by Chloe Hodge
Denavar almost felt sorry for the thing, aware that the creature was once an elf who made a life changing mistake. But right now, all he could focus on was the light, and the hole’s exit just a few pulls away. With the tome stuffed up his tunic, he nursed it protectively, one hand on its spine like a mother to her baby. With the other, he clung on for dear life, and thought of Ashalea’s face as his only saving grace for this day.
Failure in Victory
Denavar collapsed, grinning slyly before passing out from pain and exhaustion. Ashalea yanked out the protruding bone and worked her Magicka, whispering soft words as she held cupped hands over his wound. Denavar had done his part, it was time to do hers.
She studied the lines of his face, taking note of small creases, the way his muscles softened as he slept and the dark stubble that masked his chin. She pondered once more about the connection she felt earlier that day, and her eyes lingered a little on his lips.
Shara crouched next to Ashalea and watched her work, both women content in comfortable silence. Thankfully, the table had reconstructed itself, as if sensing Denavar’s return, and the creature’s endless chatter had ceased once the hole was closed, allowing Ashalea to concentrate, her brow furrowing and her nose wrinkling from her efforts.
Shara’s eyes followed the golden glow as it wriggled into the wound from beneath Ashalea’s hands. The blood was purged, and the skin began to knit itself back together. So fresh was the injury and so clean the cut, that not even a scar remained upon closing.
Ashalea lifted her knees to her chest and cradled them with her arms. They weren’t going anywhere until Denavar awoke, and the Magicka had drained her energy. She yawned, resting her head on Shara’s shoulder.
“You really are incredible, you know.”
The sincere comment startled Ashalea, turning her cheeks a rosy pink, the tips of her ears reddening. She didn’t know what to say.
Shara put a hand on her arm. “I mean it. You will make a wonderful Guardian.”
An odd pitch in Shara’s tone made Ashalea turn to peer in her friend’s eyes. “A little sappy for your taste, isn’t it?” She jibed, before realising something was wrong. “Shara, what’s going on?”
The raven-haired beauty sighed, her cropped locks caressing her cheek, her lips pursing. “The seer predicted I would also be a Guardian, but since starting our journey I have felt average. I feel like I need to prove myself, but I don’t know how.”
“Shara, we wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for you. You might not have the power to use Magicka but your strength and skill with the sword — not to mention all weapons — is beyond compare.”
That got a grin, but the assassin’s white teeth rescinded.
“There is something else I haven’t told you. When we were with the seer at Lillion, she told me about my brother. She said he is in a dark place, that his soul has been poisoned. That he may be beyond redemption. Lost, she said.”
Shara sighed, leaning back onto her rear and resting her chin on hand and knee. “I don’t know what she means but her words never stray far from my mind. It is always there. The image of my brother, a madman or a pawn for the darkness.” Her almond-shaped eyes watered, the golden-brown blinking in and out as she sniffed, trying to repel the emotion.
Ashalea took her hands and squeezed fiercely. “We will find your brother and help him, no matter what. No one is beyond redemption and whatever damage has been done, we will repair it like a thread through a needle. And if the tapestry tears, we will stitch it again and again until the mend is unbroken.”
Shara nodded gratefully, shrugging the burden from her shoulders, and the two women placed their foreheads together solemnly.
“I promise Shara, we will find him. This I swear.”
A small moan broke the girls’ embrace, Denavar stirring softly from his cold bed of granite. He blinked and registered where he was, groaning.
“If I never see rock again, I honestly might be the happiest elf in Everosia.” He spied Ashalea and Shara next to him and smiled, the usual charm heady on his breath once more.
The two females looked at each other and laughed. Yep, he’s back.
Ashalea motioned for him to rise, and checked the movement of his leg, feeling his intense gaze upon her face, and a stolen look that did not go unnoticed at her shapely body and the soft curve of her breasts. She raised an eyebrow, clearing her throat, and he checked himself, grinning sheepishly.
She raised her other brow. “Mm hmm.”
Ashalea smiled. She enjoyed his attention and appreciated the stolen looks he gave her. A part of her hoped it would become a regular occurrence.
She turned to face the others. “Wezlan, Captain Bonodo? Denavar is strong enough to move, though he will require plenty of rest when we are home. So, if it’s alright with you I’m ready to get the bloody hell out of here.”
Murmured “hear hears” and “couldn’t agree more’s” concurred around the room.
Wezlan groaned, his stiff joints creaking as he struggled to rise. He glared at the ground with distaste. A cold hard floor was no seat for an old man, wizard or not.
“Well then, Ashalea, Denavar, I will need your help to conjure a portal of our own back to Windarion. If I had seen the Isle of Dread with my own eyes prior to this trip, it would have made things a lot easier and we could have travelled with no ship.” He glanced at Captain Bonodo apologetically. “I am sorry my friend.”
Ashalea had never conjured a portal before, but she knew how physically draining it was on the user. It was why they had never travelled by portal before. But what other choice did they have? Their ship was gone, and there was no other way off this island. Perhaps between the three of them, their power would be enough, and the toll on their energy, less physically demanding.
The Captain smiled sorrowfully, “we knew what we signed up for. The deaths, the demise of my beautiful Violet Star, it has not been in vain. But I’m asking the King for more money and a new ship.” His remaining two crewmen nodded curtly.
Wezlan continued, “I need you all to form a circle and hold hands. Since we’ve all been to Windarion, this should be easy. Simply visualise the city, let’s say the entrance by the lake specifically, less chance of scaring the townsfolk there, and Ashalea and Denavar, I want you to call forth your Magicka and begin.”
He patted Ashalea’s back to assure her. “I know you haven’t performed this spell before but don’t worry, establish a connection with Denavar or myself, and you will see where the Magicka is pulled from. Denavar and I will enunciate the spell.”
She nodded. “Ready.”
Wezlan stowed away the tome inside his many folds of robes, and the group linked hands as commanded. The three Magickally minded users unleashed their ability, sending the force humming through the entire group. A few exclamations of awe rippled around the circle, feeling Magicka for the first and maybe last time.
Ashalea did as bidden and crept into the mind of Denavar, seeing the flurry of his brain’s activity as he linked certain remnants of Magicka to prepare for the spell. With ease, she mimicked his movements and nodded when ready.
“Overria en un data rivarr!” The words immediately translated through the spell, and an electrified blue globe formed in the centre of the ring, its sparks licking hungrily at the border. Shortly after, the electrical current subsided and a painting of Windarion lay in the middle. Except it was real. They needed only enter to transport there.
“Enter one at a time. Captain, you first.”
Ringarr Bonodo winked and disappeared, his men following suit. Then Denavar, Wezlan, Ashalea, followed lastly by Shara bringing in the rear. It was eerie, seeing each person walk through and wait patiently on the other side. Almost like a broken mirror, reflecting disjointed fragments of the world.
A step behind her comrades, Shara was halfway through when she sensed a presence. It raised the hairs on her arms and the nape of her neck shivered. Turning, she glimpsed a dark cloud coming into focus,
toxic shadows dispersing all around her. The overbearing stench of rotten meat filled the room, and she gagged, feeling her throat close in disgust.
“Shara Silvaren,” it rasped deeply, “what a pleasure to meet you.”
Eyes flickered in and out of focus, glittering with midnight malice. The occasional cheekbone or flash of skin would materialise and then disappear, lending itself to appear static. It frightened Shara down to her core and she gulped, feeling an overwhelming sickness rising in her stomach. She narrowed her eyes, squinting to make out the face beneath the cloud.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
“Who am I?” It considered her question, as if it were a complicated answer. “I am the terrors you find in your sleep. The shadows that play games with your mind. I am the cloud that blocks out the sun, and the wrath of dimensions cast into doom. I am darkness incarnate. I am death.”
A shiver ran the length of Shara’s spine, and it cackled gleefully, its voice low and raspy one second, shrill and piercing another. That was it, shaken and panicked, Shara turned on her heel to escape its presence, the others shrieking at her from the other side. She couldn’t hear anything, but their lips formed one word repeatedly. “Run.”
Her body entered the portal, relief immediately washing over her as she stepped through the other side into Windarion. The warm sun kissed her skin, birds sung sweet melodies, and the white towers and sparkling waters glistened invitingly. She admired the scenery, and her heart unclenched, the claws of panic slowly subsiding.
Wezlan was chanting softly, nervous sweat beading on his brow, his mouth moving at full speed, uttering the spell to close the portal. The barrier began to break apart, slowly disintegrating and powering down like a machine after a hard day’s work.
Shara smirked at her friends. “Well that was a close—”
In the last second of the portal’s closure, a clawed hand reached out and pulled her tunic back. They all saw it at once, gasping.
Ashalea lunged forward, desperation etched in her face. “Shara, no!”
The assassin’s eyes widened in shock, her mouth opened to scream, and she reached a hand out to latch onto Ashalea, missing her fingers by an inch. Her body propelled backwards, and the portal zipped close, breaking the link.
One second she was there, the next she was gone.
Suffering
Shara groaned, a searing pain forcing her awake. The slightest movement was agony, the gash in her back rolling over her spine if she twisted. Groggily, she blinked until her eyes came into focus and saw where she was. Her surroundings were unfamiliar; a tiny prison cell equipped with iron bars, a bucket for relieving oneself, and the table upon which she lay.
She tried to sit up, but leather strapping held her down, and manacles on her wrists and ankles bit into flesh. Panic set in and realisation came flooding back. She had encountered the darkness. The bloody darkness, of all things. She’d left him, it, whatever it is, at the Isle of Dread and stepped through the portal to freedom, only it didn’t agree with that measure and had taken matters into its own hands. Literally too, Shara thought, realising the gash was a result of its claws when it grabbed her.
She almost screamed with frustration but bit her tongue instead, forcing herself to remain calm and rationalise the situation. There’s always a way out, Shara, think. She scanned the room once again, looking for any signs of escape. No window, only one entry and exit, nothing I can use as a weapon, no means of distraction. She glanced down her body, suddenly aware that her clothes had been changed, which enraged her all over again. No gear, no hidden lock picks.
Her heart sank. She wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. She forced air out her mouth in a big ‘oh’ before slowing her heartbeat and closing her eyes. Okay, so I’ll play the waiting game. Tease out information from my captor, find out everything I can about the darkness and this place. Play dumb, pretend obedience. Shara smiled devilishly. I will get out of this place one way or another, and if I die, so be it. I will take down as many as I can with me.
Justice only an assassin would offer began creeping through her mind as she thought of the ways she would kill and maim anyone who laid a finger on her. Her plotting fell short when a key turned in a lock some ways up the passageway. Footsteps echoed as someone descended a staircase and lazily strolled toward her, whistling a joyous tune, clanging something on metal bars which resulted in a few whimpers along the way.
Shara craned her neck to watch the figure approach. A man, probably in his early thirties, wearing crude leather and a cheap tunic underneath. He held a large spiky club in one hand and whacked it against the other in obvious enjoyment. The man stopped outside her cell. She inhaled and exhaled with measured breaths, slowing her pulse to remain calm. An exercise she had been taught as a girl.
You’ve been in similar situations. It’s just like training. Stay focused. Remain calm.
The thug leered at her figure; the white shift she’d been dressed in riding up her thighs. His greedy eyes undressed her as lips smacked against yellow teeth; what little were left anyway. Shara pretended to ignore him, trying not to show her revulsion. Any hint of fear or disgust and he’d know who was boss. Then again, playing the meek maiden could be advantageous.
She’d tempted men with her body before. A few harmless grabs, a kiss or two, the promise of her talents in hidden rooms. Of course, flirting to get what she wanted was one thing. With others, she’d plaster them with ale until they were so blind drunk, they gave her any information she needed. By the time they wanted to take her home, or for the less classy men, take her in the back alley, they’d be too drunk to do more than lift their feet, and she’d take their coins for good measure. Shara Silvaren wore many faces, her true character still a shadow in the night.
She glanced at the man again as spittle dribbled down a slack face, his mouth hanging open stupidly as he stared at her. Eyeing off his vacant expression she realised he was simple, uncomprehending and lacking intelligence, which likely made him a useful tool for mundane tasks.
No, the thought of smiling at this creep is too hideous to bare.
Shara exhaled when the door above opened and another set of steps could be heard. Female, judging by the click of heels on the floor and a determined stride. Sure enough, a woman with elaborately coifed brown hair and blood red lips came into view, a tight red corset beset with jewels making way for a flowing gown. It wasn’t classy so much as it was trashy.
The woman rapped her painted nails on the bars, glaring at Shara, making her own assessment of the assassin’s body, though this was a woman’s envy. Her eyes darted to the lurking pervert in disgust, who had turned his attention to her chest.
“Oh, go away you useless lump. You’re enough to make me sick.” She waved him off, so the useless lump lumbered away, no doubt to attend to some personal matters. The woman brushed off her gown as if to cleanse herself of his presence.
“Now, I expect you’re wondering where you are? Yes, you would be. A great Onyxonite, captured by the master— and a daughter of the chieftain no less. My, my, what a guest we have here.” She ended on a tone akin to how an owner would speak with their pets. Dumbed down, except rather than adoration it was laced with mockery. The woman sneered down the length of her pointy nose.
“For all the fabled tricks and tools your kind carry, you will never outwit the darkness. Stupid girl.”
Shara eyed the woman off nonchalantly, a smirk forming on dry lips. “If I’m stupid, what does that make you? After all, you wouldn’t be working for the darkness unless you were promised something in return. What was it? Riches? Position?” Her amber eyes glittered dangerously. “Love?”
The woman’s smile faltered at the last.
Shara’s face lit up. “Ah, love. Such a fickle thing. Us mortals place such a high value on it, don’t we? It’s a power stronger than any other, a force to be reckoned with. Such a shame you will never share that bond with the darkness. I mean, you are aware you’ve bargained with somethi
ng that is utterly incapable of such a notion, right?”
A loud whistle escaped her lips, startling the woman in the silent room. “Lady, you have really stepped in it. This is one stallion who cannot be tamed. He cannot love, for he has no soul. And besides, he was once an elf. Why would he bother with a weakling like you? You’ll be dead once he’s done using you for…” Shara’s eyes looked her up and down, “whatever purpose you serve.”
The woman’s skin darkened to match her lipstick. Her nails clawed into clenched fists and her frame shook with anger. She reached into her pocket to reveal a small silver key, and fumbling with the lock, swung open the doorway so metal clanged against metal.
Leaning over the steel table, she whispered in Shara’s ear.
“You may mock me and taunt me for my decisions, but just remember who’s on the right side of this door.”
Shara laughed. “Well, technically, you’re on my side of the door now.”
The woman’s cheeks looked like they’d burst into flames any second. “Soon enough that pretty mouth of yours won’t have any words left to say. Your mind will be an empty shell. Your body will be nothing but husk and bone.”
“I’ve had worse threats. But let me ask you this. Why? Why would you seek out this creature, only to serve him?”
The scarlet-clad woman smirked with overdrawn lips. “Actually, he found me. Plucked me from a pleasure house and stole me away from that life. Now I have a purpose. I am his eyes and ears; a weapon of intelligence. Besides, it’s better to be on the winning side when all is said and done.”
A sudden realisation dawned. “You. You were the woman who told the mercenaries where to find the seer.”
A sly grin crept over the woman’s features. “I wouldn’t make a very good spy if I couldn’t find one of the most gifted women in Everosia.”