by S D Simper
Until, she suddenly tensed, then allowed a few to get close for the opportunity to heave her hammer forward with all her might—
Directly at Casvir.
With the onslaught of dead in the path, he hadn’t a hope to dodge—the hammer bludgeoned him in the chest as it continued to fly, landing on top of him when it finally fell.
Flowridia gasped and ran onto the battlefield, beckoning for Demitri and Ana to stay. “Casvir!” she cried, and as she approached, she saw Khastra tearing the dead apart with claws and teeth, all semblance of civility disappearing.
She turned her gaze on Flowridia directly, her monstrous smile twisting and dripping with black ichor.
Flowridia reached Casvir in time to watch him heave the great hammer from his body. Not lift it, no, but push it away, silent even as it further dented the armor through his flesh. “How can I help?” she asked.
“This is training.”
When she looked up, she realized Khastra tore through the undead to reach them. “As I said, how can I help?”
Casvir stood back onto his clawed feet, the mace reappearing in his hand. “Get off the battlefield.”
He charged forward.
Though slighted by the words, Flowridia obeyed and returned to the sidelines where Demitri awaited. If things continue, Khastra will tear his face off for me.
“I certainly hope not,” she whispered.
The hammer suddenly flew back, though this time the great tyrant fell to the ground to avoid it. It returned to Khastra’s hands, and she suddenly leapt from the fray, impossibly high, and landed between Casvir and Flowridia. She threw her hammer toward the prone Casvir, who clumsily rolled over to dodge. The undead shrieked as they skittered to swarm her anew, but Khastra turned her vicious countenance to Flowridia.
The berserker charged. Claws swiped Flowridia before she could scream. Nails threatened to pierce her torso, driving the air from her body.
Khastra held Flowridia aloft, high above the air. She spoke demonic words, her body growing brighter even as the shadows rose and lights flickered. Flowridia understood none of it, only the quick use of the name, “Casvir!”
The imperator in question approached, weapon wielded, undead rushing behind. A crushing grip clamped around Flowridia’s face, smelling of blood and dirt. Panicked, she screamed, muffled as it was, and beat upon the hands that held her in vain.
“I yield. Release her.”
The Bringer of War did so, gently placing Flowridia onto the ground, in tandem with a wicked laugh from her throat. Flowridia gasped for breath, then ran to Demitri who growled from his position by the wall. She didn’t dare look at anyone, much less Casvir who would surely be furious.
The next words she heard were Casvir’s once again. “You cheated.”
“I did not cheat,” came Khastra’s voice—her true voice, the one that reminded Flowridia of nights in an underground library. “She stepped onto the battlefield.”
Flowridia peeked up, and saw that Khastra, though disheveled, had returned to her natural form—if that’s the one this was. “The true victory,” Khastra continued, “is ours both. My heart has not failed.” She held her arms out, a sardonic grin on her face. The hammer flew back into her grasp, and she gave a slight nod before she stepped through the door.
Flowridia ran to Casvir. “I’m sorry.”
“You did not know,” he replied, steps staggered as he made his way from the battlefield. The moment he stepped onto the stone sides, Flowridia watched and heard the terrain shift and settle. Like an earthquake, the ground split, and the undead in the arena were swallowed by the earth. The floor became flat stone.
“This place,” Casvir continued, “is a training ground. And while winning is never a guarantee, I rarely lose. Khastra is as formidable an opponent as I had hoped.”
“I’m sorry I ruined it for you.”
“Do not do it again.” He lumbered forward, no grace to his movements. As though summoned, an envoy of hooded figures filtered in from the outside, doting, for lack of a better word, upon him as the they unlatched the straps of his armor—rather, as the armor unlatched itself, given that they had no hands. “As you can see, your friend is well.”
Flowridia looked to the door where Khastra had left. “I wouldn’t call us ‘friends,’” she muttered, slighted at Khastra’s cruel streak. Yet, she could not be angry—Khastra was in pain, more than Flowridia could fathom. She remembered the half-demon’s screams from the slab, saw Ayla’s victim on her own—
Casvir had condoned it all.
“Did you rest well?”
Flowridia looked up at Casvir’s words. “Well enough,” she whispered, then added, “and I suppose I’m rife for abuse because . . .” She shut her eyes, swallowing the rise of emotion, shoving aside what horrors waited behind her eyelids. “I need to know more. I have to understand her. Where can I go to find the truth?”
“The library in the palace is where I learned what I know of her; perhaps you might discover something more.” Casvir looked to one of the hooded servants. “Escort Lady Flowridia to the library.”
The servant lowered its floating self as if to bow, then moved out. Flowridia followed, Demitri and Ana in tow. She was amused to find that her little fox had apparently learned the proper way to walk on carpet; in dainty measures, she lifted her sharp little claws with care, the carpet no longer a nuisance.
Nonetheless, when they reached the stairs, she held the fox in her arms.
The figure took her to the bottom floor and then farther below. The walls remained lit only by sconces. Flowridia realized they delved deeper and deeper underground. With a smile, she recalled Etolié’s underground bastion of knowledge, lit by the skylight. “Is the library large?”
“The castle library harbors limitless knowledge and infinitely expands to accommodate it.”
“You’ll have to explain what that means.”
“Knowledge is power,” the figure continued, stopping before a large set of double doors. “Power is difficult to keep contained.”
The doors opened as it raised its empty sleeve. Flowridia stepped forward, watching as a gargantuan room spread out before them. Books lined every wall and shelf, ones that reached well above the bounds of where the ceiling should have ended. Stairs to the side led up. Before her, they went down, opening up to a circular masterpiece of architecture.
They were not alone; patrons skimmed the shelves, academics sat at desks and tables. It was not busy, no, but hardly abandoned. Flowridia’s heart skipped a beat when she saw some monstrous thing walking idly between the shelves—a humanoid figure, but double her height and composed entirely of books. She watched as it scooped up a pile of abandoned books from a desk and added them to its very makeup, then insert another onto a separate shelf.
“You need not fear the golems,” the figure said. “They both maintain and protect the premises.”
Were they ghosts or mindless beings? Flowridia watched the golem as it disappeared behind a series of shelves.
“With special permission from universities or from the imperator, researchers from every part of Nox’Kartha are welcome here. As are foreigners, but for a daily fee. By Casvir’s decree, as an honorary citizen, you may come and go as you choose.”
Flowridia nodded, smiling as the horrors in her memory muted beneath the peace of this place. It smelled of home, of books and ancient scrolls, evoking a longing for her days in Etolié’s underground sanctuary. “Thank you,” she said, turning back, and with a bow, the figure left her alone.
Her hand caressed Demitri’s fur as she stepped forward, her other arm still supporting Ana, who wriggled in her grasp. “Stay beside me,” she cooed to the little creature, and when she placed Ana on the ground, she did not deviate more than a step or two away.
Flowridia continued soaking in the magnificent array of books and knowledge, wondering if Etolié would be absolutely furious to know such a place existed without her to occupy it, curious to know if Ayla had ev
er spent her days here—
Her fists clenched. Thoughts of Ayla stung.
Flowridia spared a glance at the nearest shelf, hoping to have a hint of where to begin and realized, as she skimmed the array of books, that they were all treatises on Nox’Karthan history.
It stood to reason that Casvir would place evidence of his kingdom’s own greatness up front.
Any time she swore she found an end, the shelves turned, more space appeared, and endless books met her view. Yet she held no fear of getting lost; any time she turned around, there the exit stood, up the stairs and well within sight.
The mechanics of the spacious room befuddled her, but magic had done stranger things.
Quiet muttering met her ear as she walked. A hooded figure spoke in hushed tones to a De’Sindai girl, not much older than Flowridia by appearances. She heard the girl ask for books on tide pools.
“Three shelves down, turn left and then right. Do not deviate, and you shall find it.”
As the girl stepped away, Flowridia approached the figure. “I need information on . . .” She steeled herself, for now there was no going back. “. . . Ayla Darkleaf?”
The figure pointed with its sleeve. “When you reach the wall, go up the stairs. Three paces right, and then what you seek shall appear. Do not deviate from the path.”
Flowridia thanked the being and did as directed, only stopping to scoop Ana into her arms when a passing golem threatened to trample her.
The gilded banister was pristine and polished, and Flowridia dared not touch it, for fear of smudging the wood and metal. She traversed up the steps with care, Demitri close behind, and came upon a smaller hall, the walls made of dark stone.
Three paces right, and then a door appeared, shimmering from the very air. Assuming this to be her quarry, Flowridia entered.
She came upon a spacious room, lined and filled with shelves and saw, upon the nearest one, Engineers in Aerospace: The Mechanics of Zauleen.
Zauleen meant elven literature. Flowridia set about skimming the shelves.
She saw, between the shelves, evidence of a golem passing one row beyond, but when Flowridia reached the end of the shelf—all of them specializing in engineering—she came across an elven man, who met her eye and put a finger to his lips.
He was dressed in the manner of a traveler, with boots and breeches, a vest over his brown tunic, and a rapier at his hip. His blonde hair, nearly as white as the moon, though not from age, had been sheared short—roughly so, as if by a knife—and what she saw of his skin lay riddled with scars. Knicks in his ear, his chin, and his hands were rough and discolored from flecks of black—frostbite? His skin had once been tanned, but he seemed sickly, somehow, as though he had not seen the sun in years.
What surprised her most was the tiny bird perched upon his shoulder.
Flowridia heard the golem; the man darted away, gone in an instant, in ways a common mortal could not mimic.
As the book golem approached, Flowridia widened her eyes, gasping as she pointed at the door from where she’d come. “He went that way,” she said, casting fear into her voice.
The golem turned, picking up speed as it lumbered toward the door.
When it had shut, Flowridia heard a soft, masculine voice. “Thank you,” said the elven man, suddenly behind her. He stood a full head taller, but his green eyes were kind as he smiled. “They shake me down anytime they find me, trying to empty my pockets. It’s quite uncomfortable.” He offered a scarred hand. “Tazel.”
Amused, Flowridia accepted, noting his firm grip. “Flowridia. And that’s Demitri. And Ana.” She took her hand back, watching as Tazel cast a wary look upon both the undead cradled by her arm and the wolf at her side.
“And you all talk to each other?”
“Only Demitri and I. He’s my familiar.”
Tazel nodded, then looked to the bird on his shoulder. “This is Ferseph. She’s mine.”
For an elf to have a familiar was utterly unheard of as far as Flowridia knew, but she opted not to ask, fearing rudeness. Instead, she spared a glance toward the door. “May I ask why they try and empty your pockets?”
“You might say I’ve overstayed my welcome. Technically, however, I shouldn’t have to pay until I leave.” He smiled, friendly enough, but holding the slightest twitch. When he lingered, Flowridia suspected he didn’t often get the chance to speak. “As a thank you for sparing me from the golem, I’ll happily share my meal with you.”
Flowridia looked to Demitri. I’ll bite his face off if he’s creepy.
She smiled back at Tazel. “That would be delightful, thank you,” she replied, realizing she had barely eaten.
“Follow me,” Tazel said, and he led them past the shelves and to a door she swore hadn’t been there previously.
“Wait,” she said. “Before we go, could you help me find something? I’m looking for . . .” To tell the truth to a servant of Casvir’s was one thing, but to an elf? “. . . elven monsters. Would you know where I could look?”
“Let’s see . . .” Tazel immediately assumed the guise of a scholar, expertly darting between the shelves on his toes. His movements were smooth, his muscles held in perfect control, and Flowridia suspected there was more to his makeup than a mere hermit in the library. “Do you speak elven?”
She saw the word burn emblazoned in blood. Flowridia forced a smile, shoving aside images of desecrated altars. “I learned a few scattered words in my childhood, but nothing more.”
“Then your options are limited.” Tazel scanned the shelves with a scholar’s eye, then withdrew a small, leather-bound book. “Any specific elven monster?”
He offered the book forward and the title, written in her native tongue, read: Endless Night: Monsters of the Zauleen Providences. “No,” she lied. She accepted the book, ignoring how her blood ran cold.
“I’ve read that one. It’s lacking. You might be better served finding a book on Solviran to Zauleen translations—plenty of those around.”
“It might be a decent investment of my time,” Flowridia said softly, enthralled at the book in her hands. “It’s a language I plan to learn.” To whisper words of love to Ayla in her native tongue seemed a beautiful thing, indeed. “You say you’ve read this one?”
Tazel beckoned for her to follow and led her through the shelves. “I have. I’ve lived long enough to meet a few monsters in my days; I wanted to see if their depictions were accurate.”
“Were they?”
“Well enough.” The man opened a door, holding it as she passed. “If you don’t mind me commenting,” Tazel said, scrutiny in his gaze, “you’re awfully young to be a witch.”
Inside, Flowridia saw more shelves, but in the center she saw an established campsite, complete with evidence of fire. A sleeping roll lay strewn beside it, along with a pile of well-worn books, various satchels, and more. “With due respect,” Flowridia replied, feeling bold, “you’re awfully elven to have a familiar.”
To her relief, she saw Tazel crack a wide smile. “Well, Sol Kareena chooses who she will.”
When he sat down upon a pile of books, Flowridia did the same across from him. From a satchel, Tazel withdrew a wrapped wheel of cheese and a variety of fruit.
Flowridia watched the daintiness with which he plated the food, prepared to decline any offer of meat when she recalled that most elves were vegetarian. So when he offered the plate of cheese, fruit, and nuts, she accepted with a gracious smile. “Thank you. May I ask where you find fresh food in a place like this?”
“I pay a messenger to deliver supplies once a week,” Tazel said, plating his own food.
“How long have you been here?”
“Oh, gods . . .” She watched Tazel mentally calculate whatever series of numbers flowed through his head. “At least six years. I’m happier alone.”
“You haven’t run out of money in six years?”
Tazel glanced up from his plate, looked to the door, then finally met her eye. He snapped his finger
s, and from his hand a single, silver coin flipped out and landed on the floor. “It’s one of many strange talents I have, to summon silver at will. I’m always certain to keep a supply on hand, for when the golems shake me down.”
She giggled and teased, “You could single-handedly destroy the economy with that.” Grateful when he grinned, she added, “You could leave, then?”
He set the plate on his lap and began picking at it. “I could,” Tazel said, his smile more grimace than not. “Truth be told, I’m hiding.”
“Hiding?”
“If you can avoid golems, this is a surprisingly safe place to live.”
Flowridia set the plate down, suddenly wary. “Am I in the presence of a fugitive?” she asked, as nonchalant as she could summon.
Tazel, however, merely chuckled. “Not quite. Elven celebrities are rarely known outside of their own culture. I’m one of the rare elves with an affinity for magic, which I think explains the important parts. But I’ve been more . . . disillusioned, you could say, in recent years. So I hide here, a thousand miles away from my homeland and a few key people in particular.”
“You were a hero, then?”
“According to the titles they gave me, yes. But it’s not a life I would have chosen for myself. All I ever wanted was to study my books.” Tazel gestured to the variety of literature around them—Biological Mechanics, Airships of the Elven Empire, and many more, most detailing some affinity for invention. “I’m teaching myself everything I was never able to learn as a youth. Did you know the Iron Elves have invented mechanical prosthetics? Organs, even?”
Flowridia shook her head, unable to fathom the thought.
“Neither did I, until yesterday. Now, I’m learning to build a gear-driven lung.” He breathed a sigh of absolute peace. “I’m happy here.”
The little bird gave a faint tweet, and Tazel offered his familiar a bit of fruit. “Tell me about the world,” he said, smiling at Ferseph. “What have I missed?”