A Sea of Cinders

by Adam Bishop

  “We have no other options,” Fordro replied. “Do what you can!”

  Aleister removed a bundle of acorn-sized buds from his robes and cupped them in his hands. Within seconds, a plume of smoke rose out of them. He tossed one a few feet in front of them, leaving a trail of smoke between him and the kindled bud. Fordro was confused—but what came next quelled his doubts. The pyromancer reached out to the trail of smoke. When his hand met the grey fog lingering before him, a small flame raced through the smoke back toward the burning bud. It set off a sizable burst of flames.

  “Run ... now!” Aleister urged.

  Fordro and his remaining Braxi infantry followed Aleister as he led them toward the Elven keep. Aleister did his best to time each throw so that a constant wall of fire followed them as they ran to safety. Flaming arrows darted past them as they ran. Most of them missed, but a few unlucky Braxi fell to the ground in agony, left to die.

  Fordro spotted a door up ahead and gave the signal to continue forth. He and his men smashed into the door, sending an explosion of splinters through the air and a tumble of men to the floor. It wasn’t until the last of the soldiers came running in that Fordro realized he had lost more than half of his infantry.

  “Is that it then? Is that all?” Fordro asked eyeing a soldier nearest the door. His company was now pitifully small.

  “The rest have fallen, Your Grace,” the soldier answered.

  Fordro continued to stare out of the door. He pictured a ghostly batch of Braxi spilling in through the broken doorway—but he knew to rid himself of such naïve imaginations. A handful of his former infantry was all that remained. Somehow, Fordro felt they would be enough.

  “My brother, Your King, has led us to certain victory. He and the rest of our brothers have slain nearly all the Elves in this kingdom by now. Let us not miss out on all the fun. We will show the Elves why the Braxi are feared by all!”

  Much like his brother, Fordro’s words helped strengthen the spirits of his men. He then gathered his courage and began leading his remaining soldiers through the long hallway before them. As they neared the end of the hallway, a loud shattering sound echoed out behind them. A group of Elves were standing at the broken doorway, tossing small clay pots toward them. It wasn’t until Aleister saw one of the Elves draw a flaming arrow that he realized what was going on.

  “Pitch,” he mumbled to himself in terror. “It’s pitch! They mean to burn us out!” he told Fordro.

  The Prince’s eyes widened with fear. Before he could act, the flaming arrow was set loose and the back of the hallway lit up like the mouth of a dragon. The Elves continued to feed the fire as it closed in on the remnants of Fordro’s brigade.

  Finally, Fordro reached the door at the opposite end of the hallway. But it was locked. The Elves have outsmarted us, he thought. We are stuck, locked in a burning hallway and fated to die by the very thing that helped us make it this far. Fordro found himself blinded by the fear of defeat. He could hear the screams of his men closest to the fire, and he knew if he didn’t act soon they would all die as those prisoners had in the forest of Rhan.

  “You!” Fordro shouted, pointing to a soldier behind him. “Give me your axe!” The soldier tossed the axe, which Fordro took to the door. He swung against it with all his might, as the fire drew closer with every swing. The Braxi inched closer and closer together, attempting to avoid the flames—but it was no use. Their black armour was not made to withstand the unrelenting heat that danced and licked at their backs. They would perish soon if nothing was done. Extinguished like a human wick meeting its end

  Fordro hacked at the door relentlessly, but the Elves had reinforced the door from the other side. The screams of his men tore at his soul. The deafening sound of pain and panic grew louder and louder as he hacked at the door. Once he finally managed to cut a hole big enough to peer through, four arrows came shooting in at them without hesitation. “They’re waiting for us on the other side,” Fordro said to Aleister. “Do you have any more of those explosive balls of tinder?”

  A devious smile grew on Aleister’s face. He opened a leather satchel hanging from his side and pulled out a large bud the size of his fist. “I was hoping to use this,” he said with a grin. “Stay low. This one packs a bit more of a punch.”

  Aleister brought the larger bud to the brink of combustion and tossed it through the hole Fordro had made. When he brought his hand up to the trail of smoke left behind, Fordro then saw that four small flames flickered on the ends of his fingertips.

  The ensuing explosion shook the hallway and loosened the barricade. The Elves on the other side were dead now, like their fallen brothers outdoors.

  Fordro managed to break through after his next few swings, but he was too late. Only three of his men were still alive. The hallway was that of a nightmare. The walls and ceiling were blackened from the flames and a heaping pile of half-dead soldiers lay burning inside of their glowing suits of hot armour. The sight on the other side of the door was no better. Limbs decorated the room, and it was still set ablaze from Aleister’s onslaught. It was hard to tell just how many Elves there were in total. It hardly mattered, as none were left alive.

  Fordro turned to thank Aleister for saving them, but immediately a look of confusion fell over his face. For whatever reason, their pyromancer was drinking from his waterskin. “Aleister? What are you doing? Is that not Malign Oil?” he asked.

  Instead of answering, Aleister walked across the room and grabbed one of the torches from the wall. He turned around to face Fordro and the three remaining Braxi. Then he brought the torch up to his face and blew out a mist of oil from his mouth. A huge stream of fire engulfed Fordro and his three men. Their screams filled the room.

  “And then there was one,” Aleister said, staring into the eyes of the burning prince.

  ***

  The sound of death by steel approached. Lord Brannor sat in the throne room, waiting to meet his unseen enemy.

  A loud crack and crash welcomed both Dadro and his Braxi soldiers into the Elven throne room. Lord Brannor burst from his throne, sword in hand. His guard readied themselves in a mirroring fashion.

  “A shepherd and his flock,” Dadro said with a sinister glare. “Would you see all your men fall this day, or shall we settle things the old way, as real kings do?” he asked, holding his stare.

  Lord Brannor unlatched his sheath and slowly made his way down the stone steps descending from his throne. “Fall back,” he told his Elven guard. “Artorias alone shall decide our fate this day.”

  Brannor’s willingness to fight ruler to ruler forced Dadro to smile. He removed his rams head helm and approached Lord Brannor with a slow circling step. Both the Elves and the Braxi watched impatiently as they circled each other. Dadro was the first to act, unleashing a fury of swings. They came within inches of hitting the Elven Lord. Brannor answered back with a calculated attack of sword and footwork alike. However, unlike Dadro, Brannor connected on more than one of his swings, leaving Dadro’s armour lacerated with silver reminders of his skill.

  “You can dull your blade all you want, woodling. Your steel will never cut through the black iron of the north,” Dadro taunted.

  Brannor calmed his urge to charge forward, continuing to evade every attack thrown at him. Instead of going in for the kill, he decided to learn Dadro’s techniques. He was mapping out when the northern King left himself open, calculating the speed at which he threw his attacks. Just after Dadro followed through with a heavy overhead swing, Brannor saw an opening and tucked in an upward swipe. Dadro was left bloody from chin to ear.

  The dull pain Dadro felt reminded him of the true thrill of battle. Twenty years had passed since another warrior had cut him. He found great pleasure in a new wound—pleasure that ignited a lust for battle he had long forgotten.

  Dadro roared and charged toward Lord Brannor, lifting him off his feet and crushing him into one of the stone pillars lining the room. Brannor felt at least two of his ribs crack. His bac
k challenged the strength of the stone pillar pressing against his spine, and he fell to his knees. One of his Elven guards lunged forward in an attempt to aid him, but Dadro was quick to react. The Elf’s skull was no match for his steel war hammer.

  “Stand!” Dadro shouted. “On your feet, woodling. Die with honour, unlike your feeble Elven knights.”

  Brannor took in a few heavy breaths and gripped the hilt of his sword. An unfamiliar feeling fell over him. It was not rage, but determination. He had never been challenged like this before. Death had never felt so close. “An eagerness in a victor is a sign of weakness,” Brannor challenged in a voice half lost in pain. Then, unexpectedly, he shot up with a violent yet elegant onslaught of attacks. His sword danced through the air, weightlessly curving and slicing at all angles. Dadro quickly found himself caught off-guard. He was forced to switch into an unfamiliar defensive stance, and for the second time that night, Brannor’s blade drew Braxi blood.

  Dadro stumbled back, shocked to find the back of his right leg cut open just above the knee. It was the first glimpse of possible fatality he had faced in a long while, and it silenced him long enough for Brannor to salt the wound.

  “Every armour has its weakness; as does every King … though you are but a tyrant, born as weak as the bloodline that failed before you,” Brannor said with detest. He steadied his sword in front of him, asking his wounded assailant to continue the fight he had so impertinently asked for.

  Dadro felt more pain from the Elven Lord’s words than he did from his own wound. His face grew hot with rage. The weight of his war hammer grew comfortable in his hands once again. Both the Braxi and the Elven guard watched with bated breath and fast-beating hearts as the fight continued.

  ***

  Aleister rushed through the Elven Kingdom. He had searched countless hallways and gardens for the throne room, which he knew lay somewhere ahead. His only guide was the trail of dead Elves which he followed effortlessly, trying to ignore the beauty of the architecture as it mocked his every step.

  It wasn’t until he reached a grand, high-ceilinged hallway that he knew his destination was close. However, as he finally heard the distant sound of his King fighting, two armed Elven soldiers charged toward him. Calmly and swiftly, Aleister filled his mouth with a vile of oil and took hold of both his sword and file. When the Elven soldiers were about ten paces from him, he slid his sword along the file crating a cluster of sparks which he ignited with a mist of oil. Both of the Elves lit up like the trees of Rhan.

  He slithered into the throne room like a serpent stalking its prey, only to find his King struggling to defeat the Elven Lord of the wood. He watched as Dadro swung his war hammer again and again, only to be denied by the swift dodges of the Elven Lord. Aleister could already predict the fate of his King. It wasn’t hard to see. The Elf is simply waiting for him to grow tired, he thought. It was clear the fight was nearing an inevitable end, so Aleister began muttering a spell under his breath.

  “Seed of mine, seed of yours, burn the roots of mother’s ores. Seed of mine, seed of yours, burn the roots of mother’s ores.” He repeated these words over and over, his eyes fixed on Brannor the entire time.

  A swift deflection by Brannor left Dadro open for a killing blow, but just as the Elven Lord tried to thrust his sword forward, a searing pain shot up from his fingers to his shoulder. His sword fell from his hand as his right arm continued to burn. Suddenly, he could no longer move his arm. It simply hung at his side like a useless, limp appendage.

  Dadro was quick to act. Before anyone could make sense of what had happened, he brought his war hammer down on Brannor’s right shoulder. The strike crushed Brannor’s bone and dislocated his now useless sword arm from its socket.

  “Go on! Pick up your sword, woodling,” Dadro taunted. “What’s the matter? Can’t fight with your other arm?”

  A howling mix of laughter and cheers broke out from the audience of Braxi soldiers.

  “Kill ‘im!” they chanted. “Crush his skull! Kill ‘im, kill ‘im!”

  The Braxis words vexed what was left of the Elven guard as they watched from the other side of the room. Before any command could be given, the remaining Elves rushed forward in a final desperate attempt to save their Lord. Despite their courage, each and every one of them fell before their final act of valour could be carried out. A few Braxi fell as well—but in the end, it was Dadro who had the numbers.

  Brannor watched as the last of his guard fell fighting for his honour. He felt more helpless than a bird with a broken wing. He knew this was his end, and he was prepared for death. He only hoped that his son would make it out alive, and that his message would reach the Viridian Veil.

  “Be on with it then. You have your victory. What are you waiting for?” Lord Brannor snarled.

  Dadro shook his head. “Kill you? No. You’re worth far more to me alive than dead. My victory today is the first of many. That’s where you come in. I need the Book of No Quarter, and you’re going to tell me where I can find it.”

  Brannor laughed aloud. “The Book of No Quarter? That’s what you desire? No one has been able to voice a single verse from its pages in one hundred years. Even if I knew where it was, what makes you think you could learn how to harness such power? You’re nothing more then an angry child in a man’s body. Sooner or later, you’ll share the same fate as your father.”

  Dadro clenched his teeth and struck Lord Brannor across the side of the head, knocking him unconscious. “Darith! Have all our dead burned and stripped of their armour. No trace of our presence should be left behind. And be sure to strip Lord Brannor of his armour before you leave. Place it on this one,” he said, plunging the Elven Lord’s sword into one of his fallen guardsmen. “We can’t have the Elves thinking Lord Brannor is still alive.”

  “Consider it done, Your Grace. I’ll make sure to leave a pleasant scene behind.”

  “Where is my brother? He should be here by now!” Dadro shouted to no one in particular.

  “He has fallen, Your Grace,” Aleister answered in a regrettable tone. “The Elves, they flanked us—”

  “Fallen?!” Dadro snapped, cutting the trembling Aleister off. “What the abyss do you mean? Is he dead? Speak! Tell me!”

  Aleister took a moment to collect his words. “The Elves … they pinned us in a hallway … they tried to burn us out. I did all I could to save Fordro, but the fire … it burns the likes of men faster than any servant of its own.”

  The glorious feeling of Dadro’s victory slipped away. The thought of losing his brother weakened his knees and brought a sickening feeling to his stomach. “How bad is it? Is there no chance of survival?”

  “He is badly burned, Your Grace … although, there is something I can try. An old medicine of my people. It will take some time, and I can’t promise he will recover … but for now, it’s all I know.”

  “Very well. Do all you can. My brother is strong. I know he can make it. Take me to him at once.”

  “Of course, Your Grace. I will do all I can for poor Fordro. This way. Follow me.” Aleister beckoned as he turned to lead his King out of the throne room.

  Dadro followed the pyromancer through the Elven Kingdom’s halls, dreading the sight soon to come.

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  A Haunting Reveal

  A long corridor stretched out in front of her. It was dark and eerily quiet. She knew some stark terror awaited her, but her only option was to continue forward.

  Aside from smell, her senses offered her little help. The air was damp with the musty scent of earth, and she also detected a hint of mold. She called out a few times, in every direction, but there came no answer. She felt around for something—anything—but her fingers only met rock.

  This near-blind, lonely walk continued for some time. She felt like she’d been walking through an endless void by the time she spotted it: There, far in the distance, was a single pinhole of light. She raced towards it—starving for change.

  But what
she found did not satisfy her desire. The light only led to a colossal cavern filled with corpses. Thousands of them packed the ghostly-lit room. She recoiled in horror, and when she did, her consciousness left her body.

  She now hovered over the mountain of corpses like a crow over a bloody battlefield. She no longer possessed control of her body, and she couldn’t look away if she tried. One by one, the corpses started moaning. It was subtle at first; but once they sensed her presence, they all begged her for death. Their pleading grew louder and louder, until soon it was unbearable.

  Just as she started wishing for death herself, everything went silent.

  A moment later, she heard footsteps and distant voices. She tried to cry out, but there was no use. Time and space had lost all meaning, and in an instant, she returned again to the corridor. Only now, she was surrounded by a small group of people. Then, again without warning, she was pulled away and shot back above the mountain of corpses. She had no control whatsoever now—all she could do was watch from a distance wherever she ended up. She then found herself looking down on two young men, and a second later she was overwhelmed by a surge of power. A bright light blinded her—within it, she could see the rough outline of a book.

  “Are you alright?” Galdrinor asked. “You’re covered in sweat.”

  Avolin answered with a meek nod. “Yes, I’ll be fine. Sorry, I was lost in my head for a moment.”

  “You look like you’re going to faint, Avolin. What did you see? I’d be more then happy to take a walk with you. We can return once the mortal’s have finished. I assure you Thinduill will understand.”

  “No. I appreciate your concern … but I must stay. You’ll understand soon enough.”

  ***

  “I won the race of course, but William impressed me nonetheless. He’s a novice rider, but he’s also a quick learner,” Baldric said. “After that, we brought the horses to a canter and enjoyed the view. The Hidden Plains are a sight to see. We rode for a short while more, then stopped to test our luck at fishing. Will here has the patience of ten men. Me on the other hand—not so much. Anyway, we caught dinner, rested for the night, and made our way to the Viridian Veil at the break of dawn. Now, here we are, in an Elven garden neighbouring the throne room. And I’m speaking to an Elven Lord and his council! To be honest this has been a dream of mine since—”