by Logan Petty
“Naralei of Alfhaven. Daughter of Nerelis and Avrenta, the former living in Alfhaven, the latter deceased. Banthan, son of Kvast and Ientha, both deceased. Former students of Tirinele, headmistress of the Rowan Circle. Former members of team Mirehawk. Current members of the outrider company called the Ghosts of Alfhaven. Current members of the army that, this very night, besieges the city of Jordborg. The black candle has been lit by your hands of your free will. The Chandler’s Guild hears your plea and knows it well. We have been expecting you.”
Naralei stepped forward, peering into the darkness. The gloved hand of the guide stuck out as a warning to come no closer. She halted her advance as she let her eyes wander around the room.
“Who are you people? How do you know so much about us?”
The monotonous voice answered, “The people of Jordborg tell a story. It is an ancient legend of the days before the Runestone’s blessing. When the gods formed Hammerhold, they used all the materials they had on the land and the animals. All that remained in the heavenly stores were lumps of wax. Hammerhold needed people to act as stewards of the land. So, the gods were each given two lumps of wax and were tasked with the creation of a special people, formed in their image. This is the account of the creation of the races, in its most condensed form.
“I tell you this now to explain who we are. People, no matter the race, are the same on the inside. We are all candles crafted by the hands of the gods. We are but wax vessels that hold a spark of divinity within our chests. Like all things of ethereal beginnings, there exists a balance. Sometimes a candle burns too hot and must be extinguished for the safety of all. Other times, the fragile flames that flicker within us are threatened by a cruel tempest and must be protected. That is where we come in.
“A chandler is one who creates and maintains candles. They are also tasked with controlling where and when those candles are allowed to burn. We, like the artisans with whom we share a moniker, are tasked with the maintenance of the gods’ candles. It is our job to know each one. Where they reside, when they are moved, and the condition of their flame.
“Far to the north, one reigns upon a throne of bones and decay. His flame is tainted and burns with a cold void, much like the candles before you. This being is a cursed entity, not made of the gods, but of something dark -- an abyss deep and hungry. His black flame spreads across Hammerhold like an inferno. We, in all our might and affluence, have not been able to quench the wildfire. Though we fought against it from the shadows, we fell one by one, consumed by the undying flame. All was lost until a new light of hope emerged from the forest of Alfhaven.”
Naralei lowered her eyes. “You speak of Sawain and his army.”
The voice continued, “I speak of you. I speak of Banthan. I speak of the Ghosts of Alfhaven, whose bravery and ferocity never flinched under the heat of the blaze. I speak of the heroes who drove back the all-consuming horde. Sawain is but one man among a host of the bravest and most valiant warriors our land has ever known. We have seen your deeds, Naralei and Banthan. Despite your personal feelings, you stepped onto the battlefield. You suffered loss, and you fought with resolve. You did so because you believed not in one man, but in an ideal. You believed that Hammerhold should be free of this curse. You believed that you were the ones who could stop the tyrant once and for all. Sawain leads you, but you fight as one. You are the saviors of Hammerhold. We bow to you this day and pledge our blades to your cause. Though we will not march among you, we will always be nearby, in the shadows, watching over you. Go now to the Sea King’s palace. There, on that sacred battlefield, we will lend aid with our blades and eagerly await the return of the true king of Jordborg.”
Naralei could not find words. She bowed deeply, her heart full of emotions. Banthan followed suit. As he bowed he spoke for the pair, “You have honored us greatly with your words, oh master chandler. We will strive to live up to your expectations. Thank you for your support in this war.”
Naralei finally found her tongue as she spoke with a shaky voice, “I have not acted like a hero lately, as I am sure you know. I ask your forgiveness and hope that I can live up to the lofty goal you have set before me.”
The chandler’s voice gained a certain softness that did not exist before now as he spoke to Naralei. “I am not the one you need to apologize to, child. Hurry now, dawn is but a few hours away and the gates of the palace are still a far walk.”
She straightened up, smiling. “You’re right. Come on, Banth, we better get moving.”
. . .
The moon shone down upon the battlefield outside the city walls. Jatharr’s forces had moved down along the ridge and had pushed into the sandy plains below as they cut their way toward the giants assaulting Ylsgrin. For the past hour they hacked and slashed through the undying horde, watching helplessly as the giant ballista engineer launched one bolt after another at Ylsgrin. The dragon remained agile throughout the fight, and managed to break away from his assailants from time to time to dive upon the giants and send them running in every direction. Every time he came close to catching the archer, the shield-bearer would step between the two and bat back the dragon’s attack. Even his draconic flames splashed harmlessly off of the giant’s gleaming shield, though it still incinerated everything else around it.
Jatharr shouted orders to anyone who would listen as he slowly pushed toward the gate. “Keep to the gap in the temples! Don’t get caught in that necrotic field! Where are those centaur? We need someone fast to distract those giants! Someone find Terina or Binze and make it quick! My chopping arm is getting tired!”
A volley of fire arrows struck down a dozen of the zombies surrounding Jatharr as Binze and six other centaur galloped toward him. The young Harthaz prince hacked a swath through the enemy using Harmeta. Binze shouted to Jatharr above the tumult.
“Captain, the archers are running out of arrows! We need to do something different!”
Jatharr ran his blade through an oncoming zombie as its spear soared over his head. “I’m open to suggestions!”
Binze looked up at Ylsgrin, then toward the giants, whose war machines rained rocks down upon their army’s heads. The situation looked hopeless, but he had an idea as he looked down at his unholy axe, now glowing brightly from the infernal souls upon which it gorged. He turned and galloped back to the centaur ranks, who wearily beat back the tides of undeath, preventing them from overwhelming their forces. He slashed and cut his way to Terina, who fired beam after beam of holy lances into the ranks of the dead. She snarled as a dozen more fell to her burning blades.
“Where are these things coming from? We cut them down by the thousands, burn them to the ground, yet still they pour out of that accursed city! Binze! What of the captain’s report?”
“We’re wearing down fast. The captain wants us to take out those giants.”
Terina scoffed as she fired another lance of light into the horde. “Sure, let me just take a shot at them from back here. I’m sure that will work nicely.”
Binze nodded as he trampled a pair of undead soldiers beneath his hooves. “That’s just it! Why can’t you? I mean, why can’t we? You wield Brenaljos, the lance that burns away evil. I have Harmeta, the Grief Eater. Father always said the two together are unstoppable.”
Terina shook her mane. “That old mare’s tale? If they’re so powerful together, why would our ancestor not use them to purge the world in his holy war? The tales are just that, Binze.”
“Like the tales of gods who used to walk the earth and commune with mortals? Or the stories of dragons who strove alongside men to make the world a better place? If their legends hold true, why can’t ours? Besides, at this point, what do we have to lose in trying for a miracle?”
Terina glared at her brother, who returned her gaze just as fiercely. She sighed as she cut down another row of zombies. “Alright, alright. Let’s hear it then. What’s your plan?”
Binze smiled as he pointed toward the giants. “See those big beasts over there? Ylsgrin has
managed to hold them back this long, but he’s tiring out. They’ve managed to finally hold their position and get the catapult set up. I don’t know what that massive ball they are loading into it is capable of, but I have a feeling it will kill everyone and everything out here if they launch it on us. After all, they’ve been fighting hard to keep Ylsgrin off them long enough to set it up. The combined power of the Harthaz’s holy weapons are said to have the power to tear down city walls. If we can focus that power into one of Brenaljos’s lances, surely we can destroy that thing and maybe turn it on its masters.”
Terina sighed wearily as she beat back more of the undead. “Okay, and how do we do that?”
Binze shrugged. “You’re the mage. I hoped you might know how already.”
Terina grit her teeth as more zombies surrounded her. “Seriously, Binze? Your plan is to point Harmeta at the enemy, say some magic words, then just fire it like an arrow?”
Binze swung a wide arc, severing the heads and limbs of several enemies at one time. “Well . . . yes, more or less. Can you do it?”
Terina stepped back, gesturing to her guards to keep her surrounded. They encircled the siblings as the undead closed in around them. She pointed Brenaljos at Binze.
“Touch the blade of Harmeta to Brenaljos’s focus and keep it there. No matter what, don’t let go.”
Binze did as Terina commanded. He held Harmeta out, resting its blade upon the sapphire focus at the head of Brenaljos. Anger kindled within Binze’s chest as the axe began to glow. He could feel the souls of the dead draining from Harmeta, absorbed into Brenaljos’s sacred gem. Jealousy mixed with rage. Terina did not deserve such power. He protected her for so long. He should be the one leading the Harthaz, not her. The longer he held his axe out, the hungrier he became. This plan was foolish and he knew it. He wanted to break away. Something called out to him. If Terina died on this battlefield, then he would be the rightful next heir to the clan. All he had to do was strike her down. Feed Harmeta the soul of his sister and rule with absolute power as the wielder of both divine weapons. No one could stop him. He would rule it all. Terina’s voice broke through his plotting.
“Now, Binze, let go. Don’t listen to it. You have to be its master, not the other way around. Don’t give into it like father did!”
Binze’s breathing labored as he glared at Terina, an unquenchable rage burning in his chest. He gripped Harmeta tight as it continued to whisper in his mind.
Kill her. Kill them all. Feed the fires of war.
“No. I am your master now. You will be silent!”
The rage in his heart subsided. He looked at Harmeta. A dark aura rose from the blade. An unexplainable malice swirled and churned. Terina pointed Brenaljos at it.
“Spirit of destruction, bend your will to mine. Enter into this holy lance and purge the world.”
The malice glided to Benaljos, seeping into the gem, causing it to radiate darkness. She glanced at Binze, a smile on her face.
“What do you say, little brother? Want to help me fire a holy weapon of divine judgment upon our enemies?”
Binze grinned as he sidled up to Terina, grabbing the bone staff of Brenaljos. “You know I do!”
The two raised their arms, pointing the scepter at the catapult as the giants doused the loaded ball with oil. Binze watched Ylsgrin dive fruitlessly against the armored titan, then retrained his focus on the catapult. Terina began to chant in a mystic language known only to the Harthaz royals. Binze translated it in his head as she spoke to the scepter.
“Holy flame of Clan Harthaz, tear our foes asunder. Wash them in utter destruction from which no curse may save them!”
The earth shook and overwhelming pressure brought the siblings to their knees as the weapons began to glow. Their allies quickly scattered, falling in behind them. Binze struggled to rise to his feet, and then laid Harmeta on top of Brenaljos. Terina grasped the haft of the axe while she struggled to remain on her hooves. A blinding light erupted from the holy artifacts, focusing into a roaring blade of divine fire that tore across the battlefield, combusting everything within a thirty foot radius of its fiery stream. The beam cut through the catapult, igniting the bomb within as another flash of light turned the night sky to day and a dome of flame tore across the battlefield.
Chapter 12
The walls and floor of the palace shook as two gnolls shuffled along, followed close behind by an orc with blood stained tusks and one eye. The three halted while the tremor rippled through the halls, knocking over lampstands whose unlit candles rolled wildly across the white stone floor. The orc looked around, his one eye opened wide.
“What that?”
One of the gnolls snickered at his companion’s poor grammar. “Sounds like ol’ Xifrieg rolled out of bed again! Baaah ha ha ha!”
The other gnoll boxed his kin hard on the ear. “Shut yer trap, Lice-Mane! You want to get us all killed? If one of those floaty priests of his hears ye, we’ll all be walking corpses!”
“Pah!” the first gnoll replied, spitting on the ground. “Why’d we sign up fer this ridiculous war anyway? I mean, ye really think that Hilmr scamp’s a god reborn? I mean, sure he’s flashy, and he brought our tribes together again, but at what cost? The second these dead folk show up, he’s kissing that bloated cretin’s ring. What kind of god does that, eh?”
The second gnoll glanced at his friend, then at the orc. The gray skinned brute shrugged.
“He right. No orc god bow knee to another. Especially not fat giant who get big seat in throne room because he talk good.”
The latter gnoll snarled as he stammered for a defense. “W-well, what do you know? You aren’t paid to think, yer paid to fight!”
The orc grinned as he looked up at the elaborate tapestry that hung in the hallway beside him. The first king of Jordborg, a dark skinned elf with braided hair smiled down at him from the lofty throne he sat upon.
“I not get paid. I wonder if elf-king pay orcs for fighting brothers?”
The second gnoll spat again, this time on the tapestry. “Who cares about some old dead elf? We better get back to patrols before the captain comes down on us again.”
The first gnoll glanced backward at the boots poking out behind the tapestry and sighed as the three skulked off. Vaskar waited until he could no longer hear footsteps, then released his breath and slid out into the open from behind the tapestry. He grinned as he mentally applauded Rognur for his acting prowess. For once, he found himself thankful that the enemy’s numbers were so vast that Rognur could be everywhere at the right time and nowhere at all. His mind snapped back to the task at hand as he took off down the winding corridors of the Sea King’s palace.
Even Vaskar, who grew up in these white marble halls, could get lost among the numerous branching hallways and maze of doors. It did not help that his childhood landmarks, such as certain suits of armor or statues, had been mostly pilfered by the scavengers Xifrieg let into the city. He made his way slowly from one room to the next, dodging patrols of gnolls and orcs. He noticed that none of Xifrieg’s undead forces roamed the hallowed corridors of the palace.
The dragon at the gates must take priority over a band of sneaks infiltrating the Hold, he thought to himself as he walked into a circular chamber near the back of the palace. An arched door made of onyx adorned the far wall. A relief carving of an elven king grasping a mighty sword gazed down upon Vaskar. The door featured no handles or knobs, only a slot a few inches long and less than an inch wide on the floor in front of it. The stonework around the door bore chips and burn marks, as if someone tried to get in by force.
Vaskar drew his blade, taking a moment to reflect on its features as his mind wandered. The black curved blade shimmered with an aura of enchantment. The intricate hilt looked like a piece of art, with its spiraling inlay of silver over banded black leather and twisting crossguard that enveloped his hand like a tiny shield. Lord Skirndolg called it Lykill. He said the name meant “the key.” Vaskar used to believe it was aptly n
amed, since the wounds it opened would not shut. He later learned the true meaning of its name came from the fact that this sword held the sole responsibility as the way to open the Vault of Kings. This sword did not belong to him, yet he wielded it nonetheless. He thought back to the last words his father said to him before he banished the young prince to exile. The Segrammir, in his last moments of sanity, whispered them to his son at the entrance to the same secret passageway Vaskar used to return to the castle.
I go now to join my fathers and repent of my trespasses. Someday, I pray you will return to reclaim your kingdom. Until then, survive. Grow. Become the man I could not. The key will open your path. May your resolve be complete on the day you hold the spear.
Vaskar approached the indentation in the floor and slid his blade into it. He gripped both cross guards and turned the blade clockwise, like a key. The pedestal turned with his sword, several loud clicking sounds echoing from behind the door. The sable stonework blocking the entrance slid open, revealing the darkness of the tomb within. Vaskar let go of Lykill and glanced at it anxiously. He knew he could not take it out, because it would seal the door behind him, but he also did not like leaving it unprotected in a castle crawling with foes. Nor did he like going into the crypt of his ancestors unarmed while a necromancer controlled the city.
He reluctantly turned toward the vault and strode forward, biting back fear. The darkness enveloped him. Though he came from an elven lineage, his blood was mostly human. His eyes did not adjust as well to darkness as his forebears’ did. He squinted through the shadows as he moved into a hallway that ran to his left and right. He decided to go left, keeping his dominant side forward. He walked until he found a passageway to his right. A gem stone mural stretched down the off branching hall, showing a lineage of kings, starting from Segramir Tyraiq and ending with Segrammir Skirndolg. Vaskar ran his hand along it as he reached the portrait of his father. The mural continued down the length of the hall, with room for many more Segrammirs to come. He stopped at the first empty place, wondering if his visage would be next to enter this sacred vault, and how soon it might be.
