Paul Thompson - Destiny

“Hear me, Great Speaker! I am not going anywhere! Do you understand? You are cursed with me forever! We will cross this creek, battle ghosts and dancing lights and anything else that gets in our way, then plant every seed we’ve hoarded since leaving home. We will make this damned valley bloom, and then—” She kissed him with fervor. “Then I will go to Qualinesti and return it to its rightful king!”

He smiled into her flushed, angry face. “What a curse,” he whispered.

He was running through tall grass. Exhilaration sang in his veins. Unlike most of his forest-dwelling kind, Porthios loved the savannah. The broad vistas, clear for miles in every direction, made it his favorite country in which to hunt. He could push his swift legs to their limits without impediment. The swish and sway of the grass was music for the chase. The air was cool, with the bite of early autumn, but the sun was pleasantly warm on his bare face. His legs moved smoothly, so fleet and nimble, his toes left barely any impression on the ground. His chest expanded easily with each deep breath. He was whole, unburned, and gloriously alive. The sheer joy of it brought laughter bubbling from his lips.

Hunting the usual sorts of game required stealth and cleverness. The prey he chased now was different. Strength was needed, strength of mind and of determination. The future of his entire race was at stake. To preserve that future, Porthios would do anything. The chase pushed every sense to its limit, but his will was strong, his resolve unshakable. Eventually the usurper would be caught.

He fell. The abruptness of it caught him by surprise, and he hit the ground hard. High grass had concealed a ditch, but that was no excuse. He was never caught off guard. He was never so clumsy. He moved to stand up again, but roots clutched at his booted feet. Each time he pulled a foot free, the grass whipped around his ankle again. In seconds he could no longer break free, no matter how hard he tried or how nimbly he twisted, and he lost his balance. He fell onto his back. Grass closed over him, blotting out the sky.

What had been a thrilling chase had become a nightmare. More grass gripped his arms and legs, encircled his throat, and rose up to cover his face, burying him in a sea of green. The shoots snaked into his ears, pushed between his lips, and invaded his nostrils. He could not breathe!

Get up!

The command sounded clearly in his mind. The tendrils were remorseless. Although he clenched his eyelids tightly, the tendrils worked their way beneath his eyelids, crawling into his skull. The agony was awful. He wanted to scream but couldn’t draw breath for even that.

Are you a coward? Free yourself!

Slowly, Porthios closed his fingers around clumps of grass. Mustering every ounce of strength he possessed, he heaved his hands free of the clinging grass. Then his fingers went to work on the greenery encasing his face. The smothering darkness eased. He could see light, he could breathe!

Don’t stop now. Stand up.

Enraged by the anonymous patronizing voice, Porthios redoubled his efforts, twisting first his head then his torso from side to side. The strangling growth crumbled and fell away. He looked around to see who dared speak to him in such a fashion.

He was still on the savannah. The flat grassland stretched away in all directions beneath a sky decorated with puffy white clouds, and there was not a soul in sight.

His legs were still encased. Marshalling his formidable resolve, he tore his right leg free then concentrated on the left. He must return to the chase. He could not allow his prey to escape.

Porthios’s head snapped around. The grassland was no longer empty. A human was approaching. Although he was still a dozen yards away, the man’s voice carried easily. He was old, clean shaven, with unkempt white hair cut short. His homespun robe was of a clerical cut, and he gripped a blackthorn staff. Porthios recognized him immediately.

“Is this your doing?” he demanded, gesturing at his trapped leg.

The old priest shrugged. “I can’t visit you openly, so I borrowed a dream.”

A dream? Porthios put a hand to his face. The skin was smooth, untouched by fire, and damp with sweat. He’d never experienced a dream so real.

The human was looking at him expectantly. Testy but curious too, Porthios asked what he wanted.

The priest sighed. “You keep asking me that.”

“And you always answer in riddles!”

The human turned and walked away. The arrogant dismissal was just the spur Porthios needed. He tore his leg free of the last of the confining grass and stormed after the human.

“Don’t walk away from me!” he commanded, reaching for the priest’s arm. As soon as he touched it, the ground heaved beneath his feet. The sun-drenched savannah shimmered and fell away.

They were in Inath-Wakenti. The sun was high in the sky, but the air still held the clammy chill characteristic of the cursed valley. The two of them were alone, with only a scattering of the purposeless white monoliths for company.

“I risked much by coming to you,” the priest said. A shower of meteors streaked across the sky, leaving trails of silent fire. Frowning at the display, he added, “This must be the last time.”

“Why did you come? Why interrupt a simple dream so harshly?”

“Simple?” was all the human said.

Even as he continued to glare at the old man, Porthios suddenly remembered who he’d been hunting: Gilthas. To save the elf race from his folly, Porthios would kill Gilthas. He would kill Lauralanthalasa’s son. It was not a simple dream at all.

“You stopped me. Why?” he asked.

The human’s eyes were sad. “Sometimes even dreams are forbidden.”

With breath-stealing suddenness, the dream world shifted again. Smooth skin shriveled, muscles knotted and drew in upon themselves, scars sliced across chest, arms, and legs. The remembered joy of Porthios’s run through the grassland vanished, swallowed up by the truth of never-ending torment. He stood naked and twisted beneath the open sky. The unaccustomed feel of air against his bare flesh made his head swim. He howled his agony to the staring sun.

With that cry still echoing around them, the old man lifted his staff in both hands and rapped its butt end against the ground. Night fell at once and brought with it Porthios’s familiar rags. They seemed to emerge from the ground beneath his feet, rising up to wrap themselves carefully around him, cloaking his shame from the world.

In the distance, thunder rolled. “This is a dangerous place, it affects me. I cannot stay:” the priest murmured, raking his staff through the turquoise turf. Thunder rolled again, closer and louder.

Speaking quickly he said, “Leave the Pathfinder to his own fate, lost one. Yours rests in the dark and bloody land of Kith-Kanan’s realm.”

Like water drying on a hot stone, he faded from view, becoming translucent then disappearing altogether. Where he’d stood, a slender ash sapling pushed through the ground.

Porthios woke. He lay on his lonely bedroll outside the exiles’ camp. Dawn was breaking. It was the day the people would decide: blue stone or white, stay or go.

Let Gilthas keep his cursed valley. Porthios had spoken with a god. Cryptic words and elliptical answers, true, but he had the guidance of the divine. Elves with the right spirit would follow him. Together, they would begin a new chapter in the history of the First Race.

The god was right about many things. A dark and bloody land, he had called it. When Porthios reached Qualinesti, he intended to make the god’s description perfectly apt.

The elf race, divided for so long into two nations and briefly united, was divided again. Stones had been gathered and choices made. Along the west bank of Lioness Creek stood the elves who had chosen to stay. Arrayed opposite them were those who meant to go. All but a few hundred of the Speaker’s warriors intended to depart. They were soldiers, and fighting was what they knew. Fathoming the puzzles of a mysterious valley was beyond them. Building houses and tilling the earth was not for them. Each felt he would be more useful in Porthios’s battle to free Qualinesti. If death was to be their fate, they preferred to meet it in the land of their ancestors, fighting the enemies of their race.