by Jason Jones
How has this man survived? he wondered.
“Who are you, human? How long have you been here?” asked the minotaur, still searching for something to take away his confusion.
I am not a human, but a slave, from long ago.
Saberrak heard it in his mind, not his ears. Nothing, not a sound. Saberrak looked again, saw not a scratch on the body from recent wounds that should have left him a bleeding mess. Gone, all of them.
“You speak without words. How?”
Why did you free me, Saberrak the gray?
The minotaur backed up a step, looking for the origin of the voice in his head, disbelieving that it was this man speaking.
“Today is a good day for freeing slaves. Words of my father. Now show yourself!”
I am right in front of you.
“Speak aloud then, prove you are not a trick or ghost.” Saberrak felt the voice, a hum of gentle gratitude in his mind, and he did not like it.
Our conversation is over, there is nothing more to say, Saberrak the gray of Unlinn.
Then the man moved, searching with his filthy hand for something behind his back on the ground by the pillar. The minotaur stepped back more, prepared for anything from this strange prisoner. The man produced, by his right hand, a spool of stone. It was roughly carved gray rock, about as long as his forearm, and he motioned to hand it to his rescuer. It had strange paper rolled on it and writing that the minotaur had never seen, though he'd seen little to start with. Saberrak could barely read any Agarian, the language custom to this continent of Agara, but this was nothing even remotely legible. Dark brown writing, symbols, designs more than words, and there had to be twenty feet of the mess rolled onto this stone rod. The words glowed, but then they did not.
“What is this?”
Confused, Saberrak accepted the gift, for it was most likely, by the look of the man, his only possession short of a dirt covered mass of hair in this ever increasing cold. Saberrak and the man exchanged a long stare, quietly, for how long the minotaur lost track of. It seemed to the horned warrior that he was at peace, safe, and that he could rest while he stood, feeling like he had awoken from a full sleep and was now wide awake. The blue eyes were glowing, a gaze he could not release, as if in the silent stare there was something happening.
“Saberrak, I can smell you Saberrak. Why don’t you just give up the escape and come with me, it would be quicker for you.”
The voice snapped the gray out of whatever had happened here, turning to hide in the shadows of the great pillar. Chalas’ voice, deep, taunting, indicated that he was outside the pit, right past the broken wall. Saberrak turned to motion for the man to take cover with him, but there was no one there. Stone scroll in hand, the minotaur stood alone in the pit. The man with the blue glowing eyes was gone.
The gray tucked the scroll into his belt, knelt down to the body of the dead albino minotaur, and picked up the great scimitar, then moved down further into the pit. Water filled the lower portion. Saberrak continued surveying for the mysterious man or blue glowing eyes as he moved toward the unknown again. A stairwell, a stone set of stairs, old and worn, was spiraling upward into more light. The horned one moved faster, trying to make up for the lost time in the pit. Up he went, pushing his legs faster and harder, taking three or four steps at a time. He kept his head down and noticed his chest had no wounds, no cuts from the vicious troll claws, not a scratch. He could not explain it. It was as if it never happened at all. He looked down at his waist, saw the stone scroll was there, letters glowing the faintest blue.
“Nice work on your cousin, fugitive. And the local troll wildlife as well! You have been busy!” yelled the sarcastic voice of the horned brown hunter, it echoed half a dozen times through the cavernous undercity that the minotaurs now moved through.
Saberrak knew he had to get to open ground to face Chalas Kalaza. In a tight area with no room to move the killer could overpower him. He kept moving, knowing that the two handed greatsword was already out and ready in the hands of his pursuer, he heard it dragging and tapping the stone behind him in the distance. The gray knew that silence was his ally here despite his urges to retort and fight.
Clacking behind him, rising upon another set of stairs by the echo, the other white was moving to cut him off. Saberrak could make out his long haired hide stalking across a bridge of gray stone and moss. He turned his body round a pillar and held his breath. Short curling yellow horns appeared, and a gray hand reached from behind and pulled. The scimitar swung in surprise, met by another gray hand on its forearm. Before it could make a noise or stand, its hooves scraped along stone, then it fell. Seven underground floors later, it landed with a blood curdling splatter of bone and flesh.
“You do not seem to like your own kind, do you, fugitive?!” The voice of Chalas Kalaza echoed from below. “I told your father and brother you were dead already. Told your master, Zeress, that I would have your horns brought before him. Told him I would be keeping your skull, and he agreed.”
Saberrak kept moving, ignoring his pursuer far below. Up spiraling stairs, stone edges crumbling with every third step, just enough to mark his passing.
“The dwarves you set free were easy enough. The humans, too. My blade seems to have a thirst though, keeps thinking of taking your horns. I should have been allowed it in the arena, but your master and that ogre king wanted two undefeated in Unlinn. You and I both know that neither one of us can live with that.” Chalas was closing, his conversation a distraction to the bloodshed on his mind.
The top of the stairs were in sight, at least ten floors later, and much more light shone, almost too much for his underground eyes. Saberrak looked at the area, saw open ruined buildings of massive design, white covered grass, wet smells in the proximity. The endless gray sky and the air that moved froze him again. Breaking his fascination of his first steps to the surface world, he looked at the stairs behind, knowing his enemy came closer every moment. Chalas was an enemy he was not equipped to battle today. Saberrak looked where to hide and then noticed the loose stones at the top of the ruined stairs, they were large square stones, old and cracked. He thought for a moment and dropped the scimitar down the middle of the spiraling stairs where the clang echoed several times until it rattled faintly out of sight.
At least three floors down, “perfect” said the gray and backed up about fifteen feet under the strange sky.
“Is this a warning cousin, for if...?” the words cut off as Saberrak, knowing the place his foe stood near, rushed the stones above.
Head lowered, arms in front of his curved white horns, the gray crushed his body into the stone. Heaving his very breath and every pound of muscle into the rock, Saberrak collided with a ton of broken statue. Slowly, cracking a bit, the top stone fell down the stairs. Then another, then more fell. Crashing, crumbling, like an avalanche of boulders into a stone home, the stairway filled with dust and dirt and clouds of debris that flew into the air one hundred feet. The sound likely echoed for a mile or more. The minotaur, knowing that Chalas may have had time to get out of the way, glanced around to get his bearings. The brown champion would have to find another way out and begin his search anew and Saberrak hoped to be long gone from here, wherever here was, by then. Someday, he would return to free his father and brother, someday.
He crept round ruined walls and buildings, ancient and smelling of old battles and ogre stench. Saberrak saw no ogre, but could detect that they had been here as little as an hour or so ago. He made his way carefully, axe in one hand, chain and grappling hook in the other and came to the base of a hill that supported a great ruined tower of stone. Getting down on his hands and knees, the minotaur crept up the hill to get a better view.
Where am I, he wondered, as a vast city and more stretched in all directions save one. Nothing moved in or out of this mass ruined dwelling except for the sound of water behind him over a cliff. An ocean with no end in sight, larger than any underground lake he had dreamed of, threw waves and wind with fresh
and salty air to his nose.
What is this place, and why does so little move here he thought. Deep, dark blue waves of endless water slowly rippled deep down from the cliffs. Grass twitched with the cool air that moved but little. Gray and more gray above, but no stars or sun or moons as he had been told. Everything smelled strange. Breathing came easier. Saberrak squinted as his eyes adjusted to the bright gray above and the bright cold white snow at his feet.
The minotaur heard faint words, not in Agarian, but a woman's voice, singing perhaps, and beautifully at that. Far off, to the eastern side of this forgotten city. It was the only sound of another being he could hear. Saberrak, thinking that answers about where he was could be found there, moved down the hill from the tower toward the melody, curious and enchanted.
“I made it father, I am free.”
Maidens I:I
The Western Wastes
Chazzrynn
Her gray stone pile was perfectly laid, not one stone out of place on the small mound the elven woman admired. Tears streamed down her raised cheeks, down her tan luminescent skin, and soaked into the golden curls about her neck. The cold breeze was drying her sadness as quickly as it appeared. Shinayne had known Nathaniel Hanaira, a brave scout for her royal T’Sarrin family, for over a century, since she was a child. His loyalty to her causes had never ceased, even after the supposed fall of her noble line. Her curved elven blade and matching shortblade sheathed and cleaned of troll blood, Shinayne T’Sarrin began to sing the Vytha Vahann, the story of an elf’s life, which was usually sung by everyone that had known the deceased in a grand ceremony.
Not here, here I sing alone, thought Shinayne, only herself to sing it to the fey spirits that would guide Nathaniel back to the forests of Siril. May the God of my people, Siril of the sky and stars, take Nathaniel into His kingdom.
Her other companion, Bedesh of Haven Glen, was not an elf and he waited in reverent silence. Her voice choked in her elven tongue as she laid poetic verse and tribute to what she knew of Nathaniel, his life, and his family. Shinayne swore to the Fey Court of the Whitemoon, wherever they were, that she would seek justice on the trolls for his murder. Bedesh, the forest satyr, merely looked down at the stones, hoping to see them move and for this tragedy to not have happened. His sorrow he kept inside for respect of the lady he escorted. He held his furred hand out to Shinayne T’Sarrin, and she accepted.
Shinayne finished the eulogy, the song seeming to calm all life within earshot, and pulled her purple cloak around her to keep out the cold. This place, Chazzrynn, deep to the south on the continent of Agara, was not like her tropical homeland of Kilikala. She received no bows of recognition for her status, no cheerful greetings in her elven language, not even board or food in the cities upon her arrival. She dismissed her complaints quickly, breathing in reality that she was many months from home, had enough coin, and cared not for such things. All that mattered was finding Lavress.
The satyr took a knee next to the stones, drawing out his longsword, and began to sharpen it as his fur stood up in places from the wind. He watched as the elven lady, his friend and companion, meandered toward the small pond, boots crunching the frozen grass as she walked. Bedesh knew that she and Nathaniel were close, but fathomed in silence that he could not fully understand at thirty seasons old how elves dealt with the loss of loved ones they had known for centuries. The trolls had been many, he recalled, hitting fast in the night. Despite their keen senses and skill, they were outnumbered three to one. Flashes of memory hit him. Nathaniel’s lithe form being torn by the horrid green and black beasts and no way to get through to him as they fought. Shinayne had killed many, yet Bedesh himself killed but one. The red eyes in the night, the screeching, and all of this was for the lost lover of lady Shinayne. He kept quiet, kept his pain inside his chest, and let the lady take her mourning in peace.
Shinayne walked to the edge of the pond, staring into the dark blue waters, searching for an answer in the lifeless frozen reflection. None came. Shinayne closed her eyes. She was no tracker like Nathaniel, she did not know where to go from here. The few surviving trolls would return at night with more, perhaps ogre during the day, and now only she and the satyr remained. The elf envisioned her lover, Lavress Tilaniun, his darker skin almost brown, with tattoos of honor from his homeland, Gualidura. His piercing amber eyes staring into her aquamarine orbs trimmed with silver, his long brown hair pulled tight behind his high pointed ears. She recalled every visit to the island capital he made as emissary from his wood enshrouded kingdom. Shinayne recalled, after seventy or more years together, when he was offered to join the Hedim Anah. That honor was usually reserved only for noble elves from Kilikala, not a wood elf savage, like Lavress.
Lavress, my savage hunter, where are you? She thought. Her eyes surveyed the surrounding ruin. Her mind went back to when he left her. I need you now, need you here, beside me. Stop this game, this duty, and stay with your beloved.
Finding Lavress would not be easy, Shinayne knew that all too well. The Hedim Anah, guardians of the Court of Whitemoon, were to protect the elven secrets of any of the realms, even from other elves. The temples of the Whitemoon were few in Agara, and the Court of the Whitemoon moved throughout them in secret, always protected by the Hedim Anah. Whether diplomatic travels, guarding royalty, scouting for signs of danger, or hunting down stolen relics; Lavress must go where they delegated. It was a great honor to be among that order, said to be chosen by Seirena herself, Goddess and mother of the fey daughters of myth. Then her words would pass to her son, Siril, God of the elves, and then directly to the elders of the mysterious court. Grand stories told to elf children and passed on through the ages. Still, it was an honor that few may ever understand, lest they receive it themselves. Even with all she knew, and many things she should not know, Shinayne dreamed of the day when it was over and Lavress was hers once more.
Shinayne remembered the tales Lavress told her in private of tracking Altestani spies from the human empire of the north. He was involved in foiling Shalokahn elf ambushes from rival families, and her lover’s last mission had been to hunt down Eliah Shendrynn, the rogue wizard who had stolen four of the eleven tomes of high magic from Kilikala. She daydreamed of the preparing she did in secret from her uncle, the king of Kilikala. Competitive as she was, Shinayne trained with griffon riders, stowed away on elven vessels to learn the seas, and coerced the high elven guard to let her train with blades in the Junael Forests. All over decades of secrecy of love, passion, hope, and dreams that she now followed, despite King Naladra’s orders.
I want to see the world, find my parents, and I wished to do it together, Lavress. Where are you? Which way? I cannot retake the rule of my father, not without you by my side. Show me, guide me, please.
Shinayne paced back toward the kneeling Bedesh, appreciating his silence. “Which way now, my forest friend? The tracks lead through the ruins to the south, as Nathaniel stated last night.”
“My lady, perhaps we should...” he was cut off by a stare to end all stares, from the most beautiful elf he had ever met.
“If you intend to honor his death, and our friendship, Bedesh of Haven Glen, then please do not dissuade me from what my heart is telling me. I will not merely give up.”
“How old were those tracks that Nathaniel found? Four days old, my lady of Kilikala?” Bedesh scratched his fur.
“Approximately, give or take.” Shinayne gazed with her aquamarine eyes at the pile of stones, wishing an answer would come, knowing it would not.
“In that time, Lavress could be anywhere. If we could start a fire, the smoke would---”
“Would attract every troll and ogre said to pollute this godless west of Chazzrynn. We have seen them, killed them, but they hunt us as we hunt Lavress. And, now we are two.”
“I was hoping we could get some warmth, not more attention, my lady.” Bedesh wondered how lucky he actually was, having won the favor of the fey court by chance, and now being the emissary to replace Lavres
s Tilaniun to the T’Sarrin family of Kilikala. Haven Glen was warm and peaceful now, he was sure of it. “Perhaps for just an hour, a small fire just---“
“No time. We slowed enough to let the trolls calculate an ambush; a mistake I will not repeat, good satyr.”
“You will have to explain Nathaniel’s death to your uncle, will you not?”
“No. Nathaniel left with me, left the Hanaira name behind him, long before we arrived on this continent and met with you. I have no words for the man on the throne of my people, none that a lady should speak aloud, that is.”
“Someone must know of it.” Bedesh shook his head and winced as the wind caught his eyes unaware.
“Of course, his family will know. All of them, save one.”
“We could return, I could get us to Gualidura. Then, the queen there is a friend of your family and she---”
“Queen Ganidaea would assist, but not without making waves with Kilikala, as she has done in the past. Because of her devotion to the Hedim Anah and Lavress, she keeps me an outsider. Her isolation and her pride in him would prevent any real assistance. No, Bedesh, to find Lavress it is just you and I. Let us move, I shall lead.”
“My lady.” Bedesh bowed his head.
Her high elven dialect was difficult for the satyr, but the message was undeniable. They were heading deeper south after Lavress, who was after some other dangerous elf, in the western wastes of Chazzrynn. It was so very far from home. Bedesh knew well enough that she would not be swayed, that her emotions would only further her determination and that further south meant even more cold. He wondered if she knew how it was to be out in this weather with only fur. Feeling the obvious from his partner, Bedesh picked up the longbow, Nathaniel’s longbow and his quiver of arrows, and followed the elf south, over a worn stone bridge into yet more ruins. He glanced over his shoulder to where the stone collapse was heard some time previously . The satyr did not like this place, having more than a chill air to raise his covering of brown hair.
