Double Life - Book 1 of the Vaiya Series (8 page)

Turning around sharply to glance at his
pursuers’ locations, he stared around in astonishment. No one was
there. All noise had stopped.

In fearful disbelief, Ian stood there in mute
silence, his sore feet throbbing as if he’d run a marathon, his
head spinning, as he sought to make sense of everything.

Nothing felt real. Only a short while ago
he’d been upstairs in Hazel’s house checking out her dusty attic.
Now he was in a world with sorcerers determined to murder him for
no apparent reason. The contrast was staggering and nearly
unbelievable. This bizarre nightmare had to end. How could he even
live another minute in this hostile environment?

Pressing his hands firmly to his head to try
to ease his troubled mind, he scanned over the battle scene in
wonder. The bramble bushes still burned with an unholy blackish
fire; the fallen trees in front of him lay lifeless on the ground,
completely uprooted, even though their trunks were gigantic and
never should’ve been knocked over so easily; and the poisonous
fumes in the air had all but dissipated, leaving only the lingering
smell of bitter herbs behind.

Surveying the destruction around him, Ian
knew it was obvious that he should’ve died and that the hunters had
probably thought him dead, which explained why they’d stopped
chasing him and had left him all alone.

Though he could generally come up with
logical reasons for why things occurred, in this instance, he was
entirely baffled, and couldn’t find any good reason for why the
vines and wasps had vaporized at his touch, why he didn’t get
scorched by the searing heat from the leaping flames that had
surrounded him only minutes before, why he didn’t get flung into
the air by the powerful gust of wind, or why the poison didn’t even
harm him.

The only valid explanations he could come up
with were that he was either immune to magic, or they hadn’t really
intended to harm him. Both options though, seemed highly
improbable, as they’d obviously wanted to kill him and it made no
sense for him to have an immunity to magic, something he still
found hard to believe in even after witnessing it firsthand; for
only a short while ago, he’d thought that ghosts were myths, that
haunted attics were mere superstitions, and that magic and
incantations were things only found in books and movies.

Now, however, after just being attacked by a
trio of sorcerers casting their unholy spells at him, he didn’t
know what to think about these things. All he knew though was that
weird magic-type phenomena definitely existed here, as he’d just
witnessed with his assailants. He’d just have to prepare himself
for the unexpected. He couldn't take any chances.

With those troubling thoughts in mind, Ian
grit his teeth, both deeply unsettled and entirely angry. He
shouldn’t even be here. He didn’t belong here. He should be at
Hazel’s mansion right now bowling, eating food, or even playing
chess. If anyone should be here, it should be Kenn. Perhaps
something like that would shake him up enough so that he’d actually
be nice to people if or when he returned home. It certainly
couldn’t do him any harm--unless it killed him, that is.

Relishing in that morbid thought for several
seconds, Ian broke himself out of his blind daze and shook his head
at himself, entirely ashamed and disgusted by his heartless
attitude. Even though he despised Kenn more than anyone else, death
was still not something he should wish upon anyone. To think such
was sadistic and savage, making him really only a little better
than the sorcerers.

Growing uneasy with himself, he quickly cut
off those thoughts, realizing that they were doing him no good, and
started pondering over what to do next.

After several minutes had rolled by, he
eventually decided that it’d be best to leave this place, as the
sorcerers might want to come back later to either bury him--as they
probably thought him dead--or stake him to a tree, as a sign for
other travelers to beware.

Determined not to let either happen, he began
walking slowly, cautiously. Going around the sharp trees, he sped
up his pace, as he imagined the sorcerers’ fury upon finding him
still alive.

After forty minutes of steady trotting
though, his body aching with weariness, he found himself completely
fatigued, and his mindset changed drastically. Though he still
feared getting caught by the sorcerers, he was so exhausted now
that he could barely run another step, leaving him with no other
choice but to take a nap and hope that they didn’t discover his
resting place. If they did, he knew he was as good as dead.

Uncomfortable with his decision, realizing
that this may be his last nap, Ian laid down on the ground in front
of him, near a smooth-barked tree, and breathed heavily, scanning
the area one last time for anything suspicious.

Fortunately, he saw no one, though he was
only somewhat relieved by that as the sorcerers might be hiding,
waiting for him to fall asleep before murdering him, or they might
happen to stumble across him, catching him unaware while he was
sleeping.

Despite his apprehensions, however, he had no
other choice. He had to rest, whether it would be his death or
not.

Finally succumbing to fatigue, Ian rested his
head on a patch of fragrant white wildflowers, covered in glittery
blue pollen, closed his eyes, and tried to sleep. But sleep
wouldn’t come.

After laying in a dreary stupor for twenty
minutes, half asleep, half awake, he was just about to lift himself
up, when a voice called out to him in an exotic-sounding
tongue.

Startled, terror sending tremors throughout
his whole body, Ian darted his head around fiercely, nearly giving
himself whiplash, fully expecting to see the gray warlocks again,
knowing that if it were them, his life was over.

However, instead of the sorcerers, what he
saw were three athletic fair-skinned figures, one of whom clutched
a large basket woven of strong wooden fibers. A longbow and a
quiver of arrows hung gently from each of their backs by a tight
dark blue leather strap that slid neatly over their shoulders.
Their fine-chiseled faces, unblemished and smooth, shone with
wisdom, and their sharp green eyes, full of intrigue, shimmered
with suspicion.

The two males had long black hair that
covered up the back of their necks and most of their foreheads,
while the lone female had shoulder-length blonde hair cascading
over her ears and tucked into an ornate braid that was decorated
with green and brown wildflowers.

Captivated by their strange appearances, Ian
noticed that their ears--half an inch longer than human’s--pointed
out in a peculiar fashion, reminding him of elves' ears. Stupefied,
he just shook his head around in bewilderment; what was going on
here? Was he stuck in some fantasy world?

Perplexed, he continued staring at them,
hoping they were friendly, when the likely leader, wearing a silver
heart-shaped pendant around his neck, in contrast to the iron
circle-shaped ones his comrades wore, spoke, causing an eloquent
and smooth sounding language to immediately flow through Ian’s
ears.

Unfortunately, though, he comprehended none
of it; Chinese would’ve been easier to understand, as at least he
had a feel for how the language should sound, unlike this one,
which he had no concept of at all.

Feeling the distress that comes when two
people can’t understand each other, Ian stood up, and brushing the
dirt off his clothes, cautiously approached the leader. “Hello, my
name’s Ian,” he said awkwardly, bowing slightly. Perhaps they’d
understand his language.

However, as Ian extended his hand towards the
leader, it was clear that his words made no sense to them either,
as they all exchanged weird glances with each other, the leader
ignoring his polite gesture.

Embarrassed, Ian quickly retracted his hand,
while the leader reached into his cloak pocket and pulled out a
small silver ring with a brilliant spherical green amethyst in the
middle. Holding out his hand politely, he motioned for Ian to take
it.

Cautious, Ian picked up the semi-light ring
and turned it around in his fingers. If they wanted him to wear it,
they could wave goodbye to that dream. Rings were for girls or
engaged or married couples. He’d never wear one again, not after
what happened last time.

It all began one warm spring day in first
grade. That day, just for fun, he wore a fake plastic gold ring to
school that his mom had gotten in a white elephant gift exchange
the past Christmas. However, as he arrived to class, his friend
Eddy had laughed at him and asked him sarcastically whom he planned
to marry. Ashamed, he took off the ring and threw it away; yet it
was too late--all his classmates already saw him. He was teased for
months afterwards....

He felt a ring being slipped onto his index
finger. Shocked, anger rising in his heart, Ian broke out of his
thoughts, determined to yank it off, when he heard the leader’s
voice:

“The elves of Amalon greet you,” the leader
sneered insincerely, a cold aloof smile on his face.

At his words, Ian just stared at him in
astonishment--not only did he actually understand him now, but the
previously mysterious language now made complete sense to him, and
unique words, phrases, pronunciations, and intonations from the
elven language continued flooding into his mind. This was just
plain weird.

“What just happened?” Ian muttered, as he
looked down at the elf’s strange black pointed shoes that seemed to
shine in the sunlight, too interested in the ring’s magical power
to even care that the guy had said he was an elf.

But the leader either didn’t hear him or
chose to ignore him. “Return it,” he said sharply, gazing down at
Ian with utter disgust, as the other male elf winced at the
leader’s unkind attitude.

Startled, Ian took a few seconds to process
the impolite request. “The ring?” he asked rhetorically, with as
much dignity as possible, trying to get on his good side. How he’d
started out on his bad side, he could only guess at. “Yeah, sure.”
Yanking the ring off his finger, irritated by his touchy behavior,
Ian handed it back to him, vexed that these elves, if that’s what
they really were, were so much ruder than the ones from Lord of the
Rings.

But the elf was oblivious to his annoyance.
Wordless, he received the ring and soon concealed it, before
adding, “The language will fade from your memory by tonight, so do
not grow too fond of it.”

Biting back his anger, Ian found himself
severely irritated by his unfriendly tone and snide comments; truth
be told, he wanted to slap the elf in the face, something that he
rarely thought about doing to strangers. Even his friend Eddy at
his worst, tripping Alan, slipping banana peels into Alan’s locker,
or sticking gum inside Alan’s books, couldn’t rile him up this
much. It took all his kindness to simply say nothing.

The elf, studying him a little, undoubtedly
detecting some of his hostility, spoke again, his style just as
belittling and bitter as before: “Do not think too much of
yourself, boy; you are not the first human we’ve met.”

“That’s good to know,” said Ian
sarcastically, giving him a half-sneer, inwardly concealing his
deep-seated scowl.

But the elf didn’t seem to catch any of his
sarcasm or his words. Straightening out his thick velvet cloak, a
huge contrast to the other elf’s pear green cloak and the woman’s
black medieval gown sprinkled with white, lavender and violet
flowers, he began staring with cynical curiosity at Ian’s ripped
blue jeans and short-sleeved blue shirt. Eventually, he spoke: “You
have very unusual garments, human.”

His condescending words slammed into Ian like
a heavyweight wrestler. Unusual garments? Was this guy insane? He
wasn’t the one dressed like a medieval lord from a role-playing
game.

Resisting the urge to jab the elf with his
elbow as he’d done to Eddy earlier that day, Ian instead gave him a
frustrated look. “Are you kidding? You think this is weird?”

The elf merely looked amused, as if Ian had
said something totally ridiculous. “Yes, I do,” he said, “and as
the river flows, your shabby raiment and uncouth speech speak of a
poor upbringing.”

Poor upbringing?
he thought
disgustedly, growing outraged. He was the son of a wealthy
businessman, his clothes were rather expensive … and there was
definitely nothing wrong with his speech. “My upbringing’s fine,”
he retorted.

But the elf acted as if he hadn’t even heard
him, something that was really beginning to get on Ian’s nerves.
Face of a spoiled brat who’d just inherited a million dollars from
his grandpa, the elf then curled his lips into a greedy smirk as if
his commands were law. “Give me your name.”

A greenish-blue leaf fell onto Ian’s dark
brown hair and he brushed it off, entirely exasperated, as he
reflected on whether he should even answer him. It would serve him
right if he just said nothing.

After several seconds had passed though, he
decided he might as well indulge the elf’s request, if for no other
reason than to try to appease him. Though the elf hadn’t shown any
physical animosity towards him yet, he wouldn’t put it past him, so
he’d better try not to anger him any further. “I’m Ian Hansen, and
you?”

“Azadar Silverheart.” He scientifically
plucked a bright golden flower with seven pedals and tossed it into
his basket, while continuing the interrogation, his face both aloof
and cynical. “So, tell me,
Ian
,” he began, accenting his
name with a deeply derogatory tone, as if Ian were one of his
servants, “What were you doing in my forest?”

“Taking a nap,” Ian replied curtly.

Azadar took a step closer to him his eyes
burning with disgust. “I don’t believe you,” he said, briefly
scanning the forest as if searching for enemies. “My heart tells me
you are a spy for Tazik.”