Elantion

She headed for the tavern, as she knew she’d find Oloice there. The dwarf was sitting at a table by the sidelines, enjoying a plate of hot soup and a nice mug of ale. From time to time, he looked up to regard the distrusting elves from under his bushy eyebrows, without ever removing his head from the plate. When Clarice entered, the dwarf picked up from her expression that things had gone awry.

After the elf left, Kaj sat staring at the wall in front. He closed his eyes for a moment. He gripped the medallion tight in one hand; his curiosity was getting to him. What if she’s right? he thought. Clarice’s words had piqued his curiosity more than he wished to admit. He drank mead until he felt sufficiently drunk, then he got up staggering, laying himself to bed and drifting off to sleep in no time.

*

Far from Fenan, in the winding Spur Valley, the wagon of Supreme Necromancer Lyrus trundled toward the fort that was constructed next to the temple erected by the Fellowship of the Veil, incorporating it. His bony and wrinkled hand pulled lightly at the heavy fabric that obscured the interior of the carriage, to work out how long the journey would last. All that was visible from inside the small opening was his probing, evil red eye, which scanned the landscape for a while before the curtain closed again. The slopes of the Rugged Range were barren and steep, expanses of grass interspersed with screes and large boulders that had rolled down due to winter avalanches and summer landslides. The vast spruce woods that had reigned undisturbed until two years prior had been razed to the ground due to the battlefields’ rapacious demand for wood. The ancient path in Spur Valley had been enlarged and paved by tulvaren soldiers to allow for the constant and speedy passage of troops and wagons. The road’s shape was reminiscent of a river, which at times flowed straight and at times meandered in fairly broad bights.

A few curves in the road ahead, the creaking of the heavy gate at the walls could be heard. The wagon, pulled by mighty horses, entered and proceeded quickly to the fort’s central corps. The great hall was lit only by torches and candles, as sunlight reached the interior. Lyrus was finally able to exit the wagon. The tulvar was very old, and was rumored to have far surpassed the 150-year mark. He was also very tall, with a bony body that made him appear slender, white hair, and fiery red eyes that seemed all the brighter compared to his dark attire.

“Welcome back, Supreme Necromancer,” said one of the Fellowship mages, visibly nervous.

The old man waved his hand and everyone moved aside. Stepping slowly, and accompanied by his long cane and the tinkling of his heavy, crystal-studded silver belt, he headed toward the corridor that accessed the temple. Upon reaching the portal, a stooped and slender being approached him, covered by a light cotton garment that had been mended and stained several times. The collar at his neck was the symbol of his condition, and he limped on his bare feet. It was Snort, Lyrus’s personal uggar, to whom he entrusted the belt and cane.

“You know that dallying in this way is not good for you, my lord,” said the mage shrilly.

“Have you prepared everything?” asked Lyrus.

“Of course, as you commanded.”

The old man went to the portal and neared the circle of crystals that kept it stable. He folded up the sleeve of his tunic, exposing his arm and the crystals he had set into his flesh. Then he stretched out his hand, and lightning flashed toward it. The crystals began to shine, and as their light strengthened, the elderly necromancer regained his strength.

“Wretch!” Lyrus shouted. “Bring the sacrifice.”

The uggar appeared, tugging an elven corpse by the rope around its neck. Arriving at the necromancer, he tied the rope to an iron ring planted in the floor.

“I Snort,” said Snort, pointing to himself. He handed the elderly tulvar a crystal chalice and oval metal plate containing an assortment of particular ingredients. Lyrus ignored that statement, regarding him contemptuously.

“The ceremonial dagger,” he ordered.

Snort obeyed, and handed him the dagger.

“Now get out of my sight,” said Lyrus.

Snort bowed precariously low before the necromancer, who, with a wave of his hand, judged the uggar’s presence superfluous. And so Snort dragged his feet out of the room.

Nobody could witness the ritual, and the tulvars outside the door, together with Snort, could only tremble and hope they would never end up in Lyrus’s hands. The ritual ended after a few hours, and the necromancer retired to his chambers, while the spy he had just created walked toward his destination—the city of Nidath.

*

Meanwhile, in Fenan, Kaj woke up late that same morning, feeling like his head was about to burst. He looked out a window and saw that it had stopped snowing. The sun timidly peeked out from behind the clouds, its bright rays blinding him for a second. He washed his face, and as he dried off, he found himself staring at his old trunk, which he hadn’t opened since he’d gotten back to Fenan. He needed to do it if he wanted to follow Clarice, as everything he needed was in there. He threw the towel on the bed, bent down in front of the trunk, and slowly opened its lid. As soon as he saw its contents, his heart skipped a beat. They were mementoes of times past—and they were all he’d managed to recover from his prior home. The first thing he picked up was his old diary. His hands trembled, and he struggled to hold back tears. He remembered every single word. He opened it, and saw that period of his life flash before his eyes. A few pages in, he found the portrait. She was so beautiful. He’d drawn her while she was reading. She’d loved to read, he thought. He felt lost; the pain tore through his heart as he relived that terrible scene. Blood everywhere, as she lay pale on the ground. He found himself sitting on the floor with his diary in hand, and his shirt wet with tears. He wiped his eyes and pulled a bag out of the trunk. Inside it, there were still a few coins he’d kept for remembrance’s sake, and a white scroll. His father taught him all the secrets a good blacksmith should know, like how to fight and how to forge swords. Kaj used to assist him in everything, and on the day of the assault on Lochbis, he had been bargaining for ore elsewhere. The last object in the trunk was his sword, which he had forged himself. It was his pride. Kaj grabbed the hilt and pulled it out of its sheath—it was perfectly oiled, clean, and shiny. He saw his reflection on the blade, and, locking eyes with himself, he realized that he wasn’t the man he once was. He got up and started getting dressed. He picked up his old leather armor, leg protectors, bracelets, tunic, gloves, and boots. He was amazed that everything still fit him perfectly. He tucked the sheath into his belt, and with another belt, he secured the sword in place. Then he slung the bag over his shoulder and took everything that could prove useful before finally fastening his cloak. In that moment, he felt invigorated.

The blanket of snow had rendered the village silent and deserted. Kaj arrived at the sanctuary and knocked on its door. He heard approaching footsteps, and sure enough, the door opened. It was Clarice.

With a nod, she let him in. “You’ll have to buy me a drink, Oloice,” she said, satisfied.

“I’ll be damned! I hate to admit it, but you were right,” said Oloice, to his chagrin.

“I’m always right!” she replied.

“I have to apologize to both of you. I wasn’t at my finest,” said Kaj.

“Then have your a nice mug of beer and let’s put all of the misunderstandings to rest,” proposed Oloice, as he approached to pat Kaj on the arm.

“Thank you, Oloice, but not now…” said Kaj, to a stupefied Oloice.

“You must be joking,” he replied.

“I already drank too much last night. Offer it to Clarice,” he suggested.

“Ha! If I indulged in drink every time Oloice offered, I’d be a wreck!”

“Why do you think I travel with an elf? More alcohol for me!” quipped the dwarf contentedly. “You’re such party poopers, the both of you!”

Clarice smiled, shaking her head. Then she turned serious: “We’re leaving tomorrow. I think you should go tell Cilna. She cares about you a great deal.”

Kaj nodded. “She’s like a sister to me. I owe her an explanation. I’ll pay her a visit tomorrow.”

Night descended upon the village, and with it, silence. Kaj was lying on his cot. The gloomy and rhythmic hooting of an owl marked the passage of time, and the man imagined that it was Vesid (or “Ebarul,” as the elves called her), the evanescent goddess of foresight and wisdom. Humans invoked Vesid in order to find their way again, and if the goddess deemed them worthy, she would light the way with her lantern.

Clarice was looking out the window, toward the west. The conversation she’d had with Oloice a few days back came to mind. The dwarf had expressed his doubts about Kaj, but instead of sowing doubt in her, he’d just convinced her that she’d done well to keep searching. She was the one who found the medallion and the glimmer it emitted; now that it was around Kaj’s neck, it had to mean he was a descendant of Aidan III’s lineage, just like in the manuscripts at Nidath she’d read. She was worried about the journey ahead—there was a lot of snow, and they would certainly have to make frequent stops in order to avoid freezing.

“Can I bother you?” said Kaj, giving her a start.

“It’s no bother,” said the elf, motioning for the man to come closer.

“Can’t sleep?”

“No. My mind’s racing,” she admitted.

“What are you thinking about?”

“A lot and nothing at the same time. Though I think you deserve to know something about me…” The elf stopped for a moment, waiting for his response.

“Do tell. I’m listening.”

“As I’ve told you, I come from the Red Rises, and my family used to produce and sell fermented juice. Until, one night, Djazrem slavers came to the region and looted the village. In all the turmoil, I lost sight of my parents, and so they captured me to sell me along with the other children…”

She stopped, alarmed by the odd noises coming from outside. She promptly hushed Kaj, who’d been about to comment on her story.

Kaj’s eyes asked her what was going on.

“Don’t you hear?” she said under her breath.

Kaj strained his ears, and suddenly, he heard quick and heavy footsteps on the wooden bridge. They leaned out the window, and saw the dancing flames of a number of torches. One look was all it took to have them gripping their own arms.

“Oloice! Wake up!” shouted Clarice, hitting the dwarf so hard she almost pushed him off the bed.

“What’s going on!?” he exclaimed, shocked.

“They’re attacking the village! Orcs!” Kaj yelled, at the door.

Oloice took up his axe and dashed out of the sanctuary. “Why here?”

The elf shook her head. “No idea!”

Both followed Oloice into the fray and traded blows with the orcs. There were around twenty in all; only rarely were orcs seen in such numbers beyond the Slumbering Peaks. Some were short, and some were tall, but all were brawny, with large swords, hefty spiked clubs and two-headed axes in hand. Their characteristic greenish skin was leathery, and they proudly sported ritual scars and war paints on their wrinkled snouts. Their clothes were smelly and dirty, made from parts of armor sewn together, combined with fur, wool, and chain mail. They wore trophies such as teeth, ears or fingers around their necks. The stench was unbearable.

The enemy had entered some houses, using torches to set fires. The furnishings of those homes burned, and the flames flared up, affecting the support beams of the rooves. The stones they were composed of split due to the contrast between the heat of the blaze and the icy air exterior. Kaj looked around and saw the tavern burning. The contents of the barrels of beer and mead fed the conflagration, and the bottles of booze burst. On the other hand, the thatched rooves were resisting the flames thanks to the melting snow dampening the beams.

The battle raged on. The orcs were formidable adversaries; some had bypassed the defenses and set fire to the other side of Fenan as well. The village’s inhabitants gathered in droves at the grand square, the monstrous beasts chasing them down and disemboweling anyone they could reach. The group of soldiers who’d left Fenan in previous days had tailed the monsters here. Arriving, they squared off against some of the orcs.

Meanwhile, Kaj helped some take shelter from both the orcs and the fires. The thick shroud of smoke had him coughing and his eyes burning. He took on some of the orcs, then glanced at Oloice, who was swinging his axe with fervor. He also saw Clarice a little further on; she had just made short work of a big and heavy one. While he was distracted, an orc rushed him, and Kaj managed by some miracle to fend off its sword, avoiding a lethal blow. He took advantage of the orc’s sluggishness to injure it on the leg and back. The enemy gave Kaj a scratch on the arm, and the man groaned in sudden pain, though he managed to pierce its throat clean through in retaliation.

Cilna ran to see him, weeping. “Kaj, they’re dead!” she cried out, devastated by the loss of her parents. “Help me! Please!”

Kaj’s heart turned heavy, but she couldn’t be with him, so he accompanied her to some others. “Stay with them, Cilna.”

He then went to the bridge and, together with Clarice and the militiamen, killed the last remaining orcs.

“Get the survivors out of here!” ordered the Commander of the group, after the clash ended.

“Thank the gods you’ve arrived!” exclaimed the elf.

“We should’ve predicted they’d come here,” admitted the militiaman bitterly.

The village lay in ruins; few were the houses that had not been affected by the flames, and the safest structure was the sanctuary. Some militiamen moved the seriously injured to the building, while the others were assembled to be taken to a camp for survivors that was under development in the Heathermoor. Oloice and Kaj made sure that the orcs were all dead and that no one was trapped under wreckage. Cilna refused to leave Kaj, and screamed his name. She tried to make her way over to the man. One of the warriors held her back, but she managed to free herself from his grip and run off. After just a few steps, a house collapsed in front of her, frightening her; the road was now blocked by a burning beam. The young woman screamed at Kaj, who spotted her and ran to meet her.

“Go with them, Cilna; they’ll take you to safety,” he urged.

“But I want to go with you, Kaj!” she protested, crying.

The man shook his head. “You can’t. My journey will be a dangerous one,” he said. “You’ll be kept safe, and I’ll come back as soon as I can, I promise you.”

Clarice was behind him. “Don’t make promises,” she said harshly, holding out her things.

A militiaman grabbed Cilna, lifting her up and bringing her back with the group. Kaj felt distressed by what had happened, and shocked by that unexpected battle. Oloice joined him and Clarice, and handed his things to the elf. The two gripped each other’s wrists in greeting. Clarice raised her hand to her heart and bowed, while Oloice thumped his chest. Kaj thus gleaned how deep their friendship was.

Clarice and Kaj set off on their march. Dawn would break shortly, and the long and intricate paths through the thick of the Shadetrail were the only way forward.

*

Much further south, amidst the Shrouded Hills, tulvaren troops led by Zund arrived after two weeks of travel. Fording the Black River, they entered the territory of the Twin Liegedoms. The Shrouded Hills were part of Kelast County, administered by Jarl Hurley, the trusted bishop of King Osman IV, who had entrusted him with the task of protecting the Savorfruit Hillocks when the next invasion occurred. Hurley was an excellent leader, and had managed to defend the Kelast’s Bastion much longer than expected.

Behind the County, the Twin Liegedoms, headed by the nobles Pugh and Alston, had surrendered to the invaders after witnessing the defeat of Jarl Hurley at the hands of King Athal, pledging to deliver two thirds of their annual fruit harvest to the tulvars.

That day, a messenger from the outpost on the Black River was riding fast toward the High Liegedom. He left the horse at the entrance of the city and ran toward Pugh’s Palace. Exhausted, he collapsed in front of the nobleman’s desk, who (with some difficulty) rose from his armchair and stood before the messenger. His prominent belly, big arms and his impressive rump allowed him to inspire a not inconsiderable amount of awe, to say nothing of his face, marked as it was by his supreme passion for wine, sweets, and meats. Thick black eyebrows topped his beady brown eyes, and his outsize nose was pockmarked and glossy. Pugh wore clothes almost as old as he was, and he was well over sixty years old. The red woolen garment that reached his knees was discolored and stained. His belly’s girth was further highlighted by a creased brown leather belt. The light-colored linen under-tunic poked out from the sleeves of his garment, and their ends had been mended several times over. His high leather boots were also shabby and discolored. His head was always covered by a white cap and a blue woolen beret. The only thing that made him recognizable as the Lord of the city was his thick and heavy gold necklace, attached to an equally heavy, emerald-studded medallion with the emblem of the Pughs.

“Why the haste?” asked Pugh, sipping from his chalice.

“General Zund is currently traveling down the road to your palace,” he gasped.

Pugh’s eyes widened, his wine going down the wrong pipe. “Why didn’t you say that right away!?” he shouted, spitting up his drink. “I should have you thrown into the dungeons, and leave you at the mercy of the beast!” By now he had turned purple.

The man, prostrate at his feet, was about to be seized by the tunic by the nobleman’s fat hand when the blare of the rampart horn echoed through the city. Pugh stiffened, and treaded with heavy steps toward the window. Zund was at the gates; he had no time to spare for the messenger. And so he left him alone in the library as coldly as he’d welcomed him, frantically exiting the building to receive his guest.

“Pugh…” said Zund, disgust written all over his face.

“Great General Zund,” began a panting Pugh adoringly. “What an immense honor! What can I do for you, as your humble servant?”

Zund’s red eyes leered at him. He loathed the deal his father had struck, and despised that useless stooge human even more. “The King was disappointed in the quality of the tribute last month: withered, sour-tasting fruit.”

Pugh paled, and searched for the right words. “Grand General… we… I… have looked for the best fruits…” The tulvar’s silence seemed endless to the man; he felt his eyes on him, and did not dare to raise his head.

“I ought to punish you, but unfortunately I’m here for another reason,” said Zund.

The man gulped loudly, unable to say a solitary word. He guided the General towards his palace, where he himself served bloody meats and fermented keb-brew, made from the juice of kebs, pineapple-like fruits from Alceas that were so pungent that keb-brew was drinkable only by tulvars.

After the banquet, the nobleman really began to shake in his boots. It was never a good sign when Zund appeared. The man remained silent while the tulvar sipped the brew from his metal chalice.

“For some animals, you’d make for a great meal, with all the fat on you,” said Zund.

“Definitely, my General,” said Pugh, cowed.

Zund took the last sip and then, as if seized by a moment of madness, he rose quickly, for Pugh to find himself with the blade of a tulvaren sword pressed against his throat. The nobleman shivered, squinted his eyes, and held them shut until he felt the cold metal on his skin.

“Are you feeding the beast regularly?” asked the tulvar.

“Of course…” Pugh answered, trembling as he opened his eyes.

“Good.” The tulvar sat on the Lord’s throne. “That good-for-nothing Alston is later than usual. You had better make sure he’s coming,” he concluded with contempt.

“At once, General!” exclaimed Pugh, flustered and shaken.

In the meantime, Alston of the Low Liegedom had entered the city, and was preparing to appear at the palace. Pugh came out, and soon they were standing in each other’s company. Short in stature, and dressed in his usual blue velvet clothes, Alston wore a ring-shaped hat, from which a flap of blue cloth descended down one side. Over his chest, he wore a large brooch with his family emblem. His curly, blonde hair covered his ears, framing his long, gaunt face. His hook nose and small mouth did nothing for his looks. The inhabitants of the Low Liegedom often joked that his mother must have laid with a goblin.

“Well you took your sweet time!” snapped Pugh.

The nobleman looked at him, and with his usual monotone he said: “So where’s General Zund?”

Pugh started pushing his peer along. “You’d best present yourself to him immediately!”

Bored and listless, Alston entered the palace. “Grand General Zund! I can assure you that we didn’t expect you here in the Twin Liegedoms…” he said, inspiring terror in all the humans present.

Zund walked up to Alston. “Your idiocy is unmatched!” he shouted angrily. He took the aristocrat by the clothes and forced him to the ground, pressing his face with his foot against the muddy boot tracks mixed with dung and piss. “You shall pay for your insolence by crawling to my throne.”

Alston crawled across the room, coming to Zund’s feet with his clothes soiled. Terrified and trembling, he was sweating profusely, and as soon as the General leaned over him, he burst into tears like a child, his stammering, incomprehensible gibberish punctuated by moans.

“Now beg!” shouted the tulvar.

“Mercy! Have mercy!” whined Alston. “I’ll do anything, Supreme General… for you, and for our only King!”

“Get up, scum!” Zund nodded to one of his soldiers, who recalled about twenty tulvars into the palace, and they settled along the walls of the hall; at that point it was clear that they would not leave soon. The door opened, and in stepped Auril, Zund’s younger sister. On the orders of the General, Alston was chained and gagged by the soldiers while Pugh took the brunt of Auril’s magic. The priestess, with a quick swish of her hand, raised the man from the ground as he moaned fearfully. Auril’s invisible power wrapped around Pugh’s throat, and his feeble flesh was devoid of the strength with which to resist.

Zund approached the man, and motioned for his sister to ease her grip; Pugh’s toes barely touched the floor. “Tell me where the crypt is located,” ordered the tulvar.

“What crypt!?” choked Pugh. He yelped when he felt a sharp pain in the abdomen, as if a dagger had pierced him. Auril clenched her other hand into a fist, and he felt his guts squeeze.

“That’s enough,” Zund told his sister. “The ancient crypt, you useless chowhound! Tell me where it is!”

The man did not reply. The torture continued and Zund asked him the same question over and over.

At her brother’s behest, the Priestess threw him against a wall, prompting the man to shriek anew. She crept into Pugh’s head in search of his deepest fears, and when she found what she was looking for, she smirked. The man saw the being he feared appear before his eyes. He began scampering every which way across the hall, gripped by a profound terror. He wanted to escape, but Auril’s grip forced him to the wall, and when the being approached him, he screeched.

“Leave him,” Zund ordered his sister.

She obeyed, and Pugh started running with the animal chasing him, eventually curling up in a corner and covering his eyes, waiting for the horrid beast to disappear.

“That’s enough! Make that hen disappear!” cried the man, worn out and whimpering. “I don’t know of any accursed crypt! There have never been crypts here!”

Auril dispelled the hen, and the man remained curled up in the corner.

Zund came up to him and whispered, “I’m choosing to believe you for now…”

Alston began fidgeting, making it clear that he wanted to speak; the tulvars took his gag off. “There are no crypts here, only orchards and poor peasant villages!” stressed the nobleman, trying to convince him as best he could.

“How can we be so sure?” asked Auril.