With a deep, relaxing breath, Belexus bent his arms, ever so slowly, until his face was low enough to kiss the sacred ground, and then he pushed back up to the handstand. He repeated the motion fifty times, until he felt the warmth of coursing blood flushing his huge shoulders.
The ranger sprang to his feet gracefully out of that last push-up. He repeated the beginning of the routine, giving a few final stretches, then gathered up his huge sword and belted it about his waist. Before he had gone five steps, he drew out the sword, held it across his open palms, and paused long to consider that trusted weapon, studying its workmanship, remembering the many battles it had served him, the talons slain, the whip-dragons skewered.
Ultimately, the ranger had to remember the one time the magnificent weapon had failed him, the one enemy against whom it had no power.
The ranger’s gaze drifted up from the sword, staring into the fog, into nothing at all. He conjured to mind an image of the sword Brielle had shown to him in the reflecting pool the night before, a weapon superior to anything Belexus had ever seen, a mightier weapon even than Fahwayn, the enchanted sword wielded by Arien Silverleaf. He imagined the fine cutting edge of the displayed weapon, could almost feel its sharpness against his finger, the blade lined in diamond and edged in a white, inner light that promised power against even the wraith of Hollis Mitchell.
Yes, he could fight Mitchell with that sword, Brielle had assured him, could avenge the death of Andovar and put to rest the battle-lust demons that threatened more than his life, that threatened his very soul.
“I’m knowing yer thoughts,” came a soft voice behind him, soft like the warm fog, like the essence of Avalon itself.
Belexus blinked his eyes and turned about to view the Emerald Witch, splendid, as always, in her white gossamer gown, her green eyes sparkling, golden hair shining, even in the dull light. “Might be that ye know too much sometimes, me lady,” he replied with a grin.
“Sword in hand, sword in mind,” the witch reasoned.
“Ayuh,” the ranger confirmed. “And more in mind, and more in heart, is the task that sword ye showed me will bring to me.”
Brielle’s fair face clouded over. “One task at a time,” she said in all seriousness.
Belexus understood her fear. When she had shown to him the sword, she had told him, too, of the guardian she suspected, for only one creature in Ynis Aielle could likely hold such a vast treasure hoard; only one creature could keep for itself a sword such as that, unused through decades untold.
Belexus had fought a true dragon once, and though it was but a hatchling, the creature had nearly sizzled the ranger’s blood, and after Belexus had dealt it a mortal blow, in its wild death throes, its claws had torn deep ridges in the solid stone. What might a true adult dragon do, then, and how could Belexus ever hope to defeat it? For one brief instant, a cloud of doubt and weakness passed over his face. But it could not hold, for the memory of his dragon battle incited another thought, one of Andovar, for his companion had so often told the tale of Belexus and the dragon, to any who would hear, even if they had listened a hundred times before. And of course, coming from Andovar’s mouth, the tale of Belexus’ exploits had always sounded much grander, much more heroic.
“I have to go for the sword,” the ranger said resolutely, those memories of Andovar steeling his gaze and his jaw.
Brielle said nothing for a few, long moments. “When winter lets go of the Crystals,” she reasoned, but the stoic ranger was shaking his head before she ever finished the thought.
“This day,” he said. “I’ll not find the comfort of true sleep until Andovar’s avenged, and each day lets the rage burn me heart more deeply, and takes me strength. This moment’s not soon enough, I say, to start on the road that’ll put the wraith back in the dark domain.” He studied Brielle’s face for a long time, her posture, too, to try to find some hint of her feelings concerning his declaration. And in trying to see things through the witch’s eyes, the ranger recognized his words as a rash proclamation. Winter in the great Crystal Mountains could prove a more formidable foe than any ancient dragon! But, even with that discomforting thought so clear in mind, the ranger saw no choice before him, and he put up a firm, unyielding visage against the wave of reasonable protests he suspected Brielle would soon send his way.
“I know ye mean to go this day,” was what she said, and quietly, both her words and tone surprising Belexus. “I’m only wishing that I might be going with ye.”
He studied her some more, saw the pain in her green eyes, a resignation that showed she did not like the choice, but understood the necessity of it.
“But I canno’ go,” Brielle went on. “Me home’s not safe from Morgan Thalasi, not yet, and I’m fearing, too, that I’d be of little help to ye, to anyone, outside me domain.”
The way in which the words came forth, a great and rushed release, torn by truth from Brielle’s very heart, showed Belexus that she dearly wanted to join him, desperately wanted to remain by his side, friends and allies, but that she could not. He understood that she had thought long and hard on the dilemma, probably had lain awake throughout the night in search of some solution.
But there was none, Brielle knew, and the ranger knew, as well. Brielle could not go off into the Crystal Mountains now, with the dark shadow of Morgan Thalasi still lurking about, with the deep wound to the domain of magic and hordes of talons running wild in the west. Brielle’s place was Avalon, and no other, and only her heart and hopes could go out with the ranger. She would not try to dissuade him, though, he realized with some surprise.
“I’ll say not a thin’ to me Father, nor to any other rangers,” Belexus explained, trying to offer some comfort, at least. “Nor will Arien Silverleaf know o’ me going. The task is for meself, and for none other.”
“Seeming a bit foolish to me for ye to be off on such a quest without a one to help ye,” Brielle said dryly. “Ye might trip in a hole and lay out with yer leg broken until the cold steals yer life.”
Belexus smiled at her concern, and understood that it was not without basis. Yet there was only one whom he could have trusted to go with him, only one who had been close enough to him to stand beside him through such a dangerous quest, and that one, Andovar, was dead. “I’ll not trip,” he said with a casual chuckle, but it was obviously a strained laugh.
Brielle nodded and moved closer. “Arien would go beside ye,” she said. “The eldar of Lochsilinilume would see the quest as a way he could help in these times dark, a way he might be mending his own heart for the death o’ Sylvia.”
The words almost convinced the usually stubborn Belexus to run off and ask Arien. He had seen Arien’s face, seen the grief, as profound as his own, when the elf lord had learned that his dearest daughter, Sylvia, his only child, had been killed and taken by the flood of the great river, had followed the same cold trail as Andovar. If the quest for the sword would bring to Arien the same hope of inner peace that it promised to Belexus, then how could he deny the elf lord that chance?
He had to deny it, he reminded himself, because if Arien went along, then so too would many elves, refusing to allow their eldar to walk off into such extreme danger without them. Then so, too, would Ryell, Arien’s closest friend. And if the dragon wakened in all its terrible wrath, could all the elves of Lochsilinilume, could all the rangers of Avalon, could all the army of Calva, hope to contain its power? How many then would be devoured, and likely in a futile quest? If that chilling scenario ever came to pass, Belexus hoped that he would be among the first to die, for surely, if he lived to see the fall of those who accompanied him on this quest that he viewed as his own, his grief would multiply a hundred times over, and his life, and death, would forever be without hope.