#evartan

* * *

Night descended over Wethelnar, but the city remained awake.  Crowds of people milled about the streets, carrying baskets overflowing with trinkets from their homes.  Soldiers of Sword Flash held flickering candles to keep the dark roads lit.  Soft murmurs passed along the people as they shuffled down the street, making their way to the palace.

The queen had ordered the population to evacuate and head for the inner city, where they would be safe from the Urtish assault.  Meanwhile, all able-bodied men and women were camped behind the city wall, watching the plains in shifts.  Food rations were being carted to the palace, where the queen was waiting to distribute them. And somewhere out in the plains, the Urts marched ever closer.

Sparks watched the procession from the palace’s highest tower, where the great horn stood.  The stars were hidden behind thick grey clouds, but the moon’s light still shone through, if only barely.  Night wind whipped through his robes, chilling him. He shivered.  He wasn’t one for fortune-telling or reading the future, but this night seemed fraught with warning.

Tirius stood by the horn, rubbing his temples.  The two of them were keeping high watch; they could see far across the land from atop the tower.  But with no visible starlight, noticing movement in the night would be difficult. Sparks sent out a silent prayer that the Urts would wait for morning.

“I don’t like this,” Tirius muttered.  “I should be with my people.”

Sparks sighed. He’d volunteered for the post; after all, with his new powers, he could deal serious damage to the Urtish forces from above.  But Tirius had been ordered by the queen, to keep him out of harm’s way.  It was a wise move, considering that Tirius had no experience with war, but the mayor could be insufferable.  “I guess you’re not used to taking orders,” he said.

“I should never have agreed to this.”  Tirius wasn’t listening.  “We’d be safer back at Sword Flash.  What if the Urts double back and we aren’t there to protect them?  What if I die here and they lose their mayor?”

“You’re standing on the tallest tower in all of Geyron, killing you will take some time.”

“What if—”

Sparks grabbed Tirius by the shoulders.  “Listen to me!” he said sharply.  “If Wethelnar falls, Geyron falls with it.  This is bigger than your city.  Your duty is here.  Can you understand that?”

Tirius shoved Sparks off him and stumbled back.  “Don’t touch me!” he snarled.

Gritting his teeth, Sparks turned away.  “Fine. Just stay focused.”

“I will.”

Sparks let out a long breath.  Tirius was a politician.  He’d lived in Sword Flash all his life.  He wasn’t used to this kind of stress.  Best not to worry about it, he decided.

The plains were still. Sparks watched them silently, clenching his staff tight.  Within the next day, Geyron’s future may well be decided.  How long had it been since he left Pailan?  A few weeks?  It felt like ages.  His quiet life in a desert village seemed almost comical now.  Now the fate of the land rested on his shoulders.

Well, not exactly true. Kalann and Laura, wherever they were, would have to deliver the finishing blow.

Keep strong, my friends.  The end isn’t far now.

* * *

Standing on the city wall, watching the silent plains for some sign of movement, Evartan noted that it was cold in the north.

Evartan had lived most his life in Geyron’s southern reaches, where the temperature only dropped to pleasantly chilly.  Up in Wethelnar, it was a different story.  The night winds blowing down from the mountains seeped through every pore in his skin and chilled him to the core.  He prayed the sun would thaw his bones.

Once again, he cast his gaze across the hills, wondering where his brother was.  When the armies of Sword Flash had arrived at Wethelnar, the battle plan was devised.  Wethenlar’s guard would face the Urts at the city.  Sword Flash, meanwhile, would carve their force in half.  The first half would join the battle at Wethelnar. The second would wait in the plains overnight with the refugees from the Lerian.  Once the invasion passed by, they would circle around to draw the dragon’s attention.  Makuran had volunteered to join them—alone.

When Evartan protested, Makuran whispered to him, “I cannot stay here.  Not now.”  His brother was still isolated from the torture he went through.  If he needed time to find his balance again, Evartan couldn’t force it into him.

Not for the first time, he wondered if he was ready for the coming battle.  Age was fast catching up to him, though he hated to admit it, and his old joints were stiff in the cold.  He rubbed his hands together, desperately trying to warm up.  His tendons felt frayed, stretched.  Even with the fate of the world on the line, his body was still its usual weary self.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder.  A soldier. “Time to change watch,” he said.

Sighing, Evartan drew his gaze away from the plains.  He wasn’t going to see Makuran in the darkness; besides, Sword Flash’s army was camped out of sight, closer to the Lerian.  Better to get some rest while he still had the chance.  “Thank you,” he croaked.

As he made for the stairs, the soldier caught his arm.  “Keep strong,” he said.  “This war’s not over yet.”  So saying, he let go and turned his attention to the hilly plains.

Evartan stared at him for a second, then turned and began descending the marble staircase. He hadn’t felt this tired in a long time.

* * *

The palace was alive with people.  Wailing children, wizened elders, crippled warriors, expecting mothers, all clustered throughout the stately chambers.  The library had been set up as a mass bedroom, while the kitchen was stacked with rations and sealed off by the queen.  The great hall became an infirmary, where the physicians and healers waited for the casualties of battle to start flowing in.  Guards waited by the doors as more and more people stumbled across the threshold.  For all the confusion, though, the conversation was eerily muted, as if someone had pressed a muffler down over the populace.

Selia stood just outside the infirmary, guiding the old and weak to a place to rest.  All the best beds went to the hospital; everyone else would have to make do with the older, rattier ones.  It was lucky the great hall was so grand; Selia suspected they’d need as much room as they could muster when the battle started.

The old man Selia was helping along stumbled, and she caught him before he fell.  “Easy.  You must be exhausted.”

The man snorted. “Exhausted?  I should be fighting.”

“Right now, the best thing you can do is rest.”  Selia walked him over to a mattress beside the wall, a good distance away from everyone else.  Hopefully, he could get some peace and quiet.

“My sons are out there,” he murmured, lying back on the mattress.  “I must join them.”  He was already nodding off.

“Get some rest,” Selia said, forcing a smile.  “Maybe you can join them when you’re awake.”

He mumbled something incoherent and closed his eyes.  Soon, he was fast asleep.

Selia wiped her brow. She’d be better here than on the front lines, she knew that.  But her nerves were starting to creep up on her.  By the end of the day, the room would be full of moaning soldiers with broken bones, bloody gashes, crushed skulls, and the stench of death. Assuming they weren’t overrun, of course.  So much pain was about to come pouring out.

She recalled her conversation with Tenno in the Lerian.  How did the young rebel put it?  No use crying.  That was it.  Blood would flow and people would die, and there was nothing to do but breathe out, plunge in headfirst, and help however you could.  You can help, she told herself. Every person you save counts.

How did she get here? It seemed too surreal to be true; she was standing in Geyron’ palace with a war brewing just over the horizon. What happened to the silent woman living her life unnoticed in some far-off desert village?

That woman was dead. She’d died the moment Selia decided to leave Pailan behind and travel to Druid’s Hollow.  Now Geyron’s destiny was marching down upon her.

And spirits help me, I will see it through.

* * *

Faro was having trouble sleeping.  Maybe it was the lack of a sheet to keep him warm in the cool night air.  Maybe it was the towering presence of the city’s wall looming over him.  Maybe it was the knot in his stomach as he thought of Selia and everyone else hiding at the palace.  Or maybe it was just the stringy boar he had for dinner giving him indigestion. Either way, it was not a peaceful night for him.

He got up and stretched, wincing as his shoulders cracked.  He was with the soldiers of Wethelnar behind the city wall.  They were spread out along its length in makeshift camps, taking turns watching the plains for signs of the incoming horde. Faro’s shift had come and gone, so the rest of the night was free.  Of course, he’d rather be sleeping, but that didn’t seem to be an option.  How, then, to pass the time?

As if in answer, a familiar figure came up beside him.  “You’re going to be some Urt’s dinner if you don’t get some rest,” Tenno said.

Faro cracked a smile. “You won’t fare much better”

“I’ve had sleepless nights in the past.  I’m used to them.”

Faro sat back down. “Maybe you can help me out, then.”

Tenno knelt down beside him.  “Then get up. You start relaxing too hard, and you’re out.”

Wincing, Faro got back to his feet.  “Alright,” he said.  “So, keep active?”

“As much as possible. But don’t overdo it.  Too much activity and it wears you down.  Just walk around a bit.  Swing your arms.”  Tenno demonstrated.  “Keep your body moving, but only just enough.  And find things to focus your attention.”

Faro started pacing about.  “You ready for tomorrow?”

“I don’t think anyone is.”

Faro nodded.  He realized that he knew very little about her. Between the battle at Darkwood, her capture, and his relief at seeing Selia again, they hadn’t had much time to talk. “So,” he asked. “how was working with the trees?”

Tenno grinned. “You should see them in action. They’re your kind of people.”

“I imagine they are.” He looked back at the wall.  “I hope they can stop the dragons before they get here.”

Tenno was silent for a bit.  Then, she said, “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“You and Selia. You’re completely different people. How do you get along so well?”

Faro shrugged.  He hadn’t really thought about that much before. “I guess we… balance out, or something?”

“Maybe.”  Tenno glanced at the palace.  “She’s pretty incredible.”

“She is.”

Silence.  Faro glanced at the sky.  Still the dead of night.  By the morning, the battle would certainly come.  Whether he was more nervous or excited, he couldn’t tell. “Well,” he said, “thanks for the advice. If you see me passed out on the street, wake me up, okay?”

Tenno smirked. “Sure thing, night owl.”  Rolling her shoulders back, she walked off into the night.

Faro watched her go, then took a deep breath started pacing again.  Day could not come fast enough.

* * *

Makuran blinked his eyes open.  The grass was cool and damp under him.  The chirping of crickets was starting to fade, and a few lone birds were twittering in the distance.  The sky was a pale violet, a streak of pink on the horizon.  Dawn was approaching.

He stretched in the grass, savoring the final moments of fading night.  All around him, the armies of Sword Flash were stirring as well. They were camped about a half-mile north from the Lerian’s northern tip, some two miles south of Wethelnar.  A string of rolling hills hid them from view in the west, where the Urts would be marching up.  And back at the Lerian, the hidden trees waited.

Makuran got to his feet, blinking the sleep out of his eyes.  It had been a long night, but he felt refreshed.  Something about sleeping under open sky gave him a sense of rejuvenation after his long struggle.  And the warriors of Sword Flash were friendly enough.  He almost felt normal again.

But it wasn’t enough. Makuran still remembered Tirius’ distrust of him, the guard’s hostility at Wethelnar, how he struggled to look his brother in the eye.  How long would it last?  The rest of his life?  Makuran wished he had an answer.

He wished he could explain better to Evartan why he needed to face this threat by himself. But he barely understood it himself. Was it for some twisted sense of redemption?  Maybe he just wanted to prove his worth to the queen.  All he knew for sure was that he needed to stand without his friends in the coming battle.

A young man clad in mottled leather armor approached him, carrying a basket.  “Breakfast,” he said briskly.  He reached into the basket and tossed Makuran a rusty brown loaf of bread.

Makuran caught it. “Thank you.”

“Eat quickly.” The man was already walking away. “You’ll need your strength.”

Makuran watched him go, then bit into the bread.  It was dry and yeasty, but it would carry him through well enough.

Suddenly, a scout cried out from atop the hills.  “They’re coming!  They’re coming!”

The captain was on his feet in an instant.  “Into formation!” he barked.  “Now!”

The camp exploded in activity.  Soldiers hurriedly pulled the last of their armor on and rushed up to the great swell where the hills rose up.  Firepits were extinguished, pockets emptied, and weapons drawn.  The army crouched behind the swell of the hills, hidden from sight.

Makuran rushed to join them, blood roaring through his veins.  This was it, then.  By the time the sun had set again, Geyron’s fate would be decided.  And to think that a few weeks ago, Makuran might’ve been on the other side.

Not anymore.  No more hiding, no more cowardice, no more cringing from a world repulsed by him. He would fight— and if redemption meant dying, so be it.

* * *

Evartan hurried through the desert of Aridus.  Normally, he would have avoided the desert at all costs, especially as a thunderstorm raged overhead.  But fortune has granted him an opportunity, and he wasn’t about to waste it.

He glanced behind him.  There was no sign of his pursuer, but he was certain the dark elf was on his trail. He’d just have to make sure he accomplished his mission before he caught up.

Grimacing, he turned his gaze back and kept running.

* * *

It was a bleak and stormy night in the desert village of Pailan.  Thunder rocked the sky and rain carved away at the houses of mud.  The uncommon rainstorm made the ground like quicksand.  Everyone was inside, waiting for the morning, when, hopefully, the storm would break.

Pailan was concealed inside a deep canyon, a fissure carved by an ancient river that had long since dried up. The crevasse was so wide that the entire village fit into it and still allowed room for vast expanses sand and soil on both sides.  It was one of the most isolated communities in Geyron, far away from the politics and chaos of the great cities, safe and secure in its own little world.

That wasn’t going to last much longer.

Evartan staggered over the ridge, panting for breath.  He paused and looked around, making sure the elf had not followed him, then set down the cliffside toward the rain-soaked village.

* * *

Kalann Sefu had experienced many bad days in his life; it was the cost of living in such a harsh environment.  This one, however, felt a bit like a personal insult.  He had made plans for the day.  He had wanted to explore the desert outside the canyon and seek out plots of land where the village could build houses, expanding to accommodate its slowly growing population.  Then, of course, the rain had gone and ruined it.  So here he was, lying on his bed, wide awake in the middle of the night, listening to the muffled drumming of rain on the roof, feeling the urge to kick something.

Sighing, Kalann brushed his messy black hair out of his eyes.  He hated rain.  True, it replenished the water supply, which could always use some upkeep, but it was so annoying.  And wet.

Hopefully, it would clear up in the morning. After all, not many rainstorms of such power reached so far into the desert of Aridus.

He glanced around his home.  Like all the houses in the village of Pailan, his house had only one floor, with a cellar beneath. Like all the others, it was loosely divided into three rooms: a kitchen, a lounge, and Kalann’s bedroom, each separated by an open doorway covered with a rough curtain.  Like all the others, the wooden door to the house was in the lounge, the central room. The exact same design, just one of so many identical copies tucked together in the shadow of the canyon walls. It was so incredibly boring.  That was why he’d decided to be an architect as he grew up: if his world wouldn’t become more interesting on its own, then perhaps he could give it a push.

Over on the lounge table, Kalann could see parchment scrolls laid out in a cluttered mess, weighted down by rocks to keep them open.  His diagrams.  He felt a faint twinge of pride.  He’d spent years working on new building designs, tweaking and refining them, coming back every time he thought he was finished and finding new ways to improve them. They barely resembled the first, incredibly rough drafts he’d drawn up when he was barely ten years old.  Now all he had to do was actually build them, and perhaps then his life would stop feeling so… stagnant.

Assuming the rain ever let up, of course.

He sighed.  His train of thought had brought him right back to the accursed rain.  I’ve got to hand it to you, Kalann, he thought dryly, you are a master at finding ways to make yourself miserable.

At that moment, over the pounding of the rain, Kalann heard three sharp knocks at the door.

He blinked.  Who was that?  Who would be out at a time like this? “Hello?” he called.

No answer.

Sighing, Kalann sat up and hoisted himself out of bed.  If whoever it was couldn’t wait for the rain to let up, they must really need to talk to him.  He stumbled over to the door, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, and opened it.

The rush of wind and rain hit him like a breaking wave, and he blinked furiously in the spray.  The storm’s roar sent a dull ache pulsing in his eardrums.  He spat, trying to clear the taste of ozone and water out of his mouth. “Who’s there?” he called, barely hearing himself in the storm.

No one at the door. Nothing but sheets and sheets of rain as far as he could see.

Kalann stared, confused. He was certain he’d heard someone knocking.  That settles it, this storm is officially driving me insane.  Nature, I’m putting this on your tab.

He turned to head back inside.  Then, he paused.  Something had caught his eye.  It was a yellowed, folded paper, laying on the ground, tucked against the front of his door.

Intrigued, Kalann raised his gaze again.  But whatever footprints there might have been had been quickly swept away by the storm. The letter might have just materialized on his doorstep for all he could tell.

He took the message inside, closing the door behind him, and the sounds of the storm were muffled once more.

* * *

Evartan watched from the shadows as Kalann took the note inside.  The wind whipped his cloak into a frenzy, and the cold rain soaked him down to his old, stiff bones.  But it didn’t matter now.  The message was sent.  He had done what he needed to do.

Wrapping his cloak even closer around him, he turned and hurried off into the night to the canyon wall he had climbed down.  It was time to prepare for war.

* * *

Kalann sat down at the lounge table, brushing his diagrams to the side.  He opened the musty letter and began to read.  The handwriting was cramped and shaky, but he could still make the words out.

Kalann Sefu, it is time that the land was warned.  A shadow is sweeping over Geyron.  An evil force is rising.  You must be prepared.

I cannot explain everything in this letter, as I would simply leave you with too many questions.  But time is running out.  Your village must prepare for war such as it has never seen before.  Fortune granting, I will speak with you again shortly.  Be ready.

Stillness.  Kalann stared at the letter in his hands.  It felt like his entire being, all his senses, were being consumed by it.  For all he knew, the storm might have vanished above him, leaving nothing behind but a silent night.

A shadow sweeping Geyron.  An evil force rising.  A mysterious messenger who somehow knew his name.  Was it a prank?  It had to be. But then, what prankster would go to all this trouble under such miserable conditions?  No one in Pailan came to mind.

Your village must prepare for war such as it has never seen before.

A beat of sweat dripped down Kalann’s brow.  Some inner sense seemed to tell him that this was no joke. Pailan—and possibly all of Geyron—was in danger.

Kalann’s mind started racing.  What was the danger?  Why did the letter’s author not explain more?  How did he know Kalann’s name?  For that matter, why deliver this message to him? What could a desert architect possibly do to help?

A crack of thunder yanked him out of his thoughts.  He was still in his little mud house in the middle of a canyon. The storm was still raging overhead. Everything was exactly the same as it had been.

Kalann breathed deeply.  His vision was growing hazy; fatigue was finally beginning to set in.  First thing tomorrow, he thought, I tell Hother about this.  If there’s even the slightest chance it’s true, we need to be ready.

He drifted back to his bed, collapsed, and fell asleep.

* * *

Kaston lashed his horse’s reins, spitting furiously against the rain.  The desert whipped by him, a sludge of spattering mud.  If it hadn’t been for that wretched human’s gambit, he could be back at the castle right now instead of forcing himself through this madness.  This time, I’ll catch him, he hissed silently. His days of running end now.

He reined his horse to a stop.  He was getting nowhere in this weather.  Evartan had been wise to carry this scheme out on such a foul day.  If nothing else, Kaston had a twisted admiration for his intelligence.

Pity how little good it will do him in the end.

He raised his hand to the sky and closed his eyes, blocking out the roar of the storm around him. He reached out with his senses.  A low hum coursed through him as his magic stretched across the sands, searching.

There.  A human presence to the south, moving swiftly, just at the edge of Kaston’s vision.

He smiled and opened his eyes, letting the world back in.  Over the past year, he’d kept his eye on Evartan, tangling with him many times to try and kill him.  But the warrior had always escaped.  And yesterday evening, he’d vanished from Kaston’s senses, as if he’d blinked out of existence.  The last time Kaston had sensed him, he’d been heading south, to the desert of Aridus. So he’d pursued the old fool’s trail. And now, finally, he’d found him again.

I don’t know how you escaped my sight the first time, Kaston thought as he kicked his horse to urge it on.  But this time, you’re not getting away.

* * *

Evartan got to his feet at the top of the chasm, panting heavily.  Getting down to Pailan without breaking his neck had been hard enough but climbing back out had been torture.  Spirits give me the strength to see this through to the end.

He looked around, not seeing anything through the sheets of rain.  He was certain that his pursuer was close at hand by this point. Reaching inside his cloak, he clutched the small crystal resting there.  His lifeline.

The spark was lit. The war was about to begin.  Now, he needed to put the village of Pailan far behind him, to keep his brother’s attention off of it as long as he could.

He took off running north, away from the village, struggling not to sink into the muck.  Follow me, dark elf.  This is our reckoning.

* * *

Kaston lashed his horse’s hindquarters, pressing it to pick up speed.  Evartan’s presence was crowing closer by the second; he was almost upon him. Time’s up, fool.

There!  A lone figure struggling across the sands, head bowed against the rain.  Kaston smiled and drew his blade.  After so long, his master would finally have his vengeance!

Suddenly, the figure stopped running and turned to face Kaston as he galloped towards him.  His expression was unreadable in the rain as he raised his arm high.  Something blue glittered in his hand.

Kaston’s eyes grew wide. “NO!” he roared, slicing his sword in the air.  A bolt of black energy crackled through the storm.

Before it could strike Evartan, however, there was a flash of blue light, and he was suddenly blinded.  His horse bucked and screamed, throwing him off.  He crashed into the mud and gasped as the air was knocked out of him.  His ears rang from the impact.

Groaning, he staggered to his feet.  Evartan was gone, once again beyond his senses.  A Crystal of Passage, he thought bitterly, remembering the blue glint in his hand.  A magical reagent that, when broken, could teleport you a far distance away.  That must have been how Evartan had escaped him the first time as well.  How he’d gotten his hands on a pair such difficult-to-obtain artifacts, Kaston didn’t know.  Nor did he care.

There was nothing to do about it now.  His horse had bolted, leaving him stranded in the storm.  He could no longer sense his target, nor did he know where he might have gone.  Evartan had truly escaped this time.  The die had been cast.

It was time for the war to begin.

Kaston raised his hand and felt the shadows coalesce around him.  Under their power, he set off, rain-soaked and weary, to Darkwood Castle.

Makuran was not going to be pleased.