Whisper of the End

by Held, Maximian

As its clawed hand softens its grip on my head, I hop back and place a solid kick into the elf’s midsection, knocking it down and away. The elf falls to the ground twitching and flailing as it churns the snow around it. Thank you ancestors, for guiding my blade this day. We need to get as far away as possible.

  I cheer and turn around to Caius, who’s just standing there, completely still. His eyes are glassy from shock and it’s clear he isn’t tracking well. I approach him and pull him into a gentle embrace, dirtying his robes with sputtering elf blood in the process. I need to snap him out of this. I can feel him shaking under his robes, and his eyes are so distant.

  “Caius? Caius, I need you. I need you to come back to me, we need to get off this mountain. Can you do that for me?” I whisper into his ear, pulling him closer.

  “I know you’re afraid, but you’re okay now. We can go now, we’ll get off this god forsaken mountain and we can go to one of those stuffy libraries you love so much.” I say, hoping for any response from him. I really don’t want to carry him and all our gear down the side of this mountain, but I will if I have too.

  “You, you told me to run” I barely hear Caius’s stammering whisper even as close as we are “You wanted me to just leave you. You have never done that before.” My insides feel like they’re filling with ice, far colder than any mountain.

  “No, no I didn’t want you to abandon me. I wanted you to survive!” I tell him, feeling his shaking beginning to subside. We need to get out of here, before that elf gets back up.

  “Now is not the time for this Caius, we have to leave! That thing is going to get up before the moon rises and be a thousand times angrier than it was before!” I point to the elf, who is shuddering in the snow, the handle of the blade like some demented weather vane as it rocks back and forth. Caius draws in a deep breath, his eyes growing sharp once again.

  That’s the Caius I know.

  “Right, we can go now Protector val’Harod. Please let go of me.” He says flatly, with none of the warmth I’m expecting. I stiffen, suddenly colder than even the wind could make me. Has hasn’t been this formal with me since we met.

  “Yes, Master Claudius. I’ll break down camp, and then we’ll head out.” I turn away from him, digging into my tent for my armor and weapons. Away from him, so that he cannot see my tears freezing on my cheeks in the howling wind.

  I wish that elf had killed me, it would have been easier.

  Chapter V - Kearika

  Duras - Cratertop Mountain Foothills

  29th of Herras, 1873 MD

  In the days since our descent from that freezing mountain to the more temperate low country below Caius and I barely spoke. He’d make his own meals, eat in his own tent and stop any attempt at conversation with a quiet “I do not wish to be bothered right now Protector val’Harod.” It was like being punched over and over again, a dull ache that wouldn’t go away.

  I’ve worked so hard to get him to come out of his shell over the years. I don’t understand why he’d suddenly crawl back inside it, maybe he’s ashamed I saw him so afraid? That hardly makes sense though, I’ve seen Caius afraid more times than I can count. We’ve been walking for over two weeks now and the silence is wearing away at my patience. It’s not like Caius to pout like this, he’s always so...vocal...when he has a problem with something.

  We spent each night huddling in our personal tents, with no fire or hot meals, the risk of the smoke or flames being spotted is just too great. Every crack of a twig, seemingly as loud as a pistol shot kept me awake. Even when I manage to sleep, all I can see is that toothy maw opening wide to swallow me whole.

  Each night I awoke in a cold sweat, hearing that hissing voice saying “For the rest of your days I will be there. The twig breaking underfoot, the whisper of the wind on the back of your neck.”

  We are finally close to civilization though, the town of Hurendale is over the next rise. I’m not terribly sure about returning with the news that there’s an elf in the mountains instead of just the bandits they had hired us to deal with. The whole town would probably panic if we told them the truth. Either way it’s not my problem now, the place of a Protector is to protect. Let Caius handle the mobs and the riots.

  Still, even with the mess our arrival is going to make, the thought of a warm bed and warm company is enough to put some spirit back in my step. Speaking of steps.

  “Master Claudius, why have we been walking all the way back to the College? Surely you could have easily taken us there with your magic?” I ask, hoping formality will coax him into speaking.

  I risk a quick glance at him, to see if he’s even listening to me. His hands are tucked into the sleeves of his long purple robe, the deep hood obscuring his face from me and the rest of the world. The swirling patterns of gold thread glint in the sunlight, and despite travelling through the woods on this dusty path not a speck of dirt is on him. Unlike myself, I’m covered from head to toe in dust and grit. Cleaning it out of my furs and tent being my only “entertainment” for the last two weeks.

  “We did not simply appear back at the College because I have been unable to see the College in the aether. Something is troubling it, stirring it up like the rolling waves of the ocean. Even now I struggle to keep it from overwhelming me. We have not travelled by magic because I can barely weave anything from the aether itself.” He says in a quiet voice, barely above a whisper.

  “Wait, you mean you can’t use your magic? What’re we going to do when that elf comes back!” I ask, panic creeping into my voice “Caius, I can’t-you-can’t, we can’t handle that thing!”

  A small sigh comes from the depths of the hood “I know that Kearika, which is why when we get to Hurendale we will hire a cart to take us back to the College faster.”

  A small comfort that is, a cart is even easier to track then we are! Dammit! Get a hold of yourself! As hard as I try to stay in control, my hands begin to shake slightly and my grip tightens on my halberd. My breathing is getting shaky as I scan the tree line endlessly.

  “Are, are you nervous?” He asks me timidly. Dammit.

  “No, I’m not nervous! It’s all this walking in silence that’s got me angry enough to kill someone!”

  ***

  Ah, the wonders of civilization. The Reedy Horseman is not a particularly classy establishment, it’s the establishment that mugged the classier ones. The outside is barely maintained with old, cracked wood and missing window panes letting the cool fall air blow right in. Not that it really matters, I have one goal and one goal only: Relax.

  The sixth jug of mead is finally having an effect, my admirers are getting prettier every time I put my drink down. A rather petite Elradian woman hangs off of one arm, all pearly white smiles against a rather beautiful chestnut brown face.

  Short she may have been, but she isn’t small everywhere, and her flowing tunic has clearly been designed to help her rob men blind. I think her name is...Cardara? My thoughts are fuzzy and sluggish, so I take another drink to help clear my head. While they might have those perfect smiles in common, the man on my other arm couldn’t have been any more different.

  He’s almost as tall as I am, with curly blonde hair and green eyes. Unlike the Elradian, his profession is clearly martial. Corded muscle runs up and down his body, with scars on his bared chest and around his wrists. He hasn’t told me his name yet. Not that it’s going to matter. The thought brings a smile to my face.

  A smile that dies when a heavy hand clamps down on my shoulder, spinning me away from those two. Those two, who have conveniently stopped smiling, stopped holding on to me and are now sauntering over to other patrons. The heavy hand is connected to a large man, taller than myself and about three times as broad. He looks like he could lift a whole barrel of mead with each arm! Just be polite Kearika.

  “Whhaadyya think you’re doing? Get yer own company, those two are mine.” I say instead. I jerk a thumb over my shoulder, sloshing the mead in my other hand on the floor. The big man’s ugly face, covered in scar
s and pockmarks, scrunches up as he sneers.

  “You wanna play, you gotta pay the fee. Sixty ounces up front, more if you open that mouth of yours again.” He says, holding his hand out.

  “Sixty ounces of what? The good looks your whore of a mother didn’t give you?” I reply blearily. Truly, I am a master of wit, unappreciated by my normal stuffy company.

  I begin to giggle as his face floods a dark crimson, veins popping out of his neck. Thick fingers crush my shoulder, even through my stupor I feel the crack of my collarbone snapping. With a yowl of pain I smash my mug on the bar and swing the sharp, jagged remains of it into the crook his elbow.

  His free fist lashes out, crushing my stomach against my spine and knocking the wind out of me. The world grows even more distant, sounds are foggy and far away. The open-hand slap smashes my face into the bar, I fall to the ground, desperately trying to make everything stop spinning.

  He clamps down on my broken collarbone again, the bone grinding beneath his iron grip. Adrenaline is pumping through me, shearing away at the fog clouding my senses. As he pulls me up from the tavern floor I lash out with a kick to his knee, a solid impact and grunt of pain is my reward. So is being thrown back into the floor, accompanied by several pops and a fresh, stabbing pain in my side. There go some ribs.

  I’m lifted by the back of my vest, and suddenly the pressure of his grip is replaced by the feeling of sailing through the air. The window slows me, a little, and adds some new scars to my raised arms. Thankfully the cobblestones of the road slow me to a halt before I can fly any further. I think I’ll just lay here for a bit, get my legs back under me.

  Or not. The door to the tavern slams open. My coin purse gets torn right off my belt, accompanied by some chuckling. The chuckling trails away into a little gurgle. I begin to leverage myself off the ground, favoring my right arm to keep the pain in my collarbone manageable.

  “See something you like?” I hiss from between clenched teeth as I finally regain my footing. A few, fat raindrops fall from the overcast sky. The man stands still, clutching a small silver token between his meaty fingers.

  “You might want to close your mouth, it makes look stupider than you already do.” I say, knowing exactly what he’s looking at. A silver coin with a wolf rampant in jade with my name cut into the back.

  “You’re a Protector.” The man grates out, his eyes growing distant. I give him a feral grin, as blood runs down my face and arms.

  “I’m the protector for Master Caius Claudius of the Tower of Mages in Knihovna. I have served him since my 14th winter, defending him from all manner of danger. I have killed dozens of men, and I’ll do the same to you if I must. Give me my token and money back, and I’ll walk away.” I say calmly. The threat seems to snap him out of his trance, he gives me a quick once over and settles into a crouch.

  “Impersonating a Protector is a hanging, and a reward for the lucky sod who brings ‘em in!” He says, riches flashing through his eyes.

  “Protector tokens fetch a hefty sum too. Shame that a liar like you doesn’t have one to save herself from the noose!” He growls, putting my token in a pocket of his.

  He lunges forward, arms outstretched to crush me again. My right arm hangs limply by my side, the pain from my broken collarbone too great for me to move it. I duck and twist out of the way, or try to at least. Instead my feet tangle, and I drunkenly stumble out of the way. The worn leather handle of my dagger fills my left hand, hidden behind my leg as I slump in apparent exhaustion. Chuckling the big man closes in, and I fall to my knees moaning softly.

  “You’re going to make me a very wealthy man, so I’ll make it quick as thanks.” He says flatly.

  The soft whisper of a blade on leather cuts through the soft pitter-patter of the falling rain. A rough hand grips my hair and pulls my head back, revealing my bloody grin.

  “What’re you smiling about you dumb whore?” he asks as he draws back his own knife to cut my throat.

  “This.” Rising and slicing my dagger across his arm where I stabbed him with the mug handle before, the knife bites deeply. He stumbles back, blood pouring out of the arm, which hangs limply from the elbow down. With a rough shout he tackles me to the ground, cracking my head on the cobblestones.

  His remaining hand clamps down on my windpipe and his knee is crushing my chest beneath his weight. I ram my dagger into his arm over and over again, each thrust spraying blood in a wide crimson arc. The world is growing dark, my attacks becoming weaker, and all I can hear is the thundering sound of my own heartbeat. His leering face is all I can see at the end of the small tunnel my vision has been reduced too. He glances at something just as my vision fades away to nothingness.

  The pressure on my throat leaves and the weight on my chest lifts. Deliciously cold, wet air floods into my lungs as I gasp. I don’t mind the rain nearly drowning me as I lay there with my mouth hanging open. My throat feels like it’s swollen completely closed, all I can do is lay there and force my burning lungs to breathe. Slowly black turns to gray and the sound of the rain rushes back to fill the silence now that my heart is quiet again.

  “Are you hurt, my lady?” a soft, cultured voice whispers from above me.

  Slowly I shift my gaze upwards to get a better look at my rescuer. What a fop! All that gold rope, and look how soft his skin looks. He’s never spent a day in his life sleeping on the dirt! Standing over me is a tall man whose unblemished skin looks completely out of place with the tight-fitting breastplate and scabbard strapped to his side.

  “My name is Karl Tel’roch, Protector to Master Mendalde of the Tower of Mages, and you are?” He asks me. I accept his proffered arm, and with a surprisingly firm grip, he pulls me back to my feet.

  “I travel from the North.” I haltingly say, trying the dumb barbarian card. A glimmer of amusement flashes through Karl’s eyes, and a grin splits his face.

  “Truly? I thought your people rarely strayed far from their own, and they despise visitors. What is a beauty like you doing way out here?” He asks. Dammit. Lie? Lie.

  “I was cast out for dishonoring clan.” I say, settling on a half-truth. If Karl’s eyebrows rose any further they’re going to fly off his face. Just as he opens his mouth another voice cuts in, cold and clipped.

  “If you are quite done Protector Tel’roch, we have more important business to attend to than rescuing refuse from a bar.” A mask colder than any northern winter settles across Karl’s face, his back stiffens and his hand drops to the simple hilt of the sword at his side.

  “Yes Master Mendalde, my apologies Master. What would you have me to do with this scum?” Karl asks over his shoulder.

  From the shadows of a nearby awning a shape forms, stepping out as a slim, severe looking woman. Her eyes are dark pits, drawn back into her skull. Blood red hair hangs in tresses, framing a cold, aristocratic face. I can’t make anything else out about her though, she seems just slightly out of focus no matter how hard I squint.

  “Kill them, clear the girl’s mind and let us be done with all this nonsense. Your chivalry is getting in the way of our work, again.” Mendalde never looks away from buffing her nails on the soft, clinging fabric of whatever she is wearing. For a split second, she locks eyes with me and her features spring into sharp relief.

  A flowing black dress drapes across her figure, cut so that it won’t impede her movement. A few simple belts festooned with pouches hang off her hips, but she isn’t carrying a visible weapon. As she continues to stare at me my head feels heavy, but after a few seconds I shake it off. The mead must really be getting to me.

  Mendalde gives a frustrated scowl before saying “The dress is special, it keeps like you wretches from looking at me. Not that you’ll remember that.” A small woomph draws my attention, a ball of roiling blue flame hovers above Karl’s outstretched hand.

  With a look of casual disinterest, he throws it through one of the shattered windows of the bar. Instantly the fire spreads, filling the interior with leaping flames. It c
rawls unnaturally along the floor and walls, faster than any normal flame and apparently far hotter as well. The whole scene is eerily quiet, no roaring flames, no screams of the burning and no cries for help. Must be an illusion then.

  A man stumbles out of the door, his face a mass of burnt flesh, hands outstretched and groping for support. Karl walks over, allows him to throw an arm over his shoulder and then runs him through with his blade. A kick to the stomach sends him back into the terrible embrace of the flames, and he falls backwards through the door and into the fires within.

  Karl’s soft voice doesn’t snap me out of my horrified staring until the second time he says, “You’re the injured party here lass, how should we deal with this filth?”

  He stands over the pimp, lifting his face by the chin and letting the rain fall down his open mouth. He holds him firmly with one hand while the other gently caresses the pommel of his sword. With a shrug he lets him drop back to the ground, after a few moments his eyes flicker open.

  “Beating a woman to a pulp is a terrible crime, doubly so if she is as beautiful as that one is, my friend.” Karl says softly to the man, who lays flat out on the cobblestones, limp and leaking blood from his wounds. Where is Caius? He always shows up when there’s trouble, and this Mendalde clearly fits that description.

  “Don’t kill him, he didn’t know what he was getting into! He’s just a thug, and can you please stop that illusion of the tavern burning? You don’t need to torture him by making him watch that.” I say, trying to get a handle on the situation.

  “Illusion? There’s no illusion going on here little girl. Those people are nothing but cinders and memories now. Illusions are for gutless children.” Mendalde says with a cold, empty chuckle. Icy tendrils of rage work their way through my gut as I force myself to watch the dancing flames. The tavern collapses in on itself, completely without a sound.

  “Kill the pimp, and the girl. I tire of this, return to me when it is done Protector Tel’roch.” Mendalde says imperiously. With a dismissive wave of her hand she turns and walks into the shadows, and seemingly through the solid door behind her. A grim look settles across Karl’s face, and he draws a small knife from a thigh sheathe.