Trials

by Pedro Urvi

  Cursed Ilenian magic!

  The Guardian pointed his staff at Komir.

  He swallowed. Death by fire was on its way. He could almost swear there was a triumphant gleam in those demoniac golden eyes. I’m helpless… I’d give anything to be able to do what that Ilenian fiend just did. By the three Norriel goddesses, I wish I could work Ilenian magic! Is this how I’m going to die? Is this my destiny? No, it can’t be, this isn’t the destiny Amtoko foretold in our lands. I’m not going to die like this, defeated by this golden-eyed demon! With no answers and no justice for my parents! The frustration Komir felt in his soul was as intense as the violence of the erupting volcano. For the first time in his life, in the midst of that rage which was gnawing at him, he became fully aware that he must accept what he had tried to avoid right up to that fateful moment: his destiny.

  “I claim my destiny! With all its consequences! My destiny is mine and here today, at this moment and in this place I thus claim it for myself! Goddesses, grant me my destiny!”

  A tremendous thundering outside, making the whole mountain shake, came as a reply. The great volcano had finally erupted, and the whole chamber shook with its power. The Guardian lost his balance for an instant and seemed to be about to fall, but amid the deafening noise he managed to stay upright. Komir had to bend one knee not to fall. He recovered and stood tall, without fear, the floor still shaking under his feet. The Guardian murmured a word of power and a bolt of pure fire shot from his staff.

  Komir saw the fire-bolt aiming straight at his heart.

  “Noooooooo!” he cried in fury, and covered his heart with his right hand.

  The fire caught Komir on the back of his hand. A terrible pain filled him, so terrible he thought his hand was melting. The Guardian kept up the beam of fire, increasing its intensity. In the middle of the unbearable pain, Komir’s medallion began to give off a gleam, almost ethereal, and he saw an almost translucent layer of energy enveloping his fist, like a gauntlet. The strange Ilenian symbols floated through his mind, and he knew the medallion was casting a spell. He felt the energy of the medallion interacting with his own, and experienced that sweet feeling he already knew so well. The medallion used his own inner energy to conjure Ilenian magic, ancient magic of incredible power. The back of his hand hurt hellishly, but he could feel the medallion’s energy struggling with the beam of fire, rejecting it. The energy of the Medallion of Ether shone more and more powerful, winning the magical battle.

  The Guardian stopped his beam of fire all of a sudden. Komir looked at his wounded hand, expecting to find the back of it grotesquely burnt, but to his immense surprise it was completely golden, as if it had been dipped in gold. Komir was left in a state of shock. He attributed it to an unexpected effect of the fight between the magic of Fire and that of Ether.

  He was marked…

  Marked…

  For ever…

  “Is this all you can do?” he shouted scornfully, showing his enemy the golden back of his hand. “I’m Komir, the Marked!” He took a step forward fearlessly, knowing what he had to do. “My destiny is awaiting me. Move aside and I’ll let you live, you fiend! Move, I’m telling you!”

  But the Guardian did not move away. The golden eyes under the cowl shone fiercely, and raising his staff once again he caused the outer ring of fire to advance anew. Komir understood he was going to be burned to a crisp. I need to protect myself, or else I’m dead!

  Help me, medallion! Help me!

  The Medallion of Ether seemed to understand what Komir was begging for and shone vividly.

  The scorching heat of the ring reached him.

  The golden Ilenian symbols danced in his mind, forming a spell which Komir did not understand, but which all his hopes rested on. The jewel throbbed again, and he sensed that the spell was complete.

  He opened his eyes.

  He was in the center of the incinerating ring, surrounded by scorching fire.

  “By the three Norriel Goddesses!” he cried in disbelief, and jumped. He touched his body, expecting to feel the flames and the agony of burning.

  But he was not burning, and there was no pain.

  Komir shook his head, deeply shaken, and in so doing noticed that the fire did not reach as far as his body. A translucent sphere enveloped him completely. He wondered at this protective sphere of Ether. He was in the midst of the most intense of fires, yet it was unable to penetrate the sphere. Unbelievable! I’m not burning! It’s amazing! But something inside him, a small unconscious warning, caught his attention. He closed his eyes again and focused on that sense of danger. He saw his own pool of energy, his store of power, his magic, and discovered that it was diminishing, slowly but steadily. And he grasped it. The protective sphere! The spell must be maintained with my energy. It’ll only hold as long as I still have some left. When it’s gone, the sphere of Ether will be gone, and my protection with it.

  Komir would not be able to keep things up indefinitely. He had to finish the Guardian —but how?

  Hartz knelt beside Aliana to check the burns on her legs. They looked serious, and this worried him deeply. The young Healer had fainted from the pain. He looked ahead. The eruption had reached its peak, and gave the impression of a warrior god releasing all his fury on humanity. In reality Hartz was enjoying that appalling spectacle. He knew perfectly well that the situation was desperate and infinitely dangerous, but he could not help feeling fascinated by the cruel brutality and unfathomable strength of that tremendous force of nature.

  He turned for a moment to look at his companions on the ledge. They were all tense, looking at Aliana with deep worry on their faces. Kayti, sitting with her back to the rock wall, was looking at the Healer grim-faced, showing her concern.

  “What shall I do, Kayti?” he asked her.

  “You have to… you ought to wake the Healer…”

  “But she’ll be in terrible pain. Those burns are very serious.”

  “If you don’t wake her… she’s doomed… Those burns will get infected and she’ll die.”

  “Her pulse is very weak,” Kendas said in a whisper. “I don’t think she’ll survive much longer… I agree with Kayti, we must wake her or else she’ll die, no matter how cruel it is. She’s the only one who can work a miracle with her Gift.”

  “All right, we’ll wake her up,” Hartz said. “I don’t like it, but I see we have no choice. May the three goddesses forgive me.” He crouched beside Aliana. “Give me a hand, Kendas. Hold her shoulders. I fear it’s going to be a horribly painful awakening.”

  Kendas nodded and held the Healer fast. Hartz shook her remorselessly, but she did not wake.

  “You’ll have to hit her,” Kayti said. “I know you loathe the idea, but she’s not going to wake up any other way.”

  Hartz looked into Kayti’s eyes, the eyes of the woman he loved and which lit up his life with the color of happiness. A happiness he felt every day he spent at her side. Every chiding she gave him increased his love for her a little more, if such a thing was possible. Even in the worst of situations, like this one, he could not deny her anything, not even that. It was against his honor as a Norriel to hit a woman, but with things as they were he could do nothing else. He nodded and slapped Aliana’s face to bring her back to the world of the living.

  She reacted and woke.

  With her face distorted by the searing pain, she screamed like an animal being sacrificed.

  Her eyes stared wildly from their sockets.

  Kendas and Hartz together held her tight so that she would not fall into the void or hurt herself with her wild convulsions. She twisted with pain, on the verge of madness.

  Hartz felt so deeply for the unfortunate Healer that tears broke out in his eyes. He choked them back. Looking at Aliana, he said:

  “You have to use your power on yourself, you must heal yourself!”

  “Use your Gift, Aliana!” Kendas cried. “Use your Gift to calm your pain!”

  But she did not seem to hear. Her gaze wand
ered and she thrashed in agony as she screamed, caught in a nightmare.

  “Come on, Aliana! React!” Kayti shouted at her.

  The Healer convulsed again, then closed her eyes and stopped moving.

  Hartz did not want her to lose conscience. Waking her again might well mean she would die of pain, and he did not want to run such a risk.

  “Come, Aliana,” Asti said, weeping with frustration.

  Something caught Hartz’s attention, and his fears lessened: Aliana’s legs were beginning to heal.

  “She’s doing it! She’s healing her burns!” he cried, filled with irresistible joy.

  “She’s an amazing woman! Kendas said. “What strength of will she has! The horrible pain she must be suffering and she’s capable of overcoming it and performing this miracle!”

  Kayti nodded. “Truly, she’s a remarkable woman,” she agreed.

  A voice from the depths of the mountain reached Hartz.

  By the three Norriel Goddesses!

  A voice he knew well: Komir’s. Immediately his stomach lurched, and he turned towards the entrance hewn into the rocky grotto.

  “It’s Komir!” he cried, looking at Kayti.

  The redhead looked back at him and said.

  “Go help him!”

  “Sure?” Hartz said hesitantly, already reaching for his sword.

  “Sure! If anything happens to Komir you’ll never forgive yourself, and I very much fear it’ll take Aliana some time and effort to heal those burns. Kendas will help me if I need it. Go, I tell you!”

  Hartz looked at her once more and smiled. Kayti smiled back, sweetly this time. That was more than enough for the big Norriel. He unsheathed the Ilenian two-handed sword and went into the grotto. Behind him he heard Kayti’s voice:

  “And by the Custodian Lady Zuline, be careful, acorn-head! I couldn’t bear losing you…”

  Air

  Lasgol had a terrible headache. He put his hand to his temple and looked around the cave he was in. It was a spacious grotto, and part of the floor had disappeared under water. The walls were limestone, with encrusted minerals shining as if by their own light. He became alert at once and activated his ability to move like a cat, seeking to sense any hidden danger or threat. Everything appeared calm around him. Morksen was sharpening his hunting knife, completely at ease.

  “Will you stop doing that, it makes me nervous,” said Lasgol.

  “All right, boss, but will you explain what the hell just happened?”

  “I’d say we’ve been swallowed by the giant whirlpool, and somehow it’s dragged us here.”

  “And where exactly is here?”

  “Wait a moment, I’m going to check something,” Lasgol said, and dived into the water.

  It was not long before he came back.

  “We’re in a cavern at the bottom of the Great Lake,” he said, shaking the water off his clothes. “It’s completely unbelievable that we can breathe air down here.”

  Morksen shrugged,

  “Mysteries of nature, I guess. I’ve no time to waste wondering how all this is possible. We’re breathing, which is what matters. There’s another cave ahead, you’d better go and have a look at some runes I found carved on the ground. They give me the creeps…”

  Lasgol went to see the place Morksen had mentioned, the symbols, which formed a perfect circle, he realized at once that they were very similar to those he had seen inside the Fountain of Life. This worried him deeply; many good Norghanian soldiers had perished in that expedition, and he himself had only survived by a miracle.

  “I’ll use my power to try and sense if there’s someone close and whether some kind of magic is being used.”

  Morksen, who was right behind him, shrugged and readied his short war bow.

  Lasgol placed his hand over one of the symbols and concentrated. He searched for his energy, a sky-blue energy of great power, even though his pool was not particularly big, at least compared with that of a Battle Mage. Even so, Lasgol was grateful to the Gods for his Gift, although he had never considered himself worthy of it. He had never understood why the gods had blessed him, a mere forest ranger, with that power. Still more taking into account that he devoted his days to hunting and capturing men, an aim he did not find enriching at all, much less glorious or important.

  Shaking these negative thoughts out of his mind, he used his power with the aim of finding out whether there was magic at work in that cavern. Immediately, as if reacting to his own magic, the symbols began to shine with that golden gleam which Lasgol recognized at once.

  “Ilenian magic!” he cried in alarm.

  Morksen tensed and stood on guard, running his gaze along every nook and cranny of the cave.

  The symbols shone once more, and Lasgol felt a strong breath of air at his back. He turned round and was shaken by a strong gust of wind. Morksen grabbed him to stop him falling.

  “What kind of madness is this?” he shouted. “The wind’s attacking us in an underwater cavern! It’s totally impossible!”

  “It’s a very ancient and very powerful magic that works by manipulating the Elements,” Lasgol explained as he tried to keep his balance in the face of winds that were reaching hurricane force. “It’s conjuring the power of the element of Air.”

  “Nooooooooo!” Morksen cried as he was carried away by the winds and bumped hard against the wall.

  Lasgol was caught by a whirlwind and began to spin again and again, rising into the air.

  The whirlwind stopped suddenly.

  Lasgol fell to the ground from a considerable height, suffering a blow to his back and head. The wind in the cave turned into a regular hurricane and he had no doubt that if they stayed in that grotto, they would die brutally at the mercy of winds which had already reached unthinkable speed and strength.

  “It’s a death-trap, and we’ve activated it! The winds are going to kill us! Follow me if you want to live!” he yelled at Morksen, and without a second thought ran to the water and jumped in.

  Morksen fought against the gale and jumped into the water as best he could.

  Lasgol swam around the rocky surface of the bottom, looking for another cavern like the one they had left which would allow them to breathe at that depth. He looked up, but all he could see was an endless blue ocean above their heads. They were too deep to try to reach the surface. Nor did he have any skill which might help him in that predicament. He went on searching, without losing hope, although nervous tension began to run through his body like a silver eel. He looked back to check that Morksen was close. He identified two openings among the rocks and swam to check the first. His lungs were beginning to hurt. He checked to see if it led to another cavern, but found it blocked by rocks. He swam to the second and put his head inside. A narrow way led upwards.

  Lasgol hesitated, but he had very little choice, so he followed it. He was overcome by a terrible feeling of imprisonment. The passage was very narrow, and he could barely get through. He summoned up his courage and went on. The rocks were pressing against his back and chest; soon he would not be able to go on. But there was no turning back; he had no air left in his lungs. Either he reached another cavern with air or he would die a horrible death, stuck among the rocks at the bottom of that lake. He gave a last push, and his reserve of air ran out.

  He was drowning.

  He stretched his neck in a desperate attempt to breathe, and in that final moment his head broke the surface of the water.

  There was air.

  He breathed and began to cough convulsively. He dragged himself out of the water, inside a cavern with walls covered with moss and pond-scum. He turned to help Morksen, who was trapped in that tunnel and could not manage to break the surface. A malicious thought formed in Lasgol’s mind. This was the perfect occasion to get rid of the bastard. If he did not help him, he would die there. Lasgol hesitated, seriously tempted for a moment to leave him and go on his way without looking back. But his damned conscience would not let him. He could not let him drow
n. He would never forgive himself. He reached into the water until he could grab Morksen’s shoulders, then pulled with all his might until he had got him out. The old Tracker lay on his side, throwing up all the water he had swallowed. Amid convulsions and gagging he managed to start breathing again.

  I know I’ll come to regret this, I know… Lasgol thought.

  “You… missed… your chance,” muttered Morksen, and smiled with malicious sarcasm.

  Lasgol swore silently and stood up. They had to find a way out of there. He concentrated, and with his inner power tried to pick up the presence of any human being. At first he could not distinguish anything, but he went on trying with all his senses, letting the sensations flow into him.

  Morksen watched in amusement, and made a questioning gesture.

  Lasgol raised one hand to brush away the interruption and went on sensing. One essence reached his mind: human essence… and something more… something not entirely human… He raised his hand and pointed to an opening high on the wall which led to a passage.

  Morksen shook his head and began to climb.

  The Guardian Mage of the Ilenians raised his staff and began to intone the gloomy chant which gave warning of lethal magic. The walls shone with golden gleams, and a black miasma began to fall on the four adventurers stretched out on the ground. Death was descending upon Iruki, Yakumo, Sonea and Lindaro, drowning them in an endless nightmare of anguish from which they would never wake. One after the other would die suffocated, trapped in an imprisoning nightmare.

  A discordant sound caught the attention of the Guardian Mage.

  He turned quickly.

  Morksen rolled down from the upper passage and came to a stop against Yakumo’s unconscious body. Before he could get to his feet, the Guardian Mage stopped his chanting and with a swift move of his staff launched a projectile of air against the veteran explorer. Morksen tried to avoid it, but was not fast enough. The missile hit him in the back with terrible force.

  The Guardian Mage murmured something unintelligible, and another missile struck Morksen in the head. He fell to the ground unconscious. The Guardian took a step forward to finish him off, but at that moment Lasgol, from the opening above, let fly an arrow. The shot headed straight for the Guardian’s heart. The merest breath before impact he raised his staff, and a cataract of wind formed before him, deflecting the arrow.