by RG Long
“Take this to the refinery,” he said as he placed the Rimstone in Thrank's hand. “Have it cut and polished while Jurgon, here, decides in what manner he will carry the stone.”
“Aye, Lord,” Thrank said as he bowed and hurried off with his precious cargo in tow.
Thuda watched as he went and then motioned for the three to follow him.
“Now,” he said to them as he walked on. “To the forges!”
13: Frostbitten Plans
Tory Greenwall wasn't sure which bothered him more: the freezing sting of the wind swirling around him, or the black military uniform of the army standing at his back that did nothing to camouflage them into the landscape.
"You know," he said over the sound of the howling storm to his companions. "If you're going to go to war in the snow, it wouldn't hurt to have the element of surprise. Aren't they supposed to be experts at blending in?"
Tory was speaking from experience as well as common sense.
He was, after all, a member of an elite force of soldiers known as the King's Swords. He had trained with the army of Thoran for many years before accepting his spot as a personal commander of the king. He and his twin brother, Cory, had been accepted on the same day.
Even though it had been a formal affair, he could still recall making jokes as the ceremony progressed.
"Shouldn't there be a training program called the King's Daggers? You know, for up-and-coming Swords?"
He and Cory stifled their chuckles at the site of Gray rolling his eyes at them, and Holve looking at them sternly. It was difficult, however, to take the humor out of the two brothers.
The king had presented them with medallions that signified their new role in the army. At the reception that followed, as well as on the many difficult and dangerous tasks they would be assigned in the years ahead, Gray, Cory, and Tory fought side by side. They endured hardship and sought to keep their country at peace. And for a time they were able to do so.
But death and betrayal certainly had come to destroy their way of life.
Death had stolen his friend, Gray. Betrayal had claimed his brother.
So now, in order to defend his homeland of Thoran as he had sworn to do many years ago, he was standing at the base of a mountain kingdom called Shiv. Behind him was an army of elves who hated, above all things, their own kind who lived further north in a castle called Yule.
Tory had tried to understand the story of the two kingdoms. At one time they lived in peace, even considered themselves as one kingdom.
But then tragedy struck.
A beautiful princess of Yule was found dead. Her father, the widowed king of Yule, had believed she had been assassinated by Shiv elves in an attempt to gain power over the whole kingdom.
Shivian elves denied their involvement, and were insulted that they were ever considered a part of such violence. The murderer was never found, nor was a true motive ever discovered.
That was a thousand years ago.
Since that time, no peace had existed between the two groups of elves in the Northern Wastes.
Only war.
Lote, an elf and fellow Sword of the King and former inhabitant of Yule, had shared some of the history of the two kingdoms with Tory. There hadn't been much time to talk, however, as there was a battle to prepare for.
The conflict had been recently escalating, with minor skirmishes between each group growing into battles with more and more elves.
According to Holve, both sides feared extinction and so wanted the fighting to end. Each, however, wanted to have it ended by completely obliterating their enemy.
Tory looked to his left and blinked several times to ensure that he really was seeing Holve Bravestead in the flesh.
When he and Lote had come to the Northern Wastes in order to ask for aid to be sent to Thoran, they had been captured by Yule elves. After a brief visit to the castle, in which time Tory learned that Lote was the daughter of the current reigning ruler of that kingdom, they had been kidnapped and taken to Shiv.
Instead of being killed, which was what Tory fully expected to happen to him no matter which group of elves took them; they were reunited with Holve Bravestead, the general of the army of Thoran.
The last time they saw him, he appeared to be caught up in an explosion after defeating a demon that wreaked havoc during a battle between Thoran and the Southern Republic.
But instead of being dead, he was here. And he was the one who had requested that Tory and Lote be brought to him.
So, even though he was about to lead the Shiv elves into battle and take Tory and Lote along for the experience, Tory knew he had to be at least slightly grateful to the old cuss.
It was hard to be thankful, however, when he could barely feel his fingers.
"If we're not going to blend in with the snow and use that to our advantage and whatnot," he shouted at Holve over the sound of rushing wind. "We might as well march and keep ourselves warm, don't you think?
“We aren't marching,” Holve answered, still looking forward into the whirlwind. “But if you don't stop complaining, I'll arrange it for you to.”
Tory shut up. He had known Holve long enough to understand that when Holve made a threat, he intended to keep it.
Holve Bravestead had saved the king from certain death before Tory was a soldier in the army. For his bravery, and loyalty to the crown ever since, Holve earned the title of general. It wasn't in name only. The man was an expert tactician. On several occasions, he had proven to Tory that he was worth every sour look and stern threat.
But the cold was getting to him.
Though he had his hands in his armpits, wore a wool hat and was bundled in a thick cloak, he could do nothing to keep himself warmed.
He stamped his foot on the ground, hard.
And the ground rumbled in response.
Tory picked up his foot to see what he had done to the ground, as if he could have caused an earthquake to bring down the mountain behind them.
He looked around confused. Lote looked at him with a raised eyebrow.
“If you'd use your eyes as much as you do your mouth, you might learn a thing or two,” she berated.
The elf pointed to her left, and Tory followed her finger.
Charging towards them were huge looking creatures. They had antlers the size of Tory's whole body and white fur. Their hooves were larger than his head, Tory was quite sure of that.
He began to back away, wondering why the elves from Shiv just casually stood as a stampeding herd was heading their way.
Holve turned to face him.
“Interested in walking?” he chided.
The beasts slowed as they came close to the elves. Each filed through the ranks of the silent, black wearing soldiers and stood by their side.
As one, the elves mounted and sat upon them as if they were horses.
Tory was not convinced.
Beside him stood one of the massive things. Its back was higher than his head. The antlers rose further still.
Lote had already gracefully climbed onto her mount. Holve struggled, but only for a minute. He, like Tory, was not as tall as the elves. Unlike Tory, he wasn't fazed by the giant beast.
“Blasted elves,” Tory muttered under his breath as he steeled his resolve to begin to climb atop his mount.
He put his hand on the creature and it snorted at him. The breath made vapors in the air. It turned and stared at Tory, daring him to attempt to mount.
Tory finally climbed up the beast after several failed attempts and nearly getting kicked in the leg by the thing.
“Are you finished?” Lote said with an air of superiority as she looked over at Tory, who had just managed to get a good grip on his animal.
His reply was not something he would have said any louder than a grumble.
A silent signal must have been given, for every creature began a purposeful march forward.
Tory cursed the snow, the elves, and anything else he could think of as he nearly fell off the a
nimal as it started to trot.
“What are these things anyway?” he shouted at Holve as the army of elves marched west.
“Elks,” he replied gruffly. “And I'd get a good hold of yours soon. It won't be long before they get us to Yule.”
Without a saddle, or a strap, or any reins to speak of, Tory wondered how in the world he was going to grab hold of his elk, save for the antlers or around the neck.
When every elk broke into a gallop at the same time, Tory settled for the antlers.
“Blasted elves!” he shouted over the thundering din of elk hooves crunching on layers of packed snow and ice.
The army of Shiv was off.
SNOW PELTED TORY'S face and stung his hands.
But he didn't dare let go of the elk that carried him.
He clung to the beast for dear life as it grunted and sped along with the others. The snow blinded him, but it didn't seem to bother the elk, nor any of the elves who rode around him.
Wind whistled in his ears and what little he could hear above that was filled with the pounding of hooves.
To clear his head of all the ways he was envisioning himself being trampled to death by the herd he rode ahead of, Tory thought to the battle plans they had made the evening before.
“Three groups,” he said in a voice loud enough for himself to hear. He doubted his words would resonate to even elf ears with the racket going on. “House Graceon will attack the wall. House Dorallyn will focus on the gate. House Bered gives support and surmise the best counterattack.”
Tory had seen several flaws in the plan, had it been men who were making them.
But these were the plans of elves who could scale walls and nearly fly over gates.
Their strategy was foreign to him. Holve had deemed the plan sound. That was all Tory needed.
He had spent the morning envisioning himself and House Dorallyn focusing their efforts on the gate, when he saw it.
Up in front of them, standing along the horizon and lining the hills for a mile, were gleaming blue banners emblazoned with white towers.
The army of Yule was marching towards Shiv.
14: Anders Sureloft
The ships of the Southern Republic lined the river like a great snake, weaving around the turns and bends as it flowed out to sea. And like a snake sheds its skin against the rocks, so, too, did the ships relieve themselves of their contents.
Androlion's army spilled out onto the plains.
Clad in the green and white of their general, they amassed into their regiments. Each bore a standard that was held above the heads of those exiting the ships. By the hundreds, they gathered and stood at attention.
Captains, sergeants, and other ranking officers rode through the ranks on horses, shouting orders, following instructions, and organizing the largest army ever amassed south of the Glorious City.
It would take no less to bring it down.
Aside from the horde of men that were stomping down the grass outside Beaton, great war-machines were being lifted out of their ships and placed onto the earth. Speakers shouted their words of magic to the air, raising the constructs of war out of their boats and placing them wherever they were ordered.
Magic was serving its purpose to the army of the south.
So prevalent were the Speakers around the other soldiers, that to see one man struggling with horses and carts without any magical assistance at all was strange.
But Anders Sureloft refused over and over again to have his precious instruments be enchanted in any way that may throw off their delicate runes. His tools were his life source. Only he would handle them.
A master blacksmith would have it no other way.
He reminded the same captain who had complained of his slowness in exiting the ship of that fact for the third time.
“I will NOT have those addle-brained stone whisperers near me or my carts! If I must tell you that once more, I'll report you to Androlion myself!” he shouted proudly at the now very flustered officer. “I'm here on his orders as is and I don't mind pulling rank on you! Go bother someone less important!”
Red-faced and indignant, the captain stormed off, spouting about how he was going to end up being reprimanded if it took any longer to unload the ships anyway.
Anders couldn't care less. It also helped that his craft had made him nearly all muscles. He wasn't the tallest that could be found, but what height he had was made all the more intimidating by the fact that every part of his body rippled with strength, despite his getting on in age. A few white hairs had crept into his fiery red hair. It gave the impression that his head and beard were in a constant state of flame.
It fit him and his attitude well. Anders was not one to take orders.
So if he was to be a part of a fool's war, he'd at least do it on his own terms. And if it earned him a treasury of coins any nobleman would covet, then it was worth mouthing off to anyone who bothered him.
His craft was all he had left at this point.
Anders was a master weapon maker. Famed all over the world. Or so he told anyone who would listen. A weapon made with the rune of Sureloft's would fetch a hefty price.
If it acted as it was supposed to, that was.
Anders could produce swords that would turn to solid ice or burst into flames on command. A bolt of magical energy could be produced from his daggers and a bow crafted by his instruments could deliver a blow with the same force as a bolt of lightning.
Unfortunately, the wielder of such a weapon must be able to conjure up this magic within him- or herself and that fact had prompted many a would-be purchaser to call Anders a fraud.
It bothered him little if those who would take up his arms were less than competent.
Because of this, he had taken up the practice of demanding his pay in advance.
Anders was a master, even if all of his efforts thus far had only caused him pain and misery. He knew his great skill was unrivaled. His pride had seen him in difficult circumstances more than once.
The fact that he was on the continent of Ruyn all by himself was one of those such circumstances.
But no matter.
After the war, he had been drafted into while opening up his third shop in the Southern Republic was over, he'd claim his pay and go back home.
If there was any home left to go back to, that is
After much straining, cursing, and horse maneuvering, Anders had finally gotten his cart off of the ship and onto dry land.
It even appeared that he hadn't lost a single box.
“Come on now, Felipe,” he said as he patted his horse with his strong and calloused hand. “Let's get settled somewhere that will inconvenience that captain friend of ours.”
Where other companions had thought him to be domineering, too prideful, or just plain unwise in business ventures, Felipe, his trusty hazel mare, had never complained.
That was a trait worth celebrating, Anders often thought.
Most of the others in his life he had once cared greatly for seemed only to nag.
Not Felipe.
The horse snorted and followed Anders forward obediently.
“Let's go find a place to make art, Felipe,” Anders said as he walked alongside the horse. He had no bridle in the beast's mouth. Whether due to pity or loyalty, the horse walked wherever Anders did without question or argument.
“Not that anyone around here will appreciate a true weapon!” Anders said loud enough for those working around him to give him a second glance.
Some raised eyebrows. Others considered him for a moment.
Most just shook their heads at the sight of him and continued about their work.
Nevertheless, a path parted in front of the weapon maker as he made his way about the camp.
The master wore a dark blue tunic with gold trim. Woven into the fabric were various patterns and runes that only Anders knew the true meaning of. He had sewn the garment himself.
His hair fell back across his head into a neat ponytail. Fine l
eather boots fitted his feet and a golden cord belt was wrapped around his waist.
Once, a particularly loud patron had decided the best word to describe the craftsman was flamboyant. It was only after Anders had punched him in the nose and sent him to the floor unconscious that he had given a second thought to the title. He decided it was no insult after all. But to apologize to the man lying on his floor would have been unbecoming, so he just had him thrown out of his armory without the weapon he had come to collect.
Anders later found out the man had planned to pay him half of the agreed upon price, so it all worked out in the end. The weapon had later gone to a much better cause: getting him the money he needed to sail to Ruyn.
A thunderous noise brought Anders out of his reflective mood and back into the present. Ten galloping horses were coming straight towards them and a sea of men were parting to let them pass.
Those same men threw their arms up in salute as their leader and general passed by them.
The horse at the head was a black stallion, easily twice the size of little Felipe and three times as proud. It snorted indignantly at the little horse and its cart.
It was outdone only by the one riding on its back.
“I trust you have everything you need to deliver on your promise, Master Sureloft.” Androlion spoke with a measured tone that told Anders that the man both admired his work and loathed the fact that he needed it.
“I do indeed,” Anders replied with an embellished bow. He had dealt with power hungry men before and it never ended well when there wasn't enough bowing and groveling. “Though, I have to say, your men were of little help in getting my equipment off that leaky ship.”
Bowing and groveling aside, Anders was not one to grant compliments without warrant.
“Seeing that nothing of yours was lost, I will leave you to the task which we originally agreed upon,” Androlion replied, straightening his gloves and keeping his stare fixed on Anders. Even though Androlion towered over the small stature of Anders, the weapon's master had never been known to cower away from someone taller than him. He met the leader's gaze without flinching. “I do hope you are swift. It would be unfortunate for you if the item were not complete before long.”
