Izaryle's Key Page 27

  Jorin’otth prepared to block. He knew the staff was no match for a direct hit, and it’d be a shame to break such a wondrous weapon. He’d have to rely on deflection if he was going to avoid the blow. Stepping back, he rolled his wrist, letting the renewing wood connect with the back side of the blade. The added momentum forced the sharpened edge past him.

  As expected, the criminal magician took the bait. Meaius spun around, breaking his sword free of the weak deflection. He was so close to the mage, he could have touched him if he so desired. Carrying the momentum in his sword, he drove the magic absorbing weapon into Jorin’otth’s chest.

  A sharp pain erupted, spreading throughout his body. As before, it left no part untouched. Grabbing hold of his insides, it ripped them out through the wound, draining every ounce of magic the misguided hydralfar ever possessed. Jorin’otth collapsed in pain, feeling his body grow weaker. It was over. He’d failed. The physical pain was little more than a growing numb, claiming him slowly. That was minimal compared to the loss of his magic. It was gone. He could feel it. Not just a small part. Every last drop was missing, leaving a massive void inside him. Staring at the towering duke tarset, he couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down his cheeks. “Would you just kill me? You’ve already taken everything else.”

  “I gave you that option already. You chose to fight. You know what fate awaits you.” Meaius sternly explained, abandoning any remorse he had for the thief.

  Anger grew with the words. If the duke wouldn’t finish the job quickly, he’d just have to force him into it. He was dying from the sword wound anyway. What was the harm in finishing him? Lunging at the armored man, Jorin’otth drew his dagger, aiming at the man’s exposed throat.

  Meaius leaned back, seeing the approaching blade. Channeling his power, he shoved his open palm into the robed alfar’s chest, launching him backward.

  The staff came free, landing in the magic-infused dirt. It bounced once, reverting into it compact, bronze rod-like appearance.

  Jorin’otth slammed into the wall and collapsed.

  Reaching down, Meaius grabbed the disguised weapon, giving it a gentle flick. It extended back into its true form. It felt wrong, using his god’s weapon without his blessing, but there was no other option. Only the weapon that did the damage could undo it. He turned, looking upon the bodies before him.

  “You should have heeded my warning!” Meaius scolded, knowing his words weren’t received.

  Shaking his head, he channeled his will into the godly weapon. Time came to a standstill. And suddenly, it began to reverse. He could see the fight with Jorin’otth, only he wasn’t in his body. It rushed onward, faster, showing everything and nothing at the same time, until finally, he found the point he’d been seeking. Forcing halt, he stepped through the veil.

  Jorin’otth stood frozen, plucking an arrow from the air. He hadn’t quite removed it, but it appeared he was getting close.

  Meaius studied the frozen chronomancer. It was a strange thing, watching a time stop within a time stop. It was almost like looking into the sands themselves. But the veil hadn’t lifted enough to offer sight. It was simply a small breeze into the nether. He could sense it more than anything. Taking a deep breath, he was ready to end this.

  Approaching the frozen chronomancer, he gently placed his sword against the hydralfar’s arm, letting the razor-sharp edge bite just enough to draw blood. There was no sense in inflicting unnecessary pain. He was going to experience enough of that already. Confident the magics were gone, Meaius took a step back and let the clock start once again.

  Jorin’otth felt different. The temporal energies were everywhere. Glancing to his left, he saw the duke standing there, watching him, the staff locked in his hand. He knew it was over before he’d really begun.

  The secondary time stop faded and the arrow sped forward, catching Jorin’otth in the chest. It launched him backward, knocking him off balance. He tripped and fell, landing on his back.

  Ravion, Gareth, and Demetrix stared at each other, lost in the presence of the newcomer. A confused expression lingered on their faces.

  “I recommend you get out of here. You don’t need to see what happens next.” Meaius calmly addressed the dreuslayers.

  “Don’t I—.” Demetrix paused, searching the familiar figure’s face, “Don’t I know you?”

  “There’s time for talking later. For now, go help the dalari push the dreu to the north.” Meaius refused to take his sight off the powerless chronomancer.

  “Come on.” Ravion guided Demetrix toward the stairs, watching Gareth make his way up, several steps ahead. The bald warrior apparently didn’t have to be told twice.

  Waiting for them to leave, Meaius let the staff return to rod form and tucked it away. Approaching the wounded chronomancer, he knelt down, getting as close to eye level as possible. He’d lost a lot of blood. His death was not long off. But it wouldn’t come soon enough. “You know what comes next. Don’t let it be for nothing. Tell me, who told you where to find the staff?”

  Jorin’otth coughed. Blood escaped his mouth. He was nearly gone. “Never got a name. He was cloaked. He had strange hands. That was all I saw of—” Jorin’otth fell silent. His cold, still eyes stared straight forward.

  “You aren’t done yet, Jorin’otth Amnel.” Meauis plucked the arrow from his chest and held his hand out. A green light radiated into him, sealing the wound. Before the glow stopped, Meaius was standing in a hydralfar city. Nobles wondered the streets, minding their own. It was a bright, sunny day and the sky was the perfect shade of blue. Glancing over, he saw the petrified form of Jorin’otth at his side. He was white as a ghost, “Come on.”

  Jorin’otth’s legs moved against his will. He never wanted to return to this place, yet here he was, obeying the commands of his executioner.

  They passed through a tall, majestic arch, leading into what appeared to be a garden of some sort.

  Seeing his target, Meaius let his energies blanket the area. All the alfar within sight froze where they stood, unable to think. Unable to breathe Unable to move.

  Approaching a small boy, Jorin’otth recognized him immediately. He was the spitting image of the boy Tygrell had killed. He knew the boy to be of his bloodline. But to be a direct descendant? That was something he hadn’t planned for.

  As if he knew what was racing through his mind, Meaius offered word. “It’s not him. This is his great grandfather, and the start of your bloodline.” He corrected himself. “Or, the start of thirty-two generations of hydralfar that didn’t make an impacting difference on the world.”

  Erasing someone was tricky business. You could only go back to a point where the timeline wouldn’t be affected. If you removed the ancestor of a wicked tyrant, the world may be all the better for it, it still made a notable impact. Such alterations were not allowed. Additionally, you had to check the future to ensure no new prodigies were to be born. And if they were, you had to make arrangements for them to have the same life with a different family. The latter was much more difficult to manage. But being a duke was all about preserving the timeline. And if there was one certainty in this world, it was that time wants to happen, one way or another.

  Pulling his dagger, Meaius handed it to the enslaved chronomancer. “Kill him.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. End his life. Take it and all those that are to follow, including your own.”

  “I don’t kill children.”

  Jorin’otth felt his legs carrying him closer, despite his objection. He didn’t want to do it, but it seemed his body offered little choice. Stepping within arm’s reach, he struggled to keep the dagger away. It was no use. His hand shot forward, stabbing the boy in the throat. Jorin’otth felt a tear roll down his cheek.

  The world shimmered and he was lying in the dark chamber, seeing the torches dance in the mild breeze of the tunnel. He felt his memories of relatives begin to fade into nothing. Within moments, he was all alone. No family, no friends, just him an
d the duke. And then, just like that, he was gone.

  Chapter XXI

  Where it Began

  Cheers echoed from the hill top. The combined dalari and alfaren forces stood in victory over the fleeing dreualfar. They watched the last of their cursed foe scurry across the steep ravine and up the other side, dodging arrows, spears, and every other missile being flung at them. There was no need to pursue. They knew exactly where they were going, and the remaining armies were in wait, ready to finish this.

  Gareth stepped through the doorway, noting the mass of alfaren soldiers mingled among the dalari army. Archers stood above the rest, perched atop the sparse parapets where the walls were still intact. He wasn’t sure how many were present, but there had to be at least a thousand. Glancing at the settling battlefield, he spotted Trendal locked in what appeared to be a heated discussion with one of the alfar. This one didn’t appear to be a mere soldier by any means. He carried a polished glaive, and towered over his compatriot. Neither his weapons nor his blinding, silver armor appeared to have any sign of battle mar. That meant he was either extremely good at staying clean while surrounded by chaos, or he watched from the sidelines while other soldiers risked their lives for his privileged ass. Hearing his brothers behind him, Gareth stepped out of their way and marched toward the commanders.

  “I’ve already told you, such a conversation would be better suited when General Kashien is present!” Trendal declared, growing impatient with the alfaren general.

  “It’s a simple question. Why must your commander be present to answer it?” The hydralfar general held himself superior to the dalari captain, which was interesting considering he was trying to convince him to forego the chain of command.

  “I won’t say it again. Present your concerns to Kashien and I’m sure he’ll be happy to answer any questions you may have. Good day, General Keal’neaus!” Trendal side stepped, abandoning the inquisitive general. Such discussions were above his pay grade, which considering his duty was to his people, meant he wasn’t getting paid. Seeing Gareth, he approached. “Find out what they were after?”

  “Yes. Jorin’otth is gone. We can end this.”

  “Gone as in dead? Or gone as in escaped?”

  “He had an arrow in his chest when I last saw him. And while I wasn’t there for his final moments, I’ve a pretty good idea we won’t be seeing him again.”

  “Excellent. Are you ready to end this?” Trendal watched the other two dreuslayers approach.

  “Give the command.” Gareth marched toward the scattered army, finding the place he’d call his own during the march.

  “Company, attention!” Trendal barked, watching the assembles forces snap, awaiting orders.

  The hydralfar casually made their way through the ridged mass of dalari, forming into their own perfectly unified ranks. They didn’t need a command to know what was to come. Awaiting their general to take the lead, they stood, sounding their boots on the ground in unison.

  “We’ve landed a victory here today. And while the battle may be over, the war rages on. We march north to rejoin our brothers and sisters at the gates of Avlonwell. We do not know what awaits us there, but one thing is certain. This ends today!”

  The dalari cheered, awaiting command to march. It was a six-hour trek to Avlonwell and they needed to make it before dark.

  Sweat glistened off his pitch-black, muscular arms. His sword was primed and ready to deliver a killing blow. Catching his breath, Tygrell stole a glance at the carnage around him.

  Dead dreualfar and dalari littered the once beautiful landscape. Many of the alfaren buildings suffered minor damage from the rain of arrows and the occasional magic blast. He was surprised they’d been able to break the walls without siege weaponry, but in truth, he’d underestimated them. He hadn’t expected a full-on assault, let alone one that was so well thought out. Hearing the familiar rumble that shattered the outer wall, he braced himself.

  The ground shook ferociously and two of the buildings collapsed, disappearing into a massive pit in the earth. The dalari roared forward, taking advantage of the distraction.

  Tygrell picked himself up from the dirt. Bits of the dry, brown mineral, where bright green grass once grew, clung to his exposed arms. Dusting himself off, he turned, ready to engage the attacking forces. Raising his weapon, he blocked two swords. Twisting, he sent them into the dirt. Wasting no time, he plunged his blood coated great sword into the attacking dalari.

  “General Tygrell, your armies are defeated. Lay down your arms and surrender!” Kashien’s voice echoed over the sounds of battle, heard by everyone in the fallen alfaren city.

  Searching the advancing army for the dalari prince, Tygrell found him, marching through the lingering dust from enemy boots. A knowing smirk rested upon his face, as if he knew more than he let on. Which was obviously the case. He wouldn’t have been able to sack the city had he not.

  “Kashien, you spoiled little pup, what did you think was going to happen here? You’d march in with your forces and take us prisoner? That’s not the way we operate. The only victory in your future happens once the last of us are dead!” Refusing to wait a moment longer, Tygrell charged, raising his sword.

  The dalari scattered, avoiding the larger dreualfar. Kashien had already laid claim to him and they weren’t about to get between that fight.

  Timing the advancing dreualfar’s steps, Kashien silently whispered an incantation. He felt the magics leave him, settling on the ground beneath the enemy commander’s feet.

  The dirt around him turned black and oily, as if it had been greased. Tygrell stumbled, trying to catch his balance. His leather soled boots slipped on the wet substance, having trouble keeping traction. His speed was rapidly diminishing, which meant he was wide open for attack.

  Seeing the dreualfar command slow, Kashien snapped his fingers, enacting a spell he’d practiced since childhood. It was little more than a reflex now. The oil coated dirt erupted in flame, burning brighter moment by moment.

  Tygrell felt the heat surround him. He had to get out of the oil, now. But where could he go? There was a good twenty feet on either side of him and at least twice that long between him and Kashien. He had no choice. He’d have to run and jump for it.

  Altering course he kicked into the dirt, feeling the first bit of traction since the spell had been cast. Shoving off, he took massive strides, covering the ground as quickly as possible. The flame was licking his armor and singeing his hair. He was out of time. Any longer and his body was going to start suffering burns. Tygrell leapt for the edge. Reaching peak height, he knew he wasn’t going to make it. But he’d at least be much closer. His boots hit the ground, slipping from beneath him and he tumbled into the oily substance. It coated him, welcoming the flame to his flesh. Tygrell screamed, unable to stop the burning oil from spreading.

  Kashien watched for a few moments. It didn’t take long for the dreualfar general to stop moving. It wasn’t the most honorable fight of his life, but they were at war. Honor, while important to maintain, had no place when the enemy had none. It was either win by any means or be extinguished.

  Leaving the flames to burn themselves out once the oil had been consumed, he marched past the crispy general and toward the battle. They had the dreualfar on the run. Which was perfect, as the remainder of his men were in waiting to funnel them to the canyons.

  The flourished leaves of the outstretched tree limbs swayed slightly in the afternoon breeze. The heat of the sun beat against Demetrix’s blackened armor, forcing sweat to cling to his forehead and back. The salty liquid was beginning to drip, running dangerously close to his eyes. He was on limited time, testing his resolve against the burn that was sure to start any moment. He could hear the enemy’s movement just over the ridge. But they had yet to show themselves. Patiently awaiting command, he stared down the shaft of his arrow. His breath shallow and stance solid. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the dreualfar peaked the hill. Demetrix exhaled slowly, ready to loose h
is arrow when the time came.

  “Archers, hold. Let ‘em get a bit closer. We need to force ‘em left!” Lieutenant Razorius commanded from behind the line. Watching the dreualfar stagger into position. crossing the threshold, he waited a moment longer. He wanted a few more to cross. It wouldn’t do any good to have them turn and go the other way. “Fire!”

  Releasing the string, Demetrix lost which arrow was his in the flock. They struck with perfect precision, killing at least fifty dreualfar with the first shot.

  “Fire at will. Make ‘em turn!”

  The dreualfar weren’t sure how to process what was happening. Arrows were coming from the front. And there was an army at their heels. The only option they had was to turn and make their way down the rocky terrain into the Canyons of Alamar. Dodging the repeating shots, they quickly scaled the bluffs and paved their way to the base of the quarry.

  Seeing the dreualfar take the bait, Razorius stepped back and pulled an arrow. The tip was wrapped in a piece of oil-soaked wool. Striking his flint, the sparks danced into the cloth and it flared to life. Giving it a few seconds to fully emblaze, he glanced up through the tree tops and took aim. Releasing, he watched it disappear into the sky.

  “Save your arrows. Just keep ‘em moving. If they stop or get off point, let ‘em have it.”

  The flaming arrow soared through the air, reaching its peak height. Arching downward, it plummeted toward the earth.

  Gareth stood ready, leaning against the jagged underground column, watching the overhead opening. Seeing the flaming arrow fly past, it hit with a thud, sticking in the moist clay, drowning the flame. “It’s time boys!”