Island of Chains

  “Jaar! Hurry up!”
  “Stopppp! They'll know! They always know! And we'll be punished.” He looked nervously around.
  “Once we have it, they won't matter,” she whispered through clenched teeth, “You got the powers, I got the sight.”
  “I don't like this.”
  She rolled her eyes, shook her head and skulked down the hall, her iron anklet too loose on her skinny leg. Jaar watched her tiptoe along, the sack-like dress drooping over her scrawny adolescent frame tied loosely above the hips with a rope knotted from scraps of leather, but her hair, the only thing that was truly lovely, was knotted tight at the top of her head and covered with a rag. He followed reluctantly, carefully trying not to make his iron ankle bracelet ting on the marble floor.

  “The texts are wrong.” He said firmly, “It's wrong. We killed the last one. We destroyed them. We-”
  “Enslaved them.”
  The High Warlord paused and turned to glare at the general, “The texts are wrong.”
  General Feru raised his hands palm out, “My Lord, I'm only saying that it is quite possible that the Ancient Texts are correct,” he said blandly, “We didn't kill all the elves, we enslaved many, as the other nations did, and there has been interbreeding.”
  There was silence. Sounds from outside the tent of soldiers and waves, and the smell of burning campfires barely reached through the thick walls. The High Warlord sat back in his rough wooden chair, “Then where does it say this is to take place?”
  General Feru conferred with some papers spread over a map,“The Island of Chains,” he said.
  “When?”
  “Tonight.”

  “My lady?”
  I touched the bandages on my eyes and turned my head slightly to Halla, “Yes.” She took my hands gently and led me outside, turning me this way and that to keep from stumbling. The chill night wind blew around me, stinging me where my hair whipped.
  “Is this the place, my Lady?”
  I nodded, feeling the energy in the earth under my bare toes, “What are the stars saying, Halla?” I asked.
  She hesitated, “I-I... can't read them, my Lady.”
  I dug my toes into the earth – feel the power – and stretched my hands out, “Halla, step away from the circle.”

  Jaar tripped at the door and fell against it, slamming it into the white, polished marble wall. They both froze, she crouching a little, and they listened to the sound echo in the empty temple.
  “We have to hurry!” she whispered urgently.
  Jaar nodded and rubbed his shoulder.

  The High Warlord stood at the hull of the ship, the Island of Chains just in sight, the wind tossing his long gray hair around his scarred face. The texts were wrong... he hoped. He pulled his fur cloak tighter, the chill wind hurting his bones and tightening his lungs. He felt his age keenly on every travel now, he never spoke a word of it but he knew they noticed. They feared him too much to do anything, but they noticed.
  He slipped on his gloves over his strong, calloused hands and flexed his fingers. He reached under his cloak and wrapped a hand around his sword hilt, “General Feru,” he acknowledged the shadowy step behind him.
  “My Lord,” the general nodded as he stepped up to his side.
  “What will we find there?” The High Warlord asked, staring at the island.
  General Feru shrugged, “Slaves. The name of the island isn't just the name for the deity worshiped there.”
  He nodded absently, “As I thought.”

  I could hear and feel the power crackling on my fingertips. My head throbbed with pain, as it always did when using my powers, I could feel the empty sockets of my eyes drilling into my head. I could feel Halla's life force too close to me.  “Halla.” I warned.

  They reached the room that was the center of the temple. It was a cluttered mess. Items that were sacred to the temple were kept on pedestals against the rounded wall, but there were devices and things scattered everywhere on the floor.
  “If we get caught, Saera, we'll be executed.”
  “No,” she said absently, waving a distracted hand at Jaar, “We'll be sacrificed.”
  Jaar shuddered. Each year a slave was offered to Chains, the god of this island, and each sacrifice was brutal and painful. He could almost imagine the screams still echoing through the vast rooms of the temple. They were trespassing. Slaves on holy ground. Jaar itched at the iron manacle on his ankle. Slave.
  She gasped, “Jaar! There it is!” Beneath a pedestal hoisting a scrap of metal was a mirror, dusty and leaning against the wall.
  Jaar picked his way through the heaps of junk to join Saera crouching under the pedestal. Together they wiped off the dust, she took the rag off her head and polished it clean.
  “The Crystal Mirror,” she said quietly, slowly.
  Jaar trembled.

  “My Lord?” General Feru asked.
  The High Warlord turned away from a crumbled, melted building, “Search the houses. Kill no one, but bring the elf to me.”
  “Yes, my Lord,” he saluted.
  The High Warlord pulled the scroll from his tunic and read the lines again:

And the blood of the Forgotten will be the key
to open the times lost,
and the times unwritten, and -

There the text was burned away.

  I could smell the rain in the air. “Halla.” I warned again. She was too close. The power was rippling through my veins, from the earth it melted into me and I was ready. Ripping the bandages off my face, I could still see them without seeing, two young slaves encountering something so much greater than them.
  I heard a gasp behind me. I felt the power, drawing from something. Blood. The blood of the Forgotten.
  Halla.
  Halla screamed as my magic ripped into her, feasting on her blood. The Elven blood.

  “What do we do now?” Jaar asked.
  Saera still stared at the mirror, enthralled. Their reflections weren't distorted like the bronze mirrors, but then, it wasn't really their reflections. In the mirror, looking back at Saera was a woman, thin, beautiful... and blind. Saera reached out to touch her, and the woman reached out. Their hands touched.
  Everything exploded white. Pain clawed through his body, coursing through each muscle, popping every bone, burning his face. Jaar screamed and screamed.
  His screams were echoed by Saera's. The crystal from the mirror swallowed her hand and was creeping up her arm. She put her other hand against it to pull away, but it swallowed that hand too. Terrified, listening to Jaar's screams, she watched the clear crystal crawl up her body. It was painless, but chilling,  like ice water. It spread up her face and cut into her eyes.

  General Feru jerked his head. A scream echoed through the island. A scream of great pain. He stalked out of the house and met the High Warlord in the street, staring at a hill.
  “It's coming from there,” he said.
  “Shall I send men, my Lord?”
  “No,” he smiled grimly, “I go there alone.”

  I gasped. Poor Halla. She was dead... but the power! It was mine. I clenched my fists. Visions I had of what was to come. Seeing the future with a sightless gaze. But now, I held the future. Blind to the world around me, but the only one to truly see.
  “Seer,” a man's voice called.
  I jerked my head to the sound of that voice, familiar, “Who calls?”
  “The High Warlord.”
  I laughed. Of course, the Warlord himself, the great man of legend even I heard of on this remote island of slavery. The nameless conqueror. The endless searcher. “What have you come here for, Lord?” I asked, “This place holds nothing for you.”
  “I have come to stop the ancient power from rising,” he rumbled.
  “The Ancient Power have already risen! The blood of the Forgotten, the blind one who sees, and the place of birth. You old fool,” I flexed and energy rippled through, “You have come too late. I have used the key and opened the door to times lost, and times unwritten, and the world shall tremble and be no more. But the exulted, who can change all things, shall make anew the world which was lost.”
  “I can't let you do that,” his gravely voice enclosed around me, full of sadness.

  Jaar's pain edged away, and great weariness settled on him, like he had fought a battle and – wounded – won. He groaned and rolled over. Saera sat still, encased in the liquid crystal, back rigid and legs crossed.
  “Saera?” He croaked.
  She jerked around, “Jaar.”
  Shock. “Saera?”
  The crystal flowed down, off her face, she screamed and clutched her forehead, “Jaar! Jaar!" She fell back, writhing on the floor screeching, "I see! Jaar! The faces!"

  General Feru ran up the hill. There wasn't a single elf on this island, but there was a seer; the blind one who sees. The High Warlord would want to know, if he didn't already. The man was a legend. Coming mysteriously with his strangely scarred face. He had powers kings dreamed of, but powers that could not be named. Every war he fought, he won. Every land he invaded, he conquered. Attempts on his life were now not common, after the first twenty or so, no one dared again, but they all watched.
  The General had fought for the High Warlord for ten victorious years. Rising in rank from a common foot soldier to a general.
  Light flashed ahead, just beyond the top of the hill. He smelled rain in the weather. General Feru looked at the dark sky. No stars. He heard voices. Coming at the top of the hill he saw them. A blind woman and the High Warlord. The woman glowed green, her hair whipped around her violently in a wind that wasn't in the valley. And the valley: behind her, some ways away, was a cave mouth, but everything was blackened. Scorched. Dead.

  “You can't see what you're doing,” he said, “I can see.”
  “Don't you think I know that?” I shrieked, “I can't see! I see visions. I see prophecies, but I can't see!” Almost.
  “I can help you-”
  “No one can help me. No one ever could. But now, now Lord, I have the power. I can go back to the times lost, and I can change it.”
  “You can't,” he rumbled.
  I could feel hysteria coming on as I laughed, “What do you know, old man? You know battles. You know death-”
  “Yes I know death,” he growled, “God, do I know death! But you will destroy yourself, and the world.”
  “Because you know destiny? Destiny chose me! She ripped me from my home, she tore my eyes from me; she is destruction. Have you ever felt that burning desire to pay her back and rewrite history? Spit in Destiny's face?”
  “Yes,” he said quietly, "But changing the past will destroy our world."

  Jaar could hear footsteps. Heavy footsteps of the temple guards or soldiers.
  “Jaar,” she whimpered, lying limply on the dusty ground, “You have to leave now. They'll kill you.”
  “What about you, Saera? They'll kill you too!”
  “They won't kill me. They can't. Jaar," she gasped, "You'll meet a man who calls himself High Warlord, kill him. Do it without hesitation. You can. And you'll save us all.”
  Jaar carefully sat her up, “Saera, I'll come back for you," he said earnestly, "I promise."
  The crystal was flowing off her skin and back to the mirror, “Don't... ever.”

  General Feru unsheathed his sword. It had to stop now. He had in his pocket the rest of the text that had “burnt” away. He willingly accepted whatever consequence would follow, and he was sure that many would. Running down the hill on silent feet he twisted his sword around until he held it like a spear. He wouldn't survive open combat, there wasn't a chance for him.
  Feru jumped and threw his sword. The weapon spun in it's straight course, twirling, until it met flesh and bone, and ripped through the Seer's heart.

  “No! Nooooooo!” She screamed as the power flowed out of her and back into the earth. The High Warlord rushed to catch her as she wilted to the ground. He grabbed the handle of the sword, hot from the magic in her body, and wrenched it out. It was straight through her heart, and only the enormous amount of power she still had in her kept her alive.
  He knelt down with her in his arms, and she gripped his leather vest. Rain dripped onto her face, still glowing, pooling in her empty sockets. She whimpered, “I only... I only...” rain streamed down her face like the tears she couldn't cry.
  “Shhh, rest. I'll take care of you,” he quietly wrapped his fist around her skinny hand, "I promise."
  She gasped raggedly and the glow left. The blackened, dead earth took the power back, and lived.
  Without letting go of her he wrapped his cloak around her, covering her scrawny frame, tumbling grey hair, short white toga, and iron anklet.
  “High Warlord-” General Feru hesitated behind him.
  He turned a little, but didn't look at the general, “She only wanted to see again.”

  Jaar looked into Saera's face, her beautiful, dark hair tumbling around a face that could see, and now didn't. “I don't understand,” he whispered.
  The crystal that was back on the mirror had a pinkish hue. Blood ran down Saera's cheeks from where her eyes had been cut out. She turned her face to him, “You have the power, I have the sight, and we both carry the mark,” she felt his cheek and he winced.
  “Power of what, Saera?”
  Saera cocked her head, “The visions have already come. You must leave now. And remember what I told you to do.”
  Jaar took her face in his hands but she cried out in pain, he held her shoulders, “Power of what, Seer?”
  A small, bitter smile formed on her young, bloody face, “Power of death.”


(Add ons)

  The High Warlord carried the seer back to her cave while General Feru carried the body of the half-elf. Laying Saera on the coarse little bed, he glanced around at the bare, almost military, cave. The High Warlord found a rough cotton coverlet and spread it over Saera's body, kneeling beside her. General Feru layed the servant's body on the mat that was most assuredly hers.
  Looking at the seer's eyeless face, the High Warlord wiped the rain from her face, kissed her sallow cheek and pulled the covers over her head. He grasped the edge of the bed and pushed himself up. Flinging his cloak about himself he ducked through the exit and joined General Feru who respectfully stood outside and had his back turned.
  “Did you know her, my Lord?” he asked quietly, the rain drenching them.
  The High Warlord hesitated, “I did,” he answered.
  “From your past, sir?”
  He touched the scar on his own cheek and said nothing.
  “Forgive me.”
  Lightning exploded in the sky followed by a long, rolling thunder. In the blackness of this night, after the lightning flashed, they could see the glow of the village beyond and behind the hill. General Feru cursed quietly and twisted in his armor.
  “We won't be able to leave this island tonight, and maybe not even tomorrow,” the General stated plainly, “I left the men in Lieutenant Darred's charge. They should be setting up a camp already.”
  “Very good, General.”
  With a heavy sigh the High Warlord turned back to the cave, unsheathing his sword.. He walked five paces away from the entrance to the side and called for the General to stand away. The High Warlord tensed his jaw and held his sword with both hands, he called his powers to him, from the core of his being where they had burned their way to many years ago. The power came readily, rushing to his fingertips and up his sword, not glowing in any way, but the rain never touched it.
  After ensuring the entire sword was encased, the High Warlord stepped back – crouching – and drew his sword back with both hands. With a growl, he thrust – into the hill, into the rock, into the cave – his sword. His powers spread through the rock like claws, and after fastening itself, it wrenched down.
  General Feru gave a shout of alarm as the cave behind him rumbled and collapsed. Crumbling into itself and burying anything that was under it's roof. The High Warlord pulled out his sword and drew back his eager powers, caging it back into his center, locking the key.
  “My Lord!” The General called anxiously in the dark night, mistaking the cave-in for some kind of earthquake, or the last dying of the seer's powers. Lightning flashed and he saw the High Warlord sheathing his sword.
  “I'm still here General Feru,” responded the deep voice after the thunder faded, “No matter what condition the weather is in, we will be leaving this island at the first morning tide to join the army on the mainland. We still have a campaign to make and a schedule to keep.”

***

  Jaar emerged from the empty cave that the goats stayed in during the winter months, it was night now and chilly. He could hear celebrations in the village and he could see the glimmering lights glowing over the silhouette of the hill. He gathered up the little sack filled with good he had stolen from his masters home. His cheek burned in the cold wind.
  Sneaking around the village, he wished he could see Saera again before be left – at least to make sure she was safe. Jaar crawled over the hill and looked at the festive colors in the village. Slaves danced in the streets, the large statue of Chains had streamers and banners flowing off him and the women priestesses, surrounded by the the temple guards, were all shackled to Chains.
  He slunk closer and crouched beside a goat pen quietly, the goats not waking or much caring that he was there. He recognized the old slave slumped on a barrel with his eyes closed and chewing on a stale piece of bread.
  “Pssst,” he hissed, “Grunde.”
  The old man remained slumped and still, but he whispered, “Aye? Jaar?”
  “Yes,” Jaar said, “Do you know what became of Saera?”
  “Ahh, so you were the other one that broke into the temple.”
  “Yes, but Saera, where is she?”
  “They're offering freedom to any slave who turns you in, and a reward to any freeman who finds you,” Grunde whispered hoarsely.
  Jaar froze, he could feel the cold weight of his iron anklet pressing down on his foot, “You wouldn't, Grunde, would you?”
  Grunde chuckled and ripped off a piece of bread, chewing it with difficulty, “You had better get off the island, lad. I know a thing or two about prophecies from... before” –  he swallowed – “And these priestesses are trying to contaminate the way things are supposed to be.”
  Jaar relaxed slightly and crawled in the shadows to Grunde. He fished around in his sack and pulled out a block of cheese, he broke off a corner and gave it to Grunde, “Here,” he said, “And thanks.”
  The old slave opened his eyes. His eyes widened and he grabbed the cheese, stuffing it in his mouth eagerly.  “Ahh,” he groaned, “Cheese. I can die happy now.” Grunde ripped at the bread again and gnawed on it, “They were giving this to the goats, and I found it.”
  Jaar nodded and glanced down the street. At the end of the street, on the one crossing it, the parade passed. The dancing slaves with iron anklets flying up their calves and their colorless sack togas flinging out to show their dirty legs. The freemen walked in rows on either side of them, some carrying whips –  as was their wont – and snapping it at the slaves feet to watch them jump in fright and dance faster.
  Next came the majestic priestesses, all garbed in the deepest black dresses with plunging necklines and hems that swept the ground. Around each of their neck was a traditional collar with a thin chain, easily broken, trailing behind them and attached to a beautifully carved and melded chariot which carried, on a pedestal, their deity, Chains. The statue stood the height of a very tall man, made of hollowed copper without the greenish tint and polished beautifully, he was bald and bearded, the beard tumbled past his broad shoulders and bare chest stopping just before his naked loins and proud sex. Between his sturdy legs huddled a tiny figure.
  Jaar and Grunde watched them pass, the slaves pushing the chariot from behind followed by cheerful musicians and cheering and very drunk towns people. Talk was loud, music was fast and rhythmic, but Jaar's eyes never left the scrawny figure who's dark hair flowed past her shoulders and who's body leaned weakly against the leg of Chains. A rough white cloth folded over her eyes, tainted pink, and a shiny chain was latched onto her iron slave-manacle and Chains own ankle.
  “Lad,” Grunde grumbled at him, “Get back in the shadows if you don't wish to be seen.”
  Jaar jerked back, unaware that he had leaned out of the shadows in order to watch Saera. He quivered, “Are they going to sacrifice Saera?”
  “Sacrifice? Are you mad? She's the next Seer!”
  “I-I know. B-but, they have her at their god's feet. What does it mean?”
  Grunde shrugged and nibbled the crumbs off his sleeve, “How's an old goat-herder like me supposed to know all their customs?”
  The boy looked up at Grunde's ears where the pointed tips had been cruelly cut off, but said nothing. An elven slave made a fine one, difficult to purchase, but once one bought one, they had him, or her, forever. But Grunde had some human blood, thus his slow aging.
  Jaar crawled back to the goat pen, and crouched once again in the shadows, observing the last of the parade. He was too frightened of being sacrificed to go back, but he felt an itch inside – deep inside – that had never been there before. He thought it might be his stomach, so he scratched his belly and ignored it. Saera had told him to run. Saera had told him they wouldn't kill her.
  He tramped around the village towards the sea, and the fishing boats.

***

  The High Warlord stood again at the ruins of the temple, holding a lantern in one hand, the glass protecting the little flame from the rain. He had removed his armor, and it was being dried and greased by a servant from the household who offered him and some of his company a shelter, but he kept his sword belted at his side. He peeled his dripping hair away from his face and turned back to the glowing house.
  As he walked back he glanced at the unfamiliar streets. The pavement, and smooth stones of before were now eroded, or upturned. The houses still contained their elegance, but it didn't have the same splendor. Ironically, he was given the best room in the best house, the very household he was a slave to. He stepped onto the veranda and glanced at the guard standing sentry.
  “Lad,” he growled, “Have you eaten yet?”
  The soldier, well into his third decade snapped into attention smartly, “N-no sir!”
  “Take a break-” the High Warlord turned as the door opened and General Feru stepped through it.
  “Sir!” The general saluted and closed the door behind him, “I was just going to relive him, sir.”
  He nodded approvingly and then turned back to the soldier, “A warm meal and a change of clothes,” he ordered.
  “Yessir!” He knocked his heels together, smiling gratefully, and marched to to door which General Feru opened for him. The general coughed lightly as the door-latch fell quietly.
  “Have you given the orders, General?” The High Warlord asked.
  “I have, sir. I have also procured a boat, however, we will have to sail it ourselves,” he paused, “I asked the men, and only two have ever sailed.”
  There was silence between them. Water poured off the ledge above the door and splattered loudly in puddles. The rain fell in whooshes, the wind pushing it at a slant and the sky lit up, briefly followed by a rumble. The sky hungered, it seemed.
  “Buy a slave,” the High Warlord said absently.
  “Pardon, sir?”
  “No, it's nothing,” he shook his wet head and ran his gloved fingers through his gray hair, he paused when the smell of blood reached his nose, like iron and salt. He pulled his hand back down and studied his glove in the flickering light.  “General Feru?” he asked as he brought his lantern in his left hand up to see better.
  “Yes, my Lord?”
  The rain had washed all the blood off, “I can sail a proper ship as well as any captain,” the blood had somehow gotten inside his glove then, “But if it's still storming tomorrow I'm afraid we'll need an expert.” He passed the lantern to the general and pulled on the fingers of his glove, “The sea around this island is dangerous and rocky, and there's coral almost circling it,” he pulled off the glove and rubbed the thumb of his left hand on the blood staining his wrist.
  “Of course, my Lord,” General Feru replied and coughed quietly in his fist, “I'll look immediately for an expert. Will any sum do?”
  “No more than 10 gold coins.”
  General Feru's eyes widened.
  “And try not to reach that number.”
  The general nodded and changed the lantern to his other hand, “I'll get someone to stand guard here, then.”
  The High Warlord smiled slightly, the damp that dripped from his hair into his wrinkles rolled down, “I'll do that, General. Take the lantern and go.”
  The general bowed, pulled his hood up and strode into the pouring rain.
  The small porch he stood on in front of the house became black.
***
  Jaar, in stolen boots and sailor tunic, stood inside the capital's great library and gaped. The library was huge! The ceiling was even higher than the temple's steeple and made of glass – sunlight shone through the glass windows and roof, putting a dim glow on the ground floor Jaar stood on. Lamps were placed strategically and carefully around the room, their flames flickering on the polished wood – wooden shelves, ladders, balconies, tables, chairs, even an occasional divan (though these were all occupied) filled the octagonal room. Books, bound with every color he'd ever seen, and scrolls, lined up neatly on row upon row of shelves. The smell was almost unfamiliar to him, but he remembered – when he would read a rare book – the smell the pages seemed to have.
  “Yes, lad?” A polished voice sniffed to his right.
  Jaar turned and blinked.
  “I suggest you run along before I call the guards on you,” the man was a finger shorter than Jaar but he held his smooth chin high and looked down his stubby nose at him.
  “I-I'm here for a book...”
  The librarian raised his thinly plucked eyebrows at Jaar, “Are you?” He tugged on his fine blue dublet and put his hand behind his back, “And what book might that be? A children's tale?”
  Jaar looked at the expansive library, “A-a book about... seers...”
  “Speak up, lad! I can't hear you.”
  “Seers!” Jaar raised his voice.
  “Good gods!” he exclaimed, “This is a library! We don't shout in here.”
  Jaar shrugged and rubbed his cheek – the scab itched – then he took a step forward.
  A pale, jeweled hand stopped him from going any further, “I can't let you into our library.”
  Jaar spun to the librarian and glared, “I'm supposed to look up information for my Lord! He gave me no book or scroll names, but he said 'Seer.' I can't go back without the information.”
  The librarian looked suspiciously at him, “Who is your lord?”
  “Um,” he glanced down at his clothes, the rough tunic, rope belt with a sailor knot, oil trousers and … fancy boots, “The, uh, High Priest?”
  “High priest of where, boy? I know the current High Priest of every temple in our land.”
  Jaar straightened rigidly and looked down into the man's eyes, “The High Priest of the Chains, the almighty God of slavery, war and livestock.”
  “Ah,” he looked doubtful and took a step back, waving his hand, “Follow me, then.”
  Jaar fell into step behind the man and sighed. Chains never had priests.
  They tread silently up a staircase and along a balcony, crafted brass lanterns hung on the walls between book shelves, reminding the runaway of home. He cursed. Not home – household, cage.