Chapter Eighteen - The Power of the Varnhyme

The high tower in the middle of the city, the tower that set Ge’irdae apart from all the other cities and towns in Elenaesia, rose high into the sky, a lone star seeming to be perched at the edge of the bulwarks. All was silent, save the steady clip clop of the hooves of the horses and the muffled tramps of the soldiers’ feet. The sun had yet to set, but sat precariously on the edge of the horizon, waiting for the perfect moment to slip over the edge in a blaze of glory. Ge’irdae seemed quiet and peaceful, oblivious to the danger that was coming to their door step.

The army stopped near the gates of Ge’irdae. General Binks Vizzini paused in the saddle then turned his body back towards the rest of the army.

“Vladisk!” he called.
“Yes, my lord General Binks? What is your wish, General Binks?” the huge man asked.
“Vladisk, send for Draziw. And quickly! You hear?”
“Yes, General Binks. To hear is to obey.”

Then Vladisk rode towards the back to summon the old wizard and alchemist. Within a few minutes both had returned. Binks turned impatiently to them.

“Took you long enough. I thought I said quickly, Vladisk!”
“Yes, my lord General. I am sorry I did not go quick enough, General Binks.”
“Sorry is not going to cut it.” He sighed, and turned to Draziw. “Well, do you think you can take care of the city?”
“Do you doubt a Varnhyme?” asked Draziw in a low, and dangerous, voice.
“I have never seen them in action. I believe what I see, old man.”
“The Varnhyme are ancient, and have much power. Do you doubt that?”
“I told you, I have never seen them in action. A hokey religion is nothing, compared the type of war I can wage under King Orlando. If it works, good, if not, the sword.”
“Your confidence is disheartening for the soul to hear, Binks. Perhaps, in time, your lack of faith will soon be remedied. You are over confident in the ability of your army. That will prove to be your weakness. And that is why I have come with you, Binks. Beware now, the wrath of Draziw Varnhyme will be poured out upon the city of Ge’irdae! Tremble all who lie in the wake! Tremble all who dare to cross my path! The wrath of Draziw Varnhyme has been awakened, and shall not sleep until loosed upon its intended victims!”

With these words Draziw dismounted from his horse, and walked a little ways a way in front of him. He raised his arms, the midnight blue sleeves of his robes, falling back a little, his eyes glowing a brilliant emerald green as his skin turned pale. Uttering a cry in a tongue not known by those gathered round, he raised his head to the heavens.

“Gates of Ge’irdae, listen to my voice!” he began again, this time not in the ancient tongue. “Gates of Ge’irdae, hearken unto my cry! Gates of Ge’irdae, be filled with sounds I speak! Hearken to me, listen to me, pay attention to the sounds I voice! Be filled with my knowledge, be filled with the words I utter. Be filled, and be empty. Be on your guard, and be unprepared. Be patient, and be impatient. Be fulfilled, and be unfinished. Hearken to my cry, o gates of the city! Listen to my voice, o gates of Ge’irdae! Be filled with the words I speak unto you, and in that knowledge, despair! Return to the rubble from which you were raised, return to the dust that from which you were formed, return to the stone that you once were. Return, and fall to the grown, a hopeless heap, unhindered by agasyn which holds you together. Fall, and be destroyed. Gates of Ge’irdae, listen to my voice! Gates of Ge’irdae, hearken unto my cry! Gates of Ge’irdae, be filled with the sounds I speak! Hearken to me, listen to me, pay attention to the sounds I voice!”

Then, with a loud crack, a lone sound echoing through the valley, a harsh boom in comparison to the seemingly melodic voice used by Draziw of the Varnhyme, tiny cracks formed along the walls of the city. Each crack grew larger, spreading like a spider spinning it’s web, each crack joining with another one, each crack growing larger and longer. Then, with a deafening crash, even louder than the crack before, the walls tumbled down to the ground. The outer walls of Ge’irdae were now reduced to a heap of rubble and dust.

Draziw lowered his arms, and his skin resumed his usual colour. The strange emerald glow of his eyes faded, leaving them the blue they had been before.

Cynthia slipped through the night, hoping to be able to reach Aiulindale the next day. Because she was a Varnhyme, she was able to travel much easier, now that she did not have to exert more strength to preventing others from realizing that she was one of the Varnhyme. As she arrived at the top of a small hill, she paused to look down. There, below her, lay a quiet army camp, blending in to the night.

Her eyes glowed their emerald green again, and shone in the dark of the night. The small camp grew in size, and she focused her attention on the small pennant that bore the standard of the army. The objects around it swirled, and grew in size as she examined the standard. There, she saw the blue liliock of Elenaesia, it’s pale green leaves gently unfolding on the white background. And under it in golden script, the writing of the ancient language, Elbrenhine Valera, a Redith Marucheva. Elbrenhine our Queen, Guide Us By Your Hand. Her eyes returned to their normal hazel, and the scene in front of her spun as it shrank back into the harshness of reality. Continuing on down the hill, she headed towards the camp.

“Who goes there?” called the sentinel at the edge of the camp.
“My name is Cynthia, I must speak with the general in charge,” she said, her voice floating over the wind.
“Why?” came the answer sharply.
“I come from Merisna, I must speak with him concerning the Duke. Who is on a rampage killing innocents throughout the Seventeens. The live of the Princess is at stake here!”

The sentinel frowned. Most did not threaten the princess, it was usually the king or queen. Suddenly another figure emerged from the shadows.

“You may come with me lady. I am Sir Taran. Follow me, please.”

Sir Taran led Cynthia to a tent in the middle area of the camp. Nodding to the young squire who stood outside, the boy then pulled the flap, allowing the two to enter. Then Taran bowed, and left the tent, leaving Cynthia facing . . . the king.

“Please sit down, lady,” said Eldor. “I am Eldor, King of Elenaesia, as you no doubt know.”
“Yes, my lord king. I am Cynthia . . . Varnhyme.”

The eyes of the King narrowed as he looked at her closely. “You would be wise, Valerahyme, to not speak such things aloud. But what is it that brings you here? You said something about the safety of my daughter.”