by Ben Stovall
“I asked him not to,” the paladin interrupted glumly. “Something like this … it could destroy the church. Whether Solustun existed or not—is a god or not—doesn’t matter. The church is a great force for good in the world, feeding the homeless, nurturing the sick. Solustun’s message is not lost on the people!” Ulthan was visibly upset.
“People have a right to know the truth! How many bloody wars have been fought in Solustun’s name? How many more will we allow? We don’t even know! The ember priests refuse to share their knowledge with anyone! Think of how the world could change if everyone knew the things they do! Do you truly believe the people will stop helping the less fortunate without a fanciful creation watching them do so?” Joravyn asked.
“For their sake, I don’t know we can take the chance. I still believe—”
“You alone are proof that this doesn’t completely remove the possibility of Solustun, Sunshine. He seems real enough to you, who is to say that isn’t enough?”
Ulthan considered the words carefully. “We should begin heading for Souhal,” was all he said.
“No,” Tyrdun said, commanding the attention of the assembled. “Ye two need ta hash this out – civilly. We have a lot left to do and we can only finish it together. We don’t need ye two bursting out into fights about religion all the time.”
Ellaria caught herself holding her breath. Ulthan looked at Joravyn expectantly. The mage shrugged, “I’ve said everything I can, Sunshine.”
Ulthan looked at his feet and sighed after a long moment. “I … I must believe. It’s harder than it ever has been, now, but I must. I do not know if I am … enough … without Solustun. I need him to be, Joravyn. And so, he is. That is all there is to it.”
“That’s where we disagree, Sunshine,” Joravyn said. He placed a hand on Ulthan’s shoulder. “You are enough. We all know that. That’s why you’re our leader. We believe in you.” The mage wrapped his arms around Ulthan, and the paladin shook.
“Okay, Inaru, now you can take your tent down,” Tyrdun called, and the orc nodded, jaunting over to do so.
Ulthan remained slightly away from the group, looking out onto the horizon. Ellaria walked over to Joravyn. “Joravyn … What did you mean when you said it was and wasn’t Elvain?”
The mage looked over to the elf and ran a hand over his bald head, scratching the back of his neck. “The grammar was … off. The syntax, the diction—everything just seemed ancient. The paladins weren’t called by names either, just paladins. And the first page implied the author would have met dire consequences if his book had been found.”
“What?” Ellaria asked, doing her best not to shout.
“I can’t say for sure. I wish it hadn’t been damaged. They seemed like … very odd elves. Nothing like the ones of Aelindaas or the ones I’ve met from Ulen.” The mage shrugged. “I wish I could take another look at it, when it was whole. Learn more about this temple in the mountains.”
“Time to get moving on!” Tyrdun called across the clearing, followed by a sharp whistle. Joravyn gave Ellaria another shrug as they walked back toward the rest of the group.
“Maybe one day you’ll get the chance,” Ellaria offered.
“Maybe,” the mage agreed with a smile.
✽ ✽ ✽
Ulthan nodded to the guards at the large gate as they opened it for him and his companions. A horse-drawn carriage awaited them inside the walls, no doubt having been sent by the king. The group followed King’s Way to the castle, which laid just north of the center of Souhal. The great edifice had lengthy extensions to both the east and west, and large red tapestries hung from its stretching walls, billowing in the cold winds that swept across the town. The draperies were gilded and embroidered with a golden bear claw, the symbol of King Aldariak’s ancestors and Souhal itself, their golden fabrics glittering in the setting sun. Fanrinn stood awaiting their arrival at the base of the large steps that led to the palace threshold, his grey cloak wrapped tightly around him. He turned to begin climbing as they caught up to him.
“I had thought you’d only be an hour behind me at most,” the elf said to Ulthan.
“We left as we were able, my friend,” the paladin replied.
“Of course.” Fanrinn smirked, knowing that was not the entire truth. Ulthan returned the smile and laughed. They reached the great oaken doors that touched the ceiling twenty feet overhead. A man beside the entrance nodded to them, his armor intricate and protective. He wore the king’s tabard over his plate mail, depicting the golden claw as was on the tapestries.
They stepped into the entry hall, a large red carpet leading to a small staircase that ascended in the same direction before splitting into two sections on its left and right. Behind the stairwell was a large door to enter the court, where the king presided over various issues that needed his attention – petty squabbles between the noble families, troop movements, banditry, nearly anything. The entry hall held two impressive hearths with big fires roaring in them, heating the room enough that they did not need to wear their cloaks within. They climbed the stairwell and made it to the large doors just as two townspeople exited, their matter settled just then. A steward called for the next one awaiting a ruling, looking up from his parchment and board when Ulthan and the others entered.
“Ah, the king has been expecting you all. Right this way,” the steward led them into the court proper, and the king brightened at their faces, relaxing slightly. The room was packed with nobles, sitting in every seat, standing in the rafters—anywhere the bootlickers could fit, they would. Of course, not all were nobles. Some were just men and women hoping to request the king’s aid. Some were people who figured their own vanity made them nobles, seeking to prove as much by having an audience with the monarch. However, the eight of them were different. Most of them had worked closely with the king in the past, and formalities has weathered away over the years.
King Aldariak smiled and said, “Fanrinn informed me you held a matter that required my attention.”
“We do, Your Majesty,” Ulthan replied with a bow. “Six days ago, we agreed to help this woman, Lytha.” Ulthan turned and gestured to the vainyri woman with an outstretched arm “She had a job posted on the board and received no responders. Inaru met her on our first night back in Souhal, and we agreed to take the contract, eager to be working together again. We escorted her to see her father, Imynor, who lives no small distance west of Souhal. She had not heard from him in some time and grew worried, as any daughter would.
“When we were near the cabin we were ambushed by skeletons. Their bones were black as the night, and not from burning,” Ulthan said grimly. A murmur spread throughout the present crowd.
“Black skeletons, you say? You are certain it is unrelated to the necromancer from seven months past?” the king asked.
“Yes. This necromancer was much more powerful, and it was his magic that turned the bones black—we watched him raise a wyvern we had slain the day before,” Ulthan answered. “And he claimed he was from the west, far past the Gray Sands.”
“He crossed the wasteland and raised a wyvern? That is certainly troubling, but this necromancer sounds as though he was dealt with.”
“We killed him, unable to take the chance that he could escape on our return trip. Imynor had words with us about the skeletons and necromancer both. The man is a seer from Vainyr, and had a vision two months ago, in which a cloud of darkness rolled over Gandaraar, leaving only a barren waste behind. It started in Souhal, your grace. A whole army approaches from the other side of the Gray Sands, seeking to take your land as their own, a gift to a being the necromancer called the Dark One. With your aid, we would see the city saved.” Ulthan kneeled with the last words.
The king frowned thoughtfully. “I fear Souhal is not ready to defend against an army. If many of these invaders are necromancers as this harbinger was, we cannot outlast them in a siege, especially with winter upon us. And our forces are still weak from the war six years ago. We would require a
llies.”
“We can find the aid you need, my king,” Ulthan said rising. “We can go before the elves of Aelindaas and the dwarves of Aljorn for assistance.”
“The dwarves and the elves may not be enough, I fear,” the king responded solemnly.
Torvaas stepped forward, kneeling as he did so, “Your Grace, I could approach the Torgashin tribe on behalf of Souhal. This army threatens all of Gandaraar; my people deserve the opportunity to defend their homes.”
The king nodded at Torvaas. “I wonder if even that will be enough, it has been long since Souhal has seen a war, and longer since we have needed to prepare for one so heavily.”
Inaru knelt on the other side of Ulthan. “My king,” he began, “I believe the orcs could help in this as well.” A large outcry broke out in the surrounding nobles. Heated, race-based insults were thrown toward Inaru, despite all he had done for Souhal in the last five years. The king slowly fought to regain control of the room and gestured for Inaru to continue. “The orcs live here just as the elves, dwarves, Torgashin, and humans do. They are great fighters who can help defend their homes! They can—”
“They can betray us all!” a voice screamed from the crowd.
“The orcs will burn Souhal to the ground before they defend it!”
“They’re all filthy monsters!”
“That’s enough!” the king yelled over them. “They are not all monsters. Inaru is proof of that, and you all recall how the Ironjaw clan helped fight off the Smoldering Mountain during the war. Inaru, please continue.”
“I can approach my old clan, the Bloodmaw, and seek their aid in defending Souhal. Warchief Uldrik will listen if I approach, and I can make a deal with them. They will not turn on Souhal,” Inaru claimed, a certainty in his voice. “You have my word.”
“It is decided. You eight will acquire the aid of the dwarves, elves, Torgashin, and the orcs,” the king ruled. “Return quickly, I will begin the preparations to defend the city. We go to war, old friends.” The nobles were not fond of the ruling, stirring into loud shouting and violent demands the second the king stopped speaking. Aldariak shrugged as he waited for them to leave, signaling them that he would handle the outburst. They nodded and exited the chamber, leaving the king to calm the uproarious men and women alone. The group stood in the entry hall in a small circle near one of the hearths, silent.
Finally, Ulthan spoke, “We will probably need to split up to accomplish this in time.”
“I know you are right, but I wish it were not so. We only just reunited,” Inaru said glumly. He sighed heavily. Ulthan looked over the group, frowning, agreeing with the orc’s words.
Tyrdun pursed his lips. “I’ll head to Aljorn. My father was captain of King Tyldor’s kingsguard, the crown wardens, and the prince, Thorstan, is an old friend of mine. I can get them to help Souhal.”
“I will of course go to the Bloodmaw clan, though it is not a journey I wish to make alone,” Inaru muttered.
“I can go with you,” Lytha offered.
“I would be honored, friend.”
“Aid would be welcome in my quest as well,” Torvaas said.
“I’ll accompany you,” Ulthan pledged with a warm smile. “I wouldn’t want to see you return to them alone after all they’ve done to you.” The Torgashin man nodded his thanks. The paladin looked over to Ellaria, arched an eyebrow and smiled at her.
“I’ll go with Tyrdun,” the elf said.
Fanrinn shot her a look, but eyed Lytha and bowed his head. “Very well, sister. I will visit Aelindaas alone,” Fanrinn said. “I do not expect trouble; I should be fine to go on my own.” Ulthan caught Ellaria frowning, wishing she hadn’t been so hasty to join the dwarf, and chuckled despite himself.
“I can go west and scry for the army. I’ll keep watch and use my magic to let you all know when they’re getting close,” Joravyn offered.
“Then it’s decided,” Ulthan said. “We’ll leave in the morning.”
Six
Inaru and Lytha gave Daralton one last look as they pushed into the pass known as Hayll’s Crossing. Either side rose into treacherous mountains and hills, leaving the lane between as the best passage eastward. Since midnight, a snow flurry had plagued the landscape. The thick clouds refused the sun’s light, leaving the ground damp and could.
When it came time to camp, Inaru, using a bit of flint he carried whenever Joravyn was not accompanying him, started fires by searching for logs that avoided the falling snow and dry mosses. The blazes often began with great billowing plumes of smoke due to the reagents, and he missed Tyrdun’s “smoke stones”—the small rocks he placed around each fire pit that forced the smoke upward, and not spilling out onto those around the flames.
By nightfall on the second day, they reached the eastern end of the crossing. They would arrive at the Bloodmaw clan’s holding the next day. Inaru had managed a warm enough fire, which he used to cook a bit of boar. The snow had slowed some hours ago, very little of it staying on the ground, melting away. Lytha had set up the orc’s tent for him while he cooked, an unspoken deal between the two since departing Daralton.
The boar was done roasting, and he and Lytha ate what they could. Inaru gathered what remained of the beast and walked it far from the camp into the woods. Lytha followed far behind, at his behest. They were close enough to the Bloodmaw’s major holding that a patrol might find their camp, and it would not end well if she was found alone there. Better to have their two tents destroyed than to have the orcs find a human to take prisoner. Once they were a comfortable distance from their camp, Inaru set the boar’s body on the ground, hoping it was far enough to draw any would-be predators away from their position. He withdrew a vial of the boar’s blood he’d drained and drizzled it along the ground the way they’d come, to mask their scent from any beast that did take the offering, careful to drain it all before they were even remotely near the campsite.
The task done, the orc and the woman turned and walked back quietly, as much of their journey had been. Without the others, conversation was less of a constant. There had been some polite questions about the Bloodmaw orcs from her, and about Vainyr from him.
Lytha spent one evening telling him a story of Hayll, for whom the crossing was named. The man was a captain of no small talent and held the crossing with his forces against the scaleskin. The story claimed the lizard-like beings once held the entirety of the Lowlands, the crossing, and even some areas in the west—the Torgashin tribe’s location in the marshes near Souhal an ancient reminder of such a time. The tale of Hayll claimed he and his forces, consisting of both men and elves, held the crossing against a scaleskin onslaught three times their numbers.
Hayll died in the defense, as many others did, and the naming of the crossing was meant to honor all of them, not just their fallen champion. The tale was a good story, and Inaru wondered if it were before or after the human and elves of Gandaraar began to foster their now long-lasting friendship. Due to the lack of dwarves mentioned in the defense, he assumed it was long before they’d ended their isolation.
The pair exited the woods back to the wide path that cut through the large chasm where their tents were. The fire burned low, prompting Inaru to throw another log on it. The addition sent sparks flying into the air with a nice crackle.
The sky finally darkened, signaling that whatever warmth the sun provided through the clouds was at an end. Inaru sat on the ground, hands out to the fire to warm them. Lytha sat opposite the orc. She wrapped her purple cloak around herself, reveling in its insulation.
A sullen silence stretched on before she spoke, “Are you sure the Bloodmaw clan will help, Inaru?” She looked at him; her brown eyes were alight with genuine curiosity.
He rolled the thought around in his head. It was true that the orcs had often had disputes with the humans, the largest in recent memory being the war six years ago. It was also true that the orcs could band together to face great threats. This rarely lasted, however, as they would quickly fall t
o in-fighting for command. It was such a dispute that led to the formation of the Blood Suns, as their clansmen were once all Bloodmaw orcs, and the Bloodmaw clan had once been a part of the Ironjaw clan—and those were recent splits. He realized his companion was still waiting for an answer. “I don’t know, Lytha. The orcs would be fools to let Souhal fall; a foe capable of such a feat would roll over the lowlands without a bead of sweat on his brow. But Warchief Uldrik may fear an attack from one of the other clans if their home is left without its defenders. A decision I do not think the Bloodmaw will make quickly.”
Lytha nodded. “Let’s hope they do. I’d hate to have walked all this way for nothing.”
He chuckled. “We’ll see,” Inaru said. “I worry my standing with the Bloodmaw clan has … crumbled in the last six years. No doubt many would see me as a traitor.”
“Why did you leave the clan?” Lytha asked.
“It was during the war. Warchief Uldrik asked me to do something, and I refused. He forced me to fight my own brother in a duel to the death. When it was over, I left the clan, and vowed never to return, to Uldrik’s pleasure,” Inaru explained, hoping to be done with the subject as expediently as he could.
Lytha blinked. “What did he ask of you?”
The orc’s gaze shot away. “We … we’d taken prisoners – children and women, mostly. The men … they were smart enough to go down fighting. Uldrik asked me to … to bring them blades …”
“I’m sorry, Inaru … I didn’t mean—”
“We’ll arrive tomorrow. You should get some rest.” She nodded and walked over to her tent, crawling inside. He sighed low, noticing the quiet more than before, and poked the fire with a stick to keep the embers alive. The orc took a drink of water from his canteen, the cold liquid running smooth down his throat. He stared off into the darkness, waiting for movement. This close to the clan’s holding he could not be too careful, and Inaru doubted he would get much sleep anyway.
