“Are you OK?” she asked.
“I hate the desert,” he grumbled, closing his eyes.
Eleanor giggled. “Me too. Can you get up?”
“Nope. If the Elves don’t show up, I’m here for the night.”
Eleanor gasped as she felt warm, sharp metal come to rest against the side of her neck. Will’s eyes snapped open. Four cloaked and hooded figures, faces in shadow, had come from nowhere to stand around them.
“Hello there,” Will said, as conversationally as Dwarfish would allow. Eleanor felt her skin split, blood seeping thinly as the blade was pushed harder into her neck; she winced.
“Shut up, on your feet,” one of the hooded figures ordered, the snarling undertone adding a nasty layer of threat. Eleanor felt no desire to resist their captors; she could feel the air of malevolence that hung around them. She saw the anger in Will’s eyes too, but he rose stiffly to his feet. The blade at her neck not moving, Eleanor felt dry fingers grasp a handful of hair, dragging her up.
“Are you OK?” Will asked her quietly in English. One of the hooded figures punched him in the face. Will’s head shot back and he collapsed, dazed, onto his back in the sand. Eleanor struggled, wanting to help him. Without warning the Elf with a blade at her neck moved the injury up from a minor scratch to a wound that was going to need stitches. Eleanor clamped her teeth together over the sobbing cry as her eyes filled with tears. She was shocked by the amount of blood she felt running down her neck, soaking her shirt.
“Shut up,” ordered the same flat, vicious voice. “Or this one is going to lose her head.”
Will nodded, struggling back to his feet. He stood passively, blood from his split, swelling lip dribbling down his chin. A hooded figure disarmed them both and roughly tied Will’s hands behind his back. As Will was restrained, a small figure stepped out from behind two of the tall hooded Elves. Eleanor stared at him; she had never seen anything quite so beautiful. His face was angelic, although avenging angel would have better described his current expression. He was her height and had thick, black hair falling across a forehead that held a frown too old for his years. He stared at her with black, knowing eyes, lips pressed into a thin, distrusting line. Eleanor was a little disappointed to note the lack of the pointy Elf ears she had expected.
“They do not look much of a threat, Father,” the boy observed quietly.
“Looks can be deceiving,” said the hooded figure holding the blade to Eleanor’s neck.
“Indeed they can.”
Conlan.
Eleanor felt her heart leap in relief as his deep, snarling comment came out of nowhere. Confused, the Elves looked around; Amelia dropped her shield, revealing the three of them, swords drawn. Eleanor saw the pride on Will’s face. They wasted not a second of advantage that surprise had given them and leapt at the hooded figures, beating them to the ground before they had the chance to draw their own weapons. Conlan reached the boy, dragging him in front of him and jamming his blade’s edge into his throat, turning to face Eleanor and the Elf with the sword at her neck. Eleanor was impressed with the calm expression on the boy’s face – he did not even flinch.
“I have no wish to take your lives, but I will if you force me. Let her go and drop your weapon,” Conlan growled.
There was silence. Eleanor felt the blade removed, increasing the flow of blood. She resisted the urge to push a hand against it; hands covered with blood were going to get sand coated to them, and it was all too messy to think about. The Elf stepped out from behind her, throwing his sword to the ground at Conlan’s feet. His hood had fallen back and Eleanor gasped at the tall Elf’s face. It was like he was made of wax and had stood too close to a fire. The right side of his face was pulled down in heavy, sagging folds from his forehead, until it stretched the right corner of his mouth into a look of perpetual misery, the yellow, sickly-looking skin contrasting sharply with his black hair. His right eye was a milky white that clashed with the blazing black of his left. If the Elf noticed Eleanor’s appraisal of him, he gave no indication, his gaze fixed on Conlan. Freddie and Amelia had subdued the other three Elves, tying their hands behind their backs with their own ropes and leaving them face down in the sand. Amelia released Will, handing him a water skin.
“Take your sword from my son’s throat,” the Elf said slowly.
“What is your name?” Conlan asked. The Elf glared at him, and Conlan pushed his blade a little deeper; strangely, he had still not drawn blood. Looking closer, Eleanor realised that Conlan had the blunt edge of his weapon pressed into the boy’s neck.
“Adra.”
“Adra, you are going to take us to your camp,” Conlan ordered. The Elf did not reply, but a nasty, twisted smile spread across the working side of his face as he raised his eyebrow at his son. The boy nodded once and closed his eyes. Softly at first, like the breath of the dying, the breeze brushed against Eleanor’s face, then it began to pick up speed. Recognising what the boy was doing, Amelia caught her eye.
“Stop him!” Eleanor ordered sharply over the rapidly worsening sandstorm in which they now stood.
Amelia closed her eyes. Nothing happened. Eleanor felt the wind push against her, the sand coating the wound at her neck, stinging her skin and forcing her to close her eyes. As she did so, she felt the child’s energy. Reaching out, she could sense the shield around him. It was different from other shields she had encountered, as it was thinner, almost non-existent. She still could not push through it, but he clearly had no problem pushing his own energy out. Eleanor could feel energy strings pulsating; he appeared to be using one to take energy from the air as he used another to whip the wind around them. Eleanor watched as Amelia grabbed the energy string he was using to stir up the air and pulled it down. The boy resisted, struggling in Amelia’s grip. Wanting to help, Eleanor grabbed at his other string and concentrated on drawing energy out. She was careful, as she was much stronger than the boy and instinctively knew that pulling all of his energy would kill him. With Eleanor sapping his energy and Amelia gripping his other energy string, the boy was soon exhausted. The wind stopped so suddenly that Eleanor was able to watch the sand it had whipped up fall back to the ground, like gritty rain, as she opened her eyes. The boy looked pale; he swayed slightly, his eyes rolling back in his head as he slumped forward. Conlan caught him, an arm round his waist, before he hit the sand.
“Dal!” Adra cried in horror, rushing at Conlan, ignoring the danger. Conlan, still holding the unconscious boy, twisted towards him, his sword pointing at the unarmed Elf. Common sense prevailed and Adra came to a halt, the sword tip inches from his distorted face.
“What have you done to my son?” he snarled. “If you have harmed him, I will kill you.”
“Your son will be fine,” Conlan assured him.
“How?” Suspicion and disbelief plain in the Elf’s voice.
“Ask the Avatars,” Conlan said, nodding towards Amelia and Eleanor. Adra turned round, looking at each of them in turn.
“Avatars? All four of them?” He looked shocked as Conlan nodded, then sudden understanding smeared his face into a sneer. “I know of you, Conlan Baydon. You were told not to return.”
“I am not very good at doing what I am told,” Conlan said mildly.
The sky was a cloudless backdrop of diamonds and the moon shone down coldly, the silvery glow giving the desert an eerie feel. Eleanor felt exposed, vulnerable. They had been walking for so long that Eleanor was beginning to wonder if Adra was leading them deeper into the desert so that they would all die when the sun rose the next morning. It was only the careful, loving way he cradled his son against him as he stumbled along that gave her hope that he would not risk the boy’s life in that way. Conlan walked beside him, his sword sheathed at his side. The other three Elves, their hands still tied, walked behind under Freddie and Amelia’s vigilant gazes. Their hoods had fallen back, revealing more melted, disfigured faces; Eleanor wondered why they practiced magic and why in particular they made their children practice it, if this is what it did to them. Next to her, Will staggered again. He was exhausted and there was only so long that the energy she and Amelia were giving him would keep him going. If they did not get to the camp soon, they were going to have to carry him. She stopped him for a moment and took the water skin, bag and blanket he was carrying off him, shouldering the load herself. He smiled gratefully. Eleanor gave Conlan a bitter glance, wishing he took her help as easily. Will saw her look, or maybe just sensed her hostility, and she felt his energy brush against her.
What’s he done now?
he asked with tired exasperation.
It was too complicated to explain, so Eleanor just showed him the pertinent memories and all the thoughts that went with them. She showed him the memory of their earlier argument, even though that was still hurting her.
I’d say there was such a thing as over-sharing, but I’m not sure that applies to us anymore.
He sounded amused.
So what am I doing wrong?
Eleanor asked.
You’re not doing anything wrong, exactly, you’re just being you. He has some rather big emotional issues. If you’re ever able to get him really drunk, ask him about his childhood, after his mother died, when he went to live with his father.
Why?
Because by our standards his childhood was hell
–
a constant, unrelenting barrage of physical, mental and emotional abuse as his father tried to replicate himself in his son. Conlan did his best to resist, using the only weapon he had; defiance. He retreated into himself, learnt not to show emotions that could be used against him. It made him feel stronger, but just because he doesn’t show his emotions often, doesn’t mean he doesn’t have them. It just means he has no idea how to deal with them, so he lashes out. Eleanor, all you are seeing is the hurt you’re causing him, but what you don’t see is how much you’ve changed him. He’s smiled and laughed more since you turned up than in the whole time I’ve known him. You’ve forced him to engage with all of us on an emotional level, and this can only be a good thing. Don’t give up trying, Eleanor. You got him singing, everything else should be child’s play after that!
Eleanor giggled. The sound was loud, out of place. Amelia and Freddie turned to look at her. She could not see their expressions in the dark, so she just shrugged at them and they turned back. Conlan had ignored her, but even from the back of their little convoy she had seen his body stiffen.
I SO have my work cut out for me!
Thank you, Will, Avatar of Water, living Prozac pill and Mydren’s greatest agony aunt!
Eleanor jumped at the explosion of laughter in her head, impressed that Will had managed to clamp his hand over his mouth quickly enough that all the noises that escaped from him were a few muffled snorts.
They came to the top of the dune they were walking up, and Eleanor would have leapt for joy if she had not been struggling under Will’s weight in an attempt to drag him up sand that was trying to suck them both back down. In the distance she could see the inviting, flickering orange of campfires. She nudged Will, nodding towards what she hoped was the Elves’ camp. She was actually amazed that Adra knew how to find it in the featureless world they had been walking through; she had assumed he used the stars to navigate.
I wonder if we’re going to get to be friends. Maybe then I can ask him.
The boy, Dal, had regained consciousness a short while previously and now walked silently next to his father. He had given her one brief glance, but she had been too far away and it had been too dark to see the look on his face. As they got closer, sentries posted on the camp’s perimeter spotted them and moved to intercept. Conlan carefully positioned the boy in front of him, hands on his shoulders, but kept his sword sheathed. Freddie had tied Adra’s hands behind his back when he had tried to protect his son. Eleanor felt sorry for Adra, Dal looked so small and vulnerable against Conlan’s tall, muscular silhouette. She knew Conlan did not want to hurt the boy, but Adra clearly thought the worst.
The sentries were yelling into the camp. By the time their group walked between the dark shadows of the first tents, they were surrounded. Eleanor’s hyperactive brain, much against her wishes, began calculating the very large probability of their whole plan being a bloody failure. Eleanor looked at the faces around her; many of them had features that had slipped, just like Adra’s, while some carried deep scars that rivalled Conlan’s in their severity. Some of the crowd had weapons drawn and eyed them suspiciously, but most just seemed openly curious. As they were hoping to convince the Elves that they were a power to be reckoned with, Will had forced himself to stand tall as they walked, doing his best to hide his exhaustion, but Eleanor knew that if it came to a fight he would have no hope, so she stayed by his side at the back of their group as they moved deeper in the camp. Led by Conlan, they moved further and further forward. He seemed to be making for a large fire she could see in the distance. The crowd parted slightly to reveal twelve cloaked figures sat in a circle near the blazing bonfire. All twelve turned to look at Conlan. One of the figures stood. The voice sounded female, but Eleanor would not have known from looking at the distorted face.
“Conlan Baydon, you have disobeyed our order not to return, and you have compounded this crime further by threatening a child – what do you hope to gain from this?”
“The wand,” Conlan said simply.
“Kill them!” the female Elf ordered. Eleanor pulled her sword from the scabbard that hung at her waist as she heard hundreds of Elves do the same thing. Fear shot through her. She faced it for an instant, faced the possibility of her death, and raised her sword for battle, moving closer to Will.
“No, stop!”