by Chloe Hodge
She looked at him, baffled. And the King thinks this joker is the next Guardian?
He saw her expression and straightened up, his face turning serious. “The King feels threatened by you. To awake the water dragon is the highest honour one could receive and you’re not even of the Aquafarian Province.”
“I’m aware of that now. We had a somewhat revealing chat.” Ashalea was silent for a beat. “The truth is, I don’t know which elvish city I belong to. But none of that matters now, the path I’ve been placed on will lead me to my destiny.”
Incredulous, Denavar eyed her up and down. He leaned in and took her long, silver braid in one hand, marvelling as the sun reflected in glistening threads.
“You really have no idea, do you? Where you come from? No one has told you after all this time?”
It wasn’t a question so much as a statement and his boldness reflected in his un-earned familiarity. His forwardness embarrassed Ashalea, but she liked it all the same. She found herself staring into those bright blue eyes and something fluttered inside her. His face was so close she could smell his breath. It smelled like peppermint. His impeccable jawline shadowed her face.
What is wrong with me? She flicked her braid out of his hand casually and stepped away, turning her back to him.
“My parents were murdered three years ago by the darkness. Wezlan took me in and has been training me ever since.” She began pacing slowly. “Before that, we lived on the outskirts of Woodrandia. The day they died was the day I was to travel there. It was my sixteenth birthday,” she trailed off, trembling slightly in remembrance.
Stupid Ashalea, why am I telling him this? We just met!
He looked at her with a mixture of sorrow and… Pity? Her throat tightened, and the barrier weakened. She suddenly felt fragile, emotional. She wanted to run into his arms and bury her face into his beating heart. The notion was so odd to her, it disappeared as quick as it came. She raised her chin and swallowed all feelings back into their cage.
Wasn’t I berating him for being a creep a minute ago? Get a grip, Ashalea!
Denavar just stood there awkwardly; a silent battle being fought in his head. She could tell he was fighting with some inner morality and it seemed the better part of him won.
His eyes burned into hers. “Ashalea,” he began slowly. “I know there are many reasons why no one would have told you, but it’s only right you know. You’re from—”
“Denavar!” The King barked from across the garden square. “A word.”
He turned on his heels whilst two guards hurried after him. He paused, and they skidded to a halt, driving their weapons into the ground and pretending nothing happened. The King ignored them. Barely turning his head, he motioned to Ashalea. “You too.”
Conflicted, the mage glanced at the King and back to Ashalea. She stared at Denavar; her stomach twisting into a nervous knot. Hopeful, she waited silently.
Denavar cast his eyes down. “We’d, ah, we’d better go.”
The disappointment was crushing. The knot writhed against her bowels as it clenched even tighter and she inhaled sharply. Damn him! Damn everything. It took all her strength to manage a meagre nod.
◆◆◆
King Tiderion was in a good mood. Ashalea, Denavar and Shara sat in the Royal Chamber, along with several other officers, men and women of varying ranks, and the Queen. Wezlan’s face peered at them from an ethereal globe in the middle of the room, his beard dripping into the pool from which his bodyless head drew energy from. For once, discussion was good news, for which Wezlan was relieved, having been a reluctant messenger throughout their travels so far.
It had been several weeks since the wizard had embarked to Renlock and he’d made short order of the Academy since his assumption as the leader— which several mages were none too pleased about. But who can defy a wizard? Wezlan’s powers could crush all of them without breaking a sweat and they knew it. The entire Academy knew it too, and almost all apprentices and mages alike looked upon every hair on his head like it was the reason for their existence. Like he was a god.
Since Wezlan’s return, he had restored order to the council, restructured lesson plans —both Magickal and scholarly — for apprentices and mages alike, and categorised those fit to lead the Academy, and those who could carry out important tasks without question.
Even the apprentices had showed initiative during the reboot, and the Academy, while it would never return to its former glory without wizards to lead it, had begun anew. He had removed the less adept mages, or namely one weasel in particular — which could well cost him an attempt on his life later down the track — for their obvious lack of Magicka skill and focused the efforts on students who showed high promise.
Wezlan and Farah Goldin had been researching spells to circumvent the portholes leeching into the realm. Over the weeks, all historical lore had failed to uncover anything useful, if at all on the matter, until the pair had stumbled upon some interesting information. Farah had been searching on the highest bookshelf for a volume titled Methodology of Magicka: successes and failures, when her hand instead grasped a rather unassuming, tattered book.
“An old tome dating back to the age of Braygon the Burnt,” Wezlan was saying through the transparent globe. “He was a renowned scholar talented with unusual Magicka abilities, unlike any others recorded throughout history. He held a fascination for time and space travel, and his journals speak of traversing through other realms — not through the Gate of the Grove mind you — through portals of his own creation.”
King Tiderion’s interest piqued at the last. “Go on.”
“While we have no proof of his wanderings, his journals mention a book that identifies the spells required to create, or destroy, said portholes.”
“And? Where is it?”
Wezlan grimaced and his head turned unnaturally in the globe. “We don’t have the book in our possession. If what the journals say is true, it has been gathering dust for centuries.”
King Tiderion’s face fell. “The book is gone? Then we are back to where we started.” He slumped in his chair.
“You misunderstand. The book has been lost but not forgotten. Very few men and women possess the skills to read it. However, to an elf or a wizard? That’s a different story. Braygon’s demise was his curious soul. By travelling multiple universes, his body crumbled under the weight of different matters, regardless of the Magicka shields he erected to protect himself. In the end, his body burnt out from the sheer force of it; hence his name.”
Wezlan shook his head with a mixture of awe and cunning. “Despite his greed for intelligence, Braygon wasn’t entirely foolish. He knew his findings couldn’t pass into the wrong hands; for the sake of our realm and for the user. But he did leave clues pointing to its whereabouts.”
Everyone shifted in their seats, anxious to know more. Wezlan beamed.
“Farah and I have concluded it can only be accessed by someone who bears knowledge of ancient elvish, and I believe I know where it lies. It is well guarded, protected with binding Magicka in an ancient dialect of Elvish runes, lost to many of your kind in today’s world. However, there are some who can decipher the texts. Myself for one, and the Guardians, current or soon-to-be.”
King Tiderion stood with arms wide, elation etched in his face. “Well this is wonderful. We have a wizard and,” he glanced at Denavar, “a mage worthy of becoming a wizard; a Guardian even.” The King looked pointedly at Ashalea and she offered a slight nod in return.
Wezlan’s face grew thoughtful at the King’s assumptions but he bowed his head. “It is better news than we could have hoped.” He looked at Denavar, taking him in for the first time.
“I assume this is the young mage whose seat remains vacant at Renlock?” He lifted his eyebrows.
Denavar smiled. “You assume correct, Wezlan Shadowbreaker. It is an honour, nay a privilege, to meet you. Perhaps literally, soon,” he cocked an eyebrow in return.
Wezlan’s hovering head ch
ortled but looked to the King again. “I will need a small team of volunteers to accompany me on the trip. Some fighters, perhaps a tracker. Denavar, the King speaks well of your Magicka skills. Are you up to the task?” He asked not unkindly.
The King interrupted before the mage could speak. “Denavar is the best mage we have in Windarion. He will go.” It was not a request.
Ashalea tried to hide her excitement. This was the perfect opportunity to see what Denavar was capable of. If the King was right, they may have found the next Guardian after all, and what better way to test his mettle than a voyage to find a lost item to aid them on their quest?
Wezlan’s head bobbed up and down. “Very well.” His eyes drifted to Ashalea and Shara. His expression was simple. His eyes searched quizzically. Need I ask?
The girls looked at each other and grinned. “We’re in!”
King Tiderion’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing to debate it. “Then it’s settled. Ondori? Kinna?”
The two men guarding the door put hands over hearts and bowed low. “My lord,” they echoed in unison.
“You will accompany the group. Choose four other volunteers in your squadron.”
They bowed again, their hearty personalities hidden behind dutiful masks; their bodies stiff and their eyes straight. Both men were well-trained, obedient soldiers who would fight to the last for Windarion and its rulers. “Yes, my lord.”
The weapon’s master; a brawny man with arms carved with muscle approached the King and bowed. His giant hands swept before him, etched with several thin scars; both burns and slices. They weren’t deep; they were the scars of a man who’d made few mistakes in his youth and who’d since mastered his trade to perfection.
“With your leave I will begin arrangements to have weapons checked and repaired should they need ‘em.”
The King waved his hand and off the man lumbered. He had to shuffle through the door, for his wide girth was unusual by elvish standards.
Several other dignitaries or merchants bid their leave as well, muttering — as much as an elf could mutter in their silky tongues — to have provisions stocked and ready to go come morning.
“Well then,” Wezlan said as the room was down to the King and Queen, Ashalea, Shara, Denavar, two guards and one wizard’s head. “I’ll also need a ship.”
“What, a ship, what!?” The King spluttered as he lost his head — figuratively of course, one mystical head was enough — and glowered at Wezlan, standing in disbelief.
The queen, a little more tactful in approach, cleared her throat and nudged her husband out the way to stand before the globe. Wezlan’s expression was sombre and Queen Rivarnar appeared anxious. The rest of them exchanged glances and an odd feeling climbed Ashalea’s chest. Denavar looked at her, as if sensing her uneasiness.
“Just where is it you’re going, Wezlan?” Something told Rivanar she wouldn’t like the answer.
“Ah, well that’s the bad news, my Queen.”
The room hushed, and nervous faces waited.
“The book is across the Onyx Ocean.” Wezlan’s face pinched.
Three gasps filled the room and silence ensued. Denavar looked stricken, and the king melted into his chair. The queen’s face went grey, and she sank back into herself. “Of all places,” she uttered.
“Yes, my Queen. It’s on the Isle of Dread.”
What Lies Beneath
The Violet Star ploughed through the seas like a hot knife through butter; its sleek underbelly a surge of power. At its bow an elvish goddess was depicted reaching for the stars, yearning for her beloved in the celestial sky. She bore a remarkable resemblance to Queen Rivarnar, with curling violet hair pushed back against a breeze. Her breasts were bare, but she cared for naught but the sky.
At the helm of the ship stood Captain Ringarr Bonodo. He was all lean muscle and sinew, with green eyes and a shaggy mop of brown hair. He surveyed the crew working before him and marvelled at their quick fingers making light work of the rigging and sails.
It was a beautiful day, if a little hot, and the sun streamed down upon naked backs and furrowed brows. The sky suggested happy days and long adventures, but what lay beneath was a darker matter. The Onyx Ocean, named for the inky black waters, was a mystery many men and women preferred not to cross.
Tales told of unknown beasts that lurked beneath its depths, and more than one ship had joined the ocean floor for its tempestuous savagery. The ocean knew no master, and it took no slaves.
Ashalea’s keen eyes searched the ship for her companions. Shara was high above on lookout, looking very comfortable next to a young, blonde-haired sailor. The pair were laughing together and bumping shoulders as they shared the looking glass. Ashalea rolled her eyes. Of course, she’d found someone to flirt with.
“She doesn’t waste any time, does she?” Denavar appeared next to her, glancing above before flashing Ashalea a dazzling grin.
Ashalea shared his easy smile. “It’s like she hasn’t a care in the world.”
Denavar leaned over the railing, eying her off studiously. “And you? What cares do you carry deep within?”
Her fingers traced the lines in the wood. For some reason, she felt comfortable sharing her thoughts with this man. She found herself staring into those dreamy eyes again and turned away.
“I worry about the future. Where this journey will take us, how it will end. I worry that I’ll never find the answers I seek or discover who I truly am. I know that I have been chosen for something great — that it was pre-ordained — but what does that mean, really? Does it define who I am?”
“Perhaps this journey will help you figure that out.”
“Maybe. For the last three years I’ve wanted nothing more than to leave the forest and see the realm. And now suddenly there’s a Grove, Guardians, a dragon, a book, portals. It’s a lot to take in. And always in the back of my mind, there’s the darkness.”
Denavar placed a hand on hers, the usual cheer and bravado temporarily gone. “Ashalea, no matter what happens, Wezlan, Shara and I have got your back. Finding the Guardians is the most important thing and I won’t let anything, or anyone stand in the way of that.”
She was surprised by his sincerity. Perhaps there’s more to him than meets the eye after all.
“And you Denavar?” She said softly. “What do you care for?”
He leaned over the railing once again, those piercing blue eyes staring yonder. “It’s been a long time since I’ve cared for anyone other than myself.” He turned to face her. “I think that might be changing now.”
She was silent for a beat, and then, “why were you staring at me the first night I saw you?” The words blurted out and she cringed inwardly in horror, but he just smiled.
“I’ve never met anyone like you, Ashalea. You fascinate me. The way you carry yourself, how fierce you are. And your eyes…” He stared at her with such intent she was afraid he could see into her very soul. “Your eyes speak of sadness, of terrible things. A dark tale, I would wager.”
She broke their gaze. “The darkest. Perhaps I’ll tell you one day, if you’re lucky.”
“I’d like that very much.”
Silence stretched and they stood together awkwardly.
“You also seem to be immune to my charms,” he added light-heartedly. “A rare phenomenon if I say so myself.”
She laughed, grateful for the change of mood. And he’s back.
Ashalea punched him playfully. “Well, I guess you’ll have to keep trying. Your ego will have to bear the burden.”
He put a hand over his heart, a pained expression plastered over his face. “Ashalea, you wound me.”
She bowed low. “Dearest sir, my sincerest apologies. Best you take said ego for mending. It’s grown rather swollen of late.”
He grinned devilishly and returned the bow. “As you command, my lady.” He disappeared below deck and she was left alone, chuckling to herself.
Despite a rather strange beginning, she had already come to e
njoy his witty remarks and the easy banter they shared, and Ashalea couldn’t help but linger on the fleeting moments that revealed a Denavar that was deep, thoughtful and considerate. Was he really implying that he cared for her on a more emotional level?
And if he was? What then? Her heart fluttered at the idea, and she realised with a sudden pang that she eagerly anticipated the thought of him caring for her. Wanting to be close to her. Trying to dissect these new feelings felt too far out of her depth, and she sighed, trying to focus on something else. Ashalea peered into the waters, searching for any sign of life, when she felt a presence beside her, casting shadows on her face.
“You’ll find nothing comforting down there, love. Best not to look for things that should stay hidden,” Captain Bonodo said.
She eyed off the man before her. It had only been three days since their departure, but she’d decided she already liked him. The fifty something year old human oozed confidence and charm and told incredible tales, though she couldn’t believe half of them were true.
One thing could be said of Captain Bonodo; he was good at what he did. His crew had attested to that, and he had boasted of two things: During his thirty-plus years of sailing, he had never lost a ship, and had only lost three crew members, one of which had left the seas for some wench who’d born him a child. The man had been fond of an exotic brothel across the sea and it had cost him both literally and figuratively, whichever way you looked at it. The other two gambled for riches, sometimes on their lives. They paid.
His bizarre recollection of these stories had made Ashalea smile, and Shara had most enjoyed cosying up to Bonodo’s crew. Especially that blonde. She could still hear their bells of laughter drifting down to the deck.
Ashalea smiled. “One can’t help but wonder.” She gazed at the eerie contrast between light and darkness splitting the world and looked further yonder. “Are there really so many distant lands from Everosia?”
“More than you could ever dream of, and I have been to many on my voyages. Some are untamed and full of natural beauty. Others are stone isles of civilisation. A few are even occupied by savage men and women with crude weaponry and tongue.” Ringarr pulled up his linen shirt and showed her a few scars on his brown skin. “Won’t be heading there again,” he winked at her mischievously.