Echoes of War: The Oath Amidst the Ashes (7)
Chapter 7 – My Lord
“It’s been a long time, Syl.”
A girl with hair the color of deep forest emerged at his side. Her silhouette was traced in an emerald glow that seemed to pulse from her very skin, her ears tapering into fine points sharper than any elf’s. Her white and green gown fell without a single wrinkle. She looked at him, offering a smile that failed to reach her eyes.
“Ranann.” Her voice was sweet. “I thought I’d never have to look upon your wretched face again. It pains me to know you haven't yet rotted away like the filth you are.”
Ranann rolled his eyes. He was well-accustomed to his old friend’s biting tongue. His fingers instinctively found the hilt of his broken blade, though he knew steel would hold no sway against her.
“I didn't exactly relish the prospect of another meeting either,” Ranann admitted, glancing around; even the dust seemed frozen in the air. “Too much has happened in my absence, it seems. What are you lot up to?”
“That is not for me to answer.” She tilted her head, a finger resting against her lips. “If you crave the truth… you’ll have to face her scorn. Assuming she deigns to speak with you. To be honest, I highly doubt it.”
“So she’s here too.” Ranann crossed his arms. “It makes sense. We fell at the same time, after all. It seems time in the Spiritual Plane is a fickle thing. What I don’t understand is what she intends by bringing you along.”
“That is none of your concern.”
Sylvaria tilted her head and began to circle Ranann, leaving trails of green light that dissolved into the ether. Every time he turned to face her, she vanished, only to reappear behind or beside him, ever-smiling. With a blink, she was nose-to-nose with him, floating with her arms crossed as if lounging on a cushion of air.
“Do you still not regret what you did?” she asked.
Ranann closed his eyes for a fleeting second. In the darkness of his eyelids, faces he wished to erase flickered by. He opened them; his gaze had turned to stone. He exhaled and brushed her aside with a minimal gesture—like one pushing through thick air—and the girl’s figure rippled, distorting like water.
“If I could start anew, I would make the same choice,” Ranann replied. “I swore eternal loyalty to my lord. Even if it demanded I leave everything behind. I regret nothing.”
“You say that, yet you couldn't even protect him,” Sylvaria mocked, her laughter tinkling. “Some right-hand man you turned out to be.”
Ranann raised his fist and drove it through the space the girl occupied. The blow passed through her image as if through smoke, the momentum making him stumble forward while Sylvaria’s laughter drifted, intact, behind him. Ranann clicked his tongue and turned his gaze to the woman on the floor. The pool beneath her no longer grew; the blood had gone still.
“Forgive me for taking your host's life.”
“It’s nothing. There will always be someone willing to host me. And while we’re at it, be grateful I didn’t kill you back in the shack. That would have been far too dull.”
“I should have guessed it was your doing. No human could perceive me with such ease.” A grin widened on his face. “Regardless, don’t you think you’ve grown rather weak? I barely had to break a sweat to defeat you.”
The green glow around Sylvaria flickered, but her smile remained.
“That’s not true!” She threw frantic punches at his chest and shoulder; against Ranann, they felt like nothing more than a passing breeze. “That woman could barely channel a fraction of my power. I spent too much healing the soldiers you tried to kill.”
Ranann’s smirk stopped her cold, and she turned away, pouting. Ranann bowed his head.
“So, they’re alive…”
Sylvaria watched Ranann’s calm face, and a small, genuine smile finally crossed her features.
“Why did you have to abandon her?” she whispered.
“Did you say something?”
“None of your business.”
She turned and headed toward a corner where the green and white light intensified. Her edges began to blur, but just before vanishing, she paused and flashed one last grin.
“The next time I hear of you,” her body began to break down into shimmering particles, “I hope it’s because you’ve taken your own life. Toodles!”
She vanished.
The green light died with her, and the room shifted once more, returning to its dark hues under the dim glow of torches and candles.
“You could have at least chosen sweeter parting words.”
The frozen blood resumed its flow. Ranann approached the resonance core, but cracks snaked across its surface. Before his fingers could graze it, it shattered into green shards.
“That brat…”
He gathered the fragments, stowing them in a pocket of his tunic. Standing up, he swept the room with his gaze and returned to the display case. The container lay in pieces, its supports twisted outward as if forced from within. The Magnus Stone was gone.
He had no time to search for clues; the rhythmic thud of boots climbing the stairs reached him from below.
“This way!” a man’s voice barked.
Ranann threw himself toward the open window the thief had used for his escape. He landed in the cold snow with a muffled thud, yet the impact stung.
“Ascendant, Seryth!”
Voices cried out from the upper floor—cries of alarm that would soon turn into cries of pursuit. Ranann clamped a hand over the wound in his side and forced himself to run, despite the burning ache pulsing through every muscle. He stumbled forward, snow filling his boots and freezing his senses, step after agonizing step over the frozen crust.
Leaving that city was the only thing that mattered.
He followed the trail of the Terracons toward the hidden clearing where the Skarnians awaited his return, certain he would have fulfilled the mission.
Not this time. He had failed.
He emerged from the forest, roots snagging his feet and forcing him to a halt at the edge of the clearing. Silence greeted him. The wagons were where they had left them, and beside them, the Terracons rested, covered in a thin layer of fresh snow that softened their monstrous contours, making them look like jagged boulders rather than the beasts they were. Though deep down, they were quite docile.
Dark stains splattered the snow near the clearing's edge. A crimson trail led him toward a denser stretch of woods where the trunks grew thick and the moss had hardened into ice. Several Skarnians were hunched over human bodies, stripping them of their belongings: daggers, swords, empty pouches, even mud-caked boots. Everything was of use. A short distance away, a human wagon lay on its side, its wooden wheel splintered and torn off, the two horses that pulled it lying in a pool of blood that was beginning to freeze. Other Skarnians rummaged inside, hauling out wooden crates. Among them all, Kórvath stood out. He planted a heavy boot on a dead human’s chest, laughing heartily.
“Weaklings!” He raised a double-edged axe. “They thought they could ambush us in our sanctuary! No human can stand against Skarnian fury!”
The axe fell upon the lifeless body.
“Their stupidity has cost them their lives!”
Ranann stared at Kórvath. For a moment, his tail seemed inches longer, his claws sharper; even a few scales peeked through where there had once been skin. He ignored the boasting and searched for Azrath among the looters. He found him standing slightly apart, watching the carnage. Once more, he couldn't help but notice Azrath’s head, devoid of the horns his companions possessed.
“What happened here?”
Azrath turned. His gaze traveled down Ranann’s body without surprise or judgment: tattered clothes, dirt ground into the fabric, dried blood crusting over open wounds. Only the scarf remained intact.
“Just a minor setback. I’m surprised you returned alive. And by the look of you, the retreat wasn't clean.”
“Who said I fled?”
Azrath’s smile faltered.
“Are you saying you secured the relic?”
Several heads turned toward him. Among them, Kórvath’s.
“No.”
A roar erupted to his left. Kórvath, still slick with the blood of others, hurled a corpse in his direction before lunging with bared claws. Ranann didn't have time to raise a defense. But the blow never landed. Kórvath’s fist slammed hard into Azrath’s palm; the leader had appeared between them before Ranann even saw him move.
“Calm yourself, Kórvath.”
“He’s stronger than he looks.”
Azrath withdrew his hand. Kórvath stepped back, still snarling and glaring at Ranann, but he obeyed without another word.
“Explain yourself, Ranann.”
“Your suspicions were confirmed. An Ascendant was guarding the Magnus Stone. I engaged her… and managed to strike her down. But the combat drew another player. The artifact was gone by the time I went to claim it.”
Azrath nodded, his face a closed book, impossible to read. He seemed to accept the explanation; or perhaps he was simply letting it stand for now. Kórvath snorted and closed in on Ranann, moving like a beast about to bite. He invaded Ranann's space, huffing in his face. His breath was hot, reeking of raw meat.
“This runt couldn’t defeat an Ascendant! No one survives a duel with one, least of all a human! You lie! You lie to hide your cowardice!”
Ranann held his gaze.
“I gain nothing by lying.”
“Then prove your words!” Kórvath spat, his jaw tightening as his fangs nearly grazed Ranann’s skin. “If you defeated it, you’ll have its core. Hand it over! It’s the least you can offer for your incompetence.”
Ranann reached into an inner pocket of his torn tunic. He pulled out a handful of sharp, crystalline, opaque fragments. He held them in his open palm. Kórvath snatched them the moment they were in sight and inspected them closely, scowling. The irregular pieces lacked the characteristic glow.
“Are you mocking me?”
“The core fragmented before I could take it. This is all I could recover from the debris.”
Kórvath squeezed his fist, and the crystalline shards turned into a fine, dark powder that slipped between his scaly claws and vanished into the snow. Before the last grain hit the ground, he had seized Ranann by the collar of his tunic, hoisting him into the air until his feet dangled a span above the snow. He brought his face so close their foreheads nearly touched.
“Liar!” he bellowed, shaking him. “A core doesn't just destroy itself! They endure for hundreds of moons! You stole it for yourself and now you try to deceive us with these fairy tales!”
“What would I want with a core?”
Kórvath was about to strike when Azrath’s voice cut through.
“Let him go.”
“No!” He turned toward his leader. “This human must pay.”
Azrath placed a hand on Kórvath’s shoulder. The grip on Ranann loosened, and Kórvath stared at his leader.
“I said, let him go.”
Azrath’s gaze made him shrink. Kórvath dropped Ranann onto the snow without care.
“The energy I felt minutes ago has vanished completely. There is no doubt Ranann faced the Ascendant and, somehow, defeated it. It is a pity we didn't recover the Magnus Stone, or even an intact core; but at least we have deprived the humans of a valuable piece.”
“That wasn't the deal!” Kórvath protested, though his voice lost its edge. “He was paid in advance to bring the relic, not to come back with stories and excuses. We need results, not casualties that bring no profit!”
Azrath ignored him. He reached into a pocket of his robe and pulled out a small green stone. He tossed it toward Ranann; he caught it mid-air and held it in his palm, staring at it without recognition.
“It’s a Vitalshtar,” Azrath explained. “It will help you heal. I’m surprised you’re still standing after such an encounter. Perhaps I undervalued you, after all.”
Ranann recognized the name. The Shtar stones: artifacts forged by the Ferrans, gems that held a unique bond until shattered to release it, capable of knitting wounds that would have killed any man. He had never held one, let alone a Vitalshtar, one of the most coveted for its staggering curative properties. He closed his fingers around the cold gem and crushed it with ease. The fragments dissolved in his hand, and a green aura enveloped him, penetrating muscle and bone, closing wounds from the inside out as the torment receded. When the energy fully integrated and not a single particle remained, the green aura flickered like a flame in the wind and began to fade.
Kórvath stood motionless, fists clenched and jaw tight. He hesitated between roaring again or swallowing his pride. He chose the latter; still, he kicked a half-buried stone. The rock went flying and rolled until it stopped at Ranann’s feet.
“We’ve wasted enough time. We depart now,” Azrath announced to the platoon.
Ranann exhaled and touched his wounded side, feeling beneath his torn clothes. The pain persisted as a dull ache under the skin numbed by the Vitalshtar. The familiar flow of his ether was already at work, driving the tissue repair; there was still a way to go, but he could move. He looked up at Azrath, meeting his impassive gaze, and his own expression hardened.
“I’ll accompany you to the next safe city or village. I don’t want to spend another moment here. After that, our paths part. You won’t see me again.”
Azrath looked at him for a moment and nodded without argument. He turned and, with a gesture to the nearby warriors, began walking toward the wagons. The others followed in silence. Quick hands gathered belongings, notched blades, and any useful human weapons. Kórvath paused for a moment, shot Ranann a poisonous look, and turned away, disappearing behind Azrath without a word.
“Is he his pet?”
Ranann headed toward one of the wagons at the rear. He avoided Kórvath’s, once again. He climbed up with effort, dragged his feet, and collapsed among the piled bundles in a shadowed corner. He curled his body, wishing to be forgotten. The Terracons woke from their lethargy with low grunts. Whips cracked. The beasts set off, their twisted legs marking the rhythm against the snow. Ranann let himself be carried by the monotonous jolting; the pain had ebbed to a manageable level thanks to the Vitalshtar and his own recovery. He could endure it. He looked at the tatters hanging from his arms. The tunic was falling apart, soaked and ruined. Perhaps it was time to replace it. The loot was still safe; it was enough for new clothes even after the failure. It was still a long way to the next city, so he decided to sleep and let the journey pass him by.
Hours later, Ranann woke with a start. He looked through the bars; the sun marked noon, but it wasn't the light that had woken him. It was a tug in his internal ether, a vibration that raced down his spine and made the hair on his neck stand on end. He sat up gasping, his heart hammering against his ribs as if trying to escape. It had been a long, long time since he had felt such a disturbance in the flow. Years. Too many for it to be mere coincidence. He scrambled up, ignoring the protest of bruised muscles, and pressed his face against the bars. His eyes scanned the forest they were passing through. An ancient voice echoed in the depths of his consciousness: a name, the silhouette of a man that time had tried to erase.
“My lord...
..."
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