I was going in the right direction. I knew it by the great number of dead beings strewn along the path. There were not only humans or goblins—every trace of life was dead. Insect corpses even. The race was against time. I could not go so fast that I had no magic left, but even with the ceremony they proposed, it was very brief. All the runes composing this enchantment had been recited decades ago. I did not know when they were told it was useful, but it must have been long before I arrived with them.
The dwarves inhabiting that isle, I thought, regretted their decision. Most were great smiths. The pay was good, the materials top quality. But it all ran out. This armor I wore was not even for humans—it was designed for a Forest Elf. It was someone's coliseum armor. They protected them well; they did not want them to die too soon. The sword was a gift, made by the dwarf king—not at the elves' request. They never cared to give anything. The dwarf trained me. It was hard, exhausting years. Physical strength was not the only thing that mattered when trained by the people who considered knees an ideal height to cut—without fear of receiving a mace blow, axe blow, or any blow coming from above. I had to learn that. When I trained, I used no more magic than they employed for muscle reinforcement—the same I used now.
Anyone who saw me running would think I was crouching. But that was not the case. I ran bent over to avoid being seen. My cloak could adopt various shades of brown—a camouflage not very effective in battles, as everyone watched for any movement. But when running, they only saw a kind of illusion, like when eyes were tired. When I reached open ground, I changed movement. The inclination was to keep eyes off my gait. I could run many hours like this—it was fast and made you undetectable. But when the plain was barren, speed was useless, constancy pointless. I straightened my body a little, my strides now longer. Each stride must store momentum for the next. Normally, that would mean being slow to avoid impact on the knees, but a small magical cushion prevented meniscus wear. The dwarves used it—there and in the lungs to reduce exhaustion. Even with these benefits, I was three hours late compared to my love. I felt her. I feared her.
I did not know what the hell she had done, but she felt freer—not her. My beloved was no longer there. Something must remain, otherwise we would already be facing a colossal crisis. But what remained was a cloud of fire that was her consciousness. From afar, it gave the impression of belonging to her, but the charred remains held fire—I hoped. It was perhaps the only thing that could save us from the destructive thirst of whoever inhabited those remains and remained here in this reality using the heat vapor of what remained of my beloved. There were some traces of corruption—true evil in the air. A few insects already mutated. They did not attack me, but I could see flies with two or three stingers. None of them were truly sized. Moreover, I did not think they would grow more. They were malevolent insects from the intensity with which they harassed the scarce animals inhabiting the plains. I did not like this. The corruption should not be so marked—unless my estimates were wrong. That thought alone gave wings to my feet. If I was wrong, there would be no alliance, no power that could face what was coming.
In the distance, like a beacon, I could see the magical field of the elves' sacred site. Sadly, my throat was not capable of pronouncing its name. Few elves—those of highest lineage—had access to its true name. That site was the place of their founders. Powerful magical devices were stored there—only royalty had access. In the traditional elven tongue, it bore the name House of the Forbidden Leaves. I was sure it was not the only forbidden thing in a markedly classist society. But its repulsion shield was still active and quite strong for its years of use. I supposed the magic used had not been preserved in these times. That meant I was less than two hours away at this speed. Better accelerate. I leaned forward again and felt the blade's edge pass where my head had been seconds earlier.
That was the bad thing about using dwarven magic: you had to trust your instinct. Your perception was your life. I could have perception of ten meters without my field active, but when running at high speeds, it diminished. It did not matter now. I extended my field and felt them—about twenty meters from me, hidden behind one of the boulders. They were orcs—a species not common on this side of the continent. They were brutes, strong, resistant to magic, and on no one's side. Just at that moment, one of them threw another maul. This time, I knew perfectly where it was coming—vertical rotation, I supposed to avoid his weapon if I ducked. I stopped and caught his weapon by the handle. My intention was only to lower it, to show them it was not in my plans to attack or be attacked by orcs. But then my hands touched the weapon.
A repulsive shiver ran through me. This was corruption in its pure state. The maul obviously had not deformed. It was forged by orcs when they were still normal. These—red and larger from what I could see—came out to meet me, growling. Not a threat, not a challenge. They were not the warriors normally considered. They were only beasts thirsty for blood, corrupted by their misfortune of being near where the coffin and its terrible inhabitant had passed. This was bad. The seals should not have weakened to this level—unless she was receiving external help... Another shiver ran through me. They must have passed through the king's tomb. That mad elf in the caverns kept something for her. I had no more time. Now I was truly on the edge of Greenleaf's destruction.
I had no time for these masses. I ran again, charging against them. A brute drew a machete and made a horizontal cut. Had I stopped that blow, my arm would have fractured. They were fast—that was a fact. So I leaped at his face. They were at least two heads taller than me and a couple of bodies wide. That was not orc physique, but still resistant to magic, not immune to it. In my hands, I formed two stalactites—as cold as I could manage. As I fell before him, while his mouth sought to bite my chest, my hand struck his eyes. The ice needles penetrated deep and destroyed his brain. I had no time to see if he fell dead—three more came for me, drooling. From my position, I backflipped. The gravity rune activated when my sword passed ninety degrees, then accelerated. When it struck the first attacker's skull, it left him with a stupid look, as if he did not know his life was over—brain oozing through the cut that had passed through his head. As he fell, I let go of my sword. Molten Fire could damage it. I spun right, leaving me beside the third. With both hands, I struck his side and felt my arms sink in. His blood was a little hotter than average—about sixty to eighty degrees—but nothing compared to the three hundred I was cooking his insides with. He writhed desperately. But before he could reach me, I got to his center first, incinerated his spine, and he fell like a marionette with no strings.
The last one looked at me suspiciously. I imagined he was the leader from his crude leather armor. He turned to flee. I had no time to pursue him—not knowing what he was capable of. Twist was a cruel magic. It caught his feet and enveloped him. Normally, it only disoriented, but with the power I had, it destroyed. Every bone and muscle succumbed to its power. I saw him resist like a dwarf—his muscles strained to the maximum as the tornado passed over him. Finally, his fingers, wrists, shoulders, vertebrae, and finally his neck gave way under the pressure and broke. He fell dead before his eyes left their sockets. An unpleasant magic.
I increased my speed. It was no time for doubt. In the distance, a pile of charred remains testified to the battle. I incinerated them to prevent any scavenger from becoming infected. I had to arrive soon. The corruption spread faster than expected. I felt a knot in my stomach—the sensation that I would not make it.