The Elements: The Power of Four –Chapter 4

Author: Coni

Author Email:

Rating: PG-13

Story Summary: Four teenagers are thrown together as the Elements to defeat an evil that will take over the world.

Chapter Summary: A battle, a nightmare, arrival at Cerill.

Chapter 4

The early morning greeted them with a thick blanket of mist, surrounding them so they couldn’t see further than ten feet ahead. The air was pale and clammy, chilling them so that they all got out their thick cloaks, and huddled in them.

After a quick and cold breakfast the company packed up, and, scattering the remains of their fire from the night before, destroyed all evidence of their stay.

“We are very close to Cerill,” Alar announced. “We should arrive there by nightfall of today.”

“Nightfall of today?” Jorden exclaimed. “It’s another two day ride, at the very least. How fast do you want us to ride?”

“We don’t have to keep following the Amyr River,” said Patrick quietly. “we can get there by tonight if we cut through the Ancient Forest. Cerill is just on the other side.”

Alycia and Chrysta exchanged looks. They have heard of the Ancient Forest, where the trails led to nowhere, and no sunlight shone. Those who didn’t get lost met strange beasts and creatures never heard of. Even the great Amyr River was circuitous, winding around the Forest.

“We will go through the Ancient Forest,” said Alar. “No one will get lost of eaten if they follow me closely.”

And with that comforting thought in mind, they set out, led by Alar, to a small dirt path that eventually winded to the edge of the Ancient Forest.

“Well,” said Jorden brightly, as an icy breeze brushed past them. “I suppose we’ll have warm baths and clean sheets before the day is through.”

This consideration significantly lightened the hearts of the group, and Alar said, “So we must make haste in going through. The longer we linger in there, the darker it will get, and the more dangerous. There is still a way before we reach warm baths and clean sheets.”

They all gazed up at the looming trees before them. Lofty and sinister, they had a disquieted feel to them, as if they were leering at the travelers. It wasn’t quite noon, but somehow the day seemed to darken.

“Come,” said Alar, and, picking up his staff, stepped onto the trail, which was hardly worn. Not many journeyed this way.

One by one, they followed. As soon as they entered the forest pretty much all of the sunlight vanished, blocked by the elevated trees. Alar’s staff lit up, a small source of comfort. Occasionally they would hear a shriek probably from some birds, or a growl probably from a beast of some sort.

The going was quite dreary, Chrysta thought to herself dully. The haze covered everything, surrounded her so that a cold, frosty feeling settled over her. It wasn’t exactly pleasant, but suddenly she felt too insipid to do anything about it. She almost felt as if the forest was draining her colorless.

They had been walking for maybe an hour or two, when Alar allowed them to stop. A cold and brief lunch came afterwards. Jorden looked with distaste at the hard dry piece of bread he was handed.

“Don’t worry, we’ll be able to have good food and wine tonight,” said Patrick, and Jorden grinned.

“I could use some wine right now,” he declared, looking at Alar hopefully.

Alycia looked as if she was about to point out that Jorden was still a tad too young to be indulging in wine, but didn’t say anything.

“We still must be abstemious about food,” was what Alar said instead. “Just in case.”

When lunch was through Alar rose and announced that he was going to scout the area, and would be back shortly.

“Can the Urgs still be following us?” Jorden questioned dubiously.

“One never knows,” said Alar, and disappeared into the gray vapor.

They all sat silently after he left, seemingly dissolving slowly into the lifeless forest, feeling more and more listless as time passed. Chrysta considered going to sleep, her eyelids were positively drooping. It can’t hurt, she thought dreamily. Just a little nap, I’m so tired—

An arrow whizzed by, missing Jorden by a fraction of an inch, alerting Chrysta to wakefulness.

“Mother of Hell!” he swore, scrambling to his feet, knocking over the jug of water in the process.

Overhead, a lone hawk gave a loud screech of trepidation.

“Urgs!” Patrick cried, leaping up. A flash of metal indicated that he had drawn his sword. “They’re coming!”

A low growl was emitted from the darkness between the trees. Chrysta spun, and let loose an arrow, which found its mark.

They were all up now, facing the area in which Chrysta had shot her arrow, weapons drawn and ready.

“Where is that old man when you need him?” Jorden said bitterly, before all chaos enveloped them.

There was a great amount of the huge, monstrous, disgusting Urgs. They charged with immense force, weapons flailing, their massive dirty boots crashing down and destroying the camp. Chrysta aimed for the spots where their armor didn’t protect them: their necks, hands, and legs, but their skin was so thick she wasn’t having much success. Stowing away her bow, she brought out her long knives, and brandished them at a particularly fearsome Urg.

They fought.

It was a whirl of motion; things moved so fast Chrysta could hardly keep up. But somehow her knives met the Urg’s blade in all the right places. She could sense herself overpowering him, cutting him down. Vaguely she felt something dig into her shoulder, and realized that it was the sword of the Ur’hai. She pulled away, and, jumping behind it, thrust a knife into its back. It fell over, dead.

And then she saw the thing that was advancing towards her.

A tall, black hooded figure, its face covered by the hood. Chrysta was suddenly freezing. She made to run, or perhaps attack it, but her feet seemed frozen to the ground. Vaguely she heard someone, probably Jorden, shout: “Soulless!” It came closer…

When it was upon her Chrysta gasped, feeling as if an ice-cold knife had plunged into her, ravaging her insides. She choked, clutching her stomach as her weapons fell from her grasp. Screwing her eyes shut didn’t diminish the intense bitterness that quickly consumed her whole body, the agonies spreading to every inch of her. It felt as if the monster had reached in with its cold hand and taken a hold of her heart, its grip as hard as steel. Bright light burst behind her eyes, splitting her head open. She dropped to her knees, hearing voices in her head.

“Tobias! Where are you going?”

“Away. Anywhere but here.”

“You can’t leave me, Tobias! Let me come with you.”

“No! You know what they said! We’re not meant to be. It’ll destroy us.”

“I don’t care! It doesn’t matter, none of it matters anymore…”

“Haven’t you done enough already? Do you want to harm Danyelle, harm Bryth?”

“Of course not! But we can’t do it, not without you, Tobias--”

“There is nothing you need from me. I must go.”

“NO!” the woman’s voice rose to a fevered pitch. “You can’t! Don’t you love me, Tobias?”

“With everything I have—”

“Then stay! We can’t split ourselves up! Do you remember, Tobias, what he said?”

“Of course I remember. He said that—”

Then everything went black.

Patrick heard Jorden’s shout of “Soulless!” and developed a horrible feeling in his stomach. He quickly finished off the Urg he was fighting to turn his attention to the Soulless.

And saw it loom over Chrysta’s fallen form, drawing closer…

“Chrysta!” he yelled as he leaped over, and swung Larsung desperately at the Soulless, but it had already entered her. He dropped down next to her, and watched in horrified stupefaction as the girl’s body convulsed once, twice, then stayed still.

He wasn’t quite aware of the fighting that was still going on around him, but somehow he managed to pick her up and carry her into the trees, finding a secluded spot to set her down.

She was sweating profusely, and Patrick thought of getting her some water, but he sensed someone behind him. A deep snarl.

Patrick turned and as the Urg brought his blade down he met it with his sword, a piercing clang resounding through the forest. He tried to stand up to get in a better position, gasping, but then the Urg’s grip went slack and he limped over, dead.

He thought he saw something small fly away, but pushed it from his mind. The monster was dead. Rushing back into the clearing, Patrick saw that there weren’t any more Urgs, but rather Alycia and Jorden were standing with a bunch of what looked like small faeries, flittering about.

Alycia’s eyes widened when she noticed Patrick. He hurried over. “Chrysta’s hurt badly,” he said, panting. “A Soulless took her. What happened?”

Jorden nodded to the faeries, and Patrick looked at them, as if looking at something one once saw in a dream.

Because he was sure he had seen them before, but then he was sure he hadn’t. The little green figures looked familiar, clothed in leaves, with their brightly colored hair and spears held tightly in their small hands. Their faces all showed expressions of fierce determination, though they all seemed to be female.

A faerie with long purple hair holding a jeweled staff flew in front of him. She held herself with more poise than the rest of the faeries, her dark fierce eyes shining above the heads of the others. A name suddenly surfaced in Patrick’s mind.

“Elen?” he whispered.

The faerie seemed surprised, but then her tiny mouth curved into a smile. “No, I’m not Elen,” she said, in a sort of buzzing accent. “My name is Dhirlu. Elen was my ancestor, a great dartih in her time. We, the Mésura, recognized you, which is why we came to help you. This is my army of hupta,” she indicated the orange-haired faeries. “We are honored that we are able to be of service to you, Air Spirit. It has been a long time.”

Patrick looked slightly startled.

“During the Age of Darkness the Air Spirit befriended us, and we pledged to help him and his companions rid world of evil. It still stands, and we sense that the times are growing darker. Once again, we will emerge from our homes within the forest to assist you in whatever we can, Tobias Strongwind.”

“I’m not – I’m not Tobias,” said Patrick. “My name is Patrick.”

“Patrick,” Dhirlu repeated thoughtfully. She then looked at each of them. “But one of you is missing. Where is the Earth Spirit?”

“Chrysta!” Patrick suddenly remembered. “The Soulless, I left her--” he broke off, and sprinted in the direction where he last saw her, with a sickening feeling in his stomach at what he would find.

He halted when he saw her form on the ground, but beside her another figure stood, tall, in a gray cloak. The figure looked up as Patrick approached, revealing a long white beard, and staff.

“Alar!” Patrick cried with relief, rushing forward.

The old man had picked up the girl, and he nodded at him, and Alycia and Jorden, who followed behind him. “We must get Chrysta to Cerill. It is not far now. I’ve driven out the Soulless, but she needs much rest. We must go.”

Patrick looked back at the Mésura, back at Dhirlu. The tiny faerie inclined her head briefly. “Until we meet again, Patrick,” she said. Then, with a wave of her hand, she and her warriors had disappeared into the trees.

As they hurried Alar talked. “The Mésura are one of the last races of pixie faeries in Gaeia. They seldom show themselves to humans, and live a secluded life in their forest. However, they are aware of many things, and mostly everything that goes on in their forest. They do not like being disturbed in their forest, which is why not many travel through the Ancient Forest.”

He looked at Patrick. “They have not been seen for many decades. But they have always taken a liking to the Air Spirit, which is you, Patrick, and do not mind helping you, and the Elements. You are fortunate, because they are skilled in warfare and not even the four of you could have taken down those Urgs.”

“Yeah,” said Jorden, rather caustically. “So where were you?”

“I was attending to other matters.”

“And we almost got slaughtered.”

Alar shook his head. “I was sure that if we ran into any trouble, the Mésura would appear to help. I left you in good hands.”

“But Chrysta,” Alycia spoke. “She’s going to be fine?”

“With lots of sleep,” said Alar. “The Soulless did not possess her long. I did not know the Ur’hai had a Soulless in their party. If I did, I would’ve taken more precautions. Luckily, she will make a full recovery. Chrysta is a strong girl, I believe.

“Now, come. There is still a short distance to Cerill.” With that, Alar, waved his staff, and suddenly their horses, along with their packs, came trotting out of the trees. He fastened Chrysta’s body to the back of one of them, and held the reins securely.

“Let us depart,” he said.

They made haste, urging their horses to bring them closer to their destination. Alar said they couldn’t go too fast, for fear of injuring Chrysta on her horse. The sky had started to dim, turning into beautiful shades of pink and orange as the sun set. They kept going, Alar seeming to know the way. After an hour or so, they finally reached the edge of the forest, staring down at a city enveloped in a small valley.

“Cerill,” Alar announced, starting down the slope. The rest of them followed.

It was another while before they reached the city gates, tall and casting a shadow over them, blocking what little was left of the sun.

“Hey there!” a voice called from above. “What business have you? We do not open the gates after sunset, and the light is all but gone.”

“We are but simple travelers,” Alar answered. “We seek shelter inside Cerill’s walls; the forest is not safe for anyone after dark. One of us is not well and needs attention.” He let his cloak fall open slightly, and Alycia caught a gleam of gold.

The gatekeeper must have seen it too, because he said, “All right, but hurry it up. You know I’m doing quite a favor to you, at such a risk.”

After they had all filed in, Alar opened his purse and took out a few coins.

“Oh, you needn’t bother,” said the gatekeeper airily, but nevertheless he extended his hand and Alar dropped the coins in.

They made haste after leaving the gatekeeper; Alar’s long strides took them to a small but friendly-looking inn: The Pig’s Snout.

The innkeeper approached them as soon as they entered. He was a small, round, man, with a shiny bald head surrounded by tufts of gray hair. Wiping his hands on his apron, he greeted them.

“Hello there! How may I be of--” he stopped short as he saw Alar, and his eyes widened. “Alar, my old friend,” he said, lowering his voice, “is that really you?”

Alar inclined his head. “It’s good to see you again, Brunic,” he said, also in a low voice, and the two embraced briefly. “We need three rooms for the five of us.” He said, after they broke apart. “I must attend to one; she is slightly ill. Prepare baths and dinner for three, and send water and towels up to me. Our horses are outside and will also need looking after.”

Brunic nodded. “I know not what strange business have you here now, Alar, but I trust you. I will do as you ask immediately.”

The portly innkeeper left, and Alar turned to the three of them. “I will see to Chrysta,” he told them. “You three clean up and have some dinner. I will be down shortly.”

They all did as they were told, but it was a long time before Alar came down.

A silvery-white figure approached her, its edges blurred and its features undistinguishable.

“Chrysta,” it said. Its voice echoed, deep with masculinity but still young. “Can you help me?”

“Who are you?” she replied. “How can I help you?”

“I am lost. There is no hope left for me. Only you.”

“Why? Why are you lost?”

“I have been taken by Him. I am one of the Lost Ones.”

“Who is he? Who are you?”

“Help me, Chrysta.” She felt a cold mist surround her, creeping into her skin, delving into her pores so that they spread out inside her.

“I can’t! I don’t know how!”

“Only you, Chrysta,” its voice grew fainter, but its echo was all around her, never leaving her. “Only you can save me…”

“TELL ME HOW!” she shouted. “WHO ARE YOU?”

“That who you love most, but despise best…”

“Chrysta! Chrysta!”

Her eyes flashed open to a dark room. Vague shapes, unfamiliar. She sat in a bed. And next to the sheets, Patrick Brunt, watching her, his brows furrowed in anxiety. She realized he was gripping her wrist. He let go, quickly.

“Are you okay? How do you feel?” he asked.

“I-” A sort of raw pain suddenly clutched at her stomach, and she gasped, her vision clouding. As white flashes exploded behind her eyes, she could see the Soulless in her mind, its dark breath drawing nearer, sucking at the air around her.

She blinked. There were tears in her eyes.

And then, before she could stop herself, she was crying, a messy sort of crying, the harsh emotion of her dream still in her, as if someone had suddenly peeled away the healed smooth skin on top of an old wound, and the tears came and came. She put her face in her hands, and she shook with the pain that was the Soulless and the boy and herself. An invisible force seemed to tear at her, her hair, her skin, her heart, until she was nothing but black emptiness like the hole that was the Soulless, the endless void. Her tears were like ice, freezing on her face and chilling her all over.

Then she felt warmth, the warmth that was like a blessing, starting from her shoulders and traversing down her whole body.

It was Patrick, and he had embraced her, somewhat awkwardly, but she felt herself graze solid ground, and she cried onto him, grasping his shirt, as if desperately trying to find a touch of warmth.

She thought of her aunt and uncle, who had worked so hard to raise her, only to believe that she was dead; her friend Alicia who had been so beautiful and innocent, but was no longer a child; and who was this girl that was not herself, holding onto a strange boy, and crying because of an even stranger boy that she knew only from a dream? What was this confusing and hopelessly sad pain that she had never felt before?

Chrysta seemed to be looking down at herself from above, a girl and a boy in a small wooden room, the girl weeping as the boy held her, as if they were really close and the boy knew just what to do to comfort her, just the right amount of affection. Instead they were two strangers, brought together by fate or maybe something else, and he was the only one there when she cried.

And as Chrysta watched, the girl’s sobs receded, and she was quiet for a moment, and she could feel herself breathing, and her breathing becoming steady again. Her face was a mess of tears among other things, and she raised her head to look at the boy.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve gotten your shirt dirty.”

“It’s all right. I have plenty more.”

She pulled away from him, and he let her go, but though the distance between them had expanded, somehow they both felt closer than before.

Chrysta attempted to clean her face with a cloth Patrick had handed her. “Where are we?” she said, after a moment.

“The Pig’s Snout. An inn in Cerill. You’ve been out for four days, and we’ve been taking turns watching you.”

“What time is it?”

“The middle of the night.” Patrick smiled wryly. “Well...are you all right?”

“I think so. It’s just that-” she passed a hand over her forehead. “Did that...Soulless...did it wound me?”

“No,” said Patrick. “But...Alar said its effect on you, it would be worse than a sword wound, and it would never leave you. There would always be a trace of-”

“Its taint. My taint.”

“Its evil, I was going to say.”

“I can still feel it. It’s part of me, now.”

“Alar said you have a strong will. That’s why it wasn’t able to take control of you.”

“I blacked out,” said Chrysta, remembering. “I heard voices, two people. A man and a woman. They were...they were talking about...”

Patrick waited.

Chrysta took herself back to the voices. “Someone leaving, I think. It was Cora and Tobias. They were talking, and...”

She glanced at him suddenly. He was looking up at the window, and a faint ray of light illuminated his profile, distinguishing his features from the blackness of the room. The copper-brown hair framed his face carefully, curling slightly at the nape of his neck. The planes of his face, splashed with white light, were so familiar, as if she had once...

He had turned to look at her. “And?”

She started, and said quickly, “What had been their relationship? Were they ever more than...you know...”

Patrick smiled faintly. “I don’t know. I hardly know anything about their history, let alone their personal lives. But if you heard them...the Soulless have a different effect on different people. Maybe you were reliving a terrible moment in their lives, or maybe it was just...something that could have happened during their lives.”

Chrysta considered telling him about her other dream, but then decided it was more personal. She would figure it out later.

“Maybe you should get some more rest,” said Patrick.

“It’s okay. Do you want to sleep? I’m fine.”

“I’ll sit for a while.”

Chrysta leaned back into her pillow. Maybe everything was okay, for now. The Soulless was gone. She would recover.

“Hey, Patrick?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks.”

“Oh. Sure, no problem.”

End of Chapter 4