by Ben Stovall
There was a large entrance in the far wall, about twenty feet wide and seven feet tall, a few stalagmites and stalactites at the edges of it, looking like the maw of a great beast. They made their way through it.
The stone here was even slicker, a small stream trickling on the left edge of the cavern. The dripping and trickling of water became of cacophony here, the tunnel’s own chorus. They were careful, moving slowly down the path. There was another large opening ahead, and the sound of water crashing into a pond from a good height.
As the two neared the tunnel’s exit, Ulthan stopped in his tracks. They stood on an elevated path, looking down upon a massive chamber. The roof of the cavern had a small break in it, the silver light of the moon shining down into the room, illuminating the cavern and allowing them to see the beauty within. The stream on their left had turned into a small waterfall, crashing into an underground lake. Grass sprouted around the water’s edge and covered the ground of the cavern. Wind howled across the opening and some of the flora swayed in response.
In the center, however, was the most impressive sight. A large temple reached up from the ground. It was largest at the bottom; Ulthan guessed at it being nearly fifty yards wide. Each side had a stair case leading up to the top of the temple, and the sides all narrowed until the top was only about nine feet across. About halfway up, the stairs paused for a path that cut through, and went all the way around the stone edifice and inside it. There were small braziers along the stairs, and the path that broke the steps, that were no longer burning—a few smoldering embers, sure, but nothing more. Ulthan had seen one of the temples before. The scaleskin called them xena’ithlans, and there were sparse few spread around Gandaraar and Auzix.
Ulthan looked to Torvaas. “There?” he asked, whispering.
Torvaas nodded and began following the path downward. Some distance down, stone became dry, no longer slippery with water. Their pace hastened.
The pair set foot on the grasses at the floor of the cavern, the ground solid, much to Ulthan’s pleasure. The pair took careful, silent steps toward the xena’ithlan. The paladin’s left hand ached in protest as he placed it on the edge of the stones that walled the staircase. Torvaas was just a few steps ahead, his tail swaying back and forth as he climbed.
Together, they reached the path that wrapped around the temple, and moved to the entryway that led to the inner sanctum of the edifice. On the wall to their right, a large statue occupied the space depicting both a male and female scaleskin. Ulthan assumed them to be Eldre’rivrak and Eldre’alasa, remembering Torvaas’s story on the road.
In front of the statues was a lone scaleskin. His scales were a deep brown, slightly tan at the edges. He wore a set of armor obviously unique. It had dark metal plates along his left arm and a heavy plate on his right shoulder, as well as across the top of his chest. His shins were covered by the same metal, though his midsection was protected by heavy leather. His right arm was unarmored, save for a single metal wrist guard. A large blade was strapped to his back, made of trilite. Ulthan suddenly felt relieved he hadn’t brought his shield.
“How many did you have to slay to get here, Torvaas?” the man asked, aware of their presence.
“Only three, and I regret that it was that many, Laxal’nalar.” Torvaas stood and seemed at ease. Ulthan couldn’t imagine how, his heart threatening to beat out of his chest.
“I worried Valan Rivrak would send you,” he said calmly. “What boon did he offer to finally convince you to come?”
“An army approaches Souhal from the west. It will fall without aid, which Valan Rivrak has promised in exchange for your death,” Torvaas answered. There was a sadness in his voice Ulthan couldn’t even guess the reason for.
Laxal’nalar nodded solemnly. “That is an unexpected one. You did not pursue Lyvalla then?”
“No, father … this is more important,” Torvaas said, the pain of this encounter causing his voice to waver.
Ulthan looked at Torvaas with shock. “What was that you called him? Father?” The scaleskin didn’t meet Ulthan’s gaze. “Torvaas! I can’t ask you to do this!”
“You are not,” the rogue claimed with some finality. “I chose this. For Souhal. For Gandaraar.”
Laxal’nalar smiled, eyes full of pride. “My son, I am sorry for what my choice did for you. I wished every day that—”
“Father, no,” Torvaas interrupted. “I have been proud of what you did my entire life. I worried that no matter what I did I would not live up to your heroism due to my path. Because I am torvaas. This is my chance to do so.”
“I know,” he replied. “You are the bravest scaleskin I have ever known, and as wylan I knew many brave scaleskin. Valan Rivrak will never name you, but you are Nalar’torvaas.” Laxal’nalar approached Torvaas and embraced him. They stood apart and the elder scaleskin nodded at his son. He moved his arms and undid the large plate’s straps, and it clanged to the ground. Torvaas drew his dagger, and tears rolled down his face.
Laxal’nalar pat his son on the shoulder and guided his hand into his chest, plunging the dagger into his heart. Torvaas cried out as his blade sunk into his father’s torso. Laxal’nalar coughed, blood escaping his maw. He fell to the ground; Torvaas knelt beside him. “Son … Naserai covahi,” he said, his voice a raspy groan. After a moment, he was still, and Torvaas sobbed into his chest. Ulthan knelt on the other side of the corpse and patted Torvaas trying to console him.
A few scaleskin entered the room from the entrances, none of them showing any hostile intention. They joined Torvaas in mourning.
✽ ✽ ✽
A few hours later, the scaleskin helped Torvaas bury his father, as well as the three slain scaleskin. They accepted the reason for their deaths, hoping that the spirits of the dead would be at ease with dying in defense of all Gandaraar. Torvaas had the dark plates his father wore on his left arm, and he had given Ulthan the trilite blade. The paladin had no need for two large swords and stabbed his bastard sword into the ground near the cave’s entrance, as a memorial of sorts.
Ulthan’s gear had thankfully remained where he’d placed it. They began crossing the bloodfens again, the sun rising on the horizon. Ulthan walked adjacent to Torvaas. Neither of them spoke, heading silently back toward Torgas’hallan. Ulthan looked at Torvaas with worry, and the scaleskin rogue caught his gaze. He nodded, and hugged the paladin, sobbing quietly into his shoulder. The rogue’s emotions came flooding out, all that he held within during the endeavor. Ulthan only held him, letting the magic of Solustun radiate warmth onto his friend, hoping it would comfort the scaleskin. They remained in their embrace for a time.
“Thank you,” Torvaas said as he stepped away. “I … I am honored to call you friend.”
Ulthan nodded. “Likewise.”
✽ ✽ ✽
Torvaas led Ulthan through the marsh back to Torgas’hallan. They had seldom spoken since leaving the cave. No doubt the paladin could tell Torvaas needed his space. It was a hard thing to do, anyone could see that. It would’ve been hard for any of the Torgashin. Laxal’nalar had been a hero, and many knew it. Torvaas knew that even though the command had been Valan Rivrak’s, he would be hated for completing it. Not that he had not been dealing with the same daggered looks and hissing for years.
The pair were close to the village now. Torvaas could hear the soldiers of the hamlet gathering their gear and preparing to march. Valan Rivrak knew he would be successful. It was why he picked him – why the chieftain had pushed him on this path so long. Not for this, specifically, but because Valan Rivrak had always known—always—that Torvaas would be the best rogue the Torgashin would ever have. Perhaps even better than the rogues employed by the Salan Akron.
But none of that mattered now. Torvaas owed it to his friends to do everything he could to help them save their home. To save his. Though he did not call the collection of brick and mortar that was Souhal home, it may as well have been. He belonged somewhere. With the others, he wasn’t a tool or a weap
on. That was something the tribe had never offered.
Torgas’hallan was finally in full view, and Torvaas waited for Ulthan to catch up. They passed the threshold of the village. The hisses were louder, and the scowls were deeper than ever before. Torvaas did his best not to return the looks, keeping his eyes ahead as they approached Valan Rivrak’s longhouse.
“Wait,” Ulthan called. “Are you … are you alright? We don’t have to go in there right now.”
“Your concern is welcome, friend, but I am fine. I would prefer to be done here and on our way to Souhal,” he said. He led the paladin inside, where Valan Rivrak sat on his makeshift throne.
“Ah, Torvaas. You return,” he said, and Torvaas wasn’t sure if he was glad or upset.
Lyvalla quickly stepped into the room, and upon seeing him, sprinted to embrace Torvaas. She smelled of sweet plants due to her work, and Torvaas half-hoped that they could remain like that forever.
But Valan Rivrak cleared his throat, forcing Lyvalla’s movement. “In honor of our exchange, Souhal will have Torgashin’s aid in its defense. I am sending three quarters of my forces to aid the city, led by Graal Wylan.”
Torvaas’s eyes widened. “Graal Wylan?” he asked.
Valan Rivrak sneered. “He did take some convincing, but he is fully invested in the defense of the city. Despite your history with him.”
Ulthan arched an eyebrow, and Torvaas blinked slowly. “You are too generous, Valan Rivrak. Souhal thanks you for your aid,” Torvaas said.
“I am. Be grateful I offer you anything extra for doing what you exist for,” Valan Rivrak taunted.
“All of Gandaraar is grateful for your aid, Valan,” Ulthan interjected.
“Of course it is. Now leave. If you two are still in the village by nightfall, my forces will not journey to Souhal. This one’s presence disturbs my people.” Valan Rivrak grinned with malice as he pointed a withered finger toward Torvaas.
The rogue could not stop the scowl from dominating his features. He shot a hateful glare of his own toward the chieftain, who only laughed in response. Ulthan’s hand at his shoulder pulled him from his trance, and they left the longhouse.
“How can someone like that become chieftain?” Ulthan asked.
“Valan is a title given only by the last. Until he chooses a successor, he is chieftain.” Torvaas sighed, looking around the village at the faces that watched him. “Valan Rivrak was not always like this,” Torvaas began, running a scaled hand over the top of his head. “He was the shaman who detected the flooding. He saved the whole tribe. Our leader before him saw no better choice after that, and he died before we reclaimed the marsh. When the dwarves skinned our patrol … his son had been with them. He blamed my father for not saving him and hated him for not taking retribution. He’s always wanted it to be the way it is now – me, an outcast and the murderer of my own father. It … it was why I ran away.”
“It was why you wanted to die …” Ulthan somberly realized.
“Yes,” Torvaas said, turning. Footsteps descended behind them, and to the scaleskin’s surprise, it was Lyvalla. “Jala, what are you—”
“Come with me, Ayru,” she bade him. Without stopping she left the village’s border and walked into the swamp.
Torvaas looked to Ulthan. “I will be back soon.”
The paladin arched an eyebrow at that. “Will you? We have to be out of here by nightfall.”
“I know. I will be ready. Just wait … in there—the alchemy lab. Lyvalla runs it, she should be the only one that stays there.” Torvaas turned and began to leave. He stopped and looked over his shoulder at the paladin who stared at him. “If I am not back by nightfall I will meet you in Souhal.”
With that Ulthan nodded. Torvaas ventured into the marsh.
✽ ✽ ✽
The water was cold. Icy, almost. Lyvalla walked a fair bit ahead of Torvaas and seemed uninhibited by the chilling water and cold mud. He had never been this deep in the swamp and wondered what Lyvalla needed to show him.
The swamp’s canopy grew thicker as a small stream faded into nothing. The ground was more solid here, though still wet. The light of the sun was progressively scarcer the further they walked. Then, Lyvalla kneeled and moved a blanket she had covered in leaves and grasses. It revealed a small opening in the ground that led into a burrow of some kind. Torvaas looked over the hole suspiciously, but Lyvalla took his hand in hers and he followed her down.
Some way into the cave, there were small openings, where strange stones emitted a low purple light, and a small measure of warmth. Lyvalla stopped by one and turned to Torvaas.
“I call them brightstones. I know it isn’t very clever, but …”
“It’s a very functional name, Jala,” Torvaas offered. Lyvalla smiled.
“Scalespeak has a lot of those,” she joked, winning a chuckle from him. “Your name is ‘shadow-thief’ after all.”
“And yours is potion crafter,” Torvaas smiled.
Lyvalla looked down for a moment, before admitting, “The rocks aren’t all that’s down here.”
“What else could there be?”
“This way!” she cheered as she led him down the tunnel. They were descending rapidly, and Torvaas wasn’t sure how far the surface was, and he honestly didn’t care. He was away from that, away from invading armies, and Valan Rivrak. All that there was now, was Lyvalla. Jala.
They were following a narrow corridor. The walls were tight, easy for Lyvalla to navigate, but rough for Torvaas. Especially with how sore his muscles had become from his recent journeys. There was a sharp turn to the left, and Torvaas had to watch his footing so that he didn’t fall onto the ground. He felt heat in the walls as he navigated the slim corridor, warmth from a source he could only guess at.
“There,” Lyvalla beamed. Torvaas looked up from his feet to see a large tree, growing underground. There were large pools in the chamber, the water being siphoned from the marsh above, dripping from the cavern’s ceiling, and streaming down the walls. The tree was a large willow, undoubtedly hundreds of years old, despite its lack of sunlight. Instead, above the tree hung a larger brightstone than any of the others in the cavern. It was bigger than many of the huts in Torgas’hallan and caused the tree’s leaves and mosses to glow a bright purple.
Torvaas’s mouth was agape. He wanted to speak but could find no words. Lyvalla smiled at his reaction. “I found it on accident,” she admitted. “I had been looking in caves for bloodleaves.”
“It’s … incredible, Jala,” Torvaas finally managed. Lyvalla slowly pulled him closer, before pressing her lips to his. Torvaas thought of his words from before, and how he knew this wasn’t what she needed…
But he couldn’t pull himself away. After another few moments, she smiled breaking their kiss to begin undoing the latches on his armor. Knowing he had to say something, Torvaas quickly whispered, “We shouldn’t.”
“We shouldn’t,” Lyvalla agreed with a sly smile. However, she didn’t even hesitate as she continued removing his armor.
“Your father—”
“Doesn’t matter,” she interrupted, and silenced him with another kiss before he could object again. He was enraptured with her now, and he embraced her fully.
She tore him away from the surface. From the armies. From the mortar, the stone, the sun, and the dirt. From everything.
And if he had her, he wouldn’t miss any of it.
Eleven
Joravyn took a bite of his klonto and cheese sandwich. He had been starving and exhausted, scrying more in the past few days than he had in his whole life. He’d made his shelter inside a cave just a bit south of the klonto boneyard. It had been a bit of a climb to reach, but it was cozy during the nights when he had a fire going and remained warm enough during the day that he didn’t need one. Outside, fallen snow covered the naked leafless branches, the wind howling past.
The mage yawned, the thought of continuing his endeavor eating away at his resolve. Taking another bite of his sandwich
, he looked over to his sack. It laid on its side, spilling some of its contents on the floor. On top of it sat a small orange cloth, having been tossed there after his last scrying session.
He reached over and scrunched up the bright sash. He smiled at it fondly as he gripped it in between his hands, spreading it out before him so he could have a look at the sigil on its front. It was one that matched the symbols on his own robe, a large golden tower on the horizon against a setting sun, with a book above the tower’s zenith. It was the symbol of the Western Arcanomancer College back in Kual’apir.
The cloth had belonged to a classmate of his – Dalion. He was the son of a progressive member of the enclave—the emperor’s workers and colleagues that helped him run the empire. His father, named Larion, had made many strides toward the abolition of what the empire had referred to as “the Ascension Act.” Joravyn found himself scowling at the term. In truth, the program was nothing more than slavery, justified in the eyes of the empire as some truly believed they were helping the enslaved people. Of course, the fact that the enclave’s members benefitted from it more than the “lower kind,” or even the citizens that were not part of the enclave, was ignored as a happy coincidence. And the way “lower kind” had been defined by the enclave was general enough that none but the elite were truly safe from it. The scaleskin, elves, orcs, even the citizens of the empire that didn’t possess magic were all suspect to the law.
The lack of such laws was of the many reasons Joravyn preferred life in Gandaraar. Things were far from perfect, of course, as the scaleskin and orcs still had a particularly rough time here in the north, but at least non-mages, dwarves, and elves were equals with his magically-inclined kin. The whole thing left a sour taste in his mouth, but it wasn’t the reason he had left the empire in truth.
Joravyn’s eyes welled up with tears, and he dabbed them with the orange cloth he held. “Dalion,” he said solemnly. Fondly. The two of them had spent their time at the college together, and they had both intended to come north to Gandaraar side by side long ago. Dalion never lived to see the day. He was murdered by some ruffians working for a rival member of the enclave to Larion, to send a message about his work to dismantle the ascension act. The threat had originally been that they would spread word about Dalion’s relationship with Joravyn, as it was a taboo among the enclave, but Larion didn’t allow that threat to hold any weight. He had known his son’s preferences, and told the vagabonds that, “Who my son spends time with doesn’t matter one bit when it comes to the proper governing of the empire. My backers know this, as well they should, because if they didn’t, they wouldn’t be backing the one trying to abolish the ascension act.” Unfortunately, instead of standing down, the vagabonds killed Dalion – the ultimate offense in the empire, especially among the members of the enclave.
