by Chloe Hodge
Ashalea finished strapping a leather jerkin to his chest, which hung far too big over his slender shoulders. She tried not to laugh at his tiny body swathed in material. “Off you go then.”
The group scurried out the door and she was left alone. Ashalea sighed. And the night is just beginning.
She made her way down the corridor towards her quarters. As special guests, Ashalea and Denavar were given two of the empty rooms on the fifth floor, although Ventiri had spouted a few complaints over that. Ashalea was unsure of the funny little man. He was always sneaking sly looks, and she’d caught him spying from the shadows once or twice. She didn’t trust him, and he knew it.
She’d conveyed these concerns to Wezlan who agreed, looking around carefully before he lunged into a full-frontal complaint about the man’s uselessness and incessant need to be involved with every detail, project or campaign. Suffice to say they would be keeping their eyes on him. For now, though, pressing matters were at hand.
Ashalea made her way back to the council chamber on the hour and found everyone was accounted for. She plonked herself next to Wezlan who offered her a weary smile, and she realised just how worn out her old friend looked. With a pang of fear, she felt worry stab at her heart. This divine being, so full of power and yet so gentle and kind, appeared to be running out of stamina.
He caught her eyeing him off and gave her a quick shoulder squeeze before standing up. “Now then, I trust everyone is accounted for? Good. There’s no time to waste. Denavar, would you lead?”
The young man rose from his seat, his usual charming grin swept aside and replaced with a stern exterior. “Our defences at Renlock Academy are grim. We are not designed to withstand a mounted attack. There are no fortifications, and the terrain is not to our advantage, given that the darkness can materialise at will. Out of all factions, which ones are sufficiently trained in hand to hand combat?”
A slender man in his thirties stood up, his lithe muscles stretching under the skin, a shock of long blonde hair braided down his back. “I represent the psychic and dimensional division. We have been honing our skills with the bow and combining our dimensional skills by using portals to hit still and moving targets from great distances.”
Denavar nodded. “Very good. I want you to put together a team of your best archers and set up on the ramparts of the east, south and west fronts. We can use the structure to our advantage and push an attack from behind the walls.”
The man bowed his head. “It shall be done.”
Denavar looked around the room. “Hand to hand?”
A stocky woman with short brown hair stood up this time, flanked by a tall young boy. The woman cleared her throat. “I am Gira. I lead the combat training in the elementals division. I have been teaching our students how to fight with short range weapons, and there are several who are stronger with long-range.” She dipped her head slightly. “It would be my honour to lead a force into battle.”
Denavar raked a hand through his dark hair. “What is our strategy with the front line?”
Gira nodded to the young boy, and he unravelled a blueprint of the Academy and its grounds. She pointed. “Here and here are our main entrances. Since it’s likely that any force led by the darkness would approach from the south-east, I would post a squadron of soldiers at these points. The most elite mages could flank the militia from behind and at posts on the side.”
Wezlan stroked his beard. “How is the weaponry looking? It’s been centuries since we’ve had to defend the Academy. I hope someone has been caring for our equipment?”
Gira nodded. “The steel is crude but sharp. It will suffice.”
Denavar pored over the map. “We are still awaiting the Onyxonites to arrive, but I would have them lead the battle if it comes to it. They’re more experienced and unlike anyone here… Most people here,” he amended, “they have killed before.” He frowned. “There is also a copse of woods near to the main entrance. We may use the element of surprise to our advantage and have them surround the enemy should they march through.”
Wezlan nodded. “I will send word to Harvar of the plan. Should the Onyxonites arrive during battle, they can trap the darkness’ army and close the square. There would be no escape.”
“So many ifs and buts,” Ashalea grumbled. “What about the north?”
Wezlan stroked his beard. “I will call upon King Tiderion for help. If he agrees to send a small army, we should be able to divide his forces to bolster our defence from every angle. We need all the help we can get until the Onyxonites launch an offense from behind, and the elves of Windarion are no strangers to a fight.”
“Right, and the healers can prepare for injuries on the ground floor,” Ashalea said. She beckoned for a runner. “Head to the infirmaries and ask for an inventory check on supplies. If we are low on stocks, make a list and have it sent here. Wezlan will pass on our demands to the elves.” The boy bowed and ran off.
Ashalea turned to the mages. “The children too young to fight will need to be gathered in a safe place. I have told some of the youngsters to make themselves useful to the healers. What are your thoughts?”
A timid lady all in white stood up. A healer, by the looks of it. “When the battle begins, we healers will be sorely pressed for supplies. Many of the children know their way around a bandage, so I agree with you, my lady.”
“That covers all factions. Now, the best we can do is prepare, and wait,” Denavar said. “We need some volunteers to arrange pits and structures around the Academy, in the event the darkness’ army breaks the line.”
Several hands flew up around the room.
“Good. Recruit anyone else who can spare the time to help.” Denavar’s blue eyes passed over the faces of all within the room. “If that’s all, Wezlan?”
The wizard nodded. “Dismissed.”
The group trickled out of the chamber and Wezlan took his leave to oversee the factions. Ashalea slumped further into her chair, weariness filling her elvish bones. Silence settled as Ashalea and Denavar faced their thoughts. Ashalea was the first to break the silence.
“Are you afraid of dying, Denavar?”
The question caught him off guard. “I can’t say I’ve thought about it.”
She couldn’t decide if his answer was arrogant or fair. They were elves after all. They were meant to live long lives in peace.
“I am afraid not for myself, but for the death of friends, of family,” he added.
“It’s the natural order of things,” she said softly.
“Yes, if you’re lucky enough to die warm in your bed.” He thought of Finnicus, his eyes wide in shock, his lips struggling to form words as the blood bubbled in his mouth. “I don’t want to lose more friends to a blade or claw.”
“More?”
“I’d rather not talk about it.”
Ashalea understood. Whatever ghost of a memory haunted him, she had phantoms of her own. She studied Denavar carefully. She wanted to know this man more. Wanted to know how he worked, where he grew up, the memories he held. Perhaps, if they survived, he’d let her.
“I still think about my mother and father all the time,” she said suddenly. “If things were different and they were still alive, I might have hoped for their pride and joy. These days I just think about their deaths and the amount of blood that’s since been shed. I think about vengeance and dark things. What does that say about me? What if it’s all for nothing, Denavar?”
He took her hand and squeezed. “You were placed on this path for a reason, Ashalea. You are a Guardian. You’re meant for great things. There is darkness in all of us; the difference is what we do with it. You’re a good person. Kind, caring and loyal. Your parents would certainly be proud of that.”
She scoffed. “Which ones.”
He smiled sorrowfully. “Both.”
Ashalea’s emerald green eyes searched his piercing blue ones. He was lost in a memory again, mind drifting to other days. His mouth grimaced slightly, and she squeezed his
hand again.
“We can win this fight, Denavar. It’s a good plan.”
“It’s not enough,” he snapped, his fingers agitating the corners of the blueprint. “We have less than a thousand men and women here and many are unfit to carry a sword, let alone wield Magicka efficiently.”
“There’s always a way, Denavar. We’ve proved that much is true so far.”
He released her hand and swiped the contents of the table onto the ground angrily, grunting in frustration. Silence drifted awkwardly, and he glanced over apologetically.
“I’m sorry. The last time there was a fight, I… well it didn’t end well. I’m not a soldier, I shouldn’t be leading battle campaigns.”
Ashalea smiled. “I don’t know, I think you make a fine general. A beard, a few battle scars and a uniform to clip with boastful badges on and you’d look quite the part.”
The grin returned. “I always look the part.”
◆◆◆
The hour was late and Ashalea spent yet another restless night alone with her thoughts. After endless tossing and turning she threw off the covers in frustration and plonked down in a nook by the overbearing window. The view was beautiful. Her room overlooked the gardens bearing west; rolling green pastures filling the distance between the great lake that glimmered not so far away.
She could see the waterfall frothing happily in the distance, hiding the path to Windarion. Below, orange pinpricks of light scattered the grounds— testament to the mages preparing humble defences and manning posts as they kept watch for the darkness.
Her elvish ears pricked as a creak at the door alerted her to a presence. In two graceful leaps she was behind it in an instant, scimitar at the ready. Not one second after the door opened and closed, she was at the intruder’s back, the blade taut against their throat.
“Sorry, wrong room,” the voice jibed.
“Denavar!” Ashalea breathed. “You should know sneaking up on an elf is a bad idea.”
“Can’t say I’ve ever tried but duly noted,” he said. “Are you going to lower that thing?” His eyes darted to the blade still firmly pointed at his neck.
“What are you doing here?”
“A complicated question. Preparing for war, trying to foil the darkness, saving the world, you know, just being my usual heroic self,” he grinned. “Actually, it’s pretty simple.”
Always so arrogant. Ashalea raised a brow. “No, I mean here, in my room?”
“Now that’s easy enough to answer.” He lowered her hand, turned and lifted her against the wall, one hand firmly around her waist, the other on the nape of her neck.
He kissed her with a fiery lust that burned brighter than ever before. His lips were needy, yearning for every inch of her body and she, so full of emotional turmoil, realised how quick she was to reciprocate.
The blade clattered to the floor, and she squeezed her thighs around his waist as he carried her to the bed. He threw her back gently, admiring the view. Her silver hair curled in soft tangles down her back, a simple white shift working wonders for her shape. His eyes grazed over her appreciatively, drinking in the curves, the smoothness of her skin, the fullness of her lips.
He noticed the doubt in her eyes and sat gently on the bed. “Ashalea, what’s wrong?”
Her cheeks stained a rosy pink. “I’m not. I haven’t… you know.” She cast her eyes down.
Denavar took her chin in one hand and kissed her gently. “I know.” He began pecking her neck and made his way down to her collarbone, his fingers climbing her legs, past her navel and to trace the arc of her breasts.
He paused. “We don’t have to do this you know. If we died tomorrow, I’d be the happiest man to have spent my last night with you.”
She smiled, and all her feelings came jumbling into place; the last sliver of uncertainty washed away and replaced with something undeniable. She had repressed it for so long, unsure of what to do with it, but the feeling would be held back no longer. So that’s what this is.
The words spilled out of her mouth before she could stop them. “I love you,” she blurted.
His smile was all teeth, blue eyes twinkling. “You really do not understand, the effect you have on me. It’s one thing I love about you too.”
Ashalea could have died in that moment, but she wasn’t ready yet. There was something she needed to know first. She perched on her knees and slipped Denavar’s tunic over his head, unbuttoning his shirt. His skin rippled with muscle, deliciously warm. She raced her hands along it and pulled him closer.
He lifted the shift from her body, laughing as her arm got stuck halfway through, leaving her exposed as she wriggled to get out. His eyes found the scar on her belly, a white pucker, stark against her skin.
Ashalea shivered as he traced a finger over it, then as he kissed the mark.
“Did he give this to you?”
It was obvious who he meant. Ashalea nodded.
“I will never let him hurt you again.”
He pulled her down the cot and she giggled nervously. His face lost all the boyish charm and grew serious. The moonlight bathed his impeccable jawline, the open lips, the wavy surface of his chiselled chest and abs.
He drew her close and kissed her with a practiced mouth. He touched her in places she thought worthy of a crime. She mewed with excitement and all thoughts drifted away until nothing but her body and his drove her. They melted together, entwined like two pieces of a puzzle. And he was the missing one that made it whole.
◆◆◆
Two elves lay together, satisfied and at peace for the first time in months; him sprawled across the bed, her curled in his lap, snoozing with the slightest of snores. He found it terribly amusing, but he kept it to himself. A little luxury in a world of pain and, well, impending doom supposedly.
Her eyes fluttered open, and a freckled nose crinkled as she yawned. It was the most restful sleep she’d had in days, even if it were just a few short hours. She propped herself up on one elbow and smiled. “Paint a picture why don’t you?”
He smiled. “Just enjoying the view.”
Ashalea nuzzled in closer, feeling the rhythmic beat of his heart, the slightest hint of peppermint gracing her nose as his chest steadily rose and fell. He stroked silver threads away from her face and she peered up at him with emerald eyes.
“You know, when the darkness comes, many of these people will die. Some barely older than children.” She shuddered at the thought.
“Way to ruin the romance,” he teased.
“I’m just saying, it’s not going to be pretty. I’m not sure if it’s possible to un-see something like that. To forget.”
“War is never kind, Ashalea.”
She scowled. “I just wish we were more prepared. These mages aren’t soldiers. They wouldn’t know battle if it hit them in the face… Which it will. With a huge axe. Or teeth or claws or—”
“Do you call yourself a soldier?”
“Well, no,” she admitted, “but I know that when the time comes, I will fight until my last breath, and I’ll take down as many as I can with me. I am not afraid to face him.”
He studied her. “You want to, don’t you? To face him?”
Ashalea’s teeth clenched as she considered. “Yes. He killed my parents. Before all of this began, all I ever wanted was a chance to do them justice.”
“Ashalea…” he began.
“No, Denavar. I made a promise to avenge my parents’ deaths. Guardian or not, I will see this through. And I would die before I let him hurt any more friends.” She took his hand in hers. “My family.”
He opened his mouth to reply when a bell tolled, sounding the alarm for the darkness.
“He’s here,” she whispered.
“Well then,” Denavar said grimly. “You might just get your chance.”
Chaos
The hallways were a cacophony of panicked people. Mages bustled against each other as they scrambled to their positions, eyes wide with fear, some shedding a few quiet
tears as they embraced friends for perhaps the last time.
Ashalea and Denavar made their way through the chaos into the gardens of the southern entrance where soldiers dutifully stood to attention. Wezlan was at the front line, barking orders as fast as the faction representatives could nod. After commands were received, they scurried like mice in four directions. Above, archers lined the slits of every balcony, ready to rain wood and steel onto every foe.
The army was assembled in an orderly fashion, hand-to-hand militia in front, long range just behind, followed by mages in the rear and archers overhead. The faces of men and women trembled behind crude helms, their armour less steel and leather than homespun and wood.
Squadrons were arranged in groups of two hundred, tightly knit to avoid gaps in the lines. Spikes and pitfalls had been hastily dug into the grounds; a last line of defence before the full-frontal attack. And who knows what fiends would accost them tonight?
Wezlan had an idea. He had faced many creatures in his long human life, and all he could do was pray that the mages would hold the line when the creatures appeared.
The grounds were silent. The shaky rise and fall of oxygen inhaling and exhaling the lungs of trembling mages was the only sound in the night. It was still dark, and the moon was full, cold and indifferent to the woes of men and women. It shone brilliant in the sky and illuminated a sight most terrible to behold.
A bright blue bubble merged into focus, the sizzling liquid pooling to form a perfect round hole. As the last liquid filled the gaps, the chaos began anew.
Monster after monster spat out from its mouth, twisted creations from other dimensions. They hobbled, slithered and stomped out of the portal, and with a sickening pang Ashalea realised many of them represented the stone statues on the Isle of Dread.
Their wretched bodies writhed unnaturally, faces contorted with cruel expressions and jutting fangs. They shrieked and gargled as they formed lines one after another— an endless stream of black shapes, much like a swarm of angry hornets against a summer sky.