Dan the Warlord

by Hondo Jinx

  Everyone worried about the worms—the green elves had even presented Dan with a petition, demanding he kill the monsters—but these people were foolish. Holly had bonded with these magnificent creatures.

  Having fed, the worms shrunk back into their tunnels and rumbled away beneath her feet.

  I must be going, too, she thought, and with one last hopeful look at the great delving tree, she departed the chamber and wound through the maze of stone hallways until she reached her destination.

  Entering the Tower of Knowledge, she was once again stunned with awe. The ancient library was dim, dusty, and—to Holly, anyway—staggeringly beautiful. Not necessarily in appearance but definitely in substance.

  She clapped her hands sharply, bringing enchanted candles to life along the walls.

  Then, as was her custom, she leaned back against the long table at the center of the room and stared up at the books for several seconds, staggered once again by the significance of this hallowed place. Ancient tomes lined the circular tower walls, rising up and up and up, surrounding her like a tornado of lost voices, any one of which might render unto Holly secrets that could spell the difference between life and death for her, her child, her loved ones, and her race.

  On the table before her spread the fruits and focus of her recent labors.

  With the help of Nadia and Thelia, she had identified the magical items Dan had won. Some of these he had taken from the orcs and ogres. Others, like the giant suit of glowing splint mail and the axe Dan had given Ula, had belonged to Bannon himself. Most, however, had belonged to the red elves and the grey elves before them.

  Dan had used his healing potions to heal himself and others but still owned potions of invisibility, spider climbing, acceleration, underwater breathing, shrinking, and, shockingly, dragon mastery.

  Potions of dragon mastery were incredibly rare, powerful, and valuable.

  She had been even more excited, however, by a less rare, less valuable elixir, the potion of extended life. In a decade or two, she would ask Dan to drink it and thereby reduce his age by up to a dozen years.

  As a grey elf, she didn’t think much about aging, and she had been raised to expect the rapid growth and demise of those her father referred to as the “lesser races.” The discovery of this potion of extended life, however, had awakened new hopes and new ambitions.

  Perhaps she could keep her beloved husband alive for a long, long time, longer even than Meel Aleen, the grey elf scholar who was said to have survived, through a regimen of meditation, magic, and caloric restriction, for a score of millennia.

  Holly had also identified a ring of water walking, a staff of smiting, a scroll that conferred protection from demons, and an item she now carried at all times, so great was her paranoia in this historical site of near Armageddon: the highly valuable and extremely deadly wand of enchanted missiles.

  Most of the magical items were weapons and remained in the armory, which, with its ancient suits of elven chainmail and weapons inscribed with the impossibly ornate runes of her ancestors, felt to Holly like an enchanted museum.

  Though if the armory had been a grey elf museum, its proudest item would have been missing.

  Vine Caster, the legendary sword of her ancestor, Tureen of Teel Elan, lay on the table before her, shining like new-forged steel, the gleaming blade illustrated with vines twisted into runes of great power.

  With this renowned weapon, Tureen had slain countless foes, including Morkos the Bold, the Backward Drow, and Bassa Fayeen, the desert witch whose dark magic had laid a generation of grey elf women barren.

  Vine Caster was too small for Dan’s big hands. Besides, as a human, he couldn’t trigger the blade’s magical powers.

  Would their son wield this ancient sword? Or would Dan’s human blood make that impossible, too?

  Unfortunately, a high-level red elf sorcerer had also left behind a powerful item, the ring of spell holding that now resided upon the finger of her sister-wife, Thelia, giving the red elves’ True Matriarch the ability to cast levitation, animate corpses, and two other spells.

  What were the other spells?

  Thelia claimed that she didn’t know, but Holly wasn’t so sure.

  Her red-elf sister-wife had played an important role in taking the fortress from Bannon and remained sweet and submissive to both Holly and Dan despite her new powers and the addition of many thousands of red elves who viewed her as something between a regal priestess and a goddess come to Earth.

  Sweetness and submissiveness aside, however, Thelia was the True Matriarch, filled with fire as she was fond of saying and recently returned to what was to her Flame Valley. The red elves had changed so much over recent weeks, growing fierce and strange, and Thelia’s fire mage powers had swelled.

  Several other red elves were developing minor fire mage powers and served under Thelia as apprentices. At this point, the apprentices could do little more than conjure sparks, but of what would they be capable in a year? Ten years? A century?

  Holly didn’t want to ponder those questions. But they made it impossible to completely trust her sister-wife.

  Not here, of all places.

  On the table beside Vine Caster, spread open to its final entry, was an unfinished tome—the last book ever written by Holly’s ancient ancestors.

  Her eyes flicked again to the final lines of the last entry, which filled her with dread.

  “We are relieved to have struck a truce with Mooret and the red elves, who have been burning across the land, subjugating the lesser races, and, sources claim, even some of the minor elvish races. Fortuitous for us and for the world that the red elves recognize our heritage, our autonomy, and the powerful universal asset which we represent: the equilibrium of neutrality.”

  Holly shook her head.

  Not so, ancient chronicler, she thought, not so.

  Mooret and his fire mages had betrayed the grey elves, broken the truce, and killed most of Holly’s people in the Night of Burning.

  Now I am the only grey elf in hundreds of miles, and I am surrounded by twelve thousand red elves.

  But Thelia was not Mooret.

  All would be well. Holly was nearly certain of that.

  Unless she was fooling herself. At times, she was glad that she could not hear the voices of her dead ancestors buried between the roots of Est eel Est. What warnings, what nightmares, would those long-dead ghosts whisper to her?

  She had no time for these phantom worries.

  Instead, she needed to concentrate on reviving the great delving tree. It was her duty as a grey elf, a druid, and a mother-to-be; for against all logic, she was intuitively certain that if her unborn son was ever to rise to power and save her people, as prophecy suggested, he would need the help of Est eel Est.

  Since coming here, she had poured over countless books, reading everything she could about the great delving tree. Most passages spoke of its discovery, the great elation of her ancestors, and, of course, delving.

  Under normal circumstances, these passages would have been incredibly interesting to her, but presently she needed to research the care and tending of Est eel Est.

  She opened the massive tome Tree of Trees and read on.

  Her left eye read one page while her right eye simultaneously read the facing page. In this way, she absorbed two large pages of tight script every ten seconds. With each passing minute, she descended deeper and deeper into a past dominated by the tree of trees.

  She found no passages mentioning sickness in or damage to Est eel Est, but turning another page, she discovered something truly shocking.

  At the center of the book, preserved between its pages like a pressed leaf, was a magical scroll.

  But no, she realized with a thrill as she touched the paper. Not a scroll. Multiple scrolls, and she thrilled again as she recognized the spidery script of ancient grey elf runes.

  The scrolls had likely been tucked away in this book tens of thousands of years ago before the Night of Burning and ne
ver discovered by the red elves, who cared little for reading and less for the great delving tree, over which they had built a stone roof, blocking out the sun.

  Reading the top scroll, she trembled.

  It was druidic, a scroll she could use. And what a scroll!

  The parchment contained seven spells—or rather seven inscriptions of the same spell: restore tree.

  She could have screamed for joy. This was exactly the spell she needed. Thank the wind and stars!

  The next scroll, also druidic, held seven restore plant spells. Again, she felt nearly overcome with gratitude, for these spells could be cast upon the all-important moss that always lived in symbiotic harmony with a fully functional delving tree.

  Behind these parchments, she found three additional druidic scrolls.

  One bore five fifth-level spells: thorn hedge, plague of insects, change stone to mud, nature communion, and sticks to serpents.

  The next scroll held five inscriptions of a sixth-level spell, cure grievous wounds. Knowing her husband, these healing spells would prove useful more quickly than she would like.

  Her heart hammered as she examined the third scroll, which held three seventh-level spells: call earth elemental, manipulate weather, and death whisper.

  Holly blinked at these spells for several seconds, unable to breathe.

  I’m powerful, she realized. I’m really, really powerful.

  Each of the spells could only be used once per inscription, but what of that? She now had the power to summon an elemental, control the weather, or stop someone’s heart with a whisper.

  Suddenly, with a surge of giddy optimism, she felt far less frightened than she had since coming here.

  Then she examined the remaining scrolls, and her optimism burned away as the flames of fear once more raged to life within her.

  The last two scrolls were not druidic. They were sorcerous.

  Meaning that she could not use them.

  But Thelia could.

  Together, these two scrolls held thirteen high-level magic-user spells.

  Six spells were sixth-level: anti-magic dome, crumble, repel, two inscriptions of amnesia, and death cloud.

  Holly stared in disbelief at the last spell. A single casting of death cloud could kill dozens of people. Possibly even scores of people.

  So much for her own death whisper.

  The remaining seven spells were eighth-level: strike blind, magic symbol, hilarity, and two inscriptions of both Bargle’s Phantom Fist and monster beckoning VI.

  These were incredibly powerful scrolls. With these spells, Thelia could defend the fortress against almost any threat. And perhaps crumble would destroy the duke’s railroad tracks, which had resisted all attempts of physical demolition.

  These possibilities were good things, of course, wonderful things. But the notion of handing Thelia so much power terrified Holly.

  She ran a finger over the undecipherable incantations. If only she could use the spells herself. But she could not.

  There were only two options: give the scrolls to Thelia or give the scrolls to Dan, who would then give them to Thelia.

  Either way, Thelia and the red elves would instantly become astoundingly powerful.

  Explain that to Dan, she thought. Explain your fears and—

  But no. Dan would listen as he always listened, but he would not share her fears. He trusted Thelia.

  Why wouldn’t he? And why didn’t she?

  She closed her eyes, listening one last time for some guiding whisper out of the past.

  She heard only the beating of her own heart—and yet there was another heartbeat linked to that vital rhythm, the heartbeat of her unborn son.

  She opened her eyes again. As Dan’s wife, she thought, I should hand him the scrolls and try my hardest to make him understand my qualms.

  She picked up the magic-user scrolls.

  But as the mother of Dan’s son, I cannot do that.

  She carried the sorcerous scrolls up three ladders, hid them in a ponderous, old text called Hedge Math through the Ages, a Second Treatise, and returned to the main floor, feeling sick with transgression.

  Rather than dwell on what she had done, she gathered up the druidic scrolls and headed once more toward the central keep, filled with new excitement. It was time to see what a restore tree spell would do for Est eel Est.

  3

  Esteemed Brother

  Fucking griffons, Dan thought.

  Twenty of the gigantic beasts perched along the stone balustrade, shuffling back and forth, folding and unfolding their great wings and filling the air with the clacking snaps of their sharp beaks.

  The griffons’ riders wore purple cloaks. Within the voluminous hoods, riding masks and goggles obscured the visitors’ faces.

  The griffon perched on the railing directly before Dan glared at him with predatory yellow eyes, its muscular lion’s body coiled into itself like a fist.

  The rider atop the menacing beast wore not a mask and goggles but rather a great helm that Dan unfortunately recognized—just as he recognized the rider’s fancy breastplate with its intricate gold work, the fringe of golden hair hanging from the lower edge of the helm, and the purple eyes staring down, full of contempt, at Dan.

  Holly’s brother, Briar, dismounted, removed his helmet, and tucked it beneath his arm.

  “Welcome,” Dan forced himself to say. He didn’t like the guy, but family was family.

  Briar pretended not to hear him, turning to his saddle. “Our mounts will need fresh meat,” he said, lashing his helmet to his saddle. “And by fresh, I mean living. Griffons prefer to kill their own food. Where will you see to their needs?”

  Dan swallowed his irritation. “We will provide sheep,” he said. “Until then, you can stable them in the aerie.” He gestured across the courtyard to the dark tower that had once housed the giant eagles that had abandoned the red elves thousands of years earlier, as the descendants of Mooret devolved and disbanded.

  “That will have to do, I suppose,” Briar said, then handed his reins to another grey elf that Dan recognized as the handsome youngster Moro, whom Holly had saved following the attack of living darkness near the crevasse.

  “Husband,” Thelia said, giving Dan’s arm a squeeze, “what of the giant eagles?”

  Recently, several people had spotted giant eagles soaring over the valley. Thelia dreamed of taming the magnificent birds and bringing them once more into the service of the red elves.

  Dan gave his tiny wife a smile. “If the eagles come back before the griffons leave, we’ll work something out.”

  Thelia frowned but nodded and said no more.

  The smallest of the purple-cloaked riders, a female not much bigger than a red elf, dropped nimbly to the ground beside her glowering griffon and stripped away her mask and goggles with a peel of merry laughter. A cascade of silver dreadlocks spilled free, framing a beautiful face smudged with dirt and lit by a bright smile.

  Dan’s heart gave a little hop. It was Lily, Holly’s wild and vibrant little sister, who spent her days in the woods and seemed more like a dryad than a grey elf.

  “Esteemed brother,” Lily said, and gave Dan a ridiculously overdone bow, letting him know that she still called bullshit on pompous formalities. Then she leapt onto Dan, throwing her arms around his neck, wrapping her legs around his waist, and pressed her mouth into his, kissing him deeply, her tongue swirling and thrusting into his like a fencing foil.

  Breaking the heated exchange as abruptly as she’d initiated it, Lily dropped to the ground, embraced Nadia, and gave Dan’s green-eyed wife a similarly passionate kiss.

  Briar took a slow turn, casting his gaze over the fortress and out across the panoramic valley, which was ablaze in the autumn hues of changing leaves. Then Briar’s haughty features regarded Dan.

  Neither man bowed or offered a hand.

  According to grey elf custom, Dan was probably supposed to take a knee and call Briar esteemed brother.

  But
Dan wasn’t a grey elf. This was his fortress, and he wasn’t about to kiss Briar’s ass.

  Nor did he expect Briar to bow. Grey elf customs aside, Holly’s hot-tempered brother had no respect for his human brother-in-law. Back in the grove, Briar had lured Dan into a sparring match and nearly killed him. Then, the last time they’d met, Briar and his warriors had shown up at the end of the Battle for Fire Ridge, undoubtedly saving Dan’s life.

  “You did it!” Lily chimed, slapping Dan’s ass. She stood with one arm linked through Nadia’s. “You recaptured Teel Elan!”

  “My husband recaptured Flame Valley,” Thelia said.

  “A corruption,” Moro said, eyes narrowing. “This place is Teel Elan.”

  Parus stepped between Moro and Thelia. “Watch your tongue, grey elf. You are addressing the True Matriarch.”

  “Everybody chill the fuck out,” Dan said. The last thing he needed was a clash between grey elves and red elves.

  Lily scrunched up her pixie nose, staring at Thelia not with malice but with dawning recognition. “I remember you,” Lily said. “Thelia, right? You could shoot sparks out of your fingers.”

  “It’s very kind of you to have remembered me, Lily,” Thelia said with a strained smile. “Much has changed since we last met—and I can do considerably more than shoot sparks from my fingers now.”

  Considerably more indeed, Dan thought. Lily had only known Thelia before her transformation into the True Matriarch.

  Briar smirked at Dan. “So which is it, barbarian? Teel Elan or Flame Valley?”

  “Neither,” Dan said, turning and gesturing for them to follow him into the throne room. “Welcome to Freedom Valley.”

  When they entered the throne room, the air was warm and filled with the good smells of wine and freshly baked bread, which Chloe and several red elf servers brought forward.

  Briar took a goblet without so much as a nod of thanks and turned again toward Dan with a mocking chuckle. “Freedom Valley. So melodramatic. I should have guessed something along those lines. And I suppose you’re the great freedom fighter. Is that the meaning of the broken shackles engraved on your hat?”