The men and woman gather on the shore and try to see where the Feykin is hiding, the roiling water making it impossible to see beyond the foam. With a spray of water, their target leaps out of the rapids and slashes one of the cultists across the knees. The woman tumbles into the river where she is dragged to the bottom and killed by Phelan. He launches the body into the others and uses the confusion to yank two more enemies into the river. Instead of killing them quickly, the Feykin manipulates the riverbed to trap his victims up to their necks and leaves them to drown. A wave of spears fly out from Rhundar to pummel the remaining cultists, which gives the blue-haired man an opening to claim another target.
“Use the disintegration orbs!” the cultists’ leader yells, his body shivering from severe blood loss. A spike of water bursts through his stomach as Sari crouches next to him. “You disgusting, vile freak of nature. No matter how many of us are killed, more will join our ranks. It’s only a matter of time before you’re overrun.”
“Then I’ll flood the jungle and get rid of everyone who could become a threat,” the gypsy whispers into the man’s ear. She slowly pushes her dagger into his head, delivering a few twists as the blade enters his brain. “I want you to keep one alive and unharmed, Phelan! We need to question them and see if we can find out where their leadership is hiding. I’m going to take care of the trolls.”
Sari drops to the ground when one of the massive beasts is sent flying over her head and into the jungle. Rolling away from the returning monster, she sees the other one is wrestling with a figure who is blocked by its hulking form. The gypsy expects it to be Timoran, but spots the barbarian across the river with Delvin, Luke, and the rescued children. When she picks Dariana out of the crowd, Sari finds herself confused on who else could have the strength to physically battle a pair of trolls.
The answer is revealed when Nyx lifts the monster over her head, the channeler’s body pulsing with crimson energy. Her muscles are enhanced beyond their limits and a magic-induced rage has blinded her to the fact that the enchanted shields are no longer a threat. The half-elf tears the troll in half and leaves it to regenerate while sprinting for her other enemy. Nyx slams her shoulder into the beast’s stomach, the matted hair acting like armor. She flips the monster over her head and whirls around to repeatedly stomp on its heads, every blow switching from one long-nosed face to the other. When the previously injured troll reattaches its two halves, it roars at the channeler and burrows into the earth. Before it can attack from below, Nyx leaps forward and drives her hand into the dirt. She yanks the terrified predator to the surface and delivers a wild haymaker that sends it flying into the trees. Turning back to the other troll, she finds that it has already retreated into the jungle. The half-elf moves to follow the beasts, but stops when Sari puts a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“I think you’ve made your point,” the gypsy whispers with a smirk. She nods her head toward Delvin, whose face has gone pale while he inches behind Timoran. “Guess somebody else is going to think twice before angering you. Zohara got a good look at your full power too. This is a victory on several fronts for you.”
Still controlled by her rage, Nyx grabs her friend by the neck and lifts her off the ground. A guttural growl slips from the channeler’s mouth as the gypsy flails in her vise-like grip. Sari draws a dagger and raises it to strike, but catches her own hand before the weapon can come down. A wave of calm comes over both women, the pair hearing Dariana’s voice singing in their heads. It has a stronger effect on Sari, which prevents her from fighting Nyx’s gradual crushing of her throat. The gypsy is blacking out when her world is covered in rainbow mist and the channeler collapses in a heap. Succumbing to Fizzle’s breath, the crimson energy enveloping the whimpering half-elf dies down and her quivering hands slip off her friend’s neck.
“I should kill you for that since nobody can see us in here,” Sari gasps as she crawls forward and raises the dagger again. The words scare her and she drops the weapon, her eyelids starting to feel heavy. “I’m sorry, Nyxie. That wasn’t right. You didn’t mean to hurt me, big sis. We’ll talk in the morning after we sleep.”
*****
“Why are you here?” Delvin asks when Phelan climbs to the top of the scaffolding. The champion takes Zohara’s hand as if to protect her from the other man. “I know you’re the Queen’s consort and one of our best hunters, but this isn’t your business. So go back into the crowd and help maintain order.”
“I’m here on Sari’s behalf since she is unable to join us. Somebody has to be her representative while she tends to her friend,” Phelan replies, his voice loud enough to be heard by the crowd. A cheer of support erupts from half of the gathered Feykin, causing the blue-haired man to bow toward them. “Our Queen is concerned about your ex-lover and she fears that the Callindor will be in attendance. We didn’t know that he’d be sent with the barbarian to hunt down the trolls. Curious that you don’t want your old friends here, your majesty.”
“First of all, Nyx and I never got to the lover stage. Never made it beyond friendship, so that barb missed its mark,” Delvin answers, taking a step forward. He relaxes when his fiancée puts a gentle hand on his chest and delicately runs her fingernails along his neck. “As for my friends not being here, I didn’t want them to stop me. It’s time we uncovered more information about the Order and there’s only one way to do that. This won’t be pretty or clean, but we’re running out of time. These people getting so close to the barrier and them threatening the children is proof of that.”
Phelan nods and goes to a table, which is covered in sharpened implements of various sizes and shapes. A sigh of contentment brings his attention to the cultist who has been stripped naked and bound to a chair. The man stares at the surrounding mob of Feykin and laughs whenever they curse at him or throw handfuls of mud. Thinking he is not being watched by those on the scaffolding, he spits at Zohara and hits her on the cheek. Two loud cracks echo throughout Rhundar when Phelan and Delvin punch the cultist in the face at the same time. The prisoner’s head hangs limp and blood drips from his mouth until the benevolent priestess revives him with a small healing spell. Several Feykin voice their dislike of her actions, stopping only when the energy atop the elemental towers flares and shakes the city.
“That is the only one you will get and it comes at a price,” Zohara whispers to the groggy cultist. She pinches him on the cheek and watches his hazel eyes bulge from the unexpected agony. “Your pain will now be increased tenfold. A tiny cut will feel like the deepest slice from a rusty sword. The spell ends when you tell us what the Order of the Kehryhor is planning and where they are hiding.”
“Kill me now because I won’t speak,” the cultist proudly says. The sound of a blade being sharpened brings his attention to Phelan, the Feykin examining a pronged knife. “None of you have the courage to torture another living thing. Especially your rulers, who we know are called champions outside of the jungle. This is why my people will win the war. Only we have the dedication and fortitude to do whatever it takes to claim victory.”
“I really can’t tell what you’re gloating about,” Delvin says as he eases Zohara back a few steps. He slams the edge of his shield onto the cultist’s knee, snapping the bone and using his magic to keep the screaming man conscious. “I think I heard you hint at me being a coward and your people being insane zealots. Makes me wonder if we could set up a trap for all of your people to blindly walk into. That way Windemere would be rid of your presence with very little effort on our part. Sadly, it isn’t that easy and we can’t kill you until we learn a few things. Tell us where the Order is hiding and what you are planning. The more you say, the less pain you’ll feel.”
“Our plan is simple,” the blonde-haired cultist answers with a laugh. He reflexively whimpers when he moves his leg and finds that he is unable to pass out from the pain. “All of you will be purged from the land. Abominations have terrorized pure beings for too long. We will continue to hunt your kind down until Rhundar is
your only refuge. Then one day, your barrier will fail and the Order will consume you like a cleansing flame devours diseased bodies during a plague.”
“We already know about that plan,” Delvin states while rubbing his chin. With a shrug, the warrior snaps his fingers and turns away from the prisoner. “Maybe that question is too vague and unimportant. Your kind haven’t shown much interest beyond genocide, so we should stop thinking there’s a deeper reason than hate and fear. Our only goal is to stop you, which can be through violence or negotiation. Let one of our hunters demonstrate the first option since we have an audience.”
Spinning the pronged knife and a corkscrew, Phelan whistles a happy tune that the crowd adds words to. Approaching the prisoner, the blue-haired man licks his lips and does a playful dance for the last few steps. He runs the knife around the cultist’s neck, putting only enough pressure to scratch the skin. With the help of Zohara’s spell, the tiny marks are like the slow slitting of the human’s throat. The prisoner’s gasps for air and blood-filled coughs are music to Phelan’s ears as he circles his victim and meticulously decides on what to do next. Tossing the pronged tool over his shoulder, the Feykin finger-flicks the cultist’s bare chest and grins at the groans of agony. Normally the tiny strikes would be nothing more than annoyances, but now they are as bad as being repeatedly punched in the ribs by an enraged ogre.
“Tell us every base of the Order,” Phelan demands, straddling the cultist’s lap. A gentle slap to the cheek has enough force to make the prisoner’s head snap to the side. “We already know about the border traps like the one in Anpress. I want to know about the big ones. The pain will end when you reveal the barracks, resources, and headquarters of the Order. Helping us may even lead to a more gentle demise.”
“Never tell a prisoner that they’re going to die no matter what they say,” Delvin mutters while rubbing his eyes. Walking behind the cultist, he delivers a harmless pat to the man’s shoulder and yawns. “Let me make a better deal with you since my friend here has no true power or influence. If you give us the information, you’ll be allowed to live in exile. You will be given supplies and one of my friends will take you to where the jungle meets the desert. Then you walk west. Maybe some nomads will help or you’ll make it all the way to Bor’daruk under your own power. My point is that giving us what we want will grant you a slim chance at survival.”
The cultist struggles against his bonds as he exclaims, “Go back to your whore and rot!”
“Screw him in the stomach, Phelan.”
“And you call yourself a noble champion?”
“Let’s say I’m going back to my roots.”
The anxious cultist tenses when he feels the tip of the corkscrew on his exposed flesh and sucks in a breath. With his eyes clenched shut, he is surprised that nothing is happening and the crowd has gone quiet. Risking a glance, the man sees Phelan is unable to move no matter how much the blue-haired Feykin tries. Delvin and Zohara are unaffected by whatever has frozen the others, but their angry glares show that they are not behind the strange attack. Muscles twitching, the muttering hunter leaves the prisoner’s lap and returns the torture instruments to their original place. As an afterthought, Phelan flips the table and sends the polished tools tumbling off the scaffolding. The people below move back enough to avoid getting struck by the dangerous objects, none of them aware of their own actions.
“This is unsavory,” Dariana says as she appears in front of the cultist. She touches his face, her cool fingers easing the pain flowing from his wounds. “Please tell me the truth, Warvil. Yes, I can read your thoughts. There is a strong will within your heart and mind, so it would be a fight to punch through to what I want. It would hurt and I don’t want to do that. My friends don’t really want to do that too, but your people threaten their world. Just like the Order, they are driven by fear and hate.”
“Wrong, creature. We are driven by righteousness,” the man replies, his breathing become ragged. The unflinching gaze of the silver-haired woman bores into his psyche and he can feel her picking at his mental edges. “You may not be a fae-blood, but I can tell that you’re another abomination. As I said, best to kill me because I won’t betray the Order. My thoughts are too strong for you to pierce. Not that you are any braver than your friends. Far too nice and noble to get your hands dirty.”
“For your information, I’m more natural than you could ever dream. A child of the purest light and vilest darkness,” the telepath whispers, sliding onto the man’s lap. As their foreheads touch, her thumbs massage his temples and she begins to peel away his thoughts. “You are right that champions should not commit these acts. Yet we are still mortal and have our limits. It seems your group has pushed the boundaries of a few of my friends, which makes me mad. I will do anything to protect them even from their own actions, including accepting a life of guilt and shame.”
“Empty words from a cowardly woman.”
“If only that were true.”
“What kind of hero would do this?”
“One that knows she can live with it.”
With her eyes turning black, Dariana plunges into the man’s mind and shreds his feeble attempts to block her. She realizes that members of the Order are enhanced to resist Feykin powers, but they are no match for her god-born abilities. The telepath has a vague awareness of the cultist screaming from the agony of her intrusion. Blood seeps from his eyes, ears, and nose due to the combination of Dariana’s forceful searching and Zohara’s lingering spell. Meeting the last wall of resistance, the champion mentally punches through the barrier and gives herself access to all of his memories. It is a challenge to hold onto the cultist since his body is convulsing and threatening to tip the chair off the scaffolding. Once Dariana finds what she is looking for, she whispers a prayer of forgiveness to Zaria and turns the man off. The Feykin are silent as they stare at the limp form that Dariana pulls from the chair and gently places on the floor.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Delvin says, shocked by what he has seen. With a quivering hand, he reaches toward his friend, who smacks his hand away. “Everything was under control, Dariana. You could have stayed away or watched from the back of the crowd. None of this is your problem.”
“You didn’t give me a choice,” the telepath states, her throat hoarse and filled with a bitter taste. A wave of hatred makes her dizzy and she prods the lifeless figure with her toe. “It seems these people despise all of you to their core. This one will never wake up again, which is now my burden to bear. Know that I have more experience than you when it comes to living with dark actions, my friend. So be angry with me if you must, but I did what was necessary to protect you from crossing a line that you could never come back from.”
“Thank you,” Zohara says, putting a finger to her fiancée’s lips. She steps between the two champions and keeps her back to Delvin. “I appreciate what you have done for my love. If you ever need help to ease your burdens then please come see me. Were you able to get the information that we wanted?”
Dariana wipes away a trail of blood that is dribbling from her nose and winces at a looming headache. “Yes, but it is not what you expected. The border activities have recently been shut down because of Delvin and Sari rallying Rhundar. We arrived in Anpress the day that the orders were made, which is why they were still in operation. To consolidate their forces and prepare for a great march, the Order only has three locations left. An orchard for resources, the prison that will be purged after Rhundar falls, and a town . . . No . . . A city of cultists. Will this be a problem?”
“Not at all,” Delvin answers with a grin on his face. The warrior holds up his blank shield to get a booming war cry from the excited Feykin. “Now we can plan a war and wipe those bastards out in one blow. This will all be over soon.”
7
The yellow autumn moon is peeking over the jungle while its crimson sibling fights to retain its rule over the sky. The annual struggle between Ult and Vir goes unnoticed by the small group stand
ing on top of the Earth Tower. A collection of large, glistening stones has been embedded in the middle of the roof, some of the smaller rocks having benches carved into their sides. There are several names etched into the boulders, each one in a different handwriting. Covering the rest of the roof, smooth pebbles are scattered about a layer of dirt that is fringed with tiny, puffball flowers. Possibly the last of the season, fat fireflies drift around the plants and mingle with nocturnal bees. The buzzing, ebony insects provide the only sounds beyond the distant symphony of the jungle. Glancing at the sky, the adventurers can see the faint forms of large bats hunting for fist-sized moths in the orange moonlight.
Hoping to keep their conversation private, Fizzle and the four champions remain by the trapdoor. Whenever the hinges creak, the tense group swiftly talks about something other than their absent friends. Looking worn and ragged from hunting the trolls, Luke and Timoran provide some extra insurance by keeping their senses focused on the entrance. Neither of the warriors are injured, but the quiet barbarian repeatedly examines the fresh slice on his studded bracer. Being a present from Sari, he fights the urge to consider the damage an omen of misfortune for the gypsy. The champions pass around a flask of water and a bag of the treated berries, Nyx hesitant to try them until Fizzle has one first. Still in her dirt-caked clothes, the channeler has only been conscious for a few hours and her memories of the day’s events are muddled. It takes her friends several minutes to help her sort through the remaining haze and jumbled images.
Charms of the Feykin Page 15
