Bodies from both sides pile everywhere, but the Elterians are losing the fight and their numbers are slowly dwindling as the Barbaraqs continue with their onslaught. The storm cracks and boils above us as fierce and unforgiving as the battle itself.
Yaelor races towards me with a hatchet clasped in each of her hands, her face etched with anger. Her hair is tied back into tight plaits, and half of her face is painted blue. The other half is painted with her hatred towards me.
She takes a frenzied swing at me with a hatchet, and when I dodge this, she follows up with a swing of her second weapon. I barely evade the full force of the blow, and the sharpened edge of the weapon slices through my dress, stinging my skin as it cuts into me. I fire a blast of energy at her, but I miss Yaelor and my spell connects with a Wyvern behind her. Using the magic causes my hand to crack and I wince in pain. I have used a considerable amount of magic on this day and even though I can channel these spells through other people’s life force, even I know that I have my limits. The gods will only allow me to consume so much.
Yaelor is quickly upon me and lands a blow to my face, snapping my head back. She swings her hatchets at me again, but I duck underneath, grabbing at a bloodied sword on the ground. Though the Barbaraqs are known for their unrefined fighting style, this woman is a skilled warrior. She takes another swing at me, cutting through the back of my dress. This time the cut bores deeper into my shoulder and I am lucky to be alive. Had she been a little bit closer, she would have likely killed me. Spinning towards her, I hold my sword outstretched, parrying her next strikes.
“You are not just a shaman, you can fight,” Yaelor tells me, almost as if she approves. Though her words are broken and fragmented, I am surprised to learn that she speaks our tongue so well. She brings down both hatchets upon me and I raise my sword to block them. Our weapons connect, and we press against one another, staring into one another’s eyes. Her toned muscles flex with the effort, her skin shimmering in the rain. I stare deep into her emerald-green eyes that are marbled with blue. Dark freckles decorate her nose and cheeks. A stab of recognition rips through me.
It can’t be. Not after all this time. Why would the gods toy with me in such a cruel way?
“Ferelda?” I stammer, shocked.
Yaelor stops instantly and steps back from me, resting her weapons by her side. “Where did you hear this name?”
“Ferelda, is it really you?” I ask, desperation coming over me.
“How do you know this name!” Recovering from the distraction, she sends me a warning blow, which I quickly parry.
“It is you!” I breathe. “It’s me, Queren.” It is a name I have not spoken for a long time, one that I banished with my dark memories as I became someone new. “It is I, your sister.”
Yaelor looks dumbfounded, her eyes darting from side to side as she searches through her own memories.
I grab hold of the pendant around my neck and raise it. “This, this is the pendant you made for me with Mother. I have never removed it.” I watch as Ferelda eyes me with distrust. I do not blame her. “How – how are you here, how are you with the Barbaraqs?” I continue. “I thought you were dead.” I have so many questions, but the battle continues to unfold furiously around us.
She frowns. “Raegor raised me, taught me how to fight.” It is as though Yaelor battles with her own thoughts. She was taken by the Barbaraqs as a child after they burnt our village to the ground. She was only a young girl then, and I panic, realising that she might not even remember.
I drop my sword to the floor and slowly edge towards her. “You were stolen from me, Ferelda. They destroyed our home, killed our father.”
Yaelor drops her weapons to the ground and raises her hand towards my face. She rests her fingers against my cheek, and my eyes swell with tears. I raise my own hand and place it against her own blood-soaked face. Her cheek is warm and the rain cascades down on us as we take each other in.
My sister is alive. I care of nothing else.
I begin to sob into her hand, not from heartbreak or grief but from relief. It is as though the darkest of clouds that has burdened me all of my life is suddenly lifted, replaced by the clearest of skies. The things I have done, the path that I have walked, the things that have happened to me. The fate that I have accepted as I believed my sister to be dead. I sought to avenge her memory and now she stands before me very much alive.
I take my hand from her face and place it over hers which still remains on my cheek. Her skin is rough. She has a warrior’s hands, but in this moment, her hand trembles.
“I love you,” I tell her. They are the only words that I can muster.
She pulls her hand away from mine and steps away from me, looking around at the death that surrounds us.
“Kurri, kurri!” she yells out and the other Barbaraqs begin to shout the word in turn.
Panicked, I take in the scene before me as her people rally to her cries.
“I am sorry, Queren.” She picks up her hatchets from the mud. With one last glance at me, she begins to run towards the eastern gates. The Barbaraqs follow.
“Ferelda!” I call out in hope that she will turn back around, that she will remain here with me. But she doesn’t.
As quickly as she re-entered my world, my baby sister is gone, like the passing storm above.
Dumbfounded, I stand staring through the gates as the Barbaraqs fall back and leave. The remaining Wyverns stand in total confusion, weapons still clutched firmly in hand. The Elterians gather with renewed determination as they start to push back against our enemy.
Out of the corner of my eye, a flash of purple catches my attention. There is only one person in this kingdom pompous enough to sneak past a battlefield in vibrant silks.
I made a promise to that man, and I intend to keep it.
“Wistler!” My voice reigns over the battlefield.
Wistler seeks to weasel his way towards the eastern gate in pursuit of the Barbaraqs, showing every ounce of his cowardice.
My body is exhausted, and I know I will bear the consequences of using my magic, but the temptation is too much. I throw my hand forward and channel the ancient power that courses through my body. A blackened force of energy presses Wistler into the outer wall of the city and freezes him in place.
“Morgana, stop! Stop this!” Wistler squirms as I force him up into the air so everyone can see what I am about to do.
My body strains with effort, and small indentations begin to form on my outstretched hand as if something squeezes it tightly, compressing my bones. I fight through the pain and remain focused on Wistler.
A loud crack is followed by a shriek as I slowly and painfully begin to crush and break every one of his bones, starting at his ankles and working my way up. Wistler howls in pain, screaming, begging for it to stop.
“You deserve every second of this pain and torment,” I tell him as his arms break, leaving bones protruding as blood splashes in the mud underneath him. His chest begins to crack and heave, his eyes bulging out of their sockets. The fighting stops as all turn to watch Wistler’s torture, his shrill screams echoing for all to hear. His whimpers become childlike as the crushing of his bones reaches his neck. Blood seeps from every orifice.
“P – please,” he rasps, shaking violently.
With a flick of my hand his neck snaps. I release my hold and he crumples in a heap on the ground below. My connection to my magic feels weak, as if it might snap at any moment like a frayed rope. I have never pushed myself this far before. Fire and ice flow through my skin and I let out my own scream of pain and anguish. I drop to my knees as my body fights the affliction. Even using the small amount of magic required to absorb another’s life force would risk tipping me too far. My mind would break.
As I grit my teeth and force myself to my feet, I notice that the battle has stopped, everyone around me stares in disbelief. Across the street towards the market, I see Orjan standing tall, his right arm hanging limply from a drooped shoulder. In his other hand, he grasps a blood-soaked weapon. One by one, the Wyverns begin to drop their weapons and raise their hands in surrender.
Orjan lifts his weapon into the air and begins to roar. Others follow him, hoisting their weapons as they cheer in celebration.
Many have fallen but the battle for Eltera is over. The people of this kingdom, led by Orjan, have won.