Page 28 of Revenge of the Elf Lord

He glanced at Castien, who still had a sort of green hue to his skin, but other than that, he looked better than he had a few minutes before. “I will return shortly.”

Turning back to Shalendra, he narrowed his eyes. “Stay sharp and don’t let anyone in. While I realize you recognize some magic, many other forms scattered throughout the Nine Worlds can fool even the best tracker.”

Shalendra touched Castien’s arm, her fingers gripping his forearm, and no matter how hard he tried, Cyran couldn’t pull his gaze away. He willed her to stop touching the dwarf. Even the knowledge that Castien was gay didn’t help the rising possessiveness swirling through him.

“I don’t think Castien can travel right now,” Shalendra's soft-spoken statement broke the spell, and he jerked. The dwarf looked worse than he had a few seconds ago. “I will stay here with him. I don’t want him to suffer alone.” She gave Cyran a sharp glance, and he reluctantly nodded.

With a quick flick of his head, the three draugar, without taking a single step, now stood around him, their skeletal hands resting on both shoulders and his back. One thought sent them spiraling through what he called spacetime.

A mere minute passed, and they appeared in a small forest clearing. A quaint home stood on the far edge, and the mountain backdrop was picturesque. Thankfully, the white stone building remained unchanged since his last visit. The roses, in all stages of bloom, climbed the weather-stained trellis and farther up along the thatched roof line, drawing his gaze to the smokeless chimney.

On the other side of the front door, the white filmy curtain twitched in the window. Striding up to the wooden door, he gave it a sharp rap with his fist and waited. The door swung open to reveal an empty room. The barren stone fireplace rested in the middle of the far wall, and two matching high-backed chairs stood on either side.

“I need your help, my friend,” he whispered outside the doorway.

“Who’s with you?” Ailuin asked on the other side of the door.

“You may not have met the creatures with me yet, but you will. They will become our partners in a future war.” He glanced at the three draugar, his gaze landing on Daqar and then moving to Banayl. “They will be our friends.”

Ailuin opened the door and stepped into view. With a wide flourish of his free arm, he welcomed them. “I’m not quite sure what’s going on—you were just here?—”

“This version of Cyran was not.” Lamruil, Ailuin’s twin brother, stepped up behind him. “I sensed the shifting of time. If you’ve come here now, there must be good reason.” With a hand on his brother’s shoulder, he stepped back and moved Ailuin back with him. “Come in and tell your tale. I have always wanted to meet the fabled draugar.”

Ailuin’s eyes widened, his gaze moving to the three creatures behind Cyran.

With a nod, Cyran ushered in the draugar, who entered the room, each having to duck to clear the top of the door frame. He followed and closed the door behind him.

“You are correct, Lamruil. Time has passed, but I will not go into those details. The less you know about the future, the better. I will only tell you things aren’t as good as we’d hoped back home. A strange illness invades the land, spreading throughout Alfheimr and Svartálfheimr, and since you do not know the draugar, I can forget asking about the disappearance of their leader and second-in-command.”

Lamruil crossed his arms, a frown on his handsome face. “How is this connected to us during a war on Midgard?”

“I was tasked to find a missing girl and uncovered a rat’s nest. While we have given shelter to the draugar and werewolves…” Cyran’s gaze bored into Lamruil’s icy-blue stare. “Of whom you know much about, there is also a faction of wolves working for someone else and causing mayhem. I have heard a rumor or two regarding rogues, and then shortly after, the nearby population becomes sick with symptoms that mimic several other diseases. Each town I’ve come across seems to be a little different.”

Lamruil’s blond brow rose. “Like the experiment is changing?” Cyran nodded.

The elf moved to look out through the sheer curtain in the window. “Do you remember the weeks leading up to the Great War back home? People were getting sick then, too, but no one noticed because more people were dying in battle. Even so, our father was suspicious and sent your father to study the symptoms and, hopefully, figure out what was happening.”

Lamruil’s icy stare speared Cyran’s. “I don’t recall hearing what your father discovered. You were so young—do you remember?”

The memories swamped him, sending a frigid sensation through his body, all but freezing him to the spot where he stood. He remembered all too well. In his eagerness to help the king, he discovered more than he ever bargained for. His stepfather had planted the magically spliced disease in different villages, using spells to change each version, testing which prospered and which failed.

Horrified at what he uncovered, he returned home and memorized the stasis spell in his father’s private tome. Every slight sound in the empty cave filled him with terror at being caught, but he held strong and memorized the base spell, changing it only slightly to make it his own.

No one had ever discovered what he had done that night. Standing in the ruins of the oldest Elven village, he cast the spell and sent Haman into stasis. He couldn’t kill him, but he could send him into a permanent sleep so no one else would suffer from his madness.

Forcing those memories away, he nodded. “I remember many things, although I never spoke to Haman before his disappearance.” That was the truth, but he had a choice to make. Should he tell his best friends the truth? Would their opinion of him change?

He exhaled his anxiety and blurted out the truth. “I discovered Haman was behind the sickness, but your father died before I could tell him.”

He gave them enough of the story so no more questions would be asked, and his relationship with the brothers would not suffer. “I have no real knowledge of what he created or the viruses he used, but I have a growing suspicion and have also considered the similar circumstances of history repeating itself.”

Lamruil stared at his twin, then turned his ice-blue gaze back to Cyran. “We knew something happened between you and Haman and figured you would tell us in your own time.”

Lamruil placed a steady hand on Cyran’s shoulder. “We are like Dumas’s story—the three musketeers. We were raised as brothers and will remain so, Cyran. Never fear losing that, no matter the deed. Now, go to Austria, a mental asylum called Schloss Hartheim. I think you will find, at least, a few of the answers you search for in that godforsaken place.”

Ailuin nodded. “Keep your eyes open, my friend. I fear you may discover some things haven’t stayed in the past.”

Cyran wanted to ask him what he meant but knew Ailuin would say no more. Instead, he gave the twins a slight bow and stepped away from Banayl, putting an extra foot between them. With a wave of his hand, he motioned to the nearby draugr. “This is Banayl, right hand to their interim leader, Daqar, standing to his left. The one on the other side is Ukris. I must go back for the other two in our party. Their location is unsafe, and I dare not leave them any longer. I will return shortly.”

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