"You will get to see much in your lifetime, Aerinas,” Aeligon said. “Don't doubt it."
Aerinas hung his head. “What if I don't make it through this trip alive?"
"I don't consider your death likely from this quest,” Aeligon surmised, keenly aware of Aerinas’ questioning eyes upon him.
"But what if it is?” the elf pressed.
Aerinas’ eyes were drawn to return Aeligon's piercing blue gaze. The wizard smiled and said, “Then you shall have to visit Vaaluna as a specter, and your journey to the Afterlife will have to wait."
Aerinas smiled and shook his head. “I just hope that if I do meet my end on this journey, my father won't be there to witness it. I want him to go back to Mynandrias."
Aeligon sighed, but remained silent until he was finished scanning the woodland horizon.
After breakfast, the wizard moved them along a northern path through the sparse trees. With their footsteps making only slight squishing sounds in the soft earth and the fog concealing their approach, the elves, the giant, and the wizard moved quickly toward Drameda.
Menishka'dun woke with the world spinning around him. Human habitats were unfamiliar to him; a spinning one was worse. His head ached, and he could tell by his weakness and fatigue that he had lost a lot of blood.
After several moments, he began to adjust to his surroundings; first his vision, then his sense of sound and smell came to him. He was in some sort of containment structure, with cold brick walls on all sides and a large metal door set into one. A single barred window let light in, but he was too short to reach it. Even if he could jump at the moment, it would've been futile. All he could do was wait...and think of his home.
How he wished he were back there. He was scared, more for them than himself. Menishka'dun knew his failure would mean Master avenging himself on those the Lyymhorn loved most. It was almost too much for his mind to comprehend. The human world was unfamiliar, their technology foreign and complicated to him. There was no escaping it. He had heard horror stories, rumors of other Lyymhorns being captured and tortured at the hands of humans. None were ever seen or heard from again. More horrific tales told of Lyymhorns being sucked dry of their magic.
Menishka'dun drew his knees into his chest and pulled his arms in close, trying to stay warm in the corner of the cold room. He was even more frightened when he heard the footsteps echoing down the hall.
"Hurry,” Aeligon shouted to them when they emerged from the woodland area; they were on Drameda's doorstep.
They seemed to be between parallel worlds. There they were—the ocean on the horizon, Drameda set in the foreground upon a piece of rotted land, and the lush meadows and forests behind them.
Lynais stepped forward and ran his right toe along the ground. “Like a line drawn in the sand between the worlds of dark and light."
"Spoken like a true elf,” Farrin laughed. “What did you mean, exactly?"
"Just noting the distinct differences in the lands, as if Sheevos herself drew battle lines in the ground to segment this cursed town apart.” Lynais, always the obscure one of the group, and entrenched in silence since Arn's death upon Gudred's walls, drew upon his education in Awrnaut's School of Philosophy in the land across the Arthean Ocean. His travels had brought him to Drameda on several occasions.
Farrin raised his eyebrows in confusion, but simply shrugged it off and started across the broken landscape beyond Drameda's border.
"We need to tread carefully,” Aeligon piped up suddenly. “We will not be welcomed with open arms there. I think it best for me to lead the group. Farrin, it would be wise of you to take up the rear. They may think we're coming to attack them if they see a giant leading a party and wielding a humansized axe."
"Whateva',” was all the big man replied.
The four men huddled around a round of beers at a small circular table in the Dew Drop Tavern near the center of the seaport town. They were nervous and angry, but satisfied nonetheless at capturing the wayward creature.
"What the hell was that thing anyway?” one of them spat.
"Dunno,” the second answered. “But we neva’ ask questions concernin His ‘onor's orders. We see someone who don't belong, we imprison ‘em. That's the way of it."
All of them took giant gulps of their beers.
"I just wonder why the mayor's in such a snit lately?” the third mused. He finished off his beer and waved the young waitress down for another round, but not before setting her on his lap and fondling her womanhood. They all laughed.
"Mayor be makin’ his rules the way he's seein’ fit,” said the last, the burliest of the four. “I'm sure he's takin’ his orders from a higher-up too. Ever since the Demoron set her rudder ta this town, things been real tight ‘round here."
"Somethin's stirrin',” the first ventured, taking his turn traumatizing the flustered waitress.
"War be the thing stirrin', ya’ dolt,” barked the last, beer and spit dripping from his foul mouth. “And we best be involved in it if the mayor knows what's good fer his health."
He let out a solid laugh, joined in by the other three; they held their mugs high and clanked them together.
Outside, the rain drove harder and the shadows grew darker, the street lamps having been snuffed out by the storm.
A lone figure crept to the window of the most popular tavern in town to watch the four drunken men celebrate after capturing the creature—a situation not surprising in the rancid town. The humanoid was attuned to every movement around him. The wind and freezing rain were of no bother to his bare skin while he clung to the side of the building in the darkness of the concealing shadows. He was naked, of course; he always was when he was out hunting. A smile crossed the creature's face while he watched the four humans toasting to their cleverness, their wit. How proud they were to have caught the Lyymhorn after it passed through the Planar barriers to their world.
The creature knew of the Lyymhorns, knew of most every creature inhabiting all of the worlds in the Elderon's dominion, and knew of their travels between the barriers. No one would make a mistake like opening a door so high above a human town. It could only mean one thing: the Lyymhorn had miscalculated. But why? Why would even such a primitive being be stupid enough to risk a mistake in using its magic to open a portal?
He had felt the disturbance, the shift in the Planes’ boundaries, springing him into action to find out what had happened. His whole purpose in life was his duty to the Elderon. A servant of the governance that oversaw the beautiful intricacy of the Planes, his existence had become his label—Servant.
Too many phenomena were happening in the Plane of Vaaluna of late, and now this: a Lyymhorn far off target and far away from home, caught by these human savages who thought themselves superior to all other beings. The creature's misfortune, however, was not Servant's concern.
Servant clung to the wall with his hands and feet, adhering to the brick and mortar by way of mutation. His limbs had morphed into appendages providing the suction he needed to accomplish the task. People passed by underneath him, a common sight, totally unaware of his presence in the shadows. His grotesque skin was the mutation, translucent and pliable by design. By merely willing it, he was able to contort any part of his body into whatever shape he wished.
But the mutation went even deeper.
His thoughts were interrupted by a couple of humans running from
building to building trying to stay out of the rain. They giggled and laughed as they ran, stumbling into each other and falling into puddles on the street, obviously drunk. They neared the Dew Drop, pausing at the corner of the building facing the alleyway and right beneath the dripping form of Servant.
The vulnerability of his position dawned on him almost too late. There was no overhang there, yet the rain must've ceased pelting the humans for a split second, causing them to look above them. He quickly shifted, and, as the rain began to fall on them again, they simply shrugged and continued to dig into their pockets for something: money
for beer, he assumed.
Once they had fallen inside the tavern's door, Servant crept around silently to his perch above the window, keeping his long white hair from falling down within view of the glass. His mission was one of fact-finding, as always. No one knew of his existence, nor cared. They were humans after all, oblivious to little else but the frothy cap on their mugs.
Finally, after waiting for hours, Servant saw his chance coming. The four inebriated men left their table, paid their tab to the bartender, and made for the door. Dawn was coming fast, and the storm had already spent itself.
Servant started to shapeshift.
The deeper genetics of his physiology began to show themselves. Within his cellular framework, a metallic substance known as nemolite was being released into his bloodstream at an extremely rapid rate, causing his body to burn with fever, a byproduct of the change. The infinitesimal chemical alone wasn't capable of producing much effect, but concentrated in one area of his body, it was another issue.
He released one arm, which began quivering, from the side of the wall; his skin boiled and tore during the mutation. First the forearm lengthened, then the fingers bonded together, after which the entire limb began to flatten and harden.
Therein lay the true power of the nemolite compound.
His arm became a weapon of incredible strength, the nemolite coming together to form a substance sturdier than any alchemist's formula anywhere in Vaaluna or elsewhere. It was a gift from the Elderon during his birth, injected into him for this very intention. He had no need to carry a heavy broadsword or missile weapons, for they wouldn't traverse the Planes anyway. Everything he would ever need was contained within him, a part of him, forever.
He smiled.
The four men stepped cautiously onto the wet and freezing cobblestone, testing it. An attendant was hurrying about the street re-lighting the streetlamp fires. The burly man grabbed the other three by their coat sleeves and pulled them into the alley, hoping to find a less conspicuous road back to the mayor's house.
Servant sprang from his perch.
The sun had just broken the horizon, and the storm was no more.
They crested a small rise in the land of Caran, the sun peeking over the distant horizon. Dawn came, crisp and clean, with the most derelict town full of the foulest men and creatures set before them.
The storm had taken its toll on the seaport. Sails lay shredded and torn about the decks of the docked ships; barrels and crates had been carried away by the violent winds into the surrounding lands and even through some windows. Debris littered the cobblestone streets.
"Drameda,” Aeligon mumbled beneath his breath, shaking his head. He noticed how the people of the town marched on by the debris, hurrying along to their destinations of greed and deception. He wondered if there was a kindred soul in the town at all.
"Everyone hide your weapons,” the wizard ordered, “and stay together. No wandering down the alleyways, even in the daylight."
Farrin noted how he was being stared at, how the people rushing by scowled at them. Windows and doors were slammed shut, and they suddenly felt a chill in the air.
"We knew we would find no welcome here,” Tristandor said, which were the first words he'd uttered since Lunathar and the vision of his lady. “Let us find what we came here to find and be done with it."
Aeligon laid his hand on Tristandor's shoulder. “We needn't be hasty. The mayor of this town is no friend of any other creature, save for human men, but he is easily persuaded by,” he paused to look at a fleeting shadow in a distant alleyway, “other talents."
The Healer hadn't missed the pair of hollow eyes watching them.
"We must be careful, even with Farrin at our sides,” Aeligon said, stepping onto the southern edge of the road leading into the town. “We will see the mayor before we begin searching his town. That will not be warmly welcomed."
"As if anything would be,” Aerinas added.
The group casually walked through Drameda's filthy streets. They stayed to the middle, never underestimating the evil hiding in the many dark alleys frequenting the main cobblestone road. The creatures and thieves knew the streets better than they did, knew of every strategy in breaking apart a group so unwilling to part, and knew every instrument of death available.
The elves tried to act nonchalant by picking through fruit at a roadside stand or by waving at a curious child peering over a windowsill, though never straying from the center of the road. But, as inconspicuous as they tried to be, nothing could prevent the stares or the long faces they received. Shady figures ducked into and back out of the alleys, and hands were exchanging unknown items with snickers drawn on twisted faces.
Aerinas missed nothing. He felt the sword, hidden in the upside-down sheath across his back, pulsate and fight to get out, hungry for battle. In the event of an attack, he would easily toss down his bow in favor of the blade, but he held his bow in front of him for the time being. There was the magic, too, he knew, but he had to force the thought away; the runes on his blade grew hotter on the skin of his back.
Ithyllna watched every movement around her, a byproduct of her Vrunyn Guard training. Both of her hands were securely placed on the hilts of the twin blades resting just behind her lower shoulder blades, protruding up inside their leather sheaths, which formed a criss-cross pattern behind her head. No one could have known that the decorations of her outfit were her blades’ hiding places.
Foran held his bow in front of him, clenched tightly to the front of his tunic and concealed by his cloak. Lynais did the same, since the bow was his weapon of choice, too. They took up the rear flank of the group, strategically placed there to avoid hand-to-hand combat from a frontal assault—the direction from which human men typically attacked.
Farrin had his huge axe inconspicuously tucked within the folds of his fur tunic. Typically, men found it difficult to discern the brute's muscle from metal.
Aeligon and Tristandor walked at the head of the group, the most flamboyantly dressed and seemingly more diplomatic of the seven humanoids. They also radiated an unseen magic, which turned away the vulnerable humans nearest them. Pux, though completely unnoticed by the watching eyes, had a shield spell at the ready, amongst other tricks.
Slowly, they weaved along the slithering street, avoiding people and debris equally, never stopping. Aeligon and Tristandor weren't sure what exactly they were looking for since neither of them had been there for ages, but all doubts were brushed aside when they emerged from the shadowy cobblestone street into a wider courtyard near the town's center.
The docks themselves were northeast of the courtyard, but the town's streets all converged there. It wasn't much to look at during its best times, and the recent storm had ravaged what little of the courtyard was pleasurable. Flower pots lay broken and scattered, trees were snapped off at their bases, countless branches and twigs took up space where there wasn't something else in their way, and even heavy stone benches found themselves relocated into the large stone fountain at the heart of the courtyard.
At the northeast corner, overlooking the courtyard and offering a great vantage of the docks, was the largest home in the vicinity. It didn't take long for the group to determine that to be the mayor's house; they couldn't have imagined a nicer dwelling anywhere else in the stinking hole-of-a-town.
Aeligon and Tristandor steered straight for it—nearly straight. A few flying rocks sent them into defensive positions.
"Duck!” screamed Ithyllna to Aeligon. Her cloak flew off and a blade was drawn in an instant. She pushed Lynais out of the way and thrust it in front of Aeligon, knocking the rock out of the air.
More rocks came flying in from all sides; people opened doors, windows, and crept over rooftops to throw them at the elves.
Farrin merely held his massive hand up to his face to shield his eyes from the rock assault. “What the hell're ya’ doin', ya’ rats?” he yelled, shaking his other fist at them.
Shouts and rocks kept flying with
equal strength at them while the group struggled to make their way through the mangled courtyard toward the huge house. The elves didn't want to enrage the humans further, so they sheathed their swords and swatted the rocks away with fallen branches.
"Well,” Aeligon joked, his foot stinging after being hit by a stone, “we didn't expect that we'd be welcome. At least they didn't disappoint."
Tristandor just chewed on the side of his mouth, furious beyond all recourse. Rocks continued to bounce off the cloak he held before him.
Suddenly, ahead of them, the door of the large house burst open, and out stepped a well-dressed man with a shocking head of buttock-length blond hair.
Aeligon smiled and breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the man, but was quickly angered again when the man did nothing to stop the barrage of stones raining down on them.
The man simply stood there, eyes narrowed, watching intently what they would do. Apparently waiting, he kept one hand behind his back, while the other was down at his side. His outfit was glamorous: a dark blue, doublebreasted ensemble complete with gold buttons running in two rows down the center of the coat, a pair of brilliantly polished black shoes with gold buckles, and a ruffled white shirt underneath with a collar creeping out near his neck.
Judging from the misshapen town and the obvious poverty level of its people, Aeligon and the others realized they had correctly surmised the location of the mayor's house.
And he did not seem pleased to see them.
Servant kept hidden within the confines of the shadows, gray eyes on every member of the group, studying.
The rocky welcome continued uninterrupted.
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Chapter 10—The Book of Fire
The four men gawked at the creature before them, unaware that they were in more danger than it was. The amount of ale they had consumed was directly proportional to their perceived muscle size, and there was the matter of their boss's orders to consider. Even though they were “off duty” at the time, they knew the standing arrangement given them. “Always keep your eyes peeled for otherworldly beings,” he'd told them numerous times (no doubt due to their insatiable lust for drink). “They are visiting our town too frequently of late."
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