The Hollow: At The Edge

by Andrew Day

  “I know.”

  “I don’t know why you two are being so maudlin,” said Victor, making them both jump. He’d appeared right behind them without a sound.

  “That’s a good way to get blown to pieces, Victor,” Serrel told him. “Wear a bell or something.”

  “Jumpy, aren’t we? The Faelands really has a way of putting everyone on edge. I mean, look at you two. Getting all misty about the rest of our alumni, and we’ve only been separated a few days.”

  “They’ve been rather eventful days,” said Mouse. “And we don’t what’s happened to them.”

  “And worrying about it won’t change that. You should just focus on the events at hand.”

  “That’s what I missed about you, Victor,” said Serrel with a sigh. “Your unwavering ability to be an apathetic git about more or less anything.”

  “I’m not apathetic,” Victor replied. “I just don’t see the point in dwelling on things I can’t control. That just distracts you, and in case you haven’t noticed, distractions in this place can get us killed.”

  “We’re glad you’re alive too, Victor,” said Mouse sincerely. “And you’re right. It is stupid to worry. I’m sure Kaitlin’s fine.”

  “I wasn’t worried about Kaitlin.”

  “Liar,” Mouse replied simply.

  “I’m not,” Victor told her. He paused. “You did say you spoke to her before?”

  “Oh, yes. About a lot of things.”

  “Did she... mention me?”

  “No,” Mouse said flatly. “She hasn’t mentioned you, talked about you, or even stopped to think about you for even a moment.”

  “Really?” Victor asked.

  “Yes. In fact she went to great pains to point out that she hadn’t talked about or thought about you in the slightest. Quite forcefully. Several times.”

  Serrel caught the tiny smirk that flashed briefly across Victor’s otherwise cool and collected face.

  “There is something I’d like to know,” said Serrel. “Tell me, how the hell did you manage to weave without a staff?”

  “Pure willpower,” Victor replied. He gave them what he considered to be an innocent smile.

  “No, really. How?” Serrel insisted.

  “You don’t think I’m a good enough mage to be able weave without a staff, just because you can’t?”

  “No,” joined in Mouse. “You were never that good.”

  “True. All right, you got me. I don’t have a staff, but I can still weave. But I can’t tell you how.”

  “Oh, come on,” said Serrel impatiently. “Tell us.”

  “Please,” added Mouse politely.

  Victor glanced ahead, and saw his fellow Nightblade, Annabella, talking to Caellix.

  “All right,” he conceded rather easily. “But you can’t tell anyone you saw this. It’s meant to be an Imperial secret.”

  He stopped to pull the glove off his left hand, and held his palm up for them to see. His enthusiasm suggested that despite his forced nonchalance, he had a really amazing secret he really, really wanted to share with someone.

  On Victor’s palm was a large tattoo of an unusual mystic rune. Smaller tattoos of other runes dotted the fleshy pads on each of his first knuckles. The skin around them was still red, suggesting the tattoo was fairly recent.

  “What does it mean?” Mouse asked.

  “It’s the Ithieric rune for the word of power Tael. It means channel. The tattoo ink was mixed with my supply of Vorkeph’s Elixir, so its embedded with ether energy.”

  “And you can weave with that?” asked Serrel in amazement.

  Victor nodded, as close to excited as the others two had ever seen him. “It works just like a staff, allowing the ether to flow out through you.”

  “Is it as good as a staff?”

  “Unfortunately, no. It takes more effort to get the energy out, and more energy to weave effectively. Plus, before you can weave anything, the rune has to be activated. That takes energy as well, and you need to get in the habit of using Tael before you cast anything else. Otherwise you end up waving your hand around like an idiot before someone cuts it off. But on the bright side, I don’t need to carry my staff around. That’s important if you’re a Nightblade.”

  “I want one,” said Mouse.

  “Like I said, it’s a secret trick. But maybe I could convince Annabella to give you two one.”

  “She gave you yours?” asked Serrel as Victor pulled his glove back on and the three started off after the rest of the group.

  “Annabella’s a mage, but not a very talented one. She specialises in enchanting.”

  “And stabbing people,” said Mouse.

  “We multi-task in the Nightblades.”

  “Just one thing,” said Serrel. “Where is your staff?”

  “I, uh, think I may have left it on the boat.”

  Serrel and Mouse looked at him in horror. The first thing they had learned: never lose your staff.

  “Holland is going to murder you,” Mouse breathed.

  “Only if he finds out,” Victor replied, without conviction.

  “Oh, he’ll find out,” said Serrel.

  “Holland knows everything,” Mouse added omniously.

  “Right this moment, I reckon he’s back at Fort Amell, pacing up and down with his stick, trying to decide which of your limbs he’s going break first.”

  Victor fell silent. Serrel knew Victor never really cared about anything all that much to be afraid, but gods be damned if the thought of Holland finding out he had lost his staff didn’t make him go just a little bit pale.

  “I’m sure I can find it again,” said Victor with forced indifference. “It’s probably right where I left it.”

  “Sure.”

  “He never needs to know.”

  “Of course not.”

  “After he kills you,” said Mouse. “Can I have your knives?”

  They came to a small clearing in the trees that lined the river as it ran its way north. There were other Legion there, most of them wounded, sitting or lying on the ground. No one said much, and when they did it was in whispers. One woman who lay on the ground had a thick roll of bandages around her midsection. She was drenched in sweat and groaning in pain.

  Most alarming though was the dead Ferine that was hanging from a tree, its blood running down its face and dripping into the sodden earth beneath it. A tall, middle aged man with grey hair and a stern expression was slowly and fastidiously cleaning his hands in front of the elf. The rag he used was stained red.

  “I though I told you not to go wondering off?” he said without looking up as Victor and Annabella stood to attention before him.

  “We didn’t wonder off, Sir,” replied Victor. “We knew exactly where we were going.”

  “Don’t get cute with me, Blackwood,” the man replied calmly.

  “We found some more survivors, Captain,” Annabella said quickly.

  The man turned to regard the Hounds with an unimpressed stare. A small smile flickered at the corner of his mouth when he noticed Caellix.

  “I thought I smelt wet dog,” he said.

  “Jurgen,” Caellix said stiffly as way of greeting. “No one’s slit your throat yet I see.”

  “Not for lack of trying. You still running around, chasing rabbits and pissing in the woods?”

  “You still murdering children in their sleep?”

  “Good to see the years haven’t mellowed you, Sergeant. Were you there during the attack?”

  Caellix shook her head. “My people and I were taking the scenic route through the forest. We saw the light show in the sky last night, but by the time we had arrived the battle was over.”

  “It wasn’t much of a battle. The Ferine came close to destroying the Legion, but we don’t go quietly. Dillaini rallied whoever was still standing and forced the Ferine to retreat. They chased them north to Vollumir.”

  “And this lot?” asked Caellix, gesturing to the wounded and dying around her.

 
“Anyone who got separated from the main force, or was injured and unable to march was left behind.”

  Caellix stared at him. “You are joking.”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Jurgen. “Our new supreme leader is not a woman renowned for her sentimentality. In fact, if she were anyone else, I would venture so far as to call her a nasty, cold hearted bitch.”

  “That’s saying something, coming from you.”

  “Indeed it is,” agreed Jurgen.

  “But you survived, of course,” noted Caellix. “But your lot never travel with the regular army, do you?”

  “No, we do not. My Nightblades and I were sent ahead of the fleet. We have a fast cutter, and with the help of Annabella and Victor here, we made landfall close to a day before the rest of the Legion. We were meant to take Fort Etten back from the rebels, then join up with some of the local Elsbareth forces that are still loyal to the king. We were going to rejoin the Legion on the way to Vollumir. The first and second parts worked out quite well. Perhaps too well. Vharaes’ forces seemed small and unprepared. But when we rendezvoused with the local soldiers...” His face went hard. “Somehow they knew we were coming. There was a massacre. Ferine slaughtered everyone. Two thousand strong, all dead.”

  “How?”

  “The same way they attacked the Legion. They rained spells down on us, huge torrents of fire and ether energy. Those that survived the initial blasts were set upon by the rebels. They took everyone apart and ate them.”

  “Was that the night before the Legion landed on the Faelands?” Serrel asked.

  “Probably.”

  “We could see the release of energy from our boats. It was gigantic.”

  “It was even worse up close. I started with a dozen men. Now there are only three of us. When the fighting was done, we followed in the rebels tracks. We were lucky enough to catch the end of the battle with the Legion. They fared better than the locals at least.”

  “Did you see who did the weaving?” asked Serrel. “Who it was that was casting all that energy down on you and the Legion?”

  Jurgen looked at him sternly. He had blue eyes that were cold and unfriendly.

  “What’s your name, Caster?” he asked.

  “Hawthorne, Sir. I’m sorry if I’m speaking out of turn, Sir, but I am really very curious to know who or what has enough power to almost destroy an army of the Legion.”

  “Would you believe me, son, if I told you there was just a single elf mage?”

  “One mage?” Serrel thought about that. “Working with the Ferine?”

  “Just one, run of the mill, bastard, elven mage.” Jurgen smiled grimly. “That’s the good news. You want the bad news?”

  “Please,” said Caellix coldly.

  “Somewhere along the line the Ferine got their grubby claws on some sort of powerful relic. It’s what they’re using to perform all their weaving, to cast some unbelievably powerful spells on us.”

  “Of course,” said Dhulrael suddenly. He walked painfully to the front of the group. “Captain, tell me, did any of you see this relic for yourselves?”

  “Who’s this?” Jurgen asked Caellix.

  “The Patrician of Vollumir,” Caellix replied. “Apparently.”

  “You trust him?”

  “He’s alive isn’t he?”

  Annabella answered, “I had a brief glimpse of it during the attack. It was a tall pillar, made of some glowing red crystal. If I was to hazard a guess, I’d say the relic somehow amplifies their mage’s weaving.”

  “A red crystal,” mused Dhulrael. “About the size of a man?”

  “About that... Do you know what it is?” Annabella asked slowly.

  Dhulrael became aware that there were an awful lot of armed humans now staring at him, and not all of them were wearing trusting expressions.

  “This is just a theory you understand,” he started.

  “Oh, gods, here we go,” muttered Caellix.

  “Have you ever heard of the Anphalae? They were said to be elven artefacts of remarkable power, forged untold centuries ago during the Age of Discord.”

  “Yes, I’m sure we’ve all heard the stories, elf,” said Jurgen impatiently. “Relics forged from materials that came into our world when the walls of reality broke down, and demons roamed the planet unfettered.”

  “And frogs rained from the sky. And cats and dogs lived with each other in harmony. Myths and legends, barely more believable than stories about Darklings and Insectim,” said Caellix.

  “Insectim?” asked Annabella.

  “Oh, it’s a good one. We’ll tell you later,” replied Brant.

  “Myths indeed,” Dhulrael continued, nonplussed. “Here in Elsbareth as well as in the Empire. But interesting myths regardless. I studied many of them. In fact, I wrote a dissertation on the Anphalae for a university report. It scored rather low, I am afraid. When performing my research, I found many old records dating back only a few centuries written by mages who claimed to have uncovered several of the Anphalae, and had attempted to make use of them. One in particular has always stood out, mostly because it was the easiest to verify the truth of. It concerned a group of relics they referred to as the Illudin.”

  “These wouldn’t happen to be giant red crystals, would they?” asked Annabella.

  “As it happens, yes, they would be. The crystals were supposedly created to be great storage containers for the energy of the ether. They could hold vast amounts of energy, a volume so large it was difficult to properly numerate.”

  “And whoever controlled this relic had access to almost unlimited energy from the ether,” said Jurgen darkly.

  “Yes. But more importantly, it seemed that the relics themselves could draw the energy it stored from both mages, and directly from the ether itself. If the relic was placed in a location where the ether was known to leak through, and in Elsbareth there are many such places, then the Illudin could tap directly into the ether. The energy one could access then would be... without end.”

  “If it were real,” said Jurgen.

  “It has to be,” said Serrel. “Someone has been weaving spells that should be impossible. Summoning kraken, and making monsters. Nearly destroying the Legion. This must be where they get their power.”

  “It would explain what we’ve seen so far,” said Annabella.

  “And the elves, you’ve had these things for several hundred years now?” Jurgen asked with obvious disbelief.

  Dhulrael made a face. “That’s where the records all become rather hazy, I am afraid. You see, the one thing all the records agree on is that the Illudin were far too dangerous to ever use safely. It was said that they were very fragile. That they cracked easily, and could shatter with very little effort. Can you imagine what happens to a vessel full of energy when it shatters, Captain?”

  “It explodes?” Jurgen suggested.

  “There was once a city called Ghoramir. It was home to Elsbareth’s most talented and powerful spellcasters. Centuries ago, it disappeared without a trace, wiped from the face of the planet like the tide wiping away footprints in the sand. All that remains to mark its existence is a single, giant crater. It is my belief that the mages of Ghoramir tried to use an Illudin to power the city. Perhaps they filled it with energy beyond its capacity, or perhaps someone jostled it too roughly or sneezed at an inopportune moment. Regardless, it cracked, and broke, and the resulting release of energy completely vaporised the third largest city in elven history.”

  He let that sink in. “Afterwards,” he went on, “any mention of the Illudin is merely speculative. The fanciful theory I have heard is that the old king of Elsbareth locked the Illudin away in a secret vault, one supposedly filled with the rest of the Anphalae that had been discovered. I used to believe that they were all destroyed, rather than running the risk of them ever falling into the wrong hands.”

  “Which, if you’re right, they have,” said Caellix.

  “If they did exist, how have Vharaes and the Ferine gotten a hold of th
em?” asked Jurgen.

  “I do not know,” said Dhulrael. “Vharaes and I travelled Elsbareth together. We used to seek out stories about the Anphalae, hoping to find one for ourselves. There was a rumour that the Enchanters Guild had hidden away one of the Illudin for their own use, and kept it in their fortress high in the mountains. If that is true, they certainly did not tell anyone. But perhaps Vharaes took the old stories more seriously than I did. Perhaps he kept looking, and maybe, after decades of searching finally found one.”

  “You believe all this, Captain?” Annabella asked.

  “I don’t think we can afford not to believe it,” said Jurgen.

  “All well and good,” said Caellix. “And it was a truly inspiring and exciting tale, Pointy. All the more reason that we should find whoever’s left of the Legion and let them know what we might be dealing with. We should head to Vollumir as soon as possible.”

  “Sergeant,” said Dhulrael. “If there is an Illudin in the Ferine’s possession, if may still be close by.”

  “How do you figure? And don’t say “this is only a theory”, because I will hit you.”

  “Um... yes. Well... hypothetically-”

  “Elf...”

  “From what I have heard, and from what I saw last night, I do not think that the Ferine truly know how to use the Illudin in their possession. When they attempted to draw power from it, the amount of energy that they released was far more excessive than what they needed. The excess energy was projected into the sky, and became the Aurora Ethereal.”

  “That happened the first time we were attacked,” said Annabella.

  “If so, then perhaps the Illudin is running low on energy. If the Ferine wish to make use of it again, they would need to draw energy out of the ether. They will need to find a place where the fabric between worlds is weak, and the ether easily accessible. And,” he looked triumphant. “if we are close to the Bridge of Kaelthril, then it just so happens that I may know exactly where they would go.”

  He beamed at the group.

  “Where the hell did you find this guy?” Jurgen asked Caellix.

  “Tied up and bagged in the forest,” said Caellix. “He seems to know what he’s talking about. Afterall, he’s a teacher. I’m beginning to see why Vharaes wanted you so badly.”