Chapter 25 Out of Time #2
Yarla leaned forward. “What about the binding ritual? Do they have the components we need?”
“That’s the interesting part,” Sasja replied.
“Barrik arrived at the Archmagus’ summons this morning.
By all accounts, Greggor’s army is still moving in on the city, but Barrik is here, seemingly invited in by the Magi Order.
I’ve heard he had dwarven smiths with him and they’ve set up a forge in the sanctuary. ”
“Seems he has his own agenda in all this,” Yarla said.
“Barrik’s never done anything to better someone else. He’s up to something,” Venrick muttered. “How do we get to the sanctuary from here? The passageways I took are too heavily guarded now.”
“We’ll need to go through the lower crypts. I can show you a path the guards don’t know about.” Sasja rose smoothly. “But we need to move now. The ritual is nearly complete.”
They followed her through a warren of lesser-used corridors, descending ever deeper into the foundations of the Vermillion Keep. The stonework changed as they went, growing older, the straight lines and precise masonry of the Keep giving way to more organic curves and ancient runes.
“These passages look like they pre-date the Vermillion Keep,” Yarla said.
“They do,” Venrick explained as they ducked beneath a low archway. “They’re a part of the original sanctuary.”
The air grew colder, carrying that same icy musk that Venrick had come to associate with rimeshade influence. The corruption in his blood responded, pulsing beneath his skin in time with some unheard rhythm.
A distant roar shook dust from the ceiling, followed by the unmistakable crackle of dragonfire.
“White Eye,” Hardin said, his expression lighting with hope. “He’s breached the outer defenses.”
“Not for long,” Sasja cautioned. “The Keep’s dragonriders are mobilizing.”
As if summoned by her words, a presence pressed against Venrick’s mind, not the corrupted whispers he’d heard after he was struck by the King’s spell, but something cleaner and more focused.
An image flashed before his mind’s eye: Astral City from above, the Keep surrounded by swirling auroras, dragons weaving through the impossible colors.
Ingamar, he realized. Through whatever strange connection the corruption had forged, he was seeing through the golden dragon’s eyes.
Another consciousness brushed against his. It was darker, angrier. White Eye, searching desperately for his rider. The black dragon’s rage was palpable, but beneath it lay a more complex emotion. Not just fear for Lark, but a deeper unease about what had happened to her.
“She’s not dead,” Venrick said aloud, the certainty surprising him. “White Eye would know if she was. She’s somewhere else.”
Sasja and Hardin exchanged glances and Yarla opened her mouth once, but closed it, deciding against questioning him.
They continued their descent, the passage widening as it joined a more formal corridor lined with ancient statues of dragonriders.
Unlike the chaotic fluctuations above, the air here felt unnaturally still, as if the very atmosphere held its breath in anticipation.
They rounded a corner and found themselves facing a squad of Paragons in full crimson armor, swords drawn.
“Intruders!” the lead Paragon shouted, raising his blade. “Defend the sanctuary!”
There was no time for subtlety. Venrick drew his brismil sword, the blue metal gleaming in the torchlight. The corruption in his blood surged in response, heightening his senses, lending unnatural speed to his movements.
He met the first Paragon’s strike with a counter that sent the man staggering back.
Beside him, Hardin extended his hands, pulling moisture from the air to form a sphere of water that he hurled with devastating force.
Sasja moved like smoke between them, her daggers finding gaps in armor.
Yarla followed through with her sword, assisting Venrick in his attack.
The battle was brief but vicious. These were no ordinary guards but the Vermillion Keep’s elite, each a fighter with years of training.
What they lacked was experience with the unnatural.
Both Venrick and Yarla’s enhanced speed caught them off-guard.
Hardin’s magic wetted the floor, sending their opponents slipping on the wet stones.
Sasja’s skill with her blades left any remaining warriors unarmed and unconscious.
Venrick stood panting, the brismil sword pulsing in his hand with an eager light that matched the corruption’s flow in his veins.
“That was almost too easy,” he said, frowning. “They should have been more prepared.”
“Because they wanted you to reach the sanctuary,” a new voice replied.
They turned to find a figure standing in an archway that hadn’t been there moments before. Barrik, dressed in black brismil armor trimmed in copper, his expression a mask of calculated amusement.
“The prodigal Squire returns,” he said, folding his arms. “With an Elf, a Ward Walker and my favorite little spy. How predictable.”
Venrick raised his sword. “Step aside, Barrik.”
“Or what? You’ll kill me and doom both realms?” Barrik laughed, the sound echoing strangely in the confined space. “You need me, Venrick. Or rather, you need what I’ve brought.”
“The Vaerdium components,” Hardin said, his aura still humming with residual magic.
“Very good. Those are strong observations, for a bard.” Barrik gave him an approving nod. “The dwarven forgers from Wintermire still remembered how to work the ancient alloys. A shame the original binding texts were incomplete.”
“What’s your angle, Barrik?” Venrick demanded. “You’ve never served anyone’s interests but your own.”
Barrik’s smile thinned. “Some of us see farther than others.” He gestured to the archway behind him. “Come. The ritual chamber awaits. You’ll want to see this.”
Every instinct warned against following, but they had little choice. The binding ritual was their only hope of stopping the Void Drinker, and Barrik apparently had critical components. With a tight nod to his companions, Venrick followed, brismil sword still drawn.
The archway led to a vast circular chamber that could not possibly have fit within the Keep’s foundations.
Its domed ceiling stretched impossibly high.
It was painted with constellations that moved in slow, deliberate patterns.
The floor was inlaid with an intricate mosaic depicting dragons and fae figures standing back-to-back, encircling a central well.
Dwarven smiths worked at a forge that glowed with unnatural blue flame. The metal they shaped gleamed with an inner light that hurt Venrick’s eyes to look at directly.
“Vaerdium,” Barrik explained, gesturing to their work. “Or it will be, once properly alloyed. The dwarves of Wintermire remembered the techniques, if not the complete formula.”
“It’s not enough,” Hardin said, studying the setup with a practiced eye. “The binding ritual needs four components. I count only one here.”
“Very observant.” Barrik’s smile never reached his eyes. “The other components were to come from the fae courts. But it seems our mutual friend took a rather unorthodox approach to acquiring them.”
Venrick’s heart skipped a beat. “Lark? You know where she is?”
“Not precisely. But I know what my niece attempted.” Barrik moved to a table covered in ancient texts. “She created a gateway to the fae realm from her cell. Quite impressive, really. I wouldn’t have thought it possible without a Hyalite, but then again, Ella was always my best apprentice.”
“Even better than your own son?” Venrick challenged.
“Greggor lacks the emotional control required to be a talented magician. He would’ve made a dangerous dragonrider but he’s much more useful to me as the face of the Kingdom,” Barrik said.
“You have no honor or respect for your family,” Venrick said. “Using your son as a shield, turning your niece into a weapon.”
“Ella, or Lark, as you insist on calling her now, is every bit my sister’s child.
Her mother was fierce, defiant, and always sharp minded.
She was a weapon and ruled Skol more than her husband ever did as King.
I should’ve killed Lark’s father myself, but I needed her to remain loyal to me.
My son did what I commanded of him and did it willingly.
He will always follow my instruction over all others and with his defeat of the former King of Skol, is the rightful monarch.
If you don’t understand what kind of sacrifices one needs to rule over the kings of this world, then you’ll never be in control. ”
“That’s what it’s always about with you, control,” Venrick said through gritted teeth.
“Venrick, if Lark escaped into the fae realm, how will she get back?” Hardin said, speaking low for only Venrick’s ears. “If Barrik knows something about getting her back, we might need him.”
Venrick narrowed his eyes at Barrik, his gut telling him not to trust this dragonrider.
“And if my suspicions are correct,” Barrik continued, the arrogant tone returning to his voice.
“She’s attempting to gather the remaining components directly from the sources.
” Barrik shook his head in apparent admiration.
“Audacious. Probably suicidal. But if anyone could manage it, it would be her.”
A tremor ran through the chamber, stronger than before. At its center, above the well, the air began to tear. Reality parted like fabric, revealing glimpses of somewhere else; stars that burned in unknown colors, landscapes beyond comprehension.
“It begins,” Barrik said softly. “The culmination of centuries of preparation.”
The tear widened, and through it stepped King Agadorn.
But he was no longer recognizable as human.
His form was a vessel of living darkness, flecked throughout with silver starlight that burned with cold fire.
Where eyes had been, there were now swirling voids that somehow still conveyed intelligence and malevolence.
“Welcome, little pawns,” the Entity said, its voice like grinding ice. “Your presence here was foreseen. Indeed, it was required.”
The Void Drinker raised its hands, and the tear in reality expanded further. Through it, Venrick glimpsed multiple realms simultaneously: a golden court of eternal summer, a grove of trees in perpetual spring, a palace of perfect ice, a citadel of shadows and starlight.
“For too long, I have been contained,” the Entity continued.
“Forced to feed on scraps, to work through proxies and partial manifestations. But no longer.” It gestured to the forge and the half-formed Vaerdium.
“Your pitiful attempt to recreate the binding is laughable. The original required power you cannot hope to match.”
“You’re wrong,” Venrick stated, stepping forward despite Yarla’s warning hand on his arm. “We know what’s required. And we’re not alone.”
The Void Drinker’s star-flecked form rippled with what might have been amusement.
“Ah yes, your allies. The dragons circling impotently above. The rebels fighting in the streets. The Ward Walker beside you.” It focused those void-like eyes on Hardin.
“Did you think I was unaware of your talents? Your abilities are mere echoes of the power I command.”
It turned its attention to Venrick, those terrible eyes seeming to peer directly into his soul.
“And you, half-breed. The corruption in your blood calls to me. You feel it, don’t you?
The hunger. The potential is so much more than the pure-blood elves.
Imagine what you might become if you embraced it fully. ”
Despite himself, Venrick felt the corruption respond, cold fire racing through his veins with renewed vigor. The whispers returned, promising power, understanding, transcendence.
“Don’t listen,” Yarla urged, grabbing his shoulder. “It’s trying to turn you.”
The Void Drinker laughed harshly. “I need not turn what already leans in my direction. The corruption marked you, half-breed. Changed you. Made you a bridge between realms, just as I am.”
“You’re nothing like me,” Venrick growled, fighting to silence the whispers.
“No,” the Entity agreed. “I am what you might become, given time and proper nourishment.” It spread its arms wide.
“Behold what centuries of consumption have wrought. I have harvested the essence of dragons, fae, mages. All of which was to prepare for this moment, when the Flashover allows me to tear down the barriers permanently.”
The tear in reality pulsed, widening further. Through it, Venrick caught a fleeting glimpse that made his heart stop. He saw Lark, moving between worlds, carrying what looked like metal ingots against her chest.
Before he could process this, the Void Drinker unleashed a wave of corrupting energy that filled the chamber.
The dwarven smiths collapsed, their bodies twisting as darkness invaded them.
Sasja was thrown against a wall, momentarily stunned.
Barrik alone seemed prepared, a shield of copper light surrounding him as he backed toward the forge.
“It’s using the Realmstone!” Hardin shouted over the rising magical tempest, pointing to a rectangular object in the Entity’s chest, now pulsing with nauseating rhythm.
The walls of the sanctuary began to crack; reality strained against the Void Drinker’s power. Venrick fought to remain standing as the corruption in his blood responded to the Entity’s call, threatening to overwhelm him from within.
Through the chaos, he held onto that single image: Lark, moving between worlds, carrying the components they needed. She was alive. She was coming. And if they could just hold out a little longer, they might have a chance to stop what was happening.
But as the sanctuary began to collapse around them, the Void Drinker’s laughter filled the chamber and the tear in reality grew ever wider. Venrick felt the crushing weight of doubt. They were out of time, out of options, and facing a power beyond anything they’d prepared for.