by Levi Samuel
The dreuki straddled him, snatching him off the ground. It went to work wrapping the paralyzed man in a thick, sticky web.
The dense silk encased him. Gareth tried to call out, but it was too late. The thread covered his face, obstructing the horrifying sights around him.
The dank air of the underground began to shimmer and swirl, revealing a rip in the fabric of reality. It expanded, shifting to a jagged oval of orange and black. The faint scenery of a grassy plainland appeared in the black. The tall stalks of grain swayed in a light breeze. A figure appeared in the opening, wearing a brown leather duster. His face was covered by a golden, expressionless mask and the blue and red jester's cap danced atop his head, searching as always. The silver bells on the ends jingled with each movement.
Perrimen stepped through the portal, sealing it behind him. A sense of purpose guided his every step, carrying him deeper toward his destination. He glanced at the smooth, black plates lining the walkway. He knew exactly where he was going, though he'd never been here before. The voices in the mask told him where to go.
An ancient, abandoned city rested in the shadows of the huge underground crater. Perrimen walked along the plated high rise, overlooking the thousands of structures below, each one unique in their own way. Though from this distance they appeared as little more than dwarven homes. He rounded the bend, spotting the ancient fortress of the Urdurnie. It'd been some millennia since anyone had laid eyes on the keepsake, abandoned so long ago when Ozmodius removed his smiths from the realm. The sanctum itself served as a weapon against those who would seek entry. The darkstone structure would hinder most, but he was special, unique you might say.
Perrimen heard the voices scream their displeasure, urging him onward. He knew the fortress had been opened, he could feel it. Why does it call?
Stop him!
Stop who?
Him!
Lost in the argument within his mind, Perrimen reached the gargantuan doors. Memories flashed through his mind, though not his own. He recalled the first gifts the Urdurnie gave to Ozmodius. He was present that day. The day the dragons where born. The darkstone twins, crafted by the dwarves and used to model all others. The image of the monstrous creations filled his mind, both exciting and terrifying. How something so massive could exist was beyond his understanding. Yet he knew it was true. Moreover, there two of them.
The memories faded, begging him to continue. Perrimen stepped into the ancient structure, following the breadcrumbs laid out for him.
Nezial stood in the antechamber, holding the attuned dagger in front of the mirror. The mystical flames hovered from the mounted scones, their eternal visage dancing in the nonexistent breeze. That was the trick to seeing the magic of the mirror. It was invisible to the naked eye. But the flickering light revealed slight fluctuations that he was able to identify.
Perrimen stood just inside the door, watching the unaware dreualfar. Why would such a unique creature waste so much energy on something he couldn’t begin to understand? Truth was, he didn't understand it himself. But the mask had a way of guiding him to the correct path. It's strange. He had control over himself, yet the mask always seemed to lead the way. Was it the illusion of free will? Or something far more advanced? I don't have time for philosophy! Shaking the thoughts from his mind, Perrimen returned focus to the imbued creature before him.
Nezial sniffed at the air, attuning himself to his surroundings. “I smell power. Tell me, who might you be?” Stuffing the blade into his waistband, Nezial turned to face the masked figure.
Perrimen cocked his head to the side. The tendrils of his cap slithered about in search of something unseen. Instinct drove him, conflicting against his desire. Perrimen stared at the tiny, silver bell clipped to the hem of the dreualfar's tunic. He didn’t know how he’d attached it, but he was certain he had. And more importantly, he knew what it meant.
Nezial studied the newcomer, unable to identify any features beyond humanoid. “What are you?” There was something odd about the figure. His demeanor shifted rapidly. Like he was multiple emotions all at once. But the truly interesting part was the magic radiating of him. It was ancient and immense, rivaling his own.
Perriman’s head was still cocked. He knew the creature was trying to learn something about him. Though there wasn't much to learn. What are you doing? He tried giving the words voice, finding them impossible. Only now did he realized his will was not his own. He was a tool, carrying the will of his prison.
“I'm becoming annoyed by these constant interruptions. If you aren't going to do anything, leave. I’ve enough to deal with!” Nezial turned, presenting his back to the silent figure. Returning his attention to the mirror, he found the strands of magic he'd altered in an attempt to make it work.
Perrimen took a single step, appearing between Nezial and the mirror. He stared into the creature’s deep, blue eyes, a rarity for his kind.
Caught off-guard by the masked man's speed, Nezial took a step back. “So it's death you seek. Very well, I shall indulge you and then return to my work.” Knowing his magic wouldn't work properly, Nezial funneled it into himself, turning his body into a reservoir. Building up as much as he dared, he forced the energy to manifest, altering his natural abilities. He could feel the power wrap around him. He felt stronger, faster, more alert. But something wasn’t right— it continued to build around him, growing to dangerous levels. He wasn't sure how much more he could take. He was full. And yet it kept building. Unable to stop, Nezial let the arcane energies explode from him. He wasn’t right. Not since the dreuslayer lashed out at him.
Perrimen could smell the power. Not even the masters of his time possessed so much. Unable to move, unable the cast his own defenses, Perrimen stood helpless to the mask's desires. He closed his eyes, anticipating the pain that was sure to follow.
The blast wave filled the room, soaking into the stone. It erupted like a bomb in the antechamber, halted only by the darkstone.
Perrimen felt the energy wash over him. He was surrounded in the mystical waves, swimming among their number. It was then he noticed the thin, shimmering globe of his own making. It protected him from the misfired spells, rapidly being pulled into the structure. His head cocked a bit further, mocking the mage in his silence. He stared into the creature's soul, reading the magics inside him. He was different than most. Something dark and powerful graced him. But he was also broken. A piece of him was missing. Without he, he’d never have full control over his magics again.
Nezial's amusement turned to worry. The room was rapidly draining him and his limits were nearly reached. He wasn't sure how much longer he could remain. One thing was certain, it made dealing with the intrusions much harder than he preferred. “I suppose I'm just going to have to do this the hard way.” Drawing his sabre, Nezial took an offensive stance, preparing to cut the trespasser down.
Perrimen watched the dreualfar raise his sword. He wanted to grab a weapon of his own, but the mask wouldn't allow it. Sighing his defeat, he gave in. The mask hadn’t let him come to harm yet. Perhaps it was best to trust it. Relaxing, he gave full control to his master.
Nezial swung, using his full speed to cut the foe down. To his surprise, the strike missed entirely. Though he knew his aim. And it was dead on. There was no way he missed, yet the figure didn't appear to move. Baffled, he swung again to the same effect.
Perrimen watched the dreualfar attack. He moved so slow, like a sloth reaching for him. The slightest lean made the attacks easy to avoid. It was then, Perrimen noticed the magics around him. He was altering time and hadn’t realized it.
Nezial stood perplexed. He couldn't touch the man. Not with steel, not with magic. He had but one final option. Sighing heavily, Nezial sheathed his sabre and drew the curved dagger. If his weapon couldn't do the trick, maybe Izaryle's could.
Seeing the wicked blade, Perrimen tensed from the shrieking voices in his head. They screamed in unison, driven by fear. Protect the portal! Regaining his composure, Perrimen g
lanced at the mirror, knowing it was the source of their concern. There was something ancient and dangerous about it. Something he was connected to, but unable to explain.
Nezial lunged forward, stabbing the imbued weapon at the trespasser.
There was so much power emanating from the blade, too much for one being to possess. Knowing he had to do something, Perrimen felt his body react on instinct. Taking a step forward, he intercepted the dreualfar and laid his hands on each side of his head.
Nezial didn't have time to respond. The figure moved so quickly.
A swirling vortex opened around them, and the small room disappeared, leaving the magical scones and ancient mirror behind.
Bits of dust lingered in the air, displayed only by flickering torch light. Shadows danced around the protruding edges of the rough, cavern walls, mimicking the actions of their witnesses. The two dreuslayers worked tirelessly, making their preparations.
Malakai grunted, heaving a large stone atop the others. He wiggled it, making sure it wedged itself into place. “You sure this is gonna work?” He glanced at his companion, who was dusting some dirt off his vest.
“It’ll work. We just have to get out of here before all hell breaks loose.” Ravion gave his vest one last pat, knocking the last bit free. His ears twitched, picking up the subtle echoes of the underground complex. Spinning around, he drew his longsword and took a defensive stance. “Hurry up, we’ve got company.” Fears becoming a reality, Ravion leapt into the air and brought the ancient weapon down into the rapidly deteriorating darkness. A dark ichor ran the length of his blade, revealing the distorted face of the black-skinned alfar. Ravion pointed his toes toward the bedrock, letting his ankles absorb the shock of his landing. Feeling the stone beneath him, he spun on the ball of his foot and side-stepped, using the dead dreualfar as cover.
Malakai hurriedly tossed the final stones onto the pile, abandoning his perfectly settled stack. He reached for his dagger, drawing if from his belt. Pressing the sharpened edge against the piled stone, he scratched the dried paste off the side. A glowing sigil shined through the chipped cover, revealing the runed etching. As quickly and carefully as possible, he scratched another, watching the glowing runes disappear once they were fully revealed. Within minutes, the pile appeared as nothing more than mundane stone, piled with intent. The sounds of battle echoed off the walls, growing louder and closer. Stuffing his dagger away, he stole a glance to his companion.
Ravion ducked a narrow strike, deflecting another. Fighting like a master of precision, each strike was perfectly aimed and in preparation for his next.
“You need some help?” Malakai taunted more than asked.
“Only if you can find time in your busy schedule. I’d hate to put you out.” Ravion panted through labored breaths. Placing his strike, he wrapped the tip of his sword up under the defenses of the attacking dreualfar. The sharpened steel punctured its flesh with ease. He placed his free hand on the pommel and thrust as hard as he could. The length of the blade disappeared in the creature's side and erupted out the other. As intended, it pierced another of the attacking beasts. Sword buried to the hilt, Ravion drew his dagger and deflected another scimitar.
Malakai pulled his rapier and charged into the fray. Hacking and parrying blow after blow, he cut into the dreualfar, clearing a path for his friend. A sharp pain erupted in his side. Wincing, he spun his wrist, severing the arm that had stabbed him. He reached down and pulled the crude weapon from his ribs. Inspecting the blade, he made sure there was no poison on the rusted iron. Glad it appeared dry, save for his blood, he discarded the weapon into the ranks of the swarming dreualfar. Anger in his eyes, Malakai bit his lower lip and pressed on. He squeezed the handle of his rapier and punched, the metal handguard connecting solid. The straight blade followed through, cutting into another. Malakai shouted over the cling of swords, twisting around to get the most damage from the attack. “If we’re gonna’ do this, now’s the time.”
Ravion twisted his embedded sword, tearing the wound further and releasing the suction on the iron. With a tug, he brought it out the side, ripping the impaled dreualfar in half. Spinning around, he snatched one of the fist sized stones off the shelved wall. “Sunstone!” He shouted, throwing the rock into the crowd.
The closest dreualfar scattered, shielding themselves from the renowned lethal blast.
Using the distraction, Ravion fell back, taking position beside Malakai.
The dreualfar pressed forward, hesitant by the lack of explosion.
“Do we have an escape plan?” Malakai gripped his rapier tight, feeling his knuckles pop.
Ravion stole a glance at the pile of runed stones. “We’ve got two options, neither are good. Are they all set?”
“They are. But we’re too close to the blast. There's no way we'll survive it.”
“We’re dead either way. We either take the city with us, or we die in vain.” Ravion blocked another barrage, narrowly dodging an arrow. “And now they’ve got archers.” An all too familiar thud sounded beside him. He glanced over, confirming his fears.
Malakai looked down at the thick shaft protruding from his chest. Another arrow plunged into him. He staggered back, weakened by the blow. Malakai glared at the swarm of dreualfar, letting his willpower fuel him. “Get out of here. It's too late for me. Run!” He demanded, pulling his last sunstone from his waistline. Launching it into the sea of monsters, Malakai threw his arm over his face to shield his eyes.
The eruption illuminated the darkened corridors, revealing every nook and cranny of the dusty chamber.
Ravion charged into the blinding light, feeling his flesh burn with its potency. The dreualfar on all sides charred, turning to ash. He could see the tunnel entrance ahead. If he was lucky, perhaps he could get Malakai through the ranks before they recovered. Slowing, Ravion spun around and found his friend. The distance was much greater than he'd realized. There was no way to get to him and come back before they'd be upon them again.
Malakai watched him turn. He was calculating. But it was too late. There was no time. Nodding his approval, Malakai pulling the ceramic vial from his pouch. Shouting over the mass of dreualfar, he saluted his successor. “Fight well, my brother. May your blade be ever sharp and the sun forever upon your back!” Without hesitation, he crushed the vial against his chest.
Ravion stared at the broken trigger. What had he done? The was no chance he could survive so close to the blast. The pile of stone began to glow, revealing the hidden runes marked upon them. Out of time, Ravion dove head first into the small hole, feeling weightless for several lingering moments. The roar of collapse echoed all around, shaking the cavern walls in his descent. He felt his feet hit, sinking into the pliable, yet hard substance. Liquid rushed into his mouth, submerging him completely.
The moonlight beamed through the trees, illuminating the band of dreualfar at the field's edge.
Lythus peeked through the shadows, watching them. He'd followed for nearly an hour, silently picking them off one by one. What stood before him was a manageable group, led by a single dreuki. Quietly sliding his sword from its scabbard, he leapt from the darkness and brought the thin blade across in an arch. It cut neatly into the creature's spine, killing it instantly.
The dreuki staggered and collapsed under its own weight. The thick, hair covered legs quivered and spasmed uncontrollably until the nerves finally died.
Refusing to leave it to chance, Lythus brought the blade around, cutting deep into the creature’s throat, serenading his sword in the black ooze. The head rolled to the ground, coming to a stop a few feet away. A shocked expression remained on the twisted face. Lythus pushed his gloved fingers through the stringy, white hair and plucked the head from the ground. Raising it overhead, he displayed his victory to the squad of dreualfar, allowing them to look upon their dead captain. “You see this? You work for me now. You do what I say, when I say it, or your heads will be next. Are we clear?”
The dreualfar hissed their respon
se, clearly not pleased by their position. But it was better than death.
“Good! Now that we have an understanding, you’re going to do something for me. And mark my words, if you fail me, you’ll spend the rest of miserably short lives looking over your shoulder, awaiting the day I slide a dagger into your ear.” He tossed the severed head on the ground, letting it roll to the feet of his recruits. “The back way into Marbayne is unguarded. You’re going to accompany me into the heart of the city. Once there, I’ll need you to distract the border wardens so I can take care of a few matters.”
The sun beat down, making heat waves over the churned sand. The golden kernels were clumped together from gallons of blood that had been spilled over the years.
Krenin panted heavily, standing over the bodies of alfar. Their fragile forms were hacked in several places and leaking what was left of their fluids into the arena floor. Blood dripped from the dual axes in the half-orc's hands, the metal reforged from his great sword. His heart pounded, the beat nearly deafening to the roar of the crowd cheering his praise. A sense of pride washed over him. The acknowledgment of their presence, churning his gut.
The thick chains sprung to life, clinking out with each link that passed the massive sprockets to raise the portcullis