The Sword of Einiko

by A. R. Wilson

  “Respect being despised?” Kidelar craned his neck in fascination.

  “Only a handful of elves remember a world before Einiko’s reign. Everyone in the land beyond these mountains has lived a tortuous life under a merciless tyrant. He kills both for enforcement of law, and personal entertainment. Each village, each group, is trapped where they are due to a curse imposed on them by Einiko. Their birthright is to be bound to their place of origin. Only the halfling’s death will permit any of them to travel beyond the borders set by Einiko’s will.”

  Jurren folded his arms, scarcely aware he mimicked the elf’s posture. “The people cannot travel?”

  “Only those born outside this land may journey within it.”

  “What manner of curse can enslave people in such a way?”

  “The magic Einiko wields is capable of this and far greater afflictions. He thrives on the hatred he instills in others.”

  “Then I suppose we should get going.”

  The elf nodded and walked down the remainder of the canyon.

  Once they entered the grassy field, Jurren heard a hollow moan accompany a breeze out of the south. A sound as though the land itself grieved a terrible loss.

  “What was that?” Jurren unsheathed his blade.

  “It is the sound of the chaukah.” Azredan dipped his head towards Genevra.

  A chill accompanied the breeze on Jurren’s neck. The tracker in him noticed a lack of birds ruffled by the disturbance. Scanning the area, he realized not a single insect hovered in the cool of the day.

  Strange.

  The moment he opened his mouth to point out his observation, he closed it. Asking questions meant getting more answers from Azredan. Each new detail the elf gave added another ounce of acceptance that Jurren’s past had caught up to him. Though an ocean and two countries separated him from the land of his birth, Jurren could no longer run from what he really was. For over sixty years he had lived as a man, complete with rounded ears. Azredan’s revelation of Jurren’s true race had pierced a knife in his heart. But at the same time, what other reality explained the eternal youth spell on Orison? What other race in the world had the capacity to live forever?

  The grass slowly thinned as it approached Genevra. Sandstone columns ranged from a foot wide at the base and three feet tall, to over twenty feet wide and tapering as they rose over a hundred feet tall. They stacked on top of each other like a dense forest of rock. Piles of sand rested in the depressions between the bases.

  Standing at the edge of that oddity reminded Jurren of the ghostwood trees back in Gaulden Forest. With bases ranging up to forty feet in diameter, and tops as high as 300 feet, the sandstone resembled a long-dead ghostwood forest.

  A wave of vision tickled at Jurren’s shoulders and he braced himself.

  Wind, sand, pain, and a face.

  The wave hit softer this time, giving him the inner knowing that he stood on the right path.

  “This is it.” Kidelar put a hand against his stomach.

  “We wait for the next chaukah.” Azredan took a few steps sideways, pulling his cloak close around his chest. “The moment it ceases, we must be ready.”

  Jurren nodded in agreement, not being in any hurry to enter this place. He busied himself with adjusting his travel pack, fishing a pebble out of his boot, and taking a short walk to relieve himself.

  Within several minutes, intuition gripped his nerves. Then it happened. A breeze picked up, roaring into a howling wind. The ground moaned its ghastly lament. Sand whipped out from Genevra, stinging his face as he turned away from the assault. Tiny grains pelted his cloak, trying to worm into his flesh. The air thinned, making each breath less effective than the last. Looking over, he saw Kidelar doubled over on the ground with Azredan stooped next him.

  The moaning ceased. Sand settled over the thinned grasses.

  Shaking the grit from his cloak and hair, Jurren walked over to Kidelar. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” The scholar gave a scared laugh. “More bark than bite, as the saying goes.”

  “That was only a taste of its power.” Azredan stood, gazing along the sandy border to his left and right. “The chaukah is far more compelling once we enter its realm.”

  Arkose dug both thumbs into the straps of the pack resting against his chest. “What clues do we look for to find this hidden door?”

  “No time for conversation.” Azredan marched forward.

  Jurren put out a hand to help Kidelar to a stand.

  They followed their guide for over an hour. Loose sand dusted every surface, causing each of them to lose their footing multiple times. Twice, Kidelar slipped coming over a rise and slid into one of them. Azredan walked with the sure footing of a mountain goat climbing a familiar hill. He never looked back to ensure they kept up and Jurren assumed the sounds they continually made were enough. Each slide, each scrape, resulted in the inevitable grunt. And with each passing minute creeping them closer to the next chaukah, the elf probably cared more about his destination than his companions.

  Something prodded at the back of Jurren’s mind as they worked through the forest of sandstone. He could almost sense the next turn the elf would take before he took it. This new inner knowing, this seeking for truth imposed upon him by the vision, was revealing to him the path they needed to take. Which was probably why he looked up at Azredan right before the elf spoke.

  “Here!” Azredan beckoned them as he steadied himself between two smaller columns. “This is it.”

  The elf disappeared behind a large stele of sandy rock. When Jurren caught up, he saw Kidelar already stood next to Azredan. Motioning for Arkose to follow, Jurren worked his way around to the opposite side.

  “I don’t see anything of consequence.” Kidelar stooped to examine the surface.

  “That’s because there’s nothing to see.” Jurren felt that inner knowing confirming the elf’s find. “This is the place. I... I can feel it.”

  Azredan squatted and put an elbow on his knee, grinning. “How?”

  Jurren fought to keep his lip from curling. Coming to terms with being an elf was not the same as accepting an elf as a friend. “It’s hard to describe. Since Ellesha Shan Shair gave me that vision, an inner knowing has grown. Something deeper than the gut instinct I used to follow.”

  That same annoying, impish grin continued to spread. “Excellent. So what do we do to gain entry?”

  “We don’t. You do.”

  “Very good. Now why?”

  “Um... gentlemen?” Arkose slipped and regained his balance. “That chaukah will be here any moment.”

  Something in the impish amusement on Azredan’s face told Jurren the elf cared little for the door at the moment.

  “Only someone—” Jurren clenched his jaw, loathing the notion of receiving a lesson in being elven. “Only someone who has been through before is allowed to open it.”

  Azredan stood tall, slapping Jurren’s shoulder. “I cannot wait to take you on a bow hunt. But for now, yes, only one who has entered is capable of opening the door. Stand back.”

  Jurren shuffled several feet up the column base behind him. Arkose moved to balance next to him.

  With hands out wide as though receiving a gift, Azredan leaned into the rock. “Dwarf lords, I return to you.”

  After several moments, Kidelar commented, “Nothing appears to be happening.”

  “It can take time for them to hear.” Azredan remained motionless. “Dwarf lords, I return to you.”

  A soft breeze fluttered against Jurren’s neck.

  Sand sifted beneath Azredan’s hands, exposing rune carvings. The elf repeated his plea. The breeze picked up, accompanied by a deep moan.

  “Azredan?” Jurren hunched forward, ready to pull his cloak over his face.

  The runes began to glow. A crack formed through the middle of the stone slab. Doors started to swing inward. Azredan grabbed Kidelar’s collar as though preparing to dive inside.

  Moaning swelled into a blari
ng wail. Screaming wind burst through Jurren’s ears, igniting the sensation of fire along his throat. The moment Jurren’s eyes registered Azredan shifting towards the doors, he felt Arkose slumping to the ground. Sand raged against his face and blurred everything from sight. Dropping to his knees, Jurren reached out a hand and felt a shaved head. Though needles of sand grated against his knuckles, he managed to grip a fistful of the man’s collar and heave. At the third tug, unseen hands pulled at Jurren’s shoulders. The chaukah grew like water bursting from a dam. Sand, wind, and pain surrounded every inch of his body, both inside and out.

  Suddenly, the intensity crashed into oblivion. A face leaned in too close amid the silent ringing. Pushing the intrusion back, searing heat swam along Jurren’s hands. He doubled over. Trying to cough through the rawness of his throat resulted in chest spasms. Liquid filled his ears, making the coughs sound deeper and louder. Had his eardrums ruptured?

  A set of hands touched his scalp and hip.

  The pain in his skin lessened. Burning in his throat became a mild sting. Something spilled out of his ears, taking away the thick noise of his labored breathing.

  “Arkose?” Jurren rubs his palms together, loosening the sand free.

  “I never want to do that again.” The dim light showed Arkose pushing onto all fours.

  They had entered into some kind of cavern sealed off from the sandstone valley.

  “The power of your Ever One saw fit to help me this time?” Jurren felt the wetness at his ears. Pulling his fingers back, he saw red.

  The corner of Azredan’s mouth turned up. “The Ever One does not perform for us the way the Fates do. He speaks to the heart. To the soul.”

  Jurren sighed and gave a shrug. “Sounds like the Eternal whom Ellesha Shan Shair spoke about.”

  “He has many names.”

  Furrowing his brow, he straightened to a stand. “Your group of secret friends, the Roan Order, is some sect of the Eternal?”

  "Among the elves, yes.”

  “Is that why Logan trusted you?”

  “Logan took a little convincing, but yes. It is the nature of one who serves to trust another servant.”

  “I serve no one.”

  “We each serve something. Whether it be wealth, skill, family, study or comfort. Each is consumed by something. That which consumes us is that which we are a slave to.”

  I still hate you. Jurren grabbed a corner of his cloak to wipe the blood from his ears.

  A voice barked at them from deep in the passage. “You picked a grave time to return to us, Azredan. It was unwise for you to bring outsiders and add to your trespass.”

  The elf turned to face a short man a few dozen yards away. In his hands the newcomer held a torch and a large axe.

  “Dumarse, son of Sijanno. Captain of the Fifth Division.” Azredan held a fist to his chest, head bowed, as he spoke his formal response. “You honor me with your greeting, regardless of the words you speak. Thank you for giving me audience.”

  “You will not thank me when the council is through with you.” He marched forward, red hair bristling until his fitted helmet.

  “I earnestly await and respect their judgment.” Azredan lowered to one knee as he waited for the dwarf to approach.

  “You should not have come, elf.” Dumarse spoke the last work while spitting on the ground.

  CHAPTER 2

  Tascana stood in a dark cave with one hand pressed against a wooden door. She reached to open the latch and froze. The past ten days flooded over her eyes in a torrent of second-guesses.

  The horsk dragon snatching her away in the night. I never should have studied those magic scrolls in secret. Then waking up tied to a chair and locked in that tower for three days. Why did The Master go to all the trouble of kidnapping me only to ignore me? And that agonizing encounter of meeting Jerricoh as he displayed magic beyond her abilities. Why in the world did he force me to wear a white dress?

  Attempting an escape had been the first thing she did when finally alone. Jerricoh found her that night in the catacombs beneath the castle, but didn’t try to stop her. His warning echoed in her ears like a nightmare she couldn’t forget. “These tunnels lead wherever The Master desires them to lead you. If you choose to return to your room, you will find it. Otherwise, you will find... something else." Then he walked away as though her choice was of no consequence.

  For some reason, she called his bluff and kept trying to run. The mole-like people of Tretchin Valley found her wandering and took her in. Though she had merely exchanged one prison for another. They were trapped in their realm within a realm. Freedom from The Master’s grasp meant being hidden away from the rest of the world.

  Tascana couldn’t stay there. She couldn’t! Yet, even now, she questioned why it had been so important to leave.

  Arnya was still under The Master’s control.

  Tretchin Valley had afforded her a new mentor in magic, Arnya, who hinted they weren’t as concealed from The Master’s eye as everyone claimed. If Tascana stayed, somehow she knew Arnya would eventually betray her.

  I have to escape. I have to find a way home.

  Behind Tascana stood her three companions of the past couple weeks: Dellia, Revel, and Chalance. The only other humans in all of Tretchin Valley. Each had their own reason for wanting to leave, but each had the same reason for wanting her to come with them. They needed someone who could protect them. Someone who knew how to perform a spell to hide them from sight until they were beyond The Master’s kingdom.

  But what if the spell isn’t enough?

  More importantly, what if Jerricoh had been telling the truth the whole time? Even if the ease of her escape was part of The Master’s plan, none of that mattered now. Right? She and Dellia had come up with the perfect plan. They would escape Tretchin Valley before Arnya had a chance to prepare Tascana for her ultimate purpose. The Master intended her to be someone’s mother. but Tascana had to be trained in the proper magic first. Escaping early meant no one would know to look for her.

  This was it. They had all sneaked out with no one being the wiser. Dellia had a map through the catacombs beneath The Master’s castle. All they needed to do now was walk through this door and they would be free. Tascana knew the spell to hide them in plain sight to avoid Jerricoh or anyone else finding them. The perfect plan.

  I can do this. I can trust my gut just like my father taught me to.

  Gripping the latch, she eased it open a crack. Darkness lay beyond. She pulled it open another inch. Nothing. She inched forward and felt along the doorframe to touch beyond. Rough hewn stone lined the wall.

  She whispered back at Dellia. “You said this was it.”

  “It is.” Dellia’s hand felt along Tascana’s arms in the pitch black as the girl moved past her. “I know the map perfectly. This has to be it.”

  “Is there another door further on?”

  “What’s happening?” Chalance’s pinched voice caught on the last syllable.

  “Let me think.” Dellia began muttering to herself.

  Tascana clenched her fists. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going over the map in my head. Give me a moment.”

  “These tunnels lead wherever The Master desires them to lead you.”

  No! It can’t be true. Tascana dug her fingers into her hair.

  “This should be it. This has to be it.” Dellia’s voice started to trail away.

  Tascana grasped a fist of the girl’s shirt before Dellia walked out of reach. Snatching out her other hand, Tascana grabbed what she assumed must be Chalance’s arm, hoping he took Revel in equal fashion.

  “I know it’s right here.” Dellia’s voice rumbled with tension.

  A deep, charismatic voice broke through the dark. “It is right here.”

  Ice raced through Tascana’s veins. Crackling accompanied a light, blinding her after hours in darkness. Tascana thrust both arms over her eyes.

  “Thank you for bringing the girl to me.” The deep voic
e hung in the damp air of the tunnel.

  Tascana gulped. Shifting her arm to peer ahead, she watched a man dressed all in black stride up to Dellia. His tall from hovered over her.

  “Y-yes.” Dellia sputtered the word.

  What was happening? Tascana squinted, her eyes adjusting to the light.

  “I-I did exactly as you a-asked.” Dellia flexed both arms against her chest.

  The tremble in the girl’s voice matched the maddening panic in Tascana’s heart. This was Dellia’s plan all along? Not to help her escape but to deliver her back into the hands of The Master?

  “You gutless wench!” Tascana blurted the words through the shiver building within her.

  Dellia cowered, her hands shaking as though desperate to grip the man’s shirt but terrified of his response. “You promised to release me if I delivered the girl to you of her own freewill.”

  “A deal is a deal.” Jerricoh stepped around Dellia and reached to take Tascana’s hand.

  Recoiling, Tascana turned to run, stumbling over Revel.

  Dank rotting filled the air, adding to the ice spreading into her bones. Goblins... She stopped, no longer daring to seek freedom in the darkness. The image of her first goblin sighting accompanied the acrid sting in her nose. Taller than any man, hulking muscles with the strength of a bear, fingers ending in claws, and that smell. That horrid smell of decay and earth overwhelming the already musty odors of the catacombs. The goblin lurking in Gaulden Forest had tracked her down even though she used a series of spells to disguise herself. In this tight space the creature wouldn’t need much effort to find her.

  Slowly, she looked back. Revel lowered himself to the ground, back pressed against the wall. Chalance copied the motion, hands slipping along his pant to the daggers tucked in his boots. With the boys seated, Tascana had a full view of Jerricoh standing over Dellia. Smiling. The girl hunched below a glinting knife positioned over her head.

  “You said you would release me!” Dellia’s long blond hair shifted forward as she tucked her chin into her chest. “You promised!”