Chapter Four
Flintathriël watched as Sairalindë picked her way through the marshes ahead of him, completely unfazed by the rancid mud squelching between her toes.
Though a fierce warrior and powerful mage, she was a scholar first and foremost. She thirsted for knowledge like a starving man hungered for sustenance. He should have known there would be no leaving her behind on such a venture. Flintathriël did not know why he still suggested such foolish ideas.
“Quit staring wolf boy and keep moving.” His twin’s voice shattered his reflection. Faëlwyn’s gaze met his, her features so unlike his own. Whilst he had favored his father’s coloring, Faëlwyn, like their brother Thalion, had taken after their mother, with her long sleek hair, black as sin, kept knotted at the base of her neck, and vibrant topaz eyes. She too had been welcomed into the ranks of the Nuvian, with her remarkable focus and marksmanship, and an affinity for explosives. It was no surprise she was marked for the phoenix, the immortal fire.
Her tattoos branched out from beneath her eyes, joining at the base of her neck, spreading along her shoulders like feathered wings. The runes fanning along the feathery tips.
“You should try it, embodying a wolf would be useful.”
“I will leave that to you, Faë. Mind melding with an animal does not interest me.” His sister frowned at him.
“It is not like that, and you know it. I do not meld minds. I see through Ikarys’ eyes. I do not take control of him. If you practiced—”
“You sound just like Saira.”
“Clever woman you have there.”
“Be quiet.”
“You know some of the ancient Nuvian could even shapeshift. Hath’Raal was Nuvian.”
“So you compare me to a banished god.”
“He could supposedly shift into a dragon.” Flintathriël rubbed his temples.
“Just leave it alone, Faë.”
He had this argument all too often with Sairalindë. He did not need it from his sister as well.
“How is it that Theron let you accompany us anyway? Were you not supposed to head out to The Reach with your own scouting party?”
“And miss out on the forbidden marshes?” She shrugged. “There will be another time. I convinced him you needed me on this ‘exploration mission.’ I could not let you have all the fun without me. I can be very persuasive.”
Flintathriël laughed. “I have no doubt you are exceptionally so, whilst on your back.”
Faëlwyn grinned. “You are one to talk, rutting like animals in her rooms. You were hardly being discreet, it was the middle of the day.”
“Jealous?”
“Hardly. Theron has…talents, the things he does with his tongue…” Faëlwyn smirked wickedly, before darting ahead to join Sairalindë, leaving her brother to scowl after her.
They continued for some time through the marsh. Faëlwyn scouting ahead, having summoned her phoenix to her, the crimson wings disappearing and reappearing through the trees as the bird followed.
Sairalindë had fallen in step beside him. Her face turned toward the waning sun, eyes wide, drinking in her surroundings. He found these dead forests eerie and dank, where only the constant whirring of insects could be heard and despair permeated every inch of the land around them. He viciously swatted at the marsh flies seemingly intent on eating him alive. But she saw beauty in its ugliness; these ancient grounds that had not been trod in thousands of years, a long time even for a race as long lived as the elves.
He brushed his hand against hers, and without looking up, her fingers curled around his own. Her thumb tracing small circles across the back of his hand, the magic in her touch causing the fine hairs on the back of his arms to stand up. He lifted her hand to his lips, rotating it, and pressed a soft kiss to her palm. She turned and bestowed a brilliant, bright smile on him, and his heart melted.
Gods, he was a lucky man indeed.
“You might want to stop staring doe eyed and come look at this.”
He and Sairalindë took off at a sprint in the direction of Faëlwyn’s voice, ducking low hanging branches, their light frames allowing them to run through the bog with relative ease.
It was a shock when his bare feet hit solid earth, and a prickle of unease ran down his spine. The wolf’s hackles rose, and the runes on his skin began to thrum. He took in the area. The earth was scorched in a perfect circle, and still warm. Not a single blade of grass remained. And it was quiet, unnaturally so. Even the constant symphony of insects was absent.
Faëlwyn stood in the center. In the midst of what had once been a summoning circle, the stones now lying broken as Sairalindë brushed past him toward the ruins.
“Something happened here,” she stated absently, stepping up onto one of the splintered rocks.
Kneeling down, he placed his open palm to the scorched earth. The ground felt…wrong.
“Yes, something did, and it was nothing good.” Flintathriël turned to his companions. “We would be fools to linger.”
“It is the dead marshes, Flint. The whole place is wrong,” his sister retorted.
“No this is different, the earth, its pain…” Sairalindë spoke up, crouching down, spreading both palms over the earth, just as he had done. She sent out a tendril of magic, the luminous green light pulsing beneath her hands.
“Something was ripped from here, something that should have stayed buried. The earth grieves for its loss and cries out for its return.”
“Saira, I think you need to see this.” Both he and Sairalindë stood and joined Faëlwyn by the stones. Sairalindë looked closely at the images carved into the rocks. Knitting her brows, she looked closer, moving between the stones. The images told the story of the gods, depicting the deities in glorious battle during the Third Age, led by Vhae’ri, the Goddess of War. Every elven child knew the story. It was basic history.
Her golden gaze snapped up to meet his, wide and filled with confusion, before turning back to the stones.
“I do not understand. History tells us that Vhae’ri led the armies against Hath’Raal when he defied them. But these stones suggest that Hath’Raal was the one to strike the final blow and end the war, and Vhae’ri was the one who rebelled, to be struck down by his hand.”
Faëlwyn leaned in to look closer. “Why would anyone bother carving lies, we know that is not what happened.”
“I care not. The gods walk among us no longer. We can debate the histories another time. We cannot dwell here. There is danger. I feel it.”
“Flint is right, I would love nothing more than to linger here and study these stones more closely, but we must keep moving.” He knew it was difficult for Sairalindë to pull herself away, but they had more pressing matters.
“Perhaps we can return at a later time,” she said hopefully.
“Possibly, but today we must go. The ruins are farther north.” He took her arm and turned away.
****
The fortress of A’velenor rose up before them. The white stone walls stood tall, scarred, and battle-worn by the ravages of war, but by no means crumbling. Flintathriël had to wonder how it was the god was defeated when the fortress still stood, as impenetrable as it would have been thousands of years before.
He strode to the perimeter in search of a way in, but the walls were too high for even the three elves to scale. According to Sairalindë, remnants of ancient wards prevented her from bringing a section of wall down with her magic—the ruins remaining preserved as they were.
“Allow me. It will be faster if I look.” Before he could protest, Faëlwyn whistled, and Ikarys swooped down to perch on her outstretched arm, preening his crimson feathers. She handed her bow off to Sairalindë. Flintathriël watched as his sister spoke softly to the bird. She sat down, cross-legged, bowing her head low, and the phoenix became incredibly still.
Without warning, her head snapped up, her eyes rolled back in her skull so as only the whites were visible, and the phoenix took flight. Flintathriël stared with morbid curiosity at his twin. This was only a newly honed talent, so until now, he had not witnessed her put the trance to use.
It was fascinating to watch.
“There,” Faëlwyn spoke, her eyes closed briefly, her head bowing forward once more. When she opened her eyes again, they were their usual bright topaz.
“South side, a section of the battlements has come away. We should be able to climb up from there.”
They made their way to the crumbling section of wall, fending off the creeping vines and thorny brambles as they climbed. The foliage having long ago sought to engulf the ruins.
“According to my research, there is a laboratory in the east tower. That is where the tome should be.” Sairalindë dropped from the wall, landing lightly on her feet. Flintathriël and Faëlwyn only moments behind.
She looked on in awe at the wild, unkempt foliage consuming the courtyard and overrunning the dried up fountain. She was filled with wonder and excitement. What she would not give to study this place. There were specimens growing here which only existed in her books.
Kneeling down, she cupped a vibrant purple flower carefully between her hands. Eight tear-shaped petals, dotted with tiny yellow spots, and three blood-red stamens at its center marked it as the Azolla Lilly. In the time of the gods the stamen was used to make an incredibly deadly poison, a single drop was enough to kill a man in a matter of minutes.
“Saira?”
She released the flower with a sigh and joined her companions. Flintathriël was crouched low, inspecting the earth, pushing tangled weeds aside with his dagger. His hair falling forward over his face, hiding his scowl. His sister stood at his side, brows knitted in a deep frown, one hand on her hip, the other rubbing the nape of her neck.
“Someone has been here recently.” He indicated a disturbed section of earth when she came to his side. “I would say no more than a few days.”
“Who else even knows this place still stands?” Faëlwyn gestured to their surroundings.
“No, no, no…” Sairalindë raced across the courtyard toward the tower. Over-grown branches and bushes tearing at her clothing. The shouts of her companions close on her heels as they raced after her.
Lungs burning, she raced up the spiral staircase, taking the steps two at a time, bursting through the decrepit door at the top.
Chest heaving and heart racing, she stepped into the musty room. Her nose twitching at the smell of dust and old leather thick in the air. She gazed about in wonder, much as she had in the courtyard. The room was circular in shape, bookshelves carved into the walls themselves, taking up almost every inch, save for a large window with a spectacular view of the Symarion Mountains. A large wooden table stood in the center of the room, inordinate amounts of alchemical equipment stood abandoned. Flasks, flagons, and vials lay empty and forgotten, stained with long abandoned potions and tonics. All four sides of the table held hundreds of tiny drawers, an apothecary table perhaps? If she opened the drawers would she find herbs? Rare ingredients? Numerous cabinets and chests were scattered about the room, and Sairalindë wondered what hidden treasures they may still hold.
Her eyes greedily drank in the collection of books adorning the shelves. Her mind reeling at the titles, many thought lost to the ages. Here, as in the courtyard below, were more signs they were not the only ones to intrude upon these forgotten grounds. The thick dust that had settled over the room after eons of neglect was disturbed in places. She stepped forward, only to be suddenly pulled back against a firm chest, strong tattooed arms holding her in a vice-like grip.
“What do you think you were doing, racing off like that?” Flintathriël growled, his breath warm against her ear. He was angry, and her traitorous body responded with a rush of excitement spiraling to the pit of her belly.
“It was a fool’s act. There could have been anything guarding this place!” He spun her so that she faced him, his anger written in the hard lines of his face, but Sairalindë saw the worry hidden deep behind those silver-blue eyes.
He could hide nothing from her.
A pang of guilt and a rush of shame flooded her, and she chided herself as ema’asha and hung her head. She had acted on impulse, rushed ahead without any forethought. All her years of training promptly forgotten. She had put herself in danger, and worse, put Flintathriël in danger. He was right to call her a fool. “Na’ vahla, I am sorry, I did not think.”
His features softened, then a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Flintathriël’s hand gently tipped her chin upward, forcing her to look at him.
“I need you in this world, by my side. Do not tempt the fates so.” He dropped a kiss on the crown of her head, a lopsided smirk gracing his lips as he squeezed her backside and ushered her toward the center of the room.
“This is strange,” Faëlwyn muttered absently, her fingers trailing over the leatherbound volumes, scrunching her nose as she swiped the dust against her breeches.
“What?” Sairalindë looked up, while Flintathriël continued to search the room, picking up strange relics, turning them over in his palm, and then discarding them with disinterest.
“Well, everything is intact, relatively speaking.” As if to demonstrate her point, Flintathriël uttered a curse as something came apart in his hands—a loud thunk followed. The two women spun to look at him, and the tall elf smiled sheepishly from beneath his mop of silver-white hair.
“We saw signs of trespassers outside, yet here…” Faëlwyn gestured to the room. “Very little appears to have been disturbed. Aside from a few areas barely worthy of note.” She said indicating a cleared table surface.
Sairalindë’s brow furrowed.
“Perhaps, they sought something else. Regardless, we should find the book and be gone.”
The elves combed the chamber, all but ransacking the workspace. Every book, drawer and crack checked, chests opened and floorboards loosened, yet several hours of searching revealed nothing of real value, let alone the missing tome.
“I do not understand.” Sairalindë brushed a stray wisp of hair from her face. “All my research, my father’s research pointed to this location.” It had been a guess, but she had been certain this room held the answers.
“Perhaps whoever beat us here found what we seek.” Disappointment and frustration washed over her. She dared not voice her suspicions, but Cëladyn had been caught too many times hovering, uninvited, in her office for her mind not to pin him as a suspect.
“Saira, come look at this.” Massaging her temples, she came to stand by Flintathriël who was crouched over one of the loosened floorboards. Before him, beneath the floor, lay a dark purplish stone with a series of strange runes unlike any she had seen before carved across its surface. The stone emanated a soft radiance. The purple light glowing across his face.
“It is a soul-stone,” she breathed. She had never thought to see one. It was old world magic.
Faëlwyn came to join them, and both brother and sister raised confused brows.
“It is an ancient magic, no longer practiced. Mages could house a part of their power in a soul-stone.”
“To what end?”
Sairalindë shrugged, and Flintathriël reached down, his hand closing around the stone.
“No! Flint.” The instant his fingers brushed the polished surface of the pebble, blinding purple light burst from the stone, a torrent of magic that sent shockwaves through the room, throwing the three elves back against the wall.
“What just happened?” Flintathriël’s voice was at her ear as he grasped her elbow to help her up. Faëlwyn dabbed at a small cut to her cheek.
“The stone, ’tis protected…” Sairalindë’s words were left unfinished, a shrill sound piercing the air. She clamped her hands over her ears and fell to the floor—tightening her eyes against the searing pain ringing in her skull, ripping through her mind. She could not hear her own screams. She could only feel the burning in her skull.
Wraiths.
Blood trickled from her nose and ears. The viscous fluid warm on her fingers. She cracked an eyelid open. Pain so intense burned her eyes, as if they were beginning to boil in their sockets. The wispy ghost-like form of a wraith bore down on Flintathriël, its gnarled, bony white hands reaching for him, colorless eyes trained on its victim. His scimitar had no effect on the non-corporal entity. The blade passing right through the willowy green fabric hanging from the wraiths decrepit body.
Through squinted eyes, she watched blood trickle from his ears and nose, and then blood began to run from his eyes. Another wraith advanced on Faëlwyn, who was shakily trying to notch her bow.
“Close your eyes. Do not look at them!” Sairalindë shouted to her companions, taking a sweeping glance at the room. Five wraiths. Five. Mortal weapons useless against the wraith’s song.
“Get to the door!” Her thoughts were scrambled, melting away before becoming coherent. She persevered, forging on through the blinding pain that threatened her very sanity.
An idea. One thought. The veil must be thin here for the wraiths to be drawn across. She reached out with the little control she still held, tugging at the edges. She could feel it, the curtain between worlds. She grasped the faint wisps of energy coiling gently around her fingers, teeth gritting against the pain in her skull.
The energies came slowly at first, like a lover’s first tentative touch, stroking her, the subtle magic caressing her skin, almost lovingly. The power filling her, she tugged a little harder at the edges and the floodgates broke. She cried out and fell back with the force of the magic pouring into her. It hurt, and, she could feel every entity imprisoned beyond. So many in this dead place, entombed, unable to move on. The sensation overwhelmed her. Tears streamed down her face, so much pain and longing, she could not…
“Na’vahleth, Saira!” His voice, so far away, so familiar, Flintathriël! His hand at her elbow snapped her back from beyond.
“Get down!” she shouted, and the wraiths advanced. Blood now streamed from her ears, eyes, and nose. Her skin burned, she trembled, and magic welled up inside her as she summoned forth the borrowed energies from the veil.
With a scream she thrust her hands forward, power bursting forth, the shockwave thundering through to her very core. A ball of brilliant white light hurtled toward the wraiths. Their screams tore through her scrambled mind as the malignant creatures were thrust violently back beyond the veil.
She screamed at Flintathriël and Faëlwyn and headed for the door. “Go! They will be back!” The twins scrambled groggily to their feet. They raced down the winding staircase, slipping and stumbling in their haste and bewilderment. Their bare feet hit the earth of the courtyard, the air rippled, and the unearthly screeching of the wraiths again filled the air. Sairalindë fell to the ground, hands clasped over her ears, twisting as agony continued to tear into her head. The spell had stripped her magical energies.
“Saira!” She heard Faëlwyn’s cry, ahead of her, already halfway up the wall, but the screeching in her head was too much. She could not move.
“Leave me,” she mouthed.
Flintathriël’s strong arms came around her waist, hauling her up, forcing her to run. She stumbled and fell again. He flung her over his shoulder, taking long strides, the runes on his skin, glowing and vibrating across his flesh, giving him added strength and speed. He ran up the crumbling wall.
“Faë, move!” His sister turned and jumped from the wall, her own runes glowing with power. Digging deep, channeling the power of the wolf, he took a giant leap from the crumbled wall. The sound of the wraiths still ringing in his skull.
“Keep running, those things are still coming!” He shouted, his feet hitting the ground.
“What was that gods accursed stone, Flint, and why did you have to touch it!” Faëlwyn growled.
“Not now, Faë. Does this really look like the time! Help me!”
“Stop. Put me down.” Sairalindë’s voice barely a whisper.
“You cannot fight them. You have drained your mana pool. You have nothing left!”
“I said, put me down!”
Flintathriël and Faëlwyn halted their steps. The twins reluctantly sat Sairalindë on the damp earth, their Nuvian runes still aglow with power.
She clasped his wrist, his whole body going rigid. A cry tore from his lips, his body burned as she ripped the magic from his runes. At the edge of his vision, his sister too was caught in Sairalindë’s grip, teeth clenched and tears streaming from the corners of her eyes.
Then it was over, and both slumped to the earth.
Sairalindë stood and tore the staff from her back and stepped over the twins who were both struggling to their feet, eyeing her warily. She regretted having to resort to such measures, but they would understand in time. She angled her staff at the wraiths now passing through the walls of the fortress in relentless pursuit.
The red crystal adorning her staff glowed. The glyphs and runes carved into the wood sprang to life, pulsing with renewed power.
Behind her Flintathriël unsheathed his scimitars, and Faëlwyn reached for her bow.
“No. Your weapons are useless.” She turned her gaze on them. Her eyes burned with borrowed energies, and hair floated about her like a halo of fire caused by the static charge coursing through her body.
“Run!” A deep and guttural voice issued from her throat, before turning her fiery gaze back toward the wraiths.
The twins did not hesitate and took off at a sprint.
She angled the burning ruby crystal toward the wraiths, a smile playing across her lips. Channeling everything she had through the gem, magic exploded from the staff like a burning comet, hurtling toward the wispy specters. The force flung her backward to land on her backside in the mud, leaving the stink of sulphur and almonds thick in the air.
The pursuing creatures hurtled back, engulfed by the massive ball of flame. The wraiths let out a piercing cry, spinning and spiraling chaotically inside the flaming sphere.
But it would not hold them for long.
Sivath, she sent the thought out, hoping the dragon was not too far away to hear.
She scrambled to her feet, not allowing her dizziness to hamper her escape. She took off like a shot after the others. Behind her, the wraiths wailed.
“Sivath!” she shouted to the heavens and thrust her hand skyward. Three bolts of lightning sparked from her fingertips and shot up through the trees. A silent prayer on her lips, she implored the dragon to have heard her cries.
“Sivath!”
The heavy sound of dragon wings in flight caught her ears. She glimpsed a white shape through the sparse trees. His hide glinting like diamonds in the sunlight, casting a myriad of rainbow lights into the air around him.
“I hope he can bring himself to land this time!” shouted Flintathriël, recovered somewhat from her spell.
The twins slowed their pace as Sivath landed with a thud, knocking several trees out of the way with one swipe of his deadly pronged tail. Lifting his taloned feet in the same way a horse might prance, the dragon snorted his discomfort, tendrils of smoke streaming from his nostrils. He lowered a wing for the trio of elves to clamber onto his back and buckle themselves into the harness.
Sairalindë leaned forward, stroking the beast’s leathery neck, cooing soft words of thanks and praise. The dragon let out a disgusted snort before launching himself into the air, leaving A’velenor and its secrets to the demons within.
