by C E Johnson
“How did you feel when your creator died?” Adrienne was at her side, questioning her.
“I idolized my creator. Samil gave me everything.” She wondered why she was opening herself up to this silly girl. Did I return here just to talk to this half-dead? “I felt so empty when he was killed, almost as if I were back in Ater.” Maaca turned from the pool to stare into the irises of the dryad, polished emeralds of green smoldering in lazy circles around her pupils.
“My creator is Emily Dalton.” Adrienne spoke in a hushed voice, but the words grated loudly in in Maaca’s ears and took her breath away. “I hope you would consider sparing her life.”
Maaca felt her mouth go dry. She wasn’t sure what to think of this revelation. “What are your directives?” She was confused about the dryad’s purpose.
“To live in nature without killing others, only taking magus from those about to die,” Adrienne answered truthfully.
“Then you will be granted much magus today.” Maaca whirled away from the pond and the dryad, a spasm of fury crossing her face. “I can give you no promises concerning Emily Dalton.” Her army was ready, and she had no more time for this foolish creature.
“Everything is prepared,” Edvard said when she returned. He stood in front of her war-horse, holding her reins. “Will you seek the knowledge from your elven assimilations?”
Maaca nodded before leaping onto her mare. She sorted through a myriad of memories in her mind from elves she had killed and assimilated, searching for information that would help her in today’s skirmish. However, as usual, she became sidetracked when she scanned through elven thoughts, mired in elven ideology. The elves saw such value in each life, finding a unique importance in each creature’s relation to the overall fabric of existence. Each elven assimilation was changing her forever, and she wasn’t sure if the changes were healthy.
“Their closest platoon will be here in several minutes,” Edvard informed her while checking the cinch on her saddle. He ran his hands along each of the legs of her mare, making sure there were no injuries or problems with her steed. “The other elven platoons went in other directions and will be too far away to give help.”
Maaca also checked over her equipment. The pale skin of her hands stood out in stark contrast to her dark armor. Edvard mounted his own horse. Maaca put her heels into her mare, riding forward at a brisk trot with her shades and Black-blades forming silently around her. Her cloak streamed over the rump of her mare who was keeping up a smooth gait through the trees. Maaca only slowed when the elves were within earshot. She held up her hand to stop her warriors, and they listened to the elves in deathly silence.
“Maybe we should head back,” one elf called to his captain. “I doubt if any half-deads are in this region anyway.” The elven troops were all on horseback with plain leather saddles that spoke of countless battles and continued hard use. Scratched and pitted rectangular green metal shields hung from their saddle horns.
The captain rode on a silky white elven horse, a Botai, the largest in their company. He wore gleaming silver armor with a thin steel plate that was inlaid with white scrollwork. “You sound worried.” There was scorn in the captain’s voice. “Shadoe’s prophecies foretell of several important individuals coming through the woods along this path to visit him soon. He wants us to find out more about the half-dead strength in this area. Let’s go a little further to see if we can discover how they’re organized; then we’ll go back. Half-deads have never challenged a full elven platoon before. We’ll be fine.”
Maaca muttered to herself under her breath. “I will show you strength.” She made a signal to Edvard, who disappeared riding at full-tilt to tell the archers to attack. She wouldn’t risk using a dream-link communication with the elves in such close quarters as they might intercept the link and be forewarned before she sprung her trap.
Minutes after he left, a high-pitched whistling noise became faintly audible and black arrows fletched with dark feathers thudded into trees, mail, skin and bone, whispering of a dark downfall as they dropped. The once confident elven platoon erupted in chaos with confused and pain-laden howls. “Shield formation,” yelled their commander. The injured elves dismounted in a rush and formed a square. Archers went to the center of their square and strung their longbows. “Nock, draw!” the commander roared as he searched for a target that his bowmen could isolate. Swords were drawn by the warriors at the edge of their formation. “Let the horses go,” the elven leader bellowed. The injured, arrow-ridden animals snorted in pain and lumbered away from their riders.
The were-creatures, however, didn’t allow the horses to go far. They annihilated the animals in a grisly scene just out of elven arrow-shot range. The killing was meant to inspire fear in the elves. The elves, though, kept calm, and their captain gave them encouragement, “It looks like we’re just fighting were-wolves. We’ll pick them off with their every approach. Don’t waste your arrows just yet. We’ll be home for dinner. Just another day of hunting in our woods.” Once the horses were killed, the were-creatures slunk back into the shadows and silence again reigned.
Maaca signaled for another volley of arrows, but the elves were prepared this time, and no more injuries were inflicted as the arrows thudded into the shields. “Goblins,” Maaca whispered to Graciela. “Let’s test the elven resolve.”
“As you command.” Graciela thundered off on her gelding to relay the orders. Maaca closed her eyes in bliss as the goblins swept in; she loved the sounds of war. Roaring curses as they exploded forward in a booming crash, the goblins were reckless in their approach. They were met by stiff resistance without weakness in any quarter. A red death-smoke rose lazily into the air as the first wave of her half-deads were nearly decimated by the elves.
Maaca signaled their retreat. She had expected this result. “Employ our main group,” she ordered Edvard who had just returned. She gave additional instructions concerning weaknesses that the goblins had exposed. She wanted her forces to isolate elves at the periphery that stepped forward too far in their sword-thrusts. The were-creatures swiftly moved into battle-formation, leaping eagerly into the battle. Lyall led the charge, plunging forward in a wave of fur and teeth, snarling, snapping, ripping and tearing. Maaca grunted in satisfaction as Lyall’s massive jaws clamped on the neck of an elf at the edge of the platoon’s square, tightening until the elf erupted in a cloud of green death-smoke. Lyall gave a howl that was a mixture of victory and intoxicated fervor. Maaca couldn’t wait for her own sample of elven death.
Once the elves were focused on the approaching ground troops, Maaca nodded to her the wyverns that were perched in the trees above her. The flying half-deads looked like small dragons. They silently darted down from the trees and bit any exposed flesh on the distracted elves, injecting their poisonous venom. The ogres simultaneously began utilizing their favorite attack, launching boulders. The rocks struck into the enemy like a massive hammer, splintering wood and fragmenting metal. At times a death-light launched sky-ward, and Maaca and her horde bowed their heads to honor the purity of the dead warrior.
Once the number of elves began to dwindle, they began to panic. The survivors started their own assault toward the flank of Maaca’s forces in a desperate attempt to flee. Their sword speed was incredible as they ran, slicing through fur and breaking limbs and shields nearly effortlessly. Order was momentarily lost among her half-deads. Although the elves made some headway in their retreat, they rapidly became mired down in heavy fighting again.
“The end is near.” Maaca nodded to Edvard, and he blew into a brown leather war-horn, banded with dark iron. A low, mournful tone rumbled from the instrument, deep as the growl of an angry dragon. The note vibrated through her soul, sending a warm, pleasurable shiver down her spine. She ground her heels into her war-horse, leading her shades and Black-blades forward through the multi-colored clouds of death-mist that clung to the air that was becoming as thick as oil.
“Will you fight?” Edvard asked from the back of h
is charger.
Maaca nodded. Although screams of agony and the thunder of steel on steel dominated the woods, there were also scattered cries of pleasure coming from half-deads who were lucky enough to be in range of elven-magus, flowing like blood from the dead. Maaca was ready to partake of the magical elixir herself. She dismounted in a fluid motion and reached over her back, drawing her two enchanted black swords, delighting in the smell of fear all around her. Two elves leapt forward to fight her and she grunted while catching each blow on her swords. Attack, parry, backslash, her swords sprayed sparks as they met in faster and faster maneuvers. Her Black-blades relieved her of one elf, and she was left with a single combatant whose aggressive movements were slowing down, likely as wyvern-poison was flowing through his body. His sword appeared heavy in his grip. One of her shades darted forward to help her, catching the elf’s legs with a battle-axe in a bone-jarring force that twisted his leg at an unusual angle. The elf dropped his weapon and collapsed to his knees. Maaca approached him.
“Be gone, demon!” he managed in a weak voice. His face was pale and blood-smeared. “Get away from me, you witch!”
Maaca ignored his words. She sheathed her swords and knelt before him. She wiped the blood and sweat from his face and he began to sob. He was spent, close to death, drained. “What are you going to do?” he groaned.
“Put an end to your pain,” she whispered. He gave a brave nod, barely retaining enough strength to expose his neck to her. Maaca delicately bit into him. He erupted in a green gush of death-smoke and Maaca licked her lips and moaned in bliss as a thrill of spice danced into her body and mind. She felt unable to move until she had inhaled the last fragments of his departing death-magus.
“Who are you?” the captain of the elves bellowed in outrage from across the field of battle. He was the lone elf still standing. Her troops made a circle around him, preventing his escape.
“I am Maaca, Vampire Queen of the half-deads,” she answered. He had a panicked look on his face and without warning he closed his eyes and his aura momentarily flashed into view. He’s probably sending a dream-link to Shadoe, she thought. Perfect. Let Shadoe know the end is near. “Your time has come,” Maaca spoke gently. She closed her own eyes and flitted through the memories of the elf she had just killed, focusing on images of the captain before her, finding out his strengths and weaknesses with the sword. She reopened her eyes and stretched her muscles, ready for the impending conflict. The circle parted to let her enter.
The captain rushed her and began his initial maneuvers well, but Maaca could tell his fingers were already tired and stiff. She rained down returning blows upon him, right, left, overhand, thrust. Attacking a step faster than him, she moved steadily forward, swinging harder and harder as the sparks flew so ferociously that she looked like a smithy creating a blade amidst a fountain of sparkles. Their swords screamed to the heavens in a song of steel until the captain began to weaken and he fell to the ground, staring up at her in amazement. “How are you so skilled? Half-deads are never as strong as elves.”
“You’re a worthy opponent,” she spoke quietly. “I will incorporate your magus with pride.” She kicked away his weapons.
“My warriors, I’ve failed them.” The captain stared up at Maaca with unseeing eyes. He was focused only on his guilt and pain.
“I forgive you for that which you have done,” Maaca said softly. His shoulder sagged, he was defeated. She leaned forward and kissed the elf once on his cheek before she gracefully bit into his neck. He embraced her as he died. Maaca screamed in rapture, momentarily transported from Acacia into a world of light where she thought she caught a glimpse of Samil, her creator. I wish this enchanted paradise would never end. The half-deads around her also sucked up all the magus possible from the dying elf, delighting in the spoils. Maaca reached up unconsciously and rubbed the blackstone in her crown once again, letting out a last scream of victory. Her half-deads echoed her call and their screams reverberated through the Dothan Forest.
C H A P T E R 2
Hurricanes
Emily stared out of a large picture window in her living room at the white mist rising from the relatively warmer waters of Lake Austin into the cool air on a brisk March morning. The pearly haze looked like smoke drifting upward from the snout of an enraged beast making her think of Ammolite, her dragon bondsmate who was still on Acacia. She felt incomplete and broken without her link.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Her adoptive father, Richard Whayne, stood beside her, his hands resting on the back of a worn, brown, leather upholstered armchair, the material faintly creaking under his touch.
“It is,” Emily murmured, but she knew her father couldn’t actually see all the fine points she was perceiving. Magus was clarifying her existence on Earth, steadily changing her neural pathways to better conduct her power. Her magic allowed her to see currents and patterns in the whorls of heat rising through the cloud-like vapors, creating fascinating swirls of texture in her mind, like a masterful artist’s brushstrokes.
Our senses are evolving rapidly, Xena whispered from a position by her side through their mind-link that allowed transmission of thoughts, memories, and emotions. Xena lifted her head to Emily, fur black as night, with intelligent brown eyes. She sniffed the air and sent Emily the smells of pancakes cooking in the kitchen, along with the scents of warmth, harmony, and love. In the past Emily felt everything on Earth was extremely muted, but Xena was right—recently, something had changed, their powers were increasing.
Stop sending me those smells, Z, Emily chided. You’re making me hungry.
“Do you want me to make you some coffee and an omelet?” Emily asked her father, knowing he wasn’t a fan of pancakes.
“My sixteen-year-old’s really beginning to help out the family as she ages.” Richard chuckled as he turned away from the view outside. “I believe you’re finally realizing that important paths in life can be found in your heart.” He put a hand over his chest, “and kindness is such an important virtue.”
“Your learned words of wisdom are so profound,” Emily giggled. As she headed toward the kitchen, she thought over how fascinating her familial relationships had become. Her biological father was Andrew Dalton, a blue magician, and her biological mother, Elaina, was an elven queen. They had placed her with her adoptive parents, the Whaynes, to help shield her from their enemies.
“Breakfast is almost ready. Are your friends going to be here soon?” Jean flipped a pancake with a spatula.
Emily nodded as she studied her mother. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a bun and her makeup was impeccable as usual. She wore a sky-blue long-sleeved shirt with a chain of white pearls around her neck, appearing much too beautiful to be working over the stove. “You look pretty.”
“I thought I could dress up a little this morning. I haven’t seen your friends in a while.” Jean wiped off the counter as she worked. She was all about order, cleanliness, and love.
I hear Anna, Isabelle, and Elizabeth coming down the driveway, Xena informed Emily.
Emily started the coffee for her father before running to the door to let her friends in with a warm hug.
“Xena!” Elizabeth threw her arms around the Doberman. “Did you miss me?” Elizabeth was sweeter than sugar and kinder than anyone Emily had ever met.
Tell her I missed her. Xena sounded happy.
“Of course, she missed you,” Emily laughed.
“Any word on Iscar or Droth?” Anna asked Emily.
“Nothing so far.” Emily leaned out the front door, she felt on edge. Her ki, was warning her about some danger in the trees just beyond her home. She was certain someone was watching her. She wasn’t sure where Samil’s son, Iscar might be, and she didn’t even know whose side Droth, Samil’s general, was on.
Should I scout? Xena pushed past Emily to stand on the porch.
“Enough whispering,” Jean called from the kitchen. “Shut the door and come in her and have some breakfast.”
We’
ll check it out later. Emily waited until Xena was inside before shutting and locking the door. She went into the kitchen with her friends, and they sat on brown wooden stools at the counter.
“Now, tell me about these boys I hear you chattering about. Who likes them?” Jean was always eager to hear about any gossip.
Emily rolled her eyes at her friends as they updated Jean on boys they were dating. They started in on their pancakes and Jean brought a platter out of the refrigerator, piled high with fruit and cheese. Emily closed her eyes momentarily and used Xena’s sense of smell to sample the aromas coming from the breakfast feast. She had learned that sometimes smells were as wonderful as tastes. She handed her father a mug of coffee.
“Is it archery today?” Richard asked before giving a loud contented sip of his drink.
“It is.” Isabelle showed Richard her yew bow.
“I don’t know why you girls are so into swords and longbows.” Jean shook her head in mock disgust. “When I was your age, I loved going to the mall and looking at makeup and dresses … and boys.”
“Maybe we’ll go shopping tomorrow.” Emily gave her friends a playful wink as she set aside her plate and started making her father his breakfast.” Gas flowed to the stove burner, sparks were emitted, and sapphire blue flames burst to life. Emily put butter in the frying pan, tracing her finger over the pearly white egg shells on the counter. The butter was slowly melting on the increasingly hot surface and Emily turned the pan to and fro to spread the forming liquid in intricate patterns. Once she finished the omelet, she placed it in front of her father.