The tide of unmaking, p.42
The Tide of Unmaking, page 42
part #3 of Berinfell Prophesies Series
“You’ve come at last!” Asp called out. “I was beginning to…to be concerned.”
She could see him now, standing on the ceiling of the information counter. He rested one hand on the top of the golden clock. His shock of Drefid-white hair danced eerily on some unseen current of air. Two others stood there as well, just on the other side of the clock, but Taeva didn’t recognize them.
“Come, my daughter!” Asp called, his voice rich with authority. “Advance and take your place.”
“I am not your daughter!” Taeva yelled back. “And I’ve come to kill you.”
“Kill me?” Asp replied. “As amusing as that is, I know it isn’t true. You’ve come to bring me information. The Lords of Berinfell are here, this I know all too well. You know their plans now. And, you’ve returned to me at last to bring me the information, just as I asked.”
“We never agreed!” Taeva yelled. She found herself descending the white stone stairs to the floor of the concourse.
“They will not hinder you!” Asp called, and the teeming soldiers parted, giving Taeva a clear aisle of approach. “After all, you are family.”
“Stop saying that!” Taeva screamed. She kept her hands at her sides, sparks beginning to dance between her fingers. “My father is dead…and so is my mother, no thanks to you.”
Asp leaped high into the air. His cloak flapped as he descended. He landed with eerie grace a dozen paces from Taeva. The other two figures leaped down from the information center and advanced just behind their leader. She recognized one: Sardon, the Saer leader from the Conclave of Nations. And the other…a Lyrian Elf to be sure. Taeva thought that this one must be Jett. Her eyes blinked back to Asp.
“I rue Navira’s death just as you,” Asp said, striding forward. He stopped a little more than arm’s reach from Taeva. “The Spider King, even before his Dark Arts accident, was quite mad, I assure you. I was there, and I knew him. He was a bitter and demented being. And he slew Navira while I was a world away.”
Taeva winced each time Asp said her mother’s name, but found herself crumbling inwardly. “I hate the Spider King!” she said miserably. “But he was my father…not you.”
Asp smiled patiently and said, “Did Navira…did your mother…ever reveal him as your father? Did she ever say his name and call him your blood father?”
Taeva rocked on her heels. She thought back to the journal and cursed herself for losing it in the fortress back in Canada. She’d read it so many times though, and her mother had always implied…well, they were husband and wife…it had to be. But, the silence screamed out something new. Her mother had never actually revealed the father’s name.
“NO!” she shrieked. She lunged at Asp, electricity flying from her hands.
But the white-hot bolts never connected. Asp lifted his hands, and blood red arcs of electricity erupted outward and blocked Taeva’s blasts.
Taeva used both hands and wove a massive bolt that flashed down from above. Asp pointed his fingertips at the floor and a huge red bolt rose up to meet the other. Thunder rocked the concourse, and gasps rose from the crowd of soldiers assembled there.
“You see,” Asp said, rising from a defensive crouch. “You even share my ability to throw lightning. Did you never wonder how you came to such gifts? Surely it is not from Ellos. Surely you are not an Elven Lord.”
Taeva growled and spun a kick into Asp’s midsection. The blow landed solidly and Asp flew backward.
“My Lord!” Sardon yelled, leaping forward. “Jett, see to him!” Sardon lifted his staff and whirled toward Taeva.
“Stay back, Sardon!” Asp commanded, rising easily. “You’ll only get yourself hurt.”
But before Asp finished speaking, Sardon cracked Taeva smartly on the jaw with his staff. She reeled backward. Sardon charged in and tried to sweep Taeva’s legs. But his staff swept nothing but air. Taeva leaped and, at the same time, drew out and slashed the jagged short sword across the Saer’s throat.
Sardon’s goat eyes bulged, he clutched his throat and fell in a heap. Asp stepped casually by the fallen Saer. “Jett,” he said, “heal the fool.”
Taeva gazed at Sardon’s body, still twitching. His fingers made little ripples on the pool of blood spreading beneath him. Jett put his hand on Sardon’s neck, and the twitching stopped.
“Too late,” Jett said, rising and wiping his hand on his tunic. “He is already dead.”
“That,” Asp said, glaring at Taeva and exhaling deeply, “was less than kind.”
“He shouldn’t have come between us,” Taeva said.
“No, no he shouldn’t have,” Asp agreed. “This was not his concern, but really, Taeva…have you not figured it all out by now? I thought for sure when we met in Taladair that you would come around.”
Taeva didn’t answer. She hadn’t had much time to learn from the Elves, but Mandiera, the Nightform, had been something of a revelation. She had never seen a combat method so lethal. So Taeva had relaxed herself completely. To Asp, she would appear nonthreatening, almost at ease. Like a tree limb whipping back, she sprang. From motionless to speed of thought, she attacked.
Asp crossed his fully extended claws in front of his chest, easily deflecting Taeva’s first thrust. She spun and slashed, but he blocked again. She tried every angle, darting and chopping, but always his claws were there. Her final attempt left her breathless for more than one reason.
Taeva leaped into the air, diving toward Asp. She wove a jagged bolt of lightning with her left hand and, with the sword in her right, carved a deadly arc toward Asp’s neck. There was an awesome red flash, and Taeva’s white bolt dissipated. And yet, Asp managed to block the sword with his claws also. And somehow, something hit her midsection, and she sprawled backward onto the floor.
“How…” she muttered, gazing up at Asp, then she gasped.
Asp’s cloak was spread wide now, and she could see his segmented body armor, the way it opened up revealing four shoulder joints, two on each side. For Asp had four arms, and each hand had the Drefids’ characteristic extended claws.
“A little evolution,” Asp said. “Courtesy of the Dark Arts. Now dispense with these feeble attacks and listen to me. You, Taeva, owe everything to me. You’ve read Navira’s journal, you know that I rescued you as a child and took you to a safer home with the Taladrim.”
“Only to wipe them out?” Taeva mocked. “They raised me as their own. They were my people and you annihilated them.”
“I wouldn’t have,” Asp said, “if you had done your job. They perished because you did not do as I intended. The Taladrim had an opportunity to join me, but they did not. They were not your people anyway. What of them? I rescued you from Vesper Crag. I am the one!
“Did you never wonder how, at eight years of age, you received your mother’s journal? I delivered it to you. I wanted you to know your true enemy. All this time, I have been grooming you from afar. I wanted my daughter to have a choice, but the time has come for you to make that ultimate decision.”
Taeva shook her head. “But…you cannot be my father,” she whispered. “Look at me…I bear Elven features…some Gwar even, but there is no Drefid blood in my veins. I have no claws embedded in my fists!”
“Have you ever tried?” Asp asked, his four arms gesturing independently, almost as if he were working a spinning loom. “The claws may lie dormant unless you command them.”
Taeva looked at her fists and blinked.
“Try,” Asp said.
She shouldn’t, she knew. What’s the point? But she decided to anyway. To mock him. To spite him. To prove him wrong.
Taeva dropped her sword and clenched her fists. He brows beetled in concentration. She groaned…and then gasped.
The skin of each knuckle burst open, the skin puckering but without blood. Thin points emerged slowly. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but not from pain. The bony blades extended a foot from her fists and glistened in the beams of sun from the high windows.
“I…I can’t believe it,” Taeva whispered, silently weeping. She looked up at Asp. “It’s true then?”
Asp nodded. He folded both sets of arms across his chest, covering a red, crystal talisman which hung from around his neck on a cord. “You see?” he asked. “All along, I cared for your mother, even when to do so aroused the ire of the Spider King. I hid her when she was pregnant with you. I carried you off to safety. I helped pen her journal when she was no longer physically able, and then brought it to you, only to seek you out among all the leaders of the world.”
Taeva flexed her fingers and let the claws retract. “It all makes sense now,” she whispered.
“Now, won’t you come with me,” he said, “tell me what you know of the Elven Lords and their plans?”
41: Terror Dawning
GRIMWARDEN HAD LOST MORE BLOOD than Goldarrow cared to think of. As had Thorkber. Now it was up to her to get them both to safety where they could be treated.
Goldarrow stared up at the night sky. “Where are all my flet soldiers?” she called to the darkness. “We need help!”
“They…are engaged otherwise, I’m afraid,” Grimwarden said softly.
“You save your strength, you old codger,” she commanded. “And be quiet so I can think.” She saw his faint smile and knew he understood.
Thorkber was the easier of the two to manage, as all Goldarrow needed to do was lash him to her chest with her cloak, like swaddling a child. Grimwarden, however, wasn’t even able to sit up on his own. She tried to push her right shoulder beneath his chest, to will his massive body upward. But the blood made his arms and armor hard to grasp, and eventually she had to face the reality that she could not lift him…not without crushing Thorkber.
How can I do this? she half-thought, half-prayed. I cannot carry him. She glanced down at Grimwarden and then glared at the sprawled body of Ghrell, the dead Nemic ruler. “It’s your fault!” she growled. “You sanctimonious fool. You put blasted plants and dirt above our people, the creation before the creator!” She was so angry that she slammed the toe of her boot into Ghrell’s shoulder joint. “You deserve worse, you…you…”
Her voice trailed off as she stared at that shoulder joint…and the outstretched wing. “Dear Ellos,” she gasped. “It might work.”
Guardmaster Goldarrow was no butcher. She killed in the line of duty, but she never took a blade to the dead. Not until now. She bent low to Grimwarden. “I’m going to borrow this for a bit,” she said, gently removing his battleaxe from his backhanger. Grimwarden did not reply.
Goldarrow took the axe and set upon Ghrell’s shoulder with a vengeance, hacking and chopping until, after the seventh blow, the limb broke free from his torso. Goldarrow tossed away the axe and grasped the wing by the exposed bone. She dragged the wing to Grimwarden’s side.
The wing was massive, larger than it needed to be and ribbed with bony spokes. “I’m going to roll you over,” she told Grimwarden, but still he did not answer. It took all the leverage she could manage, but she did it. She let his upper body fall gently upon the wing such that his head lay about a foot from the severed joint. Then, she swung his legs up so that his entire body rested on the wing.
Thorkber swung out from her chest precariously as she hoisted the bony wing joint up to her shoulder. But the cloak-sling held, and Thorkber did not spill out. Then, bending at her waist and harnessing all the power of her lower body, she began to drag the wing.
Every step was a mighty chore, and while the army all about the city cheered with each Nemic flier they dispatched, Goldarrow’s heart sank, cursing the irony that two of Berinfell’s heroes were dying within their own city and no one knew about it but her.
Grimwarden coughed up blood, showering the paving stones in front of them.
“Don’t you die on me, Grimwarden!” she scolded him. “Keep yourself awake, or I’ll kill you myself.”
He turned his head ever so slightly to smile at her. His voice was a mere whisper. “I’d like to see you try.”
Goldarrow choked. Grimwarden’s humor always melted her. And now she was going to lose him without him ever truly know how she felt. No, I’m not going to lose you, she corrected. Grimwarden coughed again. Goldarrow faltered, her knees hitting the ground. Thorkber groaned. She struggled back to her feet and looked back. “Stop coughing, you big oaf,” she said. “Just hang in there!”
“Goldarrow,” he whispered, shaking his head a little. “Not…this…time.”
“Olin,” she said, suddenly aware she was crying. “I won’t have you talking like that.”
But still, Grimwarden shook his head, his hands trembling, reaching forward for her. Goldarrow cried out and lowered the makeshift litter. She was tired. And deep in her heart, she knew this was the end. She gently laid Thorkber down and pulled the sling off from over her head. Then she turned, knelt beside Grimwarden, and grabbed his breastplate, soaked in blood.
“Just who do you think you are, anyway?” She could hardly speak now, forcing her words through agonized lips. “You go off rescuing the realm of Berinfell, acting like a hero, only to rally the hopes of your people? And make every girl fall in love with you?”
“Not…every…girl…” Grimwarden breathed, “just…you.”
Goldarrow was beside herself now, her emotions as unguarded as they’d ever been. She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the pain…the noise… the battle din in the background, the shouting of her people, the barking of dogs. Why could she never have a moment to herself with him?
“I do love you, I do,” she sobbed. “As I always have. Never another.” She placed her head against his.
And then she heard from him the faintest words, words that would ever ring the loudest in her memory.
“And I you.”
Goldarrow picked her head up off Grimwarden’s chest; it no longer rose and fell. She couldn’t tell how long she’d lain there holding him. She looked over to Thorkber who lay motionless on the stone road. Where are you, Ellos? Goldarrow sighed. Too tired to move, too sad to try.
She heard the dog barking again. Only this time much closer.
The cheering stopped. All of Berinfell froze, including the Nemic invasion, at least for a moment. To the west came a haunting glow in the sky; odd because it was still far from dawn. Dazzling lights started to flicker against the horizon, like a brilliant shaft of light split into a million directions by the prisms of a crystal chandelier.
The Nemic invaders paused to observe the strange phenomenon. Being students of the sky, and given their position high above the Elves of Berinfell, they could see the light play from north to south without breaking. It was exactly as their scouts had seen earlier. The Curtain of Doom.
The Tide was coming.
42: That Terrible Question
THE LORDS WATCHED IN FEARFUL paralysis as Taeva shook Asp’s hand. They shook firmly, like statesmen celebrating some final agreement after years of tense conflict. There was also an air of smug finality, Tommy thought, as if Taeva and Asp had completed some final victorious stroke.
Still grasping Asp’s hand, Taeva bowed her head slightly. It was an act of deference, a recognition of ultimate authority and a sign of submission. It’s ten-thousand ways wrong, Tommy thought. How could she bow her head to the one who slaughtered her people?
Asp’s grin widened to a sickening gloat, and he turned his burning orb eyes to the crowds of soldiers. He declared triumphantly, “At last, my daughter has come home!”
Daughter? Tommy heard Kat speak the word in his mind even as he thought it himself. No, it can’t be. We would have seen…
But Tommy couldn’t finish the thought. His eyes locked onto motion.
Taeva yanked Asp toward her. At the same time, her left hand appeared. She held some kind of blade and it seemed to be crackling with sparks of electricity. In that flash of movement, she rammed the blade under his lower shoulder joint. She pushed it in to the hilt and gave it a wicked twist before Asp backfisted her. She fell backward and rolled to a wary crouch, even as Asp fell backward…stricken.
Taeva sensed movement from behind. She quickly wove a dozen charged arcs between her fingers, swung around and threw a scattershot, splintering bolt that slammed into the approaching soldiers. None of the strokes were powerful enough to kill, but she’d knocked enough of them off their feet that perhaps they would think twice before their next approach.
She turned back to Asp and watched him pull the dagger free from his side. A gout of blood so dark that it might have been black spurted out of the wound and continued to trickle as Asp let his head loll backward.
“Why, Taeva?” he asked, his voice weak and raspy. “Why?”
“You continue the ruse until the end?” Taeva said, her fingers crackling with sparks. She took a step forward and laughed. “All this time you thought you had a marionette, and yet, you failed to see the strings upon your own limbs. Don’t you understand? I knew! And I’ve known for years. Ever since I realized that my mother’s journal was missing more than a third of its pages. You cut them out and rebound the book, but there were phantom imprints left on so many of the pages. The humidity of Taladair showed me. I couldn’t read them, of course, but I knew there had been other pages.
“I imagine those pages did not paint a flattering portrait of you, Asp. You were the one! You were the agent of chaos behind it all! You gave the Spider King the Dark Arts. You poisoned his mind with paranoid fear of my mother. It was by your whispers that he locked my mother away, poisoned her with that Dark Arts venom, and forced her to be broodmother to a teeming swarm of Warspiders. You didn’t rescue me. You took me and used me as a pawn, delivering me to the Taladrim to sway their loyalties.
