Wake up, boy. Time to do your duty. Time to see what kind of man you will become. Get up.
Quietly, Snitch did what he was told. Even though the Torn Line was loaded with sharp rocks, carcass bones, and other refuse, this far up the beach was sandier. His footsteps were silent. Once standing, he waited.
Go to him. Draw out his blade. Do what must be done.
Snitch started to cry, tears streaming down his face. He kept shaking his head, feeling ready to shout with all his might to the defenseless man.
He stole something that does not belong to him, and has killed doing it. Now draw his blade and drive it into his heart, ridding the world of his bloodline forever.
Snitch was no match for the Voice, which had poisoned his soul since he'd boarded the Demoron as a stowaway that dark winter day. The promise was for drier land, warmer climate, fresher meat, and no slavery. It was the promise of a new life for such a young boy. Yet, here he was, destined to follow in the footsteps of so many Dramedanians before him—a life of murder and crime. He crept toward the sleeping pirate, and found his blade lying in the sand near his right hand.
It's so easy. The blade calls to you. I can feel the steel coursing through your veins. Pick it up . . . now!
Slowly, Snitch closed his fist around the hilt. He was fighting the urge to kill, fighting it so passionately he felt like a lone warrior on a battlefield battling a large serpent with his sword. But he was losing, losing ground with every swing and stab. The more he fought, the more ground he lost. Suddenly, he realized what he must do. He let go.
The knife came up, raised above Snitch's head. Then, with eyes closed, it fell in a fluid motion so silent and simple that the wind seemed to stop blowing for one brief moment, the waves stopped crashing on the beach, and the sound of the laughter in his head ceased. The only sound disturbing the soothing silence was Callaway's final, dying breath when the steel passed through his flesh, between his ribs, and into his heart. The blood seeped through Callaway's shirt, staining it forever where the water had since evaporated. Such will be the way of it in the end.
"Shut up! Shut up!” Snitch screamed, more tears falling. He suddenly realized what he had done. He had let go, let the ecstasy of the kill take control, allowed the Voice to be in total command of him.
You know you did the right thing. But, there's still one more task you must do to make sure no one follows in Callaway's footsteps.
Sobbing, Snitch slumped his shoulders wearily. “What is it?"
The smooth stone in his pocket—I need you to get it. Keep it until you know when it's time to give it up. It's the stone I told you he had on the ship. This stone brought Callaway to his fate. His death will never be in vain, and now it has passed to you for a time.
Snitch breathed a sigh of relief at such a simple task. Quickly, he rummaged through the dead pirate's pockets until he found the rag-wrapped stone. Upon inspection, Snitch noted that the stone was incomplete, like a missing part of a larger whole. It was rounded and smooth on one side, with white etchings carved into its brown surface. The rest of it was rough and angular, like it fit into another piece or group of pieces completing a single unit.
Shrugging, Snitch was happy to put the stone into his pocket and start the next leg of his journey. He was relieved the Voice hadn't asked him to do anything with the body. The crows and the sandgrubs would see to its disposal.
Despite his tender years, he felt, for the first time, a man.
Mortwar swung the Arunir around hard to the port side when Buck hollered about seeing an unusually large massing of crows on the beach, along with the skiff presumed to be Callaway's. After dropping anchor, their own skiffs were launched and sent ashore.
"Yep, it was them all right,” Mortwar noted, pointing at the two sets of different size footprints in the sand. “Look, he even carried the boy up there.” Mortwar's finger led directly to where the crows were feasting. “I wonder whose carcass lies there: Callaway's or the boy's."
"We'll find out soon enough, Cap'n,” Buck noted in a somber tone.
Mortwar had a suspicion about which one lay dead, but it wasn't the popular opinion of the group, who all just figured that Callaway, obviously the stronger and tougher of the two, slew the boy for being in his way after he'd served the pirate's purposes. Good thing I'm not a bettin’ man, he thought.
A few gunshots sent the swarming mass of black crows scurrying to the sky, but they wouldn't leave the area for long, circling overhead like a giant rain cloud. Crows numbering so many meant one of two possibilities: a scarcity of food in the region, or plenty of it, for they followed death wherever She could be found.
"Just as I thought,” Mortwar uttered, pulling his leather neckpiece over his mouth and nose to ward off the stench of rotting flesh.
"Callaway,” one of his crew noted.
"Or what's left of him,” Mortwar said. He turned and regarded the surrounding sand. The crows had scattered a large radius of the sand in their squabbling, making it very difficult for Mortwar to pick up on the trail of the boy. But, eventually, he found tracks leading away from the scene.
"That way,” he pointed. “The boy's heading deeper into Dunandor."
"Alone?” Buck was shaking his head in sheer bewilderment and doubt. “There's no way he's makin’ it across the Dunandor desert alone, Mortwar."
Mortwar rubbed his stubbly chin thoughtfully. “I'm not so sure."
"Don't matter anyway,” another said, stepping in front of Mortwar and crossing his arms. “We've come as far as we are goin’ ta’ go. The stone's not here and there's no way we'll survive if we go chasin’ the brat inta Dunandor. Let's go home, report to your man while we still have our skin and eyes, and force him ta’ pay us somethin’ for our trouble of comin’ this far."
"So you're saying abandon the job and take the money?” Mortwar asked coolly, forcing a calm smile. Mortwar was a cunning captain, but, more importantly, he had a knack for extracting a good reason for his crew's decisions and making them think before they acted.
"Well, err,” the deckhand stammered, unnerved by Mortwar's flip tactic. “I'm sayin’ that we have come farther than we bargained for. We came this far because we're loyal ta’ Mortwar Brendain. I'm appealin’ ta’ yer sense of good wit here."
"I see,” Mortwar nodded, turning away from the deckhand and kicking a stone in the sand.
The deckhand looked around nervously at the other crewmen, wondering what Mortwar was going to do next.
Mortwar decided to come clean then and there: no more games, no more deception. There was more to his journey than this Elfstone fragment, but up until then, no one, not even Buck, suspected this as a private journey to find out what fate had befallen Mortwar's family. He cleaned the sea salt from the Black Moort stone embedded into the center of his silver ring and turned to his crew.
"I need to come clean with you about my decision to pursue the boy into Dunandor."
When Mortwar finished relating the story of his first encounter with Callaway back in Drameda, his recovery of his father's ring and heirloom, his witness of the events aboard the Demoron the night before they left for Dalen, and the details in between of being hired to find out what had happened to the stolen Elfstone, there were little more than blank stares from his crewmen and First Mate. They were stunned, barely able to process what exactly their captain—the man they trusted with more than their lives—had just told them.
Mortwar waited patiently for them to speak first, knowing he had crossed the point of no return. He had come clean, but at what cost? Would they mutiny and add his body to the crow feast, or would they spare him and simply demote him to deckhand? He was surprisingly calm, pondering his punishment. But what happened next would puzzle him for years to come.
Buck stepped forward after taking stock of the crewmen's expressions. Some wore looks of disappointment, some indifference, but all of them had the same trust in their eyes they did before the story.
"Captain Mortwar, Friend,” he began
, “I think I speak for all of the men here when I say I am pleased you told us everything. It takes a better man to face severe retribution for his actions. Therefore, despite the overwhelming odds, I say: if this boy can make it across the deserts of Dunandor, we can too. But, we can't do it without you."
The others nodded their approvals. The deckhand who had previously questioned Mortwar offered his apologies for being insubordinate.
Mortwar shook each of their hands in turn. “My fellow crewmen and friends, you have been with me on many journeys and adventures. I am asking you to embark on a course of action that some of you will pay for with your lives. We have two missions: one for Vaaluna, our home, and one for me, your captain. Knowing this, I am giving you all the chance to return to the ship if you so choose. I am no barbarian, and I did not share information to press guilt upon your hearts. I am a man of my word, and I promised I would never rule with an iron fist aboard my ship. If you come with me to recover the Elfstone and see what has befallen my father, you will all be rewarded by the gods, and by me."
"We're with ya', Cap'n,” they all said in turn. Only one returned to the ship, but Mortwar held no contempt for the youngest of the group, nor did the others. Mortwar made it a point to praise the greenhorn for holding the ship in such high regard and for staying behind to guard it.
"Take only what we need, and make sure we have plenty of water. Let's bury this body in the sand; thus, may Callaway find the peace denied him in this life. We leave under the cover of darkness."
The crew hurried to gather supplies, while Buck, Mortwar, and another deckhand buried the carcass deep in the sand, much to the crows’ dismay. When the sun fell behind the western line, they headed into Dunandor by way of the mountains to the west of their position. To get through the desert successfully, they had to make the foothills of the mountains where they would find more water.
The northern desert of Dunandor wasn't a hot sandy desert; it was a barren wasteland of nothingness: no trees, no greenery of any kind, and no game, save for the snakes and scorpions. Not even the direwolves would claim this land as their own. It wasn't a dry place, because rain and sleet fell regularly in this season, but nothing would grow. Mortwar surmised that nothing could grow. He felt an eerie, hidden presence, but he couldn't place it. It was too quiet, and Dunandor wasn't a sleepless land.
Mortwar prayed again for his family, kissed his father's ring, and pressed on with his crewmen, the men holding aloft lanterns to light their unhindered path.
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Chapter 16—The Lion's Mouth
According to my book, we are nearing the vicinity of the Lion's Mouth,” Aerinas noted, his eyes darting back and forth, searching. The others were doing the same, ducking and shielding the bright earlyafternoon sunlight from their eyes to get a better view.
"I don't see nuttin',” Farrin griped. The big man seemed out of place in the northern mountains. Where there was little more than rocks, caves, and scarce plant life near his home to the south, these northern slopes were brushed with a tapestry of dark green pines and light green hemlocks, all prickly and very tough to see beyond with any real success. The path ahead didn't seem to follow any direct line; it weaved south, west, and north, all at different intervals. Nothing seemed to fit right.
"Why is there even a path here?” Tristandor asked, wondering why he was the first to ask the obvious question. “The travelers use the pass to the south connecting Salanthanon to Caran, do they not?"
"They do,” Aeligon answered with Pux outstretched. “But we're not on a path known to those travelers now, are we?"
"What are you doing with Pux there?” Lynais interrupted, a look of confusion etched into his thin features.
"He's using his ability to search for magical presences,” the wizard answered. “Pux may be a conjurer in Primary Practice, but his Secondary is in the art of Divination, or the ability to see and sense things that would otherwise slip past other wizards or mages. I possess some skill, but Pux is certainly proving his growing mastery of this art."
Ithyllna, with her two gleaming blades drawn, smiled lightly. “Why are we trusting one less skilled, Aeligon, especially considering our timeline?"
She barely had the words out of her mouth before she was startled, gasping. The others followed suit, coming to an abrupt halt on the path. Ahead, loomed a menacing stone structure.
Pux snickered at the irony of the timely discovery.
They had found the Lion's Mouth.
Haarath watched the plumes of billowing smoke pour from the treetop watchtowers of Mynandrias, the legendary Krayn city rumored to have never been breached since its construction after the Calaridis Wars. The assault had lasted longer than he had expected; the Krayn archers were trained well, and had slaughtered many of his Drothghight against the Four Gates.
"M'Lord, maybe if we pulled them back, regrouped, and stopped short of throwing your creations against the wall in such a reckless fashion, we might be able to formulate a plan to gain the walls."
The sniveling lieutenant's observation angered Haarath to the point where he ground his sharpened teeth together enough to make his gums bleed. But, the Droth was on to something, so the sorcerer stayed his hand...and his blade.
"You're right,” Haarath conceded. He turned to Turza, hulked next to him. “Pull them back. We need to get around this city, or raze it to the ground. In any case, we're wasting time here. Our numbers were not to diminish at the hands of Krayn Elves—the lure of Mernith's destruction was too tempting to surpass."
Turza nodded, then began waving his massive arm at his lieutenants. They, in turn, began shouting the order of retreat. Some of the confused savages grew angry at the cowardly order, and fell to the sting of the elves’ missile barrage.
It didn't take long for the brutes to regroup far out of range of the arrows. Haarath was seething as he paced the length of a fallen tree trunk. Turza knew enough to stay quiet.
Haarath had to do something fast. He couldn't retreat and go around the city, leaving the elves the victory—this would be too demeaning to his Drothghights, and probably get him drawn and quartered. No, another strategy was needed. Then, an idea dawned on him. He leaned over to Turza.
"See how some sections of the wall there are on fire?” he whispered.
Turza nodded.
"Only fire can take down the wooden defenses of the elfin walls."
"But, M'Lord, they wet the walls with water from their streams. The fire won't take hold, and neither can the Insects."
"I will assist you with my magic. I have been schooled in the ways of making fire burn even the most retardant surfaces."
Turza shouted for his subordinates to bring fire; Haarath pushed his way through the growling and clawing throng toward the western gate. Once there, he grabbed a torch from one of the Drothghights. The missiles started whistling past the sorcerer, striking down two of the Droths standing near him. Haarath held out his left hand, and, with a quick line of spellcraft, summoned a bluish orb of energy around him. Arrows deflected and bounced off of the shield, but the sorcerer raised the torch over his head without fear.
His next utterance turned the yellow flame into a mix of green, orange, and red. With a heave, Haarath threw the torch against the western gate. A concussion, followed by a thunderous roar, sent shudders through the wall in waves. Elfin archers fell to their deaths from the watchtowers on both sides of the wavering wall, set aflame against the effects of the water.
Haarath, pleased by his own power, turned suddenly to the horde of blood-lusting Drothghights.
"Hold!” he shouted. “Do not enter the city! Let it burn from the outside in, and let the elves taste the flames of their god!"
The Drothghight, Cray, and direwolves waved their claws, torches, and other death-dealing instruments in the air. They moved out, heading northeast through the trees of Mernith toward the Misty Falls and the Bridge of Fwalin.
Turza turned to Haarath while his Droths streamed
past the burning West Gate, shouting and cursing as they went. “We'll need the help of the Moor Goblins who live in the Quagmirth to the north of here."
"Nonsense,” Haarath barked. “The goblins are more likely to turn on us than help us, but they will quickly learn their link in the food chain if they attempt such a move."
"Just so. If they have wits about them and decide against such unwise action, we will find a great alliance with them. The more the forces opposing the wizards, elves, and giants, the better our chance of success in this campaign."
"I gave you more brains than I should have,” Haarath grumbled, snickering.
"With all due respect, Master, my brains came from an Intelligent, not you."
"Never forget I made you!"
"I will not soon forget it, Master,” Turza said in a humbled tone. “We will make the Misty Falls and beyond to the Unodin Pass by midday tomorrow,” the Droth leader reported, wisely changing the subject.
"Good. That's more like it. We don't want to be late for my Master. We all have those to whom we answer, and the one I answer to does not hand out forgiveness as readily as I. The underground city is within our reach, and nothing will be able to stop me now. If you want to enlist the help of the Moor Goblins, I suggest you send scouts ahead to counsel with them."
From atop the West Wall, a lone sentry of Mynandrias crouched in terror while the wall burned around and beneath him. He knew he was doomed. The others had died when they fell from the shockwave that all but obliterated the gate. He watched the army of otherworldly creatures leave the city to burn and move northeast to another place they would undoubtedly burn to the ground.
He had dropped his bow when the blast hit, but even if he hadn't, his arrows were spent. Desperately, he tried to find an escape from his fiery prison, but found none. The flames licked at the soles of his boots through the holes forming in the watchtower floor. The wind swept through the treetops, feeding the fire and filling the air with debris.
The pain became too much to bear. His lungs filled with ash and smoke, his skin boiled and blistered, and his hair caught on fire. Before he leapt over the railing to his only option for a less painful death, he spotted the ladies of Mynandrias running over the burning causeways with their young, the future of the Krayn race. Tears formed in his eyes, the only water the sorcerer's magic could not counter. Ablaze, he rolled over the railing, and disappeared into the burning pyre.
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