Defiler

by Isaac Hooke

  Damn it. Climbed this, not to mention came all this way, for nothing.

  Someone had looted it already. She should have expected as much, given that the blade was out in the open like that for the past six months.

  Waste of time.

  She careful lowered herself down the hilt once more. Descending was always trickier than climbing, at least for her. It felt like feeling one’s way in the dark, especially considering that she refused to look down. At this height, the risk of vertigo was too great. No, she had to search around with the tip of her boot until she found a toehold, and then carefully place her weight on it, lower her upper body, and repeat the process. She wasn’t looking forward to it.

  Whenever she had to scale a building in a city, she always had alternate exits planned once she reached the top so she wouldn’t have to climb back down. But there were no alternate exits here.

  She reached the bottom of the hilt, and climbed past the protruding guards. She had to kick both feet out into the empty air when she reached the edge, and felt around with her boot until she found the edge of the sword. She couldn’t find a toehold. She kept searching, her arms growing weary from supporting her weight. She realized she should have planted a piton for support.

  If they could see me, the assassins would be having an apoplectic attack of rage right about now.

  She retreated, and placed the proper piton and carabiner, and then returned to her former position. At last she found a small dent upon the sword’s edge. She forced the toe of her boot into it, and then let go of the guard with one hand. She reached underneath, but just then her other fingerhold broke away, and she plunged.

  Fuck!

  She passed the point where she had hammered the last piton and then her motion abruptly halted. She felt the painful tug at her waist, but was just relieved that the piton and carabiner had held. But before she could even get her bearings, she was unceremoniously falling once again—it had broken free.

  The next three pitons tore away without even stopping her. She realized that this was it. What an ignominious way to go: not only had she failed to find the Dark Eye, but she was going to die here for nothing.

  Abruptly she jerked to a halt once more, and swayed upside-down about a meter above the ground. Her last piton had held, incredibly enough.

  She opened up the knot at her waist and let herself fall to the ground.

  “Nice climbing,” a gruff voice said.

  She clambered to her feet to see a mountain dwarf standing next to Goldenthall. She had been so consumed with the climb, not daring to look down, that she hadn’t even noticed the dwarf’s arrival.

  She glanced at Goldenthall accusingly, but the man shrugged as if to say it wasn’t his fault the dwarf was here.

  “Who the hell are you?” She rushed past him to her saddle, and grabbed Biter’s scabbard. She was relieved to find the weapon still in its sheath, begging to be drawn. She didn’t oblige the sword, not yet—that would be rude. But she wanted to be ready.

  The long-bearded dwarf hadn’t moved the whole time. He was dressed in chain armor, as if suited up to go to war. An ax hung from a loop at his belt. Behind him, she spotted a small pony hitched to the ground. It too wore armor.

  “Timlir Grouchfain the III.” The dwarf held out a hand expectantly, but Xaxia didn’t oblige him.

  “Grouchfain?” she said. “Odd name. Either you’re a grouch, or fain. Which is it?”

  “My family is known to be mercurial,” Timlir said.

  “You’re a deserter?” she said. “All the mountain dwarves have aligned themselves with Vorgon.”

  He shook his head. “Not a deserter. I was never part of the army. I travel on my own.”

  “And yet you are dressed as if for war,” she said.

  “You have to be, in these times,” the dwarf said. “Everyone wants to kill you in these parts. If not the bandits, then the monsters.”

  “Okay, well, what do you want then?” she said. “We have no food to spare. Nor coin.”

  “I was passing by, and I couldn’t help but notice you were climbing that wee sword there,” Timlir said.

  “Yeah, that’d be pretty hard to miss,” she said. “Though I’d hardly call it wee.”

  “You seek the Tarnenauge?” the dwarf asked.

  She frowned. “The what?”

  “The orb that contains the power to enter the Black Realm?” Timlir asked.

  Now she narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

  “Because I might know where you can find it,” he said.

  “Tell me where,” she said.

  Timlir raised a finger. “Ah, but not so quickly. Let’s talk about my fee.”

  She drew Biter from its sheath and held the tip against Timlir’s beard. “Your payment will be your life.” The blade only expressed minor interest in slaying the dwarf.

  “I love it when you get feisty,” Goldenthall said. His voiced had deepened, and his eyes were black, oozing dark mist.

  Timlir’s eyes widened, and his gaze passed in shock between the two of them, as if he wasn’t sure which of them to fear more.

  “I— I only wanted to go with you,” Timlir said. “To the Black Realm.”

  “Why would you want to go to the Black Realm?” Xaxia said. “Are you mad?”

  “I can take you to the Black Realm,” Goldenthall said. “Right here.” The dark mist curled toward Timlir’s face.

  “Leave him,” she warned the Balor-possessed man.

  Goldenthall gave her a defiant look, but then the mist retreated slightly. It still threatened to touch Timlir at any moment.

  “So answer me,” she told the dwarf. “Why do you want to travel to the Black Realm?”

  “I seek my wife,” he said. “In the First Balor War, she was one of those who were lost when Falsanor opened the door to their realm, taking half of the mountain.”

  “That war was centuries ago,” Goldenthall said.

  “I know she’s still there, somewhere,” Timlir said. “I will find her. We dwarves are long lived.”

  Goldenthall laughed deeply, his voice almost booming. “You will find only death. But if that is what you want, I see no reason why we shouldn’t oblige you now.”

  Once more those threads came for him.

  “Stop!” Xaxia told him, and once again the dark mist curled backward. Goldenthall gave her an annoyed, disappointed look.

  “Fine,” she told the dwarf. “You can come. Now tell us where we can find this ‘Tarnenauge’ as you call it.”

  She lowered her blade, and glared at Goldenthall when the mist still hovered menacingly near the dwarf.

  The former king sighed, and the darkness faded, his eyes returning to normal. He blinked in confusion.

  The dwarf eyed Goldenthall suspiciously before speaking. “I came upon the sword a few months ago. A group of night elves—these were deserters I believe—were camped at the base of it. I watched as they climbed the weapon, and retrieved the dark orb. They headed west. I tracked them all the way to one of the fallen cities of man, where they had taken over one of the keeps. And there they brought the orb. I tried to sneak inside at night, but I was captured, and narrowly escaped with my life.

  “I have been searching for a few thieves to help me out since then. I thought at first you might be the next best thing, at least you drew your sword, and your companion’s eyes turned black. What was with his voice dropping a few octaves? And the dark mist erupting from his body?”

  “Oh, he’s harmless,” she said, smiling a little too brightly, and quickly stepped in front of Goldenthall. “Really, you don’t have to worry about him.”

  “Is he a dark mage?” the dwarf asked.

  “Something like that,” she replied. “But enough about him. You were saying, you thought I might be the next best thing to a thief? Someone to help you retrieve the Tarnenauge?” She smiled, and blinked a few times, doing her best to turn on the charm. She was a bit rusty.

  “Well, yes,” Timlir said. “Until you dr
ew your sword…”

  “Oh, that,” she said. She scabbarded the blade. “There, you happy now?” She scowled. “Come on, let’s cut the bullshit. You want to get to the Black Realm. We can take you there. Teaming up with us is your only option.”

  He stared at her, and she sensed he was more at ease with this direct version of her.

  “Look, I’m sorry for drawing my sword,” she said. “I just got a little pissed off when you started bandying about words like price and fee.”

  “Maybe that was a little premature.” The dwarf gazed at her a moment longer, and then seemed to come to a decision, because he nodded to himself. “I can tell by the way you climbed that sword that you’ve done some thieving in your life.”

  “Assassinating, more like it,” Xaxia said.

  “Even better,” the dwarf told her. He peered past her at Goldenthall. “You sure you have him under control?”

  “Yes, yes,” she said. “He was just playing back there. You know, dark mage stuff.”

  Timlir nodded. “A dark mage. That could certainly come in handy where we’re going.”

  “Then it’s agreed,” she said. “You’ll help us retrieve the artifact.”

  He pursed his lips. “Tis agreed.” He spat on his hand, and held it toward her.

  She grimaced, and reluctantly accepted the handshake. She felt the disgusting wetness ooze between her fingers, and when the shake was done, she immediately wiped her hand on one of her leggings.

  Goldenthall chortled happily, and jumped from foot to foot in a sort of dance. “I’m not going to shake the disgusting creature’s hand! Oh no! Oh no!”

  Timlir gave her an odd look. “Is he always like this?”

  “His mood jumps around,” Xaxia admitted. “He was a king, and watched all his citizens get slaughtered in front of him, so you can expect that he’s going to be a little loopy.” A thousand questions appeared on the face of the dwarf, but before he could ask any of them, she added: “It’s been a few months since you last returned to this outpost? How do you know the elves are still there?”

  “I went back a few weeks ago to scout,” the dwarf said. “And spotted a few of them loitering around the keep.”

  “What if they’ve sold the Dark Eye, er, Tarnenauge?” she asked.

  “It’s possible,” Timlir said. “But I believe they have been using it to make forays into the Black Realm.”

  “Would they even know how to use the artifact?” she said, glancing at Goldenthall.

  The former king nodded. “Night elves are masters of dark magic. They would definitely be able to tap into its black powers.”

  She paused. “Why would anyone want to make a foray into the Black Realm anyway? Other than you…”

  Timlir shrugged. “They seek loot. Many from this realm were lost in the Black Realm during the First Balor War. Kings and queens clad in full battle gear, their armor and weapons made of powerful magic. It is the same allure that brings divers to the sea in search of sunken ships.”

  “And yet the Black Realm is slightly more dangerous than the sea,” she said.

  “Only a little,” Timlir agreed, just as sarcastically.

  “All right, then,” Xaxia said, pulling herself onto Vesuvius’ back. “Take me to this night elf outpost.”

  Timlir glanced at the cord she left hanging from the sword. “Aren’t you going to collect your ropes?”

  She shook her head fervently. “Hell no. I’m not climbing that again.”

  15

  Malem blinked his eyes open.

  He lay inside a hard cell whose floor, walls and ceiling were made from wood. In fact, he almost thought the cell was carved into the wood, rather than made of it.

  He pushed his upper body upright and rubbed at his eyes, feeling so very groggy. There was no furniture to speak of, save for a chamber pot on the floor nearby. It was empty.

  Arranged in neat columns, bars made of thick vines covered the entrance to his cell.

  He barely sensed the men and women bound to him. He wasn’t able to tell how far away they were, though given how reduced his sense was, he would have guessed that they were very far away.

  Abigail, are you there? Weyanna?

  No response.

  He tried to reach out with his beast sense, but couldn’t attain the necessary focus. He was just too weary. He suspected he had been drugged.

  He was relieved to discover he could still sense Vorgon’s energy bundle at his core, but the connection felt muted somehow.

  Master, are you there?

  Nothing.

  He tried to seep stamina from that energy bundle, hoping to counter the effects of whatever drug he had ingested, but no endurance came his way.

  Master, help me.

  No response. Either Vorgon couldn’t hear him, or he was pissed that Malem had failed.

  He was on his own.

  He pulled himself to his feet, nearly losing his balance as stars filled his vision. He stumbled drunkenly toward the vines that covered the entrance to the cell. He wrapped his hands around them and pulled, but they were like iron bands and refused to yield.

  He reached for Balethorn’s hilt at his waist, but discovered he was no longer wearing the weapon, nor the belt that came with it. He still wore his dragonscale armor however.

  He peered through those vines, but his gaze was met by the wooden wall of the narrow passageway just outside. Sunlight hit the wall, coming from a window somewhere to his right that wasn’t visible from his current position.

  His gaze dropped to the base of the cell. The vines were connected to a common root that ran along the entrance and away to his left and right, following the edge formed by the floor and wall.

  “Anyone here?” he tried. His voice was slurred.

  “I am,” came Solan’s voice. It was slightly muted, and came from down the hall to his left. So he wasn’t so far away after all, like Malem’s sense had led him to believe.

  “Solan,” Malem said. “Are you the only one?”

  “The only one who is awake, anyway,” Solan said. “I have a feeling the others are here, residing in cells similar to our own.”

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  “I don’t really know,” Solan said. “Some kind of tree elf prison.”

  “What happened that morning?” he said. “I sensed you miles away to the south before the elves attacked.”

  “The forest came alive where we slept apart from the others,” Solan said. “I woke up surrounded by branches… I was moving, fast, dragged along the forest floor by those wooden limbs. I transformed, as did Gannet, breaking free, but more branches came, pinning us. Before I could call out to your mind for help, the branches sprouted spores, and I lost consciousness. I awoke in this prison.”

  “That sounds close to what happened to us,” Malem said. “Except we fought a little longer. Though I have to wonder why the elves didn’t drag all of us away like that.”

  “This is only my opinion,” Solan said. “But I think the elves wanted to find out what they were dealing with. They didn’t want to take Mauritania, Gwenfrieda, or Ziatrice because they were unsure what kind of magical abilities those three might have, given the trio are obviously only half human. But Gannet and myself, we look human. My guess is, the tree elves thought to interrogate us alone to find out why we were here. But when they realized we were half dragons, that spooked them into attacking the rest of you.”

  “An interesting theory,” Malem said. “Though how true it is remains to be seen. Can you transform?”

  “No,” Solan said. “They’ve placed some kind of collar around my throat. Its magic prevents me.”

  “Wonderful,” Malem said. He realized then that he, too, was wearing something around his neck. He hadn’t noticed it before, but Solan’s words sparked the awareness. He reached up and felt around the neck region. A warm band of some kind of metal was wrapped around his neck. There wasn’t any obvious sort of release to the band. It was tight, too, digging into his fl
esh. When he tried to remove the thing, it only seemed to contract even further, making it hard to breathe. When he released it, panting, breath came more easily once more.

  Maybe he wasn’t drugged after all, and this collar was responsible for cutting him off from his Breaker abilities.

  “The fuck just happened?” the groggy voice of Gwenfrieda came from down the hall.

  The others slowly began to awaken in turn: apparently they were all caged together in the same hall. Solan and Malem informed them of their predicament when they spoke, and he learned that everyone was collared. The Metals couldn’t transform because of it.

  “Can you still access your fire mage powers?” Malem asked Abigail when she awakened.

  “No,” she said. “This damn silver band around my throat prevents me from touching my magic. It’s stronger even than the collar I had to wear as per our treaty with Goldenthall’s forebears.”

  When Mauritania and Ziatrice awakened, he learned that they too wore collars that denied them access to their magic. And like Malem’s, there were no fasteners nor clasps, and no apparent way of removing them.

  “So we’re essentially at the mercy of the tree elves, you’re saying?” Mauritania asked.

  “Pretty much,” Malem replied.

  “Oh, they don’t like us night elves,” Ziatrice said from somewhere down the hall. “I’m screwed.”

  By then everyone had awakened, including Gannet, Sylfi and Brita. “If anyone has any ideas of how to get out of here, or on how to break out of these collars, I’m all ears.”

  But no one did.

  “These collars can’t be opened without a specifically designed key,” Abigail said. “It doesn’t necessarily have to look like a standard key, but it can resemble something as ordinary like a knitting needle in shape.”

  “Yeah, well, we won’t be getting access to that key anytime soon, I don’t think,” Malem said.

  He went to the chamber pot and relieved himself. He was feeling a lot less groggy by then, but still couldn’t access his Breaker powers, no thanks to that collar.

  The minutes passed. He wasn’t sure how much time went by—he couldn’t see the position of the sun. But the light in the hallway seemed to be getting stronger, so he guessed it was getting close to midday.