Lexovia straightens, swallowing down a pang in her chest. The gethadrox is ready. This should be good news, yet all she can think is that Vladimir will leave now. He will head for Vedark and may never return. She attempts to read his expression as he nods and says ‘Thank you’.

  The Rijjleton guard nods in return then disappears the way he came.

  ‘In Vedark, you’ll find Diez,’ Lexovia says, retrieving the towel she left on the ground and wiping herself down. She had hoped to tell him later, calmly and with more time, but it seems life has other plans. He says nothing but looks at her expectantly. ‘I went to the Elutheran site where the plant still grows. A message from Diez was written in the mist.’

  Vladimir seems to wrestle with a burst of fury and a flash of fear, and she can’t help knowing they are both for her.

  ‘You went to Taratesia?’ he asks, his voice threateningly calm.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘To the very site of dark magic?’

  ‘Yes,’ and she takes a swig of her water, if only to distract herself from his glare.

  ‘Explain,’ he growls.

  ‘I didn’t go alone,’ she says as if that makes it any better. The look on his face tells her it doesn’t.

  ‘Do you realise how reckless and dangerous and stupid that was?’

  She half smiles, sadness taking away the joy of fighting him, ‘You’re going to Vedark.’

  ‘I’m the Senior of the Court,’ he cries, incredulously. ‘It’s my duty to risk my life for my people.’

  ‘And what’s my duty?’ she snaps. ‘You’re happy to put me in harm’s way any other day.’

  ‘That’s not the same.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’ He makes to leave but she steps into his path, arms folded, if only to keep him there longer.

  ‘How is it different?’

  Vladimir meets her gaze, and for a long moment neither says a thing, both panting, both glaring.

  She uses the time to memorise his face. The way his dark eyes trace her own. The way stubble speckles his chin, growing quickly since his last shave, and how his thick locks of hair slip from the strap of leather he’s wrapped around them and fall into his face.

  ‘Because I’m there, with you,’ he says at last. ‘and you are never in danger, not really, not when I am there to protect you.’

  Lexovia’s eyes widen, her heart stutters and the air feels warm, almost smothering. Her mouth opens and closes as she hunts for words.

  But then he looks away, a second too soon, and says, ‘As I protect all my people.’

  She swallows the words she was about to say and winces at his.

  He lets out a heavy sigh. ‘I will be leaving Brixen in charge.’

  Lexovia grimaces, ‘Great.’

  ‘And you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You and Brixen. You will both be of equal rank whilst Baxter and myself are away. I’ll go and announce it.’

  Once again, he turns to leave but stops, smirking at her dumfounded expression. ‘You didn’t really think I’d leave and give over complete control to Brixen?’ he scoffs.

  She grins, ‘I suppose not, but…’

  He raps his knuckles against her chin. ‘Try not to fall apart without me.’

  She furrows her brow, tingles buzzing up and down her, but she doesn’t have time to ask exactly what he means by that as he strides from the arena.

  It isn’t long before the departing Court members have gathered their belongings and assembled outside, anxious to leave to Vedark and hopefully return victorious, or just simply return. The plan is fairly straightforward: discover the realm of the enemy and find a way to lure them back.

  The Court members’ usual emerald cloaks have been replaced with fitting black combat attire, and weapons of all kinds have been draped around each, hanging from hefty body chains.

  Lexovia descends the garden steps and stands beside Howard as more members follow. Her stomach is in knots, her whole body stiff as she grapples with a torrent of emotions that whirl within her. She doesn’t meet Vladimir’s eye, though she knows he watches her. She feels the warmth of his body as he steps towards her and the caress of his roving glare.

  ‘You’re in charge now. Try not to do anything daft, little one,’ he murmurs, sheathing a dagger and pushing it into a loop on his body chain of weapons.

  Lexovia half smiles and forces herself to meet his stare. ‘Try not to die.’

  He grins, as she’d expected him to do, then nods. ‘Agreed.’

  He steps back, towards Amethyst, Baxter and the others, as though reluctant to turn away from her. Eventually, he does, joining the tight circle they have formed, Teltreporthis beside non-Teltreporthis. In order for the gethadrox to work to its fullest, they will have to journey to Taratesia’s ocean, where they will be able to harness the water’s energy. A crowd has gathered around them, everyone there to see them off and wish them well.

  ‘Three clicks to the right,’ reminds Matthew, the lead Portologist in the remaking of the gethadrox.

  Vladimir nods and joins hands with those beside him.

  ‘For the Coltis!’ they bellow, and he takes one last look over his shoulder, his gaze hitting Lexovia’s before he vanishes in a burst of blues, reds and golds.

  The salty sea air smacks them like a cold fish and the waves of the ocean rise and roar, lapping against the shore. If its aggression is a warning, the Court choose to ignore it, flanking themselves in three rows of three as they march into the ocean. The weight of the weapons and the water’s current drag against them but they stay stoic and in position as they wade through the tide.

  When the water is up to his knees, Vladimir pulls out the gethadrox, the moon reflecting from its glass top. It looks no different to the gethamot, only larger and a shade of bronze rather than gold, though the Portologists assured them that the inner mechanisms are where the changes truly lie.

  Vladimir taps the centre with a gloved hand and the glass disk rises from the base; another notable difference. He twists the disk, a distinct popping sound each time it turns, and counts to three as everyone waits with bated breath and before a robust opaque arrow stretches out across the sea.

  JUST A TASTE

  Milo flickers back to consciousness and struggles to piece together bits of his fragmented memory. His mouth throbs and blood drizzles down his swollen jaw. He winces as a sharp pain shoots up his spine and into his head, jolting him awake. Blinking, Milo sees he’s in the same place Diez left him, his hands still bound around the spire of rock. He tugs against the invisible shackles, his muscles screaming and pulled tight. His vision is hazy, like a thin veil has been drawn over his eyes, and the stench of boiled flesh is overwhelming.

  Torches continue to burn in the distance and a shadow occasionally passes between them: Diez. Milo snarls, and with trembling fingers, fumbles behind him, reaching for the twig of Elutheran magic he’d tucked up his sleeve. The stick is heavier than it should be and pulses like a dying heart. Milo hesitates, the twig poised to drip onto his bound wrists. He remembers all the stories he was told as a child, of how so many were driven mad by the dark power of the plant, morphing to a barely recognisable shell of themselves, feasting on turmoil and terror. The most infecte
d ended their own lives, some peeling off their skin, snacking on their flesh or setting themselves ablaze. The rest were hunted, butchered by those who feared them and the incredible dark gifts the plant had bestowed upon them.

  For some, just a drop of the cyan fluid was enough to make them lose their minds. For others, it happened over time, slowly chipping away at the person he or she once was.

  Milo grimaces and pulls against the force that punctures his wrists like a hundred frozen needles. He yanks and heaves feeling the trickle of blood roll from his shredded wrists, down his hands and over his fingers. He is trapped and left with one way out. If dark magic holds him here, no doubt, it is the only thing that can be its undoing.

  Shaking off the last of his doubt and fear, Milo rolls the stick between his fingers and drops a small amount of the liquid onto his skin. Instantly, he feels the toxin rise within him like bile followed by a lurching dip in his gut. Cyan seeps into his vision, clouding it, and his hair falls into his face, suddenly slick with sweat. The twig falls from his feverish grip, and for a while, listless, he hangs from the rock, head slumped and body heavy.

  Time stretches out as Milo strives to lift his aching head and clear the fog from his mind. Refusing to be gripped by fear, he focuses on his breath. Then, involuntarily, his fingers twitch, his head snaps up, his eyes now wide as if seeing everything for the first time. He feels everything too, the gravelly scratch of sand, the powdered cushion of soil. He even feels the folds in the fabric of his clothes, like fingers prodding him in his side. The reek of brimstone and burning flesh coat his nostrils, more intense than they were before, but this time something squirms in his stomach; an unfriendly desire. He inhales and savours the sickly scent.

  Clenching his fists and gritting his teeth, Milo yanks his arms apart and shatters the force that binds them. The rock crumbles. His wrists burn as blood flows like wine from their lacerations, and he hears the wind whistle as Diez charges at him, cutting through the air like a blade. Milo’s whole body tingles as he leaps up and bounds out of the way.