The King's Challenge (ILFIN OF ARC) #347 - #350

TKC 347 348 349 and 350

Arc is a war zone and not even the dense foliage Enris and I move beneath is able to hide it. Certainly the sounds alone reveal the intensity ahead of us. We will run directly into the thick of it.

One section of the forest burns, and smoke is a dense weave through the trees. Low scrub and grassland is aflame also and we trip over the small creatures of Arc as they flee one blaze for another. I clench my teeth as I run, for these innocents do not deserve this death; they are not part of any war.

Struggling to keep up with Enris, who uses his Warrior speed to make up distance and therefore time, I realise all sound begins to diminish. Despite my harsh breathing scraping against my eardrums from inside and outside, I become cognisant of the fact that the same eerie silence falls as the terrible quiet we left behind at the shuttle.

The orb is gobbling souls.

By all stars, how strange that is, and how utterly frightening.

Ahead, Enris halts. From a dead run to a dead stop in the same breath. An instant later he falls into a crouch to crawl slowly forward. Slowing my headlong dash, I approach warily. When I see what he sees I too lose height.

A curve filled with rainbows shudders in slow motion in our field of view.

Enris places a finger to his lips and with his other hand motions for caution. I do as bid, because I do not trust the orb’s intentions. Despite its pretty aspect in the present, its mission is to kill. It may choose to retreat to our position and gobble us into its embrace also.

We wait and we watch and I know both of us curse the passing time. Iniri has not much of that scarce commodity left.

The skittering colours move forward. There is nothing to see beyond it, for the curved wall has blinded us to what awaits ahead. I assume, however, that its currently slow progression has something to do with the sheer number of souls it needs to gather. Ever more, the silence intensifies.

And then the screaming begins.

Enris grips my forearm when I jerk, and shakes his head emphatically. How is he calm? How is he able to accept this horror? Beyond the wall of rainbows the soldiers are now aware of the danger; Ilfin and Glonu scream and shout both warning and terror. We hear gunfire and laser sizzles also; the soldiers shoot at the orb in desperation, but no projectile or light beam pierces the curved barrier.

Barely a minute later the deadness of no sound envelopes us. Everyone is dead. The orb then suddenly advances swiftly, the colourful transparently moving rapidly away from us. In its wake it leaves the scars of battle, but no soldiers, no weapons, no gear.

Enris stands, his face without expression.

I push myself up to stare at mighty gouges in the earth, overturned trees and boulders, burnt trees, scorched earth and churned shale and mud. A mighty confrontation, and yet not a drop of spilled blood remains.

“Focus, Coltern,” Enris eventually mutters. “We are out of time.”

The orb has vanished into the trees in the distance. “How long will it act autonomously?” I ask and be damned the quiver in my voice. There is nothing wholesome about what happens inside Arc right now.

“Until Arc is empty.”

I jerk my head to the Makar heir, hearing something in his tone, something unsaid. “And after Arc?”

The man shrugs. “Massin as a whole.”

“There are thousands of innocents out there!”

He lifts his blue gaze to me. “Then we really need to find that vessel, don’t we?”

I want to scream my fury, but he is right. Before us is the evidence of a war stopped in its tracks; no added blood will be shed. The vanishing act is terrible, but at this point it is in fact a kinder death. To reverse it and to help the innocents, to save Iniri, we need the Glonu vessel. I pray now that it survived the explosion Iniri created for it directly, as well as the collapse of the Spire itself.

Squaring, my shoulders, I point at the massive mound of rubble. The ruined Spire.

“We best get started,” I mutter and lope towards it.

Soon we are arms akimbo before the pile of stone, shale and shattered mortar. Enris is dubious and so am I.

“It must be near the top,” I say.

“There is no guarantee of that,” Enris mutters, walking around the rubble. “It may have fallen deep also while everything imploded around it. To undo this will take too long.”

Again I hear something in his tone. “Enris, spit it out.”

He sends a wry grin. “Sharp as ever. The Warrior is a bloodhound also; I will use that.”

“You are not seeking blood.”

“I am, however, able to seek talents and, if I am right, a host of those were in that vessel. I need to find a knot of them, the greatest concentration. Where that is, is also where the vessel will be.”

No, it does not make sense. We are not in fact searching for the vessel, are we? “You are looking at it wrong. It’s not the containment you seek, Enris.”

His chin lifts and his eyes narrow. “A point well made, Coltern. I have been focusing on finding where the vessel is in order to find the remains of the talents, while thinking I need to find a gathering of talents to discover the vessel. A circle without result. I need to focus my hound’s nose on one talent in particular, the one I need found. All else is a waste of time.”

Leaning in to touch the shattered stone before me – it surprises me by being warmer than expected – I ask, “What happens to a talent freed from deliberate containment?”

“Depends on how long and how fierce the holding was. Most talents will simply dissipate into the ether.” Enris gives me another look. “I know what you ask and I tell you this talent cannot simply vanish. If it was in the vessel, it is still here somewhere.”

I stare back at him, not bothering to voice my next question.

He barks a laugh. “No, I do not know with certainty if it was ever captured. Maybe it was captured, but could not be held. Yes, I deal now in hope only.” He closes his eyes. “By the stars, what a terrible hope. This soul may have been captured in a tiny space for millennia.”

I swallow. Yes, a talent plus a soul equals an Ilfin. To capture a talent is to bind a soul also. “Who was he?” I ask quietly.

Staring at the pile of stone, Enris murmurs, “She. Her name was Iliri Makar.”

My gut hollows. “Meaning?” I spit out.

“Iniri’s twin, Coltern.” His gaze is steady, but he is pale.

“No one ever mentioned a twin sister,” I whisper.

“Because everyone thought she died at birth,” Enris states grimly. “Our father the king believes she died. Iniri does not even know she was part of a twin birth.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “I assume your Uncle Lorn knows.” Enris’ subsequent silence is my answer.