by Liara Woo
For an hour and a half they practiced dodging arrows, and by the time they stopped for water and a few slices of fruit at noon, Katie was exhausted. But Firdin assured her she was getting better.
After lunch they began again. Katie ran every which way across the arena, keeping her knees bent and ready for action. She ducked and jumped and flattened herself to the ground only to roll to the side and spring to her feet a moment later. After another hour Firdin suggested she try without the armor on, and as the sun began to set outside, Katie finally managed to dodge all sixty arrows Firdin shot at her.
"Great job," he congratulated her. "Tomorrow we'll get to swords."
Katie sighed, feeling miserable at the thought of another long, sweaty day full of exhausting work. "But I'm so…tired," she yawned.
Firdin took the Light back into himself and guided her outside. "You did amazing today, Katie. Don't worry; tomorrow we'll take more breaks."
Katie mounted her horse and smiled down at him. "Thanks," she murmured tiredly.
They rode back to Velana, groomed and fed their horses, and Firdin guided her through the streets to the inn she'd stayed at the night before. "Thanks," she said gratefully as she turned to enter her room.
"I'll meet you outside when the sun is halfway to noon," Firdin said. Katie wondered briefly what time that would be—eight o'clock? Eight thirty? —but she was too tired and quickly gave up.
Firdin pulled her door open for her with a bow and wished her a good night. She returned the farewell to him, entered her room, and threw herself on the bed. In a second she was asleep.
* * *
"Wake up."
The words pierced Halthren's mind as though through a thick fog, and he couldn't quite bring himself to obey.
"Wake up!"
It was louder this time. More intense. More menacing.
Halthren groaned. Every inch of his body was sore and ached with pain from the terrible red potion he'd been forced to take. He didn't feel like moving or waking up was an option for him.
"Don't make me come in there," the demon voice snarled.
With tremendous effort Halthren opened his eyes. He was still in his cell and there was a demon outside with a pair of thick, heavy manacles. He didn't remember falling asleep; he could only recall hearing Nashgor's Shape-Shifter saying something… about the Forest of Mist? Then he had a vague memory of being taken out again and tortured with the vial. He hadn't told Blacknack anything, of course, but the third dosage had left him even weaker. He groaned again, shivering.
"Alright; this is your own fault, you know," the demon warned. Vaguely Halthren was aware of a jangling of keys and a screech as the door opened, and then he felt cold iron fastened around his wrists. The demon hauled him out of the cell and dragged him through a long corridor and then down some stairs.
Down? Halthren thought. Normally he takes me up. He made no move of resistance as he was pulled into a torch-lit chamber and laid on a cold stone table. His wrists and ankles were tightly bound to the tabletop.
This is different, he noted. What will they do to me now?
The cold stone sent a shiver up his spine, and suddenly he realized what was happening. They're trying a new, even more painful method, he thought with a shudder.
A dark figure materialized out of the shadows, clad in flowing black robes. Its skin was as pale as bone, but its eyes were black and cold. It positively reeked of Darkness, making Halthren feel sick. The figure, human in shape, raised one pale hand and stroked Halthren's neck with a long, cold fingernail. Halthren gasped at the touch, which sent white-hot pain through his neck, and cringed away.
"You haven't given Blacknack the information we need," the figure hissed. Halthren recognized the voice; this was Nashgor's Shape-Shifter. "That makes me…unhappy."
Halthren's eyes narrowed. Sudden fury burned through him—this creature worked side by side with Nashgor, the pure embodiment of everything that ever was evil. "I know what you want," he spat, fiery wrath burning through his soul and giving him new strength. "Get used to disappointment. I'll never tell you anything."
"I admire your courage," the Shape-Shifter slithered. "But I'm afraid it will fail in the face of this new pain." He clapped his hands, and a demon stepped forward with an ornately decorated black box. The carvings depicted elves in agony, clutching at their hearts, writhing and twisting. Halthren felt his heartbeat accelerate.
The Shape-Shifter opened the box and took out a short black knife with a twisted blade. "This weapon is enchanted. Soon you will witness that it can tear more than flesh and cloth." With one swift stroke he cut open the front of Halthren's tunic, all the way down to his navel. Then the Shape-Shifter placed the razor-sharp tip of the blade on the elf's skin, just over his pounding heart. Halthren flinched at the cold touch against his sweaty flesh, and then he gasped as the Shape-Shifter sank the blade down two inches. Blood began to spill from the wound.
"Krashnazk," the Shape-Shifter hissed.
Halthren had no time to brace himself for the sheer pain that followed. It was as if a torch were being shoved into his body, burning him, splitting him open with agony. He screamed; the sound was a terrible high-pitched shriek of unspeakable pain.
Suddenly there was a dreadful jolt, and Halthren felt something wrenched out of his body. He gasped when he saw what had been taken from him.
The black knife's blade was still embedded in his flesh, and Light was beginning to seep up into it, directly into the metal. The skin around the injury was glowing brightly as Light was sucked from it. Soon the entire blade was brighter than anything else in the room, making the torches seem dull.
The Shape-Shifter jerked out the knife and Halthren's entire body jerked with it. Halthren went limp, trying to overcome a sudden dizziness that came over him. He was breathing shallowly and shakily as sweat seeped from his pores. The wound over his heart burned with pain.
The Shape-Shifter held up the gleaming knife. "So this is what your precious Light looks like," he said in his hissing voice, as if the words were slithering out of his mouth. "I will destroy it if you refuse to tell me what I want to know."
Halthren looked up at the Light, part of his own soul, in the grasp of Nashgor's servants. If it was destroyed, a part of Halthren's life would be destroyed as well. But he couldn't betray Joran. He'd never be able to forgive himself for betraying his own family. "I'll say nothing," he mumbled in a slurred voice.
"So be it," the Shape-Shifter hissed. He raised his other hand, and a roiling cloud of Darkness emerged from beneath his rotting fingernails. With a wave of his hand, the Light was extinguished.
Halthren screamed in agony. The sudden pain that took him was too much to bear. It felt as if his soul was being ripped to shreds and then chewed on by a carnivorous beast. He was dying of anguish. His insides were burning. All of his muscles and organs and bones, basically his entire body, was on fire. His blood was boiling but his flesh was freezing, adding up to create terrible pain. His heart was beating too fast; it felt as if it might burst.
And then, agonizingly slowly, it faded away. Halthren was gasping for breath; his body was shaking and he felt as if he might lose consciousness. His body was still protesting against the pain; he was trembling and twitching all over. Through half-closed eyes he became aware that he was still alive, so his Light hadn't been entirely destroyed. His vision blurred; he was only vaguely aware of the Shape-Shifter speaking to him in a faint and echoing voice.
A bucket of ice-cold water was poured on his face. Halthren gasped and sputtered as everything became clear once more.
"I'll give you one last chance," the Shape-Shifter hissed, raising the Dark knife above Halthren's sweat-drenched skin once more. "Tell me where your prince went."
"Never," Halthren responded in a slurred, breathy voice. The knife plunged into his chest again.
Vernisgard
Vernisgard
Joran crouched behind the bushes near the Kratchene border, keeping watch as Fen and De
wrion slept. Before him was a massive plain that stretched out from the east to the west, from the Ocean of Storms to the Eternal Ocean. Joran had wanted to keep walking through the night to save Halthren, but Velinar and Fen had convinced him not to, urging him to rest. They still don't know my real intentions, he reminded himself. But soon I'll have to tell them.
Before he'd left, Bloodthorne had taken him down into the basement of his mansion to see the two spies who'd been wounded, Krenej and Relenthus. Relenthus was the only one conscious, and even then he'd been pale and weak. He'd told Joran that Nashgor made Its plans for war in the highest tower in Vernisgard prison. There was a secret passageway leading through the walls of Vernisgard that would open up when a particular brick with an elven rune engraved upon it was pressed. Once inside the tunnel, there were three levers that could be pulled. The first led into the cells where prisoners were kept; the second opened into the arena, and the third opened into a stairwell to get to the room at the top of the highest tower. There was also a smaller set of stairs within the passageway, leading up to a tiny space just outside of the room where someone could eavesdrop.
Joran felt guilty about not bringing Katie with him. She'd wanted to go, and he'd wanted her to meet Halthren… but he just couldn't risk it. He trusted her, but what would her powers do in the realm of Darkness? She still can't control them very well…
Another reason to get Halthren back. He'd know exactly how to help her.
He looked up at the sky. Stars gleamed above them…the spirits of elves who'd died. Beyond the bush he hid behind, he saw where the tall grass ceased to grow and dark gravel took its place. No fence or sign was needed to define the border; once plants reached Kratchene they stopped growing. Past the border, everything was shadowy rocks, mountains, and volcanoes. The sky was obscured by Dark clouds that hid all light.
"I'm about to enter a land with no goodness," Joran whispered to himself, unable to suppress a shiver. Hang on, Halthren. We're coming for you.
* * *
When sunrise came, the three elves walked across the large field and into Kratchene. All at once Joran became horribly aware of the nauseating presence of Darkness all around him.
Dewrion hurried behind a large rock and gestured for the others to do the same. "Hurry! We can't let the guards in the watchtower see us!" he hissed.
Joran and Fen joined him in the shadow of the boulder, and Joran noticed for the first time the watchtowers on the border. He could see four. There were two pairs, one closer to them and one much farther off. The tower on the Silvrenian side was manned by elves, and the one on the Kratchenian side was run by demons.
Dewrion took three hooded black cloaks from the satchel he carried. "Wear these," he whispered. "Then follow me—slowly." They pulled the cloaks on and raised the hoods. The dark color would help them blend in better in Kratchene. They followed Dewrion at a slow and steady pace.
"So you know the way to Vernisgard?" Joran whispered.
Dewrion nodded. "I went there once on a rescue mission. My parents were being held there."
Joran bit his lip. Time to let the cat out of the bag, he thought. Might as well get it over with. "I should tell you…eavesdropping on Nashgor isn't the only reason for this journey. My best friend—more like my brother than my friend—is at Vernisgard, and I want to save him."
"Halthren, right? That's very noble," Fen said. "But you shouldn't have risked yourself. The seven lords rarely agree on anything; they'd never be able to lead us to a victory. We need you alive, to unite them."
Dewrion nodded in agreement.
"Halthren's the only family I have left," Joran answered solemnly, although it felt like a weight had lifted from his shoulders—They aren't angry with me. "And he's almost certainly being tortured. The Darkness will want to know my whereabouts through him, using whatever means they can. I must get him out."
"You have our full support," Fen reassured him. "We will follow you to the death."
"I hope it doesn't come to that," Joran muttered.
Soon the border was out of sight, and with it, Kylaras. When they climbed a ridge, a long, thin white strip could be seen on the horizon behind them for one moment. Then they descended, and their last glimpse of Kylaras was obscured.
There was no day and no night in Kratchene, although Joran guessed that when they reached the third volcano at least three or perhaps four days had gone by. The burning torches that lined the roads used by the demons and the orange glow cast by the volcanoes were the only sources of illumination. Elves didn't use fire unless it was winter, when flames were the only source of warmth. Fire was a destroying force. It killed everything caught in its wake. Elves despised such destruction, so they limited their use of it. But in Kratchene, fire was dominant.
"It's too hot here," Fen complained. "The ground burns my feet even through my shoes."
"Me too," Dewrion sighed, wiping soot from his cheek. "The smoke is what bothers me. I'll have a sore throat for weeks after this."
"I hate the feeling of this place," Joran added. "Nothing grows, and the Darkness is so thick…it's vile."
Fen nodded. "Let's just get this over with and go home. I see a tower rising above this ridge; are we at Vernisgard?"
Dewrion nodded grimly. "We've arrived. Come; Relenthus said that the entrance to the passageway was on the north side, right?"
"No, it's west," Fen said confidently.
"Hmm; I remember north," Dewrion replied uncertainly.
"No, it's west. Didn't you know that I helped build this tunnel?"
"I didn't," Dewrion sighed, rolling his eyes. "And a moment ago it sounded like you didn't even know where Vernisgard is."
"I haven't been here in a century! Maybe two!"
"Let's just go," Joran intervened, cutting between the two and heading forward. He could almost imagine the apologetic looks aimed at the back of his head.
They hiked up the ridge and down the other side, pulling the cloaks tight around themselves. Vernisgard, standing before them, looked like one huge square block of stone connected to a tall rectangular block of stone that towered above everything else. Joran's eyes widened at its sheer size. How was he going to find Halthren in such a vast place?
"There are guards on each corner. None are looking this way," Dewrion whispered. "Run! Now's our chance!"
They raced down a gently sloping hill, stopping in front of the main building of the dungeon.
"Hah!" Dewrion hissed. "It was the northern side!" Fen rolled her eyes as he gestured triumphantly to the elven rune carved into one of the bricks. He pushed it inwards and a segment of the wall opened up.
"Get in," Fen whispered, and she followed Joran and Dewrion inside. She pulled a lever, and the tunnel opening closed back up.
"Lights?" Joran suggested, blinking in the darkness.
Dewrion shook his head. "The demons would feel our presence if we did that."
Joran blinked slowly as his night vison kicked in. "This way," he whispered, running one hand along the wall as he walked forward.
"The first lever opens into the dungeons," Fen reminded him. "Halthren's probably being held there."
Joran nodded and kept walking. After a few minutes they found the lever and pulled it down. The wall opened outwards, into a torch-lit passage lined with cells. Quickly and silently Joran led them into the dungeon. At the end of the corridor they came to a wall; the passage split off to the left and right. Nailed to the wall was a piece of paper decorated with grim words written in what looked like blood: "All demons are invited to watch our elven prisoner fight with our champion, Gorzog the Strong, today in the arena."
"Curse those demons," Fen hissed. "That's where he is, then. I hope we aren't too late."
"Hurry! Back to the tunnel!" Joran ordered in a harsh whisper. They dashed back to the passageway and ran quickly through the darkness, trying to find the second lever. Please don't be dead, Halthren, Joran begged in his mind. Please. Please. Please!
* * *
&n
bsp; Halthren was thrown into the arena for the umpteenth time, but he could tell that this was different. Demons crowded the sides, jeering and booing. Turning his head, Halthren saw one of the Verdecolossals standing near the center, huge, green, and slobbering.
Halthren struggled into a sitting position. The demons were chanting something over and over and over again. "Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!"
So this is where I die, Halthren thought, closing his eyes and slumping back down, too weak to continue sitting upright. At least I didn't betray my friends and my country. At least I will die at peace with myself. But still, this would be his end, and the thought that he would no longer live on Allagandria frightened him.