A voice shouted, one she recognised, but took a while to place.
‘Averen?’ she cried, wafting at the smoke and choking. ‘Where are you?’
She could feel him in the Flow, the familiar glow of his aura was somewhere ahead, but she couldn’t see him.
‘Our sacred land is falling!’ He shouted, then screamed.
The High Wizard’s magic surged, a wave of light in the Flow that was swiftly swallowed up in the black maw of the Under Flow. Everything felt like it was falling, as if she stood on the roof of a house that was collapsing beneath her. The smoke and the Under Flow dragged her down with them in a tide she couldn’t fight.
Naksu smiled as she walked the empty path to her house in the centre of Oray. It was very quiet and everyone was in bed. Issa would be a great seer, more than a seer; a wizard and a witch as well. She would bring great changes.
Naksu had never thought wizards and seers might become one again, nor dared to believe the orbs and the magic of the world would be reunited—but now, she did. And it opened up a whole world of possibilities, of realities, if they just dared to take a leap of faith.
She stopped beside a stone water basin cut into the rock to catch the spring, and scooped the fresh water to her mouth. Like all the spring water on Myrn, it was deliciously pure, and this one had been cooled by being run through rocks.
A red glimmer in the depths caught her eye and she reached a hand down to it, thinking someone had dropped something.
Flames spread across the water as the vision engulfed her. Fire raged all around, burning great ancient trees whose outstretched limbs became a canopy of tormented yellow and orange above. A wall of intense heat hit her. The trees screamed in agony. Naksu covered her ears and wailed.
People’s voices joined the tree’s screams of pain. Flame covered figures ran and staggered between the trees, many collapsing as the fires consumed them. She glimpsed faces, elven faces, filled with agony and terror. They ran everywhere but there was nowhere to go that wasn’t on fire.
The Under Flow seeped forwards, a black carpet in the Flow, smothering any magic they might have been able to cast. Naksu gasped in the heat, the smoke and the black magic, each breath becoming harder and hotter. Her throat burned.
A terrible voice boomed, shuddering her organs and the ground beneath her feet. She tried to scream but only a rasp came out. The Under Flow covered all, turning everything to black.
Naksu sank to the ground beside the water basin, gasping and clawing at her still burning throat. Her whole body shaking, she dragged herself up and staggered to Iyena’s house.
10
Elven Fall
A thousand elven voices wailed in pain, wrenching Averen from restful dreams.
He fought to awaken. The Under Flow was all around him trying to drag him under, and his lungs were filled with choking smoke and the horrible smell of burning flesh.
A voice of terror boomed in his mind, the heavy, airy, scouring words of Baelthrom were too distorted to make out. Fear slithered through every fibre in his body. Shouting an Elven spell-breaking command, he tore himself out of the dream and threw himself from his bed. Crouching on the floorboards on all fours, he remained there panting and gasping.
It felt like an eternity before the Under Flow receded. Finally, the smoke in his chest cleared and the clamouring of thousands of terrified voices dimmed.
‘The Land of Mists is in perilous danger,’ he breathed, dragging himself up.
His hands shaking so much he could barely dress; he went over the words of the translocation spell to Myrn in his mind. Hopefully, the seers would not mind his abrupt arrival. Scrawling a note to Harrodan, he hoped the man would not be offended by his sudden leave from his plain but extensive manor house in western Lans Himay.
Averen set the quill down and took hold of his staff. With it, he drew the rings of earth, water, fire and air, forming the swirling vortex around him, and reached out to Iyena or any member of the Trinity that might be open to his call. Having no time for greetings or such niceties, he plunged himself recklessly into the translocation.
The spell was violently fast, executed hastily, and he vomited as he materialised on the Northern Isle of Tirry. Sinking onto the grass on legs that were unable to hold him, Averen wiped the perspiration from his brow. It was dark, save for the glowing amber crystals arranged in a large circle around him. The crystals flashed once brightly as he arrived and then dimmed. He smoothed his hair back, his hands still shaking, the terror of his people still wrenching his heart.
He glanced down the hill over the tops of apple trees and made out the dark blue flatness of the ocean. Upon it was a tiny boat with a lantern heading towards the island. Iyena already on her way to meet him, he thought. Did he have time to wait for her? He tried to stand but his head spun so much he was forced back down. By the time the sickness and dizziness had cleared, he could see Iyena’s glowing staff making its way through the trees.
‘Hail, High Wizard Averen,’ Iyena greeted him, breathing hard as she strode swiftly up the hill, fit despite her age. ‘What has happened?’ She gave him a half smile, clearly pleased to see him but sensing ill tidings as she passed him a flagon of water.
Averen took it gratefully and gulped it down.
‘My apologies, Seer Iyena, I was dragged from my sleep and my bed with nightmare visions, and came here not a moment later. The elves are in terrible danger.’
‘Naksu came to me with a vision just before I received the touch of your translocation spell. She was so distressed; I knew something was terribly wrong. Show me what you have seen.’
He licked his lips, keen to get going, but stepped forwards anyway and laid a hand upon her forehead. In his mind, he recalled everything he’d witnessed: the smoke and fire, the Under Flow, the terror of his people and Baelthrom’s voice.
Iyena gasped and he dropped his hand.
‘Naksu said over and again, “the elves, the elves”.’ Iyena’s face was grim. ‘Do what you must. You know where the elven tree is. Our promise to protect Sheyengetha will remain until the end of days and we are all dead and gone. This you know.’
‘I hope it will never come to that,’ Averen said, bowing.
‘I’ll alert the Trinity. They’ll come with others to help in whatever way we can.’
Averen nodded his gratitude. There was no time to say more, and he whirled away, heading straight into the forest of oaks and evergreens without even trying to find a path. He ran where he could across the grass and earth, and used elven magic to assist his leaps over fallen boughs, crevices, and rocky hillocks.
He glanced up at the sky for a moment. The last orange sliver of Woetala’s waning moon was barely visible. Blessed Woetala, am I already too late? He swallowed the lump that rose in his throat and pushed on faster until he burst into a clearing where what lay before him brought his flight to a halt so suddenly that he nearly fell over.
‘Oh my!’
He stared in awe at the beauty before him. Fireflies danced around the giant blue oak tree. Its bark was a soft sheen of pale teal in the diffuse light of the quartz crystal. The tree was as wide as it was tall, its great branches—themselves as big as trees—stretching across the grass. Every leaf was perfectly formed, rich green and free from disease or blemish. Irises clustered around its base, bowing gracefully in the breeze.
An elven tree planted here eons ago by the elves as a symbol of peace and unity with humans. How funny that it was here where the elves had left for the Land of Mists. He wondered if the humans back then had known it was a gateway—open to chosen elves only, but a gateway to another world nonetheless.
The crystal glowed brighter as he, an elf, came closer. Blinking back tears for the exodus of his race, he laid a hand on the tree’s illuminated bark. The ancient tree acknowledged him with joyful, welcoming feelings. He leant forwards, pressing his forehead against the bark, feeling great wisdom and gentleness far exceeding his own emanating from the tree.
‘Great, wise Sheyengetha. I know the way is sealed against me for choosing to remain and not follow my kin. But, Sheyengetha, remember I said when they left that I would enter should there ever be dire need? That time is now. My people are in terrible danger and I beg you to let me through to do what I can before it is too late. I am the only wizard on Maioria who might have the power to save them.’
‘Averen,’ the tree spoke in a voice deep and whispering and filled with the ancient knowledge of the Wild Wood. Averen bowed his head in honour. ‘Perhaps it is already too late.’ There was deep sorrow in its voice as its great trunk began to shimmer and glow bright, becoming less substantial as the gateway opened.
‘Thank you, Sheyengetha,’ said Averen, bowing deeply. He held both hands up and reached into the light within Sheyengetha’s trunk. The air tingled as he stepped forwards.
Averen emerged into a world of chaos. Gone were the Land of Mist’s beautiful gold and silver trees he’d longed for centuries to see again. Gone the gentle sunlight, the crystal clear streams, the peace and the serenity.
Instead, the trees were raging furnaces of death and black rain fell from the darkness seeping across the sky. Where it fell the ground hissed, smoke billowed and the grass wilted and turned grey.
Averen whirled around, eyes wide in disbelief. Elves screamed and ran in all directions, darker silhouettes against the flaring yellow of a giant furnace, scrambling away from falling boughs of fire, trying to shield themselves from the devastating black rain. Where it touched, skin blistered and blackened.
A Dread Dragon screeched overhead. Averen collapsed onto his knees, his guts trembling. He couldn’t see the beast for the smoke covering the sky. Within the flames, he heard the growls of death hounds, the shouts of Maphraxies.
The Under Flow moved. Baelthrom was near. Averen was too late. He had to focus on saving those he could. Whatever he did in the Flow would quickly draw the Immortal Lord’s attention to him. His hands shook.
Risking his own life, he raised a finger and drew the Elven Shield symbol in the air. The Flow crawled beside the Under Flow to do his bidding. A shimmering purple shield flickered before him, rising and expanding, pushing back the fire and the black rain.
‘Elves, come to me! I am Averen,’ he used the Elven Voice, feeling it boom and reverberate through the chaos. All elves would hear him, he prayed Baelthrom would not. Those closest faltered and looked about. Seeing the purple shield, they pointed and ran to it; parents struggling to carry their children, others staggering with terrible wounds, exposed bones and dripping with blood. Desperation drove them on, all tried to get to his oasis.
‘What are you doing?’ a voice screamed from the trees.
Averen turned. The King of the Elves ran towards him, his pastel robes in tatters, his hands clenched into bloodied fists, his face a mask of fury.
‘Daranarta,’ Averen smiled.
‘You are banished from this place, traitor!’
The hatred in Daranarta’s eyes made Averen take a step back and his magic shield wobbled. He refocused his attention on it. A young elf girl, her dress smoking, staggered into the safety of the shield, followed by her parents. They were all blackened and bloody, their eyes full of a terror they hadn’t known in centuries. At least they were still standing.
Daranarta rounded on him and pushed him.
‘I came to warn you about a terrible premonition but I am too late,’ said Averen, seeking to calm the livid king. ‘Why have you not abandoned this place?’
‘Abandoned? You fool! This is our home. There is nowhere else to go!’ Daranarta screamed.
‘Are you mad? You’ll all die here!’
More people staggered into the safety of his shield, and it was swiftly becoming crowded. He tried to expand its reach, pulling the sluggish Flow into the shield.
An explosion rocked the ground, knocking everyone to their knees. The shield trembled violently. Getting back onto his feet, Averen grimaced and doubled his efforts to keep the shield up and enlarge it. The black rain fell harder, pinging off the top of it like hailstones.
More people arrived, some carrying those who couldn’t walk, their legs nothing more than agonising blackened stumps dripping blood. They would not last past the hour and Averen knew he would never forget their howls of pain. He longed for the hour to end so they might find peace.
Daranarta grabbed a hold of his shoulder and shoved him. ‘Get out! We do not need or want you here. Get out!’
Averen shoved him back with the Flow, and the king staggered. ‘You are mad, truly.’ Averen could not believe what the king was doing. Had he gone insane? ‘You want to die here? All of you?’
‘How dare you,’ Daranarta hissed. ‘We’d rather die here than return to Maioria.’
‘You would condemn your whole race because of pride?’ Averen snapped, disbelieving what he was hearing. What had happened to the elves? Had they become consumed with selfish insanity? ‘Isn’t that why you came to the Land of Mists anyway? To protect the Elven race?’
‘Death is better than returning,’ spat Daranarta.
Averen stared at the king, searching for a glimmer of reason or sanity in his glaring eyes. Was he injured or had he hit his head? There was no injury that he could see. The king stood strong and proud—and was surely insane.
Averen tried to reason with him again, a ridiculous thing when the world was on fire and Dread Dragons hunted them. ‘Daranarta, I’ve come to help you and our people before it’s too late,’ he pleaded. ‘Why has your hatred of me not lessened in all these years?’
The elf king narrowed his eyes. ‘If all the elves had done their duty to their people and not betrayed us by staying in Maioria, Baelthrom could never have found us. This is your fault! Yours and that witch, the Raven Queen,’ the king snarled and spat on the ground. ‘We’ve lived here in peace and abundance for hundreds of years—proving that without the diseased races of dwarves and humans, it can be done. Go back to your wars and your violence.’
‘Daranarta, war and violence are upon you whether you wish it or not. Centuries away from the wars ravaging Maioria have made you weak. Look around you at Baelthrom’s might! The elves will not survive unless you flee, and the only place to go is Maioria. You cannot divorce yourself from the world and pretend evil does not exist by hiding from it. When evil is ignored it festers and grows, it will find you in the end and eat you alive. You must stand and fight!’
‘All you know is war and fighting. You have become like a human!’ Daranarta sneered.
Averen ignored him. ‘Baelthrom hunts for the Orb of Earth. He can smell it like a wolf on a scent. He has taken the Orb of Air and grows ever more powerful. It is only a matter of time before he has them all. The Dragon Dream has been destroyed, and soon too the Land of Mists. Where is the Orb of Earth? It must be protected for the sake of the elves and all Maioria.’
‘You shall never have it!’ Daranarta screamed, his pale, dishevelled hair a mess around his dirt-stained face. Averen had never seen the king look so wild and uncontrolled.
Another explosion, this time much closer, sent them sprawling. Averen fell to his knees, bruising them. Ignoring both the king and his own safety, he set his focus fully on the shield. The Under Flow surged towards him, the sickening wooziness made him swoon and he would have fallen had he not been on his knees. Baelthrom had detected him. He groaned and battled for control of the Flow that was slipping through his fingers like silk. Through the fog of the Flow, he was vaguely aware of Daranarta hitting him and then others trying to drag the king away.
The shield, don’t let it drop. Focus only upon the shield! Sweat dripped down his back. Someone helped him stand. Blackness covered his magic vision, the shield slipped. He growled and fought through the blackness. He grabbed hold of the shield again, pouring every ounce of his magic and concentration into it, barely able to breathe with the strain.
‘You cannot hide from me. You cannot fight me,’ Baelthrom’s voice boomed all around, even inside h
is head.
The Immortal Lord was right, Averen could not hope to fight him. Red eyes opened in the black sky directly above him. The people beneath the shield screamed and hugged each other. Howling wind tore at him, forcing him to hook a foot around a tree root just to stay anchored to the ground.
He looked back at Daranarta. Two elves restrained him but his eyes glowered at Averen.
Still more elves were falling into his shield. Several hundred clustered under it. He would not be able to protect many more. Women and men clung to each other and their children, their faces masks of terror and pain. None of them were ready to fight. They’d been so long away from the world and all its troubles, they had forgotten how to. The realisation horrified Averen; his people were doomed.
Dark shapes bounded through the flames, Death Hounds on leashes of chains held by Maphraxies. Thick tongues lolled out of fang-filled mouths. Eyes alight with only the need to kill and eat the flesh of the living. Maphraxie faces, grey and deformed, dead-eyed and soulless, barked their guttural orders to each other.
A terrible scream ripped through the sky. Averen’s heart pounded in his throat and the dragon fear forced him to his knees again. The Under Flow surrounded his shield and squeezed. He could not fight that force. He lost himself in the world of the Flow as he struggled to maintain his control. His magic was a great ball of purple surrounding him and the elves, and beyond it, a deluge of black magic trying to break him.
A wave of earthen power came from behind him, a golden light flowing into his shield, strengthening it. Sheyengetha, bless you. The golden magic thickened, pushing back the Under Flow and creating a tunnel between him and the tree. The tree was opening up a safe passage through which he could retreat. He could hold no more people in his shield.
Dragons of the Dawn Bringer: The Goddess Prophecies Fantasy Series Book 5 Page 12