Kiernan smiled knowingly as she followed behind.
“Your pendant?” asked Beck.
Rogan nodded. “It is a long story, but I do have it.”
Kiernan heard Beck breathe a sigh of relief. “Well done, Rogan! Have you had news of Airron?” he asked as they walked.
“Nothing,” said Rogan. “I just hope to find him doing well.”
“Apparently, you are doing well, Rogan,” Kiernan whispered under her breath. Unfortunately, it was not low enough judging by the dark look Rogan sent her and the sly grin on Janin’s face.
Along the way, Beck related to them all he knew of Airron’s misfortune. The news quickened their steps, the group anxious now to see Airron for themselves, and it was not long before they emerged from the Puu Rainforest into the Elven capital of Sarphia.
If Aquataine was an underground paradise, Sarphia was an aboveground fairyland. From the twinkling lights in every tree to combat the unnatural darkness to the symmetrical gardens and even to the raw beauty of the Elven race of people. Every Elf, male and female, exhibited the same silver white hair and purple eyes of Airron, and the grace in the way they flitted from place to place was purely magical to watch.
Kiernan’s delighted perusal was interrupted by the arrival of a dozen Elven soldiers that approached them with a gait as light as air.
“We have been expecting you, Savitars. This way,” one said to them. Taking positions on both sides of their group, the Elves set a hurried pace that forced the Savitars and Janin to trot between them. As they ran, the Elven people in the city stopped to watch the progression and most of their interest was centered on Bajan. The Draca Cat was evidently highly revered in the Elven world—if the white marble statue of a Draca Cat in the town square was any indication. It was the most beautiful piece of artwork Kiernan had ever seen. Outwardly, her furred friend appeared to take in all of the attention with bored aplomb but inwardly, Kiernan knew, he was quite pleased.
The soldiers halted in front of a wooden building with a thatched roof and long porch. Two Elves dressed in white were carrying a stretcher inside. Kiernan thought it must be an infirmary of some sort.
“You will find Master Falewir inside,” said one of the Elven soldiers, and then the regiment turned on their heels and departed, never breaking formation.
The infirmary was heavily in use. Apparently, the demons had left their mark in Haventhal as well as in Iserlohn and Deepstone. Once inside, she inquired about Airron. “Oh, yes,” said a pretty Elven girl behind a desk. “Master Falewir is down the hall in the last room.”
As they neared, Kiernan was surprised to find two guards standing in front of the door.
“Is this Airron Falewir’s room?” Rogan inquired.
“It is,” said the stoic Elf. “What do you want with him?”
“Is that fireball?” shouted a familiar voice from behind the door. “Let him in, guards!”
The guards opened the door and one by one, they filed into the large room. There sat Airron, propped up in an enormous bed, with four Elven girls attending him. Two were rubbing his feet, one was massaging his shoulders, and one was feeding him grapes. Feeding him grapes!
“You are all here,” Airron said through his mouthful. “It’s about time! In case you have not noticed, we have a job to do.”
Rogan took a step further into the room and planted his feet. “Do you want to kill him, Beck, or should I?”
After dismissing the Elven nurses, it did not take long for Airron to pack. He accomplished the task while recounting his severe injuries at the hand of Avalon Ravener. Without the unsurpassed talent of the Elven healers and an antidote for the venom of the spider, he would have died. He told them of Rory, and they speculated that it was Avalon who appeared to them after the destruction of Pyraan, and the young fireshifter either perished with the others or Avalon had killed him outright.
Suddenly, Kiernan looked at Beck, and they both realized at the same time that Avalon was the one who wanted her to think Beck betrayed her.
Also unspoken was the fact that all but one of Galen’s prophecies had come true. Airron had been gravely wounded, Beck had been betrayed, and she had been lost. That only left the most devastating prediction of all.
And, it would come.
Of that, she had no doubt.
“The most frightening part of all,” said Airron, “was that after the fight when she thought I was dead, she tried to bodyshift me!” He shuddered. “Then something scared her off at the last moment. Thank the Highworld because she would have realized I was still alive if she put her hands on me. The last thing I remember was her reaching down and tearing the pendant from my neck.”
Three horrified gasps reverberated throughout the room.
“His pendant is gone!” Kiernan said and threw up her hands. “Now what?”
“We’re done,” moaned Rogan in anguish. “It ends here.”
“Take it easy,” said Airron smugly. “Luckily, I suspected that something was up and I hid the pendant in my pack. Avalon stole a harmless piece of silver I purchased from one of the dockworkers in Havenport.”
Kiernan grunted in relief. Rogan was right. It would have been the end—at least an end to the way of life that the Massans had always known. “I guess now is as good a time as any to put our pendants together and retrieve the map.”
Bajan and Janin looked on as the four Savitars knelt in a circle. They each held their pendants out in front of them and, to Kiernan’s complete surprise, the four pieces flew out of their hands and clinked together with magnetic force. The Savitars leaned back out of the way as the combined pendants spun in the space between them, chains whipping around furiously. The air in the room began to stir and was soon a gusting whirlwind.
Kiernan flinched when an oil lamp crashed to the floor behind her. Her hair stood on end and twirled above her head as her dress flapped wildly against her skin. Still, she kept her eyes on the transformation happening in the middle of the room. One by one, the links in the chains began to shorten and meld into the pendants. The spinning started to slow only when the molten silver pieces bonded together and all that was left was a single round disc. A flash of light brightened the room, and the wind abruptly stopped as the silver circle fell to the floor with a small clink. A narrow orange flame flared to life over the pendant and etched something onto the silver.
When the glow disappeared, Kiernan reached out gingerly to pick up the silver disc expecting it to be hot, but it was not. It was cool to the touch.
“It is a compass of some sort,” she said, noticing a thin orange flame still wavering on the surface.
She handed it to Beck and he held the compass in the palm of his hand. “It is pointing due east.”
“East it is,” said Airron, hefting his pack.
Rogan offered a clumsy and hurried good-bye to Janin, who was remaining in Sarphia to await the Deepstone Army, and then they raced out of the infirmary. Curiously, the people on the streets were bowing down to Airron as they passed.
“They treat you like royalty,” grunted Rogan.
Airron laughed, purple eyes sparkling. “I am royalty, my friend. A fact I have learned since being with the Elves!”
“Does King Jerund J’El know that?” asked Rogan, doubtfully.
“Of course, although, I will admit that he was shocked at first.”
“I’ll bet,” snorted Rogan. “I have my own royal story to tell when we have more time.”
“I could not communicate for weeks,” Airron continued, “but once I came around, King Jerund believed my story with the help of King Maximus’ Decree, and then departed with the Elven Gladewatchers to join the Iserlohn Army at Starfell.” The Gladewatchers were the elite Elven Calvary Force. The battle adage was that as soon as you laid eyes on the golden hem of the Gladewatcher’s tunic, you were dead.
“What about the rest of the Elven Army?” asked Beck.
Airron shook his head. “He took only the Gladewatchers.”
The soldiers
who escorted them to the infirmary intercepted them. “You must hurry, Savitars. We have just learned that it has begun. Iserlohn has engaged the Cyman Army. They did not wait for King Jerund or King Rik.”
“What is my father thinking?” cried Kiernan. “They will be slaughtered without reinforcements, as meager as they may be.”
Beck held up the silver compass in his hand. “Not if we can help it. Come on!”
In the midst of the ongoing carnage and bloodletting, King Maximus sat despairingly astride his enormous warhorse at the devastation he could see but not quite comprehend. Hundreds of soldiers in the scarlet and black of Iserlohn lay sprawled across the Valley of Flame in frozen twisted death. Hundreds more at this moment, on his orders, were now throwing themselves at the mass of Cymans and grappling in hand-to-hand combat. Men who had served the Everard family and the land of Iserlohn for years. Even the sons of those men.
They never had a chance. He foolishly disregarded the strength of this enemy and all battle strategies that may have made a difference. The Iserlohn Army alone was no match for the Cymans. These creatures from the north who did not fight with weapons, were bigger, stronger, faster, and outnumbered his army three to one. The archers were useless as their arrows bounced harmlessly from the tough, leathery skin of their opponents, and the Cyman giants wrestled swords and pikes from the foot soldiers as if they were naught but toys and beat the men to the ground in bloodied heaps with their own weapons.
Atop their powerful and war-ready horses, the Nysian Cavalry held its own against the Cymans, but the foot soldiers were being decimated. The mounted troops were doing all they could to protect the soldiers on the ground, but hour after hour, the bodies continued to pile up.
The King yanked hard on his horse’s reins as a Cyman grabbed at his leg and tried to pull him out of his saddle. The experienced horse reared up onto his hind legs in response and pawed at the enemy with his hooves. The King heard the satisfying crunch of bone, and the grip on his leg slackened. One more well-placed kick with his boot at the bloodied face was all he needed to disengage and permanently disable the Cyman.
Glancing around, he saw his Lords and Ladies, all expert blademasters, cutting into the Cyman horde fiercely with the battle calls of their Houses. He heard Lord Etin call out to his Flying Eagles and Lady Knapp to her Shadow Panthers. It made no difference. Their house colors were just as intertwined with the red and scarlet of his dead.
“Your Grace, get out of here!” a man screamed and then there was Colbie Nash, standing alone in front of him like an avenging angel with his feet spread and thrusting his deadly saber at any Cyman who dared approach his King. One reached out to try to unseat him again and lost his arm to Colbie’s sword.
Maximus hacked furiously on all sides, his horse dancing in a circle as he tried to defend from multiple attacks. Within seconds that felt like years, the rest of the Scarlet Sabers closed ranks around him.
“Nooo!” With horror, Maximus realized they were too late to help the beleaguered Captain. The strength of numbers won out and the animals surged over Colbie and brought him down under flailing fists, some of which held rocks. Maximus howled in rage, and broke free of the Sabers to use his warhorse to trample the Cymans crouching over Captain Nash.
“To me!” he screamed, and two of the Sabers slashed their way clear of the enemy to hoist their Captain onto the back of his horse, only to be cut down in the attempt.
This is it, he thought.
I am going to die right here, right now in this valley in front of Starfell.
Regret raked through him in those final moments, staring death in the face. Guilt that he had not waited for the Elves and Dwarves to arrive as his daughter had asked him to do. If he had, the island may have had a chance still to prevail. His men may have had a chance to live.
Responding to a harsh wrench on his arm, he dazedly swung his sword at a Cyman and sliced open his belly, the creature’s entrails spilling out onto the ground.
Then, unexpectedly, painful ear-splitting shrieks rang out over the valley from the west. Maximus whirled his horse toward the sound and gasped in panic, unable to believe his eyes.
There were hundreds, if not thousands, of children teeming into the valley like locusts! The implausible sight of children on a battlefield caused defenders and invaders alike to stop and stare in confusion. Dressed in loincloths and wielding small spears, closer inspection revealed that these were no children, but armed warriors. The pint-sized fighters circumvented the Iserlohn soldiers and crashed into the Cyman horde with deadly purpose. Maximus had never before witnessed anything like the scene playing out before his eyes, and was only grateful that the new combatants appeared to be on the side of the Massans. At least, he hoped that was the case.
Brandishing their weapons, they were causing a great amount of damage darting in and out between the Cyman giants, stabbing at their legs and inflecting debilitating injuries. It was impossible for the invaders to offer a defense against the ruthless little people due to their speed and stature.
The King did not waste the opportunity of the distraction.
His Captain still on his horse, he yelled, “Forward!” and dug his heels into his mount and thundered back into battle. Buoyed with hope, the Scarlet Sabers and Iserlohn Army smashed into the tide, hurling it back.
“Again! Forward!” he shouted, and a second vicious blow by the Massans broke the enemy line. The King sagged in unexpected relief. The Cyman Army was retreating, even if only temporarily.
He glanced to the side and found his liege lord. “Lord Etin! I must take Captain Nash to the healers!”
The confident Lord nodded. “Go! We will drive these bastards back to Starfell Keep.”
Maximus quickly shook his head. He would not throw any more lives away today. This was only a temporary retreat, and he knew that. “No! Withdraw. The soldiers must rest and regroup before the next assault.”
Lord Etin’s mouth tightened in disagreement, but he nodded stiffly. “As you command, Your Grace.”
“I do!” growled Maximus. He reached into this saddlebag for a rope, hastily threaded it under the unresponsive Captain and then tightened it around his own waist. Kicking his horse into a gallop, he sped toward the red and white flags mounted high on the tents of the healers. Soldiers scattered out of his way as he cantered forward desperately. Hauling on the reins as soon as he arrived, he had one leg over the saddle of the horse before it stopped completely and jumped down. He quickly untied Colbie and then gently laid him on the ground.
The blue eyes were open, but unseeing to anything in this world.
The handsome young Captain of the Scarlet Sabers, who Maximus had once hoped would become his son through marriage one day, had made the ultimate sacrifice of his life for his King’s life. As the healers looked on, he tenderly cradled the Captain’s head, his only wish at that moment that he could take the man’s place.
When he finally rose, he gestured to a soldier standing nearby. “Find Captain Franck. Tell him to retrieve our dead from the field and burn their bodies in a warrior’s tribute.” He looked down one more time at Colbie Nash. “Prepare the Captain’s body as well. He will be honored in death as he was in life. Summon me when the preparations are complete.”
He did not wait for a response, but remounted and made his way back to his tent with what was left of the Captain-less Scarlet Sabers following silently behind him.
Bloody hell but this one hurt. Colbie was more than the Commander of his Royal Guard, he was family. As was his father before him. Each and every man in the Guard pledged to lay down their life for him, but this was the first time in his twenty-five years as King that it had been necessary.
When he arrived at his tent, he swung down from his horse and ordered that a scout be sent to the south to ascertain whether the Elven or Dwarven Armies were close to their location yet—something he should have done before engaging the enemy. Fatigued, he went inside and sat heavily on the three-legged stool in fron
t of his desk. He wondered where Kiernan was and hoped that she was alive and would stay as far from this place as possible.
A request for entry came from outside the tent, which he granted tiredly. It was Captain Bo Franck, his uniform torn and bloodied. A long wound down the side of this face still oozed blood. If he lived, thought Maximus, he would be disfigured for life.
Maximus yanked one of his boots off. “Good, you’re here, I…”
“You will need to put your boots back on, Your Grace.”
The King looked up with raised eyebrows.
“The Elves have arrived.”
“Thank the Highworld, Bo!” he said, his weariness fading with renewed hope. “Now, we may have a chance!”
“I am afraid, that is not all, Your Grace.”
“What? What is it?”
“Adrian Ravener approaches as well. Only he is accompanied by an army that makes the Cymans look like a child’s plaything.”
Chapter 31
THE LAST HOPE
Beck led the Savitars into the Puu Rainforest at a ground-eating lope, the beauty of the jungle lost on the group as they concentrated solely on putting one foot in front of the other. They decided not to expend all of Rogan’s energy using magical fire until it was necessary, so Beck guided the way with a torch dipped in long-burning pitch.
It was a struggle to maneuver through the forest thick with vegetation and trees, and the constantly altering terrain and humidity quickly sapped their strength. The minutes turned into hours before they stopped for a brief rest to eat bread and dried beef the Elves had pressed into Airron’s hands on their departure.
Then, they ran again.
Beck continued to take periodic readings of the compass and it always showed an easterly heading. It never wavered from that position, and he began to wonder if it was working—especially, when an impenetrable wall of verdant rock materialized in the center of their path. He turned back to look at his companions, their faces and clothes covered in mud. Even Bajan, whose white fur was always impeccably clean, looked gray and limp. The pain in his ribs had begun flaring for some time now, but he pushed the ache down and away from him. He would deal with it later.
Island Shifters: Book 01 - An Oath of the Blood Page 35