by Matthew Wolf
Darius hesitated but only for a moment. The elf had a way of getting to the point. With a breath, he snatched the reins. Stuffing down his hesitancy, he threw a leg over the beast, settling into the worn leather saddle. The gryphon shuffled beneath him, sensing his urgency or perhaps the fear that pounded through Darius as his hands shook upon the reins—but his heart felt like steel, calm even. Distantly, that strange leaf pulsed. Darius ushered the beast forward, and like the cormacs, it understood. Moving to the edge of the stone, it flapped its elegant, snowy wings ready to take off.
He paused, looking back to the elf whose expression was a mystery. “I have to know,” Darius said. “Who are you?”
“A friend to those who aid the queen, the rightful ruler of Eldas,” said the elf, and he nodded to the small trinket upon Darius’ breast that he had almost forgotten was there—the small, golden lacework remnant of a crown. It was Karil’s parting gift to Darius what felt like ages ago. But it had been in his pocket, how did it…? He realized he must have placed it there without thinking as he had been walking.
Fate, Darius cursed.
“Is Karil all right?” he asked.
“She is, but you won’t be if you don’t go, my friend.”
“Darius,” he offered, extending his hand as the gryphon teetered on the edge of the long drop.
The elf eyed it oddly, as if confused, and then took it at last. “Hadrian is my birth name.” The big elf swiveled calmly as the sounds of plate on stone echoed, and a dozen guards appeared on the small turret all bearing swords. The elf looked back, unperturbed. “Now it’s time you go, friend.”
“There’s too many,” Darius said, grabbing his leaf-blade. “You need help!”
The elf simply smiled. As if mad… “Good luck, Darius,” Hadrian intoned and, with that, he slapped the gryphon with the flat of his blade upon its rump, hard. With a screech from its bird maw, its talons pounded free from the stone tower, leaping into the air with astonishing grace. Gripping the reins in terror, Darius’ heart leapt into his throat, and he plummeted. Wind lashed at him, eyes watering as he dropped like a rock towards the roiling masses below, towards the clay buildings and colorful tents.
He screamed in the moment before the gryphon’s huge, white wings fanned wide, catching the wind. “DIIIIIIICE!!!!” Darius bellowed at the crowds, and his body jerked as if caught by a rope, then swooped upwards, settling into a glide over the masses’ heads. He gripped the beast’s fur and white feathers, pulling himself closer. “Never… do that… again…!” he shouted at his mount, yet, as the wind coursed over him, the crowds rushing by in a blur beneath, he found himself beaming, laughing into the wind. He flew like a tempest—knocking off hats and ruffling coats and cloaks.
But then a grim realization settled over him as he rose above, seeing the dark mass nearing, closer still, their approach inevitable. It was a sea of evil. He heard a rush of screams from the crowds below—men, women, and children, thousands of cries of terror. It was clear they had seen or heard the darkness as well and many were fleeing towards the gates.
It reminded Darius too much of Lakewood.
Never again, he vowed inwardly, eyes watering from the rushing wind. He squeezed his legs, pressing his mount faster with his will. It was time to find a different kind of creature altogether.
In the distance, he saw a green patch amid the endless tan desert.
A Node.
“C’mon,” Darius called to the creature beneath him as they soared over the land at dizzying heights. “Let’s find us a Matriarch to bond with.”
Facing the Enemy
RIDING TALL UPON HIS CORMAC, GRAY approached the colossal tan-colored gates. His pulse raced, memories coming back to him of that day long ago. He remembered it all—running through the streets, the fear of guards chasing him, and above all, the terror of Kirin losing his memories. His memories, that’s how he thought of it now. The memories of running and his fear were still fresh like a raw scab, but he put them aside, focusing on the gates ahead.
Gray knew this time it was different. This time, Morrowil was his, and most importantly, he wasn’t alone.
Ezrah, Ayva, Zane, and the others were at his side riding upon mounts—not to mention an army of Reavers and Devari, Jian at their lead. Not for the first time, he wished Darius were with him as well. Wherever the rogue was, he hadn’t taken his cormac, and they had left his elfin mount in the stables. He missed the rogue’s presence. But there was nothing to be done about it now. He trusted Ezrah was right and Darius was safe, whatever he was doing.
Around him, the city was alive with the shouts and chaos of fearful men and women. Citizens of Farbs swarmed the tan streets. The word of what raced to their doors, the terror beyond the walls, was now well spread. Many tried to escape but, ahead, the monolithic doors were shut. Tighter than a Landarian seal—he thought lightheartedly, thinking of Balder, the foolish stonemason. Ahead, the last of the Farbian guards had congregated to form a wall of flesh and steel in order to keep any from leaving.
The guards in red cloth and chainmail spotted them and lifted their tall pikes and halberds before spreading to either side, making way for the army of Reavers and Devari. Ezrah, at their head, commanded all eyes. Stillness followed his grandfather, but as he passed, whispers rippled through the crowds in his wake.
Murmurs of awe, most uttering a single word: “Arbiter…”
Ezrah didn’t slow. He lifted a finger and the gates split wide, revealing the desert beyond. They moved through, slowing at last. Through the mist of morning, Gray gazed upon that dark column as it hurtled closer, nearly upon them.
Darkwalkers.
He remembered Faye’s words: a Darkwalker’s touch is death. He shivered. And so many… Worse yet, he knew they had little to fend them off, and he looked back at the host of men and women, each battered and bruised—whether from the dungeons of the Citadel or the fight against Jian. They were a sorry lot, but instead of filling him with fear, it gave him hope. Despite all that they had faced, they still rose to fight again. Heart, he realized, that is what wins battles. With a breath, Gray ushered his cormac forward, and the others followed. He kept his head high, trying to show his strength of heart.
Ayva edged her cormac closer, joining his side, with Zane and Hannah close by.
“I wish Darius were here,” Ayva whispered.
“He won’t miss this,” Gray answered.
“Something’s wrong,” Ezrah announced ahead, drawing short. “This fog… it’s not right.”
Gray felt it too, as did the others. Mist swirled around his cormac’s feet rising from the desert sand, seeping around them. Gray breathed in the wet air, swiped at it and felt it cling to his skin. At his side, a miniature sun blossomed in Ayva’s hand making the white vapor hiss as it burned. But then her brow knit, the sun sputtered. The mist rushed in, swallowing it whole. “What is this?” she whispered, panicked.
“Enough,” Reaver Dagon said and lifted a hand blasting it with a bolt of fire. The fire sizzled the fog, but again it returned as if unharmed. Dagon’s noble features went slack. “What is this madness?”
“It’s regenerating,” Ethelwin answered.
“Clearly,” said another Reaver, “but why?”
More mist rose from the ground, thickening, and the Devari slashed at it, but where they struck it formed again. It was everywhere, rising from the sand like a living entity, turning the desert into a fog-filled graveyard.
But Gray knew.
“We cannot fight what we cannot see,” he whispered.
* * *
The gryphon’s powerful wings beat as it settled to the ground. Darius leapt off without waiting. The beast cawed, and he looked back to the giant creature. “Wait here,” he ordered, ushering with a hand. He heard clawing upon the dark mulch and looked back to see the beast’s birdlike head tilted, blinking in confusion. He growled, realizing the beast had taken a sudden liking to him. “I’m flattered, really, but I can’t have you scaring off… whatever this th
ing is, all right?”
Darius reached out, feeling the Leaf pulse in his mind. Vines from a nearby tree lifted, curling around the gryphon’s feathered white neck like a collar. That’ll do, he thought smugly. “I’ll be back soon, I promise.”
With that, he took off running.
The air hummed with enchanting music, and gold motes of the spark still danced before his eyes, but something felt off. He eyed the trees, bushes and ground. Dark vines with feathered moss clung to old trees—strange, black-barked things. They stooped, their branches stewing in puddles of fetid water, like hunched, old men reaching for a drink. He smelled mildew as the air grew clammy. Of course, life still flourished, simply a different kind of life. A huge, black beetle the size of his hand strolled across his path, and he grimaced in disgust. Before he could sidestep it, a snake that had looked like a vine snapped out, encircling the black-shelled insect in its coil.
“Why couldn’t it be one of the other bright and shiny Nodes?” he grumbled aloud but pressed on. He unsheathed his leaf-blade. As he did, he noticed the green seemed to shine brighter, the air smelled cleaner.
Suddenly, there was a screech—loud and fierce, though followed by a child-like wail. Darius’ pulse raced, grip tightening on his sword. It’s here, he thought, remembering the call. But why the human cry? Deep down, he knew. It’s baiting me.
Darius pressed forward, moving into the clearing beyond. “Well, this is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he called, turning in a full circle, arms outstretched. But there was no answer. Only an eerie silence. “If you truly are a matriarch of these creatures, come and get me!” he beckoned. As he looked around, he noticed the sudden stillness. No insects or birdcalls, and even the gold motes were absent. He swallowed. His arms trembled as the ground pulsed.
Slowly, Darius twisted.
As he did, he looked down to see his legs trapped in a strange white film. Ayva had warned him about it in the desert, but only now it appeared. A thump sounded from behind, louder, rattling his bones.
The footstep of something huge.
He pulled at his leg, hard, nearly feeling the knee pop, but nothing changed. Instead, he sank deeper. No, he cursed. He pulled harder and faster, trying to claw his way free, but the sticky sand stuck to his hand and trapped his arm. Anger, frustration and terror grew as he attempted to free himself, now frantic.
Again, it thumped, louder still, nearly upon him.
He gripped his blade tighter, palms sweaty and trembling.
Closing his eyes, he felt a hot, rancid breath tickle the hairs upon his neck. Slowly, twisting his head, he uttered a silent prayer and opened his eyes. It was the face of a colossal white beast. Large, swirling white eyes blinked at him, and its large maw opened, saliva dripping from long fangs.
Still, he clenched his blade painfully tight.
Just then, there was another screech. A white figure descended from above, crashing down in a flurry of feathers and dirt. His gryphon landed between him and the huge Matriarch. He grinned. “You!” Just then, the matriarch cried out, thundering forward, but the gryphon cried and flapped its wings, blowing wind and dust at the monstrosity that was many times its size. Immediately, Darius knew the gryphon was no match for the Matriarch, but it was buying him time to escape. He felt the Leaf pulse in his mind again.
With the Leaf in his mind, he reached out and grabbed huge feathery vines, lashing them to his wrists. He pulled with all his might, grunting as he painstakingly pried himself free from the sticky white film.
The gryphon slashed in a terrible flurry of claws and feathers. At the same time, the matriarch raised a huge limb. Talons the size of great swords glinted, ready to strike. Vines shot forth, hundreds of them, embracing the Matriarch, but it roared, snapping free of their bonds.
“No!” Darius bellowed, reaching out a hand.
Then something happened he never expected.
The Matriarch stopped.
The gryphon’s chest heaved in exhaustion, ready still to defend itself to the death, but the Matriarch’s blow wavered. Cautiously, Darius stepped forward. He placed a hand upon his mount’s lion-like haunch. “Thank you,” he uttered, and the gryphon snorted, bucking its head. And it strode forward, taking its place to stand before the matriarch.
The terrifying beast snarled. Its swirling white eyes looked like clouds in motion. But Darius saw confusion in them, even curiosity. “I need your help,” he said, unsure what he was doing, but it felt right. “Many are going to die and soon… With your aid, we can save them.” The beast cocked its head. “You may not be able to speak, but I know you can understand me.”
The Matriarch’s broad chest puffed in and out with huge breaths, enough to power a ship’s sails. It raised its huge talon once more. This time, Darius didn’t fight. He bowed his head and uttered solemnly:
Four for the warrior of fire
Whose strength is fueled by ire.
But all will fall upon the sands,
If nature does not find the balance.
For only the fated bonder of light,
Can slay the undying Dark.
The Matriarch roared in response, a terrifying bellow. “Please,” Darius whispered clenching his eyes, waiting for it all to end.
Mist and Madness
FINN STAGGERED THROUGH THE MADNESS.
His whole body ached, the spark draining him as surely as a day spent working the Devari forms. Though what gave him hope and confidence was Meira. She moved at his side, using threads of flesh to disable thieves, or sand to blind them as Devari clashed with dark Reavers, their soulwed blades cutting spells from the air with ease. He had witnessed the talent and dexterity of those men, and was glad they were on his side this time.
Abruptly, a dark Reaver—Ingard—leapt from the mist, throwing a bolt of fire at the two, and Finn wiped the man’s fire away dismissively while Meira cast threads of flesh, buckling his legs.
“Where is he?” Meira questioned the man in a dark tone, violence in her eyes.
Ingard laughed. “He will end you and your pathetic flock, Meira.”
Meira sighed and waved a hand sending threads of searing flesh through the man, cutting at his nerves. Ingard cried out, quivering in pain. “I’ll ask again, where is Sithel?”
Ingard trembled but shook his head. Upon his scarlet robes, a mockery of his station, were two-stripes. He was no match for two three-stripe Reavers. “You won’t get anything out of him,” Finn said again with a sigh. “The pawns never know where the king is held.”
She scowled at him of all things, and then flicked a hand. Ingard’s eyes rolled to the back of his head and he collapsed, unconscious.
“You shouldn’t scowl,” he remarked. “It doesn’t suit your pretty face.”
She scowled deeper if anything. She really is beautiful, he thought, even in this madness. Her dark hair framed her thin, furrowed brow and sharp features, but her eyes held intelligence and integrity deeper than he had ever seen.
“We’ll find him,” he told her, with a reassuring touch. “I swear it.”
* * *
Gray moved like a tempest.
As much as possible, he avoided Darkeye’s men, leaving them to Jian and the other Devari, but wherever he found Darkwalkers he stopped, attacking with abandon. He heard screams through the white fog of men and women. Suddenly, searing claws lanced out of the mist, reaching for him. Gray sucked in his gut and the claw burned his clothes, barely missing his own evisceration. Gray cut blindly. Morrowil sliced the fog and a Darkwalker screeched. With a casual wave of his hand, Gray blew away the nearby mist to reveal the bleeding creature—a strange, insect-shaped head with a dozen eyes gleamed lifelessly. The creature’s many limbs, like large black knives the length of his arm, twitched in the throes of death.
A dozen, he counted, adding up his kill toll of the foul creatures.
“Ayva!” he called, but there was no answer, only mist and the muted cries of war. “Zane!” he shouted louder, but still nothing. Abrupt
ly, he saw a horse bolt through the mist. He prayed the others were all right, and when he glimpsed flashes of fire and sunlight, he hoped it was them.
With that, he gripped Morrowil tighter, cleaving his way through the fog, searching for both his friends and for the foul blood of more Darkwalkers. If I can kill them all, then maybe this madness will end. The desperate thoughts sounded too much like something Kail would have said.
Suddenly, Reavers appeared at his side, and he raised his sword as if to cut.
“It’s me!” the voice sounded, female and strong. Gray let his rage subside as he recognized Meira.
Gray lowered Morrowil but did not apologize.
Meira released a worried breath. “By the Star of Magha, I’m glad to see it’s you, Gray. I saw you slay that Darkwalker and thought you were a demon of neither side,” she confessed. “But I’m glad to find that you are on ours. An Arbiter’s grandson indeed.”
The way she said the words made Gray shiver. “I barely know which side I’m on in this chaos. I can’t see a thing.”
Finn appeared at her side, sword in hand. He thought it strange the Reaver bore a sword, having seen his prowess with the spark. But the man appeared a capable swordsman, his fighting side told him. “Are you all right?” the three-stripe Reaver asked.
He nodded. “I am, but where’s Ezrah?”
“Fighting beside Jian and his Devari against a legion of Darkwalkers that I would not dare to face if there were a hundred of me,” the man answered, pushing his red-scarlet headband up to pull the hair out of his eyes.
“Your friends?” Meira asked, concern in her dark eyes.
Gray shook his head. He’d lost Ayva in the beginning of the fight, and Zane had seen Darkeye and chased after him like a cerabul—he envisioned in his mind a large, black animal with a temper like an unquenchable fire. His memories.
Abruptly, a group of thieves wearing the bloodshot eye appeared from the mist and leapt at them. Finn reached out his arm. A wave of fire rushed towards the men. But Gray tapped into the nexus, waved his hand, and a gust of wind snuffed the fire. In the same gesture, he pulled deeper and wrapped the men in flows of wind, holding them in place. Paces away, the thieves’ eyes were wide, swords still raised like statues. “There is no need to kill them,” he proclaimed firmly. But his body sagged from the effort, and part of him, the Kirin side, wished Finn had just killed the men. It would have been easier, at least.