by Ben Stovall
“That’s good, at least. Let’s pack up, Ellaria. We need to find the refugees.” The pair pulled the camp up and began searching for the dwarves. Baridan stayed close to Ellaria as they searched, Tyrdun leading. She caught the scent of klonto being roasted and led them to the source. They spilled out of the trees into a large open field, a small creek running through it, small shards of ice bobbing in the current. The clearing was covered with tents, and a plume of smoke rose from its center. A few dwarves quickly came to them, eyeing Ellaria with suspicion, weapons drawn. The guards wore intricately worked armor that sparkled in the light of the moon above and the fires behind them. Over their chests were tabards Ellaria could tell were linen. They were a light brown cloth that depicted a deep brown mountain with two axes crossed within it, their color the same as the field the icon was set on.
“Who are ye lot?” one asked forcefully.
“Llyor? It’s me, Baridan! These two saved me and led me here!” their companion exclaimed.
The dwarves exchanged looks and lowered their blades. Tyrdun stepped forward, and they nearly threw their weapons to the ground, bowing. He motioned them to be at ease with a hand. “Apologies, Stonehammer. We did not know you approached.” Ellaria arched a brow at the exchange.
“It has been long since you have returned to Aljorn, Tyrdun,” one said. Ellaria wondered how he knew her comrade’s name, as he had not given it.
“It has. Is the prince here?” he asked.
“Aye, I will take you to him, m’lord.” The armored dwarf bowed again and turned on his heel. He led them to the center of the camp where a large group of dwarves were conversing under a large tan tapestry draped over four stakes, a small fire burning just outside. As they entered, Ellaria noticed a stump of a once large tree had a map of Aljorn spread across its surface.
“We have to take a group into the city, take it back!”
“We lost so many escaping the mountain, we do nae have the men to do so.”
“A few could do it, were they careful! It doesn’t need to be a large force!”
One of them raised his expression to the approaching group. He was a younger dwarf, possibly the youngest of those around the fire. Nonetheless, he held an air of command about him. His hair was fair, and he had a long beard fitting of such an obviously important dwarf. Tyrdun dropped to one knee as he regarded them, as did Baridan and Llyor. Ellaria stood awkwardly, and the fair-haired dwarf chuckled.
“Stand up, Tyrdun, you don’t owe me such formalities,” he said. Tyrdun stood, as did the others, easing Ellaria’s embarrassment.
“Andor Thorstan,” Tyrdun smiled, and the two shared a quick embrace, one of friends who had not seen each other for years.
“It’s King Thorstan now. Or so they tell me.” Andor frowned, eyes heavy with grief. Tyrdun patted the man on his shoulder apologetically. The king looked up to Ellaria, and she felt small—nearly laughing at the feeling, as she was also the tallest person in the camp.
“This is my friend, Ellaria. We were sent by King Aldariak in Souhal to ask the dwarves for aid, but it seems you may need it first,” Tyrdun explained, unbidden.
King Thorstan sighed. “Aye,” he said, “As you may know, Aljorn has been attacked by the bones of our ancestors. We do not know who is behind such an underhanded and disgraceful act, but we do know who the ghouls seem to be led by.”
“Who is that, my king?”
“King Tyldor Thorstan,” the king replied solemnly. “My father.”
Tyrdun grimaced. “How do you hope to reclaim the city?”
“There have been attacks on the camp, but the ancestors seem to be weaker the further they are from the mountain. Nonetheless, the threat persists, meaning we can nae take all the remaining soldiers. A small force would be able to move into the city without drawing much attention from the undead, but we lacked extremely skilled individuals for the task—until now.” The king eyed them each in turn. “With the four of ye, and two more of my personal guard we should be able to make our way through the city to the palace, where the ghost of my father waits.”
“We?” Tyrdun asked. “You’re the king now; ye can’t throw yeself into danger so haphazardly, Andor.”
“I cannot ask others to give their lives to reclaim my city if I will not do it myself. I must do this.”
Tyrdun frowned, but ultimately capitulated. “Alright. You lot think that defeating the ghost of Tyldor will cause whatever is behind this attack to reveal itself?”
“We have to hope so. If not, we remove the leadership from the undead, at least for a time. So far, we’ve seen only small raids attack us here. We sealed the main door to Aljorn, cutting down the number that could potentially come drastically. But our dead are still being desecrated in the city. It seems that we need to destroy the source to stop that.”
Ellaria sighed. “Will normal steel even stop the undead we slay? When we fought undead we could dismantle them, but it was ultimately the lack of constant necromancy that felled them.”
“Darksteel,” a man on the king’s right began. “The properties of the metal allow it to harm the bones enough to stop further desecration. We managed to bring a decent amount out of Aljorn, but not enough for the whole camp, lest we would have already retaken the mountain.”
“How does darksteel do that?” Ellaria asked.
“Scientifically speaking,” King Thorstan began, “no one is certain. There’s an old story … told to children in the night that it was a gift of Wivikair given to the dwarves for their worship.”
“Wivikair?”
The dwarves all chuckled. “You’re certainly not from around here. Many dwarves of Aljorn worship him. Embodiment of wisdom, planning, and dedication,” one explained. “Worshipped far and wide in Dwallfarr. One of the only links we have to them.”
“Begin work on a mace for Tyrdun,” King Thorstan commanded. “Bring blades for the other two dwarves here, and make some arrowheads for the elf, as well as a dagger. Oh, and two axes for two of my crown wardens. We’ll descend into Aljorn the moment they’re done.” Ellaria frowned looking around the camp of displaced dwarves, wondering if Aelindaas and her brother were facing any such troubles.
✽ ✽ ✽
Fanrinn’s horse rounded the final bend in the Laithūn pass. The brown gelding didn’t even slow as it turned, its knowledge of the roadway unflinching. The medic smiled, pulling the hood of his cloak down, his hair flowing like the horse’s mane in the wind. On the horizon sat Aelindaas, the jewel of the Gandari Kingdoms, a city whose beauty was rivaled only by the marvels of civilization in Ulen, hundreds of miles to the northeast.
The structures were built primarily of a startlingly white stone that had no impurities, unlike Souhal’s marble, and the elves’ signature silverum – a rare metal they’d found deep in the mountains that surrounded the valley within which they’d carved a home for themselves. From this ridge, Fanrinn had a view of the entire landscape, and, somehow, it was just as breathtaking as the first time he’d seen it. Even at this distance, he could smell the fragrance of grapes and vanilla that permeated the city all the way to its roots.
On his left were the huge, open fields of the Ilvalasaan, the vineyards that sat on the edge of the city’s limits and stretched far westward into the valley. The rolling green fields were interrupted only by the large, vast estates of the noble families that ran the wineries. The elves had “enhanced” the valley to remain warmer throughout winter than the surrounding land—still cold, but not cold enough to destroy the vines, allowing their industry’s fruition to come.
To his right sat the city itself. It had four districts, the distinction from this view due only to their varied architecture. Along the northern edge of the valley sat the Earthshaker Quarter, where the elves who had taken to working in the mines primarily lived. There, the stones weren’t cut into fine bricks, but cobbles mortared together into edifices. Plumes of smoke rose from the quarter—a fair few smithies had been established therein, for proximity t
o materials as well as clientele, even though the latter meant they mostly made pickaxes and nails.
East of that quarter sat the Kaesivân – King Silverthorne’s palace, a collection of large manors for the nobility not involved in the wine trade, a few jewelry shops, clothiers, leatherworkers, a smith for more ceremonial garb, fancy restaurants, and guardhouses and abodes for the kingsguard and the city watchmen – the Ayleviarn. This section of the city bore the finest brickwork the elves had ever done, each stone meticulously placed and measured to be identical.
Closest to the elf sat Traveler’s Town, a larger district that claimed the southern and some of the eastern sections of the city, used by those who were simply passing through Aelindaas or had come to the city to work or even live, but hadn’t the coin to afford the more spacious homes. Most of the city’s taverns were in this area, owned primarily by the nobles and only offering their patron’s wine. If one had a specific drink in mind they may have to search for it. And several shops were run in this area, boasting the finest goods in all the kingdoms could be found just inside their doors. The buildings here were built by the Korsen Stonecutters guild—mostly dwarves from Aljorn. The bricks here were much larger than those in the Kaesivân, but no less pristine and perfect.
To the west sat Elu’as Avenue, a district filled with all the amenities one could expect, and most of the city’s permanent population. The buildings here were different from everywhere else in that they were primarily wood, made from the great oaks that once covered the valley in full, but had long since been cut down to make way for the elves.
Fanrinn almost thought he could see his family’s home from here, just there on the edge of the Kalassin vineyard. For a moment, the elf considered visiting his parents, but remembered he’d only been gone a few days. Maybe next time, he smiled.
With a final deep breath, he urged his horse onward, down the roadway to the shining silver gate of the city. His horse flew, as if he knew they’d returned home. “Whoa!” the elf laughed. “Easy, Lothayn, easy!” Fanrinn gathered up the reins as they neared the gate, his mount slowing to stop thirty feet from the closed gateway. An elf—a female, noticeable only due to her softer features and long brown hair as she removed her helm—approached him.
“State your business, sir.”
“I ride from Souhal, bringing urgent news for King Silverthorne’s ears, from King Aldariak himself.”
“Hah, as if that … wait, Fanrinn?”
He grinned and gave the woman a nod.
She turned and signaled to the man in the gatehouse. He immediately began opening the sparkling gates. “Apologies for the delay, sir. Liawynn’s haste upon you,” she said with a salute.
He mirrored the gesture and sent Lothayn into a gallop as the gates opened. The horse’s hooves clattering against the stone were enough to warn those on the roadway to move from his path. He heard a few curses follow him in the wind but paid them no mind.
Ultimately, Fanrinn had no concerns about his meeting with King Silverthorne. He and King Aldariak had been close allies during both of their respective reigns. The only strain they’d suffered had been during the war, when Souhal had gotten involved and Aelindaas didn’t. King Silverthorne didn’t have the men to commit to a war effort, and that had stung King Aldariak, as it was the first dispute between their nations in a very long time. But, it later came to light that King Silverthorne nearly threw his struggling force into the war when he’d received news that Souhal had been captured—falsified news, of course, but the sentiment stood strong between the two rulers.
And getting an audience would not prove an issue either. When Fanrinn had worked at the hospital in Elu’as Avenue, he once saved the princess’s life, by finding a cure for the pale virus. The sickness claimed the lives of a few thousand a year, despite it’s relatively simple treatment. A tincture of leyroot administered three times a day for a week expunged the disease entirely. The only issue was the rarity of leyroot and its resulting cost. For his efforts, Fanrinn was offered the role of Royal Apothecary by the king, but he refused, as he’d dreamed of adventuring all his life. Even his work at the hospital had mostly been to pay for archery training after he’d realized his true calling.
Finally, he arrived at the palace, the large stairway ahead. He dismounted and looked around as he realized the emptiness of the courtyard. There were no nobles around waiting for audience, no guards—beside two flanking the door—and no stable hand to come take his horse away. Frowning, he left Lothayn where he stood and ascended the steps.
The guards at the palace held their spears straight up, pommel on the ground flat. Their deep green tabards depicting silver stags fluttered in the wind over their silverum armor, the stunning sheen beautifully reflecting the light. Their spears were iron hafts topped with trilite blades—an interesting metal that was black as pitch in color before being heated, then it took on a shining bluish tint. One of the guards nodded to the approaching medic.
“Welcome back, Fanrinn. How can we help you?” he asked.
“I would like to see the king, my friend. King Aldariak sends me to ask for Aelindaas’s aid,” he said, bowing low.
The two knights exchanged worried looks. “Fanrinn, now is not an appropriate time.”
His brow furrowed. “Why not? Is the king busy?”
“No, but—”
“Then I would see him, sir,” Fanrinn said impatiently. The two guardsmen sighed and nodded, opening the door. Fanrinn thanked them curtly before stepping inside.
The sight he beheld elicited a gasp from the elf. The entryway was a long hall that led to an ornate door of carved mahogany, the threshold’s height about fifteen feet from the floor, and the ceiling another fifteen feet up. The wood had the scene of a stag dancing about the valley carved into it. Normally, it was a sight that demanded respect and awe.
Unfortunately, the scene was anything but normal. Paintings and statues that lined the hall had been destroyed. The canvases were torn, singed, and blotted. Their frames had been smashed, either from falling or by hand. Fanrinn crouched and touched the remains of a statue he’d remembered depicting an elf woman of unimaginable beauty. Splinters of chairs once lovingly carved covered the floor around two table halves, which gave the impression that a single blow had severed the wooden surface. Fanrinn’s hand flinched to his dagger.
Summoning his resolve with a deep breath, he moved forward and pushed the mahogany door open. The throne itself lay untouched by the madness of the palace around it. The tiles on the floor, however, were not so lucky. Many were cracked and unrecognizable from their neighbors. The grand archways and palisades had been painted with lewd sayings and rude words. Fanrinn struggled to believe his own eyes.
Suddenly, a voice behind him called out, “Fanrinn, my old friend! Welcome back!” He turned to see the king descending into the room as he had. The monarch patted him as he walked by, and looked him in the eyes and said, “It has been so long! What can I do for—no, wait!” King Silverthorne then suddenly ran to his throne, taking the seat within seconds. “Ahem! Fanrinn of house Llarian, what can I do for you?”
Fanrinn watched as the king carried about indiscriminately, as if the room wasn’t completely destroyed. He approached the dais the throne sat upon. “Ah, my king, I—”
“Oh, Fanrinn, you must try the new—oh, did I interrupt you? Go on!”
Fanrinn’s brow furrowed. “I was sent by King Aldariak. An army marches from the west that will—”
“Boring, boring, BORING! Come, Fanrinn, let’s do something fun!” the king shouted, his voice echoing in the chamber. He sprung from his chair and ran forward to Fanrinn.
“My king, I—this is important!” he nearly yelled.
The king frowned. “Okay, I’m sorry. Go ahead, Fanrinn.”
“An army is coming that will destroy Souhal, us, and everything else in the Gandari Kingdoms. We have to help defend the city,” he said. The regent considered his words. Fanrinn was unsure what had gotten into the kin
g; he had never seen him behave like this.
“That doesn’t sound fun, Fanrinn. That sounds boring. I want to do something fun,” the king said with surprising force.
“King Silverthorne, people will die if you don’t take this seriously!” Fanrinn exclaimed.
“Is that a threat? Do you want to play in the dungeon?!” the king asked excitedly. “Guards!” The two from the door slowly entered, their faces concerned. “Arrest this man.”
“What?” Fanrinn shouted. “My king, what for?”
“You wanted to play in the dungeon! We’re going to play together!” The king’s voice was disconcertingly giddy.
The guards placed their hands loosely on Fanrinn’s shoulders, and they both sighed doing so. “Just … just come with us, Fanrinn.” The elf medic scowled, but gave in. After all, what could he do against the king of his homeland?
The guards led him into the dungeons under the palace, through a nearby door in the throne room, where many elves were locked up. They begged for freedom as the guards passed, and the men winced at the calls. Fanrinn wondered what was happening – the dungeons were never filled as they were now. A few brigands or bandits, sure, but these people looked no more harmful than flies. Finding an empty cell, they ushered Fanrinn inside. “Please,” he said, “tell me what’s going on.”
The men thought about it and nodded. “The king has been acting strangely, ever since his last hunting trip a few days past. We think he may have found something he shouldn’t have brought with him.” A long silence passed between them. “Just … stay put, Fanrinn. We’ll come back for you, I promise.” The guards regarded him with dejected eyes as the cell’s lock clicked into place. “I promise,” he repeated.
Fanrinn looked around and wondered how many of these others they’d made that promise to as they left.
Accepting that he could do nothing about it now, the medic simply crawled over to the rough cot in the cell and laid out on it. He wondered if the others would come look for him, if they managed to save Souhal without the elves, as he wasn’t sure he’d be out of this cell before the defense. Fanrinn sighed, and rolled over, quickly falling asleep.
