Villains (10 page)

Chapter 1

The shadowy figure swept across the burning fields without hesitation. The smell of smoke hung thick in the air, fire coiling around each blade of grass, inching closer to Delotha. The city had been taken, nothing but fire and smoke. Delotha sucked in a breath of air through the fabric of his black robe and continued to the point near the tree where he would click the dial into place and disappear. His feet shuffled along the grass as he mumbled the words to himself, his hands shifting in the robe to turn the dials to the correct symbols, his escape. A few more strides across the grass and he would reach it. The tree grew larger as he drew nearer, and finally, placing his right hand on the trunk, he slipped the last dial into place and the opening in the ground appeared beneath the tree. He took one final look back, his heart sunk at the folly. He turned to the growing blue orb and it pulled back, enveloping him inside it.

On the other side was a desert, the ground dry and cracked. Barely any vegetation erupted from the ground save the patches of moss protruding through the rocks on either side of the path. The figure continued through the narrow pathways towards the fortress. He heaved a sigh of relief as it came into view, the large stone steps leading to a set of heavy oak doors situated between two large pillars of rock. He shoved the doors out of his way and strode into the hall where six others sat around a round table, loudly debating the status of their hoard.

“Forget the hoard, Hadwen is burning,” Delotha lamented.

All fell silent and turned to look at him with astonished expressions on their faces. “Then we have failed,” Lorac said.

“Delotha…”

“Lorac, Hortis, there is nothing left,” Delotha reiterated. His breath became shallow as the weight of the revelation hit him. “They killed my family.”

“And the item?” Lorac asked, narrowing his eyes.

“I destroyed it when I blew up the city,” Delotha stated solemnly.

“We have no choice then,” Lorac said.

“Blasphemy!” Valtor shouted. He slammed his fist on the table and stared at the others. “We do not need his help!” he hissed.

Lorac shot a warning glance at him. “We must.”

“Have all on Hadwen perished then?” Hortis asked meekly. He was the youngest of the brethren; his silvery white hair falling just passed his ears.

Delotha only nodded. He grabbed a bowl off the table and hurled it at the wall. He made a guttural noise that sounded like a cry and turned towards the corridor. “Really Lorac? Is there no other way?”

Lorac bowed his head solemnly. He had richer features, pale skin, hazel colored eyes and dark hair. He shook his head. “Nobody enjoys this, least of all Valtor, but we are out of options.”

“It will be difficult,” another pitched in. He sat to the right of Valtor, a lanky elven with green eyes and brown hair.

“Our exile has brought us to it,” another commented. He too sat on the left side of the room, his hair brown and his eyes red. “This news comes as no surprise to me.”

“Nay Azdrach, you foresaw it,” Lorac retorted.

“Seen it!? There is but naught to see! For it has happened to each one of us. One by one, beginning with you Sir Lorac, Calassir of Nazole. Exile has followed each of us, from Nazole to Talanisd … to your precious Hadwen, Delotha. For as long as we try to keep our bond to those we left behind, eventually they are severed. This conversation was only a matter of time,” Azdrach concluded. He glanced over at Delotha to measure his reaction, but the larger elven froze in place, his black eyes focused upon the table in front.

“Aye,” he muttered after a long pause.

With that Lorac stood up from the table and looked over at the lanky elven. “Well Turon? Will you set the coordinates?”

“Aye my lord, our journey will begin at midnight,” Turon responded.

“Then we have no time to waste. My brothers, prepare yourselves. Tonight we travel to the Delta quadrant, to the fallen lands of Avrigost.”

Delotha sat in his chambers contemplating the escape from Hadwen.
Foolishness,
he thought bitterly. The images clouded his mind as he thought back to it.

It had been nightfall when he arrived through the rift; he needed to see them one last time, he needed to plead forgiveness, he needed his effects. Surely she would have kept them safe for him. He placed the shadow spell on himself to conceal his figure from the army that would execute him should they discover his return. Being Daed made him give up everything he once held sacred, but he didn’t have a shred of respect for High King Tor. He paced through the shadows, torch lights from the city burning brightly; he followed them to their end. As he neared the city limits however, he noticed a new kind of stirring in the air, something or someone was tracking the grounds.

He calmed his breath, and repeated the shadow spell to himself. He was sure it would hold until he was safe. He allowed himself to pass into the city, and that was when the shadow spell fell. His form came into full view, and the guards noticed his presence immediately. He ran. He raced through the muddy streets like a wild beast, in hopes his newfound skills would aid him when he reached the protective grounds. He knew the city very well, each street and building he memorized. It would not be long until he reached them and found his effects. He heard the army’s shouts behind him, the fluidity of their language raised alarm in him. Not only did they know he was an intruder, they knew who he was. He closed his eyes and moved his hands between his cloak, trying desperately to conjure the spell again. It was no use; the city had a magical ban on it.

As he turned the corner, one of the creatures got ahead of him. He tried to negotiate Delotha’s surrender, but Delotha wouldn’t let his prize go. He needed that item, he needed to see her, and he wouldn’t give up. He rammed into the guard and wrestled him to the ground. The creature kicked and beat him, but Delotha was stronger. He launched a blow to the creature’s head, and he stayed down. He knew it cost him seconds of his life he didn’t have.

They were there when he arrived, her hands bound, and her eyes wide at the sight of him. She tried to murmur the place where she hid it, but at the first syllable they slit her throat.
Savages.
Delotha tried to run but the people had gathered with their torches, their deranged looks. He noticed they had changed; all those who had once believed in him stared at him now with blank glazed over eyes, their hatred and hunger stronger than their common sense. There was little he could do. This what Tor did in the Lands of Beasts, he didn’t care, and these people suffered for it.

He darted to the left, grabbed a torch and took off towards the center of the city. Little did they think of what an anarchist he had become; little did they know how much knowledge he had absorbed since they exiled him from Hadwen for something as simple as treason. He had seen the realms; he had fought creatures that would scare the daylights out of half the city dwellers, and his genius mind had turned from purity to pure darkness. He wasn’t to be trusted. He ran towards the center of the city, to the beacon that kept the light ablaze throughout the night. He knew its power came from deep within the core of the planet, he knew what it would cause if he set it off balance.

He reached into his pocket and grabbed the bag of ipsum powder. In small doses ipsum powder could cause an entire house to explode, but in his altered state of mind, his thoughts swirling with the images of her throat being slit, his mission being failed, he took the bag and threw the entire thing into the beacon. He didn’t think much after that. The city dwellers caught up but they were now listening to the groaning sounds of the beacon about to explode.

Delotha tried a relocation spell, but forgot about the ban. He stumbled through the streets, trying to evade everyone that came in his way. He tried the shadow spell again but it failed. Fortunately his strength and the added fear aided him well. Those he passed he pushed out of the way and those who tried to stand in his way he roughshod, leaving them breathless on the ground. He closed his eyes and counted the seconds, knowing it would explode soon and the blast would sweep through the city with such force it would knock most dead immediately. After that it would travel through the underground tunnels, and the land would be taken. He sucked in a breath as he neared the city limits. The beacon exploded, it was everything he thought it would be and more. The explosion shook the ground below him, and in his haste he cast the spell and tumbled across the field. Racing to his feet he grabbed the lantern from his cloak and began clicking the dials into place, his escape.

“I will not go to Avrigost.” Narwa stood in the doorway eyeing the rucksack Delotha was unpacking.

Delotha looked up from the bag at the dark haired, black-eyed elven. His daydreaming faded into the background. “We have no choice now,” he muttered. He exited the room, heading down the corridor to the main hall.

“There is little hope we will survive,” Narwa interjected again.

Delotha continued, he was gruff and uninterested in the elven’s thoughts. Narwa had been an advisor to the Zanad people of Zanandir, in the Lands of Immortals and his strength lay in language and logic, he wasn’t one for conflict. They entered the main hall and Delotha paused. “Ready my lord,” he said, bowing his head to Lorac who was pacing back and forth.

“This is reckless, Lorac,” Narwa insulted.

Lorac had a pensive look on his face but he stopped short to stare at Narwa with disdain. “Do you question my authority?”

“Tor will not send aid to Hadwen, he cares little for peace in the Lands of Beasts,” Narwa rebutted.

“Nay, those who have angered him suffer,” Lorac pointed out.

“I’m not suffering,” Valtor hissed back.

Lorac stopped and looked at the shadows where the voice had emerged. “You never followed Tor.”

“I wouldn’t be so foolish,” Valtor replied. He had a sinister edge to his voice that made Delotha uncomfortable.

“Regardless, he won’t give aid to those who have stood against him for centuries,” Lorac began. He turned to Narwa and stared him down. “Would you prefer to succumb to bottom feeding like the creature?”

Narwa seemed taken aback by the comment. “Nay, but the Land of the Dead … it is dangerous!”

“Without the kyanite crystal we have no hope of infiltrating any other realms for supplies,” Delotha said. He still felt remorse for the family he lost and the realm he destroyed, but he was willing to go to the extreme to restore the power he once had.

“Nothing has ever been retrieved from Avrigost safely, it is a wasteland,” Narwa replied in desperation. Delotha knew the legend of the ancient realm and how it had fallen to such a dastardly state. His fear of that place was strong. Narwa had been spared exile unto Avrigost in the early days of his betrayal of the Zanad peoples, but those who were sent, suffered a fate worse than death.

“Yes, I am well aware,” Lorac said slowly.

“We don’t need him, we can take Satarine’s realm on our own,” Valtor interjected. He emerged from the shadows and Lorac. Valtor was taller, bald, tattoos crawling along his skull, his eyes as dark as an abyss.

Lorac stood his ground. “I made my decision Valtor. We will awaken Crestaos.”

“I will not pledge allegiance to that coward!” Valtor shouted. He looked like he was about to attack.

“Calm yourself,” Lorac said evenly. He moved to the altar at the far end of the hall seeming to disregard the Daed warrior.

Valtor fumed. He went to say something but shut his mouth, noticing Delotha’s hand on his shoulder. He glanced up at the heavyset being beside him and made a gesture that meant he would not attack, but he wouldn’t be happy with Lorac’s decision either.

Delotha shook his head at him. “Lorac is not to blame for this. If you want a duel, it should be against me,” he said with disdain.

Valtor pushed himself away from Delotha and backed into the shadows. “Nay, I won’t harm you,” he muttered as his form faded into the darkness.

A loud bang pulled Delotha to attention. He glanced at Narwa and Lorac as the door burst open and a lone goblin in tattered shreds huffed in the opening.

“Gorgorath!” the goblin breathed. In his community, Lorac was known by that name, and the goblin knew no other way to address him. Lorac gazed at him curiously and took a step towards him. The creature stepped back, terrified. Delotha snickered, they weren’t very nice to slaves, and this one had every reason to be afraid for interrupting them.

“Why have you come, slave?” Lorac asked loudly.

The creature cowered. “I bring this.” The parchment fell on the ground in front of him. As Lorac bent to pick it up the creature jumped back. Lorac snatched the fragment and glanced at it.

“Gibberish,” he stated. He glowered at the creature. “This is meaningless!”

The goblin crouched involuntarily and backed away. “Gorgorath needed message. I bring message.” He choked, erupting into a fit of coughs.

“Narwa,” Lorac snapped. “Can you decipher the symbols?”

Narwa took the shard and inspected it. “Nay Lorac, it’s of the First Era.”

Lorac glanced at the goblin. “Leave us,” he commanded. The goblin couldn’t move fast enough, scampering from the hall. Once he was gone Lorac scowled at Narwa. “What is it?”

Delotha glanced over Narwa’s shoulder as he studied the worn symbols, noting the intricate patterns of script and the images of the two wearing headdresses. “It’s a prophecy.”

Lorac narrowed his eyebrows. “What will we do with it?”

Narwa hung his head. “Crestaos will know what to do with this.”

Lorac nodded. “Aye, so you agree then, Avrigost?”

“Aye, I will protect the parchment.”

A sinister laugh erupted from the shadow of the corridor. “Avrigost Lorac? Have you forgotten?” Valtor sneered.

Lorac peered down the hall towards his comrade. “Forgotten what?”

“Isadora.”

Lorac cringed and Delotha wanted to laugh out loud. Lorac told the Daed of his glorious escape from Nazole many times, never missing the details of the Flame banished to Avrigost on his behalf. He clenched his fist. “We will not encounter her.”