Broken Dreams – Chapter 3 – A Powers of Pakresh Story

The Memories of Steelhill

Arrora �" Half-Elven Woman

21^st of Trilqilst, 4986 A.E.

 

It had taken a few tries. My voice weak and atrophied from weeks of solitude. But I got the message across. Returning with a long length of rope, my rescuer tied two large loops to either end of the metal pipe I had been clutching. Hooks bent into in the metal catching each length in place. Slipping these loops over either arm he wore the contraption like a pack. Leaving the metal pipe resting against his massive back.

Draping my own arms over his broad shoulders and my legs between the rod and his frame, I could ride the metal bar much like a swing. My body pressed against his, a minuscule weight to carry for how much I had lost over my imprisonment.

While a horribly uncomfortable position, it afforded the two of us both speed and communication. My broken voice only inches from his ear. Allowing me to display the rings and necklaces I had forged. The gems of my cage. Knowledge. A poor trade: flawed information in exchange for my life, but it was all I could scrape from this retched place. And I would use every scrap to escape. I would make them regret what they had done.

They would regret letting me live.

My savior hunched himself forward, my body pressing against his. Slowly, carefully, with deliberate meticulous movement. Slinking forward, practically crawling our way through this warehouse of chains and iron. Past the mangled forms of Celma and Arjen. The shield-warrior’s neck twisted at an odd angle. A deep, ugly gouge carved in a swirling curve from his ear down to the jugular on the opposite side of his throat. Just above the collarbone. My rescuer held a second bent rod of iron in his hands. The pointed, jagged edge splattered with deep maroon. Held in front of him like a spear. I envied the twisted metal.

While Celma’s face had been sunken in. As if she had tasted something particularly sour. An almost cartoonish exaggeration were it not for the blood weeping from the obvious, crushing wound and her teeth scattered like rain around her.

Both of their eyes glassy and dead.

With an angry hiss, I can’t help but spit on them as we slide past. The saliva like fire flying from my mouth. The only thing worth burying them in. Anything else would be a waste of time and resources. I feel more than hear the leifr laugh at my display, his body shuddering beneath me. His chuckle mirrored by a slight nod and a glance. Mirth dancing in his iris’s for a second before returning to their hardened focus.

“there are �" were �" 14 guards. 12 now. their lea-“ my voice cracks with the strain of atrophy. I’m doing better by leagues already, but I’m not better. Not even close. It’s only the glint of jewelry in my mind and fear of abandonment that forces me to speak at all. “their leader stays at the far north end of camp. we’re in the middle.”

“Where do they sleep?” The voice of my new companion responds. His deep voice and dark tone do more than convey his intentions with the question. I try and resist the temptation to answer his inquiry. It would be better to cut our losses and leave now. But . . .

“south side. they complain about it, how far away the “head office” and the barracks are from the cages.” Better to nip this in the bud now. While we had the element of surprise. If we really were in the Uzaryn Plains, there wouldn’t be anything around us for miles. No caves, no hills, no towns.

Nowhere to hide.

My companion nods his head at my words in acknowledgement as we approach the entrance of the warehouse. “there are usually only two on patrol. but not always. keep alert.” He nods again. Passing the final few empty cages. The sigils carved into the bars glowing softly with an almost comfortable light. Pleasant even, were it not for the power lying beneath the surface.

My rescuer rocked low to the ground. Placing his shoulder against the large door of ramshackle wood. Opening the gate to this warehouse slowly, listening to the outside world filtering in. In almost imperceivably slow movement, the leifr opens the door fully. Allowing the wind, racing like wild dogs, to blow past my face. The chilling air bringing with it the scent of grass, dirt, and open sky.

Freedom.

Content with the emptiness of our vicinity, the leifr begins to creep his way forward. Picking his way out of our den of chains. I’m struck by the oddity of our situation. Not simply the strangeness of our imprisonment; the sheer scale of magical runes involved notable in and of itself. Nor the strangeness of my past and my companion’s baby-blue form. Nor the large structure we had been caged within, a rarity in this mostly barren plain.

It’s all of these oddities pilling up. One atop the other.

What was the purpose of all this? There had to be a point to it. Though I found this creeping curiosity dying with every step my rescuer took. Better to keep focus on the now. Inquiry would come later.

His steps were agonizingly meticulous. Each footfall placed with deliberate care. Head on a swivel, listening, looking, doing everything in his power to ensure we made it to our destination. I did what I could to help, taking in the surroundings of this camp for the first time.

Crowded and dirty. Worn pathways cut into swaying grass through sheer frequency of use. Dozens upon dozens of old crates lined the winding foot-trails. All of them massive. Each one easily large enough to fill the entire back of a caravan wagon. I tried to look beyond their hulking frames. To peer past and see where we were. Looking for a landmark, a single suggestion as to our location. But with only the barest sliver of moon in the sky, the pitch darkness of night made it impossible.

Slowly, steadily, using the stars as a guide, we approached our destination. Rising like the head of some great beast, a second warehouse-like structure jutting from the flattened ground. The soft murmur of celebratory voices heavily muffled by walls and distance coming from within.

The barracks.

Crouching to one knee, the leifr stops his pace forward. His eyes glancing questioningly back at me. I nod my head at the unasked question, my voice struggling to find purchase in my throat. “sometimes they celebrate after a . . . �" sorry �" after a big catch. the guards on duty complain when they miss out.”

“How long?” Comes the reply. His voice soft but the tone incredibly hard. A cold edge to the question.

“a long time. but they won’t expect Celma or Arjen back. they’re supposed to be out all night.”

Nodding his head in understanding, he refocuses his gaze back onto the building in front of us. A prayer I can’t hear bubbling at the end of every breath. The muscles of his back stiff and contracted as the gargantuan man lumbers even closer to the ground. My body almost laying flat against his. Our profile hidden deeply in the swaying grass of the plains. Waiting for the cultists to go to bed.

Waiting to strike.

With the rejuvenating power of the Eternal once again flowing in my veins. With the invigorating rush of freedom billowing through my lungs. With the promise of muscle and truth of steel prepared below me. With hope at my fingertips, I ready myself. Preparing to take revenge for Adrian. For Quelle. For Tyrim, Rhall, and Kerra. For myself.

And I begin to chant.