Tempest of Bravoure: Kingdom Ascent Page 4

  “A dark elf.” Ahna annunciated every syllable.

  Kairen then looked at the woman who had taken her in long ago. “The Resistance does not halt at kinship. If it did, our values, they would mean nothing. I’m proud of you for making a choice to come to the fight. We’re planning the biggest uprising in history. You’re the mage who returned!”

  Ahna smiled at the woman she called sister, with sincere affection in her eyes. The two remained together for a moment, remembering some of the adventures of when Kairen was little. She had such a fiery spirit, full of compassion.

  Ahna had rescued her from the clutches of slave traders at the foot of north-east Gurdal, close to Dalgon, when Kairen was but a child. Despite her origins, Kairen had not been afraid of her. The little girl looked to her as an older sister, even now. Ahna had taught her to be kind, to always follow her heart, just like the elf had followed hers a lifetime ago. Kairen had grown up and trained with her, under her wing, until one day, after the failed Uprising, she had chosen to return to the capital and join the rebellion.

  Seated close to each other on Kairen’s bed, Ahna disclosed a little more about her time as an archmage, about the thousand books about the Arts of Arcanis she had to read, and read again. About her class of a hundred magi students eager to learn from the Dwellunder refugee. It had made her the mage she was today, skilled in all forms of Elementalism as well as in Photomancy, the welding of light. Yet her specialty had always been an older form of magic: Ritualism, the remnant of the Ancients’ powers that could even draw energy from the different planes and create fractures between the Fabric of Realms.

  3

  The Resistance

  Not so far from the Resistance barracks of Orgna, there was a small town built on the eastern coast of Bravoure with the name of East Haven. It was to the east of the valleys, south of Gurdal. An old trade route from before the war was situated nearby and slithered along a river. The town had few inhabitants, and its primary purpose was maritime trade. The harbor welcomed few ships from neighboring lands that mostly came with supplies of spices, gems and jewels, and weapons. Despite the dark fate of Bravoure, the kingdom was still, to this day, thriving in arms commerce with the southern lands.

  Lord Sharr’s eastern outpost was located practically in front of the village. He had but two sets of patrols, each exchanging responsibility between the watch of the guard tower and that of the town. The changing of duty would happen when the sun was highest. A subset of the town’s patrol was deployed at the harbor, to oversee the seamen and trader’s every move. At night, only a few guards were posted near the ships, while the others either rested or guarded the outpost.

  The Resistance’s collected intelligence revealed a fracture in the deployment of Sharr’s patrols. The distance between the outpost and the harbor was significant. It was possible to cause a disruption at the docks while remaining undetected by the rest outside the town. To be able to achieve this, they first had to take out the signal brazier at the center of the harbor’s square. Guards could use it to alert the outpost and sound the alarm across the village.

  Here was the shrike captain’s plan. They would go in at night. The shrikes would disable the brazier and get rid of the docks’ guards one by one. Then, they would covertly smear the ships with odorless inflammable oil, which would be set ablaze by fire grenades. David’s fifth squadron would stand guard outside the village, in the darker shadow of the outpost’s tower. They were the reinforcement, which they hoped would not be necessary. If the shrikes would notice something out of the ordinary, they would silently retreat and abort the mission. Lord Sharr’s trade ships were to dock at the next moon. That was when Cedric and his unit would be ready for the mission.

  “Do you approve, Jade?” Captain Rover asked, but he knew the answer already.

  “Of course, but what of the dokkalfar?” Jade wondered.

  Cedric snickered. “She’ll be with Squadron Five. No need for her to get in the way.”

  After the sun had passed overhead, Jade confirmed High Commander Sand’s endorsement of the covert mission and ordered the involved fighters to prepare. Cedric made his way to the training halls.

  The hallway was ornate with paintings and dwarven tapestries of the history of the old kingdom. The Resistance had turned the different rooms into training grounds, with swords, axes, daggers, and various types of armor ready for immediate combat. There was a marksman chamber, for archery practice. There was a room full of dummies, for those who needed to free themselves from cold-brewed anger.

  A few soldiers were training at the swords. They greeted Cedric with respect and a military salute. “Namaskar. Good day, Captain!”

  He waved at them.

  Cedric entered the training hall and browsed through the weapon rack. He noticed a pair of daggers resting on the stool to the right. The silence ensued, and he realized that someone else had followed him in. A voice spoke.

  “Thanks for letting me join the mission.”

  Ahna...

  Cedric’s muscles tensed up. He straightened his spine. He turned his head toward her and stared her down. “Trust me, dokka. If it were up to me, you wouldn’t be here.”

  Cedric expected a reprimand, but Ahna chuckled instead. He turned back to the rack of swords and pulled a long iron cutlass.

  Ahna remained still behind him. “Are you going to stare at me forever or will you grab these daggers and follow me?”

  These words took the dark elf by surprise. When the shrike faced Ahna again, she had a look of wonder. “Follow you?” she questioned, unsure of what he meant.

  “Well, if we’re going on a mission together, I’d like to see what you’ve got.” He stepped away and walked toward the area behind the collection of weapon racks.

  There was enough space for a good fight away from the other trainees. Especially since the cadets had been staring at Ahna for the past few moments. Her appearance was particularly intriguing. The silver hair and purple eyes almost looked mystical to most humans. This is why dark elves had this particular kind of power over most races, unlike other elves. The same power that made some resent them from deep within their core. Cedric could not be bothered. He kindly requested the cadets to mind their own business while he trained with Ahna.

  The iron razor edge clashed between her two daggers. She pushed both her arms out, forcing Cedric’s cutlass to veer upwards while she dodged the next blow. He was much taller than her, which put her at a distinct disadvantage. As she shifted back to swing one of her blades at him, he slipped through and got a hold of her shoulder. He pressed downwards, slightly toward himself, to drive her off-balance. He was then able to slide his left arm around her throat, pull her and lock her body against his. His blade came to meet the skin of her neck.

  “You’re dead, dokka.”

  She was out of breath, and he was incredibly fast. The speed of his swings was impressive, almost inhuman. She used her weight to shove him backwards, releasing herself from his clutches. An old rage began to boil inside her.

  “You’re a bit rusty on the daggers, I can see that,” he jabbed.

  Ahna stepped forward, and her rapid double-cut collided with his sword up in the air. As both his arms were away from his core, she kicked him right in the stomach, pushing herself away from him. He lost his footing for a second but quickly recovered his anchor to the ground. He grinned. He was about to strike her again but missed when she swiftly curled up and got closer to him. She launched a hard blow with the pommel of her dagger straight toward his nose and mouth. The shock jolted his head back, and he waltzed against the near wall. He took a minute to inspect his face and check his bleeding mouth.

  His eyes suddenly lit with fury as he wiped the blood off his lips. “So, that’s how we’ll play!”

  He let his training sword fall to the ground and punched his fist in the palm of his other hand. Before he could get close to Ahna, she threw one of her daggers straight at him, intentionally missing his face, as a dangerous wa
rning not to come any nearer. She immediately regretted her assault, that marksman had triggered a vile energy in her. She would not let her old dokkalfar rage take over. Her chest heaved as she regained control of herself.

  The dirk stuck out of the wall behind and Cedric glanced at it with angered shock. His glare then became more than dangerous, and he paced up toward her. He was able to disarm her with one strike at the arm and overpowered her with his size. Then, with higher speed, he lifted her up and pinned her against the wall. Her head bounced back, and she was, for a few seconds, stunned by the knock.

  His burning eyes met hers. “Training is over.”

  And he let her fall and stormed out of the room. When she looked up again, Kairen stood by the entrance. The red-haired woman cast an irritated look at a leaving Cedric.

  “You’re bleeding,” she said with a disapproving tone. “What kind of stupid game are you playing?”

  He shrugged and expressed no emotion. “I’m just doing what the boss said,” he declared as he left the room. “And then your friend went all dokkalfar on me!”

  When he left, Kairen sighed and regained her determined smile. “Come on, Ahna, now you train with me!”

  For the next few days, Ahna explored the high halls of Orgna, each day a little more. She found herself skimming through the archives of the library, impressed by how much the Resistance had been able to preserve after the war. There were stories about the dawning of Bravoure, the alliance with the high elves, and the prosperity of the kingdom. How the dwarves had built a myriad of mines in Gurdal, how they had established advanced sites for the excavation of Bravoure’s first riches: the Bravan gold. She found old parchments about the creation of Terra. The Storms of Creation, in which the first dragon-god and the universe had been created.

  Most rebels still looked at her with curious eyes as she wandered inside the barracks, but they always nodded and smiled at her when she passed by them. The elf was impressed by the diversity and richness of traits of the Resistance. There were humans like the high commander, elves like Councilor Myria Fel or Captain Senris, sindurs like Councilor Luk Ma, and even some dokkalfar soldiers. There were women, men, all kinds of people who made the Resistance the powerful force it was. All were united against Lord Sharr’s oppressive and tyrannous reign.

  Ahna sat one afternoon, after a short sparring session with Kairen, on a bench in the large entrance hall, reading through the rescued records of the Magi Academy. She found a relatively recent silver adorned tome on its history, and members sorted chronologically. It spoke of the Academy’s creation and had the names of honorable archmagi who had taught discipline and wisdom to young Bravan apprentices. Among them was hers. Meriel Ahn Arkamai.

  It was known dokkalfar tradition to bear two names. One name of honor, exclusively for family, and one of common use. Despite her origin, the Bravan magi had welcomed Ahna and the little family she had as their own. As such, she was remembered with both her names, Meriel Ahn.

  As she scrolled through the Academy’s records, she stumbled upon another name. Her heavy heart suddenly leapt beneath her breast. She whispered the words as she read them, Luthan Hyehn. Her eyes followed the short passage.

  Archmage Luthan Hyehn, Enchanter of the Fourth Circle, specialized in the Fine Arts of Arcanis, prime in the school of Elementalism, a devoted master of Pyromancy. Luthan joined the Academy in 1239:AV, Anno Varkadia. He came from the ljosalfar land of Fallvale and excelled at the practice of magic.

  Ahna shut the book. She paused for a moment, her lips resting on the silver fore-edge. She closed her eyes and let the images of her past flow through her memory. It was a name she had not thought of in years. His emerald eyes were what she remembered most. His kindness and intelligence, his sense of duty. His long, smooth pure blond hair, almost white, that covered his shoulders perfectly. His smell...

  When she opened her eyes again, the beautiful scent of a tender remembrance dissipated. Her heart ached as she faced the emptiness of the room she sat in. There she was, at a table in the dwarven hall of a gold mine, alone. She went to return the book to the library when she crossed paths with Senris, the captain of the Fae. The wood elf had an escort of two others, whom she thought she recognized as her two assailants from the forest. But these were different. She heard the voices of dark elves sneer in her mind. All vidthralfar looked the same anyway. She dismissed these thoughts, this was something these ignorant fools would say about their long distant cousins. Senris tilted his head as a motion of brief greeting, then went on with his stroll. When Ahna placed the book back on one of the shelves, she felt a particular, almost spiritual call. The thought of Luthan had brought back a recollection of painful memories, and she needed some more time alone, away from prying eyes.

  At the back of the foyer, there was a small chapel initially built by the dwarves to honor the Forge Idol—the miners that followed had consecrated it to the different deities of Bravoure. When the Resistance had turned the quarry into their primary base, they kept the chapel as is, for souls in need of spiritual guidance. There was a stone circle at the center of the holy room, and a series of small religious statuettes placed on the furthest end of the ring. As Ahna stepped into the candlelit chapel, she noticed an old man rested at the effigy of Varko, the Solar God. He recited the mantras of the Call of Light silently, murmuring each syllable with a careful melody. When he became aware of the presence of Ahna, he turned his head in her direction.

  “Ah, you must be the new recruit!” he joyfully exclaimed.

  The man stood up and greeted her the old Bravan monk’s way, two joint palms and a tilt of the forehead.

  He was bald. He wore an alb, a long white tunic covered by a tabard of the same color. The garments were adorned with golden livery and girded with a red cincture. This outfit gave him the allure of the Gurdal monks, the ones from the ancient tales.

  “I’m Gideon. You can probably guess, I come here a lot.”

  He smiled at her, there was an honest light shining in his nut-colored eyes that ended in a distinct curve. Ahna somehow found some comfort in them. He seemed to look at her past her appearance, past her blue skin and her dokkalfar traits. A calming energy emanated from his smile.

  “You’re a cleric,” she inferred from his clothing.

  “Yes. A Varkadian cleric!” he pointed out enthusiastically, with a slight bit of pride. “There are not many of us around here anymore, but we joined the cause nevertheless. I’m also a found student of the old tales. Tell me, Ahna, who do you pray to?”

  His question left her thinking. One could say she was not the believer she used to be. She had not even seen a cleric since the war. In general, magi were no fans of religion. Ahna had always been the outlier who sometimes sought guidance under the wings of dragon-gods.

  But why was he asking?

  Then, as though he had read her thoughts, Gideon clarified his question. “I’m not asking this to bear judgement. I just want to make sure we have a statue here for you.”

  He held his hand toward the end of the ring, where the six small effigies of gods stood. Ahna then laid her eyes on the stone figures. They were roughly sculpted, with unintentional imperfections. Yet they were flawless in heartwarming ways.

  “I know they’re not as majestic as Bravoure’s pantheonic golden sculptures, but they bring peace to the souls in need,” Gideon said humbly. “So, tell me, do we have your divine here?”

  Ahna examined each statuette. Each divine was portrayed as a dragon, as described by the Scriptures of the Old. There was Varko, the great white dragon born in the Storms of Creation. Dracuuria, the Mother, the nine-headed hydra who gave birth to the first civilization. D’hjaak and Bishet, the conjoined twin dragons of unity in diversity. Guan, the victorious horned dragon that symbolised hope and the endurance of hardship, and Sabys, the serpent under the sea and preserver of life. And finally, there was Ghydra, the god-king who lived among mortals, offspring of Varko and Dracuuria.

  This small handpicked p
antheon was composed of deities of light. Each titan embodied an ideal, something better all mortals must strive for. So, it made sense that Ahna’s divine was not present.

  “Morxairen, I guess it would be him,” she finally answered.

  Gideon looked concerned. “Morxairen, the once banished now absolved. He never fully was accepted in the Heavens now, was he?” Ahna remained silent and the old man smiled. “I know he was popular among the magi. He created them, after all.”

  Gideon seemed unaware of Ahna’s history with magic, and she preferred it to stay that way. “Well, it would only make sense,” the elf began. “Look at me. What do you see?”

  The old cleric examined her. He took a moment to analyse her with his eager brown eyes as though he gazed into who she was rather than what. “You’re dokkalfar, but you didn’t come with the horde. You’ve been in Bravoure for much longer, am I correct?” Ahna gave a simple nod. “Bravoure welcomed you, but you didn’t feel truly accepted, did you?” The old man asked rhetorically. He was silent for a minute as if to solve a riddle. “You had to fight your own kin, and you’ve been gone for so long.” Ahna’s eyes met the floor, to shed a semblance of guilt. “You ran from the war, the doomed cause. And now, you came for a second chance, at the gates of the Resistance.” He went on with a distant tone. “But the way you think most look at you now, you will probably never truly feel accepted. So Morxairen’s story can only make more sense to you.”

  The elf looked up then smiled. Gideon had it all absolutely correct. He slowly turned to her. And with a soothing voice, he told her the following words, from the bottom of his heart.

  “Ahna, without the idea of redemption, there would not be a Resistance. You must free yourself from the guilt you feel. When you become your own jailor, only you possess the key.” The gentle smile on his face shone in the candlelight. “I need to go, there are things I must do. It was nice to meet you, Ahna.” And the wise cleric exited the chapel.