The Gift of Revenge

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Volodar heaved Klaern onto his lap and applied pressure to the wounded thigh. Thick, crimson blood continued to pump out of the wound staining the leather seats. The object that had struck Klaern was long and wooden, like bark, and looking frantically at the mess he caught sight of a tree spriggan sprinting past the window.

Volodar looked at Klaern again. His eyes were shut and his face was pale as ice. Placing his fingers on Klaern’s neck he checked for a pulse. Yes! There was still hope.

Kicking open the carriage door Volodar threw the injured dwarf over his shoulders and had a quick look at the carnage. It was dark now, but he could still see faint outlines of the refugees being dragged into the forest. Down the line of the carriages, the dwarven soldiers that had accompanied the dwarf King to Kheissa were battling viciously in their golden chest plates. Massive hammers swung clattering against the wooden beasts causing them to screech in pain. Branches snapped off, but they didn’t fall.

“Run King!” one roared as he span the war hammer around his head and slammed a tree spriggan into the ground. Volodar had no weapon and his dying son in his arms.

“My son’s been hit!” The golden plated dwarf ran over to Volodar’s side buffeting a spriggan who stood in his way.
“Take a horse, get away!” the bodyguard shouted. Volodar didn’t want to leave the guards, but he had a duty to his boy. Ducking an oncoming tree spike, Volodar rested Klaern on the ground and undid a horse from the carriage. Heisting his son up, he followed behind and patted the horse. “Go!”

The white stallion bolted down the cobbled road at a great pace. Passing carriages, Volodar saw that most of the dwarves had already been taken, or ran. Ducking and jumping spikes, the horse broke away from the massacre. Looking back, Volodar could see that five of his golden guards had formed a ring formation and hand conjoined their rectangular shields edge to edge forming a barrier. Occasionally they’d break and hammer at a nearby spriggan, but they would not last long.
Not bearing to watch the scene anymore Volodar checked Klaern’s pulse again. “I have to save you. I promised Orrian.”

The road ahead was pitch black, and the noises that remained were hoots from the Singerdusk Owls, and the buzzing of the primordial bees. Luckily the horse seemed to know where to ride.

Volodar remembered Naesala’s song she had sang when they first received Klaern, and he felt a tickle on his cheek as a droplet ran down his face and onto his lip.

“From across the seas in Adrebor, Orrian wages war,” Volodar began, tears now streaming down his bearded face. “He fights his Fathers battles; he’s stupid to the core.” Volodar remembered how Naesala didn’t like his brother and thought of him as greedy for wanting the minerals in Kheissa back.
He continued with Naesala’s song. “When Orrian gave me his child, I couldn’t hold back a smile. He had said: ‘protect him from this clash.’ We were so pleased, as I had failed to conceive, ‘We’ll protect him while you fight Lord Ailus.’” Memories of the past flooded back to Volodar like a newly released dam. He remembered trying to have a baby with Naesala and failing. He remembered when Orrian his brother took up the war against Ailus, and how Orrian had given them Klaern to protect. Volodar was Klaern’s uncle, but he’d never told the boy.

“We love you boy I’ll tell you so, we took you as our own,” Volodar whimpered. “We’ll raise you and love you, you’ll never be alone.” He finished Naesala’s song, and looked down to Klaern’s left thigh. The blood was still pumping and gushed to the floor as the horse ran. He couldn’t let him die. He’d promised his brother, Klaern’s real Father.

In the distance lights could be seen; it was a small town. They reached the forest edge, and paused briefly. The road continued along the forest border, but it would take too long to follow. Volodar patted the horse again and over the hedge into the nearest field they ran. Galloping quickly, they passed wheat pastures and many little creatures shouted at him as they past. The creatures were very small and took on the shape of elves, but they were light green in colour and were bald. Their one eye was large, and their skin unblemished. Wearing small togas, Volodar couldn’t help but admire the little creatures as they shouted and chased him.

Volodar approached the small town.

The large wooden gates were open. The horse reared as it got near, and Volodar and Klaern fell to the ground. A white, clear aura had appeared like a sheet blocking the gate. “State your business here!” a middle aged man said from upon the wall. Even though it was dark, the force field blocking the entrance lit up showing the man to be wearing a blue, baggy robe. He was bald and had a symbol on his hand. Around his neck was a golden necklace with a ruby attached on the end. It glowed brightly.
“Please! Help!” Volodar picked up Klaern. The man saw the blood wound and with a snap of his fingers the white force field receded and out ran a number of individuals. In the blur of people, Klaern was taken.

“Don’t worry, don’t fight. We’ll help.” A younger looking teen that had brown, spiky hair followed the group who rushed back inside. He waved his hand at Volodar to follow.

Entering the small town was the strangest feeling; a tingle shivered through Volodar. Everything went white; the night retreated leaving behind only day light. “What the-,” the dwarf King said bemused. Before his very eyes he only saw a very large stone wall, but then buildings began to materialise forming a massive city. But it was the sky that shocked Volodar the most. As he looked up there seemed to be a boundary from the walls of the city forming a white dome. Everything inside was daytime, but as Volodar looked through the dome he saw the night sky with stars and solar systems.

Before he could continue his amazement, he caught sight of the men who had taken klaern from him and ran after them though the city. The roads were winding and either side there were marble shops and brilliantly crafted looking homes where ornaments dangled from windows. The largest building was at the back of the city, and was white with golden angel sculptures standing on the edges of the roof. At the top Volodar could see a large glowing orb, and from it a beam of light jetted upwards into the dome powering it. From outside, this place looked dead, but once inside it was quite different. An illusion, Volodar thought.

There wasn’t a scrap of litter blemishing the crystal white roads, and above them were orbs of light captured in glass spheres that were held on large spiralling columns. People walked cheerfully along pathways and as Volodar ran over a bridge, he realised the water here was golden. Young boys waded through the river, and he even saw one levitating on top.

The men he was chasing took a sharp right and continued down another road. But this road was different. Volodar could see that inside each building was a small arena. As he picked up pace, struggling to keep up with his short legs he saw a young boy holding fire that crackled over his hand. It travelled up his whole body until he erupted in flames and then reappeared seemingly unscathed. Next door, a boy stamped his foot down and a wall of earth flew upwards covering him from view. Suddenly, another boy appeared in front of him and then teleported to the curb with a black puff of smoke.

From a distance Volodar could see that Klaern’s leg had not stopped bleeding, but no blood trickled onto the clean floor as a bubble of blood seemed to be floating behind. They entered a very large building supported by granite pillars, closely followed by Volodar. Upon entry, he could see Klaern lying on the floor with an older man at his side waving his arms. Around the man, blood spiralled and gently re-entered Klaern through his thigh wound. The sharp tree spike lay on the floor next to him.

Volodar rushed forward.

He froze. It was like a trap had snared him to the spot. But nothing had entangled him; he just couldn’t move. Why? From behind a fountain spouting glowing golden water, a man appeared with a raised hand. “Wait, dwarf,” the man in the red, silk robe said. He was young looking, around eighteen with short, cropped blonde hair. His face was chiselled, he was tanned and Volodar could see he had dimly lit red eyes.

“But my-,” Volodar began. “Let me go, I’m the king of-.”

“Yes. Of Laeroth. We know. Raythor, how is his son looking?” the man in the red robe kept his arm raised at Volodar and turned to face the man on the floor who neatly coaxed the blood to re-enter Klaern’s thigh wound.

“Not good,” the elderly man replied.