From Wistrix Donn

The Verge

Black clouds consumed the afternoon sun as the sildin Anryss led a company of warriors up the steep grade of the wooded hill. His clothes were frayed and sweat-stained from days spent in the wilderness. Anryss brushed at his brown hair. Though too short to tie back, it was long enough to be constantly in his eyes. Besides Anryss, only a handful of the others were mounted. As his cayou topped the ridge, Anryss pulled the beast to a halt. The trailing sildins also stopped. A chill wind poured over the hilltop. His cayou whinnied and snorted, stamping its feet. Anryss jerked on the reigns and adjusted himself in the saddle. As soon as he saw what lay in the valley below, all weariness dissipated. “This is it!” he shouted to the warriors behind him. Filled with new life, they quickly crowded forward to look.

The Wistrix Donn, the thing they had been sent to destroy, lay nestled in the valley below. Anryss wrested his eyes from it and surveyed the surrounding land. Steep, pine-covered hills ringed the bowl-shaped valley. On its floor, which stretched about two miles in diameter, grew a lush carpet of waist-high grass that rippled like lake water as the wind whipped through the bowl.

The sky grew continually darker. Clouds pushed low, churning and occasionally emitting low, powerful rumbles that vibrated the earth. Anryss glanced up, then looked back to the valley’s center where a slender ziggurat of blood-purple amethyst surged from the ground. Spaced evenly about it were three gateways, each of which was constructed of three glistening beams of obsidian.

Anryss rubbed his scarred chin. “Follow me,” he said, not looking at his men. “We’ll go slow. Be ready. When we’re closer, we’ll decide how to take it apart.” With that, Anryss began leading the descent into the bowl. The stream of warriors flowed slowly down the hillside through the dense filter of pine. As Anryss drew near the floor, his sense of terror burgeoned. Coming out from the trees, his chest and neck constricted. Fear gripped him.

The cayou he rode flattened its ears and halted. Anryss urged it on with an abrupt kick in the sides. Despite the cold wind, Anryss felt the sweat beading and rolling down his body. The sildins followed in a silent march. They stole furtive glances at the surrounding woods. The world around them no longer felt like a land of reality, but rather like something out of a dream. They walked, searching for the offspring of imagination, the nightmares they expected.

Dense clouds spilled over the wooded lips of the bowl. Rain fell. Only four hundred meters separated Anryss from the Wistrix Donn. Fear gave way to rage. Drawing his sword, he released a battle cry and lashed his spurred heels. The cayou burst into a gallop. Behind, the trailing soldiers surged forward.

Anryss had nearly reached the center, when several colorful blurs shot through the closest gate. His vision focused. An dragonfly of gargantuan size came directly at him. Anryss reacted slowly. He didn’t feel the blow that rendered him unconscious and knocked him to the ground.

A short time later, pelting rain prodded Anryss to consciousness. Sitting up, he saw the entire valley crawling with activity. A thick ring of enemies surrounded him and his warriors. Dozens of mounted dragonflies hovered and darted over the center of the valley. Outnumbered and outmatched, his sildins began to lay their weapons on the ground.

Anryss noticed there were four colors of dragonflies: bright green, a glowing magenta, iridescent blue, and pitch black. Nearby, a green one hovered. From its body, the green color extended through the veins of its four translucent wings. It had a scorpion-like tail that folded down, hanging poised under its belly. The stinger was hooked and black. Amazed, Anryss recognized the beast was not a dragonfly, but a draspet—a mythical creature from childhood fables.

He surveyed the faces of the enemy troops. Some he recognized as soldiers he had personally known, soldiers who had long been missing! Pulling himself to his feet, he staggered toward one, wading through the deep grass. “How could you?” he rasped. His voice rose to a scream, “How could you? Traitorous bastard!” Coming close, Anryss looked into the face. There was no trace of recognition.

Anryss looked to his right. With a flash of deep purple, a figure emerged from the nearest gateway. One hand held a staff of black walnut. The being tipped his head back and raised his free hand in the air. Small, glowing orbs emanated from his fingers and began floating through the air. Tens, then hundreds—the orbs of light began turning in whirlpool-like fashion, sluggishly at first, then faster and faster—the orbs multiplied among themselves, the hundreds becoming thousands and millions, until the valley was filled.

Anryss stared in disbelief as the being on the rocks began to undergo a metamorphosis. The being’s skin and garments began breaking apart like a cracking eggshell. The pieces then dissipated into the air, leaving behind an ethereal being of light. So bright was his visage, it pained Anryss to look at him. Finally, the air became completely saturated with the orbs. Blinded by the brilliance, Anryss felt a sharp downward rush of air. Then all was quiet.

The blinding light melted away and Anryss found himself being jostled in the midst of a sea of bodies. In that moment he knew that the realities he had known no longer existed. About him, he heard the confusion he felt being sounded through the voices of his comrades. He struggled against the surge of flesh as if fighting for air. He heard shouts of pain and surprise as he struck out at those around him. Moments later, the sea of bodies opened; he had fought his way to its shore.

Before him stood a stone bridge which spanned deep, fast-flowing river. The gray mist of the river spray prevented him from seeing what lay on the far bank. Behind him, he heard a hush grow over the sildin troops. He knew that they watched to see what he would do. Anryss took one step towards the stone bridge, and then another. He moved as he moved in dreams, acting because he had no choice. The mystery of the unknown possessed him fully. He had to cross the bridge.

His feet passed from turf to stone, and he ascended the gentle curve of the stone arch. At the top he paused and looked about. This place was the ledge of a mountain. On his right was a sheer cliff of obsidian. The peak of the mountain stood miles above it. On his left there was a valley miles and miles below. Beneath him churned the waters of the river; waters which spewed themselves from a gaping maw in the cliff of obsidian. Above him, a deep purple glow dominated the atmosphere.

It seemed to him at that moment, that the world itself welcomed him. He heard a whisper in his consciousness that said: “Welcome to Isalla.” It was then, and only then, that he became cognizant of what lay before him. He saw a large circular slab of obsidian stone inlaid in the turf. At its rear stood three gateways of obsidian. Each gateway had a richly robed figure standing before it. At front edge of the stone slab there rested two ornate pedestals of jade. The bowl of one held sand. The bowl of the other held water.

A spark of brilliance tore the air that separated the two jade pedestals. It grew and flared. Anryss felt as if he were watching the birth of a star. When the light faded, he found himself looking at the mild smile of the one who had brought him here. The man held his staff in one hand, and with the other he reached into the bowl of the pedestal on his left. He then held his hand over the opposite pedestal. Anryss watched with curiosity as the silvery-black sand slipped through the fingers of the being and dissolved in the bowl of water.

The figure then beckoned to Anryss, and Anryss descended to the far side.