Alora: The Portal (30 page)

“Umph!” Air thrust from Graely’s lungs on impact. A sharp rock dug into his brow bone. Toppling over the edge, the guard grappled for a hold on the rocky cliff, one hand remaining firmly attached to Graely’s hair. The rocks scraped Graely’s face and chest as the struggling, screaming guard dangled in the air, suspended only by his grip on Graely’s hair.

The relentless rocking weight pulled him further over the edge of the cliff, until Graely lifted his sword to swipe blindly at the offending hand. The heavy mass released as Graely’s sword severed hair, scalp, and hand to break the connection, and the guard fell screaming to the ocean. But Graely’s upper half hung over the cliff and, even without Grey Cap’s weight, he felt his body slipping over the edge.

Clank!
He jammed his sword at the sheer rock, desperately searching for a purchase.

Clank!
The blade bounced off, and he slipped further.

Clank! Clank! Clank!

Clunk!
The sword jammed into a rocky crevice below him and held fast. He pushed against the blade hilt straining to hold himself steady, his muscles trembling with the sustained effort. Hanging upside down as he listened to the progress of the battle on the cliffs above, the blood rushed to his head. His vision narrowed.
I’m going to black out.

On the ledge, someone rammed a boot into his calf. He heard a yell and a thud. Then came a clash of metal, another shout, and a body rolled over the cliff to his left. Someone grabbed his boot, but he jerked until the offender released him.

“Hie!” Morvaen’s voice floated down. “Kick me again, and I’ll simply leave you here.”

Graely’s feet were lifted and his body scraped its way back up onto the cliff. Abandoning the blade, which was wedged tight, he let himself be dragged up to the safety of the ledge.

“You’ve been scalped.” Morvaen bent over, examining his head.

“Yes, I wanted to test my blade’s edge.” Graely didn’t bother to explain his rueful remark. He sat up, probing tentative fingers against the raw bloody skin and finding a great chunk of hair missing as well.

“We need to press on before we lose our advantage. Your head and face are bleeding, and your eye is swelling. Perhaps you should remain behind and meet up with Ochraen and Flaeren by the air intake.” From Morvaen’s expression, Graely knew he must look terrible.

“I’ll be fine.” He couldn’t stay outside for the same reason he’d refused to remain behind when the rescue team was formed. He couldn’t stand back and let someone else attempt to rescue his son from Vindrake’s clutches.

Worster ripped off his tunic and tore it into strips, helping Graely bind his head. “Of course you must come, Graely. Only let us take the lead, now. Kaevin will not wish us to rescue him and lose his father in the process.” Worster mumbled as he worked, casting Graely a mournful gaze, no doubt due in large part from having lost his own father in the last battle against Water Clan.

“Hurry!” Naegle rasped. “I hear voices returning to the entrance from within the cavern.”

Pushing the pain of his injuries to the back of his mind, Graely strove to clear his thinking. He edged behind Morvaen through the cavern entrance, noting the smoke billowing out from the passageway. Morvaen stopped, turning to place his hand on Graely’s shoulder.

“Are you certain, Graely? Are you truly fit to go?”

“As long as my brain isn’t spilling out of my skull, I’ll not be left behind.”

“Tell him! Tell him to speak the oath!” Vindrake brought the scorching iron down before her eyes.

“You’ll torture me either way.” Alora made a vain attempt to hold back her tears. Her nerves were electrified with agony, and even the air hurt her raw skin.

“Not if you submit to me.” His indigo eyes shone, malevolence flowing from him in waves. Intense nausea rolled through her body as if she were tossed about in an ocean storm. “Simply answer me with, ‘Yes, Sire.’ That’s all you need do to avoid more kisses from my rod.”

Searching deep within, she found enough strength to shake her head, praying somehow the next burn would bring the sweet release of death. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth inside dry parched lips, anticipating the searing pain.

“Very well, if you need yet another mark to prove my ultimate control, you shall have it.”

“Wait!” Kaevin cried out.

Vindrake lifted the iron, turning back to Kaevin, and Alora whimpered at her temporary retrieve. Vindrake, with black tunic and pants to match his black hair, brandished the iron tipped with the glowing red disc. His dark form appeared surreal against a rising cloud of smoke within the room.

“Ah, Kaevin… you’ve come to your senses at last? Will you speak the oath of fealty and accept the bloodbond? As a man of honor, it is only what you ought to do, having already given your word.”

“No, Kaevin! We lose everything and gain nothing if you take the bond.”

“Silence!”

“I won’t be silent, and I won’t submit. I’ll die first.”

“No, my dear, you will not die. You’ll only wish for it.” Vindrake swung the smoking iron back and pressed it into her palm. White-hot agony blistered her hand. She heard a girl screaming, a shrill piercing sound mixing with the flaming pain in her mind. The shriek went on and on, tearing at her eardrums. Only as the scream turned raw and hoarse did she realize it came from her own throat.

“Stop! Stop! Please stop!” Kaevin’s coarse sobs rent the smoky air in the room.

“No, she’s chosen to deny my authority, and she’ll pay for her decision. You’ll both pay.”

“What if she only speaks the words? If she doesn’t mean them, will you spare her?”

Vindrake inclined his head as if considering his offer. “I’ve no desire to torture her further. If you take the oath and she speaks the words, I see no need for either of you to suffer more.”

Alora tried to catch Kaevin’s gaze, but tears blurred her eyes.

“It’s inevitable; no one can resist me. No one can bear the pain forever.” In a haze of agony, Alora tried to ignore the draw of his smooth voice, the attraction of his reasoning.

“No one, but
me
. Right, Brother?”

Vindrake’s face turned ashen at the voice behind him.

Markaeus, elected as spokesman
by his brother, utilized his practiced acting skills to sound weary and contrite as they approached the four guards blocking the corridor junction. He wondered if there might be some unknown gift for this, as he seemed eerily adept at lying with a straight face. Only his grandfather had been able to detect his lies and truth-stretches without fail.

“We’ve come to surrender, good sirs. We beg your mercy. We know there’s no escape from your able custody.”

“And well you should.” A squinty-eyed sentry with a soot-smudged face ogled them with suspicion. “What’s that behind your backs? Let me see your hands.”

Markaeus edged forward.
Just a little bit closer. The furthest two guards are mine, and I’ve not got a clear shot at the last one.

“It’s only a peace offering... we found a bit of food.” He slowly moved his left hand around to expose a piece of soggy bread.

The third sentry, with the braided adornment of a head guard, took a step toward them, completely blocking his view of the last one. “Whatever that may be, we don’t want it. How came you to be here? You don’t have enough years to be in the secure ward.”

“I came to bring my brother back, as you would well suspect.”

“Yes, as I thought.” He nodded, and Markaeus let out the breath he’d been holding. Then the guard’s eyes narrowed as he lifted his hand to point with his sword. “No, this is nonsensical. Are you saying your brother escaped from the caverns and you returned him to us of your own accord?”

Haegen yelled, “Now, Markaeus!”

Markaeus whipped his right hand around and pointed the strange weapon in the head guard’s face, squeezing with his finger. Not having had opportunity to practice, he was astounded at the result, despite Uncle Charles’ precise instructions. A small misty stream squirted four strides away to wet the guard’s face. The startled sentry dropped his sword to scream and claw at his eyes.

“Go!” Haegen, having likewise spewed debilitating liquid on the closest guards, shoved at his back.

Markaeus took three running steps, when a flash of metal caught his eye. Diving to duck the sword swinging at his head, he hit the ground hard, his weapon rolling from his fingers. He looked up at the unforgiving face of a hulking, well-muscled sentry who placed his heavy boot on Markaeus’ chest, resting the point of his blade under his chin.

“You there! Boy! Come lie face down if you don’t want your brother skewered through the neck.”

“No, Haegen! Run!”

The pressure of the blade increased until he felt the sting of his skin splitting.

“I can’t, Markaeus. I can’t leave you. I’m no coward.” Haegen trudged back, scuffing his feet.

The closest sentry screamed out as he stumbled forward, “I’m going to kill them both! They burned my eyes! I can’t see!”

“Down on the ground, boy,” Markaeus’ captor barked. “Drop that strange weapon in your hand. I’ll slit both your throats before I let you burn my face.”

Tears of frustration filled Markaeus’ eyes, blurring the guard’s image. He squirmed, clawing at the leg on his chest.

The guard made a strange gurgling sound, and his head fell forward. Dropping from his hand, the blade rolled to clang on the floor as he crumpled. Behind him stood Uncle Charles, wiping his knife on his pant leg. Sheathing the knife, he extended hands to Markaeus and Haegen, hefting them to their feet, even as the blinded guards fumbled toward them.

“Hurry, before the others recover enough to chase us. And hang on to that pepper spray. Don’t forget, you can’t touch your faces until you’ve washed your hands.”

Hope renewed, Markaeus took off as fast as his legs would carry him, glancing over his shoulder to be sure Haegen and Uncle Charles were close behind. Remembering the turns in his mind, he led them to the last corner before the main corridor. Sliding to a halt, he leaned over to catch his breath.

“The entrance to the stairway is way down this corridor on the left, but first comes the big guard station.” Markaeus waited expectantly for Uncle Charles to produce some new magick weapon.

Uncle Charles wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand before kneeling to rummage inside his special rucksack. He extracted two clear tube containers filled with liquid, removing the caps to stuff a rag in each one, hanging out a hand’s length. Opening his cloak, he revealed a pocketed apron around his waist. He slid one of the tubes into a pocket, careful to keep it upright. Reaching again into his rucksack, he retrieved a black rectangular object, slightly larger than his hand, which slipped into an adjacent pocket. With the rucksack in place on his back once again, he stood, with the remaining tube container in his right hand and, in his left hand, one last mysterious treasure… a shiny silver box that could hide in his palm.

“Here’s the plan. We’re going to run as fast as we can. If anyone tries to block you, spray them with that pepper spray. You’ve got another fifteen or twenty seconds left in each can—”

“Wait, Uncle Charles,” Haegen interrupted. “What is ‘seconds’?”

“Never mind… just spray them until you empty the can. Whatever happens, whatever you hear, you just keep running. I’m going to take up the rear and try to stop anyone who’s chasing us. If you get to the secret stairs and I’m not with you, keep going. You got it?”

Markaeus threw his arms around Uncle Charles’ neck. “I’m sorry we don’t have major gifts yet, but we could still try to throw the knives.”

“Yes,” Haegen agreed. “Sometimes we hit our targets, even though we aren’t gifted. It’s not necessary for you to fight alone.”

Uncle Charles shook his head, patting Markaeus’ back. “You’ve been great, boys. You’ve already hit your targets with the pepper spray. Just do that again. I don’t have much faith in knife throwing without a little magic behind it.”

“I hear voices. Someone’s coming,” whispered Haegen.

“Let’s go, boys. It’s show time.”

Worster led the way, winding through the caverns to the area Daegreth had indicated on the map as the most likely place for Vindrake to interrogate prisoners. His circuitous route avoided the most heavily guarded areas near Vindrake’s living quarters. Indeed, they hadn’t encountered a single sentry in the smoke-filled passageways, save two who hurried the opposite direction holding wet rags over their mouths and noses.

Graely slipped his hand inside his pants pocket, fingering a pliable pouch. The small bag, identical to the ones carried by each of the other three warriors, contained a special glamour powder concocted by Nordamen. The glamours were based on everyday potions, such as those used by countless commoners to make themselves appear more attractive, and thus wouldn’t be of special notice to anyone sensitive to magick. But Nordamen’s powders had a special affect, causing the casual observer to see someone they recognized or expected to see, rather than the real person. However, the fragile impression fragmented with movement, so utilizing the glamour required approaching from an unseen position and freezing in place when observed. A further complication occurred if two antagonists observed the glamour-covered person at once, since each would see and address a different person. Still, despite its shortcomings, the glamour provided some chance of gaining close enough proximity to Vindrake’s shamans to engage in a physical battle, bypassing their dark magick spells.

Reaching a corner, Worster held up his hand, signaling silence as he dropped to his knees, craning his head to see into the passageway. He pulled back, sitting against the wall, motioning with his fingers to indicate four guards around the corner.

Were they close? Could they take out the sentries without raising an alarm?

A shrill screech of pain and terror ripped through the corridor. On and on. Alora. A wail of agony.

Still, she screamed. Graely gagged at the images flooding his mind. Worster and Naegle froze with wide eyes. Morvaen’s face reddened and his fist tightened around his sword, his muscles trembling as if he wanted to tear someone’s head from their shoulders.

Graely knew the children would be forever changed. Gone was the innocence of youth, buried in the overwhelming reality of evil. No amount of time would erase the memory or restore that which was lost. And that only if they survived.

Alleraen’s heart pumped in his chest, a mad dance. But it was excitement, not fear, that set his muscles tight and trembling. At last, after all these years, he would have his respite. Tonight he would kill his brother and avenge his father. Tonight, Drakeon would pay for Alleraen’s lifetime of maddening confinement. He’d spent every waking breath in preparation for this moment and he knew, with absolute certainty, he’d be victorious.

Drakeon passed the strange iron rod to his shaman, slowly turning to face him as he drew his sword, a sneer painted on his face. “You’re a sentimental fool, as always. You could have killed me while my back was turned.”

“There was no need, Drakeon. I want to look in your eyes when my sword takes your life.” Alleraen fingered his pilfered sword, familiarizing his hand with the weight and balance. Though the blade was nothing special, he was confident in his gifting, both in weapons and in strength.

Drakeon spoke over his shoulder. “Empusa, see that no one disturbs my captives until I dispense with my brother. If anything should happen to me, kill them.”

Dropping the rod, the eerie shaman lifted her hands and bent her head, pale blond hair falling forward to envelop her face. A shimmering cloud surrounded her, almost as tall as two men and extending out beyond Alora and Kaevin, shackled to their platforms.

Alleraen gave a silent curse, knowing the shaman would prevent Arista from accomplishing her task.
No matter. Once my brother is dead, the shaman will no longer answer to her bloodbond.

Drakeon sneered. “My guards—”

“Are dead or disabled.” Alleraen finished Drakeon’s sentence, enjoying his brother’s momentary lapse in composure.

“But more are coming, for I have compelled them. You’ll never escape the caverns if you don’t leave before they arrive.” Drakeon moved his sword in slow methodic circles as he stepped forward, and Alleraen wondered which would prove stronger, a God-given gift or a thieved one. He dismissed the thought, knowing his thirst for justice was unquenchable.

“You’ve already stolen my life, Drakeon. I don’t fear death or God’s subsequent judgment. I’ll gladly face both to send you to yours. What’s that I see in your eyes? Could it be a bit of apprehension? Did you not realize this day would come? Surely you knew you’d someday be called to account before our Maker for your wicked actions?”

Drakeon feinted to his right then lunged to his left. Alleraen parried the attack with ease. Dancing forward, Alleraen sent quick jabs to test Drakeon’s reflexes. He was fast, but Alleraen was faster.

He slashed. Drakeon turned. Too slow. Alleraen’s blade sliced through Drakeon’s shirt, and red bloomed on his left arm. Drakeon cursed, swinging his sword in a downward arc toward Alleraen’s head. Alleraen thrust upward to meet his blade, sliding and locking hilt to hilt. Drakeon used both arms, straining as he struggled against the strength of Alleraen’s right arm.

He could end it now. Take his revenge. He could withdraw and thrust into Drakeon’s heart, powering past his defense with brute strength.
No, it’s too soon. I’ll extend my brother’s terror a few more moments. He deserves to suffer longer for all the iniquity he’s done.
Though God will surely punish him in the next life, I want to deliver my own bit of justice.

He glanced to the side, assured to see the shaman still frozen in place, projecting the protective shroud and not actually harming the children. Using his weight, he forced his brother back, step by step until the wall stopped his progress.

Beads of sweat broke out on Drakeon’s forehead, his face red with effort. With perfect control, Alleraen increased the pressure, bending Drakeon’s hands back until the blade pressed against his neck, drawing blood.

“Do it,” Drakeon rasped.

“I will, Brother. But first, I think I’ll cut you one time for each year you’ve stolen from my life.” Alleraen sprang back with a laugh, slashing across his chest. “That makes only three. Your skin shall be in ribbons before you die.”

“Alleraen! Look out behind you.” At Arista’s cry of alarm, he glanced over his shoulder to find four armed sentries standing just beyond sword reach. Keeping Drakeon in his sights, he drew a knife in his left hand, preparing to battle all five at once, though the four made no move to engage.

Arista gave another shout as the door burst open and three more sentries rushed inside, setting their aim for Arista. Her arm blurred. A blade flew. The foremost guard darted to the side, rolling and bounding to his feet, unscathed.

Alleraen heard Arista’s name as two of the sentries behind him darted toward her, their forms morphing before his eyes, along with their clothing. He stared in confusion as the two remaining Water Clan sentries became Stone Clan warriors, one with a bloodied face and bandaged head, and the other a massive man staring intently over Alleraen’s shoulder. The huge warrior cried out, moving at lightning speed to tackle him about the waist. Taken by surprise, Alleraen brought his blade up to defend himself, but the large warrior rolled out of reach.