A flash of blue

(A fantasy adventure)
© Denysé Bridger

Lyera smiled as she stared at the two opponents who inhabited the Spell-globe; during the past few cycles they had provided her with entertainment beyond her expectations. The crown princes of Phenea and Crosa, the two most powerful empires of Jordael; and she held them in the palm of her hand─quite literally. Vazir had been wrong when he asserted their intelligence would be such that they would work together to free themselves. Lyera knew their hatred would rule them. The old man was a fool, and she could feel the slow draining of his magical abilities as he aided the aging kings in their quest to maintain peace; while the Covenant of Wizards sought a way to break the Spell-globe’s prison. The planet was slowly becoming the primary victim of the dissatisfaction of its people, and the deaths of the princes would be the final shock needed to goad the masses into a war that would enable her to seize ultimate power.

She placed the globe in its nest; two golden hands moulded in the image of her own limbs. A spark of bluish light made her laugh quietly, and she stepped closer, eager to see if this time they would succeed in their battle to kill each other...

* * *

Dahe deflected the impact of Niran’s sword as the gleaming blade arced downward toward his neck. The Phenean prince’s brilliant blue eyes were dark with rage as he lunged and Dahe’s panic receded to a distant part of his mind. He would feel the terror later, he knew, it was always thus. For the moment, he must survive.

“Niran!”

The fury in the fair haired prince’s voice penetrated the anger that coursed through Niran, and the eastern prince backed away the fraction of a step. He waited for Dahe to speak again, while he calculated his chances of finally ending the other’s life.

“We have to consider the possibility that Vazir was right.”

Niran laughed, the sound bitter and derisive.

“Your fool of a wizard knows nothing, Dahe,” he growled softly. “You know the rules of this game.” He raised his sword again and struck. He cursed furiously when the silver-hued blade grazed stone and sparks flew in the air. He groaned in agony when Dahe’s weapon slammed across his shoulders, the blade turned so that the flat side struck him, and did not severe his body as it might have.

“Listen to me, Niran!” Dahe shouted, his rough voice echoed a combination of exasperation and desperation. “We have to stop this madness.”

Niran whirled again and raised his sword. The Crosan prince, pale blond hair whipping around his head in the sudden wind, bowed his acknowledgement and braced for the assault. Metal met metal and the clash of swords rang in the silent air, accompanied by the gasps and curses of the men who fought. Niran knew he was wearing himself out deliberately, anything to escape the unearthly silence that surrounded them. It was an insanity of its own, the sorcerous quiet. She had planned it, of course. The only sound he’d heard for countless seasons was the sound of Dahe’s voice when they would battle.

* * *

Dahe met each rush his opponent made at him, and his mind reached outward, tried to find Vazir’s presence. The old wizard was growing weaker, and the contact fainter each time he was able to forge the mystical link. He knew that Niran had no such tie to break the eeriness that had engulfed them cycles before. He also knew it would not be much longer before the madness would claim the other prince entirely.

“Night and day, Niran!” he yelled as he deflected another of the wild parries. “It must be the key.”

“You’re a fool, Dahe,” Niran sneered. “An old faery tale rhyme that children recite, and you think it important.”

“Vazir—”

“Is equally as foolish as his prized pupil,” Niran interrupted contemptuously. He stepped away and leaned on the hilt of his sword as he fought to catch his breath. “But you are right, this must end. You know the rules, we must decide.”

“I won’t kill you, Niran,” Dahe said wearily. “Nor will I simply allow you to take my life.”

Niran’s eyebrow rose and he laughed quietly, the sound still breathless.

“Then we are as we have always been, old... friend,” he surmised. “Lyera was quite clear, the spell can only be broken by a death.”

“And why would you believe her when you will not even consider the possibility that Vazir speaks truth?” Dahe wondered with an ironic smile.

Niran shrugged.

“If you were to escape here, Niran,” Dahe continued conversationally. “What would you do with her once you were free?”

Niran’s answering smile was more grimace.

“Give her to the Covenant.”

“You loved her once.”

“Love had very little to do with it, Dahe.”

This time it was the younger prince who smiled, though the expression was tinged with more than a small amount of sadness. The sudden widening of Dahe’s eyes alerted Niran an instant before he might have died. The Crosan prince lurched forward, his sword arm rising as he regained his balance too quickly. Niran, closer to the as yet unseen threat, whirled and his heart leapt into his throat.

The Darvon changed its shape as they attacked. It dropped to ground level, serpentine in form and deadly barbs flew from its mouth with each noiseless hiss. Dahe’s blade sliced into the back of the thing and orange-grey oozed from the wound. It writhed, pain obvious in the wild coils it twisted into. Niran moved in to complete the task of severing its head from its body, but fell back a moment later as one of the ice-white slivers found the vulnerable skin of his throat and slid into him.

Niran’s voice was silenced the second he was injured, and Dahe’s actions were automatic. He finished what Niran had begun, watched the Darvon die and disintegrate into mist, then he bent next to the fallen prince.

Blue eyes were clouded with anguish, and Niran’s body was already shuddering with the affects of the Darvon’s poison. The sheen of silver at Niran’s throat would spread quickly, until his entire body was covered with the icy gloss of death. Dahe looked into the sky, squinted at the perpetual azure, his eyes instinctively seeking the sole cloud that lingered, the gauzy white puff that he knew was the underside of the Spell-globe that trapped them. Niran’s fingers closed on his wrist, the grip like steel.

“Stay as still as possible, Niran,” he directed firmly. “It will slow the spread of the poison until I can heal—”

The grip tightened to pain and Dahe wrenched his arm free with a furious curse. Niran’s sapphire eyes blazed anger back at him.

“I don’t give a sewer Geera’s ass whether you want my help or not,” he snarled, then before Niran could make the situation worse by lunging at him, Dahe landed a solid punch to the other prince’s jaw. Blue eyes rolled, then closed, and Dahe scanned the area for any sign of another attack. He knew it would not be long before another of the magical realm’s minions was ordered to strike. Lyera might only be hesitating long enough to see if he would leave Niran to die─or attempt to save his life.

“The Sands,” he murmured quietly. It was an old habit now, speaking aloud to have the reassurance of some sound in his ears. He wondered, idly, if he’d be able to break the habit once they were back in their world? He dismissed the speculation and looked down at his fallen enemy.

It would be easy, and Niran would have been the last one to condemn him for leaving, but Dahe could not leave the other prince to whatever Fate the witch would mete out once he’d left. He picked up Niran’s sword, sheathed it at his opponent’s side, then hefted the other man over his shoulder.

“Gods!” Dahe grumbled as he staggered momentarily, then regained his balance. He headed eastward, in the one direction they had so far ignored.

The Shifting Sands lay in the east.

As well as the Sea Of Mist.

And, the Cavern of Chaos.

All places of death.

All places of madness.

They’d avoided them, by wordless agreement, for the entire duration of their imprisonment. Dahe knew the Icca Valley lay between the Sands and the Sea, and he needed the leaves from the arcane tree that grew there if he was to save Niran’s life.

* * *

It felt like several days that Dahe travelled, encumbered with the burden of his enemy. Niran regained consciousness periodically, and each time his blue eyes shot daggers of rage at the fair haired companion who was attempting to save his life. His voice was frozen by the poison, and the silver sheen of the icy trail from his throat was growing longer.

Dahe watched and waited. They were stopped in a meadow area that was familiar ground to him, he’d camped here numerous times while recovering from one of the battles he’d waged with Niran. It was as close to the Shifting Sands as he’d ever dared to go. Now, he was waiting with another purpose.

He felt Niran’s gaze on him and turned to look at the other prince.

“You cannot speak, will you listen?”

Niran’s lips curled in anger and his glare was eloquent answer to the query. Dahe shrugged amiably and settled more comfortably on the soft, mossy grounds.

“The riddle is obvious, and Vazir is right, Niran,” he said casually. “Our freedom lies in solving the simplest of mysteries, and yet the answer eludes us.”

Niran’s eyebrow rose, as expressive as his voice often was when laughing at Dahe’s unyielding faith in his mentor.

“I know what you think of this,” Dahe continued. “But, consider it, since you have time on your hands, and the poison isn’t allowing you much other form of recreation. Don’t waste your energy plotting to kill me, old friend, plot a way to free us.”

Niran smiled. Dahe knew him surprisingly well. Better than any other man, or woman, ever could. They had been closer than brothers once. Before Lyera pitted them against each other. Before their imprisonment made them mortal enemies.

Niran’s smile faltered when Dahe leaped to his feet and drew his sword. His stance was wary for a moment, then he relaxed. Niran sensed nothing, until he saw the creature approaching them.

The Keerin was another myth come to life, and Niran wondered if Dahe had finally met the thing that would sway him from his stubborn faith. She was breathtaking; a sylph-like, golden-haired form of perfect beauty. Her eyes, as golden as her hair, glowed softly as she approached them. It was only as she stopped before them that Niran saw her clearly and his heart began to pound erratically within his chest. She was the image of Sondreen, Dahe’s wife. The recognition sparked a deeper surge of panic, and Niran thought frantically for what was, perversely, remaining just beyond his recollection.

Dahe lowered his sword and waited for her to reach him, his eyes huge, shimmering with unabashed tears.

“Beloved?”

Niran struggled to his feet, groping wildly for his weapon until he realised that Dahe had placed it back in the scabbard at his hip. He shoved aside the motionless prince and hurled his sword directly at the apparition. Her scream mingled with Dahe’s and Niran caught him, held him fiercely when he would have gone to the creature’s side.

Dahe freed himself with difficulty, and glared his shock and horror at the dark-haired prince. He started to step toward the image of Sondreen, and Niran grabbed his arms, made him look into his face as he shook his head vehemently.

Reason was returning, and Dahe forced himself to look past Niran’s shoulder. The Keerin was transforming, taking her true shape, and with the change came the memory that had eluded both princes; a full-blooded Keerin could take the shape dearest to a mortal heart, it was what enabled them to kill. Keerins were once the most famed assassins on the planet, before the Wizards banished them to another level of existence.

Heartbroken, and heartsick, Dahe let his head fall to rest on Niran’s shoulder.

Niran held him, ill at ease with Dahe’s grief as much as his obvious gratitude. After long moments passed in silence, the blond stepped away, and Niran collapsed, his breaths strained slightly.

“We must be getting closer to our answer,” Dahe remarked without meeting the other man’s steady gaze. “She’s never sent so powerful an enemy to distract us.”

Niran’s eyebrow rose, and he nodded. It made a certain kind of sense.

“I’m going to have to leave you, Niran.”

Niran again nodded.

“I’ll be back as quickly as possible,” he told the stricken prince. “The Picaa tree grows at the edge of the Sands. It is not here, so it must be on the other side.”

When Niran’s features revealed nothing in way of response, Dahe sighed heavily and gathered his cloak. He returned Niran’s weapon from the now vacant spot where the Keerin had died, then headed into the Shifting Sands.

* * *

Cold began to seep deeper into Niran’s body as he stared upward at the vast expanse of blue above him. The ice was numbing and he needed to keep his mind active if he hoped to fight the almost seductive lure of blackness that was dancing on the fringes of his awareness. He let his thoughts wander as they were wont; unsurprised when Lyera’s unnatural beauty rose to taunt him. He’d been a fool to trust the witch, but few mortal women intrigued him, and fewer still challenged him. Lyera had known how to ensnare him from the moment they had met at Court. Niran, Crown Prince and newly knighted Protector and Champion of Phenea

Inwardly, Niran laughed. He’d taken the most despised Sorceress in the kingdom to his bed; ignored pleas and threats from his father, as well as the Covenant of Wizards when they, too, expressed their concerns over the dalliance. Eventually they had sent Dahe to reason with him, the one man who had, previously, been able to dissuade the recalcitrant pride of Phenea’s crown prince.

Lyera had planned well, he now knew. He’d fallen into her trap, not she into his. As he fought with Dahe, laughed at the Prince of Crosa for his foolhardy belief that he could sway Niran’s loyalties to suit the Covenant, Lyera had cast them into the Spell-globe.

Their first weeks had been spent fighting, arguing over everything and anything. Vazir had gradually forged a link with Dahe, his prized pupil. Niran had always been outwardly derisive of the bond between the ancient wizard and the fair prince, deep inside him, he knew the emotion for what it truly was-envy.

Dahe’s sense of honour demanded that he not seriously attempt to kill the man who had once been his closest friend. Instead, he forced Niran to work with him, often without the raging prince’s knowledge that he was doing so. They had slowly discovered that the Globe’s geography was that of the north; the one area of their world that none could inhabit because of the ever-changing landscape created of discarded magics. Within the confines of the Spell-globe, though, the topography remained consistent.

Pain arced through Niran’s body, woke all the anguish that had been lulled into acquiescence by his mental wanderings and determined will. He ground his teeth as the shocking lances of ice-fire slithered and coiled within him. The blue of the sky dulled, and he knew he was losing the battle to hold onto life─the sky in this world never dimmed in its ceaseless watchfulness.

Niran tried to flex his fingers, and was terrified by the lack of response when he looked at the lifeless limb that disobeyed his silent command of motion. He closed his eyes, tried again─again he failed. Tears of despair welled in Niran’s sea-blue eyes, and he felt the weight on his chest grow as breathing became a slow, tortuous agony.

* * *

At the very edge of the Sea of Mist, where it banked the Shifting Sands, Dahe found the mystical Picaa tree. Beneath the silvery branches of the tree, a shadow rippled as it sought substance. Dahe recognised the shape and breathed in relief. He walked to the Picaa and knelt at its base, head bowed.

“Master, Niran dies as we speak.”

Vazir’s magical essence wavered with the shocking news, then gradually smoothed again.

“You must succeed, Dahe,” the old one’s voice was a mere murmur of sound, heard only within the Crosan Prince’s mind. “If Niran dies, your life goes with him. Your life, and the lives of all of Jordael’s people.”

“Have you the strength to send me back to him?”

“Others are with me, we will try, Dahe,” Vazir’s weakened voice had faded to a barely audible whisper.

Dahe broke a low-hanging branch from the tree, cradled the warm, living twig to his chest as he closed his eyes. He focused his energy on those of the Wizards as the tingle of sorcery began to course through his veins.

* * *

“You’re awake at last,” Dahe laughed and watched the wariness grow in Niran’s vivid blue eyes as consciousness sharpened to awareness and surroundings.

Niran touched his throat, felt only the natural heat and pulse of life. He spotted the greyed branch next to the fire, opaque ichor slowly solidifying.

“How...” Niran’s eyes widened, and he swallowed convulsively, then tried again. “How long?”

“You’ve been out for a couple of days, as near as I can guess,” Dahe replied, correctly interpreting the vague question.

“You came back,” Niran ventured after careful consideration. “Why?”

“We need to get out of this together, Niran,” the Prince of Crosa answered with forced patience.

“So you keep saying,” Niran muttered softly as he sat up, each movement careful, and painful.

“I’ve figured out the riddle, Niran,” he informed his nemesis and one-time friend.

Niran snorted his disbelief. “There is no answer to that riddle, Dahe. In case it’s escaped your notice, there is no night in this accursed realm!”

“You’re wrong, Niran,” the fair prince smiled, expression enigmatic, certain. “Niran, Prince of Phenea, Knight Protector and Champion.”

Niran’s eyes grew huge with the simplicity of it.

“Dahe, Crown Prince of Crosa,” he completed the link aloud, stunned and shaken. “We’ve assumed it to be ‘night and day’.”

“A foolish mistake on our part,” Dahe commented with irony.

“But that only accounts for half of the riddle,” Niran pointed out. “What of the ‘are one’ portion of your master’s puzzle?”

Dahe shrugged, and looked upward. “When was the last time you looked closely at sections of our sky?”

Niran’s laughter was derisive.

“I had little else to look at in your absence, Dahe,” he retorted, then fell silent as he drew the image in his mind. He rose awkwardly and didn’t jerk away when Dahe placed a steadying hand on his arm. He pointed to the place his mind had seen long before his eyes had registered it.

“There,” he murmured. “The edge of the cloud.”

Dahe’s eyes were refusing to cooperate, and he squinted into the brightness, deliberately ignoring the lances of fire that burned his eyes. This was always the most painful area of the endless azure sky to observe, and he slowly understood why.

“The way out?” he enquired, and met Niran’s grim countenance with a sinking feeling of dread.

“We’ll know soon enough, won’t we?” The Phenean Prince bent to retrieve his sword and turned to face Dahe again. “How far into the Sands do you think we’ll have to go?”

“To accomplish what? Precisely?”

“I’m working on it, Dahe,” he snapped, bitter sarcasm lacing the words.

Shrugging, Dahe fell into step at his side and they headed back into the immense expanse of glittering sand.

* * *

“Mistress!”

Lyera’s head snapped up and she glowered at the as yet closed door to her bedchamber. The man beneath her reached to pull her back into his arms, and she yanked free of his grasp.

“What is it, Illana?” the sorceress shouted, her exasperation dimmed somewhat as she contemplated what would make the girl interrupt her mistress’s pleasure.

“The Spell-globe, Mistress,” Illana answered, voice quivering with fear. “It’s b-br-breaking...”

Lyera tore away from her lover and ran from the room.

* * *

“Again,” Niran ordered as they caught their weapons out of the air. “We have to strike together.”

Dahe nodded and met Niran’s eyes for several moments. As they mentally ticked off the passing seconds, their minds attuned, became one─the final piece of the riddle achieved.

The two swords rose in perfect unison, arcing upward, brilliant sapphire light glinting off the blades as they flew inexorably into the narrow crevice their previous passes had carved into the sky.

Below, the princes held their breath. An instant later, a flash of blue sent them reeling backward…

Niran felt the jarring impact of stone against his back as he slammed into a wall. He shook his head, cleared his vision, and grabbed instinctively for his sword.

“Niran!”

Dahe’s warning spurred him; Niran whirled, graceful, enraged. As she passed into the room, Niran’s weapon swooped. A second flare of magical light blinded the princes, and they screamed as the witch’s wrath and horror flooded over them, fuelled in force by her death throes.

It was over long minutes later, and the silence was as it had been for so many cycles. As they stared at each other, sounds began to merge with the low-level drone of life that existed in the world they had mercifully been returned to.

Their shared laughter was exuberant, and victorious...