by Ryan Cahill
Calen puffed his cheeks out as he exhaled heavily. He felt that familiar twist form in his stomach, and his heart picked up its pace. He had no idea why he was so nervous. What does it matter if it doesn’t work? He was not convincing himself.
Exhaling again, Calen pulled himself up onto his knees. He reached his hand down over the flowing water. The chill bit at his fingertips as they grazed the surface of the stream. “It’s half-frozen already,” he joked, swallowing nervously.
The elf smiled, but he did not laugh. His eyes were fixed on Calen’s hand.
Okay, I can do this.
Calen turned his attention to the stream, where his fingertips rested against the running water. He tried to clear his mind, imagining the water turning to ice, spreading like a ripple after a rock had been dropped in a lake. He slowed his breathing and felt the vibrations as his heartbeat slowed in his chest.
“It’s not working.”
“Patience. There are five elements, Calen: Fire, Earth, Water, Air, and Spirit. The Spark consists of all of these. Imagine energy. Just power, raw and untamed. Now, from that energy, take what you need. Pull from it like a thread of yarn, slowly. Treat it with the same caution you would treat a roaring fire or a razor-sharp blade. Do not take too much. The Spark has consumed those who ask for too much too soon. Focus on the elements of Water, Air, and Fire.”
“Fire?” Calen asked.
“I know it seems strange, but you need something to control the heat that you take from the water. Feel it. You will understand.”
Calen’s nerves were only getting worse. What did he mean, “it has consumed those who ask for too much too soon?”
He slowed his breathing again and closed his eyes. He could see an empty blackness. It touched every corner of his mind. The only source of light came from a ball of energy – right at the centre of the darkness – that pulsed, turning in on itself as it floated in his mind. The more he focused, the more he realised that the ball of energy was not smooth or solid. It was made up of interlaced strands of light. He watched them in his mind, pulsating. They were separate from each other, but at the same time, they were not. They twisted and turned, constantly moving, changing. Each strand was unique. He could not explain what it was, but each thread felt different as he touched them with his mind. Power emanated from them; he could feel it. It washed over his skin and filled his bones. It pulled at him, tempted him. He wanted to reach out and let the Spark consume him.
Focus.
He reached out with his mind. He plucked at two of the strands, drawing thin threads into him. Air and Water. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he did. He could feel the strand of fire. Its pull was stronger than the others, as if it were calling to him. Air, Water, and Fire. It yearned for him. It made him cautious. Therin’s words echoed in his mind.
Calen reached out for the Fire strand, drawing a thin thread of its essence into him. He was careful not to draw too heavily. Not to take too much.
A sweet, warm glow flooded through his body from head to toe. It was the same glow he felt when the egg became wreathed in fire. He felt it now, and he knew what it was. The Spark.
His breathing steadied. He drew the threads through him, using them to shape and mould the water to his will. He watched in amazement as the water around his fingertips began to freeze, spreading out in a concentric circle. “Valerys…” he whispered, a soft smile touching his face.
“Calen… Calen!”
Calen was mildly aware of Therin’s voice floating in the back of his mind, tapping at the edge of his focus. The touch of his hand on Calen’s shoulder took him by surprise. Calen felt the warmth leave his body, losing the Spark. He pulled his hand away from the water and shook his head, trying to erode the grogginess that had set in.
“Sorry. I just… I got a bit lost in it. It feels—”
“Addictive,” Therin said abruptly. “That’s because it is. The power to change and bend things to your will is something that will always be addictive. The warmth as you pull the Spark through you can entice a man to take more than he needs or can handle. You need to be aware of it. You need to learn to focus. It will come with time.” Therin gave a reassuring smile. “And with time, you will find that you can handle more of it. With time, and practice.”
Calen nodded. His arms felt heavy, and his breathing was laboured, like he had spent an entire day working in the forge.
Therin’s hand clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. Drawing from the Spark can be exhausting, especially for those who aren’t used to it. It is called the drain. It can leech the very life essence from your bones. Its effects will grow less over time, as you grow stronger. For now,” he said, lifting himself to his feet, “you will have a fantastic night’s sleep. Come. Aeson won’t keep his eyes closed for long, and you will need the rest.”
Calen looked back at the stream as they walked back to the camp. It was still frozen solid where his fingertips had touched. Steam wafted from its surface as the warmth of the summer night eroded away at it.
The dragon lay curled up by Calen’s saddle bags when they got back to camp, still awake but eyes drooping. It poked up its head to watch Calen and Therin approach. Calen set himself down on his haunches in front of the dragon, running his hand along the side of its head with the utmost of care. The comfort that pressed at the back of Calen’s mind matched the purring noise that emanated from the dragon’s belly. Calen stooped his neck down to look into its eyes. He smiled.
“Valerys…”
CHAPTER 23
Not As it Seems
The downpour came upon them without warning. Within minutes, Calen’s hair was matted to his face, and his skin had begun to shrivel as the water soaked him through to the bone. He lifted his hand to cover his eyes from the onslaught of rain as he stared up at the sky. The thick, charcoal-black clouds looked as if they would cave under the weight of the rain they held within their fragile frame. He dropped his eyes to survey the sight in front of him. He had never seen anything quite like it.
Just as they planned, the eerie ocean of woodland that was the Darkwood had come into view just as the sun retired beyond the horizon. As far as Calen could see, and farther beyond again, the landscape was painted in muddled brush strokes of dark green and blackish-blue. The only thing illuminating the eldritch woodland was the cracks of lightning that tore through the sky above, momentarily exposing the flocks of jet-black birds that weaved in and out of the deluge.
Calen had heard many tales of the Darkwood. Terrifying stories of monsters and voidspawn. Of a forest that consumed souls and stripped flesh from bones. Even those stories did not compare to the sinking feeling in his gut as he looked down over the sinister woodland.
“Keep moving,” Aeson shouted. “The canopy will break the rainfall.”
Calen felt irritation from Valerys. The dragon cocooned himself in his wings and shuffled around on the back of the saddle. Calen gave his horse a tap on the ribs with his heel, urging it into a fast canter. The rain stung Calen’s face as they picked up speed, making him wince. His eyes were more closed than open.
He only realised that they had reached the edge of the forest by the sudden relief he felt on his skin and the change in sound. The harsh cracking of rain on his coat gave way to a duller sound as it barrelled down on the canopy above. It gave him the same familiar, calming feeling of sitting inside when the skies emptied rivers down upon The Glade, of being sheltered as the rain drummed on the walls and windows.
Calen sighed, wiping the water from his face. He rolled his shoulders back and surveyed the dense canopy above. He had underestimated the utter blackness that would consume them in this forest. Even if the moon wasn’t imprisoned by the wall of charcoal clouds above, its light would not have been able to penetrate the aphotic roof of the dense woodland. The darkness made him feel trapped.
It was disorienting how the absence of sight heightened his other senses. He could not see past the ears of his horse, but even the soft susurration
of the branches felt heavy in his ears. The overpowering scent of loam and decomposing leaves mixed with the mouldy dampness of tree bark permeated his nostrils.
A sigh of relief escaped his chest when the glow of white light illuminated the space in front of him. The small floating baldír pulsated as it held its position about four feet in front of Calen. A similar orb hovered in front of each person in the group. That is a handy trick. It was not something that he wanted to try on his own. He hadn’t tried to touch the Spark since the river. He would have to ask Aeson to show him how it was done.
“The path to the mountain pass is less than a day’s ride from here,” Aeson said. There was a twist of irritation on his face as he squeezed firmly on his coat sleeve, releasing a stream of water that had soaked into the fabric. “Within this forest, day or night matters not. There are few places where the light penetrates the canopy, but we still need sleep and to dry out our clothes, or else the cold will set into our bones. We will carry on for another hour or so, and then we will stop. I think the horses have that much left in them.” He patted his horse on the neck with affection and received a soft neigh in response.
Calen felt the occasional chill on the back of his neck as small droplets of rain dripped through the dense canopy. The deeper they went into the forest, the heavier the air became – not in the ethereal way it did in Ölm Forest, but in a more tangible sense. Although the canopy held the deluge above at bay, it also kept the dampness of the soil and the bark from escaping. He could taste the thickness of the moisture in the air as it hit the back of his throat with each breath.
There was something about a forest, especially one so devoid of light, that caused time to pass differently. Everywhere Calen looked was indistinguishable to what he had seen five minutes before, as if he hadn’t moved an inch. He heard the occasional flapping of wings amongst the branches, often drowned out by the cracks of thunder that followed the lightning strikes in the sky above. Had he been on his own, he did not think he would ever find his way out.
“This looks like as good a place as any,” Dahlen called, hopping down from his horse. “We could walk for hours here and not find anything different.”
There was a murmur of agreement amongst the group.
Valerys yawned and lifted his head to survey the area. He leapt down from the back of the horse and stretched out his wings, as if they were groggy from sleep.
“Calen, Dann, sword forms,” Aeson said firmly. He tossed his saddle bags to the ground and drew one of his blades from across his back.
“Now?” Dann sighed, “Can’t we sort a fire first, dry ourselves out a bit? These clothes feel like a sack of stones.”
“No,” Aeson replied. “We rarely fight on our own terms, so that is how we must train. Sword forms. Begin from Striking Dragon.”
Dann sighed heavily, then threw back his head and pulled his sword from its scabbard. Calen did the same. His thighs and back were a mixture of numbness and agony. He had never ridden a horse so much in his life. The rain didn’t help. He took a deep breath as he entered the starting position for Striking Dragon. Some of the forms’ names were beginning to stick in his head. Not all of them, but some of them. It was a start.
“Again.”
The word shook Calen’s resolve. They had been practicing sword forms for over an hour while the others sat by the fire, awaiting the warm meat of a small boar that Therin had found skulking around the campsite. His shoulders cried out in pain as the sword grew heavier and heavier. It felt as though his muscles were on fire. Calen focused on his breathing. He swung the blade downward in one long sweep and sidestepped an imaginary strike. He brought the blade back up for a parry and then drove it into the ghostly attacker’s abdomen.
“Stop.”
His knees dropped into the damp ground. A wave of relief flooded over him. Pangs of hunger punched at his stomach. His skin burned from where the damp clothes had chafed the inside of his legs.
“Dann, go warm yourself and eat.” Aeson turned towards the campfire, a glint in his eye. “Dahlen. You will spar with Calen. Now.”
Dahlen responded with a look of confusion as he rubbed his hands over each other in front of the flames. “What, now? Look at him. He needs to rest—”
“Now.”
Calen dug the point of his sword into the ground and dragged himself to his feet. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have the effort left in him to argue. Is he trying to kill me? He felt concern tipping at the back of his mind. Valerys’s lavender eyes watched him from atop the trunk of a fallen tree.
“Yes, sir,” Dahlen replied. He pulled one of his swords from its scabbard, which stood propped against his saddlebags. Calen stood up straight and heaved his sword upright. He didn’t stand a chance. Dahlen raised his sword up in front of his face. “Ready?”
Calen responded with a nod. He wasn’t wasting his energy on speaking.
Dahlen’s first strike was heavy. The shockwave jarred Calen’s forearms. His shoulders burned as he parried the blow. Calen didn’t have the strength to counterattack, and his fingers loosened on the handle of his sword with every deflected blow.
Dahlen swung a vicious sideswipe, and Calen leapt backwards to avoid it. His left leg collapsed from exhaustion under his own weight. His knee crashed into the muddied ground. He was done. He had no strength left. It infuriated him. The last person he wanted to concede to was Dahlen. Anybody but him.
A warm feeling washed over him. He felt Valerys at the back of his mind, pushing him, willing him strength. He noticed Therin and Aeson exchange a look. Calen risked a glance over at the young dragon. He stood fully on his hind legs, his eyes fixed on Calen, his teeth showing as his mouth twisted into a snarl. Calen heard the rumble coming from Valerys’s throat.
Dahlen’s downstroke swept through the air. Calen brought his blade up to meet it mid-swing. The newfound strength flooded relief through his muscles, and he sprang to his feet. A confused look set into Dahlen’s face. He thought Calen had given up.
They traded blows back and forth. Calen pressed, running through the forms, his sword a flurry of movement. Then Dahlen pressed, pushing Calen onto the back foot. It went like this for several minutes, but even with the new push of energy, Calen knew that he wasn’t a match for Dahlen. He already felt exhaustion creeping back into his bones.
He couldn’t lose, not to Dahlen.
Calen pushed away one of Dahlen’s blows and leapt backwards, urging him to follow. He took the bait. When Dahlen attempted to make up the ground between them, Calen reached out to the Spark, doing as Therin had said. He could see the ball of energy floating in a sea of black. Twisting and turning in on itself. The elemental strands called out to him.
He drew on threads of Water, Earth, and Fire. Calen drew the moisture from the damp soil, freezing it in place. Unable to halt his momentum, Dahlen’s foot slid across the ice. He hit the ground with a thud. Calen stood over him, the tip of his blade resting against Dahlen’s chest, a satisfied smirk on his face.
Dahlen’s face furrowed in fury. He swatted Calen’s sword away with his hand. “What the fuck was that?” he roared as he leapt to his feet.
Calen felt a pang of guilt in his chest. “I…”
“No, seriously, you think that’s okay?” Dahlen shouted, pushing Calen. Anger replaced the guilt. Calen heard Valerys shriek as he glared at Dahlen. Their anger was shared.
“Stop this. Right now!” roared Aeson. “You are both no longer children. Have you not seen your eighteenth summer? Have you not seen death?” His voice flowed with authority as he stepped between the two young men. “You,” he said, pointing at Calen, “this was a test of swordsmanship, not of a new gift that you do not understand. Do that again while practicing and consider this arrangement null and void.”
Calen hung his head in shame.
Aeson turned towards Dahlen. “And you,” he said, “you know better. Situations change. Circumstances vary. Your environment can be your friend one second and your enemy the nex
t. If that were a real battle, you would be dead. We will face enemies who can do far worse things than that with the Spark.”
Aeson stormed off towards the fire. The anger in Calen’s chest did not subside entirely. It flickered, like a candle running out of wax, but it endured. He stomped past Dahlen and took a seat between Erik and Dann.
“Don’t hold it against him,” Erik said. He handed Calen a hunk of boar meat and some small slices of cheese wrapped in a cloth. Erik shrugged. “He doesn’t like losing.”
Calen nodded absently. He took a swig from his waterskin, panting heavily. “Yeah…”
“So… you’re a mage now too? Am I the only one who isn’t?” Absorbed in his own dark mood, Calen had forgotten that Dann was there. He realised that with everything that had happened in the past few weeks, he hadn’t talked to Dann properly. The anger faded, and the guilt returned.
“I’m sorry. I haven’t been myself. I should have told you. I’m not a mage… Therin said that it has something to do with the bond between Valerys and me.”
The young dragon made his way over to the three young men, dropping himself in a curled ball in front of the fire. The glow of his snow-white scales was almost hypnotic.
“You named him?”
Calen felt another pang of guilt. One more thing he hadn’t thought to tell his friend. “Sorry, Dann. My head has been up in the sky. I only decided on it last night. It means ‘ice’ in the Old Tongue.”
Dann smiled. “It suits him.” He nodded and looked at Valerys, who was now tearing into one of the boar’s legs. It didn’t seem to bother him whether or not the meat was cooked. Although, he attacked it with more enthusiasm when it was cooked.
Calen felt a rumble of anger when he saw Dahlen sitting on the other side of the fire, glaring at him as he ate. He quashed it. He was too hungry to be angry.