by Lee Dunning
“They’ll want to know why,” one of the others piped up. Ryld couldn’t quite remember his name. Riva? Rica? No, that wasn’t it. Bugger all.
“Tell them Umbral called and he said to grow some spines. The Elven Nation needs us,” Caeldan said with a grunt, finally finding his feet, and waving for the rest of them to follow his lead.
Ryld snickered.
“You’re both mad,” Seer said, her voice still flat.
The twins shared a look. “That’s rich,” Ryld said, and the two burst out laughing.
The trip had stretched into its third day. The novelty had faded and W’rath paced, anxious to reach their destination. At night, only a skeleton crew manned the ship, and the sound of sobs drifted up from below decks. Raven, who had gone down there in the hopes of getting some rest, gave up and returned to her spot from earlier in the day.
“I couldn’t sleep with all that misery around me,” she said, settling down near where W’rath prowled. She drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them as if trying to comfort herself.
“Sleep,” W’rath said, shaking his head. The concept of sleep struck him as foreign. He understood it no better than he did the elves hiding below decks, crippled by their grief. During his childhood, no enemy alive would have dared launch an attack, such as the one visited upon Second Home, against the elves. Of course, the elves of that time couldn’t have conceived of a society where a thousand soldiers would be expected to protect many times that number of helpless sheep. Every elf would have carried a weapon, known how to use it, and fallen upon the enemy with untold ferocity. True, against such a foe, they’d have still suffered terrible losses, but, in the end, not a single demon or devil would have survived. Instead of slinking off in defeat, leaving the remains of their kin in the hands of the surviving fiends, the elves would be honoring their dead and restoring their city.
And this sleep thing? Lying unconscious for several hours provided a perfect opportunity for your enemies to take you unawares. Insanity.
“How can you pace around like that?” Raven wanted to know. “Aren’t you exhausted.”
“I meditated earlier. I need time for my brain to heal itself before I can use my psionics again, but aside from that, I’m fine.”
“Everyone needs sleep.” She raised an eyebrow, skeptical.
“Elves do not. I have no idea how such foolishness got started, but since we are the embodiment of magic we regenerate. Barring severe injury, we have no reason to fall unconscious for the sake of rest. Meditation takes care of our mental fatigue.”
“So you really don’t sleep?” Raven asked.
“Sleep gets you killed, lass,” he replied.
The night passed, chased away by the sun. Despite all W’rath had said, Raven slumbered in her patch of shade. She’d scrounged up a satchel from somewhere, and was using it to store her precious journals. As she slept, she kept the satchel tucked under her head as an impromptu pillow.
W’rath sighed and searched for something to take away some of the monotony. His gaze settled on the crow’s nest, the one place he had yet to explore. Sadly, his injury left him in no condition to teleport up there, so he would have to climb.
Climbing was as second nature to W’rath as walking. Survival in the Abyss meant treating even the most mundane act as a combat maneuver, practicing to the point where it required no thought or planning to accomplish. He’d perfected his skills at moving unseen. Even in daylight he could remain nearly undetectable. As such, the sharp-eyed sailor manning the crow’s nest didn’t notice the Shadow Elf’s approach until W’rath nimbly climbed in with him. The sailor let out an involuntary squawk, nearly jumping out of the crow’s nest when W’rath appeared next to him, seemingly out of thin air.
“Hope you don’t mind, lad,” W’rath said, pretending he hadn’t noticed the sailor’s brief bout with terror. “My first ship, and I’m trying to take it all in.”
“No, of course not, Councilor,” the sailor said, voice a few octaves higher than normal. He cursed and started to fumble for a thin tube of burning paper that had fallen from his lips when he’d panicked.
“What is that?” W’rath asked. The smoke slipped into his lungs and cleared away the ache put there by the fresh salt air.
“Sorry, sir, just a bad habit I picked up down south. That’s why I get stuck with crow’s nest duty. No one wants to smell the burning tobacco. It’s why everyone calls me Stench.”
“No need to apologize, lad. You needn’t put out your burning stick either. After all, I’m the one invading your space. In fact, if you have another?”
Stench blinked. “None rolled, I’m afraid. At least not like this one. I have these others I rolled—there’s cloves and other spices mixed in with the tobacco leaves. I thought I’d like them, but they just don’t agree with me.”
“Those will do,” W’rath said, and the surprised sailor fished one out for W’rath, lighting it with the tip of the one he’d finally managed to retrieve from the floor of crow’s nest. He handed it to W’rath.
“Takes some getting used to,” Stench said. “You pull the smoke down into your lungs. Don’t worry about the coughing, you’ll get used to it.”
He stopped talking when he realized the Shadow Elf had not succumbed to a coughing fit, and in fact, appeared as though he found the burning air he inhaled soothing.
W’rath blew clove scented smoke into the early afternoon air. “Lad, you are a life saver,” he said. “I refuse to call you Stench. What is your proper name?”
“Elaugh’den, Councilor.”
“So tell me, young Elaug’den, how does Councilor K’hul feel about this … smoking?”
“Loathes it, sir.”
“Ah, lad, you have just made my day.”
The would-be welcoming party sank to the ground and sprawled on the hard stone path, panting. They’d managed to stagger just a few hundred feet toward the surface of First Home. Of the forty they had cajoled or bullied into making the journey, only thirty remained. Barely into their trek and already ten had given up, too exhausted to go further.
“How embarrassing,” Ryld gasped. “I knew we were in bad shape, but we’re pathetic. Why in the hells did we allow this to happen?”
Caeldan shrugged, still too winded to reply.
“I know we’re just kids, but we should have stood up for ourselves. Reaper and T’sane had no right to keep us down here, cut off from everyone.”
“Haven’t exactly seen any of the other elves coming down to help us,” Caeldan said, between gulps for air..
“When we lived topside our teachers treated us well. They never acted like we were tainted.”
“But they didn’t stand in the way when Reaper and T’sane decided to drag us back down here, did they?” Caeldan countered.
“True, though that would have meant defying members of the High Council,” Ryld replied, thoughtful. “I wonder if they realized what awaited us down here?”
“We make it topside, you can ask them.”
“We make it out of here, I’m going to want a lot of questions answered.”
Caeldan grinned at his brother’s newfound fire. “We’d better start moving then. At this rate it’ll take us a week to get up there.”
“Okay, folks, rest time’s over. Let’s get going.”
Ryld’s words elicited many a groan, and even a few curses, filling Caeldan with new hope. If they could manage enough energy to curse his brother, then maybe, sad as they were, they still had some spirit left to them.
Raven found herself surrounded by demons. They reached for her with dripping talons. She stood helpless as, once again, Linden died trying to protect her. This time, despite her inherent resistance to heat, she burned. The smoke filled her lungs and she struggled for air. With a gasp, she dragged herself from the nightmare.
“At last you rejoin us,” W’rath said.
To her chagrin, Raven realized the smoke from her dream had followed her into the waking world. “Gods! You’re on fire!” she cho
ked.
“Ah, so dramatic. It’s just this bit of rolled paper and leaves. This is the best I’ve breathed in three days.”
Raven waved the smoke away. “You must be part fire elemental if that helps you breath.”
A shadow fell over the two and they looked up to find Lady Swiftbrook, arms crossed, glowering at W’rath. “I didn’t think it possible for you to make yourself more annoying, and yet here we are.”
“I take pride in exceeding people’s expectations.”
“You are a glib one.”
“I am at that.”
A chuckle escaped Lady Swiftbrook’s throat, spoiling her scowl. She shook her head and gave up trying to appear stern. “I actually came to find you because we’re getting close to the veil separating us from First Home. Down here in the shade you two can’t see where we’re headed. If you come up to the quarterdeck, I think you’ll find the view quite spectacular.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of it, but never thought I’d get to see it,” Raven said, scrambling to her feet, yanking W’rath up as if he weighed no more than her book satchel. “I’ve heard it makes the colors of the northern lights pale by comparison.”
W’rath glared, shaking off her grip in an attempt to regain some dignity. The young female, oblivious, practically bounced with excitement, her eyes alight with the sights of this new world. Lady Swiftbrook felt a smile tugging at her lips. She couldn’t remember a single moment with Lord T’sane and Lady Reaper when she’d had any cause to smile. Despite the risks of inviting two Exiles into her home, she believed she had done the right thing.
The three made their way up the stairs to the quarterdeck of the ship. Before them stretched a massive curtain, shimmering in the distance as if made up of molten gems of every hue. “Incredible,” W’rath breathed.
“It surpasses all of the tales,” Raven said. Her eyes glittered with the reflected light of the veil.
“As beautiful as it is,” Lady Swiftbrook said, “it is first and foremost a wall. It prohibits any non-elf from crossing into the waters of First Home.”
“What about Exiles?” W’rath fell back to the practical.
“They’re elves, so it will allow them to pass.”
W’rath sucked thoughtfully on his smoldering twig. “That doesn’t strike you as an obvious flaw in your defenses? They could easily teleport an army into First Home and cause all sorts of havoc.”
Lady Swiftbrook shook her head. “They’d have a real challenge ahead of them. Exiles live underground, sailing isn’t something they excel at. They’d have to build several ships, or get someone to build them for them, and then hire a crew to sail them here. Then they’d have to hope no one, like say the Sea Elves, noticed them and put a stop to their little adventure. Even if they succeeded in getting here, they’d have to teleport blind and that’s suicidal.”
“Truly?” W’rath said, turning to Raven. “Are psions from your city so incompetent they can only teleport for short distances?”
“I’ve never heard of any able to go beyond line of sight. Not to mention, most male psions aren’t allowed to use their powers much. They certainly don’t get the opportunity to practice their craft and develop their skills.” Raven winced with the utterance of each word, as if speaking burned her throat with acid. Her joy at the sight of the brilliant wall had withered with the reminder of her people’s vile practices.
“Extraordinary,” W’rath said. “I’ll grant you it takes no small amount of skill to teleport blind, but after our time in Second Home you must realize an experienced psion can manage it quite nicely. I moved over fifty people, without incident, to a place I’d never been to before, with only Lady Swiftbrook’s memories to guide me. I find the concept of a distance limitation ridiculous. A foot or a thousand miles matters not. Only those with small imaginations and weak spines allow themselves to suffer such limitations.”
Lady Swiftbrook felt the blood drain from her face. “I hope none of them ever figure that out. Where did you learn such fine control?”
W’rath shrugged. “I’m self taught.”
He scowled at the dubious glare she gave him. “Living on one’s own requires a certain amount of experimentation, daring and quick thinking. As Lady Raven has kindly pointed out, the life a male has to look forward to in a typical Exile city is less than pleasant. If I hadn’t taken extraordinary measures and risks, I wouldn’t have survived.”
“I can’t argue with that,” Raven said. Her grimace said more than any words could. “I have heard of a few cities where males and females live as equals though,” she continued. “I’ve never actually visited one, so I have no idea if they really exist. They’re probably just fanciful tales.”
“Probably, but it would be wise to find out for certain,” W’rath mused. “I expect if any Exile city had the audacity to attack First Home, the assault would originate from one in which the males had full use of their powers. They would have the freedom to experiment and stretch their abilities.”
“Lovely,” Lady Swiftbrook muttered. “Bad enough we have some enemy capable of opening portals from the Abyss and the Nine Hells, now I find out even the Veil isn’t enough to keep out a truly determined army of Exiles.”
“Best you learn that now rather than after they pop into the streets of First Home and start melting people’s brains.” If W’rath meant his smile to offer reassurance, he failed.
“You’re determined to give me nightmares, aren’t you?” Lady Swiftbrook said. Her stomach had started to clench, and she suspected she’d gone a bit green. “I don’t suppose you have a solution to go along with your dire warning?”
“I leave the details of magic to you, madam,” W’rath replied.
“I knew you’d say something like that. Fine, I’ll just add it to my growing list of things to deal with when we reach First Home.”
Raven suddenly gasped as the ship seemed to shift elsewhere. Even W’rath reflexively grabbed the side of the ship. Lady Swiftbrook grinned, pleased something had finally caught the male unawares. “It’s an illusion of sorts. Like a rainbow it always appears someplace you can’t quite reach. The disorientation you felt was us passing through it. Look—now it hangs behind us at quite a distance.”
“And if we hadn’t been elves?” W’rath asked.
“I’m told that most of the time they find themselves off the coast of the southern islands called the Chain of Dragons. Provided the dragons aren’t active, they most likely come out of it fine.”
W’rath chuckled. “I suppose that’s preferable to cluttering up the ocean floor with ships and corpses.”
“It’s enough of a warning to keep nearly everyone but the most greedy or foolish from making the trip out here. Now, if you’ll turn your attention away from our security measures, you can see the tallest spires of your new home.”
The glistening, iridescent structures of First Home rose from the mists. Raven’s mouth formed an ‘O’ of wonder, and a child-like wonder filled her face. W’rath stared more soberly, not sure what he’d expected, and not sure how he should feel.
“What is that?” Raven said, pointing. From out of the clouds appeared a floating citadel of black glass.
W’rath felt the world reel and he nearly toppled to the deck. Lady Swiftbrook caught him. “By the First, are you all right?” She said. “You’ve gone grey.”
“Jolly fine, madam,” he managed with a rueful twist to his lips. He restrained himself from staring at the horrifying structure. That it still existed after all these years, even though everything else had changed so much, was simply staggering.
“I knew you couldn’t get by on just meditation,” Raven chided, making light of his fainting spell. He noticed her taking surreptitious glances at the citadel, though. She wasn’t an idiot. She knew the floating structure was the source of his distress.
“Perhaps you’re right, my dear,” he said, allowing Lady Swiftbrook to help steady him. A wave of emotion surprised him. He’d only just met the girl, and yet she cho
se to trust him and keep his secrets. Being so circumspect had to go against her nature. She would demand answers soon. What would he tell her?
“Are you done fainting?” Lady Swiftbrook asked.
“I shall be fine, madam. Just a brief bout of vertigo. These last few days have been … trying.” He straightened and made an effort to show he had fully recovered. He gestured at the citadel. “I believe you were about to enlighten us as to the origins of this structure?”
Lady Swiftbrook nodded. “The black citadel,” she said, “served as Umbral’s prison for the eighty-five years he spent locked up prior to his banishment to the Abyss. The First himself created it from the same volcanic glass he used to form the first Shadow Elves.”
“Traitor’s Heart,” Raven said. “I never knew it floated.” She seemed nearly as awed by it as she had the Veil.
“That, and it’s enchanted so psions cannot use their powers anywhere in or around its walls. There was concern those loyal to Umbral would attempt to rescue him, so the First ensured Umbral’s people could not so much as mind speak with him.”
“Does anyone occupy it now?” W’rath asked.
“No, of course not,” Lady Swiftbrook said. “No one so villainous has walked among the elves since that time. It’s said Umbral had gone raving mad by the time they finally pulled him out to face his banishment. No one wants to subject another elf to such a fate. Now it serves as a monument, a reminder of those dark times.”
Raving mad, eh? W’rath worked to keep his face neutral. Well, perhaps he had lost his mind, but just a little. After all, they celebrated his one hundredth birthday by dragging him from his dark prison so his father could toss him through a one-way door into a living nightmare. A certain amount of hysteria had been called for. Still young, he’d yet to learn how to put on a stoic front. Leave it to the historians who came after to turn it into something more than a young elf’s terror at being fed to monsters.
Dark times indeed. But based on the events these past few days, even darker times had found them. Ten thousand years ago, one angry youth lashed out at his father. When it came down to it, his tantrum should have doomed no one but himself. Whoever, or whatever, had chosen to attack Second Home had succeeded in delivering a devastating blow to the entire Elven Nation.