The image of the infinite blackened sky felt like home. Countless stars lit its canvas, as if they were little islets on an endless ocean. Maeve found comfort in the sight, and she knew, even if she was to live a thousand cycles, she would forever be stunned by the beauty of the night. The starlit sky would always console her: everything was all right as it was; and the way it was was all right.
A faint groan broke her from her reverie. With a deep sigh, she took one last glance at the firmament, then turned her eyes away.
Down, in front of her was a man lying face-down, whimpering. His tattered clothes wrapped his skinny body as a shroud, as if he were already awaiting death’s peaceful embrace. Had he found the strength within, he would have probably tried to meet Maeve’s eyes, perhaps to spit her in the face, or to beg for mercy; it was equally probable. Alas, he lied motionless in the wet sand of the beach, except for his hands. Those uncanny, bony fingers of his were stretching toward the girl, shaking, in one final, silent cry for help.
Maeve crouched and held the man’s face in her hands. She closed her eyes, trying to calm her tempestuous thoughts, trying to focus. Then she sensed it – the raw essence of life itself, these vivid elements that propelled the whole universe, pouring into this world through the Veil, the Veil that had been torn at last after countless centuries, a couple of years before her birth.
No scholar, wizard, or arcanist could provide a sound explanation of the nature of this power. Some called it sorcery; some called it magic. Others regarded it as the Blessing, and others, again, would call it the Curse. None of these names would be correct.
Maeve knew it was far more. It was the faelin.
She reached for the essence and let it flow into her Well of Source. She opened her eyes and urged all the gathered energy to rush through herself and into the man.
His pale face started to fill with a healthy reddish colour, his bony features seemed to become a bit stouter. He groaned again, this time much livelier. He lifted his head. Eyes teary with gratitude, he tried mumbling something, but Maeve hushed him, and forced herself to smile.
‘Preserve your strength,’ she said. ‘The Crownguard are now taking you to the tents. You are expected to answer some questions. Do not be scared. Just do what you are told, and all will be well and fine.’
She felt as if her tongue was burning upon uttering those false words, and the relieved look on the weathered man only made matters worse. She helped him on his feet then watched helplessly as two heavily armoured Crownguard escorted the man towards the heart of the camp.
The makeshift tents and pavilions filled the beach in a roughly half-mile radius. Torches stuck into the dirt provided some light for the people who were running up and down, attending to duties assigned by their superiors. Planks were laid down in the mud, creating whole streets within the camp so that moving among the tents could be convenient.
The camp itself was built at the base of the rocky mountain wall behind which the Fishermen’s Fjord lied. Maeve took a glance over the bay. Flotsam and driftwood floated across the gentle waves of the ocean near the entrance of the fjord. The raids failed one after the other, but with each attack the number of Maeve’s people and the Royal troops dwindled greatly. She tried not to remember any names among the soldiers. Names were powerful bonds, and she could bare the loss of nameless warriors with a bit more ease. These deaths meant numbers, not lost friends or families. These deaths did not mean breaking apart over a dead loved one’s face every single night.
She let out a deep sigh, fighting the urge to look at the night sky again.
She started to feel dizzy, so she grabbed the fence next to her, trying to find support. She was always exhausted after Healing, since the process did not only expose her to the turbulent waves of the essence but demanded resources from her own body as well. She did not mind it. She was Reborn. She could command the faelin. With its power, she could restore life itself. That was her Gift.
Her Blessing.
Her Curse.
Her Bane.
The fence she was hung unto bordered a several-feet wide piece of land full of people, who were shivering at the back. The whole patchwork of wooden blocks made the poor folks look like a herd of cattle that was to be culled. The scene disgusted Maeve, yet being unable to act against the inhumane conditions, she rose and was going to tend to another wretched soul.
‘Child!’ came a voice from among the tents.
Maeve tried to remain collected, Gods knew she did, but she failed miserably. Every ounce of her being quivered at that one word.
Child.
She had lived twenty winters and thus could be regarded as an adult and woman in not only Amrith but in all the kingdoms of the Mainland, apart from the barbarous Velardhar in the North. She also belonged to the infinitesimal group of people who could call themselves Reborn, wielding a gift so great one could not even begin to fathom. On top of that, she had been serving in the Royal Special Forces for more than a year, travelling with the Crownguard and partaking in the defences of Amrith.
She was anything but child.
Maeve slowly turned, struggling to keep her dignity while her teeth were clenched to the point of physical pain. The sole Crownguard in the vicinity, whose task was to protect Maeve from any potential harm the people in the fold could inflict, took a few steps towards the ocean, slightly moving away from the scene. Wise man, Maeve thought.
From among the tents, a white-haired beauty was approaching in a magnificent white gilded dress, skirt sweeping the sand. Dairin was the Court’s Arcanist, and as such, she was quite resourceful, Maeve had to admit that. Even though the mere sight of the woman made her soul rumble.
The arcanist stopped by the fence, frowning upon the prisoners.
‘Bethlorn calls you,’ she said, taking in the prisoners, then looking Maeve in the eye. Those emerald eyes were too bright, too poisonous for Maeve not to avert her gaze.
‘The Prince knows it very well that I am assisting his interrogations with what I am doing here.’
‘He knows it very well that you’re wasting your talents here. Leave the savages to their demise. Save your powers for tomorrow, it’s likely there’ll be another affair. Now come, you’re needed in the command tent.’
‘They are human beings just as much as you or me,’ stated Maeve, lifting her chin. ‘They just took the wrong side.’
With a condescending smile, Dairin shook her head, and gently touched the girl’s hair. ‘You seem to be very keen on defending the ones who slaughtered our kin.’
‘All the fighters of their ranks are dead or even worse. These people killed no one.’
‘Sometimes I long to be young again, you know. Your innocence, your naivety is truly amusing.’ Dairin let out a sigh. She stepped away, a faint shadow appearing on her features. ‘These treacherous barbarians don’t even come close to what we, you and me, are. Cut out the whining! They brought it all to their own heads in the moment they allied with the islanders. Now follow me.’
Without looking back, Dairin turned and stormed off into the camp. Maeve followed her, albeit reluctantly. She took a glance at the prisoners, and by her surprise, they seemed relieved. The Crownguard remained there, spear in hand, guarding the wretched folks.
Upon seeing Maeve, the serfs and servants either nodded in respect, or put a wide smile on their face. She was generally loved among all the people. She could, after all, prevent a nasty wound from taking a life. Sadly, bringing someone back to life once they joined the Gods in Soramarr was beyond her power.
The command tent was pitched right under the rocks. Dairin passed by the two Crownguard without slowing down.
Inside, three people were getting into a heated argument which was cut in the moment the two women stepped into the scene. Bethlorn, Crownprince to Amrith, wore black and yellow, his wreathe-like gilded crown rested on the table in the centre of the room.
‘Maeve!’ he turned to the girl immediately. ‘Tomorrow we are leading an assault on the islets in the vici—’
‘We might lead an assault tomorrow,’ Reynard interrupted. The tall and lean man was Commander of a group among the Special Forces who called themselves Hunters. Maeve knew for sure that they had not picked the name because they hunted animals. ‘Our forces have weakened, and we cannot afford losing any more men because of your delusional whims!’
‘You won’t interrupt me when I speak!’ snapped Bethlorn at the Hunter. ‘We know their positions; they lost three battles in a row from which none of their people returned!’
‘For all we know the prisoners may have lied about the isles,’ joined the third person to the conversation as well. Nehlia led the Royal Armies into battle during that mission. She was otherwise part of the Crownguard, a haggard woman, weathered by years of service.
‘Perhaps you imply that the islanders appear out of the blue every time they try to take the fjord?’
‘I’ve talked about their numbers, Lord. We could sail right into a trap.’
‘If you believe one of them, you may as well believe all of them,’ Reynard scoffed. ‘A woman said dozens of them are already scavenging villages further up North.’
Maeve had enough.
‘May I ask how this concerns me?’
Bethlorn turned to her again. He was breathing slowly, trying to calm himself.
‘Of course. Since we are indeed leading an assault tomorrow, we need backup in case something goes terribly wrong. This is what these bastards can’t comprehend. My plan is secure because of you!’
Maeve sensed something was off.
‘What … does that mean? I cannot actively help our soldiers in the fights.’
‘Oh, but you will,’ Bethlorn smiled ugly. ‘You’ll be on board when our ships set sail. You’ll have some of the Crownguard by your side who’ll protect you as if you were me. You are to take part in the battle, healing all who may fall immediately. Even if we were outnumbered, this way our soldiers could keep pushing forward.’
Maeve’s eyes went wide open.
‘It does not work like that!’
‘There is no room for arguments! You’ve heard my order.’
‘The faelin would consume me in no time,’ the girl argued. ‘I need rest between healings. I do not know what may happen if I push myself beyond my limits.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, and I’m not interested, either. Do your duties, Reborn one.’
Maeve looked at Dairin, desperate. The woman remained silent, shrugging as an apology. Maeve was speechless.
‘Told you before, so I’ll tell you again, Lord,’ said Reynard, mockery dripping from his words, ‘this is not a bad plan. This is an absolute terrible one. I am accustomed to you barking follies I cannot comprehend, but this time you did surmount yourself.’
Bethlorn reddened, his jaw flexed, and Maeve saw it in his eyes, a storm was about to break loose. Before the young man could say anything, Nehlia spoke.
‘I must agree, my Lord. We had better not believe the savages’ words, even if we could break them. Also, we must not risk Lady Maeve’s life on the battlefield. One wandering arrow would suffice to take her life. I suggest we reconsider possible strategies.’
Nehlia was being much more respectful than the Hunter Commander. And with reason, as far as Maeve was concerned, since the woman was under Bethlorn’s jurisdiction, whereas the Special Forces pledged fealty directly to the person of the King.
Albeit Nehlia’s face showed discontent at best and sheer annoyance at worst while looking at Bethlorn.
The Crownprince grew gloomy. He must not have liked facing two opponents at the same time. Maeve could swear that she saw shadows of uncertainty sweeping across the young man’s face for a moment; but only for a moment. Then, defiance returned stronger than ever.
As Bethlorn stood there, straight, Maeve thought of King Bryne, his father, that he must have looked like that a good twenty-or-so years ago. It was a pity the prince only took after his father in looks.
‘Enough of this,’ the Crownprince said in a stone-cold voice. ‘Nehlia and Maeve depart with the fleet tomorrow, bringing the Royal troops to the islands of the tribes. Dairin remains here by my side in case the barbarians have indeed set foot further up by now. And you, Hunter, you do as you see fit. I care not.’
Maeve smothered a deep sigh. She was devastated by the news, she had never actually taken part in any battles, but she had no choice other than to obey. And even though Bethlorn seemed to have gone insane, she had to admit: it was him and not Bryne who kept the islanders at bay. She only wished that the future king of Amrith had not been that much of an arrogant little asshole.
‘I will carry out your orders,’ said Reynard slowly, ‘unless they greatly endanger my people, since that is what the King told me to do. I’ve just wanted you to see reason.’
Bethlorn opened his mouth to respond but he was cut by a thunderous rumble. It felt like the earth was shaking. Maeve closed her eyes and looked inward, tried to sense the faelin in use, worrying that someone might have meddled with gemstones to get a taste of the power. Luckily, the essence slumbered for the time being. She looked at Dairin and briefly shook her head. The arcanist nodded in relief.
Soon, the camp filled with clamorous shouts and howling. Maeve and the commanders left the tent, weapons in hand, expecting to face another raid. Apparently, there were no intruders among the tents nor prisoners who broke free. Most people were looking north, their faces either worried or sombre.
In the distance, numerous miles ahead, far beyond the fjord, forests, hills, and rocks, a dark mountain gloomed, reaching high for the sky. Due to it being a clear night, Maeve could see the immense amount of thick black smoke emanating from its peak, even from this distance. She also saw thin red-orange lines cascading down on its side ever so slowly, as though the mountain were caught in a great, fiery spider web.
‘Is that going to be a problem?’ asked Nehlia. Her voice did not tremble.
‘It’s not likely,’ Dairin responded. ‘The Ghatra is almost situated in the heart of Amrith, its vicinity is desolate, barren. Only a few villages are nearby. That’s far enough from here. I never would have guessed that it’s an active volcano, though.’
‘Then it’s not an immediate threat.’
‘How come that a mountain starts spitting fire overnight, Lady Dairin?’ Reynard did not seem as convinced as Nehlia was. Dairin grimaced.
‘I have no desire to lecture you about tectonics or seismic forces, Reynard. I fear you might have difficulties with following along.’
‘Enough.’ Bethlorn turned away from the scene. ‘This does not change anything. Pack what you need to and get some sleep. The ships set sail on the morrow. I’ll make sure you get a draft of the isles nearby, Nehlia.’
With that, the prince left to his tent. The commanders followed suit; Dairin remained only a bit longer.
‘Think you can manage it tomorrow?’
Maeve spoke before she could think.
‘What do you care?’
‘You’re right. I shouldn’t.’ Dairin shrugged, paused for a moment, then walked away. Maeve felt a sudden urge to apologise, but she could not understand why. Dairin made her life miserable, and their relationship was complicated, to say the least. She bit her tongue and fixed her eyes on the Ghatra.
An eruption on Amrith could mean many things but nothing good. She felt as if someone grabbed her stomach and twisted it into all directions. She was scared. Scared of her upcoming voyage, of this newly erupted volcano with its consequences. She wished she could shrug it off as easily as Nehlia did.
With hands on her chest, she looked up at the starlit sky. Those flickering bright gems rocked her into believing her own lies: all will be well and fine.
----------------------------------------
Facing the rabid dog-like creature, Mjelgralah started to think once again about what her first bad decision had been which put her onto this godsforsaken island.
The beast sprang forward, gnarling, its teeth aiming for Mjel’s throat. She ducked, side-stepped, then did a pirouette, trying to reach the monster with her hefty war hammer.
She missed.
The savage dog turned; its eyes glowed in the night like embers. Letting out an unearthly scream, it jumped right at Mjel. The young woman had to evade once again. That restless piece of shit was coming at her without end, growling, barking, snapping.
Mjel blamed her uncle, Sagramir in the first place. Thus, his was the first face she imagined on the dog when she finally could swing his weapon and hit the scum. Upon the next hit, the imaginary picture in Mjel’s mind altered into Seer Larja’s toothless grin. It was a pleasure sinking the sharp spike of the hammer into the flesh of the devildog while picturing that old bitch’s head getting separated from her wretched body. The third swing found the beast dead, but that did not stop Mjel from muttering words no Gods would have let go unpunished, while focusing on another, very vivid scene in her mind in which a certain draugr screamed in excruciating pain.
She pulled her hammer from the lifeless corpse, then let out a deep sigh. She was not aware how much she had craved this little encounter.
Crackling lightning bolts raced over her shoulder, catching Mjel off-guard. She threw herself to the ground immediately, but the stench of burnt hair soon filled the air.
‘Next time you sneak up on me I’ll tie you to a sled! Naked! Making you slide on your little arse!’ she screamed, frustrated, partly because she was embarrassed how frightened she had been for a moment.
‘You’re welcome.’
A short, blonde girl with extensive blue tattoos all over her head appeared up among the canopy of the surrounding, weirdly enormous trees. Her braided locks were flapping around her head as she descended the tree, grinning.
Only then did Mjel see a charred corpse of another beast beside her.
‘I, uh … thank you, Ida.’
‘As said,’ the short girl nodded, ‘you’re welcome.’
‘Have you seen the others?’
‘Can’t say I have. Not a single trace I could follow.’
‘Froshta hjedlír!’ Mjel muttered under her breath. Ida’s eyes widened, to which Mjel snapped, ‘What?’
‘You are being blasphemous, Mjelgralah.’
‘And you are being over-zealous, Idamin.’
Ida remained silent, sneering only at her chief’s words.
They trod into the direction of which Mjel believed would lead them back to shore. The young woman had never seen trees with a trunk that tremendous: some of these oak-like monstrosities had trunks so large it would have required five or six people to embrace it. Their leaves also looked off, some of them being red or azure, others having golden colours flecked with white stripes. They were nothing like the Velardhari simple trees.
Or so thought Mjel. For all she cared, these trees could have rooted straight from the Frozen Hell of Twilight.
‘This must be the place where the beasts ambushed our scouting group,’ Ida said, pointing ahead on the trail where several dog-corpses lay in the undergrowth.
‘Of course, I’ve just wanted to say that,’ Mjel shrugged, and she started scanning the surrounding vegetation for clues and trails.
‘There are a lot of these hellhounds here, Mjel. How many must have attacked, scattering our scouts this much?’
‘Hellhounds?’
‘Why not? We ought to call them somehow.’
‘Yeah, no, I like it. It has a ring to it.’ Mjel was investigating one of the carcasses. ‘Have you ever seen a dog like this? It’s almost the size of a bear.’
Ida approached the dead beast, cautiously inspecting the depth of the forest further among the unknown plants, rampant bines and vines, bushes, and long, hanging branches of the trees.
‘Don’t think of them as dogs. These are vile creatures. I doubt you could tame any of them.’
‘Yeah, it’s unlikely,’ Mjel agreed, while she pulled out a small, metallic object from the beast’s jaw. It was a silver coin, no larger than an inch, depicting the head of a snowdog. She snorted.
‘Ironic.’
‘What have you found?’
‘Here,’ she tossed the coin to Ida. ‘It must be Harak’s. Saw it in his neck a couple of times, he wore it as a medal. Since he isn’t lying here disembowelled, I would dare say he made it out of fight, perhaps along with the rest of our people. So …’ Mjel tied her auburn hair into one single braid, then lifted her hammer. ‘Can you locate him with your gem? Maybe you can … attune to this crap, or something …’
Ida pulled out her necklace from under her shirt. A little sapphire, the size of her thumb’s nail, glistened on it. She held it up and shook her head.
‘It does not work like that. This gem is the raw essence of one major aspect of the world, at least part of it. I can feel this power in the gemstone.’ The short girl seemed mesmerized by her jewel. ‘For whatever reason, I can tap into powers which operate the weather by the help of this gem. I can summon lightnings, storms, command the wind, so basically, control the weather.’
‘Ida,’ Mjel sighed heavily, ‘you’ve developed a bad habit of answering questions no one asked. I know you can do sorcery with these gems, that’s why you are a Herald of the Frozen Saint. A simple “no” would have been enough.’
Ida shook her head again, staring at the gem.
‘I did not say “no” on purpose. The sapphire can sense the essence working in relative proximity.’
‘How does this help? I bet Harak did not hide a sapphire or any other crystals into his underwear.’
‘Look.’
The sapphire was emitting a faint light. Mjel frowned.
‘Does that mean there’s a gemstone nearby?’
‘Or a Reborn.’
Silence fell upon them both. Mjel knew for sure that her clan had no Reborn, no Gifted among their ranks, let alone this little group she had to lead to this island. If the aboriginals possessed the gifts of a Reborn one, the Snowdogs’ mission might be hindered greatly.
‘This Emirith island is full of surprises, isn’t it?’ she murmured.
‘Amrith,’ Ida corrected. ‘Shall we follow the gem’s signs?’
Being the chief of a group of people meant certain responsibilities one could not avoid, such as overseeing that those aforementioned people are happily alive and breathing.
‘We’ll look for the others,’ Mjel said finally. ‘Keep an eye out for that gem of yours.’
‘I think it’s no longer necessary …’
The gem began to radiate, covering the trail in greyish-blue light. Mjel readied her hammer and turned to face the shadows amid the forest. She saw no movement, heard no rattle nor noise, but that only further increased her anxiety. Ida clutched the stone in her fist, trying to dim its glow without much effect; she hissed, tore the necklace from her neck, and dropped it to the ground, shaking her hand uncontrollably.
‘It burns like ice!’
‘That was a very stupid analogy, Ida,’ Mjel murmured, stepping closer to the girl, still on edge. ‘You can’t hear anything either, right?’
Just when Ida opened her mouth to answer, a howl filled the air, with many others joining soon. Mjel sneered at the night sky.
‘Punishment, aye? Then I’m taking it as a challenge, bastards!’
A pack of hellhounds appeared at the edge of Mjel’s vision, right on the trail, all of them charging towards the two young women. Mjel stood firmly in the centre of the path, balancing her weight on her right leg, ready to smash the first beast to reach her.
Ida groaned, trying to pick up the gemstone, struggling with its sudden, inexplicable heat. She managed to fold it into her gloves, but she was still unable to use it.
‘Hjedlíran omsk skara ij svor ti Froshtan baskjallir!’ screamed Mjel perhaps the worst curse she had ever thrown at the Gods, then she swung her war hammer with inhuman force.
The hellhound in the front of the pack whimpered and flew inside the vines with a nasty, wet thump.
The next hound never reached Mjel.
A thunderous rumble, something far worse than the roar of a stormgiant, shook the earth. The hellhounds came to a halt and slowly backed up, growling low. Mjel clung to her hammer, giving Ida a worried look. The herald’s face in the blueish light mirrored Mjel’s confusion. Especially so when the sapphire’s glow flickered out.
Mjel shuddered at the sight of the dozen fiery eyes in the dark, all fixing on her; then the hellhounds tucked their tails, surrendering from the fight. The rumble lost from its intensity, but it did not cease to be.
‘I presume we shall not be glad about it, whatever that was,’ Ida said, inspecting the gemstone in the faint moonlight. ‘I can see a crack on its surface … what happened?’
‘Divine intervention, surely,’ muttered Mjel, staring at the sky. ‘There’s a reddish light coming from there. Come!’
They made haste on the trail, finding another path which led up to a slope nearby. Weapons at the ready, they cut their way through the thick forest, arriving at the top of a little hill. Although trees abounded here as well, they had a clearer vision to the vicinity, bathed in moonlight, which left a dire grimace on Mjel’s face.
A couple of miles ahead, past some other rocky hills and shady valleys, a grim mountain stood, glooming above the whole region. Black smoke poured from its peak, obscuring the moon and the starlit sky. Its sides were lit by slowly descending red, fiery rivers, crawling downward the valleys with frightening certainty.
Ida gasped for air.
‘This could change … a whole lot of things.’
‘No, it wouldn’t,’ said Mjel, stern. ‘We voyaged for weeks, if not for months. We were tired, exhausted, hungry, and fucked by the gods throughout our journey in every sense of the word. We faced storms, even an Ice-damned freaking seasnake, too! No, our mission is to be fulfilled, and I’m going to condemn Sagramir to death by making him swallow his own prick!’
With every single word she uttered, her hatred towards, well, everything in that particular moment, was fuelled by unfettered anger.
‘We will look for the king, emperor, chieftain, or whatever the Frozen Hell they call their leader on this land, make an agreement, then seek out the woman and give her the message. But first,’ she sighed heavily, her shoulders dropping in the process, ‘we will look for our brethren.’
She turned to follow Ida after taking one last glance at the mountain, thinking to herself, What the fuck is wrong with this land?
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Lady Vishala Morbane stood on the balcony facing the massive entrance door of the hall beneath, her cheeks hurt from all the smiling.
Nobleborn, knightlords, and lesser local barons and baronesses filled the great hall of the Morbane estate. Their attire consisted of the costliest materials: Grandmaster Sandro, First Knightlord of the Emerald Order, wore basilisk leather—Vish did not doubt that the old knight slew the beast himself—Countess Rovina covered herself with the fur of moonvixen, and the Twins of Larkhadan floated across the room, preening in their traditional silk coats imported from Andoriel.
Vish groaned in disgust.
The guests had been able to enjoy the banquet for a good hour by now. Her husband Lorne had done superb work in entertaining the lords and ladies after the couple opened the evening. She had to thank him some time later.
Turning from the crowd, Vish took a quick glance at her reflection in the enormous wall-to-wall window behind her, then proceeded to sneak into one of the little rooms upstairs. She cautiously pulled the door.
In front of her in a chair sat a cloaked figure, pipe in their hands; the scent of fine tobacco intermingled with the smell of long unused, musty furniture.
‘What are you doing?’ hissed Vish, snatching the pipe from the person’s hand.
The cloaked figure pulled their hood. A man, frowning yet smiling, leant back and crossed his legs.
‘I was waiting for you, as you had ordered me to.’
‘How did you get this?’ Vish lifted the pipe. It was oddly familiar to her.
‘I swiped it from one of these rooms here, naturally. I swear I took nothing else.’
‘Idiot! Most of the servants are here, upstairs! What if someone has seen you?’
‘Did you hear anyone scream? Did you find any bodies?’
‘Bo … what? No!’
A wide, nasty smirk appeared on his lips.
‘Then no one has seen me.’
This was not the first time Vish started to doubt her plan.
‘Let’s get down to business. I need you to know—’
‘I already know everything I need to,’ the man interrupted. He was rubbing his stubbled jaw. ‘You’ve told it to me a couple of times before. All I am curious about is whether you can be alone with her for a couple of moments.’
‘I’ll see to it. You must not be seen by anyone, you hear? If something—’
‘I’m not in the habit of arguing with my … patrons,’ sneered the man, slightly pulling his cloak away from his body, ‘but with all due respect, you are being a tad bit annoying.’
The cloak revealed his side and so his dagger, sheathed in his belt. Vish pressed her lips. The ornate hilt of the weapon had a gem at its pommel, resembling a lotus made of onyx. She was not afraid of the knight from the Order of the Black Lotus—or the Shadow, as many commoners liked to call them—after all, it was she who had hired the assassin; but she did not feel comfortable in his presence either.
‘Believe me, madam, I know my duty.’
‘You’d better. Can you follow along what happens downstairs?’
The knight placed a thumb on the onyx. Shadows in the room slightly trembled.
‘I can.’
Cold crept up on Vish’s neck. She nodded and left the room, making sure very carefully that no one had seen this little encounter. She closed the door silently, collected herself, then, with a straight back, descended to the hall.
The couple dozens of nobleborn did not even try to hide their content. Many faces were red owing to the fine wine Lorne had acquired from the Bloodred Bottle Vineyard. Others were smiling without end, some foolishly, some mockingly, and some almost genuinely. Greetings and a few kind words washed over Vish as she slowly made her way through the crowd, looking for raven locks so black one could think the night itself glanced back from it.
‘Lady Morbane!’
Vish put a wide smile on her face and turned. Grandmaster Sandro gestured towards the windows, a bit further from where the mass of the crowd teemed.
‘Grandmaster!’ Vish snatched a glass from a nearby table. The knightlord’s drink seemed untouched which meant he had either refilled it recently or that he had not drunk at all. Vish was positive it was the latter. ‘I am truly honoured to host you in my humble home. I must admit, I was not sure if you would come.’
‘I must admit, I can’t remember the last time I went to a social gathering.’ The man’s voice sounded harsh, raspy. Years of fighting the ungodly beasts these lands bore had seemingly taken its toll: the once blonde hair looked almost completely grey, even though the man had only recently passed his fortieth year. His weathered face wore too many a scar, his ice-cold eyes were too blue, his pupil too tight.
‘I hope you find this night enjoyable?’ asked Vish courteously.
Sandro grunted.
‘Hardly. I don’t like pretentious people. Take Rovina. She looks like a common whore. She sits on the Council and is the head of the biggest province in Amrith. She should know better, than to—’ The grandmaster coughed politely, then straightened. ‘But this is not why I wanted to talk to you.’
The man grew stern. He kept his faint smile up, but something in his eyes and posture changed. Vish took a sip from her wine. Naturally, her mind started to play tricks with her, thinking of the worst scenario, half-heartedly waiting for Sandro to call out on her that she was hiding a Shadow in one of her chambers.
‘Is that so?’
Sandro turned to the window.
‘There is a strange aura in this hall. Magical, but concealed for now. I do not know the nature of it, but I saw fit to alert you that one of your guests might have not come with sincere intentions.’
Vish quietly sighed in relief. The grandmaster probably had an amulet or some other kind of token that could sense magic. Given his profession of slaying vile monsters, it seemed reasonable. It might have sensed the Shadow’s onyx in the dagger.
‘I thank you, Lord, for notifying me,’ she bowed her head. She tried to look suspicious while she scanned the crowd. ‘I assure you, should there be any trouble, magical or otherwise, our guards are nearby, ready to intervene in such cases.’
Sandro straightened and nodded.
‘I doubt our noble friends would conspire about anything but the origins of these fine beverages,’ sounded a calm, soft voice. Vish turned to see Medhraine Brygard, second daughter of the Royal family in Andoriel. Vish’s heart began to race; those light green eyes of her young friend always glistened as if she knew something funny others did not. Her raven black hair was put up in something between a braid and a bun, her milky skin so smooth many in the hall could have envied her youth.
Medh was looking at Vish while she was talking.
‘We are most grateful for your service, Grandmaster Sandro. This land needs cleansing, now more than ever. Many should follow along in your order’s footsteps.’
‘The Emerald Order has been helping the Kingdoms since ages, Lady Brygard,’ replied Sandro, polite, but Vish saw him stiffing. Knight orders were not under any of the royal families’ jurisdiction, and the knightlord seemed uncomfortable with Medh avoiding eye contact. ‘Amrith would be no different. Alas, few could have the perseverance to reach knighthood, and ours is a trade practiced meticulously. I certainly do not doubt the capabilities of common soldiers, but I’m afraid, sending a bunch of untrained military troops to slay beasts could result in a dire catastrophe.’
‘I understand your concern, Knightlord. That’s why we respectfully leave the job to you. Even though our Roses could make a fine match with your knights, I believe.’
‘Beg your pardon, but Andoriel’s Roses are not knights, merely a mocking mimicry of what Orders stand for. There’s difference between beating up immorally behaving city folk and slaying, say, bloodwolves.’
‘True. One usually gets to you in the middle of the night, killing women and children without consideration, the other mostly lies in its lair. Admirable difference indeed.’
Vish took another sip from her wine, flustered. She could not fathom Medh’s behaviour, although such instances had become more and more common recently. The girl finally turned to Sandro.
‘It is to my greatest sorrows, Lord, for interrupting whatever crucial ordeal you have been discussing with Lady Morbane, but I must speak with her. We should also continue our talk some time later. Who knows, perhaps we may arrange a match, an Emerald of yours against a Rose of mine. But now, if you excuse us …’
Sandro seemed unbothered.
‘I’ll occupy myself.’ With that, the Grandmaster graciously left the two at the window.
‘May we speak somewhere private?’ Medh asked, her head tilted. Vish swallowed and nodded. Without a word, she led her friend to one of the balconies. She opened the glass doors and stepped outside into the cold night. Some of the guests followed them with their eyes, but none found it strange even after the curtains were drawn and they disappeared from sight—the two had been on good terms for a long time.
Had, indeed, thought Vish.
Medh walked to the banister of the balcony. Placing her hands on it, she gazed at the starry night sky, the cliffs in the vicinity, the various hills and mountains throughout the region.
‘How may I help, Your Highness?’
Vish knew she was being cold, but the second daughter of Andoriel was to be the envoy of the royal family, and unless Medh implied that she did not want to deal with official matters, Vish wouldn’t give her the chance to humiliate her. Medh had changed in the last two years tremendously.
‘We are alone, Vish.’
‘We are.’
‘It must have been difficult to organise this banquet.’
The girl still faced away from Vish.
‘What do you want, Medhraine? I thought your … dealings kept you busy enough not to stir any pots.’
‘Not really, in fact,’ giggled the girl, turning around. A faint smile played in the corner of her lips. ‘But you know me, I love being mysterious.’
‘I knew you.’
‘Come now, Vish. You’ve known me all your life.’
‘I have,’ replied the woman carefully. ‘You’re only four years older than Fella.’
Medh’s smile turned bittersweet. ‘And here we are, growing cold and apart from each other.’
Vish lifted an eyebrow. ‘You find it surprising?’
Now it was Medh who seemed startled. ‘You don’t?’
‘Can you even begin to understand the things you’ve done since your arrival? Amrith wasn’t meant to be a colony. It should have been a new home, a new kingdom, a safehold for anyone from the Mainland. You … you’ve ruined everything.’
‘Please, elaborate on that, my dear friend, for I might have difficulties with following you,’ Medh frowned. ‘What, exactly, do you think I’ve ruined?’
‘You’ve poisoned Bryne’s mind with your stupid myths!’ Vish hissed. ‘Long lost relics that could stop the proliferation of the monsters? He became obsessed with these mirages, wasted great amounts of resources and manpower only to find nothing! He even brought the wrath of the tribes on our head. To think we could seize whole islands to dig up something that had never even existed! And to what end? We must seek Andoriel’s help to aid us in the very war we, ourselves have started! See? You don’t even deny it!’
‘There is nothing to deny. I merely shared stories with the beloved King, stories I’ve heard.’
‘If I didn’t know you lack control over the faelin, I would think you had charmed him somehow.’
Medh giggled. ‘Oh, my. That’s all? I’m evil because King Bryne got a bit too enthusiastic about some local myths?’
‘Andoriel’s influence has been suffocating the entire land for the last two years. Look at all the people in the Council, the ones who have the most land; Rovina, the Twins, Jhalin, Machlor, all from Andoriel. Inara and Khora are the only ones from Anlorn. There were almost persecutions against anyone who was not going to embrace Andorieli customs! Amrith’s name has mingled with Andoriel to the extent people look weird if someone says they came from Temdath or Neryl. Dissension between the Royalists and the Islanders is ever so great. It also can’t be a coincidence that pro-Andoriel agitators abound in the latter group. All because of your meddling. Amrith is not part of Andoriel. It will never be.’
‘You also sit on the council.’ The girl played with the empty locket of her necklace that used to have some kind of a gem. ‘Your home is the most ancient estate on this land, with arguably the richest region under your name. And, what a surprise, you are Andorieli yourself! Aren’t you a little hypocritical here? Remind me, what other kingdoms had set foot on this land since the Landfall ten years ago? Temdath and Remdath has been busy with their silly civil war. Lendvale never cared about anything but the behemoths. I doubt Velardhar even knows about Amrith. And the few settlers from Anlorn are keen on accepting Andoriel as a … guide here, so I do not know what persecutions you are talking about.’
‘Bryne is king,’ said Vish, defiant, as if that could end their argument. ‘You cannot taint our kingdom any more than you’ve already done so.’
Medh smiled, and Vish saw something in the girl’s eyes, something vicious, perilous, but also more than that; something … ungodly, beastly. Vish shivered as Medh turned away, leaning on the banister.
‘Oh, Vish. It pains me to fight with you. I don’t want this. Any of it. But I have certain responsibilities I cannot escape. I’m not more than a mere tool. And as such, I am expected to do what I was made for.’
Vish found the wording a bit odd. She opened her mouth to reply but was cut by a sinister, distant rumble. She turned her head left and right, worried, but there were no immediate threats, and the rumble went silent a couple of moments later.
Then she saw it. The Ghatra in the distance seemed odd; faint red-orange light shimmered at the top of it, with a thick black mass floating above the mountain.
Someone hissed above them. Vish could smell a burnt scent in the air, but she was distracted by a clinking sound on her side. She caught a glance of a shiny little black jewel bouncing down into the depths from the balcony: an onyx.
She looked up, terrified that the Shadow could be right above them. She told him she could get a little time together with the girl in private but continuing the ambush now might end in catastrophe.
Luckily, there were no one on the walls, in the windows nor in the balconies as far as she could see. Medh seemed not to notice anything.
‘What happened?’ Vish asked slowly.
‘The Ghatra erupted. Hm. Maybe—’
‘Erupted?’ the woman cut her off. ‘We must organise evacuation of the region at once! There are villages and settlements nearby!’
‘None of them too close to the mountain,’ Medh shook her head. ‘But you are right, further investigation is needed.’
‘We’ll handle the situation.’ Vish scoffed and walked beside Medh. ‘With all respect, Your Highness, you won’t be of much help.’
‘That’s right. I will see the site for myself, nevertheless. I won’t be in anyone’s way,’ she promised, as Vish breathed in to reply. The older woman pressed her lips and nodded.
‘How many ordeals we must overcome to finally find peace in this land?’
Medh did not reply. She thoughtfully fixed her gaze at the distant mountains. Vish was appalled to see that a smile played at the corner of her lips. The woman turned and looked up once again. Two floors above them, a shadowy figure moved in a window. It stood still for a couple of moments, then disappeared.
It seemed there would not be blood drawn that night. It was for the best. No one would die yet. Vish sighed. She knew she had been a little too harsh with Medh recently.
But she also knew that whoever—whatever—stood next to her, that was not Medhraine Brygard anymore.
----------------------------------------
‘Tell me. Have I gone mad?’
I hope not.
‘It is not my place to judge that, Sire,’ said Vardille loud.
King Bryne, anointed ruler of Amrith, stood straight beside the entrance of the mountain. The path leading up to the top lay narrow behind the group—twelve men and women, the best and most trusted among the Crownguard. The torches carried by them cast sinister shadows on the surrounding groves of dwarf pines.
Bryne smiled faintly. ‘You did not help with that.’
‘I am aware, Sire.’
The king glanced at Vardille.
‘Could it be this easy?’ he whispered. ‘No guards, no barrier for the faelin, nothing?’
‘With all due respect,’ Vardille whispered back ‘it would be very foolish to believe we will not have to fight our way inside. Beasts, or otherwise.’
Bryne stood absentmindedly, murmuring to himself.
‘It may be that we find nothing. It may be that our efforts as of late have been to no avail.’
And it may very well be that you condemned us all to death.
‘Shall we proceed?’
Bryne nodded.
Holding the torch high, Vardille entered the cave. The rugged ground was pitch black; glimmering pebbles and rocks scattered around made it look like a mocking image of the night sky. The cavern ran deep into the darkness, descending to the heart of the mountain. Vardille’s eyes darted from one angle to the next, constantly looking for danger.
A strange sense of thrill washed over him. He needed to restrain himself from leaving the others behind and rush over as if to begin a hunt, seeking out the altar Bryne has been so enthusiastic about. He paused for a moment, then, when he made sure there were no immediate threats, he signalled to the king.
Vardille looked for signs of any kinds of former presence while the Crownguard made their way into the cave. The white plumes hanging from their helmets looked ghostly in torchlight.
‘So, what now?’ asked Jelyn, second captain of the Crownguard, her voice edged with anxiety.
‘We follow the trail of stars,’ said Bryne calmly. The soldiers moved, uncomfortable. Closing his eyes, Bryne drew a knife from his belt, cut the clothe on his wrist, then pushed the blade against his skin, above many other short nasty strings of scars, and gently pulled it, carving another thin, crimson line into his arm. He let the blooddrops fall to the ground.
None of the Crownguard watched him do it.
Except for Vardille. He felt Bryne floating in the faelin. He could see the air bending around his King as if reality was about to break. The rest of the guards noticed nothing—they could not, even if they wanted to.
They had no connection to the faelin.
Bryne opened his eyes. They seemed like a warped mirror of the starry night sky, wholly black as an onyx, with little dots dappling them, gleaming faintly in shades of violet, blue, and yellow.
‘Follow me.’
The King slowly walked past Vardille, into the narrow tunnel. The captain kept a steady pace behind Bryne, making sure he was ready for a potential ambush or assault. The cavern diverged several times. Bryne rarely stopped to contemplate on choosing the right path, and he always seemed content with his decision eventually.
Bryne was Reborn, an exceptionally strong one. At times, Vardille would think that the man could actually blur the already-torn Veil further, so much so that this unknown essence could drown him and endow never-seen-before powers to him—Vardille was convinced that Bryne could ascend into … something more. It was only that the man did not crave that power, that control over life itself. In the wrong hands, Bryne’s gift could have been an absolute catastrophe, a scourge on humanity, one that could bring calamity and damnation to all.
But Bryne used this power for the benefit of Amrith and its people. And because of this, Vardille found pride in following him. It may be an everlasting struggle to reject the sweet beckoning of infinite power day by day, yet the man had not swayed since Vardille met him the first time.
Despite this all, Vardille could not really figure out what Bryne’s gift truly was. He could manipulate the faelin, alter its manifestation, sometimes even cut all source of it from the vicinity, but something had remained hidden.
‘Your thoughts are annoyingly loud, captain.’
Vardille stared at the back of his king.
‘How …’
‘No, I can’t read your mind,’ whispered Bryne. ‘But I do feel a great disturbance from your presence.’ He glanced at Vardille with his uncanny eyes. The guard captain remained silent, though cold crept up his spine. ‘And not only from you. We are not alone.’
Although many did not admit nor did they want to accept, the gift had not come without cost for King Bryne. His mind had started to splinter, and the more he used his powers, the more accelerated this process became, resulting in seeing or hearing things that were not truly there.
This time, though, Vardille knew the King was right. He peeked under his shirt where an onyx hung on a necklace; it was emitting a faint black light. Someone was meddling with the essence not so far from them. He stopped and turned towards Jelyn.
‘Potential enemies ahead. Surround the king and stay in close formation.’
The woman nodded in silence and the Crownguard gathered around Bryne.
‘Is this really nece—’
‘Yes,’ Vardille interrupted the king. ‘Remember, whenever I believe your life is in jeopardy, I’m given absolute authority to do as I see fit.’
‘Yes, maybe we shall further examine those passages after we get back,’ muttered Bryne but he dutifully followed Jelyn while remaining in the centre of the ring the Crownguard had just formed.
The tunnels proved to be monotonous, but Vardille did not let his guard down. His onyx sensed the faelin being at work, but it could not indicate its exact place. He had been aware of his gift to operate the faelin with the gemstones for years, yet he was sure there was something more to the gems, something untapped that could still be of use.
The path separated again, and the group came to a halt.
‘Left is dangerous,’ said Bryne. ‘Right is clear and empty. I’m afraid our journey leads to the left.’
The group stood silently. The King fixed his gaze on Vardille. ‘But I’m afraid your journey lies in the right path.’
‘I won’t abandon you.’
‘It’s not what you think it is. You’ll arrive at the same place as we will, but you’ll have assessed the situation by that time.’
‘How do you know all this?’ whispered Vardille. Bryne tilted his head, his eyes glistened, menacing. He was smiling.
‘I just do.’
Vardille considered the matter only for a moment.
‘Take the left, then, all. I guess we’ll see each other soon, won’t we?’
‘On your signal, Captain.’
Vardille nodded to his King’s words, knowing it meant more than he thought, then he deftly darted into the right tunnel.
After a good three hundred yards he started to hear whispers, so he put out his torch. He carefully sneaked along the walls in total darkness until shades of grey started to paint the walls of the tunnel. A few more steps, and he found what Bryne was talking about.
The rocky wall was missing on his left as if it had been torn out by a giant, ending the tunnel in something of a balcony, from which Vardille could have clear vision to the cavern below.
In the centre stood an elevated platform, bones and skulls of all shapes lay beneath its jagged edges—corpses of bloodwolves and other creatures he could not recognise. Above, a ball of red-orange light hung aloft, occasionally flashing like lightning but with no audible sound. The ominous sphere was slowly rotating around itself. Thin, nearly transparent strings of light cascaded from the mass to four people standing in each corner of the cavern, their eyes shimmering with the same reddish colour.
Vardille’s eyes widened, perplexed. Four Reborn?
But no, they were as good as dead; they did not move, did not even flinch, only stood there as stumps. On the platform were three people standing, armoured, staring at one of the entrances from where Vardille expected Bryne and the Crownguard to appear. He could not made out his companions in dim light nor the faces of the three strangers.
The scene looked nasty. Vardille could not be sure whether there were any more of these people nearby, striking them now may not be a wise option. He did not like that expectant posture of the strangers either, as if they had already been waiting for them.
It smelt like a trap.
He grabbed the onyx under his shirt, took a deep breath, then started to call on the power of the gemstone. He felt the faelin pouring into the world through miniscule holes in reality. Shadows then trembled around him and a form, the shape of a human emerged from the darkness of the tunnel. Its features were blurred, its silhouette vague. The entity flickered like black flames; its physique fluctuated. Vardille immediately summoned a second one.
Murmurs echoed from the platform. Vardille sent one of his shadows crawling through the channel. He gasped for air, then used the gem again to see with the creature’s eyes—one of the three people was heading towards his hiding place.
Using the gems took its toll but Vardille ignored the aching numbness in his bones and called forth yet another shadow. He could feel the world screaming around him. There was only so much power a gemstone could hold and unleashing that power in a very short time caused further tears in the Veil.
After taking a couple of moments to have his vision cleared, Vardille slowly stood and sent commands to all the shadows at once.
One of them sneaked past—drifted past—the approaching stranger and crouched at the base of the altar. The two other shadows sprang towards the four sinister people from whom the faint beads of light were woven.
Only a moment after Vardille stepped into the light, the ground beneath his feet became soft, viscous. He acted instinctively; calling upon the power of the onyx once more, he shrouded himself in shadows, becoming one entirely. He managed to leap from the treacherous ground down into the cavern, dropping to his knees in exhaustion and dropping his shadow-self in the process.
One shadow made it onto the altar. Shouts and the clinking of metal resounded through the cavern as the people drew their weapons. The ones who made the light suddenly snapped, their eyes ceased to glow, the light disappeared above them, yet the huge ball seemed untouched.
The figure in front of Vardille held a finely crafted sword: he could make out the engraving on the blade above the guard depicting a rose with rampant vines. As Vardille’s gaze rose upon his opponent’s face, he stood confused for a moment: the man’s left cheek was covered in dark ink, a tattoo, portraying the same rose. He recognised that tattoo.
The man was a Knight of the Rose.
But why is a knight from the Andorieli Royal Order here?
He ducked from the slashing blade, rolled sideways, then sprang up, this time sword in hand.
The tattooed man glimpsed at Vardille’s blade, recognition glinting in his eyes. With a smile, he bowed his head, then attacked.
Between two consecutive parries and counterattacks, Vardille could quickly take in his surroundings. His shadows were still around, he sensed all of them. The four people around the altar proved to have a lack of fighting skills, they tried to keep the shadows at bay with whatever they had on them, rocks, small hatchets, knives with little to no success. One of the people on the platform sparred with the shadow there; judging by their gait, they must have also been a knight. Their partner held a quarterstaff in one hand, and something else in a fist in the other. Dim greenish light glowed underneath their fingers.
Must be an emerald.
An unearthly crack rumbled behind Vardille and a shower of rocks shot towards him. The guard captain rolled behind a projection of stones. The deep sounds of rocks slamming into the surface behind his back made him swallow.
Definitely an emerald.
The Crownguard chose this time to rush inside the cavern with Jelyn at the head of the group. Without hesitation, she shouted commands to her companions, then half of them rushed towards the altar, the rest remaining around Bryne.
Screams, ugly crackles, then gruesome growls, and the Crownguard’s advance came to a halt. Vardille peeked from the stones only to gasp in horror. Spikes and darts protruded from the ground, thwarting several of Crownguard’s bodies.
Vardille jumped and ran for the altar, in the same moment when one of his shadows dissipated. Pain surged into his chest, causing him to buckle and tumble, as if a long cord woven from his heart got cut halfway and then snapped back. It took enough time for the Andorieli knight to come at him again. Vardille seized the onyx, making himself a shadow once again so that the knight’s blade pierced through nothing but air.
The tattooed man stepped back and grinned.
‘Never fought a Shadow before,’ he said. ‘Let alone a renegade one.’
Vardille let go of the onyx, fought the urge to vomit after coming back to his physical form, then stabbed, following with an uppercut, slashing left and right, never giving the Rose a chance to attack.
Screams and groans filled the air which Vardille took as a bad sign. With the overpower the Crownguard had, it should have been an easy fight.
The Andorieli followed his sword back, shoved it aside, then hit Vardille in the face with his pommel. The guard captain fell but he tried and grabbed his dagger from his boots and threw it at his opponent. He was rewarded with a hurtful groan.
‘Anru!’
The roar came from Bryne. Silence fell upon the cavern, pierced through only by the low humming of the ball of light above them all. Vardille’s shadows evaporated; he lay still for a moment under the sudden weight of anguish as the air was driven out of his body. The rumbling stones, rocks, and spikes shattered, the green light from the person’s hand on the altar stopped shining.
Bryne approached the platform, the wrath of worlds beyond glaring in his eyes.
‘Stop it, Anru.’
The name was not unfamiliar to Vardille. Anru Stormwalker led the rebellion throughout Amrith and its islands. The guard captain rose as he wiped the blood from his face, one eye fixed on the Andorieli knight nearby. He was sitting, one leg extended. The knife had sunk in the man’s thigh.
‘I haven’t even started yet,’ replied Anru, staring grimly down on the king. The remaining Crownguard gathered and formed a wall between Bryne and the altar. Only two priests survived the fight out of the four—Vardille thought of them as priests judging by their clothes—whom now were backed against the rocky wall behind the altar. The knight standing by Anru was panting, the fight with the shadow seemed to have exhausted them.
‘Care to explain what, exactly?’ asked Bryne with forced courtesy.
‘No,’ Anru took a glance at the ball of light, ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Why are you accompanied by Roses, Anru?’
‘Your knowledge of the world’s events could fall through the hole of a sieve, Bryne. I’d suggest you go home but I’m afraid you’re gravely late with that.’
‘I see.’ Bryne stepped closer to the altar, seeking a way to get up. He stopped before a ramp. ‘If you excuse us, we have urgent business in this place. We will deal with your treachery after we are finished. You have the blood of four Crownguard on your hands.’
‘Your arrogance is truly amusing.’ Anru did not seem to be bothered by the advancing group of Crownguard on the ramp. ‘Tell me something. You’ve acquired all the relics. You’ve set them up. What did you hope to achieve here? What have you been pursuing so bad that hundreds of your people’s lives had been lost during this war?’
Bryne slowed, frowning upon the words.
‘How do you know I have all the relics?’
‘Answer me first.’
‘I am going to invoke the power of Amrith,’ said Bryne, his voice elevated. ‘The island will wake fully from its slumber. True, that means demons and only Gods know what other sort of vile beasts, but it also brings cleansing. Cleansing from all the corruption and taint this poor land and its population has suffered. The faelin is going to thrive on this land, and our future generations are going to live in harmony. Our grandchildren may already have the chance to see a brighter future on these barren lands.’
Anru chortled the moment Bryne stopped speaking. His features distorted into a mask of utter disdain. ‘She really made you believe all these follies, didn’t she? Ah, it doesn’t matter. I’m sure she had planned it all well in advance. That we’re here. Afterall, one of us is going to succeed. One way or another.
Vardille’s eyes widened in surprise. What in the name of Soramarr is he talking about?
‘Yet, I will help you.’
Now it was Bryne who looked surprised.
‘You will help me rebuild Amrith?’
‘No.’ A crackle of lightning shot from the light-sphere. The Crownguard lifted their weapons. ‘I will help you wake Amrith from her slumber.’
Anru pulled something out from his pouch, blue light glistened on it. A moment later the emerald in his hand started to radiate again. The sphere of light was crackling and rumbling but its size started to dwindle.
Vardille darted towards the altar, racing past the two puzzled priests. Jelyn and another Crownguard was already fighting Anru’s knight, but the Rose of Andoriel proved to be a formidable foe. The rest of the Crownguard stood still with Bryne, who seemed to be at a loss.
‘He has a kyanite!’ Vardille shouted as he jumped right next to Bryne. ‘We need to overcome him!’
‘Impossible,’ Bryne whispered. ‘All these years and I only could find one of them. And I gave it to …’
The sphere broke and fell onto the altar, crashing right unto the Crownguard. Vardille tried to pull Bryne with himself but a spike snapping from the ground shove the guard captain down from the altar.
The cavern shook and moaned, cracks ran across the ground and walls, stalactites fell from above. Vardille saw a third gemstone appearing in Anru’s hand, an orange one. Sunstone.
Vardille got himself on his feet and tried to make his way to Bryne again, but he was late. The king was kneeling and howling as the power of the sunstone subjugated his lifeforce. For one last time, Vardille grabbed the onyx and assumed his shadow-self. He became lighter, the pain seemed distant, colours and sounds faint and obscure. He quickly drifted towards Anru amid the chaos, let go of the onyx, and stabbed. The rebel leader gasped and collapsed, but Vardille was already with Bryne. He lifted the king to his back, and gritting his teeth, fighting against vomit, dizziness, and crippling agony, he tried to carry him somewhere far away from the middle of the destruction.
The rocky wall by the altar cracked open and viscous, red-orange coloured substance poured into the cavern. Hazing heat suffocated Vardille as the walls all around cracked and collapsed. He felt the sudden touch of breeze, but before he could seek out the hole, the ground shook again, throwing him off his balance. He stumbled towards Bryne and caught a glimpse of Anru kneeling on the altar, frantically scratching the ground where Bryne’s blood fell.
A power so raw and intense snatched up Vardille and Bryne and tossed them over the cavern, against the brittle walls. Vardille felt excruciating pain in his back as the rocks splintered on impact. He only had a flashing moment of realisation that he smelt the fragrance of pines and the fresh air of the night, then he started to fall, slide, and tumble across the slope of the mountain. A group of dwarf pines caught him and prevented him from breaking his neck in another insane fall.
He was outside the mountain, on its slope.
Moments, then minutes passed, and Vardille finally could get on all fours with a terrible groan. His eyes immediately scanned the vicinity for Bryne; he had a fairly easy task, since all the fiery substance cascading down the sides lit the night as if it was a ballroom with chandeliers. Bryne lay at the base of a similar pine grove.
The guard captain looked back at the mountain. Thick, suffocating black smoke rose to the sky, blazing rivers ran downwards from a crater on its slide, and a low, menacing rumble echoed through the night. He shook his head in disbelief and trudged through the dwarf pines towards Bryne. He collapsed next to his king, and yet, for the umpteenth time that day, he forced himself to rise, at least to his knees, and gently turned Bryne to his back. He was pale as a Velardhari, his face bruised, blood dripping from his nose and mouth.
To his greatest surprise and relief, Bryne coughed, then spoke:
‘He … he got my blood.’
Vardille remained silent.
‘We are … doomed.’
‘What’s happened there? What’s going on?’
Bryne’s eyelids twitched, then opened. His eyes were normal.
‘He’s awakened Amrith. He’s awakened … the Queen.’