The tide of unmaking, p.45
The Tide of Unmaking, page 45
part #3 of Berinfell Prophesies Series
Tommy smiled at his friends and listened to the ear piece for the signal that would end his final moments on a planet he’d so come to love. He looked at Kat’s face, so beautiful and unique; a face he’d fallen in love with if he was honest with himself. Johnny’s face, large and strong and faithful. Autumn’s, like smooth porcelain. Kiri Lee’s, dignified and ever delicate. Jimmy’s, pale and speckled, yet always alert. And Jett’s, rich and formidable. Even for all her elusive ways, Taeva’s face––mysterious and exotic––she was still one of them. And they’d won. They’d done it.
“Here you go,” came Migmar’s voice in Tommy’s ear. A massive blue portal erupted above the main steps in the station. The entire army turned to address it and obeyed orders to march through.
In less than five minutes the entire force had retreated back to Allyra, arriving exactly where Kilmauran had specified. The Eight walked the General to the portal to see him off.
“Don’t think this let’s you off the hook, Elf,” said Kilmauran.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Tommy replied with a grin. “And don’t think we won’t defend ourselves.”
The General smiled. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He stepped through the portal, and both he and it vanished without a trace.
A beat later and a new, smaller portal arrived in its place. Tommy checked with Migmar just to confirm their arrival location. “And make sure your exit takes out the command center.”
“Bengfist asks if the mountain leveled you wish.”
“Negative,” said Tommy. “I think the Canadians are partial to it.”
“Understood.” With that, Migmar signed off for good and Tommy heard the ear piece go silent.
Tommy looked to the others with a tired, but genuine smile. “Time to go home,” he said. “This time for good.”
The portal spit the Seven and Taeva out in the Lords’ Throne Room, the very chamber where all this had begun so many ages ago. They’d been taken as infants, now they returned for good as Lords. Migmar, Bengfist and Jast arrived a moment later, then both portals vaporized in unison.
The group looked around at each other.
“We’re home,” said Autumn, and took a deep breath.
“And home is still here,” Tommy said. “Thank you, Ellos.”
But the revelry was short lived. Though faint, the group could hear something in the distance.
“Shouting,” said Jimmy. “Lots of shouting.”
“Under attack, you are,” said Migmar.
Tommy reached for his sword, but it’d been swallowed by the portals. “Quickly! To the ramparts!”
The team rushed from the Throne Room, and ran down the main corridor to the outside where the voices of thousands upon thousands of Elves hollered in the darkness.
“Up, up!” Tommy yelled, heading for the stone steps. As soon as they mounted, they noticed a radiant light spilling over the city from the west. And all below them, Elves and what looked to be Nemic retreated to the east in terror.
“THE TIDE!” Autumn pointed. “But I thought it’d be finished!”
“As did we all,” Tommy growled. He ran a hand through his curly hair, mumbling under his breath. He watched in horror as the Tide was slowly consuming the westernmost flanks of his beloved Berinfell. The city’s main wall was gone, and now dwellings were disappearing. Tommy could only assume the sight of so many Nemic meant they’d attacked in his absence; but whatever war had been waged it’d prematurely ceased for a far more deadly foe, one that did not discriminate. “I––I don’t understand.”
“Time it takes,” said Migmar. “Wait and see.”
“Or maybe we missed some of Asp’s army?” surmised Kiri Lee.
“Impossible,” Migmar said. “All of them I snatched. You’ll see. You’ll see.”
Suddenly Kat took off running. “Kat!” Tommy yelled after her. “Where are you going?”
“It’s Grimwarden!” she hollered over her shoulder. “He’s––he’s almost gone!”
“What?!” Jimmy replied.
“She must have heard his thoughts,” Tommy said. “Come on!” The team raced back down the rampart stairs and twisted around through the main gate. Kat was a good twenty paces ahead of them, darting off the main thoroughfare and zigzagging down side streets. But she was heading dangerously close to the Tide.
“Kat!” Tommy yelled. “Watch where you’re going!” All he heard in reply was a faint, “I know.”
When the others thought Kat had completely lost her mind and was about to walk head-on into the Tide, she stopped at the entrance of a narrow street. The rest of the team caught up with her as she knelt before two figures, and a third half the size.
“Grimwarden!” Tommy yelled. “Goldarrow!” The couple lay in a growing pool of blood with a Gnome swaddled nearby in Goldarrow’s cloak. There was so much red that no one could be sure exactly who was injured and who wasn’t.
Migmar rushed toward the fading face of Thorkber. “Stay with me you shall,” pleaded Migmar, holding the weak Gnome’s face in his pudgy hands.
“Oh Kat! Tommy!” said Goldarrow, her face sparking to life at the sight of all the Lords. “Praise Ellos! I was sure we’d perish here!”
“What, what happened?” asked Kat.
“No time,” replied Goldarrow. “If that doesn’t devour us first, there will be plenty to tell.” She pointed a blood-soaked hand toward the wall of dazzling light now towering over them.
“Quick!” ordered Tommy. “We’ve got to get them out of here!” He picked up Grimwarden with Johnny’s help; at first Grimwarden’s chest was so still, Tommy thought he was dead. Jett helped Goldarrow to her feet, relieving her of Thorkber.
The team made a slow retreat on Grimwarden’s account. Too slow. The Tide was gaining on them. Entire homes were vanishing in the wake of the radiant wall.
A weak Grimwarden tried talking: “Leave…me…”
“Not today,” replied Tommy. “Not any day, for that matter. We’ll make it. Keep moving everyone!” But every time the team took a turn onto a street that ran parallel with the Tide, the wall moved closer.
It was chewing through the building directly beside them now, and their next turn away from the Veil was still forty paces ahead at best.
“We’re not going to make it,” said Jimmy.
Tommy glanced at him. “Was that a we’re not going to make it because our pace is slow, or Jimmy’s gift telling us we’re actually not going to make it?”
“I’m just saying,” replied Jimmy with a fatalistic shrug.
The Tide was a few feet from entering into the street.
Tommy looked ahead: twenty-five paces. “Whoever can get down that street, leave now! Autumn, that’s you first!”
“No way! If one dies, we all die,” she shouted.
“Autumn!” Tommy roared, his body heaving Goldarrow along. “GET OUT OF HERE!” As soon as he spoke, there was a thud behind them.
“For crying out loud!” Kat exclaimed. She’d fallen to the ground and smacked her head on the stones. She tried to get up but her limbs wouldn’t obey; she squeezed her eyes shut against the pain and saw stars twinkling behind her lids. Fresh blood sprang from a gash on her forehead.
“Take her, Johnny!” Tommy said, passing all of Goldarrow’s weight to him. “Keep going!”
“Leave me!” Kat said, rising to all fours, dazed.
The Veil was in the street now, less then six feet away. No heat, no noise, just dazzling light that left an abyss in its wake.
“I’m not leaving you, Kat. Ever. I love you,” Tommy said.
Kat raised her head and stared at him. The wall of light made his eyes glow. She didn’t know what to say, but at least they’d have eternity to talk about it.
Tommy knelt before her and pulled her close. They’d never make the turn now. And the rest of the team had lost enough time turning back to see what the commotion was that they wouldn’t make it either.
Tommy wiped the blood and hair off Kat’s face, then kissed her. “Had I to do it over again, I’d have asked you to marry me a lot sooner.”
Kat cried. Tears of joy, letting them run freely down her face. Then she laughed. “Thank you.”
“Thank you?” Tommy questioned. “For what?”
The Tide was three feet away now.
“For loving me just the way I am.”
The Elven leaders, those who replaced Grimwarden and Goldarrow in their absence and presumed death, reluctantly gave the order to abandon the city in light of the destructive wall sweeping in from the west. Whatever Nemic invaders remained were given a wide birth to flee with the rest of the living, their treacherous assault all but forgotten though only hours old. Yes, the Elves had beaten them, but not even they wished this mystical fate upon their neighbors to the south.
The shouts and cries of Flet soldiers, parents and children filled the city. There was no escaping the slow-moving wall of light that chased them, and no guarantee it would stop in Berinfell. It certainly wasn’t a Nemic creation of war, as they were just as terrified. This was surely one of Asp’s doings.
“Flee to the east!” was the only order passed through the Elven city, with no destination in mind. Just east. It passed from home to home, family to family, until every living soul was on their way, flooding the city gates with whatever they could carry.
More than half the city had been successfully evacuated when the strangest of things occurred. All at once, as if someone snuffed out the faintest fire on the thinnest of wicks, the wall of light vanished.
Gone. The Tide of Unmaking had disappeared.
The sudden presence of complete darkness silenced the living with a corporate exhale of wonder. No one moved. Nothing stirred.
Just stillness.
Then the whispers began. No one dared speak it too loudly in case their pronouncement should curse providence and summon the heinous blaze back to life. But as the moments ticked by, the Elves’ assurance that the deadly wonder had truly ceased took root, and whispers became murmurs became statements became declarations became celebration. Whatever it was, it was no more. And they only had Ellos to thank.
But had they known of who the real heroes were in that moment, they would have uttered the names of their champions along with that of their Great God.
44: Revisiting the Past
THE ELVES REENTERED THEIR BELOVED city slowly at first, worried that the mysterious aberration might pop back to life one step in front of them. But with each passing minute that peace remained over Berinfell, the inhabitants’ confidence grew, and their steps became more swift.
It was the bravest of these souls who first noticed a bedraggled band of Elves, two Gnomes, a Gwar Overlord, a Saer Shardbearer and a giant wolf walking out of the dust. They appeared like spirits at first, half-hidden in the twilight hours of dawn, creeping down a side street in the shadows of the western portion of the city; but soon their fleshly disposition was confirmed by the sight of blood and the sounds of coughing.
“Well, don’t just stand there, fetch us some water! These are heroes of Berinfell!”
“Y-y-yes Lord Felheart!” said an astonished young flet soldier. “Right away, your lordship!”
Soon a crowed had gathered, and that’s when the cheering began, with no one quite sure when, if ever, it stopped. The sight of the Lords and Guardmasters and beloved Gnomes emerging from the ruins of Berinfell turned the city into a hysterical, thriving celebration that lasted for weeks.
And then some.
The palace was emptied of food and drink for the benefit of all, and every home in the city became a sought-out destination, with family after family bidding one another congratulations and exulting in their world’s good fortune, delivered down from the Mighty Hand of Ellos.
And at the center of it all were the Lords and their noble kinsfolk, who would be heralded for all time as the Redeemers of Berinfell, second only to the Great Redeemer Himself. Their names would never be forgotten, but rather championed and lauded in stories and books for all time, as they still are to this day.
Taeva had enjoyed the celebrating as much as anyone, or at least as much as a foreigner could in an all-Elven world. True, she was accepted as part-Elven, and forgiven for whatever wrongs she had appeared to enact while operating on her own. And she was even allowed to keep her title, albeit an honorary one; the Seven, plus One, it was often mused. But still, there was a restlessness in her that no embrace, no kind word, could quell.
A week had passed and the constant din of music and laughter had numbed her. Without so much as a soul noticing, she took her leave and slipped out of Berinfell. She knew exactly where she needed to go.
Vesper Crag was dark, even in broad daylight. And now that it was utterly abandoned with Asp’s Gwar armies resettling their homelands, it seemed even darker. Profound emptiness, Taeva thought. This mountain had soaked in the blood of many, and had housed within it unspeakable evil.
Which was exactly why she needed to go back.
Taeva knew she had to go to the very heart of it all––to the last place her mother had breathed air. She didn’t know what she’d find, but something called her. Perhaps it was the secret she held inside her belt even now.
She hiked the mountainside in fading light, the storm clouds gathering over the Lightning Plains for their evening display. The first bolt kissed the ground far below her with a deafening crack, washing the entire mountain face in white light. There, just above her, was the gaping mouth of the Crag, set like the yawning jaws of a lion. Taeva stole herself to enter the black labyrinth and soon found a discarded pile of torches. She weaved some electricity around the shards of canvas and pitch until they were lit, then held the firelight above her head.
She’d never been here, not since she was an infant, and as such her mind told her she was a fool for coming. Surely this place was an unimaginable lair of unending routes and chambers that not even an Elven map could adequately articulate.
Still, something prompted her…begged her onward.
Taeva moved deeper inside the mountain, her heart leading her forward whenever she confronted a fork in the path. Eventually she came to a high set of stairs, rotten and tarnished with years of neglect, but surely grand in their day. They led into a series of ornate parlors, each decorated with lush tapestries and thick carpets, though by the smell, mildew and mold had taken their toll.
At last she came to a small room with a large chair in the middle. It faced a wide picture window. And beyond? A massive empty space that not even her torch could illuminate. Her free hand touched the chair, and then she moved to the viewing window.
A chill went up Taeva’s spine. Something’s alive in here. Or once was, she thought. Perhaps it was what called her, from the realm of the living…or the dead.
She shuddered––then lost her grip on the torch. She fumbled with the shaft, almost burning herself, but dropped it out the window. The fire slipped down a long, sloping stone surface before striking the ground and spinning to a halt some fifty yards below.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” she said, her voice echoing out in the vast expanse. Other than weaving lightning for the thirty minutes it took her to get in here, her only light source for getting back out was now a long way down. And yet it seemed like the fire called her.
Taeva straddled the window sill then swung both legs over the side, palms against the steep slope under her. “Here goes nothing,” she muttered. She gave herself a little shove forward, and within seconds she was speeding along much faster than she liked.
Her clothes hummed along the smooth stone surface, all the while her body braced for impact as the torch raced up toward her.
Taeva’s legs crumpled into her chest as her joints smashed against the stone floor. She tumbled into a heap, pain jarring her limbs, chest and head to the point she had trouble catching her breath.
Finally, she managed to sit up and assess herself. No broken bones. The torch was about fifteen feet away from her, having skittered a little farther than she had. She crawled forward on all fours and reached for it.
Her hand came up short.
There, on the wall in the glow of the fire light, was a drawing. A very strange drawing. Carved into the granite with deep lines was the image of a large spider, uniquely female, Taeva thought. And hidden within the lines, as if intentionally kept out of sight, was a baby.
A baby girl.
“It’s me,” Taeva whispered. Her fingers touched the heavy marks, and tears flooded her eyes. She wiped them away to keep visual contact with the drawing, but it was nearly impossible. Somehow she knew—she knew her mother had made this. Even in her imprisonment, her enslavement…she still thought of me.
She ran her arm across her nose and cheeks, trying desperately to compose herself. The torch flickered, and her eye caught a glimpse of more markings.
Another drawing.
This one showed the spider asleep. No, worse. Dead. Taeva didn’t know how she knew it was so, she just did. And the baby girl was no longer an infant…she was an adult. Strong. With long hair. Though the drawing was crude, Taeva sensed innate beauty in the form.
But the woman was also powerful, and she stood on top of a mountain with lightning bolts dancing around her.
Taeva’s fingers brushed over the lines reverently. For all she knew, this was her mother’s resting place. The very air Taeva breathed now could have been last inhaled by her mother. The connection was strong, she could feel it.
“Is this me, Mother?” Taeva asked aloud. “Was this what you saw me as?” Strong. Beautiful. Powerful. That’s when Taeva withdrew the secret in her belt.
The vial of Asp’s venom.
The glass tube seemed to burn in her hand. She noticed she was still crying a little, and her arms shook.
“I would be…the most powerful yet…” she muttered to herself. She looked back at the picture. The picture of her standing atop Vesper Crag. Victorious.
