A Spark in the Wind

Chapter 13: The Things we do for Love

The fledgeling sun of the morrow shone bright behind a thicket of dense trees which shielded Silverhearth from stranger eyes, gleaming as a symbol of hope for the diurnal denizens, signalling the beginning of a new day.

The warmth of daylight was a welcome change from the weeks of torrential downpour which ravaged the countryside and urban complexes, wood-elves looked up in hope as scanty sunrays chased away the clouds, bringing in the promise of summer.

But there was something off about it: one cloud moved faster than the others, much faster, blotting out the sun now and then under translucent membranes, casting a shadow over parts of the city, terrorizing the folk with a thunderous roar like a hurricane striding through the sun with the grief of eclipse.

The pines of the forest creaked and cracked in the jaws of the zephyr which came down from the mountains, ever so slowly growing a serpentine figure: a head long and jagged, wings like clouds, and a slithering tail following. A piercing screech echoed, accompanied by a blast of blinding light from the sky like a second sun.

It was a great wyrm of the Western Peaks: Asir, the slumbering doom, a living embodiment of fire and death, had come down from the mountains with wrath and vengeance.

"Dragon!" an elf screamed at a distance, but his voice was lost among the screams of terror and despair. Those who were armed essayed forth a volley of arrows and javelins, but their easy missiles of cedar and ash pierced not his creamy hide, instead they snapped and bounced off harmlessly like toothpicks.

And Asir answered: with a great sweep of his wings, he knocked many archers off their feet, a rattling noise growing in his belly. For long the wood-elves hearkened to it in fear and awe, until at last their morale broke. Not once did Asir assail anyone, for he needed not to.

...

Palace guards hastened to the parapets, fearful of the great beast which hovered above them, too occupied to notice the griffin landing behind them. They didn't even notice: the griffin was being ridden.

In rode Lord Vilyánur, eyes ablaze with the fires of vengeance, wisdom blinded by love. Many a guard looked upon him and despaired, his brow beset with the wrath of a storm unforeseen. Like a daunting shadow he walked up to the palace, four arcane templars following, warping in out of thin air. And all those who stood before them fled – save for two palace guards who dared to stop him.

"You cannot enter here, Lord Lindrúin," one of them scoffed, cowering behind his shield, "though a worthy warrior you may be, we are tasked with protecting the king, and we will not let you get in without a fight. We will die but not disobey our king."

Vilyánur stared back with fury unbridled. The other guard stood aside, knowing what was to come. "You sure you want to die?" asked Vilyánur, to which the guard made no response.

"Very well," said Vilyánur calmly, his eyes flickering blue. "So be it."

The air shook and simmered as a tempest gathered around Vil. One moment there the guard stood, eyes fixed at Vil's, and the other he lay across the hallway, his skin withering to ash. The other guard watched in fear, stepping aside as Vil and his companions walked in.

Through the dark hallways they walked, until at last their senses led them to Mey's chambers. Flinging the door open, they saw Meneldir on the bed – pale and gaunt with a red bandaged arm, beside him there stood Daeron and three other chaos hunters, Mey's personal retinue.

The sight of Meneldir's unmoving figure maddened Vil, his eyes left open in horror. Why him and why not me? Vil thought, tears filling his eyes. Vil's bodyguards drew out their swords, but the chaos hunters of Daeron stood motionless, not agreeing to engage.