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

by Michael S. Gormley

  Kyrn lost all perspective of time, safe from the biting winds outside Iafi’s secret tunnels. He could hear the howls above, rushing across the dunes and pelting the sands against the wooden door so loudly it sounded as if a torrential downpour washed across the desert. The barren wastes needed the water, but, in times such as these, none would be so lucky.

  “Of all we’ve been through,” Kyrn started, “the Dark Ones, the monsters, even seeing the elves. None compares to the Wastes, the sand and the heat. It’s all so close to Grimmrich, and the cold we’ve lived in for so long.”

  Aldir nodded as if he understood. He’d seen much more of the world than Kyrn had. “It’s close to home,” he said. “The weather, the snow. It’s what raised you. The world of the elves, the dark stories that kept you up at night. Those were merely bedside tales. This, the world you live in, it has formed who you are.”

  He rose from his chair and faced the fire. The glow brightening his charcoal-like skin, cracked and scarred. “Now, though, they’re real. All of them. No longer tales for you to fear, but a reality that we must fight.”

  Kyrn bowed his head in thought. Aldir was right, and he admired him too much to argue the point. Still, he couldn’t feel it, what he’d gotten himself into. “It still feels like a dream. A vision standing right before me, hidden in a haze or a mist, just out of reach. Everything I’ve done, I seem always one step behind.”

  “This dark power we face has been lost, even to most bards and lore-masters. Only few know of the Dark Ones, little as they do, and even fewer believe.” When he met Kyrn’s eyes, he could see the disbelief in them. He could see that the young half-elf wondered how people could deny the existence of such beasts and villains. After all, they’d both seen them first-hand. “You feel a step behind,” Aldir continued. “But you are, in fact, three steps ahead.” He knelt before Kyrn and rested his hand upon his shoulder. “Those that refuse to believe, or don’t yet know, are a step behind.”

  “Then we must let them know. We can’t fight a power that we know nothing of.”

  “That is exactly what we are doing. You feel as if you’re always on the run because we don’t yet know what we’re up against. We know only a name; only the fear that the Darkness puts into us.”

  Aldir stood and ran his hand across the hand of the king’s glaive that Kyrn had propped up against the chair he sat upon. “You’ve learned much in your short journey, Master Kyrn.”

  “Only of myself,” Kyrn argued, feeling defeated.

  “You must know yourself, before you can understand your enemy.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Patience

  Alathain guided Lady Abellia through the dark halls of a sandstone temple. She felt his hand on the small of her back, and, though she didn’t want to admit it, knowing it rested there comforted her. Only slightly. Still, it had. She’d been blindfolded when their ship landed ashore. She remembered only the rocking of a carriage, some sort of wagon, and the unsteady roll of its wheels as she bounced in the cart.

  When, finally, it stopped, Alathain pulled her gently from the cart. Abellia felt as if the scarred man truly believed her to be a Lady. Maybe even more so than her people in Stalholm. He’d untied the blindfold and she’d squinted as the sun set behind the majestic temple. She’d never seen something as beautiful before. And, though she’d not wanted Alathain to see, she’d smiled.

  The base of the temple was built up from sandstone bricks, a mix of oranges, browns, and reds, held together by a tan mortar. It wasn’t hard to see that the colors had faded from generations of harsh sunlight. Atop the base, the temple stood surrounded by finely-ornamented pillars. The doorway was tall and arched, set deep behind the two center-most pillars.

  Abellia looked above the doorway, seeing three balconies set atop one another, layering high above the door. Though the sharp designs sculpted into the complex were beautiful, the young lady could not make out any specific reasoning to them. It seemed a constant problem over her past few days.

  Now, as Alathain led her through its interior, she felt as if they were lost within some other world. There were no wood furnishings, no metal supports like she’d come to recognize within Stalholm and, mainly, Grimmrich. All that sat before her eyes was crafted from the brown and red stone, swirled together like a foreign marble.

  Alathain leaned into her, his shoulder pressed against hers. “Answer what you’re asked,” he whispered. “And only when you are. Make this easier for yourself.”

  She looked at him. Her eyes were tight in a defiant glare, but it was useless. Alathain kept his eyes forward. She studied his face while he wasn’t looking; the scar across his lip, his thin, black eyebrows, furrowed with intent.

  Before them, a door opened, seemingly by itself.

  Abellia stepped cautiously into the room, as Alathain moved to the side, following after her. He was slightly stunned by the similarity of the room to the spire in the Black Rock Mountains. A spiral of a rug lay in the center of the room, woven from blacks and blues. Surely Lord Daen’s bringing, Alathain noted.

  The Dark Lord’s throne was placed before an open window, looking over the setting sun over the West Lands. He’d also brought the pedestal, seated next to the throne. To Alathain’s dismay, the snickering demon perched by his master’s side.

  “They arrive at last,” Grizlok snickered through his fetid breath.

  Lord Daen turned in his seat and faced his newly-arrived guests.

  Abellia’s hair jumped over her shoulders with how briskly the scarred man had walked passed her and knelt upon the rug. “My Lord,” he said clearly.

  Lord Daen motioned for him to stand, and he did. The Dark Lord leaned into an elbow on his chair’s rest, lowering his chin into his hand. He looked at Abellia from head to toe.

  Abellia walked slowly to Alathain’s side. Together, they stood in the center of the mat before Lord Daen.

  Lord Daen breathed a heavy sigh. “I expected more from you,” he said.

  Abellia looked at Alathain. He didn’t return her stare, so she forced herself back to the man cloaked in black before her. Her eyes could not stop flickering to the strange creature at his side. She felt as if any second it would lunge from its perch.

  Lord Daen rose. “Ah, well,” he gasped. “It seems the race of men have fallen greatly during our slumber.” He eyed the ceiling. “That’s a good way to think of my predicament, yes?”

  The man in black was so close to Abellia she could smell his rotting breath. “I… I’m…” she stuttered. “I don’t understand.” She dropped her stare low when she caught the corner of his red eyes flicker at her.

  “Of course not,” he laughed. “Your father has told you little.”

  “What do you know of my father?” Abellia spat defensively. Gasping, she covered her mouth.

  Lord Daen stopped his pacing and smirked at her. “As much as I’ll ever need,” he explained. “Your father does not concern me, Lady Abellia.” He shook his thin finger in her face. “Your brother, though. What was his name?” he asked, looking at Alathain. Though, he began again before the thief could answer. “Ah! Kyrn. Yes, that’s right.”

  Abellia kept her lips tight, eyes squinted. She felt her heart sink to her stomach, and her knees shuddered beneath her. It’s what he wants, she repeated in her head.

  The Dark Lord gently grabbed Abellia’s forearm. Even through the dirtied dress that she’d worn from Stalholm, she could feel the man’s thin, skeletal fingers against her skin. She closed her eyes and tightened her shaking knees, feeling his hand slowly brush higher up her arm.

  “You may call me Lord Daen,” he whispered, smiling as he watched her nose wrinkle. “If you ever speak to me.” He let his hand fall from her shoulder, raising it slightly, only his fingertips brushing against her chest. He could hear her breaths escalate, smell the fear from her clenched lips. He closed his eyes and inhaled her dread. Slowly, he stopped his hand where the neck of her dress met her pale skin. Lord Daen compared the suit
he wore upon his true form against hers. He barely noticed a difference. Though, hers was young and beautiful.

  She jumped when he snatched the chain of her necklace, revealing the circular amulet that was tucked within.

  “It’s quite beautiful,” the Dark Lord whispered. He dropped the amulet to her chest and turned back to his throne.

  Abellia dropped her shoulders and exhaled. She hadn’t realized she’d started holding her breath. She quickly grasped her amulet. Before she could hide it back within her dress, it glowed brighter than it had ever before, and she slipped it through the neck of her dress and pulled her cloak tight.

  “Patience, my dear,” Lord Daen laughed. He watched her from his throne. “Your brother will be here before you know.”

  ***

  Alathain opened the door to Abellia’s chambers without knocking. He watched her stand quickly from her bedside, drying her eyes.

  She cleared her throat and stared at him directly. “Does Lord Daen wish to see me again?” she asked. Her voice crackled.

  Alathain was impressed with how well she’d kept herself together. Little did he know that she’d been falling apart on the inside. There was a grief attached to her heart that tugged and pulled in every direction. She hoped and prayed for Elrich’s safety, Kyrn’s too. Kyrn, however, had left Grimmrich in good hands. Elrich was lost in a city he had no business being a part of.

  “No,” Alathain answered. “I only came to check on you.”

  “To see if I’d found a way out,” Abellia corrected.

  He nodded with a grin. “You’re a clever girl, Lady Abellia.”

  She began to pace, slightly at first. But she couldn’t shake those green eyes from her mind. “What is it?” she asked. “Lord Daen’s… pet.”

  “Nothing to worry over,” Alathain muttered. He turned back holding the door. Though, he didn’t leave the room. Not right away. Alathain lingered for a moment, as if he had more to say.

  Before he had the chance to leave, Abellia asked, “Where’d you get your scars?”

  Alathain couldn’t help but laugh with surprise. The true daughter of a king, he thought to himself. If she’d been hiding her fear rather well, her curiosities still flooded through. “Don’t be too inquisitive, my Lady.” He turned, pulling the door slowly shut behind him, but, again, he paused. No one had known. At least, no one still alive. And, while his mind faltered on the subject of life, he’d not known how many more days he’d have before him, working for Lord Daen. Deceiving the Black Order from the inside, he chuckled to himself. “On second thought,” he said, stepping halfway back into the room. “Why can’t we have our own little secret.”

  Abellia sat down on the edge of her bed. Her eyes were wide, and she had an uncertain feeling whether she still wanted to know the answer.

  “I was a boy,” he started. “I grew up in a town much like Stalholm.”

  “I didn’t have much time to see its beauty,” she sneered.

  Alathain waved her away. “I couldn’t have been much older than four or five. I was small, and I remember following my father through the streets. He taught me to steal, to eat. To live. We slept on rooftops, lived in ditches, sewers. Wherever we’d get our heads out of the rain and snows.” He scratched his eyebrow in thought. “It’s strange, now. I was an orphan boy, like he was as a child. He wasn’t truly my father. I’m not really sure why I still call him so today.”

  “It’s a bond,” Abellia said softly. She pictured her own father trotting back through the gates of Grimmrich, his silver-lined hair bouncing as his horse pranced through.

  Alathain turned back to the door. “He did this to me when I was a boy,” he jeered. He looked briefly at Lady Abellia before leaving the room. “Just before I saw his head roll at your father’s feet.”

  With a sinister smile, Alathain closed the door.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The Edge of the Grey Sea

  Kyrn wiped his eyes while his companions loaded the packs slung over the donkeys’ backs. He’d hardly slept. In fact, seeing Aldir had swept his weariness away. Aldir had, first, declined to speak for very long, insisting that Kyrn needed rest after such a long and tiresome journey. Though, both of them found, when they started talking it’d been almost impossible to stop.

  Aldir told of how he’d narrowly escaped the foul draelor that ambushed them in the mountain pass. He’d made his way briskly back to Grimmrich, quick as his wounded body would carry him, like a deer slowed by an arrow in its hind leg. There, he awaited day after day, with elder Northal, for Magmi’s words. Skoval had eventually come around and, hearing from the old wizard, he and Iafi had set out for the Sand Wastes.

  Aldir hurriedly told his tale, anxious to hear all that Kyrn had to tell. And they’d not retired until Iafi woke the next morning finding them awake. And it was because of this that Magmi the Great was more foul-tempered than anything else.

  “The sun is nearly full-high,” he shouted, nearly foaming at the mouth as he latched the pack dangled over his donkey’s backside. “Which part of ‘we ride before sun-up’ was not understood, Master dwarf?” he asked.

  Iafi stood, watching the party sluggishly ready themselves. He and the old wizard had risen early, beginning their morning’s work. “It’s a short ride to Havenport,” Iafi grumbled. “Ye’ll be fine by my account.”

  Kyrn alternated his stare between the wizard and Iafi, grumbling to one another. When there was a moment for him, he asked the dwarf, “You’re not coming with us, then?”

  Iafi slowly shook his head. “Afraid not, young’n,” he said. “Grimmrich still needs takin’ care of, mind ye.”

  He could feel the sorrowful look on his face, and Kyrn tried masking it. Guilt was not a burden they needed to carry, not atop what they’d already done for him. He turned his attention to Aldir, who lowered his head, already knowing the question. “And you?” he asked.

  Aldir finished preparing the donkey set for Kyrn and patted its backside with a sigh. “I’ve been set too far back as it is,” Aldir said. “There’s still much more to be done in Einroth.”

  Kyrn nodded. “It’s not fair to any of you,” he whispered. An uncomfortable silence hung over the party, and Kyrn’s heavy breaths lingered above the sands. “I can’t, with good heart, ask any of you to follow me further,” he continued. “The Darkness seems to follow me, hunt me. If you stay with me, you’ll be in great perils long as you live.” He looked at his companions. Brailen eyed him with a sense of serenity, his golden braids as if they were a garden of trumpet flowers. Magmi the Great rested his elbow upon his donkey, his fingers waltzing through his tangled beard. Syonne sat cross-legged on Kyrn’s donkey’s back, and she rested her chin in her open palms, watching Kyrn, as if they’d sat around a fire in the cold winds of Grimmrich, sharing stories. “All of you.”

  Again, the silence was distorted only by the light brushing of sand in the breeze.

  Brailen smacked his donkey, begging it to trot through the Wastes. “I admire your concern, Master Kyrn,” he said. He gripped the half-elf’s shoulder when he passed. “However, fear triumphs only when we stand frozen.” He walked slowly beside his donkey, towards the sweltering dunes. “You won’t get rid of us that easily.”

  Magmi laughed under his breath and followed the golden-haired elf.

  Seeing Syonne, he couldn’t help smiling. Family wasn’t bound by blood, and, truthfully, he’d never known the blood that streamed through his own veins. He was alive because of those surrounding him now. And they, too, because of him.

  The elleinor flicked her four small wings and spiraled from the donkey’s back, dashing past the half-elf to catch up with the others.

  Aldir rested his elbow on the dwarf’s shoulder, ignoring Iafi’s miffed grunt. “May our paths cross again.” He smiled at Kyrn. “Sooner than later. Know that yer king yearns for your return, as do we all.”

  “And the rest?” Kyrn asked. “Abellia and Elrich. Have you heard from them?”

  Aldi
r shook his head. “I’m sure your father has,” he said, noticing the color drain from Kyrn’s face. “Not to worry, we’ll all be together soon.” He shooed Kyrn. “Now, get. Before we talk the rest of the day away.”

  Kyrn nodded. “Magmi would never forgive us,” he said quietly. And, with one last lamented sigh, he chased after his companions.

  ***

  “Havenport,” Kyrn mumbled to himself. Iafi had informed them that they’d arrive before sundown, that the journey wouldn’t be long. To Kyrn, the journey felt more exhaustive than the few days’ travel down the river. The heat increased with every step, his skin feeling as if it were broiling. He walked side-by-side with the old wizard, following Brailen. Syonne flew next to the elf, as they reminisced excitedly over Castreeth.

  Kyrn looked at Magmi. The wizard licked his chapped lips and smacked them together. The donkeys were necessary for the water alone they’d brought, but, somehow, it hadn’t helped. His mouth was dry and sticky. “Someday,” he began. Kyrn swallowed hard to help ease the words from his mouth. “All these places I’ve been. I’ll visit again. With nothing in my wake. Nothing chasing me. I want to see these places,” he said. “Actually see them.”

  Skoval shrilled overhead.

  Magmi let out a snort he felt was a laugh. But he was no longer sure. The old wizard raised his flask high, the sun pounded upon his face as he drank. Too old, he thought to himself, for any of this. But he’d not have it any other way. The Black Order were, at one point, his allies, fallen to wicked ways. In some strange, unorthodox part of his mind, he was glad to still be standing. For this very moment. A large part of him felt responsible, in a way. He’d not been able to save them from the Darkness of their studies. Magics, healing, lore of the world. All of it had a side which wanted to be forgotten. Not in the way things fade and wither from the minds of men over countless years, generations losing pieces of the stories as they continue. No. There was a darkness in every single thing in this world, and the fallen elders found it in their studies; however, they’d not let it be forgotten. They reached out with their wilted fingers and snatched it from the void. The elder Wylah hadn’t stopped them. But Magmi the Great shall.