The Gates of Arstelem (Classic)

Chapter 22

Her dream was familiar, but distant. Even though she felt only half her mind, Haniel looked out at the vibrant colors, the blues of the sky mixing with the brown tones of blasted earth. A scream pushed her from reverie, but she couldn't pick its source out from the masses.

The enemies flared with fire, gouts of flame erupting from arrow wounds or sword cuts. As each fell, more took their place. She shuddered, remembering the battle too well. With grim determination, she took her sword, preparing to bring her sweat and blood into the dance of battle, the thrill washing over the parts of her mind that could feel it even though the outcome was certain.

Fighting them was more like dancing than battle; they did not block, they did not dodge. They did melt, or splash, or crumble, and she stepped over bodies bearing burns from a Pyrrhic victory as her rhythm brought her to the enemy lines.

Each fell in turn, the impact of her blade drawing their life to the wind. She smiled, watching the tides turn. The shadow that fell over her went unheeded until too late, and the hive burst.

She vaguely remembered the calls of Ielen, their commander. She turned and ran, watching over her shoulder as the colony spilled forth its occupants, figures twisted and warped by the powers of the Kithik, both of their origin and from Othe, beasts warped and twisted from their natures. They were hardier than the drones, but fell on them equally.

In the days after the battle, she wondered why the Kithik had made creatures that turned on them, but it was as much a mystery as the origins of the marauders. She prepared for the screams and the roil, the gaping maws and the torn corpses, but the dream took another turn.

Wordlessly she flew, her feet lifting from the ground under some other power. The flight took her over the battlefield, and she saw the scene as if it were preserved in stone statuettes from the Seers' collection. The gods had been too late to preserve the lives of their followers, but she took aim.

The energy blasted from her hands like streaks of fury incarnate, her desire to preserve her allies aided by unknown forces. She felt the force tug at her body, beginning to bend and warp it as each volley drew from her power. She descended into the charnel, walking among the survivors, watching them bow to her.

It was a good feeling.

She woke with a start, her legs begging her to run from the memory. She looked down at her hands, devoid of answers as they were, and felt the dryness of her throat constrict her breaths as she stepped out into the cool night air.

Pulling her tunic on, she headed down to the river to wash away the sweat and fear, trying to ignore the feel of the cold, cracked skin as she re-arranged the knuckles in frantic hands.

She spotted a family walking along the path and passed them. The mother and father looked at her with suspicion, but their young daughter smiled at her, seemingly ignorant of her plight. Haniel tried to return the smile, frightened that some bestial nature would shine through and turn it into a snarl, but the girl's giggling reply put her fears to ease.

The inauspicious omens were washed away by the cold-flowing water. By the time she returned to Adezek, it was dawn again, and a familiar face waited for her at the inn.