Alora: The Portal

by Tamie Dearen

  “We’ve come to surrender, good sirs. We beg your mercy. We know there’s no escape from your able custody.”

  “And well you should.” A squinty-eyed sentry with a soot-smudged face ogled them with suspicion. “What’s that behind your backs? Let me see your hands.”

  Markaeus edged forward. Just a little bit closer. The furthest two guards are mine, and I’ve not got a clear shot at the last one.

  “It’s only a peace offering... we found a bit of food.” He slowly moved his left hand around to expose a piece of soggy bread.

  The third sentry, with the braided adornment of a head guard, took a step toward them, completely blocking his view of the last one. “Whatever that may be, we don’t want it. How came you to be here? You don’t have enough years to be in the secure ward.”

  “I came to bring my brother back, as you would well suspect.”

  “Yes, as I thought.” He nodded, and Markaeus let out the breath he’d been holding. Then the guard’s eyes narrowed as he lifted his hand to point with his sword. “No, this is nonsensical. Are you saying your brother escaped from the caverns and you returned him to us of your own accord?”

  Haegen yelled, “Now, Markaeus!”

  Markaeus whipped his right hand around and pointed the strange weapon in the head guard’s face, squeezing with his finger. Not having had opportunity to practice, he was astounded at the result, despite Uncle Charles’ precise instructions. A small misty stream squirted four strides away to wet the guard’s face. The startled sentry dropped his sword to scream and claw at his eyes.

  “Go!” Haegen, having likewise spewed debilitating liquid on the closest guards, shoved at his back.

  Markaeus took three running steps, when a flash of metal caught his eye. Diving to duck the sword swinging at his head, he hit the ground hard, his weapon rolling from his fingers. He looked up at the unforgiving face of a hulking, well-muscled sentry who placed his heavy boot on Markaeus’ chest, resting the point of his blade under his chin.

  “You there! Boy! Come lie face down if you don’t want your brother skewered through the neck.”

  “No, Haegen! Run!”

  The pressure of the blade increased until he felt the sting of his skin splitting.

  “I can’t, Markaeus. I can’t leave you. I’m no coward.” Haegen trudged back, scuffing his feet.

  The closest sentry screamed out as he stumbled forward, “I’m going to kill them both! They burned my eyes! I can’t see!”

  “Down on the ground, boy,” Markaeus’ captor barked. “Drop that strange weapon in your hand. I’ll slit both your throats before I let you burn my face.”

  Tears of frustration filled Markaeus’ eyes, blurring the guard’s image. He squirmed, clawing at the leg on his chest.

  The guard made a strange gurgling sound, and his head fell forward. Dropping from his hand, the blade rolled to clang on the floor as he crumpled. Behind him stood Uncle Charles, wiping his knife on his pant leg. Sheathing the knife, he extended hands to Markaeus and Haegen, hefting them to their feet, even as the blinded guards fumbled toward them.

  “Hurry, before the others recover enough to chase us. And hang on to that pepper spray. Don’t forget, you can’t touch your faces until you’ve washed your hands.”

  Hope renewed, Markaeus took off as fast as his legs would carry him, glancing over his shoulder to be sure Haegen and Uncle Charles were close behind. Remembering the turns in his mind, he led them to the last corner before the main corridor. Sliding to a halt, he leaned over to catch his breath.

  “The entrance to the stairway is way down this corridor on the left, but first comes the big guard station.” Markaeus waited expectantly for Uncle Charles to produce some new magick weapon.

  Uncle Charles wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand before kneeling to rummage inside his special rucksack. He extracted two clear tube containers filled with liquid, removing the caps to stuff a rag in each one, hanging out a hand’s length. Opening his cloak, he revealed a pocketed apron around his waist. He slid one of the tubes into a pocket, careful to keep it upright. Reaching again into his rucksack, he retrieved a black rectangular object, slightly larger than his hand, which slipped into an adjacent pocket. With the rucksack in place on his back once again, he stood, with the remaining tube container in his right hand and, in his left hand, one last mysterious treasure… a shiny silver box that could hide in his palm.

  “Here’s the plan. We’re going to run as fast as we can. If anyone tries to block you, spray them with that pepper spray. You’ve got another fifteen or twenty seconds left in each can—”

  “Wait, Uncle Charles,” Haegen interrupted. “What is ‘seconds’?”

  “Never mind… just spray them until you empty the can. Whatever happens, whatever you hear, you just keep running. I’m going to take up the rear and try to stop anyone who’s chasing us. If you get to the secret stairs and I’m not with you, keep going. You got it?”

  Markaeus threw his arms around Uncle Charles’ neck. “I’m sorry we don’t have major gifts yet, but we could still try to throw the knives.”

  “Yes,” Haegen agreed. “Sometimes we hit our targets, even though we aren’t gifted. It’s not necessary for you to fight alone.”

  Uncle Charles shook his head, patting Markaeus’ back. “You’ve been great, boys. You’ve already hit your targets with the pepper spray. Just do that again. I don’t have much faith in knife throwing without a little magic behind it.”

  “I hear voices. Someone’s coming,” whispered Haegen.

  “Let’s go, boys. It’s show time.”

  *****

  Worster led the way, winding through the caverns to the area Daegreth had indicated on the map as the most likely place for Vindrake to interrogate prisoners. His circuitous route avoided the most heavily guarded areas near Vindrake’s living quarters. Indeed, they hadn’t encountered a single sentry in the smoke-filled passageways, save two who hurried the opposite direction holding wet rags over their mouths and noses.

  Graely slipped his hand inside his pants pocket, fingering a pliable pouch. The small bag, identical to the ones carried by each of the other three warriors, contained a special glamour powder concocted by Nordamen. The glamours were based on everyday potions, such as those used by countless commoners to make themselves appear more attractive, and thus wouldn’t be of special notice to anyone sensitive to magick. But Nordamen’s powders had a special affect, causing the casual observer to see someone they recognized or expected to see, rather than the real person. However, the fragile impression fragmented with movement, so utilizing the glamour required approaching from an unseen position and freezing in place when observed. A further complication occurred if two antagonists observed the glamour-covered person at once, since each would see and address a different person. Still, despite its shortcomings, the glamour provided some chance of gaining close enough proximity to Vindrake’s shamans to engage in a physical battle, bypassing their dark magick spells.

  Reaching a corner, Worster held up his hand, signaling silence as he dropped to his knees, craning his head to see into the passageway. He pulled back, sitting against the wall, motioning with his fingers to indicate four guards around the corner.

  Were they close? Could they take out the sentries without raising an alarm?

  A shrill screech of pain and terror ripped through the corridor. On and on. Alora. A wail of agony.

  Still, she screamed. Graely gagged at the images flooding his mind. Worster and Naegle froze with wide eyes. Morvaen’s face reddened and his fist tightened around his sword, his muscles trembling as if he wanted to tear someone’s head from their shoulders.

  Graely knew the children would be forever changed. Gone was the innocence of youth, buried in the overwhelming reality of evil. No amount of time would erase the memory or restore that which was lost. And that only if they survived.

  *****

  Alleraen’s heart pumped in his chest, a mad dance. B
ut it was excitement, not fear, that set his muscles tight and trembling. At last, after all these years, he would have his respite. Tonight he would kill his brother and avenge his father. Tonight, Drakeon would pay for Alleraen’s lifetime of maddening confinement. He’d spent every waking breath in preparation for this moment and he knew, with absolute certainty, he’d be victorious.

  Drakeon passed the strange iron rod to his shaman, slowly turning to face him as he drew his sword, a sneer painted on his face. “You’re a sentimental fool, as always. You could have killed me while my back was turned.”

  “There was no need, Drakeon. I want to look in your eyes when my sword takes your life.” Alleraen fingered his pilfered sword, familiarizing his hand with the weight and balance. Though the blade was nothing special, he was confident in his gifting, both in weapons and in strength.

  Drakeon spoke over his shoulder. “Empusa, see that no one disturbs my captives until I dispense with my brother. If anything should happen to me, kill them.”

  Dropping the rod, the eerie shaman lifted her hands and bent her head, pale blond hair falling forward to envelop her face. A shimmering cloud surrounded her, almost as tall as two men and extending out beyond Alora and Kaevin, shackled to their platforms.

  Alleraen gave a silent curse, knowing the shaman would prevent Arista from accomplishing her task. No matter. Once my brother is dead, the shaman will no longer answer to her bloodbond.

  Drakeon sneered. “My guards—”

  “Are dead or disabled.” Alleraen finished Drakeon’s sentence, enjoying his brother’s momentary lapse in composure.

  “But more are coming, for I have compelled them. You’ll never escape the caverns if you don’t leave before they arrive.” Drakeon moved his sword in slow methodic circles as he stepped forward, and Alleraen wondered which would prove stronger, a God-given gift or a thieved one. He dismissed the thought, knowing his thirst for justice was unquenchable.

  “You’ve already stolen my life, Drakeon. I don’t fear death or God’s subsequent judgment. I’ll gladly face both to send you to yours. What’s that I see in your eyes? Could it be a bit of apprehension? Did you not realize this day would come? Surely you knew you’d someday be called to account before our Maker for your wicked actions?”

  Drakeon feinted to his right then lunged to his left. Alleraen parried the attack with ease. Dancing forward, Alleraen sent quick jabs to test Drakeon’s reflexes. He was fast, but Alleraen was faster.

  He slashed. Drakeon turned. Too slow. Alleraen’s blade sliced through Drakeon’s shirt, and red bloomed on his left arm. Drakeon cursed, swinging his sword in a downward arc toward Alleraen’s head. Alleraen thrust upward to meet his blade, sliding and locking hilt to hilt. Drakeon used both arms, straining as he struggled against the strength of Alleraen’s right arm.

  He could end it now. Take his revenge. He could withdraw and thrust into Drakeon’s heart, powering past his defense with brute strength. No, it’s too soon. I’ll extend my brother’s terror a few more moments. He deserves to suffer longer for all the iniquity he’s done. Though God will surely punish him in the next life, I want to deliver my own bit of justice.

  He glanced to the side, assured to see the shaman still frozen in place, projecting the protective shroud and not actually harming the children. Using his weight, he forced his brother back, step by step until the wall stopped his progress.

  Beads of sweat broke out on Drakeon’s forehead, his face red with effort. With perfect control, Alleraen increased the pressure, bending Drakeon’s hands back until the blade pressed against his neck, drawing blood.

  “Do it,” Drakeon rasped.

  “I will, Brother. But first, I think I’ll cut you one time for each year you’ve stolen from my life.” Alleraen sprang back with a laugh, slashing across his chest. “That makes only three. Your skin shall be in ribbons before you die.”

  “Alleraen! Look out behind you.” At Arista’s cry of alarm, he glanced over his shoulder to find four armed sentries standing just beyond sword reach. Keeping Drakeon in his sights, he drew a knife in his left hand, preparing to battle all five at once, though the four made no move to engage.

  Arista gave another shout as the door burst open and three more sentries rushed inside, setting their aim for Arista. Her arm blurred. A blade flew. The foremost guard darted to the side, rolling and bounding to his feet, unscathed.

  Alleraen heard Arista’s name as two of the sentries behind him darted toward her, their forms morphing before his eyes, along with their clothing. He stared in confusion as the two remaining Water Clan sentries became Stone Clan warriors, one with a bloodied face and bandaged head, and the other a massive man staring intently over Alleraen’s shoulder. The huge warrior cried out, moving at lightning speed to tackle him about the waist. Taken by surprise, Alleraen brought his blade up to defend himself, but the large warrior rolled out of reach.

  “Wait!” The bloody man stepped between them. “Morvaen has just saved your life from Vindrake’s knife, for I believe we’re fighting on the same side. But I’m afraid you’ve lost your prize.”

  Alleraen looked behind him. Drakeon was gone.

  *****

  Jireo rounded the corner just in time to spy his sister making a stealthy entrance into Vindrake’s interrogation chamber. Arista’s alive! She may be able to free Alora and Kaevin if they are in irons. Who is the man in her company?

  After a few moments, Jireo crossed the smoky corridor, pressing his ear to the door. I know from Daegreth’s map, there’s a rear entrance. Should I go through this door or the other? Footsteps sounded in the corridor behind him. He couldn’t delay any longer. Creeping low under the cover of smoke, Jireo slipped inside the room and ducked behind some barrels to survey the situation.

  To his left, Arista’s burly companion battled Vindrake in a surreal dancing scene, with their feet shrouded in smoke. A quick assessment told Jireo the mysterious warrior had victory in hand if no one interfered.

  To the right was a strange foggy dome. Inside the semi-transparent dome, a motionless woman stood with arms upraised, her downturned face shrouded with long blond hair. Where are Kaevin and Alora? And where is Arista? Are there any guards? He crawled along the back wall, behind a table, searching for his sister and friends.

  Arista came into view, circling around to hack at the enigmatic dome with a knife. Rising to his feet for a better view, Jireo spied Kaevin and Alora within the magick dome, shackled to platforms on either side of the eerie shaman.

  Before Jireo could move to aid his sister, she cried out, gesturing toward the rear door behind her companion. “Alleraen. Look out behind you!”

  Four Water Clan warriors had entered the room under cover of smoke. Arista’s friend is outnumbered five to one. Jireo readied his sword to even the fight.

  The main door burst open, and three more sentries hurtled inside, running toward Alora. The first guard dodged the knife Arista threw, rolling to his feet and bounding toward his sister, blade in hand.

  Arista’s companion will have to fend for himself. Springing from his hiding place, Jireo intercepted the nimble guard. His sword slashed the guard’s neck before the warrior could reach Arista. Spinning in a circle, Jireo sliced at the two sentries who followed behind. One fell, holding his side, but the other side-stepped, escaping with only a nick in his tunic. Before Jireo could bring his blade back around, the guard fell, taken out from behind.

  “Thanks, Naegle!” Jireo’s spirit lightened at the unexpected aid from a fellow warrior of Laegenshire. “How did you come to be here? And how did you arrive so quickly?”

  Worster stepped beside him, moving to finish off Jireo’s wounded sentry. “We traveled with Morvaen and Kaevin’s father on a pre-arranged rescue mission, waiting only two hands away in case we were needed.” Worster gestured across the room, where Morvaen and Graely stood with the man who’d been battling Vindrake.

  The four Water Clan warriors were nowhere to be seen.

  Nei
ther was Vindrake.

  Jireo jumped as a weight slammed into him. Arista’s arms encircled him as she embraced him with fervor. “I don’t know where all of you came from, but I’m glad you’re here. Now you simply need to kill that fiendish blond woman so I can open the cuffs and free Kaevin and Alora. I can’t move past her barrier.”

  “Did you try throwing a knife?” Jireo peeled Arista’s arms off, frowning at the frozen woman who stood in a dome of fog denser than the wispy smoke in the rest of the room. She even looks like ice with that white-blond hair.

  “My knife bounced off when I threw it. She hasn’t moved a bit. It’s as if she’s in some kind of trance.”

  “I hear more guards coming.” Naegle moved toward the door.

  Arista ran past him, slamming it shut. She turned to Naegle with a grin. “That should slow them down. No one else can open it without a key.” She hurried across the chamber to seal the rear entry.

  “I don’t know how to get past this.” Jireo’s heart raced as he stood beside the foggy circle that blocked him from reaching Kaevin. He kicked at it, to no avail.

  “Alleraen will know what to do.” Arista returned with Vindrake’s brother in tow, though he protested the entire way.

  “It’s over! I’ve lost my chance to kill Drakeon… and all because I craved my own revenge. I forgot my promise to help you, so focused was I on retribution.” Alleraen jerked his arm from her grasp, turning away. “Your friends have plenty of rescuers now. Leave me to my misery.”

  Arista grabbed his arm, jolting him back. “Now who’s being a recalcitrant child? Are you really such a coward?”

  “Coward? I’m no coward.”

  “You can’t even face your own fallibility. You made a mistake. One mistake, and you’ve given up. You’re more a coward than I was when I had but five years. I’ve never let a mistake prevent me from trying again.”