“We have a spell slinger!” Nyx shouts, hoping to prevent Delvin from entering. She cringes when a piece of the ceiling is knocked loose by a deflected spell, the chunk splintering against her barrier. “This place is falling apart, so let me handle it. I can protect myself if the wall collapses, but I might not be able to save both of us. Not with this cheater flinging magic around like he knows what he’s doing.”
“You casters always look down on wand workers like me,” Emil complains while stepping out into the open. Several pieces of the door are embedded in his face, the blood giving him a crimson mask. “I might not have put in a lifetime or even a childhood of training, but I take magic very seriously. Using the right combination of wands is essential to my trade. Not all of us can be blessed with potent auras or a natural intuition of all things arcane.”
“All I’m hearing is someone crying about not getting into a caster academy,” the half-elf replies before sending a burst of force along the floor. The hazy blast sputters when the warden swiftly draws a wand and dispels the attack. “Of course, you have a negation wand. Not like you people have any other way to defend yourselves. To be fair, I have no problem with wands and those who use them sparingly. My issue is with someone like you who collect so many that you think you’re a true caster. The mentality reeks of insecurity and jealousy.”
“You don’t even know me!”
“You’re part of an organization that is dedicated to genocide. I doubt I’m too far off from the truth.”
“We work to purify our home of the evil Feykin.”
“So you’re insecure, egotistical, and stupid.”
Nyx turns her shield into an orb of light, which she launches at the halfling. Unable to use his negation wand in time, Emil is forced to dodge the attack and close his eyes to avoid being blinded by the explosion. With a gnarled rod of bone, he spins the invisible whip in a circle to keep the charging half-elf away. The random switching of the weapon’s direction prevents her from doing anything more than ducking and jumping at the last second. Noticing that Nyx’s eyes are glowing with a magic sight spell, Emil pulls a golden wand out from behind his back and unleashes his own blinding attack. It is enough to stun his enemy and he lashes the whip around the woman’s neck. His victory is short-lived when the wand in his other hand abruptly explodes, taking all of his fingers with it.
“I think you’ve had enough time to play,” Delvin says as he steps into the room. His body is pulsing with magic that allows him to grab the whip and make it visible. “I have a few questions for you, warden. You’re going to answer me. First, let’s go outside.”
Delvin coils part of the whip around his hand before yanking Emil closer and lifting the halfling off the floor by his throat. The warrior hurls the smaller man into the courtyard, barely noticing that Nyx still has the weapon around her throat. Due to her companion enhancing his strength, she is sent flying and lands in the doorway with a choked gurgle. Seeing that the channeler is about to speak, Delvin tightens the pressure on her throat before having the wand burst like the previous one. His companion is left gasping on her hands and knees while Emil is staring at his mangled hands.
“Tell me about Caurea’s defenses,” the warrior demands as he walks toward the warden. He can hear the Feykin slaughtering the confused guards, who have stopped fighting because of their leader’s defeat. “As you can see, we aren’t taking prisoners. Surrendering is nothing more than making yourself an easy kill for us and those who run away will be hunted down. Now tell me what I want to know and you won’t suffer any more.”
“Go back to your abominations and die,” Emil groans, struggling to his feet. The wand on his left hip explodes with flames that cauterize his wound before he falls back to the ground. “I don’t care what you do to me. My job includes torturing these monsters, so don’t think this will make me talk. I’ve experienced everything I’ve used on my enemies, which means you’re wasting your time.”
Delvin has another wand explode, pulverizing the halfling’s right arm. “I’m willing to keep trying. The worst that can happen is you die in agony, which is justice for all the lives you’ve taken. If I knew how to repair the damage I’m causing and hurt you again then I’d do it in a heartbeat. Again, what are the defenses of Caurea?”
“I recommend going for the wand in my boot.”
A surge of aura courses through Delvin’s body, causing the warrior to sweat and turn a little pale. With labored breathing and swimming vision, he focuses on the next wand that sends a chill along his spine. A coating of ice is growing beneath his armor, which causes trails of steam to waft out from between the chainmail links. Before he can have the enchanted item explode, a pillar of flame erupts from beneath the warden. The halfling is consumed in seconds, leaving only ashes and his remaining wands. Furious at having been interrupted, Delvin turns toward Nyx, who is still on the ground.
“Why did you do that?” he asks while he reaches for the channeler. A tremor through his aura and the defiant look in the half-elf’s eyes causes him to pull back. “Maybe we shouldn’t be around each other anymore. You obviously don’t like my methods and I don’t want to work with someone who will undermine me. Guess this was our last time fighting together. I’d say feel free to leave Rhundar, but I’m sure Sari will want you involved in the real fight. Just stay away from me, Ms. Masterson.”
“Stop being a pompous jerk and open your eyes,” Nyx growls, fighting the temptation to hit the warrior. The sensation of the dying warden is still fresh in her mind, leaving the half-elf on the edge of a breakdown. “You were going too far and wasting your time. We both know he wasn’t going to talk if you kept hurting him. All you wanted to do was hurt one of your enemies. So I put the man out of his misery and saved you from doing something you would regret. Now, don’t you have stray cultists to hunt down and brutally kill? Don’t let your loyal followers have all the psychotic fun, King Delvin.”
Timoran steps between his friends, the bruised and bleeding barbarian swinging his great axe at his side. “Excuse me, but there are important things that need attention. We can discuss what happened here on the way back to Rhundar. The Feykin need help defeating the remaining guards who have locked themselves in a storeroom. Delvin can handle that because I need Nyx to open a sealed chamber. One of the larger golems threw me against the door and I was deflected, so I assume it is something that needs a channeler’s touch. We can regroup at the front door. Does anybody have a problem with this simple plan, which will give both of you time to calm down?”
Muttering an agreement, Delvin storms off to where he hears the Feykin battling the stubborn cultists. Timoran practically drags Nyx to the other side of the prison where the wall has partially collapsed. Climbing over the rubble, he leads her to a wooden door that is hanging by a single hinge. He gently pushes the channeler’s hands down when she reaches out to break a barrier that does not exist. Waiting for Delvin to be entirely out of sight, Timoran waves Nyx into the room and attempts to close the door. The dented planks clatter to the floor and take the top part of the frame with them, but they move far enough inside to avoid being seen by their allies.
A flickering torch casts enough light to reveal that there is no other way in or out of the chamber. Piles of armor, weapons, and other random belongings are scattered about the room, their designs identical to what the champions have seen in Rhundar. There are several broken holy symbols dangling from the ceiling to signify the capture of a priest or priestess. Facing Timoran, Nyx is about to ask why he brought her here without telling Delvin the truth. He points at the far corner before slumping against the wall and taking a sip from his flask. When the tired barbarian is done, the half-elf takes the container and has a drink, feeling like she needs to steel her nerves.
Walking to a pile of spears, Nyx is unsure what she should be looking for and assumes her friend found an enchanted object. When she steps around a barrel, the channeler finds a pair of familiar sabers tucked behind the simpler weapons. Hands qui
vering, she picks up Luke’s sheathed blades and stares at them as if seeing them for the first time. A pair of circular objects catches her attention and she bends down to recover her little brother’s enchanted rings from a bottom shelf. The Feast Ring remains dormant, but the Ring of Uli thrums in Nyx’s hand, its drooping leaves twitching at the touch of her ambient power. She gently places all of the items into her bottomless pouch, her mind trying to decide if she should be angry or sad at this new revelation.
“The Order has Luke,” Nyx says, her words making the situation feel more real. Numb from all of the stress and confusion, the channeler joins her friend and puts her head against his bruise-covered chest. “I’m really tired, big brother. I can’t keep my thoughts straight. What do you think we should do?”
Timoran sheathes his weapon and shifts to look his friend in the eye, a broad smile on his face. “We go to war and save our friends. It is as simple as that. The only difference now is that we have three friends to save instead of two.”
“What if Delvin and Sari get in our way?”
“Then I am afraid they are no longer our friends.”
11
Luke is confused when the guards remove his shackles and escort him into a beautiful, sunlit room. Colorful finches dart among the thick branches and fill the natural chamber with energetic songs. With no true walls, the only decorations are wisps of colorful, hair-like moss and whatever random flowers have bloomed within hanging clay pots. The containers are positioned in front of the larger holes in the network of wooden limbs to allow them easy access to the wind and sunlight. A stiff breeze passes through the room, awakening several blossoms that open to release winged seeds. Another gust snatches them and divides to whisk them through multiple openings, their destination unknown. Having spent most of his time within the roots of the giant tree that the Order calls Caurea, the forest tracker expected a more inhospitable welcome from his host. Instead, he is led to a long table that is covered in local delicacies and placed next to the real Zohara. The blonde Feykin’s wrist is bound to her simple chair, the chain made long enough for her to move relatively freely and reach all of the dishes. Luke’s stomach roars at the sight of his cellmate eating a plump fig, but the half-elf remains patient because he is unsure if he has walked into a trap.
“Take as much as you want,” announces their host, who is tending to a collection of rainbow-colored sunflowers. Unlike the other cultist’s and their dark-hued clothes, the man wears a wide-brimmed hat of straw and a robe of greenish blue that trails behind him. “I assume you think this is a trap, but I merely want my most precious prisoners to remain healthy. Spirit channelers require a lot of food, so indulge yourself, young man. All I ask is that you mind your manners. Oh, and say hello to your furry companion. We found him in that rundown temple two days ago and decided to bring him here. Imagine our surprise when we were tracking you and came across an aura that is both potent and restricted.”
Scanning the room, Luke spots Isaiah sitting in a tall cage with a bucket of berries clipped to the side. The caster is still in the form of an ebony monkey and his staff is held in his tail while he greedily eats the juicy meal, unaware of the champion’s presence. His body is slightly emaciated due to his horrible luck in finding food in the wild and several narrow escapes from the local predators. As he stretches to reach a plump strawberry, he reveals a patch of missing fur and a fresh scar on his side. With a high-pitched shriek, Isaiah waves to the forest tracker and hops on one of his perches. Luke nods his head and shrugs at the barrage of questions and warnings that spew from his excited protector’s mouth.
“He seems happy to see you,” the cult leader says with a gurgling laugh. When he is done pruning the flowers, water pours from his sleeve and into the potted soil. “There we go. Now I am free to join you and talk. My name is Gursel Fairbrow. Though I am not sure why I was given that surname. As you can see, my brow could not be described as fair. Unless I am misunderstanding the term and thinking only of coloration.”
The head of the Order glides across the wooden floor, leaving a trail of water that is absorbed by the tree. His skin matches his aqua-colored robe, which makes Luke wonder if the garment is really part of the man’s body. With no solid organs, bubbles move throughout his liquid body whenever he talks or breathes. The cultist’s face is faint and made of sea foam that shifts to denote the Placid’s mood. Taking a seat next to Zohara, Gursel removes his hat and reaches for a pitcher of water. He adds a handful of salt to the warm liquid before slipping his hand inside and gradually absorbing the nourishing meal.
“I heard there were still some of your kind left on Windemere,” Luke says, filling a plate with food. He stuffs a handful of cherries into his mouth, the griffin thanking him for swallowing the pits. “Rather surprised to find one in charge of a genocidal cult. Sorry, but that is what you’re planning even if you honey coat it as protecting a bloodline.”
“To be fair, you are new to the area and do not understand our local history,” Gursel explains as he signals for his guards to leave the room. The foam of his face churns, stopping in the form of a narrow-eyed stare. “Long ago, the Order of the Kehryhor was created to eliminate the malicious fae-blooded who began threatening the locals. We always made sure to go after those who attempted to commit crimes and pushed for rehabilitation when possible. The Judges were only used for the truly heinous ones that showed no remorse, which also kept their numbers and size down to a more manageable level. I mean the Judges, but I can see how I would also mean the Feykin. Anyway, times changed and not for the better, but you can’t really blame us for that.”
“You hunt us down without provocation!” Zohara exclaims, throwing a half-eaten fig at the cultist. The fruit falls into the Placid’s chest and is spit out of his side where it bouncing across the floor. “I’ve heard of your organization since I was a child. Monsters in the shadows that hate us for existing. Snatching babies from cribs and feeding them to beasts. How dare you claim to have a benevolent history when you’re nothing more than hateful murderers? What gives you the right to choose who lives and dies?”
“I have to agree with Zohara,” Luke interjects, his mouth full of food. Swallowing the fruit and meat like a snake, he washes it down with an entire pitcher of water. “All I’ve heard from your people are declarations of genocide and preaching about the unnaturalness of the Feykin. They’re merciless zealots and I don’t think it matters how you started your crusade. Seeing what you are now removes whatever positive goals you had at the beginning. Then again, maybe you read your own history wrong since it sounds like killing Feykin has always been your main purpose. It’s possible that the founders were a little fuzzy on the details and trying to make themselves not look like the bad guys. They could have also felt guilty about their deeds, but decided they were too far along to walk away.”
Gursel’s face becomes a roiling eddy as he stands and returns to his sunflowers, the plants leaning away from the annoyed Placid. He melts into a puddle that spreads across the floor and flows into grooves that Luke originally mistook for natural cracks in the wood. The liquid shines in the sunlight to reveal hundreds of carvings left in the tree. None of the prisoners can decipher the unique language, but the intricate picture above the entrance catches their attention. It depicts a man whose arms are waterfalls that cover people who are on their knees, each of the bowed forms wearing a hooded robe. Winged warriors with swords are descending on the figure, their bodies fading as if dissolving into a mist that billows from the bottom of the carving. The glistening water flows out of the other pictures to gather within the one that has mesmerized Luke and Zohara. Feeling that he has made his point, Gursel drips onto the floor and regains his humanoid form.
“As you can see, I have no reason to read our history,” the Placid states while approaching the table. He reclaims the part of himself from the carving when he sees that Zohara is unable to look away from it. “I am the sole surviving founder of the Order of the Kehryhor, but only because
I was in charge of caring for the innocent. Caurea is not a stronghold like many believe. It is a haven for those who have been harmed by the Feykin. Whether it be losing a loved one or surviving an attack on their village, people come here for protection and to start anew. At first, it was only a few people who would arrive for help and leave when they felt strong enough to survive on their own. Things changed several years ago. Now we get daily refugees who have nowhere else to go.”
“And you blame my people?” Zohara asks, her beautiful wings fluttering enough to raise her an inch off the chair. Feeling sick to her stomach, the Feykin pushes her food away and stares at her mud-caked knees. “I believe you’re killing innocent people over a mistake. My people have never declared war or committed acts of violence that would create refugees, especially at the rate you are suggesting. I will concede that there are dark-hearted Feykin, but we have always handled our own affairs. Outsiders were never needed. Now you’ve destroyed the balance by slaughtering those who lived outside of Rhundar. Many of those people were unaware of their lineage, so they died wondering why strangers despised them. Do you really believe you’re the righteous ones here?”
“Yes because your kind has become a danger to everyone. There is no longer a distinction between good and evil Feykin because all of you have turned into abominations,” the cultist calmly states as he fills a bowl with water from a fresh pitcher. He clips the dish to Isaiah’s cage, the monkey happily scooping handfuls into his mouth. “We kept you alive, priestess, because of your high standing in Rhundar. I’d hoped to use that as a bargaining chip, but then it became clear that the Feykin no longer wanted peace. To be completely honest, I had planned to personally execute you several weeks ago and deliver the body to Rhundar. Then we heard about you giving orders alongside new rulers and rallying your people to commit acts of violence. This rumor has made me very curious. My intention was to interrogate both of you and get some answers, but I no longer believe you know anything.”
Charms of the Feykin Page 23
