Swept Away: An Epic Fantasy (The Last Elentrice Book 3)

by S McPherson

  ‘Clever, lad,’ Diez sneers, now noticing the twig on the ground, but he lunges again.

  Milo teleports, manifesting behind Diez, and rams his elbow into his spine. The horror-of-a-man stumbles but is quick to recover, swivelling around and throwing out his fist. Milo ducks, his hand slipping into his bag, his fingers sensing the gethadrox. They easily curl around it and pull it from the satchel. Once again, Milo hears rather than sees Diez dive for him and feels the change in the wind.

  He chuckles, a dark, throaty chuckle he barely recognises as his own as he evades Diez’s attack. No wonder people kept the Elutheran plant around even after its dark proclivities were discovered. The lure is delicious. Milo never felt so powerful, so invincible. Momentarily distracted by the wonder, he’s caught off guard and Diez tackles him to the ground. The gethadrox slips from Milo’s grasp and Diez hauls him towards another looming rock.

  ‘That little splash of Elutheran won’t last you long, lad,’ Diez grunts as Milo struggles. ‘I, however, can do this all day.’

  Milo scrambles in the earth, soil caking his fingernails and his blood staining the ground. The gethadrox slips further into the distance, the Elutheran plant even further away.

  Well, this won’t do. Milo grits his teeth. His eyes rage a brilliant blue and cyan as determination and venom slake his veins. He clenches his fists and draws on the strength to writhe and twist out of Diez’s iron grip.

  As swift as a mountain cat, Milo pounces on the gethadrox, taps its centre and turns the glass disk, with no realm in mind. The arrow, though faint, shoots out of the device and as Diez barrels after him, Milo follows the mist until it sucks him up and finally out of Vedark.

  CONFESSIONS

  My eyes glaze over as I chisel away at the slab of wood in front of me. I’ve been in here for hours but for some reason cannot bring myself to leave the comfort of Carve & Wood’s backroom. My hands move methodically without my input, allowing my mind to wander. To wander back to the day, so long ago, when I first fell in love with carving.

  It seems like another lifetime. I was about fourteen, Drake near eighteen, around the time his drinking intensified, though he didn’t spiral into an abusive alcoholic rage until later. I had been out walking one evening to avoid his drunken slurs and ended up at a market, a few minutes’ walk from Cuckilbury mountain. Though the crowd had been sparse, the sellers had hollered out their prices and thrust their wares at passers-by. A beggar played the accordion as he leant against a wall, a mangy dog curled at his feet. And beside them, bathed in a golden glow cast from bulbs around his stand, was a man with streaks of grey in his thinning hair, chiselling away at a piece of wood. He barely noticed those who stopped to admire his handiwork. He was completely consumed by the creative threads guiding his fingers.

  I wasn’t sure what he was making. It was large and round with intricate markings but I didn’t care. It was beautiful, and when coupled with the haunting tones of the accordion, the closest thing to magic. Before I knew it, the crowd had gone, the music had silenced and tears glistened in my eyes. The man was so content. He knew a peace I envied and it burnt like a lump of hot coal in my throat. He had found a purpose, a reason for being. I wanted a part of it.

  When he finally looked up to discover me still standing there, he smiled and offered me his chisel.

  ‘You do not learn by watching,’ he had said.

  The memory curves my mouth into a smile and my eyes drift wistfully about the vacant shop.

  Peter and the others have left for the night. Even Mister Picklesby. Nearly an hour ago, he’d tossed me the keys and told me to lock up when I was done. I sigh at the thought, stretch and bend my neck. ‘When I’m done’ means when I step back into hopelessness, one where Sakiya shares more stories of her time in R.U.O.E. and reminds me how there are more like her down there, suffering the same fate. And how we are doing nothing to help when Milo still explores a universe too vast to imagine. One thick with evil and laced with fear. Where he attempts to fight it, all on his own, and when the Makers of Feranvil continue to send out patrol guards as if they will be enough when R.U.O.E. comes, when Drake comes.

  I shudder away the tendrils of terror snaking up my spine and glance over my shoulder. No one is there, of course. Why would they be? Drake left Feranvil. He escaped and went Up Top to report his findings to the enemy. But I look over my shoulder again and grip the gouge a little tighter than necessary, unable to shake off the feeling that somebody is watching me.

  ‘Beautiful song.’

  I scream, bolting to my feet at the sound of the woman’s voice. I swivel, chisel poised and heart racing. Imogen.

  ‘Jumpy aren’t we?’ she says, trying to conceal her snicker.

  ‘Imogen,’ I pant, still trembling, ‘what are you doing here?’

  She steps further into the room and out of the shadows. ‘I ran into Peter at the Bar & Grill. He said you were still here and might never leave.’

  ‘Oh,’ and shakily, I lower the gouge, quite glad to have some company before my imagination claims my sanity.

  ‘What was that song?’ she asks.

  I frown. ‘What song?’

  ‘You were humming.’ She steps over my discarded table parts and props herself on one of the completed dining chairs. I think back to before my wayward thoughts took off. I had been humming a song I often hum to soothe my nerves. I do it so often I barely notice I’m doing it anymore.

  ‘It’s a song my mother sang to us; Drake and I.’ I steadily sit back down and swallow past the ache in my throat. ‘She made it up. Said it was the only thing that settled us in the womb at night, in the car and wherever else.’ I smile, sadly, my eyes transfixed on the blasted piece of wood I’d been working on. I can’t even remember what I was making.

  ‘How did it go?’ Imogen asks. Her voice is calm and comforting. I wonder if her singing the song would soothe my splintered soul.

  ‘Mother’s here…’ My voice cracks and I release a shaky breath before starting again. ‘Mother’s here, little one, so rest and don’t ye fret,’ I sing, as my mother had. ‘Mother’s here, little one, always and don’t forget.’ I try to feel no connection to the words. ‘Mother’s here, little one, so don’t you get upset. Mother’s here, little one, watching over her wee pet,’ but by the end, tears slip down my cheeks, discarded drops of pain.

  ‘As beautiful as I thought it would be,’ Imogen says, shuffling in her seat. I don’t look to see her reaction. Instead, I pick up my wood rasp and begin filing.

  ‘You must miss her. You must miss them both.’ She pauses. ‘Perhaps even Drake.’

  I nod as grief replaces the air in my lungs. I do miss them, but more than that, I miss what could have been. I miss the future that never was. I miss the Drake I once knew: my big brother who would look out for me when our parents let us go to the park or who would argue with me on long road trips to Torquay, driving my parents bonkers. I miss a life that never fully existed. The idea of a life I lost.

  ‘I used to have a bear,’ I finally say, clearing my throat. ‘My mum recorded her singing the song so I could listen to it whenever I felt—’

  ‘Where’s the bear now?’

  I shrug, the rasp now hanging listlessly in my hand. ‘I assume Drake threw it away. He said I didn’t deserve to have anything from them, and like an idiot, I believed him.’ I toss the rasp aside, balling my hands into tight fists.

  In an instant, Imogen is beside me, an arm around my shoulders.

  ‘I ran away from home,’ she utters, quietly. ‘I miss it sometimes.’

  I turn to look at her, shock and confusion vying for my attention.

  ‘Why?’ I croak.

  ‘I often ask myself that very question,’ and her eyes grow distant. ‘It was some twenty years ago now. At the time, I was grown; an adult. And it became painfully clear that no matter how old I grew, my family would still shelter me, cage me under the guise of protection. I just wanted to be free.’

  I twist to face her, t
hough she keeps her hand tangled in my hair, smoothing it back and twisting the ends.

  ‘Why haven’t you gone back?’ I ask, trying to understand.

  She harrumphs. ‘The second I left, there was no going back. I’d disobeyed my parents, tarnished the family name. We lived in a small town, you see. To run away was to be as good as dead.’

  I frown, wanting to tell her she’s wrong, that her family would love to hear from her, to know she’s all right. They would rather have her far away than not at all. But something in her eyes says there’s more to it than she’s telling me, and that whatever it is makes her truly believe she can never go back home.

  I rest my head on her shoulder. ‘Well, sometimes family’s not all it’s cracked up to be.’

  She continues to stroke my head and I close my eyes.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be grand, if we could choose our family?’ she muses.

  I sigh, thinking of Nathaniel: my rock through almost everything, of Jude: my unlikely hero and unexpected friend. Of Milo, Lexovia, Yvane and Howard and even now of Imogen and Mrs Edwards. ‘I have chosen my family,’ I say decidedly. And it has very little to do with the blood in my veins.

  The Bar & Grill is buzzing tonight. The tension that used to pull at everyone’s strings seems to have gone slack. Drake’s warning regarding R.U.O.E’s phase two came so long ago it’s almost easy to pretend it never came at all. Well, easy for everyone but those who refuse to forget. Those like Jude and Nathaniel who sit across from me now at our usual booth, Sakiya on my left. I can almost see the wheels turning in their heads as they mull over everything we know and everything we have learnt in the last few months.

  My eyes drift to the resident giant, Big, as he sways in his usual corner, lager sloshing over the rim of his barrel. His eyes are closed, head bent back, and he murmurs along with the musician. Jude says he came here through a puddle; a puddle in the sky. He has his own home to miss, his own past to mourn. Threats from humans half his size won’t cause him many sleepless nights.

  The door bursts open and a group of men in suits barge in on their way home from work. They loosen their ties and pound on the bar for a round as they make eyes at the cluster of girls gyrating by the stage. They are amongst those who have forgotten.

  Even Mrs Edwards is her usual captivating self, dazzling drunks with her sleight of hand and bottle tossing skills. They cheer and applaud with doting expressions. Everyone’s at ease, everything disturbingly normal.

  The musician’s song swells from where she perches on stage, guitar in hand. Her hair is the colour of copper and her voice is like syrup, the melody just as gripping. I sigh and let my eyes close, but too soon, someone gruffly shuffles in beside me and they shoot back open.

  ‘Mrs Edwards?’ I frown.

  ‘Now then,’ she says, ‘who’s going to go first?’ She leans in expectantly, hands clasped and resting on the table. I look to the boys, neither seeming to have a clue what she’s on about.

  ‘Come on,’ she urges.

  ‘We don’t—’

  ‘Her,’ and Mrs Edwards looks pointedly at Sakiya. ‘It’s been four days of you lot slinking in here, having your food and what-have-you, and yet no one’s bothered to introduce me to this one,’ and she jabs her finger Sakiya’s way, ‘and I find myself wondering why.’ There is no anger in her tone, but her stern eyes and raised brows tell us we can’t blag our way out of this one. We all shift in our seats and sit a little straighter.

  I say nothing. Though Mrs Edwards has been incredible to me from the day I got here, accepting me as easily as if I were her own, Jude is still my friend and she is still his mother. I decided from the start that what we do and do not tell her will ultimately be up to him.

  Eventually, Jude sighs and rubs at the newly formed stubble on his chin. ‘Sakiya, this is my mother, Julie Edwards.’ Sakiya half smiles and offers a lame shrug. ‘Mum, this is Sakiya Huang. She recently escaped from R.U.O.E.’

  Shock slackens Mrs Edwards features, as if she’s been slapped in the face with a wet sock. ‘What?’

  ‘I’m a joint-breed from Coldivor,’ Sakiya explains. ‘I came to Islon a long time ago and recently wound up in some trouble that led to me being taken by the R.U.O.E. organisation.’

  Mrs Edwards’s lips draw to a thin line, then wearily she cradles her head in her hands. ‘And how,’ she says at last, ‘have you ended up here? Out of R.U.O.E. and sitting in my restaurant?’

  ‘We were there, at Fixer Upper, when she…escaped,’ I say. ‘We sort of…helped.’ Quickly, I grab my mug of now lukewarm hot chocolate and hide my face behind it as I glug it down.

  ‘Sort of?’ Sakiya cackles. ‘Jude drove the getaway car.’

  I scowl at her but she fails to notice. Jude smiles wryly.

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ Mrs Edwards seems to say to herself, leaning heavily against the booths headrest. ‘You three went to that place? That car lot that Lexovia found?’

  We nod and say nothing, allowing her time to swallow the news. I place my now empty mug back on the table, silently wishing I’d gone for something stronger.

  ‘We just wanted to see what we’re up against,’ I say. ‘The last time I saw Drake, he said phase two was coming and then he somehow broke out of Feranvil, leaving us blind. We just wanted an idea, to try and gauge what phase two might be.’

  Mrs Edwards blows air between her teeth. I look from the boys to Sakiya and then back to where Mrs Edwards drums her foot against the floor and stares fixedly at the table.

  After a long silence, she finally says, ‘And?’ I frown at her in response. ‘What are we up against?’

  HEED MY WORDS

  Lexovia sags onto an ornate chaise longue by the window, her eyes lazily sweeping over the just as extravagant bedchamber given to her by the Court. A four-poster bed, complete with a canopy of silver ruffles and teal curtains, stands proud in the centre of the room. The floor is dark wood, though most of it is covered by a generous rug that boasts the faded symbols of the empires. Lexovia’s gaze follows the markings, seeking out the symbol of the Elentri—she barely remembers it anymore—but the rug is so worn, she cannot make it out. Sighing, Lexovia rests her head on the latticed windowpane. The glass is cool and stained with what looks like an emerald frame. After all this time, she thought she would be used to this place, but she still feels like a visitor, even more so now Vladimir is gone.

  She shifts, attempting to shake the thought of him from her mind, though it’s too late for that. As soon as Vladimir left, his absence sank into her chest like the point of a dagger and Lexovia can now hardly breathe around it. Howard had eyed her sceptically when she’d made her excuses to leave the great hall and retreat to her room, but she’d had to get out. Vladimir being away didn’t upset her so much as the thought that he might never come back.

  The movement of figures in the Court grounds steals her attention. Sitting a bit straighter, Lexovia peers outside. The grand doors have been flung open and golden light now streams out onto silhouettes as they march down the steps from the Court and on towards the gate.

  Panic licks her chest. Surely, they would have called her if something had happened. Hastily, Lexovia scrambles to her feet and in a blinding blaze of amber and with a thunderous thwack, she teleports from the room and materialises in the garden.

  Lexovia now stands in front of Taudry, a Teltreporthi with a permanent grin, like she constantly shares some private joke. But even her smile can’t hide the fury burning in her eyes tonight. She barely flinches at Lexovia’s appearance, simply adjusts the satchel flung across her black outfit.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Lexovia demands, a sick feeling settling in her gut.

  ‘We’re going after them,’ and Taudry’s grin grows wider.

  ‘How?’ Lexovia cries, her thoughts immediately shifting to Vladimir and all those who left earlier this evening, ‘None of you have a gethadrox, and even if you did, there’s too many of you.’

  Taudry frowns, not seeming to unde
rstand a word then slowly her smirk returns as she says, ‘No, not them. The Exlathars. We’re going after the Exlathars.’

  ‘What?’ Lexovia shrieks, and at least fifty pairs of eyes swivel in her direction. Taudry takes a step back. ‘You’re not serious.’

  ‘We are,’ Taudry says, her head held high.

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ Lexovia spits. ‘Nobody is going anywhere.’ Taudry opens her mouth to protest but is cut off by Lexovia’s glare. Rage lances through Lexovia and her eyes blaze of their own will. ‘Everybody, get back inside,’ she commands, but their faces just gape back at her.

  She glowers, realising with sick horror that more than a hundred Court members are armed and ready to march, and what’s worse, no one is retreating.

  ‘Now,’ she roars. Her enhanced voice calls on the wind and sends everyone nearby hurtling through the air, those beyond clinging to one another to keep from blowing over. Lexovia sighs, mildly satisfied when a few of the Court members scuttle back inside, but still most linger in the garden, reluctant to leave.

  ‘Vladimir left me in charge,’ she booms, ‘and I did not warrant this.’

  ‘Correction:’ a deep voice booms even louder, ‘Vladimir left us in charge and I did warrant this.’

  Like a shark cutting through water, Brixen parts the crowd. An immense weapons chain hangs from his torso, from which swings nearly every form of weapon they possess. Lexovia gapes at him, outrage creasing her brow and curling her lips.

  ‘Brixen,’ she seethes, ‘what are you playing at?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not playing,’ Brixen chuckles, humourlessly. ‘Vladimir was all for games and dancing around, but not me.’

  Lexovia does not miss the inflection on that stingingly delivered word, promptly pushing the memory of Vladimir and herself dancing in the arena from her mind.