by Chloe Hodge
Her heart pounded in her chest, and blood rushed to her ears. A nervous seed blossomed in her stomach as pure elation and understanding hit her. “Yes,” she whispered. “To connect with the tree, meet the dragon and hear Queen Rivarnar’s proclamation… It’s no coincidence is it, Wezlan?”
She turned to face her mentor and he wrapped her in his arms. “There are no coincidences when your fate is predetermined Ashalea.”
Elated, she buried her face into his shoulder and grinned from ear-to-ear. But she had to make it real. Somehow the words would seal her purpose. Ashalea broke away from Wezlan and held him at arm’s length. She stared into those wise, grey eyes. He nodded, as if giving her permission to fully realise her fate.
“I am a Guardian of the Grove.”
Wezlan traced a hand along her cheek. “You always have been.”
A real Guardian of the Grove. A real purpose, Ashalea thought to herself, astonished at the notion. A chance to belong, to matter. So that’s what the dragon meant about being chosen. But what did he mean about being the key that seals the lock?
The company looked at her in awe, Wezlan, Shara and Denavar, especially, their faces painted with broad smiles. Finally, some good news on their journey. But celebrations would have to wait, and no Guardians were going anywhere until they got that tome.
“What do the glyphs say?” Wezlan called, studying the table once more.
She scanned the curved surfaces of flashing red, opening her mouth to speak. But it was Denavar who beat her to it.
“The Moon Goddess smiles upon elvish kin with tidings born upon feathered wing,
A message whispered through forked tongue, solemnly sworn or all is undone,
For he who opens the ancient door, must lay down steel for a Magicka war,
To hell’s fury one must proceed, and back to the earth, else dead man’s greed.”
Everyone’s mouth fell open, gaping at the mage with curiosity. Ashalea smiled. If anything confirmed her suspicions about Denavar’s suitability as a Guardian, it was this. The only problem was, she hadn’t been able to share her thoughts with Wezlan prior, given Denavar’s elvish hearing.
Wezlan crossed the floor, his robes swirling about him. He stopped inches from Denavar’s face. “How is it you understand these texts?
Denavar shifted his feet uncomfortably, averting his eyes from the wizard. “Sir, I—”
“Answer me boy!”
Denavar met his gaze with ferocity, lifting his chin. “I have been a mage at Renlock Academy since I was young. I have studied all the ancient lores, practiced all the five Magickas. The dialect is old, but I can read it.” He shrugged. “I don’t recall when, but I’m sure I’ve studied it before. It seems too familiar, and I’ve always been good with languages.”
Ashalea didn’t believe him. It was too convenient. She was convinced he was the Guardian they’d been looking for. Gods, if Shara had Magicka, she’d be able to read the glyphs, too. She considered sharing the information with Wezlan, but she wanted to relay it in private before a big announcement.
Dead silence washed over the chamber, hanging like a cloud in still air, mouths still gaping, eyes still wide. Then, Wezlan’s sombre face flipped, and he smiled a wide toothy grin, his eyes bright with jubilation. He clapped Denavar on the back with a resounding thump before offering his hand to the mage.
“You surprise me, Denavar. Even I have trouble with the ancient text sometimes,” he chuckled. “A mage to do Renlock proud.” He cast Ashalea a wink, and he offered her a broad grin.
That tricky wizard. He already knows.
◆◆◆
It took some time but after much pondering and beard stroking on Wezlan’s behalf, Ashalea and the others determined the likely glyphs to turn the dials to.
“The first one can be none other than the moon Goddess, Prianara,” Wezlan stated matter-of-factly, to which murmured agreement followed.
In Everosia, there were many deities to which the different races prayed to and gave thanks. The elves believed in Gods and Goddesses that brought beauty and peace to the land, for whom watched over their souls from one life to the next. Most of all, they gave thanks for the biggest gift of all— longevity of life.
The humans prayed for wealth and prosperity, health and protection. The wealthy already had those, so they prayed for lesser things. The poor and the forgotten prayed to live another day.
The dwarves thanked their deities for strength and resilience. And there were those who believed in nothing at all. Such was the way of the world. None of these traits were useful now. They only had each other’s wits to solve the riddle.
“And the feathered messenger?” Shara asked, an impatient scowl on her face.
Wezlan pored over the table. “There are four birds of flight pictured. A falcon, a raven, an eagle and an owl.” He scratched his head. “We consider ravens messengers for the Gods and Goddesses; they can be a bad omen, depending on the news they carry.”
Denavar rebutted, “the Goddess smiles upon elvish kin. Is her message not one of guidance?”
The two began to argue, Shara smirking all the while, Captain Bonodo, and the others perched around the room, not bothering to meddle with the entire affair.
Ashalea had her back to her friends, replaying the message in her head. Upon feathered wing. Upon. Feathered. Wing. A fireball moment popped into her brain and she remembered her last night at home when the owl came to see her, following her on nights after, and she knew without a doubt that was the symbol. A sign from the Goddess herself, perhaps.
The arguing grew louder despite their pre-determined goal to remain quiet and not disturb the area, or indeed any creatures lurking in the vicinity.
“It’s the owl,” Ashalea uttered softly, her words falling on deaf ears. She sighed, whirling around in annoyance. “QUIET!” she roared, silencing her companions with a Queenlike command. “It’s the owl.”
“How do you know?” Denavar asked blankly.
“Just trust me.”
Denavar nodded sincerely. “I do.”
“Forked tongue will surely be a serpent then,” Shara chimed in.
Wezlan agreed, bobbing his white head up and down. “It fits. Snakes are often described as treacherous and deceiving through tales of old. The riddle asks the bearer to be true to heart, solemn in their deed.”
Ashalea nodded. “The remaining glyphs do not fit. It has to be the serpent.”
“The next line demands that no weapons may enter. Pfft, not a chance,” Shara said. “Well that rules me out.”
“That leaves Wezlan, Denavar and me,” Ashalea mumbled to herself. “We’re looking for a sword or weapon of sorts. Perhaps a symbol of Magicka.”
She approached the fourth dial, scrolling through the glyphs until she came across a familiar symbol. She smiled, landing on an image of a white globe adorned with a simple white crown. It was the elvish symbol for Magicka: purity in the pursuit of balance and goodwill.
“Gotcha. Okay, hell’s fury and dead man’s greed,” she recited to the audience. “Any takers?”
Silence stretched for a time. Wezlan stroked his beard, Denavar scratched his head, Ashalea paced and Shara just scraped dirt from beneath her nails.
The Onyxonite paused her task and lazily eyed off the crew. “The last line could be referring to anything. How are we supposed to guess?”
Wezlan sighed. “I can’t believe that we’ve made it all this way, only to guess at a riddle. The prize we seek is knowledge. All the answers we’ve deduced are well recorded in literature. The last line must be referring to something in ancient texts as this chamber was surely built centuries ago.”
Ashalea pursed her lips. Her old friend did have a point. She approached the dials and studied their options. “We have a volcano, a treasure chest, a strange creature and a male elf.”
“What does the creature look like?” Denavar asked.
Ashalea crinkled her nose. “It looks like a spider. Only it has a sort of sting
er attached to its body.”
At the latter, the mage strode across the floor and studied the dials, his face bent close to Ashalea, the faint smell of peppermint on his breath.
“Any ideas?”
Denavar’s eyes lit up. “There is an old elvish tale that speaks of one who dared risk the wrath of the Gods. The elf attempted to steal a relic; a goblet that would bestow immortality everlasting and divine power if filled with the waters from the Priestess Jolara’s temple. He was successful in retrieving the cup, but instead of fleeing the scene in secret, he remained with his newfound power, mocking the Gods and Goddesses for their blindness and seeking his own position among the ether realm.
“As you can imagine, they were furious. The God whom the goblet belonged to was Fari, the witty one. He might have rewarded the elf further for his cunning, for he does love a good joke, but to be mocked was a mistake. Fari gathered his brothers and sisters and they cast the elf into a prison beneath the earth, where he would stay forever unless killed or released. As further punishment, they also changed him into a beast, to guard a treasure he could never hold.”
Denavar took a deep breath after his tale. “It’s a long shot but the tale could be referring to this place. Under the earth, with a treasure worth its weight in blood.” His brow furrowed as he assessed the dials. “The other symbols all fit the riddle, but it’s a trick.” He leaned over the table in excitement. “It must be this strange creature. It was crudely drawn in the old books but it’s a match.”
The glyph resembled a spider and scorpion morphed into one. Few scriptures mentioned the beast, and all artist interpretations were different as no one really knew if it was a myth, but Denavar had a feeling they were about to find out. He turned around and gazed at the crew.
“It appears we have our glyphs.” He glanced at the dials. “Any takers?”
Everyone knew there was a chance one of their symbols was incorrect. Breath caught in each persons’ lungs as they looked around the room, gazing at each other’s face. If they were wrong, who knows what would happen down here. Just as Ashalea was about to step up, Wezlan strode over confidently, knelt over the table and began.
Wezlan twisted the dials, his knobbly knuckles white as his fingers closed around the disks. One by one they clicked, the party holding their breath in agony, hoping against hope they had chosen correctly. The final dial clicked into place and… Nothing happened. Bewildered, they all stared at the table in suspense.
Momentarily, the red glyphs fizzled out, and a grinding began, loud bangs clanking as a contraption unravelled piece by piece, unlocking mechanisms from beneath the floor. Right on cue, the table groaned, and the dials spun like a confused compass. The surface broke in half, and each side descended into two sleeves in the floor, leaving a gaping hole in the middle of the room. Warm air puffed from its depths, bringing forth putrid fumes of rotten eggs and decay.
“Perfect. Let’s just drop into Vinditi’s graveyard, shall we? Tell the scorned God I said hi,” Shara said, her voice laced with sarcasm.
“Only one may enter. Only one shall be tested. And if I’m not mistaken, I believe the riddle was literal when it mentioned elvish kin and a male entrant, of which only one is present,” Wezlan said. He planted his feet before Denavar. “You must make this choice. I will not pass judgment today,” he whispered.
All eyes turned to Denavar in uncomfortable silence. The mage gazed into the hole, as if resigning himself to his fate. He unsheathed all weapons and lay them at his feet, turned and nodded to each member in turn. He lingered lastly on Ashalea, and his eyes said what his voice could not.
Then he turned around, took a deep breath…
And jumped into the pit.
Fari’s Dungeon
Denavar rolled onto his feet with a groan. The drop was a long one, and he understood in part why the riddle required an elf. The fall alone would have shattered the bones in a human’s legs, whereas the structure of an elf was slightly different; less fragile, able to withstand a higher impact.
He surveyed the area but even with his keen eyesight he saw nothing in the pitch black. A candle would be but a pinprick in this unbearable void. He raised his ears, straining for any sign of trouble. Nothing. His hands shifted to his hilt on reflex, only to find his belt and straps empty, his weapons some twenty feet up the hole.
He took a tentative step, feeling something crunch under his right boot. His left produced the same sound. That can’t be good. Conjuring the white ball of light into one hand, the dungeon illuminated a few paces around him, and his breath caught mid-throat in horror. Bones scattered every iota of floor-space, empty skull sockets staring at him accusingly. Much of the ground was covered in dust from long forgotten souls.
He moved forward cautiously and gasped. What lay in the middle of the room quickened his pulse, his jugular almost bursting out of his neck. A large tome sat propped up on a tiny pedestal, its pages and spine in pristine condition despite the humid weather and sickly stench in the hole. A spell no doubt, to preserve such knowledge.
Denavar approached eagerly, falling a few strides short as he noted the likelihood of a trap. Too easy. Like a moth to a flame. He scowled, glancing around the room for a hidden contraption and seeing only bones. He picked one up, an arm by the looks of it, and mused. I wonder. He tossed the limb at the book, assuming a defensive stance in preparation. No walls of flame followed, or pitfalls or spikes. The bone just clattered to the floor, snapping like a twig.
He set his tongue against the roof of his mouth, the muscles in his cheek throbbing with frustration. Okay, you want Magicka, let’s see who’s asking, he thought a little cockily. He opened his mind’s eye and scanned the room for any signs of life, and alarmingly, he found it. Whatever it was, Denavar understood four things immediately. It was big, radiated evil, and it was hungry. It was also directly above him.
His eyes slowly swivelled to the ceiling, and he extended his ball of light into the air. A sinister gaze leered from red eyes, its teeth beginning to chatter in excitement. Its bulk clung to the roof effortlessly, a hulking mass of furry black hair and long limbs. A stinger sat poised on its back, swinging back and forth in anticipation. It shrieked suddenly and lunged at Denavar, who recoiled in fright, quickly rolling to the side.
He gathered his wits about him and climbed to his feet, conjuring a flimsy shield wall in his haste. Think, Denavar, think! For the first time in his life he felt truly vulnerable, his usual bravado and hard exterior shrivelling like unwanted scraps left out to dry.
The spider-scorpion was dead on his heels, striking with its stinger and stabbing at his legs, forcing him to dart left and right. He snatched another bone, vaulted and smashed the creature in the head, causing no damage. It chattered angrily in response and struck with its stinger, popping the shield wall like a bubble.
Denavar slid underneath its bulk, hurling fireballs at its stomach. Instead of catching on the furry skin, it dissolved harmlessly. He grunted in frustration, hurling lightning bolts, water spirals and ice shards one after the other. They disintegrated immediately. What can harm a creature immune to the elements? A creature immortal!? He raked his brain as he continued dodging around the room, tripping up on a curved bone. His carelessness resulted in a sharp stab in the limb, the bone now snug in his leg, which began bleeding profusely.
He cried out in agony, unable to do more than hobble. He retreated a few steps, stumbling as he backed against the wall. Trapped. As the creature loomed over him, stinger poised for the final strike, he did the last thing he could.
Denavar cleared his mind of the chaos and focused on his internal power. Energy whirred within and the Magicka crackled as it sped through his veins. His fingertips glowed as the power pooled and he mustered all his remaining strength. He sucked in air and held until his body felt close to overflowing with the sheer volume of bottled energy.
With a roar he squeezed his eyes shut, averted his face, and unleashed the last remnants of his Magicka. Blinding
light as powerful as the sun erupted from his fingertips, erasing all the bone trophies and plunging the creature into the ceiling with such force, it began to crumble.
Denavar grabbed the tome from its pedestal and stumbled to the exit, each step a searing jolt into his leg. He gazed at the light above longingly and slumped against the wall, exhausted. The exit was high, and he had no strength left to make the jump. The creature was rising from the rocky debris, still somehow alive, though blinded from the light and without a few limbs. It smelt his blood and crawled grotesquely across the floor towards him, pincers chattering in greedy anticipation.
All Denavar could do was watch his doom approach. A single tear trickled down his cheek when he realised it was all for nothing, and he would never see his friends again. He would never see Ashalea again. His silver haired Goddess, his moonlight muse.
He pictured her emerald green eyes, so full of sorrow and pain, and lamented he would never know her story. Never have the chance to prove his worth. Never tell her how he felt inside. For she was his one. He’d never been certain of what he wanted in life— what he needed. But Ashalea Kindaris, Princess of the Moonglade Meadows, orphaned elf, seeker of vengeance… She was everything he never knew he wanted, and everything he now understood, he would never have.
As the creature crawled closer, Denavar replayed the riddle in his head and choked out a strangled laugh. Dead man’s greed. Is this too, my price to pay for stealing the knowledge of the Gods? He buried his face in his hands and prayed to the Goddess Everali to set his soul free from this place. He was uttering the last words and watching the creature approach when something soft bumped against his head.
A silver rope. He quickly tied it around his body and tugged firmly. The creature’s limb was a hand-span away when he was suddenly hoisted into the air, ascending into the upper chamber. Aware of its victims’ escape, the spider-scorpion shrieked in dismay, its angry chatter echoing up the shaft. According to the riddle, Denavar knew, with its priceless possession gone, it would be left to rot, blind and disfigured until the elvish Gods pitied it enough to set it free.