by Logan Petty
“There’s a narrow path that leads down into the ravine. We can only go one at a time, it’s too narrow to march in ranks. The bottom of the ravine should be cleared out. We used to use this place as a refuge during the early days of the war.”
Sawain nodded, and then turned to the army. “You heard him, one at a time, into the ravine,”
One by one, the elves, humans, orcs, halflings and centaur filed past Sawain. Jatharr paused at the lip of the descent. He glared suspiciously at Binze as he growled at Sawain.
“How do we know this isn’t some sort of trap? I don’t trust him.”
Sawain sighed, beginning to lose his patience with the paranoid old warrior. “You don’t want to go down? Fine. Take a squad of five and post up here. We need sentinels anyway.”
Jatharr glared at Binze as he nodded to Sawain’s suggestion. “Aye, I can do that. I’ll take my own squad and we will camp up here tonight.”
Binze’s face twisted in confusion. “Sentinels are not necessary, this place is hidden by druidic runes.”
Sawain placed a hand on Binze’s shoulder. “Just let him be. He needs time alone anyhow.”
Jatharr snorted and pivoted around, stomping off to find a place for a campsite. Sawain sighed, his heart secretly aching for his friend. Binze raised a hand in a gesture of resignation and turned to go into the ravine. Banthan brushed by Sawain, hitting him squarely across the shoulder.
“I’ll take watch with Jatharr. I never did like the idea of sleeping among grayskins.”
Sawain glared at Banthan as he turned his back and walked away toward Jatharr. He sighed and followed Binze once all who were not staying topside were on their way down. The path was barely two feet wide. Sawain ran his hand along the walls, clinging to vines or rock outcrops when he could find them. Color drained from his vision as the light from the surface faded. He could hear his human comrades complaining about not being able to see. The path eventually stopped sloping and widened out. Binze grabbed a torch on the wall, bit his thumb, muttered a few syllables, and allowed droplets of his blood to fall onto the head of the torch. It smoldered and ignited within seconds, filling the cavern with fire light. Sawain chuckled.
“Well, you are full of surprises, Binze. I didn’t have you marked as a mage.”
Binze shrugged, “I know a few incantations I picked up from my mother. Nothing fancy, just a few words for lighting fires and purifying water. That’s about all I can do.”
Sawain smiled, “Hey, that’s more than I can do. I’m sure those skills will come in handy more than a few times.”
Binze allowed himself a smile while pointing to the mouth of a cave at the end of the ravine. “We need to get inside, it’s much safer there. We can seal it off, make it look like there is no cave from the inside, in case intruders arrive.”
Sawain nodded, motioning for everyone to fall in. He waited until everyone was inside before going in himself, to make sure none were left behind. The inside of the cave was much larger than he expected. The walls arched upward for fifteen feet. The widest part of the cave could fit the large party and the Ghosts’ drakes with plenty of room left over. Stone seats were carved out of the walls, which did not look like they were made for centaur. A pit for fire resided in the middle of the cave. Some of the soldiers busied themselves by throwing piles of dry, rotted wood into the pit from a stack against one wall. Sawain raised an eyebrow to Binze.
“This place does not look like a centaur dwelling, so how’d you know about it?”
Binze frowned and lowered his head. “I hunted down a tribe of Hravelith druids who made it onto Gothur’s blacklist. This used to be their home, before I killed them all.”
Sawain’s heart sank, but he could hear the regret in Binze’s voice. He decided to move on quickly.
“Let’s not dwell on the past. We need to worry about the future, particularly one that sees us getting to that temple without dying.”
Binze nodded, lifting his countenance, “Yes, and I think I might have an idea.”
The army gathered around Binze and Sawain eagerly to hear the new plan. Binze continued once everyone settled into place.
“It’s a reckless idea, perhaps even foolish, but if we can make it happen, it will definitely work.”
Naralei chuckled and ran her fingers through her long dark hair nonchalantly. “If there’s anything our fearless leader is good at, it’s pulling off reckless plans.”
Nara’s comment roused a report of chuckles and snorts from the other Ghosts. Binze smiled as he continued.
“It involves a dragon.”
The laughter stopped, along with every other noise in the cave. Sawain found his voice first.
“A dragon?”
Binze nodded slowly. “Let me explain. First of all, against an army that large, we are going to need some large recruitment. There’s nothing larger in the world than a dragon.”
“Yeah,” Mari interrupted. “Which makes them awful hard to barter with when you’re bite-sized in comparison.”
Binze nodded hesitantly as murmurs of discontent floated to the ceiling from the crowd. “I understand that, but it’s hard, not impossible. All you have to do is offer the dragon something that is more alluring than eating you. Usually this means a great treasure, and not something the dragon can attain without you. Believe it or not, most dragons are honorable creatures when they want to be.”
Mari scratched her scalp as she held a shivering Timbrel tight in her lap. “So, what is it we’re offering? And to which dragon?”
Binze continued, “There’s a dragon named Ylsgrin who lives in a tower in the Spire Forest north of here. It’s a dangerous journey, and honestly, not one the entire army should take. He’s known as the Librarian, because his lust is for knowledge. They say his tower is the largest library in the world. If we can bring him something he doesn’t have, he’s sure to enter into a pact with us.”
“Oh great,” Mari piped up, throwing a free hand up in the air in exasperation. “So, the plan is bring a dragon a book and hope he hasn’t read it. Yeah, we’re definitely not getting eaten.”
“Not a book,” Binze corrected, “but something he can’t resist nonetheless.”
One of Binze’s centaur clansmen stamped a hoof. “Surely you don’t mean our Runestone? That’s a sacred artifact!”
The rest of the centaur stamped and protested loudly as Binze raised his hands for calm. “Please, brothers, sisters, listen to me. If we don’t do something drastic and soon, no amount of sacred artifacts will stop Xanthrin’s conquest of the lower fells. Our Runestone is the only thing we can be certain that Ylsgrin does not have. We can also be sure that he would do anything for it. We don’t have to give him the actual stone, just teach him its secrets.”
“That’s blasphemy, Binze,” one centaur shouted. “Your father would never allow it!”
Binze’s mane bristled with indignant rage as his countenance deformed into a scowl. “I am not a colt any longer. My father has no say in the matter. The Harthaz are corrupt. I know this, and so do all of you. If he won’t give it willingly, then we shall have to take it.”
The protests and stamping of hooves quieted, trickling off one by one, replaced by shocked silence. Binze waited a moment to ensure no more complaints would be raised before he continued.
“So there’s my plan. Go to the Harthaz Bone-City, take my clan’s treasured Runestone, by force if we must, deliver it to a knowledge hungry dragon, and get him to help us destroy the temple and as many zombies as he can fit in his stomach.”
Sawain blinked in stunned admiration at the proposed simplicity of such a deadly plan. “Well, it’s better than anything I can think of. Now, to put a team together.”
Binze nodded, “I have to be a part of the team, I’m the only one who can get the Runestone.”
A solid black centaur from skin to fur, with crimson eyes and ghostly white tattoos on her arms stepped forward. She wore an iron breastplate and leather wraps fitted for a centaur on
her flank. Her wild white mane of hair fell down her back, partially covering a longsword that hung from a holster slung across her shoulder. Two war axes were strapped to her waist, one on either side. She carried herself with the pride of a noble warrior.
“I will go with you as your retainer.”
Binze smiled at her, “Terina, I would be honored. That makes two so far. I wouldn’t recommend sending more than five.”
Sawain nodded, “I’ll send Banthan, Mari, and myself with you. I will leave Jatharr in charge here. I don’t think we should take him around any Harthaz holy places right now.”
Binze nodded in agreement. “If you’re sure. This will be a risky journey. It could cost us all our lives.”
Sawain nodded, “All of us here are willing to pay that price or we wouldn’t be here.”
“Yeah,” Mari jumped in, “but let’s try to avoid paying full price, alright?”
The others burst out in laughter. Mari flourished in the reception of her joke. Sawain noticed the color rise in her smiling cheeks for the first time since they left Sibilach’s home. He could not help sharing a smile. He quickly looked away when her eyes met his and he cleared his throat.
“Alright, alright, that’s enough. I know we’re all tired from today’s march. Get some rest, find some food, settle in. We’re going to camp here until we get ourselves a dragon. Then we’ll storm the temple properly!”
A round of cheers responded to his call for rest and the army spread out in the cave, setting up beds and lighting the main fire. The entire cave smelled of roasting meat and roots within ten minutes. Sawain found a quiet corner in the cave that dipped away from the main opening and gave him a bit of darkness. Eldingbál slinked over to him after he set up his bed and was sitting cross legged against the cave wall, oiling his armor. He noticed Mari and Songrandir, her drake, slink over to him. Mari was holding her bedroll in her arms and her eyes twinkled expectantly.
“There’s, uh, nowhere to set up camp in the big part of the cave, and the party’s a little too wild for me and Song. Mind if we set up next to you?”
Sawain was flattered. He smiled and motioned with his free hand at the barren rock floor beside him.
“My cave floor is your cave floor. Help yourself.”
She grinned broadly, “Thanks for letting me spelunk down beside you! Vrendr wouldn’t let me because I get on his nerves.”
Sawain grinned and set his armor aside as Eldingbál and Songrandir curled up at his feet. “Don’t let him get you down. He will cave eventually.”
Mari chuckled, “Maybe he’ll sink to a hole new low!”
Sawain nodded. “He has grotto grow up some time.”
Mari giggled and snorted, automatically placing a hand on her mouth and looking away. The gesture was familiar to Sawain. He didn’t know why, but he placed a hand on her shoulder. She turned back to him and smiled. Sawain returned the smile and rubbed a smudge of dirt from her chin.
“We’d better get some rest before tomorrow. More marching to come. And there will probably be some dead guys trying to make us a part of their crowd.”
“Yeah,” Mari said, closing her eyes and sliding down onto her bedroll. “We’d hate to keep them waiting, huh, Sawain?”
He smiled as he sank into his own bed, resting his bare feet against Eldingbál’s warm belly. “Yeah, we would, Mari. Rest well, see you in the morning.”
He slowly drifted to sleep, despite the worries in his heart, and the fact that tomorrow he would face untold danger. He could not explain it, but he was unusually calm. He did not need to be able to explain it. He simply let go of the day and slipped into a deep slumber.
Chapter 3:
Sawain awoke in darkness. He could not move his arms and his chest struggled to pull in air. Panic began to swell in his skull until he came to his senses and his elven eyes adjusted to the lack of light. Eldingbál lay against his master with his head rested on Sawain’s chest. Mari slept soundly on his other side, hugging his arm firmly, a bit of drool running from her mouth to his shoulder. He wondered to himself if he was a war hero or a pillow. He slowly worked his arm free of Mari’s grasp and slipped Eldingbál’s head gently to the ground beside him. He sat up and squinted into the open chamber beyond. It was full of sleeping figures. Dozens of smaller bodies lay strewn across the ground, wrapped up in bedrolls and blankets. The centaur stood along the edges with their heads resting against their chests, which rose and sank rhythmically with each one’s slumbering breath. The density of the darkness made it hard for Sawain to see any detail. That same density filled his lungs and labored his breathing. He rose to his feet, grabbed his gear, and put on his boots. He wove his way across the big room quietly and carefully as he pushed through the thick air to the entrance foyer. Early morning light trickled in from above as he climbed up the natural ramps into the grove. The frigid air stung his eyes, filling them with involuntary tears as he clambered through the grove, glancing at the pines that surrounded him as he walked. They were tall, rough-barked behemoths that bore strange carvings in the likeness of faces in their trunks.
The faces on each tree stretched across roughly three feet of the trunks, and resembled different creatures. One of the faces resembled an angry god with bulging eyes and gnashing teeth. Another tree wore the face of a wise old man with a tangled beard that hung down to the tree’s roots. Several trees wore animal masks with grotesque features. Rabbits with elongated ears and teeth; wolves with large, hungry eyes; and rams with spiraling horns stared into a past which Sawain longed to learn. He ran his hand along the muzzle of a roaring lion. It reminded him of his mother’s totem. His other hand instinctively wrapped around the tiny artifact that hung around his neck. He remembered Sibilach’s words as he stared at the feline mask in the living tree.
Now the mother's spirit is one with the son. Bound by blood and bone, they are. May this guardian icon shine with guiding light.
“So, why are you not shining now,” Sawain muttered under his breath as he squeezed the totem. “You are supposed to be guiding me, so where are you?”
“Love has a funny way of lighting our paths when we least expect it, and usually leads us down a trail we cannot see on our own.”
Sawain started and released his grip on the totem, letting it fall to his chest as he turned to face the owner of the gruff voice behind him. Jatharr leaned against the pine with the old man’s face, his right profile visible to Sawain. He stood with crossed arms as he stared at the sweeping valley beyond the grove. His forlorn gaze locked in place, as if he belonged among the pine effigies.
“Oh, uh, Jatharr. How long have you been there?”
Jatharr did not stir as he spoke. “Do you remember her, Sawain?”
Sawain stammered, “W-what?”
“Your mother. Do you remember her? What do you remember about her?”
Sawain scratched the back of his scalp and looked away, hesitant to answer. He tried to recall all of his memories associated with his mother. He sighed as he realized that most of his memories consisted of stories that he heard from Tirinele or Nerelis, mixed with the diluted stories from Thrallfather Simir. The only memories of Skalda that truly belonged to him were closer to remnants of dreams than memories.
“I remember… that she always smelled like roses. I also remember a birthday party. It was spring, and she was so happy. That’s all, really. Every time I think of my mother, I see her smiling face. It’s hard for me to imagine her as the vigilante war hero everyone else remembers her as.”
Jatharr nodded, “I imagine so. That birthday you spoke of? I remember that day as well.”
Sawain’s heart skipped a beat as he took a step toward Jatharr, his eyes locked on the wistful face of the old halfling. “What did you say?”
Jatharr did not move. “You heard me right. I remember that day. I was there too. Fifteen years ago. Your third birthday. Everyone was there that day. We were called there; personally invited by Lord Torval himself. It was the day your mother died.�
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Sawain’s heart sank. He stepped back and leaned hard into the tree behind him. His head swam as he tried to grasp this new revelation. “She died on my birthday? Why didn’t you do something if you were there? Why didn’t you save her?”
Jatharr sighed, “Sometimes things don’t work out the way we planned. Your father tried for five years to find a way to return your mother to the forest, but he couldn’t.”
Sawain glared at Jatharr. “What do you mean he couldn’t? He could have just let her go if he loved her.”
Jatharr shook his head. “That would have been a far worse fate. You need to understand something about the laws of Jordborg in those days. War criminals who were captured had two options: the thrall market or the chopping block. Any marked criminal of your mother’s infamy only had the latter choice, but yer father found a way around the system.”
Sawain’s knees weakened as he slid down the carved trunk. He sat in silence as Jatharr continued.
“You see, our clan made a living by doing one favor for another. We were mercenaries of a sort. We were neither loyal to Anvilheim nor Jordborg in the war, but we did . . . some heavy lifting for whoever promised the greatest reward. One day we would raid an Anvilheim camp, the next we would intentionally walk into Jordborg ambushes. Well, near the end of the war, when Skalda and her band began raiding Jordborg’s forces, we fought against her once a week it seemed. Each time, one side or the other narrowly avoided calamity through escape. See, Skalda hated both sides of the war and sought to beat back both from Alfhaven’s borders. Old Torval, he said that girl’s bad for business and made it his personal mission to put an end to the infamous Briaredge. They fought tooth and nail. Ever heard the bards use the term ‘like getting caught between the briar and the boar’? Comes from the fearsome clashes your parents engaged in day in and day out. Well, as warriors are prone to do, your father’s respect for your mother’s ferocity turned to love.
