A Flutter In The Night (Kyrn's Legacy Book 1)

by Michael S. Gormley

  “I will be seeing my master now,” Syonne said, and Kyrn caught the grave tone.

  “Yes, of course, Elleinor,” both guards said, and they rose, stepping aside in military fashion, letting Kyrn and Syonne pass.

  “What was that?” Kyrn whispered when they were far enough away from the elves.

  “It is not my place to explain such things,” she answered. “In fact, I am not to have much place any longer. If at all.”

  “What does that mean?” Kyrn watched her carefully. She wouldn’t look at him, and, truthfully, he’d not seen her look anywhere but the ground below her, as she flew slowly towards the city.

  “I am but an elleinor,” she said.

  “A podling.”

  “Yes. And all podlings have their master. The elf which sprouted them from the ground like a sapling. My master will not be pleased with my capture by mortals of the outside world.”

  Kyrn lost himself in thought as they approached Castrolyl.

  ***

  The streets of the city were a hardened dirt beneath Kyrn’s fraying boots. There was no stone to be seen since the River Bridge. There were, however, exquisite wooden buildings lining either side of the road. In between each and every structure was a uniform garden, yielding various herbs, vegetables, and plants. There were no elleinor sprouts to be seen inside of Castreeth. They must be kept within the outer forest alone, Kyrn suspected.

  The thin veil of mist upon the ground added to the darkness of the city, and Kyrn saw the purple braziers reflecting their light into the haze. He followed Syonne for quite a while, watching young elves run through the city streets, bows and staves in hand, giggling along with their anxious hearts.

  Kyrn knew precisely how they felt. In each of them Kyrn saw himself, trailed by young Elrich as they raced to the forests outside. They honed their skills to, one day, be as strong as their fathers.

  The older elves tending their gardens, male and female alike, stopped and gawked at Kyrn as he passed by.

  “Have the race of men ever set foot within Castreeth?” he asked, wondering whether they were staring at him or the king’s glaive. “I mean, in the new Castreeth.”

  “Only few and far between,” she whispered, moving him on quicker. “We are close now.”

  Kyrn followed Syonne as she rounded the corner. Before them stood the tallest tree Kyrn had ever seen. It was bright, almost wholly red, and small traces of brown shone through where the bark had chipped away. Higher than even the king’s castle in Grimmrich, built around the base of the trunk, was another wooden building.

  The castle of Castreeth, he thought.

  The double-wide doors creaked slowly open, and an elderly man stepped from the gates. He hobbled slowly towards Syonne and Kyrn, helping himself along with a snake-like cane.

  Kyrn knew instantly that the man was no elf. Whether his old age gave him away, Kyrn was not sure. But he studied the man’s long, grey hair, his pointed eyebrows, and the beard that spiraled down to his knees, underneath his ragged brown robes. “It’s about time you arrived, young master Kyrn,” he said.

  Kyrn looked at Syonne, as she fought to hide her quivering lip. “You knew I was coming?” Kyrn asked, befuddled.

  The elderly man chuckled, and it caused him to fall into a fit of coughing. When he was through with his hacking, he said, “Our great king knows most. Though, we may worry about that later.” His eyes turned sharp as daggers beneath his brows, when he turned to Syonne. “Well, what are you gawking at, Elleinor?” he spat. “Get to your master!”

  Syonne immediately twitched her wings and fluttered towards the open castle door without a word of protest.

  “Syonne.” The old man sighed. “She’s always caused trouble,” he said to Kyrn with a slight wink. He knew this was all too much for the young noble, and, seeing Kyrn’s mouth begin to open with his cluttered mind, he raised his hand. “You’ll learn all you must,” he continued, “and then some. But now is not the time.”

  Now is never the time, Kyrn thought.

  The old man placed his free hand upon Kyrn’s shoulder. “How about a warm bed first,” he said. “Hmm?”

  ***

  Kyrn had been led to a small and cozy chamber within the castle by the old man. He was met by three elleinor who, other than their personality and facial structure, looked so much like Syonne. Though, they lacked her child-like behavior. Kyrn felt out of place around them.

  Still, they undressed him quickly, and he winced as his naked body touched the warm waters of the tub they’d drawn.

  When he’d finished cleaning himself, and the elleinor had untangled his unkempt hair, he couldn’t fight the urge of crawling into the bed within the room. And, as soon as his wet hair touched the pillow, Kyrn remembered no more.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Pit

  The dwarven armorer was lifted off the ground as he blocked the blond dwarf’s great warhammer with his shield.

  The crowds roared.

  In his seat, Raeli sat upright. This was truly what he lived for. “I be the lord of the mountains,” Raeli said, “yet, me battles are fighting diplomacy and usin’ ink instead of me axe.”

  “Your battles are important.” Iafi chuckled again at his lord’s consistent whining.

  “Aye, we’ll be seein’ when our backs be turned,” Raeli remarked skeptically. Perhaps dwarves had it right being so paranoid. The dwarves of the Irnost Mountains were always prepared.

  Before the armorer could return to his feet, the blond dwarf was already bringing his warhammer down upon him. Again, he blocked, but the force of the blow splintered his shield, and the armorer let out a shriek of agonizing pain as he was crushed through to the plate of his chest. He couldn’t face defeat before he’d even had a chance to fight. Instead of reaching for his sword, which had clashed upon the floor where he fell, the armorer kicked the blond dwarf’s feet out from under him. He, too, fell to the ground.

  “That’s dirty fighting.” Iafi winced at the poor display below.

  “Aye,” Raeli agreed, but his grimace revealed he would have done the same.

  By the time the armorer retrieved his sword and bounded to his feet, the blond dwarf was swinging his warhammer at head-level. The armorer felt a rush of wind as he ducked just enough to dodge the potentially fatal blow. With full force, he met the dwarf’s chest with his cracked shield. Combined with the force of the blond dwarf’s swing, he stumbled off his balance, though he parried the armorer’s sword with the handle of his hammer.

  They stood face-to-face, locking eyes.

  “This’ll be quick.” The armorer grinned at the dwarf. He cared not whether the crowd above could see.

  “Aye. For ye,” the blond dwarf replied, as he brought his warhammer from the ground straight into his opponent’s jaw. Again, the armorer flew from his feet and landed upon his back, knocking the wind from his lungs.

  It was not uncommon for fighters to be killed during the festivities. The dwarves of the Irnost Mountains were born fighters. Not only was it a great honor to fight on the Day of the Lord, but an even greater honor to die fighting.

  Raeli loved the excitement growing inside of him. He wished that he were down in the pit again. Mostly likely, no one would stop him, but what were the chances that his opponent would actually give their lord a fair fight? How he missed the thrill! It bothered him, however, that he kept avoiding the fight to glance at Iafi, unable to help but wonder what brought him back within the mountains. “Did ye know when ye came, ye’d be interrupting the festival?” he asked Iafi.

  “Nay,” Iafi said solemnly. “Though, I didn’t have much choice in the timing.”

  Down in the center of the pit, the blond dwarf charged the armorer, as he attempted to raise himself from the ground, yet again. When he saw the dwarf raise his warhammer and let out a mighty shout, he let out a battle cry of his own, and launched his shield at the charging dwarf. It was obvious even to those on the balconies above that the breath was knocked from the chargi
ng dwarf, as he dropped his hammer and skidded on one knee, clasping at his chest.

  “Aye!” Raeli cheered, both arms reaching towards the ceiling. Looking at Iafi, he grinned.

  Iafi returned the smile. Even though he was faking, he knew he’d convinced the lord.

  Taking his opportunity, the armorer summersaulted closer to the blond dwarf and dug his sword through the stunned dwarf’s leg, just above the knee.

  The dwarf let out a cry as the sword revealed itself through the other side of his leg.

  The armorer removed the sword, smooth as butter, and with the hilt, crushed the blond dwarf’s nose. A fountain of ruby-red blood soaked into his beard, and the crowds cheered in an uproar.

  ***

  As the next contestants gathered in the pit, two dwarves stood beside Raeli Nulgal. The first dwarf, most likely in the last decade of his long life, smiled at his lord. His hair was bright white and almost touched his toes.

  The second was younger, barely, his brown beard now speckled with hints of grey. “A mighty fight, me lord,” he said, as the two blocked Raeli’s view of the pit.

  “Indeed, me council.” Raeli didn’t make eye contact, for he was struggling to see down to the pit over their broad shoulders.

  The two dwarves shot each other concerned glances. They would not deny their utmost respect to the Nulgal clan, but Raeli’s priorities worried them.

  “Me Lord, I hate to interrupt,” the younger dwarf interjected.

  “Then don’t!” Raeli spat, cutting off Nibli, as he continued peeking around their shoulders.

  The two councilmen gave Iafi a confused glance, pleading for his assistance. Iafi, however, did nothing but shrug his shoulders and continue to wait for the next fight with his lord.

  “Me Lord,” Atli, the older dwarf, said, slow and stern. “Under normal circumstances, our council could wait until the end of the festivities.” He looked at Raeli sternly beneath his bushy white brow.

  “Yet today?” Raeli asked, although he knew the reasoning. Atli was their elder, and Raeli would give him the respect he so deserved.

  Raeli spat on the floor, not for the last time. As he rose from his throne, he shot Iafi an intense look of frustration, and Iafi rose with his lord.

  Chapter Seventeen

  In Dark Dreams

  In his comfy elven bed, embraced as if by a lover in the night, Kyrn dreamed he sat upon warm sand. He ran his sand-filled nails through the thick, brown beard now on his face. “Where am I?”

  “Or when… are you?” he heard Aldir’s voice echo through his mind.

  In the distance, he heard the chimes of steel clashing steel. His fire was no more than smoldering ash and smoke, swelling worse than the stench of the rotting meat he’d used to fuel the flames.

  He gently rubbed his eyes, rising from the ground. He could see the hoodlum town glowing through the dark morning sky. The sun was just peeking over the horizon. He must not have slept long.

  His eyes adjusted to the morning light. The sandstorm had subsided, after covering most of his belongings in fine grains. Again and again the piercing shrieks of steel cut through the air.

  “Help!” Overlapping voices bounced off the distant houses of the town. He knew the town, somehow. Inside and out, it felt. Though, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever been here. Then came high-pitched screams conflicted with low, guttural howls.

  Kyrn hesitated only long enough to scoop up his glaive, flinging his pack over his shoulder, and he rushed hurriedly to the town.

  If by his life he could convince them he was there to help, he would. The steel on steel became more distinct as he came to the village.

  A young man barreled out of a dimly lit alley, slouched, holding his stomach where it’d been sliced open. His insides seeped through his fingers like ale from a splintered keg. “You!” he shouted, pointing his dull sword in his free hand towards Kyrn. “You brought them here.”

  Kyrn stood still, his face shadowed by his dark hood, staring at the young man stumbling closer to him. “They’re here, now?” Kyrn’s stomach churned with anxiety.

  “You brought the Darkness,” the young man said, as if he’d not heard Kyrn’s question. More likely, he’d not cared. “You brought the Dark Ones.”

  Kyrn couldn’t force himself to believe it, but the state of the town convinced him so. Complete and utter chaos. The small stable at the entrance of town had been set aflame, burning wildly, fueling itself with loose hay scattered on the ground. The horses, destitute of any hope of freedom, neighed painfully as they remained tied to the stable.

  Kyrn walked to the center of town. A group of flailing men, armed with more blunt swords, came into view. A few of them cried out, clutching at their wounds like the young man before.

  A gurgling howl followed as the draelor stalked its prey, crawling on all fours. As it howled, its yellow fangs protruded from its blood-soaked mouth. Its claws dug deep into the sandy streets. Servants of the Dark Ones.

  Sending a brisk slice through the dawn, Kyrn readied his glaive and walked towards the hideous beast, which had already tackled its prey to the ground, sinking its fangs into the man’s still breathing chest. The poor man shrieked in agony, and the draelor buried its face into his fresh wound.

  Kyrn approached, feeling nothing for either man or beast, and he smirked, knowing that this was the draelor’s final feast. “Enjoy this while you can,” he said, his voice coarse from inhaling too much sand. His words startled him.

  The creature whipped its head to look at Kyrn. Giving up on its unfinished prize, the beast leaped powerfully off its hind legs. Its deafening shriek sent shivers through Kyrn’s numb body, like metal scraping against cobblestone.

  He wasn’t afraid. With one swift action, he dropped to a knee, spinning around. The move had worked before, he knew. The etchings on the king’s glaive glowed a deep blue, leaving a trail of light in its wake, and he felt the blade slide effortlessly through the draelor’s torso. The upper half of its body landed first.

  This power had become his addiction. This power would forever be his binding curse.

  Gripping the king’s glaive, Kyrn walked past the group of terrified men as they cowered from him. Saving a life was not as it was in tall-tales—pure and heroic. Saving a life was brutal, violent, and ugly—sinful. He paid no mind. “Where are they?” he growled.

  “They…” one of the men stuttered. “Just follow the howls.”

  “Not the beasts,” Kyrn spat. “I want the Dark Ones.”

  The man didn’t respond, at least not verbally, but pointed to the west. Towards the docks on the Grey Sea.

  Kyrn’s eyes peered through the dawn as bits of sand flickered before his eyes. He swiped the glaive through the air, blackened blood flinging from the blade, and the blue glow ceased.

  Closer to the dimly lit harbor, he could see four figures boarding a black-mast ship. The figures, each and all, turned to meet his eyes, as they peered from their grey scarab helms. At their sides stood more draelor, hungry for their command to lunge at Kyrn. It was never given. With a blood-curdling hiss, the figures boarded the ship and set off upon the treacherous waters of the Grey Sea, quicker than Kyrn’s legs would carry him to the docks.

  He stopped at the edge, looking out over the rippling tides beneath the misty veil. Whatever they had come for, the Dark Ones either had found, or come to realize it wasn’t held within the shanty town. Perhaps they came only to fuel the fire inside of Kyrn. If they’d come to entice Kyrn in his chase, then he would oblige.

  When he turned back, the village was no more.

  He shot awake in the elven kingdom. It’d felt so real, like his mind was trying to warn him. But, of what?

  Chapter Eighteen

  In the Shadows

  Alathain had spent a few days laying low in Stalholm. He’d been called many things in his life: assassin, thief, rogue, vagabond—but patient was never a name given to him. He was surely good at it, patience, though he hated it dearly. Patience festered
in his stomach like a boiling kettle, ready to overflow into a mess of heat from his twin blades.

  Outside the Lazy Breeze Inn, Alathain sat patiently, his wooden mug half-full of ale, and he watched the drunken townsfolk walk through the city. He, himself, had grown up in a seaside town much like Stalholm. He’d slept on rooftops, begged for coin, and bathed in streams. It was that life that taught Alathain to keep himself alive. Now, thieving and killing seemed all the same—business.

  With the setting of the sun, Alathain finished his brew. The wind flicked his dark hair across his clean-shaven face, and he pulled his grey hood over his head. He laid a few coins on the table and became one with the staggering crowd.

  ***

  While he climbed the steps of Baron’s Perch, he couldn’t help but be reminded of home. Stalholm, like much of the realm, was under the rule of a human king, Alathain knew. But these cities were designed and built by the elves of old. It still held their natural beauty. The pillars on the sides of the stairs rose to the ceiling, as if they reached up to the heavens above. Most men granted the privilege of climbing Baron’s Roost were too busy with their heads somewhere else to notice the elven engravings upon the pillars.

  Alathain, seeking darkness, stuck to the shadows cast upon the stone floor by the fluorescent moon above. As it glared down in attempts to disable his cover, he ran his calloused fingers over the engravings.

  Atop the stairs stood a wrought-iron gate, almost reaching high as the pillars. Another piece of elven beauty, Alathain though. The spiral rods curved like serpents of the sea, and, despite their looks, were almost impenetrable. Unknown to most commoners (especially in an uneducated city such as Stalholm) and more than likely to even most nobles, without the key an arcane lock kept out even the most adept lock picks.

  Standing in front of the gate stood two guards, pacing in wait.

  “Ever think it’s orc shite, we stand here all night?” asked the shorter guard, as he passed his partner. They both wore dirty leather caps and commoners’ clothing. “Every damned soul knows better than comin’ up to Baron’s Roost. ’Specially after what happened with the king here and all.”