Her jets were precise, containing their heat in tight, concentric patches as she bounded through the forest. Egan’s long steps were barely enough for him to keep pace with her, though she could have soared through the air and left him far behind if she wanted. As they neared the city, the cries and sounds of battle only rose in pitch and fervor. A terrible song, and one she had heard fill the air so many times before. In the past, such thoughts might have thrown her to tears and the other cheap aftereffects of sorrow, but now it only stoked her fury. She exhaled out through her nose, the bellows of her mind blasting steam into the rancorous atmosphere she delved into. How many lives had she claimed under his command? Under the Empire’s command? Flame’s Daughter. The Widowmaker of Glorena. The Crimson Death. The Emerald End. A horrific legacy she could never escape. Never atone for. But she would not stop. She landed, crouching as the power built within, twisting and writhing against her flesh.
As does the meteor, she rent the land, but rose instead of fell. Above the tree-line, she heard Egan cry out for her, but worry was no affliction of hers. She no longer cared to regret. There. A Shadowstalker. Fear gripped her heart, but she batted at its hands, flipping in the air as she re-oriented herself. Twisting, body a missile, she erupted, a gale of flame roaring skyward as she rocketed to the ground. Terminal velocity exceeded, she altered her path only a second away from the ground, precise explosions keeping her parallel along the path to the spawn of the Dawn-Shatterer. Stretching forth her hand, she gathered the heat within, condensing it down to a fine point before screaming as she discharged a torrent of crimson power. Reckless, Calinor, she heard her Herun scold in her mind.
The force of her attack was so great that she rebounded straight back, rolling and skipping along the ground until her back cracked against the trunk of a Silveroak. Groggily, she rose to her feet, the Shadowstalker’s flank seared down to the skin. A male elf advanced upon it, a long, gleaming sword in hand that flashed in the straining rays of the sun, cutting into the great beast's flesh. Egan was there as she stumbled, eyes fixing her disapprovingly.
“You know, you could work on your landings,” he said, withdrawing his daggers. His long limbs shook as he faced the fiend, glancing at her as she cracked her neck.
“Wait for an opening,” she said, stalking forward, and he nodded, heading into the brush. Despite its wounds, the Shadowstalker fought savagely, hatefully as it warped in the daylight around the elf. If the man was even a hair slower, he would have been devoured, but he rolled and weaved through the web of attacks, frustrating the creature. Abruptly, it shifted its body in a wide arc, slamming its hip against the elf and knocking him to the ground in a painful roll. It shifted, fading into nothing. Gritting her teeth, she pushed outwards, radiating heat and scorching the forest around her with waves of flame. She panted, turning in place, squinting to see any indication of the massive black panther. Nothing.
“Your right!” Egan yelled, and her eyes traced the path of broken roots and seared soil just a moment too late. A dagger flew by her face and clanked harmlessly against something behind her. Slowly, Selara turned to her right. She came face to face with a thick golden barrier, the open maw of the Shadowstalker tall enough for her to walk into behind it, the purple tongue like a carpet. It closed its mouth slowly, black pools of primal hatred matching her gaze. She shivered, the beast turning around to face the source of the barrier. It snarled low, dashing off to the left and vanishing before they could even sniff.
The barrier fell, and the elf stepped forward, coming out of the shadow of the trees and into view.
“Lord Elarome!” Egan exclaimed, coming to Selara’s side, trying to help her walk, though she shook his aid off with annoyance. She met the Elfen lord’s approach with a level gaze, not willing to bend before him. Not if she did not need to.
“Your aid is welcome, adventurers,” he said, not a hint of exhaustion in his posture or tone, though he had been battling one of the single most fearsome creatures in all of Peratha completely alone before their arrival. “I see your Herun taught you well at least, to atone for such sacrilege.”
“And well he did,” she said evenly, “for we might all have perished without his instruction this day.”
“Peace, Vandiriel,” said Lord Elarome, holding up a flat hand.
She scoffed, “Flattery, my lord?” Vandiriel. It meant “Woman of the Flame” if her studies had been worth anything.
“Respect for a fellow warrior, my Lady. Now come,” he said, eyeing the treeline distrustfully. Likely one of the few times in his life he had ever gazed out at the forest with such apprehension. “I doubt the second round would go to us.”
“You know, we should have brought the Hero of Peratha with us,” complained Egan. “The prophesized hero? Savior of the land?”
“He has greater responsibilities,” she said, beginning to run, the others joining her as they moved back towards the city.
Please, Herun.
Guide him.
“Judging by that look, I didn’t do so bad,” said Zach, staring at his hands, looking them over as if for the first time. That had been something. There was something intrinsically intuitive about wielding the arcane for him. He guessed it was just part of his plot convenience, most likely, perhaps the Sly One giving him a shortcut to mastery over his powers. Whatever the reason, he was grateful for it. Even if he was little more than a pawn, the greater his autonomy, the more difficult he would be to control and direct. He returned his eyes to Pevarin, the elf having recovered.
“Yes. Not…bad,” said the Exile, a pensive wariness returning to his eyes.
“You know, I’d been wondering it for a while, but now that you’re even teaching me, I gotta ask—why don’t you use magic? I don’t think I’ve seen you use it. Like, ever.”
Pevarin was silent for a few moments before speaking, “I cannot. I have made an Arcane Covenant never to wield magic again.”
“You-what?” he asked, thoroughly confused. “I don’t—but like, why?” That must have made defeating the Dawn-Shatterer incredibly inconvenient. He hadn’t really given it much thought, but now that he could use magic, he couldn’t imagine giving it up for anything.
“It was a condition of my exile. They faced unrest when I originally attempted to return to the Perathan mainland, and I knew that I had limited time to save the world. Likely, they expected the restraint to result in my death. I am not so helpless as that, however.”
Zach frowned. “But, like, you’re kind of un-exiled, right? I mean, you’re not cool with everyone yet, but water under the bridge?”
Pevarin shook his head, “Zachary, you have made your own Covenant. The words are binding—tied to my very life. As long as I live, I cannot violate them.” And elves lived a very long time.
“Well, my Covenant is more conditional rather than time-based,” he said.
“And so was the pact I made. I swore never again to wield the arcane.”
“And you do not regret this decision?” he asked, remembering their first meeting, Pevarin enveloped fully by the Shadowstalker’s maw.
“No. Without it, the world would have met a terrible fate. Even the grip of the United Empire is not so tight as what would have strangled the world had we failed.”
How did they even fight something like that? The very entity that had cobbled together reality. If that was true, then that brought into question what exactly this force they called magic was. Was it the essence of this Dawn-Shatterer? What of the other Primordial Forces? He touched the power of creation again. That was a poor way to describe what it actually was, but it was difficult to articulate. It was a fourth dimension of sensory output that he could access, and not really pull from, but utilize to see, to truly see the flow of the world. It was beyond even what tapping into the arcane plane allowed. He had no idea how he could do it so easily, with just a change of mindset, but no doubt it had to do with the Sly One.
Are you watching me now? Leading me down whatever road leads to your victory? He wondered. Of course, there was no response. He thought back to his death, something he generally avoided doing. That voice had been the god, of that he had no doubt. How much else had been him? Most of it, likely, indirectly if not directly. This was pointless. He’d drive himself insane trying to discern where his fortune had been influenced and where it had not. The only thing he was sure of was that the nightmares were most certainly not the Sly One. If they were, he couldn’t fathom their meaning, or the point of them. The pure malice he felt towards him within the confines of his mind spoke of a simpler intent.
Zach lit the air above his palm and watched that flame die in almost the same instant. Wielding magic in this way was significantly harder than how he previously had used it.
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“I was not expecting you to adopt our ways so quickly,” murmured Pevarin, the elf watching him closely. “I suppose you are wondering why it is so difficult to capture in your grasp. It is simple, if not immediately apparent. If I had time to train your vision, you would be able to tell differentiate the individual motes of the arcane when you look about your surroundings. The type of magic most wield, including elves, is that of this abstracted plane of magic. Drawing upon this layer allows you to harness the remnants of events and reactions of the arcane that have already happened.”
Zach thought of his college programming classes—the little he had completed. There was a mechanism fairly ubiquitous to computing, which was that of caching. By storing the results of previously issued requests and computations, performance was improved and made more efficient. Yet, because it was what remained, and not directly from the true source, it was inherently less precise. The best thing was freshly compiled or collated data, but often that was fine. Just like how he didn't always necessarily need the purest form of magic. At the same time, it was less demanding to draw upon this remnant layer than from the direct source where simply reaching it caused him to expend energy. The overhead incurred from pulling from this pool was non-trivial.
“I see. So I shouldn’t look to fully replace my typical use of magic then, but augment it occasionally with the Elven way.”
“At first, yes,” said Pevarin, nodding. “But in time you will attune yourself to the Lantril—the Flow, in your tongue. It will grow easier and less taxing as you improve.”
Well, that made it practically useless for regular combat. Intuitively, there was a sense of tiredness associated with the use of magic, much like the fatigue that built as one continued to use their muscles. A mind muscle, of sorts. Wielding magic in the Elven way, connecting to the Flow, was like doing ten Power Cleans at one’s personal weight limit. So, for now, if he was going to use it…
“Sword,” he said abruptly, cursing. His had shattered in the fight against Gloomfire. “I need one.”
Pevarin raised a thin brow at him, but motioned for him to follow all the same, “Then let us find one.”
When he had asked for a weapon, he had not expected to receive a full set of gear. Pevarin escorted him to the city’s armory, which had of course drawn many eyes. On the way, he finally remembered to ask the name of the place, learning it was called Estel’nadath, or Hope’s Respite. An apt name in more than one way. It had taken some time to acquire his equipment, as special fitting and adjustments had to be done since elves were taller, especially in the upper body. Zach’s height mostly came from his legs, having a more stout chest with broader shoulders, so the cuisses and greaves weren’t as large of an issue as the chest plating.
They first dressed him in tight leather, said to have been fashioned from the hides of slain creatures from the Abyss, cured and scrubbed clean of any corruption. It certainly felt durable, though surprisingly it was quite airy. Next, they helped him step into a fine silver plate that was incredibly light.
“This stuff feels like plastic,” said Zach, rapping his bracers with his knuckles. It did not instill very much confidence. Pevarin said nothing, but manifested a dagger and stabbed towards him. His shock and current awkward stance prevented him from reacting, but despite the vigor the elf had placed in the strike, it did not penetrate his chest. “Not even a scratch,” he murmured, touching the spot that had been struck.
“Fortified by Elven smiths and blessed by the Crystal Grove. It is very difficult to make. Do your best not to perish in it,” he said, face empty of emotion.
Zach studied him shrewdly, squinting, “I want to say that was a joke. Not a funny one, but then again you don’t exactly practice a lot.”
The elf turned away from him without comment and began walking away. Zach would have followed, but his left arm was still being adjusted for his gauntlets. There was an ungodly amount of straps required to secure armor to your body, apparently. For some reason, he had thought it as simple as right-clicking an item in your inventory or pressing, “Equip”. Not so. When the elf assisting him had finished, he gave Zach a curt nod, and awkwardly Zach shuffled out, adjusting his gait to the added weight. It truly was light, but it still had a pronounced effect on his walking. Despite going to the armory for a sword, he had instead left with armor. Zach exited in the direction Pevarin had gone, walking back through the large enclosure that made up a bridge crossing the river that cut through Estel’nadath. Pevarin stood at the end, conversing with an elven woman with golden hair…which really could have been literally anyone. However, as he neared, he realized that it was his wife, Lady Whisperleaf. She was a more mature version of Egwyren, which is to say she was tear-inducingly beautiful. Before, at the trial, he had been able to discern the emotion within her eyes when she had first seen Pevarin, but now her composure was rigid and stately.
They both turned in near synchronization at his arrival, Lady Whisperleaf giving him a slight dip of the chin.
“Good. The others have gathered already. Let us join them with haste,” she said, turning in the direction of where the trial had been held.
“Another gathering of the Lords of Morning?” Zach asked, confused as they made their way to the pond. Pulion and Lieureyeth had not seemed as if they had important plans for the day when they had spoken earlier, nor had they mentioned this meeting to him.
“No,” said Pevarin. “An assembly for war.”
***********************************************
Falling to her knees, she raised an arm weakly and blasted another wave of imps backward, the fiends stunned and gibbering in their foul tongue. She gasped, lungs making a horrific rattling noise with each inhalation. This division of the defense fought against creatures whose very blood released a toxic mist into the air, but her mask had fallen off in the chaos some time ago. There had been no time to retreat, however. Not unless she wanted to watch even more die. A pack of Nightleapers knocked a man to the ground to her right, fangs tearing into his armor as if it was wet parchment, and he screamed as they devoured him alive. One broke away from the feast, raising its malformed head in sudden alert. It swiveled its head before locking eyes on her, growling, specks of blood and mangled viscera ejected from its mouth. Disgusting creatures. They had the head of vermin on the bodies of large wolf-hounds, but their eyes possessed a frightening amount of intellect. They were not nearly so deadly in the light of day, but the sheer number of them and their ability to work together could result in the brutal death of even the most veteran warriors.
A dagger flew past her face, taking the fiend in the eye, and it froze before falling into the pile, soon consumed by its packmates as if it was no different than the elf it had slain. Egan was at her side, helping her rise, and she nodded gratefully at him, searching for the fire within her once more. He placed a warning grip on her shoulder, giving her a questioning look.
“I’m fine, Egan.”
He said nothing. He just took his hand off her shoulder, and she realized with alarm that he had also been maintaining her balance as she awkwardly fell to the ground. Huffing angrily, she tried to rise by herself and found that she simply could not.
“I should leave you like that you know. Let the Nightleapers get a nice bite of your behind before I carry you back to the clearing tents.” He sounded more exasperated than angry.
“Fine,” she said, rolling over. “Fine. I’ll go.”
“And you won’t try to sneak out the second I take my eye off you?” She opened her mouth, but he held up a hand. “Of course you will,” he said, sighing. “Selara, did you ever consider that it is rude to constantly risk the lives of your friends?” He held out his hand towards her again, and she took it, grunting as her legs wobbled, Egan having to do most of the work pulling her to her feet. Light of Aesoliar, she thought, how long have I been fighting?
The imps she had forced back earlier began chittering as they whipped themselves up in a frenzy, and the widening of her eyes was all Egan needed to push her solidly away as he himself jumped to the side, green lobs of Fel energy sailing overhead. Though he had saved her from the immediate threat, he had inadvertently thrown her closer to the Nightleapers, and another one of the creatures suddenly raised its head, beady slits narrowing on her hungrily. Egan was already dashing towards her, somehow ducking and weaving through the volley of green artillery with his daggers bared, eyes intent on the Nightleaper that had begun to stalk towards her. She strained for the magic, for the flames, both of her palms outstretched and faced towards the advancing fiend, but a fit of hacking coughs interrupted her.
A rain of arrows flew overhead, raining down upon the line of creatures, and Egan changed course, barreling towards her instead. The aerial barrage marched back down towards them, and she realized she was in the line of fire, lines of arrows growing closer and closer. Egan jumped over her as she watched a group of metal-tipped wooden shafts accelerate toward her, slicing the air and extinguishing the friendly fire. Unceremoniously, he scooped her into his arms and began running back into the inner city, breathing hard.
“I’m not that heavy,” she said irritably, tapping his shoulder to have him put her down.
“We’ve been fighting for eight hours, Selara. Am I not allowed to be tired?”
“Put me down, then,” she said, wriggling in the gangly boy’s arms.
“Stop that,” he snapped, slowing enough for her to exit his clutches gracefully. “I heard you the first time. I just wanted to be far enough away that you could not run back without collapsing first.”
“Thank you,” she said, though her tone brought Egan up short.
“You certainly do not sound ingratiated.”
“That is because you vex me to no end,” she hissed, adjusting her cape so it aligned with her back once again. The numerous falls had damaged the fastening clasp. She would need that repaired before she went back out. Another wave of wracking coughs tore through her, phlegm filling her throat and strangling the air. She hawked up as much of it as she could and spit at the ground.
“At least you are alive to be vexed,” he hissed back, impersonating her with a falsetto tone. Selara reached to grab a fistful of his curly hair and yank it once for good measure, but he danced out of reach as she began to cough again. They reached the clearing tents in short order, the groans of the wounded now gracing their ears, mixed with the distant sound of combat. Men and women strode about the camp, faces fixed with a resolution for whatever task they had been set to, and blessedly, the smell of blood and brimstone was muted by an aura of cleanliness and medicinal mint. That alone began to aid in her breathing. Egan came to her side and offered a shoulder for her to lean on, which she took gratefully, no longer bearing enough adrenaline to remain stubborn. A medic saw them, ushering them onwards, and they followed her into a tent, ducking low beneath the white cloth. The atmosphere inside felt sterile and filtered, likely through magic, and several pallets were arranged in columns throughout. It was not a large enclosure, but it was spacious enough that each pallet had several feet between the previous and the next, such that one could stretch their arms to either side and still not touch their neighbor.
None of those inside were severely wounded, and most slept soundly, most not even out of their armor. Egan helped her to her pallet, tucking her in and feigning as if to kiss her on the forehead goodnight, though she batted him away readily. He grinned wickedly, running off through the tent, and she scrambled to rise. “Egan! You fool of a boy! I-“ she began, coughing without pause this time, but the medic came over, pushing her firmly back down and slipping a leaf that cradled a clear liquid into her mouth. Damn him! She thought, her fury instantly beaten back by a wave of weakness. Her eyes shut, and her body melted away into the pallet as sleep stole her away from the battlefield into the realm of dreams.