Salvation In Shadows
Only a day later, Elryia’s feet were still grounded in the same town, though her mind was a thousand miles away. She sat at a table idly tracing her finger over a wine goblet as she watched people come in and out of “The Candle Wick Inn.” She stirred and shifted occasionally, but seemed content in her leisurely manner; she was, after all, relaxing.
Something she rarely got the opportunity to do.
It showed in her stature, as well her outfit. Commonly she wore her robes, a blaring brilliant white that symbolized to onlookers and weary travelers that she was not a threat. Though with a town such as this—riddled with soldiers—she opted for the safer and more comfortable route. Worn and faded black suede pants, tucked within them and covering her flawless torso a white low cut shirt, laces strung up either side of the V-neck. Her hair was typically tied back, today it hung down inches above her shoulders to frame her face, one that held full lips, high cheek bones and large, crystal blue eyes. Those which often held intensity and forethought, today contained only curious amusement on all those that entered the tavern. Nothing but regular patrons.
All seemed calm.
As if on cue, Carsis—perhaps the tallest of her companions and the most noticeable with fire red hair and a beard covering his burly face—burst through the door, nearly shattering it off its hinges. His grainy hazel eyes flicking as he searched the crowded tavern and every muscle in his body twitching with anxiousness.
“Oh great, here we go,” came a gruff voice from behind Elryia, one at the very same table as her. It belonged to another in her party—a very irritable, very grumpy dwarf from Mt. Forgas. It was home to all his kind, and like most, he looked as though he had been carved from the caverns itself. Standing at five feet and almost as wide as he was tall, muscles covering every inch. There was a dark tone to his skin, especially for one who spent most of his life in a dank tunnel, a jaw strong and wide that grew a gray, neatly trimmed beard and head that was adorned with hair of the same color.
Elryia turned and leaned back to face him, her eyes narrowed and the lines on either side of her mouth and dimples dented. Each corner of her lips popped up while the rest remained stationary, a sort of half smile that usually left the Dwarf—as well as a lot of other men—without word or thought. “Relax, Gort. Maybe he’s just thirsty.” And one of those brilliant blue eyes winked at him. That was enough to stop him from talking, yet his grumbling doubled.
Though he was in great shape, Carsis was out of breath when he finally reached them, hunching over the table with a drastic look. His red hair matched every blazing candle in the place, his hazel eyes focused on only Elryia as he took a moment to speak.
“There’s a prisoner in town.”
“Thirsty, eh?” Gort muttered and watched his time off disappear with the last drop of his beer, and he slammed the tin cup on the table.
While the Dwarf lost interest, Elryia garnered it and sat up, half curious as to why Carsis was running here to tell them that and what else he had to say.
“I didn’t think it important until they announced that he’s to be executed tomorrow at sunrise.” He huffed, glancing around.
Elryia immediately went from curious to concerned. “Why? What charges are placed on him?”
Carsis seemed timid and he leaned to whisper in a harsh voice, “Elryia,” his glance flickered, not sure of who was listening, “He’s a white mage!”
And those gorgeous blue eyes went wide, “Are you sure?”
He nodded, “From what I have heard, he has a companion, a gnome named Gnert.” Gort snorted and chuckled in the background. “They got into it with some soldiers, this mage killed them all El, and didn’t even have a scratch on him. Ten total. Fried.” Carsis’ point was emphasized with a resounding expression.
Though it didn’t take her long to decide, Elryia held off on responding—considering all those who would be involved. “We need to do something Carsis, he might be able to help us.”
The cynical Dwarf could hold back no longer. “If he’s so powerful, why doesn’t he just rescue himself?”
Elryia sighed and turned her attention towards the naysayer, “He’s more than likely bound Gort. He probably can’t do anything.” She could only watch as his face crinkled, revealing that he had no idea what she was talking about. “Wizards and mages use their hands and their voice to fight. In order to prevent them from casting spells they are bound or fit with a runic collar and handcuffs that keep magick from leaving their center. Since most of them work on their mind and not their body, they’re often quite frail and once bound, are virtually helpless.”
Gort chuffed, and Elryia was positive that some crass remark about her body passed through his mind, one she would not investigate and turned her attention to Carsis, “We’ve got to help him Car. Where’s Lanyan?”
“He’s with Merial.”
“Good. If we’re going to do this, we’ll need all the help that we can get.”
With that they exited the tavern, a grumpy and skeptical—although willing—dwarf in tow.
They traveled down the street at a hurried pace until they reached a tiny home with several lights burning in the window. Carsis pushed through the door first and saw on the other side a golden-haired elf with bright bronze eyes standing next to a charming brown haired woman in a lavender dress looking up from the table, their idle chat interrupted.
“My darling fiancé returns,” Merial said and rose to meet Carsis at the door. He embraced her quickly as the others entered, all with anxious looks on their faces—an emotion the attentive Elf locked onto.
“Why the pace?” He asked, approaching them from across the room.
“Carsis…” Elryia bode.
Carsis again told the tale of the mage awaiting death and their desire to help. Neither the Elf nor the young woman had to consider it before including themselves.
“If it’s to be at dawn, we’ve got six hours. That should be enough time to come up with a plan.” Lanyan interjected, his mind already working on one.
Elryia chewed her bottom lip for a moment as she thought with him, then let her attention fall on Carsis and smiled with the ends of her lips again. Her approach to the red-haired man was swift and instantly she began un-tucking his shirt. “Merial, mess his hair up.” She said as they both began to accost him, but he didn’t seem to mind in the least. When they were finished, he looked tattered and unkempt, exactly as Elryia wanted.
Although in the safety of Carsis’ home, El leaned into the group and began to whisper, “Alright, here’s the plan…” her voice trailed off.
Moments later, each member—barring one—was pacing along the side of the road, creeping in the shadows. They stopped several yards before the prison and tucked behind a set of ferns.
For such a large town, Tarnel’s prison was rather small and weathered. The building itself was a dingy tan, with several cracks and missing pieces of mortar, revealing the gray foundation underneath. It stood at only one story and twelve feet wide, with no windows; a single set of double doors that were guarded by two stout men, both with their hands idly laid over the sword’s pommel. Two more patrolled the rooftops, each with a crossbow tucked tight to their shoulders.
After her brief survey, Elryia looked towards Lan and motioned to the first guard sitting on the roof, then ran a finger over his bow. The Elf nodded, remaining silent. Elryia then focused on the Dwarf as he carved obscenities in the dirt, muttering inaudible disagreements. She tugged hard on his shirt, and he finally snapped out of it long enough to see her point at the second guard, then she traced her thumb across one of the many hammers strapped to his belt. Gort knew exactly what was needed, and she actually saw the gruff little fellow perk a smile and tug the hammer from his waist.
But no one moved, at least not yet. They were waiting for a sign, and it came in the form of Carsis, stumbling down the street and walking in a not-so-straight line.
“Oh, what I’d give for a bag full o’ gold, I’d buy all m
y troubles awayyyy…” he sang and staggered his way down the street, “oh, what I’d give for a beautiful lass, we’d sing and dance and we’d playyyy…”
Gort tried not to snort. He thought the fellow was overdoing it, but the guards failed to even notice him. Elryia grew anxious, worried they may just ignore him. The cells were the only thing on this side of town and her plan hinged on at least one soldier drawing away from his post. Yet, they did not and Elryia began to wonder what to do now.
Carsis, however, was resilient. He approached the pillar at the bottom of the stairs and began to undo his pants, acting as if he was going to use it as a restroom.
Behind him, Elryia stifled a giggle; Gort covered his mouth to bury his.
“Hey!” yelled one of the guards as he turned towards Carsis, who paid him no heed. “Hey fella, this is not a bathroom!” The guard barked, approaching slowly, Carsis still oblivious to his orders. “I said you cannot urinate here. You keep pushing your luck and you’ll end up with a room in there.” The guard closed the gap then placed his hand on Carsis’ right shoulder in an effort to push him away. That was all the opening that Carsis needed.
He reached across his chest with his left hand, latching onto the soldier’s wrist tightly and yanking it off. The bearded man continued to pull down, until his arm was back at his side, though the guard’s arm was still gripped. The sudden jolt had forced him sideways to avoid dislocation of his shoulder, and Carsis brought his right elbow up under the man’s chin, straight into his throat. He coughed once before Carsis raised his arm up to bring his massive fist down on the straining face of the soldier.
The second guard at the door was the first to notice the struggle. As he stepped out, he waved a signal to the others on the roof. He charged, foolishly, and was so focused on Carsis that he failed to see Lanyan rush out of the bushes to fire an arrow into the chest of the first soldier aiming his crossbow. He was blind to Gort following behind the Elf, whirling a hammer directly into the face of the second.
The last thing he actually became aware of was a soft, slender hand sliding to the side of his neck from somewhere behind him. He heard the words “Nayasta Sarama” felt a blistering cold creeping up into his brain, followed by complete darkness.
Carsis stared at Elryia as the soldier fell to the ground, unconscious. “Magick?”
The young woman nodded. “A freezing spell, yes. It seems to have done the trick.”
Carsis cast his glance to the two slumbering soldiers. “Indeed. Let’s get moving before they wake up.”
Elryia motioned her agreement, rushing to the prison’s entrance, signaling the others to follow.
Carsis and Gort yanked open the heavy oak, Elryia, Merial and Lanyan clamoring through—the Elf wearing a curious expression. As they hurried down the hallway, Lanyan held long enough for the dwarf to catch up.
“Why hammers, Gort?” The Elf asked, and the Dwarf’s callous stare was enough to note this was perhaps the worst time to be asking such a thing.
It was a question Lanyan had asked before, but every time he saw it the same query rose. He had known the Dwarf for a year and Gort used his hammers as many times as the Elf his bow, but he still did not understand it. Most dwarves used axes, or slung knives. Occasionally one would even be found with a bow. But never a hammer, until he met Gort. Strange at it seemed, the Dwarf was just as accurate with his weapon as Lanyan was his, which often led to a competitive air between the two—one that had yet to be settled.
Gort had a number of ways he could have answered. He could have said they were balanced and they flew as good as any axe. He could have explained that most knives small enough to be thrown were much too tiny for his hands, or to do any real damage. Any of those would have made sense, but Gort responded as he always had, simply, with “They hurt. Bad.”
With a sigh, the Elf released the conversation. They had more important things at hand, evident by their approach to the last cell on the left side.
Inside sat a small-framed man, the hood of his white cloak draped over his head to cover his face. His body was turned away from the iron bars, his stature hunched and hands clasped in meditation. Opposite him was a bushy haired, frantic Gnome pacing wildly back and forth; back and forth.
Lanyan was the first to reach the cell door. Immediately he knelt and tugged a thin wire from his belt.
“So useful…” Elryia said as she ran her hands through the Elf’s radiant hair. He only smiled and tried not to let himself get too distracted as he attempted to disengage the lock.
The click of its release, the scraping of steel against stone ripped the mage from his serene state. His body twitched and nervous hands reached up to pull back the cowl. Behind it was an innocent, sharp face, relatively young. Long brown hair that held more length in the sides than it did in the front, creating a layered look.
As Elryia and the others entered, his navy colored eyes looked up, wavering from nervousness.
“We’re here to help.” Lanyan said, bringing the same wire he used on the door to the man’s cuffs.
Elryia marched behind the Elf, now able to see over him. “He’s rather young for a mage.”
“And rather cute.” Merial toyed, peeking over her shoulder.
Despite his nerves, that was enough to make the Mage smile, forcing lines around his mouth, and displaying two very large dents on either cheek. The look lingered when he stared up at her—the curly amber hair, wide, dark exotic eyes and taunting smile.
It could have been by accident or instinct, but Carsis stepped in front of her, breaking their stare. Embarrassed, the young man turned back to Lanyan as he finished removing his collar. “Thank you.”
“Welcome.” Lanyan bowed his head, and turned his focus onto the gnome. The creature was surprisingly still while Lanyan removed the manacles binding his hands, turning his big beady eyes under dark, bushy eyebrows towards the Elf and blinking a few times, much like a puppy waiting to be let outside. The moment the cuffs clinked on the ground, he continued running in circles—unaware or uncaring that the door was open, and freedom lay outside.
“Eh, leave him here until he wears himself out…”Gort chimed in, prompting Elryia to smack him on the arm.
Eventually the three-foot high creature calmed, and tucked himself obediently next to the Mage, who looked appreciative yet still skeptical. “Who are you?”
“We’re friends.” Elryia turned a teasing gaze towards the others. “Rebels against the King. When we heard about what happened, we knew we had to help.” Her hand glided out and held in front of him. “I’m Elryia.”
The Mage took it. “I’m Jeralyle, and this is Gnert.”
“Pleasure met. The elf who unlocked you is Lanyan.” Elryia turned to her right. “This is Carsis and Merial.” Jeralyle tried to avert his stare, only to find she was doing the same. “And the dwarf by the door is Gort.”
Gort gave a brief nod before his attention returned to the entrance.
“How did you know I needed to be rescued?” Jeralyle asked, turning his focus back to the group.
Elryia went to answer, but Gort cut her off. “We’re going to be tha ones needin’ rescuing if we don’t get out of here.”
Lanyan’s hand went instinctively to his bow. “Is someone coming?”
“Not yet, but it won’t be long before someone notices tha’ downed guards outside.”
“He’s got a point.” Elryia responded, drawing out of the cell and prompting the others to follow.
Despite what Gort had insinuated, the group made a peaceful—albeit rushed—journey towards the door. Even outside, the atmosphere seemed oddly serene. Elryia, Gort and their newly discovered mage found relief, but doubt snuck up on the elf.
“El? There was no one inside, no one out here. Wasn’t this a little too easy?”
The response Lanyan received was not from Elryia, and not what he expected. Rather than a voice drifting through his ears, it forced into his head. “That’s because it was supposed to be easy, El
f.”
Elryia, having heard it as well, turned her eyes towards a dark corner.
“I couldn’t have you killed by a guard,” the King’s General stated as he pulled into the light. Slowly, the shadows crept off of his long brown hair, revealing his eyes—white and devoid of pupil or iris. Few had seen him, El knew who he was and knew of his appearance. The rest looked shocked and almost disgusted as his face came into full view, now seeing what made this man, Gerin, so unique.
He had no mouth. And stranger, it was as if one had never existed. There was no scar, stitches or any indication it was covered up. It was simply smooth flesh from his nose to his dimpled chin.
“General Gerin.” Elryia spoke out loud, though she wondered if he was reading her thoughts. “I think it not a coincidence you’re here.”
“And ironic,” Gerin blinked, and his eyes shifted ever so slightly. “that you discover the trap long after you’ve fallen victim to it.”
Elryia’s gaze sharpened; next to her the Dwarf shared the intent stare between her and the General. Though Gerin’s words were only meant for her, Gort was smart enough to know from his stature that hostility was impending. “El, there’s seven of us, one of him. He can’t beat us all.”
Gort went to rush him, but El held the Dwarf back, knowing that in all likelihood, he was capable of just that.
“Let him come, El.” The General shifted, his body tensing slightly in anticipation, reaching behind his back, agonizingly scraping out two scimitars from their sheathes. “They’re all going to die anyway.”
Elryia pressed her hand harder against Gort. “You know I would never allow that.” Elryia was well aware of how dangerous Gerin was. Her eyes should not have left him but without restraint they shifted wildly, as though searching for something.
The General—unafraid of her other companions—allowed his eyes to follow hers, taking them off the group, and Lanyan attempted to seize the opportunity. In one second he had drawn his bow and in another he’d fired an arrow—faster than most could see.
But it was not fast enough. The moment Lanyan’s string resonated, Gerin released his grip on the blade in his right hand, dropping it towards the ground. That same hand rose up to latch onto the arrow, snapping it between thumb and forefinger, flicking down to catch the scimitar before it had even fallen an inch.
Elryia gasped, Gort’s jaw dropped, and Lanyan—like the others—was paralyzed. They had barely seen him move, but the broken arrow on the ground was all the evidence needed to strike fear in them.
“That…” the Elf thought after collecting himself, “was the fastest I’ve ever seen anyone move.”
“And that was simply a demonstration, Elf.” Gerin pressed his words to all now, and Elryia’s earlier presumption was proven: The General could take thoughts out as easily as he could put them in. “Now, I will show you my true speed, and it will be the last thing you see.”
Gerin rushed, drawing his blades to the side and striding three paces in a heartbeat. The Elf only had time to twitch, Elryia to barely lift her hand and the others to take a sharp breath. For all, in those seconds, doom perpetuated.
And yet, never came. Halfway to closing the gap, something struck the General, a sensation he’d never had in all his life: someone pushing into his mind.
“The next step you take is going to lead into your grave, Gerin.”
He stopped, empty eyes flicking frantically. At first, he was not even sure it happened. He looked upon each of the frightened companions for the source. The Mage, first, though he seemed as confused as the rest. The redhead was stern, but didn’t have the demeanor of the power it would take to do something like that. The Elf and Dwarf were in no position to make such a threat.
“It was only my imagination. That’s impossible.” The General surmised after only a moment. No one, not even the King himself, could mentally speak to him unless he allowed.
“Impossible? Hardly.” The voice continued, louder—driving into his brain. “You’ve just been surrounded by simpletons.”
Without choice, Gerin’s nerves got the better of him. Not only had this stranger forced a thought in, he ripped one out. Again, he surveyed the companions, in fear they would strike, but they seemed more intent to decipher his current actions than they did attacking. So he allowed a moment, trying once more to determine who had spoken to him.
He looked first to Jeralyle, then Elryia, slowly going down the line of companions.
“You will not find answers amongst them, Gerin. What you seek is behind you.”
The General turned, hastily, to discover the source. Surprisingly he was casual, leaning against the back wall of the prison, smoking a cigarette, and looking almost relaxed as he pulled another drag from it. The light from the cherry illuminated the area around his face for a brief moment—casting light on defined, prominent cheeks and the very lower edge of stern eyes—then faded until all that could be seen was smoke pouring out from a shadowed silhouette.
He pushed off the wall with his shoulder, finally, to reveal himself fully. His attire was almost like Elryia’s, with tight black leather pants and a white shirt, tucked in with the V-neck untied. Even though Gerin had both blades drawn and all his attention was focused on this one, new threat the other man made no move. At least not in an aggressive manner, he just took one slow, methodical step to allow the light to surface on his face. He had a jaw line sharper than a knife’s edge. Above it, squared thin cheeks riddled with black stubble, matching the color of his long hair, all but his bangs tied back behind his head. His long, wide eyes—emerald in color—moved along each companion, lingering on Elryia for only a moment before making their way back to Gerin.
“Who are you?” As well as asking the question directly to the green-eyed stranger, the General searched for it. Probing first his mind, but he found only a darkness there. He pressed further, the stranger’s eyes twitched and a slight smile crept across his face before Gerin was presented with the image of his Kingdom in flames.
It was enough to force him out, but he continued his search with the others. First the Dwarf, the Elf, and finally Elryia but found nothing—barring the young sorceress stammering over how handsome he was. So he turned back to the man, hoping for an answer.
“It’s…complicated.” The green-eyed stranger took another step toward him, the smile creeping up even further, giving even more definition to his dimples. Gerin squared himself, and inched forward. The stranger still seemed relaxed, leaving the way open for a surprise attack. “I hope you don’t think I do not see you slowly approaching me, closing the gap, nor that you’re waiting for your fellow warrior Estophicles to come help you,” a smile grew again. “He’s taken the night off.” He turned his head slightly and reached behind his back. An almost un-evident shiver corrupted the General as the hiss of the other’s blade being drawn cut through the silence that lay between them, “And now General, I’m going to deal with you.”
His gaze flicked from the tip of his blade to Gerin, a slow, sly grin creeping across his lips as he pointed the sword at the advancing man. His free hand rose to his mouth and with a taunting challenging gaze he removed the cigarette, laying it upon the pillar next to him, still lit.
He paused, gave a glance down to his sword and without a second thought he tossed it into the dirt. Now unarmed and leaning forward, he taunted the General with two fingers, beckoning him on, “Come on General. Let’s see how fast you really are.”
Engaged, Gerin charged, right hand arcing his blade towards the assailant’s neck, hoping to end this fight quickly. The man merely leaned back, the sword hit nothing but air. The General poked forward with his left hand, aiming the tip towards the man’s stomach, but the moment the stranger came forward he turned his torso sideways and the scimitar scraped by, not quick enough to even graze his shirt. As the green-eyed man’s left shoulder turned forward, so did his arm and a resounding crack was heard as his fist hit Gerin full on in the cheekbone.
Had he a mouth, it s
urely would have been snarling, blind with anger at being struck so easily. Gerin flicked his left hand up, crossing his arm over his chest and aiming for his opponent’s left shoulder, who merely bent his knees, lowering himself enough to allow the blade to sail by. In an instant, Gerin mocked his previous move with his right arm, aiming for the opposite shoulder and again, the man flicked his shoulder back and the blade penetrated nothing. Both arms now crossed in front of his chest, Gerin yanked them out and pushed forward in an attempt to scissor the man between his blades.
The General continued his advance, guessing that the other would step back; but once more he misjudged his adversary’s speed and when he did back pedal as Gerin had bet on, he went much further, forcing Gerin to lean in order to catch him.
Gerin had gone too far and put all of his weight on his front foot. Both of the stranger’s hands raised, pressing his palms on the dull back of each blade and using Gerin’s own momentum to shove his arms out wider than Gerin wanted.
As Gerin continued forward, the other planted himself, loosing his grip on the blades to clamp on to Gerin’s wrists, leaving them far away from his body. Gerin struggled. At first he tried to get away, pull his arms out, but the man had a firm grip. Then he tried kicking the man in the stomach, but the instant his foot left the dirt his leg was blocked by the strangers well placed knee on top of his own. In one last futile attempt he tried to wrench free, his actions driven by the sudden panic he was facing, but even powered by adrenaline he could not escape the man’s almost inhuman strength.
He was trapped, fragile, and helpless. The stranger drew closer to Gerin, locking eyes with him as he squeezed. “I imagine you think you’re going to die here, don’t you?” He whispered so only Gerin could hear, “Our destiny, General, will be determined in a distant place, in a far off future.” The man tightened his hands, forcing Gerin to grimace as the stranger’s mouth twisted into a snarl. “Now, stare at darkness!” And he reared back, then shoved forward, pulling Gerin towards him, pushing his own body forward and crashing his forehead into the General’s nose and eye socket. Even Elryia had to grit her teeth as she heard the crunch and watched the General’s body fall unconscious to the ground. With a sigh, the green-eyed outsider turned and stalked towards the pillar, looking slightly disappointed and taking the still-lit cigarette from the top of it, staring at it for a moment then turning back to Gerin. “Not fast enough,” he remarked, putting the cigarette in his mouth and pulling off of it.
And as casually as he had walked out from them, he returned to the shadows, passing Elryia with a smile and a wink from those forest green eyes. “Try to stay out of trouble,” he bowed gently, picked his sword up off the ground and tucked it away in its sheath, leaving only a wave of smoke behind.
Confusion surfaced on the faces of each companion, but only one certain dwarf dared voice any questions. “Do we have any idea what just happened? Or who that was? Or…anything?”
Lanyan knelt, examining Gerin for a moment. “Not an idea, but I’m glad he came along when he did. The General catching my arrow like that made me believe it was over. That was so fast…yet the other man made it look petty. Anyone have an idea who that was?”
The Elf first turned to Jeralyle. When the Mage shook his head, inquiry cast on Elryia.
“No…” She murmured, almost in a whisper, her attention still on the shadows. “And I suggest we don’t look for him in order to find out. Gerin knows where we are, and soon so shall Idimus. We should concern ourselves with getting as far away as possible.”
“Aye,” Lanyan stood up, flicking his head towards Jeralyle. “And what of him?”
“If he likes, he’s free to travel with us.” Elryia’s eyes turned soft, and fell on the Mage, who simply nodded in acceptance. “Good. Then we should prepare to leave. Gerin won’t stay unconscious forever.”
Each agreed, turning back towards Merial’s home opposite the prison. Bewilderment ran rampant among them. Their adrenaline was still rushing and confusion overpowered them so fiercely that not a one realized their blonde leader was not in tow.
She had turned the other way, gliding through the forest at a quickened pace, waiting while her eyes adjusted to the dark. She searched for something she wasn’t finding. It was only when she saw another flicker of red, far behind her, did she curse under her breathe and turn around slowly.
“You know, you really shouldn’t sneak up on a man who’s still tense from a fight.”
Even then it took her a minute to locate him—the very same stranger that had saved them. Once she did, El walked straight forward into his waiting arms. They embraced only for a moment before Elryia pulled away and gave him that smirk she was known for. He seemed oddly unaffected. “You know, you could have introduced yourself.”
The stranger shook his head as he tossed his cigarette into the dirt, “Not yet El, I want Idimus to know what fear is like. I want him to be paranoid, to feel like he’s being chased by a ghost. I can’t do that if he knows who I am.” He walked slowly behind her, whispering in her ear. She blinked hard and fought every urge to lean back into him.
“You saw how easily Gerin could rip thoughts from people’s heads. From the elf or even the rock-headed dwarf. I think he may have even taken one from you. Which is why I’m glad I trained you not to recognize me.”
“I should have tried harder to block him out. I’m sorry.”
“Do not be. It takes a very long time and intense meditation to keep someone like Gerin out of your head.”
She nodded slowly, and kept her eyes forward, trying to avert her attention from a strangely intense situation: the whispering, close quarters, the darkness… “I’ll keep practicing.” She exasperated, hoping her voice didn’t squeak.
“Good, because you’re going to need to be even more careful. I didn’t know he would send his best warrior and I had not planned to step in so soon. He’s going to come after you relentlessly now. You may have sat somewhat idle, just getting under his skin, but now you’re a threat. I know him, and he’s afraid. Things from now on are going to become far more dangerous, even with me watching your back.”
Elryia grinned much larger than usual and turned her head to the side to look at him, “It almost sounds like you’re worried…” she started, but turned fully to find herself talking to an empty forest.
She just chuckled and spoke again to the direction that she thought he had gone, “You’re even more mysterious with me than you were with Gerin, and I’ve known you for years, Graham.”
Be It Only The Fearful Who Descend
His head bowed, his knees dug into the stone before his ruler. His hair draped in front of his face, bangs waved over his broken nose and bruised socket as he stared at a pair of lace boots, waiting for death—or at least a sentence to it.
“You’ve disappointed me Gerin,” the King finally spoke after what seemed like hours of his General’s silent groveling. “It’s sad. I taught you everything I know about swordsmanship, about how to be a good ruler and a good warrior. You are like a son to me.” His voice a graveled whisper, his head tucked back against his throne, hidden in the darkness. “And yet you return to me, with broken bones and broken spirit. Without Elryia’s head or reports of victory. You left with nothing, and you came back with nothing.” Idimus reached to the side of his throne and wrapped his hand around the sword he kept there. The blade a stained black steel, matching the room and the King’s very soul, the guard wrapped around the bottom of the blade like twisted vines, spikes jutting out like thorns to form the hilt; the handle was a mixture of metal spiraling downward and blood-red leather twisting between to form the grip.
Only the tip scraped along the cobble slowly, agonizingly for Gerin, until it rose up to press against the General’s throat. Gerin thought for sure the he had met his end, and he was ready to accept it. He imagined things would go much as they did several nights ago—black.
It was only when he felt a sharp pinch against his chin, pressing his head upwards di
d he stop trying to make peace. The King had used the sharp end of the blade only to get his attention, and to make a very brutal point.
“I should end your life for your failure General, but I will not.” He tugged the blade away, watching the blood slide down Gerin’s neck. “You still have a destiny that you are bound to, so killing you now would serve me no purpose.” The King dropped the edge against the man’s thigh, crushing the tip into him--not intended to cripple him, simply a searing reminder—though through the pain the General remained still. “But if in that destiny you do not give me the outcome that I so richly deserve, you will wish your life had ended tonight.” He yanked the blade out and still the General didn’t so much as wince. “Now, get out of my sight. I have to think on how I am going to end this. Since you can’t do your job properly.”
The General nodded, bowed and lurched out of the room, trying his best not to limp. He made it all the way to the end of the hall and to the set of stairs before he finally acknowledged the wound and treated his left leg as if it were heavier than his right. There he spent a moment in thought. Either he could descend, exit the castle and ride west to his home, Roane. Or he could remain, stay in one of the many empty rooms on this floor and quite possibly suffer another verbal and physical onslaught from Idimus—of which he believed he deserved. So he left the stairs, turned back and crept down a side hall he had originally passed. Soldiers and servants alike refusing to look him in the eye. He slammed the door to a random room and remained standing in the middle for a long while, refusing to attend to his wound out of fear and respect. He felt it was penance and would accept the pain willingly—even occasionally digging his finger into it as a sharp reminder of his failure.
When the pain surged so deep it was no longer definable, he let the puncture alone and moved towards the window. There, he found the sudden urge to toss anything out of it, weep against it or jump.
Perhaps it was his failure that had caused his sudden breakdown. He had not communicated a word since returning, only gave his King a brief overview of what happened that night, and left the rest of the discussion up to Idimus.
But possibly it was something else—something deeper. In nearly a century, he had remained undefeated. No man or beast could best the only man trained by King Idimus himself. He had killed so many, defeated so many. He had few scars and even fewer close calls, and there was not a time he found himself scared. He truly believed himself to be the fastest, most dangerous warrior on earth.
It all changed that night. He had battled a man he couldn’t touch; a man he could barely see move. That man had handed him his first defeat in nearly a hundred years, completely and utterly unarmed—all with one, powerful blow. It stung, and it had buried self-doubt in his mind, but what truly disturbed him was what the man had said right before he went unconscious.
“Our destiny, General, will be determined in a distant place, in a far off future.”
He had always believed that it was his destiny, his secret.
Between Fifty and sixty years into his rule, Idimus had brought in every prophet, every oracle, two-bit psychic and mystic to determine how long his reign would truly last. And nearly every one of them had told him the same thing, though often in a different way. One had put it so defining, so elegantly, that Idimus still kept the scroll tucked away inside his chamber.
“A man will exist who walks speechless amongst all others—a man without soul in his eyes and without love in his heart. His war will determine your fate. His battle will end with grand victory or massive defeat and that decision will determine the dominant reign for a thousand years.”
Upon hearing that, Idimus had sought out every mute and every sightless human he could find. All were a disappointment, and most never left the castle alive. Idimus searched for nearly a hundred years, some prospects lasting longer than others. A few saw their way through childhood; others didn’t make it to their teens. But they all failed the King at one time or another; and those that did not run away terrified of the life he had created were put to death.
All except Gerin.
On the surface he was an anomaly, yet inside he was human as anyone else. His missing mouth and blank eyes were a birth defect. During gestations, certain areas of his body had stopped growing or not developed at all. His stomach and liver were smaller than normal, and he had two toes that had never grown past the size of an infant’s. His eyes suffered the same affliction, though they worked better than most. They were simply grotesque; nothing more.
His vocal cords had developed and he could make grunting and whimpering noises, but he found it to be primitive. He had no tongue, teeth, or even a moving jaw. Where his mouth should be was simply a mass of muscle, tissue, and cartilage. It made the shape of a human face; only his lips and mouth were missing. It was actually a blessing that his stomach was so small as he couldn’t eat. He received nutrition and hydration by wrapping huge ivy and eucalyptus leaves around his waist to absorb their nutrients directly into his skin.
Gerin truly was a miraculous disaster.
Once he was found, the King stopped searching. Idimus had taken him under his wing when he was just an infant and had trained him personally. The King truly believed he had discovered the man who would cement the prophecy, so he did everything in his power to ensure it. Gerin was a natural, both in being a warrior and being a servant to a strong king. Every snicker, whisper, gasp and stare only hardened his skin and charred his heart; making his job all the more simple. He no longer cared for those he hurt, or the people he saw fit to punish. They were all just faces—mocking, laughing, faces that served a better purpose dead.
Over the years, Gerin had begun to believe exactly what his King said: that he was the man to bring him a thousand years upon his throne. He had a destiny.
However, all that changed two nights ago. Never had it once entered his head that the war spoken of in the prophecies was anything but pre-determined. He never even entertained the idea that he would lose. He had never been beaten before, so it seemed almost astronomical. But now he knew what defeat felt like. He was as helpless as a child—even after all of his training. All those years given to his art—useless. He had been bested, and now it was creeping up on him that this may not be the last loss he would have to deal with.
For even more blaring than his broken nose and swollen cheek, the disapproval of his King or his suddenly questionable destiny—was that whoever that stranger was knew as well. A cold logical reality that whoever had defeated him was also aware of the prophecy. He had to be. He spoke to him as Idimus did, emphasis shoved onto the word destiny; making it seem as though that was the driving factor of the General’s life or his sole reason for existence.
The man had known. Only Idimus, Gerin, and whatever prophets he brought in that were now long since dead knew that story; that destiny. It had not leaked nor surfaced in over two centuries. What turned and twisted, pounded inside Gerin’s mind wasn’t a question as to how the man had discovered his destiny. No, what corroded his thoughts was the answer.
Deep down, the General knew that the reason the man was so aware of Gerin’s own destiny, was because his destiny lay on the other side. He had meant what he said: “Our destiny.” The General saw who would be opposite him on that destined battlefield. The only man to ever defeat him.
And for the first time in nearly a hundred years, Gerin knew what fear was like.