I groan in pain as I roll my body to face the woman suspended in the purple energy. She seems to be at least semi-conscious and she raises her head a fraction of an inch, her sunken eyes boring deep into mine.
“Another failed attempt at heroism?”
I feel tears creep into my eyes as I answer, “Aye. How’d you guess?”
“You have a depressed look about you. One I’ve seen all too often.”
“Fuck. Can’t deny that.” I half sigh, half laugh, “And who might you be?”
“Elandra, Elandra Dawnbringer.”
I gasp at the realization that this woman is the former head of the Covenant of Light. “Ah. Drysten told me you once led the covenant.”
“Drysten’s still alive!? I thought that after…” her voice trails off.
“After what?”
“After I was possessed, he might have been too.”
I scurry back into a corner of my cell, “You were possessed? Nope. No thanks.”
“Was. No longer. The Cult of the Wandering Soul has already gleaned any and all information they sought within my mind. I think they keep me around now as bait for foolsome adventurers like yourself who mistakenly trust Drysten and his throne of lies.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You don’t know?”
“... don’t know what?” I ask, a sinking feeling beginning to build in the pit of my stomach.
“I suppose circumstances force this knowledge upon you, albeit not without my solemn regret. This is the story of the Olden Ones.” Her voice cracks as she breaks into a solemn-sounding song.
Long before the world turned,
before the hearts of man yearned
before the seas, mountains, and sky,
many olden gods did lie.
Their powers spanned the expanse of stars,
from heaven to hell, from Earth to Mars.
Power beyond mortal comprehension,
power no man dares even mention.
The olden gods sat and created the planets,
Azhorra-Tha, goddess in charge, demanded it.
The most beautiful planet R'lyeh was made first
Under amber skies laid gods forever cursed.
Second in line was source of eternal light, the sun,
a star so bright, it woke the bloodthirsty Zyrakrun.
Under the galaxy, gods devised existence,
Azhorra and Zyrakrun wove the universe through a beautiful dance.
Their prized possession was a fragile man
the stunning result of their master plan.
Qu’athlas the serpent was green with jealousy,
his anger shook the bounds of the galaxy.
Under his command, he took gods, a vast amount,
an attack he led for years beyond count.
The battle of gods came to a gross head
on fields of battle, the blood of men,
was needlessly spread.
The skies above rained death incarnate,
existence itself was mired in hate,
the winners of war, chosen by fate.
Battle blossomed in the islands of the west,
corrupted beyond the healing of the best.
Fighting ruined the land, marking it with desecration
Once stunning fields filled with desolation.
Ever on the war still wages,
battles of misery fought amongst mages.
in years soon to come, this world will die,
And I pray to my savior, so shall I.
Her voice dies off, with the last unbroken note resonating through the prison ringing like the toll of a cold and forsaken iron bell.
I take a deep breath. “You mean to tell me that the reason the curse spread across the isles was because of a feud older than existence itself?”
“In so many words, yes.” Elandra mumbles, losing herself in thought.
I also sink back into my cell, slipping into the recesses of my thoughts. An unmeasured amount of time passes between us, streaming ever on, the never-ending flow of time, a river that splits around a rock represented by two hopeless souls. When Elaqndra finally speaks again, I am startled by her voice.
“The words of my oath say it is folly to lose hope. The darkest times are always followed by the light of the sun. But in the lifeless purgatory of this cell, I can’t help but let the rays of hope fade. Tell me Draven, what keeps you going? Why do you still live when life fights so hard for you to die?”
“Valena.” I whisper, her name escaping my parched lips. My voice breaks and tears begin to well up in my eyes. A dark tidal wave drowns me in inescapable emotions and I let the tears fall freely, washing over the cracked and bloodied skin of my face. Each drop rolling across my cheeks represents a lost fragment of hope slipping into the infinite void of loss. A hope I still cling desperately to that I would one day, somehow, see Val again.
“Love. The most powerful driving force.” Elandra sighs, “A magic stronger than any I have known.”
Again we sink back into silence, broken occasionally by the sounds of birds cawing in the far distance. Hours pass, I continue to cry. My memories of Val are beginning to shatter along with my sanity. The light fades and darkness falls around us, the only light is the soft purple glow emanating from Elandra’s chains. During these hours, I flirt with unconsciousness, dancing in her domain, falling in and out of her icy embrace, unable to determine whether or not the world of her dreams would sting less than my waking hell.
“Is there really a need to cry that much? Are you really that weak?” Says a hauntingly familiar voice from the corner of my cell. A voice I haven’t heard since the day I was exiled, a voice that rings with disappointment and disgust. The voice of my brother.
I raise my head and see Caileen, clad in his red royal armor, standing above me sneering.I focus on his face, his expression. The look of disgust is palpable, he looks as if he just picked up a rotting corpse from the side of the road. But there is still a macabre fascination with my pain that is painted across his pointed features.
“You’re a disappointment Draven. Even mom and dad never loved you. Nobody ever has. Not me. Not Val. No one. And not a soul ever will.”
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“YOU CAN’T PROVE THAT!” I scream, throwing a fist towards his breastplate. I reel in shock and pain as my hand sails straight through Caileen and connects with the cold stones of the cell wall behind him.
“You resort to violence. Always your answer. But that answer has always hurt people and always will. YOU ARE NOTHING AND WILL NEVER BE ANYTHING!” He screams, the words echoing through my head filling my thoughts.
“GO AWAY! Go away! Go to hell and go away!” I scream repeatedly. I scream the words until my voice is raw, and my throat is bleeding. Again the tears come, blurring my sight as I attack the visage of Caileen with a never-ending flurry of blows. My fists connect with jagged stone over and over again, I don’t stop until my knuckles stream with blood, dark and thick.
Caileen fades, his words are like thorns scratching at my mind as I sink back into my corner, my body curling into a ball as I do so. I know now that my sanity is gone. I know also that it will soon be followed by my will to live which is currently fading faster than the light of a setting winter sun.
After a while, I hear footsteps echoing down the long stone hall. I scramble to my feet and ready myself for combat.
A figure emerges from the shadows beyond my sight and makes his way towards my cell. He wears the same blue cloak that I saw during my fight in the forest. His face is covered in black ritualistic markings, his eyes are alight with an evil glare as he approaches my cell with a small silver tray.
“Back up from the door.” He commands as he approaches my cell and unhooks a large rusted keyring from his belt.
I comply, my body still tense. My eyes are locked on the cloaked figure as he unlocks the black iron cell door and pushes it inwards. He locks eyes with me and doesn’t avert his gaze as he sets down the silver tray in front of me. He backs out of the cell and locks the door behind him. Only then does he break the silence.
“King Magnus would like to see you tomorrow at daybreak. You have no choice in the matter. Be ready for your escort in the morn.”
“Fuck you.” I spit back at him.
“It is unwise to anger the king of miracles so brazenly.”
“The only miracle he could provide would be his timely suicide.”
I feel a magical hand grasp my throat, choking me and lifting me onto my toes. “Hold your tongue boy. You are in no position to be so flagrant with your words or your wit.”
The edges of my vision darken as his magic strangles me slowly. “Kill me then.” I say, fighting to get the words out, as the world around blurs further. I am raised up further by the invisible hand and as the world begins to fade around me, I am mercilessly dropped back onto the cold stone floor, my head slamming into a jagged brick and throwing me into the arms of unconsciousness.
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The Streets of Danor - The Evening of the Heist
My heart pounds in my chest, the day has come, the time is now. In no more than an hour’s time, my debt will be repaid, and I can begin my search for Val. I follow a street made of white cobbled stone that loops around King Tristan’s palace. The palace itself is a towering and imposing structure made from slabs of darkened marble and red limestone. It sits atop a massive hill, surrounded on all sides by a moat of inky water.
I circle the moat clockwise, I am on my third rotation of the white road when I see Thorin in front of me, exactly where he is meant to be, leading a pack of goats behind him. As we draw nearer to each other, he covertly lifts his left hand, showing me three fingers, then two, and finally one.
We pass each other and I make a purposefully clumsy attempt to push him and grab the rope with which he is leading the goats. The result is exactly what we hoped for, Thorin shouts, “Get off me you filthy thief!” his hands connect with my chest and he pushes backwards towards the moat. Simultaneously, the herd of goats, scared by all the noise and tugging of the rope, begins to scatter. These two things cause pandemonium in the busy road and I make a show of stumbling from the blacksmith’s powerful shove. I take three measured steps back and flail my arms as I ‘fall’ into the murky waters of the moat.
Under the icy water, I kick off hard from the concrete wall and propel my body towards the abalone abandoned and now submerged sewage pipeway I know is across the way. I twist my body through the curving pipe and navigate my way through the darkness.
My lungs, initially filled with air, begin to deplete as I push my way through the pitch black of the winding tunnels. According to the plans, this pipe should open up into the abandoned sewage system in about a hundred meters. But as I continue swimming, I pass what I estimate to be that distance and swim on. My mind borders on panic as another twenty five meters passes without a sign of the opening I am supposed to come out of. My lungs are almost out of air as I continue kicking my way through the claustrophobia inducing pipes.
I am abruptly stopped as my head painfully collides with an obstacle blocking the way. I back up as far as I can in the cramped space and reach out to touch the obstruction. It is an iron cover, firmly set into the pipe ahead of me.
SHIT! I scream internally. This is not what we planned for!
With my mind racing for contingencies, I maneuver my body around in the tunnel, my lungs now beginning to cry for air. I send a kick sailing through the blackness towards the grate, my movements slow and sluggish, affected by the water. My foot connects and I feel something give, if only an inch. My foot plows through the water again and again as I try, with little success, to dislocate the cover.
Eventually, I move it enough that a light begins to emerge and the water around me slowly begins to pour out. However, it isn’t before my lungs are screaming for air and as my instinctual nature takes over, I can’t help but open my mouth and attempt to take a breath of air. Even as the pipe drains around me, I still inhale nothing but water as I try to refill my lungs.
Coughing racks my body as the water slowly rushes out of the pipe. I can’t breathe, my body is slowly drowning, my senses suffocating.
I throw my body one more time at the heavy iron cover and at last it’s dislodged and I spill from the tunnel onto the concrete grounds of the main sewage tunnel that runs under the palace.
I emerge from the darkness, gasping desperately for air as I cough up inky water. My lungs feel scratchy and raw as I lay on the ground struggling to find air. After three minutes of fighting for air, I am finally able to breathe normally again.
I rise to my feet and unsling the bag from my back, an item recently modified by Thorin to completely repel water. I strip off my wet clothes and change into my usual dark clothes, strapping my swords to my belt and finally I don my dispersion cloak.
I remove the rest of my equipment from the altered bag. The materials consist of my regular pack, a set of lockpicks, a torch, a tinderbox, and a small leather pouch filled with concentrated explosive powder.
Lighting the torch and lofting it above my head, I see that I am in the main tunnel of the palace’s sewer system. The tunnel I have just emerged from was once a part of this system but it was closed off after the orders to naturalize and beautify attempted to remove the putrid smell that permeated the streets.
I turn left and followed a memorized route through the tunnels. Around me, the smell of waste is perpetual and worse than I could have imagined. The dingy walls reflect the light of my torch as it cascades over the moss covered tunnel. My boots slosh through a heavy gray mixture of water and sewage as I push forward into the darkness. Rats scurry across the cracked stones and flee at the sound of my approach.
I move in a calculated manner, my steps each rhythmically timed. Matching the patrol of the guard I know is directly overhead. I follow both the tunnels and their patrol patterns at the same time.
By now, Thorin has most likely wrangled the goats, dropped them off with a contact at the rendezvous and changed into his traveling garb, circling around the white road seven times in total, ready to meet me at the southern gate after I lift the diamond.
Three turns later and I spot a ladder which leads above ground to a spot behind the bathouses of the nobles. I position myself on the bottom rung and count to twenty. Allowing the patrol enough time to pass and accounting for any mistakes I may have made in my calculations. Then I ascend and quietly push the sewer cover aside, I poke my head through and see the guard, thirty paces ahead, silhouetted by the setting sun.
I catapult my body up the remaining rungs, replace cover, and dash off in the opposite direction. I keep close to the shadows and make my way across the palace grounds towards the royal hall. Once I am in view of the black marble steps, and the guards atop them, I dodge behind a statue and quickly doff my dispersion cloak. I run my hands through my hair and loosen my clothes, turning myself into a regular aristocratic citizen of Danor.
I turn around, pace back ten steps and emerge from behind the statue’s shadow so that I appear to have taken the main road into the palace and take a deep breath before confidently walking up the road towards the hall.
As I mount the stairs and come to a halt in front of the giant black oak doors, the guards look me and down. Their red armor reflects the sun behind me as they cross their long pikes to bar my path.
“State your business.” Says the guard on the left.
“Here on order of the Royal Clan of the East,” I say, my voice level and controlled, “seeing the king about a possible alliance against the north.”
“I haven’t heard anything about this alliance,” says the guard on the right, with hints of skepticism creeping into his voice.
“That’s because Tristan doesn’t want people taking to the streets with the information.” I snap back, my story prepared and rehearsed. I reach into my bag and retrieve two gold pieces, showing them to the guards. “I hope then we can keep this information between us?” I ask,
“Of course sir.” the left one says, as he and his partner uncross their pikes allowing me access to the hall.
“Thank you gentleman, have a wonderful evening.” I say, handing them each a coin and passing through the ornate doors.
Once inside, I go just far enough down the hall to appear as if I am heading for the throne room before I veer off to the right and into a subsidiary hall that leads towards the vault. I pass some of the palace staff who hardly spare me a second glance as I make my way through the beautifully adorned halls. Red carpet dampens my footsteps as I descend down stairs with golden railings. I pass torches in ornate fixtures, their light brazenly dancing across the golden fixtures of every object I pass.
King Tristan is nothing if not flagrant in his tastes I sarcastically remark to myself as I descend into subterranea.
The world grows colder around me and I yearn for my cloak as I shiver in the chilly air. But as I step down the last stairs and reach the long hallway leading to the vault, all of that fades away and I begin to hyperfocus on the world around me.
The buzz and hum of the palace fades away as I slink down the long hall towards the vault.
Once upon a time, this cave under the palace made a perfect hiding place for West’s precious horde of treasure but the march down here was long and strenuous. Thus this winding tunnel was created to join the palace to the vault and further secure the fortune of the western kings.
I tune into the air around me, listening for any footsteps, or indicators of miscalculations as I approach the first set of guards. They stand, facing me as I make my way down the hall towards them.
I tense as the first one spots me and cries out, “Halt! Who goes there?” Now that they know of my presence, speed is necessary in order to finish the mission. I spring towards them, my body catapulting through the air…
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Icy cold water splashes across my entire body causing me to awaken with a start. I am violently yanked to my feet as handcuffs are clasped tight behind my back. Three men in blue robes surround me, pushing me towards the hall outside my cell. I reluctantly comply with their unspoken demands as they lead me through the dungeon, up a set of stone stairs and out into a courtyard.
The sun is blinding as I emerge onto withered grass. The ground beneath my feet is segmented by diamond shaped stones. Walls of black stone and weathered vines soar around me in all directions. In the middle of the courtyard in an overgrown fountain depicting a serpent coiled around the world. Each of the walls sports a vast arch that leads away into different parts of the castle. The one I have just emerged from is the smallest and least adorned of the four but is still massively impressive and ornately decorated nonetheless.
I notice the motif of the serpent repeated around each of the remaining arches and as I watch, a formation of guards across the yard mirror the movements of a great snake as they file into the open space.
In the middle, the guards part, and a decrepit, old man hobbles through their ranks. His skin is old and withering, white with age, his hair is wispy and almost nonexistent. His clothes were once noble but are now old and ragged. As he approaches I notice his eyes, jet black and sunken into his skull. Ghostly figures follow him in a precision of ever shifting spirits.
He is followed by a woman, clothed in all purple, her form tall and striking. Her face is covered by a veil, and her hands are gloved giving away nothing but her form. I watch how she walks, smooth and ethereal but somehow familiar. Her steps are measured, her hands are kept close to her chest. I notice that her head constantly swivels, as if scanning for something. All of the tricks they taught us in the thieves guild.
The corrupted king walks around the right side of the fountain and she takes the left, both of them approaching me and coming closer into focus.
I see two blades, immediately recognizable, strapped to the woman's back. And as she comes to stand before me, next to the ragged form of the old man, I feel my breath catch as she raises her veil and I realize I am staring into Valena’s eyes.